A couple posts will stick around.
Everything else is moving to
A couple posts will stick around.
Everything else is moving to
I recently had a conversation about food and the importance of it. Art came up in the conversation.
Here’s why two and a half minutes of Miami Vice are better than any food or consumable. Because no one else can do it. No one can create Starry Night again. No one can write Ficciones again. No one can compose Rites of Spring again.
Food is repeatable. That’s mostly the point. You have a recipe, you have a dish.
Wine is at least a rarity. And, of course, so are some food dishes. But if you’re eating rare food dishes, you aren’t reading this blog. Odds are, you don’t even use the Internet. If you’re worrying about how long your Kobe beef was massaged during calf-hood, you aren’t worried about what anyone has to say about … well, much of anything. You probably throw your socks and underwear out after wearing them once. You probably think they just magically appear laid out on your bed too.
Film in general gets the shaft. If you’re of a certain education level, you dismiss most film as populist entertainment. Just look at how Miramax came about in the 1990s and it’s clear there’s a market for hipster movies. And there still is (did anyone see the Brothers Bloom trailer?). Writers are terrible about it. So are academics. I think writers piss me off the most because they tend to dismiss it because it isn’t writing. Look at, for example, Jaws. Super populist. Deeper than almost every hipster movie in the last ten years. Why? Well, simply, because people were smarter then. High school graduates knew more words then than they do now (but not as many as graduates knew in the late 1940s, which is why you don’t get a lot of solid mid-range filmmakers anymore, there’s just no market for them).
With few exceptions, the best filmmakers of today were already working in some capacity in the 1970s. Certainly among American filmmakers.
I go to Table 6 and get the Roasted Lamb Collar because I know it’s good. Because I’ve had it before and they can duplicate it. Nothing duplicatable really compares to this….
And nothing compares to the end of Broadway Danny Rose either.
No fucking way.
I never realize how much I like weekends until I have two on call in a row.
This last one made some money (the one before didn’t); enough I would have gotten the wife that netbook if she’d wanted it. The thing’s so small when I asked if the screen was longer than my cock, she had to think real hard. (the screen won, but I hear it’s the girth that matters anyway). But the money’s only a band-aid. For it to make a real difference, it’d have to be something like … hmm … if 30x=600 … 20 calls. 20 calls, if they weren’t terrible and were properly spaced, wouldn’t be impossible. I think coworker1 got 25 calls over the Thanksgiving weekend last year–when I was enjoying a fine Thanksgiving dinner catered from Le Central, the decent French place (is it snobby to have a decent French place and then the French place you really like).
Speaking of which, am I having the fam in for Thanksgiving this year? I think my dad invited himself. My sister might be busy. I was kind of hoping my friend D would come in because we had such a good time when he visited over New Year’s and this time I wouldn’t have to take any time off, but it’s not looking promising. I saw that and he’ll probably be crashing on my couch come November anyway.
Hopefully, the wife’s mom and grandmother are coming out for Christmas. I say hopefully because odds are I’m going to fuck up by then.
But back to this weekend.
I’m going to read. I already know that.
Sunday morning I think I’m going to get agent queries together and then just print out the pages and use the postage at work on Monday.
I haven’t decided if I’m drinking Sunday. If I were just giving it up because I were trying to be healthy, I’d definitely do it. But the last drink yesterday hit me pretty hard. Could have been the Diet Crush. Whatever it was, not sure I want to be drinking hard Sunday. It might make me real sick, so I could stay up late Saturday and get ripped. But I suppose that move isn’t a wise one either.
So what to do with the weekend?
Sleep; read; watch a movie (I was thinking Once and a George Sanders Saint and something else, maybe the Towering Inferno, but then I remembered the podcast movies). No idea when we’re recording the next episode so I guess it doesn’t matter too much.
What else … gym. Obviously. On Saturday
I’m not tweeting these because I’m drunk
And I don’t want to be annoying.
Well, honestly, I don’t want to be annoying to like … four people who follow me.
