In defense of savagery (or, the year in review)

Herzog. I realize I haven't talked about the novel yet, not having formed words or opinions into full thought, and I won't do that here. What I will say is that all the revile, pissery, joy, exhaustion related to Bellow's masterwork is justly earned. It's also a grand example of a constructed from the solitary perch of anger and partial savagery vacillating to sweet. In other words, art.

Jingles and Ho-Ho-Hos

Movie notes from the weekend, which otherwise involved Christmas Eve-rolled to morning drinks and a compliment on my teeth. Amid a showdown between a bartender and a patron over who could be the most charming (the answer: both and neither).

The movie reviews, in haiku form:

I am happy to report

The records of impending demise as a result of severe neurosis were highly...suspect.

In honor:

And now, a word from our Sponsor, 2010 edition

While I'm not campaigning to be the world's greatest eccentric -- heaven forbid with the likes of Daniel Johnston and Michelle Bachmann milling about, I'd have about as much credence in that role as a two-legged pachyderm.

But! But I do have at least one quirk I'm happy to divulge and take the infamy/log into the running for contemporary log lady supreme.

Not cannibalism, just self-indulgence

So I broke out the camera for the last few days, mainly looking to mess with what I already have on file. The first result:

The single greatest story I've read these holidays

At the link. http://www.slate.com/id/2278240/. As if a Christmas-Eve trek through Target wasn't enough to remind one of the general savagery of the human species. I'll have more to talk about with this later on, but...Bon appetit.

(as an aside, is all this holiday/Christmas shit over yet?)

Photo time

So I'm trying something different right now. As some of you may know, I've had a very passing love/hate thing with photography, something I came to outside of college when thinking about doing film school.

The long story short: I missed the darkroom, and when digital came around, I lost a lot of my love for the general art. But I still flirt with the damned thing.

In light of that, I'm going to try to post some more photos here and there, hoping to get some up and at least checked out. Or at least, rekindle that affair.

Crown Heights

The first try. The attempt here was from a few shots around the hood, and the damned day was a bit more overcast than should be permitted. Enjoy them, if they work for you.

Cupid's Arrow: Assange Edition

I'm in the new place less than a month and get the sage advice "Try OkCupid. Trust me on this, if just to explore and meet people." I'm ready to explore this town, am an arts guy of the someone-else-performing variety, and frankly those are better for dates, anyway.

Sold. However..

As some of you may also know, the gift of self-promotion is not one that I possess. I don't have the sales gene, and while I can bluster on about anything other than me, it's immediately all manage-expectations the second the spotlight flips on. I've already come to terms with the fact that I will probably be mired forever in a lower middle class slot despite all my obvious other gifts, and after signing up on the site, form followed that all I got was crickets. I mean, I've had people drop by, but crickets, not that I've been trying that hard. In other words, it would probably be best to turn to Julian Assange.

Yes, That Julian Assange. The one with the crazy face and white thinning warlock hair. Rat lips. Who in a photo in The New Yorker looked like the albino from Foul Play.

But apparently he had some success. Or at least the bombast to pull off a ... memorable profile. And since I'm not looking to go all Charlie from "It's Always Sunny...," this is probably the best place to start.

Hence, Julian Assange, let's use you as a muse. Or rather, template.

His summary:

WARNING: Want a regular, down to earth guy? Keep moving. I am not the droid you're looking for. Save us both while you still can.

Passionate, and often pig headed activist intellectual seeks siren for love affair, children and occasional conspiracy.

Such a woman should [be] spirited and playful, of high intelligence, though not necessarily formally educated, have spunk, class & inner strength and be able to think strategically about the world and the people she cares about.

I like women from countries that have sustained political turmoil. Western culture seems to forge women that are valueless and inane. OK. Not only women!

Although I am pretty intellectually and physically pugnacious I am very protective of women and children.

I am DANGER, ACHTUNG, and ?????????????

Okay, so I get the charm. A self-deprecating geek with a semi-messianic complex. Or at least a good deal of chauvinism. I can deal with that. It's almost me.

My turn.

Self summary:

MANUFACTURER'S NOTE: Want a slightly deranged, delusional, needy prick who is simply looking for friends to suck the life out of? Well that's not here (and that baggage is merely a flesh wound). I am a droid. Maybe even the one you're looking for.

Dispassionate whiskey-swiller, the antithesis of everything that is hipster fresh in the news, is seeking a harpy for which to engage in smattering unflattering conversation, maybe an affair and to laugh at someone else's criminal children.

Such a woman [should] be quasi-spiritual -- but not in a batshit crazy way -- not be afraid to pay for dates, and be completely comfortable with the finer contradictions of The Irresponsible Self. She should also be a classy woman who says "Fuck" a lot, and will incorporate that and the "c" word into her existential novel about a small white girl coming of age on antarctic McMurdo Station.

Do I need a woman who travels? Not so much, as traveling seems to bring out the greatest pretension in Western Civilization. But being stuck in a city like New York does seem to bring out the whole hen-roost thing, too. Okay. Maybe not just women.

Although at heart I can come across as physically and intellectually truculent, really I'm just the Rolo that sealed your pocket shut.

I do like to control the HORIZONTAL. And MAYBE even the vertical.

...

!!!!!!!!!!!

And there. Now I feel like I need to bathe, shower, and be nervous about my previously printed "Registered Sex Offender" T-shirts.

Adventures in Gluhwein

I remember last year around this time I was trying to track down a bottle of Gluhwein. More specifically, this shit, which in a more sentimental mood I would say was a remnant of my youth. What it was really was was a succumbing to the quintessential New York laziness (read: I don't care how valuable your time is, outsourcing is never worth that time you might lose watching post-Simon American Idol). And also a fear of failure in attempting to make it.

To describe this concoction, imagine the most disgusting wine you've ever had, cut with every bit of bitter and sour you could throw in. Then add sugar. And serve warm. Believe me, it's delicious. As in, the human capacity for poison takes a backseat to this type of deliciousness. To further describe this concoction, it's the essence of the Yuletide season: complex to the spice, sweet to the innocuous, and heated to make the days linger and die in the ways there were meant to be spent, drunk, mit zucre und zimt.

I will be attempting this shortly. My attempt will involve something like this:

* eine Flasche trockener Rotwein (750 ml)
* eine Zitrone
* 2 Stangen Zimt
* 3 Gewürznelken
* 3 Esslöffel Zucker
* etwas Kardamom (oder Ingwer)

Zubereitung
Den Rotwein in einem Topf erhitzen (nicht kochen). Die Zitrone in Scheiben schneiden und hinzufügen. Dann Zimt, Nelken, Zucker und etwas Kardamom (nach belieben) dazugeben. Alles etwa 5 Minuten erwärmen - nicht kochen - und etwa eine Stunde ziehen lassen. Vor dem Servieren nochmals erwärmen, durch ein Sieb abgießen, in vorgewärmten Gläsern oder Bechern servieren.

