Bye Bye Brett

Rex the Trapper

2010-01-31T13:57:00.000-08:00

Here is an interview I did with Rex the Trapper a couple months back. My parents hired him to trap some moles at their house in Olympia. Rex is quite a guy, I hope you enjoy it.

ME: Thanks for coming out Rex. Did you get him?

REX: Yeah, I got one. Little guy was pretty tricky. I’m guessing you got about two or three more moles in your yard, judging by the look of things.

ME: How can you tell?

REX: Just a feeling, I guess. You got a lot of molehills on your property. Moles are territorial, but you got enough room out here for a couple of guys to get around. Maybe your parents will hire me to catch the other ones.

How does a guy like you get into trapping moles?

Funny story. I took one of those tests in high school. What are they called? One of those tests that tell you what you should do with your life.

Aptitude tests?

Yeah. I took an aptitude test. The test was hundred and hundred of math problems. I hated math. I didn’t do so well on the test I guess, so one of the suggestions was that I be a hunter-gatherer. It thought I should hunt and gather for a living. I was kinda mad and I threw the sheet away. But after a couple days I started to think about it and thought maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. I liked to be outside, you know? 6 years later, here I am.

Rex with his catch

Me and you are the same age. I can safely say we’ve lived a completely different life.

To each his own, I guess.

Do you specialize in moles, or do you trap other animals too?

Moles, mostly. I do some live trapping of small pests; like possums or raccoons. Some of those bitches get ornery, so I got to wear gloves. One time a raccoon pissed all over me from the live trap. Piss sprayed everywhere. He was a real mean son of a bitch, doing it just to screw with me. You gotta wear thick overalls, too.

Live trapping? What do you do with the animal once you’ve trapped them?

Drive um up into the forest and dump um off. You gotta drive deep, or else they find their way back. Hell, they probably find their way back no matter what.

Repeat business.

Ha. I guess, I never thought of it like that.

The enemy

Do you ever get hired by any kooks?

Not really. Most people are pretty normal. A couple times people try to haggle over the cost and I have to threaten to call the cops on them. But that has only happened a couple of times.

I noticed you said a little prayer before you threw the mole carcass into the forest. What was that about? Are you a spiritual guy?

Not really. Well, maybe I guess. I say I’m sorry to the mole, and make my amends with the mother earth sprit before I dispose of the animal. You gotta make amends. Poor little moles don’t do nothing to nobody. People hire me to kill them because they screw up the look of their yard. Shallow shit to kill another living creature. I have guilt for all that killing. I guess I just say I’m sorry to the mole and I wish I didn’t have to take their life. They’re blind and small, you know? A little prayer to the earth spirit, too, asking her to keep everything in harmony and keep producing moles so I don’t wipe um out of Washington. I feel bad for the suckers, I really do. I wanted to make a coat so all these moles didn’t have to go to waste, but I don’t know if I have it in me to skin an animal. I could take them to a taxidermist, I guess.

Earth spirit, huh? Some might say you’re a little crazy, Rex.

You gotta be a little crazy with what you do to be any good at it. All the great ones were a little crazy. Babe Ruth, Winston Churchill, Dennis Rodman, all dominated what they did but ain’t no one gonna argue with me that they weren’t crazy. I gotta be a little crazy to be any good at trappin.

Well said, my man. Hope to see you again. Good luck with the earth spirit and all that.

Thanks man. Hope your parents hire me again.

Mr. Newspaper

2010-01-27T19:52:00.001-08:00

I wrote this last night, fully intending to send it to a newspaper today. What was I thinking?

Dear Mr. Newspaper,

In the name of the Good and the Holy, Mr. Newspaper, I suggest you print this article as soon as possible, tomorrow in fact, before time runs out and I blog this instead. See, I request no payment for my writing, only the dwindling notoriety of seeing my name in print. To witness the ink from my name rub off on my thumb, you know, the stuff dreams are all about. The stuff dreams used to be about, at least. Now my brain is filled with www.mynamehere.com, and a Tumbler with a Google Analytics reading of more than one hundred hits a day. What dreams are these Mr. Newspaper?

But look who I’m talking to. You, Mr. Newspaper, you know pain more than anyone. You watched your sturdy stature shrink to nothing. You watched colored pages and investigative reports disappear. You watched your insides poisoned with fluff hardly worthy of high school quarterlies. You heard talk of advertisements on your front page. You sir, know the disease of the internet all too well. How can I complain about the lack of newsprint on my thumb when you, Mr. Newspaper, are the new California Condor? Wait, no, that’s not right, their population is on the rise.

You have fought a valiant battle. Your odds were slim; slimmer with passing days, but you fought anyway. And now it’s over. It’s clear who has one. Let us not forget the better times. When Dial-up was the norm and domain names were still ripe for the taking. The Lewinski days, Mr. Newspaper. The better times. When people sat in a chair to read, not behind an electric box.

So print this while you can, Mr. Newspaper. For I want to see my name rub off on my thumb.

Always yours,

Brett

Thumbs Up

2010-01-10T13:38:00.000-08:00

Most travel guidebooks I’ve read maintain the same disclaimer:

The writers of this here guidebook urge you to consider the risks involved with hitchhiking. You put yourself at risk for assault, theft, and unsafe driving. Us writers never recommend hitchhiking as a safe means of transportation. Besides, it’s hardly done in this country anyways.

For the reasons mentioned I avoid hitchhiking. It’s dangerous right? All sorts of chi-mo psychopath killers cruising the roads waiting for a mark like me to come along. Nope, I’ll take the bus.

But that’s not to say that I don’t frequently romanticize on hitching a ride. Imagine me, trail-beaten and musky, golden locks flowing at my neck and a dirtied thumb pointed to the sky.

A gorgeous blond driving a red F-150 pulls over. I throw my bag in the back and hop in.

“Where you headin’?”

Me: “No place in particular. Just away from here I guess.”

“Sounds to me like you’re running from something.”

“Nope. If I was running I wouldn’t be thumbin’ a ride, would I? I’d be running instead.”

My wit would undoubtedly be more refined if this fantastical situation ever became a reality, but you get the picture. The rough nature of hitchhiking has always appealed to me. I’m torn between my rational mind and my adventurous self. Usually my rational side ekes out the victory.

Until the other day. Our car broke down and I was faced with a long hike into town. My feet were tired from three days of walking. The mid-afternoon sun burned my shoulders and a small hole wore fuller in my sneakers.

You know what, let’s give my adventurous side a chance, I thought. I felt my thumb drift out to my side.

A handful of cars passed me by before a Toyota 4-runner pulled to the side and motioned for me to hop in. My heart leapt. Jogging to the car, a myriad of problems raced to my mind.

What if they don’t speak English (a high probability since I’m in Puerto Rico)? What if they are waiting to kick the shit out of me (my face, my beautiful face)? What if they take me on some crazy, drug fueled adventure to San Juan (I told Molly I’d be back in a couple hours)? And finally, what if they try to rape me (Being raped is an odd fear of mine, stemming from the ultra-p.c. fear mongering 90’s that I grew up in)?

Suddenly my gorgeous blond ride-giver fantasy shot out the window. I opened the passenger side door, hardly able to face my attacker.

“Hey man, what’s up.” A single, tanned 30 something surfer dude asked.

“Nothing,” I responded, happy he looked like one of my own. I scanned him up and down and immediately noticed, with quite a bit of delight, he is just as scared as I am. I sighed.

Remembering back to all the times I picked up hitchhikers, I’m always the scared one. I’ve fumbled with the keys, my voice has cracked, and I’ve had any number of near misses while a hitchhiker has sat in the passenger seat. Like the surfer dude, I figure it’s the hitcher, not the ride-giver, who is the crazy one. The hitchhiker has an aura of hardened badass. The ride-giver is nothing more than a nerd with a car.

The hitchhiker is the one in the driver’s seat.

“Town,” I mumbled, brushing my golden locks back behind my ears.

For the entirety of the ride, he did most of the talking. A family man who owned a business in town. I didn’t say much, hoping to add to my enormous badass persona. When he pulled over to let me out, I shook his hand coolly, said ‘gracias,’ and hopped out as casually as I possible could, headed to wherever the wind took me (the skatepark).

It’s nice to be a badass for once- the Brett I fantasize about. The romantic wanderer without fear or reservation.

How long will this feeling last? Probably until a creeper in a Jeeper pulls over the next time my thumb floats into the air. But until then: Badass Out.

Drinkin'

2010-01-07T15:57:00.000-08:00

Not far from where I live rests a local watering hole where I occasionally sit for a mid-day drink. The bar is called Club Nautica. Translated roughly: Boat Club. But the last place any of Club Nautica’s clientele have ventured lately is onto the deck of a yacht.

Club Nautica is where dreams go to die. Or where dreams long dead have washed up onto the shore of the Black Marina, picked their pockets, and moseyed into the open-air Club for a Dewar’s and coconut juice.

About once every week I walk the two blocks to the Club. I stroll in with a book. The idea that I can read in a bar is as ridiculous to me as it is to the clientele of Club Nautica, who stare at my book with wonderment. See, I need the book to justify getting a beer at 3:30 in the afternoon. Going to get some reading done, I tell myself. I never open the book in the bar, but it’s a perfect beard. I’m out of place at the Club with a book in my hand. Just a stranger to them. Perhaps a studious youngin’ who is studying barflies for his latest academic pursuits.

“One Heineken please.” I say to the ancient Puerto Rican bartender. Two dollars are exchanged. I leave silver for a tip.

Taking a seat in the corner, book situated under my arm, I proceed with my true reason for coming to Club Nautica: the people watching. Like no other bar I’ve ever been, this place stinks of despair. A handful of expats circle the lone pool table. Others line the bar ordering drinks in thick mid-western accents. All wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. Some don’t don shoes. They talk, but none have a conversation. I listen closer.

“Hell of a stick you got there kid,” a grayed, grizzly-voiced man says to one of the bar’s younger patrons playing pool.

Another patron quickly jumps in:

“John, you ain’t an Idaho tatter or even a California tatter. John, You’re a COMMON-TATER!”

Nobody laughs. The pool balls knock against the rail.

The younger player looks at the lone TV in the bar. “Is this shit CSI or something,” he wonders aloud. Again, nobody answers.

It’s Law and Order, I think to myself.

The afternoon continues like this. I sip through two Heinekens and listen to a skinny, leathered man talk about leaving his wife. The man at the stool next to him nods often but doesn’t take his eyes off the pool game. The Puerto Rican bartender stands in the corner of the bar and surveys the scene from a chair.

There’s a line in Nelson Algren’s, “The Man with the Golden Arm” that talks about a cat that lives in a bar. The owner knows that once the cat has purred around someone, that someone is gone, no longer a part time drinker but a full-blown booze junkie, their life lost to the drink.

“’N when you hear that one purr you’re through,” the bartender explains. “That one keeps track of how many shots you put down every day. So long as you’re just a sociable drinker he don’t purr. But when you take the one that puts you on the lush for keeps, then he knows you’ll never get off the bottle your whole life. N’ he purrs once. And he purred at me and he will purr at you.”

“When I was twelve my stepmom took me in the shower and started workin’ real fast,” the grizzly-voiced common-tater jokes. “And I said, ‘Damn mommy, slow down and romance it a bit.’” He chuckles heavily and looks around. People laugh, but not at his joke.

The cat purred in Club Nautica years ago. They all know it. And they probably know there’s no use in fighting the cat’s purr. Who’s to blame um’? We’ll all hear a cat purr someday, and the warm, drunken air of Club Nautica seems as good a place as any. What makes our cat’s purr any holier than theirs?

Another one, I say to the bartender. At least that’s what I wanted to say, but left the Club instead. I can't exactly remember what happened. My memory's a little fuzzy in this heat.

Christmas Gifts

2010-01-02T19:21:00.000-08:00

EDIT: THE FIRST PARAGRAPH OF THIS POST WAS CUT OUT ACCIDENTLY. REWRITE ENSUED.

For years I'd respond to my parents query of "What do you want for Christmas" with one word: money. That's what I wanted. That's what I needed. Money for gas, skateboards, dates, beer, and whatever else. Money made my world go round. Extra skrilla in my pocket meant less time at work. And besides, why leave something as important as what I got for Christmas up to chance. Couldn't go wrong with a fat check at Christmas time, right? No. Wrong. Opening up a single envelope with your name on it while your brother tries on a fresh t-shirt and shuffles new Pokemon cards is enough to make a boy's blood boil. Where were my mounds of gifts? You asked for money, remember, my mom would always remind me, noticing the disappointment on my face. Every Christmas morning left me feeling, I don't know, unsatisfied.

So this year I skipped the annual envelope under the tree and left the gift giving process up to Santa. Santa and Molly. Because one of the perks of a relationship is that extra Christmas gift coming to you with a big kiss from the girlfriend. Coincidently, I asked for a swap like situation so that kiss came from Molly and some Puerto Rican hoochie mama we picked up in the bar.... Just kidding. Molly kisses well enough that we never need to spice things up.

What lay under the tree (and handed from Molly) this year? Books. Two of them. Two fantastic books of unbelievable quality. One of them alone has enough material to keep a man like myself mentally occupied for a lifetime. But two? On top of the already impossible pile of reading material I'm confident I won't finish in this lifetime? Well people, I got some reading to do.

Book 1 from the parents: Carl Jung's Red Book

I know absolutely nothing about psychology, even less about the history of the field. And I went around for six months calling the author of my first gorgeous Christmas gift by the wrong name. It's 'young', some fellow corrected me, not 'Ju-ng'. Sounds like a 'Y'. Why then, would I want the definitive work of Jung's career, the essence of his oeuvre, especially if Jung scholars can't even fully comprehend the recently published work? I must like a challenge? Yes, but that's not why I hinted heavily at my dad while shopping in Powell's Bookstore that the heavy book would be a perfect gift for his favorite son. I wanted to own the Red Book because I consider Mr. Jung something of a compadre. A comrade, actually.

