Are Rock Stars Supposed To Get Old?

 

In the past year, members of two of my three favorite bands have died. Not from drug overdoses, not from plane or bus crashes; when I was a kid, I thought those were the only ways rock stars could die. First, there was Adam Yauch (MCA) of the Beastie Boys, who lost his battle with cancer last year at 47, then just last week Jeff Hanneman of Slayer died of liver failure at 49, evidently a side effect linked to a spider bite over a year ago.

It sucks that they’re gone, and taken so young. But if there’s one thing I’ve noticed over the years, it’s this: it’s hard for rock stars to grow old gracefully. I want to make sure I’m wording this the right way – I’m in no way saying rock stars are not entitled to live a long, healthy life. I just wish they’d stop playing their music once they hit a certain age.

In the case of MCA and Jeff Hanneman, I don’t think they’d hit the stopping age yet. But some clearly have, and I just don’t know what people see in going to see some of these elderly rockers playing songs that were vibrant and relevant anywhere from three to five decades ago.

I know this post isn’t going to win people over; it may very well piss many of you off. Well, there’s no turning back now.

I wish the Rolling Stones would retire.

There, I said it.

I know what people say. They sound great! They rock rings around bands a third their age! Mick has the energy of a 25 year-old!

I call bullcrap.

Now, they don’t sound bad; they actually sound pretty decent. For their age.

I’m not trying to pick on The Stones (I’m actually a fan, and saw them in LA in ’89), they’re just the easiest example. And yes, I’ve watched some of the clips of their show in LA on Youtube. Some songs weren’t too bad at all. Some were atrocious.

Aerosmith. Van Halen. To a lesser degree, U2.

All bands I used to like, but you couldn’t pay me to go to a concert of theirs now. Well, I don’t know, I suppose I have my price…

I should note that I’m talking specifically about rock music. Other genres are different. I’d pay to watch B.B. King tune his guitar (as if he tunes his own guitar, ha!). Blues, jazz, and country don’t have the same association with youth that rock does.

Rock ‘n’ roll is about rebellion. Being young, angry, dangerous, or some combination thereof.

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He played country, but this picture is as rock ‘n’ roll as it gets

Seeing a band in concert on a tour sponsored by BMW is not any of those things.

I know what you might be thinking – I’m a hypocrite. And you may be right. With the deaths of MCA and Jeff Hanneman, I’ll never have the chance to see Brass Monkey performed by card-carrying members of the AARP, or Angel of Death being shredded by guys covered in liver spots.

I’m also a hypocrite because I know if I were Keith Richards, had managed to stay alive all these years, and people still filled stadiums to watch my band play, I’d sure as shit keep playing until I croaked.

I’m not trying to be exceedingly bitter. It’s actually out of love. I’m a fan, and I’d rather remember bands in their angry, rebellious prime rather than crusty, old guys still wearing ruffled shirts and leather pants.

I’m really curious what you guys think…what bands do you wish would just hang it up, and which would you pay money to watch until their dying day? Let me know in the comments. In the meantime, I’m going on Facebook to beg Bad Religion to take their vitamins and get plenty of sleep. I can’t take any more members of my favorite bands dropping dead.

Kenny & The Cadaver – How I Became THAT Guy

Since finishing the (much harder than anticipated) A to Z challenge, I came to a startling realization: I don’t know what to blog about. The writing’s going fine, but not much new to report – 18k words into the Work In Progress, one novella with a beta reader.

I haven’t been keeping up on TV and movies, so I can’t blog about any current pop culture. So, what to do?

How about a story?

The following story is 100% true. I just wrote it as a sort of writing exercise; I don’t know if I can submit it anywhere, so instead I’ll share it with you. Enjoy.

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In the fall of 1991 I was a freshman at California State University, San Bernardino. Living a mere 30 minutes from campus, I lived too close to stay in the dorms, but far enough away that I didn’t want to commute every day. What I ended up with was a schedule that gave me classes on just Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but with a three hour gap before my final class.

