Crazy

Nuts. Awesome. Jealous. Insane. Brave. Stupid.

I've been called all of these things in the past three years. In the three years since I applied, interviewed, and was granted a berth on the Clipper 15-16 Race. I've been asked why I'm doing it, if there's room on the boat, what we get for winning, if there's women on board, do we stop, where do we sleep, and other questions I don't remember or have blocked for my own sanity. 

I've questioned myself. Am I doing the right thing? Should I be doing it? Do I want to? What could I do with the money instead of running away for a year? The level one training was brilliant, and tough, and definitely put me out of my comfort zone, and all of a sudden I actually knew what I was asking for. 

But that was so long ago. Eighteen months. I met three other people doing various legs of the race, and a Facebook group was started, but in those eighteen months things have been surreal. I quit my job, moved to Russia for four months and worked on one of the biggest shows in the world. I came back and went straight on tour, living out of a suitcase and in various hotel rooms, all the while with the race in the back of my mind.

Did I still want to do it? I was out of my rut, and no mistake. So did I need something life-changing, something to force me into living again? Going on tour showed me I could still go out and learn something new and meet new people. It got me out from behind a desk, and made me aware that I might not be the cold emotionless bastard I suspect myself to be. Am I just doing the race now because I've been talking about it for so long and could never live it down at this point if I pulled out?

And then this past Saturday, I found out the Skipper and met some of the crew I'll be working with, living with, eating and arguing and laughing and crying with, and it makes sense. I met a bunch of people who have been going through the same things I have, answering the same questions (asked by other people and themselves), ready to take time out from their lives and do something incredible and challenging and way beyond their comfort zones, and it makes sense. There are people out there like me. 

And six hundred plus are with me on this, and fifty of them are literally on the same boat. And for the next year, and possibly for a long time after that, those fifty are my crew, and my friends and family, and they're all just as crazy as I am.

Terry Pratchett, Doorman.

How do you put in words what someone means to you, someone who has been a part of your life since you were 12, but you've only met once and only exchanged a few words with?

There are tears in my eyes. The world is a different place today. It's been a while coming, longer than any of us could have hoped, but Terry Pratchett died today. Everyone knew it was coming...well, everyone knows death is coming eventually for us all. But since his diagnosis of early onset Alzheimers it was tangible. It was an inevitability that made me wonder "is this his last book?" every time a new one was released.

I couldn't tell you the first time I picked up one of his books. I can tell you which one though. It was Mort, and I was hooked. I went through every single thing I could find at Salisbury library, until there weren't any others. He'd only written fifteen Discworld novels at this point, the slacker. And then I found out he was releasing a new book, the first since I'd started reading him. And he was coming to Salisbury for a book signing. 

I walked down to the bookshop on Fisherton St, just past the bridge, with a £20 note clutched in my hand. I don't remember the name of the bookstore, but it's gone now, a vodka bar inhabiting the space. But back then, it was small rooms linked together with smaller staircases, and books and the smell of books everywhere. As I neared the shop, I see someone who looks familiar coming from the opposite direction. We got to the shop at the same time, and he held the door open. I thanked him, and went in, thinking 'nah, that couldn't be him.' I spent several minutes trying to decide which books to buy with my riches. Reaper Man of course, it was my favorite at the time. But 3 more paperbacks, or the new release in hardback?

I went with the hardback. Soul Music. Stilld doubting my choices, I went to where Terry Pratchett was sitting.

And it was the same person who held the door for me.

Immediately, I was embarrassed. Who was I that he held a door open for me? I stammered my name, he signed them both, stamped them, and then I hurried back to my grandfather's just down the street. 

I've read and reread both of them so much they're like old friends. The dust jacket is long gone from Soul Music, and the  pages of Reaper Man are as soft as feathers from repeated thumbing. 

Those books, and indeed all his his satire, was a gateway drug. An addiction I couldn't, didn't want to shake. He got me hooked on Fantasy. The Classics. Myth. Critical Thinking. The Power of Words and their importance. And Writing.

The second thing I wrote was a conversation between Death and an unnamed person. His fault. But when I forgot about it for years, rediscovered it, and after cringing through the terribly clumsy thing, it made me think about going further. Anthropomorphically personifying maybe a bunch of other things. My first real short story, The Undiscovered Country, was an actual attempt. And it led to others, most of which haven't seen the light of day, and probably never will, but they're getting me to where I want to be so that's okay. One of them became a short story became a trilogy (which is actually almost two thirds written, but crap and needs work). One is a short screenplay, and I like to think he'd appreciate it. 

But he's gone, and I lament my laziness, my assumption that I've got all the time in the world to get my arse in gear. There's no way to let him know I appreciate everything he wrote and shared. There's no way to say "Here, Sir. Terry, I wrote this and, well, once you held a door open for me and it's crap, but, well, here."

It's his writing. I'd have been a fan regardless of him holding the door open for me in 1994 or not. But there is that one moment, forever etched into my mind, and gods I'm going to miss him.

In Which The Almost Author Laments Time Lost

When it comes to writing, what is it?

What is it that makes me stare at a started document for all of five minutes, then open a video game but, and this is the important part, not close the document, just in case I get some sort of random inspiration gleaned from taking over another continent in Civ IV? 

