I haven't been posting, but I have been surfing. Here's a list of what I've found interesting in the last few months.
• Through Kiva, you can make small business loans in third world countries. Pick your country, pick your entrepreneur — very cool. You can then follow their progress through web updates. All interest made on your loan is use to fund Kiva's operations; however you do get your principle back (to loan again, one would hope).
• Zefrank has been at it four or five days a week for nine months now, and I don't know how he does it. The Show withZefrank is funny, political and somewhat daft. If you have an
eight-hour shift to kill, you can even catch up on all the past episodes. It's also available as a podcast.
• Lifehacker has a ton of cool "hacks" for daily living. DIY projects. Software tricks. Links to cool sites.
• Here's one I found through Lifehacker: Open Culture. Sounds like they have a lot of lectures, interviews and stories available or linked to. Here's a big fat for instance: 10 Excellent University Podcasts.
• Gizmodo recaps new technology and products. Sometimes boring.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Friday, April 28, 2006
No Mass
In the past three days, I have been to two funeral masses — John Kalinski, brother to my oldest friend Peter, and Pauline Kelly, mother of one of my newest friends, Mike Kelly. And it was just as much fun as you'd expect.
John Kalinski was an educator, family man and general prankster. I did not know him all that well, frankly. His viewing and service was packed, quite easily the most well-attended funeral I've ever attended — at least 400 people. I drove away wondering if there was enough time in my life to have that big of an impact on the lives of others.
Pauline Kelly was also a teacher. I didn't know her at all, but her family said Mike takes after her quite a bit, so I guess I missed out once again.
My own mother passed away nearly two years ago. I've been meaning to post the eulogy I gave her, and now seems as good as time as any.
Be well, friends. And if you can help it at all, please don't die for at least a couple of months. I could use the break.
Joyce Woodward, July 10, 1933 — July 4, 2004
There are times when we are at a loss for words. We’ve all felt this: moments when we are so filled with gratitude we become tongue-tied, instants when we are blinded with anger and all our stinging comebacks are lost, hours such as this.
Joyce Woodward never, not once, struggled for something to say.
If you wanted to know my mother, all you had to do was listen. Take, for instance, something as simple as a piece of apple pie. If she liked it, it was “Wonderful!” “Delicious!” “The best I ever had!” And if it wasn’t very good, it was, “Horrible!” “Awful!” “Just plain rotten!” She was decisive in her thinking, her words filled with boldness and sparkle. She owned a strength you wouldn’t expect in a woman a notch above five foot, an intensity that belied the softness of her blue eyes. Simply, she spoke with a passion and a candor we long for in our politicians.
She brought that same energy and courage to every aspect of her life. At an age most girls were still occupied with saddle shoes and the crooning of Frank Sinatra, she married my father and soon began a family. Together, they had two daughters, one handsome son, and one outrageously handsome son. And if the worth of a mother is measured by the happiness of her children, then Joyce was a wild success. We all have good jobs, comfortable places to call our own, educations both formal and self-taught, families that we cherish. This was our inheritance from her, and we received it well before she passed.
Of course, us kids weren’t her only accomplishments. She was a loving grandmother and great grandmother, a devoted daughter, a fine sister, a nutty aunt who livened up birthday parties and baby showers. I can’t remember her having many friends, but the few claimed were unusually close. Her work in people’s homes improved the lives of children and the sick. In the larger scheme of things, her and her contemporaries defeated the great tyrants of the last century and created prosperity even our founding fathers would find difficult to believe.
But of all her achievements, her greatest was her marriage to my father. Alfie and Sweetie Face would have been married 56 years tomorrow. From flat-broke kids to pensioned old folks, they stuck together through the layoffs and the house payments, the first days of school and the walks down the aisle. Some months it was all they could do to scrape by, but they made it, they always did, with hard work and a little bit of luck. Being Woodwards, they didn’t always make it easy on themselves, or each other. Dad was a bit of a pistol is his younger days, and Ma was not a woman to back down from anyone. I know I’m not the only one here today who wondered sometimes what kept them together. It was love. Love. My parents’ marriage was proof that even the most complex relationships can have the simplest foundation.
