LLEDR A GWLAD

I don't recall when it was, but I once saw a news program that berated Mexican-Americans for supporting the Mexican football team when they played the US. The argument was that since the Mexican supporters had ostensibly become American citizens, they were somehow obligated to root for the US. I found it to be a ridiculous argument. If, for example, I was to suddenly move to Boston, would I have to cheer for the Red Sox? (Never mind the fact I hate baseball- this isn't about that.) Would I be considered some kind of traitor if the Red Sox played the Houston Astros, and I was all for the Astros winning? Anyone who would say yes is a fool, end of story.

However, it seems perfectly acceptable to go for the team that knocked yours out of the running. To continue with the above example, if the Red Sox beat the Astros, I would be expected to root for whomever played the Red Sox afterwards. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," I suppose.

I mention this because I'm supporting Wales, and not the United States, in the Rugby World Cup. If- and this is a very big if, because it's pretty much impossible- Wales and the US faced off in the championship, I'd be happy with the outcome, no matter who won. However, having seen the US rugby team in action, and observing their current standings in the World Cup (beaten by Fiji, for God's sake!), and, frankly, having more affinity for Welsh rugby than American, I'm going for Wales. Therefore, I'm apparently unpatriotic- unless Wales plays Fiji and wins, in which case it's fine to support the Dragons. The logic of sports and nationalism makes no sense to me.

Well, Cymru is my team, and that's that. Rygbi Cymraeg- buddugol i 2003!

(To any Welshmen reading my Welsh- forgive my probably poor grammar.)

MACROSOLUTIONS TO MEGAPROBLEMS

(I've decided to start giving a title to all my entries here, as I did in the old days, except this time they'll be a little more pertinent.)

I'm making the first steps toward getting myself out of the rut that is post-graduation working life. Lately I've been thinking about going back to school to get a Master's degree in library science, and most people think it's a good idea. I've got a buddy up at UNT who's getting his, and my folks are, expectedly, very supportive of the idea. Not only do I love libraries, but it's a field with plenty of opportunities, and I think I'd actually enjoy the work. Another benefit would be the ability to escape academia, which an MA in history or English wouldn't really give me.

So now I'm waiting to get my application materials from UNT, which is my only option if I stay in Texas to get the degree. It'll suck being in Denton, but I've got friends in the area, and I can get my degree pretty quickly. This is the first really good opportunity I've had in a while, and I think it'll work out nicely.

On other fronts, I got to fire an AK-47 this weekend, and while I'm no expert in small arms, I was thoroughly impressed by the weapon's simplicity and ease of use. Too bad I didn't bring any damned ear protection; even now, not quite 72 hours later, my hearing's not up to snuff.

Here's to my parents, my girlfriend, my brother, Voivod, pipe tobacco, Erik Davis, Matt and Holly, the Quintessential Hipster, and R.A. Salvatore: everyone and everything that's helped me through a pretty rough week.

Damn, nobody in this town has Brant Bjork's new album. At this rate, I'll have it (and anything else he releases) in my hands by next spring. At least then the weather will be more fitting to listen to his music.

Brian Wood, comic book creator extraordinaire, said in some update or another that while working on his new graphic novel, Dirtbike Manifesto, he was on a steady diet of Bud talls and gunpowder. I really like the way that sounds, though personally I'd swap the Bud for a Lone Star. I also don't know if gunpowder is edible, but that's not the point.

I'm bored, but I can't think of anything I want to do at all. Maybe I'll try writing. Actually I'd rather be kicking around a football, er, soccer ball, in Meyer Park up in Spring, but seeing as how the only football I have is deflated and there's nobody to invite along, and I have less than two hours before work, it ain't gonna happen.

You know what I miss? The Psycomic website, c. 1999. I remember when it was on its way out, and Gabe Soria wrote one last editorial about comics and the revolution. It got yanked mighty quick, if I recall correctly, and I wish I had a copy of the text. Those were the days I got back into comics, and these are the days I've fallen out of them. Funny how shit goes, man.

Fuckin' A, I lead a strange life. Seems like most folks I know have some sort of linear progression to their interests (not entirely true, but it's an admitted generalization), but I don't. On one hand, I think I suffer from occasional nostalgia- first case I can recall was during the final year of my initial stint in Texas, when I looked back at the first year or so of that same timespan- and I suspect I'm a romantic, too. I'm also intellectually impulsive. If I could casually deposit myself in any number of times and places at will, I'd be set.

