The Final Straw?

It's been years since I could call myself a "sports fan." I don't watch games on TV, and I've only seen three or four in person in the last decade. I follow he box scores for the Twins and the Timberwolves, but that's about the extent of my interest for almost a decade.

I used to be a sports freak. A Minnesota sports freak. A total homer. I faithfully watched the Twins, Timberwolves, Vikings, North Stars, and Gophers. I could tell you players' names, positions, numbers, the colleges they came from, their stats for that season, and who their family members were. I screamed at the television and pounded on footstools when Dennis Green coached the Vikings. I cried when Kirby Puckett was forced to retire.

During the 1987 World Series, Hammer and I sat on my living room floor, next to my dad's recliner, and watched every play while we made our own Homer Hankies. In 1991 I sat in the barracks lounge for every play as the Twins beat the Braves for their second World Series title. As time has gone on, though, I've been pushed further from sports by grandstanding players, off-field idiocy, ridiculous contracts, and--maybe--a desire to do something else with my time. My teams picked up players like J.R. Rider and Randy Moss. Athletes have been involved in murder trials, controversies, and general jackassery.

I still had one connection to sports, though. Kevin Garnett.
I liked him when he came straight out of high school as an enthusiastic, well-mannered kid with a lot of potential and more energy than any two other players. I liked that as he grew he seemed to "get it." He treated people well, he didn't get involved in a bunch of silliness off the court, and he played the game hard as hell every time out. He turned into one of the league's best players while remaining a good guy and sticking with his mostly-horrible teammates out of admirable loyalty.
But today the Timberwolves traded Garnett to the Boston Celtics for five players and two draft picks. I hate to see Garnett go, but I can't get too mad--I left town before he did. I can follow his career in Boston as easily as I could in Minnesota. And the Wolves were going to be terrible this year with or without Garnett. Might as well let him try to win something while this team goes about rebuilding.

This might be it for me and sports, though. It was mainly the fact that my team (MINE) had this special player that I even cared to follow them. I like some of the new players the Wolves have--Craig Smith, Corey Brewer, Randy Foye, Rashad McCants--but I don't know if I'm interested enough to pay attention. I used to sit in my mom's living room and watch Timberwolves games in Garnett's early days, when Garnett and Tom Gugliotta were all that the Wolves had. We loved those teams. Now I don't know if I can be bothered.

Words About Words and Wordsmiths

And the words keep rolling along. My novel draft is pushing 24,000 words now, and I can see the light at the end of this pre-tunnel. I'm trying a new strategy with this story and it seems to be working. I love that I'm still discovering things about the story, and I hope that I can continue that all the way through each draft.

I just finished reading Very Old Bones by William Kennedy.

The man has a talent with language that I wouldn't associate with a journalist--but that's my bias speaking, not reality. The man won the Pulitzer Prize for his earlier novel Ironweed, so he clearly has the ability to turn a phrase.

Very Old Bones involves the Phelan family, and Francis, from Ironweed, makes a few appearances. The story is compelling, the language is great, the characters are vivid and flawed. This is a good read. It lacks the tight focus that made Ironweed so powerful, but it's easy to sit back and enjoy how Kennedy manipulates his material. And it's spurring me to better work on my own story, so I really appreciate it.

I might need to slow down the reading for a bit, though. I have too much work to do. Time to get at it.

Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry are Funny Men

He plays House now, but Hugh Laurie has spent time on comedy sketch shows. Here's a clip from Fry & Laurie:

Now that's funny.

What do we get these days instead of something like this? Another season of American Idol. Ugh.

No Rest for the Whacked

This week has been a tough one, for a reason I haven't faced before. I have no schedule and it's driving me nuts. I wake up when I feel like it (anywhere from 4 am to 8:30 am, so far) and I spend my morning in a blend of web-surfing and leisurely writing. Then we go run some errands and come home. I write some more, we might nap for a while. We have dinner and watch a movie. Then I lay in bed and read until I'm sleepy. This should by idyllic for me, and there are moments when I really enjoy this, but I'm not so good without structure.

I'll need to structure myself for the next three weeks.

I finished reading Thom Jones last night. It was good, but maybe what I got from it that will benefit me most was that a) I write this well, and b) Thom Jones was even older than I am now when he started publishing. The stories all had Vietnam, epilepsy, boxing, and boxer dogs--or some combination of these (with the exception of "I Want to Live!").


Now I'm reading William Kennedy's Very Old Bones. I found a hardcover copy for 99 cents in an Oklahoma City gift shop in May (along with Philip Roth's Operation Shylock), so I almost feel like I'm cheating.

100th Post

Wow. That snuck up on me. I didn't realize I was anywhere near 100 posts. So here I logged in to toss out a brief update, and there it is. The century. I've presented a whole lot of nothing in 100 posts. Hooray for me.

Now that we're here and I have a job (in the near future, anyway) life has calmed and slowed. We got our damage deposit check from our last apartment yesterday, so that eases my mind a bit about not being employed now, so I can concentrate on reading, writing, creating my syllabi, and planning to teach in just under a month.

