The Swimmer

The Swimmer is one of the best short stories I have ever read. Here is a trailer for a movie made in 1968 based on the story. The movie has a haunting feel, much like the story. When you talk about The Swimmer, will you talk about yourself?

Facebook, take me back?

Facebook, what can I say? I’m sorry. I made a mistake. That’s what it comes down to. I don’t know why I thought I could ever leave you. You’re beautiful Facebook. You’re gorgeous. And we work so well together. I beg you, Facebook. Please take me back. Oh God Facebook, please. Take me back. I can’t live without you.

We’ve been talking every night since I left. Hell, it’s not like I ever left you. I’d log on at least once a day. After that first night I knew it was a mistake to break up with you. I knew from the way you graciously accepted my log in, allowed me to view whoever I pleased, let me creep on profiles, even after I said I was done. You could have ignored me. And you had every right to. But you were the bigger person Facebook. You graciously let into your world even after I wanted to break it off with you. You’re so giving Facebook. So loving.

I was just trying to get out on my own; to live without you. But I was wrong. It’s a bitter, lonely world without you. I don’t have any friends. I don’t get along with people in the real world. You want to know the cold hard truth Facebook? People are ugly in real life. Your photo albums show the great side of people, the bright and sunny side. With you everyone looks tan and sculpted. Some people say it’s deceiving, that people only put their best pictures up, but who cares? So what if Donna Noles is 25 pounds heavier in real life. Who cares if Dan Bryant hasn’t uploaded a photo in the 3 years because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s balding? Reality is harsh and ugly Facebook. You are my reality. You are my lifeline Facebook.

You want to know what I did without you? I watched Frasier, ate ice cream and cried, Facebook. I had whole hours with nothing to do. I resorted to watching “Failed Marriage Proposals” on YouTube to pass the time. I was distraught. I missed our nights together. Your tender soft caress. The way you always know just what to say to cheer me up.

“Come in Brett,” you would say. “Stay as long as you want. Feeling blue? Don’t worry, I got just the thing. That’s right, 125 new pictures of Jenny Crowley. She’s in a bikini for most of the album. You know something else, Brett? Guess who from your highschool got fat and lost their job. Come take a look, it might surprise you. I know just the thing to raise your spirits Brett.”

I missed those nights Facebook. I missed you and I missed those nights.

I know things have changed. I’m cool with it. I understand that you are a networking tool. I understand that I will get less and less invitations to events like, “John’s Jammin Triple Kegger Bash,” and more invites to“Tina and Tony’s Baby Shower”. Life changes. Our relationship is progressing. It’s not sad, it’s life. I was scared to grow so I thought I had to break it off. I thought I could shelter myself from change. You’re right Facebook, I was selfish. I know you don’t have to take me back. But what would I do without you? Where would I be? Would I have 386 friends? I think not. I’d have 6 friends. Maybe. Take me back. I need you Facebook. I need you.

The Perfect Storm

Today, on a cool, breezy day late in the clean-clothes cycle, I face a dreaded perfect storm. Let me explain.

I have enough articles of clothing to last me two weeks without doing laundry. That means I have about 16 pairs of boxer shorts and about the same number of socks. Running out of boxers or socks is typically the only catalyst to for me to go to the laundry mat, since these are the only two critical elements of my wardrobe. I can wear the same pair of jeans until the cows come home, but god help me if I try to wear the same pair of boxers two days in a row.

As I am coming towards the end of my clean-clothes cycle, today I had to choose between the last two pairs of boxer shorts. It was a choice between the old pair, with the elastic worn and tattered, or the pair with the liberal fly opening. I chose the pair with the big opening. Now, boxers with a huge hole for peeing are all well and good, except for the fact that my member pops out of the fly on an average of five times a day. My penis comes out of my boxers and enters the land between boxers and jeans. Frankly, this occurrence is usually more exciting than anything. Nothing like a good ‘penis rubbing up against the cold inside of my zipper’ to put an extra kick in my step. No, I don’t walk around like this all day (I always remedy the situation in the bathroom post-haste), but hey, it’s fun, OK?

But not today. No my friends, not today. Because of a jeans mix up that happened earlier in the week, I’m also stuck wearing a pair of back up jeans. Jeans that are usually out of the rotation because of various technical problems. The jeans with a loose fly that always falls down. I have underwear with a huge opening and pants with a zipper that comes down on its own accord. My penis will breach the surface of both my boxers and my jeans. The perfect storm. I’m not talking about that movie with George Clooney. I’m talking about a potential situation in which my Johnson sees the light of day in a public setting.

“Look at the latest models, sir. We’ve got an underwear pee-hole moving from West to East at an alarming rate. Coincidentally, we have a jean zipper that is coming down from the North. Should these two intersect, well…”

“The perfect storm,” I say. “Utter catastrophe.”

I first noticed it on the train this morning. A shiver went down my back as a larger than normal draft came in through my zipper. Boom. There I sat, my zipper mere inches away from labeling me as a sex offender.

“NO OFFICER. NO. I swear it was the perfect storm. I didn’t mean to expose myself to an entire train car.”

“Tell it to the judge, freak.”

There are certain contingency plans set in place once the potential for a perfect storm has been realized. First, I un-tuck my shirt. This looks mangy in the workplace, but gives me just enough coverage. However, this defense is about as affective as a New Orleans’ levee wall. Second, I tug at my jeans zipper, making sure its up, about every 15 seconds. This action causes me to look weird, and draws attention to my crotch area. Both of these methods are stop gap measures, and there is no fool-proof way to prevent the perfect storm.

So I am in it people. The eye of the beast. Pray for me.

And should it come out, I promise you it won't make a good showing. It's frigid out.

Um, listen Facebook, we need to talk.

I’m sorry I haven’t been the same lately. It’s just… I don’t really know how to say this, but, well here goes: It’s over.

No no, it’s not you, it’s me. No, stop crying, it’s not you. That’s right, it’s me. We spend way too much time together, that’s all. I need some time alone. I need some time to think.

Like when? Calm down, stop crying. I will tell you when, Facebook.

Last night instead of reading or writing or listening to music or even hanging out with friends, I was with you. I was looking at picture number 344 of Jenny Crowly’s 1,234 pictures. Actually, I looked at picture numbers 1 through number 456. What’s wrong with that, Facebook? The problem with that is I don’t even know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is.

What do you mean I don’t know who Jenny Crowly is? I mean I literally don’t know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is. Yes, I deduced that too. She is the friend of some girl I made out with my freshman year of college.

Yeah, I remember. Yeah, I liked the girl; she was a good kisser. Yeah, she was way too hot for me. Yes Facebook, I know you’ve helped me stalk girls all these years. Hmm? The girl I made out with? Her name is Jenny McCowen. She loves Fleetwood Mac and likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. Is she religious? Well, that’s not listed. And frankly, judging by her pictures, I wasn’t the first guy she sucked face with at Brandon Cooper’s house. Yes Facebook, you helped me figure out all this stuff. No, I didn’t actually have to talk to her at all. BUT THAT’S THE POINT. I don’t want to know any of this shit. I’m a changed man, I have a girlfriend now. I’m tired of looking at hot friends-of-friends I will never meet. Tired of it, Facebook.

