There are steps to writing successfully, or so I'm told, that a writer must take to become...successful. (Again, this is all hearsay.) I've decided to talk about some of those steps in an attempt to actually follow through on them.
Step 1: Writing Schedule!
I don't know why I put an exclamation point after the word "schedule." What does this word mean? Schedule. Schedule. Frankly, I have no idea. I think the basic plan is to set up times to do things, ahead of time--occasionally as far in advance as the night before. (I'm getting this information from a very brief internet search that ended in me looking up--unsuccessfully--the latin word for schedule.) The problem I see with a "writing schedule," comes from it's inherent need for the scheduler to have a basic understanding of the concept of "time." Something I lost about two hours (I think.) after my last college course.
Step 2: Sticking to said Writing Schedule.
Covered that above. I'll just go ahead and say something artsy: I write when the mood strikes! When I feel the burning need to have my words be read. (Strictly speaking, this isn't true. I just felt that a number like "2" deserved more than a sentence that said "read above.")
Step 3: Find a Place to Write.
Ew, problem. So here's the thing...everywhere I go to write, there always seem to be things. Things that need to be done. Coffee, books, comics, people to talk to. This drags out what should take an hour into an all day affair. The actual act of writing a column only takes so long, once an idea has finally osmosis-ed it's way into my brain, it's the build up that takes the time.
The only real important thing about finding a place to write is this:
If you are a successful writer you probably have your own place to write. An office, a study, a cafe that only you show up to on Tuesdays. You have this place because you have made it, you are getting paid to write, we get it, and we all hate you. For the purposes of this article, you don't exist.
Now for the rest of us, let's call us dreamers. Writing needs to be very, very public. Find a place to write where people can see you writing. Mind you, you don't have to be writing at this point. It's only important that you click your keyboard a lot, jot down notes consistently, and lock gazes with people while mouthing the words "I'm a writer."
This should go one of two ways. Either everyone will hate you and you'll get a real job...or eventually you'll hate yourself, and go back to step one and figure out what the Hell a "schedule" is.
Step 4: Pick a Project, and Stick to It.
Wow, whoever came up with this idea has my number. I have too many ideas to write just one. Sure we could get into my underlying fear of success. (I tell myself it's a fear of success, but we all know the truth. It's a fear of brownies.) Focusing on one project is almost always the best way to go. But make sure you don't get burnt out on one project before it's finished. If this happens, start about 17 other ideas, lose focus on the original, and get back to it in two years, once you've lost a few jobs, had your heart broken a few times, and watched the only thing that mattered to you, wither and die. (Why don't they sell bulbs for LCD TV's? Is it just a screw in kind of thing, or is it actually rocket science?)
Step 5: Let's just lump this all into one big...lump. Editing, Publishing, Marketing...
Well, this seems a lot like work. And I don't like it. They should pay someone else to do this for writers...maybe I'm on to something here. Maybe I'll call it a publishing company.
But, in all honesty, one would be surprised about how much of the legwork writers have to do. At least beginning writers. Self marketing seems to be the way to work. Just ask Soulja Boy and his horrible, horrible youtube empire. (Not to mention spelling of the word "Soldier." I think I would have gone all out. Soulja Boi. Why not?)
I'm going to throw credit to my friend Chris for this one. He got me all riled up when he said, "I'm at Starbucks, writing. Like a real writer." And that's when I realized it...
I wasn't at Starbucks. Where had I gone wrong?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Toilet Paper for our Troops!
My mother is an incorrigible gossiper. I know this is an odd way to start off for the evening, however, I'll show that (true) statement's relevance somewhere in paragraph two, or possibly three. Just wait for it. It'll be here soon. (I now see that it's going to be in paragraph three, but that was an artistic choice, don't judge me.)
To continue: Few and far between were the days where I would come home from school and not here my mother talking about one of her children, siblings, parents, co-workers, spouse, someone else's spouse, passing joggers, mailmen...the way I look(ed) at it goes something like this: If it's mildly personal, secretive or sensitive, my mother will find out about it. And she'll give you advice about it to boot. The thing is, amazingly, she doesn't actually make any calls. That's not how it works. This isn't something she does. It's something she is. She attracts gossip (and therefore, logically, gossipers) like planets attract moons. It is something so entirely outside of her control that if she didn't love it, it would kill her.
On to why this is, in anyway, important. The most recent juicy tidbit to find it's way to her is about my cousin, or rather, about my cousin's unit. Now, if you don't realize that I'm using the word "unit" to tell you that my cousin is in the military, you should now consider yourself "in the know." (He's in the Military.) Sometime earlier this week, my aunt (presumably the mother of my cousin) received a letter from a Marine Core secretary (there's a job we all want) that the soldiers were now responsible for receiving toilet paper, socks and other essentials from home. That's right. The Armed Forces have stopped paying for socks and toilet paper.
I don't know how to process this information. It's nearly incomprehensible to me. It's so far from logical and right that it might as well be on the moon. I could maybe argue socks. The Marines might want you to wear lame socks, but your socks are comfortable, and lucky (They used to have these two red stripes, see, but now they only have one. Because one strip faded. Get it?) and they're yours. But toilet paper? Really? At what point did the requisitions officer, quartermaster, or supply dude, whatever he/she is called these days, decide that toilet paper should be on the list of things that simply needed to be sent from home, the Marines either couldn't be bothered, or couldn't afford it. (We're still talking about TP here.) I'm down with chocolate, cigarettes and dirty magazines being sent from mom, but (okay not dirty magazines, but maybe the other stuff. Well not cigarettes...so I'm okay with chocolate.) why the TP? Whoever did this is an animal. An animal I say.
