My first pass through the draft is more of a quick edit than a serious second draft. I've added some words. I deleted a long section that I could tell, instantly, didn't work. In moment of doubt, I just think of John Fante. I'm using his ghost as my spiritual guide through the process. I haven't read him much lately, but he was one of the main and vital inspirations. Plus, he wrote from doubt, it seems to me, and kept going.
The Dufflebag had a second half-day in a row. He's up in his room now, do doubt praying for snow. I'm not praying for the storm to pass. Pleading? The children need math! Hear me, oh gods of snow and sleet.
My cd ripping is closer to complete. Right now I'm going through the Ray Charles boxed set. And then, it's on to the Tom Waits discs that Mikey didn't have prepped already: Black Rider (a personal favorite), Big Time, the excellent recent discs (Alice) and the not-so-excellent (Real Gone).
Aside from my first draft, today marks the first time I've baked a loaf of bread in the house. I've been meaning to do this for months, and see breadbaking as a productive hobby.
I went for a simple white bread, made out of unbleached flour. Going against my normal way of proceding, I'm going to try to remake the same recipe over and over, with minor modifications, until I feel as though I've mastered it. Then, I'll move on to nutbreads, oatmeal, wheat breads, cranberry breads. Banana. Jalapeno. Spiced. Once I feel have some depth of understanding and my technique has been honed, then I'll start thinking of sourdoughs and more complicated fare.
Listening to the ipod on shuffle. I've come to hate the term "roided up" since it's applied to anything of any size whatsoever. But it certainly feels almost excessively overflowing now. Even on shuffle, the hits far outweigh the misses. I only had to jump up and hit skip once (it was a Ween song), and was tempted to replay one half-forgotten song again to savor it (Warren Zevon's "Mutineer.")
My eyes are being opened to the minor works of David Bowie. And I'm not convinced more than ever that if Rancid didn't have such a stupid name they'd be the Billy Joel of the mohawk set. That's a compliment. Really.