Galvanize!
Lyuuucas. Lyuuuuuucas.
This post is an attempt to keep the blog momentum going—as the Blog itself told us yesterday, we've been posting like hell, producing new posts like newlywed preachers produce G-Dog-fearing babies. Boy, they sure do produce them babies. So produce, produce. For I am bored at work, and Alyssa, who is usually a constant source of emails—sometimes we number in the 60s of replies—has the day off, and surely will find better things to do than send three-line messages back and forth with her ex.
Someone asked recently if I am an atheist and the answer is no, I am not exactly an atheist. But I am not exactly…bursting with faith either. I wouldn't even say I'm agnostic. I'm more . . . I have difficulty believing in any single religion, and difficulty believing in a spiritual plane. But I want to believe—just like that X-Files poster—and so I choose to hope that there is some sort of order, and hope, and am willing to consider—in fact, would like to consider—that there might, might be.
I used to wonder how atheists could live—in the long run, barring the existence of a higher, powerful intelligence, the destruction of the planet and (probably earlier) destruction of hu-mans will eradicate evidence of our existence, of culture. And that . . . well, that's a pisser. And if it's all going to fuck someday, why even try now? But I think you just . . . have to not think about it, just worry day to day, make out with a girl, drink some really strong coffee, and then bounce around.
Still, I would like to believe that there is more to all this, and that it counts for more, will last somehow.
I had no intention of going there with this post.
Hmm.
Last weekend was undoubtedly the most bizarre of my entire life to this point.
Finally, after being a writer basically since I was 5, and producing two shitty novels and one less-shitty novel and one okay-but-lame novel and one good novel and lots of bad shorts and finally one good short and another pretty-good short I'm to the point where I have all kinds of paper to mail out to people, all kinds of submissions that I actually have a little confidence in, and all of it comes back, sorry, next time, but it's still fun to mail all this shit out, and have it in circulation, and think that maybe, maybe something will go right. If nothing else, I get some curious looks from people who walk by my cubicle and see all those manila envelopes popping out of my bag.
I tried to learn the guitar once. All those strings, though—how the hell do you do it? There are these chords that require you to press four strings and then two other strings and your hand ends up bent up like a croissant roll that's been smashed beneath a pile of glassware and you get this buzzing sound and it's terrible, terrible. But I'm thinking about trying again, and may hunt around for some cheapass poo-sounding instrument, and poke at it.
Krispy has my keyboard, and hopefully is doing wonderful things with it.
When I was a kid I thought whoa, for sure when I am old I will put that pencil behind my ear like the journalists in old movies do. But I don't really do that. At least not very often. I have a red pen there now.
The frontpage of McSweeney's is really great today, better than it's been in a while.
Goathead and I had a conversation the other day: if our high school selves could see us now, what would they kick our asses about? Mine would kick my ass for being such a lush. What about everyone else? Tell us in the comments!
Really, do it.
Do it!
This post is an attempt to keep the blog momentum going—as the Blog itself told us yesterday, we've been posting like hell, producing new posts like newlywed preachers produce G-Dog-fearing babies. Boy, they sure do produce them babies. So produce, produce. For I am bored at work, and Alyssa, who is usually a constant source of emails—sometimes we number in the 60s of replies—has the day off, and surely will find better things to do than send three-line messages back and forth with her ex.
Someone asked recently if I am an atheist and the answer is no, I am not exactly an atheist. But I am not exactly…bursting with faith either. I wouldn't even say I'm agnostic. I'm more . . . I have difficulty believing in any single religion, and difficulty believing in a spiritual plane. But I want to believe—just like that X-Files poster—and so I choose to hope that there is some sort of order, and hope, and am willing to consider—in fact, would like to consider—that there might, might be.
I used to wonder how atheists could live—in the long run, barring the existence of a higher, powerful intelligence, the destruction of the planet and (probably earlier) destruction of hu-mans will eradicate evidence of our existence, of culture. And that . . . well, that's a pisser. And if it's all going to fuck someday, why even try now? But I think you just . . . have to not think about it, just worry day to day, make out with a girl, drink some really strong coffee, and then bounce around.
Still, I would like to believe that there is more to all this, and that it counts for more, will last somehow.
I had no intention of going there with this post.
Hmm.
Last weekend was undoubtedly the most bizarre of my entire life to this point.
Finally, after being a writer basically since I was 5, and producing two shitty novels and one less-shitty novel and one okay-but-lame novel and one good novel and lots of bad shorts and finally one good short and another pretty-good short I'm to the point where I have all kinds of paper to mail out to people, all kinds of submissions that I actually have a little confidence in, and all of it comes back, sorry, next time, but it's still fun to mail all this shit out, and have it in circulation, and think that maybe, maybe something will go right. If nothing else, I get some curious looks from people who walk by my cubicle and see all those manila envelopes popping out of my bag.
I tried to learn the guitar once. All those strings, though—how the hell do you do it? There are these chords that require you to press four strings and then two other strings and your hand ends up bent up like a croissant roll that's been smashed beneath a pile of glassware and you get this buzzing sound and it's terrible, terrible. But I'm thinking about trying again, and may hunt around for some cheapass poo-sounding instrument, and poke at it.
Krispy has my keyboard, and hopefully is doing wonderful things with it.
When I was a kid I thought whoa, for sure when I am old I will put that pencil behind my ear like the journalists in old movies do. But I don't really do that. At least not very often. I have a red pen there now.
The frontpage of McSweeney's is really great today, better than it's been in a while.
Goathead and I had a conversation the other day: if our high school selves could see us now, what would they kick our asses about? Mine would kick my ass for being such a lush. What about everyone else? Tell us in the comments!
Really, do it.
Do it!
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