Erika's poem -- the one I mentioned a month or so ago -- has just been posted at Double Room. Please take a look. I'm very proud of her.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I Won't Ever Leave You
Have you missed me/us? Well, we've been kicking the boxes around the new space here for a few days. Still trying to figure things out. Hopefully it'll all turn out okay. It's nice. Lot's of good places to eat nearby. It's funny how regimented your conception of the city is until you move just a few blocks away. You feel completely disoriented. It'll change with time. Welcome to the new cracker factory.
It's nice to have my evenings back. Funny that I make it sound so inconsequential after all that strife the past four months. I can't remember how I lived before, working 9 to 5. I did it for more than four years. I imagine it'll come back to me, and I'll wonder how I ever worked the nightbeat.
No. Something tells me I won't ever forget the nightbeat.
It's nice to have my evenings back. Funny that I make it sound so inconsequential after all that strife the past four months. I can't remember how I lived before, working 9 to 5. I did it for more than four years. I imagine it'll come back to me, and I'll wonder how I ever worked the nightbeat.
No. Something tells me I won't ever forget the nightbeat.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Nothing Less Than
The Bears kick off in less than two hours. Like many of my generation, I watched Super Bowl XX and the great Bears victory. I remember McMahon getting hit on a scramble and flipping up in the air; the Fridge scoring; Sweetness looking dejected on the sidelines; and the team hoisting up Ditka. It can happen again. The Bears will win it today.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
2006: The Woundup Year in Review
Looking around at all these packed boxes... I'm gonna miss this old place. We're moving the company headquarters to a new facility on Monday. There are a lot of memories floating around in here...
There's the broom closet where I spent many nights drinking Heineken tall-boys by myself, trying to drill a hole in the wall so I could look into the ladies' john. There's the mail room where I would sneak cigarettes after hours and make phone calls to my bookie. And there's the door to the loading dock. I wanted to bone that UPS delivery lady so bad, and that day when she said, “I've got something for you,” and bent over—I had to touch it. The lawsuit cost me my home in Vale. It was really just a crash-pad for my pothead son, Chad. He works in advertising now.
I'll miss it. I lost some money here, but I made a whole lot more. Those are the times I'll remember most: rubbing newly minted money on my face and chest; sticking it in my briefs and walking around the office... Yeah...
2006 was a good year for Woundup Corp. We really raked it in. I'm sure you want the quarter-by-quarter breakdown; the tech advancements; the numbers... Well, I'm not doing that this year. Why not? It's my fucking year in review, and I can do whatever I want. It's called respect, folks. I earned it. You haven't.
In January of 2006, I decided I would write a novel. I had never written anything before, besides these goddamn stupid year-in-reviews, and, of course, the original Woundup Corp. business plan. I hire pencil-necks to write things for me. That includes accountants, secretaries, office assistants and everybody's favorite—the 7-person Content Team... bunch of fairies. I got sick of those fruits making snide little jokes at the meetings—little literary jokes they thought I wouldn't understand. Like, “Sorry chief, we can't work on June 16. It's Bloomsday.” Very funny. I had to look that one up.
One day I got sick of it, so I brought out my old Smith Corona—Hemingway had owned it. I sat down and told those content fruits, “I am going to write a novel in one year.”
I built a multi-million dollar company with my bare hands (and my father-in-law's money); I dine regularly with presidents and CEOS; I'm involved in a paternity suit with Dutch royalty—I knew I could write a fucking novel.
Well, the first thing I had to decide was what to write about. A Tom Blister venture makes money, but I didn't want to lower myself to the level of those losers Grisham and Turow. I wanted this to be art, folks. I had some of my people look into it. Seems you get the most respect if you write a long 1,000-page-plus novel. Mix in a little personal experience, some family strife, a mysterious visitor or shadow organization, maybe someone leaves somebody a bunch of money in their will... also, a little skin. Shit, I knew could write that.
I outfitted my own little writing room at the estate; got myself a leather-bound writer's notebook; and stocked the liquor cabinet with Wild Turkey. I sat down and started, wrote a few sentences and...
