I know one of the things my wife bought me for Christmas.  (Yeah.  I peeked.) 

It's a Seinfeld trivia game. There's a DVD component.  And probably a game board.  (I wonder if the player pieces look like Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer?) 

Hey... board games in Seinfeld.  Well, there was Trivial Pursuit in the Bubble Boy episode.  (Remember 'Moops'?)  And Jerry was playing Scrabble with his mother in one episode.  Chess showed up when Jerry was having an internal dialogue between his brain and his dick.

The only problem with this gift is that I'll have no one to play against.  Unless it comes with an online version.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF NJOMBO McPIKE....

Two weeks until Christmas break.

Now, I don't exactly 'celebrate' Christmas.  Oh, I get a tree and buy presents and get drunk and eat turkey.  But I don't spend any time thinking about the goings-on in Palestine two thousand years ago.  I do appreciate the time away from school, however.  And if it took the birth of a fictional character to accomplish all this, who am I to argue?  Especially with turkey, beer, presents and a fortnight's vacation.  I would prefer to celebrate the publication of The Origin of Species, say.  Or Mark Twain's birthday. (But those are just singletons; a long weekend at best.)  Of course, one can change and adapt. And dare I say it? one can evolve.

So that will be my Christmas theme this year.  I'll decorate the place like The Galapagos, eat some catfish, get drunk and read passages from Huck Finn and the latest Dawkins book. Of course, the turkey stays.  And the presents.

More about this later.

I KNOW I DON'T HAVE TO TELL YOU THIS, BUT

The wife turns 60 tomorrow.  She's old, I'm old.

I remember when things were different, when we possessed whatzits and thingamajigs the other was interested in exploring.

What the hell happened?

Knowledge might be power.  But ignorance (with a trunkload of curiosity and a hard-on) was bliss.

Get the hell out there and explore.

Happy Thanksgiving to the good folks of the U S of A. 



Oh.

Right....

I forgot to mention the Republicans.

Sorry.

As you were.  Say no more.  No what I mean?  Nudge, wink, gobble.

A SIMPLE 'THANK YOU'

Ahh... so quiet.  So peaceful.  No comments and no followers.  Just the way I like it.  Why, I'm virtually invisible.

That being the case -- and you being busy and all -- I intend to rob your houses.

You might as well gift-wrap the silverware and put my name on it.

Oh yeah... and thanks.

Years ago, a friend (and fellow writer) told me I was afraid of (literary) success.

Sounds preposterous, doesn't it?

I think he was right.

Still, he never had a wife.  Or children.  And aging parents.  And the kind of personality that always put teaching ahead of writing.

Yeah, I have excuses.

But he was correct.  For oh, so many reasons.

I've always been a fringe player, publishing a story here and there, and some poetry, some this and that. But the novel is nearly ready.  And the novella.  And the book of stories.

I'm schizoid, though.  I hear voices telling me to back off, rip it up, stay sane, forget 'success'. 

Yes or no?  I mean, hell, time isn't exactly on my side. Figure it out, asshole.  What do you want?

I love to write.  But I despise notoriety.

Maybe I just want to be a 'coulda been'.

I do know this: whether or not anything got published, I needed to take dictation. Even if I was the only one who ever heard their stories.  Because they didn't care about 'success'.  They only needed a typist.

FACTS AND FICTION

I'm sixty.  I was adopted in 1948. My biological mother is likely dead.

Those are the facts.

Here are some more:

I never wanted to track her down.  I've been aware of the fact that I was adopted since I was twenty-three.  The person I've called 'mother' all my life is still alive.  She is ninety-one.  Who needs an extra one of those?

But let's say my biological mother was just a kid when she had me.  Hell, she might still be in her mid-seventies.  Maybe she's still in possession of her marbles... and a huge fortune.  She might be able to tell me things about my biological daddy.  Like, what a prick he was.  Or how they were both just kids and he was going to marry her but then the hay thresher took off both of his legs and he bled to death under a gray Saskatchewan sky, her name on his lips as he died, shivering, alone and frightened.

I have a thousand different scenarios.  But no answers.

And as a writer of fiction, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh I like it.

