A Word of Caution

Capturing the Ephemeral

2009-01-31T01:45:00.003-06:00

It's time to get back to the gym. I absolutely must refocus on writing. I need to find some sort of gainful employment.

These kinds of thoughts have been zipping through my head the last few weeks. The problem is, I only experience brief moments of inspiration and motivation and then it's gone.

Listen, I know I'm rehashing (for the thousandth time) a problem we all struggle with from time to time, but I just can't seem to get out of my funk. I'm writing, but the writing doesn't satisfy. I want to be doing everything all at once in all places and I just can't get myself to stay still right now, so I'm accomplishing very little.

I have to figure out how to catch those flashes of the good stuff and keep them going. *slaps self* Come on motivation! Stay with me!

Here's to John Updike

2009-01-27T22:10:00.002-06:00

Sorry I haven't been around much. I've been pretty busy not motivating myself to blog (but writing other stuff. Yay!) and catching up with old friends.

Anyway, you probably already know that John Updike passed away today. He was so much more than "A&P."

Here's to you Mr. Updike. Thank you for opening wide the art of literary fiction by courageously taking it from the battlefields and riverboats and moving it into the living rooms of your characters. You taught me the importance of character intimacy.

Rest in peace.

Programming New Rituals

2009-01-13T11:41:00.005-06:00

I was putting on some Degree antiperspirant today and I started thinking about all my daily rituals.

Every single day, it goes like this: I get out of bed embarrassingly late, stand over the toilet, swaying back and forth for an eternity, then I walk into the kitchen and I drink a medium-sized glass of water. I go back to my room, find some clothes and take them into the bathroom with me. I turn on the shower, brush my teeth as the water warms up, hop in the shower, wash my hair first, soap down second, shave, rinse, dry, deodorant, dress, done.

Then I wake up my PC, check various Internet thingies, return emails, post messages on various web forums, read some news, and then I start going about my day, whatever it may entail.

Same sequence. Every day. No matter what. Same. Same. Same.

In my mind, every one of those steps is an integral part of my daily start up; each sub-ritual in perfect harmony with the whole. If one single item is missed or performed out of sequence, the whole thing falls apart.

Now that I'm aware of it, I begin to wonder how one might go about hacking into these rituals and rearranging their programming to include something of importance, like say, writing one thousand words of fiction, or maybe, exercising; or both. The problem is, I seem to be logged into my brain under a guest account and I need an Admin password to make any changes to the system.

There must be a work-around, but I haven't had much luck so far.

How about you? Installed anything of importance into your daily rituals lately? How'd you do it?

Honorary Pallbearer for a Stranger

2009-01-11T00:05:00.008-06:00

I'll spare you the specifics, but I attended a funeral today. (Don't feel obliged, dear reader, to send me any condolences; I wasn't close with her. In fact, I barely knew her at all.)

You might consider me an extended member of the family for whom I was attending the funeral. They lost an elderly loved one (whom I had met), so I jammed myself into a dress shirt I hadn't worn for a long time and tried to remember how to tie a Half Windsor on the way to a stranger's house to gather with the family before the ceremony.

A man in the shadows, I tell myself as I pull into the drive, preparing for a few hours of hanging in the back, smiling at strangers and shaking hands with warm country people who live in warm country homes, just like this one.

The house has a large inviting circle drive and a sun room overlooking a wintry pasture and a distant green pond. There are ten or twelve cars parked outside. I can hear the murmur of conversation coming from inside, and the scent of homemade bread hangs in the air.

I shake a few hands as I enter, a familiar face here and there, lots of respectful smiles and acknowledging nods. There are some uncomfortably silent teenagers on a couch nearby. A circle of elderly people laugh together quietly--quiet except for one; a big old man with a heavy complexion and knuckles thick with the marks of honest work. He laughs the way I imagine a st. Bernard might. He looks around, probably making sure he isn't getting any sour looks for laughing at a funeral. He's a good man; you can tell just by looking at him.

I talk with the people I know, and they thank me for coming and hug me. They know I'm just trying to do the right thing by being there. They know I was Nobody to the deceased. They smile with sad eyes; tired but grateful.

