Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Ten Fuckin' Minutes: Did We Just Break Up?

A friend of mine was having a tough time on his blog. He wrote a semi-depressing 2nd Blog Birthday post and I told him he needed to do the ten minute exercise that I came up with to keep things fresh with my main blog. It worked for Wil when he was caught in a rut and it's worked for me as well. This past week, the Nerd took my suggestion to heart and he had two of the more interesting posts he's had in a while. Plus I got to know him a little better when he discussed his personal life instead of posting about poker strategy, which he's one of the best at doing.

When I read about him having to explain to his two-year old daughter why she shouldn't over use the word "nipples" I nearly did a spit-take. Good stuff. Made me almost wish I had kids. Almost. Then if I did, my blog would sound more like Neal Pollock's musings on being a soccer Dad these days. If I had kids and sat around all day and smoked weed and played poker with degenerate gamblers in Vegas for three days non-stop, I'd get thrown in jail for being a bad parent. I'd get lumped into the same category as Courtney Love, Michael Jackson, and Susan Smith.

Anyway, I wasted two minutes with that rant. I got eight more minutes to complain about the weather and my health.

It's cold again in NYC. We had temperatures that were 30 degrees above normal when I came home. Now it feels like winter again. Booooooo. Plus I'm sick. It's like the flu and it's festering inside of me. I've done everything I know to try to kick it... except sleep. I've been writing nonstop since Sunday and my head hurts. My back aches from sitting down and writing in a crappy folding chair for 50 hours straight. I know that if I get some rest, then my body can fight the infection. I did serious damage to my body in LA after 23 straight days of intense partying. I only took one day to catch up on lost sleep when I needed at least a week.

Who am I fooling? I need an entire year to rest and sleep after partying hard for 17 years and working just as hard during that stint.

Back in the 19th Century European doctors used to describe "sleep" as a drug for either physical or mental ailments. They'd tell their patients to do nothing but rest and sleep. That's how spas were invented... places for rich people to relax and catch up on sleep.

When I think about that... I realized that I do need some time off. The last week of 2005 was reserved for me to relax and do nothing. Sure, I didn't write any assignments. I took off from work, but I didn't really relax. I had the stresses of the holidays (and the first Christmas without my Grandmother which was a mental toll on my family) to endure along with the anxiety of knowing I had less than 2 weeks to write the perfect book about Las Vegas.

What good is one week off when I spent it depressed and anxious?

I fucked up. I never should have undertaken such a huge project, one that could make or break my career. I loathe writing about poker on some days (ok, on most days) and to write an entire book about Las Vegas was not only artistic suicide, it was just down right a fuckin' bitch to write.

I made a bad decision. I read somewhere than people with integrity and character can admit when they made a mistake. I made a huge one and I got a lot of other people involved in my vain pursuit. I cannot possibly write anything of substance in two weeks, let alone the first book I want to get published. Even if I took two months, that's still not enough time to write about an epic city such a Las Vegas. I need at least a year maybe two to write the book.

I'm foolish and I thought I was strong enough to do the impossible. Man, I was so wrong. Now my head hurts and my health is fading because all I want to do is finish the book. I can stop now and declare that the first draft is officially complete, but I know as much as I hate to admit it... I can write better than that.

I have a lot of pride and if I say I'm going to do something... that I'm gonna fuckin' do it. I told myself I was going to write a book about Las Vegas. I should stop bitching about it and crank it out. My intentions were pure and I thought I can perform a miracle. Now that I'm stuck in writer's quicksand, I'm fearing for my life. I totally fucked this up and I'm jeapodizing my career as well.

Why am I doing this again? I lost sight of my original intention. I wanted to write a commercial book about Las Vegas so I can eventually sell my other books.

But why do I want to do that? All I wanted to do in life was to write. Not write books for sale. Just to write. I lost touch with the sole reason that gets me out of bed every day.

I think about how guys like Francis Ford Coppola said "Fuck it," and still went off to the jungle to make the impossible Vietnam flick Apocalypse Now. Or how like the guys from Phish decided for twenty years that they were going to play what they want, when they want.

But I'm not even in the same category as those guys. I'm a fad. A trend. I'm an entertainment hack. I'm on the lowest rung of the entertainment ladder just a step below reality TV stars and women who contributed nothing to society aside from fucking famous people. Yeah, I'm grouped together with star fuckers and reality TV losers.

And at some point, poker's popularity will die down and I'll become someone who used to be famous once. Maybe then I can have my old life back when I played poker for fun, wrote one novel a year, and penned monthly short stories. I was broke, but happy then and thrilled if just one or two people read what I wrote.

Now I'm surrounded by fleeting feelings of fame licking at my bare feet while the heavy weight of wealth drawing me in a totally different direction. I'm more confused than ever. There's a mob of people waiting for me to say something everyday. The more that I think about that reality, the pressure to perform is immense. Imagine an entire town of people, heck how about a small city of people stopping by. Everyday. Sure it's cool and the ego has a hard-on the size of a Redwood tree, and I have a core group of people (my friends) who encourage me to say anything and write whatever I want. But having a group of people the size of a small city stop by everyday to check up on me or they are there so they can kill their boredom... certainly scares the bejesus out of me.

And it's getting bigger and bigger everyday.

Be careful what you wish for.

I have to say this and I have to say this now...

I want to walk away from my blogs. I want to quit writing on the internet.

But the money is too good. And the popularity is at its peak. And I'm a whore for the attention. Today the empty and hallow feeling I have inside of me by fat outweighs the desire to have attention and the eyes of the world constantly focused on me and my life.

To walk away now would mean that years of hard work would end up becoming meaningless. But life has become utterly meanlingless to me. I used to be an existentialist. I've morphed into a nihilist. I believe in nothing. Plus blogs are not cool anymore. Everyone has one. I want to be the first one to walk away.

I'm 33 and 1/2 years old and I've hit the wall.

I keep telling myself... "Six more months of life as a monkey grinding it out as a writer for the Man."

I thought that being able to take off for a month or two months at the end of the year would be the coolest thing ever and make me happy. My goal was to finish up the 2006 World Series of Poker and make enough money so I can take off the rest of 2006 to rest, travel, and re-write Jack Tripper Stole My Dog and another project... either a novel or screenplay.

Now I know why Phish broke up. Exhaustion. Confusion. Artistically bankrupt. Too much time on the road.

I realized today that if I want to live until I'm 40, then I need to take a year off. I'm seriously considering a hiatus... not just from my blogs, but from myself.

I must do the following very soon (the first two points sound like rehab!) or I will go completely crazy:
1. Sleep for one month. Just sleep. Repair my body after 17 years of non-stop partying.
2. No TV and no gambling for the same month.
3. Read 30 books.
4. Take two months to re-write Jack Tripper Stole My Dog.
5. Take off four months to travel and visit 10 new cities.
6. Take 3 months to write a new book/screenplay.
That's ten months. If I took a ten month hiatus starting on August 20th, then I'll be able to show up in Las Vegas for the 2007 WSOP completely refreshed. That is, if I decide to come back to poker and to blogging. Who knows if I discover something else that's more appealing?

I'm sorry folks, but I think we're going to have to break up. It's not you... it's me.

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