Lull

I haven't been accomplishing much in the past couple of weeks. I've sat here almost every day looking at one of my screenplays and draft the second of the book, keeping them always open in the hopes that I'll get back into the swing of it. Hasn't worked so far. I'm not worried yet. There's been a bit of adjustment at work while I get a temporary promotion (I'm filling in for my supervisor who's out right now after surgery). We've got a show opening on Tuesday evening. I've started going to the gym and playing racquetball (read: getting my arse handed to me on the court) one night a week after work. So it's not like I haven't accomplished anything, it's just not what I want to be accomplishing.

Being put into a supervisory position at work has been interesting, although probably not the best thing for me. Now that I've seen it from their point of view, and everything they have to deal with, I'm completely convinced I can do it, and possibly better. Definitely better than some. But the question is, do I want to? Working for Cirque is great: the bragging rights, the attachment to something so instantly recognizable and well-perceived by the rest of the world, the 5-year anniversary leather jacket. But I look around at the guys I work with, and I can't decide if I want it or not. Even working for a show such as LOVE can get a little. . . samey. Same music, same show, same people, and as fickle and easily distractable as I am, I don't think I have the patience to work my way up in the company. And there's no way I want to stay in the same position forever.

So why, then, am I slacking with the writing? I see it as my first best chance for a change of pace, and should be going at it hammer and tongs, but it's more like no hammer and just a pair of tweezers. It still feels good when I get a couple pages written, or edited, or scribble down more ideas on this big effing white board that now lives on the wall by my bed. I'm just not doing it right now.

Maybe I've had too many people compliment me on my writing. Not that they've read it yet; just that I actually got through the first draft, all seventy-something thousand words. I've had more than one person tell me how proud they are of me (even though it's probable that what I've written is pants), and I've always been one to rest on my laurels. The trouble is here, that the laurels are only supposed. I haven't earned anything- even though I got further than a lot of people, I'm starting to see a first draft as almost the same as never writing it.

So here's the plan. Finish the screenplay for Taras in the next week. The get cracking on my edit- I said I'd have it done by the end of March, so I gotsta get a move on with the bloody thing. And after that? Start something else. No more down time. Not until I've earned it, and I've got a comfy bunch of laurels that I can make a nest out of to rest in, just like I used to do with the blankets in the airing cupboard at the Coombe Road house.

BuyPolar

Anyone who knows me knows I have a tendency to be up and down. I'll be on top of the world one minute, and completely pissy the next for no apparent reason. This can lead to many stupid things done or said, and I think about a quarter of my life is comprised of apologizing for another quarter of it. I'm blaming it all on my star sign. Can't find the link anymore, but I read a description that was really good at explaining all the cap that I pull and should have bookmarked it to refer people.

Anyway, I can be having a great day, like today, and then feel myself slipping into one of my funks. I'm learning to socialize without alcohol (oh, didn't I tell you? I gave up drinking for February. Story for another day). I'm finding it not as scary as I thought it would be. I got to spend a couple of hours outside watching the Rugby Sevens Tournament with some friends before going to work, and it was exactly what I needed. But then three hours into work I started feeling down.

I'm convinced it's not because of work. Well, let me explain that. I think it's because I'm in a rut, and that work is just part of that rut that I'm slowly walking along day after day, digging a little deeper with each passage. If I keep walking along it, at what point do the sides become too steep for me to get out?

I desperately want out of Vegas, but I'm not doing anything about it. I'm not actively applying for other jobs, although I did go through a brief phase of looking at apartments in New York, and Munich, and London. But I don't think New York or London would cut it right now. I think they'd end up being a different sort of rut, and I don't want that. Hell, I don't even want to walk down a different path, I want to be climbing the trees. I want to dream in a different language.

I'm sometimes confused by how I got, as I see it, stuck here. After travelling around so much when I was younger, I never thought I would have to stop but owed it to myself to try this 'normal life' everyone else always talks about. After being in Vegas for six months, and getting decidedly antsy, instead of listening to myself and going somewhere else, I bought a condo in the hopes it would maybe settle me, let me give myself a chance at a normal life and a decent career. It's given me the decent chance at a career, but it hasn't settles me. And Vegas is hardly conducive to having a normal life.

For me, settling down, buying a place, and holding down a 9-5 job (well, 330-1130, but you know what I mean), it's been the equivalent of most people's teaching abroad year or peace corps year, albeit a lot less altruistic. I've taken my year off, and now I'm ready to get back into living the life I want, which involves much less in the way of mortgage payments and a lot more in the way of. . .well, anything, really. I have to write my books and my screenplays, and make enough money that I can up and leave and do it anywhere.

So the reason for the title? I like to buy shit when I'm in a pissy mood. Which I am on a regular basis because of the decision I made to try and have a normal, sedentary, settled down life. I have too much crap now to be able to up and move easily. I need to focus my retail therapy somewhere it's going to help, not hinder, my ability to bugger off for a while. Instead of buying any more fricking Blu-Rays (Zombieland is the last one, tomorrow, I swear), I'd be better off sticking that cash in a piggy bank and sending it all off at the end of the month towards my credit card, or student loans, and working towards something that'll get me where I want to be, stop me being so changeable, and buy trips not toys.

But now all I can think about is going to amazon.com and buying a piggy bank.

why I write

I don't know if I can answer that. When I'm sitting there looking at a blinking cursor, willing words to come that have no interest in being typed, all I want to do is throw my computer out of a high building and never write another word (write, type, whatever). Trying to scribble down a thought that might be something or might be nothing,  a thought that refuses to be tied down to the page, I've snapped pens before. So why continue to do it? I'd love to make some money doing it eventually. . .or rather, I intend to make some money doing it. I know that statistically speaking it's unlikely, but I've always distrusted statistics. Probably something to do with having a maths teacher who would correct my work with his too-soft hands, leaving chalk dust all over my notebooks. Ugh. Anyway <he says, shaking himself back from distant memories>, I've somehow managed to convince myself that one day I'll make a living as a writer, and not be tied down to one place. I'll be able to travel the world, periodically sending in work to an agent, and not miss out on important life events of friends and family. Wedding in Australia? No problem, the flight will give me time to edit my latest work. You want to go to Oktoberfest with me? Well, it has been twelve years since I last went, and it's a brilliant place to people watch.

But I think the truth is, I enjoy it. Surprisingly enough, for something that's so close to schoolwork, I enjoy writing. Never liked it in school, but now I don't have to do it, I find myself wanting to do it. And in the past, what, two years? that I've decided to write, it's changed me more than I would have thought probable. Every random little thought, almost as soon as I've had it, I wonder if it would make a good story. I see people on the street or in the casinos or at the airport, and I think about them as a basis for something. I pick apart my own life and think about which parts might work for a story. And now, instead of having run out of things to write about, I'm almost worried that I won't have time to tell them all.

I think about the phrase "we've all got one book in us," and can't decide if it's true or not. Maybe on average everyone does, but that means people like Neil Gaiman and Stephen King are probably using up other people's stories. The bastards. Having said that, and being currently in the middle of editing my first novel, I know for a fact that this isn't the one book that I have inside me. This one, and I'm intending it to be the first of a trilogy, is more just to see if I can do it. Can I keep my short little span of attention focused long enough to actually write something worth reading, or publishing? So far yes, and keeping my one book for down the line I haven't blown my load straight away. Premature authoration sounds like a terrible thing. The knowledge that I have another, better book waiting to be written is good to have.

So I, who have never tried harder than I had to, who fought for years against attempts to get me to do homework, enjoy writing. I know I have teachers out there who would love the irony of that. But to quote one of my favourite authors, 'writing is the most fun anyone can have by themselves.' It is fun. I get to play God! When writing, I can create a world, characters, and elevate or destroy them on a whim. I can revisit events that I never got to experience, and even host my own events. It lets me escape from the world and my life, and helps me see it more clearly sometimes. It's a cheap form of therapy - I'm opposed to paying someone to listen to me run off my issues, cos I already have a pretty good idea of what they are. Writing is an outlet much more satisfying than playing video and computer games. It's as open ended as you want it to be (Robert Jordan. . .), or you can move on without even stopping to pack. If you haven't tried it yet, seriously. Open your word processor now, and just start typing.

aargh

I've been struggling to write this post for two weeks now. I started sitting in the San Fransisco airport, but didn't like what I was writing. Then I tried in the Salt Lake City airport, and again wasn't doing well with what I wanted to write about. Being thirty is a strange age. It's an age that isn't associated with any milestones, special events, privileges. There's been nothing since 21, when you can legally drink in the US, and won't be anything until 40, when 'life begins.' It's like a celebratory wasteland, which is surprising given that we've become a culture that seemingly celebrates everything, especially if there's a chance to make a quick buck.

And then there's people going around saying that thirty is the new twenty. You know who keeps saying this? The people who used to be twenty and are in denial. Thirty isn't the new twenty; I can't pull all-nighters the way I was able to at twenty, or eat the same sort of junk food and not notice it, or use the excuse  'I'm young' when I do stupid shit. I'm not going to be in denial. I can't be in denial, because the only alternative to getting older. . .well, it's not an alternative as far as I can see. I'll finally admit that there may be a grey hair or two (although I won't admit to noticing them six months ago). I'm half-way to being able to draw on my 401(k), although that's not saying much these days.

I had a lot of fun in my twenties. I graduated University, worked on cruise ships, learned to scuba dive, went skydiving, met a slew of people, and learned a tonne- about myself, people, and life in general. Would I have done things differently? For sure, but there's nothing wrong with that. I got over my hang-up against politics and started to pay much more attention to it, because no matter whether you want to get involved or not, it affects us all. I rediscovered the enjoyment I used to get from writing, almost twenty years after the fact. I moved to Vegas, bought a condo, founded a theatre company, wrote a novel, programmed a Cirque Du Soleil show. I realize that this list of achievements is starting to sound like a post from a couple ago, but that was talking about the fun, fucked-up year that 2009 was. If my thirties hold half as much stuff as my twenties did, then why would I want to pretend I was still there?

I'm still not used to saying 'thirty' though. It's an age that I never really thought about growing up. I had no expectations for where I would be or what I would have accomplished by this point, so I think that's why it seems like such a strange age to be. I always said I'd move out by 18, and get my first Oscar by 21. I managed the moving out kind-of when I was 14, and I'm still waiting on that Oscar. Come to think of it, that's as far as the planning went, so I think I'm doing pretty well with some of the other stuff I've managed to do. How many people in the world have been put on the corporate blacklist by Holland America Cruise Lines?

So why the lack of planning or expectation after 21? Is it because there's nothing from there 'til 40? And maybe that's why the last few years have been so up-and-down. As I don't have any plans of my own, I look around what everyone else is up to. Most of my friends are married, and a lot of them have kids, so it's sometimes hard being thirty and single. But at the same time, why should I base my goals, my sanity, on what the people are up to around me? I've never done that before.

So here's to being thirty. The decade in which I publish my first novel (and more than one). The decade I have screenplays produced, welcome my first nephew into the world (and promptly start the corruption process), visit the continents I've only seen (South America and Asia, I'm looking at you). I doubt we're going to make it to Mars in the next ten years, but hey, sign me op for that trip too. I've got the thinking before I speak down, I just need to think twice, so that's on the books.

Thirty is going to be good. Thirty isn't the new twenty, but maybe twenty wishes it were thirty.

nameless

I'm bored with the name of my blog. Any suggestions? I need something that I think describes me, so it needs to be ironic, sarcastic, dirty, social, opinionated, committed (to what, you be the judge), honest, and in need of a drink. This is your assignment, work needs to be handed in no later than Tuesday and will be graded on clarity of idea, adherence to the subject matter, spelling and punctuation, and whether I like it or not (cos we all know that's how professors grade, right?)

