And then he began writing.

Trite, but seemingly true: happiness doesn't breed much in the way of writing, and not only because you find yourself spending more time with the source of that happiness than at the computer.

Maybe it's only an initial thing, and will wear off once regular behavior patterns are formed. Maybe those patterns are already emerging; this is the first night in a while that I haven't spent with Linda, or anyone else for that matter, and the quiet unease I'd grown accustomed to and made the most of is seeping back in, and back out into the pages of Unheimlich. It's very reassuring, knowing that I haven't traded one form of happiness for another, but I'm curious as to when a real point of equilibrium will be reached, and if it's necessary in the first place.

I could really use a drink right now, but when was the last time I said that and didn't mean it?

A glass of Scotch is called for

It's one of those nights where you stop what you're doing, think about things for a little while, then resume your previous activity, having failed to reach any conclusions.

"Rita strikes out." -MSS

Well, that was a joke. Houston flipped its lid over Rita, and the only thing that happened was a 72-hour traffic jam, a few downed tree limbs and power outages, and a lot of bad news reporting. Even tropical storm Allison was more imposing and damaging. I feel really badly for everyone north and east of here that got fucked over; it really seemed like this big one was meant for us.

Anyway, riding out the anticlimatic storm was amusing enough, and nothing happened to my apartment. Didn't even lose power, though my brother unfortunately did. Poison Girl stayed open, so we had a drink there after cruising around the damp ghost towns that were Montrose and downtown. Dave shot some footage of the ride, which I hope to watch soon.

So, there you have it. A dull report of an equally dull non-event. Or, more accurately, a dull non-event from where I was standing. I'm sure everyone who actually suffered from it would say otherwise, but hey, I'm not speaking for them, am I?

All right, I'm tired. Adios.

Fuck you, cunt!

So some windy bitch named Rita might be heading towards H-Town, bent on ruining the lives of all the fine folks who live here. I'm especially targeted because I live in Montrose, which loves to flood whenever there's more than a few hours' hard rain. I'm not as bad off as all the folks living east and south of here, but shit, I've already had one apartment flooded, and the one I'm in now has carpet and will require a lot more work to get back up to snuff if the shit hits the fan.

Thankfully, Dave and I have already decided to split town in the wee hours if things get really bad, and several people have offered us places to stay until it's safe to return home. I've also had the opportunity to hang out with my new girlfriend, the (to quote Peter Ackroyd's version of John Milton) highly delightful Linda, quite often, so if by some freak occurence these are my final days, they've been good ones. Diolch yn fawr, Duw.

But they won't be my last days. Fuck no. Dave Smith is mightier than... no, I can't say it. Won't say it. Conan might get away with "CROM LAUGHS AT YOUR FOUR WINDS!", but I'm with Subotai on this one, and the four winds are far mightier than that fickle tunnel-dwelling bastard Crom.

On the other hand, should this be the end of me, rest assured that I will go to my death with beer, book, tobacco, and rifle at hand.

"Fix bayonets!"
"Stand by to repel boarders!"

Four days off from the drudgery mill

I spent the last four days actually doing things, which was quite a change from my usual routine of sluggishness and loafing.

Friday: Hung out with Scott, Andy, and Dave at Niko Niko's, bought a bunch of wine to take to my mom, and closed out the evening with Linda.

Saturday: Went to my uncle's place, where I saw him and my folks. My mom had arranged a gathering in celebration of my uncle turning 70, so there were about a dozen and a half good East Texas folks there, all sitting around under the trees drinking beer and telling stories. Good times were had by all, and the hummingbirds were out in force, which was quite entertaining.

Sunday: Stayed at my uncle's later than usual, because my mom and Tracey and I opened a couple bottles of wine and everyone ended up sitting at the dining table shootin' the shit and taking photographs. I also borrowed my uncle's copy of John Thomason's Fix Bayonets! and Other Stories, which will undoubtedly provide hours of good reading. Got home, and despite my exhaustion, spent the evening with Linda drinking beer at the Harp and coffee at my house.