To kill the time, I would occasionally go to the library to read or study, but I spent a vast majority of my free time at the student union. Pool tables, food, video games, big-screen TV’s, and a steady stream of girls going in and out made it the obvious choice for killing time. One day, I was shooting some pool with a guy I’d met my first week there, Derek. Out of the blue, he asked me something right out of Stand By Me.

“Wanna see a dead body?”

“Yes,” I answered instantly, half-joking. I was (and still am) a little weird like that.

Derek went on to explain that the classroom where he took his Intro Biology class was also the home to the senior Human Anatomy class. The room had lab stations, and as part of the Human Anatomy class they were going to be treated to an examination of an actual human cadaver.

“And we can just go check it out?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s just sittin’ in there, it’s cool. Let’s go.”

Derek proceeded to lead me to the Physical Sciences Building, a wing of the school I’d yet to step foot in. I was not exactly science-inclined, and was putting off taking my own science-based classes until later. We walked up the steps of the large brick building and into the long, white hallway.

“It’s just down the hall a little,” he said, leading the way. He stopped a few doors later. “This is it.”

I looked through the little window in the door to see a classroom full of students, and the teacher behind his desk helping a couple of kids. Up to this point, I had assumed the room was going to be empty.

“But there’s a class in there,” I said, confused.

“It’s OK,” Derek assured me nonchalantly. “They said we could come check it out anytime we want.”

“All right,” I said hesitantly. My inherent shyness was subdued solely by my morbid curiosity to see a human cadaver up close. I turned the knob, opened the door, and we walked in.

Not a single person noticed the two of us enter the room. The teacher was still helping the students at his desk, and the other students were all talking amongst themselves while they worked on their assignment. Derek gestured to the lab station on the far side of the room.

“It’s over there.”

And there it was.

A plump, green body bag on the counter under the window.

We walked along the near wall to the back of the room, then cut behind the back row of desks. As we got closer to the body bag, a couple of students noticed us and watched as we approached. I stood in front of the bag, and looked to Derek on my right.

“All right,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Me?” I said, surprised. “Why me?” My stomach began to turn in apprehension.

“Hey, you wanted to see it,” Derek said defensively.

I’m no med student, I thought. When would I have the chance to see a cadaver again? To hell with it.

I took a deep breath and grabbed the top of the bag with my right hand, taking the zipper between my left thumb and forefinger. I pulled from right to left, unzipping the bag ever so slowly – I couldn’t bring myself to just rip it down in one swift motion.

As I started to unzip it, the students who had noticed us earlier moved closer to get a better look. I realized they were just as curious as we were.

I got the zipper past the head, and gently pulled the bag open. A faint smell of formaldehyde came wafting up from the opening. The body was well-preserved, but bloated; it wasn’t as grotesque as I’d imagined. It looked like a man, but the bloating made it hard to tell for sure.

As I got the zipper down to the chest, the bag began to open wider without me having to pull it. A few more of the students gathered behind me, bringing the number up to maybe six or seven, including Derek and me.

I pulled the zipper a little faster, some of the nerves finally dissipating. I went to the bottom of the chest, hesitated, then past the torso, waist, and genitals in one motion; that left only the legs to be exposed before we could all gawk at the body in its entirety.

“Oh, it’s a man,” one girl said sheepishly once she saw the genitalia exposed.

I decided to unzip the bag all the way now; enough messing around. It was already over half exposed, I wanted to get it over with so I could actually look at the cadaver. I moved the zipper another inch and a half, but that would turn out to be as far as I would get.

As I had been unzipping the bag, it had begun opening itself up for me. I found that incredibly convenient, but never thought to question why it was happening.

What I didn’t realize until it was too late was that the body bag was so close to the edge of the counter that as I opened it, it hung over. As it opened wider and more hung over the edge, the portion hanging over began to fill with formaldehyde. The wider I opened it the more it filled, creating a little pool. Right around the cadaver’s thighs, the flap hanging over the counter reached its capacity, and we all heard…

WHOOSH!

A tidal wave of formaldehyde came spilling out of the body bag; all over the floor, all over our shoes, all over people’s backpacks and book bags, all over everything. The smell hit us hard; it was overwhelming, almost unbearable. All of the other students, who still had no idea what we had been up to, looked over from their work, mystified and mortified at the same time.