Now, in further huckster-ish fashion, "On to the pretty girl!":

various notes to self

It's another compendium blog, boys and girls. Here goes:

• When delivering your neighbor's mail and her four-year-old daughter happens to answer the door, it might not be best form to be rocking a full-on sex-offender mustache then engaging in a one-minute conversation with said four-year to find out where the recipient of the package is.
• Lying asleep in your jeans is only gratifying when you've fully earned it through the full force sloshing of Fernet Branca, or the desk you're waiting for actually shows up.
• Finally getting around to restaining your dresser might not be the best idea when the weather dips 40. Nor is continuing to aerate your place through the two weeks that is apparently required.
• Advice from a friend: Women are all about changing the names of things. Brunch is just a respectable way of drinking at noon. But that doesn't change the fact that it's still drinking at noon. (editor's note: if and when you meet a women who just calls it by its rightful name, then know at that moment that she's a keeper and one to take home to mom.)
• In general, classical is the best winter music. This is non-negotiable. It is also great for traveling. What's great summer music is probably hip-hop, but I have yet to warm enough to the genre to test it out. And yes, I understand that confession means I will probably never get laid again by a certain segment of the female population below the cut-off of, say, 33. I'm getting more comfortable with this by the week (and the notable distance from Fernet Branca).
• Some of you may remember, either selectively or not, Vladimir Putin showing off his Judo moves. And if you don't, shame on you, because the guy should be wrestling a bear or at least the knife that lost in the Chuck Norris knife fight. And so if you do, you will not need to focus on this next item, because you already understand this guy needs a fan club. And if you don't:
  
  
  Seriously, this guy needs a fucking fan club. He's either the poster child for our age or the perpetual victim of the eternal midlife crisis. Oh, and he's a semi-totalitarian prick. Which means he's all of the above.

In all honestly, I should be asleep. Bon soir, faithful readers. You make me feel like a huckster.

The Thanksgiving recap, as seen through airports

Now that it's a week into its grave, my annual Thanksgiving trek to the desert is ripe for recapping.

First note: JFK has a Sammy Hagar bar. Beach bar and grill, I should say. The synopsis -- breakfast burritos and $15 bloody marys while the singer's head of gold-white tendrils leer on.

Second note: The Phoenix airport has that fresh "ripped-from-the-strip-mall" feeling, complete with the stark flair of early adult obesity that usually coincides. The bar there -- painted, sun-drained cacti stare down on the walls, reminding you (and maybe the city of Phoenix), that it is still a desert. Not that the green-lawn-and-pavement grid as viewed from above would suggest anything otherwise.

Third note: O'Hare is still a rat maze, especially when wandering unawares as to your connecting gate. Or terminal. But at least the bar had the decency to serve a hot dog so stuffed its entrails spilled to the counter top while being eaten. And they served Goose Island. Thank you, Skyscrapers, for being the type of seedy, low-rent place that I love. And in an airport.

Final notes:

• I remember when airline travel used to be fun. I was also about a foot shorter and 12.
  
• Wii Bowling might be the best diplomatic tool ever created. Or just a sheer blast.
  
• Shooting. It never leaves you, even through the invariable stumblings when you get all redneck-y with your Pa over the holidays. However -- who's in for this?

And now, adieu.

Waste-disposal

Feeds for thought:

1) Superspying is a dirty profession. Think about, between all the random drops in random, undisclosed trash receptacles in unmarked bags, there have to be misses. Like instead of grabbing some secret doomsday machine, you picked the wrong side of the street and are running your hands through somebody's half-eaten spoiled babaganoush. If you're lucky. You could use latex gloves, but doesn't that make the entire activity a bit overly conspicuous, akin to running around with a set diplomatic plates?

Maybe I'm just a bit upset that I never pursued this path. I mean, apart from not knowing the language, being a moderate social misfit and not really having the ability to either stand out or settle in to a crowd, there's the problem of the unwanted waste. The bedbugs. The exotic cuisines that involve spleens, brains, bugs, mint tea. The dealing with society who's grasp on the language is middling, meaning nobody would actually get my jokes.

And I'm not gringo. But in general, being a superspy of any sort has to suck.

2) There is no 2. But I'm making bacon to eat with my tacos. Heart disease is overrated.

Kickstart my dartboard confessional malaise

I realized, in the newfound roles of gentrifier, vagabond, solitary malcontent, that this blog would take a sort of temporary plunge into self-imposed purgatorio, also known as hiatus. These things happen, they're often called in polite terms "dead spots."

But I'm looking at the last few posts and realizing that, even rounding to the most psychologically salving terms and numerals, it's been three months.

To my most spirited, interested reader(s). I. Apologize.

To my less than spirited, moreso interested but really not that involved in the blabberings of an online freak (in Brooklyn), I will enjoy these precious minutes more than you. Click away as need dictates. But really, I will enjoy it.

So what happened to me? First off, I moved, and contrary to the PR campaign, I have yet to check into all the Kennedy, Crown and US Fried Chicken joints up and down Nostrand Avenue (though I just might still).

What else happened? Well, the Giants won the World Series? How do I know this? Apart from the Yankee fans suddenly perking up over the fact that Cliff Lee might suddenly come at a discount, I'm not quite sure. Maybe it was the cries of "That's definitely not the best team in baseball," or "Who cares about baseball anyway?" or the headline "The Beard Wins a Ring." But that might have been the same-sex marriage trial as well.

What really got me stoked? Two things, this week. One, a couple of some Scandinavian origination, walking through Times Square, the guy with a medal around his chest. Not Life-Alert, but a medal, as if he were campaigning to get mugged and/or anally raped, the omega dog to end all omega dogs (his wife, I believe, would be spared).

And then, rounding the corner at Rock Center earlier today: Camels. I shit you not. Camels. Not the cigarettes. The type that smell. Like livestock and dung. Again. Not the cigarette.

At least my grandfather is smiling from the great beyond, and now I can suddenly give a shit about the plight of the Cubs. (Go Giants!)

Friday night funnies

Just three little videos for your enjoyment. Notice: None of these are safe for work, so don't even think about it unless you're about to be fired/laid off/don't give a shit/hate your boss/on your boss's pc/on your assistant's pc/hired an intern to use their pc.

Here goes:
One: The many side jobs of Bob Odenkirk

"Craigslist Penis Photographer" featuring Bob Odenkirk from Bob Odenkirk

Two: in honor of Mad Men, MA Men pts. 1

MA Men from Joey McIntyre

And 2:

MA Men 2 from Joey McIntyre

Oh, and a bonus track:

Wax On, F*ck Off with Ralph Macchio from Ralph Macchio

So about this weekend

This will be a quick, digest post, but some things I learned from this weekend:

• Waking up to one accident outside your window is not nearly as enjoyable as when it's followed the next day by another
  
• Apparently there is a need and love for the SF burrito that is completely incomprehensible to the rest of the nation
  
• Go see my friend's blog: Poo On The Menu (updated much more frequently than this old coffee stain)
  
• Going to the Bronx to play trivia is fine, as long as it results in victory and a six pack of delicious beer
  
• I need a new job that operates in real-people hours (suggestions will be gladly taken)
  
• I'm to the point with sweating that my balls have molded to the side of my leg
  
• Finding apartments is a full-time job. Being a gentrifier could potentially be the same.

An Ointment, The King.

In honor of the further Lebron news, or rather, the one disgruntled fan who might have put the best possible spin on the news("Taking my talents down to South Beach" as euphemism for masturbation), I've come up with a list of other sports-related gesture enablers:

• Hoisting the Prince of Wales
  
• Breaking in the Golden Glove
  
• Time to whack the Golden tee
  
• Practicing the Ickey Shuffle, and...
  
• Get the milk ready, the victory lap is almost done.

Anointing the King

With all the hullaballoo surrounding the Lebron James's decision later tonight regarding which team he will join -- the long months of wooing involving mayors, celebs, politicians, and probably puppy dogs; the three-hour slot ESPN has allocated to the coverage; the giving a shit about where an athlete, and while a very good one, one who hasn't one a damned thing albeit he plays in the sport that allows the most of personal achievement -- I secretly hope that he decides to throw a curveball. Like an "I'm going to start doing Sumo" curverball, or maybe "I've decided to play for AC Milan." Something like that. Seriously.

Below is the [supposed] text of the upcoming post-conference interview (conference having been left out for general health and sanity):

LJ: No, it seemed like the best option. I think the deal-sealer was the pandas.

