If you like Wilco or Uncle Tupelo, you must get Son Volt‘s first album Trace.
Heh. If the 1990 me ever met the 2005 me and discovered that I’d become a fan of alt.country, I think I’d kick me in the nuts. Goddamn know-it-all 18 year-olds.

Last week, I went up to Tahoe with Anne and the kids for our annual August Family Getaway.
I absolutely love Tahoe, and I really want to move up there when they get out of high school.
I’ve got lots of interesting stuff to write about, including my trip to Vegas for BARGE, the bear that broke into our cabin in Tahoe, and reviews of some great books I read while I was gone, but I have a mountain of “real” work to tackle first.
Until then, I present last week’s Games of Our Lives, which is probably my favorite one so far: Time Pilot

Gameplay: Most airplanes can only fly through the air, but you’ve managed to get your hands on a plane that flies through time! Unfortunately, it only allows you to travel into horde after horde of pilots who want to kill you. Quit your cryin’, nobody said time travel would be easy.
Could be mistaken for: Time Pilot ’84, Gyruss, an evening with that one roommate who incessantly flips between SciFi and The History Channel. Jesus Christ, Eddie! Pick a fucking channel and stay there! Jeez!

The entire AV Club website has been redesigned, and I think it’s pretty cool. All of the contributors have biography pages; here’s mine.
Speaking of The Onion, I was reading the July 27th issue last night after dinner, and I think it’s got some of the funniest stuff I’ve seen in months, including “Armchair Publicist Would Totally Reign In Tom Cruise” and “War On String May Be Unwinnable, Says Cat General” (You’ve got to see the picture — don’t look at it while drinking, though, or it’s coming right out your nose. You’ve been warned!)

I read my book (current read: From a Buick 8, which I’ll finish tonight) while I waited in the departure lounge for my plane today. I did my best to tune out the bickering children behind me, so I only caught a little bit of the conversation a guy had on his cellphone when he sat down next to me.
“Wait.” He said, “so you thought it was a girl, but it was a dude?!”
I stopped reading. My eyes looked at the phrase I craned my neck to look and wasn’t exactly surprised to see Huddie Royer — and behind him, Eddie.
Something was said on the other end of the conversation, and the guy said, “Oh shit, man! Did he grab your weiner?”
The guy laughed about as hard as I would have, had I not bitten down on my cheek, as he got up and walked away.
Later, when I walked down the jetway, I was behind six guys who were clearly all lifelong friends.
“What do we tell the girls when we get back?” One of them said.
In unison, they all replied, “We drank, and we gambled!”
“And then we drank some more!” One of them added. The guy nearest him punched him in the arm, and they all laughed together.
Only in Vegas.

The Universe is so weird . . .
I absolutely love the creative experience I have as a writer. I love observing things and recreating them for people who weren’t there. I love it when something very small happens, and I play the “what if . . .” game until I’ve got several hundred words in front of me. I love it when people who have read my books or my blog or Games of our Lives tell me that something I’ve created has touched them in some way (some profound, others merely entertaining, but touched nevertheless.)
When I was in Las Vegas for the World Series of Poker, I was in some weird sort of zone that I don’t entirely know how to explain. I remember that I told a friend of mine, “Yesterday afternoon, The Writer woke up, and I’m just trying to stay out of his way until he says everything he needs to say.” Even though I was mostly writing about poker while I was out there, I still feel that it’s some of the best stuff I’ve written, as far as observing things and recreating them for people who weren’t there go.
But when I got home, The Writer went into hibernation, and it’s been frustrating me. I don’t feel motivated, and when I sit down to write, I’m bored within a few minutes, just about everything I write is forced, and I end up throwing most of it out.
I’ve spent several sleepless nights the last week, thinking about this, tossing and turning, and pacing around the house while I try to figure out what it is that I’m missing. What’s wrong? Why do I feel so . . . listless?
A couple of days ago, it came to me: I miss acting. As much as I love writing, and as much as I hate the bullshit grind of auditioning and all the stupid shit that goes along with it, I miss the joy of performing. Even though I hate the drive down to ACME, and I hate not having free time on Saturday nights, I miss the joy of giving up teh funnay, and I miss being part of that team of great performers. I miss the familiar feeling of eating lunch off the catering truck, having bagels and coffee and breakfast burritos each morning . . . I miss that esprit de corps that I always feel when I’m on the set.
Yeah, as much as I like being a writer . . . I really miss being an actor.
So last night, I sat on my patio, had a cigar, and visualized myself walking onto a set, sides in my hand, kleenex around my collar, make-up on my face, ready to go to work. I saw myself reading scripts and bringing amazing characters to life. When I went to bed, I repeated to myself, “I am a working actor,” until I fell asleep. Whatever. That hippie bullshit is fine, but shit in one hand and visualize in the other, right?
That’s what I thought, too, until this afternoon, when my manager called me with a job offer for a video game. They wanted me to work tomorrow, but I have to go out of town tomorrow morning, so they juggled their schedule and I start recording in two hours. He also had an offer for a movie that shoots next year, and interest from a producer on still another project. Then, about thirty minutes ago, I got a call from an associate of a friend of mine who is a casting director. She offered me a small (one day) role on a movie that works next month!
I did a little dance when I hung up the phone. This just became a very good day.

I stood in front of the open refrigerator, and scanned the shelves. Anne spoke to me from the dining room.
“What are you doing?” She said.
“I’m thinking about having a Homer Simpson,” I said.
“Donuts and a beer?” She said.
I stood up, a pink box in one hand, an Arrogant Bastard Ale in the other.
“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that horrible?”
“What’s horrible,” she said, “is that I knew what you were talking about without looking.”
I opened up the box. A glazed donut clung to one side, and a devil’s food with rainbow jimmies rested next to it. The crumbs and remains of their brothers surrounded them.
“You want to join me?” I said. “There are two donuts left.”
“No. That’s disgusting.” She said. “I think I’ll have a Flaming Moe instead.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll get the cough syrup.”