Is it?

Friday 5/9/25

Is it really a suicide mission if everyone is going down anyway?

The host site informed me--it tells me; I don't ask--that over the last month, this journal featured thirty-eight new entries, and the average for "similar sites"--I'd love to know what those are--was two posts over those thirty days. "Try posting more," the AI voice of the host site then said, "to increase traffic."

I don't think that's the answer, chief.

Apart from that, the site is in poor health and appearance in various ways--in terms of access, functionality, missing content, difficulty in signing up for updates, how it automatically unsubscribes people, a disastrous situation with search engines. I did speak to the web designer yesterday (none of the above of which is their fault) and they'll be helping to fix things. I'm worried about the things that I don't think can be fixed and what to then do, because it has to be something.

I'd arisen and written an op-ed before three this AM. A week ago, I started writing down everything I'd done. I thought I'd then give a full account of a week in the life of this artist in these pages. An itemization. But it's covered three pieces of paper, and I'd just be sitting here typing all of that up, and I don't think I'm going to do that.

I took another op-ed from several years ago that I hadn't been able to move and changed it a bit. Not because that's why it hadn't been moved. But it's what I did. I wrote a third op-ed, too.

Someone once said to me, "Write different versions of things." (They were talking about pieces.) When someone gives me advice like this--not that anyone really gives me advice anymore--I usually don't take it; at least, not quite as they meant it. But I will typically find something in it that is useful to me, which makes their input useful.

I have these works that are perfect for this one book and they are also perfect for this other book that has lately come to me. Lately in that I've been mulling this for a month or so now, perhaps a little longer. I don't want to be a "re-user." If someone had two story collections, and there were some stories were in both of them, you'd think, hey, what are you doing here?

But I don't write story collections like that. Books of collected stories. "These are by me, with my name together, so I'm putting them together."

I write books of different purposes. I know that there are singles that end up on albums. "Help!" was on Help!. But what's making for these possible multiple book versions--in that some material overlaps--is a number of factors. One being, What's it matter right now? None of it is coming out anyway. And the traditional means--the dying publishing system model of a system filled with people like these people, who care not a wit about readers, but only their own pettiness, prejudices, and egos--isn't going to be what gets the job done for me, moves me to where I am going, and makes my work known to people in the manner befitting it and in which it can do the most good. Do what it's here to do, to put it succinctly. So, you know, assemble what you want to assemble. What's the harm?

But then there's this: I have some works that are equally for children and for adults, but in totally different ways. Where the one would read the work and have this experience, and the other would have an experience completely unlike it. And that's all in the same works. Now, if those works--for instance, "Best Present Ever," which I shared in full on here--a thought which is gutting to me, so I don't want to dwell on it--is an an "adult only" book--you know what I mean, then the child won't see it. Later that person can. But should they not have access to it before later arrives?

So you see what I'm thinking. It's a unique case because these are unique works. Read "Best Present Ever," and you'll see what I mean. If you are fifty, it will rock your world, as they say. Move you to your core. But you'll also see how your seven-year-old would love it in her way.

That's my dilemma, if it is a dilemma. No one is going to accuse me of needing to double-dip. I have 500 new works of fiction since 2018 alone.

I've been thinking about a number of children's books. Four, to be precise. I'm not going to discuss the other three right now. They have to be just mine at present. There's a stage when things have to be just mine. Or what needs to happen with them won't happen; or it might, but it's not the same.

What I've been mulling for this past month or so is a 20,000 word book of children's stories, called The Penguin Didn't Have Any Hot Chocolate: Anytime Bedtime Stories, which--and here's another catch--is equally a book for adults. You could be childless and buy and love the book. Obviously, "Thank You, Human" would be in it, and "Best Present Ever," and stories like "The Bird," "Hero of Mine," "What the Mouse Knew," and other things which I also need to just keep with myself right now. I thought, well, you have two instances of "any," but not really, because "anytime" and "any" are different words, the title doesn't work as well without the "any"--which is just one of those things. I like the idea of anytime bedtime story. It could be for two in the afternoon. These stories have such depth and beauty and wit. Love.

You know those adult coloring books? For whatever reason, I think of this as the reading version of that for your soul. The adults, I mean. The kids would have their own experience. If mom was there reading the book to the kid, it'd be totally different for each of them, and just as much for each of them. I don't think you can say that about anything else.

I'm just thinking. Unfortunately, I'm also thinking, "No one is ever going to read any of it anyway, so what's it matter?"

