Tap, tap, tap....
"Now, I have to remember how I did this?"
Tap, tap, tap... pause... tap, tap, tap.
"I did one of these -last week?"
Tap.
"That's not right. Why is it giving me..."
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap.
"Okay, so you'll need $5,000 for the down." Scratches head. "That doesn't look right. Let me try..."
(20 minutes later)
Tap, tap, tap...
"Wait. Alright, based on this, you won't need a down. That's covered. Hmmm... No, no, no. (sigh) Let me try it this way."
(20 minutes later)
Tap, tap, tap, tap-tap-tap, backspace... tap.
"Okay, You'll need $2,000 at closing."
In the course of an hour, the amount of money we need to have down (and the money is not in hand) went from five thousand dollars to zero to two-thousand dollars. I think if we'd stayed longer, we might have had a couple of more quotes.
As a snapshot of why the economy might be the way that it is... this might not be a bad example. Meanwhile, I'm checking the want-ads for second jobs, looking at creative ways to stretch our finances. I've got the grocery bill down. We're running on pancakes and beans and rice. I'm starting to take money saving tips from Les Miserables.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
72,71
I just barely got these nailed down, but in my own defense, I went against my own advice and started a book dealing with Buddhism. Those tend to slow me down since I try to think about what's being said. More about that next week.
Fargo Rock City: Chuck Klosterman -God bless you, Chuck. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a little better about the crap I listened to growing up. As has been mentioned before, my musical tastes are a bit suspect. I was into Billy Idol, Iron Maiden, Huey Lewis and The News and often whatever was in medium rotation on MTV. I was stationed at the the farthest outpost from cool. I owned both a Ratt and an Air Supply album.
Klosterman's book revisits mostly glam/pop metal, the music the two of us grew up on. It looks at the history of the genre's movement, where it came from and how it died (Damn you, Cobain). It's a funny, light read, full of insight and takes to task the poseurs (which was virtually everybody) in a sentimental way. There were times I laughed my ass off. He had wonderfully awful, but smart things, to say about Guns N Roses, Ratt, Poison and Motley Crue --bands with occasionally dubious artistic qualities, but bands he nevertheless loves. He also reminded me, an honest to goodness fan is more than justified to rant and rail, even against bands they love. It's okay to bitch. You can love something completely without having to drink the Koolaid.
The Namesake: Jhumpa Lahiri -This one won the Pulitzer prize. Look at the size of my brain, people.
The novel follows the story of Gogol Ganguli, an ABCD (American Born Confused Deshy -means, basically, east Indian born in the west), the child of Indian immigrants, as he tries to find equilibrium in a western culture that doesn't really understand him and an eastern culture he often rejects.
The book takes a careful approach to how the two societies mix (both view each other with curiosity, but consider the other, in some way, inferior). Lahiri does a remarkable job of capturing some of the wonder and difficulty of the immigrant experience without screaming intolerance at the top of her lungs. She doesn't try to put anybody on a pedestal and neatly sidesteps turning this into an Indian-American fairytale with a crowd-pleasing traditional Bollywood ending.
It's a wonderful piece of fiction and truly, a great American novel.
Fargo Rock City: Chuck Klosterman -God bless you, Chuck. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a little better about the crap I listened to growing up. As has been mentioned before, my musical tastes are a bit suspect. I was into Billy Idol, Iron Maiden, Huey Lewis and The News and often whatever was in medium rotation on MTV. I was stationed at the the farthest outpost from cool. I owned both a Ratt and an Air Supply album.
Klosterman's book revisits mostly glam/pop metal, the music the two of us grew up on. It looks at the history of the genre's movement, where it came from and how it died (Damn you, Cobain). It's a funny, light read, full of insight and takes to task the poseurs (which was virtually everybody) in a sentimental way. There were times I laughed my ass off. He had wonderfully awful, but smart things, to say about Guns N Roses, Ratt, Poison and Motley Crue --bands with occasionally dubious artistic qualities, but bands he nevertheless loves. He also reminded me, an honest to goodness fan is more than justified to rant and rail, even against bands they love. It's okay to bitch. You can love something completely without having to drink the Koolaid.