ESPN: That was after you made the trip there under the auspices of visiting the Dalai Lama.

LJ: Well, the Lama ain't no joke. A lot of wisdom in that fucker. He plays a mean game of bouré.

ESPN: And what did you discuss with him?

LJ: Palestine, Tibet. [laughs] Shit no, man, we were talking the finer points of winning it all. The guy is a natural, after all. I saw him play Prince once, a game of Horse. Prince left with a dislocated elbow. That guy ain't no joke.

ESPN: Now you mentioned pandas. You do understand that that animal is not native to India.

LJ: In the contract we stipulated a full year's supply. I like me some panda meat.

ESPN: You eat ... panda?

LJ: They ain't gonna eat themselves. I grind them up, fire up the grill, a little bit of horseradish, some eggs. Yeah, that's some good you know what I'm saying.

ESPN: They're an endangered species.

LJ: The Dalai's got the fix. We're just looking forward to the chance to bringing the game of hoops to those squint-eyed robed guys. They ain't got enough to do, and they're short, so that's going to help my stats. I got to think of my legacy.

Entering the Adobe Flash Mob

Well I did it. And I feel dirty, denuded, debased, dissembled. I joined a foursquare Flash Mob. Without going into the full details, breaking down the viabilities of any of it, but I joined it. Heatpocalypse NYC. So start the deriding -- I blame it on the heat.

Now, this should not be confused with the Snowpocalypse, nor the (probable) Windpocalypse which I assume I was writing during. I'm also assuming there will be a Hailpocalypse, a Fogpocalypse, and a Cicadapocalypse at various other times. Heaven forbid there be an actual apocalyptic event, like say a Tsunami or something similar. No, it's uncomfortable, therefore it must be likened to the end.

And what do I get from it? A little electronic badge. It's like tamagotchi, but even more useless and not an actual piece of gold, cockring, or something else. Hooray.

The good news -- it's probably about a hundred degrees in my suite right now. And so while it cools, I'm going to get a beer. Ciao, kids. I feel like such a frakking lemming.

Weekend in review

So naturally this will be a rambling post of sorts. So naturally, this will not be very focused. So naturally, as I sit here and my legs are dripping sweat and funk and I'm sleepy but not tired because the suite is just...so...hot, this will not have a theme.

What it does have: sex, rock & roll, a little guitar work, some inspired light shows, chance encounters, furries. Those you will have to ask me about.

This weekend started for me on Wednesday -- I had the day off, was in general emotionally drained and needed an extra day of respite. I'm shitty at breakups, but even shittier at the tiny bullshits that keep people in ties with each other. That's my own bad, and I'm chalking it up to the long harsh toll of 34 years of unintended single hood. So I call out. Sorry to the regulars, but I do. Out of guilt, I decide to make it up to myself and do as much as I effing can. So I feel better.

An aside: it was recently brought to my attention that I have been here for a year. And while I know other people who have been here for less, I'm an activities-based person -- without them I generally stumble around, foolish, looking for another place to people watch if I'm not getting my rock on (or rocks off). But that doesn't matter so much.

The highlights:

• Venues -- The Mercury Lounge, The Bell House, Death by Audio. No order intended. Mercury Lounge, while a decent place, doesn't seem to mix well as a crowd placfe. The Bell House seems to have it, but is probably the biggest place I will see a show at. Death by Audio. Well, if you ever felt the need to be a potential extra in a serial killer drama of some sort, then bring friends. That being said, the most interesting of the three, and probably has the best talent running through.
  
  
• Williamsburg -- When going to said Death by Audio, naturally I had to run through here. I have heard it said that certain neighborhoods belong to a certain demographic, and you realize going in that they want as little to do with you and vice versa. That's how I feel in Billyburg. Much like the SF's Mission district, the amount of young, largely plaintively searching peoples makes me want to, if not gag, run for cover. I can assume that the neighborhood is different in packs -- being lone, intrepid explorer, I'd much rather spend my time elsewhere. It might be my own personal feeling in the area, but the amount of head-up-assishness is largely...underwhelming. But I'm not one to rock the boat there.
  
  
• Rooftops: Great for watching fireworks, albeit from a distance far enough removed it's more spectacle at how the smoke clears. But really, it's just great.
  
  
• Hanging out: To anybody wondering, I think I might have a new local. Not that it's too close to me, but it's everything I look for in a bar, meaning it's got cool people who will talk to the pathetic singleton loser at the other end.
  
  
• Working: God, I still need more days off. For people who are looking for some cheesecake, you won't get any.

I'm out. Talk at you all later.

Addendum: After writing this, lying down, sweating my balls off then sweating some more, I realized I forgot to add something. In the process of this blog a band of fireworks went off in the driveway below, shooting pebbles onto my arm, three stories up. The entire night has been electric with the snare beat of this little explosions, far away and near. I need to sleep, but the general chaos of the scene reminds me why it's great to be out of San Francisco. You'd get this a little bit in Chinatown for the new year, but I remember nothing approximating this. Like a small proxy war being fought out in the dim patch of 2 a.m. dusk. And like the Brits are still pissed, having tied that little World Cup thing, and have decided to re-invade after all these years.

Bombastic!

Political threesome

Mysterious attack ads placed around the internets surrounding a potential Metz in ’16 campaign (I deny any knowledge of an impending campaign nor any validation of the comments herein):

G--- Metz cut his teeth in the liberal SF political machine, advocating free gay sex for methamphetamine. Is this what we want running America?

G--- Metz has wined and dined known terrorists, associating with Nancy Pelosi and Barbara Boxer. Just say No to METZ.

G--- Metz was born in San Francisco to a Mexican mother, meaning he was born on foreign soil to a illegal parents. G--- METZ: He's not even eligible.

Suck it, Rush Limbaugh. Suck it, Glenn Beck.

(Ed. note, whoever can find the mysterious poster of said statements, I would like to interview him or her for my campaign manager. If I needed a campaign manager.)

pissing in the corner (again)

I have, before, been on record that I can't stand Yelp out here. As some of you may know, in SF, while it's not golden, it's a pretty good indicator of quality, experience, etc., for most places one might want to check out. Also, SF has a nasty tendency to bring out the closet pontificator in everyone.

However, with the general vastness of the city in the state that is doubly named -- New York, it seems that Yelp is pretty much, while not useless, a little bit of a trainwreck of democratic process. Too many voices, nobody filtering them. Ironic, since it's New York, not California (sorry, that will be my last dig on that fair, arid state by the most inaptly named ocean in maybe forever -- it's getting frankly like old shtick. Or old socks).

So I'm going to claim it. Or reclaim it. Or not do a damned thing. But I'm writing on it again, which, while seemingly inconsequential for the spurring of such a blog post, is mainly a reason for me to try, try as I might to get my writing chops in gear.

Ah, now the truth. I have always figured myself to be grossly, chronically overextended. I write this, I watch this, I play guitar and attempt to be social and attempt to find and hide and otherwise be a general man-of-all-seasons. And I like it and then I forget to get writing and I don't. It's a vicious, viperous self-defeating cycle.

But, I think I've also forgotten just how much of a sounding board it could be when I'm upset or not writing or otherwise moot and tongue-tied and completely unordered. And prone to run-ons. Oh well. I wrote some blah on there the other day. Now I feel rejuvenated. Somewhat.

So shame on me. My writing problem is not inspiration. It's the actual writing.

warning: compendium post incoming. be forewarned, watch out for shrapnel

Well look at this, you get another post within, what, two weeks of each other? The excitement, were it not about to lock up your throat in fits of asthmatic glee, would probably be enough to lock up your throat in fits of asthmatic glee. If such a thing were to happen.

