There's been a lot going on, so the pace of the work on the novel has slowed. I crossed the 11,000 threshold today. I like to keep to 1,000 a day, which I consider pretty good for guy who has to work a non-literary job full-time. Some authors can go 10,000 words a day, and I probably could too, with enough time.
But I'm happy that I've been able to stick with it.
I started work on it months ago, but had to put it aside during the move.
When I get to do truck runs at work, I get the real work done, since I come up with ideas and write them on scraps of paper. Right now, I have scraps I haven't gotten to yet. Lots to do. Lots to work on.
I'm here with Slappy the writing dog. She seems to enjoy sitting next to me while I'm working. It's been my overall experience that animals are drawn to writing people. Must be some sort of calming influence. They could give a damn about that electric bass, let me tell ya.
*
Really pleased with my homemade hot saucy, which is very spicy but also tasty. Jess, who doesn't care for heat, even tried and enjoyed it. Ten years ago, I might have even thought about bottling it and giving it out to friends. Who knows. I still might.
I will call it Crawlfins Pepper, since that about sums it up. Not pepper sauce, but just pepper. I like the sound. "Pass me the Crawlfins Pepper, biotch." "Get it yourself, galoot."
It all works.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Yeah
All dishes were prepped when Jess came back to the house after going out for an emergency plastic wrap finding expedition. She told me that all the roads around town were iced over.
No party. No Mac and Ana's in Watertown.
I still insisted in putting on my yellow underpants.
Jess and I sat down and enjoyed a romantic, quiet New Year's eve. After all, dinner was already ready.
We watched Shine a Light, the recent Rolling Stones live film. It was awful, in the ways that you would likely suspect, but not without merit. Jess fell asleep almost immediately, as she tends to do whenever we try to watch a movie and, once again, she woke up, still half dreaming, and carried on conversations with me. The first had to do with hiring an interior decorator for our house and finding out if Keith Richards approved of him. Something like that.
In the second, she woke up and I said something about how sloppy Richards' guitar playing sounded. She looked at the screen.
"Wow, the graphics these days are amazing."
"The graphics?"
"The animation. Whatever they call it."
And then she blinked her eyes and came fully out of sleep. In her half daze, she thought I was playing as Keith Richards in Guitar Hero.
*
And that was it. Early to bed, early to rise. A pleasant night where we talked about our memories from the past year and about what the future might hold.
No party. No Mac and Ana's in Watertown.
I still insisted in putting on my yellow underpants.
Jess and I sat down and enjoyed a romantic, quiet New Year's eve. After all, dinner was already ready.
We watched Shine a Light, the recent Rolling Stones live film. It was awful, in the ways that you would likely suspect, but not without merit. Jess fell asleep almost immediately, as she tends to do whenever we try to watch a movie and, once again, she woke up, still half dreaming, and carried on conversations with me. The first had to do with hiring an interior decorator for our house and finding out if Keith Richards approved of him. Something like that.
In the second, she woke up and I said something about how sloppy Richards' guitar playing sounded. She looked at the screen.
"Wow, the graphics these days are amazing."
"The graphics?"
"The animation. Whatever they call it."
And then she blinked her eyes and came fully out of sleep. In her half daze, she thought I was playing as Keith Richards in Guitar Hero.
*
And that was it. Early to bed, early to rise. A pleasant night where we talked about our memories from the past year and about what the future might hold.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
On Second Thought . . .
that song kinda sucks.
*
What we're bringing to the party tonight, assuming the roads get better:
Double Bastard for me; some type of red wine for Jess
Charlie's Cornbread, modified to include asiago, habanero and chipotle (a mere hint)
Mushroom, jicama, baby spinach salad with homemade roast red pepper and jalapeno dressing
Since we really want to get back in time to sleep in our own home, we're not going too crazy. But we well celebrate nonetheless with Macarena and Ana.
Side note: I was able to a big bag of habaneros today for a buck. I mixed the rest with some chipotles, various vinegars, red sea salt, and white vinegar to make my first successful hot sauce.
My face was burning. I was not wearing gloves. At one point I had to break and give Jess instructions in the even that my cooking killed me.
Now that's a hot sauce.
*
Speaking of hot, I do have the yellow underwear.
For those who don't follow my facebook page, I've been searching for a pair since it's a requirement that we wear them tonight. Something to do with Columbia, good luck, and Macarena's twisted fashion sense.
I wear see the new year in while wearing canary yellow boxers. This better bode well, Columbia!
*
What we're bringing to the party tonight, assuming the roads get better:
Double Bastard for me; some type of red wine for Jess
Charlie's Cornbread, modified to include asiago, habanero and chipotle (a mere hint)
Mushroom, jicama, baby spinach salad with homemade roast red pepper and jalapeno dressing
Since we really want to get back in time to sleep in our own home, we're not going too crazy. But we well celebrate nonetheless with Macarena and Ana.
Side note: I was able to a big bag of habaneros today for a buck. I mixed the rest with some chipotles, various vinegars, red sea salt, and white vinegar to make my first successful hot sauce.
My face was burning. I was not wearing gloves. At one point I had to break and give Jess instructions in the even that my cooking killed me.
Now that's a hot sauce.
*
Speaking of hot, I do have the yellow underwear.
For those who don't follow my facebook page, I've been searching for a pair since it's a requirement that we wear them tonight. Something to do with Columbia, good luck, and Macarena's twisted fashion sense.
I wear see the new year in while wearing canary yellow boxers. This better bode well, Columbia!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The Greatest Song of the 20th Century
I've been vaguely miserable for a few weeks, and the holiday season pushed me further into arctic saturnalia.
But I was giving a nice long run to Portsmouth, NH today and drove back south against the solar glare.
As I pulled into the parking lot, the greatest song of the twentieth century came on the radio, and I was suddenly happy. I rushed into the W and started joking with Billy. I've also lost something of my sense of humor, so Billy seemed downright shocked to see me hamming it up.
"Goo Goo's back!" he squeeled.
And I told him it was because of that damn song.
Everything about the song held meaning for me. The slightly embarassing name of the band, the chantish lyrics, which express not a trace of wit or imagination, but, I would hold, genuine longing and spirit.
The drummer plays with a rough joy that occasionally spills out and threatens to go off rhythm.
The female harmonies, particularly on words like "wall," soar to a near cloying height.
It is the optimism of a time past. For me, as soon as I heard it, I was instantly in the back seat of my mother's Big Bird yellow station wagon, reclining on the pleather seats and watching the green lawns. Not the most peaceful or colorful times, but still, times more peaceful.
I felt myself choking up. Right now, I can barely listen to it. The nerves are raw.
Ah, the old sweet melancholy bliss of the holidays.
So, here it is. The greatest song of the twentienth century, embodying frustration, expectation, blindness, and (perhaps) unconscious insights.
But I was giving a nice long run to Portsmouth, NH today and drove back south against the solar glare.
As I pulled into the parking lot, the greatest song of the twentieth century came on the radio, and I was suddenly happy. I rushed into the W and started joking with Billy. I've also lost something of my sense of humor, so Billy seemed downright shocked to see me hamming it up.
"Goo Goo's back!" he squeeled.
And I told him it was because of that damn song.
Everything about the song held meaning for me. The slightly embarassing name of the band, the chantish lyrics, which express not a trace of wit or imagination, but, I would hold, genuine longing and spirit.
The drummer plays with a rough joy that occasionally spills out and threatens to go off rhythm.
The female harmonies, particularly on words like "wall," soar to a near cloying height.
It is the optimism of a time past. For me, as soon as I heard it, I was instantly in the back seat of my mother's Big Bird yellow station wagon, reclining on the pleather seats and watching the green lawns. Not the most peaceful or colorful times, but still, times more peaceful.
I felt myself choking up. Right now, I can barely listen to it. The nerves are raw.
Ah, the old sweet melancholy bliss of the holidays.
So, here it is. The greatest song of the twentienth century, embodying frustration, expectation, blindness, and (perhaps) unconscious insights.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Pellet Fuel
My brother forgot about me last week, but delivered a generous Home Depot gift card early this morning.
I joked with Billy about having to walk through Home Depot past the gas grills and fryolaters and tool belts and reclining patio chairs right up to the pallet of wood pellets.
"Yeah, Merry Christmas," he said. "Pellet fuel."
"Welcome to adulthood," I said.
*
The flannel Billy gave me already has a rip at the sleeve. It is a truth of the W: the W ruins all. Glasses, jeans, shirts, coats. Anything that might be rended gets rended. It is time, sped up, despite being, phenomenologically, a place of delay and weary slowness. Molasses dripped over the space of stars! Let's get dramatic! Woo heeee!
I hobbled along on my bad knees. I ate liver with bacon for lunch. I took a razor and sliced lids off forty boxes. I bleached a toilet. I filled a dumpster.
*
For New Year's Eve, I made a roast pepper vinaigrette that I spiced up with a roast jalapeno. At first, it was too spicy. More so than I expected and too much to be pleasant. But then, with a mere thimbleful of white vinegar -- and I wasn't expecting this -- it transformed and the heat of the jalapeno was pushed way to the back, as a mild aftertaste, and the taste of the bell pepper, spitted on a knife and burner roasted, came to the fore. There was an accent of lemon, and balsamic and garlic sauteed in olive oil. It was peppery and sweet and tangy. And I'm hoping that it will go well over baby spinach, toasted almonds, and mushrooms.
All the cooking I've done recently has only made it clear how much I don't know. I'm at the point where my naivete shines through and I find myself wishing for a grandmother who could have brought me into a tradition. Not just a mutt hodge-podge of things various and superficial, but a rich, yeasty, malty tradition coming from earth and trees and backyard wells. Too romantic? Well, in a sense. But it comes from a feeling of rootlessness -- of a lack of foundations.
America! America!
Set the gas tanks on fire. The cold is here and the cold is gone.
I joked with Billy about having to walk through Home Depot past the gas grills and fryolaters and tool belts and reclining patio chairs right up to the pallet of wood pellets.
"Yeah, Merry Christmas," he said. "Pellet fuel."
