three a.m.

* A couple of weeks ago, I stayed up half the night watching a Brian Bosworth film, Stone Cold.  Perhaps you ‘ve seen it?  Bosworth plays an undercover cop who infiltrates a motorcycle gang that is terrorizing Biloxi.  I was awed by the amount of work that the writers put into this storyline.  There were a dozen or more major characters, most of whom got to make a speech at some point in the movie, about where they came from, why they joined, etc.  And while the characters and general setup may have been a little cliche, the action wasn’t.  For instance, Bosworth falls for the motorcycle gang leader’s girlfriend  (Naturally).  She falls for him.  Then she finds out he’s a cop and rats him out.  Awesome.  Even better, after she rats him out to the gang leader, the gang leader turns around and shoots her in the face.  Didn’t see that one coming!  I had an epiphany of sorts.  I decided to bring this discussion into my writing class, but Pinkerton rightly predicted that my students wouldn’t no who Brian Bosworth was, depriving them of valuable context for the discussion.

* I saw the White Stripes and the Shins on Tuesday at Merriwether Post Pavillion outside of Baltimore/DC.  The Stripes outrocked the Shins by a factor of about 5 to 1, I’d say, but just because Jack White’s such a  rockstar and the crowd didn’t know who the Shins were.  The Shins did seem like pretty regular dudes though, and to be fair, they’re a lot better than the Stripes.  So if you’re going to a show, the Stripes are fun, but if you’re looking for an album to buy, invest in the Shins.    But you already knew that. 

* I had my most embarrassing class of the semester yesterday, when I had to go teach when I was sick b/c I already cancelled a class this week to see the Shins.  I went to class on Sudafed, and I couldn’t put together a coherent thread of thoughts longer than about six words at a time.  I assigned the wrong story to read for next week, created awkward silences, kept them ten minutes late while I figured out who was workshopping what story.  My students passed the time making fun of me or being embarrassed for me. 

* I got an actual letter in the mail yesterday.  Thanks, E.  I’m encouraging everyone who reads this to handwrite a letter to someone you haven’t seen for a while.

I’ve decided that the problem with this blog is the problem of my life: a general lack of focus.  Well, nothing to be done about that.  I know that much, anyways.

Here is something about friendster: I looked at my profile today, and there was a note on the page that read "You are viewing your own profile."  Like I was some sort of pervert.  Jeez.  You caught me. 

Here is something else: a picture of Young Ki’s daughter.  This is a good baby.  She already has the right idea.  You’re gonna be just fine, kiddo.

Man — wouldn’t you like to be a baby again? 

I didn’t think so.  Can you imagine being born in the twenty-first century?  Talk about a bad trip.  Hang on to that beer, kiddo.

Here’s mostly what I’ve been doing: Reading lots of novels, thinking about writing a novel, drinking lots of coffee, and watching college football.  Something I discovered about myself: I really do like college football.  I can’t tell you why, though.

Tonight I read Cormac McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men.  Sherriffs and drugrunners and West Texas.  Lots of people getting shot in motels.  Good stuff.  Really.

Just finished Money also (Martin Amis).  Lots of long interior monologues about money and alcohol and pornography.  Funny as hell.

Well, that’s what I’ve been doing.  I’m teaching fiction writing to a bunch of English Majors, so now I have to spend the whole semester trying to undo the work of their previous English classes.  What are some good rules for that?  I’ve got one: No discussing what stories mean.