about fucking time!

my book is officially available to all and sundry: google "unfinished work ron faires" (there it is i have outed myself in my blog after some 6 years or something! also, as i mentioned in a past post, my name is not ron, but it is correct on the cover of the book itself.) there are several online bookdealers that carry it, though the isbn's seem to differ so not sure why, but it is indeed the book with the plain gray cover and the blue border that simply says "The Unfinished Work" and "Dave Faires" on it.

i will eventually get a link that will take you straight to it, but i have also noticed the prices range from a slightly-higher-than-normal 17 bucks on up to 30-odd, and need to wrestle with myself to not put the more expensive link in here and therefore sell out and line my pockets with filthy lucre.

a very special thank-you to you, the beloved non-existent readers (in the book the reader is just referred to as the "beloved reader" but you non-existents that have been here through thick and thin know who you are) who have listened, laughed, cried, and commented through out. and an extremely big hug/kiss/thanks/whatever thing to dj kirkby for getting me on the path to an actual publisher.

i shall remain, as always and ever,

darth sardonic

'09

i hope all of my non-existant readers had a great year. and a wonderful new year's eve full of drinks n laughs n kisses after midnight.

'08 was a great year, and '09 looks to be at least as good, if not better.

i have figured out which of the story ideas i have had trundling around in my head is going to be my second book. i won't delineate the particulars here, because i truly feel that not everything i write should predominantly begin its existence here, else why bother getting the books published in the first place? i mean, The Unfinished Work is at least 70% culled straight from this blog. that really makes it a bit like a "best of" cd that is 18 songs you already have on other albums with two or three new (usually shitty) songs you won't get anywhere else to try and convince you you need this album as well.

i will say, this one is going to be a work of fiction. not that memoirists aren't true writers, or not even extremely talented; they are, but i feel that if i really want to call myself a writer, i need to actually develop some characters, create a plotline that is more involved than a point a. to point b., think about what the characters i have created would actually do in the situations they find themselves in as a result of the plot line i have created, and still be able to make the reader laugh and cry, love and hate, feel great joy and deep agony the same way i might when i am pouring out my own personal feelings in a memoir.

and i think i have the plot and a batch of characters that will do this in spades.

just hope i can do them justice.

darth sardonic

hoh boy

i've been tagged (again (but don't feel bad dj kirby, you didn't know that sparx laid this one on me previously)), this time with eight things about me and eight other (unlucky) bloggers.

ummm, so let's see...

1.) i used to write poetry incessantly, sometimes 5-6 a day. being happy with my life brought this stage of my writing to a near-dead stop. rereading most of the 1500 or so poems i have, they are clearly therapy. the vast majority are repetitive, whiney, self-absorbed, and in a word, suck.

2.) sometimes i drastically want people to hang out with me, be around me, even if we are not really doing anything. others, i want to be left the fuck alone. often, i can't find any friends who want to hang with me when i want, and then people call me to come over and i have to make lame excuses when i want to be alone.

3.) i took wood shop class my senior year. i had so many free electives at my small school that my choices were basically shop or be a librarian's assistant two periods a day instead of one. although it didn't really seem like my style of class, i loved it.

4.) being tired and whatever else from having my wife gone and taking care of my kids full-time with few breaks or rests has caused my writing typo-free to decrease ten-fold.

5.) sometimes i want to drop all the video games systems we own in a pool of acid. i would be completely unable to deal with the meltdown that this action would create in no. 1. it would last months, maybe years, and i just don't have the energy for that kind of long-term battle. i do, nearly daily, battle the amount of time spent playing video games.

6.) on rare occasions, the only thing keeping me doing my fatherly duties, and doing them well, is the fear of what others will think if i don't. i'm ashamed to even admit this.

7.) currently, my back aches from round three of the back-piece tattoo. i will blog about this sometime soon.

8.) i once joined a talent show as a "stand-up comic". the only previous experience i had as a possible stand-up comic was telling stories and what-have-you at parties and other gatherings. i rocked the audience. so much so, that the talent show coordinator, who managed alot of things like that in the area, would call me when she had another shindig planned, so that i might break up the singing/dance numbers. i did this for a few years, emceeing events, doing stand-up. in this time, i learned that i didn't really have the wherewithall to work an audience, if they loved me, i was great. if they didn't like it (or i perceived that they didn't like it: i tell the story about a talent show that was done in conjunction with an outdoor bbq for the medical center that i worked in. the stage was set up at one end of a large grassy area, and the attendees were spread out picnic style all over. i started off with new material; no laughs. i tried some stuff i had used at other shows to no avail. sweaty, and in a panic (and i am sure the panic was clearly visible on my face), i went to the same material i had used a year earlier with basically this same crowd (and at which they laughed uproariously), and nothing. anxious and damn-near tears, i said, "thank you, you've been a wonderful audience. peace, love and brotherhood (the tag-line i ended every show with)." and rushed off stage, feeling i had tanked like no other comedian had ever tanked in the entire history of comicdom. the next day, one of my patients said, "hey, you're the comedian! oh my god! that was the funniest shit i have ever heard!" turns out, due to the size of the field, and the dispersity of the audience, i couldn't hear the laughter.), i would get anxious and basically tank and bail. after what would turn out to be my last show bombed, i decided i no longer really felt the need to continue with my comedian career.