A New York Times Article several months ago piqued my interest on the Red Book. This book, this long held private book, is all about Dr. Jung's purposeful, calculated descent into madness. He believed he could further his psychological understanding by inducing dream-like hallucinations that unveiled his unconscious mind. Nightly for sixteen years he gave in to anxiety, to fear, and to otherworldliness, in hopes of achieving a deeper knowledge of himself. To wade through the horrible swamp and to come out the other side with all its riches. All joking in this blog aside, this is what interests me. To know oneself and one's psyche is of the upmost importance.

Have I positioned myself in my living room, induced psychosis, and woken up 3 hours later, all the much better like Jung did? No. But maybe something in this book will speak to me.

On a lighter note, this book wasn't casually placed under the xmas tree for me to unwrap with glee. This puppy was hauled in. At 20 pounds, its the largest book I've ever seen. This book has a psyche of its own.

Book 2 from Molly: Autographed Copy of John Cheever's Short Stories

This book taunted me from behind a glass case for the entirety of my time in NYC. Should I purchase the simply autographed book (by the hand of a God, albeit) for an almost palatable price. Or, should I wait to start my fancy book collection until I have one of the following: money, career, permanent residence, bookcase? Molly answered that question for me. Now I have Mr. Cheever's shaky penmanship to stare at for inspiration whenever I need it. Sweet. Too bad the autographs from after he sobered up and not pre-Alcoholics Anonymous Cheever, where the real crazy was still in him (Bullet Park). But I guess then his autograph would have been too shaky to be read or authenticated.

Another plus, I get to wonder about Iva Bowes. Who was this woman who sought out the autograph of Cheever? Was she smart, funny, pretty? I smell a short storrrryyyyy.

That's it. I got other things, but these were two of the sweetest xmas gifts ever. What a wonderful Christmas.

The 1st

2010-01-01T16:08:00.000-08:00

Hey ho, let's go.

Is he back? Is he fo' real? What's the deal yo? Only time will tell my little buddies. Only time will tell. Before we discuss anything juicy (like what I got for Xmas), let me answer some FAQs.

Why don't you post anymore?

Over it. So over it. Blogging took time away from my true passion: writing 3 pages of a short story, telling myself I'm the next Chekhov, and then never-ever touching the story again. That's what I do. That's why I stopped blogging. Well, kinda. Blogging is hard. You think genius like this just flows? No. For the oh so few of you privileged individuals who have seen my stand-up routine, you know how much time and work goes into my um... creative, uh... projects. I didn't want to put in the time. And the subject matter bores me. That Brett guy is a doofus.

What are you up to, brah?

I currently live in Rincon, Puerto Rico. But chances are if you check this blog (i.e. a member of my immediate family), you already knew that. Just in case you didn't know: I live on da beach man.

What do you, like, do there?

The short answer is nothing. The longer, more uppity kind of answer is I'm trying to write a book. Yes, a novel. With a protagonist, a setting, a conflict, and all that. Really though, I just ponder how great this book is going to be without ever actually writing much. I have about 30,000 words(brag), but they don't work. They're useless. You couldn't make sense of them if you tried. And it's stressing me out. How will I ever win that Pulitzer with a book that starts with the line, "Throw the ball. Pussy." Yep, that's the first line. The all-important intro. Some real "Call me Ishmael" type shit.

What is the book about?

I already said: it has a protagonist, a setting, and some sort of conflict. Outside of that your guess is as good as mine. Well, that's not totally true. It's about a teenage boy. Frankly I don't know if I want to talk about it. I can't decide if blogging about my writing takes away from it somehow. But I've also learned I can't take this book thing too seriously. You see, it seems like every time I think I've written some great lines, some real gems, I get sections like this, where the main character talks about going to college:

"I take some advanced classes and think about college but more for the girls and the parties than anything else. I can't think much past getting laid in my dorm room. This is, of course, after we listen to two-thirds of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band- or some shit like that-and smoke pounds of pot. And people in this town say it's very adult of me to want to go to college."

Actually, damn. That is a gem. Keep it up kid. By the way, the main character has absolutely nothing to do with me. Nothing. I went to college for the courses.

Can I visit you in Puerto Rico?

Pssh, I'll believe it when I see it mom, dad, Ana, Lindsey, Liv, Tripp, Aaron etc....

What'd you get for Xmas?

I think I will write about this tomorrow. Bottom line is I'm back. Maybe. Get sum.

The Swimmer

2009-10-08T12:25:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-28T09:39:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-18T07:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-09T13:24:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-04T16:26:00.000-07:00

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

FEET

2009-07-22T07:00:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-08T06:53:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2009-06-30T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-04T18:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-03T21:21:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-04-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-27T19:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-04-20T21:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-15T13:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-12T16:28:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-11T23:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-09T21:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-07T20:04:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-04-03T14:08:00.000-07:00

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.

99 Posts and chick ain't one.

2009-03-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

Sorry I bitched out from using the word "bitch" in the title. Regardless, this is my 99th post.

I want to buy a Misfits shirt with the skull. You know the shirt? White skull on a black background. But, I called Jake, my style advisor, and he advised against it. He said I would look like a teenage girl.

My argument is this: the shirt has finally surpassed the lowest of the low on the cool spectrum and is once again back on top. Every teenage girl who ever listened to, "Die Die My Darling" bought the shirt two years ago. Now, the shirt lies in their closet, next to a pile of Fall Out Boy shirts and choker necklaces. The shirt waits for its resurrection, ready to rest on the back of only the coolest of the cool - me. I mean, I would buy a fresh shirt, but you get what I'm saying.

I have always liked black t-shirts with white writing. And I like The Misfits. At least, I liked The Misfits. And I'm ready to rep them. Or, is it too soon? What do you think?

One problem. I probably don't have enough money to buy the shirt. Bummer.

"And as the elevator descends, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even farther down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst."
--Clay

This is what a recession looks like.

The sandwich looks mostly inedible, with orange house sauce oozing out the side and onto the plate. I look up at her from my half-eaten chicken sandwich. I should have ordered the Cobb salad.

"It's the same way in Ireland, though," she says. I stare at her rounded forehead and nod. I am bored. My gaze returns to my lunch plate and I move a fry into the house sauce with my left hand.

Agreeing to go on a lunch date seemed like a good idea at the time. She has a sexy, raspy voice. See, that's my problem. My Achilles heel, my Siren's song. And she called me. The nerve. Normally, a woman who calls me is a turn-off. I would never agree to meet her. At least, I mean, if she calls me sober.

I'm still leading the house sauce with a soggy french fry when she starts humming to the music coming out over the loud speakers. Cher, "Believe". When the song reaches its peak, when Cher sings the word, 'believe', her hum climaxes with an irritating squeal. She stresses the squeal for a long time. I let the fry drop onto the plate and look back up at her. I can't think of anything to say.

"It's really cold out again," she says; smiling. I look outside. She starts talking about the night we met, at The Charleston on Bedford. I hardly remember that night. I thought I gave my number to a smaller, darker girl who was with her. I thought we met at The Tavern on Driggs.

"And remember those d-bags at the bar with their girlfriends?" she asks. "They thought they were, like, being hip or something." I chuckle and she is encouraged. She talks louder.

"Like, what were those woman wearing?" she says, her face contorted with disgust. I stay silent. My mind is elsewhere, now. I look at two empty glasses sitting on the table. The drinks helped lunch drag on. Next time, I will drink coffee; not beer. Next time, I guess.

The waitress comes to our table and hands me the bill. She is cute, but her teeth are small and yellow. She smiles, anyway. I slowly reach for my wallet and place it on the table.

"Ohh, I can pay, too," she claims.

"Is that cool?" I respond immediately. She is surprised. She manages to quickly mask her surprise and hurriedly reaches for her purse. She is flustered.

"Totally. No problem at all. I mean, hey, I called you." She laughs.

"Sorry, it's just, you know...," I pause. "The recession," I blurt out. I can feel a goofy look creep onto my face and I regret saying this. I don't explain any further. She laughs and we leave the table and walk outside.

The day is clear and cold; the sun hurts my eyes. The wind makes me shiver and I put on my Turtle Shell Ray Bans. I look at her.

"Well Dianne, it was fun," I say. "I'm glad you called."

She turns away from me and blushes red. She mutters something.

"What," I ask. She is too shy to flirt with me or ask if I want to see her again. She's not that bad looking, maybe. I don't know.

"It's Lianne," she says softly. "Lianne."

Some Time

2009-03-23T18:34:00.001-07:00

It's almost April. My, how time flies when you are having fun.

I want to grow a moustache. I like to pronounce it MOUUUSSEEE-STAAASSSHHH. But, like George, I also need to get a job.

"No matter. It all comes to the same thing in the end. A little sooner, a little later...."
--Caligula.

This is what a recession looks like.

Easily my favorite hour of the night. I set the plastic card down in the middle of the round dinner table while motioning at the waiter with my left hand raised slightly above my head. Every move is calculated; exact.

I steal a quick glance at Todd Jordan, wondering if he will object to me paying the bill. No, of course not, he is canoodling with his bride, Tessa. Through the candlelight, I watch him touch her, slowly pushing dark hair across her face, away from her eyes. She laughs, keeps her head down, and looks at the seat cushion. She is flushed from the wine and smiling, her eyes only barely open. Todd's other hand is on Tessa's upper thigh, kneading at her silk dress. They lean closer to each other and kiss, softly.

I blink hard. Ungrateful bastards. Neither of them seem to notice my credit card in the middle of the table. Six months ago Todd would have spoken up as soon as my arm gave the slightest twitch towards my wallet. That was a different time, I guess. He had recently started seeing Tessa, and not a Friday would pass by where he didn't put up some stink about the bill. One night in particular, when we were out with friends of ours from Morgan Stanley, he actually pulled me aside in the bathroom at Butter and pleaded with me to let him pay for dinner. It was a big tab, too. Our friends, their wives and girlfriends, Todd, Tessa, Cynthia, and myself. $1500, or more. And yes, at the end of the night, it was Todd who smacked his card down on the table. The Morgan Stanley guys resisted, but Todd was insistent. I remember Tessa clutching his arm while he happily shook off their protests. He wouldn't hear them. His treat, he said. His grin that night made my stomach lurch.

Not tonight. No, don't even look at the card, Todd.

My Place

2009-03-10T14:53:00.000-07:00

It has occurred to me that most of you have never seen where I currently live. Well, there it is, in all its housing glory. Where I live.

The first two pictures were taken during last week's snowstorm. How Brooklyn does that look, huh? I'm cool. The last two pics are the inside of my room. I tried to get a nice panoramic shot but it proved difficult. Regardless, my entire room is present in these two pictures. My futon and the crap in front of my futon.

That's how I live. Glamorous, baby. Ohh, I forgot to mention the private grotto off the back end of my room. Pics of that next time.

I've been getting into Electro again, I guess. Freshman year of college I was stoked on Electro only because of the downloading program DC++. I could download anything I wanted. I downloaded a boat load of sub-prime Electro. About 10% of the songs I downloaded were gems. Now, I'm restricted to YouTube.

I like Soulwax.

Lyss Rocks

2009-03-09T12:23:00.000-07:00

This next Artie quote from The Larry Sanders Show is dedicated to my Uncle, Dave.

"It's Scotch whiskey. Glenlivet-single malt. When you die, you go to heaven, you will say hello to God. And when God says hello to you, this is what you will smell on his breath".

You know what's insane? The internet. More specifically: YouTube. I've been tossing around the phrase, 'YouTube sensation' a lot recently. The idea of uploading some half-rate video on to YouTube and then getting 500,000 views is hilarious.

But, used and abused as this statement sounds, people's dreams actually come true because of YouTube. Today, I clicked on a video that was recommended to me by YouTube. The video was of a teenage girl singing a song. She has a good voice and a nice channel on YouTube, where she sings famous songs. Turns out this girl went to Grammys because of YouTube. She won a contest on YouTube. Her cover of "I Kissed a Girl" had over 3 million views. This blew me away. It essentially means that this girl's song went triple platinum. Not in terms of sales, but in terms of exposure. 3 million views all because this girl uploaded some webcam video of her singing. Mind blowing.

I was so amazed by her talent that I prepared a well-constructed and thoughtful comment for the comments page. My comment read, "girllzzzz has a bangin voice and id banger her for realllzzz lol".

YouTube sucks.

But seriously, I got sucked into watching her sing about 5 songs. Unfortunately, it's becoming a guilty pleasure. I'm hooked. You go, Lyss!!

Who spells their name like that, anyway? Again, YouTube sucks.

I'm starting to theorize that the background to her videos is a green-screen. I've got too much time on my hands.

Larry Sanders

2009-03-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

I have discovered genius. The perfect television show. The Larry Sanders Show is a 90's sitcom that ran on HBO. It's the full package. It has the societal observations of a Seinfeld, the running-jokes of Arrested Development, and the subtle wit of old Simpsons episodes. Throw in a dash of Curb and a pinch of The Critic and you have The Larry Sanders Show.

The show is about a fictional late-night talk show host and his crew. Garry Shandler, some mid-level comedian who I had never heard about before this show, plays Larry- the neurotic host. Rip Torn, better known for his role in M.I.B, is Larry's confident producer. Jefferey Tamber, the dad on Arrested Development, plays Hank Kingsley. Hank is Larry's Ed McMahon; the couch sidekick. He is insecure and slow on the uptake. Janeane Garofalo and Jeremy Pivin round out the cast.

