My visits here seem to be few and far between these days; the good news is I'm spending about an hour a day running my ass ragged on a treadmill whilst watching OnDemand showings of the macabre Showtime series "Dexter" to which my friend Dave got me addicted. On top of that, Kaia and I are spending a load of time on the phone, as per usual, and since I've been going at top speed workwise now for the better part of the last couple weeks, there's been barely enough time for eating, sleeping and breathing beyond all that.
When I do manage to spend time in front of a non-work PC, it's more often than not me checking work e-mail or actually filling up pages for one of my current writing projects. Thus far, on my main project, I've got about 200 or so pages finished, yet every so often I need to step back and take a break. Invariably, I wind up buying some sort of ultra-violent game for the PC to bring me back to enjoying mindless, pointless, unrewarding and anti-social entertainment on the PC. It's basically my strategy on how to be "friends" with your PC, as it is with introducing kids to computers. If you start -- or, in my case, re-start -- with entertainment and don't look at a computer as some sort of work-related appliance, you're bound to be much more productive in your work-related endeavors thereon simply because you don't feel like you have to be chained to the PC.
As for the project, it's called "Identity Theft." It's not, however, relating directly to anything financial per se; it's a combination of political thriller, moral commentary and psychological exposition/self-examination. Essentially, it's going to feature lots of firepower and some flowers as well. For the most part, I generally don't divulge any real details of what I'm working on, not even with Kaia; however, in this case the impetus to get my ideas down on paper -- with respect to the project, I mean -- have bubbled to the surface much faster and in much clearer focus than most of the stuff I usually commit to e-paper while writing fiction.
Needless to say, now that I've gotten all that bullshit front and center and out of the way, I came across this nugget and could not resist addressing it on some level.
Would someone please tell Rosie O'Donnell to shut the hell up? Between her pathetic last stand -- Rosie's stint on The View skids to a halt next month -- and the recent sandbox-showdown (aka whose dick is bigger) conflagration with Donald Trump, I've heard far too much from Rosie D. More often than not, when I watch these types of public feuds, it's usually involving two quasi-intelligent combatants who are mostly ego. To wit, neither Alec Baldwin nor George Clooney are particularly irritating; on the contrary, I actually have regard for each of them as actors and, frankly, as people. But if I need to hear about the former's political aspirations or the latter's tsk-tsking on Darfur I'm gonna hurl.
I've addressed this in these pages before: when did actors and actresses become so important to our culture that we actually cared what they had to say where no script was involved? As an actor or actress, one's job is to gracefully and/or methodically speak other peoples' writings and thoughts. So what in that particular job description would fool one into believing his/her opinion is as valid as his/her ability to provoke and/or perform others' opinions?
Put another way, it sure didn't work out as planned for Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson.
But I digress.
Tomorrow morning, the sun will rise, I will (likely) go to work, there will be a massive exodus for Memorial Day from this great city, and Rosie O'Donnell will still be shooting off her mouth.
Nothing much has, or will, change.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Fool Yourself
Look out child you're bound to change,
You can't ever stay the same
Cause if you keep on singin' the same old lines
You're going to look around babe and find your friends out of town
Watch out girl the words you're sayin' don't really fit the play
Somebody else you might talk to now
Knows what you sayin' what you mean
They don't help your style...
You might say you ain't got a hold on yourself
You might say you always try your best
You might say you only need a rest
You might say you can only fool yourself
I said fool yourself
I said fool yourself
Don't believe the words you read
They're written on the street
And every time you know you play their game
They'll knock you down and take your pride away
See how bad you need to cry
But no matter how you try
It's the same old story once again
You always had number one who called you friend
I called you friend
You might say you ain't got a hold on yourself
You might say you always try your best
You might say you only need a rest
You might say you can only fool yourself
I said fool yourself
I said fool yourself
I said fool yourself
- Little Feat, 1973
You can't ever stay the same
Cause if you keep on singin' the same old lines
You're going to look around babe and find your friends out of town
Watch out girl the words you're sayin' don't really fit the play
Somebody else you might talk to now
Knows what you sayin' what you mean
They don't help your style...