And now:

1) I'm wondering what exactly it is that makes the average credit-cum-loan-cum-populist-babble radio post sound like the babbling of a semi-coherent homeless guy on a Sunday afternoon 4. What I'm thinking is that ad agencies, in lieu of hiring somewhat competent writers or, say, all-smiles-and-teeth communications professionals, they've taken to outsourcing to the shelters.

From the radio:
Are you tired of all the bailout loans going to poor people, while you're struggling to pay your mortgage?

From the 4:
...and in this time of bailouts, and I know you're struggling with mortgages and putting the kids through college...

Frankly, I'm thinking this might be the best Madison Avenue idea in years. Except for the throwdown steel-cage jello-wrestling Superbowl throwdown. I might have just made that up.

2) I might have found a god shot (and please, no comments on the lack of a definitive article). On Friday, I took the walk -- nay, I say, adventure and or safari -- through the mildly alienistic nyc shtetl of South Williamsburg. Nothing against it, nothing all that odd although I felt I needed a tazer or at the very least raw bacon to hold off the legions in the odd case that somebody recognized that the indentation on my head was in fact a result of age and thinning hair than, say, a yamulke, but walk I did. Forward, forthright, foolhardily, but I moved. And I stumbled on, in this little nook of an area, on Bedford between the tiny little shopfaces and squee and cutesy mopeds, Oslo.

I will not rate Oslo. I will say the shot here (and when I say I speak specifically of the Bedford Ave. location, not to be confused with the straight-from-the-strip-mall Roebling location -- I had one there as well and it was not as good) -- I will say that, apart from being a darker roast than I usually like, might have been near espresso perfection. I will say that it was, not to bore with details, but it was: spicy, creamy, caramely and in-your-face, sweet, slight dry, bold, kick-you-in-the-teeth brash and fuck-you-in-the-face wonderful. Yes, it was that good. It might have just been a thing of skill, but it was that good.

3) The original 3 has been deleted, and was much more entertaining and provocative. Enjoy this photo (courtesy of the Billyburg excursion)L

And now for something completely different (and no, this is not the Monty Python post you are looking for)

I do not usually do this. It's not in my nature, it brings me a slight tinge of discomfort and even thinking about the next few words and sentences creates an unconscious discomfiting tickle in my upper intestinal lumen. My stomach is churning to right itself.

But like any good little trooper, I'm about to put on my Jay-Z best and perform the only previously stated: here comes the obligatory shout-out.

Specifically, and as some of you may know, I'm a fan of the Bat Segundo show, which was a salve for me especially back in the dark age of San Francisco and has become a staple of my Friday afternoon listening walks. More recently, I've gotten into the interviewer's -- Ed Champion's -- blog . More specifically still, the last two posts are, if anything, a source of both titillation and all around book-geek glee.

For your perusal:

1. The breakdown of Michiko Kakutani's The New York Times reviews loving entitled "Why Does Michiko Kakutani Hate Fiction So Much?" (with a nice self-deprecating nod to the author's own reviewing predilections).
   (g.m.'s response: yes, she has a lot of snarky reviews, yes, she reads a lot of crap as the pre-eminent review and thus a lot of marquee titles, but even the books she likes tend to be middle-brow, semi-sentimental drivel).
   
   
2. And this one I think I'm strictly enjoying as a point of public service, the (by all means not complete) list of Literary Podcasts. I do have to be frank in this one, as I've not listened to the majority of these, but for anyone who comments on the NYTimes's own Book Review podcast as "Every Friday, for fifteen minutes, the corporate yesman Sam Tanenhaus manages to take all the life out of books," well, for that, I have to give it credit. But it also happens to be a very wide-ranging list, complete with a list of reviews, commentary, readings, etc. It even breaks down for genre stuff.
   
   Now, if we could just get the same level of vitriol he has for the NYT (we feel it Ed, trust me) applied to the NPR/PRI bastard baby Selected Shorts, which if anything consistently throws out the most compelling list of bland on a weekly basis, well then I'd be happy.

And as a completely separate thing, completely on the Edward Champion kick, I have to throw out a nice little Bat Segundo with Robin Black delving into craft.

* * *

(ed. note: I understand. This just turned into a three-dotter. I will keep it short.)

[REDACTED]

(ed. note: on second thought, this section seemed moderately half-baked at the current moment, so will have to be saved for another day/post. Enjoy your weekend.)

And where exactly is that warp zone to the springs of bikini-clad Iceland?

I've been trying to pin down the surrealism of the subway system here. I mean, the entire thing, apart from the seeming moebius strip quality to the layout, has always had a varying haphazard ramshackle setup to the stations. This plays nicely into fantasies. No, not those kind. What I'm referring to, and I'm sure it was part of the design intention, is the bizarre mosaics/installations that wend their way onto platforms, walls, walkups to platforms and walls, what have you. The entire thing is a video game. Like some mushroom-hazed and coked-out version of Mario Bros.

Case 1:


(Here, as you will see, is the entrance to the Sino-Egyptian section of Wario world).

Case 2:

(Somebody should tell Dig-Dug this is a job for a gardener/horticultural technician).

Case 3:

(So what did we tell you about pretending like you're frogger?)


Now. That's it. I'm on a bit of a dry spell right now. Excuse the calcium build-up on the brain. Oh yeah, and I'm running out of coffee. The world is topsy-turvy.

ahem (pt. 2 -- or how Apple further degraded the peaceable existence of the free world)

Now. I don't know and I don't really care that much about how you feel one way or the other about the state of Israel/the Zionist Hegemony/Center of Racism in the World/The Shining Embunkered Jewel in the Middle East Hill. I don't really care. I spent long portions of my childhood (probably on account of a staple of Golan Globus films, most featuring Ninjas playing the part of the Mossad) idolizing them, before maturing to a state of ambivalence. I'm okay with this, which is why I've put it in print.

However, today the news was cast that the same-said state has lifted its ban on the importation of iPads. Sad, yes, but even sadder is this possibility -- so the iPad operates on a frequency that could interfere with other electronic gadgets, which in Israeli-speak means that the iPad could possibly have figured in to some type of terrorist plot. What this really means: if this were to happen, would Apple then be considered a state-sponsor of terror, as it rightly should be? It's already got a lock on the SF Bay Area, which holds its own on several watch lists.

Shame on you, Israel, for not letting this come to pass.

ahem

It's been a bit amazing to me how, once I jump on this thing, I immediately forgo/forget all the previous little bits of information I've been intending to pass around. Or pass off. So be it.

But I've also been intending to get back to this blogspace -- yes, this is the cliched entry, the "I really really mean to write this time" post -- and frankly, it will or will not exist and devolve into that sort of realm. I haven't decided yet.

What do you get instead? Another digest post. Enjoy it. Deal with it.

• First off, I got the results from the short fiction challenge. Those of you who may have been following, essentially I got an honorable mention. It irks me. But it's probably correct. Considering the threat of power outage I was dealing with and the discomfort from the overall strictures of genre (Romance) and subject (Blindness), I did the best I could, but even realized it could have used another hour or two for re-reading. Here are the reviewer comments:
  
  

  ''ZATOICHI'' by Geoffery Metz - WHAT THE JUDGE(S) LIKED ABOUT YOUR SCRIPT - The narrative settles after the first four pages or so. All three characters here are well-rounded....A sad, realistic portrayal of unrequited love....I love the itemized, concrete inclusion of grocery items. This piece has a really great sense of narrative tone. Nice job relaying the backstory exposition for the origin of his blindness. There is some very unique use of language here that works quite well. Great concrete sensory elements. Nice, simplistic dialogue. I really like the off-beat characterizations here. Interesting ending. ...This story has a very strong narrative arc and excellent character development in Maxwell. I could absolutely feel his struggle and frustration, his thread of hope and his disappointment, they were quite well-drawn and well-executed. The descriptions of his tactile world were deftly handled, from grocery shopping to massaging Kaylia. I particularly liked the description of his neighborhood, the "olfactory gruel" that exists outside his window, how he is oppressed by the smells and sounds just beyond his sanctuary. These sensory details were all quite well done, and since this is a piece about a blind man, I think a careful realization of the sensory details makes all the difference. Good work..........................

