I've moved.

Too much spam. Too much BS.

Here's my new home: http://briankrans.tumblr.com/.

Thanks.

Be very, very afraid to laugh

So, a while back I wrote a few posts that have been getting some attention back in the ol' fair Quad-Cities.

The first was about a "sighting" I had whilst living in the City of Davenport. The second was that the person I saw "abducted" was someone shown on the Web site ZWatch.org.

Sorry for the three people that read this blog and the one person who actually believed this was real. Yes, me, Brian Krans, an author of numerous fictional work, created those posts to further a conspiracy that might bring criminal charges.

Seriously. Read the story by the tenacious and talented Quad City Times reporter Ann McGlynn titled, "'Zombie' event planners might face charges."

As I was accurately quoted, I called the event — a zombie pride parade in Davenport — "form of creative expression" and "an art form," "mobile, walking art" and "our version of 'War of the Worlds.'"

If there are criminal charges pending against anyone involved in the project, I will declare this now, and in front of a jury if necessary, I WAS PART OF IT FROM THE BEGINNING!!!

Was there a conspiracy? If by conspiracy you mean planning extensively by numerous talented individuals in search of a goal, then yes, there was a conspiracy. Was there a crime committed? That's for the lawyers and possibly a jury to decide.

We collaborated, we created, we confused a few people, we entertained even more, and hopefully inspired some.

Instead of people looking at a Web site searching for a missing kid — whose "family" didn't even know that much about him — and giving it a dismissive look, some contacted the police because, let's face it, some people are easily scared at even the slightest hint of something wrong. Then again, most people are smart, saw right through it as the ploy it was and went on about their lives.

So that's the end of it, right? Nope. The cops are involved. They're upset and charges might be filed against the few of us brave (read: dumb) to tag our names to such a project where no one was hurt, no property was damage, nor any liberty was obstructed.

No, really, this is what's happened to us. I really, really hope there is a God and he hates people without a sense of humor.

We can't take jokes. We take everything seriously. Everyone has feelings. No one should ever, ever hurt them. I'm guessing — and often I'm not good at that — that someone made a huge stink about the site once they realized they were duped into believing what was obviously a hoax that was ALWAYS intended to be an advertising ploy for a few parties in the Quad-Cities.

To those people: you should also seek the heads of Ron Popeil, the Sham Wow guy, the people behind the Blair Witch Project and Michael Bay. I only include Michael Bay because his trailers make me think the movies might be good when they never are.

I'll end this with a quote from the greatest philosopher to ever grace the planet at the same time we all did, George Carlin: "I think people should be allowed to do anything they want. We haven't tried that for a while. Maybe this time it'll work."

Happy Sell Some Friggin' Books Month!

November might be National Novel Writing Month, but October will be my Sell Some Friggin' Books Month.

While my first novel/memoir might not be some teen vampire book — which we all know is an allegory for AIDS — it does have enough bits and pieces from everyone's college experience: falling down stairs, puking all over campus, irritating the townies, etc.

How many memories? ONE Magazine called it "a concise, thought-provoking and nostalgia-conjuring story of life during the impressionable stages of early adulthood."

So, if you haven't read it, you should really get on that.

Let's face it: living in San Francisco is expensive. I have books and you're looking for some cheap entertainment.

All you have to do is email me at briankrans@gmail.com with your address and how many copies you want. I'll send you my PayPal info and once I get $10 for each copy, I'll ship the books your way. FREE SHIPPING? Amazon doesn't even do that!

Sending it as a gift? I can include a nice or offensive inscription to your loved one (or maybe your ex- that you wish would just die). Either heart-felt or heart-piercing, I'll get your message across.

Support literature you bastards!

I can't believe it!

This is getting really, really creepy. In my last post I described what happened in my neighborhood not long before I left the Quad-Cities.

Somehow this blog got linked up with www.zwatch.org, a site dedicated to a missing QC man, Zachariah Furio. The site is now run by his brother Adrian, who in videos on the site investigated his own brother's disappearance.

The paper I used to work for wrote a story on the site that questioned it's validity and a reporter for the competing newspaper even suggested that I was the brother running the site. I will swear this with a Bible under my hand — I AM NOT RUNNING THAT SITE!!!