The Namesake: Jhumpa Lahiri -This one won the Pulitzer prize. Look at the size of my brain, people.
The novel follows the story of Gogol Ganguli, an ABCD (American Born Confused Deshy -means, basically, east Indian born in the west), the child of Indian immigrants, as he tries to find equilibrium in a western culture that doesn't really understand him and an eastern culture he often rejects.
The book takes a careful approach to how the two societies mix (both view each other with curiosity, but consider the other, in some way, inferior). Lahiri does a remarkable job of capturing some of the wonder and difficulty of the immigrant experience without screaming intolerance at the top of her lungs. She doesn't try to put anybody on a pedestal and neatly sidesteps turning this into an Indian-American fairytale with a crowd-pleasing traditional Bollywood ending.
It's a wonderful piece of fiction and truly, a great American novel.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Recoil
Late night blogging leads to maudlin posts...
The other day I was talking with someone. No big surprise, I'm kind of an "over-sharer," meaning I tend to speak a little too much about personal matters. I guess I feel a bit overwhelmed at times with my various roles as a father, a husband, a friend, even as an employee. I tell little stories about the strange things that happen to me, often cast in a humorous light. It's better to find the joke, I think. Real life, every one's life, is a little disturbing.
The friend I was talking to, a kind ear, was remarking very positively how they thought I was a good man. I'd taken on what I didn't have to. Others would have stepped aside, and I've thought about that a lot this weekend.
What I didn't say, but should have, is I'm not that great. I'm not that good. The sly, silent observers know this to be true.
The truth is I'm better with the people I've chosen in my life than without. This was accidental. I didn't choose to be a parent or a husband again because I thought it would make a better me. I didn't think of it that way. My improvements, and I think I've grown, are because of the people I've chosen to spend my days and nights with. Certainly, I didn't expect some of the weirdness or the conflict, but there have been good things, too. A lot of them.
No matter what else, I have always gotten the better end of the deal.
The other day I was talking with someone. No big surprise, I'm kind of an "over-sharer," meaning I tend to speak a little too much about personal matters. I guess I feel a bit overwhelmed at times with my various roles as a father, a husband, a friend, even as an employee. I tell little stories about the strange things that happen to me, often cast in a humorous light. It's better to find the joke, I think. Real life, every one's life, is a little disturbing.
The friend I was talking to, a kind ear, was remarking very positively how they thought I was a good man. I'd taken on what I didn't have to. Others would have stepped aside, and I've thought about that a lot this weekend.
What I didn't say, but should have, is I'm not that great. I'm not that good. The sly, silent observers know this to be true.
The truth is I'm better with the people I've chosen in my life than without. This was accidental. I didn't choose to be a parent or a husband again because I thought it would make a better me. I didn't think of it that way. My improvements, and I think I've grown, are because of the people I've chosen to spend my days and nights with. Certainly, I didn't expect some of the weirdness or the conflict, but there have been good things, too. A lot of them.
No matter what else, I have always gotten the better end of the deal.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Doubt
There was a point about a year ago when I went into a Kohl's store to get things for my daughter. She needed some kind of outfit for a school concert. I remember watching people piling clothes into carts and pushing them up to the register while I looked around for black pants.
I don't buy clothes new. I haven't bought a new shirt, a pair of pants or even a new pair of shoes in over a year and a half. Actually, my mother bought me my last pair of tennis shoes, which ended up in the trash after the cat vomited on them a few months ago. They were on their last legs anyway. The gaping hole on the outside of the shoe was getting hard to ignore.
Partly, my staying away from major retail outlets is a natural inclination. I get more interesting stuff at Goodwill. I like the thrill of the hunt. It's fun to come out of a second hand store with an Armani tie you paid three bucks for. I'm always on the look out for another ivy league school t-shirt. Mostly, however, it's economy. When you're clothing budget is twenty bucks for a season (or two), you look to where that twenty will go the farthest.
