Quack. Quack. Quack. Being a fan of the Oregon Ducks for most of my life has been both a blessing and a privilege. For the past several seasons, we’ve been the terror of the NCAA, a fast-and-ferocious powerhouse hailing out of the Pacific Northwest. And, as per our usual might, we’ve started off this season with an 0-3 start, including that brutalization of Tennesee Tech on Saturday. Our defense is looking good, our offense is badass as always (Kenjon Barner? De’Anthony “Black Mamba” Thomas? Marcus Mariota? Fuck you, every other team in college football), and with U.S.C. falling to Stanford this weekend, we move another inch closer to making it to that sweet, sweet BCS National Championship game in January – well, you know, depending on if we can run the table through the rest of our schedule and win the Pac-12 championship. And you know what? I think we can do it. Because we’re the fucking Ducks. Quuuuuuuaaaaacccccccckkkkkk quack quackquack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quuuuuack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack…..quuuaaaaack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack qqqqquuuuaaaaauack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack. Quack quack quack quack quack. Quack.
A New (Untitled) Work In Progress. As I wrote during a previous post: “freshly recovered from writing/editing dilligently on some other project I was working on – writers need vacations after throwing everything in to an enterprise that may or may not work, and just ask James Joyce what commitment to work means – I found myself bored, head happy and clear which is nothing like what I’m usually like, and chilling back with a joint and a cup of coffee I decided to start writing a new novel. For some reason, who knows where it came from, I imagined a young man about my age laying on his back in his bedroom, high out of his mind from a line of pills he had just crushed up and snorted up his nose, and he’s completely numb/opiate-high and yet inside his mind he’s panicking oh my god I think I took too much shit am I overdosing this might be the end and he begins to slip out of consciousness. I started writing this little prologue/scene from inside the main character’s head, first-person point of view, and it becomes very obvious that this kid – Jacob is the name I’m going with for right now, but this is a Work In Progress after all – is obviously depressed and lost in his life, and maybe he subconsciously took too much to commit suicide and end his dysfunctional life that appears to be heading nowhere at all. But, as he’s right at the point where he’s slipping out, he has this sort of quasi-religious experience (I’m still a little vague, once again it’s a Work In Progress). During this big moment of clarity he realizes he wants to live and he has one of those cliche “whoah, I understand the universe now” moments and he feels like he understands his destiny and then…..he passes out. The next morning he wakes up, and without going in to too much detail Jacob awakes as a new person. He describes himself as ‘electric,’ like he’s shaken off all the rust and cobwebs and depression that had built up over the years and tore him down as a functioning human being. He becomes a force to be reckoned with, and the bulk of the novel – which, even by my vaguage outline I wrote out in one of my notebooks, is going to be massive, as in somewhere north of five-hundred pages – will sort of be a bit like a 21st century version of Homer’s The Odyssey: Jacob sets out on an odyssey across Emerald (the literary alter-ego I give my home city, Eugene), and along the way our hero gets to in to all sorts of random, chaotic adventures, all of them leading up to the moment of his ‘Enlightenment’ or whatever the hell name you wish to give it once you read it for yourself some day soon.”
I’m still constantly editing and experimenting as I go along, just as I’ve always worked, but I’m taking a break on the project for a week or so. It’s not that I’ve hit a wall or anything, it’s just that I think it’s healthy to take a break for a week and then come back with a refreshed head, ready to tackle it with new eyes or whatever cliche you want to insert here. I’m still describing my “literary novelist writer Voice etc.” as a crude synthesis of Jack Kerouac + Henry Miller + Lenny Bruce + my eccentric, manic personality dropped in to the mix. The project is going good and it still doesn’t have a title. Jackson Williams is alive and he is very well.
Plus: I’ve decided on a date for when I’m going to post an excerpt of this new & time-consuming project of mine, as I promised I would in the last post, and that date is September 30th, the end of this very month. I hope you can dig it. And, if you don’t, well then you can just go fuck yourself and read something else. That’s my usual response.
Miscellaneous Randoms & Whatnot. Another year has gone past and thus so comes another season of HBO’s Boardwalk Empire. It’s the one where Steve Buscemi plays a mobster/politician/bootlegger/treasurer of Atlantic City and a bunch of Volstead Act-defying, cool suit-wearing, tommy gun-toting 1920’s gangsters just do what 1920’s gangsters do best: doing some gangster-ass shit. Sure, sometimes the dialogue can be a little wooden, and sure, some of the show’s attempts at subtlety can be a bit too, oh, I don’t know, “on the nose” – but it can be pretty goddamn entertaining nonetheless. The premiere was last night but I haven’t gotten around to watching it yet (bless you, DVR, bless you), though I plan on doing that whenever the hell I have free time tonight, so please, for the love of God, no one out there spoil it for me. I take my revenge pretty seriously when someone spoils something for me that I’ve been waiting a long, long time for – twelve months of waiting, in fact. I need to stop watching so much fucking television, or at least get addicted to less shows; Breaking Bad just ended so I got a little respite from addictive television, but now Boardwalk Empire is back on and there’s this little show called Homeland that returns on the 30th – and, as I’m sure you have too too, I’ve been needing my weekly dosage of C.IA. intrigue and domestic terrorism. It was getting bad there for awhile.
I’ve been listening to a lot of David Bowie lately, primarily Hunky Dory and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars. After I post that John Lennon article in October, I think the next big music article I’m going to write is on the Ziggy Stardust album. I go through phases in my music-listening sprees and lately I’ve been going through a big punk phase (and of course the aforementioned Bowie albums). Also: Iggy Pop + Iggy & The Stooges. One of the commentors on one of my posts inspired me to start listening to more Iggy and – suddenly – I remember how much I dug him.
My Fantasy Football team is terrible…really, really terrible. Godawful, even. Maybe this is karma for naming them “The Murderboners,” or maybe it’s what I get for showing up for the draft half-awake and hung-over from the night before. Put all of this nonsense together and you get a shitty, inept Fantasy Football team that can’t score any points and has the unfortunate name THE MURDERBONERS. Holy shit, what was I thinking?
As I said to a friend this weekend: “never get a handjob from a retarded girl. Never. They have that crazy fucking strength and for all you know you might end up getting your dick ripped off. She’ll start crying and breaking stuff and whatnot, and you’ll of course be there dick-less, screaming and crying and bleeding and stuff.” Normally, I’d be shocked that I would make a comment like this, but my ticket to Hell was stamped a long, long time ago.
Freshly Pressed. A special thank you is in order to all of those who liked/commented on my post The Blue Album: A Nostalgic Trip. Your many kind words mean a shitload to me, I really mean that.
For more Notes, turn to Page 2……..>>>>>