Yes, I’ve decided that it’s time I moved out on my own. The planned two year retrospective will happen after all. Marvel as I go through the posts of the past two years, one by one, one or two months per day, copying and pasting them to blogger.
Relive all your old favorites by clicking here.
If you were led to believe that an e-mail from me would be arriving in your inbox shortly, I’m sorry about the lapse in correspondence.
“I’m a bit of a perfectionist, like. For me, it’s got to be the best or it’s nothing at all. When things get a bit dodgy, I just cannot be bothered.”
-Spud
So there.
I will write you when I have written myself. That sentence sounds cryptic, but it really isn’t. I’m still floored by “What’s your industry?” Until I have something with which I could maybe hope to match the greatness of that, things will remain a bit dodgy.
The entry below is already making me cringe. I am clearly in decline. “Had it, lost it,” Sick Boy would say. The problem is that I don’t think I ever had it.
whatever “It” is.
Work proceeds as always, boring, soul-crushing, and lucrative.
My chief concern these days has been my regression (devolution?) into a lower form of life: the suburban teenager.
I should have started to worry during that summer when I listened only to the Beach Boys. “Brian Wilson is a genius,” I told myself, “a Modern Mozart.” But we all know that pop music is pop music, as low as WWF or Nascar.
Then my writing started to change. I used to write short stories about my childhood, and attempted to show what it was like to grow up as an Asian, being pigeon-holed into the model minority role, etc etc. Eventually I started to write more accessible fare about girls, cars, and getting drunk.
Last month, I bought my first good car. Not that I’ve written anything in the past year or so, but it feels like I’ve written even less since my new love has come into my life. Yes, you read that correctly, my new love. All that built up angst from years of sexual frustration has disappeared. (My friend K. explained to me a few days about sublimating, fascinating stuff.) I’ve changed my computer wallpaper to a picture of my car. I sometimes go to the window just to gaze adoringly at her. I get out of bed at night not to write, but to read the message boards dedicated to my model.
On Friday I may get together with a bunch of semi-literate (judging from their posts on the message board) strangers, with whom I only have in common an interest in this particular make and model.
I worry that a few years from now, I will be wearing a wifebeater, drinking Bud Light, and playing touch football in the parking lot of Giants Stadium. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. No, there’s a lot wrong with that.
Just enjoying one small thing that “they” do won’t make me into one of “them,” right?
I guess this is just my lot in life, to be constantly straddling two worlds, Chinese and American, Intellectual and Vulgar, Self-Loathing and Arrogance, never perfectly fitting into either.
Note: This entry is about a week late.
The infidel known as Har-Mar Superstar is the worst fat man in a diaper act in the history of man.
(that fucker was the sole reason for my refusing to go to the Siren festival at Coney Island this past weekend, and thus spending another saturday alone)
Late, as usual, and not so fashionable anymore, as the Times writes about blogging once a month.
So a week ago was this blog’s second anniversary. I had a big retrospective planned, but I spent the day installing an intake in my car. And now, a week later, I can’t even contemplate looking back at my favorite posts/moments. What could be more masturbatory than that? [image of unpublished hack sitting in his underwear and a sweat-soaked t-shirt, face too close to computer screen, congratulating himself on having “written” little dribbles of nothing for two years]
What would be the opposite of masturbation? Flagellation?
I had to look up flagellation to get the exact meaning, and yes, that was the word I was looking for. I am being mean to myself tonight, but no meaner than some of the people who leave comments for me. I am writing tonight to remind myself of two years and eighty thousand some odd words, poorly written, dedicated to nothing in particular. Wasn’t Keats already dying from the consumption at twenty-three? I know of a modern day guy, let’s call him Mister Vee, who has already had two books published at twenty-three, and is supposedly working on a screenplay with Nick Hornby.
I am bitter tonight.
The weight of history can be overwhelming. Two years isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, but when I get a mean comment from someone on an entry written over a year ago, or when it seems that all of the readers I am getting are Chingy fans, it is tempting to just trash this whole thing.
On the other hand, the weight of history can be a steadying influence. (I am recalling a comment about how I will keep writing entry after entry of embarassing, bland crap for the rest of my life.) It’s kind of nice to look back at these slices of the past two years. It’s nice to see that I’ve been much much lower than tonight, and that I survived, and that there were good times.
So, overwhelmed by the weight of history though I may be, this thing here will continue (sporadically), embarassing moments and all, until I change my mind. Or until the weight of my history becomes too much for Mister E. Sloth, just as his had become too pondersome.
!!!