So what's next? The most basic creature comfort to make it out of the Renaissance was just taken away from, or at least some of, our troops. Next we should make them provide their own hats. Maybe they could rent their rifles, and have bullets sent to them from their local sporting goods stores.
I for one am all for starting a "Toilet Paper for our Troops" Movement. We can get together every weekend for what we'll call "TP drives." We'll gather as much of that soft, plush paper as we can. We'll rent trucks to hold the tons and tons of it that the generous spirited Americans would certainly bring us...
Then we'll drive to Washington and TP the house and workplace of whoever thought this was a good idea. (Dear Mr. President and random Senators/Congressman, you are not exempt from this. Fair is fair. If you were involved, you too should spend the morning in your bathrobes, grumping about "those damn kids" while you try, in vane, to get all of the wet toilet paper out of your tree, and off your mailbox.)
To continue: Few and far between were the days where I would come home from school and not here my mother talking about one of her children, siblings, parents, co-workers, spouse, someone else's spouse, passing joggers, mailmen...the way I look(ed) at it goes something like this: If it's mildly personal, secretive or sensitive, my mother will find out about it. And she'll give you advice about it to boot. The thing is, amazingly, she doesn't actually make any calls. That's not how it works. This isn't something she does. It's something she is. She attracts gossip (and therefore, logically, gossipers) like planets attract moons. It is something so entirely outside of her control that if she didn't love it, it would kill her.
On to why this is, in anyway, important. The most recent juicy tidbit to find it's way to her is about my cousin, or rather, about my cousin's unit. Now, if you don't realize that I'm using the word "unit" to tell you that my cousin is in the military, you should now consider yourself "in the know." (He's in the Military.) Sometime earlier this week, my aunt (presumably the mother of my cousin) received a letter from a Marine Core secretary (there's a job we all want) that the soldiers were now responsible for receiving toilet paper, socks and other essentials from home. That's right. The Armed Forces have stopped paying for socks and toilet paper.
I don't know how to process this information. It's nearly incomprehensible to me. It's so far from logical and right that it might as well be on the moon. I could maybe argue socks. The Marines might want you to wear lame socks, but your socks are comfortable, and lucky (They used to have these two red stripes, see, but now they only have one. Because one strip faded. Get it?) and they're yours. But toilet paper? Really? At what point did the requisitions officer, quartermaster, or supply dude, whatever he/she is called these days, decide that toilet paper should be on the list of things that simply needed to be sent from home, the Marines either couldn't be bothered, or couldn't afford it. (We're still talking about TP here.) I'm down with chocolate, cigarettes and dirty magazines being sent from mom, but (okay not dirty magazines, but maybe the other stuff. Well not cigarettes...so I'm okay with chocolate.) why the TP? Whoever did this is an animal. An animal I say.
So what's next? The most basic creature comfort to make it out of the Renaissance was just taken away from, or at least some of, our troops. Next we should make them provide their own hats. Maybe they could rent their rifles, and have bullets sent to them from their local sporting goods stores.
I for one am all for starting a "Toilet Paper for our Troops" Movement. We can get together every weekend for what we'll call "TP drives." We'll gather as much of that soft, plush paper as we can. We'll rent trucks to hold the tons and tons of it that the generous spirited Americans would certainly bring us...
Then we'll drive to Washington and TP the house and workplace of whoever thought this was a good idea. (Dear Mr. President and random Senators/Congressman, you are not exempt from this. Fair is fair. If you were involved, you too should spend the morning in your bathrobes, grumping about "those damn kids" while you try, in vane, to get all of the wet toilet paper out of your tree, and off your mailbox.)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Oversleeping and Alligators, oh my!
Choosing what to write is always a difficult enterprise for me. I normally sit in front of my laptop for about an hour before I even touch the keyboard. (Of course, strictly speaking this is untrue. Normally I read through a few comics and about five Dave Barry columns before my laptop, presumably, makes an appearance, and then I'm most definitely using the keyboard. But it's for facebook and webcomics. The internet, when it decides to actually work, is a very determined enabler of procrastination. Had humanity gotten on the ball and invented it in previous centuries, we would never be...I'm losing my train of thought.) Normally I wait for an idea to hit me, or in some cases sneak up behind me and hit me full on in the face with a wet towel, but today I decided to bullet my ideas out. (For the sake of blogspot's worthless choices in formatting we'll go with the "numbering" system:)
1) My internet failing. Or was it my laptop's internet card failing? For the sake of this article, we'll call it Windows 7 failing. It always takes me twenty or so minutes to get the wireless to connect, let's not even get into how long it actually takes to get it to stay connected. (2 minutes, that's actually the easy part.)
