Friday, April 09, 2004
chocoholic
I would make a terrible recovering addict. I just can't give things up.
Luckily, so far I don't have to. But in the interests of fairness, I've been trying to not eat sugar around Elka. She's a diabetic and so she can't eat sugar (unless she really needs to eat sugar, and then watch out). When I'm devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry's, I can see her eyes get all squinty and bitter because she just has to sit there.
So, I'm trying to refrain, at least when she's around. Which is harder than it looks. I forget how many things have sugar in them, and how those things are a very regular part of my life.
But it could be worse. I could be giving sugar up altogether. What misery! Remember when Bruce and I tried to copy the Seinfeld "contest" episode and see who could go the longest without wanking off? No? Well, it was truly hilarious. And painful. Because I never want anything as much as when I can't have it. I found myself thinking about wanking all the time, merely because it was forbidden.
Going cold turkey with sweets would be even worse. Sugar's ever-present; at least you have to be somewhere secluded to have a wank.
Speaking of wanking, I don't like Bart Davenport's new direction. The flat saxophone player, the long solos, the boogie-rock structures -- bleh. More solo acoustic, more goofy dancing! I don't want to have to give him up too.
Luckily, so far I don't have to. But in the interests of fairness, I've been trying to not eat sugar around Elka. She's a diabetic and so she can't eat sugar (unless she really needs to eat sugar, and then watch out). When I'm devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry's, I can see her eyes get all squinty and bitter because she just has to sit there.
So, I'm trying to refrain, at least when she's around. Which is harder than it looks. I forget how many things have sugar in them, and how those things are a very regular part of my life.
But it could be worse. I could be giving sugar up altogether. What misery! Remember when Bruce and I tried to copy the Seinfeld "contest" episode and see who could go the longest without wanking off? No? Well, it was truly hilarious. And painful. Because I never want anything as much as when I can't have it. I found myself thinking about wanking all the time, merely because it was forbidden.
Going cold turkey with sweets would be even worse. Sugar's ever-present; at least you have to be somewhere secluded to have a wank.
Speaking of wanking, I don't like Bart Davenport's new direction. The flat saxophone player, the long solos, the boogie-rock structures -- bleh. More solo acoustic, more goofy dancing! I don't want to have to give him up too.
Monday, April 05, 2004
ripping more than just panties
Man, what a shitty weekend. You know the kind? The kind that sucks big donkey balls? Yep, that's the kind.
But Ajax begged and pleaded for me to write about it, so here goes.
There are, as a writer, those weekends when you feel you can see the future. You can see the desperate loneliness and horrific bitterness and bitter horrificness that is old age. You can see the end. The end is nigh.
Because sometimes you just can't write. That happened this weekend. Actually, it happened last week and this weekend. It happened for a long time. (For all I know, it's still happening.)
I was trying to write a music article for a general interest magazine. They'd sent back the first draft saying it needed more opinions and less of straight journalism. Great! I've got opinions! Like: You suck!
Nah, just kidding. You don't suck. You don't blow either. Unless you want to. And then you do it nicely.
Anyhoo, this article proved near impossible to write. This, I thought, was my Waterloo (and I'm not even wearing a funny hat). Every sentence felt like a mule was kicking me in the head. Or rather, I wished a mule would kick me in the head so I could write better sentences. I spent all Thursday and Friday poking away at it, with it poking back, to no avail.
When I showed up at the Paramount Theater in Oakland for Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I was miserable (and late). Luckily, the movie wasn't playing until the following Friday. This night it was Lite Jazz and dudded-up African Americans.
So Elka and I headed off to Cafe Van Cleef, where I had a girlie drink and moaned and groaned. And suddenly, with a lot of prodding from Saint Elka, I had a brilliant idea. Dumb it down! Make it so simple the aging yuppies can understand it.
Great! I was happy. And Elka was depressed. (The old relationship teeter-totter is a confounding thing.) So we went home, and her blood sugar plummeted enough for me to beat her at Scrabble.