Anyway, walking inside that full-on retail store I felt alien and unwanted among the shoppers. In our culture, having the ability to purchase is considered power. You are driven to judge yourself on what you can afford. Sure, you can deflect part of that. You can say to yourself it doesn't mean anything. Things don't matter. They are just things, but they aren't. The constant bombardment of messages reminds you you're inferior, you can't provide as well for yourself or your family as others because whatever you do is always making do.
That day I was powerless and couldn't wait to get out the door.
I don't go into stores any more. I haven't been to Target since before Christmas (where I did most of my Christmas shopping), haven't seen the inside of a Wal-mart since last summer and that trip to Kohl's was the last time I went into a clothing store of my own freewill. These are places where I'm not welcome any more.
Last night was the first time I remember feeling that way at a grocery store. At least, it was the first time in a good, long while.
I'm just an average guy. My wife and I both have okay jobs and health insurance. On paper, we're part of either the upper lower class or the lower middle class -at least for the area. I have no idea how people one rung down are making it.
I'm starting to think we're all fucked.
I don't buy clothes new. I haven't bought a new shirt, a pair of pants or even a new pair of shoes in over a year and a half. Actually, my mother bought me my last pair of tennis shoes, which ended up in the trash after the cat vomited on them a few months ago. They were on their last legs anyway. The gaping hole on the outside of the shoe was getting hard to ignore.
Partly, my staying away from major retail outlets is a natural inclination. I get more interesting stuff at Goodwill. I like the thrill of the hunt. It's fun to come out of a second hand store with an Armani tie you paid three bucks for. I'm always on the look out for another ivy league school t-shirt. Mostly, however, it's economy. When you're clothing budget is twenty bucks for a season (or two), you look to where that twenty will go the farthest.
Anyway, walking inside that full-on retail store I felt alien and unwanted among the shoppers. In our culture, having the ability to purchase is considered power. You are driven to judge yourself on what you can afford. Sure, you can deflect part of that. You can say to yourself it doesn't mean anything. Things don't matter. They are just things, but they aren't. The constant bombardment of messages reminds you you're inferior, you can't provide as well for yourself or your family as others because whatever you do is always making do.
That day I was powerless and couldn't wait to get out the door.
I don't go into stores any more. I haven't been to Target since before Christmas (where I did most of my Christmas shopping), haven't seen the inside of a Wal-mart since last summer and that trip to Kohl's was the last time I went into a clothing store of my own freewill. These are places where I'm not welcome any more.
Last night was the first time I remember feeling that way at a grocery store. At least, it was the first time in a good, long while.
I'm just an average guy. My wife and I both have okay jobs and health insurance. On paper, we're part of either the upper lower class or the lower middle class -at least for the area. I have no idea how people one rung down are making it.
I'm starting to think we're all fucked.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Total disclosure
Here's the new blog... This is just to divide topics. I'm not closing this blog down, but rather focusing more of my attention of music and entertainment related stuff to the other blog. Painful admissions, dull talk about what I'm reading or writing and the like will still be here. Over there, I'll try to keep my attention on music, pop culture and how it relates to me or the local scene.
Anyway... Here's the new place.
Pretty original name, huh?
Anyway... Here's the new place.
Pretty original name, huh?
Monday, March 23, 2009
75,74,73
Three more this week...
The 20 minute Gardener: Tom Christopher/Marty Asher -This is a book for those of us who vainly hope to raise a garden in their backyard, but who can't seem to find the time. One of these days, I'll have a little place where I can raise peppers, garlic and herbs. I dream of having fruit trees and keeping weird flowers. I also think it would be great if I could grow dope on the front porch (which I could trade for tomatoes and pretty much everything else the neighbors grew), which seems about as likely as me having a cherry tree and a peach tree in the backyard. Anyway, this book gives some basic information and a lot of encouragement. It makes the idea of trying a small, manageable garden seem possible --if not entirely probable in my case.
The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs: Irvine Welsh -Not his usual work. I like Welsh, but several of his books (Trainspotting, for example) are disjointed, stream of consciousness kind of things heavy on image and mood. They can seem very non-linear. The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs is a straightforward story about Danny Skinner and Brian Kibbey, who are bound under an odd curse. Whatever evils befall or are inflicted on one are transferred to the other.
What makes it fun is they hate each other. In standard Welsh form, the contemptible (Skinner) takes out his rage on the innocent (Kibbey) through self-debasement. He takes a crippling amount of booze and drugs, gets hurt and manages to force poor Kibbey into a hospital.
The book revisits Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and The Corsican Brothers, only with a wry sense of humor and a deeper emotional contract with the characters. The conclusion is a bit predictable, but Welsh manages to twist it, making it deliberately unsatisfying. He purposely takes the joy out of Skinner's deserved retribution. Irvine Welsh is a weird, but brilliant asshole.
Democracy Matters: Cornel West - Ugh. Okay, growing up, my best friend's dad was a barely educated hothead who worked at the local factory. He chain-smoked cheap cigarettes and when he was in a mood, would explain all of life's mysteries. He bemoaned the fact people couldn't walk around all the time armed like Mel Gibson in The Road Warrior. He saw many of the country's problems as the cause of overeducated idiots, well-meaning busy bodies who didn't get out much --oh, and mysteriously, black people. I could never figure that one out.
Giles County was something like 3 percent black and 97 percent white... and my friend's father scarcely left the county.
Anyway, regardless of whatever truth was in what he was complaining about, it all came down to the usual complaints of who was screwing things up. When necessary, he revised events to make them fit. He changed the context of things, altered their motivations, and made weird leaps of logic. Most of the time, he seemed to say, all the problems of the world would be solved if everyone would just do what he said.
I think Cornel West and my friend's dad would have gotten along famously. While West's usual drumbeat of "blame the white man" is still a lot of fun to listen to, it's myopic and oversimplified. He focuses on black/white race issues, but glosses over the other varieties. He puts some weight behind condemning Christian and Jewish groups (particularly white groups) for their intolerance and political stands, but seems to soft-soap Islam. He also puts far too much value on the blues, jazz and hip-hop culture as being powerful instruments of democratic political change. Um... no.
To me, West's book sounded like a lot of cherry-picking to support an antagonistic view of America that verges on parody. It was a difficult kind of read and unsatisfying. I keep thinking I should have gotten something besides a feeling West is highly educated, very well-spoken, but ultimately narrow-minded.
I'll have to read something else by him, give it another go. Maybe I'm missing something.
The 20 minute Gardener: Tom Christopher/Marty Asher -This is a book for those of us who vainly hope to raise a garden in their backyard, but who can't seem to find the time. One of these days, I'll have a little place where I can raise peppers, garlic and herbs. I dream of having fruit trees and keeping weird flowers. I also think it would be great if I could grow dope on the front porch (which I could trade for tomatoes and pretty much everything else the neighbors grew), which seems about as likely as me having a cherry tree and a peach tree in the backyard. Anyway, this book gives some basic information and a lot of encouragement. It makes the idea of trying a small, manageable garden seem possible --if not entirely probable in my case.
The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs: Irvine Welsh -Not his usual work. I like Welsh, but several of his books (Trainspotting, for example) are disjointed, stream of consciousness kind of things heavy on image and mood. They can seem very non-linear. The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs is a straightforward story about Danny Skinner and Brian Kibbey, who are bound under an odd curse. Whatever evils befall or are inflicted on one are transferred to the other.
What makes it fun is they hate each other. In standard Welsh form, the contemptible (Skinner) takes out his rage on the innocent (Kibbey) through self-debasement. He takes a crippling amount of booze and drugs, gets hurt and manages to force poor Kibbey into a hospital.