  ......................................... WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - The narrative bounces between run-on and fragmented sentences, and fails to maintain a consistent tense. There are frequent grammatical errors, such as "Monday nights was his night." The faces on bills aren't raised--it's one of the blind contingent's most common complaints about American money, that it isn't blind-accessible....This story could use a bit of tightening grammatically....Try to avoid derivational suffixes like "sugariness". A few punctuation errors, nothing major. Avoid passive usage like, "Kaylia would lie on the beach."...A word about writing numbers: the rule is as follows -- one through nine are always spelled out, while 10 and above are represented by numerals, unless they begin a sentence, or some other, rare exception. So, in your story, you'd have, "He was 15 when they gave up on his eyes," and "The apartment had been his for 13 years." In the first paragraph, it should be "... whom he knew..." Also in that paragraph, it should be, "the kiwi" rather than "kiwi fruits." (Saying "kiwi fruits" is redundant -- like 'apple fruits,' or 'orange fruits' .) Same paragraph -- "Her voice WAS inflected..." I didn't understand the following lines: "Because of the curry Maxwell had switched markets." and "But the smell no longer interfered with his shopping." I think you need to include some sort of clarification there. The following line should read, "Monday night was his night..." (Not plural.) On page three of your text, try, "The sounds of broken English gave way to no English..." On page five, the line should read, "The two of them had been trying to get pregnant..." On page six, I'd cut "the table," since you've already described the whole table setting. "Masseur" needs to be in italics every time. Finally, "superhero" is one word..........................

  
  Not that bad. Really, I was expecting worse, and it still means I finished in the top 3%, rusty chops and all.


• Second, and as some others of you fearless readers may know, I am both a) a person who has been coached while playing hockey in his time, and b) an enjoyer of the San Jose Sharks since their inception. What that means to me is that I enjoy a very large amount of schadenfreude (italics intentional) from knowing how they continually fuck up while parading as a top flight NHL team. So I don't know what to do with myself now: they could potentially win tonight (Saturday), and advance to the second round, in spite of their best wishes.
  
  Do I mourn, do I rejoice? And in there lies the rub.
  
  
• For anybody who has taken the time to weed through my little hockey moment (should be in italics), I have to recommend the letters from Saul Bellow, seen behind the link. Unfortunately, you need a subscription. Fortunately, you could just pick a copy of The New Yorker and enjoy it, regardless.
  
  The biggest issue with this is now I feel like I need to write letters. The secondary issue? I need to write more letters.
  
  
• And finally, kudos to the boys of South Park for making Muhammed a bleeped-out word. Shame on everybody involved otherwise, but Trey and Matt have more than Orgazmo and Cannibal: The Musical for me to talk about them as two Satirists Who I Like To Watch^TM. Bravo (If that can be said drolly).

Good night, kids.

I'll take that dusty nose bleed on the left, please

I'm realizing I haven't updated this in a while. You will forgive me, I've been busy. But oh, the stories I have to tell, the events I have to share (anybody who has been a careful reader of this will realize the amount of poppycock buried in that statement).

The big news: The "Rufus" piece passed muster, got me to the second round of the writing contest. While I'm not going to vouch for my abilities in that thing, I will say that the final round naturally happened during the same day of the grand Nor'easter that hit, meaning I was tired, exhausted, needing some grand amounts of sleep meanwhile a storm raged on and I wrote under fear of life and power outage. Something like that could take the wind out of anybody's sails. But the end result, the piece, the story, the genre: Zatoichi, a romance involving blindness. Yeah. Just. My. Wheelhouse.

What I learned: writing under 24 hour deadlines sucks. i need to go back and reread everything here, rewrite from the ground up (essentially, read a graph or section, type it in again, adding what's necessary while in process). Three hours of sleep on a daylight savings weekend means I will probably be sick. Yay for me, for all the banalities that involves.

* * *

Other thoughts: first off, the Slate Culture Gabfest. I know, not what most people associate with this, but I've been an avid listener for awhile. And frankly, this most recent edition has one of the more depressing moments for if not the adaptability of the creatives -- and no, I don't mean the bobo graphic artists or even simple bloggers like, well, what I'm guilty of being right now -- but the real types, the writers, even the critics. Let's face it, without critics (barring of course the bullshit category that have all the breadth of an old man with formaldehyde in his veins), there'd be no reason to improve, no reason to fine-tune and advance some type of culture, even if it's a pop culture. The cue for this is the Variety story of them firing their critics -- basically, paid staff writers. The culprit: Marketers and marketing.

Years ago, a friend of mine complained that Advertisers were the biggest evil on the face of the earth. I guess she never met or understood marketers. It happens. I'm going to hold off on a rant here.

* * *

What else? I'm still feeling like somewhat ass. But I'm going to attempt to run errands tomorrow. Wish me luck, kids. Next stop: probably Bay Ridge.

Oh, and I'm going to stop sucking.

To contribute to said writer's funk, spiel, cautionary tale, angst, or your said schadenfreude,vicarious enjoyment, etc., don't. Don't do anything. Continue reading. Send him a note. feel free to laugh. Or respond. And watch out for the fur flying.

Here it is. Round one entry

I'll be brief for those venturing on here: this is the final (as in submitted) version of the story I entered for the NYC Midnight contest, round 1. Short, sweet, the parameters: Dogwalker, comedy. A comedy about a professional dog walker. Enjoy.

p.s. as a side note, please excuse any typos -- I might be an editor, but I'm a bit of a hack.

Rufus

Synopsis: Professional dog walker Francis Scott seeks therapy after an Affenpinscher dies while under his care.

Session 1

Wednesday, August 1, 200-

Time: 10:00 am

Length of session: 40 minutes

“I walked them all. The Shepherds, the Pomeranians, the Poodles and Setters. Toy breeds, Mastiffs, clients with three legs, clients with one eye and with bladder problems so severe they’re peeing on the welcome mat when you first get in. There was no client I turned down, no animal too wronged or sickly or distended. I was a caretaker, a guardian, a champion by proxy of my clients’ handlers and their sometimes other handlers and bosses. In my own way I was the king of them, sometimes with four strapped to my waist, clients so neurotic and matted the first thing they would do was mount your leg, others frightful of the very leash I was about to attach. They ate from my hand, they ate from a bowl, knew me and could smell me as I walked down the driveways or through the long building hallways, and not a one was ever freakish enough to get less than my Grade-A service. Yes, they had their handlers, but the clients looked for me, and for us it was our special time and they knew exactly that, when I would show up, they would be loved, adored, coddled and exercised. That’s all they asked for, and I gave it to them with joy and energy, with purpose. There’s no point in trying to hide that, and that’s something I tell anybody trying to get into this profession – the clients can smell when you don’t want to be there, and the biggest relationship-killer is them knowing you’re a put-uponer, a non-participant in their activities. The clients, they want to play, but they want to know they’re allowed to do so, safely, with supervision, to show off when they need to. But mostly, they want to defecate, and they can’t do that without you around, gleefully picking up their droppings. For them, it’s a souvenir, a token of affection. The least we can do, the engineers and facilitators, is return that affection.

“Clients? That’s the dogs. They don’t like being called anything else.