I have noticed that most of the funny television shows of the year 2000+ era have copied at least one aspect from this show. I would argue that the two funniest shows on television right now are 30 Rock and The Office. Not like I have my finger on the pulse of contemporary television comedy, but everyone, including me, likes these two shows. They both borrow heavily from The Larry Sanders Show.

I can't say more about it. You just have to watch the show. This is one of those shows that if you don't like it, I think you are stupid. No hard feelings or anything, but you are stupid. It's like you idiots who think Friends is funnier than Seinfeld or who tell me, "I don't notice a difference between the old Simpsons and new Simpsons". Yeah, you don't notice the difference because you're stupid. Just like you're stupid if you don't like The Larry Sanders Show.

All the episodes are free on youtube. Start with the first one and make your way through the whole series. Trust me, it's worth it.

"It's part of the process of a divorce. They serve you papers, you hit on your secretary. It's a tale as old as time".

On an utterly different topic, Jake and I have started writing a script for a pilot. Our show heavily borrows from Larry Sanders. Here is the hook:

A group of writers struggle with the absurdities and personalities surrounding them while writing the reality show, Destination: Space.

Bret Easton Ellis

2009-03-02T13:20:00.000-08:00

To continue with my Bret Easton Ellis books-made-into-movies theme, how good does this trailer for The Informers look? Amazing, right? The soundtrack is 80-licious.

This movie is laden with stars.

I have to read the book first in order for me to thoroughly hate on the movie when I see it.

Screenplay

2009-03-01T17:41:00.001-08:00

"You don't look happy."
"But do I look good?"

The following paragraph will sound cliched and obvious.

Lately, I've been seeing a lot of movies adapted from books. The movie never justifies the greatness of the book. I mean, I hate to be a prick that says, "the book is sooooo much better", but I am that prick. It is possible to make a movie that justifies the book, just seldom done. Think Jurassic Park. That book was OK, and the movie was good. And that's just one example.

I've been thinking about adapting a book into a screenplay. I think that would be fun. However, it's hard to decide on a book. I was thinking about trying to adapt Less than Zero. But, to my dismay, it is already a movie. Starring Robert Downey Jr. The trailer is amazing, but it looks like the movie falls short of the book.

The announcer is awesome. The title at the end is fantastic, also.

I love skateboarding. More than anything. I was cheering during this match.

Top/Bottom Five

2009-02-27T16:17:00.001-08:00

These are the top and bottom five things about living in New York, as told by graffiti artist Neckface. They are kinda true, I guess.

I feel stupid posting this because I've only lived here for a little over a month. But, I justify it because I once heard a sorority girl talk about how she would be 'living' in Costa Rica for three weeks. So, by her definition, I have 'lived' here.

Top 5 reasons to live in New York
1. Skating through traffic
2. Running wild on the streets
3. Finding fucked up skate spots
4. Exploring the entire city
5. You don't have to drive
Top 5 worst things about New York
1. The high rent
2. The people who can afford the high rent
3. No good mexican food
4. Cold winters
5. Rats the size of small pets

And this:

Hi-fever

2009-02-26T12:56:00.000-08:00

A big shout out to my boys at http://www.hifever.blogspot.com/. They linked me on their world-renowned dance website. Thanks, Hifever.

I think they are going to be pissed I called them a dance website.

Jake and I worked on a political campaign in Queens NY for four straight days. It was quite an experience. First, the district we worked in is the most ethnically diverse district in all of NY, if not the country. That put two white boys like Jake and I in a precarious position. Lets just say we stood out like sore thumbs.

People out in Queens didn't seem to trust the political opinions of two scarf-wearing, non-Spanish-speaking gents like Jake and I. It's almost like the people out there thought the two of us have never fallen on hard times. Like we have never had to struggle. Well listen people: we do struggle. Everyday. Just yesterday, for instance, my Starbucks gift card ran out. Where the hell am I supposed to buy my americanos now, huh?

I'm serious, my gift card ran out. I'm bummed.

Our candidate lost the election. Although when we first started working I could care less if he won or lost, by the end I cared. I mean, I worked hard for the man. But, win some lose some.

Jake and I think he lost because he didn't have a catch slogan. Oh-boya, it's Moya! Or, Moya the destroya!

Maybe he lost because Jake and I couldn't communicate with over half of the electorate. Nah, that had nothing to do with it. Right?

Read this you slackers. Jake and I are essentially weighing our options for what producer is going to put this into production. FoxSearchlight is made us an offer we can't refuse.

Blondie For Ya

2009-02-21T17:59:00.000-08:00

I watched the Farrelly Brother's movie, "The Heartbreak Kid". It stank to high heaven. However, this song is good:

I've been using a big number of colons, lately.

Can't Let it Die

2009-02-20T14:19:00.000-08:00

You know, I'm sorry about not posting any updates. It's just that after a day of writing and researching random stuff on the internet, the last thing I feel like doing is blogging. But I promise I will start this puppy up again.

And another thing: I was heading down a boring path with me and my blog. As pertinent as it is to describe my job/housing situation in NYC, I'm over thinking about it. I spend most of my day worrying if I will ever make a dollar. The last thing I want to do is try to write about my situation on a blog, where I have to pin down my worries into a couple of descriptive sentences. My worries stress me out enough when they are floating aimlessly in my head, but when I actually have to figure out exactly what is stressing me out and write about it; pshhhh-nuts to that.

But to the few readers left who might check my blog, here is a brief update:

I work as an unpaid intern for a nationally syndicated travel radio show.
I live in a small apartment. Picks soon.
I interviewed yesterday to work as a copywriter for an advertising/marketing firm.
I am in contact with both Fox News and CNN. Fingers crossed.

That's an update. Most importantly, I would like to make some money so I can get out to France in May to see my buddy, Luigi. That's why I'm hoping for the copywriter position.

But enough about my stuff.

Webisode Word
Webisode PDF

My friend Jake and I recently completed writing a webisode. Is that how you spell it? Anyway, I want you to take a look at it. Is it funny? I mean, it is funny to me; but I wrote it. Actually, to me this webisode is airtight. To quote The Dude, "It's a Swiss fucking watch". I smell an Emmy, baby.

But read it.

My Birthday Tomorrow

2009-02-03T13:54:00.000-08:00

Long time no chat, folks.

Sorry I lied about the frequent updates on job status. I was PLANNING to post every day, turning my own blog into some sort of mini blog about how its going searching for a job. But then Eric and I spent two solid days cruising all of Brooklyn for an apartment to live in. I didn't have much time to search for a job. There was just nothing to report.

Eric and I didn't find an apartment. Well we each did- but separately. He got a cool temporary job that came with an apartment. I managed to rent an extra room at my friend's place. It worked out. Let me fill you in on the status of our job hunts:

Eric- He found a job within a week. It's not his ideal job, but he likes it anyway. He is working for a political campaign up in Queens. The campaign is to support some candidate for a special election of a city council member. He is working in a Latino-heavy district up near Shea Stadium. It's only a three-week gig, but it is really intensive. He works about 12 hours a day. I'm sure he is getting a dose of big city politics. Hopefully he will make good connections so we can get a midday table at Patsy's Restaurant in no time. Patsy's is where the stars eat their Italian food.

Jake- Jake is still hanging onto his job working for a party-manager by a thread. He is working two days this week. He is randomly applying for other jobs, such as someone who buffs and varnishes wood furniture. I think it’s funny because he has a major in marketing. He said he studied marketing so he could get a job out of college. I always hated those kids in school who talked about how there major was going to skyrocket them into a cushy position. I’m a history major, damn it. And look at me- unemployed and living with my girlfriend. I’m at the top of my game. Jake eats beans and rice on a daily basis. Jake is a mellow guy, so he doesn't seem too concerned.

Me- I have a tiny lead for a cool job. I don't want to tell you the job, out of superstition of me scaring the job away. I'm like a fisherman. I can see some huge fish checking out my bait, deciding whether it will strike the line or not. One wrong move will scare that fish right off.

In other news: its my b-day tomorrow. What you get me?

Skatistan

2009-01-27T13:40:00.000-08:00

This is awesome

Yeah.

Weight Loss

2009-01-27T09:33:00.000-08:00

In the past three weeks I have lost 10 pounds. No girlies, it's not that fashionable Atkins diet that everyone is talking about, it's my own brand of dieting. I like to call it, "The Tortured-Jobless Journalist's Guide to Loosing Weight in NYC". Here is what you do:

Breakfast- A bagel with cream cheese or a slice of pizza. All depends on how you want to indulge.

Lunch- Nothing. Only two meals a day.

Dinner- As many bowls of homemade soup or noodles as you can possibly eat. * **
* Substitute twice a week with beer.
** Substitute once a week with a lavish meal that you can definitely not afford. This sends you into a panic
about the dwindling status of your bank account, causing you to spend even less money on food.

Exercise- Walk upwards of 5 miles each day. Tour the Brooklyn, take unnecessary trips Uptown, visit Times Square for the 3rd time.

Yeah so- that's my diet. I think I will start eating better once I get my own place. It's hard to keep food in the house here. I don't want to make a mess in the kitchen or take up valuable shelf room in the pantry. I will also feel more comfortable eating once I get a job. Speaking of which, I will begin to chronicle my job and apartment hunt on this blog. I will also chronicle the job hunt of two of my friends:

Eric N--He is my friend from school who moved to NYC two days ago. A solid guy. He wants to be a writer of some kind. Don't we all....

Jake F-- He is my friend from North Carolina. He still has a job at this point, but believes he is getting laid off by the end of this week. It's the economy, stupid.

Starting tomorrow I will post a status report for all three of us. Potential leads, interviews, firings, etc. Find out how we all are handling the ever-drying tit of the NYC job scene.

2009-01-22T10:33:00.000-08:00

And so I'm here. The Big Apple.

It's about time, I think. I've been claiming I would come to NYC for months now.

The city is rather intimidating. Wait, I should change that- the JOB SEARCH is rather intimidating. I've sent out about a dozen resumes and replied to countless jobs. No responses. Every Media/Journalistic job you can think of that is open- I've applied to it. From being a production assistant on Anderson Cooper 360 to an administrative assistant for the American Heart Association.

I always knew the job search would take a while. Yet I am impatient. The problem is- without a job I can't get an apartment and without an apartment I'm staying at Molly's place. I dig staying here, but it's not my place. How long before the old 'boyfriend in the apartment' wears on all the rightful tenants? 1 week, 1 month, 1 year? I don't want to stick around long enough to find out. I've already discussed with my buddy Jake and he has agreed to let me sleep in his bed with him. Not on the couch because his roommates wouldn't like that; but in his bed. That is my back up plan, sleep with Jake in his bed.

This means I am either in Jake's bed or Molly's bed. I like them both, Molly in a more "I want to sleep in her bed" kind of way, but I need to find my own bed. Or at least a spot on the floor in some building where I pay the rent.

Revolutionary Road

2009-01-18T22:52:00.000-08:00

I'm reading Richard Yates's Revolutionary Road. In the past, I've liked his books for one reason: they are depressing. They start depressing, give you a glimmer of hope in the middle, but by the end you are fully entrenched in the book's depressing qualities. A cheating spouse, a handicapped husband, a life different than you imagined. These themes or variations of these themes are all prevalent in Yates's short stories. The same is true for this novel. It is de-press-ing. I mean, Yates is an eloquent writer with an awesome use of prose and an outstanding ability to describe the subtle workings of people's minds, but what grabs me is his bleak outlook on life. For some reason, bleakness is what I search for in the books I read.

One minor character in the book, Shep Cambell, is particularly interesting to me. Yates describes Shep as a man from an upper-class home who always yearned to be a blue-collar man. Basically, Shep rejected his upbringing and romanticised blue collar life. He always hung out with the tough kids at school, was a humble infantry man who excelled in his field during the war, avoided going to an East-Coast private school and chose instead a technical college that was paid for by the GI bill, moved to Phoenix and worked as a middle class mechanical engineer, and finally married a Plain Jane. He understood the riches he came from, but sought what he thought was a simpler life as a working class man.

But, midway through his life he freaked out. He realized that he hated talking cars with his co-workers, detested the dusty housing development he lived in, and found his life boring. Instead he wished for what he was originally destined for. He wished he had never sought a working class life. His his life wasn't filled with the romantic ideals he imagined. Instead, he wished for the world of intellect and sensibility that he turned away from. He describes a brief section of the life he should have taken:

In the East, when college was over, you could put off going seriously to work until you'd spent a few years in a book-lined bachelor float, with intervals of European travel, and when you found your true vocation at last it was through a
process of informed and unhurried selection...

Uhh-ohhh. I'm leaving for the East Coast on Tuesday, and this is how I picture my life in NYC. Exactly like that, in fact. Reading through some obscure book by an even more obscure Victorian-era author as I pour coffee from my French press. Meeting friends for drinks in SOHO after laughing off the latest amateur exhibit at a trendy gallery. Working my way up the ladder from my journalist internship into a potential paid position overseas. The list goes on.

I know this image I have of my life in NYC isn't grounded in much reality. But it is my true romantic image of how my life will pan out while living in NYC. Because of this, two questions come to my mind:

1- Am I running away from what I truly am, just like Shep Cambell did? Will I
wake up one day stuck in a false life, surrounded by things that aren't really
me? All because I lived out my fantasy of what I thought I wanted in life? Will
I become a journalist, only to realize I had romanticised that profession?
2- If I am like Shep Sheppard, what am I running away from? My West-Coast
upbringing? A life destined to be a salesman or a cartographer like my parents?

Deep questions.

Ultimately, most of my body isn't concerned about this. Life is what life is. I know I liked working at the radio station. Not just thinking I liked the work, but actually liking it. And I am self aware enough to realize the difference between what I actually like and what I think I should like.