You might say you ain't got a hold on yourself
You might say you always try your best
You might say you only need a rest
You might say you can only fool yourself
I said fool yourself
I said fool yourself
Don't believe the words you read
They're written on the street
And every time you know you play their game
They'll knock you down and take your pride away
See how bad you need to cry
But no matter how you try
It's the same old story once again
You always had number one who called you friend
I called you friend
You might say you ain't got a hold on yourself
You might say you always try your best
You might say you only need a rest
You might say you can only fool yourself
I said fool yourself
I said fool yourself
I said fool yourself
- Little Feat, 1973
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Skating By
So a friend of mine who's in from out of town called me earlier this week to get together. Under normal circumstances, we try to hang out when possible, and since he vacated NYC awhile back it's been more difficult to go to some neighborhood bar for a game and a drink, but we try to make the time when/if possible.
So when he called me and mentioned he wanted me to hang with him and a couple other friends, I hesitantly agreed. Some of the people I've met through him are a tad irritating -- at his own admission -- so every time he brings a mini-entourage it's definitely a stop-and-thinker. It turned out he brought a couple guys I know from high school, so we spent time catching up here and there and planning today's hockey excursion. And even if I didn't want to see my friend and my former classmates, there was still external considerations. I've been incredibly busy so a few hours in front of a big-screen TV at a sports bar sipping a tasty beverage wasn't a problem for me, although I had shitloads of stuff to address this weekend, and having to get all of it done around Mother's Day aren't ideal circumstances. Either way, Kaia wasn't in town so I opted to head out for a little. The Yankees lost 3-0 to Seattle but the Grey Goose was really, really cold.
So this morning I headed downtown and got on ice skates for the first time in way too long. I remembered the feeling of tightening the laces so intensely that my feet felt like they were about to lose circulation; the feeling of being on a bench in a locker room and doing my own personal version of a "Please Don't Let Me Die On The Ice" prayer; and finally, the exhileration of feeling the air rushing at me while racing up the off-wing on an odd-man rush. Even with a couple of vodka-tonics still lingering in my system (where I don't know), it was nice getting out there, even if it was at an ungodly hour and we wrapped up about the time I was normally due to get out of bed on a sunny Saturday morning.
So all in all it was nice to get back to hockey, even if for only a semi-intense scrimmage. It was also nice potting a few pucks, even if one -- by accident -- glanced off the goaltender's helmet (been there, done that -- and I didn't hit him with a slapshot). The bottom line is I really love playing the game, and I know that if I re-committed to it I could play weekly without question. But it's one thing to climb onto the treadmill for 45 minutes or an hour every day; it's another to wake up at 5AM, even on the weekends, to play a game that could land me on a trainer's table or a hospital bed.
And as I headed back uptown, pondering the trainer's table/hospital bed option, it occurred to me that I'm not expecting or anticipating either of those results. I've played about 300 or so games over the years and not had any serious injuries beyond one major incident. But on the other side of that coin, I remember reading a comment from Wayne Gretzky upon his impending retirement from hockey. "When you're thinking about the possibility of injury while you're out on the ice, that's usually the time when you get injured. That's when I knew it was time to stop playing."
I may only wear one '9' on my sweater, but it's hard to argue with that logic. That is, even if I had it in me to argue.
So when he called me and mentioned he wanted me to hang with him and a couple other friends, I hesitantly agreed. Some of the people I've met through him are a tad irritating -- at his own admission -- so every time he brings a mini-entourage it's definitely a stop-and-thinker. It turned out he brought a couple guys I know from high school, so we spent time catching up here and there and planning today's hockey excursion. And even if I didn't want to see my friend and my former classmates, there was still external considerations. I've been incredibly busy so a few hours in front of a big-screen TV at a sports bar sipping a tasty beverage wasn't a problem for me, although I had shitloads of stuff to address this weekend, and having to get all of it done around Mother's Day aren't ideal circumstances. Either way, Kaia wasn't in town so I opted to head out for a little. The Yankees lost 3-0 to Seattle but the Grey Goose was really, really cold.
