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Mitch sends me a text about the June 17th Jason Myers reading in the city, but I tell him I can’t go. I’m gonna be out of town, I say.
He’s been bothering me for the last year to finish the first draft of my new manuscript so we can start editing each other’s work, but I had been taking my time with it, and just when I did finish, I felt the kind of pent up energy Larry McMurty must have felt when he finished a manuscript and decided to write the novel, All My Friends Are Going To Be Strangers, and proceeded to write another manuscript myself.
For some reason, I’m beginning to understand what happens to a dream differed.
It doesn’t shrivel. Nor does it explode.
My guess is that it passes to the next person like herpes, but what do I know, right?
That stale smell of BO and bad food and bad drink is the smell of a writer gone to work. My manuscript,Mindless Violence, sits in my backpack while I finish, Surrounded by Shadows.
They’re both working titles and they sound a little more grandiose than they actually are, but the working plan is to edit both of these bad boys for the next two months and then send them out to what’s left of the literary world in August.
My only respite from all this madness is that I’ve decided to do some actually cooking instead of gorging myself on fast food. Since you don’t know, I’ve made it a point to stay away from the kitchen since the salmonella incident back in 2010. Apparently, you should boil your chicken before you throw it into the stir fry. Who knew, right?
I think I threw up three times that night and saw the same gates to hell that normally appear after my father uses the bathroom in the morning.
Anyways, for my first trick, I decided to make myself a Mexican Pizza. My reasoning was, that if you can’t bring yourself to the fast food, then bring the fast food to you. Not exactly what I had in mind when I said I’d go on a diet, but how bad could it be?
Ahh, the Mexican Pizza. For years this treat has haunted me with its Siren’s call. It combines both the cuisines of Italy and Mexico and tops itself with what I like to call, American Decadence.
Refried beans. Ground beef. American and mozzarella cheese. Taco sauce. Green onion and sliced tomatoes and deep fried tortillas.
I mean, if I didn’t try and make it, the terrorists would win.
This is what the writer does when he’s not killing himself in front of the page.
Here’s to hoping in two weeks my manuscript will be done.
Maybe I’ll celebrate with a homemade Quarter Pounder. Maybe I celebrate with chicken nuggets made from actual chickens.
Originally posted on TIME:
Polls show that more whites believe in ghosts than believe racism is a problem in America. I guess that’s why Ghost Hunters is so popular but my show, Racist Wranglers, never got picked up. Maybe the reason is how we define racism.
Donald Sterling is not a racist.
In his own mind.
Paula Deen, Cliven Bundy, Don Imus. Not racists.
To their family, closest friends and adoring pets, they’re just plain-speaking Americans who have probably said the phrase, “I don’t care if you’re white, black, yellow, or purple.” (FYI: You might be a racist if you’ve used that phrase.)
That’s why their faces have that shocked “Who me?” expression at the public outrage over their statements.
All of them could probably name several people of color among their friends, close acquaintances and business associates. All could probably cite minority folk they’ve personally helped through their generosity. Sterling…
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“In order to love fighting, I have to hate it. There’s no love in this without hate. You’ve got to love it so that you want it so bad that you’re pushing yourself to those limits, to where you just simply hate it. If you ain’t there to where you hate it, then good luck trying to love this (expletive).” ~ Nick Diaz