The 250: An Experiment

After a painfully long hiatus from this blog, and something like a creative dry spell, I’m geared up about writing again. But not just in a perfunctory, “I should write something” way, no, I want to kick start my creative juices by pulling a stunt, by assigning myself a task that will get me thinking like a writer again.

My recent career meanderings have called into question whether I have any right to lay hold of the title “writer”, and while I’m pretty sure that the jury is (and will be) out on that point of order for a while yet, I can certainly do what I can to settle the question in my own mind. To that end, I’m resolving to write two hundred and fifty words a day for the next 30 days. It may be on this blog. It may be on Houstonist. It may be elsewhere on the web. The only exclusions are message board posts, Tweets, and Facebook content, all of which are taking up a large degree of my attention lately and subsequently making me a little stupider with each 140 character missive. On the upside, this experiment should make my Twitter more interesting, too.

Two-fiddy isn’t oppressive. Heck, it’s taken me a hair over two hundred words just to set this up to this point. All told, it’s 7500 words; roughly the length of a decent short story. Which is exactly what I’d like to start writing at some point as soon as I can think about writing fiction without breaking out in a cold sweat. Baby steps, people.

So that’s the manifesto and the goal. The carrot that’s mostly for me moreso than you. (Sorry) I’ll post links to stuff that I post elsewhere, maybe on a weekly basis or something. So keep your RSS well primed, because I’m gonna spam it for the next few weeks.

On blogging, success, and an $8 peanut butter sandwich

Many of you (and by “you” I mean the five people who read this blog regularly and the sixteen people who were Googling for Looney Tunes slash fiction) have noted that this blog has gone un-updated for a while.  You have my heartfelt apologies, but I really didn’t have a darned thing to say for months.  Really.

When I began blogging four years ago, I decided that my little corner of the internet wouldn’t be a forum for my moping and whining.  It’s all to easy to come across that way, and especially given the stream-of-consciousness composition method that I use when I write, I very easily could’ve written quite a few posts that would’ve made a sixteen year old with a sparkling, seizure-inducing MySpace blush.  So when I would consider writing on here this spring, I always demurred, because I didn’t want to talk about the pressing, real-life concerns in my world: unemployment, crime, relationships, disappointment, writer’s block (of course), and finances.  Believe me, you wouldn’t want to read that dreck.

But why start writing now?  Well, I’m employed again (twice over) and haven’t had to talk to the police in almost a month, for starters.  Actually, that last part isn’t entirely true; I have had to talk about The Police.  For those of you who haven’t heard, I’m freelancing at the Houston Chronicle, and one of my recent assignments was to write a review of the Police/Elvis Costello show in the Woodlands.  Somehow, around the office here, this was deemed to be drawing the short straw.  For me, though, it was the first time in the five weeks that I’ve been here that I actually felt like something approaching a real journalist.  So that experience was the shot in the arm that I needed to start writing here again; it was something that I could re-tell here without it being so maudlin or boring that you’d click away to see what was posted on ManBabies today.

The quick timeline of writing the Police review, in chronological order: cracking myself up by thinking of fake interview questions for Sting (“what was it like playing the Goblin King in Labyrinth?”), figuring out how in the hell someone was going to edit my story at the ungodly hour it would be completed, receiving and then returning ALL the media tickets for the event, running into a nemesis,  cramming three people into Vesper for the return trip to town, a gigantic cup of coffee at Brasil, walking through the ghost town that Houston becomes on weekday nights, composing a caffiene-fueled piece while hoping not to be evicerated in the comments, meeting the creepy night editor, and slogging home too hyped up to sleep even though it was 3am.  Whew.

So back to the point, at heart I’m an optimist, and I’ve had plenty of reasons to support a more cheery outlook on life lately.  It even goes beyond the fact that I’ve got what amounts to my dream job right now (it is still a job, after), though.  On Wednesday, my post-deadline haze was rolled back under the influence of a sandwich and a conversation.  The role of the sandwich was played by the heavenly Fat Elvis at B’wiched on Westheimer, a pannini concoction of homemade peanut butter, caramelized bananas, and wild honey. (The King and the Big Puma would both be proud)  The conversation was provided by my dear old mum, who was somewhat out of the loop of recent developments in my life.  As I rattled through the litany of good things that’ve been happening, the act of relating them all in sequence brought to mind just how mind-numbingly blessed I’ve been lately.  As the great poets Chubawumba once said, I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down.

(It’s stuck in your head now, isn’t it? You’re welcome.)

Anyway, on the heels of all this introspection and reflection, I rolled in to work this morning, intent on blogging, when I read this article.  While I don’t think I’ll ever have the attention of a large part of a major American city like she did, her experiences did really help me to coalesce the thoughts on my self-imposed hiatus, leading to the very entry you find here.  Writing has suddenly become not only my passion, but my livelihood, and I’m still wrestling with the implications of that.  Hopefully, it’ll make my writing here more vibrant and more focused, or it could just make this the one outlet for my not-suitable-for-print ramblings.

we. shall. see.