No Facebook, it’s not that. What else? Well for starters, you’re status updates are starting to depress me. They’ve changed; you’ve changed. I’m starting to get older now, and I don’t like change. Instead of people posting, “Helen Thompson is on the boat, getting her drank on! Hit me up,” they’re now posting things like, “Helen Thompson is due in six months,” or “Scott Peterson got his book deal!” This is all well and good, Facebook, but it scares me. Here I am, still getting my drank on, and you have to remind me on a daily basis of how I’m wasting my life. What am I supposed to post, huh? “Brett Cihon is killing cockroaches in his dungeon-like apartment.” How would that look to others? What would the cool kids think?

Wait, what am I talking about? What cool kids? Sometimes Facebook, I think I’m the only one that ever looks at my profile. What do you mean I get messages? That was from my grandma, Facebook. My fucking grandma. You know the last event invite I got, Facebook? It was for a Christian charity event. Some rager that would have been. Ohh wait, I guess my Uncle did invite me to his work’s Christmas party….


Yes, I know I should start using you to network. But frankly, Facebook, I don’t want to network with you. In fact, I don’t want to network at all. Just to be one more kid suckling at the tit of some publishing firm where I’m applying for a, “Competetive Internship (i.e. No Pay). No Facebook, I will never network again. I’m just going to get my drank on.

Hey Facebook, don’t start to yell. OK, fine. I’m sorry I’m being mean, I’m just telling you how I feel. Yeah, I know we’ve had some good times. That time Linda Sampson from Psych 101 messaged me out of the blue. Yeah, we sat next to each other for weeks after that. Or the time someone tagged a picture of my balls and I used it as my profile picture. Great times.

But I’m sorry to tell you this: those times are gone. And they’re never coming back. We’ve just grown apart, that’s all.

Oh no Facebook, don’t be like this. No, I will not have one last romp through Jenny McCowen’s pictures. Those times are dead. Don’t worry, you still have plenty of other users.

Ok well, I think I should get going. Thanks for everything, Facebook. Stop crying, or else I’m going to start. I just… I just have to go. Bye bye, Facebook.

The Ghost Crapper

I was on the pot thinking about yesterday’s post, and it hit me. “Damn Brett,” I thought, “you might have jumped the gun.” No, I didn’t start to wipe before the last fallen comrade was shot out to sea (isn’t that what they do in the navy, or StarTrek?). I made an assumption about Philip Roth’s novel, The Ghost Writer, based purely on the book’s title.

I guessed that the elder novelist in Roth’s book will get called out for plagiarizing his work. I deduced this solely from the title. Sitting there on my ivory thrown, I speculated how a prediction based solely on the title has a strong probability of turning out wrong.

A title can have everything, or nothing, to do with the book’s happenings. Take, for instance, Sophie’s Choice. This complex and dark National Book Award Winner has a plot so packed with interaction and story, one could hardly imagine being able to summarize the plot with two ‘choice’ words. But the title does just that. People who haven’t read the book (or seen the movie) are still able to pinpoint the pinnacle of the story. This is in part due to the iconic nature of the novel and film, but also because of the book’s title. Sophie has to make a choice. In fact, she has to make perhaps the ultimate choice: deciding which one of her kids lives. The tile has helped us remember the crux of the story, and vis-versa. The simple title goes even beyond her hard choice; it tells about the depressing, realistic, overpowering nature of the book as a whole. If Sophie’s Choice was named Krakow 1944, would the book be so memorable?

Then you have a book like Revolutionary Road. The book focuses on the dysfunctional Wheeler family, who unsuccessfully make their way through the anxious decade that was the 1950’s. Totally a ‘rip your heart out and feed it to the dogs after you watch me have sex with somebody else’ kind of story. But the title Revolutionary Road does little to hint at the heartbreak that lies within. In fact, Revolutionary Road is just the street that Frank and April Wheeler live on. Barely used, hardly mentioned. Thus, the title has a more ambiguous, metaphorical meaning. I, the reader, concluded that Richard Yates named the book Revolutionary Road because it represented the antithesis of what Frank and April where capable of. As much as they liked to envision themselves as revolutionaries, tossing away the shackles of the work-a-day world, they were nothing more than conformists. But if I was a betting man, I would have been wrong. In an interview with the author, Yates claimed he named the book Revolutionary Road because the Wheelers represented the end of revolution in America. 1950’s America, with its highballs and cul-de-sacs, meant the death of America’s progression to Yates. The title has little to do with the Wheelers or even the book, but this certainly doesn’t make the title any less meaningful.

Then you have titles that have nothing to do with a book on a literal level, and their metaphorical meaning is so convoluted, one wonders if the title has anything to do with the book at all. Take Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Gravity’s Rainbow. These titles are mentioned within each novel and ostensibly have something to do with the book; nothing more than a very simple plot advancement or character characteristic. As the book progresses and the title becomes less and less meaningful, you begin to wonder if the title really has anything substantial to do with the book at all. It feels like Thomas is pulling a fast one over you, trying to get you to read more into the title than you should. Then even later, as you start to grasp the ingenuity in Pynchon’s novels, you wonder if he hasn’t named the book to trick the reader on purpose. Getting them to read meaning in things devoid of meaning. This trick lends itself to his obscure and satirical writing and conversely has everything to do with the book. If Pynchon’s book cleverly manipulates the reader, doesn’t it only make sense that the title would too?

There may be a few book titles out there that have absolutely nothing to do with the book, but I can’t think of any off the top of my head. The important fact that I forgot though is this: one isn’t able to predict plot advancements based on the title alone. For all I know, a ghost could come into Roth’s story at any moment, turning the title into a truthful, literal prediction of the plot. Or, the novel will never mention a “ghost writer”, and I will be left to hypothesis about the title’s meaning. I jumped the gun in guessing conclusions from Roth’s book yesterday, and for that, I am sorry.

See all the thinking I get done on the pot? I was so totally engrossed in my thoughts that I forgot to wipe and had to throw out a perfectly fine pair of underwear.

Just kidding.

Shalom

I’ve started to read a novel by Philip Roth. The Ghost Writer focuses on a budding young writer who meets his hero- one of the premiere novelists of the 20th century. Very good stuff here, people.

I should alert you to the fact that this is a fictional tale, but it’s obvious the two characters represent phases in Roth’s life. The rosy-cheeked young’n, fantasizing about spending life in Thoroeauvian solitude, and the older, curmudgeoned writer who argues against waisting life immersed in a fictional world. These characters are likely the personification of feelings Roth holds towards writing. A prolific writer such as Roth must love and hate writing at the same time. The book is a window into the mind of a career writer, and all the successes and failures that come with this sought after title.

What I’m saying is this: this book is essentially metaphorical masturbatory materiel for my non-sexual fantasies. I think of myself as the young writer, struggling to make it. I imagine a future me as the accomplished older writer, distraught with my years of slaving away behind a keyboard. Ohhhhh yeah, baby. Ohhhhh, how many book awards have I won? Six? Ohhh yeah, right there.

There are two problems with the book. First, the title implies that the older writer has plagiarized his work or stolen the bulk of his material from someone else. This isn’t too troubling, just a nice twist in a fun novel.

The second issue: I’m not a Jew. Roth’s writing is riddled with Jewish history and important Jewish names. He uses Yiddish words. Both main characters emphasize their Jewish heritage in their writing. All of this leaves me in the dark. No, I don’t know the name of most early 20th century Zionists. No, I don’t really understand what the word 'Goyish' means. For such a good book, I’m frustrated with my lack of knowledge on Judaism.

God knows I’m almost a Jew. I date a Jewish girl. I enjoy the company of self-effacing individuals. I am circumcised. Certain philistines claim I look like Jerry Seinfeld (younger and sexier, of course). So, I have decided to pretend I’m Jewish for awhile.

