Wednesday Night Private Radio...

A Word From Our Sponsor:
Hey guys - I'm working on all of the personal writing stuff, not to mention gearing up for the new semester and trying to figure out the blasted web-cam, so I thought I'd bring back one of my favorite things, Private Radio. The rules still apply - I'm pretty much going to put up what I'm listening to, hopefully in an order that isn't one continuous non-sequitur. And requests, just pop into the comment section.

Bouncing Souls, Private Radio



Neko Case, This Tornado Loves You



Joshua Bell, La Fille aux cheveux de lin (the Girl With Flaxen Hair)



John Coltrane, Body and Soul



Iggy Pop, Living on the Edge of the Night



Zoe Boekbinder, December





The Pogues, Pair of Brown Eyes

Just Throw'em in the Mixer...

Probably not safe for work. Now if I could get the voice to sync with the picture...

Can't Stop The Signal...

Next on VH1...

As I'm writing this (the dying hours of 12.20.2009), my beloved east coast has been hit by a massive snow storm, which I love - except for the driving portion. And I've had a lot of driving to do. That, and lacking my own computer have joined forces to give me even more time to think.

I've written before about my dislike for nostalgia - how I see it as foolish at best, profoundly fucking stupid at worst - but this is the time of year when everyone is making some sort of list about the last twelve months and/or the decade, so I'm getting assaulted by it. Some folks are calling the aughts "the decade from Hell," and while I'm not completely agreeing with them, I have to admit it did suck. The economy collapsed a few times, terrorist attacks from both foreign and domestic sources, the decline of the news media from "Migraine Inducing" to "Cackling Madness and Perplexed Befuddlement", the exaltation of children to the extent that now there are third world countries whose GDP is basted only on the Disney Channel, and, of course, the fact that no one seems capable of admitting they were wrong.

And that's just the national side of things.

Personally, it hasn't been that great, either. But I've spoken endlessly on those matters.

But this year is almost over. And while I doubt that 2010 will be a major change, there is one thing you can count on.

This time next year, VH1 will roll out "I Love the Aughts!" Followed shortly by all of them being chased by a small, hairy, axe wielding attempted writer.

Dismantle Me...

A fun story - the first time a wrote a proper book, my computer died 30k words in. This amounted to three months of work, vaulting through classes, new friendships, and everything else that comes with meeting new people from far-away places like Bumblefuck, PA or Umblefuck, NJ. After trying to coax it back to life, I went out into the family room and started over - word/square bloody one. Eventually, the book was finished, on the reborn laptop, and all was well (except everything note related to the laptop).

I learned the hard way - back up everything.

Right now, I have five jump drives in front of me that contain what's left of my computer. 10GBs of pure computational release - the short stories and bits of novel that make up my practise, one file labeled "To be chopped up and used for bait", another labeled "Most Likely Just Porn" that has an awkward amount of family photos, and the working drafts of Rhinehart and VanBuren. I have fuck all to work on them - as my parents' computer is pretty much an expensive paperweight - but it's most still all there, on the drives.

Since the past couple of days have mostly driven me up a wall - with a friend's family birthday party being a pleasant exception - I've been feeling the need to write and mostly just filling up scraps of paper with notes, or sending a page or so through the tubes to my own e-mail account, all the while looking through an increasingly dark mental state.

A mental state that hasn't been helped by the fact that I had finally figured out how to work in all of the themes, tones, and general weirdness that I wanted to work into one of the books, plus the nods to other writers, local bands who I'd like others to know about or who, like me, are just starting out (for want of a better term) and deserve the exposure. But right now, much of it is only written on the store's receipt paper.

I find it a bit humorous that ever time I try to reinvent myself, or do something for no better reason than "well, this might help me out in some way/shape/form" something comes along and slams the door in my face, then pokes a shotgun through the mail slot. The fact that, this time, I'll be turning brick walls into doors is little comfort.

I've also spent the past few days distancing myself from old friends. This has been done in the same vein - I'm doing it for me, trying to stop using many of the memories, both good and bad, as crutches and catalysts for self-pity. Some of them are taking it well, some of them think they've done something wrong (they haven't) and in two cases they though I O.D.'ed two years ago. That came as a shock to me - what, with having not O.D.'ed two years ago...or anytime.

I'm probably being a bastard about the whole thing, but such is life - I've remembered to say "goodbye" to the people who know what it means: that I'm going to try something that could go hilariously wrong at any moment, and that if there is failure to be had, it will probably be highly public. But, that's life, I guess. "The hunter rose and set his sights" and all that sort of poetic malarkey.

Now, I have to go help pay for my Christmas gift. Don't you love it when you take life way too seriously?

The Wait...

Well, it looks like I'll be having one more semester at Bucks.

I was hoping to move on to a four year school, but what can you do? At least with that out of the way, I can hopefully stop being a complete bastard to those around me. Between that, finals and the holiday buying orgasm, my normally low social fuel tank has been running on E, and it's taking everything in my power to not start punching everyone I see just on general principal. I mean, really - visits from the higher ups, and various buyers who are clearly disturbed by...something related to the store, being forced to listen to the new Lady Gaga CD on loop (how the fuck is that holiday friendly?)...with all of these things, I feel justified in smiling in a wan sort of way while dreaming of riding through the mall on a lawn mower, firing a 30.06 widely in the air.

Still, I have a day of picking classes and restaurant hopping for gift cards.

FTW...What the fuck?...

"Did you see it?" That's the question I keep getting asked. The "it" in question is the show Jersey Shore - a thing that, from the sound of it, raises the bar from mere douche baggary to douche nozzle. "You gotta see it! I mean, it's about guidos!"(is the spelling right?) This raises a good question, for me anyway, and that question is: Why? It spirals from there.

I deal with the wanna-be Gotti's at school, I deal with them at work, and if I want to take my mind of a day at either or both then why the fuck would I watch a Goddamn show about them? I mean really. I don't care about tan from a can girls hoisting them to the moon, I don't get putting enough product in your hair so that the little spikes look like what sunk the Exxon Valdez, and while I'm quite happy with ignorant people (being one myself) I'm not amused or entertained or tolerant of those who revel in their ignorance.

I'm not demanding that the show be taken off the air - shit, it's been years since I turned on a TV that wasn't either news or static (if there's a difference). What I don't get is the joy found in watching these people. I mean, sure, there are some chuckles to be had - until you realize that they're serious and they're getting paid for it.

Any thoughts?