Monday, April 11, 2005

A Man Should Know His Limitations

I don't think I feel like writing on this thing for a little while, at least a few days. Sorry to all my loyal readers.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

You Can Sleep When You're Dead

Right now I feel like Al Pacino in "Insomnia," except that instead of getting zero sleep, I'm getting two hours less sleep every night than I want to. Night before last I got about five and a half hours, last night about six and a half (rough estimates from the land of Nod). I'm going to write a movie about it--instead of hallucinating or being in a state of altered consciousness, the main character (a detective like Pacino) will just be fairly drowsy all the time, leading to classic exchanges like this:

Protagonist's parter on the squad: "Well, I think we've covered all the leads possible for today. Wanna go get a drink? There's a lot of good bars in this town."

Protagonist: "Um... that sounds fun, but to be honest I'm really exhausted. I haven't been sleeping that well. I think I'm just going to head home."

(Fin).

Yesterday morning they started jackhammering outside my window, working on restoring a building where I can hopefully spy on people in a few months. Today I think the light woke me up--I have to keep the shade a bit up because I keep the fan on all night, and if the shade's down it grates against the fan with a loud buzzing sound. Fuck that shit. Why can't everything be perfect? Whine whine whine.

I'm convinced that a short-term addiction to meth (or some other form of speed) would be good for me. Let me clarify. First of all, I know a "short-term addiction" is practically an oxymoron. (Like your mom). This is all hypothetical. But if I could take meth every day for, say, two months, then stop completely, I think my productivity would fly through the roof, and the long-term negative effects wouldn't equal the benefits. I really wish that marijuana, a drug I never enjoyed that much and don't use anymore, was less of a "sit on the couch and eat chips" drug and more of a "get off the couch and rob an old lady" kind of drug.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

And One

I should also mention that when I try to write a story, it's always about some young, white kid (what a stretch!) who's sitting somewhere thinking about something, and then he almost gets in a fight but nothing happens. Kind of gets old after a while. But maybe that happens because I try once every four months.

Great googly moogly.

I'm Going To Blog All Over You

The reason I haven't updated in a few days is that I hate writing. No, faithful reader, your eyes have not deceived you. You're thinking "How could Axel Foley, author of "The Remains of the Day," hate writing? Well, first of all, I didn't write that book. Some Japanese guy did. Second of all, hate is a strong word I toss around too much , so let's just call it plain old dislike.

You see, old chum, writing to me is, like so many other things, a means to pleasure through a laborious process. Maybe it has something to do with my New Englander's appreciation for austerity (probably bullshit--I enjoy assigning traits to people based on where they're from, sometimes where it doesn't really fit), but writing is like going to the gym for my brain. I don't really enjoy it while I'm doing it, but the afterglow and sense of self-worth makes it all worthwhile. Now, that's not quite fair. Sometimes, when I'm on a roll, which isn't often (self-deprecation alert!), it's enjoyable on the level of, say, watching a baseball game I'm captivated with or... I was going to go with something more scatological and/or vulgar, but these days I don't know who could be reading this thing. The walls have ears, as Tintin once said to Captain Haddock, or something.

I also don't truly enjoy watching most movies or reading most books or going to most concerts. I don't enjoy them to the point where I lose myself in them, anyway. There are few things in this world that don't make me look at the clock to see when they're going to end. Once they do end, I take pride in having consumed them, and move on. I blame the media.

I think I'd like to get out of New York this weekend, but it's doubtful to happen. I've hit that eight-week urban plateau where I have a strong desire just to get the fuck out. I used to go crazy in Washington when I didn't have a car, wishing to God I could leave just for a weekend, just for that restorative change of scenery one needs once in a while. I'd like to go camping, lie back and look at the stars with a cigarette and four or five beers in me with some idealized girl, talking about ourselves and the big issues, feeling like we're the only two people on earth (always a very attractive idea in my book). Don't think it's going to happen this weekend, somehow.

God, this blog is solipsistic. I I I I I I I I. Me me me me me me. My life isn't even that interesting, though I do think good writing could make my life seem pretty interesting. But from now on, this blog is going to be through the eyes of a fictional character name Dean Rivera. He's an ex-con who's trying to live on the straight and narrow, until his old partner in crime recruits him for one last job... a job that could mean early retirement.

ATTICAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Monday, April 04, 2005

MUST CREDIT DRUDGE

This is just to say that I'm going to update this baby later tonight, and from here on in I'm going to update it every hour on the hour. As David Ortiz once said, "Keed the fate."