The most disturbing thing is that the picture to the left is of the missing guy, supposedly supplied by the QC Department of Biological Sciences. Never in my time in the Quad-Cities have I ever heard of such an organization, but I am positive of one thing — THIS IS THE PERSON TAKEN INTO CUSTODY THAT NIGHT IN DAVENPORT! Never, ever in my life have I been sure of such a thing.

Now I know that after years of covering trials that eyewitness testimony is the most unreliable out there, but I will never forget this face. Ever. This is the EXACT same calm face he was wearing when taken into custody.

No flashing lights. No cuffs. Masks and gloves? Is this the swine flu? H1N1, as it's known by is spreading everywhere, including 2,000 people on one college campus. This, according to zwatch, is the H1Z1. WTF is that?

Something is wrong in Davenport. There should be something out there other than unanswered questions for zwatch.org, a skeptical media because they're too lazy to look outside the usual channels, and a leak to a Web site that gets made fun or more than it is taken seriously.

If there's anything that makes me wish I had more time as a reporter in the QC, it's this. I was normally the one making jokes at the latest "panic" piece I was writing — swine flu, floods, tainted peanuts — but this is one of the few things that actually made me concerned. I doubt this photo is like that kid who cries blood.

All of the questions I was asking to my sources in law enforcement in Davenport have been met with silence except for one, which I will not name for obvious reasons. He's quit over this. To quote a voicemail message he left me, "Don't ask me any more questions about Furio. I'm out. I'm done." That was all I've got.

I'm glad I got out when I did.

I don't know what happened...

This might sound kind of strange from my normal blog topics — as if any of this has any focus — but I have to share this somewhere and I don't know where else to share this.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not some conspiracy theory nut, but there were some things going down in my neighborhood in Davenport before I left. Since then, I haven't been able to get any good answers from anyone as to what happened.

Not long before I left there was what I thought was an arrest in my old neighborhood at the top of the hill. My neighborhood was no stranger to flashing lights and gun-drawn arrests but these were different. Normally, squad cars would fill the street with flashing lights and uniformed officers, whether packing handguns or shotguns.

I don't remember what night of the week it was, but it was a weekday. I was up late, per usual, sitting at my desk writing. Down the block a bit, I heard a commotion and went outside and stood in my front lawn.

At some random house — one of the few that didn't get the cops banging on their doors — about eight men were standing in the front yard. They weren't wearing any kind of uniforms or insignia other than blue jeans and black T-shirts. These weren't the normal undercover or vice cops seen around the city.

The most alarming thing about these guys is that they were all wearing blue rubber gloves and dust masks like these.


It's like the Swine Flu had suddenly become some black ops thing and these guys were the ones cleaning up. I saw them take someone into custody.

Whoever was inside the white suit they put him in sure was going calmly because everyone walked out real quiet like, got into a black van and left heading north.

Maybe this doesn't mean anything at all, but when I checked, something felt wrong. Any contacts I had at any law enforcement agency in the QC were of absolutely no help. Even the ones that would give me nuggets of info for stories didn't even so much as call me back.

No public records showed anyone being held at any of the jails listing that address. No police agency showed an arrest at that house in the recent past.

It could all be nothing for all I know.

"Despite"

I have finally found my favorite word: despite.

Since I feel like this is a beginning of some college essay, I might as well include this part: Websters defines “despite” as “without being affected by; in spite of.” It’s Latin root means “look down upon.”

There could be a fill-in-the-blanks that starts with despite for all the people I admire: Despite _________, I __________.

There’s so many ways to fill that in. I want to get it tattooed on my somewhere and fill it in with Sharpie every once in a while, moving on to something else before it fades away.

Despite my age and ability, I keep skating.

Despite my high school counselor, I made it through college.

Despite the critics, I still write.

Despite knowing better, I take chances.

Despite everything to the contrary, I am where I am.

Despite my haters, I move forward.

Rolling in SF...

San Francisco is a weird place. Here, people seem to smile more, or at least where I'm staying in the Haight-Ashbury district for the next week.

The weirdest thing, there's a way to make a few bucks writing about what you really love. Hence is the case with Examiner.com. It's a site with content nearly fully-generated by freelance contributers in major cities across the country.

To my luck — or at least the fact it's such a niche market — I'm writing about rollerblading in San Francisco. My first piece focuses on the long history (which I kept extremely short) and influence SF has on blading since its birth.

As the "SF Roller Blading Examiner" I'm free to write as much as I'd like about aggressive blading, commuting on blades, rec skating or pretty much whatever I want so long as it deals with the wheeled booties on my feet.