If it's minimized and not closed, then I'm not done writing for the day. If I'm not done writing for the day, it's not a waste. 

And what is it some days a page, two pages, or five, just comes and sits there, black on white, asking 'why is this so bloody hard the rest of the time?'

While my laptop getting stolen in Brooklyn last August was a traumatic experience, in that I lost so many photos and things I'd been working on, I'm beginning to think it wasn't necessarily so bad. Now, that's not to say I'd like another occurrence, because it really does suck, but because of it, I've had to scramble. Scramble to find what I have saved elsewhere, what I can still remember or work on or re-write. 

And it's depressing, in a good way. See, I have tonnes of stuff. But time has become misleading, and what seemed a few years ago is actually 2008. That's not a few, as least as far as a human lifespan is concerned. But rooting around my scattered hard drives, reading those accusing 'created in 2008' timestamps, I can't think of where the time has gone. Is it because I lost inters in writing? Is it because other things took priority? 

No clue. All I know is this entry is part of an attempt to kick my own arse into gear (again; I'm sure I've written more than one entry attempting same). This entry is reminding me that I have a bunch of short stories that are too short, characters that deserve to finish their narratives, and fewer years to do it in than I did in 2008. 

But maybe the intervening years were necessary. Looking back on some of it, the intent is good but the writing needs work. The ideas are there, the.... the.... y'know, the thing that means you use words lots.... isn't. I'm a different person now than I was then, and obviously that guy from several years ago just wasn't committed enough to follow through. 

Am I now? We'll see. I gave commitment a go. Was pretty okay with it. I committed to leaving everything behind for a year and sailing round the world, and that's still on the books. So maybe I'm over the fear of commitment, and I can finally commit to the Godwinsons, Mike and Sarah, the villagers of Hamlin, Saelle and Jenner and Bryan and that bottle of Louis and Sophie and Inspector Perratt and Brokes and his team. And myself.

That said, this is it for this entry. It'll be posted, and I'll open up a half-finished document and stare at the screen and slowly creep through one of the above characters life, letter by letter and word by word and page by page, until I have nothing more to say and they can be introduced to the world. 

182 Days. Half a year. And so much more.

Unlocking my phone for international travel. Eating (slightly) better. 

Hydration. Showering less. Buying more merino wool (I might have an addiction).

Looking at myself and thinking I should really start working about fitness, but the bed is just so warm and comfortable this week, and gods know THAT'LL go away soon.

Should I buy my nephew a map or a globe to keep track of where I am?

Hair needs to be cut. Chopped off. Shaved, but not too soon because I like having hair, and not too late because I'd burn my scalp.

Unsubscribing from emails. 

Shots shots shots. Of the tetanus, yellow fever variety. And I need to get my eyes did.

Taxes for this year, taxes somewhat prepped for next year.

And goodbyes. Not yet, but they're coming. And soon. In person hopefully, although with such a scattering of friends across six continents (could one of you PLEASE move to Antarctica?), it won't be as noticeable that I'm gone. I don't get to see people as regularly as I'd like. And waiting a year or more between visits is what constitutes normal for me. 

Before all that, it's luggage truck day. I drop my luggage off and say hello to it next city. Phoenix. And more luggage and more comforts than I'll be taking with me in 182 days. 

What a difference....

....a year makes. This year for my birthday, I was lazy. And hung over. I was forced to go out the night before, against my will, and made to consume copious amounts of several different types of beverage. So yeah, nothing much happened. 

The year before, for my birthday, I got a root canal from a Russian dentist in Sochi. 

But now, a decade? That makes a hell of a difference. Ten years before the root canal, I rented a 42' Catalina sailboat with a 11 friends, and pottered around the British Virgin Islands just outside of Tortola. It was a brilliant day, we were all young (except for Captain Jurgen, whom I suspect was born at 50), and nobody gave a shit about anything but enjoying ourselves and enjoying the perks that life has to offer when you're 24, getting paid, and in quite nice places. Snorkelling, jumping overboard at full motor to freak the crap out of my girlfriend at the time (she made me pay for it later), sunbathing, drinking and eating (but mostly drinking), and thinking about the sailboat "I could get used to this."

A year later, I was living in Las Vegas, didn't have many friends, didn't have a girlfriend. I think I probably went to PT's on Silverado Ranch with Scott. So quite a bit of a difference there. 

And then Sochi. And then This year.

But next year. Next year. 

I don't know where I'll be next year. I don't know if we'll be at sea, or in port, but I'll be on another sailboat, I'll be with friends again (unless the work pool comes true and I get hoofed overboard at some point before then), and I'm really looking forward to the huge difference that this year is going to bring. 

It's starting to feel more real now. I sent off my last payment cheque over the weekend, so assuming the exchange rate doesn't do any obscene gymnastics (which it's started doing, thanks Greek election), I'm paid up and official. I've got my flight for crew allocation day, I can air miles my flight for race start, and I'm trying to decide if I need a dry suit that I can buy for a discount until the end of this month. I know some of the ports, and I'm talking to my parents about where they're going to meet me and when (South Africa, and when I leave and we work hard to cross the Southern Ocean, they're going to go on Safari. Bastards). I'm starting to coordinate with friends who are scattered across the planet and see if I go close enough to meet up with them. I'm looking at travel visas, and shots for yellow fever and tetanus and a couple others. I'm seriously thinking that at some point soon I really swear it this time guys, I'm going to start getting in shape......

