Sunday, September 29. 2024.
8:39AM.
I feel like Doogie Howser, except my keyboard is not as loud. Technology has come a long way. But my ankle is back in business. I've run ten or so miles on it over the last week with very little pain.
Heartening.
Speaking of pain, Hurricane Helene killed my son's car this weekend. Blew a tree over on it and smashed it to bits. (He wasn't in it.) Claim has been filed, but insurance, as we know, is basically paying a monthly fee for nothing to happen so I don't have high hopes. Add that to this month's list of freakishly consecutive bad luck.
Speaking of luck, I came into a bit of extra money this month and am planning to head to Sweetwater to buy an electric drum kit. Writing drum parts by mouse is killing my soul and I need to groove, even if it's MIDI in the end. I also need suggestions, studio friends.
Speaking of friends, I'm headed to NYC next week to meet some friends both old and new. This means it's time for a haircut. What's the good haircut for someone who is mathematically 48 but biologically 47 and a half?
Speaking of friends one more time, I have a new Fallowe'en playlist collab in the works with a good buddy of mine that some of you may know. This person has tattooed 30% of my body, to give you something of a clue. Stay tuned.
Speaking of tattooing, Sunday is shaving day. I somehow won the facial hair lotto and only have to shave once a week. That's the way it's always been with this face. (Weirdly, I think I look older after I shave.) And because I prefer quality goods over the disposable, tonight will be a quiet evening with Mitchell's Wool Fat Shaving Soap and a synthetic badger brush - pricey, but I only shave 52 times a year so it's a wash.
Speaking of quality, durable goods, I'm deep diving into Ultra Vivid Scene this week. Year 1988, in the 4AD mythos. The era of Ivo's infatuation with American bands, and its subsequent tension with his UK cohort. If I were the Cocteau Twins, I'd be pissed too. The sun shines on you, then it doesn't. A tale as old as time.
Speaking of old, there's something about living in an ancient Victorian house that makes the hurricane rain hit just right. Plaster friezes, dying plants and the drab majesty of it all. And there's nothing I like more than walking along an industrial corridor near the Victorian manse in terrible weather. Except chili. I might like chili more.
Speaking of industrial corridors, if you are a fan of art from far off places, I suggest you visit the Factory Arts District (née the CCIC) this Friday and Saturday for a fine selection of Cuban painters represented and carefully curated by my pal Alex Katunich. There will be food, music and lots of great, exceedingly hard to find art from the streets and studios of Havana. Mambo and salsa optional, but if the spirit moves you...
Speaking of spirits, I had a dream of a new genre called "forest oblivion." I'll be writing a new forest oblivion project sometime next year. When you hear it, you'll think "yes, this is forest oblivion." I can almost guarantee it.
Speaking of guarantees - or rather the lack of - I'm starting to pitch my book to agents this week and I'm a bit terrified. This thing I've been nurturing like a helpless child for the last half decade or more, and have burnt more edit cycles than I am comfortable admitting will be out into the ether, likely receiving comments like "sorry, this isn't for us," "sorry, there's no market for this," or "sorry, this is a jumbled mess." I expect it, and am mentally/emotionally preparing to embrace it, but requires a kind of masochistic distance I can only hope I'm capable of. I don't think I have it in me to do another re-write.
Speaking of masochism, check your voter registration. And then check it again later. And again later. Because you never know.
9:40AM.
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What I’m reading: Anti-Story: The Anthology of Experimental Fiction (Philip Stevick)
What I'm listening to: I Saw the TV Glow (Original Soundtrack)
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