My goal is to create a place for beginning skaters to look for resources to learn about skating, but mostly to put blading in mainstream media as much as possible. As a sport, we're more broke than California.

For this job, I'm paid by clicks, make sure to check out the stories as much as possible. Let's face it, San Fran is an expensive place to live.

Keys

They're simple things but they've got me thinking.

As I pack up everything I own — or at least what's left after selling most of it — I'm realizing I've spent a lot of time trying to determine what's important in my life. The easiest way is looking at my key ring.

This week I'm giving a lot of keys back. One is for my cousin's house. Another is for the laundry room at my old apartment (I've been freeloading for over a year). Yet another is for Skate Church and one for the lockers to the shop there. My apartment.

Then there are the car keys. The car keys are the last to go but the one's I think I'll miss the least. No more lazily driving to my destination, unaware of the journey until I got there. Nope, now I have to blade, bike or meander through public transportation to get around, something I've never done.

My apartment key is the second to last to go. Lots of memories of having too many bladers over after sessions, clogging the room with the stink of beer and smoke, laughing too loud and too late while Cheung crank called hookers in Las Vegas. Too much fun. Then there's the piles of cat hair still clinging to everything. That, and everything that came with it, I'm not crying for leaving behind.

Skate Church keys. Saying good-bye to all the kids sucked, but I would have traded my time there for anything. It's without a doubt the thing I'll miss most about the Quad-Cities. Outside the kids, having a key to an indoor skate park with a 40-foot wide mini ramp was my favorite part. Again, lots of good times. Lots of injuries, but good times too.

My cousin's house. Ah, yes, family I really get along with. A ball-psycho dog I taught to play Wii. Taco Thursdays and smarty-pants Palmer kids. All good memories.

In giving these keys back, in the midst of all the good times, I realized one thing — outside the car, nothing belonged to me. None of these were places I had any ownership nor stake outside time and emotions. I never settled here. I never bought a house, a condo or signed a lease in the last two years.

I'll miss each one of those keys, but maybe it is time to leave.

A step above a Star Wars geek...

So, a new Buffalo Wild Wings is opening in Moline and as a gimmick, the store is offering free wings for a year to the first 100 people in the doors. As much as I am a wh
ore for their saucy wings (Hot mostly, Blazin' if I want internal bleeding and Parm Garlic for dessert), I won't be one of the people waiting in line. 

The store opens Monday and there are already predictions that people will be camping out as early as Saturday. I was wrong. I just found out there are people camping out there in a tent right now. It's friggin' WEDNESDAY! Six days for wings!

Wow. Considering the offer could be as weak as six free wings a month for a year, that's some dedication to cheap-skating. 

This got me thinking...is a year's worth of wings really worth a weekend camping outside a closed restaurant. Sure, people have waited for worse, but there needs to be some kind of rating system for those people who deem it necessary to pause their lives for certain things:

Here are a few of my selections:

5). iPhone 3G Guy: Sure, now you can gather porn at blazing speeds, but the difference between the guy at the head of the line for the new 3G and the guy who gets it weeks later — the size of their contact list. 

4). Black Friday Shopper: It's not the waiting in line that is the demeaning part, it's the brutal nature of those shoving their way through the door. Maybe the chemical in turkey that makes you tired makes you psychotic when illuminated under florescent light. Then again, times are tough and power drills and flat-screen TVs are expensive.

Disclaimer: One day after Thanksgiving a friend and I waited outside the Wal-Mart I worked at to buy things for other people. We made $150 each for 2 hours of work. I was 16.

3). Star Wars Fanatics: While now extinct until George Lucas finds another way to whore out spinoffs of this great six-part series, the Star Wars fans were always the most eclectic. Whether dressed as a character that doesn't appear in the movie they're waiting for or having rehearsed light saber battles in the parking lot, these crazy kids just like to have PG fun. That, and after the whole waiting, they're still paying $9 to see an abomination — at least they did for the last three movies. 

2). Parents: So your kid likes Hannah Montana. Maybe your snot-ass punk of a kid wants a PSP. Cool, give them some cash and wish them luck. Waiting in line for hours, doing all the work and paying for tickets/toys only makes you a failure of a parent, not a good one. If your kid is disappointed in the fact they don't get to see the latest Disney manifestation of what adolescence should be, tell them to wait until they get a job. Sure, they like rock stars, but they won't be one. 