There are many things I will remember about my mother — the clatter of Yahtzee dice on the kitchen table; the way she wiggled the same little Twist to pop music; her love of flowers and fishing and knickknacks and good coffee; the way she’d sometimes call me “Steve, I mean Jack, I mean Devon, oh hell, you know your own name”; her easy and genuine thrill opening Christmas presents; and, of course, her face, a beautiful echo of a grandmother I so sorely miss.
The newest member of our family, Shelly’s husband Mark, said that it was appropriate that Mom passed on the Fourth of July, her being such a little firecracker and all. And that’s a good way of remembering her, but for me, I will always treasure her voice, and the power and clarity of her words. I don’t think she realized how much of me being a writer was because of her.
With the last of her time, she spoke her heart. It wasn’t always easy to listen in those waning hours; candor is a rose often armed with all its thorns. Yet, in that hospital room, there was kindness, generosity and love. Naturally, hearing her gave me hope, her speech a sign of strength, but when the room finally fell quiet, I knew that what the doctors had predicted would come to pass. In the silence since that awful, early morning, I have wondered if anything had been missed, a memory I wish I had shared, a thought she had wanted us to know. On both accounts, after much reckoning, I’ve come to a conclusion, and about her entire life as well, and I hope that when all my tomorrows are yesterdays, and a roomful of family and friends gather such as you have here and now, the same can be true of me as it is for my mother: when the final page was written and the book finally closed, absolutely nothing had been left unsaid.
John Kalinski was an educator, family man and general prankster. I did not know him all that well, frankly. His viewing and service was packed, quite easily the most well-attended funeral I've ever attended — at least 400 people. I drove away wondering if there was enough time in my life to have that big of an impact on the lives of others.
Pauline Kelly was also a teacher. I didn't know her at all, but her family said Mike takes after her quite a bit, so I guess I missed out once again.
My own mother passed away nearly two years ago. I've been meaning to post the eulogy I gave her, and now seems as good as time as any.
Be well, friends. And if you can help it at all, please don't die for at least a couple of months. I could use the break.
Joyce Woodward, July 10, 1933 — July 4, 2004
There are times when we are at a loss for words. We’ve all felt this: moments when we are so filled with gratitude we become tongue-tied, instants when we are blinded with anger and all our stinging comebacks are lost, hours such as this.
Joyce Woodward never, not once, struggled for something to say.
If you wanted to know my mother, all you had to do was listen. Take, for instance, something as simple as a piece of apple pie. If she liked it, it was “Wonderful!” “Delicious!” “The best I ever had!” And if it wasn’t very good, it was, “Horrible!” “Awful!” “Just plain rotten!” She was decisive in her thinking, her words filled with boldness and sparkle. She owned a strength you wouldn’t expect in a woman a notch above five foot, an intensity that belied the softness of her blue eyes. Simply, she spoke with a passion and a candor we long for in our politicians.
She brought that same energy and courage to every aspect of her life. At an age most girls were still occupied with saddle shoes and the crooning of Frank Sinatra, she married my father and soon began a family. Together, they had two daughters, one handsome son, and one outrageously handsome son. And if the worth of a mother is measured by the happiness of her children, then Joyce was a wild success. We all have good jobs, comfortable places to call our own, educations both formal and self-taught, families that we cherish. This was our inheritance from her, and we received it well before she passed.
Of course, us kids weren’t her only accomplishments. She was a loving grandmother and great grandmother, a devoted daughter, a fine sister, a nutty aunt who livened up birthday parties and baby showers. I can’t remember her having many friends, but the few claimed were unusually close. Her work in people’s homes improved the lives of children and the sick. In the larger scheme of things, her and her contemporaries defeated the great tyrants of the last century and created prosperity even our founding fathers would find difficult to believe.
