We are broke. Flat-fucking-broke. As in, if I don’t sell a ton of shit or get some invoices paid THIS week, we will not have enough to cover the mortgage or power bill or any number of other payments already scheduled via online banking.
So, what am I apologizing for? This:
Fuck you.
There. Sorry about that. I wish it could have been avoided, but it was coming out one way or another, and at least I can control it here. If I made a mess, I’ll clean it up.
I’m much better now.
Most people have a series of good ideas in varying frequencies. Some of us tend to think that most of our ideas are great ones and announce them all to the world. Blogs give the more gregarious of us the ability to elaborate on them at length. Twitter and FaceBook let us spit them out in rapid succession. For those who consistently go beyond mere idea generation and actually take action on a significant number of ideas, these tools are informative and exciting to all.
But they backfire on people whose timing is off. A good handful of us tend to come up with these ideas, broadcast our intentions via the internets and then sit on them for a while. Our friends comment on them, and the hesitant idea machines allow those responses to affect, usually to the detriment of said idea’s completion, their approach to getting it done.
A few months ago I mentioned selling off most or all of my musical equipment and starting from scratch. This was a good idea, and I should have done it. There isn’t a single piece of significantly valuable equipment I own that is in any way sacred to me. I could live without it all, and from a practical standpoint I already do. A good friend joked about how it would decrease my status as a rock star if I reduced my gear so drastically.
So I’m blaming my failure to actually do it on him. I doubt he’ll mind.
I have to stop announcing my plans to everyone. I need to just DO STUFF.
In a way, Farris Goldstein is my real name. I decided over a decade ago that, as much as I embrace technology, putting my thoughts out on the wires should probably be guarded by some kind of pseudonym. Those who know me understand that I’m just a silly guy who enjoys individual role playing, even if I bristle at the thought of rolling a bunch of dice and slaying imaginary dragons all weekend in a room full of other nerds.
I’ve been accused with everything from schizophrenia to multiple personality disorder to just plain batshit crazy. But I know I’m not crazy. I know the name I was given, and I love it. I also know that, for as long as I can remember, I’ve used internal creativity to successfully stave off the development and diagnosis of all those scary disorders.
Now I’ve actually been published on those wires with my real name, and I’m having a tiny identity crisis. Ever since I realized I was a writer I’ve worried about whether to finally just be Me and let the various avenues of my craft point to the same name. It would make putting together a portfolio much easier, but it’s just not that fun.
I have two such irons already in the fire, one of which actually pays a financially negligible but tangibly rewarding income. In addition, I have two Big Ideas that I want to remain passionate about, but since they’re targeted to mutually exclusive audiences, the more perverse one will definitely require a fake name.
But the other one… Oh, man, I wish I could say more about the other one, but it’s something that all sources say I should keep under my hat until it’s close enough to complete that I can’t help but put my John Hancock on it and show it off to everyone like a Heisman trophy. That one will definitely get my real-real name on it, possibly even with a pretentious middle initial.
Dammit, since when do I use sports references? Gotta nip that in the bud/butt.
I have three addictions. One of them, nicotine, will go away some day, but I’m not too concerned with the when or how. It is, contrary to what most might wish or think, the least important of my three addictions.
The second addiction is fried mozzarella sticks. When they’re available, they have complete control over me. This problem is somewhat tempered by the fact that if I find a particular establishment’s fare to be sub-par, my ability to choose another dish is greatly augmented. However, in moments of weakness, I will choose objectively bad cheese sticks over good steak. I’m not certain this particular addiction will ever go away. Why should it? Fried cheese is quite possibly the savior that will usher in the next era of peace. The vegans, being a mostly understanding minority, will either make dietary exceptions or at least toast the idea of finding common ground among the Jews, Palestinian, veg, non-veg, Kirk, Picard, Orthodox, Protestant, etc.
My real addiction — the one that should be most alarming to my caretakers — is one that I can do absolutely nothing to curb. It will be with me until the day I die. By the way, when that happens, I need witnesses to make sure traffic gets fucked up in at least 3 counties for the procession. I don’t exactly adore cops, but one service I don’t mind my tax dollars generating is fucking up traffic for dead people.
I like thinking. I love it. I don’t get bogged down by it like a lot of half-assed bloggers out there. I don’t question it, and I make no fishy lament about how it keeps be from getting anything done. To be completely honest, it is the only thing I do well. All of my other talents are just blind applications of that very basic ingenuity.
A beautiful mind? Probably not. But it’s really damn comfortable in here, and I ain’t leavin’.
Too many Ashleys, too many Robs.
Can’t some of you call yourself Leela or Bob?
Young me knew too many guys with my name.
One was exceptional, the rest were the same.
We were inseparable, and found all the gold,
but somehow we missed out, so the story goes.
If your name is Michael, and mine is Michelle
we’ll write lots of jokes that are boring as hell.
Richard, Ricardo, Harry, and Dick.
Tommy, and Sally, and Nick are all pricks.
Farris, and Ferris, and Donder, and Chris,
I drank too much coffee, now I have to piss.
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