And now, the number one offender for waiting in line for all the wrong reasons:

1). Reality TV Show Contestant Wannabes: If you're waiting in line to hopefully cash in on your uniqueness, you'd be better off banking on your craziness. American Idol, The Real World or America's Next Top Model can do without you. You're not that interesting, talented or pretty if you have to wait in line. 

I've been bad...

Actually, I've been behaving recently, at least to a certain extent. 

Last week, I saw an ad on the SF Bay Craigslist looking for a job, but instead I found something even better.

An ad for a startup magazine called Kidnapped! said: "Do desperate times call for desperate measures? Have you ever done something you’re not entirely proud of? Made a dubious decision in the heat of the moment, fueled by the unlikelihood of being caught, remembered, or resisted? Has personal gain ever out-weighed moral obligation, friendship, or dignity? 

If so, we want to hear about it."

And they did. 

I wrote a story — aptly named Divorce Party — about an experience where I did some funny, but not-too-funny things while bartending a divorce party a few years ago. I workshopped it with the usual Tuesday night crowd and they liked it. 

Today I got an email from the magazine that said they "LOVE" the story (and the caps were theirs). 

The issue is supposed to be out this summer, so look for it. 

Until then, I'll be writing.

San Fran...

I'm looking forward to seeing this image in person. Maybe not this exact scene, but something like it. And I like a good skyline and dusk scene as much as the next hetero guy, but this is not why I'll be moving to San Francisco by fall. 

I guess it's been too long since I've been excited by anything that has sustained itself for an extended period of time. Don't get me wrong, I love so many aspects of my life right now that the thought of leaving it makes me sick to my stomach. 

Things have seemed to reach a standstill in the Quad-Cities. Stagnant is maybe a better word. I have amazing friends and I always seem to find a way to keep myself interested, but there must be more. Too often I find myself doing the same things, falling into the same ruts. I crave a challenge. I crave adventure. 

So, by my 28th birthday, I will be living in San Francisco with my friend Les. I'll be selling my car and relying on my skates, a bike and public transportation to navigate the 13th most populous city in the country. Thirteen is my lucky number after all.

For the first few months, I might have to survive on money from the sale of my car, but two weeks without a job will drive me insane. I know I'll find something, but newspapers are out. Sadly, the old gray ladies are dying. Online reading — like you're doing now — is, sadly, where it is at. Oh well, I always have unsold copies of A Constant Suicide I can hock on the streets. 

For my creative writing, I couldn't ask for anything better. Taking myself out of my comforts of home, really seeing a city instead of what's in front of my windshield, should do wonders for my creativity. That, and the writing scene is AMAZING! I could very easily be applying to the three schools there with a Creative Writing MFA for fall 2010. Consider that done. 

A writer and a graphic designer from Iowa (which allows gay marriage) move to San Francisco. They both rollerblade. Sure, that doesn't sound gay at all. 

Grad schools...

So last week was the week of rejections. From everywhere.

Iowa said no. So did Colorado, Michigan, Brown and others. I got a story rejected from a literary magazine I really respect. There were some personal rejections too, but since this blog is supposed to be about my literary ventures, we'll stick to those.

The worst of all of them was Colorado — sending me an e-mail on Saturday night that not all of my letters of recommendation arrived, so they couldn't accept my application. On a Saturday night! That's when I get to find out someone couldn't manage to send a letter, even after promising me they would! Let's just say it killed the mood for what could have been a magically adventurous and much-needed night off.

Anyway, this is the week of acceptances. Baltimore wants me, which is great because of their non-traditional program. We could be a good mix together. "You're in" is such a good phrase to hear. (Proceed to scraping your mind out o' the gutter).

I also received a financial aid offer from San Francisco State. I have yet to get a final yes or no from them, but I figure since they went through the trouble of making sure I could afford to go there, there might be some interest in me.

In other news, the Buffalo Carp release party was last night. And, of course, since I had two pieces chosen for it and was a judge in the short fiction contest, I couldn't make it. One very talented writer said of the event, "I'm really proud of the Quad Cities tonight."

Really wish I could have been there. Anyway, but it, support it, love it.

Reading tonight...

Tonight I'm headlining the Out Loud Series at Quad City Arts. It's kind of a thrown-together idea of having less-known (like I'm that well known) people read their work before I get up and spew out some dribble. Normally reserved for poetry, this Out Loud is the first where fiction writers are the center of attention.