You thought the story was over. It isn't! The next day I tried to dumb the article down, but it sucked even more. By the time Kathleen and Eric's Costa Rican cocktail and dinner odyssey rolled around, I was way ready for some Panty Rippers. The problem was they ripped more than my panties -- my whole brain stopped functioning, except for the little part that kept chanting "It's over, it's over" like the freaks in, well, Freaks.
After awhile, Elka had some kind of odd reaction, and we had to leave. (She is such a delicate creature.) By the time we reached my house, I'd spiraled down the rabbit hole of self-obliteration. I didn't want to talk, and she made me. Damn her.
Then we took a nap. A good one.
And when I woke up the next day the little writing elves had finished the article. Right? Wrong! Damn them too. So I played some softball (3 for 4, if you count the fielder's choice where everyone was safe), and wrote some more, and went to see the Eternal Sunshine of Yada Yada Yada. It wasn't bad, but mainly because of Kate Winslet.
And today I woke up and realized something: Some of your children are going to be ugly and/or stupid. And you'll have to pretend you like them as much as the others. The best you can do is get them a decent haircut and some braces and hope they survive. You send them out into the world and pray that no one ever mentions them again. That's just the way life is.
Goodbye, my ugly, stupid child.
But Ajax begged and pleaded for me to write about it, so here goes.
There are, as a writer, those weekends when you feel you can see the future. You can see the desperate loneliness and horrific bitterness and bitter horrificness that is old age. You can see the end. The end is nigh.
Because sometimes you just can't write. That happened this weekend. Actually, it happened last week and this weekend. It happened for a long time. (For all I know, it's still happening.)
I was trying to write a music article for a general interest magazine. They'd sent back the first draft saying it needed more opinions and less of straight journalism. Great! I've got opinions! Like: You suck!
Nah, just kidding. You don't suck. You don't blow either. Unless you want to. And then you do it nicely.
Anyhoo, this article proved near impossible to write. This, I thought, was my Waterloo (and I'm not even wearing a funny hat). Every sentence felt like a mule was kicking me in the head. Or rather, I wished a mule would kick me in the head so I could write better sentences. I spent all Thursday and Friday poking away at it, with it poking back, to no avail.
When I showed up at the Paramount Theater in Oakland for Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I was miserable (and late). Luckily, the movie wasn't playing until the following Friday. This night it was Lite Jazz and dudded-up African Americans.
So Elka and I headed off to Cafe Van Cleef, where I had a girlie drink and moaned and groaned. And suddenly, with a lot of prodding from Saint Elka, I had a brilliant idea. Dumb it down! Make it so simple the aging yuppies can understand it.
Great! I was happy. And Elka was depressed. (The old relationship teeter-totter is a confounding thing.) So we went home, and her blood sugar plummeted enough for me to beat her at Scrabble.
You thought the story was over. It isn't! The next day I tried to dumb the article down, but it sucked even more. By the time Kathleen and Eric's Costa Rican cocktail and dinner odyssey rolled around, I was way ready for some Panty Rippers. The problem was they ripped more than my panties -- my whole brain stopped functioning, except for the little part that kept chanting "It's over, it's over" like the freaks in, well, Freaks.
After awhile, Elka had some kind of odd reaction, and we had to leave. (She is such a delicate creature.) By the time we reached my house, I'd spiraled down the rabbit hole of self-obliteration. I didn't want to talk, and she made me. Damn her.
Then we took a nap. A good one.
And when I woke up the next day the little writing elves had finished the article. Right? Wrong! Damn them too. So I played some softball (3 for 4, if you count the fielder's choice where everyone was safe), and wrote some more, and went to see the Eternal Sunshine of Yada Yada Yada. It wasn't bad, but mainly because of Kate Winslet.
And today I woke up and realized something: Some of your children are going to be ugly and/or stupid. And you'll have to pretend you like them as much as the others. The best you can do is get them a decent haircut and some braces and hope they survive. You send them out into the world and pray that no one ever mentions them again. That's just the way life is.
Goodbye, my ugly, stupid child.