Continuing on with this "make different versions" theme, but not exactly--call it the spirit of: For that same amount of time, I've thought of doing "Finder of Views" as a standalone novella. If God told me that "Finder of Views" was the best thing ever written--so much so that it was too much for humanity; it was too human--because only one thing could be picked, which didn't mean there wasn't actually a tie, but that's what he was going with, I'd understand where he was coming from. There's a long way to go with the work. Certain things have been written in my head that will be incorporated. Seen to. Gone with. And we'll see what happens. But it's a million books in terms of its power and depth. The pain it contains and its transcendent power. We'll see. I'm just saying--and saying to myself--that things can be open.

Yesterday, Universal sent me their upcoming Nick Drake box set, The Making of Five Leaves Left, that is slated for July release. This is one of the most looked forward to releases of my lifetime.

I spoke to my college roommate on Sunday for the first time in several years. He was appalled with what he had seen in several posts about people like Joshua Boger and how I'm treated by publishing. I could tell how at a loss he was and dumbstruck, too, that anything could be like that and it was happening to this person he has known as he has known them. You encounter insanity, people not only defending the indefensible, but making you the villain when you do not, and you can't help but ask questions, because that madness is so great.

I asked my friend, "How bad was it, what Sedaris said and this other person did in defense of it," and my friend said, "It's shockingly bad. It's disgusting." I mean, yes. But how does one just do these things, then? How can you not know? And, if you can't not know, how do you carry on like that? Live with yourself? How can you have a human soul and be that way? Logistically, I struggle to work that out. And I've been around these people and people like that for nearly thirty years now. But it never ceases to blow me away. The novelty--if you want to call it that--hasn't worn off.

It's like yesterday, when I was talking about how there are women in publishing who will pump up someone they know is a rapist, but who hate me because I write better than they ever could. People for whom I'm the bad guy because of that--and the worst guy because of it--and the rapist isn't a bad guy at all, because he blurbed their book or published their stupid MFA story. They don't tell their friends about the rapist, but they tell their friends to ban me.

I also spoke to another friend from college whom I'd not talked to in years. I'd leave him voicemails. And email my work to him. As I'd always done. But we hadn't spoken. I don't believe it would be considered a violation of trust to share some of these words that he'd written me, as I think they're appropriate for this record.

...nothing comparable to what you are dealing with, but I also don't know what I can do to help other than to say "soldier on" but then why, to what purpose? Wish I had something to offer, but for the life of me, I can't think of what it would be. You've said for years now that they've circled the wagons and they sure have. Like attracts like and you will never be like that-sycophants and pretenders; no different than the politicians. Recently re-reading portions of Melville's The Confidence Man I was struck by how incredibly prescient it is. Wish I had more to offer.

The sycophants and pretenders he's talking about are the publishing people, of course. But also not just the publishing people. It's the way of the world now.

More work on "Still Good." Semi-specifically, the beginning.

Wrote a story called "The New Landlord." Parts appeared here. Finished it.

Began another story. Still have a ways to go before it will be done. Started as one thing, immediately stopped being that thing, some of the text that was there was pasted into a new document, and the story was off. It's at 3330 words presently. They're all different. I have to do them. I don't know how it will be because each work is its own unique thing and will be made its own way.

I had to ask my mom to send me some pictures if she could of the two of us when I was little. A newspaper wanted them for a Mother's Day piece of mine. It's a very beautiful piece.

I upgraded my set of the Beatles' The BBC Archives. The difference being the addition of the band's first BBC session with Ringo Starr from October 25, 1962. I had that separately, but now it's where it belongs contextually belongs.

The Red Sox only struck out once the other night (Trevor Story) which makes for the most shocking detail of their season thus far.

Read "L.P. Hartley's "W.S." and Lord Dunsany's "The Ghost of the Valley." Dunsany could have made that story much better with just a little more work.

When I need to calm down, I've been listening to the Grateful Dead's "Bertha" from their 11/11/73 show at Winterland.

I've also been visiting many times with the performance of "Dark Star" from that same show. I'll sit there for the thirty-five minutes again and again. There is no musical work of art greater than "Dark Star."

I'll cover a little fitness.

Last Wednesday I did 300 push-ups and walked three miles.

Last Thursday I walked six miles, did 200 push-ups, and five circuits of stairs in the Bunker Hill Monument.

Last Friday I walked three miles, did 100 push-ups, and five circuits of stairs.

This past Sunday I walked twelve miles, did 300 push-ups, and five circuits of stairs. That day also marked 3213 days, or 459 weeks, without a drink.

On Monday I did 150 push-ups and walked three miles.

On Tuesday I did 150 push-ups and ran 3000 stairs at City Hall.

On Wednesday I did 100 push-ups and walked five miles.

Yesterday I did 100 push-ups and walked nine miles.

There isn't a lot I've done wrong since I stopped drinking. Is that because I stopped drinking? Not as one is likely to think of it; that is, as though what wrongdoing there was stemmed directly from alcohol intake. I'd say, instead, that giving up alcohol was part of a larger process and commitment that continued to build upon itself. I'd say there hasn't been anything in these nearly nine years that was not a conscious moral choice and the right thing to do, done the right way. This is also one of the many reasons an already unlivable life constantly gets worse.

In OT of the Vegas-Edmonton game--which happened after midnight, and by which point I was already awake and working--McDavid blew past a flat-footed Eichel. Saw a post from someone that said this exposed Eichel for who he is. People understand nothing. No matter how simple it is. Eichel is a forward. A forward--this isn't a defenseman--has no chance of stopping McDavid with a full head of steam--which he needs like all of two strides to build up--let alone in a bad position when they're flat footed. It has nothing to do with compete level or anything. How can you watch any hockey in your life and not know this? But like I said: We, as a people, can no longer tell anything, regardless of how simple it is. We are fast approaching a day when we will require AI to tell us if it's raining outside, even as we're standing there. On top of that, McDavid crossed Eichel over. Guy had zero shot whatsoever. Wrong place, wrong time.

Re: the Celtics: Am I surprised? Mildly. I said all season long they weren't a good home team and that was a problem, and also that the obsessive analytical insistence on the three-point shot could very well be their fatal flaw. But look: This team has never figured out how to win. You know what I mean by that? You want to call it killer instinct, then fine, though humans don't have instincts. But that kind of deal. Their coach will be undone by hubris. Jayson Tatum is what I call a passenger superstar. He's not a lead-the-team-to-victory player. He's a guy who gets his stats when things are going well. A front-runner superstar. He's not clutch, money, whatever you want to call it. Not reliably. He's soft. He lacks edge. But none of that would matter if the Celtics had just played the right way in either of those first two games. You know how when you're playing a game and someone prevents you from what you want to do, or what you'd like to do isn't working? You mix it up. You adapt. That's the natural way to play a game, whether that's an NBA playoff game or chess or pick-up hockey. The Celtics are defiant in their commitment to playing an unnatural brand of...not even just basketball, but the game. A game. They won't do it. What chance do I give them now to advance? Forty percent. You know what? They could get this to a Game 7 and lose at home.

Listened to the first season of The Lovecraft Investigations.

I watched 1944's Wanted for Murder, which has a script by Emeric Pressburger--of Powell and Pressburger--but it's rather rote. Watched The Coffee Table--began a piece about it. Wrote pieces about The Man Who Could Cheat Death, The Two Faces of Dr. Jekyll, and The Slumber Party Massacre. These are all for Nightmares Be Damned: Writings About Horror Films Worth Staying Up For.

I began assembling a partial--what I call a sampler--for the baseball book, which is now titled, The Diamond Mirror: Baseball History as Life (Essays). The first two chapters--essays--are those works about a lifelong love of catchers and Dave Kingman, totaling 9000 words. There's a preface, but I need to go over it again, and when that's how it should be, I'll include that with the sampler as well. A letter to someone it will then go to is already mostly drafted, but I do have to add a couple things. There's also a rundown of some of the rest of the contents, which goes as follows:

Babe Ruth’s revolutionary mental acumen.

The paradoxical, upliftingly melancholic spirit of baseball as depicted in Charlie Brown’s All-Stars.

Why baseball fosters a love for teams that didn’t quite win it all, with the 1950 Phillies, the pre-1955 Bums of Brooklyn, the 1959 White Sox, and the 1967 Red Sox, among others.

The life-altering experience of reading Ted Williams’ My Turn at Bat as a kid.

The pictorial poetry of the 1934-36 Diamond Stars series, the greatest card set of all-time.

The radio broadcast of Game 7 of the 1960 World Series: Essential American art.

The history—and romance—of stealing home.

The timeless baseball fiction of Ring Lardner.

I saw New England come to an end: A father and son viewing of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.

I downloaded the complete recordings of Enrico Caruso, the whole of the Byrds' catalogue (the expanded versions), Clifford Brown's Live at the Bee Hive, the Busch Quartet's late Beethoven string quartets, Art Tatum's Piano Starts Here, and an expanded version of Christopher Cross's debut--which has a demo of "Sailing"--among many other recordings. "Sailing" is actually a pretty good song, I have to admit. I've joked about it over the years. And quite a bit of Alban Berg.