Scouring my brain for what to read, I opted to revisit some of my older notebooks to write something special for the occasion. What I chose was to go with was an amusing anecdote from my travels to New Orleans in 2007 with the youth group from SkateChurch. Nothing better than getting some guns pulled on you by a few cops while volunteering with kids.

The point of reading that story is to transition into a chapter from Freeze Tag on the Highway. While the chapter is actually number ten or so, it's the first bit of the book I wrote while inspired to start the project while in New Orleans.

The reading, instead of just some slopped-together short stories in random order, is more about the creative process and how my life inspires my fiction.

Hopefully, it won't blow up in my face. God, I pray they're not serving alcohol. It could get ugly if they do.

Thoughts...

So now that I'm some kind of business reporter, I've got my mind away from the area's collection of broken teeth, mangled flesh and monthly body count that is the crime beat.

Covering a country in a recession is all sorts of messed up. People are trying to "think green" by using less and trying to save money by spending less, but in turn are hurting an economy that was founded on people discarding everything and spending more than we could ever make. Our foolishness is catching up with us at a rapid rate, sending us clamoring for ideas on how to resolve it.

Frankly, I think we're screwed and deserve it. Don't get me wrong, I don't want anyone without a job, especially one they've given their soul and fingerprints to for the last few decades. I love those guys and girls. I was raised among them.

I'm just hoping that whatever comes of these economic predictions — if things are really as bad as people say they are — is that we all become smarter. Maybe with all of this we can see the ramifications of things we thought were easy choices.

Take for example the simple thing of food, something we all often look over as a means to end hunger. Honestly, I hope the recession kills fast food. Since we're all trying to save money (or at least us middle class and poor kids), I hope we all start thinking about where we are putting our money. Instead of jamming the pockets of the corporations that dole out bonuses in the millions and billions to their top people, can we support the companies that support charities with causes close to our ideals?

Do we stop feeding the McMachines, the Big Boxes and the rest of the places that give us sub-par living, as both the consumer and the employee? I have. I've sworn off fast food, vending machines and anything that gives me over-processed crap for eager money. I've finally started shopping, knowing when I'll get hungry. I stash my food and don't buy crap I might think for a second that I'd throw out.

I shop where my friends work, even if I have to go out of my way to go there. I shop the places in my neighborhoods. If someone gives me crap service, they won't see me again.

With limited money to spend as I try to dig myself out of debt — whether in preparation for grad school or the beautiful fact of not owing anyone any money — I'm more conscious of where I plug my bills. If they paid for a Super Bowl ad — chucking out $3 million for 30 seconds — I won't buy their stuff. (Although www.aconstantsuicide.com is a Go Daddy site, a company that has treated me very well in terms of service) If they advertise with our paper (thus paying my paycheck) they've got a better chance of seeing the money back. Sorry Wal-Mart, none for you.

There's tons of places I'd like to take all of this rambling, but I won't...this time.

We're all going to see hard times, in one fashion or another, if we're not there already.

We just need to think more. We need to be more deliberate with what we do.

After all, thinking is a good thing. I'm going to try it out for once.

"Freeze Tag on the Highway"

So, following a hiatus where I worked on my social life, exploring America and about half a dozen short stories, I'm back working on the novel. Since I have an agent in New York currently reading it, I think it's a good idea to have more pages available than what I've sent them.

It's not like I've been sitting on my couch watching movies all the time. I've been getting more active in SkateChurch again, traveling in a van to Texas, a week in Vegas, a trip home, a food column for ONE Magazine, hectic changes in my work and romantic life, becoming an editor at Buffalo Carp, and a whole bunch of other side projects. I've been a busy boy because, for some reason, I don't think there's such a thing as "too busy." Thanks mom.

Sadly, since beginning the latest novel — titled Freeze Tag on the Highway — I'm only about 150 pages into it. I know where I want to go, but since it's written in present tense, I really can't jump around like I did for A Constant Suicide.

There's also the fun task of applying to grad schools. In the end, I applied to about eight (I say "applied" when I still have one more to apply to). Yes, I only applied to ones that didn't require the GRE. The thought of taking a huge standardized test that will help judge if I can get into a Creative Writing program makes no sense. You would think the worse someone did on the test would better their chances. I know I'm wrong.

So, while waiting for either little- or big-letter day from each school come March, I'm on the novel train. There aren't any really big short story ideas burning through my head, so it's about time I get clipping along on that. I want it done before I go to grad school.

