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.

100!

100 posts. Wow. All of them are dynamite, I'm sure.

Since this is my 100th post, it's only appropriate I talk about something awkward that happened to me today.

My new landlords are Hasidic Jews. I met them on the front the stoop of our apartment building. I grinned hard as they approached and stuck out my hand. They were smiling, but when they saw my outstretched arm, their smile quickly faded from their faces. I sensed something was wrong, yet this only strengthened my resolve to shake their hands. Reluctantly, one of the landlords shyly stuck out his hand. I shook it. It was no better than a wet noodle. Disgusted, I didn't try to shake the hand of the other landlord. They remained friendly during the entirety of our transaction, but this bothered me. I pay them, or more accurately at the moment, my parents pay them rent. Couldn't they have the decency to shake my hand?

Only later did I find out that Hasidic Jews don't shake hands for religious reasons. And I thought I was well versed on these type of things. Smooth, Brett.

I like Tom Waits. I dig this old throwback stripper cartoon.




I tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past.
--Tom Waits

This is what a recession looks like.

"Ahem," the waiter coughs.

I snap back into reality and scan the table. Todd stares at me; his omnipresent, dumb grin tattooed in place. To his left, Tessa gazes up at the waiter. Or maybe, at a fan above the waiter's head. Cynthia nervously squeezes my knee. She coughs.

"Sorry," I say. I shake my head fast and squint my eyes, faining concern. Since I haven't a clue as to what the waiter wants, much less why he is talking to me, I hurriedly grasp at objects on the table. My half empty plate. Cynthia's empty wine glass. My half-cocked facade quickly runs thin. I run out of objects to grab at. I almost begin to paw at Cynthia's broach. It is obvious to the waiter, the table, and to myself that I am confused.

"The bill, sir" he sighs. "You forgot to sign the bill."

I look down at the table. Sitting directly in front of me is a small, black folder. Presumably, if I understand the waiter correctly (I'm not sure I do), the bill for our meal sits in the folder, waiting to be signed. If this is true, it means I was daydreaming about the detestable Todd Jordan for an extended period of time. Was I quite caught in my daydream that I didn't notice the waiter pick up my card and then bring the bill back to the table? Hadn't I talked to Cynthia in the last ten, fifteen minutes? Had I chewed the fat with Todd? Or, as is most likely the case, I stared at Tessa's upper thigh, and relished in thoughts of hatred for Todd while Cynthia babbled at my profile.

Whatever, I could bet with reasonable certainty that anything occurring in the last 15 minutes is, or was, of little consequence to me.

I sign the bill and hand the black envelope to the waiter. He nods and walks off. I frown; confused.

"Why did he come over here?" I ask. "I mean, shouldn't he just wait for me to sign the bill? He rushed us." I focus my eyes in contempt towards the waiter, who is now serving creme brulee to a young, awkward looking couple. A blond haired girl with fair skin watches as the waiter places a tiny dessert bowl on her table. She smiles at her date and absent mindedly pulls the dessert closer towards her. She immediately throws her hands up in revolt and lets out a meek cry when the small bowl burns her hands. The girl's face flushes red. Her date, a chubby 20-something who seems as confident as a junior varsity lineman, blushes and laughs with the girl. I imagine that tonight is the couple's second date. They met at work. She is the receptionist and works through a temp agency. He is a junior salesman. His father used business connections to help his son get a job directly out of college. One Friday, a group of co-workers went to a bar in the East Village and they ended up talking about movies from the 80's most of the night. Sixteen Candles, the Brat Pack, and The Corys. What happened to Molly Ringwald? The blond girl and the chubby man kissed like drunken fools when they shared a taxi back to Brooklyn. They never talked about that night again, but he sent an email the next week and asked her to dinner at a posh restaurant.

The awkward couple laugh for a long time and they never look directly at each other. Maybe, they met on an Internet dating site.

"Why would he rush us for the bill?" I continue. "Let me tell you," I say, turning my attention away from the couple. "It didn't help his tip," I chuckle.

Todd laughs. "You called him over here, you fool," he says. "You asked him to pick up the bill; said you wanted to get out of here," claims Todd. "Fuck Mitch, poor kid probably makes next to nothing," finishes Todd.

I can't decide if the couple met at work or through the Internet.

Tessa and Cynthia grab their bags. Todd and I stand up. When Cynthia stands up, I grab her left hand and put my other hand on her lower back and lead her towards the door. A black, Kate Moss Drape desperatly tries to cover her slender torso. Black heels match the top. Beige pleated capris compliment her red nailpolish. I smuggley nod at the young couple as we pass them. The girl looks away, intimidated by my tall, attractive Cynthia. I help Cynthia with her hip length, double breasted cape before we exit the restaurant. From behind, I admire Cynthia's shapely shoulders only for a moment. Mostly, I watch as Todd assists Tessa with her coat.