Cross-training for a Literary Remix

Though I have been absent, my mind is never too far from this project. My time is consumed these days with all things “Camino”, so I can’t seem to set aside any meaningful time to write. Hours of lonely training sessions gives me ample time to cook shit up, but my energy level by the end of the day insists that I sleep rather than type. I have tried on several occasions, but the result is always the same. I end up face down on my keyboard with at least three or four lines of the following: “aposdifj;lekmm,maadpfjpiejfopijepoijjdlfkoiieiilasliwuueproiqkjgjgpirrfk”. Not exactly the literary masterpiece I was hoping for when I sat down to collect my thoughts. It’s probably for the best since the only thing I seem to be able to put into words are things I have a nagging feeling that I have mentioned before. Now nearly 400 pages into this work, I am having trouble remembering the things that I have shared and the things that have left unmentioned. On occasion, I go back and read old entries and find myself quite surprised at their content. In that way, I suppose this has turned into exactly what I hoped it would be. A time capsule to store my fading memories. Or maybe this is just my way of rationalizing the fact that I seem to have finally come down with “it”. “It” being the illness that seems to have a firm grip on my generation. The illness of “nostalgia”. In an age where there seems to be a certain want for “new” ideas, my generation is hellbent on simply rehashing the past and putting it in a pretty new package. Perhaps this is a dismal statement on my generation’s perception of the present. A belief that the past is better than the future? Nowhere to go but down? I don’t want to be nearly that cynical this early in my life, but there does seem to be a trend here doesn’t there?

Don’t get me wrong, from a musical perspective, I am a HUGE fan of the “remix”. Take one of my favorite songs and throw it on top of a phat (yeah I said it) beat that I can shake my ass to and you will most certainly win my hard earned dollars. Add to it a verse or two from Jay-Z and you will find me on the verge of ecstasy. This, however, is where it ends. It isn’t that I don’t have an appreciation for a well-produced “remake”, it just seems that the story teller in me would like to see something new and fresh. From toys to major motion pictures, we seem incapable of venturing into the “new”. We just made good on a promise to attend the cinema with our boys and were treated with the latest iteration of the Batman franchise. Well, the Batman franchise . . . version two. I admit that I have grown not to absolutely hate Christian Bale as Gotham’s eccentric bazzilionaire, and the films tend to be less campy and theatrical than the prior iterations. Still, even with a revamped story line or two, we are really just being fed the same old thing year after year. The newest Spider Man film in fact proves that we aren’t even letting much grass grow under our feet these days. How long has it been since Toby McGuire suited up as our friendly neighborhood superhero? What, like a week? I would like to say that this is limited to “Super Hero” films, but a recent preview noted that “Total Recall” is being “recalled” to the big screen. I could honestly go on forever, but I think you get the point.

So, I find this quite troubling from a literary perspective. I recently ran across a title called “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies”. Enough said really. Still, I find myself quite tempted in my writing to revisit the past. I would like to think that it is simply a reaction to the fact that my mind is so focused on my upcoming trip to Spain that I am not allowing myself the creativity necessary to invent something new to say. As I walk these days . . . and walking seems to be all I do . . . ideas race around my head in a wild torrent only to be cast aside as poorly written sequels to prior remarks. Just yesterday, however, it occurred to me. In writing, as in walking (and really as in life), the only way forward is one step at a time. “Living life two feet at a time”. This title sat, wanting for content and just like that I realized what it was that I had been stuck on for so long. I realized the sentiment that I wished to express but couldn’t because of the all the other tracks I had created to fill the album. An album full of dismal remixes that not even T-Pain could turn platinum. Walking vast distances is funny that way. It is simple right? It’s just “walking”, yet somewhere around euphoric mile 20 or so, walking becomes just one thing . . . everything. Feet begin to blister and shins begin to ache in such a way that another step seems impossible. The only thought that fills my head at this point is “just two more feet”. And somehow, my two feet oblige and push me forward.

Two more feet to do something different, two more feet to do something new . . . two more feet to discover a cure. Two more feet, that is all it takes in long distance hiking, writing, and life itself . . . just two more feet. It isn’t the vastness of the distance but rather the absolute brilliance that can be discovered inside that tiny little space just there beneath your feet. Life happens in those two feet. Children grow up and move away in those two feet. Careers begin and end in that same two feet. Humans are born while others die away in those same two feet. What more can you possibly ask for? I don’t know what lies miles further down the road, but I know the only way to get there is two feet at a time. So, to that end, I am going to do my best to continue this project two feet at a time and maybe the next time I attend the cinema I will be surprised with something original . . . Wonder Woman maybe . . . no wait, has that been done before . . . SHIT. Until next time. R

