Nonculture

For those of you visiting who are interested in a schizophrenic read that jumps between a 23 year old’s travel journal during the 90’s, poetry, and short stories, The Hermit Ledger is available for sale.  Grammatical errors are free (the count is 3 plus in just 200 pages, nice!).  The good part is that I paid extra for good paper, cover, etc. so it will last a long time, gramatically incorrect and all.  It’s 8 bucks plus shipping.  Email nonculture@gmail.com for details if you have money to burn on shit you’ll flip through and probably never read cover to cover anyway.

The hell of another on call is over.  For those of you looking to get in to the IT field, let me assure you, when they say you’ll be working stupid hours, they aren’t fucking around.  Burnout is a word used a lot, and many times I think I”m close.  Sometimes I want to do an American Beauty and roll up on a fast food joint and tell them to give me the job with the least amount of responsibility.  But that would mean no more cigars, switching to generic rum, and if you want a woman worth a shit, they also usually give a damn if you can play the game.  At least in the American culture.  So I plod on, fixing shit that shouldn’t break to begin with, and not giving a rats ass about computers in general, except for what they can do for me. I put the time in early on; I ate and shat computers to get my foot in the door.  Now I’m kicking back whenever possible and wondering how a salary that would have been astronomical to me 8 years ago is barely enough to support my borderline childish, bachelor lifestyle.  I can’t do Vegas every month, but if I wanted, I could do the gambling boats.

 I only got drunk once while on-call.  I make it a rule not to drink while on it, but this on call was extended to two weeks.  I almost made it.  Friday I got blasted and fired off a pissed off email to my boss about how fucked up the system was.  For those of you with a hankering for the drink and looking to get into corporate culture, here’s a bit of advice:  If you don’t have the proper supplies around, don’t go on a binge.  Mixing rum, then white wine, then an entire bottle of shitty, uber-sweet champagne that just happens to be lurking in the back of the fridge isn’t a good idea.

But, fuck it, I still have a job, and I still manage to write every now and then.  It’s the old stereotype-that-is-completely-true:  work sucks the creativity right out of you.  Those great ideas you have about what you will write/paint/compose during work all turn into faint shadows by the time you take off the shoes, yank on some jeans, and pop a beer.  TV or the internet or a game or porn are just too convenient as distractions.  There’s something to be said for those who cut off their outside stimulus for the sake of their art. 

Who wouldn’t like some shack with a typewriter/easel, no distractions, maybe a cute little foreign girl who doesn’t speak your language so that you can nail her without having to talk to her, who also brings you groceries (aka liquor) every now and then and cleans the place up for you for peanuts a month?  Though I suppose to make that a monetary reality your sabbatical shack would need to be in Borat land, or something. 

Only eight or so full edits to go on the existing ones, and only nineteen or so more to be written for the next self-pub project, a short story collection.  Fuck.  Where’s that shack?  Where’s the drive thru?  Why haven’t I found that stress-free, self sustaining artsy lifestyle?

Because, like everyone, I play the game for safety and security.  I don’t forsake my TV and internet for my art.  And that is why you will never see my name on the top of the bestseller list.  And don’t leave a comment about how Stephen King wrote is early stuff while teaching; teaching doesn’t count, because it’s not doing.  Teachers only work like, 100 days a year or something.

…than sober and clear.  Thanks City on Film.  I’m about 5 rum and cokes in and realizing that I’m probably not going to achieve getting drunk tonight.  It’s always a sad moment.  It must be the puking and shitting bout I had earlier this week.

 We stood out in the dirt that passes for a driveway and watched the rocket blast off from the Cape tonight.  It carried a military satellite that can detect plumes of smoke/exhaust from launched missles into orbit.  Dave L and I toasted to Reagan’s Star Wars getting back online and walked back up to the porch for refills while Maiden blasted from the computer.  Then we discussed installing gutters and other suburban type talk that just made me realize that when I buy a home, it’s just going to be a condo.  Life’s too short to spend time buying concrete for a driveway.

So, with a sober smoke detecting satellite in orbit and the decision to take on a home with the smallest amount of responsibility possible, we are online.