"Welcome to adulthood," I said.
*
The flannel Billy gave me already has a rip at the sleeve. It is a truth of the W: the W ruins all. Glasses, jeans, shirts, coats. Anything that might be rended gets rended. It is time, sped up, despite being, phenomenologically, a place of delay and weary slowness. Molasses dripped over the space of stars! Let's get dramatic! Woo heeee!
I hobbled along on my bad knees. I ate liver with bacon for lunch. I took a razor and sliced lids off forty boxes. I bleached a toilet. I filled a dumpster.
*
For New Year's Eve, I made a roast pepper vinaigrette that I spiced up with a roast jalapeno. At first, it was too spicy. More so than I expected and too much to be pleasant. But then, with a mere thimbleful of white vinegar -- and I wasn't expecting this -- it transformed and the heat of the jalapeno was pushed way to the back, as a mild aftertaste, and the taste of the bell pepper, spitted on a knife and burner roasted, came to the fore. There was an accent of lemon, and balsamic and garlic sauteed in olive oil. It was peppery and sweet and tangy. And I'm hoping that it will go well over baby spinach, toasted almonds, and mushrooms.
All the cooking I've done recently has only made it clear how much I don't know. I'm at the point where my naivete shines through and I find myself wishing for a grandmother who could have brought me into a tradition. Not just a mutt hodge-podge of things various and superficial, but a rich, yeasty, malty tradition coming from earth and trees and backyard wells. Too romantic? Well, in a sense. But it comes from a feeling of rootlessness -- of a lack of foundations.
America! America!
Set the gas tanks on fire. The cold is here and the cold is gone.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Giftering
My mother bought me a Tony Hawk hoodie for Christmas.
She left the tag on, which she never does, and I take this to mean she is either becoming absolutely forgetful or that she wanted somehow to maintain her pride after only buying me one gift.
No matter the cultural signifiers. Although it's my size, it doesn't fit well. Perhaps I can find it a new home.
*
I had been telling anyone who listened that all I wanted was a Viking drinking horn. I don't know why this got into my head, but that's what I wanted.
It's only now that I got online to look them up. Although there are cheap models available, what's interesting is that there are craftsmen who specialize in making them, and there seems to be a whole collector's market out there willing to pay hundreds for elaborate pieces. There are contests, judges, organizations!
Maybe I should start crafting them myself.
And while on the topic, my ale continues to ferment in the carboy, and we're on day four of a fourteen day fermentation period. After that, the ale gets transferred to bottles for another two weeks, and then the tasting party!
I'm not sure how it will turn out. My sense is that the foaming brown substance bubbling away in the carboy is going to be delicious, and will warm up a late winter's day.
*
Jess bought me the Amy Sedaris book I Like You, which I find inexplicably funny and I laugh at it until my sides hurt. Not much makes me laugh like that. Billy bought me a flannel shirt with a hood sewn in. It has already become my comfort shirt.
She left the tag on, which she never does, and I take this to mean she is either becoming absolutely forgetful or that she wanted somehow to maintain her pride after only buying me one gift.
No matter the cultural signifiers. Although it's my size, it doesn't fit well. Perhaps I can find it a new home.
*
I had been telling anyone who listened that all I wanted was a Viking drinking horn. I don't know why this got into my head, but that's what I wanted.
It's only now that I got online to look them up. Although there are cheap models available, what's interesting is that there are craftsmen who specialize in making them, and there seems to be a whole collector's market out there willing to pay hundreds for elaborate pieces. There are contests, judges, organizations!
Maybe I should start crafting them myself.
And while on the topic, my ale continues to ferment in the carboy, and we're on day four of a fourteen day fermentation period. After that, the ale gets transferred to bottles for another two weeks, and then the tasting party!
I'm not sure how it will turn out. My sense is that the foaming brown substance bubbling away in the carboy is going to be delicious, and will warm up a late winter's day.
*
Jess bought me the Amy Sedaris book I Like You, which I find inexplicably funny and I laugh at it until my sides hurt. Not much makes me laugh like that. Billy bought me a flannel shirt with a hood sewn in. It has already become my comfort shirt.
Recovering the Train
At Starbucks, trying to get back into working on the novel, after the week plus layoff.
They are playing some awful music on the speakers -- among the worst I've heard. Repetitive, bland hip hip.
I'm right under the speakers. It was the only available table. I can't drown out the bad music.
Here are the next ten songs on my playlist.
They are playing some awful music on the speakers -- among the worst I've heard. Repetitive, bland hip hip.
I'm right under the speakers. It was the only available table. I can't drown out the bad music.
Here are the next ten songs on my playlist.
- Paul Bowles (spoken word), "The Sheltering Sky"
- Dizzy Gillespie, "Jump Di-Le-Ba"
- Mission of Burma, "Go Fun Burn Man"
- Kate Bush, "Cloudbusting"
- Kraftwork, "Chrono"
- Guitar Wolf, "Jett Beer"
- Jackie Wilson, "Whispers (Getting Louder)
- Saint-Saens, "Piano Concerto #2"
- Wire "The 15th"
- Arcade Fire, "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)"
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