Then again, if I don't get into school, I'm going to pack up my crap and move to Portland and become a hermit for a while. Maybe somewhere warmer.

And here's a photo tour of what I've been up to:

Drunk blogging...

Okay, now that I have internet, here's what I wrote for Drunk Blogging Day. Somehow it ended up in a horrible attempt at screenplay format, but it's un-edited. I haven't read it since I wrote it, so enjoy.

INTRO SCENE: A 27-year-old white boy in an “IOWAT” T-shirt and great sweat-shorts sits at a couch with his knee in a brace and ice pack on top. A bottle of beer, pack of Marlboro Ultra Light cigarettes, green Bic lighter and a whole bunch of other crap rest on the same coffee table as his white MacBook. The writer stares intently at the computer, incessantly typing while occasionally stopping to sip his beer or smoke a cigarette.

CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON THE COMPUTER.

BEGIN NARRATIVE:

Today is the day that Ernest Hemmingway and Charles Bukowski would have loved had they written on computers — National Drunk Blogging Day.

In honor of said holiday, I’m spending the evening at home with a six-pack of ice cold Miller Lites and a small amount of painkillers in my stomach. It’s not as that I’m suicidal or want to drift off into some delirium-soaked rant about the faces of Coltrane or something (Movie, anyone?). Nope, it was emergency room trip number three for me this year.

First, it was a broken ankle. Then it was a car accident. Now, it’s a stupid trick I was trying, not paying attention and then slamming my knee full force into the end of a grind box. For those of you playing the home game, take your right knee, find some exposed steel pipe with ragged edge and take a flying leap at it. That’ll get you four stitches and swelling and bruising so bad you’d think the center of your leg was an eggplant.

Then again, thanks to a comp day, I get the luxury of drinking on a Monday night while icing and elevating. My other plans were evacuated after the hospital, so fate stepped in and said, “Hey, have some beers and blather away on the laptop.”

GETTING UP TO ADJUST HIS LEG BRACE, THE WRITER WINCES IN PAIN, REALIZING THE ON-SITE PAINKILLERS ARE WEARING OFF AND THE SWELLING IS IN ITS MOST PAINFUL STAGES

WRITER CRACKS OPEN SECOND BEER AND SLAMS HALF OF IT. HE CHASES IT WITH MORE IBUPROFEN.

Fucking ow! Seriously, I didn’t think it would be this bad. I know I smacked the hell out of it but c’mon this is nuts.

OPENS THIRD BEER

Really all I want to do right now is lay down and watch episodes of “No Reservations” on my computer until I fall asleep. I’m normally not this big of a wuss, but the swelling is the worst part.

The silver lining to my lacerated crowd is that I’m not shy of ideas to write about.

What is all of this about? What is the grand message behind every scar on my body? Why continue doing things when pain, rejection and disfigurement are eminent?

Perserverence. Challenges. Goals.

I’m going to go into work limping — as I have many times before — and I’m going to be made fun of. I’m going to be mocked. I’m going to be asked, “Are you finally going to quit skating?” Every bruise, gash, broken appendage, and that question comes up.

There’s the simple answer: No. No, I’m not.

If I quit everything I wasn’t good at, I’d never really do much. I wouldn’t write. I wouldn’t skate. I wouldn’t get dressed. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t have sex. I fail at a whole lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my successes. I’m not special this way. Everyone is built this way.

We garble our words the first time we try to talk. We fall the first time we try to walk. We will most likely run into some inanimate object with our cars at least once before we die. We will most likely fail a test. We will most likely get turned down for a job. Hell, as humans, the only constant thing in our lives is failure. Anytime we try anything for the first time, we don’t do it right. Hopefully after long enough, we get something right. It’s either that or we give up. I’ve seen those guys. They’re the ones drunk all the time, sleeping in cars and waiting for a handout because they’re sick of trying. (Okay, not all of them, but at least a few.)

WRITER GOES ON TANGENT

You know those people in college who drink a certain kind of booze (almost always girls and Jack Daniels), get incredibly hammered and then swear to never drink it again? What’s with that? Isn’t the point of drinking an abundance of alcohol to get drunk? Well, if I drank anything like that, I’d be all over it again. And by “if” I mean “because.”

Is it the booze’s fault? No.