except here, possibly.

last time, i got maybe four people. this time i am going to tag everyone in my pals list. but in my usual inimitable manner, i am not even going to bother to tell them. if they read this, and are interested ( i am absolutely sure that tyler durden will just be thrilled), and i haven't already tagged them recently, then they can, if they so choose, play along. if not, well, it is a free country.

till next time.

darth sardonic

getting to know you...

it seems, as a result of some uncontrolled commenting i did on sparx's blog (yes, yes, i will get it added. if not here in the next few, then today for sure), new people are swinging by this small grain of sand on the beach that is the world wide web.

and since i have been doing this for some time, and got most of the "getting to know darth" stuff out of the way in the first year, i feel it might be time to do a recap for the new readers:

i am a huge bucket of conradictions (as if stating this in my "about me" isn't nearly enough.) i am alternately gloomy and joyful. i love life, despise it, hate it, embrace it, look forward to each day with anticipation, dread, and childlike glee. i piss and moan about my life on occasion, all the while completely cognizant of how good i have it.

i am a smartass. duh.

the title "not even star-crossed, just unlucky" is a line from the codiene song, cigarette machine. it is, in my opinion, one of the most clever lines in a song i have ever heard.

i play the bass, the guitar, the drums, and even a bit of keyboards, and make failed attempts to sing. i do it in that order, heh heh. i hope to soon have a music myspace to abuse at least as much as i abuse this blog.

i am a stay-home father for my(our) two children, both boys, that i call nos. 1 and 2 within the confines of this blog, for the sake of their privacy, such as it is, since i elaborate on embarrassing details of their potty-training, therapy, and whatever else.

both of my kids were born early, and as a result, are behind somewhat developmentally. no. 1 is a little delayed in speech, and no. 2 is behind in general. this does NOT mean they are dumb or slow in any kind of way, and i resent it enough to nearly come to blows when people i don't know insinuate that they are based on a quick observation at the park, pool, or in line at the supermarket.

i am: a dork. a punk. a motherfucker. a lazy bastard. a crackah (hahahahaha, or poor white trash that has clawed its way up from the depths, but it still comes out sometimes--you can take the boy out of the trailer, but not the trailer out of the boy.) a fiercely loyal friend who will drop you like hot dogshit if you fuck me over (life is too short to waste on people who don't treat you like you treat them.) a star wars fan (again, duh.) a son. a husband. a father. a pervert (shocking, i know, to discover that a stay-home dad, is still, after all is said and done, a male homo sapien.) a lover. a fighter. a filthy-mouthed intellectual who loves language in it's many and varied forms, from the most refined and educated, right down to the gutter. i do not give a shit what 99.9% of people think about me.

i believe everyone is right. i believe everyone is fucked-up. i believe that we have the god-given right to be both right and fucked-up at the same time, and to shout it loudly from the rooftops. i don't believe "shouting it loudly from the rooftops" means the same thing as "cram it down people's throats."

unfortunately, i also believe that this gives me the right to make fun of you and yours, just as you might do me were you so inclined.

i usually laugh at most of what i find someone has said derrogatorily about me. i am my biggest critic, i also have a sense of humor, which means i can laugh at the stupid shite i do. but, being a bucket of contadictions, i am also amazed to find out the idiotic things i do on a daily basis are being done by people all over the world.

i am a writer that completely embraces both "author intrusion" and "stream-of-conscious."

i am not sure if the periods are actually supposed to go inside either the parentheses or the quotations in most of what i have written in this post. i am also not worried about it; if i ever publish anything (which seems unlikely) most companies hire editors, and i am sure that guy will set me straight. in no uncertain terms, no doubt. and probably at top volume.

i am darth sardonic, welcome to my blog.

and if you don't like anything you have read here, there's the door and you can piss right off.

i snuck in your bedroom to steal some change for booze...

it occurs to me, as i reread yesterday's (yawn!) post that i seem to have survived quite a number of blogs. people just seem to quit writing. out of my pals, only mother hoodlum and lola were writing when i started. everyone seems to have lost interest or moved on to other things.

here's the deal though, i need need need to write. if i didn't have this, i would have a notebook or some other pen/paper form of capturing the goings-on in my cabeza. (actually, i still do have numerous "diaries" despite this easy-to-use grain of sand on the beaches of the world wide web.)

my time at the inner circle of pizza joint hell is drawing to a close. two more weeks, and i am all but marking each day off on the calendar.

i may have invented my own drink. i had some friends research whether they could find a recipe for anything like this: i like the tom collins, and liked the gibson idea, so i combined them. make a gibson (1&1/2 oz. of gin, 1 oz. dry vermouth, twist of lime, cocktail onion) and add tom collins mix. yummeeeeeeeee. i call it a tom gibson. can't for the life of me imagine that no one has already thought of (and patented) this idea, but not as far as my friends can see. by all means, if you know different, send me a comment. (looks in comment box, hears crickets chirping, wind blowing, and sees layer upon layer of dust and cobwebs.)