So this morning I headed downtown and got on ice skates for the first time in way too long. I remembered the feeling of tightening the laces so intensely that my feet felt like they were about to lose circulation; the feeling of being on a bench in a locker room and doing my own personal version of a "Please Don't Let Me Die On The Ice" prayer; and finally, the exhileration of feeling the air rushing at me while racing up the off-wing on an odd-man rush. Even with a couple of vodka-tonics still lingering in my system (where I don't know), it was nice getting out there, even if it was at an ungodly hour and we wrapped up about the time I was normally due to get out of bed on a sunny Saturday morning.
So all in all it was nice to get back to hockey, even if for only a semi-intense scrimmage. It was also nice potting a few pucks, even if one -- by accident -- glanced off the goaltender's helmet (been there, done that -- and I didn't hit him with a slapshot). The bottom line is I really love playing the game, and I know that if I re-committed to it I could play weekly without question. But it's one thing to climb onto the treadmill for 45 minutes or an hour every day; it's another to wake up at 5AM, even on the weekends, to play a game that could land me on a trainer's table or a hospital bed.
And as I headed back uptown, pondering the trainer's table/hospital bed option, it occurred to me that I'm not expecting or anticipating either of those results. I've played about 300 or so games over the years and not had any serious injuries beyond one major incident. But on the other side of that coin, I remember reading a comment from Wayne Gretzky upon his impending retirement from hockey. "When you're thinking about the possibility of injury while you're out on the ice, that's usually the time when you get injured. That's when I knew it was time to stop playing."
I may only wear one '9' on my sweater, but it's hard to argue with that logic. That is, even if I had it in me to argue.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Deafening Silence
Long ago someone told me that in order to be heard above a noisy room full of people was to address them as a group in a quiet voice. Rather than slamming a gavel, blowing a whistle or shouting above the din, using a quiet voice would instill quiet among the noisy people, and those making the most noise would soon follow.
Now that almost two weeks has gone by without any noise herein, I'm fresh out of apologies. It's not that I meant to be an absentee owner, nor was it my intention to stop contributing here. Rather, I've had so much on my plate that by the time I realized I needed -- wanted -- to stop by, I never made it in. Until now.
As for what occupied my time thus far, there's no one thing to which I can point as the culprit with an Agatha Christie-esque "a-HA!" However, it's more five distinct things which have kept me from fulfilling my end of this writer/reader dichotomy.
First, for the past month or so, I've been toiling for 45 to 60 minutes on the treadmill. That in and of itself isn't an excuse, nor is it meant to be, but I've increasingly made a concerted effort to get that thing unfolded, powered up, climb aboard and then do my thing for 45 or so minutes. Initially I wanted to work out in the morning, say, around 6:15, and then hit the shower before work. But I decided I'd rather get to work earlier, get home and then work out sometime in the middle of the evening, after dinner, and then wrap up.
Why is this significant? The main reason is that I usually get home between 6:30 and 7, and intellectually I'm spent until I recharge, say, around 8 or 8:30. By the time I endeavor to swing by here, it's workout time, and as much as I'd like to commit my ruminations on life to electronic print while I'm working out, it's not nearly feasible. I am proud of the fact that I've only missed one day working out since I got the thing here, but if the upside is a major increase in fitness and weight loss, the downside is that it really screws up my nights.
The second thing that has played havoc with my HoB visitation is the immense load of work I've been handling. I'm trying to bring stuff home from the office, either physically or electronically, and while some people have deadlines and the requisite quiet periods, it's increasingly clear I have and will never have any such deadline/downtime. Pretty much every week introduces new things that need to be addressed immediately, and even when things are quiet there's always a cauldron bubbling quietly but menacingly right below a placid, calm surface. In essence, it's controlled chaos. We're doing well, we're always busy and we're relatively efficient, but being a lean, taut machine has its drawbacks -- like no vacation, no "mental health" days and, for sure, no days where there aren't a half-dozen things needing significant attention in and outside the office.
Third, I've been -- I'll admit sheepishly -- addicted to a game for the PC called Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter (GRAW). It's quite a mouthful whether referring to it properly or by its acronym, and what it is, essentially, is an intensely accurate simulation of modern urban anti-terror combat. Granted, I wouldn't know to what degree or how accurate it is, but I will say this: the game features you as a captain leading a team of soldiers into hot zones, and it's so realistic that the sound of incoming sniper fire -- with direction and volume thereof playing significant roles -- can mean life or death. For the most part, the opponents are incredibly sneaky, and each of the game's missions -- broken down into four or five mini-objectives -- require hours of intense, careful attention to detail. It's not just about clicking a mouse to kill a bad guy; it's so intense that you find yourself on the edge of your seat and recoiling when a bullet slams into your character and leaves you with a view of the world that no longer includes you. It's almost surreal in its breadth and its intensity, so much so that I limit myself to less than an hour at a time simply because my character dies so frequently that it's actually exhilerating when a mission is completed but frustrating and unnerving when your character dies and you're left with a view of your killer running over your virtually lifeless form.
Sound uber-geek? I'll confess, I felt a bit like Vince Vaughn's character in "The Break-Up" as I knocked out hours trying to solve the missions. However, in my own defense, had Kaia been floating around nearby, I know -- hope -- that I would have the good sense to turn off the game and spend my nights with her.
Next up on the agenda, of course, is Kaia -- she's been planning for an election for chairperson for the board on which she sits, and things have been heating up. Tonight is the unofficial wrap-up, and it's an important culmination of all her efforts. Most of the people on the board are aware she's going to be moving to NYC soon, and I hope that she gets elected despite their knowing she'll be vacating the position sometime in the next four or so months. Based on tonight's activity at the meeting, where she and her opponent squared off -- sort of -- she's likely to be the organization's next chairperson. But all of the energy and focus that she's expended has obviously had me on this ride along with her; luckily, the ride is nearly finished, and, as they say in the massage business, it will likely feature a happy ending.
Finally, I finally recommitted myself to writing fiction. Several years prior to 9/11, I'd been fomenting the pillars of a story surrounding a major terrorist attack on US soil, although my story didn't merely include Jihadi elements but also some mercenary aspects as well. The notion of nuclear proliferation has been and will continue to be a reality in the modern world, especially the (blech) post-9/11 world, and that, I believe, will be a copilot (the other being al-Qaeda and groups with similar goals) towards where we -- as a planet -- move in our quest for survival and self-destruction.
It's not a pretty contemplation, but if it worked for Tom Clancy, it can work for me. Besides, he's just an over-rated former insurance salesman; I've killed over 1,400 bad guys, overthrown a general staging a coup in Mexico with the aid of a former US General, and I've nailed snipers in the dark from 500 yards out. So I have a lot of first-hand experience at what passes for combat these days. Let's see Tom Clancy counter that.
Oh, um, did I mention that the full title of "GRAW" is "Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter?"
"Heading to position, captain. Over."
In all seriousness, I pondered whether to leave the HoB on semi-permanent hiatus, shift gears or fully concentrate on fiction. But inasmuch as I know that what I include here might find its way into the pages of my work, I also know that whenever I encounter something in a work of fiction that smells preachy, I'm put off in a major way. Whether it's on film or on paper, unless it's one giant statement -- a la Syriana -- I catch little snippets of personal politics seeping into everything from Clancy to Grisham to Baldacci to Silva, and while it's difficult to keep these stories rolling without some sort of personal statement, it's more often noticeable and undesirable. More importantly, how I write -- for better or worse -- is to start with a premise, toss in some key elements and incidents surrounding the action -- and then sort of wing it.