The book revisits Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and The Corsican Brothers, only with a wry sense of humor and a deeper emotional contract with the characters. The conclusion is a bit predictable, but Welsh manages to twist it, making it deliberately unsatisfying. He purposely takes the joy out of Skinner's deserved retribution. Irvine Welsh is a weird, but brilliant asshole.
Democracy Matters: Cornel West - Ugh. Okay, growing up, my best friend's dad was a barely educated hothead who worked at the local factory. He chain-smoked cheap cigarettes and when he was in a mood, would explain all of life's mysteries. He bemoaned the fact people couldn't walk around all the time armed like Mel Gibson in The Road Warrior. He saw many of the country's problems as the cause of overeducated idiots, well-meaning busy bodies who didn't get out much --oh, and mysteriously, black people. I could never figure that one out.
Giles County was something like 3 percent black and 97 percent white... and my friend's father scarcely left the county.
Anyway, regardless of whatever truth was in what he was complaining about, it all came down to the usual complaints of who was screwing things up. When necessary, he revised events to make them fit. He changed the context of things, altered their motivations, and made weird leaps of logic. Most of the time, he seemed to say, all the problems of the world would be solved if everyone would just do what he said.
I think Cornel West and my friend's dad would have gotten along famously. While West's usual drumbeat of "blame the white man" is still a lot of fun to listen to, it's myopic and oversimplified. He focuses on black/white race issues, but glosses over the other varieties. He puts some weight behind condemning Christian and Jewish groups (particularly white groups) for their intolerance and political stands, but seems to soft-soap Islam. He also puts far too much value on the blues, jazz and hip-hop culture as being powerful instruments of democratic political change. Um... no.
To me, West's book sounded like a lot of cherry-picking to support an antagonistic view of America that verges on parody. It was a difficult kind of read and unsatisfying. I keep thinking I should have gotten something besides a feeling West is highly educated, very well-spoken, but ultimately narrow-minded.
I'll have to read something else by him, give it another go. Maybe I'm missing something.
One more time... with feeling.
I can now go back to my story about the snakes. My little book "Click" has been cut, reprocessed and punched up. I remember it started off as 135,000 words. It's now at 81,000. The cuts make sense to me and the story is tighter, though still pretty damned weird and hopefully, funny and a little touching.
In any case, this 5th full revision and repair is finished. I could use a drink. It's been a couple of years since I've had a good glass of bourbon. Buddhists are supposed to lay off the sauce and I'm inclined to follow, but if I land an interested party, it sounds like a fair reward.
So, we'll start sending it out again. This time around, I'll mix it up between publishers who accept unagented material and agents. We'll see if either bite. Last Fall's process was humbling, but maybe I'll catch a break in the spring. Part of the book deals with a corrupt bank, which makes it accidentally topical.
Meanwhile, tomorrow we get back to work with "The Snake handlers of Lee County," which is about half-rewrite. A lot of it is fine, but a bunch of it isn't. I'm also thinking of sending out portions of the book out for consideration as short stories. Some of these can stand alone.
Hopefully, I'll have a completed and readable book by the end of Spring.
In any case, this 5th full revision and repair is finished. I could use a drink. It's been a couple of years since I've had a good glass of bourbon. Buddhists are supposed to lay off the sauce and I'm inclined to follow, but if I land an interested party, it sounds like a fair reward.
So, we'll start sending it out again. This time around, I'll mix it up between publishers who accept unagented material and agents. We'll see if either bite. Last Fall's process was humbling, but maybe I'll catch a break in the spring. Part of the book deals with a corrupt bank, which makes it accidentally topical.
Meanwhile, tomorrow we get back to work with "The Snake handlers of Lee County," which is about half-rewrite. A lot of it is fine, but a bunch of it isn't. I'm also thinking of sending out portions of the book out for consideration as short stories. Some of these can stand alone.
Hopefully, I'll have a completed and readable book by the end of Spring.
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