“I’ve been in this business for around 14 years. At the very least 14. I was finishing med school, about to go into residency, when my father takes me aside and offers me a role in the family practice. We’re sort of the Karamazov brothers of dog walking.

“The Karamazov’s didn’t have a family business? How about the Carnegies?

“We were big news, anyway, passing down our trade from generation to generation, a line of dog walkers from eastern Europe. It was my great-great-grandfather who brought his skills to Southern California. On a boat he made himself. He walked for the Habsburgs. It’s a proud family tradition.

“But now I’ve got blood on my hands. I can’t do it anymore. This business – it’s been in the family for years upon years upon centuries and different continents, and I lost one. Maybe it’s that disgrace. I know I need to get over it. This business is lucrative and I’ve got money saved, but I still get nervous about feeding my family. My wife looks at me with a sort of stink eye. My kids now piddle on the carpet. And all because I’d taken a job I shouldn’t have, out of the family norm.

“The handlers wanted me to sit for their client. Watch him, an Affenpinscher – really one of the more grotesque breeds an engineer can oversee – watch him over the course of a week. But I was a pro, and there was a potential client in need. His name was Rufus.

“That was too hard, his name. We should probably stop.

“When one of them would mount my leg – it’s a dominance thing, I’m sure you know. I kept a squirt bottle on my belt. Five parts water to one part lemon juice. That was usually enough. Before he retired, my father had suggested a Taser. But we could never get the voltage right.”

Session 2

Date: Wednesday, August 15

Time: 10:05 am

Length of session: 25 minutes

“We should probably get down the terms. The clients are the dogs. Their handlers, you’d call them owners. I am a Canine Activity Engineer, a dog walker. I had to get my Facilitator and Guardian certification to be a dog sitter. Are there any more questions from the last session? Good.

“Now I don’t know what you know about the breed. Say it with me – ‘Affenpinscher.’ Even the name is disgusting. Rodent chasers. Flat, simian face mounted on a canine body. Mustached, with dark hair clumped on the top of their heads and more hair crammed into every crook of their wiry, ugly little frames. They look like a mishandled cross-breed between a monkey and... a more superior dog, now that I think about it. This one, he exemplified that, but he’d also been dolled up in pink bows and a sparkly collar. The leash they had was completely inadequate – worn, scuffed, unflexing leather. There was a Hello Kitty bowl for his water, too. I felt bad for the guy, what with the levels of emasculation he probably endured throughout the course of his life. It’s rough enough looking like a failed farmyard miscegenation, but to be an Alpha surrounded by pink? That’s historically ironic, and probably why I took the job. I felt bad for him.

“Can we stop here for a second? I want to get to the rest of this, but right now I just need to take a breather.

“A guy came around the office yesterday. Really he was a kid. Spanking brand new engineer, looking for any insight into the industry. I gave him a look at my kit, the banana clips for attaching the extra leashes to your belt, the shin guards for the scuffing and potential rummaging under bushes, the extra waste bags, latex gloves, the necessary tie-downs in the case of an overly rambunctious client. The first thing they go for is the pant legs, always remember that. I left out the bit about the spray bottle, it’s a trade and family secret. I told him the most important thing is to always leave the client wagging their tail, happy, hungry for more. Watch out for other handlers and engineers, and don’t ever lose them to birds. Depends on the breed, anyway. Always know your breed. Every breed, every client, they have weaknesses, things they like to chase. Always know what they are.

“He asked for a slogan. I told him mine was taken.

“You haven’t heard it? There’s radio spots, billboards. I saw one on the drive over.

“That surprises me. The market saturation is huge.

“I forget cat people exist sometimes. Nothing against them, they’re beautiful creatures. No business in them though. Anyone can walk a cat. Don’t take that personally.

“For your reference, the slogan is ‘Walks with Francis Scott: When Your Precious Dog Drops, We’ll Stand By to Mop Up The Plop.’

“Does that break a rule? The word ‘dog’? You know I never thought about that before. Maybe this occupational hiccup is for the best. I was entertaining dreams of franchising.”

Session 3

Date: Tuesday, August 21

Time: 4:45 pm

Length of session: 45 minutes

“My wife has taken to showing me Marcel Marceau videos, and I break down whenever the dog goes for the second tree. She’s also now complaining about my weight. This can’t keep going on. So bear with me. I’m going to do this the best I can.

“Let’s start with the details I know. There was a branch he had somehow perched himself on. Maybe he jumped from the bird bath. Maybe he flew. I have to assume it was because of the squirrels. The tree is riddled with them, and as I’ve said before, this breed is a rodent chaser. He chases a squirrel as big as himself up the trunk then leaps off before I have any chance to react. I run to where he’s lying. He gets up. He walks inside. This was in the backyard.

“He was about eight pounds. Is that what you’re asking? I usually measure them. I’m not sure why I didn’t this time.

“I should backtrack a bit. I haven’t talked about the Fitzgeralds yet, correct? Patent attorneys, man and wife, childless, not expecting. Going off on a holiday to Borneo. They were one of these couples that, because they were never going to have any progeny of their own needed to simulate the effects with a proxy. In this case, Rufus. I’m still not sure why they had him dressed in pink but it’s not my responsibility to ask these questions. They tied the bows and had him manicured and fluffed and teased and primped, giving him his own room with stuffed animals and toys, strewn all over. Again, not too surprising with this class of handler. Before leaving, they advanced me some of the fee and a warning about the backyard, and showed me where they had already fenced off the tree. But, as dogs will dig, Rufus found a way under. So be it.

“More details – the water dish was in the kitchen. Toys, balls, bones as well. His favorite was a cat toy, a stuffed plush rat with kibble stowed inside. Again, it’s not my job to ask questions. We get back inside, he goes immediately for it. I try to separate him from it, that doesn’t work. I try to distract him and take it away, but his teeth are sunk in deep. Again, so be it. What I forget to do is close the back door. In comes a squirrel, and immediately the two square off. Claws, barks, squeals, all of it. I don’t know what had gotten into this thing, but it was a squirrel and it was bent on revenge. Rufus chases it off. Without a scratch on him, he chases it off.

“I walk over to the door, seal it. To make sure Rufus is not interfered with again. He’s had enough excitement, and now I can hear him slobbering and chewing and making little squeal-like grunting noises. I double-check all the locks, yank on the handle to make sure it’s secure, and return to the kitchen, where Rufus is lying on the ground, incapacitated. I check for a pulse. No pulse. I try mouth-to-mouth. I still have that musty flavor of iams in my mouth. It scratches like a desert. He’s dead. I breathe and pump. He’s still dead.

“Give me a second.

“I think his heart gave out. From too much excitement. He was three, if I remember right.

“I buried him. Under the same tree. My wife had suggested having him stuffed and mounted, but I couldn’t leave him to that indignity, turned into a showpiece and a paperweight and an artifact of some great and formerly glorious squirrel catcher. I couldn’t leave him as a sham. I removed the bows, tracked down a garden trowel, buried him in a hat box. I gave him his toy.

“Of course I took off the bows. Would you be put to rest in pink?”

Session 4

Date: Wednesday, August 29

Time: 9:45 am

Length of session: 7 minutes

“Doc, sorry to call you on such short notice, but I’m going to end our sessions. I’ve embarked on a different career path which I’m really excited about and see a great economic future in. Turtle polishing. It seems safer, and I’m already developing a new brand of wax for the profession. I’ve got a friend and we’re working on the patent, just in case.

“Not the Fitzgeralds, but I understand why you’re thinking that.

“So anyway the sessions won’t be necessary going forward. But I wanted you to know that your help has been immeasurable.

“In my house? How many dogs? My father liked to keep them around, but frankly with my wife, and since the kids, we’ve felt it would be safer without. We’re strictly a bird house nowadays.”

