The Rock Star is Dead; Vanilla and Beard Shall Reign

  I'll keep this one somewhat short.

  Last night, December 31, 2015, Motley Crue played their final show ever. They are done, having signed a Cessation of Touring agreement to seal the deal. No more will rock fans be able to see their brand of loud, explosive performance full of volume, scantily clad dancer/backing singers, spinning drum sets, and fiery overload.

  On Monday, December 28, 2015, the great Lemmy Kilmister passed away. Neck and neck with Keith Richards as rock star most likely to outlive the earth itself, his death from cancer shows that even our seemingly bulletproof icons can die. And sadly, someday, so will Keith Richards.

 

  Our rock stars are dying, retiring, fading into the dusty sunset. There will be no more. The era is ending.

  In this new age of internet and social media, there really can't be rock stars. The attention span of the new millennial generation is such that as soon as a song is danced to enough times, it is discarded to the wind like so much detritus. Dirt washed from our hands. 

  One could argue for the Jack Whites, the Black Keys, and others who enjoy popularity these days, but from what I've been able to see, these acts couldn't care any less about giving their fans their money's worth. Shoe-gazers extraordinaire, they'll be happy to charge you $75 - $90 to come watch them stand in one spot and look at the ground while they play their fare. I don't dispute their talent, only their level of giving a fuck.

  

  The Stones are old, The Who and Black Sabbath are currently on their final tours. In the next ten years we can expect a mass die-off of our original rock heroes. Current rock stars will fade away; the Foo Fighters have now been around over twenty years. Rob Zombie is fifty. Soon, they too will take their walk into the days of what was. 

  

  I hope that someday a handful of bands will appear that not only play loud, scary Rock 'n' Roll, but will make parents hide their daughters from their world conquering loins. Who will put on concerts worth talking about for many years after. Who will give fans their money's worth, Goddamn it!!

 

  Until the appearance of those new rock messiahs, enjoy your vanilla and beard.

Ma Muse, Ma Maitresse

  For a couple of months I've been scared that my novel-in-progress has been slipping away from me. It started in the spring when I decided to contribute to the story comp, A Matter of Words. I set the novel aside to do rewrites of my short story and it has been extremely difficult to come back. 

  Sometimes I would write a page or two and it would slip away again. My heart still felt for it, BURNED for it; but my mind just couldn't find anyplace to get a good grip. This has been the sum of the last three months. Reading the last few pages written over and over again. Staring at that last sentence and not knowing at all what comes next. 

  I didn't stop writing altogether. A couple of short stories have been written; stuff of which I am proud. Still, I wanted my story back! I was having so much fun with those guys. Where did they go? 

  

  Yesterday I watched a documentary on Amazon Prime about the early days of the Los Angeles hard rock scene, 1975-1981. It told of the bands that made it big: Van Halen,Motley Crüe, Ratt, and W.A.S.P. Also told were the stories of the bands that didn't make it. Those that fell apart, its members splitting off to form other bands, and those that were left unsigned to fade into obscurity. And the majority of the interviews were with those guys, the ones left behind.

  A story was told in that documentary that remained with me this morning, a story of a collection of amplifiers loaned from band to band. That story then whispered a bit of inspiration into MY story.

  This morning I completed the scene that had been eluding me for so long. Once again I was surprised by what I had written. The scene did not flow down the path I had intended, the river found it's own path. A minor character is now a major player and I know this is what the muse wanted. My story is back, and writing that shit was fun! Changing rock 'n' roll history, page by page.

  I think what I've learned is that I need to treat the muse as my mistress. She is second only to my living, breathing wife and family. I can't mislead her or force her to travel in directions she does not want to go. This story that I've spent the last year trying to write is now my creative priority. I love this story and it's begging to be told! So I'm going to tell it to its end without interruption from other stories, short or long. Any and all ideas will be written into my idea notebook and there they will have to sit and wait their turn. 

  

  The muse, I believe, will wear many guises in our future. For some stories she may be sweet and kind, for others a strict taskmaster. Maybe someday the muse might be a grizzled old man pulling up in his junk pick-up shouting, "Get in, fucker!"

  At the moment she's a rough and tumble bitch in a broken zipper leather jacket, holey jeans, and a beat up pair of Chuck Taylors. Her mascara runs down her cheeks and her lipstick is smeared clear the fuck across her face. She swears constantly and refuses to wash her hair or wear a bra. She rebels against any push to make her act any other way. So I will be loyal to the muse. In return, I believe she will help me to tell my story to completion and place it in your hands. I can't wait!

Valium, Verismo, Vas Deferens

Verismo 

vuh-riz-moh 

--noun 

 1. The use of everyday life and actions in artistic works: introduced into opera in the early 1900's in reaction to contemporary conventions, which were seen as artificial and untruthful.

  

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of attending a lecture given by author Dennis Lehane, and meeting him after. During his talk, he spoke of the tendency a majority of writers have to write during very specific times of the day. Either in the morning, just after waking, or late at night. 

  During the height of our day, 'real life' tends to consume and rule our minds. We are thinking about our jobs, bills, families; all of the usual things that make up day to day life. A writer can come up with story ideas and little specifics during these busy hours, but the actual process of writing does seem to come easier at these early or late times of the day. The reason for this, Mr. Lehane says, is because one is still in a half dream state after waking. Late at night, a person will be getting tired, their mind groggy. Therefore, the creative process can come to a writer much easier. One is less likely to dwell on life issues and can focus better on their writing with fewer stray thoughts trying to butt in and take over the brain. This is also, he says, probably why so many of our great authors and artists become alcoholics. They drink while creating because they are trying to perpetuate the waking dream state.

  

  I cannot claim to be adverse to this idea. I'd be lying if I were to say I didn't do my best writing late at night or during layovers along my morning bus route. Such creativity seems to peter out the higher the sun gets in the sky. 

  I also hold no opposition to having a drink--a small one--before writing at night. To oil the words, so to speak. However, too much tends to drown the muse, and usually coffee or a caffeinated soda will suffice.

  Over a week ago I developed a wicked bit of pneumonia and was prescribed a codeine cough syrup. On top of that, I needed the antibiotics to work quickly as I had a scheduled vasectomy in three days. The idea for an experiment began to develop. Before a vasectomy can be performed one must attend a pre-op consultation with the physician. During this consultation the doctor said that sometimes some men will bring along a book to read or will play on their phones during the procedure to distract themselves from the current goings on. Also, they prescribe Valium to soothe the nerves of any man nervous about the thought of a scalpel running through his scrotum. My natural(?) thought was, I wonder if anyone has ever ventured to write during such a procedure? And initially, I was determined to try. If anyone was going to be the first to do so, why not be that guy? Even if it was to blog something as simple as, "first they're doing the right nut, now they're doing the left nut." 

  But, alas, it was not to be. I had imagined in my mind being in an upright sitting position, feet in stirrups. Instead they have you flat on your back, and ask you to keep your hands on your chest. Also, I was already thrown by the fact that I had forgotten to do the courtesy pre-op shave, and that job had to be done by a sixty-year-old, humorless, Asian nurse who was not happy about that particular task. Then , the doc arrived with two new docs in training who were there to observe. So with four people now in the room to open up my now smooth, iodine-slathered sack of goodies, writing was the last thing on my mind. Someone else will have to be the first. However, I did manage to get them to hand me my phone, and I read about writing on my Kindle app.

  My next failed attempt was to write while on Valium and codeine. What would writing in that specific altered state be like? For me, impossible, as it turns out. My brain just doesn't work that way. Two attempts, two failures. But at least I know. A clearer mind is the more productive in my case. 

Contemporary (We Still Love You, Virginia Woolf)

I'm sorry,

 Couldn't help but to overhear 

You and your friend discussing how you write. May I ask you a question?

 What do you write?

 Why do you write?

 What are you trying to say?

 What is your purpose?

You also read? 

 Why would you do that? Aren't you afraid another's words would 

 Poisoncontaminateinfiltrate 

Your voice?

Who are  your favorite writers

 of poetry? Of prose?

I'm sorry, I've never heard of those.

"I don't read contemporary authors,

I only read the classics.

You know,

 like Virginia Woolf."

Okay -

 Is there nothing to say 

  of today?

Alright, you pretentious twit,

 Do what they pay you for and

 Get back behind the bar and

 

 Make me another drink.

Reading vs Writing vs Kansas

November 5, 2014

 On November 11, Revival, the new novel from Stephen King, will be released. Months ago, I made sure that I was at the top of the hold list to borrow it from the Lawrence public library. Stephen King is one of my absolute favorites, and I always wait with high levels of anticipation for his books.
  Today, I'm canceling my hold. Not because I don't want to read it, but because the library lends new books with a two week limit, and I no longer have the time to read a novel in two weeks. Instead of enjoying the story, I'll be thinking of overdue fees. I don't need to be under pressure to finish a book that I'm trying to read for enjoyment.
  I'm also thinking of cutting back on reading altogether. Not stopping, I could never stop reading entirely, I'd go completely mad. It's just that I feel that sometimes I pick up my book when I should be picking up the pen. Reading, I think, is cutting into my writing time. I now see why my musician friends can't get enough of what they do.
  I notice when I tell some people I'm doing this, they raise their eyebrows, say "Cool", and move on. Maybe I really do seem like a silly dreamer to them. But do not underestimate me. I am very serious about this, and I am not viewing any of this as a hobby. Now it is time to stop approaching this as a hobby. It's time to get to work.
  Here, already, in November, I make my first resolution/goal for 2015. For 2015, my goal is to complete a first draft and start revisions on my first book, and maybe begin a first draft on my second. There's even a spore for a third, and a children's book idea to build on with my wife.

  In 2006, students from Xavier High School in New York City were asked to write to their favorite authors. Of everyone the students wrote to, the only one to send a return letter was the late Kurt Vonnegut. In his letter, besides thanking the students for writing to an old man such as himself, he encouraged the kids to do art. Any art. Painting, sculpting, music, acting, or writing. "Sing in the shower," he said. "Write a poem, even badly."
  "Not to get money," he wrote, "but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow."
  I implore each one of you reading this to take up this challenge. Take up an art form. See what's inside you. You may be pleasantly surprised.
  Become.

  I was born and raised in Kansas, and I'm proud to say so. I love my state, even when I don't necessarily love the politics. Sam Brownback's re-election does not bode well for education in this state for, at least, the next 4 years. Arts funding has already been gutted. Art breeds imagination, imagination in children breeds adults with new ideas.
  I'd like to ask those who would consider leaving our state to, instead, stay. Why run away from what you see as a failure, when we could work to fix it. Even little bit by little bit. I'd love someday to be the hometown writer visiting Kansas schools in the spirit of Mr. Vonnegut, encouraging kids to take up an art form. Or standing before the state education board. For now those are dreams, and I need to get to work on my book.


P.S.
  Revival would make a great Christmas gift. ( Wink, Wink )

Famous People Are Fucking Weird Vol. 1: Success vs. Fame, or, Whose Face Is It, Anyway?

  Hey everyone, it's been a while, I know. And there's various reasons for my absence: among them, the birth of our third child, and the fact that I felt putting up posts every 2 weeks may have been too soon. Maybe I was flooding the Travisceration pond.
  There is also a third reason why I have not been writing for you lately, reason being I have been writing for you lately. In the distant past I have written many short stories, and I had planned to write more, but, in August I had a story idea that proved to be much bigger, and I have begun work on my first novel. The task ahead is daunting, and considering the work it takes to raise 3 kids, will probably take awhile. So far, I have around 40 finished pages, and I foresee a finished product in about 2 years.
  Without giving away a plot synopsis, it will deal with wasted, misspent youth in the Midwest, circa '80 - '84. I also have the general idea and framework for a second book that will probably be a bit darker and possibly even better than the first. So that's what I'm working on and towards.

  And so...

  I was thinking the other day, in light of the recent unveiling of Renee Zellweger's new face, about celebrity life. The lives of female celebrities in particular. First of all, I want to address the fact that there seems to be a debate amongst some people over whether Renee's new look is due to surgery or weight-loss. I'll answer this for them: it's surgery, folks. Those squinty eyes didn't just widen out by weight-loss alone, they needed help.
  I'd like to state right away, that I'm not writing this to deride Renee for her decision. She's a 45-year old woman with a lot of money who was able to afford to get the work done right. She really doesn't look bad, she just looks different. If you weren't told that it was her, you'd just see a pretty lady in a pretty dress.
  However, it is saddening that Hollywood standards force so many already beautiful women to constantly alter and enhance themselves in order to continue to obtain work. This is an issue that male actors don't really have to deal with. And you can't really blame Miss Zellweger; the last hit movie she was in, was 2008's Leatherheads, and her last hit movie in which she was the star, was the second Bridget Jones movie, which was released in 2004. These ladies are only wanting to be back on the top of the movie star heap. I have to tip my hat to those ladies who have chosen to age gracefully: Jamie Lee Curtis, Blythe Danner, and Anjelica Huston, to name a few. Still, whatever Renee wants to do is her choice, and who the fuck am I to chastise her for her decision? Nobody, that's who.
  The only concern that I would have, were I her, is that completely altering her pre-established, unique, and instantly recognizable face, might actually doom her career. Take Jennifer Grey for example. Jennifer Grey had one of those faces. Unique; she looked like no one else, everyone knew who she was. And pretty. But after a string of successful movies, she decided she didn't like her nose, and had it changed, slightly. The initial surgery was botched, requiring a second, more extensive surgery, thereby, changing her entire face and leaving her totally un-recognizable. Since she no longer looked like herself, she could no longer be marketed as 'Jennifer Grey'. The brand had tanked. The last time I remember seeing her in an acting role was in a 1995 episode of Friends. And she hasn't done much since, save for some voice work and being the 2010 winner of Dancing With the Stars. 
  Again, the choice is theirs, and I'm not here to say if these ladies are wrong or right, I just hope that, for her own sake, Renee Z doesn't end up on the unemployment line next to Jennifer G. If nothing else, they can at least take solace in the fact that they are both still attractive women, and they didn't end up looking a Michael Jackson or Donatella Versace kind of freaky. I wish both women and their new faces much continued success.