But of all her achievements, her greatest was her marriage to my father. Alfie and Sweetie Face would have been married 56 years tomorrow. From flat-broke kids to pensioned old folks, they stuck together through the layoffs and the house payments, the first days of school and the walks down the aisle. Some months it was all they could do to scrape by, but they made it, they always did, with hard work and a little bit of luck. Being Woodwards, they didn’t always make it easy on themselves, or each other. Dad was a bit of a pistol is his younger days, and Ma was not a woman to back down from anyone. I know I’m not the only one here today who wondered sometimes what kept them together. It was love. Love. My parents’ marriage was proof that even the most complex relationships can have the simplest foundation.
There are many things I will remember about my mother — the clatter of Yahtzee dice on the kitchen table; the way she wiggled the same little Twist to pop music; her love of flowers and fishing and knickknacks and good coffee; the way she’d sometimes call me “Steve, I mean Jack, I mean Devon, oh hell, you know your own name”; her easy and genuine thrill opening Christmas presents; and, of course, her face, a beautiful echo of a grandmother I so sorely miss.
The newest member of our family, Shelly’s husband Mark, said that it was appropriate that Mom passed on the Fourth of July, her being such a little firecracker and all. And that’s a good way of remembering her, but for me, I will always treasure her voice, and the power and clarity of her words. I don’t think she realized how much of me being a writer was because of her.
With the last of her time, she spoke her heart. It wasn’t always easy to listen in those waning hours; candor is a rose often armed with all its thorns. Yet, in that hospital room, there was kindness, generosity and love. Naturally, hearing her gave me hope, her speech a sign of strength, but when the room finally fell quiet, I knew that what the doctors had predicted would come to pass. In the silence since that awful, early morning, I have wondered if anything had been missed, a memory I wish I had shared, a thought she had wanted us to know. On both accounts, after much reckoning, I’ve come to a conclusion, and about her entire life as well, and I hope that when all my tomorrows are yesterdays, and a roomful of family and friends gather such as you have here and now, the same can be true of me as it is for my mother: when the final page was written and the book finally closed, absolutely nothing had been left unsaid.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Ye olde private dick
A different take on the detective story. Set in 1719 during the South Sea Stock Bubble Crisis, A Conspiracy of Paper follows a former boxer as he tries to solve the murder of his father during the first days of the English stock market. Quite different, and not bad for a first-time novelist, either, assuming you like the genre.
Still, the best period thriller I've read in the last few years must be The World At Night by Alan Furst.
Still, the best period thriller I've read in the last few years must be The World At Night by Alan Furst.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Sleeping, Writing, Reading
Went to the doctor this week to see about my insomnia. It was crazy bad -- inability to fall asleep, waking up with night terrors and winter itch, staggering through days half-asleep. About the only thing missing was bed-wetting and waking up with a horse's head under the blanket (Godfather reference, not sexual enuendo (not that I'm above it or anything). It's been going on for months. Dr. B. prescribed Ambien, and yes, folks, it works like a dream. After three nights, I don't need the help falling asleep anymore. I'll save the rest for spot treatment when I can't sleep. Huzza. Wack me upside the head with a pill and everything goes back to normal. I LOVE SCIENCE!
I've been writing more regularly. I may send out some pages to friends in a week or two. It's been a long time since I had three sessions in a week. I am hopeful. I'm also thinking of Podcasting chapters as I go along. I usually read out loud for errors and flow, so why not?
I've been reading more as well. Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking and Patchett's Truth & Beauty. While I usually read for art's sake, I found both books to be profoundly helpful on a personal level. Friends, co-workers and family have all hinted I've been pretty fucked up about something for a long time, or just flat-out accused me. And I have. These books, on pretty sad subjects I might add, helped me deal with some of my own crap. If you're dying with curiosity, call and I'll explain. Or read the books and speculate amongst yourselves.
Good God, Ann Patchett can write. I wish she would have had more of Elizabeth McCracken in T&B. E.M. taught a semester at Iowa, and I loved her class (and her). Sadly, I screwed up royally with E. She was coming to Detroit, and I made plans to meet with her, only to come down with the flu so badly I missed her visit without so much as a word from me. If anyone out there runs into her, please tell Elizabeth Johnny W. is very sorry. I'd be very grateful, and in return, she'll give you a very puzzled look. Whooooo????