Because I’m drunk. Ish.
That probably was like four shots of vodka.
Gmail footer dynamically changes. First it said something about importing from yahoo and outlook and now it says to add shit to my contact list. Fuck my google contact list. It has EVERYONE I’ve ever emailed.
You know what my phone numbers, notes and more are for people?
Neither do I.
So I’m editing this picture I took of myself at the gym.
I don’t know why I took it. Oh, wait, yes I do. Because I looked–imo–good. I look like an asshole taking a picture of himself in a mirror with an iPhone in the picture though.
Motherfucker, gmail just changed again. It’s telling me I can get gmail on my phone! Wow. On my rotary dial phone? Shit. I don’t know how to access the browser. Fucking douchebags at google, use the right motherfucking language. cell phone, mobile phone. Whatever the fuck. Not motherfucking phone. Phones have been around, what, seventy goddamn years. They didn’t have “web browsers” until the last ten. At most.
It’s weird to think I grew up with some of this shit.
I have big hands. I never realize it sober. Drunk or stoned, all the time. In pictures too apparently.
I ought to be thrilled, since I was always worried–after Raging Bull–I had small hands.
I also used to be worried I had a small cock.
Amazing how finding out grown women–28 to my … 20?–couldn’t stop talking about it changes one’s perception of things.
Motherfuck. Looking at my gmail footer change again. I’d like to catch it doing it; watch pot and all.
Just the right amount.
The pig mask thing is a reference to something Dan Savage said on the Savage Lovecast.
Work shoes… fuck, who makes them? They’re some kind of leather athletic thing. White guy shoes.
So, back when I was … twenty-two I recut an incredibly shitty movie–Gia–into an incredibly good movie. I think I was twenty-two. That was still when I was going to transfer to NYU and work at my friend’s sister’s editing house. It’s like three fucking lifetimes ago and it’s been eight years.
My DBBF called it The Thin White Girl due to the reliance on music and quiet. It wasn’t exactly easy, because Michael Cristofer is a film criminal of the first order. Thought he was Bob Fosse or something. Douche.
It’s like the only movie where Angelina Jolie is any good. I mean, I suppose she was okay in Changeling, but she wasn’t good.
It was a lot of work. I opened it with “Changes.” Then Michael Mann came along with Ali and stole my opening idea. Great minds and all, I suppose.
Blog’s changing a bit (again). Maybe a lot. Fuck if I know. I’m drinking cheap vodka in a diet rockstar again.
(My title for the Gia recut was The Brightest Angel). But anyway.
Someone asked. Well, not just someone, M1.
It’s not all friends.
I love going to see movies with DBBF. And even with my friend D, though he and I don’t really like the same kind of movie anymore.
No, now I’m getting roped into seeing Star Trek in IMAX on opening weekend. Why? Because a friend of mine HAS to see it. But he HAS to see it soon. Like it fucking matters if we wait a week. Next weekend, not this weekend, we’re hoping to see it with this guy I knew in middle school who lives nearby (he was at that party last weekend). I don’t want to see Star Trek twice. Even if it’s okay, I don’t want to see it twice. The era of seeing okay summer movies twice with different sets of friends (I mean, shit, with this first friend, the one from grad school, shit… I had to see Iron Man twice because of him) is long over. It was fine in 1989, when I’d go see Batman and Weekend at Bernie’s multiple times with different friends. It was probably even fine in 1992, when I went to go see Buffy the Vampire Slayer a couple times with different friends. Or 1998–I saw the Faculty a couple times.
But not anymore. And not Star Trek? I mean, nobody wants to go see Redbelt multiple times with me.
The PC had trouble running the following (at once): excel, chrome, tweetdeck, yahoo messenger, itunes and… something else… maybe internet explorer. Oh, and some shitty freeware PDF viewer that lets you do mark-up.
The Mac is currently running: Mailplane, ecto, tweetie, yahoo messenger, Drive Genius, Mail, Time Machine, Growl, iStat.