Monday: I'd already taken the day off to see High on Fire, and Linda had invited me to play D&D with her friends, so it looked like my day was good to go. Unfortunately, the D&D game was canceled, so Linda and I just loafed around at her place, playing with her holy terror of a new kitten. Early in the afternoon, Matt Pike called me told me he'd put me on the guest list for the show- score! Scott, Tracey, Linda, and I assembled at the Engine Room around nine, watched HoF, and then pounded back shots and jawed with Matt Pike. It was still early, so Linda and I went to Poison Girl, had another beer, and came back here to let some of the booze wear off before she went home.

It's time to drag my carcass to work, so any further anecdotes will come later. Suffice to say it's been a hell of a weekend.

No favors/salute to fiction

I'm not doing myself any favors by posting almost every night/morning/whatever you diurnal people call it. Folks have gotta be missin' out on my quality bullshit, flooded as they are with it.

Anyway, I'm writing to say thanks to Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay.

How many other writers out there have spent all night writing a mere page or two, only to walk to the grocery store at dawn to buy beer and soymilk and come back to write some more?

Plenty, I'd guess.

Three kinds of people:

1) Those I don't know. Assuming they're not some kind of public figure whose actions and words are broadcast far and wide with the express purpose of provoking a response from those who take in said words and actions, I like people I don't know, or more precisely, I like the potential imbued in people I don't know. Saying howdy to people I pass on the street is meaningful, in some small way; so is a couple minutes' worth of shooting the breeze with the guy next to you in the bar, or exchanging a smile with the mail carrier, und so weiter. It doesn't matter if anything becomes of it; as a matter of fact, in many cases I almost prefer momentary, ephemeral interaction, because prolonged exposure to others can create

2) People I know and dislike, distrust, am repelled by, am disgusted by, and/or any other number of negative things. Sadly, this category of people makes up a disproportionate number of of the human beings I deal with regularly, mainly due to the fact that I have a job and am exposed to various media. "Familiarity breeds contempt." Luckily, there are

3) People I know and like. These are the ones that really matter the most, although they all necessarily sprang from the first category. There's not much to say about this class of people, other than that I'm thankful to know them, and wish there were more of them. Alas, some grotesque, seemingly convoluted but probably really quite simple laws of human society dictate that shitheads outnumber good folks by at least 10,000,000 to 1.

It's no surprise that I'm not a very social man, then. Conversely, it makes perfect sense that I value my friends, family, and loved ones as much as I do; they're proof that the odds aren't totally against me. Between category three folks and category one strangers (who are exempt from the numbers game because I don't know them and therefore am compelled to qualify them as an unknown quantity; it's when I get to know someone that they fall into the second or, far less often, third categories), I'm not doing too badly.

I'm very good at boring myself, if you can't tell. Fine- better to bore myself than have someone else do it.

Go ahead and yawn, but...

here's another brief, hip-hop related post:

Ice Cube's "When Will They Shoot?" is one of the best songs I've heard this year. Too bad I'm about thirteen years late, and that I'm one of the white devils Cube rails against.

Fuck it.

Why have Ice Cube, the Geto Boys, NWA, and, as of tonight, good ol' 3rd Bass and Digital Underground been my writing music of choice lately? None of them have shit to do with Unheimlich, but hey, results are results, right?

If it's about food, is it really trivial?

For months now, I've bought Vavel sauerkraut from Poland. It's more expensive than American brands, but it's also very crisp and keeps well.

Yesterday I went to Fiesta to do some grocery shopping and grabbed my standard jar of Vavel sauerkraut. I noticed that there were orange bits in it, but the label said that the only ingredients were, as usual, cabbage and salt. Really? Is there no word in Polish for "carrots"? 'Cause you could've fooled me- those orange bits sure looked and tasted like carrots. The 'kraut was less crisp, and sweeter, than usual, but don't get me wrong; I'm still buying this particular brand. I'm simply curious about the change in recipe that's so clearly there.