Six Shooters Out

Well, it's nearing now, the end of my Jesus Year, and it appears I will survive after all (although this breakout of snow is definitely one last snigger if the higher power intimated in the label of the year is in fact said to exist). But I digress, with parentheticals, etc.

I've been in for the most part today, save for the foray to pick up some chinese, nursing wounds and exhaustion from the week prior. So what did I do today? Watched this:

Watch Six Shooter in Entertainment | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Now, I'm not sure how much you know about the film. The director/writer: Martin McDonagh, of In Bruges fame, among others. Now, I was 50/50 on that film as well, what with the film's ham-handed usage of midgets for personal redemption, and Ralph Fiennes essentially doing a knockoff of Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast. And frankly, I'm not sure how I feel about this one, either.

Watch it, come back.

Are you done? Well, the parts seemed genuine enough, although the boy annoyed the hell out of me. And frankly I don't know how earned his role was. Also, the ending, while a nice bout of understatement, ultimately rubbed me the wrong way in that it undercut something that seemed like a genuine attempt at reaching something deeper, but instead lapsed into something of a punchline.

Now, I'm not going to say that McDonagh doesn't have potential, and he probably could make himself a very decent legacy if he stays with it (stupid comment, I understand), but his voice seems to have a certain sense of immaturity and inconfidence in the way that he finishes his products. This one: I would have liked to see a rewrite of the child. He was the only unbelievable aspect. Also, the cow story, for all its gloriousness, was essentially a tack on and unnecessary, and ultimately tipped the film.

There's a voice here, most assuredly, but (and here's the context of the post) I'm not going to spend $60+ of my hard-earned dough to see a production from this writer, as uneven as they seem to be. Oh yeah, the production, currently on Broadway: A Behanding in Spokane. Sounds titillating, but I suspect yet again he will not have control of his material.

Now, talk amongst yourselves. I should sleep. I'm not dead yet.

Max iPad Ruminations

Congratulations, Apple. Your hype machine works. I'd forgotten how effective this thing was, but, what with the revealing of the iPad and the subsequent "I want this" lowing of the peanut-gallery generation (read: anybody who has a keyboard and who has ever used an iphone), you've shown the world that yet again your ability to unleash a half-baked, first generation product upon the masses is unsurpassed in the world of hyped up Edsels (read: Silicon Valley. Also, I'm talking to you, Google and Nexus One).

I should be fair here. Apple has unleashed a slick, well-constructed device. It's polished. It does everything you might ask of it, and I'm sure, given Apple's multimedia-friendly outlook, it will do all of them beautifully. And Apple has always been good with the business model aspect of things: starting with the iTunes store, they established a model that worked beautifully for the music world, then tvs, and now are hoping it will apply to books. And it looks like, from the early adoption by various publishers, it just might work out. And frankly, I can't cry about having a venue for magazine subscription service on a display that can give it justice.

But, dammit, they whiffed on the OS. I've been staring at this thing, really staring at it, and trying to figure out what type of user experience they were envisioning. I don't know about you, but when I read, I like background music. Esp. magazines. And with the old iPhone OS not being able to multitask, it fails that. Blah blah blah blah, noise machines will want their own devices. But frankly, if it can't accommodate all possible experiences, then it's not quite ready to be hatched.

Okay, I lost my train of thought. Ruminations and otherwise. I think it's time to visit the social security office. Wish me luck.

two more entries in the portmanteau hall of shame (or, how marketers are destroying the world and western civilization one dictionary entry at a time

First things, the portmanteau. A combination of two words, for instance "stay" and "vacation," to create a third: "staycation." Usually created by marketing departments. Usually by marketing departments who think the sum of all corporate intelligence can be summed up by their hello kitty doll and/or supersoaker situated at the foot of their desks. And who can't think without sitting in a committee.

Well, we have two more entries.

• Mancession,
• Bleisure.

Discuss. I need to poke a hot skewer through my ears.

And now the rust and the mysterious wonder chicken

I've spent this last week trying to recapture the writing. The ease, the voice, the words falling on top of one another in a seeming intuitive, natural sequence. This probably more than anything puts too much stock in last week's writing, considering that everything is better in revision, but frankly I can't find a voice right now and my layering upon layering of thoughts is not creating a cohesive or interesting whole. So be it.

With the rest of the week, what have I done? Downloaded tax information. Went to a hockey game. Ate way too much chinese food. Washed laundry.

And now, I'm awake and way too alert and am needing to move onto something again. I'm not sure what right now. It might be time to write a pulp. I need to refind that smell of blood.

* * *

As some of you may know, I live on the Nostrand line, 2/5 in Brooklyn. I work in Midtown. And that means I get green (as in line) to travel there. Which can be a nightmare. Overstuffed, musty, the lingering of somebody's flank just so from your nose for at least twenty minutes of the trip. But I've never seen anything quite like this. Enjoy, kids, it's less nightmare than sheer bliss.



Oh yeah. And please notice the judicious refrain from the word "funky" anywhere in this post.

And thenceforth our spam will be grilled and tinged with the flavor of musabi curry

This will be a short one. A few notes:
1) is anybody else tickled that, when they open up the spam folder in gmail, the ads at the top of the screen display recipes for the canned-mystery-meat-and-congealed-salt-lick of its namesake (i.e., spam)?

2) The story was happily completed on Saturday, although to be frank, I wish I had a chance to revise yet again. But in the way that only a week's worth of sitting time could have allowed. Final word count: around 2,050 words.

3) When I was a younger lad, about the age off 22, I was sitting at a restaurant bar in Columbia, Md., waiting on a friend to get off work. A man of African descent asks me if I'd ever "Played the Jones," which he went on to explain was essentially the "Your momma" series of jokes and that he wouldn't expect a pasty white boy like myself to know it, so no hard feelings. I looked this up recently on Urban Dictionary -- apparently it involves a crack habit. So I can't vouch for its fealty, but it's something that's bugged me.

UPDATE: In the course of writing this post, I discovered the proper spelling. "Joans." On the link, definition one. Damn, I'm white.

The Stare Down

What is it about the competition where four-figure payoffs are at stake the I feel the need to size up the opponents? Okay, what is it about competition period that makes me need to size them up?

As some of you may know, I'd signed up, in my writing rehab program (not to be confused with an actual, structured program of any sort of which I am painfully, sadly remiss), for a Short-fiction contest. One week, one story, they give you the genre and the subject. And you compete, in the first round, with about 20 other people. Naturally, the names are published, naturally, it's there for the world to see.

So yesterday, I end up hacking out about 800 words for this (max: 2,500), comedy, dog walker. Today, I push it to the end. Final is probably about 1,900 before revision, which could easily add another. What do I do to get it going this morning? If you said "Drink coffee," you get a gold star. If you said "Pace around the apartment semi-nude," you get a gold star. If you said "Masturbate until your [phallus] is raw," you can keep your gold star (I don't want to know where it's been). But I also decide to see who the competition is.

I'm flashing back now: times at whiskeys, smokey, barroom pool table, we each hate each other idyllically. To get ready for a game, I would stare at the opponent, samurai-style, eyes slits and stick piked in front, waiting to be impressed. At least, the games I almost won.

I have to say, I'm kind of a competitive jerk.

* * *

Apart from Monday's writing not being nearly so tangent-inducing, it also started with a different scenario. If you said "Reading John Gardner," you get a gold star (if you're one of the masturbation people, you can keep your own star again).

But, and this is now completely an aside, meaning it will be brief, before the blog gets taken over: I finish the story. What is it about it, that, even in its first-draft form, I feel the need to foist it on others like a cat with a dead bird?

