Allow me, if you will, a moment to do my best Jerry Seinfeld. "What is the deal with root canals?"

But, seriously: why all the fuss about root canals? With three ankle surgeries, two shoulder dislocations and subsequent relocations, one tonsilectomy, and one tooth extraction to my name, I shakily walked into Dr. Jung's office early Friday for my semi-emergency root canal. It would be stupid to pretend I wasn't a little nervous--I mean, I've got a pretty high tolerance for pain, but....it was a Root Canal for God's sakes.

Slightly less than an hour later, listening to disc eight of the Neil Young Archives in my car as I drove myself home, a numbness in my lip and gums, I asked myself how root canals got their bad rep? Easily the easiest medical procedure I've ever gone through. It was way worse getting my tooth pulled, cuz I bled for like four hours, and then got a sore throat from all the blood, & etc. The antibiotics they prescribed my insurance-less ass after the r.c. only cost $25 too.

Now, I still have to get my gold crown fitted (for my tooth, not head), have two cavities filled, and get my gums cut open and reattached after they've been cleaned out. Maybe one of those procedures can put a knock on the feeling of a shoulder coming out of its rightful home: we shall see.

For now, I am seriously considering canceling the Mammoth vacation next week and just getting recreational root canals each day. I don't even need 'em. They're just so easy peasy I can't resist.

Labels: dentistry, Generalness

The raw materials for the experiment were simple, consisting only of a hundred or so disposable men, a correspondent number of motorcycles, and a stretch of paved highway whose location was conducive to the constraints of the experiment.

The process was as follows. Each step had to be timed precisely in order to prevent contamination of the results with rational thought. As a vehicle was progressing up the stretch of paved highway—a slope in the Verkhoyansk was chosen for its perfect conformity to the experiment's specific demands—a man on a motorcycle would burst onto the road in front of the driver. He had to swerve in close enough proximity for the vehicle's driver to feel that the motorcyclist was being reckless, that the motorcyclist's recklessness was putting him (the driver) in danger. It was a scientific conclusion that this action would cause the driver (of the car) to pass a negative judgment on the character of the motorcyclist.

The motorcyclist would then speed ahead on the highway, creating enough distance between himself and the driver for the driver to forget about him. Within five minutes, the driver's adrenal levels would have evened off and his heart rate slowed to the normal resting level. The driver would be in homeostasis in the sensory deprivation chamber of his car—with a negative opinion of the motorcyclist existing somewhere in the milieu of his mentation, but not at the forefront.

Then, as he came around a blind curve—if the driver was traveling less than 40 kilometers per hour, or more than 80 (implausible because of the curve), the experiment's results will be contaminated—he would see, lying pronate and prostrate across the road, the motorcyclist. To the left of the pronate motorcyclist was an embankment with a steep, surely fatal dropoff. To the right, a sheer cliff wall that would obviously end the driver's life in a collision. The motorcyclist was to be moving, in order to demonstrate that he was still alive. The motorcycle will not be in the tableau, suggesting that it pitched over the edge of the embankment.

The driver was thus presented with two options: run over the motorcyclist and kill him, or swerve the car to avoid him and thus end his own (the driver's) life. The minimum and maximum speeds ensured that the driver would have enough time to recognize these two options and to make a choice—but no time to deliberate, to color the decision with any logic, or memory, or detailed mentation. Imagine: within the span of a second, two lives held in suspension in the driver's mind, with only the time to choose and to act.

Of the 87 times the experiment produced uncontaminated results, 87 drivers ended their own lives in order to avoid killing the motorcyclist. 63 went over the embankment—24 collided with the cliff face, which had to be continually cleaned in order to maintain the experiment's desired aesthetic.

In this way, the Siberians felt they proved the existence of God.

Labels: Stories

Oy! Back to work this week--picked up a freelance gig with LB Magazine today, and I'm trying to get this monster finished before we leave for Mammoth. We'll see about the blogging....

Labels: Generalness

I'm writing this late on a Sunday night, at the end of what may have been the most relaxing week of my life. I didn't do anything. Really, almost anything.

I wish I could say I felt profligate with relaxation, but honestly it was pretty necessary. There was the grueling schedule JJ, Shar and I kept from September 1st 2008, with an average of fifteen emails and five articles written every single day, seven days a week, and an average of covering one game or event, every single day, with a grand total of eight days in that span on which I didn't write or cover anything. Sure, there was that--but I'd kind of gotten used to that, and to squeezing in work on my novel and freelance gigs in the cracks. But two Sundays ago was meant to be kind of a resting point, with all the high school and college teams done for the year, and not much to cover.