  Of course, the purpose of this post isn't really to talk about Renee Zellweger's new face, it's to stress how fucking weird famous people can be.

  Being a published author is obviously a goal of mine and anyone else who wants a writing career. And you want as many as possible to read what you write. Yet, fame is a thing that holds no allure for me. People always in your face and wanting a constant piece of you. Not for me.
  Success, however, is a thing to strive for. If I could be one of the lucky handful to have their writing published, I'd be very happy to be a mid-range-selling author who remains un-recognizable.
  Success to me would mean:
  Selling enough copy to write full-time, pay off debts, and send kids to college.
  Still being able to go grocery shopping or to a restaurant with my wife, peacefully.
  Remaining successful enough at the thing I like to do to enjoy some of the finer things with my wife.

  Should I ever experience literary success, here are some things I promise to my family and friends to never do:
  Permanently alter my appearance surgically. This one should be a no-brainer, but I feel I should mention it, since we were on the topic. Anyone remember what Dean Koontz used to look like? Balding, mustache, sinister glare. These days, he's sporting implanted hair. And if he ever brings the mustache back, he's gonna look exactly like Ned Flanders.
  Wear ridiculous clothing in author photos, a' la Tom Wolfe, Truman Capote, or T.C. Boyle.
  Buy a mansion or a yacht.
  Hunt endangered species for sport. Because: Fuck That!
  Hunt people.(Big Jon!)

  Those are a few that I could think of, but I just wanted you all to know that, if this should work out for me, I promise not to be a Renee, or a Jennifer, or a Michael, or God forbid, a Mickey fucking Rourke!

I won't be going all weird and shit on you. At least no more than I already am.

                                              Renee, Before and after.

                                                Jennifer, Before and after.

Chevy (Hit and) Runs Deep

  For the first few years after earning my drivers license, I only drove around my dad's pick-up, a white 1981 Chevy Silverado. Dad let me drive the truck quite a bit, usually with a Hutch Only stipulation.
  Dad never knew this, but I committed two hit-and-runs in that truck. The first was outside of  Gamblers, a short lived bar on Hutchinson's east side. Gamblers allowed you to enter at 18, an allowance most likely made to attract younger patrons of the female persuasion.
  I was 18 myself so I was very sober when this occurred, just not yet very experienced behind the wheel of a vehicle. I had just arrived, and finding that I had parked the truck uncomfortably close to the Ford Explorer beside me, attempted to back and re-park. Not yet having many opportunities to drive at night, I turned my wheel too soon, scraping the right side of the trucks front bumper down the driver side of the Explorer.
  I hightailed it out of there! A few blocks down the road I pulled into a Kwik-Shop parking lot and checked for damage. There was nothing! No marks on the truck, no collection of paint from the Explorer. Nothing! Elated at my good fortune, I went back to Gamblers, parked on the opposite end of the lot, and on my way inside walked past the victim-mobile to see what I had done. There was a huge gash in the green paint all the way down the length of the Explorer. I had fucked that bitch up!
  Upon entering the bar I had a waitress that I knew sneak me a beer.

  The second occurrence, I was meeting a friend who was just about to end her shift at an assisted living center. She had already pulled away, and I was to follow. Again, it was night. And again, I turned my wheel to soon.
  This time the victim was a little compact car with a hatchback. The front bumper of the Silverado caught the other car at the driver side door, and actually began to lift the rear of the little car as I backed. The further I backed, the higher it lifted. I thought about putting the truck back into drive, but   I was so close that had I gone forward, my entire side would have scraped against theirs. My only other choice was to commit and keep backing, which is what I did.
  The rear of the car lifted from the ground even more until I reached it's rear bumper. I gave the truck a tiny bit more gas and I had come free. The car fell back to the pavement and, unbelievably, the hatchback flew open! Once again, I fled, and reaching my friends house, I asked her mother for a flashlight to check for damage on the truck. Again, nothing!
  If I learned anything from those experiences, it was this: Nothing sticks to a '81 Chevy Silverado.