Off to bed.
I've been writing more regularly. I may send out some pages to friends in a week or two. It's been a long time since I had three sessions in a week. I am hopeful. I'm also thinking of Podcasting chapters as I go along. I usually read out loud for errors and flow, so why not?
I've been reading more as well. Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking and Patchett's Truth & Beauty. While I usually read for art's sake, I found both books to be profoundly helpful on a personal level. Friends, co-workers and family have all hinted I've been pretty fucked up about something for a long time, or just flat-out accused me. And I have. These books, on pretty sad subjects I might add, helped me deal with some of my own crap. If you're dying with curiosity, call and I'll explain. Or read the books and speculate amongst yourselves.
Good God, Ann Patchett can write. I wish she would have had more of Elizabeth McCracken in T&B. E.M. taught a semester at Iowa, and I loved her class (and her). Sadly, I screwed up royally with E. She was coming to Detroit, and I made plans to meet with her, only to come down with the flu so badly I missed her visit without so much as a word from me. If anyone out there runs into her, please tell Elizabeth Johnny W. is very sorry. I'd be very grateful, and in return, she'll give you a very puzzled look. Whooooo????
Off to bed.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Story Idea
I had an idea for a story as I was falling asleep last night. What if, instead of warts, blisters and compromised immune systems, STDs gave us benign but annoying ailments. Like insomnia. Or stuttering. Or strange but harmless personality quirks. "I slept with this girl I met at Shutter's and now I pass only on the right." "I went to the doctor and he gave me a shot of penicilin and now I'm recycling my newspapers again."
Ultimately, I think the story would prove that not only God exists in that world, but that He is also a Democrat.
Ultimately, I think the story would prove that not only God exists in that world, but that He is also a Democrat.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Ain't nothing but a rock out!
If you haven't tried streaming video from Google, now is the time. The Backstreet Boys with an international flair. I don't know which is best: the sketchy cast, losing the headband, or the kid playing doom in the background.
Thanks: All Things Christie!
Thanks: All Things Christie!
Thursday, December 01, 2005
How Andy Dick saved my career.
The Andy Dick shoot I did in September for the incredible Chevy HHR is now online. Don't postpone joy: see it now!
A few people have asked how it was to work with Andy. I have to say he was a pretty decent guy. Sure, he had that A.D.D. most celebrities have (which I imagine is pretty normal considering a bunch of people were vying for his attention all day), but he really paid attention to you in a conversation. Of course, that's what improv players learn first: to listen.
Yes, he is a little weird, but I like that. And he was very generous to our contest winner, asking him to stick in town for a couple of days to see a taping of Less than Perfect.
A few people have asked how it was to work with Andy. I have to say he was a pretty decent guy. Sure, he had that A.D.D. most celebrities have (which I imagine is pretty normal considering a bunch of people were vying for his attention all day), but he really paid attention to you in a conversation. Of course, that's what improv players learn first: to listen.
Yes, he is a little weird, but I like that. And he was very generous to our contest winner, asking him to stick in town for a couple of days to see a taping of Less than Perfect.
How not to plagarize.
Originality is the art of hiding one's sources, some famous guy/gal said. If so, then Brad Vice is no artist. Check out side-by-side comparisons for instant indignation.
Some words of advice for Mr. Vice: if you're going to steal from quality writers, please respect the original text. Not only are you a thief, you're a hack editor. Chortle, indeed. Who in the fuck chortles, anyways?
Thanks: Arts & Letters Daily!
Some words of advice for Mr. Vice: if you're going to steal from quality writers, please respect the original text. Not only are you a thief, you're a hack editor. Chortle, indeed. Who in the fuck chortles, anyways?
Thanks: Arts & Letters Daily!
Friday, September 23, 2005
Helluva thing, getting older.
Nabakov's masterpiece hits the ripe old age of 50. Nice retrospective from the New York Times.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Advice to writers: never throw out computer discs.
So no more excuses, right? Right.