Instead, we launched another redesign on that Sunday, which required a shocking amount of unexpected work and stress--to the extent that for the first time in my life, I got a stress rash (on my belly, thanks for asking). On top of that, last Monday I had two deadlines I wasn't expecting, one for the Onion, and one for a short story submission. So the week I thought I'd spend relaxing I spent covering things, fixing the site, holding down the fort (JJ's in Virginia, which makes sense sine they are both for lovers), and working on those two other projects. And of course I got sick.

So last Sunday I stayed up till 6am, after covering the Special Olympics (and interviewing Misty May and Martin Sheen!) all weekend. That day I got home, wrote 3,000 words on the SO, watched the Lakers win their 15th championship with my family (which gave me a needed boost to push through the whole being sick), then went to work on the Onion submission (which I finished around four in the morning), then immediately jumped into finishing, proofreading, and editing the short story I submitted to a local literary journal (Like Water Burning).

Needless to say, I've been too terrified to review either submission...

So--after I finished I slept until I woke up. 13 hours, pretty much slept through the day. And each night since I slept till I woke up too, probably about ten hours of sleep, which feels ludicrously good after averaging five or six for the last nine months. The days were spent falling in love with David Foster Wallace, picking at my novel, playing a ton of video games with Shar, hanging out, napping, watching movies with Shar, seeing friends, etc. In other words, it was more or less exactly how I've always spent the middle week of June, probably going all the way back to first grade.

Now, it's back to work! I've got to put in about six hours a day on the novel to get it finished by next weekend, which I'm desperate to do because I'm hoping to leave the laptop at home when Shar and I got to Mammoth! Wahoo! Still, the week looks open for blogging, so I'll try and throw a few stories and updates up.

Hope everyone had a good Father's day, and that no matter what your schedule is, you're finding some ways to enjoy the onset of Summer.

Labels: Generalness, the weatha

The dust in Hamilton Bowl was caught up by the wind rolling down PCH and it whipped around in a violent circle, turning her surroundings blurry and bleary and brown. The cars zipping by down the highway, the whores lolling up and down Walnut, they receded into the background, more pictures spraypainted onto stucco buildings. The two-dimensional world faded farther behind the dirt, until it was just she and her memories, spinning in a slow, dazed circle inside the storm.

A soccer ball rolled under her left Converse and the two rubbers pushed away from each other, her foot catching and shooting up, the ball squirting towards the rusted fence, where it rattled dully. She blinked and she was on her back, staring up, looking at the orange midnight sky. There was no moon, and all she could see was the reflection of the city’s pissy streetlight glow. She wished the clouds would pull away, that they’d move so quickly they’d pull all the dirt away with them, that the dirt would catch up the rusted fences and the graffiti in its wake, and strip the highway, and the city, and its goddamn light away until there was nothing left.

Then she could lie on her back in the middle of the desert, gazing up at the stars’ hot faces, staring into the black spaces in between them, where her brother lived.

Labels: Stories

It's weird. It's really, really weird. I actually can't remember the last time we had a late May/early June like this in Long Beach, with the clouds hanging around all day, the marine layer refusing to unlayer itself, unpredictable winds and chilly nights. And, maybe because it's not actually severe at all, or maybe because everyone's talking about it, it's easy to forget: this is weird.

In a world where the streets are paved with bad omens, where perfectly rational people seem excited about the possibility of the world ending in three years (as though life really meant that little), where doctors are shot for performing legal operations and North Korea refuses to stop building nukes, IT CANNOT BE A GOOD SIGN THAT IT'S OVERCAST AND CHILLY IN LONG BEACH IN JUNE!

Don't get me wrong, ill omens aside this is actually the kind of weather I prefer. Yes, it's nice to not have to break out the Gold Bond for another few weeks, and it's nice to be able to wear pants without sweating through them, but...I'm used to these things. They are familiar, easily dealt with annoyances (ie, the Gold Bond). But, with a hammock slung up and a BBQ area on the new patio, arms open and ready to greet the summer, our work for the year seemingly behind us, we're instead getting lightning and thunder.

The strangest thing is: it is still supposed to be Summer-y. I go outside with no suntan lotion and no hat, forgetting that the sun is high enough in its rotation in early June that I can still get a sunburn from just the thirty minutes it's actually out. All those little comforting annoyances are right there, under the surface, waiting for us to get back to them, if only we could burn off this fat, obtrusive gray blob that's making everything a little darker.