The writing's going better than it has in years. I'm working on a pre-draft draft of a novel that's been banging around in my head for three years. Right now I'm just assembling a summary version of the story, arranged into chapters. I've reached 17,000 words, and I imagine it will almost double in length before I'm ready to set it aside for a bit. I have a box full of notes and fragments to sort through before I can finish this stage. Then I can concentrate on the short stories, essays, and screenplays I have in various stages of completion--at least for a little while.

I've been reading, too. The novel I just finished is The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami.

It's an interesting book--beautifully written and inventive in a fresh way*. I've been anxious to read Murakami because I wanted to get his contemporary take on Kafkaesque absurdity. For the most part I think he pulls it off, but there's something about the weirdness of this story that feels unearned. In Kafka there's the sense that the unpredictability of the stories, the lack of control the characters experience, is a commentary on the human condition. In this novel I felt like I'd been shot into space for a fun ride with no real destination.

Not that I have a problem with that. One of my guiding principles about literature is borrowed from Milan Kundera's The Art of the Novel, where he decries intellectual misomusy as "tak[ing] revenge on art by forcing it to a purpose beyond the aesthetic." Murakami has built a beautiful artifact, and I can accept it for what it is.

Now I'm going to start reading Thom Jones: The Pugilist at Rest. I feel a little guilty for not having gotten to this book sooner. I've never heard a bad comment about it, and plenty of people have recommended it. Now I can correct my neglect. And it's something to read while I wait for Tom Maltman's book to come in the mail.

*Edit: "Inventive in a fresh way?" Is there some sort of stale inventiveness of which my subconscious is aware? Such as, "That Shakespeare sure did some original work, but five hundred years have really diminished its relevance?" Geh.

Today a Job, Tomorrow . . . the World

Today I got a job. It's a good job. I'll be teaching two sections of Comp and one section of Intro to Logic. I like my new job. These are good times.

The only problem is that my new job doesn't start for a month. So I might need to get another new job to occupy my time in the interim. When school starts, though, I could quit this second, hypothetical new job and concentrate on my real new job.

For now, though, I am content.

The Names Explained

I have a problem, apparently. Michele tells me I talk in my sleep--and it's not your average conversation. According to her, one night I yelled "Wahoo!" and whacked her in the head with my forearm as I raised my hands in celebration. I find this hard to believe, because I don't even say "Wahoo!" when I'm awake. I can't imagine anything inspiring me to say "Wahoo!" or "Yahoo!" or "Yoohoo!" or anything along those lines. But I digress.

Another time it seems she just happened to be awake in the middle of the night when I sat up, turned to her, and said, "We have to update the magic pizza updater!" You see, this is impossible. I don't use exclamation points. Ever. Especially not when I'm sleeping. And what the hell is a "magic pizza updater," anyway? And why would a magic pizza updater need updating? Doesn't it do the updating? Isn't that its function, as indicated in its name? Clearly she's imagining things.

So I'm familiar with how strange ideas get passed around at night. The other day, just before we left Minnesota, Michele and I stood in her parents' living room and her father described a dream he had. Michele's mother was accusing him of mixing the peanut butter--he blended the Skippy with Jif. He insisted he had done no such thing and that he resented the accusation. We decided that the resulting mixture of such an affront had to be called "Jipp." Or "Skiffy." So, he's Skiffy.

That same morning, Michele's mother went from cat to cat, explaining to each over the course of several minutes that we'd be leaving soon, that they'd be gone for a few days, but that they'd be home, don't worry. She explained to the cats that she'd arranged for a friend to come over and feed them and to make sure they were okay. And you know what? When we left, the cats didn't cry or carry on. They didn't cling to our legs or beg us not to go. They were calm and composed. So clearly the conversations worked. So she's the "Cat Whisperer."

Or did I dream that?

An unrelated note: I interview at OCCC for an adjunct position on Thursday morning. I feel good about this, and the timing is incredible.

We Made It.

We're in Oklahoma now, settling into our apartment. The caravan has left and we are busy putting our domicile together.

More good news: When I accessed the internet today I found an email from the Composition Instruction Coordinator at Oklahoma City Community College, and she wanted to set up an interview for tomorrow morning (Tuesday the 17th). The bad news is that she sent the email last Thursday, just hours after I dismantled the computer, and I didn't see it for four days. I called and left a message on her voice mail. I returned her email. She hasn't called back yet. Hopefully tomorrow.

I'm not happy with the way I comported myself over the weekend. I was at turns a brat, a clown, a raving lunatic, a pure idiot, and a general asshole. And those were my good moments. My family faced down the worst behavior of my adult life and didn't strangle me. I don't deserve such good will.

Another note: I've decided on aliases for my in-laws: Skiffy and the Cat Whisperer. I will explain later, because the stories behind both amuse me. But for now, I need to get to bed so I can wake up bright and early tomorrow to iron clothes and wait for the phone to ring.

The End is Nigh

We're in the final stages of packing, and we leave town on Saturday. We're loading the moving van tomorrow, so at some point this evening I'll be dismantling my computer--therefore, no internet for a few days (at least not until Sunday).

I may be able to access on other people's computers, but I'll be mostly absent from blogging and email for a bit.

I hate moving.