I would have been like Shep Cambell if I went to China. Wanting to go to China not because I loved China, but so I could tell people, "yeah, I lived in China for a year...."

Yet a small part of me is still scared that I am a Shep Cambell. I don't know why. I know I am going to NYC for the right reasons. And if at any time I don't like my life, fu*k it, I'm going to Puerto Rico. Still, Shep remains in my mind.

You Wanna Fight?

2009-01-14T22:24:00.000-08:00

I nearly came to blows with a dude today.

I was sitting at 4th ave computers in Lacey, trying to get my computer fixed. For one reason or another, my computer can no longer access the internet. Very frustrating. Anyway, for those of you who have never taken a computer to a repair shop let me tell you, it is a waiting game. Luckily when I got there, three technicians were helping customers and I was the only one waiting in line. In other words, I would be up next. The line also had a 'take a number' dispenser, and I also took my number. I had the next number and I was next in line. I sat smugly in the waiting chair, confident with the knowledge that my computer problem would be fixed as soon as there was a vacant technician.

But that is when the waiting game commenced. After sitting confident for ten minutes, I realized I wouldn't be served in a timely fashion. Computer issues are difficult and time consuming. I could be waiting hours for the next vacant spot.

So I waited, and waited, and waited. And then the action started.

This guy sidled up to the line. You know the guy. A line sidler. He walked up to the front of the line like he never even saw me. He was a short yet buff Asian man. He stood with his head up, encroaching on one of the customers at the counter. Shuffling his feet and moving in close. He looked like the kind of guy who is always ready to pick a fight. You can tell when a guy is looking for a fight; just in the way he holds himself. All pompous and cock-shouldered, like he is giving a douchey 'up you' to every one around.

At first I think he hasn't seen me. I cough a little bit, making my presence known. This part kills me. The guy has the nerve to look at me, look me up and down, and not surrender his position. He doesn't back down, but looks at me as if to say, "yeah, like you are going to do anything about it?" At this point I understand that he knows he snaked my position, and he is willing to defend himself.

I get nervous. What am I going to say I ask myself? Obviously, I have to say something. I can't back down like a punk when he takes my spot. I have to confront him. Should I start off nice, and then get adamant that he cut me in line? What if we wants to fight? Do we step outside? Do I fake with my left and hit him with my right? What if he screws up my face? My face is my livelihood, man, what if he hits me in the face?!?!?!

Then I get mad. Like real mad. I start flexing my muscles in the chair. I can feel the testosterone shooting through my veins. He is going down, baby, he is going down. Will I fight dirty? Psshhhh of course I fight dirty. Filthy little rat boys who cut in line don't deserve a clean fight. I will go right for the face and then maybe knee him the groin. OHHHHHH he is going to get it soooooo good....

And then he leaves. I guess he couldn't wait any longer. I like to think he felt my eyes on him like white on rice, but perhaps not. After getting my computer fixed, I felt so jazzed about the whole thing, I blasted gangster rap in my car the whole drive home. I was singing along. Tupac. How do you want it? How do you feel it? Coming up like a something in a something... I kinda trail off here. I felt like Tupac. I felt tough.

But then I look in the mirror. I'm wearing nerdy glasses and my Undertaker t-shirt. My nose is running a little. He could have taken me for sure.

I still think I look like Tupac.

How sick is this video?

Like Gaza

2009-01-12T21:03:00.001-08:00

Do you see all the comments the previous post is getting? Nothing regarding my blog of course, but a tangent on Israel and Palestine. Slyvain, My Dad, And Molly are coming to blows on the issue. I consider myself the hypothetical Switzerland of this blogging war. Unbiased in my support for no one but myself.

The Israel-Palestine conflict is intense. For some reason, I always seem to fall on the side of the Jews. This has nothing to do with my knowledge of the conflict or some deep seeded anti-Palestinian sentiment; just a gut feeling I have. It is upsetting to me that Hamas can lob missiles into Israel for most of the year, killing civilians, and Israel can never take military action against them without being labeled baby killers. I understand that thousands of innocent Palestinians are being hurt, and that is beyond horrible, but what else is Israel to do? They have already placed every imaginable kind of economic sanction on Palestine with little affect.

But on the flip side, maybe Israel shouldn't be on the offensive. Maybe getting missiles lobbed into your land is the downside of placing your country smack dab in the middle of the Arab world. I know they deserved that land, and it is their holy land, yet shouldn't they expect retaliation? Zionist bastards. Just kidding.

Continuing with this Jewish theme, let me tell you about a Jew that disgusted me. HA. Normaly, I am totally into most Jews. My girlfriend is Jewish. I have many Jewish friends. When I was growing up my family lit the Menorah over the holidays, only to be more worldly. We would also play dradel. Is that weird?

Anyway.... the reason this particular Jew disgusted me is because of what he was doing. He was on a subway, drinking milk from a plastic container. Like a Nalgene bottle. I am very particular about milk. It has to be fresh, and it has to be cold. His plastic container full of milk looked moist with warmth, and the milk was some weird off-colored yellow. It looked hideous. He would sit silently in his seat, only to take long, slow gulps of his milk every 30 seconds. The worst thing about the whole situation was the milk dripped down his chin, running through his beard. Man, just thinking about that incident makes me gag. The story had nothing to do with the fact that he was a Jew, more about his repulsive choice in drink.

And tomorrow's topic- the blacks.

Just kidding.

And I'm Back

2009-01-11T22:23:00.000-08:00

I'm back from the dark depths of the North Cascade Forest. Insanity occurred there. Pure, unblemished insanity. It was more than great. Just what the doctor ordered for me. I am in the midst of writing a harrowing recap of what occurred in the woods, tentatively titled-

A Journey Towards the End of a Snowy/Rainy Road:

Crisis of Time in Northern Washington

It will be done soon.

Sorry about the lack of posts. I was on my Radical Sabbatical. But I'm back, and more enthused than ever. Currently, I'm working on getting to NYC. I may already have an apartment lined up. It's a studio in Brooklyn. It will be split between 3 people. A man named Jonas-his name is Jonas- is spearheading the operation for us. He is a crazy, crazy dude, and I'm stoked to get him as a roommate. He works for a party planning outfit with my buddy Jake and knows NYC like the back of his hand. The third roommate is yet unknown- possibly one of Jonas's friends; or Eric N. It's freaky to have an apartment lined up with no job, but such is the life of a college grad. I guess.

Instead of working on anything productive today, I read a whole book. Cormac McCarthy's The Road. Amazing. Amazing. The story is set in a post apocalyptic world. A man and his son wander on a road, heading southward. The book is exactly how I like 'um-depressing as hell at the beginning, and slowly gets more and more depressing as time goes on. By the end of the book, you want to cry in a cold shower, and you feel damn lucky not to live in a post apocalyptic world so you can even take a shower. I have this half cocked theory that the whole book is one giant allegory for a father raising his son to be a competent man and handle the world with dignity. Has anyone else read this? Am I way off base here?

Well anyway, I'm back to my blogging. More posts everyday. More regular than my bowel schedule, in fact. More on this later?

Radical Sabbatical

2009-01-05T21:12:00.001-08:00

Sorry for the lack of posts; I've been chilling hard.

Quick update:

1. Had family time for x-mas.

2. Molly came for New Years.

3. We went snowboarding.

Other than that, not much has happened. I'm moving to NYC on the 20th of January. Starting tomorrow, I will be doing a big story up in the woods- so stay tuned. More to come by Saturday.

Also, I realize how boyfriendy I was up at the mountain with Molly. If single Brett would have seen me up there with Molly, he would have laughed his face off. I must have looked like quite the tool, slowly following her with the video camera, recording her first time snowboarding. Then I uploaded 'Molly's first time!' onto youtube. I'm like the boyfriends I hate.

Molly is really cool though, so it's ok.

Wizard Life

2008-12-27T20:59:00.000-08:00

After I got back from that hellish drive I described in my last post, I kicked back and went to a party. I have been to this party before: The Annual Man House Christmas Party. Last time, I arrived into a room crowded with upwards of 50 guests, all of them dead silent. They were listening intently to my friend Jason as he screamed out names scribbled on packages and handed those gifts. Not so much a white elephant gift exchange, but everyone gets a gift at the man house Christmas party. Last time I got a balance, like a chemical balance, and this time I got Ninja climbing claws. Always very obscure, generous gifts.

Anyway, in anticipation for this year's Christmas party, Nathan and Matt and I decided to become wizards. Or play the wizard game. No; become wizards.

One becomes a wizard by drinking beer. Harry P was known to down his share of High Life in his later years at Hogwarts. The better wizard you are, the more you can drink.

The length of a wizard's staff is the only true way to measure the apptitude of a wizard. The longer, the better. One will drink a beer, finish that beer, and duct tape a full beer on to the top of the empty beer. The bigger one's stick (wizard staff), the more beer they have drunk and the more respected they are with their fellow wizard brethren.

Matt, Nathan, and I decided to become wizards at this party. One reaches official wizard status when one's staff is over thyine own head. This is all in the handbook.

Only one problem with becoming a wizard: it is difficult. About halfway to my wizard status, when my staff was about waist high, I realized the commitment and responsibilities that come with being a wizard. The commitment meaning being committed to your status. When you reach wizard status, your words become undecipherable by the average ear. You walk with a stumble, and are inclined to grope members of the opposite sex. They are the biggest threat to your chaste wizard lifestyle. And when you are a wizard you are burdened with the responsibility of your choice for the next 36 hours. The next day is usually the roughest on those who are wizards. Hung over is what you lay-people call it.

Basically a daunting task. But those committed and responsible people who choose to complete their training and become actual wizards-roughly 14 beers- are forever more enlightened.

I am sad to say, I was no wizard. My staff only reached to my neck. I expelled plenty of toxins in the form of vomit, only to understand I was too naive to become a wizard that night. Maybe some other.

Matt and Nathan are wizards. Or, they were. And I will forever live with the shame in my heart for wussing out on the challenge.

As the old wizard saying goes: A hangover is brief, and glory lasts forever.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boU6ztxor6M

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihye6-OCgYQ

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UaPXV6aTRMQ

Marathon Runner

2008-12-24T19:53:00.000-08:00

31 hours. Straight. In the snow for the last 6 hours. And I mean snow. A lot of it. People spinning out in front of me. Emotional basket case by the end. I literally cried. But god damn it, I'm a man and there was no way we were stopping to stay the night. I would rather die in a blizzard than have to live with myself after wussing out and staying in a hotel. This is how I do road trips.

That was my drive from Santa Fe back to Olympia. Summed up. Before we started the drive, my brother and I made a commitment to do it straight through. We thought the drive would take 25 hours. 25 hours is doable. From Santa Fe through Arizona and the entirety of California, my brother and I only stopped to get gas. A couple of coffees and a Thin Lizzy CD had us set. Then we hit the California-Oregon border.

We were 20 hours in at that point, a little frazzled from the long road behind us, but spirits were high. However, the mountain pass into Oregon was status 'Chains Required'. We didn't have chains so we ignored the warning and I white knuckled my Subaru over the pass. We barely made it. Another 3 hours of driving and then we hit Salem, Oregon. That is what did me in. It took us 6 hours to get from Salem to Southern Washington. The roads were in worse conditions then they were over the pass. By the end, I was shaking with fatigue and anger. It was the most dangerous drive I have ever done. Thank god my brother was there to scream at the other idiots on the road. He helped keep my sanity intact.

We made it home, said hello to my folks, and I went to my room and cried. I was on the phone with Molly and I broke down. Now I know how those Vietnam Vets feel. No sleep and a bunch of Asian cars coming at you, spinning out all over the road. I wept like a two year old. I haven't cried in some time, and it felt good to let it all out.

It is also good to be home.

I'm an Idiot

2008-12-20T19:53:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I drive back to Olympia, and will leave Santa Fe for good.

I will miss Santa Fe dearly. I have made great friends, had great times, and learned great things. The opportunities I had at the radio station were unlimited, and I've learned valuable skills that will carry with me to to NYC. My editor taught me much, and I hope I've constructed a solid base of experience to work from.

I have also learned I am an idiot. A stupid idiot, who can't interact socially. Not really, but I've been blowing it the last couple of days. This may be one of those things that sounds worse than it actually is- but I still think it's bad.

Let me explain:

For some reason lately, instead of saying goodbye to people, I have been saying 'good-luck'. It is always enthusiastic and sincere; and completely out of context. For instance, I call some people up for work, people that I have never talked to before. The conversation goes perfectly fine, but at the end I sign off with 'good luck'. People hesitate with confusion, and I just hang up the phone. "Good luck". "Good luck with what?," they undoubtedly ask themselves. More likely- "that kid is an idiot".

Good luck? Doesn't it sound condescending? Yet I can't stop saying it.

The worst instance occurred when I was saying goodbye to a co-worker and a friend. Actor Dan Gerrity is the assistant news director at KSFR. He was kind enough to mentor me during my short tenure at the news station. He is also kind enough to be a reference on my resume. We had a heartfelt goodbye, shook hands for a long time, and everything was going smoothly until I paused in the doorway and said, "and good luck!"

Good luck with what? He isn't going anywhere you idiot. He was shaken up, but managed to mutter, "ohhh thanks, you too". It wasn't sincere. What does he need luck for? I'm the snot nosed brat who is going to a new city with absolutely no experience and no prospects. I'm sure he almost said, "keep your luck you fool- your going to need it".

I can kiss that reference good-bye.

My Opus and Shameless Self Promotion

2008-12-18T18:47:00.000-08:00

I have peaked before my time.

Last week I informed my editor that I was working on my opus. The journalistic masterpiece of my career. And I'm only 22. I'm like Keats, who did his best work shortly before he died at 24.