A month later, well after the football playoffs were over, I looked in the writing room. A thin layer of dust covered my Smith-Corona and my writer's notebook. “Fucking bullshit,” I said. “No fucking book is gonna beat Tom Blister.” I sat down, wiped off the dust and jammed a sheet of paper into the machine. “THIS is my story...”
Three months after that, I was puttering around the estate, looking for a case of Titelist golf balls Bill Richley from CompuPlex gave me. They were sitting in my writing room. I looked at my typewriter and muttered, “Goddammit.” I opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and sunk into the leather couch next to the desk. “Fuck this,” I said. The sun went down, and I sat there in the dark. I was drunk. I picked up Hemingway's fucking typewriter and threw it out the window. It crashed down on the croquet court, narrowly missing my 23-year-old Taiwanese girlfriend. She was playing a game in the buff with her tennis instructor. I passed out.
In December I was skulking in my office. The Content Team—the fairies—had got whiff of my writer's block and were making little jokes. One of them said, “Cheer up, chief. It took Joyce 17 years to write 'Finnegans Wake.'” I hated them. But luck smiled on ol' Tom Blister. I found one of those little fruits making an illegal, personal copy on a company machine. He was making a copy of a 1,000-page-plus novel. It was Ethan Kraputnik himself—the leader of the content team.
“Kraputnik,” I said. “If you don't give me that novel, I'll shitcan your ass, and I know you can't live without your iPod docking station and wine-of-the-month-club.”
The twerp was really sweating. I asked what his piece-of-shit book was about.
“I... I've been working on it for five years. It's a mixture of personal experience and family strife. A mysterious visitor shows up, someone leaves a sizeable amount in a will... and there's a three-way sex scene involving a middle-aged literature prof—“
“Sold.”
I commandeered his novel as property of the company. A few contributions to the Great Books Society and my 'script was edited in record time. Folks, you can buy my new novel, “Pounded,” Jan. 22. I'll be signing books at the Clark Street Border's in February.
What's 2007 got in store for Tom Blister? One word. Screenplay.
There's the broom closet where I spent many nights drinking Heineken tall-boys by myself, trying to drill a hole in the wall so I could look into the ladies' john. There's the mail room where I would sneak cigarettes after hours and make phone calls to my bookie. And there's the door to the loading dock. I wanted to bone that UPS delivery lady so bad, and that day when she said, “I've got something for you,” and bent over—I had to touch it. The lawsuit cost me my home in Vale. It was really just a crash-pad for my pothead son, Chad. He works in advertising now.
I'll miss it. I lost some money here, but I made a whole lot more. Those are the times I'll remember most: rubbing newly minted money on my face and chest; sticking it in my briefs and walking around the office... Yeah...
2006 was a good year for Woundup Corp. We really raked it in. I'm sure you want the quarter-by-quarter breakdown; the tech advancements; the numbers... Well, I'm not doing that this year. Why not? It's my fucking year in review, and I can do whatever I want. It's called respect, folks. I earned it. You haven't.
In January of 2006, I decided I would write a novel. I had never written anything before, besides these goddamn stupid year-in-reviews, and, of course, the original Woundup Corp. business plan. I hire pencil-necks to write things for me. That includes accountants, secretaries, office assistants and everybody's favorite—the 7-person Content Team... bunch of fairies. I got sick of those fruits making snide little jokes at the meetings—little literary jokes they thought I wouldn't understand. Like, “Sorry chief, we can't work on June 16. It's Bloomsday.” Very funny. I had to look that one up.
One day I got sick of it, so I brought out my old Smith Corona—Hemingway had owned it. I sat down and told those content fruits, “I am going to write a novel in one year.”
I built a multi-million dollar company with my bare hands (and my father-in-law's money); I dine regularly with presidents and CEOS; I'm involved in a paternity suit with Dutch royalty—I knew I could write a fucking novel.