Guess which one works better? Yeah, the much slower (by the numbers above) Mac. I’d love to install Intel Leopard on the PC but I a) don’t know how and b) probably shouldn’t futz with a work computer so definitively.
Oh, I also tend to have Yojimbo, Excel, Word and Taskpaper open on the Mac without problems.
iTunes is a different story. Since I use SimplifyMedia to play the home library and because that’s another app that’d be running and using up resources, I just have my iPhone plugged into speakers and run SimplifyMedia off it. I can’t search and can’t repeat playlists, but it’s a small price.
So what can’t the Mac do?
Well, most online video apparently. The PC–I think–can. The G4 PPCs always sucked for mpeg-4 and now that youtube’s gone over to it… well, it’s a good thing I’ve got the iPhone around in a pinch. If I just desperately need to watch youtube, because it comes up so often. Though I suppose if someone were to send me a link to a Coldplay music video… like Fix Me… I’d want to watch that.
I can’t play any games on the Mac. I mean, I suppose I could if I wanted to dig up a bunch of three or four year old games. But since I’ve had the iPod touch/iPhone, I haven’t given a shit about computer games to kill the time. iPhone games are much better for the short five minute diversions.
Well crap, Port Map doesn’t work with whatever shitty router they’ve got here. Because it’s ancient, I’m sure (or because I’m connected straight to the DSL modem via wireless). Doesn’t really matter. Don’t need a lot of home access to the work computer. I could set up logmein.
I just realized I could set up Bento to make emergency forms. That’d be kind of neat I suppose. Seems like a lot of work.
So what’s the benefit to the Mac at work? Well, Mailplane’s superior. So’s Yojimbo (Yojimbo actually makes my job–that actual job I rarely do–much easier and faster). Tweetie’s kind of better than tweetdeck. Kind of. There’s a lot I don’t like about Tweetie, but it’s the best native Mac twitter client I’ve used.
Spotlight’s another big deal. I have Google Desktop on the PC but it’s freaking useless; running Leopard, which has a much more intensive Spotlight than Tiger did (and therefore shouldn’t run well on this shitty PPC), I’m able to pull up whatever I want. When I need it.
I’ve never really had a real use for Spotlight. At home, I use it to delete old files I haven’t opened or some shit. But here, at work… in a few days, it’s totally changed the way I do my job.
Of course, I do still have 56 to do items in my email. But I’m slacking on those because I’m lazy and I was lazy on the PC too.
Textexpander. I’ve got textexpander running too.
So, waiting between sets, I figured I’d make use of iStayFit’s notepad feature (since you can’t leave the app and have the timer continue).
Here’s everything from 5/7/09
* * *
A tomato falls
Splats on the sidewalk
I step in it
A landing clamp
Open on the floor
Takes me to space
Muscles in my arm
I’ve never seen before
Start to hurt
I cough up blood
It covers my lips
Not that pretty
* * *
Live twitting the podcast with a designated twitter account?
Listener voted shows?
What the heck is our email?
Tell cohost to think of the next show’s movies so we can announce them
Does port map work on work mini? Can I set up dydns?
Is any external hard drive built to last?
A g4 mini as a work machine. Notes for the blog
* * *
The first series is me working haikus because I’m freaking lazy and I don’t write poetry and I remember how much I liked writing haikus in undergrad with the prominent Japanese American poet who’d rather talk about hamburgers than poetry.
The second bit is a list of podcast-related stuff.
No idea why I want port map working at work. I think so I can reset remotely?
Is any external hard drive built to last is a reaction to something I heard on the macgeekgab.
The G4 Mini as a work machine… I’m thinking about writing about using this ancient, broken machine for work—and having it be superior to the newer XP PC.
I didn’t discover Tom Waits until I was … 17, 18. One of the two. I can’t remember how–maybe through a Jim Jarmusch movie. I hope it wasn’t because I was curious who Renfield was in Coppola’s Dracula–which I’ll admit here and now … I like as I walked home from seeing it when I was fourteen. Or thirteen. How I got into that R-rated movie but couldn’t get into Unforgiven is beyond me.
But at some point I got douchebag best friend to listen to him. He might have started listening to him around the same time.
We were supposed to use Semi Suite in some student film. It’s so lame calling it a student film. What else do you call it? A short film made in undergrad? I mean, for some of them, I technically was a “video production” or whatever the fuck my prestigious almamater called it major. Or pledge.
But it’s frustrating not to know what project is was. Douchebag best friend probably doesn’t remember ….
It might have been the adaptation of Cathedral, the Raymond Carver. Now, I know everyone gets all gooey over Short Cuts, but–as a writer–reading Carver then seeing that movie? It’s one of the worst adaptations in film, because Altman doesn’t get it. And I love (and hate) a lot of Altman. But it’s kind of like that Gary Sinise story about Ken Kesey. Sinise just put on some grandoise Cuckoo’s Nest adaptation and Kesey was blaise about it. Kesey told Sinise his favorite Cuckoo’s Nest production was a high school one. And Sinise mocked him in the interview for it. Who’d know better?
The Cathedral short never happened.
My douchebag best friend, the reluctant actor of so many shorts, didn’t want to headline, didn’t want to give the part to his wife’s gay friend, who was too young.
And we just kind of forgot about it.
But it would have been amazing. I’d been watching a bunch of Fellini at the time–good and bad as Fellini’s are–and it would have been amazing. Funny the best film script I ever wrote was the last one, the one I did nothing with. I don’t even have a copy anymore.
But, no, we weren’t going to use Semi Suite in that one.
In fact, I think the Semi Suite thing was just some bullshit–like my douchebag best friend would play it on the jukebox or something.
I’m listening to I’ll Be Gone (Moby + Patti LaBelle)–for a couple reasons, 1) coworker1 hates it and she’s been texting for the last twenty minutes so fuck her and 2) Miami Vice.
Until recently, Mann always had at least one great cinema moment in his films. Thief has one, Manhunter has one (“my man”), Last of the Mohicans (theatrical, not director’s), Heat has three or four, Miami Vice has one (the I’ll Be Gone sequence). Insider doesn’t, Collateral doesn’t. Et cetera, et cetera. Public Enemies will not, Ali doesn’t have any.
Other great moments–The Last Temptation of Christ, the ending. Henry Fool, the ending.
Those are the ones I’m thinking of now … maybe the helicopter rescue in Superman (maybe).
These are cinematic payoff sequences, where the medium just skyrockets in potential. Most movies don’t have things like them, most great movies don’t have things like them (Kubrick never had one of these). They’re somewhat populist moments. I’m trying to think of another example and I really can’t. Mann’s kind of the best for them, just because he understands that kind of payoff storytelling.
In grad school, when I was still working towards a story collection versus a novel, I used to want to write something with one of those cinematic payoffs. It’s incredibly hard to even conceive of a way to get them down in a draft, much less edit them, much less make them successful. I’m trying to think of a novel with one of those moments. Cat’s Cradle has one. Vonnegut has them, but he usually saves them for the endings. In Cat’s Cradle, he does it early. Bluebeard’s got a great one.
Novels don’t tend to work in moments like that. In singularly memorable moments … not even punch in the gut ones, just moments in general.
As a going present, my professor/mentor gave me an annotated copy of Dracula. I fucking hate Dracula. I wrote an essay about how much I hated Dracula–and she read it out loud because I was busy with my mom’s … I guess memorial service is what it’d be called. So I couldn’t figure out why she was giving it to me.
HUGE Dracula reference in the novel. About it sucking no less. And I totally forgot about it. And giving a copy of Dracula as a gift was part of the fucking scene in the novel. I felt like a douchebag. It’s probably the second most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten. No, first. The only competition was when my dad got me this Muppet Show soundtrack CD. So I douched on this great gift, because it wasn’t a memorable part of my own fucking novel. I mean, I kind of recovered–I blamed it all on being a drunken dipshit.