Lesson of the day: if you drink a bottle of Jack Daniels, you will get drunk. So drunk, in fact, that you’ll probably do stupid shit that seems like the shit at the time. My words of advice, do it to it as much as you can within non-lethal means. That’s why they make it. Think of the distillers, they have families to feed, too. (You’re welcome, Joe)

WRITER FINDS TOPIC AGAIN

Am I ever going to go pro at skating? No. Does it make me feel great, keep me from become a fat slob couch muffin and foster creativity? You’re damn right it does. Maybe if I were smart I’d quit so I wouldn’t creak and moan so much, which gets worse every single day I fail to take better care of my body. But, because of skating, I’ve traveled the country, met some of the coolest people in existence, and reconnected with what’s important in life — friends, bullshitting, fun and not being afraid to get hurt.

I’ve heard way too often that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

WRITER OPENS FOURTH BEER, SMOKES A CIGARETTE AND THINKS FOR A BIT WHILE STRETCHING OUT HIS LEG

If we all dictate our lives by our failures, we’ll end up doing nothing. If we know something is important, if we feel we need it to truly be free, there’s no need to fear rejection, failure or pain because perseverance is the greatest virtue.

You’re going to fail. Admit it. I have. Admit it and move past it. Try, fail and give it another go. Collect people who hate you because the more you do with your life the more people are going to hate you.

Basically, follow the philosophy of a great street wise-man — a.k.a. comedian — Dave Attell: No matter what you do, someone can find a way to call you a dick.

Get bloody. Get dirty. Even if you stay squeaky clean, someone who thinks they’re on Mt. Everest looking down on you will make you feel like crap. You can either prove him wrong, or ignore the ass-face. Either way, do what you want because hopefully that guy will get AIDS and die. Even if he doesn’t, know that his feeble words did nothing but keep you on fire for your passion.

You ever have a Bloody Mary that was nothing more than just mix and vodka? Well, I’ve had one with olive juice, pickle juice, mix, vodka, pickled mushrooms, pickles AND a beef stick. A goddamn beef stick in a drink! God bless Wisconsin! Anyway, let everyone else be that mix and vodka drink, while you strive to be the one with the beef stick. If you get there, or die trying, you’ll be my hero. Guys on the couch never make history. (You’re welcome, Travis.)

THE WRITER PAUSES, SIPS FROM HIS BEER AND WONDERS IF ANY OF THIS IS MAKING ANY SENSE

There’s a reason I framed my first write-up from my editor. There’s a reason my first rejection letter from an agent is on my fridge.

There’s also reasons why I keep writing, despite criticisms, rejections and nay-sayers. There’s a reason I keep skating, despite emergency room trips, pain, bruising and swelling.

There are things I want to do in my life, so I’m working on them. I know I’ll never be perfect — I don’t try to be. I have my slacker days but there are days I work myself raw. I know you’re all the same way.

Pain goes away. Scars remind us of our great adventures. The trials, the errors, the assholes, they all serve their purpose. It’d be better without them, but we deal with them because we’re not going to sit around and be complacent with what others deal for us.

Then again, another great philospher — Dr. Dre — once said, “Fuck ya’ll, all ya’ll, if ya’ll don’t like me, blow me.”

Hells yeah.

WRITER OPENS FIFTH BEER AND STOPS WRITING.

National Drunk Blogging Day...

Tomorrow is National Drunk Blogging Day. The name itself is pretty self-explanatory, so if you need clarification, pick up your keyboard or laptop and beat yourself in the head. It should come to you then.

So, in honor of such a great day, I plan on having myself some spirits tomorrow, getting on the ol' Mac and cranking out something I probably shouldn't.

But, while dispensing my neurological diarrhea, there's so much on my mind lately that I could write about. And, since I'm trying to make this whole writing thing a full-time gig, it's you — the reader — who really matters.

I'm looking for ideas. Sure, this blog is about my book and writing adventures, but is that's all that's in my life? Not one bit.

Let me know what you want to see me write about while sloppily drunk, whether it be the beauty of B-grade horror films or who I'd stalk if I had to stalk someone.

Comment. Give some suggestions. For all I know, I might be able to cover everything.

Travel writing...

I've never done much travel writing because I've always been cooped up, tapping away at home, working my butt off on the weekends and so forth. This year, that wasn't true.

Whether a weekly venture to Iowa City for a writing class, a day trip to Chicago to skate and eat or southern California for a "conference," I've been a lot of places this year for all sorts of reasons.