The Pinteresting Story of a Burger King Girl and her McDonalds Guy

As is probably fairly obvious from the lack of content posted of late, I am in a bit of a slump. I tried to work through it in a more organized fashion and found myself about half way through a first draft, ready to hang myself with my undershorts. Fortunately, I seem to have plucked just the right stone from the dam and the entire wall has come down. The flood of content that is forthcoming is going to drown me if I don’t keep writing, so I apologize in advance for the weeks of silence followed by this manic increase in production. At present, we are faced with an absolutely maddening blessing in disguise. The fire that consumed our home has left us with an empty canvas upon which to paint our dreams. Now, we COULD be quite content by merely reconstructing the house that was once there, but that would seem a waste. We have been given an opportunity here and I can’t see not making the most of it. That being said, CHOICE (as it were) seems to be the Phantom in this Opera. Let’s face it, buying a home is stressful and one can only find the “right” home when one is willing to compromise. But what if you didn’t HAVE to compromise? What if you could have any house you wanted in just the location you desired? That is the age old Real Estate mantra, isn’t it? What are the three most important factors in purchasing a home? LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION. For most, the location dictates a sacrifice or two where the house is concerned. We, however, own our desired location and have the good fortune of being able to BUILD the house of our dreams without compromise or sacrifice. You see, the wife and I are pretty simple people and don’t have an interest in owning a Mansion. Our perfect home would be on the comfortable side in scale, but too much is really nothing more than a lot of bathrooms to clean. That being said, the size we desire is well within our reach and the vast array of possible styles and varieties make this harder than one would have first believed.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining, I simply want to point out that this whole “options” thing isn’t as dreamy as it sounds. The process goes from confusing to mind blowingly complex when you factor in the desires of two VERY different people. Stylistically, the wife and I are generally on the same page, however, the devil is in the details. To have a full appreciation of the factors involved here, you need to understand something about the wife and I. She is a Burger King Girl and I am a McDonalds Guy. What do I mean by this? Well, in short, I am happy with a Burger in a box and she . . . well she has to have it her way. I say this with all the love in the world, for as you all know, I truly cherish my wife. The truth of the matter is that she can be one of the most difficult people in the world when it comes to purchasing almost ANYTHING. A desire to shop is not the problem here. I certainly don’t mind doing some leg work to find just the right item or just the right price. Hell, I will stand outside a dressing room for hours with a cheery smile on my face every time she comes out with a different outfit on for me to critique. She promptly disregards my critique, but demands it all the same. No, shopping isn’t the problem. The problem is, once an acceptable item has been located the inevitability of the following makes my blood run cold and a shiver run down my spine. “Do you have these in Black” she will ask the dressing room attendant. Now, I was with her when she picked up this pair of pants, and I know full well that they only had them in Grey. I silently ponder to myself, if you didn’t want a pair of grey pants, why the fuck did you try them on? And then she seems sincerely disappointed when the attendant confirms what we already knew . . . “We only have them in Grey”. And now the game is on. “How about this shirt . . . do you have it in short sleeves?” My response is as follows: “Oh for Christ’s sake woman, buy the fucking shirt and I will cut the damned sleeves off when we get home. Can we leave now?” Of course I never say any of this. Instead I supportively scamper around the store making sure that we didn’t somehow miss the pants in black or the shirt in short sleeves.

So it goes with all her purchases. The expectation of customization is so foreign to me that it still causes me to scratch my head when she launches off into one of these perilous conversations with the closest unwitting store clerk. The look of desperation in their eyes as they meet with mine is heartbreaking, but it is all about survival man. The best I can do it shrug my shoulders at them when my wife isn’t looking. Regardless of how many times she is faced with the inability to have an item “her way”, she never fails to ask. It is as if she believes that one day, by some stroke of luck, all garments will be produced on site and should the need arise for a certain style of pants in “black”, the small army of migrant workers in the backroom will just whip up a pair from scratch. Oh shit, and don’t even get me started on coffee. I think this is really where the problem originated. My wife is a Starbucks fanatic. As simple cup of coffee is nowhere near good enough. The complexity of the order is on par with one’s ability to memorize the entirety of the periodic table right down to the atomic weight of Boron. I flat refuse to order her a coffee of any sort. I simply don’t have the mental capacity or patience to rattle of the list of custom features required to get an acceptable brew. It is getting so bad that I have even taken to having her lean over me at a drive through so that she can “order the fucking thing for herself”. I, on the other hand, am quite willing to accept mediocre products so long as the purchasing process is quick and simple. If I want a Cheeseburger and it comes with an item I don’t desire, I simply pull back the bun and pluck the undesired item from the patty and fling it out the car window. It would never even occur to me to get in a pissing match with the 15 year old kid at the drive through as to whether or not he can prepare it without said ingredient.

So, you see, we have a problem on our hands. Having weighed through thousands, perhaps millions, of house plans I am quite willing to accept an “off the shelf plan” so as to avoid the cost of an architect. Did I mention I plan on building this thing myself? The fewer cooks in the kitchen come build time, the less likely I will be to throw myself from a freaking bridge. Still, I love my wife, so with every plan I have shown her I simply smile and nod as she begins to dissect it like a frog in science class, moving a door here and a wall there (never mind structural integrity). We have even gone so far as to create a Pinterest page to catalog our ideas for this new home. Truth be told, I know not what use this could possibly be since every item we pin is “sort of” like what she wants. “I like that chair, but in a different color . . . pin it” she says. “But Honey, they don’t make that chair in any other color” I say in complete deperation. Her reply is always the same . . . “Well, we can ask anyway”. “Yes Honey”. There is no use in fighting it. The only comfort I have in all of this is that one day many years from now, when she lays me down to rest, my customized coffin will be the talk of the graveyard. In the end, this all brings me to one startling revelation about our marriage. I now know that the reason she married me is that she could have me in short sleeves, without pickles, and completely decaffeinated with lowfat whipped cream on the side. Until next time, R.