Monday, January 30, 2006

Damnit, Jim, I'm a Doctor Not an Idiot!

Rachel and Casey seem to have gone on Blog Strike or something. I keep getting a 404 error. Fix your shit, ladies.

Foremost is the poetry in my Creative Writing class. I just read everyone's submission, including my own, in the order in which they are going to be read and reviewed. I can say with all the hubris of my being that mine lands squarely in center of the pack. There were a couple that I really, really, liked. The first was written by a guy who's taking the class for the 3rd time, and the guy's got some talent. His poem was about walking around drinking and ogling attractive European ladies. I ask you, what's not to like about that? The other was written by a girl I know, about her ambivalence at playing her guitar after her teacher/boyfriend left her.

Yeah, I hear your screaming. What about mine? I'll post it after it's been work shopped to death in a week or so. Nothing but the finest (shitty) poetry (equally shitty) for you guys, I say.

The poetry I hated (and I mean wipe my ass with a pinecone before sullying my ass with those words type hate here) was the whiny life sucks poetry. You know what I'm talking about. "I'm in pain and I'm not going to say why. I just hurt." Someone call these fucking crybabies a whambulance, kuz nobody gives a shit, sugar. At least tell me why. Your girlfriend cheated on you, your gramps died of an inflamed hernia, you've got a bad case of camel toe, your dog's having puppies....SOMETHING! You gota give me something. You hurt? So do I. But what you haven't told me is why I should give up 5 seconds of my time to stop and care. If you're going to write a poem about emotions, you need to at least use them in the process. You have to touch them in some meaningful way. It's a risky thing to do, and (I hesitate to use the word...) "work" of that sort risks nothing.

I never feel more cheated, artistically, when I can tell someone isn't even trying. You don't have to be perfect, or even good. I used to read Dragonlance novels for crying out loud! But you have to say something a little thoughtful. If you can't do that, play Henry Miller and say nothing, but make it so interesting I can't stop reading. This is Creative Writing not How To Write An Episode of NYPD Blue 101. I understand finding creativity is difficult, that's why I steal as much as possible from people more creative (nice driveway). Hell, my entire poem is really a poor Harlan Ellison impression in poetic form. But at least I did it in a creative way. And that's how I can sleep at night.

I keep getting distracted by people, here at the coffee shop. So I'll stop here. I think next time I may get into why I love hockey so much. And don't worry, Rhys, I want to get back into DJing and getting me laid isn't going to expedite the process.

...then again, it just might.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

A wise man once said, "Take my poor spelling you pisspots!"

It happens all the fucking time when I post. I start off trying to express a simple and straightforward idea, and it turns into an epic about growing up stupid and apathetic. Yeah, I was a recalcitrant little shit in my younger days and we all know it. So why talk about it?

I dropped my Gilded Age class with Dr. Ward. He called me a pussy, and I think he's right. If I'd give up some of the stuff I probably should, I could handle the load. But, honestly, I'm too damn lazy to put in the effort it takes to take a class as good as his and put in the effort it deserves. So, isn't realizing and admitting that fact just as mature a thing to do as changing my wicked ways? (What a poorly constructed question…) Yeah, you're right...I should be ashamed of myself. Oh well, too late now. As the fictional Will Barton would say, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

So, here I am at Stone Cup updating ol' Bloggy McBlogerson and not writing poetry, as I should be. I have to admit that I've learned far more about poetry in the last several hours than I ever have before. The thing about the art that nobody ever explained to me is that it is about the words and feelings and not the form. Realizing that does a lot to ease my concerns about Creative Writing. I like words, especially the way they sound when put together in interesting ways. "Bone holster" certainly ranks among my favorites, and it works on a poetic level with the long Os matching. Plus the imagery works in a ton of different ways, which is just gravy. Feelings though, I'm much better at covering those than really paying much attention to them. That's probably why the class browns my undies. It's going to be excruciating, making it work the way it should, and it's going to take a lot of time to do it right.

That's really why I dropped the history class. Fuck you if you can't handle it, Dr. Ward. I should have quit Shakespeare, but that's my relaxation class. Econ and Creative Writing are my fuckers. So, if I use this place as a sounding board for a verse or two unworthy of your affections...well fuck off. Just be sure to encourage me as you rip my shit to pieces.

Love ya. And take my piss-poor poetry, too.

Friday, January 06, 2006

Just So David Isn't the Only Nerd...

I have no clue what this means, by the way.

Cultural Creative
















What is Your World View? (updated)
created with

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

There's A Needle in My Chest!!!!

I didn't do enough reading over break. My goal is to finish Run with the Horsemen by Friday. I don't think I can say it enough. I love Ferrol Sams. (Perhaps the following comparison doesn't lend itself very well to the topic at hand, but it's entered my mind and so must be stated for the record. And with that out of the way...) I’ve got to say that, though they are not as interesting to look at as...say, a "zeppelin race,"... Mr. Sams and Ellison are in a "dead heat" for my literary affections. I know I've said this before, but every time I finish reading something they've done I find myself saying, "Damn that man can write!" (And don't get me wrong...I love "zeppelins" too.)

If you don't know what I'm talking about...fuck off.

So, 2005...

As Daria aptly put it, "it was a dog." Yeah, it was a real bitch alright - generally unhealthy all around in my opinion. For sure it wasn't my best series of moments. Looking back, I realized that I was sleeping. I'm talking in the Frank Herbert sense, here. Dune, motherfucker. 2005 was a bad trip, man, and I'm glad it's over. But like most miserable experiences, I'm better for having lived through it. I think I'm awake now. I've got to hand it to you guys. You kept me sane, if only just. I was close to the edge, but youz guys pulled me back and I owe you one. Don't take this as an insult - you guys are John Travolta and I'm Uma Thurmon. (Think "fiction," the kind with pulp.)

Going into Edward's Bar and Bar, I had two toasts in mind that I will leave for you here. You're a bunch of smart kids and I'm confident you'll glean the significance of them without going into detail or mentioning particulars. But the problem, I find, with making a toast is that you can only give one, and for overly sentimental assholes like myself it's like Sophie's Choice. (That and they are generally reserved for the host to give, so I suppose if I'm to give them I'll have to host parties myself...or marry Edward. Ok...) You all mean the world to me and I'd glady lay down in traffic for any one of you if I thought it would do you any good. Usually when I say something to that affect I'm drunk so you don't take me seriously. Rest assured that I've got 18oz of espresso and steamed milk coursing through my capillaries at this very moment so you can tell I mean it...assholes. Ok, without further ado, I offer you toastage in:

The Witty Form
Let's have champagne for real friends, and real pain for sham friends.

The Sentimental Form
To true friends...

...and less need of them.