I started a new project. It has consumed me... Eaten me whole. It has taken on a life of its own, and now I have this living thing in my grasp, and I am trying like hell to not squeeze too tightly. It twists and turns and dives of its own volition. It's a helluva ride. I have been going back to Bukowski quite a bit for inspiration. This poem in particular has been resonating:

An internet buddy recently designed a site for a shindig he is throwing in Vegas. (As an aside, if you can be in Vegas in September, you really should. It is going to be a helluva party.) Ever since he published it, something about the design has been tickling my memory. I couldn't figure out what it reminded me of... Until today.

I was sitting on the couch, laptop on lap, struggling with a graphic I have neither the skill nor the software to create. I had a random playlist cranked through the TV, and a Sex Pistols song came on. The screen saver is set to show album covers. I looked up, and this is what I saw...

"How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 8:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so? "

I'm working on it Chuck... I'm getting closer every day.

Something amazing is happening right now in Iran, and you need to pay attention. Chances are pretty good that part of your world view is cock-eyed, askew, and kerfunckled (Yes, "kerfunckled" is so a word. It means exactly what you think it means.)

What do you think would happen if you bought a one way ticket to Iran, and just showed up? Do you think they would put you in jail? Do you think they would deport you? Do you think they might lock you in a little room and in-terror-gate you? Well, you are wrong. Here is what happened in 2012 when the Yomadic did just that:

"... the friendly Iranian officials at Imam Khomeini International Airport in Tehran asked me a few questions, typical of any airport anywhere, they efficiently processed my application, stamped my passport with an Iranian visa-on-arrival, welcomed me to their country, smiled, and let me in. I walked out of the airport, leaving behind one of my many preconceptions about Iran."

Today, the zero of you that read this are going to humor me while I ramble on about one of my heroes. The one and only Thomas Ruggles Pynchon.  (Seriously... I have no idea where this is going. Initiate ramble... NOW.)

What I do for a living, I do with words. I'm a hack, but I'm a hack that loves his tools. I have an affection for them. I appreciate it when language is used effectively. It doesn't matter to me if the words are spoken, written, sung or read... I love 'em. 

Thomas Pynchon is a kung-fu grand master word slinger. He is as good as it gets. His name belongs alongside the greats. Hemingway, Murakami, Gibson, Le Guin, Neruda... In his own way, he is every bit as powerful as anyone who has ever picked up a pen. (read more...)