Paola vs. The Drunk Lesbians

No, that is actually the post title.

The last time I saw the Aggrolites, it was in Portland at Mt Tabor Legacy. My wife almost got into a fight with a drunk skinhead girl that wanted to wild dance all over the place. They didn't fight but she stood up to her and didn't back down before people intervened and things cooled off.

Tonight at the Crocodile, it eclipsed surreal. Two drunk girls elbowed their way to the front so they could make out and roll around the crowd. Seriously. I doubt they had any idea what band was playing. I'd go a step further and say they probably had no idea where they were.

Things settled down for a moment when they disappeared for three songs or so but then they popped up again tongues in each others' mouths, desperate to let everyone know that they were gay and here to stay. Or something. For the life of me, I have no idea what was going on. All I know is that they kept bumping me and getting all up in my minuscule dancing space. The place was packed, yo.

Paola offered to switch places with me but I wanted to grit it out. I'm tough, right? Wrong. The next thing I know, the woman I married pushed past me, patted one of the girls on the head like a doll and said "It's all right, it's all right." She shoved the girls away from us towards the middle of the crowd. One of them cried out "There's only so much you can do!" but resistance was futile. Within a song they'd vanished and I didn't see them again until the show was over.

It was awesome. Women started coming up to Paola and thanking her for getting rid of them and I'm just sitting there beaming thinking, "Yep, that's my wife!"

In other coolness, one of those women happened to be Lynval Golding's wife June. I can't even make this shit up.

The Idiot (Copied from elswhere)

Hello Blog,

I have nothing new to put into you other than this review of The Idiot. Why am I so remiss? well, let's say as a writer you only have a certain amount of words that are worth producing on a daily basis. Between real life, the internet, my epic masterpiece in lyrical prose (Man loses hat, man finds hat) that leaves a scant few for you blog. Sorry. This is the way the cookie crumbles.

Discuss.

Few writers can transpose humanity like Dostoevsky. I marvel about the man's ability which almost seems supernatural, to dissect the WHY in people. He understands it and is able to take those insights and transfer them to paper like no other.

The Idiot is his masterpiece in that regard. The plot, a mere shell used to draw the unusual characters into interaction, reveals that at the end it's all about the way people are. People are wont to feel a certain a way and many go out of their way to spout those feelings from a mountaintop but how we act is who we are. The Idiot conveys this with Dostoevsky's masterful use of prose and characterization.

An uncorruptable man serves no place in society other than a laughingstock... but is this the case? That is what The Idiot asks and the answer is best left to the individual reader.

Dostoevsky is never easy going for the timid. This novel will always have a special place in my heart even more so than the Brothers Karamazov because it's not an easy read. The questions asked probe humanity's core. The questions and content will make you uncomfortable but that is the nature of good art. It should never be easy.

If you want a cookie cutter plot with the answers thrown on top than this book is not for you.

This is why

Some guy said, "You can never go home."

I spent a week in Anchorage disproving that numb-skull but not without enduring a significant amount of "OH SNAP".

Let me tell you a little secret about people, lean in close cause I'mma whisper it in yo' earhole: If you are living your life trying to change other people than you are wasting your life.

Friend, i suspect that most of us come out of the womb fully formed, our likes and dislikes already pre-established, only dependent upon whether or not we experience them to cement our beliefs.

I find it comical to hear some folks express how worked up they get over a person doing a thing but if you ask them if they were ever to be influenced by a singular person they'd say no.

What this person is saying is that they possess a supernatural ability that allows their worldview to prevail at all times. Newsflash: FAIL.

People, seriously get over yourselves. The only thing that you have power of in this world is how you feel about you. Everything else is a coin flip. You can spend hours working on how you want to be presented to others but if one person perceives you differently than how you've wanted, then you've wasted your time.

And if you are living your live trying to make other people see you a certain way then again, you are wasting your time. People will see you how they want to see you.

Happiness comes from within. Happiness is an approach to a situation that is entirely not dependent on how others approach the same situation. The only thing that ever matters is whether or not you can look yourself in the mirror at the end of the day and be happy with your choices.

As sure as everything, when you are on your deathbed the only other person there with you will be you, not those other people that have judged you from afar.

Stop judging people, stop living for other people, live for yourself and judge yourself. Don't tie your happiness up into what other people want of you.

Or ignore all of this shit. Personally I don't give a fuck. I'm doing me, you do you. Just keep it off of me.