Working titles so far: Crapass and Bongs, Books, Bush.
Andy Dick will save my career.
So we had this contest, and the wheels around work wanted it to end it with a bang. A big bang. So they bought out the entire commercial time on an episode of The Tonight Show -- 17 minutes of national airtime. Then they put me on it.
Uhm, thanks?
My first act was to get more people involved, because having only a fraction of the blame is better than all of it. Yes, folks, I'm a survivor. After three weeks of nervous paper-shuffling, we finally bore down and panicked.
And out of the Maelstrom emerged Andy Dick.
Of all the directors we talked to, he was the only one that had the guts (or plain arrogance) to think he could film nearly a sitcom's worth of material in less than two weeks.
He turned out to be a pretty decent guy on a personal level. Friendly, a good listener, polite, excellent grooming habits. As for being a director, decide for yourself. Our 17 minutes of fame airs on Leno Thursday, September 22nd. Try not not to laugh. (That wasn't a typo).
Uhm, thanks?
My first act was to get more people involved, because having only a fraction of the blame is better than all of it. Yes, folks, I'm a survivor. After three weeks of nervous paper-shuffling, we finally bore down and panicked.
And out of the Maelstrom emerged Andy Dick.
Of all the directors we talked to, he was the only one that had the guts (or plain arrogance) to think he could film nearly a sitcom's worth of material in less than two weeks.
He turned out to be a pretty decent guy on a personal level. Friendly, a good listener, polite, excellent grooming habits. As for being a director, decide for yourself. Our 17 minutes of fame airs on Leno Thursday, September 22nd. Try not not to laugh. (That wasn't a typo).
Friday, September 16, 2005
Advice to writers: don’t take two years off.
So, like, I’m trying to get off my ass and write. Yesterday, I printed out the novel I stopped working on when my wife and I decided to divorce, circa September, 2003. One hundred and twenty pages, not much of it good, but, you know, they're pages, which matter more than anything, even if they're bad. What’s killing me is that there are at least 50 pages missing. The uncle and nephew buying the suit. The mashed potatoes scene. The dissertation summary. Gone. Vapor. Most of it is still in my head, but that suit scene; man, I just know I’m never going to get it as good as I had it. I know it. "Him being all avuncular and shit," being the only line I can remember. Fuck.
Naturally, I blame my ex-wife for all of this.
Naturally, I blame my ex-wife for all of this.
Monday, May 02, 2005
1106 Lafayette
It's been over two weeks since my bid was accepted; I close next Wednesday. This is my third house, but it's the first one I'm going into alone. It's intimidating. I lost my job while living in my first house (Iowa), but I was married then, and while it was tight, we were never in danger of losing the place. This time, well, let's just say I need to be careful at work. Lost job equals financial ruin.
That said, I'm very excited. I'm having the floors refinished, so I won't move in immediately, but I've been visiting Home Depot a lot, thinking about what furniture I need to buy and just where the hell everything is going to go. I'll need to paint the exterior by winter next year, so I get to make it look all Johnny. Orange and brown? Purple and yellow? Two different shades of pink?
Best of all, no more laundromat!
That said, I'm very excited. I'm having the floors refinished, so I won't move in immediately, but I've been visiting Home Depot a lot, thinking about what furniture I need to buy and just where the hell everything is going to go. I'll need to paint the exterior by winter next year, so I get to make it look all Johnny. Orange and brown? Purple and yellow? Two different shades of pink?
Best of all, no more laundromat!
You stupid kids, get off my lawn!
This is where I'll will seal my reputation as the neighborhood crank.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Imaginary characters. Real places.
The New York Times has an interesting idea for lovers of books and the Big Apple -- mapping the city's literary characters' homes. Perhaps the Freep can get one started for Detroit. Let's see: Greektown and Grosse Pointe for Middlesex. Uh, um. Royal Oak for Michael Zadorian's Second Hand. There's got to be more. Suggestions?