Why is it I find coming up with names one of the hardest things to do? I'll have these brilliant (I think) ideas for stories, movies, shorts, et al., but I can't decide what to call any of the bloody characters? do I use the names of people around me and risk them thinking I based a character on them? Or do I only use names that no one I know has?

AND...what about my name? I'd like to be published in more than one genre (so I should probably be working on that rather than dithering here), is it easier to publish in different genres under different names? With a pseudonym one can enjoy a certain amount of anonymity, but let's face it we all want a certain amount of recognition, right? I'd hate to say something astoundingly brilliant, a quote that echoes through history, and have it credited to 'Anonymous.' Sod that.

Although right now all this is moot if I don't get off my arse, get off wordpress, and actually do the writing I need to get done to have all these concerns. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight is for rediscovering 'Leftism' by Leftfield, 'You've come a long way baby' by Fatboy Slim, and getting an early night. Anything before 2am is an early night.

Focus

I hate wearing glasses. That's a lie. I don't hate wearing glasses, but in Vegas the glass buildings have a tendency to throw the sun at you from every direction, so I keep my sunglasses on permanently when I'm outside or in the car. I sometimes keep them on inside too, in preparation for my movie-star lifestyle which is supposed to start any day now. But wearing sunglasses makes it harder to wear regular glasses of the designs I favour-- specifically picked to play down the roundness of my face and be covered by insurance. So I tend only to wear glasses when I'm at home and not planning on going out that day, and stick to contacts the rest of the time. Or rather, the contacts stick to me, cos I tend to sleep with them in. For weeks. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to do that, but the older I get it seems the only way to get me to do something is to tell me I shouldn't. If anyone had said to me 'Rich, you should sleep with your contacts in' when I first started wearing them, I'd be taking them out every night. Whether contacts or glasses, either way if your eyesight needs help you're going to wake up in the morning and things are going to be a tad blurry. Couple drips of fluid, or put my glasses on, and I can see! I just wish I could do that with my life. I'm looking at it, and everything's slightly blurry, cos I don't know what to focus on. There's my job with Cirque, which has the potential to be a proper career, but I already feel like I've had a successful career here. There's BNTA, and bringing Panto to Las Vegas which is going well. Then there's my writing. What to focus on? I know I should be editing my first draft, but there's all these other things I want to write. I stated another story a week ago, that I think I might make into a novel. There's the very first idea I had that WILL be done one day, and I feel guilty that I haven't done more than a page, but on that one I know now is not the time. I've got two screenplays that are on the go, should I be working on them? The eight short stories would definitely benefit from a little TLC, should they be my focus?

Bollocks. I suppose it's better to have too many things on the go than too few. But it would be nice, just for a week or two, to know exactly where my brain is. And it's even harder to know what I'm thinking right now with the impending doom that is my 30th birthday. Maybe a drive out to the coast is in order, although SoCal isn't my ideal coast for a little soul searching. I'd want to travel to Cornwall for that, there's some gorgeous spots that my Dad took me to when I was still living in England. Gurnard's Head or Porthcurno are just what the doctor ordered right now, assuming I'm the doctor and I'm allowed to self-medicate. Gods I crave being out there, walking the cliff tops bundled up against the wind as it pulls you this way and that, the sound and smell of the sea. We'd go out there, my Dad and I, trying to spot the Peregrines that lived out there. We saw them a couple of times, but more often than not the buggers wouldn't show up.

No chance for quite a while yet. Too much to do. Thinking about it, though, writing about it here helps. No matter what I focus on it's pretty clear to me that I have to do it all, so I can have time out on the Cornish cliffs. If I don't get it done before, then instead of enjoying the spot I'll be too busy still going over the same old bullshit in my head.

Hey, thanks doc., this has been a good session.

Editing

I was intending to put me book down for a couple of weeks, step back from it, take a break, before I started the edit. But yesterday I just... I just felt like doing it. I'm learning to actually listen to myself when I feel like doing something, so I picked up a pencil and started to read my own words. My gods does it need work. The prose is quite. . .to be polite to myself, quite clunky. It's the sort of book I'd discard as aeroplane reading- good enough to read in transit, but if you leave it in the seat pocket in front of you that's no great loss. This is going to take more than one edit. one thing I do seem to be getting the hang of, though, is cutting parts. I've always been told that as a writer you can get enamoured of sentences, dialogue, etc., and not want to cut them. I haven't found that to be the case yet. Two chapters in, and I'm doing battlefield surgery with my pencil.

Now, in m defense, and because I have to say something to convince myself it's not all bad, I think my writing progressed as I wrote. The first couple of chapters I was feeling my way, but it seemed to come much easier the further I got into the story. I haven't read the whole thing yet, so maybe I should read it all first and then make the changes, but the ending is so fresh (most of it was done last week, altho the last chapter was done in September) I don't feel like I need to read it just yet.

Either way, I suppose it's a good way to start the New Year. I was certainly happy, and I don't think I'm alone in this, to see the end of last year. 2009 was a. . .bizarre. . .year. So many ups and downs, most real but some perceived. I got a promotion without a raise, reached 5 years with Cirque/MGM, met some of the kids of my Salzburg group, ran up my credit card, went to a friend's wedding I never thought would get married, bought a new suit, had the worst hangover I've had in years- with my father-, went diving with sharks, wrote the first draft of a novel, churned out a couple of short stories, two short screenplays, started on two full-length screenplays, broke 100,000 miles with my car, fell in smitten, fell in smitten again (okay, so that was more or les a monthly occurrence), argued about politics and religion, argued about politics and religion again(okay, so that was more or less a daily occurrence), started to twitter, re-started to blog (and one day I might just transfer all the old ones over here. I feel dirty with them on MySpace). I'm sure I'm forgetting some things, but I leave it to you to work out which were the ups, which were the downs, and which were perceived to be either by me.

As to this year? I feel good about it. Despite not being able to stick to one of my resolutions for more than six minutes, and breaking a couple more a few hours later, it's going to be a good one. I've got to finish book one completely, I want to finish the first draft of book two, and the screenpl. . .you know what? This year is about finishing. I've always been good at starting things, so I'm going to work on seeing them through this year. Which is why I'm going to get up now, fix myself something to eat, and then sit down with my draft and keep slicing away at it.