some time ago, when i was playing with the band in our basement, and we were playing the song we simply referred to as "the angry song" (it should come as no surprise that is was a simple, yet extremely noisy punk song) wherein i would ofttimes punch (yes, punch) my bass strings for an even greater cacophany of sound, usually, it should be noted, with the fleshy and resilient heel of my hand, i made a grave miscalculation and punched the strings instead with my actual fist, and split the joint of my middle finger, bleeding quite a bit and no doubt smashing tendons and ligaments and growth plates and things of that nature within. i believe i probably uttered filth and foulness in at least two languages, followed by continuing to play for many more minutes (there are still blood stains on parts of my bass--of course, i am a bit slack about cleaning and polishing the poor thing.)

recently, i was playing the same bass, in front of the computer (recording) and somehow or other wracked this same knuckle upon the corner of the desk.

it lit me up like a firecracker.

i did the same lip-biting-hopping-bent-over-(why is it we bend over at the waist when injured, regardless of what part of us is experiencing pain?)-holding-my-hand-as-if-it-is-attempting-to-seccede dance i did on that night some time ago, and i am sure i repeated the same incantation involving much use of "fuck" and "cunt" and "joda" and "puta".

this would, in and of itself, be a mildly amusing story, except that a day later, i knocked a front door and managed to use this exact same finger joint. stoicly, though coated in a thin layer of perspiration, i managed to do the dance and incantation on the inside, lest the owner of the home open the door to discover their pizza delivery guy in the midst of groveling, crying, and cursing, until i could abscond to the semiprivacy of my car, where i observed a rusty-brown stain spreading under the skin of my middle finger.

lots of motrin and babying, and it is ok as long as i don't bump it on anything, but god damn! am i hard on my body.

paw.

darth sardonic

a bit of the nuts-and-bolts stuff that holds us together...

sorcha is no longer writing, and i can only vaguely remember how she came to be in my pals list to begin with, so i am going to delete her.

i'll hang onto lady sartre a bit longer as she did this before. she seems to be a bit of a summer writer.

anne is only still around cause she is indeed a real-world dear friend, and i understand that she gets excited for a project and then cools. it is possible she might return soon. or never. who knows? who cares?

got together with the new guy to jam on some hendrix and beatles and cream. it was lots of fun. i need to do a bit more personal practicing before we get together again, but i am sure that we will.

have been recording some music, but have been brought to a screeching halt by the fact that my acoustic guitar seems to be parting out on me. i am beyond aggravated by this, because it is a good guitar, and i love it, but it seems incapable of withstanding the pressure exerted by the slightly thicker strings i have put on it. until i either get it fixed or replaced, my home-recording stuff might be on hold (the jezebel acoustic factors greatly into most of the projects i am currently working on).

which makes me wonder why seemingly inanimate objects seem to take a sick pleasure in not functioning properly when i am around. want your computer to go on the fritz? sit me near it. want a car door to quit opening? sell me the car. and while not expensive, certainly not cheap either, a perfectly good acoustic begins to disintegrate before my very eyes as i pluck a song out on its strings.

we recently watched stranger than fiction, which was an incredible movie and everyone should rush out to see it. well, err, rent it, i mean.

but it made me think about stories i have written and the characters i have created. excepting the current magnum crappus, the vast majority of what i have written was straight from the inner confines of my often twisted imagination. also, much of it was in the form of short stories. looking back, i didn't deign to give most of my characters names beyong her, or him, and did little to flesh out their personalities. nearly all are dead by the end of the story, most often at their own hand, and usually so that the world might be a better place (yes, i absolutely loved donnie darko--yes, i am most assuredly a sick fucker--no, i am not seeking help).

so i guess i am safe from someone other than the real people upon whom characters in the current magnum crappus are based ever coming up to me and saying "i am the character in your story."

because the conversation might go something like this:

"are you darth sardonic?"

"yes. why?"

"i'm, umm. well, what i mean to say is..."

(me standing there, head cocked, eyebrow on full tilt, quizzical and amused smirk on alert.)

"that is to say, i'm him."

"him?"

"him."

"weird little goth-metal band from sweden, him?"

"no, you fucking idiot. him. the him from your story that goes off into the desert and slashes his wrists so that flowers bloom [this is an actual story i wrote, i believe my freshman year in college. i need to reread it, but i believe i didn't give the main character a name, but i gave his friend a single name, like smith. he does, indeed, go into the middle of the desert and slash his wrists and his last vision is of gorgeous roses blooming and spreading across the sands]."

"and? it's not a bad way to go. you make a desert bloom roses."

"well, that actually does appeal to me alot."

"of course it does, cause i didn't bother to give you any more of a personality than that."

"ah. well, which desert?"

"shit, i don't know. pick one you think would look good as a rose garden."

"hmmm. ok. thanks."

"anytime."

so it would seem to me that overall, i have been quite lackadaisical towards the characters i have created. do i feel bad?

nah, they'll be alright.

darth sardonic