No big cinematic moments in the novel, the first one (no idea what’ll happen in the second). In fact, one of my advisors told me to put one in–the eureka moment–to make it more sellable and I argued for about two hours to not. It was a funny scene–I mean, I hated this two-faced woman but she did know some stuff and sellable was one of them–because we were in this “family friendly” coffee shop and there was this kid around and we both kept swearing and getting nervous looking, like we’d get 86’d.
I think I’d like to do one of those moments. Paul Pope does an amazing one in 100% (ending). But they’re not easy in literature. I”m pretty sure T.C. Boyle’s never had one, no for Rick Moody. Pynchon has a bunch, obviously, but he always cuts them short. I feel like I just read another one–besides Cat’s Cradle–but I can’t remember what.
So, when I was … nineteen? Eighteen, maybe. Not twenty. Maybe seventeen. I’d go up to visit my douchebag best friend and we’d get some coke. We never did the pot thing (seperately, but by the time I had a car and the desire to go up and visit, we’d moved on to coke).
Our dealer connection went like this.
First it was my dbbf’s friend/roommate who’d get the coke from his pot dealer (who got it from someone else). Pot dealer looked like a red-haired Ted Neely.
So eventually, it got to the point we could go straight to the pot dealer.
Then it got to the point I could go along with the pot dealer to pick up from his supplier.
Apparently, and I only kind of remember this one and I don’t remember it being a big deal, I once scared the living shit out of the pot dealer while fucked up on … ritalin probably and drunk off my ass, speeding through rural West Michigan while blaring Tom Jones in the car.
I mean, I believe a lot of this story. I did used to drive 100 miles an hour (we got it up to 120 once, which fucking rocked). I mean, dbbf was screwing his girlfriend in the back seat. I didn’t really want to drive slow, right? I wasn’t worried about him finishing or whatever, I wanted the car ride to be over.
I did snort a lot of ritalin back then.
I did drink a lot back then.
And I did have a Tom Jones greatest hits CD.
So, I suppose my only problem with the way this story is reported back to me–like I remember it, I was zonked out of my mind on ritalin and fucking hammered–is the pot dealer getting scared for his life. I remember it was a fine, amusing drive, where we discussed the importance of police in society.
Tom Jones comes up, this story comes up, because last night M1 did me a favor and named a character for me.
She didn’t go with Delilah, but she went really close ….
We probably didn’t listen to Delilah that car trip though … I always preferred Daughter of Darkness.
I hate snow.
Absolutely hate it. Hated shoveling it, hated driving it. I once spent six hours in a car on Christmas Eve trying to get home from work (downtown Chicago), all because of snow.
But I will say something for it. It looks good. When it’s snowing, it does look good.
Makes me think of The Ice Storm (film, not novel, just for the visual effect) or, strangely) Ford’s The Hurricane (which just an amazing storm sequence at the end). I haven’t seen any of the recent (are they recent?) weather-related disaster movies–I think the last one I saw was Twister–so I don’t know if CG’s gotten to the point of being able to do good bad weather.
Writing does it well, but it’s a trope so it’s hard to use it anymore.
For some reason, the whole thing reminded me of Days of Heaven, which I’m not a particular fan of, because Malick shot the whole thing–the daylight scenes–during the magic hour. You couldn’t do that with snow. Snow looks good when it’s snowing and then goes to shit and slush when it’s not. I mean, constant snow on the ground–I did grow up in the middle west after all and douchebag best friend did live in Michigan until he was 21 and I hung out up there–looks really great sometimes. But in general, it’s never as asthetically compelling as when it’s falling.
I fucked up last week.
I thought I could handle chatting, emailing, etc with the woman I had the e-affair with.
So, after two days of chatting, I decided to leave my wife and run off with this other woman.
And a day after that, I realized how stupid it was (mac afficionado, M1, coworker1 and boss all pointed out what an idiot I sounded like).
So it’s a week later. And I’ve already dropped a buck twenty on martial counseling and I’m going to be dropping a buck twenty every week for the near future. When money’s in the fucking drain–not my fault, really, wife’s (not intentional, but it happened, right).