But here I am, sitting in an apartment I don't really like, drinking beer and trying to figure myself out. There couldn't be anywhere or anytime else to be.

Well, payday's come and gone, and I have no Brant Bjork album. Big surprise. I tend to make grandiose statements and sabotage them later. Then again, I don't have it yet only because Sound Exchange hasn't gotten a copy yet. I'd rather buy it from them than anyone else, so I can wait.

Next time I get an offer from a publisher- and yes, there will be a next time- I'm going to make sure that I won't be doing any fucking self-promotion, save for maybe book readings. Trying to sell my book is a pain in the ass, especially since I've been on a roll with the new one and don't want to waste time contacting people who don't give a fuck, trying to talk them into buying, or at least reading, Axis Mundi Sum. I just want to work on Critical Hits. I don't want to push AMS, and I'm tempted to just say "fuck it, let it sell itself," and get on with other things.

Yeah, I just want to hole up with a carton of cigarettes, a couple cases of beer, and write for a week or two. That's all. Fuck work, fuck promoting AMS, fuck the internet... fuck it all. Very eloquent, I know, but... fuck it.

I hope Jodie gives me free beer tonight.

Brant Bjork. Keep Your Cool. Today, October 7, 2003.

I get paid in approximately 11 hours. Once that direct deposit goes through, my ass is going to the record store and getting this album. From the two songs I've heard, it won't be the same kind of experience that his self-titled album with the Operators was, but that's cool. My only complaint is that it wasn't released during the summer; Mr. Bjork is definitely a summertime musician, bringin' out all the good vibes that come with sunshine and drinkin' beer on the porch. When I finally get around to making my movie, "All Right," with Andy Link, Brant Bjork's music will be a highlight. How could you go wrong with a movie about the laid-back life that has songs like "Cheap Wine" and "Hinda65" in it? You can't, motherfuckers. You simply can't.

Sometimes my disappointment with the Internet as a source of amusement is proven wrong. While reading General Protection Fault, I came across a link to Men In Hats, another tribute to simplicity in art and misanthropy, that made me laugh. Unlike GPF, it's got barely over a year's worth of archives, so I'll have the whole series read by tomorrow night, and then it's back to wishing the Internet had something to offer.

"Here's a knife. Put it in your stomach."

Comedy gold!

I did an interview via email with a guy from my old college newspaper. I was much more professional in writing than I was at my book reading. Go figure. I wonder what it'll be like to do interviews once my writing actually gets somewhere and I'm not merely being asked questions because of my previous college affiliation.

Speaking of writing, the MacArthur Grant recipients for this year have been announced. Guess who's not one of them... yet. $500,000 with no strings attached, here I come!

Sleep well, world, and if you run into Nasht and Kaman-Thah, tell 'em I'll be seeing them shortly.

Well, I did my first book reading last night. I think it went well enough, though on the way home last night I couldn't help but think I should've been more professional than I was. Dr. Donahoo noted that I was too hard on myself, which is accurate; the result of being so is a lot, possibly an excess, of self-deprecating humor, which a lot of people might take the wrong way. I don't know why I do it, but I know I do need to lay off. My writing's not as bad as I make it sound.

Funny how one night can stir up so many ideas.

For the first time since I can remember, I forgot to save the work on my novel this afternoon. I got to work, downloaded it from my email account, and found myself wondering "where the hell is that paragraph?" No answers were forthcoming, so I spent most of the day listening to Voivod's Dimension Hatross and Iron Maiden's newest offering, and told myself I'd write after work.

I got home. No paragraph. I've spent an inordinate amount of time trying to rewrite it as I remembered it, but the finished product (and that one paragraph is all I've done) seems to be lacking. C'est la vie.

Thanks to Jay, I've found the joys of General Protection Fault, a great piece of geeky comics. I've read two years' worth of strips in two days, and I have two more to go. Good stuff.

In seventeen hours and twenty-four minutes, I'll be taking the podium to talk about Axis Mundi Sum to a partially appreciative audience in Huntsville. Here goes nothin'.