A middle-aged woman from the family, with whom I had spoken on a handful of occasions, approaches me with a camcorder. She smiles and asks me how I am, and thanks for coming, and I hope you can find something to eat with all this food around here, and so on.

Then: "Can you run the camcorder?" She refers to it with a the in front of it; probably the same way she refers to video games or other devices she hasn't grown comfortable with. He's in there, playing the video game; as if there is only one to go around for the whole community, like a cotton gin.

Who films a funeral? I can't get this thought out of my head as I graciously accept the videotaping responsibilities for the room full of strange faces around me. At least people will shy away from me now. Who wants to be on a funeral video?

Some women look at a clock and remind some men to head to the church early, since the that's what pallbearers do. Men trickle out the door, leaving Styrofoam cups full of Coke-stained ice cubes on the kitchen counters.

"Jed, you need to go with them," one of the women says from across the room. "The pallbearers are supposed to go early." The room is quiet.

"Oh, I'm not, um..."

"The honorary pallbearers are supposed to go now too," she says.

Honorary pallbearer? How did I get on the list of honorary pallbearers? And why? Did they think I would feel left out? No one even knew I was coming.

I fumble with the camcorder as I head for the door. A man in the shadows, I think. Just a man in the shadows.

Why I'm Running Away to Join The Circus

2009-01-07T01:21:00.005-06:00

I've decided to run away and join the circus.

I'm not exactly sure when the next circus is due in town, but I bet there will be one pretty soon, and when they show up and start hammering away on those giant tent stakes, I'll be there.

I bet the first person I'll see will be The Fabulous Bearded Lady. Hollywood portrays those hirsute beauties all wrong if you ask me. Just because a woman is sporting a Gandalf beard doesn't mean she has to weigh four hundred pounds and sound like Randy Savage when she speaks. I bet there are lots of bearded women out there with delicate features and sultry voices. I bet they're really good listeners too.

I wonder what an entry level job in the circus might be? I assume it maybe involves some elephant poo and constant replacing of pine-scented air fresheners in the clown car.

What if there's a whole fleet of clown cars, all parked underneath a heavily guarded red and white tent? When the head clown decides to go out to dinner or go buy a new set of gigantic shoes, there's a whole cloaked out clown car motorcade racing through the back streets of the city. Clown SUVs loaded with Special Forces clowns, armed to their big red noses with AR-15 assault rifles and boutonniere grenade launchers. Maybe I could work with those guys, you know, after I earn their trust by taking a few dozen pies to the face.

I bet the Christmas parties and company picnics are craaazy. How many parties have you attended where you could overhear someone saying: "Hey, check out what I just taught my lion to do..."? Or "of course my beard is real, silly..."? Well, maybe you've heard that one, but have you heard it spoken in a sultry voice? No. You haven't. You've never been to a party like that and neither have I, but I want to. That's why I'm doing it. That's why I'm running off to the Three Rings.

I bet The Human Octopus could juggle twenty beer bottles at once if someone encouraged him a little, and I would love to see the ass-whoopings The Sword Swallower could hand out during chugging contests. That's memory making right there, folks. That's really living.

So if you don't hear from me for awhile, don't worry; I may have hopped a train to the nearest big top. I'll try to let you know when we'll be coming to town again and, if I can, I'll sneak you in through the back for better seats.

Just watch out for any clowns wearing dark sunglasses and talking into their cufflinks. If they catch you sneaking in, I'm not sure what they'll do.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T01:08:00.000-06:00

I hope you have a very Merry Christmas!

I'll start posting again after the holidays. See ya then!

When Every Draft is Total Crap

2008-12-08T22:53:00.000-06:00

I really need to be eyeballs deep in short story revisions for a couple of upcoming contests, but no matter what I did today I just kept ending up at the intersection of Erase Your Hard Drive and Start Over, and Take Up Stamp Collecting Instead.

Everything I worked on today ended up possessing about the same appeal as a steaming pile of schnauzer turds. I don't know why. All I know is my Drafts folder must have some pretty serious guardian angel stuff going on, because I was this close to pressing the red button today. Sayonara stories. See you in prose purgatory.