That is all, I guess. Mazal tov.

Malware

My computer is crapping out. Finished. Donzo. It was on the fritz for a long time, but now it's near worthless. Like The Dude says about his flame soaked car in the parking lot of the bowling alley, "Well, they finally did it, man. They finally killed my fucking car." It wasn't nihilists burning my 1973 Ford Torino , complete with my Creedence, but viruses reeking havoc on my software. Viruses and Malware.

Am I the only person of my generation never to hear of malware? My technological knowledge is antiquated. I thought I was cutting edge when I could describe the function of spyware, or adware. "I think it just gets into your computer, fucks things up," I would say. Boom. Definition dolled out. But malware? Hottopic and Mr. Rags clothing? Like those post-gothic/rave pants with chains connecting the pant legs, alluding to masochism and reeking of daddy issues? I thought that was malware. Not something that slows down your computer and steals credit card information. Who has time to keep up with all this stuff? Malware, spyware, adware; everything and the kitchen sink.

I tell you what, as technologically unsavvy as I am for a member of my generation, I fixed my computer. Well, only sort of. But at least I can once again access the internet. You know, check my Facebook and watch illegally streamed episodes of The Simpsons. All the things the internet is good for. Without going into the gritty, curse-heavy details of how many hours and the amount of blood, sweat, and tears I pored into fixing my computer, it came down to this: I downloaded a program. I used software to fix my software problem. I found the solution to my computer's internet inability on the internet. The problem and the answer came from the very same place. I mindlessly infected my computer with malware, and I mindlessly downloaded a program that got rid of it. No brain power necessary.

So, I'm back. At least for a little while, until my computer is too crowded with stripjointware to work properly.

In other news:
1. I miss Louis G.
2. I miss my house/cat/family in Olympia.
3. I hate NYC when I'm away from it, but I like it when I'm here.

EDIT: Malware might be pronounced mal, as in malicious software. But who cares? I pronounce it mall, as in "I got to second base with my girlfriend at the mall."

Hopefully more updates soon. Message me if you want to read any of my stories. As per usual, here is the first bit to a new story I'm writing. Rough draft. Click this link.

Lyon

Want to learn about Lyon's hidden spots? I got you covered.

FEET

I’m sitting at my desk at work right now and I can literally smell my feet. With my shoes on. Does this ever happen to you? I mean, I don’t mind, I kind of like the smell of my own feet. But it is unsettling when someone comes over to talk to me and the whole time I’m thinking, “can they smell my feet too?” I knew I shouldn’t have worn my skate shoes. The sad part is: the stench is only going to get worse throughout the day. It’s only ten, and my thick, black cotton socks are only going to get wetter as my feet get sweatier.

What should I do when someone comes over to talk to me? Do I make light of the smell by joking? Something inappropriate like, “Hey co-worker, your feet stink. Just kidding, those are mine.” Is that funny? Would other people respect that?

Three people taken the poll. Don’t forget to vote.

When I arrived at work,
I noticed with a smirk,
That the feet underneath my belly,
Are really quite smelly.

I shouldn’t have worn these shoes,
They are too yellow in hues.
I might have worn my vans,

But I'm not much of a fan.

As coworkers approach,
It’s like they see a roach.
Because the smell from my feet,
Has been likened to rotting meet.

When we talk I am worried,
My speech with them is hurried.

I try to laugh and smile,

Using all my guile.

I say It doesn’t matter,
It’s only mindless chatter.
But the truth is present,
The smell isn’t pleasant.

Depression session

I finished my story about John and Steve. It’s currently 8 pages long and, per your request, quite depressing. I will post it as soon as I’m finished revising.

Sadness and depression is relative. What I find depressing, you probably find cheery (i.e. the suburbs, high paying corporate jobs, most Bob Dylan). I also think true and genuine pity is the most gut-wrenching of all emotions.

Waiting for a subway in Boston this past weekend, my friend Jake commented on how sad and horrible he felt for a blind man singing for spare change. I, on the other hand, thought the scene was quite relaxing. The blind man didn’t look sad (he looked drunk, which at 1:00pm on a Sunday is pretty sad, I guess). His voice was pleasant and heartfelt as he belted some Motown hits. What is depressing about that, I asked Jake. Jake claimed the man’s life was probably riddled with alcoholism and lost loves. Jake looked at the blind man through a different lens. What caused Jake to feel sadness?

What we find sad is based on something innate that isn’t necessarily universal. Jake has a tendency to see blind people as tragic figures, while I do not.

I get pangs of guilt and depression when I witness severely mentally handicapped people enjoying simple pleasures. In Boston we sat and played in a fountain. I watched a mother happily wheel her handicapped child to the edge of the fountain, and although his facial expressions were hard to distinguish, the boy laughed and clapped with joy. Other children were running and jumping in the fountain, but the boy was content just watching the fountain work and the other kids play. The mother stood by her son and pointed at the high streams of water with a smile on her face. I thought of how that boy would never run from water, never scream with the other kids. I thought of how the mother, who knows more about unconditional love, perseverance, and tragedy than I could ever fathom, enjoyed watching her son feel good. I realize that the mother would probably take offense to fact that I felt pity for their situation, but this is the reality of my emotion. The scene was heartwarming and excruciating at the same time.

Why did I find this particularly sad and Jake didn’t? I don’t know. What makes us sad is complex and powerful. Also, why do we sometimes like sadness? Why did more people want a depressing ending than a happy one? Do we find pleasure in pain? Of course.

What makes you saddest?
-a kitten who is the runt of the litter
-your parents selling your bed from childhood
-an industrial town that is dying
-watching someone botch a public speech
-none of the above
-these are examples of pity, not sadness

OK. Enough of that. I’m kind of interested to see if people vote. Next post will be about something happy, I promise.

The Fog is Thick on a Sunny Day

This weekend, I will brave a four hour barf bus to enjoy a weekend in Beantown. Me, Louis G, Eric, Rob, Jake, and maybe this kid Corey are taking somewhat of a dude weekend up in the Walking City. So, if anyone knows any spots we should hit up in the Hub, let me know because I w….

Phew, that paragraph was exhausting. I couldn’t think of much to say about Boston and instead tried to insert nicknames for the city in order to fill space.

In fact, lately I’ve been having difficulty thinking of much to write about. Anything blog worthy, at least. Blog worthy-yuk. Why is this? Where is my mind? What would atrophy a normally churning mind filled with half-cocked ideas and hardly thought out proclamations in a week? Could it be that seven days of boozing with Louis G has turned my mind into a pink margarita? Nah, that can’t be right. Have three months of work as a mindless city drone waiting to be devoured by the metaphorical queen bee of bureaucratic society gradually digressed my brain power to that of a third grader’s? Does that bee analogy even make sense? Obviously not. But what happened to my brain? Where did my ideas go?

For a long time, through most of college, my thoughts were clouded by fog. Everything I tried to wonder about exclusively, things I wanted on the tip of my conscious tongue, was behind opaque glass. I could only think in images, in general motions, in figures, not specific constructed thoughts. It’s difficult to explain the feeling, other than you know it when it’s there. It’s roughly like the side effect of the devil’s weed: never total awareness, even when you desire it.

The fog is a coupling of anxiety and general despair. John Cheever talks about the fog in Bullet Park. The fog pushes Hammer to drinking and madness. Although Hammer recognizes the fog, he never speculates on a specific cause, largely because there is no cause, no epicenter of haze. He lies and waits for a clearing, unable to sleep or eat. He changes his surroundings desperately but seems to know all active efforts to completely escape the fog are useless. He only hopes to escape through the minutia in life; living completely in a yellow room that brings him peace. What pains him most is the inability to leave. But Hammer fights, he knows it is a loosing battle, but he fights anyway.

Perhaps what Cheever misses in his consideration of the fog is the apathy. Apathy is a leading symptom. The knowledge that there is a pervasive nothingness, a falseness in life, and not caring to act against it.

I hated the fog at first, but slowly accepted it once I realized it was always present. It’s like someone pulled off my rose colored glasses and exposed me to the dullness of reality. I grew comfortable. I also recognized the importance in acknowledging the fog. Like Walker Percy quotes Soren Kierkeggard in The Moviegoer, “the specific quality in despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair.” Since I recognized the truth, I could finally work within the truth. Also, like The Moviegoer, I grew content in an existence within. The fog was there and after brief searches for escape, I accepted the damp, clouding blanket. The search for escape was exhausting, so I stayed inside.

And because I didn’t fight the fog, the fog cleared. Out of apathy and love and interest in various things, I seemed to see things again. I could think with complete mindfulness. In fact, it’s cleared so much I forget what it feels like. I have occasions of immersion in the haze, but I’ve generally lost the Fear, the Dread, malaise, or whatever you want to call it. And this has inspired a different kind of apathy. I’m happy tending to my garden.

Is this why I can’t think of anything to say? Because a life without fog is a life of happiness? I miss the edge of the fog; having a foot in both worlds. Anxiety and despair were, on some level, exciting.

But maybe, and perhaps the scariest thought, I’m back in the fog and don’t know it. Has the war against the malaise and routine been lost, and I didn’t even notice the white flag? Did I put on my rose colored glasses again? I don't feel passion about much this past bit, at least not enough to write about. Is this surely a false sun?

The Louis G and Me

The results of last week's poll are in! 9 people voted, about 8 more than I anticipated. And the winner...

Depressing fashion!

Ahh, good old depressing fiction, could you ever lose? And the more I read the story, the more excited I become. There is great potential for a depressing story, and I'm glad you chose this option. As for more good news, no one said the story sucked. That's promising.

I quickly abandoned posting on a daily basis because Louis G is here in NYC. The stinky-footed Frenchman is sleeping on my floor ( I don't have a couch big enough to support his ample frame). So, needless to say, instead of writing I have been drinking. Drinking and skating after work don't lend themselves to the writing process. Neither does having a 6'2 Frenchman sleeping on your floor. The little writing I have managed to do in the past week has occur ed while at work. It's well worth it though; Louis G is one of my best friends. I can actively say that unlike most foreign people I meet, I legitimately think he is funny. Usually with foreigners, there is such a language barrier that humor is demoted to a base level, where we resort to awkward gestures and quick, funny sounding sentences instead of real humor. But, Louis has mastered English on such a level that there is a perfect combination of wordy jokes as well as awkward sentence fragments. For instance, we were walking through the grocery store and he insisted I 'Drive' him to the beer aisle. See, instead of 'lead' him, he said 'drive me'. Funny stuff. Or maybe you had to be there?

We are going to Boston next weekend. And, as far as my break from writing, you know what my favorite dude Richard Yates had to say- "To be a serious writer you must be a serious drinker."

PS. I think of this when pondering a way to finish the story in a depressing fashion:

What a fate, to be condemned to work for a firm where the smallest
omission at once gave rise to the greatest suspicion! Were all employees in a body nothing but scoundrels, was there not among them one single loyal devoted man who, had he wasted only an hour or so of the firm's time in a morning, was so tormented by conscience as to be driven out of his mind and actually incapable of leaving his bed?

Help ME!!!

I'm in a writing group. Last week, I turned in 3 short stories, one of them was finished, and the others were not. The two other people in the group liked the one story I don't like at all, one that isn't finished. I think there are a lot of problems with this story. First, there is a tendency for new writers to fall into a Raymond Carveresque style of writing, one with a bare bones type of prose and very few, uh, stylized words. They (we) do this because they are afraid to lend too much for critiquing. By eliminating all but the absolutely necessary parts for your story, it is hard to criticize. Anyway, that is what this story does. And this is why I hate it.

But, they suggested I finish the story. And I need help. Should I finish the story? I'm not too attached to it, so in what way should I continue?

Help me decide where this story goes. Read the story and then answer the poll on the right.

Here is the question:
How do you want my story to end?
-Depressing fashion
-Happy fashion
-Surprising fashion
-Dude, the story sucks, give it up
-I refuse to read this story

Here is the story:




“Would you do it over?”

“Do what over?”

“This,” said Steve, sweeping his palm around his head like he was holding a lasso. “This.”

“You mean the job? Would I take this job again? Well man, it was either this job or sit at Can…”

“No, not just the job,” Steve interrupted. “Everything; this.” Steve stuck out his arm and carefully pretended to scan John from a distance, waiting for some sort of extraordinary, telling light to stream from his hand.

“You know, your life, this, everything.”

“Everything?” questioned John.

Steve finished scanning and his eyes slowly moved from John to the office, searching for items or mementos, snippets representing John’s life. Steve’s eyes widened and he quickly pointed to a framed picture of John’s daughters that hung on the wall.

“That,” said Steve. “Or,” moving to a picture of John’s wife, “That”.

John said nothing, only watched. Steve carefully searched the room and came to John’s desk. He recklessly picked up a stack of papers and files. “These,” he said and carelessly dropped the pile back into place, some papers slipping out to the floor.

“Everything,” Steve said again.

Tiring of his explanation quickly, Steve carefully moved his hand to his chest. His mouth curled in a mischievous, dumb grin.

“Or maybe, even this,” Steve said coyly. Satisfied with his finale, he leaned back in his desk chair and sipped his bourbon with a loud slurp.

John laughed.

“Well,” said John. “There are some things,” he flicked his hand towards Steve, “I certainly wouldn’t miss.”

Steve smiled warmly. They sat in silence for a moment, examining the office, letting the smell of bourbon sink into the room. Rain pattered against the office window.

“But seriously,” Steve started again, “if you had the chance to do it all over, everything over, would you?”

John didn’t respond. He wanted to recline and lift his feet up to his desk in the ultimate position of corporate relaxation and superiority, but he knew his shoes were too filthy.

“Imagine,” said Steve, leaning close to John’s desk with excitement, “if you knew you could have a re-do. Start fresh from the beginning. New job, house, car, wife, all that shit. The kids. Not a semblance of similarity with your current life. You start different from the beginning. You fail grade school this time, or, better yet, you go to Harvard.”

“No job in sales?” asked John with mock concern. Steve didn’t hear him.

“You become a world class physicist,” said Steve, his eyes lost in a manner that suggested he was talking about himself, not John. “You travel the world giving lectures. You spend years discovering some complex equation and are renowned all over the world. You’re written up in books and scholarly journals.” Steve cradled his bourbon in both hands. “You don’t marry because you don’t have the time. Intellectual discussions and writing books. The occasional dinner, but that’s it.”

“Ha. Do you think you’re stupid, Steve?” asked John.

“No, nothing like that. I just think maybe I missed the boat with this sales stuff. I’m a smart guy and maybe I’m wasting my l … uh, talent, but that is neither here nor there.”

John’s eyes once again wandered around the room. This is a great office, he thought. I keep a decanter full of liquor in my bottom desk drawer and no one can tell me otherwise. Steve’s question was boring him. It was too mundane, too everyday. Who the fuck cared if he could do everything over again? It’s a pointless hypothetical question and the opportunity for doing things over will never occur, so why dwell on the subject?

Steve saw John was loosing interest. He tried to change topics.

“You taking the girls to the lake this weekend?” asked Steve.

Tom rolled his chair close to his desk and grabbed the decanter of bourbon.

The Bitch is Back

Sorry I have posted anything in awhile. Between working, interning, and writing short stories, my blog has slipped into the backseat. And I'm not talking about that sought after backseat, where my blog gets a metephorical rub down from some college co-ed with knockers, I'm talking about the backseat where it goes untouched and unnoticed. But, since we are in the throws of summer (although you would hardly know it around here, with all the rain), I would like to start posting again.

Not much has changed since the last time we spoke. I still live in NYC, where I have acquired a bizarre liking to the city.

Today, I was walking down the Columbus on my way to work and was comforted by the smell of garbage. Somehow, the scent of expired milk soothed my pre-work nerves. I stopped to wallow in the stench for some time before realizing the insanity in taking pleasure from the smell of trash, squinched my face at my own absurdity, and kept on. This leads me to ask, why do I like things that smell like shit? A part of my brain wants to agree with a Dostoyevsky quote from The Possessed, saying how human being's minds are so screwed that we actually find pleasure in pain and suffering; but no, that is too simple. There are only two reasons why I could possibly like the smell of garbage: It reminds me of the joy I feel living in a city filled with garbage, or it brings up childhood memories of running the garbage can down the end of the driveway for it to be picked up for the next day's trash service. Either of these associations with garbage is acceptable.

I do miss the outdoors, though. I haven't stepped foot in a wooded area that hasn't had the minimum amount of handicapped accessible routes in order for the city of New York to label it a 'park' in quite some time. The lure and romanticism found in large wooded areas with lakes and animals just isn't available in NYC. Since it is summer, I also want to swim, and there is something about the water near Coney Island that doesn’t lend itself to wonderful swimming daydreams. I want Greenlake, or better yet, The River.

In terms of my daydreams of becoming the next Walter Cronkite/Richard Yates, this quote from Chris Anderson's Free: The Future of Radical Price, sums my life up nicely (stolen from New Yorker):

“Out of the (current) bloodbath will come a new role for professional
journalists. There may be more of them, not fewer, as the ability to participate
in journalism extends beyond the credentialed halls of traditional media. But
they may be paid far less, and for many it won’t be a full time job at all.
Journalism as a profession will share the stage with journalism as an avocation.
Meanwhile, others may use their skills to teach and organize amateurs to do a
better job covering their own communities, becoming more editor/coach than
writer. If so, leveraging the Free—paying people to get other people to write
for non-monetary rewards—may not be the enemy of professional journalists.
Instead, it may be their salvation."

So If I ever do write or make anything worthwhile, the best I can hope for is a non-monetary reward. That's OK, I guess, it's all for the betterment of oneself. And I kinda get paid to write right now. I just sit at my work computer, look upset, write what I please, and get lost in the bureaucracy of a big-office type job.

My internship is going well, they were thinking about sending me to Canada. Money be damned, my own half cocked and stumbling brand of intellectual ideas is entertaining enough for me.

Enough for today, I will have to save some of this energy for when blogging gets boring again in about 3 hours.

Story Time

I know I haven't posted much lately, but here is some brief news.

1. Eric N. and I started a writing group.

2. I'm still working at the union hall.

3. Uhhhh... I got some new shoes.

I'm up to a lot, as you can see.

The real purpose of this post is to implore you to check this link. It's audio of Richard Yates reading aloud his story, Best of Everything, to an audience in the late 1970's. I read this story almost a year ago, when my dad first handed me his short story collection. One of the best writers of the 20th century, Yates's simple narrative can't be beat. He constantly hints, ever so close, to complex themes and social issues that manifest themselves in relatable characters. Please, please, please, give this a listen.

http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/blogs/phlog/Podcast/RichardYates_BestOfEverything.mp3

Poem

Weather is getting warm!! Not that I'm able to enjoy it, I'm always at work.

Sorry I didn't put up that short story. It never turned out like I wanted it to. In the meantime, here is a short, rather weird poem. I never edited the thing, so it is what it is.

A Hero’s stroll down 1st Avenue

Confidence oozing out of Him with rapidity. Confidence in the confidence itself. Smells offend the others, too. Shower-less nights once a hassle are now welcome regularities. Chain mail to guard his knighthood. Is there any different mousse than grease? On the face, hair, torso- sheen for the hero.

Strut is crucial. A defined swagger defines a man. Not that He is desperate for definition. Self-affirmed in His position at the top. The others searching for acceptance coalesce into the stew which repels Him, although the tiniest piece, the weak in Him, dreams of being an ingredient in the broth. Depress these sophomoric yearnings, hide behind the mask and odor and grease. The strides separate Him, keeping Him apart from the broth, allowing Him to continue along the path with His nose pointed towards the clouds.

Down 1st Avenue He floats heavy, like a damp mist. All in his wake are stranded, drenched. Ignore the mindless. The mindless aren’t privy to the quest. Lost on them is the great; the goal. If His demeanor falters, even for a moment, Rome will fall. Such setbacks are inevitable, even at the pinnacle of success, but must be avoided at all costs.

Caligula of the new era. The pure recognition of this fact elates Him. Scoff at the others, leer at the others. No pity, no glee. Fellow man, Hah! They understand nothing, Him even less. One difference is clear, He accepts the bleakness. He knows nothing, but understanding this iota alone sets him apart. Absence of thought is the blessing. Everything else is nothing.

Well, the goal is something, but only in terms of the minutia between the inevitable. Scorn the 1st Avenue occupiers, scorn with all your might. The farther down He cascades, the closer the destination.

On 1st and 3rd shoulders collide with vigor. His-fierce and biting like a linebackers against theirs-flimsy and misshapen, like medieval minarets. He chooses retribution carefully and swiftly:

Fuckin-A Faggot- Watch Yourself!

Sorry

The minion scurries off to his hovel. He swaggers harder, stenches longer. Another notch in His belt. He reflects with the people around him, His head on a swivel. Compassion, emotion, the people praise his name, grandeur restrained, He utters a fierce warning directed to no one in particular.

Next time it’s your ass, fool.

Earth revolves around the sun, ice cubes melt, and babies born. He is sure He stands alone. Guard mustn’t fall, though, evil successors hide behind corners and cars, waiting to pounce and extinguish His rule. E tu, Brutus, E tu? Never will His mouth utter these words. Keep enemies and dispel friends. Push the aching piece to conform and acquiesce into ignorant society down deeper into the soul.

Turn starboard. His pace quickens as the end nears. Trot, not run, but haste steps. Composure is key. Gait progresses intact, mind wild like a coyote. The door is here.

He steals a last glance at the other’s world before entering the downtown doorway. Pigeons. Pigeons pecking and clucking and lice infested scour the floor for food. Pigeons with no end, no goals, no quest, no being. Noble men have a plan. Pigeons don’t recognize the truth- nothing is all there must be. After eating up those tiny crumbs, they will only search longer, tougher. Pigeons must be despised, disdained, exterminated at random, but tolerated for now because they are pigeons, they don’t recognize their purpose. Tolerate then teach. They are pigeons, He is a coyote.

He laughs, pushes open the door, and ends his tour.

Something.