2) Next up? Water. As some as you may know, the economy, yeah, not so good. Before, I was a big fan of things like coffee, and beer. However, the past few months have seen me become a proponent of the sweet nectar of life that is H20. However, in the eyes of the many bartenders and cafe employees that I frequently run into, (Or just pretty much walk up to their counter in a very standard way.) I'm basically a big ball of jerkface. Last night I was cut off, very vocally, by a ridiculously cute waitress whom I'd love to take to dinner sometime (In a few months, when I can afford it. Leave off it already.) due to my continued consumption of postively ridiculous amounts of water. Today at the cafe, as everyone else is picking up their handmade frappaccinos (I'm going to loosely assume I misspelled that.) and cappuccinos, cookies and scones, I'm the guy who has to respond to the shout of "Large water, got a large water here." Look everyone! It's the cheap dude. Why can't I just like water, stop staring at me. Jeeze.
3) I didn't actually have a three when I started this article. But in stormed Windows 7 to rescue me from my depressingly even idea count. Windows updates. Now I think I may have allowed myself this gripe before, but as I have now encountered it twice in the past 12 hours, both in situations I would rather have...well, not, I feel that I'm justified to bring it up again. What the Hell Windows? You can't ask before you restart my computer for no apparent reason? I realize that last night it shutting down right before I was able to whoop for joy with my imminent victory over a rival StarCraft player is a complaint that many of you won't, and probably shouldn't, be able to sympathize with. But today, as I was approaching my 5th consecutive minute of writing (As I outlined earlier, a big step for me.) it decided that, telling me that a shut down was imminent, or better yet, asking me if that was even okay in the first place, was an exercise in futility, why not shut it down now, when it knows I'll be comfortable with it. Writing be damned.
As I always do about this time, I turned my eye(s?) to MSN news. You know, to keep up the illusion that I'm an informed writer who likes to keep his despairingly small audience in the dark on his complete lack of relevant knowledge, to see, as they've been known to say, what I could see.
Today's biggest jump out article was one that all of us college students (or previous college students who haven't quite gotten out of the lifestyle yet, ahem.) can relate too. Only not too many of us have found ourselves out of the running for 10 million dollars. Well, almost out of the running. The story goes as follows: Jim Furyk, a name so positively household I don't even need to introduce him, (He's a professional golfer. I know right? I always thought pro golf only consisted of the names "Woods" and "NicKlaus," although, to be fair, I had to google how to spell "NicKlaus." And I still misspelled it twice.) overslept today. Or yesterday. On a day that he was intended to play professional golf, he overslept. By 5 minutes. Talk about a kick in the gonads. When I overslept by 5 minutes at worst I had to withstand a berating from my mother. This guy oversleeps to the tune of a "good tooth brushing" and loses out, or severely diminishes, his chance at the 10 million dollars in prize money the PGA offers for this particular series of events. That's a pretty big downer, in the scheme of things.
And to sum this article up, suck it Northerners. The past few weeks have seen, believe it or not, an increase in alligator activity in northern cities like Manhattan and Chicago. First off, they were collared. Secondly, they were all under three feet. (Last night I found a six footer under my bed. I just laughed and said to myself "Oh you. You almost got me.") Why is this making the news? In college nearly all the people who had (intelligently in my opinion) migrated to the warm comfort of Florida complained about things like moose. "Dude, I was heading out for school, and as I walk outside, there's a moose in my yard! Moose are huge man!" Screw you. Okay. Screw you. A deer with horns is on your front lawn and you complain? Unless it has an aviator goggle wearing beaver for a companion, and the two of them are up to antics that literally make your face red and steam come out of your ears, I don't want to hear about it. Welcome to Florida, punk. We have dinosaurs. Dinosaurs. And they like to sunbathe. And frankly, they don't care that it's your lawn, or school, or road. They were here first, by a count of about 50,000 years. So you can just go around them. (Or in certain months hunt them, of course, the rest of the year they own Lake Jessop, so back up off their turf.)
1) My internet failing. Or was it my laptop's internet card failing? For the sake of this article, we'll call it Windows 7 failing. It always takes me twenty or so minutes to get the wireless to connect, let's not even get into how long it actually takes to get it to stay connected. (2 minutes, that's actually the easy part.)
2) Next up? Water. As some as you may know, the economy, yeah, not so good. Before, I was a big fan of things like coffee, and beer. However, the past few months have seen me become a proponent of the sweet nectar of life that is H20. However, in the eyes of the many bartenders and cafe employees that I frequently run into, (Or just pretty much walk up to their counter in a very standard way.) I'm basically a big ball of jerkface. Last night I was cut off, very vocally, by a ridiculously cute waitress whom I'd love to take to dinner sometime (In a few months, when I can afford it. Leave off it already.) due to my continued consumption of postively ridiculous amounts of water. Today at the cafe, as everyone else is picking up their handmade frappaccinos (I'm going to loosely assume I misspelled that.) and cappuccinos, cookies and scones, I'm the guy who has to respond to the shout of "Large water, got a large water here." Look everyone! It's the cheap dude. Why can't I just like water, stop staring at me. Jeeze.
3) I didn't actually have a three when I started this article. But in stormed Windows 7 to rescue me from my depressingly even idea count. Windows updates. Now I think I may have allowed myself this gripe before, but as I have now encountered it twice in the past 12 hours, both in situations I would rather have...well, not, I feel that I'm justified to bring it up again. What the Hell Windows? You can't ask before you restart my computer for no apparent reason? I realize that last night it shutting down right before I was able to whoop for joy with my imminent victory over a rival StarCraft player is a complaint that many of you won't, and probably shouldn't, be able to sympathize with. But today, as I was approaching my 5th consecutive minute of writing (As I outlined earlier, a big step for me.) it decided that, telling me that a shut down was imminent, or better yet, asking me if that was even okay in the first place, was an exercise in futility, why not shut it down now, when it knows I'll be comfortable with it. Writing be damned.
As I always do about this time, I turned my eye(s?) to MSN news. You know, to keep up the illusion that I'm an informed writer who likes to keep his despairingly small audience in the dark on his complete lack of relevant knowledge, to see, as they've been known to say, what I could see.
Today's biggest jump out article was one that all of us college students (or previous college students who haven't quite gotten out of the lifestyle yet, ahem.) can relate too. Only not too many of us have found ourselves out of the running for 10 million dollars. Well, almost out of the running. The story goes as follows: Jim Furyk, a name so positively household I don't even need to introduce him, (He's a professional golfer. I know right? I always thought pro golf only consisted of the names "Woods" and "NicKlaus," although, to be fair, I had to google how to spell "NicKlaus." And I still misspelled it twice.) overslept today. Or yesterday. On a day that he was intended to play professional golf, he overslept. By 5 minutes. Talk about a kick in the gonads. When I overslept by 5 minutes at worst I had to withstand a berating from my mother. This guy oversleeps to the tune of a "good tooth brushing" and loses out, or severely diminishes, his chance at the 10 million dollars in prize money the PGA offers for this particular series of events. That's a pretty big downer, in the scheme of things.
And to sum this article up, suck it Northerners. The past few weeks have seen, believe it or not, an increase in alligator activity in northern cities like Manhattan and Chicago. First off, they were collared. Secondly, they were all under three feet. (Last night I found a six footer under my bed. I just laughed and said to myself "Oh you. You almost got me.") Why is this making the news? In college nearly all the people who had (intelligently in my opinion) migrated to the warm comfort of Florida complained about things like moose. "Dude, I was heading out for school, and as I walk outside, there's a moose in my yard! Moose are huge man!" Screw you. Okay. Screw you. A deer with horns is on your front lawn and you complain? Unless it has an aviator goggle wearing beaver for a companion, and the two of them are up to antics that literally make your face red and steam come out of your ears, I don't want to hear about it. Welcome to Florida, punk. We have dinosaurs. Dinosaurs. And they like to sunbathe. And frankly, they don't care that it's your lawn, or school, or road. They were here first, by a count of about 50,000 years. So you can just go around them. (Or in certain months hunt them, of course, the rest of the year they own Lake Jessop, so back up off their turf.)
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Fear the Machines, Or at least Their Naming Conventions,
I am tired.
What an intro! I know some of you are saying: "Well, Dave, maybe you should go to sleep earlier." And I agree, but how can I? There's this guy, see, and he has made a lot of money in real estate, specifically the foreclosure market...and he wants to tell me how to do it myself! In fact, he wants to tell me how to do it myself so badly, that he's filming this commercial from a car!
This is actually his pitch. This is all unscripted, I'm doing it from a moving vehicle. What crazy thing "will I have to do next?" I'm not going to get into the specifics of how a bazillion people talk every day in cars, but I will say that the only "crazy" thing about him doing this commercial in a vehicle (aside from the fact that people like this are allowed to make commercials...) is the ridiculous lack of safety this is encouraging. The American people have been fighting drunk driving, and now "texting and driving" for years. I don't think we need to throw in "Stop commercial filming driving!" How could you expect me to sleep? I had to write my congressman right away. I felt it was irresponsible not to tell him/her (Whose our Congressman?) that there was a possible serial commercialist driving around our streets, greedily looking into the camera on his windshield rather than looking through his windshield, you know, at the road.
After I finally felt comfortable enough with my letter to hit "send" and had felt the wave of personal satisfaction that told me I had done a good deed, I decided to check MSN news. Where they are now reporting two stories that worry me. And not for what the stories actually are. But rather how they're interpreted.
First is the story of the Mosque (Muslim center) being built near Ground Zero in New York. The fact that this has actual rallies and demonstrations going on against it is a testament to how far we haven't come as a culture since the 60's. But, as Americans, we do have the right to share our views. I believe that we should be able to march and protest and voice opinions, whether that's against Obama, Police Brutality, the BP spill, this ridiculous Mosque episode or Burger King getting rid of those little mini-burgers they used to have (Talk about ruining my childhood. I was devastated.) makes no real difference. We have the right to do it, so we can. My question in this case is just why? There was already a mosque there. They're just expanding it. It's not like a brand spanking new Mosque is being built just to laugh at what the country went through on 9/11. It was there on 9/11 too. It was there before it. At the very least protest the correct thing.
