Aug. 07, 2004 - 3:04 p.m.

Grand Funk Rail Mode

.

Nah, actually I'm not gonna rail against anything. I just wanted to use that title.

But I have been in a grand funk lately.

I think I'm burning out on Dangerspouse a bit. Oh, it was nothing YOU said. Don't worry your nappy little head about that.

I just...I dunno....

I think a big part of the problem is that I'm too goddam fucking nice. You know what I mean?

Ok, here's what I mean:

I really, really enjoy doing this. You should see me - a fat, sweaty loner in his boxers, cackling away between swigs of imported dark beer while crafting nonsensical adventures in a darkened room. It's escape in a Walter Mittyish sort of way...except that my recountings are mostly factual (if occasionally embellished).

At first I seemed to be only amusing myself, which was fine. I'd started this thing for a purpose entirely unrelated to audience gathering, which I may detail in a future entry.

Ah, those were carefree days! Typos, free wheeling grammar, stylistic gaffes that would insult a hip-hop "artist"...who cared? Nobody was reading me but me.

Now this is NOT going to be a trip to the "I long for the halcyon days of yore" whinery. I've loved every phase of "Danger", from hesitant first steps to my current "So Funny He's Almost Sexy" status.

However here's where my niceness bites me on my nice and ample ass: I feel it is only polite to answer as many notes as I can, plus e-mails (which sometimes outnumber notes 2-to-1), AND visit several dozen favorite diaries at least a few times a week. Believe me, I don't see that as any sort of chore or onorous task. But as my readership grew and the number of incredible diaries I discovered increased, I found myself spending at least three hours a day in front of the monitor - and that was before I'd even started my own entry, which would tack on another hour (at least).

Again, this was not a bother at all. At least early on. My schedule at work permitted a fair ammount of perusal/composition time in between mic breaks. I sailed along happily for months, reading and writing all I wanted the 6 hours a day I was planted in my studio.

Then around March things at work started to go downhill. I won't bore you with details, but in a nutshell I was given more stations per hour AND my favorite station got a new boss who directed all us reporters to conform to new, impossible on-air parameters. It changed my professional life from one of "Idyllic Torpor" to "Daily Aneurism", and also halted my previous daily diary daliances.

So...I moved it to the homefront.

This seemed ideal at first, as I had no restrictions on my time from micro-managing bosses or irate listeners. But I still use a dial-up 56k modem at the Dangerhouse, and so my ass planting time increased to almost 6 hours per day.

That was not good. It started cutting into my Quality Porn time.

...And NewWifey(tm) time. She would come home from her daily office reaming looking for moral support and a sympathetic ear, but would find neither. Except from the dog. I would wave her off, begging for "just a few more minutes while I answer these e-mails!" and two hours later emerge to find her finishing the last of a cold dinner she'd made in my absence. As much as she loved my stories (and being portrayed as a "heavy"), the loss of Face Time was beginning to become a source of disquiet. And redheads do not suffer disquiet gladly.

On top of that, I've been really unhappy with the spotty quality of my entries recently. In a rush to complete my opuses before my eyes slammed shut each night I began to slip into formulaic ennui. Really, you could predict the outcome of my last ten stories after the first sentence: "Dangerspouse does something stupid, is injured, NewWifey(tm) reacts, Dangerspouse learns nothing. The end." I was typing so fast my brain couldn't keep up and I became a Romance Novelist: change the names and locations, but never vary the plot.

This all hit me two days after my previous entry, when I was hammering out a typical (although true) story about how my Corgi jumped up on my leg while I was chopping vegetables and I sliced the tip of my thumb off. About 5 meandering pragraphs in, it hit me what dreck it was. I stood up, walked away from the computer, and haven't been back since. Til today.

The intervening days have seen a gradual easing of personal and domestic friction. Not thinking about Diaryland "obligations" has allowed me to resume some of the pursuits I'd been neglecting at home for months, including interacting with NewWifey(tm). I've actually thought of things to write that don't involve a story line carbon-copied from previous stories. I've gotten to sleep at my usual hour, and have begun having dinner ready for NewWifey(tm) when she walks in the door again. I've had sex. WITH her.

I think the break has done me good. If you'd asked me a week ago I would have told you that Dangerspouse had seen its final chapter. But now that some of the pressures - whether self or outside generated - have subsided, I'm feeling a bit more positive about what is, after all, supposed to be a cathartic release, not a stressor.

So I hope to start writing again soon. I'll probably put up the Thumb Slicing story in the next day or two, just because. But after that I really want to start varying my style a bit. I'm really sorry they became so dully predictable for a while there. Oh - and forgive me doubley if I don't always respond to a note or e-mail you leave me in the future. Believe me, I read them all and enjoy them immensely. But this whole "having enough time for sex" business is so gratifying that I don't want to jeopardize it again. Maybe if she gets fat. Then you'll hear from me every freakin' day. But until then, I need to cut down my on-line time a bit. I hope you understand.

If you don't, well just drop me a line. I'll get back to you. Yeah.

Well, gotta run. A certain skinny redhead needs my attention....