One poor guy was really upset. Really upset. His backpack, which he’d put on the floor next to his desk, was soaked. I imagined what books he might have had in it, or what important paper he might have been planning on turning in later that day. A paper he spent weeks working on, which would unfortunately now and forever reek of putrid cadaver juice.

“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” he yelled. His face had gone bright red, and I could see a vein in his neck. “You just had to keep going, keep going!” I couldn’t think of a reply, so I didn’t say anything.

Then there was the teacher. I was told later he was a sub, which makes it even funnier to me. I will never forget the look on his face; it was a look of utter shock and bewilderment. And the tone of his voice – even though he was yelling, it was just the sound of plain confusion more than anything else.

“Who are you?” he yelled.

“I-uh…my friend, he-” I stammered.

“What? What friend?”

I turned to Derek to explain that it was OK for us to be there; smooth things over.

Derek was gone.

“He went out the back door,” said a girl in the front of the class.

I quickly zipped the body bag back up and turned back to the teacher. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. I turned to walk away, and he quickly spoke up.

“And where do you think you’re going? You’re not going anywhere until this mess is cleaned up.”

He brought me an entire roll of paper towels, and as the class watched I tore off a huge amount and wadded it up, putting it on the floor and stepping on it to try and soak up the puddle of nastiness. The paper towels were soaked instantly; it was going to take a lot more than that. I tore off an even bigger wad, and was just getting ready to kneel down and get down and dirty, when I heard a voice call out.

“Did somebody call for me?”

It was a janitor with a mop and a bucket, looking in confused.

“Yeah, right here,” I said, waving him over.

As soon as the janitor started heading over, I made a beeline for the door. I hadn’t given my name, they didn’t know who I was, and I wanted to keep it that way. I made it out the door, took the steps two at a time to get outside, and walked as fast as I could without looking like I was running.

Once I got about 50 yards away, I started to relax. My adrenaline was pumping like mad, and now that I was pretty sure I wasn’t in any kind of trouble I started seeing the humor in the whole ordeal. Then, just to put me over the edge, a small gust of wind came up and lifted a huge puff of formaldehyde off my shoes, hitting me square in the face. I began to laugh uncontrollably; later, I could barely contain myself as I sat in my next class watching the other kids covering their noses with their shirt collars, trying to figure out where the gross smell was coming from.

The next week, I was playing pool with Derek in the student union. I had been mad he’d ditched me, but I was also glad he called a janitor, so I called it even. A friend of his from another class came by to say hi; Derek introduced me by name, then said, “This is the guy I was telling you about.”

His friend looked me up and down, grinning. “Oh, so you’re that guy!” he said.

“You’ve heard about me?” I asked, surprised.

“Man, everybody’s heard about you.”

So, for better or worse, for one fleeting week I was that guy.

Zzyzx – The Story That Officially Gave Me the Writing Bug

zzyzx

Living a scant three hour drive from Las Vegas for over 20 years, I went there a lot. A LOT. Weekend trips, day trips, ‘just because’ trips. I really miss Vegas.

Anyway, when you made the drive that often, you began to memorize the scenery. There were a couple of small towns (one of which boasts the World’s Tallest Thermometer, which is exactly as exciting as it sounds), then the California/Nevada state line, then Las Vegas. In between, a lot of nothing. Just good places to dump a body that wouldn’t be found for decades (I assume).

Sooner or later, everyone who makes the drive notices that road sign (it’s pronounced zye-zix, rhyming with Isaac’s). As you can see from the picture, it seems to just lead off into nowhere. I always wondered where it went, and why it was there. I eventually found out and I must admit, it was a little disappointing (although you can read about it here).

In 2000, I got a temporary job working for the US Census Bureau. Yep, a government employee. It was easy work, and it paid pretty good for the time. I ended up in a little group that worked with places like nursing homes, halfway houses, that sort of thing. Fairly interesting, but there wasn’t enough work for the team.

That meant a lot of down time. And the way the office was set up, all the computers were banked in one part of the room, so if you didn’t need to be on them, you didn’t go on them.

