I am embarrassed, friends, to report that I committed a rather large  
error a few weeks ago that I now feel (not entirely)comfortable  
sharing with the group: Noticing a recent sale on Publisher's Lunch,  
my editor asked me if I would be interested in doing a Cover Q & A  
with a high profile writer (whose will remain nameless for obvious  
and organic reasons). Naturally I said I would and got on the  
Internets, utilizing the search engine Google and many of the other  
tools a fantastic investigative journalist like myself keeps at his  
disposal. After a cursory search, I located the email address of her  
agent and publicist from her first work, and sent them (in my  
opinion!) a well crafted, polite-but-like-pretty-excited, professional  
query. Understanding the snail's pace at which the publishing world  
works, I promptly fell back into my thesis and forgot about it until  
my editor sent me a message with the subject head: ???, asking if I'd  
heard anything.

I had not, and it had been a decent amount of time and time, friends,  
is money. Write that down. Anyway, I went back to the InterWeb to  
investigate the (cold?) case and found that said author had actually  
left her old agent/publisher for new ones, meaning my gushing  
congratulatory email praising her book sale to her old scorned agent  
probably wasn't the best thing said agent woke up to that morning. I  
considered apologizing but thought I should just let the sleeping  
dog lie, even if it wasn't sleeping and was kind of bitter. Anyway,  
if there is a moral to be learned from this story, it probably  
involves counting chickens, hatching, and being more thorough in  
getting up-to-date information re: subjects you are about to contact.

As for the thesis insanity: I am now officially back on my grind  
after having taken a hiatus to jump up and all over a Boston Mag  
feature and--while my writing is rusty and my use of metaphors  
cheesy--it feels hella (shout out to Norcal!) chill to get back to  
writing about the aftermath of alleged fictional sexual assaults.

The section I'm re-writing now involves the coast of the state of  
Maine and--while I've been there almost infinity times-- I'm having  
my own personal mission impossible picturing what I'm writing about,  
and my Google image search is being both stubborn and ambivalent to  
my needs, probably due to troubles with women. I keep imagining a  
time in the not-so-far future when my thesis is done and sent off and  
the weather isn't close to zero Celsius in April, and I'm wearing my  
standard summer outfit of cut-off jean shorts and jean jacket (no  
shirt!) sipping on a cool (virgin!) Daiquiri listening to the gentle  
rhythms of Buffalo Tom. This--and several bowls of Honey Bunches of  
Oats-- are the only things propelling me through this week.

If you can't already tell, I'm a little bit manic this morning.  
Please enlighten me to your own writing needs for the week, the  
attire you might rock to a 1994 themed party, and anything else you  
feel the urge to share in the Show N Tell portion of the Comments. In  
the meantime, we're still dropping hits from 1988.

The Loco,
Motion

Kylie Minogue

There will be better and more coherent posts regarding the series  
finale of the Wire, but I just wanted to offer my final  
recommendation/plea as a writer. "The Wire"--for those who haven't  
heard/seen it-- was a show that was on for five seasons on HBO  
depicting inner-city Baltimore through all the different arms of city  
life: the drug trade, the city police department, the mayor's office,  
the unions, the newspaper, the city schools, etc. The series finale  
was last night. Like my profile on Friendster, it is now retired.  
And--although I do have a penchant for hyperbole-- I swear to you  
that I am not being overly dramatic when I say that "The Wire" is and  
will forever remain the best and most complete form of entertainment  
I have ever experienced. And that goes for books, movies, television,  
internet shows starring Michael Cera, AND my roommate performing  
"Kiss from a Rose" at the Japanese karaoke joint in the Fenway. And I  
love karaoke.

Each season is a chapter in the most complicated and utterly  
authentic tele-novel ever written. It was created by a former  
Baltimore Sun reporter and a former Baltimore detective, and the only  
writers they've brought on to collaborate with are urban crime  
novelists: George Pelecanos, Richard Price, Dennis Lehane, etc. And  
they just nail it. All the characters are so well developed, so real  
feeling, so spot-on with their dialogue, so perfectly placed with  
their own arcs, and internal conflicts, you can't help but grow  
despondently attached to them. I cried when my favorite character was  
killed. Legitimately. And he did (mostly) bad things.