Thursday, April 07, 2005
The authentic primitive
A nice obit in today's NYT for Frank Conroy. Anyone who attended the Writers' Workshop in the last few decades has a Frank story -- including the poets. Even though I've never been in the military, having been in his workshop, I can understand now how veterans can look back at their drill sergeants with teary-eyed fondness. I had his workshop first term, first semester. Due to some foolish planning on my part, a story of mine was one of the first two reviewed. Tuesday came, we assembled in his office, and, luck of the draw, I went first. It was like an appendectomy. Performed in the 16th century. By barbers. Wearing blindfolds. Frank, being Frank, led the charge, took the opportunity to expound on his literary pyramid, stopping occasionally to point out various errors and affronts to good writing in his offhanded way. I tried being all professional and junk -- writing notes, listening, not weeping openly -- then I noticed the guy who was going up after me. It's hard to judge your work compared to others, but I knew this fellow's story wasn't as strong as mine. Dude was white as a ghost. I felt so lucky at that moment. At least I hadn't known what was going to happen to me beforehand.
Of course, this is the part where I'm supposed to say, "He was tough, but it was tough love." And you know what? It was -- a tough love of literature. He attacked, and occasionally praised, but only what was on the page. And I knew it wasn't personal, at least with me, because I don't remember him addressing me by name. Of all the writing teachers I've had, his ideas have stuck with me most. Meaning, sense, clarity! Mediate upon the text! Good writing is where the energy of the writer and the energy of the reader overlap!
I wish I had heard him play the piano. Does anyone out there have a tape?
Other obituaries: Associated Press, Washington Post, The Guardian.
Conroy speaks: The Connection (NPR interview), The Reign of Shit (with props to Antoine).
Of course, this is the part where I'm supposed to say, "He was tough, but it was tough love." And you know what? It was -- a tough love of literature. He attacked, and occasionally praised, but only what was on the page. And I knew it wasn't personal, at least with me, because I don't remember him addressing me by name. Of all the writing teachers I've had, his ideas have stuck with me most. Meaning, sense, clarity! Mediate upon the text! Good writing is where the energy of the writer and the energy of the reader overlap!
I wish I had heard him play the piano. Does anyone out there have a tape?
Other obituaries: Associated Press, Washington Post, The Guardian.
Conroy speaks: The Connection (NPR interview), The Reign of Shit (with props to Antoine).
Monday, November 29, 2004
Eric Bennett May Not Think It's Funny, But I do
I hate practical jokes, but love pranks. So needless to say I was very impressed with the mischievous Elis at the annual Yale v. Harvard football game. Absolutely gutted! I thought, until I read about Cal Tech at the 1961 Rose Bowl. Wait a minute, you say. Didn't Washington and Minnesota played in the ’61 Rose Bowl? Sure enough, which makes Cal Tech's triumph one for the ages.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Boochie, this site will get you all crunk!
Do you sometimes smile weakly and nodded your head when your hip-hop friends are seemingly speaking another language? Ever get lost watching episodes of "The Wire"? I'm feeling you, gusgus. Be a fuck nut no more with the help of Urbandictionary.com. Updated by authentic youths, it will give you the 411 on today's slang. Learn the difference between a cousin and a nephew. Never give the low down when you should be down low. And don't forget to try the random word generator for 25/8 fun! In no time, all the jardels will think you're a real linguistic Tad Allen -- damn skippy!
Saturday, October 30, 2004
White Man's Overbite
Me: 39, obviously not in the right bar. Her: 25, obviously not caring her date feels he is obviously not in the right bar. We share the dance floor with girls who think Halloween is a chance to dress like a slut and a guy get up like Ralph Cramden ready to hit the links. Then the Crown Royal starts to settle in. Bass guitar must be obeyed. Blinking lights blessedly hide half of my awkward gyrations. And she's digging me. She laughs. She touches. She dances away, then dances back. We didn't dress up for the holiday; Halloween is not big in her country, yes? Okay-la. But as the sweat makes my button-up shirt stick to my back and my legs beg for another drink, I stay on the dance floor, untroubled by my gracelessness. It's then I realize I am indeed in costume.
I am Bullworth.
I am Bullworth.
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