I am really enjoying my writing 121 class at Lane. All the required reading and writing is working the brain muscles that have long sat, un-used in my cranium. Exploring topics such as Tupac Shakur's educated thugster-ism and former alcoholic/writer/living person Caroline Knapp's cautionary tales of boozin'-gone-bad, I have a hunch that my teacher is forcing my class and I to examine ourselves and our own motivations and perspectives, whether through writing about Thug Life or addiction. Yikes! Some of this shit is hitting too close to home for comfort. I would highly reccomend author Caroline Knapp's Drinking: A love story to any of my interested literary friends. (Dan Jones? Mrs. Random?Are you out there?)
In addition to all my school-orientation - by the way, I FUCKING LOVE SCHOOL! - I have been rehearsing as much as possible with the Underlings. Which, actually, isn't very much since all of us are going to school and/or working all the time. We are coming along, however, continuing to fuse soul and pop songs and Ramones-y garage rock and I home some people come out to Sam Bonds on November 3d to see us open for Brooklyn songwriter Eef Barzelay .
Here are some quotes copied out of my dad's WW2-era journal:
- "If one complains to you for any cause, it is more a Godsend than a calamity, for he could do more harm by complaining to others about you.
A person who has had a grievance satisfied is a better booster than one who has had no grievance at all.
Right or wrong, the complainant has some merit on his side.
First maneuver is to give ground rapidly as, "I'm terribly sorry this has happened." This is known as rolling with the punch. Allow the complainant to get the beef out of his system without you fighting back. Amongst friends and family, familiarity wipes out restraints and we are more apt to rely on vocal force and bull-headedness.
A heated assertion draws a heated retort, and when heated, a mind is hermetically sealed to reason.
It is well to avoid vituperation, personal affronts, sarcasm, glittering wise cracks and half-baked opinions."
I reckon my father was around forty years old when he wrote that. I wish he had written a book.