How To Be A Jukebox Hero

Life is generally not a difficult thing.  Get up, do your thing for 12 hours or so, eat a few times, try not to get yourself killed, sleep.  But there are some things that even the most educated among us sometimes struggle to grasp.  Among these things is proper care and feeding of a jukebox.

I’m a jukebox addict.  I can’t go into a bar without imposing my musical will on the patrons.  Whether it’s one of those new-fangled internet-enabled monstrosities (which tease you with the promise of a bottomless selection of music, if only you’re willing to use double the money to buy a song) or an old-school “listen to it click and whirr” classic, I always mosey over, throw in a helping of cash proportional to my estimated internment at the establishment, and wait for the opening strains of my first selection.  I try to select songs that I enjoy, as well as songs that capture the feel and flow of the venue, songs that should be universally tolerated if not lauded.

But for some people, their apparent goal is to drive everyone else from spending their hard-earned ducats at the bar, all while indulging their own questionable whims of taste.  So if you think you may be one of these people, read on and be healed, as I present the rules for proper jukebox etiquette.

1.  Location, Location, Location.  Know where you are.  Never play Jimmy Buffett at a place that doesn’t also have a sand volleyball pit out back and one of those showers for washing off your feet.  Don’t play Ride The Lightening-era Metallica unless you’re at a biker bar.  Don’t play Dave Matthews Band at a frat bar (don’t feed the trolls).  Choose your songs appropriate to the venue.  For instance, Dropkick Murphys at an Irish pub is basically a requirement.  Use geographical common sense.
2. Slow, Sad Sack Songs Are For Slow, Sad Sack Bars.  Last night, I was at the Ginger Man at 9:30pm or so, and some clown picked Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley.  Such a beautifully sad song.  Such a wrong moment. Never, ever play a sad song before 1 am, and even then gauge the mood.  Do not bring your sadness down on everyone else.  People do not go out and socialize with the purpose of feeling like someone just ran over their dog.  This pretty much means no Coldplay, and calls into question the wisdom of any jukebox manager who includes them on the menu.
3. Variety Is The Spice Of Life.  Never pick more than 2 tracks off of a single cd (unless it’s a various artists thing, but even then, be careful), and for the love of all that’s good and true, don’t put the 2 back to back.  Also last night: someone picked almost half of the most recent Kings of Leon cd, played almost contiguously with the odd Thom Yorke song (see #2 above) thrown in for “balance”.  I love that cd, but the beauty of a jukebox is that you have  500+ songs to choose from.  Seven songs by the same band isn’t showing everyone how awesome they are, it’s showing the whole place that you’re too illiterate to read the titles of any of the other options.
4. Don’t Be Too Obvious Or Too Obscure.  This is particularly tempting when you’ve got the super deluxe interweb equipped jukebox at your disposal.  Want to play Wilco’s cover of Woodie Guthrie’s Airline To Heaven?  Live or studio?  Who cares; they’re both available!  If you think that a certain song is better than any of the singles by a popular artist, be careful.  Is it really a good song, or just one you like?  Does it sound enough like the artist’s other material that people will recognize it as theirs? Will it make them curious enough to look at the jukebox to get the title of the song?  If you can answer yes, then you’ve got a winner.  On the flip-side, don’t be too obvious, either.  If you’re picking James Brown, don’t pick “I Feel Good”, grab “The Payback” or something.  If you’re picking Green Day, skip anything from Dookie.  (Actually, if you’re picking Green Day, please tell us where you got your fake ID.)
5. Don’t Be A Smart-Aleck.  There’s a bar that I know that has the Pulp Fiction soundtrack (in its entirety) on the jukebox.  Good soundtrack.  But it also has some spoken-word tracks, dialogue from the movie.  Track 16 is the Ezekiel 25:17 scene, complete with gunfire at the end.  At the sleepy Scottish pub where this track is housed, it is not entirely cool to select this track, and may well earn you a beating with a shillelagh.   If one of the cds on your favorite jukebox has a spoken track like this, or a song that’s otherwise deliberately annoying, select it only if you’re ready to face the consequences.  Playing Semisonic’s “Closing Time” at 10pm is a crime of this variety.
6. Get Your Money’s Worth. Long tracks are good.  You don’t want to feel cheated out of 50 cents by selecting something by Me First And The Gimme Gimmes that’s 50 seconds long.  Grab a slow burner like one of Lyle Lovett’s ballads or (best long song easily found on a jukebox) Ball & Biscuit.
7. Jukeboxes Are Not For Karaoke.  Thus, karaoke staples need not apply.  You want people to nod along, not attempt to belt out “Don’t Stop Believing” like they’re Steve Perry’s long-lost son.   If you’ve ever seen a fat girl or an “ironic” frat boy belt it out after a few too many Red Stripes, then pass on over.
8. You Can Never Go Wrong With A Classic.  A real classic is an song or artist who has stood the test of time.  Not of a year or even a decade.  Real time.  Cash. Ella.  The King.  B.B.  Slow Hand. Janis.  If they can be described in one word or a nickname, you’re in pretty flawless territory.