Maybe this year I should work on editing my blogs before I post them too? Or at least re-reading them to see if I've made more of an arse out of myself as usual. . .

end of the beginning?

I'm not even going to acknowledge how long it's been. But I'd like to saythis: Holy shit, I finished!

The first draft, that is. Of the first book. Is it any good? How many of those seventy-two thousand, six hundred and twenty-two words are worth keeping and how many are going to get cut when it comes to editing? Don't know yet, considering I haven't read the bloody thing myself.

And here's the amazing thing about it. I who would be crowned king of procrastination if I got my suit cleaned in time to show up for the coronation, have managed to not only set myself a goal, but beat it by a week. That's pretty good going considering I once needed a girlfriend to print out and turn in a final for me because I kept putting it off until I had to leave town for christmas break one year. So now I almost feel like I have this week off.

Truth be told, I could probably have finished with even more time to spare, and the fact that I didn't has very little to do with my procrastinatory habits. We've had an interesting few weeks at work that basically resulted in working longer hours than any of us had done since install/creation. That, and working days instead of nights for our annual two week dark managed to fill up time prety successfully. That last blog I wrote about being busy? Wrote that before things actually did get busy, what with Snow White and the basement water and the family visiting.

But it feels good. Typed the last word around 230am last night, and lay in bed, marginally stunned. I mean, who the fuck am I to decide I should do something like this? And then actually to do it? It's actually quite an empowering feeling, sitting there looking at the document word count, and realizing that you've actually done what you set out to do. I got up this morning and went to FedEx Kincos, and had it printed out. I keep telling myself that it's to edit it, and it truly is, but as I'm not going to start editing for a week or two, give myself a bit of a break from Gower and Brokes et al, I didn't have to get it printed out this morning. But hey, I just got paid, and there's something about looking at 361 pages bound and sitting on the coffee table, it makes the word count somehow more tangible. 72,622 seems like a shit-tonne of words, but looking at it printed out on 8.5"x11", bound (ironically, the same way my too-thoughtful girlfriend from all those years ago had my paper bound before she gave it in for me), and ready to be picked apart, as well as the weight lugging the bloody thing around to show off, that means more to me.

So draft one of book one is done. And with the week off I feel like I have, what do I do? Start work on the Aladdin script for next year's panto, start work on book two, continue with a storyline for a project Steve Mack and I are working on together, and general dabbling with other things that have really been pushed aside the past couple of months. I'm looking forward to it.

so close

I'm almost at sixty thousand words. That seems like quite a lot. I set seventy as the goal, and I'm not sure if I'll make it for the first draft, but that doesn't really matter cos it's about which words I use, not how many of them. Three chapters to go. One more character to introduce. And I feel like I've run out of steam. I'm this close, but it's like I don't want to finish it. I do want to finish it, and I'm bloody well going to manage to finish before the end of the year, but again the procrastinator in me is sending me a memo telling me that at some point or other he'll rear his head and make me put off writing until the last minute. Am I going to wait until the last week of the year and then scramble to do it? I bloody well hope not, I'd like to prove to myself that I can write outside of the goals and guidelines I set for myself. I thought I'd broken my habit of doing the bare minimum back in September when I made it to almost 25k words, well over the goal I'd set myself. I couldn't tell you the last time I overachieved like that-- all through school I was a b student. Bishops? Mostly B's. Louisiana? Mostly B's. AP classes? B's. College? Yep. It's never mattered how hard or easy everything's been, I've always been a solid B. If I went back and did school all over again, repeated classes, I'd still get B's.

So back in September, it was nice to think that maybe I've gotten over that minimum effort thing that I always do. And now I find myself half-way through November, still not done with the book, and so close I can almost taste it, but what do I do? Instead of buckling down and finishing it off, I start on chapter one of the next book. It's just more interesting right now. I know where the story is going to finish off Book one- hell, I already wrote the last chapter- so of course I want to move on and do something else.

Need to focus. It's like making model aeroplanes when I was younger. Always loved making them, don't think I ever finished a single bloody one. I was into model ships for a while, and I've still got half the cutty sark sitting in my garage. Half-painted canvas. Short stories that need finishing and editing. Never even sealed the tiles I laid around the fireplace and the front door. Maybe this book's going to be the first thing I really finish?

Not that blogging is going to help me finish it. And I'm not going to use Snow White as an excuse- even though it's taking up a tonne of time, and being sick into the bargain isn't helping. I'm going to see what I can do, maybe finish it this week while Mum and Dad are here. That would be good. Let's see if I can pull my thumb out me arse and do it. . .

warranty

I think I'm going to get rid of my iPhone. Well, I'll have to get rid of it, cos half the touchscreen doesn't work so I can't access the calendar, app store, calculator, clock, notes, or maps. Basically, most of the useful ones. It wouldn't be so annoying if this wasn't the exact same problem I had about a year ago. Last year, they replaced it cos it was still under warrantly, but this time around they'd replace it for $200. I can get one of the 2nd generation iPhones for the same amount, but why would I want to do that when there seems to be a good chance that it'll pack it in. The bloke in the store also told me that if I got one of the new ones I can purchase an extended warranty for it, cover it for 2 years. But I object to paying for something and then having to pay extra to make sure if it breaks I'm not completely out of pocket. What happened to making things that-- and I know this is going to be a crazy, off-the-wall suggestion, but bear with me-- what happened to making things that don't break? Why should warranties be necessary?

Was there some point when human manufacturing capabilities switched from being able to make things that don't break all the time, to us needing the warranties beccause you could almost guarantee we'd need them? Or have we always been shite at making things? Did our ancestors sit there, trading flint tools and weapons with one another and offer warranties? When Moses came down from Sinai with the stone tablets and broke them, when he went back up there had God put them under warranty? If it had happened these days, Moses would have climbed back up the mountain, told God what had happened, and God would have told him that throwing down in anger counted as usual wear and tear, and as such wasn't covered under warranty, unless he bought the extended care package with the all-inclusive, no questions asked replacement policy, yours for recurring yearly payments of $349.99 (including applicable state taxes), payable as one payment or six bi-monthly payments with an added $2.50 processing fee per payment.