I guess maybe I'll wake up tomorrow happy I didn't nuke them, but today's efforts put a real strain on my relationship with my Drafts folder. We still aren't speaking. I came straight to Internet Explorer just now and didn't even look in on D. We'll make up later, I'm sure, but for now I'm pissed.

Now I'm sitting here wondering what will change tomorrow. I mean, I'm pretty sure D will be exactly the same, so it looks like this is probably going to be up to me. What am I going to do differently?

Here are a few things I'm going to try:

First thing in the morning, I'm going to run some errands and get a few things done that I've been putting off. This will free my mind of these distractions.
I'm going to treat myself to a decent lunch. I've been hunched over a keyboard eating microwave pizzas too much lately.
Time is running short and I have other projects to be starting on, so when I sit down to work, I am going to say, out loud: "I am going to get through at least two full rounds of revision before I stop for the day." (Hey, Navy SEALs use verbal reinforcement. If it's good enough for them...)

NASCAR drivers crash. Quarterbacks throw interceptions. Presidents perform bonehead maneuvers. Writers write crap. But only sometimes. We have to remember to give ourselves credit for the rest of the time--the time we spend doing it right.

D, you're off the hook. I forgive you. I hope you can forgive me too. I can't wait to see you tomorrow.

Why I'm Contributing Articles to Suite101

2008-12-07T23:36:00.000-06:00

Last night, just before bed, I clicked the submit button on my application to Suite101 and swallowed down my last gulp of milk. I smiled and wiped away a milk mustache as I closed my computer. I felt satisfied, like I was building a house and had just hammered the last nail for the day. One more wall, ready for Sheetrock.

Around lunchtime today, I received email confirmation that my application had been accepted. Quick turnaround, I thought. I could hear the hammers again, happily thumping away on the joists and rafters of my future.

Keep in mind, this isn't a money-making endeavour for me. Sure, there will be monetary compensation, but the amount is negligible unless you write hundreds--maybe thousands--of articles. It will be good for me though. It's good experience, and I'll learn tons about web publishing and writing in general. And the exposure, yes, the exposure will certainly squirt some extra bounce into the springboard of my upcoming career, right? Right?

Of course these notions are correct. What? Did you think I was doubting myself? Hardly. I'm a writer and if there's one thing I've learned about writers, it's the fact that writers have to write. By have to, I don't just mean we must persistently work at shaping our craft, constantly sharpening and perfecting our use of language. No, I mean we just have to; as in, a bottle of whiskey just has to be drunk, otherwise, what good is it? I won't lie and try to convince you that my soul would rupture or my heart would explode if I didn't write, but something less dramatic along those lines is entirely possible. Indigestion and bed-wetting maybe.

Let me save you reading anymore of stammering by just saying this: If you asked me right this minute whether or not I'm looking forward to writing articles about video games or cigarettes or whatever else my feeble brain might spew out for Suite101, I would be honest and tell you that I am not. But, like many other things along this writerly journey, it just feels right. So that's what I'll do.

One more wall.

Hocus Focus

2008-12-05T13:17:00.000-06:00

Isn't it strange the way we lose focus so easily? Granted, I truly am a walking talking A.D.H.D. case study.

I've been through the Ritalins and the Adderalls and the rest of the methylphenidate "treatments." Yes, they help, but no, the side effects are not worth it. That is, unless you enjoy perpetually sweaty armpits, bouts of extreme paranoia (not so much the someone-is-coming-for-me kind of paranoia, but more the why-is-my-car-making-that-humming-sound-o-my-god-it's-going-to-lose-an-axle-right-now-while-I'm-doing-70-and-it's-going-to-roll-26-times-and-my-torso-will-flop-out-the-side-window-and-I-will-be-impaled-by-a-street-sign-and-the-first-responders-will-see-my-wiener kind of paranoia), habitual chewing of fingernails and lips, sleeplessness, and a complete loss of appetite--until nighttime when the drugs wear off and you eat the arm of your couch because it smells like lasagna.

The only real fix for a lack of focus--whether there is a clinical name for it or not--is through conditioning of the mind. As we've all heard 8,281 times before: The brain is like a muscle; if you want it strengthened, you have to give it exercise. There is no magic potion or pill for getting your body in shape and the same is true for your mind.

Since I'm not good at exercise--physical or mental--I have to just help my brain along and give it the best chance to succeed that I can. Here are some techniques I use to keep my ass in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard:

Eliminate distractions. The television is a no-brainer, but clutter around me is a surefire way to freeze a hot streak when I'm writing. I have to clean up and organize everything close by before I even bother trying to write. Try to set a limit to how much you do though, or you'll end up organizing your spare nuts and bolts bin out in the garage instead of churning out your next masterpiece.
Force yourself to stay off the Internet, except to look up specific words or information. When you find what you need, shut it down. Check your email, myspace, facebook, etc. before you start to write. The news will still be there when you're done writing for the day.
Shut off your cellphone. There's nothing like a singing penis text message to throw off your focus.
Meditate. Sit in a comfortable position in a quiet place, close your eyes and just breathe. Listen to the air pass into your body and push the bad air out. Try visualizing a page full of colorful words, swimming peacefully through your mind. Don't let your brain grab any of the words, just watch them all in their wholeness and harmony from a distance.
When you finally sit down at your computer, do it as if you're an ace fighter pilot climbing into the cockpit. This is it. The big moment. It's time to shine. Show 'em what you got. Put some pressure on yourself to bring forth your best work.

These are just some of the tools I use to help me stay focused. How about you? Got any secret methods for maintaining that razor sharp attention span of yours?

How Do Travel Writers Do It?

2008-12-02T12:55:00.000-06:00

I've been traveling for two weeks now, and I've had access to my laptop and the Internet nearly the entire time, but I'm just now getting around to revising my column for sundaymorningrides.com (due tomorrow), as well as checking in at my myriad of various web haunts.

How the hell do travel writers actually find time to write when they travel?

I guess it's probably safe to say they aren't spending most of their time visiting with family as they eat ridiculously large-portioned meals. And maybe travel writers don't hike up into the Rincon Mountains all day long and then come back tired and hungry only to eat another shamefully huge meal then doze off during an episode of House.

Maybe travel writers decide before they venture out each day that they will write something before they go to sleep. Maybe. Or perhaps they simply take notes as they go and never write word one in permanent form until they get home. But what about those little details which tend to drift away if not captured soon after they appear? How do they retain that stuff?

I'm flying home tomorrow, and I hate to leave this beautiful place (the temperature is around 80 today). I enjoy traveling, but part of the fun is returning home. A place where I can write again.

Travel Makes Me Giddy

2008-11-18T13:28:00.000-06:00

I'm all set to fly out to Tucson for Thanksgiving. My dad lives there and I just love the desert.

Tucson is surrounded by big red mountains, the desert makes for great hiking, and the prospect of 1% humidity is enough to make any Midwesterner flush with get-up-and-go. Besides all that, I just love to travel.

I found cheap airline tickets out of my hometown (Springfield, MO), around which much of my family still lives, so I'm going to visit with them for a few days before I bound onto an airplane and zip into Phoenix, where my father's wife will pick me up secretly and then drop me off at their home where I will wait until the old man arrives from work, when I will surprise him. You see, Thanksgiving has always been his favorite holiday, and this would have been his first Thanksgiving without his family around since he moved to Arizona.

But I will have the privilege of surprising him on a day he would likely otherwise have been bummed out. I'm so excited! It's gonna be a blast.

I'm so worked up, I don't even mind paying the stupid airline a "checked baggage fee."

I've Been Meaning to Call...

2008-11-13T18:40:00.000-06:00

So it's been a week or so since I posted anything here. I've been backpacking and writing (revising, mostly) and contemplating what I'm going to do for money since it's been months since I've held an actual job.

I wouldn't call myself lazy (though I do show the symptoms occasionally) but after my last experience with Corporate America, I just don't have the stomach for it anymore. I have lost my job to corporate "right-sizing" or "we're sending your jobs to China" 3 times. 3 TIMES! I'm only 29 years old!