Well, the first thing I had to decide was what to write about. A Tom Blister venture makes money, but I didn't want to lower myself to the level of those losers Grisham and Turow. I wanted this to be art, folks. I had some of my people look into it. Seems you get the most respect if you write a long 1,000-page-plus novel. Mix in a little personal experience, some family strife, a mysterious visitor or shadow organization, maybe someone leaves somebody a bunch of money in their will... also, a little skin. Shit, I knew could write that.
I outfitted my own little writing room at the estate; got myself a leather-bound writer's notebook; and stocked the liquor cabinet with Wild Turkey. I sat down and started, wrote a few sentences and...
A month later, well after the football playoffs were over, I looked in the writing room. A thin layer of dust covered my Smith-Corona and my writer's notebook. “Fucking bullshit,” I said. “No fucking book is gonna beat Tom Blister.” I sat down, wiped off the dust and jammed a sheet of paper into the machine. “THIS is my story...”
Three months after that, I was puttering around the estate, looking for a case of Titelist golf balls Bill Richley from CompuPlex gave me. They were sitting in my writing room. I looked at my typewriter and muttered, “Goddammit.” I opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and sunk into the leather couch next to the desk. “Fuck this,” I said. The sun went down, and I sat there in the dark. I was drunk. I picked up Hemingway's fucking typewriter and threw it out the window. It crashed down on the croquet court, narrowly missing my 23-year-old Taiwanese girlfriend. She was playing a game in the buff with her tennis instructor. I passed out.
In December I was skulking in my office. The Content Team—the fairies—had got whiff of my writer's block and were making little jokes. One of them said, “Cheer up, chief. It took Joyce 17 years to write 'Finnegans Wake.'” I hated them. But luck smiled on ol' Tom Blister. I found one of those little fruits making an illegal, personal copy on a company machine. He was making a copy of a 1,000-page-plus novel. It was Ethan Kraputnik himself—the leader of the content team.
“Kraputnik,” I said. “If you don't give me that novel, I'll shitcan your ass, and I know you can't live without your iPod docking station and wine-of-the-month-club.”
The twerp was really sweating. I asked what his piece-of-shit book was about.
“I... I've been working on it for five years. It's a mixture of personal experience and family strife. A mysterious visitor shows up, someone leaves a sizeable amount in a will... and there's a three-way sex scene involving a middle-aged literature prof—“
“Sold.”
I commandeered his novel as property of the company. A few contributions to the Great Books Society and my 'script was edited in record time. Folks, you can buy my new novel, “Pounded,” Jan. 22. I'll be signing books at the Clark Street Border's in February.
What's 2007 got in store for Tom Blister? One word. Screenplay.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Busy With Other Things
CEO Tom Blister's many attempted (and failed) first drafts reminded me of my short film/short story class freshman year of college. It was a blow-off elective but sort of interesting. We had to read a short story then watch the short film adaptation and compare the two in a weekly paper. To psych myself up for the task, I would write an unrelated, fictional intro for each paper--sometimes short, sometimes a bit lengthy--then go into what I was actually supposed to be discussing. One intro involved a spoof of "The Ten Commandments," and I remember another had some people on a river raft like "Huckleberry Finn."
They call this a warm-up, and you usually cut it out at the end. But I never did and turned each paper in, warm-up included. My professor, a sour fellow who walked away from his Jesuit life for the love of a woman, never said anything. He just gave me letter grades--no comments on my off-assignment fiction. He acted like it never existed.
What did he think? Maybe he was so wracked with guilt after leaving the priesthood, all he could do was stare blankly at the film screen, slumped in his chair, and robotically mark "A-" on every paper put in front of him. I'll just have to add it to my 5 Unanswered Life Questions. I'll fill you in on the other four sometime.
They call this a warm-up, and you usually cut it out at the end. But I never did and turned each paper in, warm-up included. My professor, a sour fellow who walked away from his Jesuit life for the love of a woman, never said anything. He just gave me letter grades--no comments on my off-assignment fiction. He acted like it never existed.