Part of the problem is we've become convinced of the necessity of certain things. We talk about how much we need things- our computers, cell phones, and now smart phones, but two years ago I had to look up directions before I left the house rather than doing it en route. I had to wait until I could get to a computer to check email instead of doing it every time my phone beeps at me. I had to have conversations with people instead of text streams. So it's not that we need most of it, it just serves to make our lives more convenient. I love being able to refer to what's going on in my life with the calendar on my phone, it's very convenient, but then when the bloody thing breaks and I can't get to it, it creates more of an inconvenience than had I just written it down in the first place, or actually remembered it.

There's an idea. How about we use our brains to live, instead of using our brains to come up with ways to get away with using them less? When I was little I was made to remember our home phone number so if I ever got lost I would be able to call home. Same with my grandfather's phone number, and as I got older I started remembering friend's numbers because I had to actually dial them every time I wanted to talk to them on the phone. Now, there are two phone numbers I know. I forget birthdays, anniversaries, because they're all put in my phone and promptly forgotten about. Maybe if we all started using our brains again instead of relying on technology to do our thinking for us we wouldn't panic over a lost phone and lost contacts. If we did that, maybe we'd realize it's complete bullshit that we buy products that the manufacturers of the product think will break. I'd love to see someone out there offer no warranty on their product, because they believe in it so much and they've done such a good job of manufacturing it, that it's not going to break.

It would be a great tag line, wouldn't it? Instead of saying "America's best warranty, good for up to 100,000 miles," imagine a car company coming out with "America's best warranty, because it's our car you're buying and that shit ain't gonna break?" Owning the equipment as warranty enough to protect against defects.

In the meantime, I'm going to start shopping for another overpriced piece of crap that will charm the socks off me for about six months, then frustrate the hell out of me after that, because I don't remember what I'm supposed to be doing tomorrow night.

busy

been slacking again, sorry. Actually, writing this blog is a bit like writing letters. I always seem to open with an apology for being such a crappy correspondent. I lost touch with so many people from back home (England) because of my inability to send letters. Not write them, I was always pretty good at that. But for some reason the actual process of putting a letter in an envelope, adressing the envelope, affixing a stamp, and putting it in the post box has always presented me with a problem. I just can't do it. I still find letters I wrote years ago and never sent. I have a CD of wedding pictures and a set of Mickey Mouse ears I still don't seem to be able to put in a box and send to a friend. My drafts folder has emails that have been languishing for years, as does this blog.

And the excuse I use is I'm too busy. I get distracted, and have to save what I was doing, and then never get back to it. I started writing a blog about a wierd dream I had a couple weeks ago, got interrupted half-way through, and when I came back to it decided that you guys really don't want to know about some of my dreams. I don't remember them very often, but when I do I worry about myself. But I still have the half-finished blog, as a testament to how busy I am and so I can say 'look, I really do do a lot of things and I'm always busy and life gets in the way of my life. . . ' and so on and so forth.

It's all bollocks. Yes, I'm busy, but I still waste time. I'm especially conscious of it right now, what with the panto opening in a week and a novel to finsh (the first draft) by the end of the year, and working 40 hours a week and a bar habit to maintain. But with all that going on, I look at the way I spend my time and think to myself I could be doing more. Did I need to spend an hour on digg, going through the latest user-submitted news stories? I mean, at the end of the day digg seems to be one big circle jerk, 'I-digg-your-story-so-you-digg-mine-even-if-it's-a-picture-of-a-fricking-squirrel-in-a-jello-mould' situation, and there seem to be fewer and fewer decent articles woven in with the fluff. So take off my digg time, that's an extra 45 minutes to an hour. Then there's. . .let's just say 'other internet activities.' There's another hour. Reading books I've already read? I probably spend a couple of hours a week doing that, but I don't think it'll stop any time soon. Which reminds me, must get Good Omens back- lent it out again, and I really don't want to buy a sixth copy.

So there's a chance of getting an extra twoish hours a day to get more stuff done. The two hours I always lament for and wish that the day was 26 hours instead of 24 hours long. I could use them to write (incidentally, the book's up to 54k words, and I got my 20k for October). I could use them to take more photographs, something I always feel like doing and always claim 'I'm too busy' for. Hell, I could actually go through the huge box of paperwork that's lurking beside my bed. I could organize my life.

I'd say I'm going to start to use those two hours a day better, but I'm too busy-- wait, hear me out. This time it's a legitimate claim. Snow White opens in a week, and as always there's a tonne to do. But as soon as the panto is done. . .no that won't work, because then we go dark and I work days and that always messes with my body clock. So around mid-December I'm going to make a concerted effort. . .bugger, they've added shows cos of Christmas and New Years. . .

Nope, enough. Here's the deal. I'm giving myself until after Snow White, and then I'm really going to pull my thumb out me arse, focus on what needs doing, and make myself even busier than I am now, and at the same time stop using it as an excuse.

Halloween

It's time, once more, to brave the hordes. And as halloween is on a Saturday this year it'll be busier than usual. And as clocks go back an hour, everyone gets another hour to. . .wait, it's Vegas, places don't necessarily close. I have a very mixed opinion of Halloween. Sometimes I love it, and sometimes it drives me crazy. Actually, most of the time it drives me crazy. It was never a big thing growing up in England. We didn't really trick or treat, and I don't remember if I ever dressed up. I guess I just don't get it.

I've gone off on holidays before, and I suppose this is going to be another one of those blogs. Sorry. Oh well, here goes: Halloween is just another example of a fake industry that's been set up for no other reason than to make more money. All the costume makers, and costume stores that sprang up about a month ago, and will be gone in a week, what do they do for the rest of the year? I think I could be more for halloween if people still used it as an opportunity to excercise their creativity, made their own costumes, scouring goodwill etc. for things to make their own costumes. None of this buying a little plastic bag with the costume all there, ready to be donned for one night then discarded. And I'm bored with the whole 'sexy...............' costume thing that goes on in Vegas. Honestly, you see half the women going into the clubs wearing dresses they obviously aren't too comfortable wearing most of the time, so why do they need a license to do it one night a year and not be embarrassed.