I spent days researching my subject: chili peppers. Genetically engineered chili peppers that will kill us all. People actually think this. I researched both the potential end of New Mexico's chili pepper industry and the conflict surrounding genetically engineered foods. The editor was so enthused with my piece, he instructed me to do a write up of my work. Does this mean I am a published author? I think so.... READ AND LISTEN TO MY ARTICLE.

Throughout my research, I formulated my own opinion on GMO products. Essentially- they are horrible. I went to a forum about GMO crops, and farmers from all over the world outlined the destruction these crops have done to both the crops themselves and on the farmers. Biotech companies have destroyed the lives of farmers, pumped our food full of unsafe products, and put patents on living things. The horror caused by genetically engineered crops is beyond belief. If New Mexico puts a GE chili into production, it will be the nail in the coffin for the chili industry.

I encourage you to formulate your own opinion about the food we eat everyday. Corn, canola, soybeans, and cotton are all genetically modified. And they aren't tested by the FDA.

Read these wikipedia entries for background on GMOs.

GMO Food

Monsanto Biotech

You like my self promotion?

In other news, some friends of mine at the radio station put together the best local music I have ever heard. I will load it on here as soon as possible.

My brother is in town. We are driving back to Olympia on Saturday.

Friends!

2008-12-14T19:36:00.000-08:00

I have made great friends in my short time here in New Mexico.

Above are pictures of Kalie and Joe. Good buddies of mine.

Joe goes to St. John's University, skates hard, and parties harder. Every weekend with him is a good experience. He still lives in the dorms. When I stay over, I always end up crashing in an empty dorm room. Last night I didn't have a sleeping bag, and the window above the box spring I slept on remained open all night. When I woke up, there was a layer of snow on me. It snowed throughout the night. Everything in moderation.

Kalie is one of the few girls I've met who can actually skateboard. It's weird because she is more enthused about skating then I am. We will be walking down stairs and she will get all excited, claiming, "ohhh man, I got this. I could ollie this." When we skate together she yells at me when I want to stop for the day.

My friend Pete Gardini's wife gave birth to a baby girl last week. He is one of the only friends I have who is married, and is now the first close friend of mine to father a child. A 6 pound 12 ounce baby girl named Olive Gardini. The birth process took over 24 hours and when I last talked to him he sounded a little beat, but very excited. We already talked about how he is going to intimidate all of her future boyfriends.

On a different note, is anyone bummed about how many times a day they check their Facebook? I check it at least 3 times a day. I remember when I first signed up for Facebook. I told myself I would promptly delete it when I finished college. Psssshhhh- forget about that, Brett. Sometimes I find myself wandering aimlessly on Facebook, looking at pictures of people I don't even know. It depresses me. I thought about deleting it, but then got scared. "How will I keep in contact with all my friends?" I'm like an addict, suckling on the the Facebook teet.

Papa Pete

Cowboys and Recycling

2008-12-11T18:08:00.000-08:00

"People been saying that cowboys have been a dying breed for a hundred years, they just die hard I guess" -Miles Culbertson, Director for the Livestock Board of New Mexico

That quote was one of the most well spirited things I've heard during my short 'career' as a 'journalist'. Imagine someone saying it with a rural twang and a potential wad of chew in their mouth. Then you get a real sense of how it sounded. Deep rooted in country back roads.

The reason I talked with Miles Culbertson of the Livestock Board was to get numbers of professional cowboys in the state. My interest in professional cowboys was peaked when I did a brief story about a National Monument in New Mexico hiring pro cowboys to wrangle cattle out of the area. Feral cattle had wandered into the park, and they were very ill-tempered. Charging at hikers and all of that. The park manager gave me the number to the cowboy they hired, as well as the number of the Livestock Board.

The definition of a 'professional cowboy' is extremely vague. Miles explained it to me, saying, "All cowboys are ranchers but not all ranchers are cowboys". OK. I tried to play it cool on the phone with Miles, pretending I understood that perfectly. But,I didn't get a true idea of what/who a cowboy is until I called Devon Canaply, the cowboy hired by the park to remove the feral cattle.

He answered the phone gruffly, like I disturbed him. As soon as he answered I went into my usual and typical monologue, "HI!!! This is Brett Cihon from KSFR News and I want to do a story about cowboys! You guys are so weird and interesting!"

This isn't exactly what I said, but it was along those lines. Most people I talk to are more than happy to give me an interview. People like being in the limelight. Well no, some people like the limelight. Some people, as I quickly found out, are actually humble.

Devon stammered with his words for a few moments and said, "no sir, this doesn't interest me at all". I was taken aback. Until now, people (other than Val Kilmer) hadn't refused an interview request. Shocked, I asked him why.

"Well, it's just our life," he said. "It's not interesting, it's what I do." "I don't like the spotlight...I am a working man and there is nothing special to make a story out of". I explained to him that most people, correction most Urban people, know nothing about cowboys. "Well, if you have questions about what I do, you can ask, but I'm not going to do the cowboy piece," he said.

I talked to him a little while longer, embarrassed I had come on too strong.

After I hung up, I reflected on the call. It sickened me to think about how I approached this man. His job seemed like such a novelty to me, and I thought he saw it as a novelty also. A weird break in a sea of white color and 401(k)s. He must have known that what he did was obscure, right?

No. This man had been a cowboy his whole life. His friends were cowboys. Him and I are different. His parents didn't pay for him to go to college, nor does he want to live in a big city. He doesn't think being a cowboy is an 'obscure' profession. He lives his life raising cattle.

I felt bad I viewed his lifestyle as a novelty. More importantly, I forgot that most people aren't like me; don't see like me. When I called him up, I was used to talking to PR people, people who wanted to be on the news, and I forgot what a lot of this country consists of-people that aren't like me.

So, I'm trying to find another cowboy. It won't be the same, though. These cowboys were recommenced to me by the livestock board. "They will want to talk to you," Miles claimed. But now I think a true cowboy won't want to talk to me. A true cowboy wants to do his job in peace, and doesn't have time to talk to a cashmere wearing news reporter like myself.

We have started doing little video clips at www.ksfr.org and www.ksfrnews.com. I hold the camera sometimes.

I did a cool report about the horrible state of recycling in New Mexico. Here it is, 13:20 in.

Ohhhhh Mexico

2008-12-09T21:40:00.001-08:00

I went to Mexico with my cousin Mike.

I have officially stepped foot in Mexico. Finally. My entire life, I was ashamed that I had never been to Mexico. It's quite superficial of me, but it's true. When talking about foreign countries, people would undoubtedly bring up their "crazy trips to Mexico". Something gnarly always happened in Mexico. I would retort with, "yeah, well one time in Europe...", but it was never as good as their Mexican story. Now, if you try and out do my foreign adventure stories, I will throw Mexico at you and you will stop in your tracks.

And now for my crazy Mexican stories:

First, it was snowing in Mexico. I primarily envisioned Mexico as the land of Sun, Burritos, and illegal drugs- but only two of those stereotypes rang true. It snowed today in Juarez, Mexico. My cousin and I got thoroughly soaked while purchasing burritos and illegal drugs. Not really, I didn't buy any illegal drugs, although they were certainly offered to me.

Second, even higher on the list of things to buy in the industrial border town of Juarez are women. For the first half mile after you cross the border (we crossed on foot) every man I encountered would offer me women. They would realize the color of my skin, and thinking I was definitely over in their country to score some tail, would propose I follow him to get some chicks. They offered in all sorts of ways. One guy promised us a warehouse full of pus**, which is intriguing because of the pure logistics of the warehouse, but I kept my head down and continued walking....towards the warehouse.

No, just kidding family and Molly (the only people who read this blog?).

I was surprised at the poverty we encountered. It truly was a third world country. We crossed an imaginary border and into a third world country. The day was sobering on many levels. Yet, everyone seemed happy, and the further we got from the border the more 'normal' things became. It was still a third world country, but one that wasn't trying to peddle you sisters and drugs.

Because Juarez is not a tourist town, very few people spoke English. I would try to ask for the price of an item, in English, and they would just stare. People could say, "English.....No", but that was it. To break the ice I would start out with "Hola". Then I would stare at them for a of couple minutes with a stupid grin on my face, and they would laugh. Then I usually said, "Uhhhh, It's like uhhhh Muy Frio?" The pronunciation was butchered. They would nod and say "Si, Si" while laughing.

Along with this trip being my first time to Mexico, it was also my first time to Texas. Texas was a damn fine state. It reminds me of where I grew up in Olympia; an area of different ideals. People like their land and their trucks, and there ain't much wrong with that.

No truly crazy Mexican stories. But to all you-'I'm sooooo world traveled' people, I just got one more in the bag.

I hope I'm not just making these people up. Does anyone else think people compete in college with the places they have traveled to? Am I one of these people?

Sleep Walker-Talker

2008-12-06T21:56:00.000-08:00

Back to NY.

I never sleep walk. Well, for a period of about 3 years starting when I was 8, I would sleep walk. But usually only if I was sick with fever.

This has all changed. My third night in NY, I woke up in Molly's roommate's bed. No idea how I got in the there. Luckily she was gone- had left town for the weekend. All the lights in the apartment were on. The most logical explanation is I left Molly's bed, went to the bathroom (hopefully in the toilet) and plopped myself down in Lauren's room. I did this all while unconscious.

The experience was scary. It was completely unnerving waking up in a strange bed, in a strange room, not knowing where I was. I had been drinking throughout the night-wine- but I wasn't 6 sheets to the wind or anything like that. I hope it doesn't happen again.

I'm driving into Mexico tomorrow. I don't know what I'm going to do there, since I am effectively out of money, but I'm sure something will come up.

Famous People I Saw....

2008-12-03T17:15:00.000-08:00

On tonight's edition of the NYC blog update, I will tell you about the famous people I got a chance to gawk at. Not many people, just two. Chevy Chase and the Hebrew Hammer. Seeing famous people makes me feel famous.

First, Chevy Chase. On the first Sunday I was in NYC, Molly and I met Dan E. at a comedy club in Chelsea. I can't remember the name of the comedy club, maybe "ass cat" or some other whacky name that a bunch of theater kids thought up. The name of the club was weird, and throughout the remainder of my trip, I would call it something completely different than it actually was.

I was a little apprehensive about going to the club. I respect improv. My brother is a talented improv dude. I have seen funny improv. But most of time it's not too funny. It is entertaining, yes, but laugh out loud funny-hardly. Improv shows are usually laden with jokes that are much too slapstick for my refined sense of humor. And usually, improv shows are filled with kids who are trying to put on a little show of their own. You know what I mean? Laughing loudly, being obnoxious, trying to get attention. Filled with those kinds of people. Mean less to say, the thought of spending two hours in the club was daunting. But, Dan seems cool enough, and I trusted Molly's judgment.

It was a free show and the venue was packed to the brim with about 120 people. No one was further than 12 feet from the small stage. As the opening act began, I was surprisingly impressed with the humor. When they brought the whole cast onto the stage, the announcer said, "and we are happy to have with us a true comedy legend tonight... Chevy Chase"! I was astonished. To see a famous actor that close is quite cool. His humor was lacking, but as my mom pointed out- he doesn't have much improv training, and he was originally a writer. The whole show was better-than-average improv and I spent most of the time leering in Chevy Chase's direction.

I also saw the Hebrew Hammer- Adam Goldberg. Molly, Rachel, Andy, and I were cruising down a popular street in Brooklyn, looking for a shop that sold kittens when we passed him and a girl. Originally I didn't recognize him, and and I made a mental note of how hipster he was dressed. He held his cigarette like a girl, I thought. After we passed, Andy excitedly whispered, "that's Adam Goldberg". We all kinda stood around in shock as we were stuck at a street corner with him. I wish now I had said, "Hey, Hebrew Hammer," but it is too late.

Those are the famous people I saw while in NYC. And Andy. He is big in the NYC extra scene.

I also saw the outside of the restaurant in Seinfeld. I may have been more starstruck with that than I was with Adam Goldberg.

PS- I hate how I used the word 'saw' a bunch.

Mitch Cummstein

Brett's Back Baby

2008-12-02T20:52:00.000-08:00

Ohhhhhhh yeahhhhhhhh. New York City. The Big Time. The Big Apple. The Big Easy. Something like that, right?

God, I'm a sentence into this post and it already sounds like something straight from Zach's blog. Wasn't that like Zach's brand of humor up there with the Big Easy joke? Missing my buddy.

But yes, I have just returned from visiting Molly in NYC. And I am in love. In love. With NYC. Molly is a great gal, but a city like that... what a hardbody. NYC isn't exactly my stereotypical type, I usually dig a leggy and unique brunette like San Francisco, but NYC has it going on. Very full of life. Vigorous at all hours of the night. A real go getter.

Just to be clear- I'm comparing NYC to an attractive woman. Is this coming through?

I don't know where to begin with explaining how my trip to NYC went. Consequently, I will discuss the time I spent there over a period of a couple days. This first post is just an overview, and I will get into the heavy, deplorable stuff in upcoming posts. Stay tuned.

Everyone is extremely hospitable. I was squired around town by Molly and a revolving round table of her friends. We toured the city- from uptown to midtown. I went to museums, bars, and every place in between. Along with molly, my good buddy Jake Fields did a lot of my squiring. He is one of my partners in crime from France. He is a good kid.

Other than that, wait for more posts and more pics. Sorry it took me so long to update.

Sorry from NY

2008-11-26T10:45:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the lack of posts. I've taken some good pics, and I can't wait to update my horde of readers. There will be updates soon.

The Bomber, The Brett, and The Buzz

2008-11-20T18:59:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the lack of posts, I'm just lazy for the internet.

My dear friend Eric Nusbaum cruised into town for the last couple of days. Craziness ensued. We spent our time together touring the city, searching through bookstores, and getting coffee. And of course, responsibly engaging in adult beverages. Very adult stuff.

Eric is a good man. In college, we always discussed some one-on-one time. We would run into each other at social gatherings, promise to hang out, exchange numbers for the 12th time, and make a pledge to call each other the next day. It never happened. Keep in mind, I made this 'hang-out' claim a lot with people I had never intended to hang out with. I would see someone at a party, and the appropriate small talk was to discuss how, 'we should really hang out'.

But this wasn't how I felt about Eric. I actually like his point of view on many things. He is much taller than I am. Yet, the ins and outs of life made sure our paths would never collide into an exclusive/non-party hang out section. And I always regretted that. I wanted to hang out with him.

These last two days we finally got the chance to hang out. We both consider ourselves pseudo-writers, and spent much of our time together discussing the writing world. He taught me about iambic pentameter. So I wrote this poem for him.

ODE TO ERIC
To write is not a plain and simple fight,
You find the path of all the truth and light.
The beat and rhyme is more than space and time,
His heart and mind in meter we can find.

I'm not sure if this works, but I think it might.

He also filled me in on the last two months of his life. He was a campaign man, scurrying around for a congressman in Chicago, trying to see how big a margin he could get his boss elected by. Eric worked hard and speaks positively of the experience.

Eric's Blog

In other news, I want to be the next Youtube sensation. Check out these videos.

I'm leaving for New York tomorrow. Two weeks in the big city-seeing if I can cut it in the big city. I'm stoked.

Old and Behind the Times

2008-11-16T12:04:00.000-08:00

There once was a time when I was on the cutting edge. Music, skating, fashion, style. I had it baby. I was it. People looked at me and knew. "That dude is in it," they would undoubtedly say.

This time is no longer. I am an old man. No fashion sense, skateboarding that is soooo last year, and worst of all my music. The only music I listen to is a Doors CD that has been in my car for the last couple months. I blast that stuff like the new hits, ignorant and careless that it's old.

Then I went to a couple of parties and heard some great dance music. But I was oblivious to who the bands were. I mean, I could pick out the played stuff like M.I.A., but other than that I was clueless. Yesterday, I went on a small road trip down to Albuquerque with a couple of my friends. The girl who was driving, Kalie, was in charge of the music. She put on the dance music that I had gotten down to at the parties.

"This is good, who is this?" I asked. The age oozed from my pores.

"MGMT, duhh," she said. My other friend chuckled at her response. My heart broke. After the drive, I ran home and downloaded all of their music. I typed their name into Pandora and found music like it. The newer the music-the better. How dare I become a laughing stock. I was hip baby, hip. Now look at me, a disgusting shell of my cool stuff.

If anyone is trying to reach me today I will be at American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, powering through a pack of Parliament Lights in my Ray Bans.

Ohhhh god, are those things cool anymore? HELP ME!!!! I need to go back to France where I am years ahead of what is cool.

Dog Park Gestapo and the News

2008-11-13T19:32:00.000-08:00

Story

This story is an interview with the Secretary of State that ran today.

The wagon is moving for me getting an interview with Val Kilmer- and the wagon is rolling slow. It's the freaking wagon from the Oregon Trail computer game. The old D.O.S version. And I'm just spending my whole time hunting buffalo instead of moving toward the ultimate goal of Val Kilmer. And Molly, my teen bride on the Oregon Trail, is sick with diarrhea. That's how quickly I'm getting Mr. Mojo Rising Val Kilmer on the phone.

I'm sorry I have Molly sick with diarrhea in my Val Kilmer/Oregon Trail D.O.S parody. That's rude. But I can't remember anything else a trailblazer dies of in the game. Sorry Molly.

The dogs I'm watching wake me up every morning at 7:30. It would be endearing, if my clouded mind wasn't so loaded with hate for being woken up at 7:30. They wake me up because they want to go to the dog park.

The dog park is one of those weird scenes that stress me out. People are into the dog park. They love the dog park. Understandably, because they love their dogs. But like every scene, some people that are wayyy too into it. I feel like I'm in a fashion show strolling in with the puppies. Everyone looks, ooohhhs and ahhhhsss and compliments the dogs.

Today there was a lady orchestrating the whole shabang. She was pointing at dogs, yelling at dogs, and talking at their owners. When I cruised in, she immediately told me how beautiful my dogs are.

"Your dogs are soooo beautiful," she said.

I stood in place, contemplating my response.

"Uhhh, thanks. So are yours."

I looked at her mangy animals. They were some strange cross between feral cats and a shoehorn. She nodded in appreciation. She then went into this long monologue about how last week she saw a beautiful corkie -terrier mix. It was breathtaking. Since I have no knowledge of dogs, and wouldn't know if her shoehorn puppies were a 'corkie-terrier', I nodded in agreement and moved on with my dogs. She was a nice lady, and in my opinion, much to into dogs. And she is in to dogs like I am into skateboarding. I can't fault her for that.

And I forgot. I did a story about an ill-planned power plant that ran earlier this week. It was picked up the next day by the New Mexico Independent. I don't know if this is just coincidence or if the author heard the report. Either way, he went into much more detail, and it is a very good report.

Jack is Crazy

2008-11-12T20:50:00.000-08:00

I have this buddy Jack from the skatepark. He is clinically insane. But, insane in the normal kind of way. He is a perfectly acceptable member of society, yet utterly whacko. You can tell only when you are in a deep discussion with him. That's when I look into his eyes and realize the craziness. We will be having a normal conversation about.....oh.....skating. I will mention some off handed remark and he will just loose it.

Like today. We were chilling on top of the quarterpipe talking about skinny legs. Some people have skinny legs. Some have fat legs. A Regular conversation all around. Then I said,

"Yeah, I guess it's just D.N.A you know, you get what your parents got."

He lost it. I immediatly knew. His eyes straightened and focused, but not on anything in particular. He was gathering steam for what he was about to say.

"D.N.A. is a bitch man." "It is unfair". He was serious. No joking.

He went on this rant about D.N.A. How it is screwed that people don't even ask for it, they just get it. He has deep hate for D.N.A. He detests D.N.A like I hate those crumbums at the airport. Serious, horrible hate. I would better describe his hate if I could, but I was focusing on how to get away from his ranting.

When he gets into these rants, I don't know what to do. Usually, I try to keep my voice serious, and nod intently. I try to get away by skating off orcutting the conversation short and then skating away.

"Yeah man, D.N.A is kinda crazy". That's how I ended it. Smooth Brett.

Her Name is Raven

2008-11-11T19:31:00.000-08:00

Story 1

Story 2

These are two stories that were on the air last week. I also went live for election coverage. It was frightening. I did fairly well, except my voice started out in a high-pitched nasal twang. I got it under control after the first sentence. If you want to listen to the live piece, you will have to go to www.ksfrnews.com and listen through the podcast. My piece is 11 minutes in. I'm a regular Chris Todd. Or maybe that black reporter who took heat for crying after Obama was nominated.

I'm more like the crying black guy.

The puppies that I'm sitting for are doing well.

I watched a little of The View this morning. And the show after The View. The guest was the girl from The Cosby Show. She was all grown up. Her interview depressed the hell out of me. She went on and on about all the things she was doing: I'm producing this, my website is that, I acted in this. She keeps herself busy. She put me to shame. All I do is try to write one story a day for the news, and house-sit. Yet, my bones are exhausted.

I bet she has an entourage that helps her out. I need an entourage. I'm taking applications for the position of my cook; also known as Kevin Dillon in the show Entourage. The position won't pay of course, but the life experience that comes with being my cook is worth more than its weight in gold.

Prop 8

2008-11-11T09:18:00.000-08:00

I can't tell if this is completely sincere, but it is a good message.

vie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/21xdFUp-vVU&hl=en&fs=1">

Maximizing your Crappiness

2008-11-10T19:33:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the lack of posts lately. I was heavily occupied in Chicago, detailing and cleaning my grandparent's estate. Chicago was busy. Not much time to rest. I'm resting now at a house in Santa Fe. I'm taking care of two puppies while the owners of the home are out of town. The puppies are nice, but I don't think they really understand why I'm in their home. I think they just view me as a giant treat factory because every time they get antsy I give them a treat. They are quickly learning to work me.

I rode in a plane this morning. I mostly like airport. The feeling that hangs in the air of the airport; the excitement of traveling I guess.

I hate one aspect of airports. Not an aspect I guess, more one set of people that frequent airports.

I hate the people that think the plane ride they are about to embark on is going to be so treacherous, so comfortless, that they need to dress in order to maximize their comfort. They wear their disgusting, smelly, 10 year old sweatpants. They wear their over sized college sweatshirts that are more like a filthy sleeping bag then a sweatshirt. They have the neck pillows. They have the snacks. They have the beat-to-hell Uggs. I hate them. O.K.- I know your hour and a half flight from Baltimore to New York is going to be a grueling tour-de-force of pain, in which you needed to outfit yourself from head to toe in plane fighting fatigues; but come on. This is a society. You can't just role out of bed and come to the airport. These crumbums are roaming the airport think that because they are about to take a plane certain rules in society cease to exist. What happened to flying being a luxury? You're about to take a trip-dress respectably. I think you are hideous anyway, at least dull my pain by pulling your self together.

Under no circumstances should someone dress like I have described. I don't care if you are about to take a 19 hour flight. Are jeans really that uncomfortable? Just deal with it.

40 Years Ago

2008-11-04T18:57:00.001-08:00

The picture from the '68 Chicago Democratic Convention captures the nation over 40 years ago. The 'candidate of change' Bobby Kennedy, had been shot. Nixon won handily. Years of Vietnam and deceit followed.

Tonight there are 200,000 people near Grant Park; waiting to hear from the anti-war, progressive, President-elect. Ohhh, how much a difference 40 years can make.

Hallo-weekend

2008-11-02T21:22:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone enjoyed their Halloween weekend as much as I did.

I was Hunter Thompson from the '72 campaign years. I went to St. John's, partying down with all of those philosophy majors. The costume really took over. I made an effort never to break out of character, and I took a notebook with me in order to interview students. It started off normal enough, but then-in homage to Hunter-it got weird. Here is an example:

Headline- Interview with Lucas "The butcher" Sl***er
Hunter (Me): Where you from young fella?
The Butcher: Kansas
We then talk about Sebelius. Booze fiend never heard of her. Ohhh, the horror. Kids never learn.
He is a UFC fighter. I smile and nod politely, trying to avoid a beating. He is small for that sport, most likely insane. Ask him something I could quote him on.
The Butcher: "Happiness is only real when shared" I ask him where he got the quote. Responds, 'Into the Wild'. I like the book, he says he never read the book, only saw the movie. I again nod politely, trying to avoid eye contact.

Yeah, so I actually wrote that stuff in my notebook. I hope I did Hunter proud. The notebook only gets weirder from there, with me just quoting things from random people. More examples: "My driving skills are excellent"
"Change we can't define"
"He can dig"

The notebook from that night ends with me writing, "I'm in pure madness, I'll be lucky to get out alive." I actually thought I was Hunter Thompson for the night. Very Cool.

I also witnessed a best-dressed awards ceremony. A person who dressed as a street sign won the contest. A freshman who dressed as a clown got booed off stage, and he ran out of the room crying. College kids are harsh. Good weekend all around.

To end on a sad note, I have to go back to Chicago for a funeral. It will be nice to see my family.

Five Minutes....

2008-10-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

See me on that chopper baby? Try not to drool, it's still me. Except now I'm an ass kicking SOB that will steal your girlfriend without ever needing to put my Pall Mall down. And my facial hair has increased ten fold. It almost matches the intensity of my chest hair.

Story 1

Story 2

Above are two stories I researched, wrote, and composed that were on the radio this week. The story about the lawsuit was actually quite pressing. It was the intro story on local news that night. Psshhh, local TV news...we got that story up two hours after they took the case to court. They are a bunch of boobs. But, we did take the idea about the foodbank from local TV; so it's a give and take relationship.

There is quite a process to making the news. It starts as an achingly slow procedure that lasts hours, to holding onto your sweaty head because the story has to air in three minutes madness. Take for instance the lawsuit story. I show up to the radio about 9, and just mill about on the internet for an hour. I'm constantly checking every source-from our email to the AP Wire to weird political blogs. In the case of the lawsuit story, we got a press release from MALDEF. I then take the press release to the editor, who tells me that this is important news, and he wants a story for his noon newscast.

I then call up the attorney for MALDEF. Number one rule to journalism is- anyone you call will never pick up. I leave a message and hope for a callback so I can get the clip. I wait until 11:20, realize they won't call, and try to write half-cocked copy from the already limited press release we received. I write the story and speak it into the computer. Then at 11:40 the attorney calls me. I perform a ten minute interview.

It's 11:50. I tell the boss that I want to rewrite the copy to include a clip, and he says that's the plan. By 12:10, after completely redoing the whole story and rerecording my voice, my boss comes into the computer station during his commercial break to listen to my story. He tells me it's good, but I need to ad the word 'alleged' to the story, and that he wants it to air in five minutes. Upon hearing this my sphincter tightens. He leaves the room and I cry salty tears while I try to rerecord the story. I miraculously get it done with 1 minute to spare. I take the story to the chief and he high fives me before I exit the room. While leaving the station, I can hear my disgustingly-unenthusiastic voice being broadcast throughout northern New Mexico.

Ohhh. I wrote nifty little intros for each piece that the newscaster spoke, but I couldn't figure out how to put those intros online. They don't start as abruptly as they seem here online.

That's how it goes down. I really love it. Now I just need to get paid for this stuff. Little steps, grasshopper, little steps....

In my spare time I write useless copy. I try to take an original approach, but I mostly amplify my amateur status. Here is a piece I wrote that will never be used. I want this kinda copy for www.youngperspective.com. News that is interesting. If you have any desire at all to write, please help me once I get the website online. I'm hoping for a January release date.
This is an unedited example of a type of story I would like on youngperspective. To all my friends-start thinking of stories you would like to write about.

They may have jumped the gun, but The New Mexico Sun News is making headlines across the nation. In the latest issue, New Mexico's by-monthly publication has preemptively declared Barack Obama the presidential nominee. With the headline, "Obama Wins," the the editors of the paper are calling the Sun News the first paper in the country to declare the winner of the presidential election.
The article explains that claiming Obama the winner of the election is a strong statement, with the potential to bring a lot of publicity for the paper.
"If we wanted to be first, we had to be bold," explained an editor.
The usually under-the-radar local paper is now making news of its own across the country, with the title drawing plenty of attention throughout the political community. Ultimately, Sun News hopes to avoid a situation like the infamous "Dewey defeats Truman" incident of 1948. Until that happens, Sun News continues to bask in the light of being the first paper to name Obama the country's next president.

I don't write for a paper, so I'm sure the grammar is off. I think it's an interesting story, and I want news like that on youngperspective.

Tattoo the Do

2008-10-28T18:48:00.000-07:00

My uncle jumped off the ship and got a tattoo. Jumped off? Jumped on? Whatever....

Weird tangent aside, my uncle got a tattoo. It's boss. We first went to the tattoo parlor on Sunday. Uncle Do was hesitant then. He didn't want one. My aunt was consistent in her desire for him to have one, so we left tattoo shop with a scheduled appointment and a non-committed uncle. We wandered the city, putting up with his wavering attitude. He kept saying, "I'm not sure....I'm not getting one". Excruciating to listen to his moaning.

We haphazardly wandered into one of the many art galleries throughout Santa Fe, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning. He saw a surrealist painting of a stick bird in the dessert. The painting made connections in his subconscious, something about the desert being his life and the antithesis of the corporate world. Or maybe he just liked the piece. Either way, we went back to the tattoo shop, handed them the picture of the dessert-bird, and it was on. He got tattooed the next day at high noon.

The artist who tattooed him was named Crow. She was your standard version of a tattoo artist. Her presence was composed and intimidating, making it seem like she was too cool for me. I was afraid to stand next to her. I find most tattooists intimidating. The tattoo went by without an incident-Standard business. He claimed it didn't hurt, but the pictures I took of him squirming in his chair beg to differ.

I couldn't watch my uncle get a tattoo for long. There are two reasons. First, the intimidating personnel who work at parlors. Second, I start to want some ink. I don't have anything specific in mind, but I want one. I also know I don't want a tattoo. My solution is to stay out of tempting areas, like a tattoo parlor.

I did a real cool story for KSFR. Wait for tomorrow, I'll put it up.

Typewriter Madness

2008-10-26T18:19:00.000-07:00

I want a typewriter. Bad. The aesthetics and wonderful sounds of the machine entice me. Works just pour out of my subconscious when I press the keys, getting into that rhythm behind the sound only a typewriter can make. I'm tired of looking at the fluorescent screen of my computer. I priced electronic typewriters today, and I'm going to buy one off of craigslist for $30. I hope it works.

Riders on the Storm

2008-10-25T19:14:00.000-07:00

I think the best part about a party is right before the party. The anticipation. Freshman year anticipation may have been the best. Friday night, eating dinner at the dining hall with your friends. Someone in your roommate's class heard there was a party tonight. Everyone is going, even though the situation is sketchy. You gave your roommate thirty dollars so a guy you never met before can get you booze. He buys you 15 dollars worth and keeps the change, but you could care less.

You go to the party. You desperately clutch to your roommate, or anyone else who manages to have a conversation with you. Trying to look cool and casual. The twelve pack that the guy bought does the trick. By the end of the night, your the king of the party; wooing all the women and chatting with everyone. Days later you pass a person who was at the party, who that night you were swearing was your best friend and, "we should hang out sometime". When you pass, you give each other an awkward nod; restricting your chat until the next party meeting. The night rarely went perfect, but it was good.

But then years of crappy parties with awkward conversations and scummy dancing killed the anticipation. The only parties you go to now are the ones where you know everyone -if you go out at all. Parties are mostly a bummer anyway.

I was lucky enough to feel that anticipation again. I hadn't been out in a while. My buddy Joe goes to St. John's college in Santa Fe and he invited me to hang out with him. I was nervous because I didn't know anyone; and I once again felt that excited anticipation. The party was good...real good. It's nice to be in a place where you feel like a stranger and every party is like the first major party of your freshman year.

I rode Harleys with my aunt and uncle today. I need to buy a bike, it's a cool ride. I felt like Peter Fonda from "Easy Rider". It was hard to be too cool; I was restricted to the back seat of my uncle's bike, desperately clutching him to avoid falling off. I guess I was like Jack Nicholson.

"No Story! But it's Sad...."

2008-10-23T20:48:00.000-07:00

Remember when I told you about my friend Pete? He's a good guy. He also has a kid on the way.And Pete just lost his job. He was a delivery man who worked hard at his job, was well liked by his bosses, and wanted nothing more than to work hard throughout the day and go skate afterwards. But, due to complicated factors with the tourist industry in Santa Fe and the decline in retail sales, he and two other people were let go from their work. And now, two weeks later, he is stressing out trying to find a labor job that will help him support his family.

I wanted to do a story that involved Pete. Without getting into the specifics; the story was supposed to be about the difficult life of the laborer during the current recession. Cable news focuses on the downfall of people's 401(k)'s, but I wanted a story that talks about the people who are too busy working remedial jobs to have time to worry about a retirement plan. This story seems a tad cliche and obvious, but I thought I could make it work from a local perspective. Because of the economy, the business man can't buy that $500 dollar watch from a Santa Fe boutique , and in turn Pete looses his job. Who has more to worry about?

I researched retail sales across the nation, which are down. Researched retail sales in Santa Fe, which are down. Researched tourism in Santa Fe, which is down. My story was this- laborers are loosing their jobs throughout Santa Fe because of the economy. Tug at the heartstrings kinda thing. I took it to my boss, who is the smartest and most well-respected journalist I have ever met. He looked at it, and quickly pronounced the most important lesson I have learned thus far. "Brett, this isn't a story," he said. "People know this already; the economy is down, low income people will loose their job". He wanted me to look for something that was up in the bad economy. Do a story that starts, "With everything loosing profit these days, people are finding solace in.....uh I don't know.......sleeping pills. The sleeping pill industry is booming". Interesting story? As interesting as real people loosing their jobs?

News is about finding a story that people don't expect. It's too intuitive that Pete lost his job. I can't turn a personal story into real news. Ultimately, my boss said I could go through with the story, but I could tell he wasn't interested. I let it go.

Journalism is hard. Stories that you care about, others could care less. I know the story wasn't much of an actual story, but I thought I could help out Pete. I like journalism because it influences people-in a positive and negative manner. You can have an influence on people's daily lives. A HUGE influence. But I look at cable news and it sucks. They just did a story about who would make a better James Bond, McCain or Obama.

Sorry for the shitty rambling. I'll get back to posting stories about cleavage.

Finger on the Trigger

2008-10-22T19:21:00.000-07:00

I got put in charge of the newsroom today. No, I didn't get the dream promotion. Nobody else was there and my boss wanted to go vote, so he left me with the instructions, "make sure it doesn't burn down". What responsibility! But as I was sitting on my butt, writing stories that will never get used, I thought of something. With the 'On Air' button just feet away, I could reach out, and plunge my self into FCC oblivion. I could get on air and give a speech about the election, pronounce my love for skateboarding, or just make funny noises. What stopped me? Well, I guess self respect, and the knowledge that I want to do this for a living. Getting on air inappropriately and pronouncing how good I look isn't the ideal way to receive a good recommendation from the boss. But I could have....

I really like my job. Everyone is good to me.

My friend Liv is going to be Mount St. Helens for Halloween. That's a good idea for a costume. I can't ever think of ideas for a costume. Here I am, a professional reporter, and I can't think of ideas for this stupid, juvenile holiday. Maybe I will be Mt. Vesuvius and 'one up' Liv.

I might try to get a grant for my youngperspective.com idea. I'm interested in the website, and there are plenty of grants in the academic community for proactive ideas.

Ruling the World with Cleavage

2008-10-21T20:29:00.000-07:00

I was at Starbucks today, getting my daily caramel frappuccino, when I got attacked by man's biggest vulnerability: cleavage. I had just payed for my drink, turned around, and BAM! There sat a woman, in her early thirties, laboring over some pages that were spread out on her Starbucks desk. The Starbucks desk was low, and so was the cut of her shirt. The perfect storm of cleavage. I was caught in those tractor beams for about 10 seconds, until I realized that I was leaning forward at a forty-five degree angle and my tongue was hitting the floor. I snapped out of it and pulled myself together, only to look to my right and see a forty-something year old man caught by this vixen's trap. She was a tricky one.

Now, there are a couple of things that one should know about cleavage. A good shot of cleavage can be more tantalizing than a bare breast. I'm not sure why this is, but it's true. Perhaps it's because we men think that women don't mean to show us all this. When we see cleavage, it's like we catch a sneak preview of the next summer's blockbuster movie. However, it's clear that women can use tactical cleavage to their advantage. They could rule the world. Second, one should stare at cleavage for only a split second. Like Jerry Seinfeld says, "It's like looking at the sun, only for a glance or your eyes will burn". My fellow Starbucks patron could have learned this; he was lost in those babies.

Sorry if that was too crude. I can't wait for potential employers to read this site. They will think, "This kid went to college? What the hell was he doing"? What was I doing indeed....

Everyone should check out www.allcityshowdown.com. Some of the best Seattle skating I have seen.

Brett the Webmaster

2008-10-20T18:48:00.000-07:00

To increase my 'employability' in the journalism world, I have began the tedious process of making websites. First, I'm in charge of www.ksfrnews.com. Ksfr news already has pages on www.ksfr.org, but my boss wants to separate our news department from the other site. I started the new site today, with almost no knowledge of web-making; but it is a fun learning process.

Try to ignore the glitz of www.ksfrnews.com. Just kidding. Right now its so simple and ugly a monkey could navigate through it.

I also have been thinking about a website of my own. The website will be devoted to young journalists, who have little or no experience because of the hiring freeze that has been put on by many companies. Since there are so many experienced journalists who have recently lost their jobs (it's predicted that print will loose 40% of its advertising income), there is even less space in the impossible job market for inexperienced journalists. My site will be devoted to news that is important to young people and young journalists, not news from the 'old guard'. I'm hoping college level journalists will contribute to the site, with fresh ideas and good discussion. Hopefully, the website will not turn into the mainstream media's 'one focus journalism', and contribute productively reporting to the world. This site is far off, but if you are interested in helping me out, either with the web aspect or the journalism aspect, that would be great. Think of stories you think should be seen in the news, or stories critiquing current news, and write them up.

Yeah, so that's what I'm up to.

Also, I'm friends with this guy named Pete. Pete goes to the skatepark. He is 30 years old, and from Long Island. Pete is so freaking New York, its ridiculous. I can't really explain it, other than he has 10 times more chest hair than me. Think about it.

Update: I bought the domain name-www.youngperspective.com

Mexican?

2008-10-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

I have made some friends from the skatepark. I've even got a couple of phone numbers. The cool thing however, my friends are LATINO! Or at least, I'm pretty sure they are. Is it racist to be excited that I have friends that are a different race than me? The Latino population in Seattle is non-existent, so excuse me if I'm excited. They are cool dudes.

Here is an interesting nugget. They told me that they are allowed to take Spanish as their second language. I asked my high school friend Gabe, who's first language is Spanish, what grade he got in his Spanish class. He said, "Dude, it's my first language, I got a 98%". And I struggled through Japanese when I was in high school-like a SUCKER. Psshhhh, lucky kids.

Is the appropriate term for people of Mexican descent-Latino? Is it appropriate to ask this question?

Psshhh, whatever, like you fools have any Latino friends. I can see your jealousy from here.

ICP for Life Son!

2008-10-16T20:47:00.000-07:00

There was SUCH an Insane Clown Posse fan at the skatepark today. The dude was literally wearing face paint. He was in his mid 20's, grossly overweight, and pushing mongo. He was also wearing one of those 'hideous saying' t-shirts. The shirt said, "I'm mad and I want to find someone to choke". He was only there for about 20 minutes but he was amazing. I could only think, "How can this dude go about his life with face paint on? It's the middle of the F-ing day...."

Can I wear one of those 'weird saying' t-shirts? Have they been out of style long enough? Like, if I bought one of those t-shirts and started wearing it around, would it be fashionable because I'm a hip dude? Ironically fashionable? One that says, "I'm F.B.I - a Federal Booty Inspector." Is that cool? Are Che Guevara shirts cool again?

This was on the radio yesterday.

I ate the worst meal today at Panda Express. The chicken tasted ultra funky, like it hadn't been cooked all the way through. I then made the mistake of washing it down with a tall Frappuccino. Wrong move.

I might have the opportunity to interview a few celebs who live in Santa Fe. My blog will gradually morph into d-listed, and I will have to move to L.A. to support my coke habit.

More short stories are coming.

I hate the Red Sox.

Mo' Molly

2008-10-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

The other night, Molly and I got dressed up and went to a casino. We were WAY too posh in comparison to most of the people there. I always have a romantic vision of casinos; where I win thousands of dollars and sweep my woman off her feet in dramatic fashion. The glitz, the noise, the glamor. However, Sandia Casino north of Albuquerque is not very romantic. It's filled with drunkards and old people, all looking depressed as hell as they shovel their money into the casino's machines. We had fun anyway. I might have well been one of those drunkards loosing their money-I lost $60.