Onto my newest nightmare. Iran has just released a video of their unmanned attack plane, dubbed the "Ambassador of Death." Don't worry guys, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad says that "The jet, as well as being an ambassador of death for the enemies of humanity, has a main message of peace and friendship." (A viable question to ask at this point is "How did this guy get into the presidency?) I'm all about Peace and Prosperity. And I understand protecting that peace and our freedoms. I feel blessed to live in a country where so many great men and women serve the country for us, to allow us to live the lives we want to. But it is rather annoying when the armed forces, of any nation, try to hide the fact they are, in fact, an army. Creating weapons of war and calling them things like "the Peacebringer" or "Peacemaker" is a lot like calling a police trained attack-dog a cute little puppy. It is not a Peacebringer, it is a very large tank or air plane or boat, (Large piece of metal that moves, presumably quite quickly, and makes very big explosions.)possibly a gun, which we can assume is intended, at some point, to be used. In a war.
Finally, I said as I read the article, a plane with a name that says what it is! The Ambassador of Death. Imagine my surprise as I continued reading and found out that this, this angel of doom and dismay, is in fact an angel of love and healing. President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad went onto say how Iran needed to have preemptive strike capabilities, but that it would never strike first. (Which strikes me not only as an exercise in frivolity but also really bad tactics. It's the "hey pal, let's take this outside," of National conflict.)
I think that politicians get so caught up in public opinion that they forget that sometimes, it's okay to call a duck a duck. Just this one doesn't quack, or float, or eat bread passed out by your grandmother. It shoots missiles and kills people, and in all likelihood, (Along with it's American cousin the 'Predator') is the front runner for the inevitable arrival of Skynet. Fear the Machines.
You can find the articles at http://www.msn.com/
What an intro! I know some of you are saying: "Well, Dave, maybe you should go to sleep earlier." And I agree, but how can I? There's this guy, see, and he has made a lot of money in real estate, specifically the foreclosure market...and he wants to tell me how to do it myself! In fact, he wants to tell me how to do it myself so badly, that he's filming this commercial from a car!
This is actually his pitch. This is all unscripted, I'm doing it from a moving vehicle. What crazy thing "will I have to do next?" I'm not going to get into the specifics of how a bazillion people talk every day in cars, but I will say that the only "crazy" thing about him doing this commercial in a vehicle (aside from the fact that people like this are allowed to make commercials...) is the ridiculous lack of safety this is encouraging. The American people have been fighting drunk driving, and now "texting and driving" for years. I don't think we need to throw in "Stop commercial filming driving!" How could you expect me to sleep? I had to write my congressman right away. I felt it was irresponsible not to tell him/her (Whose our Congressman?) that there was a possible serial commercialist driving around our streets, greedily looking into the camera on his windshield rather than looking through his windshield, you know, at the road.
After I finally felt comfortable enough with my letter to hit "send" and had felt the wave of personal satisfaction that told me I had done a good deed, I decided to check MSN news. Where they are now reporting two stories that worry me. And not for what the stories actually are. But rather how they're interpreted.
First is the story of the Mosque (Muslim center) being built near Ground Zero in New York. The fact that this has actual rallies and demonstrations going on against it is a testament to how far we haven't come as a culture since the 60's. But, as Americans, we do have the right to share our views. I believe that we should be able to march and protest and voice opinions, whether that's against Obama, Police Brutality, the BP spill, this ridiculous Mosque episode or Burger King getting rid of those little mini-burgers they used to have (Talk about ruining my childhood. I was devastated.) makes no real difference. We have the right to do it, so we can. My question in this case is just why? There was already a mosque there. They're just expanding it. It's not like a brand spanking new Mosque is being built just to laugh at what the country went through on 9/11. It was there on 9/11 too. It was there before it. At the very least protest the correct thing.
Onto my newest nightmare. Iran has just released a video of their unmanned attack plane, dubbed the "Ambassador of Death." Don't worry guys, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad says that "The jet, as well as being an ambassador of death for the enemies of humanity, has a main message of peace and friendship." (A viable question to ask at this point is "How did this guy get into the presidency?) I'm all about Peace and Prosperity. And I understand protecting that peace and our freedoms. I feel blessed to live in a country where so many great men and women serve the country for us, to allow us to live the lives we want to. But it is rather annoying when the armed forces, of any nation, try to hide the fact they are, in fact, an army. Creating weapons of war and calling them things like "the Peacebringer" or "Peacemaker" is a lot like calling a police trained attack-dog a cute little puppy. It is not a Peacebringer, it is a very large tank or air plane or boat, (Large piece of metal that moves, presumably quite quickly, and makes very big explosions.)possibly a gun, which we can assume is intended, at some point, to be used. In a war.
Finally, I said as I read the article, a plane with a name that says what it is! The Ambassador of Death. Imagine my surprise as I continued reading and found out that this, this angel of doom and dismay, is in fact an angel of love and healing. President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad went onto say how Iran needed to have preemptive strike capabilities, but that it would never strike first. (Which strikes me not only as an exercise in frivolity but also really bad tactics. It's the "hey pal, let's take this outside," of National conflict.)
I think that politicians get so caught up in public opinion that they forget that sometimes, it's okay to call a duck a duck. Just this one doesn't quack, or float, or eat bread passed out by your grandmother. It shoots missiles and kills people, and in all likelihood, (Along with it's American cousin the 'Predator') is the front runner for the inevitable arrival of Skynet. Fear the Machines.
