Welcome to Night Vale

One form of entertainment media I don't consume regularly is the podcast. I guess this is strange for someone who co-hosts a weekly podcast himself, but I'm not a fan of talk radio in general (I have my alarm clock set to NPR because it makes me want to turn it off immediately in terror) and prefer rocking out to Pandora or Spotify while at work. I know there are a bunch of cool podcasts out there because my co-host Noah tells me about them (and he talks them up on "Fallow" episodes of When Harry Met Fatty) but honestly I've never felt a burning urge to tune in. My overall podcast consumption is limited to listening to Fatty (I listen to every episode 2-3 times as a kind of quality control measure), the occasional episode of Sound Opinions (which broadcasts nationally but I listen to only online and might as well be a podcast for my purposes), and You Are Here with Brian Beatty.

But lately, via the wonder of FB sharing and a man named Wick, I've come across Welcome to Night Vale, which describes itself as thus:

"WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE is a twice-monthly podcast in the style of community updates for the small desert town of Night Vale, featuring local weather, news, announcements from the Sheriff's Secret Police, mysterious lights in the night sky, dark hooded figures with unknowable powers, and cultural events.

Turn on your radio and hide."

The writers of Welcome to Night Vale have a nice way of twisting listener expectations-you don't know what's going to be reported next, but you do know it'll be a fresh new horror delivered in an amusing way. It's good fun, well produced, and an entertaining way to pass 12-15 minutes. And I've always had a soft spot for small towns beset by supernatural events!

Goodbye, Our Purple Jester!

A quote from David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest in honor of the unfortunate departure of Viking's punter Chris Kluwe after eight years of kicking ass, speaking his mind, and giving us the phrase "lustful cockmonster":

"...Orin found for himself, within competitive U.S. football, a new niche and carrot. A Show-type career he never could have dreamed of trying to engineer. Within days he was punting 60 yards without a rush, practicing solo on an outside field with a Special Teams Assistant, a dreamy Gauloise-smoking man who invoked ideas of sky and flight and called Orin 'ephebe,' which a discreet phone call to his youngest brother revealed not to be the insult Orin had feared it sounded like."

Casting About

I turned in my latest novel to my agent about a month ago (#13, but who the hell is counting except my future grave digger, right?) and since that historic date I have been casting about for my latest project. i.e. I have no idea what the hell I should write next. Short story? Novel? A tell-all memoir from my cat's point of view? A thriller detective mega-seller? A book of laconic haiku?

I've noticed a troubling pattern over the past few years. When I began writing, I had a ton of ideas and wrote a ton of stuff, including short stories. But nowadays I have fewer ideas, only write a handful of short stories a year, if that, and pace about in agony as I wait for my next big idea. In olden times, I'd be chomping at the bit to write my next novel while still in the late stages of the current novel. Now I languish for months between novel ideas.

What's going on here? Having tried my hand at many stories, in many styles, have I exhausted the Oppegaard Well of Inspiration? If so: CRAP! I'm only 33. Am I growing too jaded, too "professional"? I used to write story ideas in blissful ignorance of their target audience, potential quality, and general sanity. Now a certain amount of forethought comes into every project I attempt, whether I want it to or not.

I don't know. Maybe I should just drink less and sleep more. Boy that sounds exciting.

Yes, I Have Seen The Rain

I listened to the Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" on my drive to work this morning. It occured to me, upon hearing it for the one millionth time, that it was time to engage the song in a dialogue. Yes, this is the sort of hard hitting blog writing you've come to know here at Deep Thoughts With Blogagaard!

Someone told me long ago there's a calm before the storm
(Who was this gentleman poet? Captain Obvious?)
I know, it's been comin' for some time
(CCR as meteorologist?)
When it's over, so they say, it'll rain a sunny day
(Huh?)
I know, shinin' down like water
(In fact, many scientists believe that rain actually is water!)

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
(Yes!)
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
(Hell yes!)
Comin' down on a sunny day?
(Sure! That's the Devil funneling into my soul!)