Actually, it's quite funny in a slightly tragic way to see them, standing in line with a bunch of their friends waiting to go into a club, looking around nervously and pulling the hem down because there's no way they would wear something like that back in Indiana and they're only doing it cos it's Vegas and everyone does it here and I really need to get inside because it's dark in there and noone will see how short my dress is and I need a drink too so I feel more comfortable. Funny and tragic. What's not funny is a couple of girls wandering around a casino wearing nothing but pasties, g-strings and body paint, and being asked to leave. I mean come on, that's not a costume, it's a cry for help.

Anyway, we need more originality with our costumes. Here's a suggestion: Next time someone has an 80's party, dress like you're 80 years old, complete with Zimmer frame (a Walker for all the Americans). Don't do the side ponytail and neon everything.

Actually, scratch that, we need more originality with our everything. TV needs a kick in the arse. Take a leap, do something different. Don't do another bloody CSI. Don't take a bad reality TV show and recycle it--  there's rumours of a reality show about Jon (of Jon and Kate +8 notoriety) and Nadya Suleman (the octomum) dating. Double-you. Tee. Eff. Seriously. Have we really stooped so low as a society that our idea of a fun fancy-dress party is to buy the bloody thing prepackaged and ready to go, and our idea of entertainment is to watch two incredibly sad people possibly date?

Shit, if we're going to keep on with the reality dating TV shows, let's make it really interesting. Make Jon date an alligator. Make Tila Tequila date a panther. And while we're at it, let's change a couple other things on TV. Real survivor, where they're abandoned on an island somewhere and actually have to survive, instead of backstabbing each other. Make 'em have to eat another contestant. THAT's my idea of entertainment, and I don't even like blood that much. Course, I'm also all for making baseball more interesting by playing it on a  minefield.

But I digress. I just ask that this year, for halloween, spend a little bit of thought on your costume, come up with something original, and don't just buy a prefab one and have it shipped to you, then wait impatiently while UPS buggers up the shipping.

Uncle

It's official. I'm going to be an uncle. My sister and brother-in-law are expecting their first in about six months. And so continues the progression of generations. I've been ignoring it for the past year, even though part of the reason I went up to Portland last month was to visit friends and meet their kids. Both of my roommates from Salzburg, Ian and Clinton, had kids. Next door neighbour from Salzburg, Nate, had one. Erik, Nate's roommate, is expecting his first. It isn't like the signs haven't been there, I've just been ignoring them. Photos of me holding their sprogs aside, I can pretend that it isn't really happening, we're not really all growing up.

I have a very strange memory, and still have no idea how it works. I can forget someone's name the moment I'm introduced to them, or what I did last week. At the same time, and this is what makes it strange, I can remember things that happened to me when I was very young. And one of these memories is when my parents brought Lorna home for the first time.

It was in the first house we lived in in England. St. Paul's road. I remember being in my parents bedroom, on the bed, while mum held this tiny little person that they told me was my sister. I remember the sunlight in the room. Lorna had just come home, so she was days old, and I was three and a bit.

She'll be bringing her child home in six months. Not to any older siblings, but she'll have traded positions. She'll be holding a tiny little person, and one day that little person will be a bigger little person looking on at a new little person, and then replaying the whole thing out again. And again and again, like a line of Matryoshka dolls, leading off into the future and gods know what. Except we won't exactly be sitting inside each other.

Or maybe we are. My ancestry contributes to who I am, so it's always inside me. There's a little bit of all those relations, whether I'm conscious of it or not, sitting inside me. So each generation adds a new layer, and finally it's my turn to add something to the next Matryoshka doll layer, the outside layer. Maybe one day I'll have my own kid, but for now I'm just an uncle, and I'm almost ready for it.

Although it's probably better I stay an uncle. Gods forbid I have my own kids and subject them to mumbling rants like this one, full of mostly-remembered sentimentality and crappy metaphors. If I do, their layer of Matryoshkosity will probably end up like one of those really cheap, squashed face ones, that looks like the blind painter might have had a face explained to them once.

money

it fascinates me. I don't get it. It makes no sense. I have $46.91 in my wallet right now. Actually, it's on the table next to me cos I just counted it. $43 is paper, and the rest is coins. This is more cash than I usually carry, I prefer to debit everything-- I tend to keep a closer eye on it, whereas if I have cash it's like I've already spent it.

But what actually IS money? I don't mean the typical definition, that it's a medium of exchange for goods and services. What I mean is, how can it not be worth the same all the time?

For instance, I'm looking to buy a car. For the same price, I can get a hyundai Sonata limited edition v6, 2007, with 7k miles on it, navigation system, the works, or a 2006 VW Passat, 16k miles on it, and not much else. Why is the money worth so much more when buying a hyundai? Or my townhouse. It's dropped in price by quite a lot since I refinanced nearly three years ago, but it still has the same number of rooms, it's still the same size, and it hasn't changed location. And it can't be because of supply and demand, because there aren't all of a sudden millions fewer people in the world and less demand for housing. The house hasn't technically lost value, because nothing's changed about it (actually I put in bamboo flooring in March and did some tiling, so if anything it's gained in value). When petrol prices change it's not like all of a sudden you can't drive the same distance on a gallon. When milk increases in price you still have the same amount of calories in a pint.

And there's a problem with using words like value or worth, because they've become so linked with currency, which at the end of the day has no intrinsic value of its own. Money is just a matter of geography. I can't walk into a store in the UK and exchange US dollars for goods or services (cos it's not colourful enough), thereby proving the worthlessness of currency. 'Ah, but you can go and exchange it in a bank for GBP, and then it has some worth,' I hear you say. Fair enough. Then let's shift to a desert island (incidentally, they might have found the place Amelia Earheart and her navigator had to emergency land on and died. Just find that interesting, that's all). On a desert island, the money truly is worthless because all you probably care about is food, water, and shelter. Oh, and battery power for your iPod, because save us all from being left alone in silence. So the value of the money you hold in your hand, or wallet, or on the table next to you is only worth anything because of location. But if you have a pint of milk, or a gallon of water, it's worth something wherever you go.

And now on to our worth. Humans have, and are, and will continue to be traded as a commodity. It's a terrible tragedy, made even more distressing that it's still going on today in numbers we can't even guess at. But who's to say my life is worth any more or less than some poor bugger born in a slum somewhere, who works in a factory for cents an hour? It's still the same length hour. I just don't get how we arrive at our estimates of value, and who gets to dictate it. As far as I'm concerned, Baseball players are worth less than a waitress working at Denny's. I have more use for the waitress, because she's going to bring me my Moons over my Hammy, but the chances are she makes minimum wage. The baseball player is worthless to me, yet he makes millions. I'm guilty of this too, though. I fix more value on myself, on my own time, because of my education, time put in learning the skills I need for my job, and so on and so forth. But again that's a matter of location. I doubt if I was on a desert island somewhere the ability to change out a brake contactor would be worth anything.

So yeah, who gets to dictate that this is worth more than that, and they should have more than them? Because I'd like some more, please, so I can buy that car.

And I've never actually ordered Moons over my Hammy, I just like the name.

merge

One of the worst things about driving in Las Vegas is the inability most people seem to have with merging. Why this should be, I don't know, but I'm beginning to think if people got the hang of it there wouldn't be so many traffic flow problems on the freeways. The thing I love the most is when people slow down before joining fast-flowing traffic. That's not the point of an on-ramp, people. You're supposed to get up to speed, generally 65 mph (although the always-present construction zones play merry hell with that limit). Instead people slow down, start to get nervous, so when they do actually join the traffic flow they cause it to slow a bit. When this happens several times over a couple of miles, it has a knock on effect and then you're moving as slow as molasses in January.

But then, in defense of these timid drivers, the people they're trying to merge with are generally bastards. They won't necessarily let you in when you signal because that would mean they'd drop back one spot and <gasp> get to where they're going a second or two later than they deserve. The horror! How dare they be a few seconds later than they would have been? How dare they have to drive with an ounce of common decency? I have no problems speeding up and pulling in in front of them if they're trying to block my attempts to merge.

And you know what struck me about that? No, not another car. Driving in Las Vegas is very similar to politics in this country. Everyone's trying to get to their destination, and unfortunately you have to share the road with other people. Sometimes you have to merge, take another road, or if construction's really bad and there's absolutely no traffic flow, you have to find another route. And that's not happening right now. There seems to be an inability from politicians to merge with one another. There's no yield, no give way. If they don't make it through the traffic light then they'll block the intersection. And that's not how a country should be run. It shouldn't be-- it CAN'T be-- my way or the high way, and that's what it seems to be like right now. The traffic is jammed, it's not moving because politicians are so absorbed with their own destination that they don't want to let anyone else merge.

It seems as soon as a politician gets in to office, the first thing they think about it their re-election chance. If they got in to office thanks to a majority of votes from a certain demographic, then they'll do anything to not piss that demographic off. Keeping your elected position is now half the job of being a politician, in the same way that keeping your job is half of having a job. But I keep my job by running shows to the best of my ability, and not doing a completely crap job. They keep their jobs by talking about what they're going to do, and how much the other candidates would suck. If I went around talking about the cues I was going to run, or the contactors I was going to replace instead of doing it, I wouldn't have a job. And while I might disagree with the way some things are done, and people might not like the way I do things, we still all work together to do two shows a night, five nights a week.

Part of being a society is a bit of give and take. Not all give and take-- this may come as a bit of a shock, but I like a decent argument. But when we have political parties fighting tooth and nail against every suggestion given by the opposition, the only thing that's going to do is bugger everyone. If people don't learn to merge then we're going to end up with one hell of an almighty pile-up, and then no one's going to get anywhere cos the road is blocked, and there's a bunch of rubberneckers looking on. And if we can't learn to merge while doing something as everyday and interactive with other people as driving, then what hope do we have of our elected officials leaning to work together?

And use your bloody turn signal. I can't let you merge if I don't know you want to. Go on, move your finger that one inch. . .

sod the sun

I've made a lot of references to this book I'm writing, and I'm trying not to give too much away about it for a couple of reasons. One, I don't want some random person who might stumble across this blog take my idea and write it first. Two, I'd like everyone to buy a copy so's I can get rich and not have to work a 330-1130 (it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 9-5). Thirdly, I'm shy and nervous that you might not like it if you know what it's about. Shut up. I bloody well am shy and nervous. Anyway. One of the best things about writing is creating your own world. And if you write science fiction you can literally create your own world. Actually, it's a bit like being a god. For instance, I decided that a calendar with random numbers of days in each month is silly, so I mostly got rid of that. Of course by doing that I have to think about the number of days a year, which affects the size and rotation of the planet so I can keep an approximate gravity. This playing a god thing is harder than I thought. . .I kinda wish I'd gone to all my AP physics classes now instead of half a semester's worth. No, I wasn't skipping them, I was taking another class in the same time slot. (I'm not sure why they let me do that, but considering they told me I didn't have to go to school at all when I applied, then almost didn't graduate me when I did go for the year, I suppose they probably aren't sure either).

Eroding physics and maths skills aside, I think I want to give my characters a 26 hour day. I know I could do with the extra couple of hours, and I don't think anyone else would say no. Right? In fact from now on I'm going to live as though I have two extra hours a day. I'm not entirely sure of the logistics, but what is the sun that it should boss me around? Just a big gassy ball of flaming hydrogen and helium, and as someone who has always had a mildly (shut it) anti-authority streak, living to a 26-hour clock is the ultimate 'sod off.'

I'll let you know how it goes.

uisge beatha

tonight, I broke 40,000 words for my novel. Shit, that seems like a lot.