So I guess this post is stupid. Yeah, a year makes a difference. And obviously twelve will make a difference (twelve being the jump from sailboat birthday to sailboat birthday). But it's just worth being aware that things will inevitably change. People get old, people move on, and that's as it should be. Because I'd hate to still be stuck in a fucking dentist in Russia getting a root canal. 

And for those of you wondering about my birthday, yeah, it was last week sometime.

Friends

Deciding to leave a place you've lived for a while is quite a choice. Living in Vegas I'd made some pretty good friends over the years, and saying goodbye to them was the hardest part of leaving. Well, them and maybe the kitchen and pool. But hey, why have a kitchen or a pool if not to have friends over.

Anyway. I miss them. Some nights all I want to do is meet up with them, talk a bunch of shit, devour a bucket of gold fever wings, or shoot some darts. 

But the thing about friends, real friends, no matter how close is that they never really go away. And the thing about coming on tour is that I'm reminded of that more than ever, as I have an opportunity to reconnect with friends I haven't seen in years because of geography and life happening. 

It's an amazing thing to meet up after however many years, and talk a bunch of shit, devour some country fried ribs or Chicago style ribs. Catch up with what's gone on in their lives, and brag about your own (sorry. One of my resolutions would be to be more humble, but I'm too immodest for resolutions). It's good to see that you're not the only one who hasn't figured out this whole adulthood thing out just yet, and also you're not the only one who somehow in the years between then and now got a little fatter and greyer and wrinkled and responsible. Those things are missed if you always see the same people, as you grow old together. The secret is we all grow old together, just sometimes it's together apart. 

This next year is going to be an interesting one. A strange one. I'm going to disappear more than I ever have before, and if you ask around that'll be the constant theme in a lot of my friendships, that one day I'm just not there (physically, I like to think. I'm always there in my head and my heart). But this next year it'll be a real disconnect as there won't be much of an electronic leash as I've had the last few years. It'll be impossible to go out for an evening, talk a bunch of shit, devour some anything, and I reckon darts are way out (can't afford the weight allowance).

So we'll just have to save that for after. And in the meantime, you know what? Friends are pretty fucking awesome, and cheers for being my fucking awesome bunch of friends.

And also reading the bollocks I write when I'm drinking 

Oops

So when I said every week, of course I meant fortnightly. Or just didn't have much to write about last week.

Which of course is bullshit. I'm travelling around the US, a different city every week, working on a live show. There's always something to write about. It's just whether I'm allowed to write about it.

I've been pretty good at censoring myself when it comes to the shit I post online. Not when it comes to swearing, obviously. But I mean keeping work out of it, and the older I get keeping my private life out of it. Problem is, that doesn't leave much else to write about, especially when the work takes up 70 or so hours a week, and my private life takes place mostly online (read into that what you will...)

And speaking of private life online, there used to be this thing called adult friend finder (and hello spambots in the comments). It still existed, but I remember when everyone I knew who knew about it thought it was a skeezy way to meet and hook up with people. So it's basically tinder but a website. But as soon as there's an app for it, it becomes socially acceptable? I don't understand. 

I've been up since earlier than I go to bed half the time. 16 hour work day, no biggie, but I'm probably just a bit delirious and definitely a bit 'get off my lawn.'

Night.

Every week. Promise. The ten pages, I might have to take that one back. How does ten lines sound?

Not Much To See Here

For now. But might be that'll change. I was putzing around, adding some photos, and realized the last thing I actually posted was back in June. But if you could see the drafts, oh, you would... actually only see two half-finished word fumblings.

But I need to try and make a commitment. To myself. To stop sodding around and actually write. Here and on the myriad projects I keep talking about but never seem to get to the position to share or sell or stash away so my ancestors (meaning the offspring of my sister so far) can be wealthy decades from now. 

So here it is. One blog post a week. This will be more or less possible depending on the accessibility of internet at the various hotels and arenas I now spend the majority of my time in.

And words. A word count a week. Now this is trickier depending on what I'm working on, cos the formatting of a script means you can accomplish much more with fewer words. Maybe pages would be a better count. Ten pages a week? Five? 

Sod it. Ten. If I don't push myself, I'll be a hundred talking about all the writing that I used to do, while technology will have passed me by (as it so nearly recently did) and I won't be able to access any of it.

Of course, Starting next week. It's Friday already.

Some Days

A week and a half ago, I woke up in a bit of a mood. Just one of those meh mornings, when you're apathetic about getting out of bed. But I'd been thinking about going to a lake and looking for gators, so after grumbling to the pillows for a while, I headed out.

Went to a place called Myakka River State Park. It's only 25 minutes away from where we're staying, and I timed it so I'd get there half an hour before the guided airboat ride. Ticket bought, waiting in line, ended up sitting next to a Scottish couple when we finally got on one of the "oldest and largest airboats in the world." 

There were three seats right in the front of the boat, so that's where we ended up. And brilliant seats they were. instead of having to look through the boat from side to side to see anything, it was all there for us to see. The alligators doing their celebrated 'floating log of death' impressions (apparently there's between 500 and 1000 of the buggers in the lake). Anyway, between the chatting and the gators and a Bald Eagle trying to steal an Osprey's fish, it was a good hour.