Remember, you’re creating what is basically an improv mixtape. Throwing a handful or a dozen of songs together in a way that ebbs and flows naturally is a skill, not a gift.  You get better with practice, so get out there and give it a shot.  Stick to the rules, and as always with music, innovation is only your friend when it works.  So strike with confidence and make sure it works.

Untitled

With all the other writing I’ve been doing lately, this blog has definitely suffered from a severe case of inattention. Moreover, there are some events in my life right now that I’m not yet ready to share with the wider world, for fear of severe physical retaliation from the parties involved. (Hi out there! Still not talking about it, see?) It’s not for lack of stuff to write about, though; I feel like the past couple of months have presented me with so many opportunities to stretch myself that it’s almost overwhelming like drinking from a firehose. So here’s the high points, just so that those of you who only keep track of me via this blog don’t think I’m dead or suffering from a horrible typing-hand injury.

-Houstonist is a blast, if a little crazy at times. I’m really proud of getting the news of the Garner/Purpura firing up within half an hour of the actual news. I vacillate between feeling like a real journalist and another voice drowned out in the cacophony of internet discussion of sports. Regardless, it’s stretching me as a writer in ways that I never thought it would, and that’s a very good thing.

-This apartment (or more specifically, the street in front of it) is cursed. A few months after my iPod got snatched in a window punch snatch-n-grab, I lost my car for three weeks when it flooded during a tropical depression while sitting in front of the house. Nothing mechanical was hurt, but the electrical system wasn’t so lucky. I need a garage, stat.

-Job hunting is both exciting and tedious in equal measure. You’d have to check in with me daily to determine which of those emotions I’m feeling. But I’ve got a couple of really strong leads that will hopefully result in something by the end of next week.

-I interviewed a band. Now THAT’S some journalist stuff if I’ve ever seen it. Except that I got half of the quotes backward because the two guys sound very similar on tape. Don’t ask me which half I got wrong. Also, Church of Philly is a lot of fun live and they’re all super-nice people. Some of them even know people I went to college with, and even dated. Seriously.

- The Avett Brothers are rocking my face right now. Like, this instant.

- My friends look out for me in ways that I sometimes don’t appreciate. This we all know, and it’s likely true about everyone who is reading this right now. But what’s really mind blowing is when friends of friends (or family of friends) are looking out for you when they barely know you. Such a cool feeling.

- I’m almost halfway to my next plate at the Saucer.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Press Pass

The dog days of summer can lead to crippling introspection, and this summer has been no different. I’ve been pondering what I want to be when I grow up lately, and while I haven’t reached any firm conclusions, I’ve certainly got the scent of the trail.

Most of you who read this blog (if not all) know me personally and have been reading my ramblings since the Xanga days. I’ve heard from several of you over the years that I’m a good writer, but I didn’t (and don’t, still) believe it. Flannery O’Connor is a good writer. C.S. Lewis is a good writer. P.J. O’Rourke is a good writer. P.G. Woodehouse is a good writer. Hell, Ezra Dyer is a good writer. I’m a hack with a blog. But I have taken to believing some of the hype.

Anyway, as part of the whole hype-believing thing has gotten off the ground, my job has been floundering, mired in uncertainty. I’ve been searching for a way to bring those two concerns together. The first step is what I’m here writing about now. Last week, Houstonist, a local lifestyle/news blog put out a call for sports writers. I’m not Bill Simmons or Rick Reilly or (shudder) Peter King, but I can rail and wail like a fan like nobody’s business. I applied, and got the job. And by job I mean “volunteer writer position that takes a remarkable amount of time”.

My first article ran on Tuesday, and I’m committed to 2 posts a week over there. In a even more head-spinning development, I’ve already been promoted. I’m the sports editor now, which means…um, I think it means that I’m required to buy beer for the other sports writers when we meet. There’s a link to my article page on the right hand side of this blog from now on. Go read Houstonist anyway, though; they’re good folks out to show people that this city is a lot more fun than it looks like from the freeways and suburbs.

The nuts and bolts here is that I now have semi-formal writing experience under my belt, which will look nice if I ever want to get paid to write. Now I have to build the confidence that’s required to put myself (and my considerable ego) at risk by selling my work to other publications. I’ll keep y’all posted.

I Am A Whore

No, I’m not writing about Derek Webb. I’m doing something completely self-promoting here. In a fit of egotism and hubris rarely seen in my world (ok, maybe not…) I submitted an application for the Hot Blogger Bracket at Ladies…, a sports blog written by a cadre of women with Real Sports Knowledge. Ignore for the moment the fact that I am not, in fact, a sports blogger, and you’ll see that the fact that I made the bracket is pretty flattering.

But then I saw my opponent in the 1st round: the author of Burnt Orange Nation. This guy:

I think you all know what to do. Vote early, vote often. I don’t care about anything else, I just want out of the first round.