So I was stuck at a desk, with no computer, with nothing to do. I doodled, played tic-tac-toe, and tried to make my own fun, but you can only make a calculator say ‘BOOBS’ so many times before you start to go a little crazy.

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I couldn’t resist.

One day, I started thinking about a dream I’d had. I wasn’t in it; it was like I was watching a movie. A car full of guys on a road trip to Vegas had car trouble, and a Highway Patrol officer happened upon them and offered them a ride back to the station to call a tow truck for the car. The cop ended up being a psychopath, and drove off somewhere bad to  do bad things to them.

I was sitting there, thinking about that dream, and almost subconsciously grabbed a legal pad and a pen and started writing. And I just didn’t stop. I wrote every day, whenever I had a free moment. Before long, I’d filled up a legal pad and started on the next one. The story strayed from my dream some, but I kept it pretty much the same. Out of an active imagination and pure boredom, I wrote my first novella.

As I wrote, it became a no-brainer what both the antagonist’s hideout and the title of the story would be.

Ironically, over the years the road has been referenced a couple of different ways. Zzyzx Road is the name of a song by the band Stone Sour, and it was also the title of two different movies – Zzyzx (later changed to Burned), and Zzyzx Rd.

Zzyzx Rd is especially notorious for being one of the lowest-grossing movies of all time, making just $20 in it’s opening weekend. I didn’t leave off any zeros. Twenty dollars.

If you’re wondering, I did check; no one ripped off my (never-published, little read) story.

Even though it wasn’t great, and probably not even good, I was always proud of it. I still am, even though I’d like to think what I’m writing now is quite a bit better. Time will tell. But it was the original story that put the bug in me, and after years of neglect it thankfully never went away.

Years Gone By – Getting Older Feels Weird

OK, right off the bat: I’m not an old person. Not even close. But I see the signs of age beginning to show, and it feels…weird.

Part of me looks forward to getting older. Once you reach a certain age, it seems like you’re practically given a free pass, and you can do or say just about anything you want. That’s pretty cool.

Still, there’s also a reluctance to aging. Like you’re past your prime somehow. Physically, it’s an inevitable truth. My wife pointed out that I made a host of involuntary grunts getting up from my chair the other night. That’s right, I wasn’t doing anything particularly strenuous, I was simply getting into a standing position.

Now that it’s been brought to my attention, I notice I do it almost all the time. I really have no idea how long I’ve been doing it. It doesn’t bother me that much, it’s just one of those things.

What really makes me feel old are the random things that just hit me out of nowhere. Pop culture references, and recalling things from my past. I was talking to someone at work about seeing Metallica in concert. He asked me when it was, and I had to think for a minute.

“19…88? Maybe?” I asked/answered.

“Wow,” he replied.

“Wow what?”

“In 1988 I was three.”

“Shut the hell up.”

I started thinking, and realized I was right. It was 1988. 25 years ago. How can that be? It seems like it was a few years ago, but 25?

During my music-loving, concert-going peak (from 1986-2000), I devoured music. I was constantly finding new bands I liked, going to shows to see both local and national acts. I would hear older guys complain that the music my friends and I liked was nothing compared to the classic rock of the sixties and seventies. I thought that was so closed-minded.

I’ll never be like that, I thought.

Guess what? I’m almost like that. I know there are all kinds of new acts out there that are fantastic, and I try to seek it out (I really like what I’ve heard from Jake Bugg, if anyone’s interested), but it’s so easy to just call upon my vast iTunes library and have a plethora songs I already know I like. Then I watch the Grammys and I hear the nominees for a category and just stare blankly at my wife – who are these people?

Then there’s all the actors and actresses who you see age before your eyes. Seeing someone getting older means you are, too. It’s just something we have to accept – except Kevin Bacon…is he really turning 55 this summer?

bacon

All I know is, getting older is a part of life. Some of us aren’t ready for it when it comes, but I am. I think some of my best years are still ahead of me. I’ll turn gray (grayer, I should say), I’ll groan when I get out of bed or pick something up off the floor, but by and large, I’m looking forward to what is still out there for me. And whether I like his work or not, Kevin Bacon can just stick it. Stupid unaging space alien.