I suppose it is. Especially as it's all focussed on one thing. Since I tallied up and started keeping track of how much I was writing, it's now half of all the stuff I've written. Nine short stories, a blog, four unfinished screenplays = half a novel. It feels good. I came home tonight instead of heading to a bar, because I wanted to say I reached forty thousand, and I actually didn't want to stop when I got there. It's feeling more comfortable. I like the characters, even the complete bastards. I like where they're taking me-- or rather how they're getting me there, it actually feels like their story now.

I was talking to my dad a couple nights ago bout writing. I've been sending them links to the first few chapters, and they keep asking for more, which is a good thing. But he was asking me about how I'm doing it. I don't think he ever really thought about the logistics behind writing a novel before, but now I'm doing it it brings it a little closer to home for him maybe? He asked me if I had it all in my head and just sat down and wrote. It's not as easy as that. Wish it was sometimes, but it's not. And then I realized the perfect analogy for him. I have the story in there. I know where I want it to go, and the things that are going to happen to get it there for the most part. But the longer I think on it, the more solid, the better it gets, so that when I do come to write everything feels ready. It's like whisky, and my head's the oak cask. You bung all the ingredients in it, let it sit for a while, and then it's ready to drink. Except my head's not made of oak, and I'm not going to let my story mature inside it for 12+ years, but apart from that the analogy's perfect.

If only I could stretch the analogy a bit further and sell each book (bottle) for $50. . .

celebrity

I've been slacking on the writing, I know. Sorry. But I haven't had all that much to say. Or, rather, I've had a tonne of things to say and just haven't felt like saying any of it in such a public forum. We're all celebrities in the information age, in that just about anything we do can be found out about. Some of this is to do with putting ourselves out there-- as I do with my blog, and twitter, and facebook, and deviantart, and match.com, and amazon.com wishlists, and so on and so forth. I'm sure with all the information out there about me, about any of us, online, you can know almost every thing there is to know about someone.

Maybe that's why we're also the 'celebrity age.' It's especially noticeable living in Las Vegas; every celebrity ends up here at some point or other. But I have to admit I feel like I've been a little left behind. I feel like I just spent a week knapping the flint tool to end all flint tools, I've come out of my cave, and people all of a sudden have this shiny brown stuff they call bronze. Who are these celebrities? Where did they all come from? I think a lot of it is to do with Vegas.

See, there's quite a few clubs here. Probably about fifty. And one of their favourite things to do is host a celebrity birthday. There are probably only so many celebrities who are willing to spend their birthday in a club surrounded by people they don't know, which means at some point the celebrity quota dries up. All of a sudden the clubs are in a scramble to find someone to be a draw to people who want to be a fully fledged member of the celebrity age, so they elevate some sad twat from a reality show to the status of 'celebrity,' and then people are flocking to the club. The newly christened celeb, baptized by overpriced vodka and legions of new fans, goes on to fight for their celebrity in tabloids and the internets-- when they really haven't done anything that deserves adulation other than actually having said adulation. . .I am adored, so you must adore me. . .

Anyway, yeah, I'll admit it, I wouldn't mind a bit of fame. I'd love one day that I could sell all this bollocks I'm typing in my down time, and never have to work another 9-5 job again. The book of the blog. . .the blook? And fair enough, I don't exactly work a 9-5 job, I've never worked a 9-5 job, but I'd rather be a writer than have to punch a time card every day, and fame helps if you're a writer.

But I want to earn it on my own. I want to deserve it. I want people to read what I write, say 'hey, this is pretty good,' and tell their friends about it. I don't want some club to decide I should be a celebrity, and invite me to host my own bloody birthday party just so people can see me on a billboard and think 'hmm, I don't know who that is, I'd better go and find out because I don't want to miss a celeb.'

Unless anyone has an opening for my 30th next year, because it's easier than making plans. . .Tabu? Body English?

typing away. . .

back on the writing kick. Pretty pleased with myself, in that I set a goal for 20,000 words for September, and I was only 400 shy of 25,000. Not too bad considering I'm still working full time, BNTA produced a show, and I spent five days visiting with friends in Portland. Actually, getting back from Portland I've been a bit of a slacker. Hardly written anything, and for no good reason other than I didn't write anything. . .but the novel is sitting at around 35,000 words, which is right around half a novel, so I can't stop here. Got Mum and Dad reading the first couple of chapters, and so far Dad says he's hooked, and if you know my father he's not just blowing sunshine up my arse.

So if anyone wants to take a look at chapter 1, let me know. I have it on google docs, just send me an email or summink and I can send you the url. . .but bear in mind that it's completely unedited, first draft, working things out as I go along right now. I want to finish the whole bloody thing before I go back and edit it, so it'll probably be the end of the year before I can get on with that.

Or sooner, it all depends on how much motivation I can keep up, so back to it!

Taking Stock

Numbers from my Portland trip: Five thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine words written.

Thirty-one beers, two bottles of wine, and two jack and gingers drunk, and eleven new wines tasted

Twenty-one friends and two professors seen, and nine people met.

Four offspring introduced to.

Three hours spent in Powell's City of Books.

One Pub Quiz won.

And yet quantifying things like this doesn't really give the whole story behind a trip. For instance, some of the beers were drunk on my own, winding down, relaxing, while others were watching Joe, Eese's fiance, try to hula-hoop. The conversations, religious and political discussions, and memories dredged to the surface are the treasures I'm taking away from the trip. Meeting the kids of some of my best friends for the first time still hasn't sunk in, even though I've got pictures to prove that I didn't drop any of them. The ache in my legs that only feels like it's gone now, from a night of drunkenly wandering around Portland looking for another bar with Shannon-- that is one thing I'll miss about Vegas if and when I move away from here. There's always something open; a bar, a pub, a grocery store or supermarket if you need.

So taking stock in the trip, it was a good one. The numbers may speak for themselves, but not at any volume. That's where the details come in, the little incidents and trivialities that seem and are so minor, but all of them added up made it a good trip. A very good trip.