Yesterday and days before, sun is cold and rain is hard
(The sun was cold yesterday? Has it ever been cold?)
I know, been that way for all my time
(Ah, the long view.)
'Til forever, on it goes through the circle, fast and slow
(The Circle Of Life!)
I know, it can't stop, I wonder
(Wonder what? You trailed off there...)

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
(Yes, sir! It comes from big-big sky!)
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
Comin' down on a sunny day?
(ARE YOU DEAF?)

Yeah, I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
(Goddamn it. I told you-)
I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain
Comin' down on a sunny day?
(OK, shut the hell up, CCR!)

Cocktails are always a delicious way to pass an evening, but they also have the curious quality of being slightly mythic in regard to their ingredients, preparation, and the time and place they're consumed. I give you this passage from Kate Atkinson's story "Pleasureland" which is the concluding tale of her entertaining collection Not the End of the World, peppered by myself with a few hyperlink references to the times and cocktails mentioned! Yes, this is likely the most heavily researched post in Blogagaard history.
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"I always think vodka is a clean tasting drink," Trudi said. "Lemon, ice, tonic--what more could you ask for?"

"You could ask for a Pimm's. With cucumber and mint and slices of orange and lime. A maraschino cherry or perhaps a fresh strawberry. And a little Chinese paper parasol. Or possibly a dry Manzanilla sherry with a dish of roasted, salted Spanish almonds."

"Champagne cocktails --Ambrosia, Mimosa, Morning Glory--on the deck of a large oceangoing passenger liner sailing across the Pacific in, let's say, 1910."

"A gin sling on the veranda of Raffles in 1931."

"A Tom Collins at Harry's Bar in Paris in 1922."

"A Manhattan in the Monkey Bar in New York, a Gibson in the Double Dragon Lounge overlooking Hong Kong harbor. A Mai Tai in Honolulu, a Blue Margarita in Barcelona."

...

"A grappa. A Gaslight or a Sazerac."

"Lethal."

"Absinthe," Charlene said dreamily.

"Mmm."

"And opium."

Oh, yes, lots of opium."

A Chronicle of My Recent Participation in the Hundred Push Ups Training Program As Logged on Pushups Logger

Week 1-Day 1
Max: 15
First day. I defy thou, time. I shall become immortal.

Week 1-Day 2
Max: 15
Beyond here lies only sorrow and lament. Do not look to the skies, for you will not find God there.

Week1-Day 3
Max: 15
The ground calls to me, threatening to swallow me whole. I must push...up.

Week 2-Day1
The edifice threatens to crumble, but then I recall there is no edifice and pain is only an illusion brought on by the mutilated harpies in one’s own mind. I find this helpful.

Week 2-Day 2
Max: 17
The sky blackens, my arms tighten. I am a steel trap waiting to snap. I dream of Hercules.

Week 2-Day 3
Max: 20
Trolls tunnel beneath my apartment, threatening to unhinge me and send me sprawling into a lake of fire and want. I hear you, trolls. And I am coming for you.

Week 3-Day 1
Max: 20
The mists recede. The demon has gone on holiday.

Week 3-Day 2
Max: 19
Darkness. Imprisoning me.

Week 3-Day3
Max: 22
Tomorrow, on the Day of St. Patrick, we renew our annual war with the Little People. I shall be strong for the culling!

Week 4-Day 1
Max: 23
So, it continues. I sweat whiskey and dream of reaching bedrock. The cat watches me in confusion.

Week 4-Day 2
Max: 24
Do not look for me in the past, for I cannot turn back.

Week 4-Day 3
Max: 26 (?)
I am logging this days after. Such was the fire beneath my skin that I forgot to pushup log! Silly me.

Week 5-Day 1
Max: 27
Week Five? I’m still fucking doing this?

Week 5-Day 2
Max: 25
I’ve gone off the grid. I make my own sets and numbers now. I answer to nothing but the iron in my blood.

Week 5-Day 3
Max: 26
Ghosts come out of the floorboards to stare, then sink again without a sound. They are weak whilst I am strong.

Week 6-Day 1
Max: There are no boundaries to Fantasia.
I must go now.

End of Log

Draft Five

What draft number five of the new novel looks like around 2 A.M. in Blogagaard land.