After the boat, a couple more gators - one on the river bank about 20' from me, and another in the water trying to steal fish from a fisherman. 

And then to a 'birdwalk.' It's basically a walkway, like a pier, just not over the water cos the level of the lake is a little low. Not much going on, until two elderly gentlemen asked me if there was anything going on (it's amazing to me the number of people assume I'm a professional photographer based on the size of my lens....). 

Eddie and Dan. Eddie is from Jersey, in his sixties, tanned and sun-beaten. He's been retired ten years, but occasionally drives coaches for visiting pro sports teams. He told me about the time he saw two guys killed on some dock in Brooklyn, 45 years ago, with .25's behind the ear. Dan is from Wisconsin, was in the merchant marines, and made a concerted effort to lay his way around the world. Likes to sail, and was wearing the same type of Tilley hat I was. 

We must have talked out there for an hour. Talked about travel, and watched the Ospreys dive for fish, and I learned about how easy it was to steal shit from dockyards before container shipping was invented. Just complete randomness, three random stories coming together for the blink of an eye.

Episode two was forty miles away. Driving along Longboat Key, a random stop for something to eat. First meal of the day, I realized as I looked for somewhere to park. The only space I found was designated for the Bridge Street Bistro, so that's where I ended up eating. 

Half price drinks and appetizers, and a conversation with Dan about how he ended up working there (his own business didn't do well), how much he enjoyed it (loves the area but misses his wife and kid, who live in Montana as she has benefits with her company and his kid just graduated high school), and how long he plans to be there (until he can have his own restaurant). Talked to a couple who were there on vacation, convinced them to go diving and not worry about sharks (because sharks are one of the coolest things about diving). Another couple who own and run a different restaurant around the corner (and I think it says a lot about the place that other restaurant owners go there for happy hour). We bullshitted long enough to get through happy hour and for the kitchen to open proper, and the main course was gorgeous. I'd eat there again if we were here longer.

After food, I figured I should probably head back, get to a mirror, see how badly I was burned from all the outsideness of earlier in the day. But on the way back I got distracted by a movie theatre, and got there just as the movie I wanted to see was starting previews. So I saw Tom Cruise get schooled on how to be a badass by Emily Blunt. And after that, made it back just in time for the opening credits of Game of Thrones, Caste Black Battle Edition. 

And I wasn't even burned. 

Here's the thing. At first I was a little bummed that no one really seemed interested in going with me to the park. And about the time I got there I realized it was okay. And as the day progressed, it was better than okay. I wouldn't have had the day I had if I'd been with someone I knew. The random meetings, the conversations of the day, the perfect pace that was just enough to relax and experience everything, and make it back in time to see Edge of Tomorrow AND Game of Thrones. 

So sometimes, if I don't want to hang out and do anything with you, it's personal. Personal from my point of view. I need a personal day, a day to just go out and remember why I like to travel, and why I'm going on tour, and why I'm looking forward to being in a different city each week. Because now I'm looking forward at some of the cities, and thinking about what I should do there, and which places I want to go out and do something on my own without seeing a single bugger I've ever met before or will ever see again. And I won't take it personally if you do the same. Get out there, meet some random people, have conversations, share stories, and remember that despite all the horrible shit going on in the world, strangers don't necessarily hate strangers. Some days it's hard to remember that, so it's up to us to remind ourselves. 

Ten

That's the number of drafts of blogs I have. Ten.

It's a ridiculous number. Some of them are re-hashes of earlier drafts. Some of them are things I wanted to say but didn't feel I should because of work, or other people's feelings (and sometimes the two are the same thing). 

The shitty thing about it is, this blog's become indicative of where I am as a writer. Remember about four years ago, when I was going to be a writer, that's all I was going for and it was newly rediscovered and awesome and kept me going and made work bearable? I'd write all the time and I'd blog (and sometimes the two are the same thing).

Now? I make half arsed attempts to get anything down. My characters wait, frozen at whatever part of the narrative I lost interest in them, in the same way my thoughts and musings and philosophies are black words on a white screen seen only by me. I chip away, maybe a page here or there. I chip away, maybe starting a new entry that I just don't care about.

So what happened?

Hell, if I knew the answer to that I'd do something about it. All I'll say is, I didn't like my job. I didn't like going in and doing the same thing over and over, listening to the same petty bullshit from the same petty people. I didn't like listening to people complain about things they didn't like, and then never making an attempt to fix it. I didn't like trying to fix it, and being let down time and time again.

Maybe one day I'll write down exactly why I left. After 9 years, it was such a small event in the general cirquel jerk that it barely qualified in the grand scheme of things, just a twat being a twat for the thousandth time. But it was what I needed, I suppose, because that night I sent out emails and started looking, really looking, for a new job, a new life, a way out that was much more immediate than the Clipper Race (which is, among other things, another way out).

And I got one. Russia for four months, and now Florida. A new show, new people. Hotel rooms instead of mortgage payments. Microwaves instead of kitchens. Buses and minivans and aeroplanes instead of cars. Maybe it'll be worth writing about. Maybe it'll kick me in to gear, force me to clean up the drafts that are languishing on my hard drive and on my blog page. 