What did he think? Maybe he was so wracked with guilt after leaving the priesthood, all he could do was stare blankly at the film screen, slumped in his chair, and robotically mark "A-" on every paper put in front of him. I'll just have to add it to my 5 Unanswered Life Questions. I'll fill you in on the other four sometime.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Tease
Sources tell me Woundup Corp. CEO Tom Blister has locked himself in his Park Ave. hotel suite with a case of Dom Estes. One can only assume he's working on his 2006 Year in Review. Yes, this behavior is not different from a typical Blister night, but an iBook was delivered to the hotel, as well. Let's hope he figures out how to turn it on.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Free
I'm free. Four months of job searching paid off. I took a gig in a familiar line of work. I'm happy about it, but certainly have all the normal apprehensions related to leaving a job after 4.5 years for something completely new. I think I'll be okay.
This means two things. First, the end of the nightbeat in two weeks' time. Maybe you've grown to enjoy my lamentable nightbeat posts. Maybe you haven't noticed. It doesn't really matter to me, because I don't have to fucking work at night anymore. Second, Woundup Corp. will finally move from its longtime headquarters on W. Hubbard (aka "The Magnesium Mile"). Look for details soon about our new location.
And don't forget about CEO Tom Blister's 2006 Year in Review. It will show up here sometime next week.
This means two things. First, the end of the nightbeat in two weeks' time. Maybe you've grown to enjoy my lamentable nightbeat posts. Maybe you haven't noticed. It doesn't really matter to me, because I don't have to fucking work at night anymore. Second, Woundup Corp. will finally move from its longtime headquarters on W. Hubbard (aka "The Magnesium Mile"). Look for details soon about our new location.
And don't forget about CEO Tom Blister's 2006 Year in Review. It will show up here sometime next week.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Thursday, December 28, 2006
New American Blind Closers
Someone stole a doorknob from our foyer door. They stole it along with two facing plates and loosened the knob on our inner door, causing it to fall off. Strange, right? The locks were untouched. Whoever it was only wanted those metal pieces. We have an on-going feud with two of our neighbors, both related, so we immediately thought of them -- though this is low/weird even by their standards. An unreliable source told our landlady that other houses on the block suffered similar thefts -- that people steal the vintage knobs to sell later. I took a quick look at the east end of the block the other day and saw only original knobs and facing plates. Who were these other victims?
I like our apartment. I don't necessarily like our block, even though a lot of young people like us live on it. The older folks -- the ones that have been there for years -- live by the annoying, meddlesome code of the classic city neighborhood: knowing other people's business, caring a little too much about the look of the block, etc. My generation has been criticized for its interest in social isolation and anonymity. Lately, I've learned to see a bit of the good in these supposedly negative states.
"Stay out of my business. I don't want to fucking talk to you." They should put it on the quarter. The new American motto!
I like our apartment. I don't necessarily like our block, even though a lot of young people like us live on it. The older folks -- the ones that have been there for years -- live by the annoying, meddlesome code of the classic city neighborhood: knowing other people's business, caring a little too much about the look of the block, etc. My generation has been criticized for its interest in social isolation and anonymity. Lately, I've learned to see a bit of the good in these supposedly negative states.
"Stay out of my business. I don't want to fucking talk to you." They should put it on the quarter. The new American motto!
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Super Bad
As a big fan of James Brown, I'll throw in my two bits of good-will remembrance. I bought "Live at the Olympia, Paris 1971" when I was 19 and have loved his music ever since. The fact that mainstream news outlets can't really describe his work is a bit depressing. If you know, you know... and it's not about "Rocky IV" (or "Doctor Detroit"). I'm also disappointed by the lack of primo, high-period '60s footage on the big, brainless cable rotators. And what about when he went on TV to help calm rioters? James Brown is in the top-5 American musicians of all time. That's a "Top (Blank)" list I don't mind making... and Bob Dylan isn't on it.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Coming Soon
Hello, folks. Blister here. And when Blister speaks in late December that means one thing -- the WOUNDUP YEAR IN REVIEW. Can you believe it's almost 2007? Where did the last friggin' year go? They say time goes faster as you get older. I never bought it... especially all those divorce court hearings I had to sit through over the summer. It went fast because I was DRUNK. And I'm drunk right now. Those little content team fairies locked me in the storage closet. They think I'm passed out. I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU LITTLE FAIRIES! It's an office party. You're supposed to drink. How am I writing this if I'm in a closet? It's a called a Treo, folks. Christ, I have to piss...