XXX – Taboos in Storytelling

I don’t remember where I heard it, but somewhere I heard there was a general rule in storytelling : you never kill pets or children. I’ve already broken one of those rules in my second novella, and it got me thinking – is there anything I wouldn’t do in a story?

My first instinct is to say no. If I feel it serves the story and it has to be done, so be it. But I still wonder…

Quentin Tarantino has rubbed people the wrong way with his liberal use of the N-word (even before Django Unchained). I haven’t had to approach that topic yet, so I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. But I can’t think of any other words that would be off limits.

The example of breaking taboos that keeps popping into my head is the movie Funny Games. I won’t spoil anything, but all I’ll say is no one is safe.

Is there any line you feel shouldn’t be crossed, as either a writer or a reader?

Writing – I’m a Poor Swimmer

I use the expression I ‘jumped’ back into writing, but it was really anything but a jump. I got back into writing the same way I get into a cold-ass swimming pool (my wife will appreciate this analogy more than anyone else). I know I want to go swimming, but it’s cold. So Cold.

So, I go in up to my knees.  God, it’s cold. I go a little deeper, up to my thighs. Jumpin’ Jesus, it’s cold! Then I get a little more brave, go on in past a certain sensitive area, and on up to my waist.

cold

At that point, it’s basically the point of no return. I still creep my way in, but the hardest part is over. Before long I’m up to my neck, until I finally submerge and acclimate to the water.

I remembered enjoying writing. A lot. But it was cold (so to speak). So I started slow.  I started my novella, then realized I forgot how hard (cold) it was. So I stopped for awhile, enjoying the knee-high level I was at. I began to slowly find things that encouraged me to go on in a little deeper. So I went back and wrote some more, then stopped again; up to my thighs. Then a whole slew of things happened that made me realize I needed to quit being such a freakin’ baby and take the plunge.

So, I went in up to my neck.

Here’s the thing : I am a terrible swimmer. I hesitate to even say that I actually know how to swim. But once I’m in the pool, I love it. It’s hard to get me out. I walk to the middle of the pool, where the water is up to my chin but my feet are still on the floor of the pool, and I just chill there. I’ll splash around, float on a pool noodle, all that, but I love just being in that middle ground. If I drift too far into the  deep end without realizing it, I have a small moment of panic. I know I’m fine, but my instinct is to freak the hell out because I know how poorly I swim.

I’ve almost reached that point with my writing. I took the plunge, and started working on my novella every day. I consider that about waist high. That was nice. Then, I finished it, which was awesome. As I began revising and editing, I started writing another one. I was just about right where I wanted to be; up to my neck, but with my feet on solid footing. I finished the second one before I finished revising the first one, so then I had two to edit. But I didn’t want to stop writing, so I started another, which is what I’m working on now.

I’m in that place, a couple steps past my comfort zone, where I have to struggle to keep my composure. Hopefully, it won’t last too much longer; I’m almost ready to submit novella # 1 (I swear this time), then I’ll just have to edit # 2 while I keep writing #3.

So far so good; but before long somebody may need to throw me a pool noodle.

noodle

Van Halen – How One of The World’s Biggest Rock Bands Ruined Junior High For Me

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1984 by Van Halen was the first album (tape) I ever bought with my own money. I was 11 years old, and I don’t remember how I got the money (by honest means, I assure you), but I knew that was what I wanted.

I was raised on rock music. I remember as a kid listening to 94.7 KMET out of L.A. It wasn’t called classic rock yet, because the music wasn’t that old; the oldest stuff they played was from the late ’60’s. Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Stones, Jimi, all that stuff.

Then 1984 came out. It got heavy airplay, and I just loved it. Panama, Jump, and my favorite, Hot For Teacher. I bought that tape and damn near wore it out.

By 1986, two things happened: My family moved to a new town, where I realized that as the dorky new kid I was not instantly popular, and Van Halen made a video for Hot For Teacher.