We'll see. Something might be changing. I fucking hope so. Watch this space. Periodically. I mean, don't just check it every day, cos I've got a new show to do and we're working long hours and the internet connection in the hotel isn't always great and sometimes I'm just tired. 

But anyway. Time to look forward.

Out of practice

I used to be good at traveling. Eager. Prepared. Able. Security was a breeze. Sleep was possible anywhere, in almost any position.

Now nervous. Barely ready. Discomfort no matter how I shift and adjust in my seat with a whole row to myself. Can still do security, because let's face it it's not hard to look around and see what other people are doing. But for a chunk of my life, from 15 to 24, I was in transit every couple of months. Now, maybe two flights a year, generally short ones.

I used to be able to speak French. Not well; I was never fluent. But I could converse. Now, I listen to the flow of dialogue around me and can maybe pick out a word or here that just makes me realize how out of practice I am at speaking other languages. Hell, I don't even fell comfortable using the three Russian words I know, whereas years ago I would have done my damnedest to try something, anything, that was better than apologetically stammering English.

I used to be able to sleep. I could do it for hours. Days, probably, if school and work hadn't got in the way. But now I just don't have the stamina for a full night's sleep. The intent is there, the willingness is there, but apparently intent and willingness will only get you so far. I'll lie there, lament my inability to close escrow on a full night's sleep, and wonder if that's it, I'll never be as good as I once was at traveling, communicating, sleeping.

So maybe it's not just a lack of practice. Maybe it's just a part of getting older. But I'm going to try and practice the hell out of traveling, sleeping, and speaking in the next couple of months. I'll let you know how it goes.

And no euphemisms were intended in the writing of this entry. One thing I haven't lost is the ability to make innocent things sound dirty. No practice needed there.

Dear Congress

This is how a budget works. 

You have a certain amount of money that you take in, your income. Out of that income you have to pay for all the necessities. Food, shelter, transport, communications, looking after your pet, things like that. If you have anything left over then you can spend it on non-essential items like a movie, or treating yourself to a nice meal, or hookers and blow. Whatever your thing is (and I reckon most of Congress is more into the third option than the first two).

If two people are in charge of the budget, then they have to work out between them what constitutes an essential item, and what is frivolous. To keep it simple and adhere to gender sterotypes, Dad wants to play golf and Mum has a thing for shoes. And the kids get piano lessons and playstations. Now, if income allows, both get to do this and everyone is happy, although Dad thinks those new pumps are ugly and Mum doesn't get why hitting a tiny ball 70+ times around a lawn is fun. But when there isn't enough money to do these things as much as they'd like, well, then they cut back. Dad plays every other week, and Mum only gets one pair a month instead of the two or three she'd like. And the kids get recorder lessons and they miss out on one of the generations of Call of Duty.

What they don't do is stop buying food. Or shelter. And what they really don't do is ask their bosses for a pay cut. Hell, they don't even ask their bosses for a pay cut when things are great and they have enough money to save up a little, or pay off some debt.

And what they really don't do is start blaming each other and calling each other names and trying to get the kids to hate the other parent. 

And what they really really don't do is start taking bribes from one kid to keep the playstation but get rid of piano lessons because little Johnnie doesn't seem to be as fond of you as the other parent.. Not if they're good parents, and decent people. 

This is the simplest way I can put it for you, our corporate-sponsored representatives. But just in case you don't get it, in the above example you're Mum and Dad, and we're the children. Income is taxes. Food and shelter and communication are the part of the social contract that comes as a part of being in a country. Golf is military spending, and shoes are investment in infrastructure . Playstations are tax breaks for corporations earning record profits, and pianos are foodstamps.

Make sense? 

I just hate that I've framed it in terms that has you as the parents and us as the children, because gods know you're the ones acting like petulant children. You're the ones pretending that sticking your fingers in your ears is a good way to communicate, you're the ones trying to blame your sister for the felt pen scribblings on the wall even though you have blue smudges on your fingers.

If we are the children though, then maybe we can apply for emancipation. Maybe we can get away from our bickering parents, and find a nice foster home. One with parents who don't fight all the time, and blame each other for their own shortcomings, who understand how a budget, or a fucking country, is supposed to work.

22

That's a bit of a number jump. If you're keeping track, it should have been 578. But things happen. 

The number was always a count down to my last day at LOVE. I had it timed perfectly. I'd just make it to my 11th anniversary, then leave and head to the UK to devote my life to Clipper for a year and a bit. Not knowing the exact date that the 15-16 race will leave, 12th June gave me a concrete day, something to mark how close the race was getting. 

But just like that, 578 becomes 22. In 22 days I'll say goodbye to the show I've worked on for almost 8 years (2899 days by my reckoning). Numbers numbers numbers. 

But it's time. And when you've accepted the fact that you're leaving at some point in the future, it makes it much easier to leave sooner. Why wait, if it's going to happen?  

When I was first approached about working on the Winter Olympics, I said no.  Not because of the whole Russia in winter thing. I'd just become so used to the idea that 12th June 2015 wold be my last day. I'd work through, because I knew I could pay for Clipper doing that. 

But part of the reason for doing Clipper was to challenge myself. Jump out of the rut I increasingly find myself into. Be involved in something that I'd be able to look back on after the fact, and say "holy shit, we did that!" And I realized at some point between May and now that going to Russia, working in a new country with new people on a new system and a new show can be all those things too.  