JUST AN OBSERVATION

Hey.
Last night I quaffed a couple of imported brewskis.  I went to the liquor store after work and picked up a few cans of stuff I'd never tried.  One of them was a German beer called Holsten.  Not bad.  A tad thin, mind, but still....  The interesting thing about this beer was the label.  There was a knight on horseback above the Holsten name, and below the name was this interesting little tag:

German Purity

Law of 1516

Now, I don't know about you, but whenever the Germans start touting laws of purity, I get a tad antsy.

Probably nothing to worry about, eh?

THE 'HAND OF GOD' REDUX. WHAT THE REF DIDN'T SEE.

There's only one thing I've enjoyed in my life more than beer.  (Hint: it doesn't involve the manufacture and release of bodily fluids, except perhaps for rivers of sweat.)  That's right.  Soccer.

I am, therefore, upset with the turn of events involving the second leg of World Cup qualifying between Ireland and France.  The outcome of the game was a sham, decided in France's favour by the gross ineptitude of the officials and a double hand-ball by one of the game's all-time great international players, Thierry Henry.

In Henry's defense, he did admit to the foul. But rules is rules. The ref didn't see it; therefore it didn't happen. Video replay is not allowed.  Unfortunately, the rules are wrong.  To win in such a manner is worse than losing.  One wishes the French side would show some balls and ask FIFA for a rematch.  Not that it would be granted.  But such an effort would at least exhibit some kind of sportsmanship. (One wonders how the hand-ball was missed by both the ref and the closest assistant.  Rather defies belief.)

Too bad this match will not be replayed. I'd bet Henry would be the first to suit up. When your playing days are over, all you have left is your reputation.  (And a few million in the bank to ease the shame, of course.)

THEN AND NOW

So I pick up my son from work.  The radio's on and the song is 'Pretty Woman'.  My son punches in a different station.  He starts laughing.  I ask him why.  "Listen to the song," he says.  But I don't get the joke; the 'music'  sounds like a bunch of noise to me.  "The song," he says again.  "Know what it's called?"  Not a clue, I tell him.  He informs me that the title of the song is 'Sexy Bitch'.  And he laughs again.

Ah-ha.  Yeah.  I get the joke.  It's a generational thing.  When I was his age, girls were pretty (even some of the uglier ones).  Now, they're just sexy bitches.

The passage of time is hard enough.  But the lack of decorum these days is downright depressing.

I've been reading -- well, catching up on, really -- some fiction lately.  I'm about thirty pages into Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road'.  Jeez, what a freaking downer, eh?  The only things the man and his son have come across in this post-apocalyptic looapalooza are a couple of leathery corpses and a Coke machine.  This book is enough to make you want to slit your wrists.  I mean, hell: the sun don't shine, everything's covered in ash, it's raining, and from what I can see, no one's likely to get laid in the near future.  The near future.  Ha ha.

I also read some Nick Hornby.  Love this guy.  Check out 'Slam' and 'A Long Way Down'.  Oh yeah, and there's a book of short stories he edited... got the word 'Angel' in the title.  I really enjoyed Roddy Doyle's story.  It's about a guy and a dead rat.  There might be a theme to this post.

Oh, well. Later.

On any given weekend, I prefer to spend my nights with the characters I'm creating rather than acting jolly with most of the people I know.

Don't get me wrong.  My friends are wonderful.

But we've been there. We've done it all.  For years.

What I need to hear are my newest fake children... fighting and trying and laughing and fucking and dying.

In other words, I'm happier inside my head than at the pub or at a potluck supper slash barbecue slash get together.

REGARDING MEMORY AND IMAGINATION

Imagine the future.  Are you in it?

I have difficulty imagining a future that doesn't contain my memories.

What must the future look like to amnesiacs? Just another black wall, like the past, I suppose.

An eternal present.

Yuck.

FAQ

Why don't you listen to me?

Who do you think you are?

Are you really an asshole, or do you just play one in real life?

Why don't you take an interest?  After all, they're your children, too.

Where's my money?

What's with the mustache, dude?

If God exists, is he proud of himself?

If Moe was the 'smart' Stooge, what possible hope was there for Shemp?  (At least Curly had mental problems and Larry had a decent head of hair.)

Note: The first five questions are from women.

I really hope this was helpful.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF NJOMBO McPIKE....

Writing is like drinking beer.  It is a natural, sometimes fluid action involving the hand and the brain.

I just wish there were some way to cash in the ten thousand pages of empties.