Oh, and by the way, English bar managers with mad literary knowledge, good looks, and senses of humor really know how to make a dude's day.

Of Beer and Beards, Or, Another Quotidian Missive

Our man received today his bi-weekly infusion of funds, given to him in exchange for his labor and a tiny but noticeable fraction of his psychic well-being, and, being the affiliate of drink that he is, promptly purchased himself twelve cans of Texan swill and twenty papered twists of fine Virginia tobacco. Several of these beers disappeared down our man's gullet in little time, for he is a thirsty youth, and one whose brain is most delighted by the play thereupon of alcohol and tobacco, surely two of the Lord's finest gifts to his sinful creation.

The youth, as some of his closest conspirators may know, has been contemplating growing his whiskers, in the hopes of achieving a beard to rival that of a grizzled Kentuckian or melancholic New England author from the days of yore. However, such facial hirsuteness strikes our man as unbecoming a man of as few years as he, despite his knowing that in the past a full beard was the true mark of a viable, virile male. Or, perhaps, his reluctance to pursue whisker-growth is a sign of his recognition that, age and experience aside, he does not feel aged enough to wear a beard decisively, and that postponing the complete abjuration of razor and strop is a wise decision for the time being. Ah, but how he longs for the day when he need not raise a hand to his jaw to stroke his whiskers in contemplation, but only need fold his hands over his breastbone and achieve that same outward sign of inward cogitation! "Time, good man, time," he says to himself.

Time! Our man is ever aware of that recursive beast, the shimmering lemniscate that most believe linear, but that the gnosis-minded among us know is a far more complex creature, Ourouboros-like in its maddening self-swallowing. It is this awareness that brings our man back to the icebox, where cold brews await him, and to the desk, where he seeks to pen words that will express a sliver of the many things that roil in his flaxen skull. He wishes all a good evening, and recommends that you investigate the newest additions to his work in progress, the Teutonically-titled Unheimlich, which is nigh twenty pages longer than the last time it was made public. Good night, mankind!

Recognition at the moment of impact

"Subdivisions" by Rush is one of those songs I really, really like but never think about until I'm going through my records and run across the LP it belongs to (Signals, if you didn't know). As I put it on the turntable and dropped the needle, the appropriateness of what I was doing struck me. I'm working on a part of Unheimlich that takes place in the suburbs, and while the attitude isn't quite in line with the song's, it's nevertheless fitting.

Ah, moments.

"Damn it feels good to..."

...space out with cheap wine, Luckies, and an ever-increasing collection of Geto Boys tunes. Especially when you're gettin' some writing done.

The day may come when this shit catches up with me, and I probably won't be ready for it, but all I can say is that I doubt I'll regret it too much. Or that I hope I won't regret it too much.

Hot damn, time to quit thinkin' and make with the fiction.

And some more vino.

So long, Melrose Place.

My brother and I, with help from Tracey and Lisa, cleared out and cleaned up 1920 W. Alabama today. I spent five hours carrying trash downstairs, scrubbing futilely at the stained carpet, and watching two vacuum cleaners die unpleasant, horrible-smelling deaths. There was also beer.

Now I'm exhausted, so it's time to go stretch out, watch Buffy, and say hello to the ferrets. More later, perhaps.

Hit the bricks.

Some non-smokers are shocked when they ask how much a pack of cigarettes costs and I tell them "around four bucks."

"Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?" Yeah, it is expensive, which is why, with the exception of the past week, I've been rolling my own, which runs me about eight bucks a week, if that. (By the way, my cigarette consumption has remained at roughly ten a day, give or take, since I decided to cut back.) I can afford it because it's one of the few luxuries I allow myself, along with a couple-three albums or books a month and a few sixers of beer.

Now that gas is three bucks a gallon and climbing, I can ask people who drive "Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?", but the odds of them admitting that driving, like smoking, is a luxury, are slim to none.

It's all right for folks to tell me to quit smoking, but God forbid I tell them to quit driving.