If you haven’t seen it, I’m not going to go into much detail about most of it. Van Halen, girls, yadda yadda. What caused me so much grief was the little intro to the video.

The intro featured a young man, appropriately named “Waldo”, being groomed by his mother for his first day at a new school. He’s worried about being picked on by the other kids, but mother assures him everything will be fine.

The bus comes to pick him up, with kids on it being loud and throwing paper airplanes. The doors to the bus open, and David Lee Roth is the bus driver. Waldo is terrified to get on the bus, but steps on.

Bus Driver Roth looks the young nerd in the eye and calls,

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“SIT DOWN, WALDO!”

The video continues, showing how mortified poor Waldo is at his wild, raucous new school.

Surely you can see where this is headed.

New kid, dorky, glasses…

Getting on the bus in the morning – “Sit down, Waldo!”

Getting off the bus in the afternoon – “Sit down, Waldo!”

For a while it expanded to the hallways and the classroom, but it died down soon enough.

I’d like to make it clear I’m not looking for any sympathy here. Bullying is a huge issue, and kids are (and were back then) bullied way worse than me. Fact is, a little name-calling aside, my life was pretty great. And by high school things went back to normal, and I wasn’t the new kid anymore.

I just couldn’t get over the irony that a band I absolutely loved was causing me so much grief.

Now that I think about it, the second album I ever bought with my own money was Licensed To Ill by the Beastie Boys. Their video for (You Gotta)Fight For Your Right (To Party) had nerds in it, too, but I never had any crazy guys showing up at my house to party with beer and hot chicks. What a gyp.

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The Usual Suspects – Use Of Red Herrings and Twist Endings

*Ridiculous spoiler alert! If you haven’t seen this 18 year-old movie, you decide whether or not to keep reading.

animated suspects

This is one of my favorite movies. Maybe not in my top five, but definitely my top ten. From what I gather when talking about the movie with people, your enjoyment of this movie will largely depend on what you think of the twist ending. Some people say the ending is all that makes the movie, and therefore it’s just a gimmick movie. I don’t know if I’d go that far. In my opinion, gimmick twist endings are ones you see coming. You may not necessarily be able to call it, but you know a twist ending is coming, and when it finally comes, it invariably sucks.

Obviously, the best twist endings are the ones you don’t see coming. You have to be invested in the characters and the story enough that you’re not looking for a twist. I think that gets lost on people sometimes. It seems like people use them as a sort of crutch or a safety net to save a lesser quality book/movie, not realizing you can’t…polish a turd (sorry, it’s the best I can do off the top of my head).

For those who don’t know, a ‘Red Herring‘ is a term to describe a plot device that serves to mislead the audience, and facilitate plot twists.  Since I started writing again, all the TV procedurals I used to watch with one eye open are now more interesting as I watch them with a more discerning eye, looking to see who they frame as the killer,  who they show as the plausible suspect, and who ends up being the actual killer.

My wife can call these shows like a psychic. 10 minutes in, the cops will be interviewing someone, and she’ll call out, “he did it!” and I’ll think, really? Eh, maybe. Then 45 minutes later I look over at her like, Holy crap! How did you do that?

In the past 15 (or so) years, when you mention a twist ending most people will think of The Sixth Sense. This relates to what I was talking about earlier; the foundation has to be solid, so people aren’t necessarily looking for a twist ending. That movie is perfectly plausible and interesting all the way to said twist, so when it’s revealed it’s especially surprising.

Which leads me back to The Usual Suspects. It leads you along a very believable trail before letting you know it was a huge  smokescreen and that you, along with the interrogating officer, have been duped. But depending on how invested you are in what you’re watching, you’re either left with your jaw hanging open, or you sigh and let out a disgusted pfft!

I’m curious, what are some of your favorite plot twists in books/movies?

Or, perhaps more interestingly, what are some of your least favorite plot twists?

usualsuspects

T M I – Too Much Information

I was minding my own business on Facebook the other day, looking at posts, and I innocently followed a link that told me (in a very graphic way) something extremely personal about someone whose work I’m a fan of. It was that person’s choice to put the information out there, and it’s not something that affects how much I like their work, but it did make me think back…

Remember when we didn’t know every single thing there was to know about people? I’m talking not just about celebrities and the like, but really just anyone. It seems like there’s hardly any mystery around people anymore.