Got another blog for everybody. Lumpy is a blog created by my friend from Santa Fe. He worked at the radio station with me and is a rad trumpet player and composer. He has officially the coolest job in America: creating music for video games. Well, I don't know if he ever solidified that job or not, but it's cool to think he works creating music for video games. Remember that bomb Sonic 2 music? Yeah, he should take inspiration from Sonic. Not that bastard Tails, though.

Did I mention that during my period of unemployment, Jake and I beat Sonic 2. It is only 1 of 2 video games I can remember beating, the other is Metal Gear Solid 2. And a couple of computer games.



I'm still working on my short story. I promise it will be done soon.

Cool

This song is the best song I have heard in a long time. Hi Fever, where you at?



I have a ten page short story I wrote that I plan on unleashing in the next couple of days. Critiquers grab those red pens.

Demand Satisfaction

Can a contemporary man harbor honour or has the ability to hold honour gone the way of the dodo? I mean, I am presumably a respectable, intelligent man of good pedigree, so does this make me an honorable person? The only reason I care is this: I want to challenge someone who is also noble and respectable to a duel.

Duels are fascinating. More precise; nineteenth century pistol duels are fascinating.

I have always taken an interest in duels, ever since that old 'Got Milk' commercial. Remember the one? The curator of the Aaron Burr Museum is called by a radio show to answer a giveaway question about who shot Alexander Hamilton. He can't answer the question because his mouth is stuffed with brownies. As cool as it is to think about that famed duel involving Federalist Papers author Hamilton and Vice President Burr, it's not even my favorite American Political Duel.The best duel involved bad-ass-southerner and Trail of Tears mastermind Andrew Jackson. During one of his five duels, he let his opponent shoot first; a risky strategy. The bullet hit Jackson in the ribs, but he still managed to stand straight, measure his shot carefully, and shoot his bullet-less opponent, winning the duel. Imagine standing still and taking a shot to the chest, just so you could take your time and aim correctly.

The progression of a duel was fairly predictable. A man with honour might offend another man by making a wise crack about his wife's childbearing hips. The man with the beefy wife would "Demand Satisfaction", essentially challenging the foul mouthed man to either apologize or to duel. "Demanding Satisfaction" was typically accompanied with a slap to the face, administered by the challenger. Historically, in the periods of knights and wenches, a knight would get one slap in the face before being knighted. This was supposed to signify the last slap that the knight would ever receive because he is now an honorable man, and should be treated as so.

Both parties must then agree to the terms of the duel. Apparently, there is a Victorian Era duelling handbook that greatly reduces the vagaries of a duel. The most important decision the duel was what weapon the fighters would use to attack each other. Although there were many varieties of dueling weapons, pistols were the most widely used. Nobel men were known to own a special set of dueling pistols. Since terms of a duel were often ridiculous, in an attempt to get one of the parties to cancel the duel, weapon choices were sometimes very odd. Once, a man chose two sausages as a dueling weapon. One of the sausages was supposed to be injected with cholera. This duel was canceled, but how awesome would it be to see two noble men standing in a field eating sausages while defending their honour? The duels would always take place at sun up, in order to avoid a crowd or other distractions. Many times, the only other people to witness a duel were the dueler's seconds.

Duels died out by the mid 19th century. Bummer, I know. In most states, duels are not illegal. Historically, dueling parties are never prosecuted by the law. The courts considered dueling a personal matter.

This is how I plan to die. In my late seventies, someone will undoubtedly poke fun at my incontinence or fat belly, and that someone is going down. I will demand satisfaction, pick pistols, and choose my brother as a second. My strategy is this: I will pull an Andrew Jackson and let my opponent shoot first. If they hit me, I die a noble death. If they miss, I will stare into my opponent's eyes, spit on the ground, and deliberately point my gun into the sky and fire. See, this is the ultimate act in a duel. If your opponent fires his gun at you, misses and you fire into the sky, his honour is mud. Thus, I accumulate his honour. How cool is that?

Again?

Yep, I shaved my head again. If you're broke, it's truly the only way to cut your hair. I tried to take a current picture, but my camera's battery is totally depleted.

My friend compared walking the streets of Midtown to, "walking through a dense canyon in the wild". I'm sure that exact metaphor has been said thousands of times before, but I have never heard it. I even nodded in agreement and said, "that's some cool shit man, I like that." My encouragement caught him off guard and he followed his initial statement with, "it truly is a concrete jungle out there," while smugly gazing up at the buildings. Why did you have to go and kill it, Richard?

I have worked this job for three weeks now. I feel my life wasting away in front of an Excel spreadsheet. I'm too exhausted to do anything constructive when I come home, so I pass out watching YouTube. I wonder what it's like to be 45, three kids deep, and working a job you started only in the meantime. You know, "I will take this job in the meantime, before I find the career I want," kind of job? Kissing your stinkbreath kids goodbye in the morning so you can go wait in traffic, radio tuned to the station that plays "all the hits you grew up with".

Is it infinitely more unbearable to be 45 years old and still temping? Announcing, "I'm trying to write a novel/do art/play music, and I took this temp job to pay the bills". Which is worse? Frankly, those are the only two options. I see no other paths.

Whatever. YouTube will always be around to drown out the sound of your kid's cries. Jake showed me the best comedy show I have watched in quite some time. It's called Peep Show. Blows Larry Sanders out of the water. I was wrong when I claimed Larry Sanders was the best show ever. That was just a low, unemployed part in my life, where I deluded myself into thinking I was part of Larry's gang. I laid sprawled out on my rented couch, watching back-to-back episodes of Larry Sanders, trying to choke back tears spurred by my impending financial doom. But now I have a temp job and I watch Peep Show. Everything is right with this world.

Enola Gay

In one's mind, tidbits of information and useless facts lie dormant for a lifetime. I could have passed through my days without thinking of the Enola Gay; ever again. I mean, I definitely think about the nuking of Japan. In fact, I would say I think about the end of WWII at least once a month. But my thoughts about the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima are typically followed by three subsequent idea paths:

1. My parent's recent trip to Japan.
2. The battle of Midway. A crucial air battle that was explained to me via a history channel marathon.
3. Girl's pantie dispensing machines that are supposedly rampant in Japan.


It saddens me to know that I think more about used underwear machines than I think about the Enola Gay. I mean, along with the Spirit of St. Louis and whatever deathtrap Amelia Earhart crashed in, the Gay is the most recognizable name in aviation history. Get your mind out of the gutter, Brett.



Speaking of the gutter, I made a new skateboard buddy. He lives mere blocks away from my place in Brooklyn. A cool cat. I linked his photo/music blog in my extremely exclusive links section. His name is David.



I'm working at the Transport Workers Union Local 100 hall in NYC. Yep, I'm working for the union. My Grandpa would be proud. "Great benefits and job security," he would say. Fortunately Grandpa, this is a temp job.

Wales

Thanks to my editor's intensive editing, this is up. Travel write much?

I just noticed how many typos are in my blog below. How unprofessional and bloggish of me.

Would you have done the same?

Yesterday, I witnessed a woman and a man fighting. They were fighting on the sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon.

From far down the block the couple appeared to be goofing around; wrestling at each other for paper towels that the man was holding and squealing in high, comical voices. But as I approached, it became clear that the 30-something man and woman weren't joking, they were serious. The woman, who was noticeably younger and better looking than the man, desperately tried to grab the man, subdue him long enough so she could talk to him. The man wanted nothing to do with her and was violently pushing the woman away. The woman kept repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry". Apparently, she was apologizing for some act of wrongdoing. The man was disgusted with the woman, and it seemed like every second he touched her, he was a second closer to retching. He was totally furious and irritated and looked like he was trying to back away from her long enough to use his phone.

When I was about 100 yards away and walking closer, their conflict peaked. The man was trying to dial numbers on his cell phone as the woman yelled and grabbed with increasing desperation. "Don't call the cops, don't call the cops". At this point, it appeared the man had the police on the line. The woman's only choice was to lunge at the man, attempting to restrain his cellphone access with a bear-hug. In order to avert the woman's latest maneuver, the man had to viciously slam the woman onto the concrete. She hit the pavement hard. I couldn't be sure, but I think he threw in a couple of extra kicks for good measure.

Now, I'm about 25 feet away from the scene. Oh shit. At what point is a man passer-by (myself) required to butt in and try to save the damsel in distress? She was hardly a damsel, but she certainly wasn't street trash either. She had obviously done something wrong, and was yearning to apologize to the man. Was the man justified for slamming her to the ground? Are you ever in the right if you physically assault a woman? Whatever she had 'done', it was something worth apologizing for. Had she burnt his toast and he was an affirmed wife-beater? Or, was she cheating and stealing from him, and his body slam was only the physical culmination of the pent up frustration in a broken hearted man? Who am I to judge? Was she maybe bleeding a little? I'm nearly on top of them now....

I crossed the street and pretended to be utterly intrigued with my cell phone.

I leave you with this:

"Life is pain, life is fear, and man is unhappy. Now everything is pain and fear. Now man loves life because he loves pain and fear. That's how it's been arranged. we are given life for fear and pain, and that's where the swindle lies. Today man is not a real man. One day there will be free, proud men to whom it will make no difference whether they live or not. That'll be the new man. He who conquers pain and fear will be god himself. And the other God will disappear."
--Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Links

Instead of the two rarely updated columns, "What's hot for Brett and What's not for Brett", there will be links to my favorite blogs. These are blogs I look over on a weekly basis. The single most important criteria for your blog to be listed here is this: you must update on a semi-regular basis. If March 15th is your latest blog entry, I skipped over you entirely. Also, please let me know if you want your blog linked. If you're a friend and I've forgotten you, I apologize. Or, you need to update more.

What follows is a brief explanation of the worthiness of the linked blogs.


Hi Fever: Electro-nerds and former/current DJs school you about music that is so utterly foreign and new, the genius of the beats is lost when the music enters your ears. Tunes on this site will be popular... three months from now. Either that, or the bloggers are raving about Phil Collins or some throwback 80's music. Watch out for Mr. Ahh "The Artic Cat".


The Hypnotist Collector: There is a soft part of my brain that yearns for the past. Sepia tones, spats, and acceptable alcoholism. A time when men would suppress their feelings of self loathing with a beer and a smoke. The Hypnotist Collector takes me to a bygone era.







Mollu
Mollu: Yes, the designer of Mollu is my girlfriend, but this blog stands on its own. Those of you who know nothing about architecture could learn a few things. The comforting layout and homey pictures of tea cups make for a great place to take lessons on Art Deco. If this blog were a tiny house, it would be quaint, functional, and smell fresh. Just keep updating....







Pitchers and Poets: One Mr. Eric Nusbaum has started a baseball blog. Where else can you grapple with crushing existential thoughts and discuss the merits of a day-break-day series between the Indians and Rangers?



Reve Rouge: Ernest Hemingway said in regards to writing, "first, there must be talent". I am rarely jealous of my contemporaries, but there are two friends who I secretly despise because they seem to manipulate the pen like professionals. The first is Eric. The other is Betsy, and she deserves to be read. I may not be able to make my writing palatable, yet I recognize the good stuff.



Things I Like Right Now: New York runs on fashion. Every other craigslist post in NYC is asking, "are you looking to break into the fashion world?" If you are a budding Marc Jacobs or a nerd with a fantasy about befriending Lindsay Lohan on a ski lift, showing her your soft side, hitting The Showbox for some apres-ski, and triumphantly teaching her she can love a man if she... well, this blog's for you.


You Will Soon: A favorite pastime in the skateboard world is talking shit. Some like to talk shit more than they actually like to skate. The bottom line is this: constructive criticism (shit talkin') is necessary in an industry that idolizes idiots. You Will Soon tells us no, it's not OK to parlay your skating career into producing rap music videos. Or no, it's not cool to sign on with Toyota for that pro-model car. And most of all, getting a pot-leaf face tattoo is definitely not kosher. The skate world needs checks and balances, and You Will Soon is providing.


That does it. A list of links. Again, let me know if you want your blog linked.

Blogs I wish would update more: Calyer Palace, Zach's blog, Liv's blog.

Onward and Upward

Ignore this post. Heed warning.

To write about your own writing seems pompous and vain, but of course, I will go ahead and do it anyway.

I haven't written much in the past week. And this upsets me. Mind you, I still manage to write almost everyday, but when I justify the productivity of a day's writing by saying, "oh, I wrote that 30 Rock recap, that's enough," my dedication is lacking. When I don't write on a daily basis, my mind falls into some kind of cafard; a pit of self-loathing. I feel anxious when I don't write, and my attitude suffers.

Today, I again felt down because I haven't been writing, so I wrote a short introspective piece on why I need to perform my only creative outlet more diligently. Here is an excerpt:

To even dream of being a writer and not to write on a daily basis is like a boy who dreams of being a basketball player but never dribbles the ball. It is a lie; as useless as calling myself a "ballerina" or an "actor". I do neither. Why do I have the audacity to call myself a writer if the ball of my pen never touches a page?

I continue on and evaluate the advancements I have made in my writing over the past year. Boring stuff for my typical blog reader so I will forgo the explanation on the rest of my introspective piece and tell you this:

I vow to write more than I did this week. Not for the blog, but for myself.

OK, enough of that.

I was perusing a bookstore near Molly's work and found a compilation of John Cheever's short stories that was autographed by the author. Having recently finished and adoring his novel, Bullet Park, a look into the destitute and pervertedness encompassing life in the suburbs, I wanted to buy this autographed book. The faded red hard-back cover reminded me of some of the 70's relics from my parents bookshelves, and this only increased my urge to purchase the book.

My fantasies of holding an autographed Cheever in my hands were quickly shot to shit by the purveyor of Skyline Books. He told me the book cost $100. While this price is actually quite low, it's $101 dollars more than I have to spend. I shook my head woefully and asked if he had any John Cheever for sale under $8 dollars. Again, he said no. I quickly left the enticing fiction section and occupied my time with a picture book.

The day wasn't an entire loss, however. Later, as I was digging through my wallet for a subway pass, I happened upon a forgotten Borders gift card. What a treat. Mr. Cheever here I come. And I mean that last sentence in the most literal way possible. I needn't tell you Mr. Cheever's homosexual exploits and a depraved 'party apartment' that nearly killed him before he sobered up and wrote his most critically acclaimed pieces. Or wait... sorry, I've been reading too much of the New Yorker.

Old School

I came across this blast from the past. It's hard to believe this skating is from 4 years ago. Wow. I hope those underage girls making out in the intro don't get my blog blocked.

Land of the Zach

Good buddy and former road-tripper Zach Hagen came into town with his family, yesterday. His parents took me out to some BBQ and afterwords we got a drink. Unfortunately, I didn't get much time to catch up with Zach, he was always at the, "other end of the table". Both literally and figuratively. He claims he will be coming back to the giant apple in the summer, but the truth will be in the pudding.

In other news about friends named Zach, remember that post I made months back featuring me finding my friend's picture on a girls bathroom door with the word "hot" pointing to his face? Well, this Zach is making a movie. I read the synopsis online, and the story is intriguing. Having seen some of Zach's previous movies, I expect this film will not let us down. If this film turns out anything like his short film, Shredin', than we are in for a laugh riot. My only potential issue is the plot of the movie seems a tad overdone. I have had my fill of comedic movies centered around lost teenagers trying to make their way through love, life, lust, and youthful angst (i.e. Adventureland, Superbad). Yet, perhaps I am grouping Zach into too simple of a sphere. I think there is a darker, mysterious side to Zach that will shine in this movie, separating it from the norm. And who am I to critique things for being overly "done"? Isn't this blog a little too "done". In more ways than one, I guess....

You should check out his website at http://blog.lotlmovie.com/.



The girls from Au Revoir Simone responded to my post from the other day:

Aw, thanks for the sweetness, it was a pleasure working with you! And don't
worry, we hope to be played on MTV one day too, that would be nice, and
would certainly be "BIG". :)

This confirms that girls are nicer than boys. If I told some dude rocker, "I can't wait to see you on MTV", he would have laughed in my face. One of those real demeaning laughs too; the kind that puts you in your place. Like he knows he is cooler than me. A guy would never write a fancy email with nice emoticons. If email could smell, you know this one would smell like lilacs or cake or something. Girls are sweet, aren't they?

Speaking of which, is it weird I'm looking forward to coloring eggs with Molly tomorrow? Weird, or just sissy?

Au Revoir Brett

A couple of days ago I got an email from my friend Dan E. He wanted to know if I would be interested in helping Disposable Television, a media-production company he sometimes works for, with a shoot. A music video shoot, to be exact. When I received the email I took stock of my situation. It was Monday afternoon at 3:00. I was wearing only boxers and the t-shirt I wore to bed the previous night. Three things were open on my computer screen: craigslist job postings, internship work, and Peep Show on YouTube. Peep Show is a British television series. It's quite funny. Out of the three Internet screens open on my computer, Peep Show was getting the most action. I desperately needed some new action and this music video seemed like the ticket. Plus, I've been wanting to get into more Production Assistant work. I called up Dan and, as they say, it was on.

I met Dan the following morning. We got a ride to the shoot from his boss, Vikrem. At first I was intimidated by Vikrem in a, "his humor is very subtle and genius", sort of way. You know those people that say funny things that blow your own funny statements out of the water? He is that. He co-owns a company in NYC, so already I knew I was dealing with a creative genius. My creativity doesn't go much further than my writing and this blog. I tried to kick my humor into overdrive. Take out my real A-Game. Astute observations and all that.

We arrived at the shoot and met the rest of the crew. We also met the band, Au Revoir Simone. I had never heard of the group before this shoot. I try to maintain a tight facade of exuding contemporary musical knowledge. Before yesterday, if somebody hipper than me in Brooklyn asked, "have you ever heard of Au Revoir Simone?" I would nod and say I have heard the name, but not much of their music. In reality though, I have only heard of the separate phrases, "Au Revoir", and ,"Simone". I would quickly try and manhandle the conversation from talk of new, hip bands into talk of older, classic-rock radio bands. You know, something I can relate to.

As the day went on, I got started to realize my general duty. I was a miscellaneous man. People would give me orders and I would carry out those orders. Everyone had a higher status than me. I don't mean this in a bad way, this is very typical of production assistant work. I actually enjoyed all of my duties. At the beginning of the shoot, I was largely in charge of lifting lighting equipment and moving things around. Later, I got to be the Slate Man; the person holding the little sign that says, "Scene 1/Take 1". A little later, I pushed around one of the main camera men on a dolly. Towards the end, I even got to film some of the music video with one of the Panasonic P2 cameras. My shots were back-up shots of course, but this is a privilege not many PA men receive. In total, the shoot lasted about 15 hours. Exhausting, yes. But the time flew by. I was almost sad to see the day end.

It was simply amazing to see how much work goes into making music videos. The creative leaders (Vickrem and his business partner, Brad) worked hand-in-hand with the talent (Au Revoir Simone) to create a product they would both be happy with. Neither Vickrem or Brad took any sort of a break through the entire 15 hours. They were constantly shifting lights and discussing angles. I was also amazed at the dedication of the band. I perhaps had a preconceived image that these attractive, young girls would be 'Divas' and do little actual work. I imagined they would be sitting in the green room doing pounds of drugs and reluctantly coming out to the stage only for brief intervals. Divas they were not; they put in some hard hours. They seemed as dedicated to the image of this music video as the creative team was. Also, I liked their song. After 15 hours of hearing the same song played and cut every way possible I thought I would hate it, but I actually tried to download the song today.

The only thing I regret is something I said to one of the band members. Towards the end of the night when everybody was leaving, one of the girls came up to give me a hug. When the hug was finished I said to her, "I hope you guys make it big, I want to watch this on MTV". There are way too many things wrong with that statement. They are:
1. What does that even mean, "make it big?"
2. Was I insinuating that they aren't "big", and if so, wasn't it offensive to insinuate that?
3. It was a horribly tacky thing to say.
4. Who the fuck watches MTV? I sure don't.
Other than this flub, It was an outstanding day.

I can't tell you much about the music video, other than it will rock. There will be some nifty camera work, so watch out. If you see some dolly shots and you think to yourself, "damn, that dolly is running smoothly," you know who to thank. I highly suggest listening to Au Revoir Simone's new album when it comes out. The song is named Shadows (or something like that) and I will post it on here as soon as I can find it on the Interweb. Also, I will post pics from the shoot as soon as I can.

Here is an older music video with Au Revoir Simone also filmed by Disposable Television:

1

It's like the dawning of a new era. I can see the sun come up over the hills and the glistening dew on the grass. It's chilly,yes, and you may be a little frightened, but it will be all right. Just take my hand as I lead you into this fresh beginning.

That's right, people. This post marks the first post of my next 100 posts. Wait, what? 100 down, more to come. And this time, I promise to post semi-daily.

I went to a free Gotham City Writing Class today. It was an introductory class on screenwriting. I found the majority of the lecture interesting, but it didn't lead to any technical breakthroughs in my own head. The middle aged instructor was enthusiastic and would frequently race around the room as he talked. The classroom was full of middle-aged adults who liked the sound of their own voices. When the instructor asked for examples of our work, the over 40 crowd would describe elaborate, poorly written scenes involving heavily-cliched characters. The instructor, being the cordial man that he is, would offer little in the way of constructive criticism.

At one point, the instructor asked for an example of exciting dialogue that you would like to find in a screenplay. A lady's hand shot up and she started off by stating, "well, this doesn't have a lot of dialogue but...." It went downhill from there.

This is one of the quick, five minute long, exercise things that I wrote. I have no idea where I was going with this:

They sit at a long table in the kitchen. She stares out the window towards the street below and slowly smokes a cigarette.
Brian talks while forcing a smile.
"but, you know, it's not what I want to do forever."
She inhales the cigarette and doesn't say anything. Brian tries to widen his smile.
"What about you? I can't imagine you want to work in PR forever. What do you actually like to do?"
She quickly blows smoke towards the open window. She focuses her eyes on Brian.
"What do you mean, I like my job," she says; quickly.
Brian shifts in his chair
"Yeah of course, I like mine, too. I mean, what are your hobbies? do you have any hobbies, like golf, or something?" Brian laughs at the idea of her playing golf.
She picks at her plate and puts her cigarette out.

For any of you who actually read, "This is what a recession looks like," more vignettes coming soon.