Success isn’t just a matter of talent. It’s a combination of desire, arrogance and a sense of “What the hell else am I supposed to do?” Every pro writer knows a better writer who started out at the same time but you’ve never heard of them. Why? Because they gave up when things got hard. And you know what? Fuck ‘em. They didn’t have the guts to stick it out. If you want to be professional writer get yourself a truckful of guts but a shot glass of ego and maybe you’ll make it.–Richard Kadrey
1. Sure, let’s elect a plagiarist. Why not? Lamar, it’s time to stop appeasing these jackasses and just eat their lunch.
2. “Better to stay indoors until one can safely discern between the dog and the wolf.” I just want to marry this sentence. Or die of envy that someone else wrote it.
3. Gail Kerr’s right–something is starting to stink here.
4. Over on Facebook, Coble was talking about this. It’s supposed to be Native American-inspired or something. Here’s my problem–aside from the fact that it’s 3/4s of a million dollars–is this supposed to be inspired by Native Americans who lived here? Because I’ve now Googled the art and clothing of every tribe that was thought to have been in the Tennessee area and one thing stands out–they all had access to and made ample use of a vibrant red dye. I couldn’t identify it, but obviously it’s something pretty prevalent here, because it was very popular. So, where’s the red on this thing? Is this a tribute to Native Tennesseans or just some abstract concept of Native Americans?
Here’s how I remember my first (or maybe second) Thai meal. One time I ate Thai with Coble and Sarcastro and another time I ate it with JR and Elias. I just can’t remember which order.
Anyway, I was in Colorado for work. But I was hanging out with JR and Elias in my spare time. We went to this little Thai restaurant and Elias ordered everything hot. I remember the waitress trying to dissuade us. I remember it being delicious. And then I remember my eyes watering and snot involuntarily running down my face and my skin melting off the back of my head and all my whole upper body just disintegrating into a beacon of fire. Viggo Mortensen saw me from a distance and was like “Crap, are they filming another Lord of the Rings without me?” Hunter S. Thompson came by our table. He was riding a cheetah named Betty Grable. The ghost of Jerry Garcia was wearing a tutu and singing “Sugar Magnolia” while my arms turned to jelly. The cooks from the back room came out to laugh at us. I started speaking in tongues. In the language of angels, I predicted the world would turn into a giant bread pudding. How many lifetimes did we sit at that table? How did we get home? Did we really dance down the aisle at someone else’s wedding set-up at the Stanley Hotel or was that part of dinner?
I have no answers.
But I was reminded of that experience a little bit last night, because I made stir-fry for dinner. I marinated the skirt steak in Coke, as is my new favorite trick, and I meant to add a few shakes of red pepper. But my stupid hand shook two or three times before my stupid brain realized that the flap on the red pepper flakes I had open was not the one with three holes for shaking on your pizza but the one with one, big gaping maw, which no one ever needs, ever.
It wasn’t as hot as hallucinatory Thai, by any stretch. But it was hot enough to make my teeth feel strange in my mouth.