Not to date myself, but I remember a time when music videos were brand new. And it was weird, because before that there was a good chance you could listen to an artist for years and really have no idea what they looked like, other than a picture on an album cover or inside sleeve.

Now, with zero effort of my own, I know that Kanye West hates big-assed striped scarves. I know Justin Bieber likes mineral water. I know Pete Wentz‘s son got a haircut.

I don’t want to know any of this. But between Twitter, Facebook, TMZ, E!, Access Hollywood, Perez Hilton, etc. this information just floats around us like a giant ring of space debris.

I can see someone I might know on Facebook, and in under three clicks (or taps) I know their city, school, employer, social causes, political party, stance on hotbutton issues, favorite TV shows, movies, and music. You used to make friends with people, and ask them those things over time. Got to know each other.

“I was going to ask you if you watch The Walking Dead, but I already know you do, so…The Walking Dead is cool, huh?”

Remember what is was like to be talking to someone (in the flesh or on the phone) and just sort of organically realize the two of you had something in common? The act of connecting with someone in a natural way is almost a lost art.

Now, it’s more like, “Let’s see, Mike’s friend John likes Hoarders and The Following, that’s cool, but he likes EDM and…Ghost Rider?!? No, screw this guy, it wouldn’t work.”

I like the band Tool. I’m not one of their crazed, loyal fans, but I like them. But I loved their videos. One of the reasons was because they weren’t in them. They chose to do something inherently more creative and made weird little creepy mini-movies for their songs. And once again, a band existed that I couldn’t identify if I walked into them on the street. They had mystery.

I know this post is a bit of a rant, but sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating in information that I don’t want to know. I don’t care who my favorite actor voted for, I don’t care how much my favorite singer did or did not donate to charity, and I shouldn’t have to.

Ugh. I’m just going to go watch the Food Network. Because no matter how much I watch, I will never, ever know what Guy Fieri thinks about stem cell research. And that makes me happy.

Submission – Time To Make A Decision

I’m indecisive. There, I said it. I’ve been known to take weeks to make an online purchase. I read reviews, compare brands and prices, then go back and do it all over again a few days later. I’d like to think that just makes me an informed consumer, but it applies to many other aspects of my life as well.

Even being asked what I want for dinner. My response is always the same : “I don’t know.” It frustrates my wife to no end, but she endures it because, well, she’s awesome. Over the years, though, even her patience has worn thin at times, resulting in the words ‘make a decision!’ being uttered half-jokingly.

Now I’m facing a big decision. I’ve found a publisher to whom I’d like to submit my novella, I Hate Switzerland. They specialize in dark fiction, and they accept novellas. And despite being mostly a publisher of e-books, they also print all their books in a limited edition hardcover as well. The downside? They state on their website they will not accept submissions that have been or will be submitted anywhere else, and their response time is up to six months. Either one on its own doesn’t bother me much, but the two together make me slightly hesitant.

Maybe I’m just being neurotic. It just feels weird to send my work off to someone and know it could be six months before I hear anything, and if they reject it I start back from square one. We’re talking freakin’ October.

At the same time, if they accepted the novella it would be totally worth it, since they seem to have built a loyal following of readers. So maybe I’ve made up my mind as I’ve sat here typing. Hey, thanks blogosphere!

As far as my other works in progress, I have another novella awaiting revisions (Araceli Blues, if you’re interested), and I’m about 12,000 words deep in the rough draft of what I’m assuming will end up as a novel (tentatively titled The Devil On Your Back). I’m also slowly working on a nonfiction essay recounting my brief (and somewhat humorous) encounter with a medical cadaver. I’ll be putting that on the blog sometime after the A to Z challenge is over.

In the meantime, I need to come up with a brief ‘back of the book’ teaser for Switzerland to send with the submission. And I need to think of topics for my ‘T’ and ‘U’ posts (‘V’ is a already planned). Ugh, I need to get busy.