the weekend

Each time you begin a new project (or relationship or job), it has the potential to be great or shit. Or somewhere in the middle. The gestation period for most of my projects is long. By the time I sit down to write something, it’s been on my mind (in the back, near the filing cabinets) for some time. That means that it gets on paper really fast because the ground work is already done. When faced with a quick deadline, such as the one I have for the experimental piece, I’m finding myself backed into a creative corner and I’m freaking out, man.

Actually, it’s not so severe. The thing I worked on this weekend is pretty cool, I think, though I don’t know if it’s experimental enough. If not, I have about four other things I’m working on concurrently, and I’m sure one of them will work. The good thing about this rush to completion is I keep coming up with new ideas every day or two – ideas that I’m writing down and hope to complete in the future. The writing is easy – the idea is the hard part.

In a case of self-sabotage, I had way too much fun this weekend when I should have been working. Friday night I saw a band at Rudyard’s. The lead singer of this band called me a bitch the last time I saw him, which was at Satellite Lounge in the late 90s. That’s not why I haven’t seen them since – lots of people have called me a bitch before, no biggie – it’s mostly because I don’t really dig jam bands. I like the music enough but after seven minutes of the same song, I’m like, wrap this thing UP. Let’s move on. The crowd at Rudz was great for people watching. Right when we walked in the door, I was almost knocked to the ground by a skipping “hippie” who was wearing a tie dyed shirt that hugged his man tits, a floor length tie dyed skirt that he liked to twirl while “dancing” right in front of the lead singer with his whiteboy dreads whipping around. Though I have no proof (thankfully), I’m sure he was freeballing it. He kept reaching into his skirt pockets and playing pocket pool. If you see this guy out, DO NOT shake his hand. The bar staff was stoned, drunk or really fucking lazy. They were pretty fast at making shots for themselves while I stood there waiting to order but otherwise were incredibly unhurried. I appreciate the fact that some people don’t feel the need to do everything with speed, but when you’re a bartender in a busy bar, you gots to get a move on, honey. I only tipped 15 percent. That’ll teach ’em.

Saturday night I went to the place where I’m going to have the reading/fundraiser for Plan B at the end of the month. I wanted to see the space in action to watch how people moved around in it, where they set things up, etc. That didn’t take long, so after that we went to Catbirds for drinks. And drinks. And drinks. I was with Robert. If it weren’t for the fact that bars close in Houston, I think we might still be sitting there running our mouths.

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