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Fumbles Lost
I was bounced out of the fantasy football playoffs on Sunday. It hurts a little bit. I really wanted the bi-fecta of fantasy baseball and football titles in the same year. I'll just have to watch the final week's action from the couch while polishing my other trophy. In all truth, though I consider fantasy baseball the harder of the two disciplines -- and ultimate victory a testament to one's perseverance and acumen -- nothing would be more fun than to shame my high school buddies on the virtual gridiron. I've won football championships in other leagues, but never over the Buffalo boys. At least now I'm free to watch football without stress or consequences... which is kind of what I did anyway. So, I s'pose nothing's really changed. Yes.
Monday, December 18, 2006
12.18.06 Forever
I should have a better idea of what's going on with my two prospects by this time tomorrow. The ads are starting to upswing and will probably reach pre-Thanksgiving levels in two weeks. This is the worst time of year to job search, for sure. In spite of that, I feel hope. The weather is warm, in a sickly sort of way. The little lawns are damp. I've lost some weight. We're going to see my parents on Saturday, and I have two four-day weekends coming up. I'm putting the little, plastic red flag up on the curbside mailbox. I've worked enough for the day. It's the Official Woundup Paid Babysitting Service till 10:30.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Endure When You Must Inc.
The job search rollercoaster continues. I was up after the Thanksgiving holiday. Now I'm down as two possible employers have yet to contact me. One said they'd know by mid-December, the other said they were caught up in some things and are still making a decision. Both are quality gigs, I feel. I just need one to come through so I can leave this accursed night shift. I really hate it. Really, really hate it.
If you're a bit of an Internet voyeur, you might be interested in, amused by or curious about my suffering. Or maybe you aren't. We all have to suffer through things. I sometimes wish someone I know (or even a stranger) will hear my plea and rescue me. But then I think that if I was reading a similar WeBLoG post -- even one by a friend -- I would probably stand by and do nothing. I suppose it depends on the situation. Though it's depressing and disillusioning, my job situation doesn't carry the same weight as, say, the need for a new kidney. Then you would step in and help Woundup, right?
I'm not looking for your help, anyway. I'm just looking to fill some column inches. See? Even I'm detached about my own situation... and I'm the one getting fucked. Who's the real loser here? Regional cable, of course.
If you're a bit of an Internet voyeur, you might be interested in, amused by or curious about my suffering. Or maybe you aren't. We all have to suffer through things. I sometimes wish someone I know (or even a stranger) will hear my plea and rescue me. But then I think that if I was reading a similar WeBLoG post -- even one by a friend -- I would probably stand by and do nothing. I suppose it depends on the situation. Though it's depressing and disillusioning, my job situation doesn't carry the same weight as, say, the need for a new kidney. Then you would step in and help Woundup, right?
I'm not looking for your help, anyway. I'm just looking to fill some column inches. See? Even I'm detached about my own situation... and I'm the one getting fucked. Who's the real loser here? Regional cable, of course.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Beside the Electric Hearth
That's our little xmas tree with all the presents beneath it. We made an effort to shop early, and now we're more than 80% finished. I love our tree.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
WeBLoRGGiNG from the Couch
I've had a very good fantasy football day today. I don't want to jinx myself, so I can only relate that I have a chance to do something very special this year... in fantasy sports terms.
That said, I've grown to really like NBC's "Football Night in America" Sunday night broadcast. No dog games is a big selling point. I enjoy the detailed highlights before kickoff, and find Costas, Collinsworth and even King less irritating as the weeks progress. It'll never supplant "Hockey Night in Canada" as a near religious sports experience, but at least it's a good game. Hear, hear.
