Super Scrabble. Gettin' up. Weekend alone. Thoughts on blog communities.

If you even give one microscopic shit about Scrabble, this story will make you gird your loins for love. The ultimate game. Ruthian power. Michael Cresta blowing your mind like Danny and the Miracles. That kind of stuff makes me super jealous as an avid Scrabble player. I think my high score at this point is 330.

**

I love A Tribe Called Quest and anything associated with them. Naturally, when Q-Tip releases a solo album, my feet start to sweat. I hear sounds, almost like squirrels in my roof or a Cavalier's starter clicking over in the same tone as a .44 magnum's hammer blasting out a round. It's out November 4th. First single can be heard/watched here. 

**

I buy a lot of things I never use. There's a stack of year-old DVDs I haven't watched yet. There will be time this weekend to explore those movies and my writing. Since I finished my undergraduate studies, time for movies has disappeared. I saw W. last weekend with Brianne and two of our friends, and it was fantastic. Although, I'm an Oliver Stone fan, so there's some bias. Either way, there aren't too many popular filmmakers who can create figures and situations that allow an audience to remember that we all live through times that are facsimile. Lust, health, sadness, dying, disappointment, providence. 

What pisses me off more than anything about living in our country in the time that I do is that everyone blames problems on the president. They blame it on politicians, on lobbyists and bankers and the wealthy and immigrants. This movie should help people remember that George Bush is a human being. He wants to please his parents, he wants to do things that he can be proud of. It's great to know that when it comes down to it, he probably doesn't give a fuck. He just wants to get things done.  He's everyman in the universe, only he wears a suit or button-down shirt everyday.

Whatever man, enough about politics. I'm going to watch Leon the Professional, Inland Empire and maybe something about kids this weekend. I might also watch Ron Artest's fists blur into the side of a complete stranger's face. That video will never get old.

**

All I do now is think about writing and scares my muscles stiff then forces me to close my eyes and wish that someday I'll have a job that requires me to wear a brown suit instead of an apron and blue, cross-stitched polo. I read a lot of blogs. I look at the blog rolls that slide down the sides of blogs and notice a lot of the same names. Tao Lin. Noah Cicero. Sam Pink. Etc.

I place value in names. It stems from my love of sports, I think. If I notice somebody's name and they say something about me, my head gets lighter. I listen. Their critique of me matters, regardless of what it pertains to. It could be about my socks, how much gas is left in the tank of my car, grooming techniques. For about a year now, I haven't been able to shake this desire of wanting ridiculous blog traffic. I want 100 people a day visiting my blog. I want stupid comments about beer and handstands. I want to be so busy with this blog that I forget to sleep or clean my sink.

What I'm saying is pretty shallow. I feel like a twelve-year-old popping zits in front of friends for a laugh. I think this is the first time in a while that I've questioned my ability as a writer, and that scares me. Not scaring me like I keep having dreams where I'm writing something and my laptop comes alive and gnaws through my knuckles, or I start typing sentences and my eyes bleed. 

Feeling no-good is terrible. An urge to sit and write for twenty hours and create a book or manuscript that would solve hunger problems should walk through my door and sit in my lap. I would hand-feed this urge Little Debbie treats and drill its cavities soon after. Together we might make something fantastic or nothing at all.

I don't know how to feel about writing right now. My chapbook is done, though, and will be printed November 3rd. First run is 50 copies.