I cared about each one of those jobs and the rug just kept getting yanked out from under me; I just don't think I can take another one seriously ever again.

So, here I am, contemplating.

A Couple of Mentionables

2008-11-04T13:20:00.000-06:00

I guess I'm official now. The folks at SundayMorningRides.com didn't waste any time posting my first article.

I sort of get the feeling I could've submitted a list of random words pertaining to anything remotely within the realm of motorcycling and they would have posted it, but I understood the gig before I took it--that it's mostly about building content and generating better search results for the site and all that web stuff--I get that, really I do. Considering I'm still at the 10-yard line of my career, having my own monthly "column" rates pretty high on the Coolness Scale; and it will make for good solid resumé fodder at some writerly train station on down the the line somewhere. I know this too.

But to tell the truth, my inner writer--the part of me which is still beyond my own conscious grasp; the deeper part of my, I don't know, my soul, I guess, where the big picture is displayed on some secret Jumbo Tron, of which I only catch occasional glimpses--feels like I'm selling myself short.

It's a logical step; I get it. And don't get me wrong, it is exciting to see my stuff "out there." The project is also forcing me to write in ways I've never written before. This whole thing can only serve to help me, I know. I don't want to seem ungrateful, because I'm not. I just didn't expect to feel the way I feel, that's all.

I just finished reading the Catcher in the Rye last night too. Maybe that's all this is. I always get a little down when I finish a book. I mean, it depresses hell out of me. Now I feel like a phony. A big goddam phony. (If you don't get that last bit, you need to read the book.)

Anyway, tonight I'll celebrate over my first published piece. But I'll do it a little sullenly.

Here's my new column, by the way: Burnout, by Jed Hunt

News on the Writing Front

2008-10-30T13:29:00.000-05:00

Down to the tacks: I sent off a contract today to write some articles for a motorcycle enthusiast web site which is currently trying to build content. They have very little in the way of articles right now.

The exciting part is that I pitched an idea to the editor that I write a sort of humor column on moto-centric topics. He seems pretty stoked about the idea, so we'll see if he's still excited after he reads more than a "sample excerpt" of my writing.

For anyone who doesn't know, I used to race off-road motorcycles and I also worked at a motorcycle dealership long enough to figure out a thing or two. I still ride a sport bike, shown here:

The off-road stuff beat me up pretty bad, so I retired.

Anyway, this could be my first paid writing gig EVER!

I'm pretty excited. The web site is http://www.sundaymorningrides.com/ if you want to check it out.

It's Not That I Don't Like Cats... (Part 2)

2008-10-22T16:59:00.001-05:00

In case you might have forgotten, I was in the early stages of war with a gaggle of unruly neighborhood cats recently. Apparently, in some backroom meeting, they all decided that they should start crapping along a walkway I use every single day.

I am happy to report that they have since moved their public restroom elsewhere. (Where, exactly, is yet to be determined.)

I don't know what happened to cause this sudden shitter shift. Perhaps there was a coup d'état and Bob is no longer in charge. Though, he doesn't look too worried:

Upon further infiltration of the ranks, I have discovered that this little vixen, known as Mama, is the number 2:

I have witnessed him give his food up for her. This situation will have to monitored more closely. She was timid at first, but she comes in pretty close now.

And then, there's this stranger out on the fringes of my property. He was one of the original poopers, I'm quite sure, but he definately keeps his distance when I'm out there. I'll be working to identify the Stranger in the coming days. This image was captured using ultra zoom:

Who is The Stranger? Will Jed discover the new pooping zone? Is Bob's position at the head of the family in trouble? Tune in next time to find out!

Some Photos from the Backcountry

2008-10-21T12:22:00.000-05:00

A few pictures from my latest misadventure:

The Frontiersmen Were Tougher Than Me

2008-10-20T17:32:00.000-05:00

I had to abort my backpacking trip early.