There's a metaphor in there somewhere. Gimme a call if you can dig it out, maybe I can find a use for it somewhere.

New stories and that update comin' soon y'all.

Labels: Generalness, the weatha

Oh crap--after 560-something blog posts, I finally became that guy. That guy that posts a "I'll be blogging blog" in order to convince himself that he actually will, but then doesn't. I hate that guy! Hopefully he won't be coming around here again. Anyway, Nick Hornby stopped doing his Stuff I've Read column for the Believer a little while back and it occurred to me that, while I'm not as interesting or entertaining a writer as Hornby, I also read and buy a lot of books. So! Here's the inaugural kickoff edition of Read/Bought, starting with May 2009. This is actually an incomplete list, covering just the last three weeks of the month, just to keep May mysterious.

Read:
McSweeney's 25-30


Wow, the first item in a new column and I'm already selling myself short. Yes, this is actually six books, but six short story collections stacked back-to-back will put a real dent in your ability to distinguish them. Needless to say, taking a few years off of McSweeney's was made totally worth it by a ten-day McSweeney's orgy as I got caught back up. Issue 25 and 30 are can't-miss, and Kenneth Bonert's "Peacekeepers, 1995" in issue 25 is one of the ten best-executed shorts I've ever read. Really visceral, physically affecting stuff--like sitting in the first row of I Am Legend. Can't remember the last time I was that shaken up by the written word. Couldn't wait to get my hands on more Bonert (that's what she said), but it looks like this is his second published work of fiction. What?! Goddamnit.

The Colorado Kid by Stephen King
This is a short novel by Stephen King in the Hard Case Crime imprint, a series of throwback hard-boiled mystery books. I'm into the series (Robert Bloch's flipbook looks really cool) and I'm into Stephen King--I'm even into hard-boiled mystery novels. Unfortunately, I wasn't very into this book, which is really just a long conversation with very little substance. King tried to write a mystery novel without a solution, which I'm perfectly fine with--but he failed to put enough of a story in front of that lack of a solution. It was like watching Jerry Rice stretch--you're thinking, "Wow, this guy warms up better than anyone else in history," but it's not what you put your money down to see.

Get A Financial Life by Beth Kobliner


This is what I love about books--if I were listening to music, it would jar me if I went from Johnny Cash to Lil Wayne. I am, however, perfectly fine shifting from Stephen King to personal finance books. I picked this up because I needed it--we've got enough money now that it's time to get educated on some basic principles (I literally did not know what equity was before reading this book, or the differences between investment terms, etc.). It also reminded me a lot of the book Dan and I set out to write, if a bit more serious--it's written for people in their 20s and 30s who don't know anything about finance, and after I finished it I felt like I knew enough about savings, investment, insurance, taxes, and real estate to at least know what I didn't know, which is of course a huge first step. Definitely recommended.

Big Fish by Daniel Wallace
The movie came out shortly before my dad got ill for the first time, and was pretty emotionally devastating. So, why not read the book, I figured with my usual soft self-destructive happy-go-luckiness? The book was less devastating than the movie, and equally beautiful, though in a much different way. The narrator similarly tells tall tales about his father, but in the book they're more like Greek Myths than the Burton-esque fantasies of the movie. A beautiful, fast read that I recommend to anyone out there with unresolved daddy issues, or anyone who's a fan of fantastic literature. Has me excited to read the other two novels by Wallace (this was his debut? the aspiring novelist cringed), both of which we own and both of which Shar loved.

Bought:
Brief Interviews With Hideous Men by David Foster Wallce
Can you believe I've never read a book by David Foster Wallace? Me either. What an asshole I am.

Enemies & Allies by Kevin Anderson
It's more believable I haven't read this novel about a 1950s meeting between Batman and Superman--but I bet you I know which one I read first. As summer looms ever nearer, I actually have some free time, and I've constructed a stack of books to plow through on the beach, on my hammock, and at Heartwell and Stearns Parks. If it ever stops raining, that is.

The Poe Shadow by Matthew Pearl
Another fun summer book--Pearl writes literary historical fiction, which is a little too geeky and fun to pass up. This one is about the mystery surrounding Poe's death (which I've actually read a few nonfiction books about, since it's a mystery that's fascinated me since seventh grade).

Anyway, that's it for this month--I've already downed a few Michael Chabons for June and bought a couple more fun ones, so next month's column should be a blast! I'm going to post a short short and an ode to the onset of summer later this week, so check back! Unless, of course, I turn back into fake-blogger guy again. If that happens, I guess, go back and read one of the 366 stories on the site and let me know what you think!

Labels: Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit