Autumn has finally arrived here in Chicagoland and the change in seasons finds your narrator slogging away on what is either the fourth or fifth draft of the novel he's been attempting to write, on and off, for the past 11 years.
It's all about The Voice, and in the decade-plus that I've been wrestling with this thing, The Voice has always come out muted, doped, strangled and/or unbearably pretentious and solemn. After about 40 minutes of unadulterated whining and puling while on the phone to my agent last week (whose role in the exchange was more horrified onlooker than participant), I ended my petulant soliloquy with the announcement that I was walking away, forever shutting the door on the Novel That Couldn't Be Written. Hadn't I suffered enough? Wasn't it obvious by now that I was only beating my head against the wall? How much more is a man expected to endure before waving the white flag and moving on? Etc. Then, of course, 24 hours passed and I removed the cilice and began working on a new draft.
The problem is that I've never received actual instruction on the art of writing, so the only thing I have going for me is The Voice. If I have The Voice, everything else is just a matter of filling in the blanks. It's like piecing together a complicated jigsaw puzzle; it may seem impossible at times, but you know that a little elbow grease and a lot of patience will guarantee success. Trying to write without The Voice is like trying to ride a bicycle without legs; I suppose theoretically it can be done, but it's not likely to be very pleasant to look at.
As it stands, The Voice has finally made itself known, and writing has been a breeze these past few days. Words flow effortlessly from the keyboard with a speed that almost makes it tough to find the time to chuckle at my own prose and pat myself on the back for doing such a fine job. Of course, it's a bit of a mess at the moment, but that's what re-writing - and editors - are for.
More updates once I've convinced myself that the current draft sucks and I've pulled out a few more fistfuls of my own hair...
I know I (sort of) promised not to write about sports anymore, but (sort of) promises are made to be broken.
OLN's coverage of "the new NHL" has everyone reaching for their parachute pants and Chess King shirts as the sub-cable access production values of the set bring to mind ESPN circa 1980. The poor back lighting is a nauseating rainbow of soft neon offset by a yellow haze that engulfs the hosts, giving them a feverish, clammy appearance; one might be excused for recoiling in horror at the sight of Neil Smith, who appears to be halfway through a ghastly marionette-to-real-boy metamorphosis. For the entire pre-game show and much of the first intermission on Wednesday, the audio was about a half second behind the lips of the hosts. I guess that's what happens when the budgetary demands of "Twelve Point Buck" and "Ted Nugent's Fun Time Slaughterhouse Kill Spree" take precedence.
Which isn't as bad as it sounds in the long run as the viewer's attention is hypnotically drawn to the huckster-ish tones of the company men perched behind the cardboard desk on the OLN set who chirp on mercilessly about the power and glory of "the new NHL." If one is to believe the mindless chatter emanating from the maws of Smith, Bill Clement and Keith Jones, it's a miracle that goals were ever scored at all in "the old NHL," which the uninitiated might be excused for believing consisted of a few dozen men in executioner's hoods, armed with machetes and attempting to hack each other's legs off.
Well, okay, Clement isn't all that bad, and even though my skin crawls when he bleats, "I love the shootout," I can't get too worked up as I'm pretty keen on the shootout myself. To hell with the purists, it's about skill and pressure and it's fun.
The elimination of the red line? Ehhh. As Tom Benjamin notes, it might just keep everybody clogging up the blueline. I'd like to see a few Devils and Wild games before getting all worked up over the two-line pass.
Restrictions on goalie movement? Fine I guess, though I don't really see how it's going to draw new fans in. Generally speaking, I don't think people are entranced by constant references to trapezoids.
Less clutching and grabbing? I have no idea how it's going to play out, but while the players adjust there's a constant parade to the penalty box, which isn't doing much to improve the flow of the game. I know, patience. I'm sure it'll all end up being fine, and I'm just as sure that in the final analysis, "the new NHL" won't look all that different from "the old NHL."
Part of the problem, I suppose, is that I live in a city with no NHL team. I'm told that Chicago has a storied franchise called the "Black Hawks" or something, but this information is not borne out by the TV listings. Maybe there used to be a team in Chicago and the draconian financial system of years gone by forced the poor owner out of business, but for now, we've got nothing as far as I can tell. But hey, the NHL has finally reached the age of enlightenment now that the greedy players have been put in their place by the salary cap, so it may be just a matter of time before Chicago hockey fans get a team. Surely some struggling owner would like to move his franchise here for a fresh start. Maybe the Bruins. I hear their owner's been losing money hand over fist...
I spent the morning doing interviews with European fanzines and radio for the release of Weasel Mania. This stuff gets pretty boring pretty quick, what with the same stock questions and the same pat answers. It's like a daily encounter with the girl at the coffee shop; the conversation is more or less scripted in advance and to deviate from it shows bad form. But every once in a while somebody throws you for a loop. Like the question I was asked this morning by a writer for an Italian web zine:
"When you re-released the masterpiece My Brain Hurts, you re-mastered it. It was like you ripped my heart out of my body. Why did you do that?"
I mean, how do you answer that?
Weasel Mania, the Screeching Weasel collection, hits stores today. I'm pretty amazed that there are still people who care about the dysfunctional circus we called our band. Over a 14 year period, we recorded and released 10 studio albums, 6 EP's (I think...), 2 B-sides/outtakes anthologies, 1 cover of an entire Ramones album, and I don't know how many compilation tracks. We went through 8 bass players, 4 drummers and 3 guitarists. We toured the country several times, making a lot of friends and plenty of enemies along the way. And we broke up and re-formed 2 1/2 times.
Like our old friend Charlie used to say, it was the best of times and the worst of times, and I'm thrilled that Fat Wreck Chords has seen fit to chronicle our musical escapades for the masses.
If you're not familiar with the band, this CD is the best way to check us out. The CD is budget-priced and contains 34 songs spanning 12 years. You can buy it straight from the Screeching Weasel web site, or from Fat, Amazon.com, or Interpunk, or in fine stores everywhere.
From Dan in San Diego:
Thought you might enjoy seeing this.
Taken at "Thread: New Designer's Showcase"
Sept 10, Wonderbread Factory, San Diego.