A stream-crossing mishap caused me to limp 7 miles out of the wilderness back to civilization. I wasn't seriously hurt, but I was hurt bad enough that I was apprehensive about continuing another 26 miles with over 20 pounds on my back.

The weather was perfect. The trail was desolate and lonely (just as I had hoped it would be). Water was plentiful. There were splendid views of the Ouachita River.

My body said no after I banged up my leg. That's all there is to it.

I'm a bit depressed.

Almost Packed

2008-10-14T23:48:00.000-05:00

Just a few more days and I'll be heading out for a 5 day backpacking trip in Arkansas. I won't be traversing any glaciers or crossing major rivers on a homemade raft, but I'm still excited; for lots of reasons. My main objective is probably exactly what you think it is: solitude. Absolute, self-imposed loneliness. Every single human being on this planet needs an occasional dose of it; some of us more than others.

But why the woods? Why not rent a hotel room for 5 days and lock myself away to write and read and learn?

Let me tell you a secret about carrying your food, water and shelter on your back in nature:

The first day is merely fun and adventurous and tiring. The first night out there all alone is achy and sleepless. The second day and night mostly serve to remind you further how you miss your recliner, your bed, and your refrigerator.

But the third day, ah, the third day. That's when it starts happening. That's when you start to forget.

You forget about your possessions at home; your obligations; your life in electric civilization. You become strange, even to yourself. You are aware of this imposing weirdness, this renaturalization of your mind and your body, but you can't wrap your head around the real source of it. It becomes hard to determine exactly where you end and the world around you begins. Your hearing adapts to the wind and you start to hear through it. The rustling of the windblown leaves doesn't distract you from the sound of animal movement nearby; the two sounds are the same but totally distinct and different. The blur of foliage pressing down on you from all directions begins to expand and fall away, clearing a path for your mind to forge ahead and your eyes to see without seeing. You are part of this now.

You will drink only water tonight and eat a small meal, like the bears and the wolves and the trees. You will feel the chill march across the wilderness as the sun takes refuge behind the mountains. The cool air enters your lungs and you sleep a dreamless sleep and you wake up alive and real and connected to everything.

We are not animals, you and I. I don't say this to somehow degrade them, indeed, we are less glorious in many ways than their simplest citizens. We do function somewhat differently--there is little doubt about this--but we are not designed to be contently posted inside a ten-by-ten cubicle counting the hours of our lives away beneath the pale fluorescence of modern human existence.

"That is life though," one might say. "That is just what we do."

No, that is not life. That is survival. When we wake up every day and begin dancing to the familiar rhythms of commercial life, we are doing exactly the opposite of living. We are merely existing. We are making money to buy food, that's all.

It's funny the number of people who think I'm the one surviving when I venture into the wilderness. Only when I get back will I return to the business of survival.

Since Fall is Here...

2008-10-12T17:02:00.000-05:00

I've decided to let my hair grow. I usually whip out the clippers, slap on a #2 guard and buzz it all off with the precision of a dull Bush Hog every three weeks. Not anymore. Not until Spring.

That's the plan anyway.

My hair is naturally wavy, so when it starts reaching that awkward middle length (1 to 3 inches, where it is now) it tends to become uncooperative and big. It's been a month and a half since my last haircut and my niece, Hannah, 6, says I have "Elvis hair." Must be the sideburns.

I tell everyone I'm growing it out for insulation during wintertime backpacking expeditions which I plan to undertake in the coming months, but really, I think it's more about a deepening desire for change. A lot of things have changed in my life recently, and I figure my chevelure should be no exception.

So off I go, my hair bending in the breeze. Maybe by winter it will be long enough to dance about the edges of my face in the wind as I struggle across bitter cold mountainsides, like some lost character in a Jack London novel. That would be cool.

A Nirvana Kid

2008-10-06T12:40:00.000-05:00

After reading MoodyTunes earlier today, I found myself flipping through the radio channels in my brain listening for all that music which was--and in many ways still is--the soundtrack to my life.

I grew up listening to a lot of my dad's cassette tapes: Foreigner, ZZ Top, Neil Young, The Miami Vice Soundtrack, Kansas, Bad Company, Fleetwood Mac, Journey, Pink Floyd--just to name a few.

I remember sitting on my bed in my upstairs bedroom listening to my radio as a young teen. Dark brown wood panelled walls; a fan humming in my window mostly just stirring up warm air; a M.A.S.K. toy peeking out from beneath a pile of clutter in my closet. (It was Hurricane.)

Then that fateful song we've all heard too many times came ripping through the speakers of my little radio: "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I know, I know...how many blog posts can possibly be written on a subject? Still I wonder though how one song, consisting only of a simple four-chord progression and nonsensical screaming lyrics, could have tattooed itself so completely on almost an entire generation.

From then on, I began discovering my own music. The search uncovered so many bands I can't even begin to name them all here, but more than that, it led me toward the seat of my own creativity and I began to scrawl my emotions on paper in the forms of poetry, angst-ridden essays and strange stories. I began playing guitar and singing. (The main riff from "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was one of the first I learned.) I started writing songs.

Time went by and I began playing rhythm guitar and singing backup for a local band called Plew. We did covers of songs by the likes of Candlebox, Pearl Jam, Metallica, Bush, Collective Soul. We began playing some of my songs, and songs we wrote collaboratively.

I remained a member of Plew, but branched off into my own band called The Brink, where I sang lead vocals and played rhythm guitar. We wrote songs and played at bars and parties until I had had enough. Drugs and alcohol and the months without sleep that our living-like-rock-stars lifestyles had become burned me out. I still performed occasionally in any of the three bands which formed during this musical revolution in our small Missouri town, but I was no longer dedicated to the lifestyle; the mood; the angst. I was done with it. The itch was gone.

I continued writing songs though and was eventually enlisted to help a popular local band called Splendor record their first album. By this time I had begun to play piano and synthesizer, and they just wanted some "texture tracks" of strings and piano to give their songs a little more depth. We formed a friendship and I began touring around the Midwest with them performing and collaborating on new material. It was hard work but rewarding. By the time I stepped down two years later, we had performed in front of thousands and thousand of people. We never did the arena thing or anything like that, but we got to play a few shows in front of more than 2,000 people. (That's a lot of eyeballs watching you try not to botch a tricky guitar part.)

We once played this giant, extravagant theater but the promoter had published the wrong date so only three or four people showed up. We played our guts out anyway.

After all that music, all those faces, all the drugs and pain and fun, and after the liquidation of myriad guitars, keyboards and musical doo-dads, there was left in the filter only one thing. The music had long been mostly flushed away, but I was still writing.

I figure I'll keep doing it for a while.

R&D at Home...And So Can You!

2008-10-03T10:26:00.000-05:00

I, like many others, enjoy nature at her most natural. That's why I backpack into the wilderness as much as I can during the fall, winter, and early spring (summer is too hot and humid, and the bugs down here get as big rat terriers).

Since fall is here (and since I have cabin fever so bad I've chewed off my own eyebrows) it's time to head to the woods. In a couple of weeks I'll be hitting the Womble Trail; Arkansas' third longest trail at around 40 miles in length. It will probably take me four days to complete. It could be done in as little as two, but I'm pretty out of shape, and besides, I want it to last longer.

Anyway, my backpacking gear has been sitting around bored all summer and I learned years ago that it is a mistake to wait until you are ten miles from civilization to find out that mice have chewed a fist-sized hole in your tent's rain fly while it sat in your closet. It's best to perform a little R&D (Recreation & Development) before you head into the backcountry. So, yesterday I broke out my Viperine 2 tent and staked it out in my yard for all of my neighbors to see. I mean, let's face it, who doesn't love to see a tent in their neighbor's yard?

Tent inspection, check.

Then, when the temperature got down to 44 degrees about 3 AM, I grabbed my sleeping pad and my Tech Blanket and headed out into my front yard wilderness to find out if I could possibly stay warm in such a minimal setup (inside my tent of course). Suprisingly, despite using only a 3/4 length pad (the bottom part of my legs extend beyond the pad; decreases weight) and my stylin' Techie, I was comfy. I napped for an hour or so.