That might sound unprepared, but I never delved into writing workshops beyond the communal work I did in high school and college that fostered creative writing, so I don't know if Stephen King sits down at a PC with an entire story in his head and just pours it out, or whether he basically has no idea where his story or his characters are going. I know that David Chase, the writer of The Sopranos, indicated that when he writes he has absolutely no idea what's going to happen within the scope of the story, so as I put together scenes, ideas, concepts and bits of flash and scenic significance, I'm somewhat reassured that I'm doing it right. Which makes it all the better when I reach milestones, which I do here and there.
The problem, of course, is that you can't create -- not in any meaningful, legitimate way -- if you're focused on your girlfriend, killing bad guys from 350 yards from behind a masonry wall across a corpse-riddled town square, or pumping along at 4.2 miles an hour. But as long as my mind is functioning -- granted, it's a relative term -- I am regularly plotting, tossing around ideas and wondering how best to build the layers of my story until I'm ready to finish the icing and slice into the thing.
So while this should not serve as an apology, I hope it at least suffices to explain where I've been and what I'm doing these days. I'm sure I'll be a more regular visitor here, if for no other reason than the Rangers are out of the hockey playoffs -- not unexpectedly -- and the Yankees are still a long way away from October baseball.
-B-
Now that almost two weeks has gone by without any noise herein, I'm fresh out of apologies. It's not that I meant to be an absentee owner, nor was it my intention to stop contributing here. Rather, I've had so much on my plate that by the time I realized I needed -- wanted -- to stop by, I never made it in. Until now.
As for what occupied my time thus far, there's no one thing to which I can point as the culprit with an Agatha Christie-esque "a-HA!" However, it's more five distinct things which have kept me from fulfilling my end of this writer/reader dichotomy.
First, for the past month or so, I've been toiling for 45 to 60 minutes on the treadmill. That in and of itself isn't an excuse, nor is it meant to be, but I've increasingly made a concerted effort to get that thing unfolded, powered up, climb aboard and then do my thing for 45 or so minutes. Initially I wanted to work out in the morning, say, around 6:15, and then hit the shower before work. But I decided I'd rather get to work earlier, get home and then work out sometime in the middle of the evening, after dinner, and then wrap up.
Why is this significant? The main reason is that I usually get home between 6:30 and 7, and intellectually I'm spent until I recharge, say, around 8 or 8:30. By the time I endeavor to swing by here, it's workout time, and as much as I'd like to commit my ruminations on life to electronic print while I'm working out, it's not nearly feasible. I am proud of the fact that I've only missed one day working out since I got the thing here, but if the upside is a major increase in fitness and weight loss, the downside is that it really screws up my nights.
The second thing that has played havoc with my HoB visitation is the immense load of work I've been handling. I'm trying to bring stuff home from the office, either physically or electronically, and while some people have deadlines and the requisite quiet periods, it's increasingly clear I have and will never have any such deadline/downtime. Pretty much every week introduces new things that need to be addressed immediately, and even when things are quiet there's always a cauldron bubbling quietly but menacingly right below a placid, calm surface. In essence, it's controlled chaos. We're doing well, we're always busy and we're relatively efficient, but being a lean, taut machine has its drawbacks -- like no vacation, no "mental health" days and, for sure, no days where there aren't a half-dozen things needing significant attention in and outside the office.
Third, I've been -- I'll admit sheepishly -- addicted to a game for the PC called Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter (GRAW). It's quite a mouthful whether referring to it properly or by its acronym, and what it is, essentially, is an intensely accurate simulation of modern urban anti-terror combat. Granted, I wouldn't know to what degree or how accurate it is, but I will say this: the game features you as a captain leading a team of soldiers into hot zones, and it's so realistic that the sound of incoming sniper fire -- with direction and volume thereof playing significant roles -- can mean life or death. For the most part, the opponents are incredibly sneaky, and each of the game's missions -- broken down into four or five mini-objectives -- require hours of intense, careful attention to detail. It's not just about clicking a mouse to kill a bad guy; it's so intense that you find yourself on the edge of your seat and recoiling when a bullet slams into your character and leaves you with a view of the world that no longer includes you. It's almost surreal in its breadth and its intensity, so much so that I limit myself to less than an hour at a time simply because my character dies so frequently that it's actually exhilerating when a mission is completed but frustrating and unnerving when your character dies and you're left with a view of your killer running over your virtually lifeless form.
Sound uber-geek? I'll confess, I felt a bit like Vince Vaughn's character in "The Break-Up" as I knocked out hours trying to solve the missions. However, in my own defense, had Kaia been floating around nearby, I know -- hope -- that I would have the good sense to turn off the game and spend my nights with her.
Next up on the agenda, of course, is Kaia -- she's been planning for an election for chairperson for the board on which she sits, and things have been heating up. Tonight is the unofficial wrap-up, and it's an important culmination of all her efforts. Most of the people on the board are aware she's going to be moving to NYC soon, and I hope that she gets elected despite their knowing she'll be vacating the position sometime in the next four or so months. Based on tonight's activity at the meeting, where she and her opponent squared off -- sort of -- she's likely to be the organization's next chairperson. But all of the energy and focus that she's expended has obviously had me on this ride along with her; luckily, the ride is nearly finished, and, as they say in the massage business, it will likely feature a happy ending.
Finally, I finally recommitted myself to writing fiction. Several years prior to 9/11, I'd been fomenting the pillars of a story surrounding a major terrorist attack on US soil, although my story didn't merely include Jihadi elements but also some mercenary aspects as well. The notion of nuclear proliferation has been and will continue to be a reality in the modern world, especially the (blech) post-9/11 world, and that, I believe, will be a copilot (the other being al-Qaeda and groups with similar goals) towards where we -- as a planet -- move in our quest for survival and self-destruction.
It's not a pretty contemplation, but if it worked for Tom Clancy, it can work for me. Besides, he's just an over-rated former insurance salesman; I've killed over 1,400 bad guys, overthrown a general staging a coup in Mexico with the aid of a former US General, and I've nailed snipers in the dark from 500 yards out. So I have a lot of first-hand experience at what passes for combat these days. Let's see Tom Clancy counter that.
Oh, um, did I mention that the full title of "GRAW" is "Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter?"
"Heading to position, captain. Over."
In all seriousness, I pondered whether to leave the HoB on semi-permanent hiatus, shift gears or fully concentrate on fiction. But inasmuch as I know that what I include here might find its way into the pages of my work, I also know that whenever I encounter something in a work of fiction that smells preachy, I'm put off in a major way. Whether it's on film or on paper, unless it's one giant statement -- a la Syriana -- I catch little snippets of personal politics seeping into everything from Clancy to Grisham to Baldacci to Silva, and while it's difficult to keep these stories rolling without some sort of personal statement, it's more often noticeable and undesirable. More importantly, how I write -- for better or worse -- is to start with a premise, toss in some key elements and incidents surrounding the action -- and then sort of wing it.
That might sound unprepared, but I never delved into writing workshops beyond the communal work I did in high school and college that fostered creative writing, so I don't know if Stephen King sits down at a PC with an entire story in his head and just pours it out, or whether he basically has no idea where his story or his characters are going. I know that David Chase, the writer of The Sopranos, indicated that when he writes he has absolutely no idea what's going to happen within the scope of the story, so as I put together scenes, ideas, concepts and bits of flash and scenic significance, I'm somewhat reassured that I'm doing it right. Which makes it all the better when I reach milestones, which I do here and there.
The problem, of course, is that you can't create -- not in any meaningful, legitimate way -- if you're focused on your girlfriend, killing bad guys from 350 yards from behind a masonry wall across a corpse-riddled town square, or pumping along at 4.2 miles an hour. But as long as my mind is functioning -- granted, it's a relative term -- I am regularly plotting, tossing around ideas and wondering how best to build the layers of my story until I'm ready to finish the icing and slice into the thing.
So while this should not serve as an apology, I hope it at least suffices to explain where I've been and what I'm doing these days. I'm sure I'll be a more regular visitor here, if for no other reason than the Rangers are out of the hockey playoffs -- not unexpectedly -- and the Yankees are still a long way away from October baseball.
-B-
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