You can find the articles at http://www.msn.com/
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Reflection
I have found myself in an unenviable position, as of late. I wonder how many of you, my readers, my friends, loved ones, have found themselves in a similar situation. I figure all of us at some point are another. Essentially, I've been in an ongoing existential crisis for the past year and a half. It's taken some twists in turns, some broke my heart, some were just heartbreaking, most however, were just interesting. If by interesting I had said "will be funny 10 years from now," I would have gotten the point across better.
As I was saying...unenviable. It took me until I was 21 to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. 23 to start practicing for it. This does beg the question how long until I'm actually doing it...but shut up, nobody asked you.
Onward! I've known who I wanted to be my entire life. That is to say I know who the man in the mirror wants to be, not that I always know who he is. I'm sure everyone does things, says things, feels things, that they have no understanding of, or never intended, but I've always known, and still believe, that in the end, or long-run, or whatever the easiest way of getting across the point of " eventual white picket fence with wife" is, well...that...will happen. It's a matter of time, patience and practice. And as few of the 3 D's as possible. (I'll get into those tomorrow. Someone remind me...)
So, like I was saying (albeit it in an incredibly, borderline incorrigibly, long-winded and tangential way...) that I now, after years of searching, know both what I want to do, and who I want to be. I just don't know where I belong. Or who I belong with.
That is the core of my problem. Has been since college ended. It's what drives me to go back, to continue searching. I have no idea, not even the slightest inkling of a light bulb, where I should be, or when I should be there.
I'll give you a kernel of truth, an insight to my soul as it were. A year ago, I was finally recovering from my surgery. I felt better. I could walk, I was told in a month I would be exercising and playing basketball again, I had a job waiting for me, and all my friends were around me, supportive and caring as always. Everything was on the up and up...and I woke up one morning and didn't know where I was anymore. What had happened. I had to ask myself when did this happen? It wasn't the famous "Where did my life go wrong?" question. No, it was more of a "where did I lose myself?"
I never had a plan, some deep understanding of the next step or Life's secret inner workings. At best I knew (know) how to finagle free stuff from barristers and make friends with passing strangers. But that morning scared me. My entire life, I've woken up knowing who I was. That this was, for lack of a better word, right. And one day it just...wasn't. Not anymore.
I've been carrying this sense of not-belonging around with me for a year now. Sometimes I get passionate about an idea and follow it through. I still draw my comics. I still update this blog. I still write down jokes in journals and think about getting on a stage and telling them. Maybe singing. Writing a movie...but now, the mystical "next step" isn't a figurative thing. It isn't a "what to do" or "how to do it." It is a more literal "where should my next step fall?"
I don't want this to sound negative or self-deprecating. I love my life and the people in it. I just know that it's not quite the one I want, or maybe need. Not right now.
In the end I think I'll just give myself the same advice I'd give to you if you asked me. Keep moving, keep taking steps, and something will fall into place. And if it doesn't, well...put it there. Make it happen. Will it into place. The line "the future is ours for the taking" (Or yours, or mine...depending on where you heard it...) is not an entirely inaccurate one.
Wanted to share. Because that's the point of blogs. Or so I'm told. Maybe I should start doing a column. That way those of you who occasionally check it for video game comments or sports comments don't run into commentaries on my soul.
-D
As I was saying...unenviable. It took me until I was 21 to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. 23 to start practicing for it. This does beg the question how long until I'm actually doing it...but shut up, nobody asked you.
Onward! I've known who I wanted to be my entire life. That is to say I know who the man in the mirror wants to be, not that I always know who he is. I'm sure everyone does things, says things, feels things, that they have no understanding of, or never intended, but I've always known, and still believe, that in the end, or long-run, or whatever the easiest way of getting across the point of " eventual white picket fence with wife" is, well...that...will happen. It's a matter of time, patience and practice. And as few of the 3 D's as possible. (I'll get into those tomorrow. Someone remind me...)
So, like I was saying (albeit it in an incredibly, borderline incorrigibly, long-winded and tangential way...) that I now, after years of searching, know both what I want to do, and who I want to be. I just don't know where I belong. Or who I belong with.
That is the core of my problem. Has been since college ended. It's what drives me to go back, to continue searching. I have no idea, not even the slightest inkling of a light bulb, where I should be, or when I should be there.
I'll give you a kernel of truth, an insight to my soul as it were. A year ago, I was finally recovering from my surgery. I felt better. I could walk, I was told in a month I would be exercising and playing basketball again, I had a job waiting for me, and all my friends were around me, supportive and caring as always. Everything was on the up and up...and I woke up one morning and didn't know where I was anymore. What had happened. I had to ask myself when did this happen? It wasn't the famous "Where did my life go wrong?" question. No, it was more of a "where did I lose myself?"
I never had a plan, some deep understanding of the next step or Life's secret inner workings. At best I knew (know) how to finagle free stuff from barristers and make friends with passing strangers. But that morning scared me. My entire life, I've woken up knowing who I was. That this was, for lack of a better word, right. And one day it just...wasn't. Not anymore.
I've been carrying this sense of not-belonging around with me for a year now. Sometimes I get passionate about an idea and follow it through. I still draw my comics. I still update this blog. I still write down jokes in journals and think about getting on a stage and telling them. Maybe singing. Writing a movie...but now, the mystical "next step" isn't a figurative thing. It isn't a "what to do" or "how to do it." It is a more literal "where should my next step fall?"