Then, I broke out my 25/40 Flip Sleeping Bag just to see how I'd be doing in a full bag. I was toasty and comfortable.

Sleeping items, check.

Next on my list of tests were my toiletry items...just kidding.

Having gleaned the necessary data, I went inside and went to bed where I tossed and turned restlessly for hours.

It's Not That I Don't Like Cats...(Part 1)

2008-09-30T15:27:00.000-05:00

...but right now, we are at war. I have only myself to blame.

A few months ago, a neighborhood cat started hanging out at my place. A stripey black and grey bobtail. Because I'm so imaginative, I named him Bob. He is a total attention whore, very friendly.

He began loitering on my porch every day; watching me grill chicken and steak; lounging on the cool concrete near my chair as I read books. Sometimes I'd notice him watching me, as if he was curious about the quality of the literature. So I read aloud to him, a few paragraphs from Joseph Heller's Catch-22. He didn't seem to appreciate the quick-witted Yosarian as much as I did, though, in his defense, I was already pretty far along in the book. When I went back and started from the beginning, he seemed more at ease with the story.

The next time I went to the grocery store, I walked passed the pet supplies aisle (or as John Updike would say, the cat food/dog food/pet toys/leashes/wormer/flea collar/bone-shaped treats aisle) and decided that it was time I bought food for Bob. He was looking a little thin. So I swung my clattering cart around and bought some Meow Mix ("Cats ask for it by name!") and left the store feeling good about myself.

I dug out an old stainless bowl I'd had around for awhile and topped it off for Bob. He ate and ate. I read to him as he munched quietly. I decided to go with "First Confession" by Frank O'Connor. I figured the light-hearted tale would bode well with Bob's digestive tract; didn't want to get him bound up by reading something like Anton Chekhov or Stephanie Vaughn (God forbid I read him "Dog Heaven").

I didn't realize the seriousness of my mistake.

Apparently, my bowel-soothing prose coupled with the crunchy bits of post-processed animal parts were too much for other cats in the area to avoid. Now there are approximately 8 cats adorning my porch. I think they're all from the same family, including Bob. The little bastard betrayed me, it appears.

At first I decided to go ahead and maintain my dinner dates with Bob, but I became so preoccupied with running the other cats off that it just wasn't the same. Bob was no help. He would just step aside and let anybody and everybody eat his food while he looked on patiently. I called him a coward, but I think he was doing it on purpose.

I figured out to feed him on a raised platform--in this case, an old blue cooler which has been sitting on my porch forever--where there was only room for one cat. This fixed the problem of other cats eating his food, but it morphed him into some kind of feline god. All these cats, encircling his blue throne, sitting on their haunches watching him. The power got to him. He occasionally stopped eating and looked down upon them, his subjects, the peasants of his new kingdom. He would eat until he was content and then hop down, leaving a small amount of food behind. A frenzy ensued as the rest of the cats scrambled and pushed and hissed to claim his scraps. Bob couldn't be less concerned; grooming his paws near the edge of the porch; licking the food residue from his chops. Why they don't jump up there and try to overthrow him, I simply do not know.

And then, overnight, they all decided to begin shitting on a pathway I use every day. Last night I watched them--and this is the honest truth--one after another, walk to the area, find the perfect spot and poop. No more than one at a time. After I saw the first couple I became enraged and began finding things to throw, just to give them a scare. I found small pieces of gravel, and by the time I was in a good firing position, the next cat to come through was Bob. The little backstabbing bastard! I threw a rock (only a pebble, don't worry) at him and pegged him broadside. He jumped several feet into the air and dashed for the trees. He returned to the porch a few minutes later, not realizing I was the one who had pelted him.

Now I'm on a quest to change everything.

ANNOUNCER: Will he throw more rocks? Will he end up reading Anton Chekhov to Bob after all? Will it be too late before he can stop the poop festival on his lawn? Tune in next time to find out!

I Need a Fresh Start

2008-09-28T22:49:00.000-05:00

That's right. I nuked everything here.

We're starting over folks. I need a fresh start.

So stay tuned.