Plus, "holy shit, the Olympics!" 

So there it is. 22 days. All of a sudden the future is more murky than it has been in a long time, and I don't mind. I feel more like myself now than I have in a long time. Or maybe I feel like what it was like to be 19, jumping on a train and seeing where it would take me, not worrying about money or the language I couldn't speak when I got there. 

I just don't feel 19 when I wake up in the mornings any more. Numbers numbers numbers. 

600

It feels closer now than ever. Or course, that's a stupid statement, because if you're counting down days until an event, then every day is bringing it closer.  

But it feels closer, because a couple weeks ago I finished my Level 1 training week. A week living and sailing on a 69' clipper sailboat, one that's already circumnavigated the globe four times, really helps put what I'm signed up to do in perspective. 

Mostly. Because there's not really a decent way to mimic the sort of conditions you'll get a thousand miles from the nearest land. And I'm glad we didn't do that this time around. The weather was great for the most part, almost a perfect build in conditions, starting out easy the first day and strong enough the last day that learning about storm sails was actually appropriate.  

Despite the easy conditions the first couple days, it wasn't exactly easy to do. The sails can weigh up to 300kgs (that's over 600 lbs for Liberia, Myanmar, and the US). And hauling one of those up a 30m mast (100') is pretty knackering (tiring). Especially when you're getting less sleep than would be ideal, because of the squeaky fender just the other side of the hull from your head, and people have to pass you to use the facilities. I'll be buying stock in an earplug company, and gods bless Richard Branson for the fetching red eye cover he provided on my flight over. It's surprising what you'll sleep through when you're actually being physical all day. 

And I think that was my second biggest surprise of the training. I didn't seize up, I didn't collapse in a jellied heap or have my heart explode out my chest like I half-expected. Don't get me wrong, at the end of the day the narrow, seemingly damp, unpillowed bunk was collapsed into as though I'd never move again, but every morning it was back up and at it again, and I was able to. Every time a sail was sweated up, or pulled up on deck, as a team we got it up and out and up. I've got a hell of a lot of work to do to get fit enough for the race, but the week gave me a sense of what I need to improve on (everything).  

It was also good for me to learn something new. And I mean really learn, and have other see what I was doing, and be able to judge. And when you feel like you're getting the hang of something, and it's starting to feel good, and there's a little bit of confidence, well that's when you're going to fuck up. I forgot what it was like to do that, and probably rediscovered in the hardest possible way; on a 68' sailboat on two hours of sleep and high enough winds that reefs are not inappropriate. 

Day 3 sucked for me. It felt like every time I touched a winch or a rope, I fucked up. And that annoyed me, which would make me screw up again, self-repeating and self-defeating until I didn't even want to go to the pub at the end of the days' sailing. Called my dad. Whined to him a bit. He laughed at me, which is probably what I needed.

I got over the day, and felt great at the end of the week. Great in that sailing is something I can do, and am not atrocious at (got the RYA competent crewmember cert to prove it). Not great in that my ankle was giving me gyp, I had the grip strength of a four year old, and walking on dry land felt weird cos it wasn't moving. But regardless of that, and regardless of day 3, I still think this is exactly what I need to do. Bugger off for 11 months, sail round the world, and finish up a changed man.  

Weight for it....

I have become obsessed. Obsessed with weight, and obsessed with waiting. You probably guessed the waiting part from my insistence of counting down the 600+ days til the Race.  

Ah, but the weight. I first realized I needed to do something about my weight when I had to buy two new pairs of jeans. Now, going from a 34 to a 36 is explainable if you switch brands, because apparently different brands use different inches. But I've been wearing Guess jeans for years, and I noticed that they started using the smaller inches. I bought a pair of 36" jeans. 

This was enough to motivate me to do nothing about it. So six months later, with another brand and another 36" fit, I finally started working on it. And it's not just about vanity. I'm doing my level 1 training for the race 4-11 October, and I expect it to kick my arse. And my theory is, If I have less arse to kick (and gut, and jowls, et. al) then it might not be so bad.

The long and short of it is, through a careful regimen of not eating as much crap, I lost 23 lbs in four months. I started using a skinnier notch on my belt I've never used before. And I'm back down to 34". Except that I'm not when it comes to actual measurements. 

As I'm in full on 'buy lots of stuff for Clipper to fill the time between now and my race actually leaving, while justifying it that I need to test things on my training legs' mode, I'm buying more clothes than I've ever bought before in such a short period of time (except maybe the annual school uniform restock odyssey). And as I shun human interaction when at all possible while buying stuff, I use the internets for most of my purchases.  

But this presents the problem of what size actually am I? When I measure according to sizing guidelines, I'm a what the fuck 39" waist. But then when I measure my 34" jeans they're 40". Except the 32" inseam uses the inches I grew up with, not these mysterious waistline inches. Basically, I might be going round the world in some really ill-fitting togs.

Oh, and the other weight. I have a box at home with all the supplies I've purchased for the race so far. Fleece, several merino wool items, headlamp and leatherman, silk sleeping bag liner, clothes line, silica gel, sealsinz socks, and nite-ize biners. And it weighs 4.58 kgs. Because I'm only allowed 20-25 kgs of gear to get me round the world, depending on how competitive the Skipper and Crew I'm allotted are. I'm shooting for 20Kgs, but that's also going to have to include the gear I've bought so far, my camera for sure, Docs for shore, maybe a laptop, couple of jigsaw puzzles to kill time with on the boat, and one of those foot bath thingies cos I reckon that'll be just what the doctor ordered i the middle of the Southern Ocean.

So my life feels a bit like weight, and wait, and weight some more. But weighti-- bugger, waiting doesn't last forever. Just look at the 13-14 crew who leave in less than a month.

700

I gotta stop doing this. 

Six more entries counting down, by the century, how many days until I'll probably leave Vegas for the race? But then it was more than a year ago since I got accepted and signed the contract, and that year has, in parts, flown by. The eternal quest to earn enough money has sure made it zoom. 

So. Since the last number (which, for those of you keeping track, was the two years and a day one), what's gone on?

Oh gods, a shit tonne. Some of which I'm not ready to write about. And probably legally shouldn't. But there's other, better stuff, so on to that. 

I'm almost back in to writing. If writing is a cold pool in your backyard (not like mine last week. 90°? Seriously? Vegas is messed up), then for the last year or so I've been dipping my toe in. Right now I'm at the point where I've decided to get in, but I'm just at that awkward groinal stage where you know it's going to be unpleasant and you should just get it over with, but there's only so far your testicles can crawl up into your body to avoid the pain. But it's the hardest part, and then you're in-- except you forgot about the belly and nipples and oh shit that's cold!

So I guess using that analogy, once I get through this almost-writing spot, I've got one more hurdle to get over and then I'll be back where I was supposed to be a couple of years ago. Hopefully between this countdown and the next, there'll be a few count-up posts about words written, or characters abused, or short films finished...... a year and a half in the making, and Diet might almost be ready.

Wages

I've decided that I'm a corporation from now on. And I'm not sure why more people aren't opting for this. Think about it, you get all of the benefits of being a person, and none of the bothersome parts, like being a member of society and having to actually abide by a bunch of stupid laws. 

So while I live and work in Las Vegas, in a state with no state income tax, paying federal income tax alone is tiresome to me. So As far as anyone else is concerned, from now on while I'm earning in Nevada, as a corporation I'm actually earning in Grand Cayman. So I'm losing money, and I'd like the Federal Government to give me a tax refund please. Because as a corporation I'd like my tax incentives for creating jobs... I need people to work in the markets, restaurants, and bars, so obviously I should be thanked for that.

Also, the corporate punishments and laws just sound a lot more appealing. I mean, who knows, I could fly in to a rage one of these days with the arsenal I've collected at home, and just take out a bunch of people. But I've noticed that when corporations kill people, they mostly have to pay some fines that are sometimes as high as 1% of their income. Sorry, income? I meant profit. And it's the same with stealing. So I'm going to opt for the no-jail-time, pay a paltry sum option of punishment, right?

And jobs. The idea of applying and interviewing just sounds tedious. So I'd like a couple of no-bid jobs from the government, please. And prevailing wage, of course. Cos it makes perfect sense that the government pays more for me to do the same job as if I was doing it for someone else.  

And by me and I, I still mean me, the corporation. I think this is a good move for me. Less taxes, less chance of going to prison after a murderous rampage or a klepto-spree. Easy jobs forever. And I do mean forever, cos hey, I now technically can't die. Being a corporation is great, you should try it! 

I just have to decided if I want to be publicly traded. Sounds kinky. 

Nine Years/Two Years. And a Day

Yesterday, it was nine years since I started working for MGM and Cirque Du Soleil. And tomorrow, it'll be two years until I leave them behind and start my round the world race.   It's a strange thing to look back on all that time, and think about what's gone on.

Both my siblings got married, and one had a kid. I bought a house and I lost a house.  My first friends passed away. I got promoted twice, to join the ranks of salaried middle management, something I never aspired to because damn the man. I put on a bunch of weight, I shaved my head, I grew it out again. I hit puberty! and was able to grow a beard for the first time (which is helpful for hiding the bunch of weight). I went to Austraila and dove the Great Barrier Reef, and the Aquarium of Western Australia. I dove with sharks. I took my parents sky diving.

I started a theatre company. I left the theatre company in very capable hands. I wrote two scripts for said theatre company, and showed up on stage (I wouldn't call it acting) in three of the productions. I started blogging. I decided to become a writer. I wrote several short stories, a full novel, three quarters of a second novel. I wrote two full length screenplays. I have ten more pages to go on another, and I'm half-way with a fourth. I wrote five shorts (one of which was pulled out of my arse in an hour). We produced one, and we're in pre-production for a second.

I bought a boat. I decided to sail around the world (not in my boat). I started going grey.     Nine years ago Facebook wasn't a thing. Neither were smartphones. There had never been a black president. 3D was still just Captain EO. Micheal Jackson was still alive. No one had a Mac. And I met a shit-tonne of people, some of them amazing, some of them less so.     

So two more years. What will happen?  My hope/thoughts/plans:  I'll finish book two and book three. I'll break ground on another idea I've had kicking around for the past week, and possibly even finish it. I'll film this second short, finish it in a timely manner, and get it out there and noticed.

I'll work on treatments for what I've already finished, and finish what I've already started.   I'll find an agent. I'll sell my boat.    I'll learn portion control. I'll shave my head again. And I'll meet many more people, some of them amazing, some of them less so. I'll celebrate a 100th birthday in October, after finishing my level 1 training for the Clipper Race. And I'll probably bore you all to tears by going on and on and on about how I'm going to sail round the world in 2015.

But fisrt things first. Time for a beer. 

Murder

Unless I pull my act together, and soon, I need to stop calling myself a writer. Compared to what I did, and could and should do, I'm a writer in the same way that fishermen are swimmers. I'm paddling. Standing at the edges, maybe dipping a rod in and hoping for a nibble, but....no, I lost the image. Sorry. ​

But here's the thing. The past week, I've been going through some soul searching. Once I found it, battered and slightly soiled under a box full of Japanese sushi serving sets I've used twice, I took a decent look at it. And it's a crappy thing to do after a couple of years, when you think it's all progressing and everything's going well, but then you find out that it's not, and it's definitely not. ​

I decided I was going to be a writer in 2009. Or rather, I found it again. I realized I enjoyed it, I'm not terrible at it, and it's much cheaper and more satisfyingly frustrating than therapy. 'I'm going to be a writer" was my declaration to the world that year. ​

And I was going to be. Hammered out the first draft of a novel in six and a bit months. Got three quarters of the way through the second book in a series of three within a year, while I was waiting for someone who is almost family and almost a professional editor get back to me about the first book.​

It wasn't her fault I stopped. It was Ira Glass's. Or rather, He does a great speech about why people give up. I read my own shit, and just wasn't happy with it. It wasn't what I wanted it to be, wasn't as good, had holes I didn't know or want to bother filling. So I moved on, put it in a folder on a hard drive and pretended that it was exactly where I wanted it to be. ​

But then this week, I've had an itch under my skin that's impossible to scratch. A feeling. An uncomfortableness with where I am. Because doing some spring cleaning of my hard drive, I found the folder, and the files, each chapter labelled and ready to be edited. And the last time I even opened any of them was in Two Thousand and Fucking Ten. Three damned years ago. ​

Now, it's not like I've done nothing in the intervening time. Three screenplays, five shorts (one of which we actually filmed and is so close to being done), an In Memoriam (one of the worst things I've had to write), stage play, and countless work emails and crappy blog posts. 

None of it was the trilogy though. And finding them shook me.​

​(Can you really find something that isn't lost? I mean, in the back of my mind I always knew I had this folder with these documents with these character and events and emotions and actions and all, but I was ignoring their existence. But I digress). 

Two Thousand and Fucking Ten. Seeing that in the last opened, and actually reading what I wrote distant years ago, shook me. There were all these people, people I'd created, and cared about, and rewarded or treated like shit depending on what sort of day I'd had or booze I'd drunk, and they were waiting for me. Here's the thing though. They're only waiting for me if I finish. If I continue the stories, the threads of their lives, then they've been waiting. But I don't finish them, take them to where they're headed (I still remember what's going to happen to them all), then what have I done?

They're not waiting; they're dead. And If they're dead, I murdered them. Created these characters, these people, and led them on a twisted dance, and abandoned them mid-dosey doe. And I don't know if it's worse to murder someone, or to make them dance a dose doe. So in the interests of doing neither, I'm going to try and get back into it. Reacquaint myself with these buggers that took on lives of their own, and filled my life for a good year or so. Watch this space for updates, word counts, and all other sorts of boring things that I need to do to remind myself that I'm progressing.

Not that anyone's actually going to read this. I've noticed the best time to post, for optimum views, is around 1030am, right when everyone takes a break at work. So being 1030pm, I'm assuming you're all responsible and in bed. Good for you. ​You're not Tomar, working towards the second mission, or Brokes, trying to hold the first mission together while light years from home. 

But then if you were, I'm about to do some horrible things to you.​

More random comments that might piss you off.

• Can we stop calling big banks "too big to fail?" They aren't too big to fail. They have failed. The moment they needed the federal government's help, they had failed. 
• The fact that a company can claim copyright infringement on a similar phrase seems wrong. The only think "Eat mor chikin" and "Eat more Kale" have in common is 'Eat.' They may as well sue subway for "Eat Fresh," cos that's 50% similar rather than 33%.​
• Don't ask for gifts if I'm not invited to the party. That's just cheap and tacky. If you don't like me enough to invite me, I don't like you enough to spend money on you. ​
• If you make up shit, then you're lying. If you're lying, you don't get to call yourself Christian based on your OWN DAMNED TEACHINGS.
• When juicing, peel the lemon.​
• ​I find it interesting that so many of the people who are for coal and oil dependency also don't believe the Earth is old enough to have created coal and oil.
• If you're a college student, there's no good reason for you to vote GOP. They killed a bill to make the interest rate limit 0.75%, but advanced one that can increase it to 10.5%.​
• Also, Oklahoma. $645 million in three years in tax subsidies to oil companies, which would have built tornado shelters for all the schools in the state. ​If, you know, Oklahomans were more important than oil companies to these douchebags (they make sure their city hall had one though).
• ​Diet is so close to being done, so why not start on another project? Filming in July.