Molly left today. Bummer.

I've been frequenting the Santa Fe skateboard park. It's a scene, man. There are hundreds of little Latino kids on pimped-out bikes, and they own the place. They weave in and out, screaming at people (including me), and talking trash to each other. I've heard so many 'I can't wait to get your momma home so I can.... blank' jokes at the skatepark; it's a vulgar place. Today, a parent started screaming at her kid, telling the kid not to 'dis her'. It's a funny place, but I alway feel like I'm seconds away from getting my head beat in by a disgruntled biker.

The Santa Fe newspaper, The New Mexican, is planning to let go 18 employees. Does this mean there is a job open for me?

Kennedy Stumping

2008-10-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Molly and I briefly attended a stump speech by Robert Kennedy Jr. He was in Santa Fe, stumping for Obama. I was immediately struck by how much he resembled his dad. He seemed like a cool cat, and the event was jammed with people. I believe New Mexico Congressman Ben Lujan Jr. was also at the event, but I couldn't verify.

Blown away by seeing a real-life Kennedy, I did a little research on Bobby Jr. I found that after a distinguished academic career, Bobby Jr. was caught with heroin in a South Dakota airport in 1983. He is also an activist, and had further legal trouble when he broke into a naval base while protesting. He is a preeminent conservationist and a radio host on Air America, even though he possesses spasmodic dysphonia, which inhibits his speaking. Got to love those Kennedys.

I Miss My Friends

2008-10-10T20:06:00.001-07:00

'Nough said.

Card Carrying Member

2008-10-10T19:43:00.000-07:00

The story I broke about illegal teen smoking got picked up by the New Mexican. I'm officially a member of the Associated Press. I mean, I work for a station that is a member.... It's cool to see a story I thought of get picked up by the newspaper.

Molly B. is in town. She's pretty cool.

Zach Hagen left me today, he doesn't know if he is coming back. Does this mean the end of the road trip? For Zach, maybe, but not for me. I can only live in the small town of Santa Fe for so long, before I go crazy and miss a metropolitan area. I need to stay so I can continue getting experience in reporting, but I can't stay for too long. Zach isn't sure what he is going to do with himself. Seattle, Santa Fe, San Francisco; he doesn't know. Zach Hagen is a good man. It will be hard to imagine my life without him, even if it's just for a little while. However, yesterday he tried to get me to rub aloe on his back; we were getting too close. As cliche as it is, I got to tell Zach something:

Follow your heart-then your head- and don't forget what Mr. Johnson has to say. I'm missing you already.

But, like I said, the road trip will continue. My buddy Tripp is talking about joining me for some. I'm thinking about Santa Fe to Atlanta with Tripp. A story like that writes itself.

I Lie

2008-10-08T19:59:00.000-07:00

I picked up a hitchhiker yesterday. I was coming home from the radio station, and I saw an average looking guy on the side of the road with his thumb out. I pulled over and told him I was only going 10 miles up the road. The hitchhiker said that wouldn't help, but asked if I could drive him to the next on-ramp; the one he was at doesn't not have much traffic. I complied.

He wasn't very talkative, so I lied to him. I feel bad I lied, but it just came out so easy. I asked him about hitching, and tried to get some funny stories out of him, but he had nothing to say. That's when I lied.

"You know," I said, "I have better luck hitching when I have a sign...you might have a better chance catching a ride if you had a sign that said 'Denver'".

I've never hitchhiked. I've picked up people before, and I've had my thumb out-but I've never successfully hitchhiked. I just heard from people that you have better luck hitchhiking if you have a sign. I was surprised at the ease of my lie. I think I was trying to relate to the guy; or maybe impress him, I don't know. Am I a bad person because I lied?

I started another story today-it involves illegal teen smoking.

Here is the story I compiled for yesterday. It was a slow news day, so the clip played throughout the morning. Pretty professional, huh? The newscaster stumbled because she changed the wording, her mistake's are in no way related to the shottiness of my writing. Actually, it's pretty choppy, she did a much better job in later hours.

All Me Baby

TLC is Crazy

2008-10-07T19:43:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen this show? It's ridiculous. It's called 17 kids and Counting. Its about a family, 17 large, and they are ultra religious. I've only seen one show, and I'm hooked. On the episode last night, the eldest child got engaged. He had never been on a date with the girl he proposed to. The parents of the girl wanted her to wait until she was 20 to go on a date, allowing her to commit 20 years of devotion to God. The man proposed to her on her 20th birthday.

They aren't allowed to go out together without a chaperon, they can only hug from the side, and they can't kiss. I repeat-they are engaged and they can't kiss. They don't kiss, maintaining their purity with God, and they have that special moment of their first kiss during their wedding. All they do is hold hands, look at one another, and describe their love for each other. It's actually kinda heartwarming.

Today, I am officially a reporter. I 'broke' a story about Federal Medicaid actually helping the economy of New Mexico. Through a governmental match program, the federal government gives $2.50 to New Mexico for every $1 spent with Medicaid in this state. Thusly, Medicaid generates 3.4 billion dollars into the New Mexico economy. I don't really understand the fundamentals of this, but it's ultimately a governmental subsidies program.

KSFR received an email from an institution who funded this economic study, detailing the studies' results. I picked up the email, called the head of the institution for a phone interview, and got about 7 minutes of tape. I wrote about 10 lines of copy detailing the study, fancy introduction included, inserted 15 seconds of my phone interview and handed it over to my boss. My story, clip included, was read over the air for the 4-6 o'clock news. My boss says there is the potential that my story will be picked up by the local newspaper, The New Mexican.

It's funny that I actually created news. When I interviewed the guy, I had no idea what I was asking him, I was too nervous. But, it all worked out in the end.

Finally, I have a theory. McCain and Palin lose the election. 6 months go by, and Playboy offers Palin an insane amount of money to pose nude. She denies. Good theory?

.

Degenerates

2008-10-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

This is one of my first attempts at a short story.

It is bad-like really bad. I didn't write the story, an illiterate eighth grader did. So blame him, not me, for the sucktitude.

The story is about the encounter Zach and I had in a campsite near the Grand Canyon. Scary stuff.

There is some swearing, so brace yourself.

Degenerates and The Darkness

Download it to word. The preview function does not allow it to scan right.

Keep Hating

2008-10-06T12:38:00.000-07:00

I love how ninety percent of the few comments I receive on this blog are directed at how bad my grammar is (way to end a sentence Brett). It's usually something small; like forgetting how to use a semicolon, or my misspelling the word bawled. These mistakes come from my lack of formal training. Although I am a history major and wrote countless papers; little of that time was spent perfecting my punctuation and grammar.

But Brett, aren't you trying to write well; and potentially for a living? Yes I am, and I thoroughly need all the help I can get when it comes to writing. Keep the critique coming.

I just want you, the reader, to know how my reaction usually works when someone constructively throws critique at me.

1) Madness
My initial reaction is to give a big F you to whoever pointed out my mistake. Like, my dear friend Eric, who critiqued my use (or lack there of) of a semicolon. I thought, well Eric aren't you just a smart piece, who is sooooo smart you can correct my impeccable, error-free writing. Why don't you go back to sucking on Obama's big c....

2) Remorse in my stupidity
I'm not a writer. I try, but I have a long way to go. I think, "well, Eric is a smart kid". "Isn't he a writing major"? "I didn't use a semicolon?" "Man, my writing sucks, a first grader can write this dribble". "It's only a matter of time before they kick me out of the radio station and I throw myself headfirst into heavy drugs; I'm such a bad writer". "Should I hire Eric to proofread my blog?"

3) Acceptance.
I eventually come to the conclusion that I NEED all the critique; nay, I like the critique. Maybe, like 70%percent of my writing is readable. That's not bad. My friends are smart people. And hell, my friends are the only people that read this blog anyway; they could tell me I smell like a Bolivian urinal, as long as they keep reading.

So keep critiquing and keep reading.

Who needs to know what the term 'independent clause' means anyway?

P.S.- I'm about to post some lackluster short stories, so get your red pen ready.

News Worthy?

2008-10-04T12:40:00.000-07:00

Good?

Click this link to hear my voice. I'm not sure if this works, so give me time to figure it out.

It's called a podcast-I'm very in the know.

And From KSFR News, I'm....

2008-10-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned before, Zach and I have arrived in Santa Fe. The drive from Lake Powell to Santa Fe was long, but it allowed time for Zach and I to have a heart-to-heart. He's a good kid, that Zach Hagen.

A day later, after my arrival, I went down to Santa Fe Community College and talked with Bill Dupuy, the head news director of KSFR News Santa Fe. KSFR is news radio, much like your typical NPR station. Bill Dupuy is a tall, thin man from Louisiana with a voice that is so elegant and calculated, it would be a shame if he were NOT on the radio. Bill sat me down in his office, and asked me why I am interested in the news. I responded that I had left college with no real career path. I told him the things I like; to write, chat with people, and stay updated with the news (skateboarding and snowboarding aside). I just wanted a career that I liked, and since working 30 years at a skateboard shop doesn't seem like an intellectually stimulating option, I somehow arrived at journalism.

Bill calmly pondered my response to his question. I sat in his office, awkwardly shifting back in forth, looking at the walls, wondering what he would say. Bill finally stood up and said, "well, lets get you started then". I told him I was a apprehensive because I have no training in journalism of any kind, and he laughed and told me, "good, then you won't have to unlearn anything". From then on it was go time.

KSFR News is an extremely reputable news station. Its won the National Associated Press award for Best News Radio the past four years in a row. If I to want end up working in journalism, KSFR News is a great starting spot. The news team consists of 10 volunteer workers, and the payed News Director Bill Dupuy. Myself and two other college aged girls are the youngest workers, and everyone else is a retired professional. They say they like having young guns like us in there, and the wise, older workers are extremely helpful.

Bill threw me right into the mix. The first thing I learned- The News is FAST. There are eleven news reports a day, one every hour, ranging from 2 to 4 minutes each. There is a hour long newscast at noon, which is planned ahead of time and consists of investigative journalism and 'timeless pieces'. KSFR reports local news. The hourly news casts are deciphered, written, spoken, and engineered by only one person. That reporter must decipher the news that comes from all of our sources; email, phone-ins, the internet, and most importantly-the AP wire. Then choose which of these stories they deem as important, and write a short blurb about each. The reporter must then speak the stories onto a computer program, and correct their newscast so it is consistent with a typical newscast. Finally, the reporter must engineer the newscast, allowing it to flow smoothly over the air. In order for the newscast to go over the air, there are ALOT of steps to finish.

It is volunteer work, but I have worked there about 18 hours in the past three days. I need to train first, but they said I should be coming on the air soon.

I'm also privy to a lot of sensitive information. All news stems from local news. I won't go into more boring description, but local news is essentially filtered up the Associated Press ladder, until it becomes National News. I know NOTHING about Santa Fe politics and news, but I'm learning fast. The reporters all harp on me for my horrible Spanish, saying, "If you say that over the air, we will get 500 calls."

Bottom Line-I love working at the radio station. HOWEVER, this does not mean this trip is over. I have to talk with Zach, Molly, the News Station, and My Aunt. I could never stay in Santa Fe for a long period of time. But, I may need to stay long enough to gain some experience in journalism, and receive a good recommendation from KSFR. Whether this means 2 weeks or 6 months, that I will have to figure out. We will continue this roadtrip, but when?

Sorry about the boring post, but I really like the news.

My station

An interesting reporter from The New Mexican

No Updates?

2008-10-04T11:31:00.000-07:00

I frequently apologize about my lack of updates. Here I go again. I've been busy in Santa Fe, NM.

G-Canyon

2008-10-01T20:32:00.001-07:00

Zach and I went to the Grand Canyon. We almost got jacked by a drunkard. I wrote a whole story about the event, but it's too long for this blog. The story will be told when I figure out how to link my stories, in a pdf file, to the blog. Wait with baited breath.

Again, Zach and I almost died. Go to Zach's blog for more in depth information about our Grand Canyon excursion, sans us dying part. And wait for my story, to be linked to this blog soon.

www.zachhhwritings.blogspot.com

Joshua Tree

2008-09-30T19:23:00.000-07:00

We have again left civilization. We are again starving little boys. The past two weeks were spent under the care of our surrogate parents; Dave and Marcia, Steven and Nancy. These parents caused me to regress in age. I fell into their outstanding care, and if I had stayed in Southern California any longer, I would have turned into a 22 year old infant. I would loaf around their houses, waiting for my meals to be cooked and my butt to be wiped. A grown-toddler Brett. NOW THAT is a vacation.

BUT, comfort and luxuries are not what this trip is about.

What is this trip about? Camping? Finding Myself? Finding a career? Finding booze and another pair of surrogate parents? Time will tell.

In more pressing matters, I'm currently chilling next to my compadre, Zach, in Joshua Tree National Park. It's dark, but the park has a special aura surrounding it. It is a cool place. We plan to wake up early tomorrow and get some of that special.

REMINDER-my phone is dead until further notice.

Thanks again to Brett's wonderful parents, Steve and Nancy Wingis

Bye Bye Brett's Phone

2008-09-27T11:15:00.000-07:00

Cell phone I hardly knew ye. You were strong and reliable, but even you could not survive 20 minutes in a saltwater bath. I was an idiot, and I took you surfing with me. I'm sorry....

If anyone needs to reach me, call Zach's phone.

360-608-2304

We are leaving Brett's house in Del Mar for Joshua Tree National Park. Our time here was nothing short of amazing, and its hard to leave this place for the cold sleeping surface of a Park's floor. A HUGE thanks to Nancy and Steven Wingis! I ate so well the past two weeks, I've gained four pounds. The trip must continue in order for me to loose weight.