The Process

During the week, I try to write when I get home. This usually fails especially if I'm in the middle of a good book. Right now it's Filth by Irvine Welsh. Imagine Notes From the Underground except the "protagonist" has a tapeworm and you'll kind of get the idea.

I've found that I can crank out about 250 words without blinking. That equates to about a page which means at least a page a day. On the weekends I can do anywhere from 700-1200 a day depending on what else I have going on, depending on how my mind is oriented. Whether or not any of this is good we'll determine come revision time. Lazy math suggests a completed first draft by the middle of 2010.

Fiddlesticks. Maybe I'll know my plot by then.

Lately there's been an onslaught of writerliness. Jonathan Goldstein read at the University Bookstore on Monday. I met him, showed him the one magic trick I know (it involves putting a size 10 1/2 boot in my mouth) and got my copy of Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bible signed. Not bad.

Then Sherman Alexie sat in on Tuesday's Weekday. He reduced me to a quivering ball of fear after saying, no repeating something he'd said earlier about not making it as writer by the time you turn forty. No pressure.

On the Wednesday ride home, listening to All Things Considered, Sarah Pekkanen spoke about the three books that helped her land a book deal. I have one of the three and I'm aware of the other two. I suppose that's a start but I'm growing tired of reading books about writing. I never finished Plot and Structure either. What I read was good and I'd recommend it to all of y'all that aspire. Books on writing only make me want to write more. At this stage of the game I think the only way for me to get better is by doing, not dreaming about doing.

I keep Lawrence Block's Telling Lies For Fun and Profit under my pillow in case I'm wrong about that.

Ana Castillo will be reading at the Seattle Public Library Thursday 4/23. Hoping to come up with a new magic trick by then. I except to break down into a puddle of blathering nothing, going on and on about how So Far From God helped me realize what I want to do with my life.

It's okay though. I'd much rather leave it on the table than in my heart.

I love you; You smell gross

I'm an early riser and every morning on my way out the door to work, I go back to the bedroom, fumble around in the darkness (or semi-darkness depending on the season) find my wife, usually buried under the comforter, and give her kiss to say goodbye.

She'll say things like, "Bye", or "I love you" or "Have a good day" in her barely awake voice. Today she said, "I love you." and as I left the bedroom she added, sounding somewhat disoriented, "You smell... gross."

It had been one of those mornings where I had trouble putting one foot in front of the other so I took it on the chin.

This is why one should strive to take their garlic supplement before brushing their teeth especially if kissing someone is on the immediate menu.

But you probably already knew that.

Progress

The significance of the 25,000 word mark didn't occur to me until I read a post on the AW forum recently. Consider the average page has 250 words, that works out to 100 pages of prose.

Let's not got too excited cause I ain't there yet.

I hit 20,000 words early last week after going on a straight out binge the weekend before. According to Ms Word 2007 I've completed 21,225 words of my epic masterwork in lyrical prose: Guy Loses Bet, Loses Hat, Loses Girl.

I was more concerned with the magical 20K number. Goals are a strange thing though. On the one hand they can serve as a constant motivator, on the other the finish line looms and I imagine a gigantic guillotine suspended above it.

Writing is hard. I'd never trust anyone that thinks it's easy and every sentence, paragraph, phrase, errant punctuation mark that I produce, the nagging feeling that it's JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH never goes away.

I want it to be good. I want it to be BRILLIANT but you just can't want the thing without sweating for it. Most days I'm content not to sweat, procrastinating until the fire is lit under me and my fingers fly at the keyboard unable to keep up with the stream of words forming in my mind.

So what works as a motivator? Striving for an unattainable perfection or tempering the attempt with the knowledge that the odds are heavily waited against attaining your goal? I have no freaking clue.

Do you?

> 1/2" holes through > 1/8" metal

No one tells you to slow a drill but you learn pretty quick
The first time it comes alive in your hands
Ignores what you want it to do
And does what it wants to do
Grabs your wrist and snaps them
In a way human wrists aren't meant to go
Maybe bends your thumb back the other way
If you were stupid and locked the trigger
(No one tells you never to lock the trigger)
It may skitter across the floor
Until you unplug it, or do something foolish like reach for the trigger
An Old Timer might be watching you,
chances are he probably saw the whole thing
Thought about coming over to say something
But you knew better and when you watched him do it
he didn't mar the paint, his holes lined up
BUT IT TOOK SO LONG
and your hands were itching, and you were dying to snatch the tool
From his hands
To show him: How it's done
And now you're holding the drill, thinking
About the way you saw him do it
Comparing it to how you just did it
And wondering how you're gonna get that broken drill bit
Out of that piece of metal