The Nameless Decade

As it draws to a close, this turbulent string of years is still without a proper name. A teacher once told me that it was called the "aughts". Some research suggested that it was sort of a name that was not really accepted but rather placed because nobody could come up with anything else. Well nameless decade, you have been fraught with disasters, some happiness, and a few really good films. I'm not sure if I'll miss you nameless decade, or what fruits your events will yield, but your gone, and that's a good thing.

you say rivalry, i say war

263 words was all it was, but I've since been considering the importance of them actually being in print. I'm setting forth my artistic voice. While a simple little Moxy for Newcity is not very significant on a grand scale, it has left me with some food for thought. No longer is my concept of an audience some abstract vision of those who I envision being enthralled with my work, but it's a very real group of people that might have picked up that recent copy. Now I'm faced with the challenge of continuing to submit to them, but the question is about what should I write?

Another thing, Andreas says this is a rivalry. I say he's thinking too small. This is a knock-down, drag-out brawl. This is Ali v. Foreman. This is Lennon v. McCartney. This is acoustic Dylan v. electric Dylan.

The start of a long career

So a short piece I wrote was published by Newcity. It's about self expression to the inebriated masses at the Gallery Cabaret's Sunday open mic. I suppose it would be in my best interest for people to read this which you can do so here. You're welcome.

the world outside of worry

I partook in my first event independent of school. On Friday at Joone Studios, Andreas, Dan Paul, Jeph Porter and myself took to the stage and formed a story of sorts. The series is called Night of the Living Story and there is a zombie host. The plan was to do them once a month so it feature a good selection of writers across the bored. It was a really cool thing to be a part of and a unique venue.

Semester winding down. Last Wednesday I wrote 5,200 words in twenty-four hours so I didn't exactly feel like continuing the chore up here.

The gold at the end of the tunnel

Collection of poems about Freud printed: check
Deadline for Redheaded Stepchild: passed
Ten minutes short film script: check
Feeling a strange sense of accomplishment about my writing: check

While I would just like to spend the next eight weeks sitting on my ass and watching the wonderful new TV that appeared in my living room, now begins the task of assembling this Redheaded Stepchild. Raising it from a baby, a baby left on my front doorstep causing a deep sense of resentment rising from my dissatisfaction with my obligation to raise it.

If you have any interest in my series of poems entitled The Adventures of Super-Ego shoot an email to zachary.willhoff@gmail.com.

50 Years of Cold

Not sure how many people realized this, but last weekend (14-15) was the fiftieth anniversary of the Clutter murders in Holcomb, Kansas. The family's brutal end was the catalyst for one of the best pieces of literature in the twentieth century. It makes me think about how old everything becomes.

Newly fascinated with learning 90s pop songs on the acoustic guitar. "Don't Speak," "Sex and Candy," "Bitch," all classics.

I now have an entire pumpkin pie in the fridge to devour. Wish me luck.

Things that make me feel like John Malkovitch

1. Saying my own last name. I suddenly imagine an entire restaurant full of people who look just like me, and it's scary.

2. Asking permission for anything involving animals. Lenny made me overly cautious.

3. Eating Oreos

4. Thinking about my newly started memoir. Even saying the word makes me feel like I'm in Burn After Reading and spilling incredibly trite description of a flowering love. That being said, it wasn't working as a novel. Plus, this is weird, but thinking about it as a novel wasn't forcing me to be honest enough. As a memoir, I have an obligation to be honest, in turn, creating better writing. Getting into that creative trance where the memories don't register in the brain much before they are transferred through the fingertips.

Andreas with his NaNoWriMo is pushing me to be less lazy. All play and no work makes Zack a terrible writer.

Played Apples to Apples last night and I still believe the Cold War to be much more frivolous than Hollywood.

Working on a dark comedy script about a young boy confronting his father's drug addiction. Sounds hilarious, right?

Also working on a series of poems about Sigmund Freud. Title still to be determined. Already have plans of printing a small number of copies.

They have me surrounded

There are these dangerous figures that have encircled me. They click and intimidate me and make me feel inadequate. They refer to themselves as "writers" or maybe it's "righters?" I can't tell, it make take extra research. Feeding almost entirely on crispy packaged wafers of potato or tortillas, they thrive for some force called "NaNoWriMo." I'm just reporting what I hear. I feel a little like Jane Goodall. They use their fingers like twigs to extract Twizzlers and Lay's from their bags, never glancing away from the thing in front of them. Their behavior is contagious, and has left me often leaving my studies to draws long strings of letters at a time. I even submitted one string 834 words long. If you're looking for me, follow the trail of crumpled paper.

No one was killed

From 5 pm to 9 pm a tree was grown in my living room. By 1:30 am, it was chopped down. It was a big tree, and it fell hard. It was in no forest, but was nonetheless heard by no ear. This if for you, tree.

Blank of all carvings
Shipped to Sweden only to
Come back as a desk.

"Reincarnation"

Leave the vodka alone.

You know what I'm craving? Buncha Crunch

The big crunch is on with T minus four days to the great Pagan celebration that is free candy and slutty costumes. Settled on a design for this year's disguise and, for once in a long time, I actually have a decent disguise idea. Living with a vegan has exposed me to something wonderful, and it's call seitan. Which, according to this spell check, isn't even a word. I was pronouncing it "satan" though it is actually quite delicious. Apparently it's made out of wheat and can be seasoned to taste like real food. Try it on the BBQ Seitan sammich at Handlebar.

There has been a lack of fiction in my life, but an abundance of nonfiction and poetry, so I think it balances out. At least I'm writing because otherwise I'd feel lazy as shit what with Andreas trying to write an entire novel in a month.

Check out The Mountain Goats and There I Fixed it.

Elevator eyes can cost your citizenship

Recently started a new job but I will not disclose the name. What I will do is say that it is the most classic building toy company ever. On my first day they had me read all this propaga-literature about the company and appropriate behavior and dress. So I'm not allowed to give an unwanted massage to a coworker? In my experience that's been a completely ordinary action. But throughout the countless rules and guidelines, they refer to the employee as a "Model Citizen." Naturally a toy store would find it ideal to keep an environment free of drugs and alcohol, but they also go to the extent that if any of their "citizens" huff, snort, shoot, smoke, or drink, that they will do what they can to help that citizen. The terminology is slightly more cult-ish than "team member," though slightly less than "family member." On the flip-side, listening to kids get extremely excited about toys brings a significantly more sincere smile to my face than some lady going on about how cute she thinks that dress is.

This is where you pee.

Creation has commenced. Everybody else has a blog, so hauled my ass onto that bandwagon. I'm Zack. I write. I enjoy. This is where I define my existence. And tell anecdotes about my roommate's dog. If you at least find some of this funny, my goal has been reached.