That said, I've grown to really like NBC's "Football Night in America" Sunday night broadcast. No dog games is a big selling point. I enjoy the detailed highlights before kickoff, and find Costas, Collinsworth and even King less irritating as the weeks progress. It'll never supplant "Hockey Night in Canada" as a near religious sports experience, but at least it's a good game. Hear, hear.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Son of Nightbeat
We've had a wacky night at the Cracker Factory -- wacky in that good ol' fashioned way I knew back in the Picodiribibi days. Maybe it's a harbinger that my time here is about up, but I've been saying things like that since... well, at least there're some palpable possibilities for change. Two other people are leaving at the end of the month. Escapes like this have traditionally happend in threes around here. It was nice to see ol' workpal and fantasy baseball foe Craig in good spirits. He's close to nailing a new gig, too. Here's to America's bright, promising young men.
I don't know what's going to happen tonight after I get the hell out of here. There's a double bock waiting for me at home. That sounds really good. Almost as good as being home right now instead of working.
I don't know what's going to happen tonight after I get the hell out of here. There's a double bock waiting for me at home. That sounds really good. Almost as good as being home right now instead of working.
Monday, December 04, 2006
When Will It End?
I'm writing two full-length plays. One had been waiting on the hot plate for comments for the past six months and was finally brought back onto the main range, yesterday. I feel like I need to pysch myself up -- run around in the woods like Ted in "The Doors 2" -- or something. Sometimes I feel like I'm beating my head against the wall. There's always something else to do, and it never seems to end. Ultimately, I enjoy it, but facing another major revision, I feel like setting something on fire -- like an old couch -- and dancing around the flames, drinking gin from a plastic bottle. Maybe then, after I've done that, I'll be ready.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Dresden Dolls are Back in Style
Which musical group can claim the "World's Most Annoying Fans?" I remember once, in 1994, a Cincinnati record store clerk call Guided By Voices' fans the most annoying. Now that that venerable Dayton act has disbanded, whose supporters have moved in to fill the void? I'm gathering, from my research on The Fall, that their fans were probably at one point the "World's Most Annoying."
Qualifications for "World's Most Annoying Fans" should include...
_ Preference for certain "eras" of the group, and should have a strong opinion as to which was the group's creative pinnacle.
_ Interest in hard-to-find releases and import records. Should own American and European releases of all major albums by the group.
_ Knowledge of group's lyrics and low threshold of self-control while inebriated for singing loudly along to live performances or spins on the jukebox.
_ Should have at least five anecdotes about the primary member of the group for quick use at shows or record stores. Anecdotes about the group's producers are a plus.
_ Secret desire to write the definitive book about the group is strongly perferred.
Qualifications for "World's Most Annoying Fans" should include...
_ Preference for certain "eras" of the group, and should have a strong opinion as to which was the group's creative pinnacle.
_ Interest in hard-to-find releases and import records. Should own American and European releases of all major albums by the group.
_ Knowledge of group's lyrics and low threshold of self-control while inebriated for singing loudly along to live performances or spins on the jukebox.
_ Should have at least five anecdotes about the primary member of the group for quick use at shows or record stores. Anecdotes about the group's producers are a plus.
_ Secret desire to write the definitive book about the group is strongly perferred.
Snow Beat
I feel like Ted's old landlord Marty Kaufman -- I'm eating Sbarro pizza. The Cracker' Factory's replacement microwave -- the one sent to replace the broken one -- was itself broken in shipping. The Cracker Factory probably doesn't get the NFL Network, either, which will prevent me from watching the Ravens-Bengals game. Thank you, NFL Network. I only have this WeBLoG upon which to project my nervous energy and boredom... and... What's that? Yes, the search for a new Cracker Factory location has gone well, this past week. There are two strong candidates. Hopefully one of them will come through. It never moves fast enough, eh?
No snow visible, yet.
No snow visible, yet.
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