In February, it was to the Bitter Cold Show Down with 14 friends in a van. In November, it was with 11 friends to the Hoedown in Texas. I wrote about both adventures for www.iowa-connection.com and some for ONE Magazine.

The latest was posted today — a reflection piece on a six-day trip Las Vegas for some skating, rock climbing and good food in the island city. You can read it here.

The Vegas piece was one of my better pieces recently. I can't really tell you why, but I put some more flavor into it than I could writing for the newspaper.

So, as I keep driving vans for 15 hours or jet-setting to the west, I keep looking for adventures, good food and cool people.

There's still Detroit in February and possibly a few places in the middle.

Thanksgiving...

No turkey for me. Again, just as I have since a sophomore in college, it's the delicious Totino's Pizza Rolls. So good. So wrong.

Anyway, besides the usual things I'm thankful for — family, friends, skating, writing, etc. — I'm thankful my story "The Watcher" was picked up and published by Word Riot.

Read it here.

Post some love on there for me.

An assignment...

Here's something pretty dumb I wrote for class at the University of Iowa. We were supposed to write the first two pages of what would be a 600-page autobiography. Considering I have no idea why I would write one or what stage of my life I'd be compelled to write one, this is what I came up with. It was fun to write and it got a few good reactions from the class, so I thought I'd share.

A JACKASS IN THE WRY

One thing I’ve been known to say is, “You know what I’ll never say on my deathbed? ‘I wish I kept a cleaner apartment.’” It was a statement that reflected my ignorance toward the unimportant things in life. It’s not like I was a total slob or anything, but keeping a tidy house was never a priority. Neither was making sure my hair was kempt or if I was wearing the latest clothes. All trivial shit to impress people I didn’t know and might not have liked, as far as I’m concerned.

Did I know what was important? I like to think so otherwise telling my story would be a waste, just as much as you reading it. Then again, I could be wrong. For as much as I’m aware, I could be the biggest anarchistic asshole who’s ever had a go at writing.

So the question is: did I say that as I choked away at my last breaths? I don’t know. I’m not dead yet. Sorry about that. (If you read this during my post-mortem years, add ten points because someone is always keeping score.)

So, yes, as you start reading this, I’m sorry to say it doesn’t have the ending you’ll expect. In fact, I don’t know the ending yet. I hope its something pleasurable, like dying peacefully in my sleep. Never mind what I just wrote. Another thing I’ve been known to say, depending on my mood, was, “I want to die in a headline.” Since I began writing the stories — not the headlines, mind you — I’ve seen the spectacular ways people have come to their demise. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Acute toxicity due to barbiturates. Blood-alcohol concentration of 0.58. You know, like The Joker used to say, “If you have to go, go with a smile.” Well, we all have to go. Me, this ship hasn’t sank yet, so we’ll leave this ending open for now.

I’m not sure if my life reads as a cautionary tale or as an epic. I’d like it to be both, but more of the latter. Right now, I’ve got a Marlboro burning in the ashtray and an open Corona between it and the MacBook I’m writing on while most of my body is covered in an orange, blue and white plaid bathrobe I bought in college at a thrift store for twenty-five cents. To some, this sounds disgusting. To others — writers, most likely — this sounds like an all-too-familiar comfort they wish they could retreat to while waiting for some flight in some airport or some turd in some bathroom while reading this rubbish.

Then again, with this lifestyle, the headline will most likely read, “Homeless man found dead on Turnpike, body run over repeatedly.” Either the cancer or the craziness got to me first. Whoever came in second was the real winner. There was much less work to do afterwards.

But I really can’t even mention homelessness without interjecting with Dude. He was a 44-year old homeless man I met in 2004 while still a young pup of a newspaper reporter. Actually, I’d been one for about two weeks when I found him. Not really found, because that makes it sound like an accident. I went looking for him. When you’re trying to make a name for yourself in the news game and a homeless man whose legal first name is Dude who makes about $52,000 a year panhandling gets arrested for taking a piss on the local movie theater, you better move your ass to track him down and interview him. I did that.

Well, Dude’s philosophy and outlook on life probably shaped my deathbed apartment statement. Dude — not too clean and apartment-less — was talkative the whole six hours I spent with him drinking behind a gas station in Davenport, Iowa. Then again, my death headline could have read, “Local reporter stabbed to death behind gas station, homeless man charged.” Whatever. It was a hell of a good time and it ran on the front page.