Maybe this is part of the rehab.

manic episodes on the post post proust goals find

It shouldn't be a secret I don't like making resolutions. I marginally like making plans, so the idea of making a promise to myself that I'm supposed to adhere to on the passing of an arbitrary calendar date has never fueled my inspirational fire. Frankly, my moods/desires are based more moment-by-moment, much like a certain person acknowledges a hunger and sates it with, say, mcdonalds. Sadly, yes, mcdonalds.

But I have a goal today. And I might succeed with it. As some have seen, I've picked up the reading yen since living on subway lines, and, having spent my waking subway hours chasing John Banville with Saul Bellow, I've decided to go to their bastard, three-way love child with Jose Saramago: John Gardner.

I knoww, this will sound odd. I don't like American authors. In fact, the cult of narcissism being the only real legacy of the great (small 'g' intentional) authors from the 60s and 70s, I have no real lust for them. But for anybody who has ever taken a writing course, Gardner is a ghost that must be dealt with. Why? He wrote probably the best how-to books on what a novel, what a story, is. And, thoughts on Grendel aside, he represents something apart from it. Frankly, that represents the last novel I read that just gave me absolute, unequivocal joy. But his books are impossible to find.

So now, my quest, and I do choose to accept it, is to find him. One of his books (not Grendel). Any one.

But first, I shower. And maybe pick up some socks.

2009, redux (in a pit of sausage, cheap chianti and, frankly, some of the stuff they put in fast food soda)

I've let the year sit now. Settle. Die, rest, subside, subdue. And so my emotions for the year -- and frankly, the decade -- will not be nearly as descriptive and entertaining as probably should be. For a blog. For, what this genre is, a mock-memoir.

But really, how does one start this? The biggest thing, the happiest thing, is that I finally left San Francisco. No offense to the people back there but it was a bad fit, akin to hiring the bubble boy for a sanatorium. And when does this start?

2002, and a possible transfer. I was getting tired of what I was doing in the place I was at and was seeing someone long-distance in Maryland. There was an opening in the Boston office. Succinctly, with little ado save for the emails that met me between when I sent the inquiry (not request) to when I got into work, the thing was shot down. Not to dwell, but the seeds were planted.

Now, I'm not going to talk too much about myself. I love myself, but I understand that such vanity has led to my hopeless, quashed ambitions and desires. I have a healthy understanding of that. And yes, this is a blog and I understand that and I will work to not make this too antithetical to the nature of blogs, but I can't make this about me me me me me. That should have been in italics. I fail.

Long story in short-form: I leave the company, test life possibilities, have a nightmare roommate that makes me sleep with a knife under my pillow, rejoin to transfer, get side-tracked by authority. There should also be a capital 'A.'I fail again.

Fast-forward to 2009. The transfer happens which, considering the creative differences that have rended the cohesion of the supe-staff, I let happen. It feels early. It was probably just right.

And now I ask the question: how damaging do I want to be on this? To myself, I mean. It's a blog, but, for the feeling of inprivacy with these. People will read this. I can't help it or control it. And really, how intense were the emotions towards the end? Or at least, reliably, trustworthy, soundly and foolproof...ly? I can't be certain.

I'm going to make this short, to save face. 2009 essentials: I get strep. I discover Love and Beauty (damaged as it is). I lose great friends and get strep again. Realizing the baggage and being pragmatic, Love and Beauty leaves. Gets relegated to Like and Fetching, but there's still hurt. In a fit of redemption (small 'r'), I reconnect with great friends. Damage is still done. In my fit of trying to connect, as one last hurrah, the move-out is a disaster, it's too early and I'm not ready. I feed crack habits on the last day of my existence on the west coast, so much dumping on the streets of the Tenderloin. Move. Rain. Pleasant Rain. Hills & Hastings. New office, same job. Different clients, job no longer the same. Move again, midnight. Survive and survive and survive and survive.

To be frank, it's not been a bad year. Yes, I'm essentially in the spot I was ten years ago, when the fateful decision came down between New York and San Francisco, and I chose San Francisco, what with being close to family and all. Transposed ten years later, the decision seems fraught. The family was ultimately a non-starter. The community was sorely lacking (again, this is not meant against friends, but the town of SF needs a good editor, and the ability to accept one).

Hairline receding, hypertensive, I can now say this: The year, the years, have left me with a new start with perspective. Twenty-ten. The new environs, it's the seriousness, man. People give a shit. They get their emotions into things banal trite cold but it's an honesty, a respect. I'm working on it, goddammit. I will be here.

A friend told me this place will give you energy, but will feed off your energy as well. I haven't gotten the feed yet.

But the stimulus is still sinking in. Maybe with perspective and the survive I'll do something. If not, at least I have seasons.

Staycation 2010(R) Day Two, and a bit of Day Three (or, a not so exciting thing happened on the way to the Forum)

I woke up this morning thinking about my taxes. Or rather, the Herculean feat that will be my taxes, circa 2009, circa waiting-on-the-w2-to-work-out-the-two-state-nightmare form filing season. Let me recap.

January. New Year. Living in California. The state practically falls apart fiscally. June rolls around. I roll out.

Now New York. First need to figure out the new tax system. Next need to figure out the calculations for Calif. Then need to figure out the calculations for New York. Pro-rating twice, city tax and not to mention write-offs (where to apply?) and applicable laws and debits and donations and slovenly, break-your-calculator-type worksheets and side forms.

I woke up to this today. After the nightmare of moving to Florida.

* * *

About The White Ribbon. I took the time out of my busy neuroses yesterday to view this film, running down to the Film Forum to check it out.

First off, it looks lovely. Black & white, pre-WWI farm village, slightly European pastoral, if you take European pastoral to mean a slight distrust for the more rural of settings and people to the point that everything surrounding is banal to the point of creepy. (Side note: replace banal with folksy in that sentence and you get the American version of this phenomenon.)

Anyway, the movie is a lot to digest, essentially a frame around a teacher's growing disenchantment in this village where a bunch of bizarre incidents and brutalities happen, and the weirdest bunch of kids since either Village of the Damned or Children of the Corn.

I can recommend, but don't be afraid to be disappointed.

Staycation 2010(R) Day One (or, how I literally poured my time down a slime-caked sink hole)

That was day one. Not any debauched party replete with hookers, strippers, lawn gnomes and marmots and/or ferrets. No, I played with a dirty, stopped up sink.

I am going to leave now, let the chemicals work their magic. Or sit and eat at the porcelain.

Debauched, chemical-hued stories to come (probably from the fumes now permeating the suite). The scent of failure has never smelled so...heady and bleachy? The room smells like coffee made from pool water. As in swimming pool.

UPDATE:
So apparently, during the writing of this post, the drain found itself to be responsive and subsequently, well, drained. As of yet, there are no reports of wet tracks on the wall below, the wall in the kitchen. Score one for 1970s and $40-worth of domestic technology. And if it does end up in the kitchen that will make for some interesting meatballs. I'll keep you posted.

Staycation, 2010

So I've embarked on a Staycation, having one for this entire week. A week to myself. As distressing as that will sound to anybody who has actually had the pleasure of spending fifteen minutes with me will surely identify, and as unfortunate as having to pull that odious portmanteau out does signify. But I digress. I will have a week for this.

Do I have any goals? I hear the sirens' chorus invoke. There will be a list, but I'm not about to let this post delve into the ruminative sort. The short form:
1) declare martial law in Calif (sorry, that bad breakup will not completely end, although it's a goal).
2) delete "Thanks!" from the lexicon unless a service has actually been rendered, after the fact, and adequately so.
3) spread puppies and kittens, love and joy to everyone.

And what will I really accomplish? Stay tuned. The bloody, horrific details will be chronicled. Until then, teasers from NYE: