Myths Mistold

I watched the first four episodes of Unscripted this weekend, and it's really good. It's exactly like what Lee Strasberg was, wherein scruffy aging men yelled ambiguous yet angry epithets to a hopeful actor under a bare spotlight: "Don't be an actor." "You're an actor, damn you! Do your job or get out of my space!" "Bravo. That was real. That was as real as it's ever going to get, folks. The rest of you should just pack it up." "This is disgusting. You're wasting everybody's time."

Another reason I like the show is that it's strangely like being in a writing workshop as well, wherein scruffy aging professors yell ambiguous yet angry epithets to a hopeful writer. "Show don't tell." "I don't care about this character." "What is the point?" "This is like watching a Lifetime movie."

Pain. That's what it's all about, people. I'm just egotistical enough to put my writing out there, but not egotistical enough to take it like a man. Or maybe that means I'm too egotistical? And isn't that, in a sense, the point of this blog?

I ran 22 miles yesterday morning. It took a really long time. Towards the end, I was wondering if twenty years had passed and I would go home only to find out that somebody else was living there, like in Flight of the Navigator. Alas, all that really happened was that I went home to find dried snot on my nose, which I had grown tired of wiping on my sleeve at around mile 13.

One of my poems is being published. It's the one I always thought was the worst piece of melodramatic crap. Which confirms what I've known all along: that I have no idea what I'm doing.

Here's a new New Order song. It makes me feel like I'm sixteen and it's the summer and if I only had the guts I'd drive away from my house until I ended up where I was really supposed to be. Which, obviously, is a good thing.