I don't want this to sound negative or self-deprecating. I love my life and the people in it. I just know that it's not quite the one I want, or maybe need. Not right now.
In the end I think I'll just give myself the same advice I'd give to you if you asked me. Keep moving, keep taking steps, and something will fall into place. And if it doesn't, well...put it there. Make it happen. Will it into place. The line "the future is ours for the taking" (Or yours, or mine...depending on where you heard it...) is not an entirely inaccurate one.
Wanted to share. Because that's the point of blogs. Or so I'm told. Maybe I should start doing a column. That way those of you who occasionally check it for video game comments or sports comments don't run into commentaries on my soul.
-D
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Pledge and Stuff *I like "and Stuff" to be in my Titles*
Apparently I can make my blog look way cooler and do all types of snappy and snazzy things to make you want to read it more. Sadly, I'm only driven to a point, and by the time I'm ready to work on my blog, that point has long since passed. I'd prefer that writing out thoughts not ever seem like work. I'd rather writing never seem like work. But when you get into the brutal business of rewriting and editing, well, that stuff definitely qualifies as work.
So, let's see what happened recently. I don't want to get into the negative because, well, they're silly and sad and who wants to dwell on them. So let's go positive...I didn't use Pledge(the dust remover lemony stuff...) as shaving cream. And I only just didn't. Imagine my surprise with the new lemony smell, and liquid white foam style of my shaving cream, when just the other morning it was a blue gel. It was early and I didn't quite understand what was happening so I decided that this problem, like most problems, could be solved by a good old fashioned shaking. But no. My shaving cream was still coming as a white lemony foam. And now my hand was starting to feel...I want to call it oily, but looking back, I suppose you would call it "finished." Before I could just shrug and go to town and begin shaving, I actually looked at the bottle. Imagine my surprise. Especially since not only do I not buy Pledge, I very rarely dust. I know, I know, tidiness habits are the most important habits...or something.
I got a few random facebook posts from my buddy Alex, who, everyone put out some positive thoughts / energy / prayers, is in Afghanistan doing his thang. For the first time in weeks I was actually truly inspired to start working on my comic again. I've had a two-fold problem of not having Nathan around to do my art, and being a talentless hack, when it comes to drawing. Well, I hope only when it comes to drawing. I'm sure many other people would have many other things to say about my talentlessness. Yeah. Talentlessness. Take that Webster's. I'm sick of your damn rules.
Back on point, Logic Fails is back up and running, it's just a matter of finishing (starting) a design and finishing (starting) a few comics. They need to be all digital and pretty. And so far all I can handle is the digital part of that sentence. And that just barely. I get as far as "double click the PhotoShop" icon before I get confused, so I figure that puts me a leg up on all the people who don't own a copy of PhotoShop.
I finally got a few interviews for High School teaching, which, is amazing, despite almost everyone that knows me saying "They let you around kids?" Har har. You all suck. Continued, I got my first interview and I think it went reasonably well, the only downside being that I don't yet have my temporary certificate. This being a downside because obtaining the damn thing is a job for someone with a genius IQ and a plethora of patience with red tape and pointless bureaucracy. There are over 15 questions about criminal background, and yet not one place can you click "have never had a problem with the Law." I don't even have a speeding ticket, and while some of you may say that makes me "less fun." I'd retort that with "all my fun friends drive." So there.
If I don't get on of these positions in the school system I've decided on three, or however many ideas hit me in the next few minutes, lanes of attack... (paths to tread, roads to drive, chairs to sit and sidewalks to walk on...) A) The oldy but goody, becoming a fisherman on an island. It just never fails to interest me. B) Comics and writing. That's right, go the route of the starving artist. C) Move to Daytona and beg Nick to hire me on as a Best Buy something.
I know there are more viable options, like working on my scripts and trying to get one sold, or get myself accepted to film/screenwriting school, or working on a short story and doing the same for writing school. But who wants more education? (Me.) I'd rather get paid. (Or get more education, it seems like that could pay off...but then what, oh what would I do with the rest of this year? I take you back to examples A, B and C.)
Okay, enough rambling, that's it for today.
-D
So, let's see what happened recently. I don't want to get into the negative because, well, they're silly and sad and who wants to dwell on them. So let's go positive...I didn't use Pledge(the dust remover lemony stuff...) as shaving cream. And I only just didn't. Imagine my surprise with the new lemony smell, and liquid white foam style of my shaving cream, when just the other morning it was a blue gel. It was early and I didn't quite understand what was happening so I decided that this problem, like most problems, could be solved by a good old fashioned shaking. But no. My shaving cream was still coming as a white lemony foam. And now my hand was starting to feel...I want to call it oily, but looking back, I suppose you would call it "finished." Before I could just shrug and go to town and begin shaving, I actually looked at the bottle. Imagine my surprise. Especially since not only do I not buy Pledge, I very rarely dust. I know, I know, tidiness habits are the most important habits...or something.
I got a few random facebook posts from my buddy Alex, who, everyone put out some positive thoughts / energy / prayers, is in Afghanistan doing his thang. For the first time in weeks I was actually truly inspired to start working on my comic again. I've had a two-fold problem of not having Nathan around to do my art, and being a talentless hack, when it comes to drawing. Well, I hope only when it comes to drawing. I'm sure many other people would have many other things to say about my talentlessness. Yeah. Talentlessness. Take that Webster's. I'm sick of your damn rules.
Back on point, Logic Fails is back up and running, it's just a matter of finishing (starting) a design and finishing (starting) a few comics. They need to be all digital and pretty. And so far all I can handle is the digital part of that sentence. And that just barely. I get as far as "double click the PhotoShop" icon before I get confused, so I figure that puts me a leg up on all the people who don't own a copy of PhotoShop.
I finally got a few interviews for High School teaching, which, is amazing, despite almost everyone that knows me saying "They let you around kids?" Har har. You all suck. Continued, I got my first interview and I think it went reasonably well, the only downside being that I don't yet have my temporary certificate. This being a downside because obtaining the damn thing is a job for someone with a genius IQ and a plethora of patience with red tape and pointless bureaucracy. There are over 15 questions about criminal background, and yet not one place can you click "have never had a problem with the Law." I don't even have a speeding ticket, and while some of you may say that makes me "less fun." I'd retort that with "all my fun friends drive." So there.
If I don't get on of these positions in the school system I've decided on three, or however many ideas hit me in the next few minutes, lanes of attack... (paths to tread, roads to drive, chairs to sit and sidewalks to walk on...) A) The oldy but goody, becoming a fisherman on an island. It just never fails to interest me. B) Comics and writing. That's right, go the route of the starving artist. C) Move to Daytona and beg Nick to hire me on as a Best Buy something.
I know there are more viable options, like working on my scripts and trying to get one sold, or get myself accepted to film/screenwriting school, or working on a short story and doing the same for writing school. But who wants more education? (Me.) I'd rather get paid. (Or get more education, it seems like that could pay off...but then what, oh what would I do with the rest of this year? I take you back to examples A, B and C.)
Okay, enough rambling, that's it for today.
-D
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Retail and Woe is Me with a little bit of Life is Good
Oh Lord!
It's time to look for jobs! Still! So, while, yes, I do realize how odd that sentence is, I need you to realize how serious I am. Job hunting is bad.
I really just want to draw and write comics, maybe write a movie? But I'm having trouble on those fronts. And I need money. I've applied to every teaching position in two counties, and I'm about a week away from taking my "test" for "area of expertise." Although any of you who know me, know that I have no expertise in anything that isn't eating and or competitive. Possibly competitive eating.
I was in Gainesville this weekend, and to understate it, it was incredibly fun. We had fully intended to go to the Itchylackasomething River, but on the one day we were all able to go, we were all close to death until around 2PM. And then it rained. And while you would think that raining literally every day during our trip was a bad thing, it basically allowed us to sleep off the night before, before moving into the night after. So it worked out well.
I met quite a few people, loved all of them, and got to see a Batman cartoon movie that mad me love Batman even more than I did before. And I'll explain why in two sentences. Any man wise enough to make Neil Patrick Harris his sidekick is a badass, a man of pure badassery. And Batman jumps through a car. (I understand this makes it three sentences, and run on's at that, but, yes, through a car!)
My buddy Nick got his dream job this week, and congrats to him, a young man making six figures now, but I suppose a congrats may be in order for the rest of us, who through being his friend for close to two decades, now have guaranteed jobs working for him. Now it's the choice of "to Retail or not to Retail?" I think I may have to just not choose, and stick to retail. Just with someone I like, with a different color shirt. By the beach. Like whoa.
It is, sadly, time for me to work on a comic a bit, and then work on "work" for a bit. I might go super nerd next blog (possibly tonight, possibly tomorrow?) and write about StarCraft II. So. Yeah. That could happen.
-D
It's time to look for jobs! Still! So, while, yes, I do realize how odd that sentence is, I need you to realize how serious I am. Job hunting is bad.
I really just want to draw and write comics, maybe write a movie? But I'm having trouble on those fronts. And I need money. I've applied to every teaching position in two counties, and I'm about a week away from taking my "test" for "area of expertise." Although any of you who know me, know that I have no expertise in anything that isn't eating and or competitive. Possibly competitive eating.
I was in Gainesville this weekend, and to understate it, it was incredibly fun. We had fully intended to go to the Itchylackasomething River, but on the one day we were all able to go, we were all close to death until around 2PM. And then it rained. And while you would think that raining literally every day during our trip was a bad thing, it basically allowed us to sleep off the night before, before moving into the night after. So it worked out well.
I met quite a few people, loved all of them, and got to see a Batman cartoon movie that mad me love Batman even more than I did before. And I'll explain why in two sentences. Any man wise enough to make Neil Patrick Harris his sidekick is a badass, a man of pure badassery. And Batman jumps through a car. (I understand this makes it three sentences, and run on's at that, but, yes, through a car!)
My buddy Nick got his dream job this week, and congrats to him, a young man making six figures now, but I suppose a congrats may be in order for the rest of us, who through being his friend for close to two decades, now have guaranteed jobs working for him. Now it's the choice of "to Retail or not to Retail?" I think I may have to just not choose, and stick to retail. Just with someone I like, with a different color shirt. By the beach. Like whoa.
It is, sadly, time for me to work on a comic a bit, and then work on "work" for a bit. I might go super nerd next blog (possibly tonight, possibly tomorrow?) and write about StarCraft II. So. Yeah. That could happen.
-D
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