After reading most of the first two paragraphs I am ready to answer. Why did and when did everyone become a fucking writer and why are we never allowed to say that something is awful? I don't suddenly see everyone taking up stilt-walking or, say, guitar. I have never tried to walk on stilts for mostly the same reasons I never submitted anything to McSweeney's when it was a huge thing--I DO recall walking by the HQ in Brooklyn and directing my hate in the direction of the front door. I DID pick up the guitar around 15-years-old and after playing very loud and very bad, I bothered to try to learn how to play and found out that a guitar needs to be tuned. Who knew? I have now been playing to one degree or another for maybe 33 years. I'm decent at it if you don't factor in the 33 years, I guess. I don't have ideas of performing professionally nor for an audience, as I wouldn't want to seduce people to waste more of their time than they already do. I have nothing new to say on guitar that hasn't been said by every other guy with a guitar. I never thought of anything more than maybe playing in a terrible band with a couple of scumbags. To be honest, I was a better addict than a musician. I have friends who are amazing natural musicians and others who somehow piece these word puzzles together from their thoughts and so that makes me wanna play writer, and though I had nothing but success at first (though hoping to paste up in romantic fits of muteness all those rejection letters on the walls of my dumpy apartment, I never got even a single one). The first thing I sent out, I sent out with an SASE like Writer's Guide suggested, actually a self-addressed stamped postcard of Rialto, California, near where I college-d. Three or four days later, wandering around during lunch, I opened my mailbox and plucked the postcard out. There was scribbling. "Please send more from 'The Tao of Handjobs! David Buchbinder, Features Editor, HUSTLER.) I didn't have anything else written and certainly didn't think that the magazine that paid the most (at the time $3500 plus expenses when they sent you on assignment) was going to like the way I wrote bad smut that was sometimes humorous. I didn't know. I remember going to my Writing class, where sci-fi pro Tim Powers had recently taken on our class when tenured teacher had that mental thing where you're tired all the time and don't really feel like doing anything except you feel like doing it almost exclusively on the couch. I sat quietly as Tim introduced himself, opened the first of very many Diet Cokes, and took a refreshing sip. Some joker asked about submitting his terrible story to IDK, like some magazine that stopped publishing during the Civil War, the Antietam Creek Review or whatever. Tim told a story about how he and a friend basically found Phillip K. Dick wandering around their campus in a speed-inspired human knot and invited him back to live in their apartment. Which, of course, he did. I went home and wrote 3500 more words about hand jobs and sent it out before even editing it. It was probably enough success that I'd go on to have, just barely enough, that I don't worry about killing myself at this point in my life. I mean, I think about it pretty often. I just no longer worry about it. Publishing died and then suddenly everyone was a writer, like the times I'd be trying to push my way through Grand Central and some fucking flash mob would start to do their thing. Or the time I was late and hungover for work at CHERI and I lived on 40th Street in Sunset Park and the commute but me to sleep standing up but I'd always wake up as we were going over the Manhattan Bridge. And then at Chinatown, in like 2001, having one of the Mott Street locals wearing a puffy shirt with like Odie the dog from the comic strip Garfield on it literally sneeze on my face from an inch away. I reacted. Mistook Odie for a Pokemon and pushed him out of the car saying "Not today, Pikachu!" and how maybe half of the people on the car started laughing despite their efforts to stifle the vaguely but very unintentionally racist moment in time. Maybe he was actually wearing a suit, I don't fucking remember.
I may have to watch The Beastmaster.
Amazed that you missed it. Buy me a few drinks and I think I could perform it
After reading most of the first two paragraphs I am ready to answer. Why did and when did everyone become a fucking writer and why are we never allowed to say that something is awful? I don't suddenly see everyone taking up stilt-walking or, say, guitar. I have never tried to walk on stilts for mostly the same reasons I never submitted anything to McSweeney's when it was a huge thing--I DO recall walking by the HQ in Brooklyn and directing my hate in the direction of the front door. I DID pick up the guitar around 15-years-old and after playing very loud and very bad, I bothered to try to learn how to play and found out that a guitar needs to be tuned. Who knew? I have now been playing to one degree or another for maybe 33 years. I'm decent at it if you don't factor in the 33 years, I guess. I don't have ideas of performing professionally nor for an audience, as I wouldn't want to seduce people to waste more of their time than they already do. I have nothing new to say on guitar that hasn't been said by every other guy with a guitar. I never thought of anything more than maybe playing in a terrible band with a couple of scumbags. To be honest, I was a better addict than a musician. I have friends who are amazing natural musicians and others who somehow piece these word puzzles together from their thoughts and so that makes me wanna play writer, and though I had nothing but success at first (though hoping to paste up in romantic fits of muteness all those rejection letters on the walls of my dumpy apartment, I never got even a single one). The first thing I sent out, I sent out with an SASE like Writer's Guide suggested, actually a self-addressed stamped postcard of Rialto, California, near where I college-d. Three or four days later, wandering around during lunch, I opened my mailbox and plucked the postcard out. There was scribbling. "Please send more from 'The Tao of Handjobs! David Buchbinder, Features Editor, HUSTLER.) I didn't have anything else written and certainly didn't think that the magazine that paid the most (at the time $3500 plus expenses when they sent you on assignment) was going to like the way I wrote bad smut that was sometimes humorous. I didn't know. I remember going to my Writing class, where sci-fi pro Tim Powers had recently taken on our class when tenured teacher had that mental thing where you're tired all the time and don't really feel like doing anything except you feel like doing it almost exclusively on the couch. I sat quietly as Tim introduced himself, opened the first of very many Diet Cokes, and took a refreshing sip. Some joker asked about submitting his terrible story to IDK, like some magazine that stopped publishing during the Civil War, the Antietam Creek Review or whatever. Tim told a story about how he and a friend basically found Phillip K. Dick wandering around their campus in a speed-inspired human knot and invited him back to live in their apartment. Which, of course, he did. I went home and wrote 3500 more words about hand jobs and sent it out before even editing it. It was probably enough success that I'd go on to have, just barely enough, that I don't worry about killing myself at this point in my life. I mean, I think about it pretty often. I just no longer worry about it. Publishing died and then suddenly everyone was a writer, like the times I'd be trying to push my way through Grand Central and some fucking flash mob would start to do their thing. Or the time I was late and hungover for work at CHERI and I lived on 40th Street in Sunset Park and the commute but me to sleep standing up but I'd always wake up as we were going over the Manhattan Bridge. And then at Chinatown, in like 2001, having one of the Mott Street locals wearing a puffy shirt with like Odie the dog from the comic strip Garfield on it literally sneeze on my face from an inch away. I reacted. Mistook Odie for a Pokemon and pushed him out of the car saying "Not today, Pikachu!" and how maybe half of the people on the car started laughing despite their efforts to stifle the vaguely but very unintentionally racist moment in time. Maybe he was actually wearing a suit, I don't fucking remember.