I have been watching this show since it first came on, and although I  
normally take a loserish pride in staking any sort of trendy claim  
about discovering something, I have told everyone I've ever known to  
give it a chance. Anyone that will listen to me. I have pitched this  
show like I had some sort of major investment, like I would somehow  
benefit financially from its success, like it was written by one of  
my (financially well off!) siblings. But I don't have any sort of  
publicity deal. I just appreciate art and  think this show is  
important enough that everyone should watch it. Yes, it has bad  
language (authentic cop/drug dealer talk!), and violence, and other  
vices that may offend, but I guarantee that watching this show will  
improve your ability to see and develop full characters and recognize  
the greatness that comes with real authenticity in writing. The  
entire show sounds improvised and ad-libbed, but according to what  
I've read, hardly any of it deviates at all from the script, which is  
the true litmus test of real dialogue writing. Even my dad (MY dad!),  
who won't do anything I ask him and shies away from publicly  
admitting he helped create me, begrudgingly watched the first season,  
and ended up secretly watching all the other seasons behind my back  
because he didn't want to admit I was right. Friends, The Wire is a  
show for writers. Trust me on this. Rent the first season, watch the  
12 episodes, and if you don't like it or at least see what I mean, I  
will (probably) personally mail you a check for $8.99 in Netflix  
expenses. OK, so I won't write you a check but you will definitely
not be invited to my Annual Wire Anniversary Gala next March
(featuring Kim Kardashian!).

Ok. Whew. I'm sorry. I'm all choked up. I will now step down off of  
my soap box, dry my eyes and resume what's left of my regularly  
scheduled blog entry.

I am on deadline again for Boston Magazine, trying to finish up a  
quick essay piece re: an interesting phenomenon in city social  
circles. For fear of someone stealing my idea, I will NOT be more  
specific. My plan of attack is to write several hundred word blocks  
in stream-of-conscious fashion for two hours straight until I find  
something that actually sounds clever/accurate and then fashion my  
entire piece around that insight. FYI: I do NOT recommend this tactic  
for the GRE writing section.

This was really great, friends. Let's do it again Thursday.

Also, the songs of 1998 will resume with Thursdays entry, but I was  
reminded last night that every make out scene from BH 90210 had this  
song playing in the background, and so it needs to be all over my  
Internets. You win, Steve Sanders!

No, I don't want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your  
heart). With you.

Wicked Game,
Chris Isaak

There is an article today in the NYT (fyi: I read the Times!) called "I Need a Virtual Break. No, really" in which the author discusses how he forcefully worked some peace and quiet away from all methods of communication into his routine and how it benefited his life. This rang true to me because I have serious issues letting go of my communication devices (literally. I fall asleep most nights clutching my cell phone with my computer on in my bed). This is not healthy.  

I've been on the other side of the technology coin. When I was finding myself (and other things) in Eastern Europe, I did not have a cell phone for 100 days. I wrote longhand in a journal-thing. I read 16 books. I even used phonebooths! I remember discussing these feelings of internal and external solitude with the Big Cat:
BC: Remember cell phones?
KA: What?
BC: Cell phones? Remember them?
KA: Yeah.
BC: They were pretty convenient.
KA: I know.

We'd spent so much time with ourselves and without the use of modern technology that we were starting to get nostalgic about it. On some levels, this was great. Internal reflection, peace of mind, and not having to ignore ubiquitous ":-(" messages from my father, once my younger brother taught him how to use the texting feature, were all hella (NorCal shout out!) positives. But then we rented a computer in Prague. And all bets were off.

We attacked the Internets like hungry dogs, each trying to wake up earlier to first get a piece of the world wide web action. The computer became a new, new thing to fight about, and our complete cold-turkey experience without it had done little to quell the internal feelings that us Web 2.0 humans feel: Namely, who has been friending me on Facebook?!?!

So I guess my point is this: as writers, we spend so much time with technology in one way or another (just by the act of sitting at our computer) that--for us, perhaps more than most-- actively cutting yourself off from that sort of thing is a hard, hard task. But writers especially need their time away from technology, away from the fast paced world of the 'Net, and within themselves. It helps us make connections, it helps us figure out what we're trying to do, and--most importantly-- it doesn't give us an excuse to go on thesuperficial.com and look at pictures of Kim Kardashian grinding with Reggie Bush.

Explain away your own technology-induced or fearing habits in the Comments section (located below!). I hope your weekend was well above-average.

Deja Vu,
(Uptown Baby)

Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz