There are times when I really think that I'd have been better off if I had done something different with my life. Urine sample provider to professional athletes in France, CPR practice dummy, elephant shit shoveler, or egg doner (I'm a dude). All of these interest me more and would probably be more rewarding both mentally and monetarily than what I'm doing now. But since I've been getting the emails, it's almost NANOMO time again, I've decided to once again try to become the next great hack writer. I know. I know. I'm already a hack writer, but why not go for greatness? And in case you all (hi mom) think that's a joke, I'd like to remind you that ONLY hack writers make money. Sure, sure, if I was from Venezuela or Argentina, I could make a few buck off of artsy-fartsy thousand-page odes to atmosphere and unrequited love. I'd probably get awards, maybe even a Nobel (if the title was right, say "Disappeared Love's Foggy Remembrance" or "Humid Cobblestones of Mi Familia"). Unfortunately, there are just not enough NPR listening, female, public transit riding, recent college graduates on the face of the earth to buy enough paperback copies to feed my damn kids. Nowadays all those chicks are using Kindles anyway, so most copies will end up in furniture store displays and laid artfully on end tables in the windows of stuck-up wine and cheese bars. No, the money is made by people completely unafraid to suck. I AM THAT MAN! But seriously, the "best" writers write shit. I'm not talking bad, I'm just talking crap. Crap is what I, and most people, like to read. Like any art, the popular stuff is always crap. Think of what you see more of, DaVinci or Dogs playing poker? Death of a Salesman or Wicked? The Adventures of Ford Fairlane, Rock 'n Roll Detective or Transformers 2? So, this November, during National Novel Writing Month, instead of procrastinating on my version of the Great American Novel, I will be procrastinating on the Crappy American Novel Picked up for $9.99 in an Airport Gift Shop. Those are the books I read now, those are the books everyone really reads anyway, so expect me to not complete my version of "Sixty Magical Serial Killer Navy Seals" by the end of November. I may drop it over on my long neglected scrap paper blog. Why not? People sell books off of their Twitter feed. I can sell a book off of a dormant blog post.
Last October I finished an exercise program that was, quite honestly, kicking my ass. It kicked my ass so much that I haven't exercised in any meaningful chunk since then. That, coupled with a new job and accelerated travel schedul has resulted in a fairly weakened and decrepit maddad. And I guess I can't afford to be decrepit. So, right about the time I resolved to restart my blogging therapy, I resolved to start exercising again. At least 30 minutes a day, no excuses, if I can't do an entire workout, I'll at least do something. Just like I had been doing since 2003. (With breaks of a month or two, but nothing really longer than that.) Howzat workin' out for ya, maddad? Like hell. I guess I should have learned by now to never make resolutions. The day after I made up my resolve, I flew to Austin, Texas for what should have been an overnight trip, but turned into a three day ordeal of planes, trains and automobiles, coupled with butthurt nonsense and sandy vaginas all up and down the Lone Star State. So daddy gone drank. And daddy don feel like workin out. Now daddy has to drive his whole family to Philadelphia to a funeral. No blogging there, maybe. OK, I might Instagram a selfie with the corpse, but that's more of a social thing than anonymous blog ranting. Point being? Nothing, but what the hell?
I (and almost everyone who has stumbled across this corner of the inner tubes) have noticed that I really have nothing to say anymore. I'd like to have something to say, but I don't. General malaise, old age, and creeping paranoia have set in, along with the uncomfortable feeling a person gets when the realize they don't really know how to use their new tools. At any rate, the things that are supposed to make life better usually have the opposite effect. This is true of any planned advances in quality of life. Very few idealistic crusades actually end up making things better. Don't believe me? How many first round draft picks have washed out? Advances in human dignity and "quality of life" ( really can't think of another phrase, it's early) almost always happen organically. Adoption of digital media, general discontent with monarchy, rejection of wide ties and skinny jeans... People figure this stuff out. When some idealistic segment of society tries to package what should be a natural progression into a shrink-wrapped package of empty marketing gimmicks, useless plastic garbage and unrealistic expectations, the results are almost uniformly bad for the whole damn world. I call this the Couch effect. It relies on a willful suspension of any expectation of competence on the part of the people we have delegated to make decisions for us. Fads are fads, they fade out. TV shows get cancelled, newspapers fail, blogs dry up, VD becomes resistant to antibiotics. Classics remain classics. So there's that. At any rate. Once a day is my new goal. May not happen. Check back in another month and see if I've managed even one post. Even if it's just a link.