But at least I don’t have to lie anymore. At least I get to be myself. When the wife and I have a fight now, at least the emotions I feel are real and not some bullshit created emotion based on a complicated series of lies I’ve been holding up for eight years.
Is honesty the best policy?
Wife regrets the shit out of telling me she wanted to lay the slacker Billy Crudup lookalike at the gym in the back of his hippie van.
But about the fundamentals, I don’t have to fucking lie anymore. And it’s kind of nice. At least if I’m going to crash and burn now, it’ll be for who I am–not just with the wife, but with dbbf who’s going through depression problems and I’m gaying on the line and telling his weepy ass to give me a call if he needs to talk (because I’m surely the one to talk to) or M1 (I can’t believe the things I said to her a few minutes ago… she must think I’m drunk, nuts, both or leaking brain matter) or anyone else (great chat with, hopefully, a new chat buddy today and damn if I didn’t flush all preoccupation with decorum).
Maybe I’m just geeked because I wrote a great 573 words last night or because I saved two days ago’s writing yesterday am.
Whatever. It feels good to be honest for once
This is going to be a boring writing post. It’s a gin-filled anti-Writer’s Chronicle-esque rant.
Why did I fuck up yesterday? Why does a bad night of writing–writing for about an hour, 573 words–mean I need/want/think I have to drink a gin and tonic at 8:30 in the morning to get soused enough to edit those 573 words?
If it were just a bad day, a lame piece, that’d be one thing. I’ve written two or three lame pieces for this project. I hate one of the story threads. It was supposed to be a Lovecraft meets Jaws thing, except I’ve never read Lovecraft, I just like some Lovecraft fans (like John Carpenter) and I love Jaws to pieces, but not in the reverential way one would need to write a fucking homage to it. That thread is totally fucked. But I recovered on the third or fourth section (I hope).
Can I recover from last night’s writing?
I could even leave it be, try to forget about it. Just let it be a dead-end piece.
I’m listening to Leonard Cohen right now, singing Be For Real, which ties in to the Afghan Whigs, which is what I was listening to (1965) while writing last night. It’s hard to be mad at them right now, because it was my own fault for putting them on, because I knew what I was doing ….
And there’s the difference with knowing what you’re doing and not.
I was had an idea for a story/novel/piece about Little America, that hellish roadside whatever the fuck–ice cream place, motel, whatever–out here somewhere. I got hammered and told a friend all about it–this was in 2001, early 2001, pre-9/11 (oh, I should do my utterly selfish 9/11 post sometime, that’ll offend some people but not people who actually matter)–it must have been a screenplay. I was still planning on moving to NYC, going to NYU and working at an editing house at that point. FTW.
But I never wrote that script. I don’t even remember the particulars. Because I told my friend all about it. What was the point in writing it.
Last night, I sat down to write with an all-new idea for this project. I’d incorporate one of my old standards. What a great idea.
Standards being … my story tropes. Not everyone’s story tropes, but mine. The relationships I find interesting, the scenes I find interesting. I burn them off in stories, the first novel.
So somehow, I decided to bring back one of my oldest standards–maybe the first real screenplay (in terms of ambitiousness and artistic intent … not in quality) I ever finished. Dude and a slightly older married woman. Except it’s been thirteen (?) years since I last worked on that story. Used that standard.
All of a sudden–I think it was because of Haunted and the four levels it hit me on and I’ll break those out in a second if I can remember them–I thought it’d be a great idea to incorporate that standard, that story, into the current project. There’s room for it, there is. But it should be organic, not forced, not planned.
The four levels the song Haunted hit me on …
(Off topic, I’m curious if M1 has even seen Sid & Nancy … it’s a female movie like the Princess Bride but I think of a certain generation … I’m sure it’s passed).
So, back to editing, as I’m hammered, spilling my drink, listening to Leonard Cohen, Bruce Springsteen (my Human Touch/Lucky Town story is a downer so I won’t share it, surfice to say, I’m a piece of excrement and I loathe myself–in a good mood though) and Nick Cave.
Now it’s time for a little 2Pac.
I wish my wife liked 2Pac.
What’s funny about last night’s knowing fuck-up?
It wasn’t fueled by personal bullshit. It came after a two hour fight. Had nothing to do with that. It was all about self-confidence, etc.
DBBF once told me hating something you write–because it can’t be good enough before you show it–was a sign of good writing.
I don’t know if I agree. I kind of do. I think loving something enough to show it is the same thing though. I mean, I’ve got a useless diploma somewhere telling me I’m a writer, an educated, trained one.
You know what the problem was in high school? White kids.
Seriously. I mean, I wore Cross Colours and listened to rap music, but … I at least liked it. I appreciated it. I wrote M1 a fucking great liner note thingy on 2Pac. So I was lame, but not lame in the right way with that … it’s upsetting. But, this was during the whole “alternative” phase, and that was it’s whole thing. I mean, today I listen to 2Pac and am embarrased I ever, even as a teenager, as a young teenager, listened to the Singles soundtrack. Fuck Campbell Scott, btw; no offense, but he’s like a static Robert Sean Leonard. Spanish Prisoner was wonderful though. I wonder if M1 has seen it. I know ol’ girl has. My wife would hate it. I need a fucking movie buddy local. Someone to go see WKW with.
Where was I?
Am I drunk enough to edit? At 9:18 Ante Meridan, am I drunk enough to edit?
I think I’m close. I mean, sure, I’m drunk. But am I drunk enough.
When I was in undergrad, I used to have to edit my student films–sorry, student videos (wasn’t half-inch at least)–no, not edit, watch, review, my student films drunk.
Getting stoned cuts off too much. Like I can’t get stoned and read. Or write. It fucks up the experience–I can be on call drunk (word to next weekend, drunk all through it, even if I have to transcribe for the mfing movie blog just not to be a douchebag on that one), but I can’t be stoned. I do not care when I’m stoned.
Intoxicants, from worst to best
Unfortunately, this list doesn’t include mini-thins/mini-phins or any of the prescription drugs I’ve snorted, because I can’t remembered their names. That’s my DARE alternative–kids, when someone rolls up a dollar bill and tells you to snort Jimmy’s crushed up prescription medicine … don’t do it. You’ll end up thirty and drunk at 9:28 am. And you’ll be drowning in credit card debt because you really, really, really need that motherfucking Rocquefort steak at the French place you can’t afford. And you’ll need a bottle of Pinot too, because you’re a human being, you’re a Cheyenne, you’re not a savage.
And a boner out to all the film major girls who got that reference. Someday, you’ll be immortalized in some writing–the Cheyenne thing is one of my writing tropes.
i think I’m drunk enough.
I can’t remember anything else.
Did I finish the story about being drunk when watching my movies with people?
I made some well-made shit.
Thank goodness I flushed my filmic ambition.
Okay, yeah, it’s time to edit.
Word. Bring on the fucking Young Snakes (not really, but bring on the Til Tuesday)
Yeah, so the problem with waxing on about how some stupid fucking song you haven’t heard in ten years hits you on all sorts of levels, reminding you of your passionate, bullshit, bad, lousy, shitty days as a writer?
It encourages you to be bullshit and lousy and shitty and fucking awful.
Tonight’s writing sucked.
Fuck “1965” by the Afghan Whigs right now too. I hate that album right now. Fucking sucked as writing music tonight. I only used it because it worked well this morning but that piece was a different kind of writing.
Mingus saved the last paragraph. The last four sentences.
The rest is shit. Complete utter shit and I hated writing every moment of it. It’s hard to hate writing 573 words but I managed.
I’m going to work on it tomorrow.
See what I can do with it.
It was the first time I thought about scrapping a piece and starting over since I started this project. I’m so pissed off. I’m sure the Spirit will just put me in a great mood.
Why this post?
A post titled Men’s legs?
Because I’m looking at shorts. For the first time in ten years, twelve years, I’m looking at buying shorts. I used to wear shorts to the gym, now I wear workout pants (activewear?). Of course, the shorts didn’t give a clear view of my johnson–and yes, I’m wearing underwear–and the pants do. So. that’s a little weird. But anyway.
I consider myself a realistic when it comes to style. When I go shoe shopping, I do not look at the Air Jordan’s. Realistically speaking, only certain white guys can get away with those and I’m not one of them. A friend of mine does fine with them, for instance. So I ask some guy who’s working what I can get away with. And he laughs and shows me. That’s easy. They’re fucking shoes for running. I’m married. I’m never going to be impressing anyone with having cool shoes (but they can’t be embarassing, I mean, really).
I go to Tommy Bahama, they’re going to be trying to fucking sell me shorts. Are they salespeople on commission, then they’re really going to be trying to sell me shorts.
Now, here’s the funny thing. Apparently, I have nice legs for a man. They aren’t chicken legs, they’re not the super-distorted calf or the inverse (really thin and muscley). Some girl in high school who I didn’t know once told me that and I thought she was being a bitch to a stranger for some reason. But, according to my wife–back when we met–apparently no. Apparently, they’re solid man legs.
Which doesn’t mean I don’t feel like an adolescent when I look at shorts, when I think about wearing them. Having, reportedly, nice man legs doesn’t get you a pass on looking like you’re in third grade because you’re wearing shorts.
I mean… there’s got to be an alternative right–even in 120 degree New Orleans August–what kind of material really breathes?
I’m figuring lots of air conditioned bars, lots of fans but there’s also going to be walking around–one of the untold (to my sister) plans for the trip is to find some nice place to get a memorial brick or stone or something for my mom. And unlike her obit, I’m going to be proud of whatever I write for it. Fuck obits, by the way. They’re fucking bullshit. If anyone ever asks you to write an obit, save it being a job, say no. Because they’re fucking bullshit. It’s basically taking a person you love and dehydrating them to nothing. It’s an awful experience, because while you’re in the middle of remembering this person, mourning, it’s a reminder no one really gives a fucking shit and you’re doing this because it’s the way things were done back when people actually did give a shit and now they really don’t. My friend D wrote my mom an obit on his fucking myspace page and you know what… a billion times better than the one I wrote for the newspapers.
As awful as it sounds, I’m hoping with all the rebuilding, there are places doing such things. I have no idea what I’m going to write yet. Depends on how much space I have. But it’s going to be good. Not something I’m embarrased when people ask me if I wrote it.
So, I was clothes shopping yesterday. Window shopping. I don’t need sweaters for a while and the sport coat’s absolutely useless except to have a really nice sport coat (coworker1 told me to get a suit at JC Penney… I don’t think she gets it).
Well, I’m sending the stuff I find to the wife and tweeting it.
The wife tells me to pick her out a top.
So I do.
I make the mistake of mentioning this to coworkers1-3. Who tell me men should never shop for women.
I mean, I could make the same disparaging remarks about why I wouldn’t want to shop for any of the three coworkers I made to the wife last night, but I’m going to be a tad more general.
If a guy can’t look at a woman’s wardrobe and figure out what’d look good on her, he’s not using the right part of his brain. WTF?
If a guy can’t shop right for his girlfriend or wife, it’s because he isn’t shopping for the right person. I mean, I can understand with the coworkers (that sounds terrible, doesn’t it?). But come on, as a blanket rule? It’s bullshit. It’s more than bullshit. It’s silly.
But I’m also the kind of person who… you know… doesn’t think one should get a sport coat from JC Penney if one wants a good sport coat.
What I really need to be looking for is summerwear for New Orleans, considering it’ll probably be 120 degrees when I’m there.
Oh, but the whole point of this is men not knowing what looks good on women? That’s fucking absurd. When I was a freshman in undergrad, we made this goofy horror movie at my dorm. And I picked out, from her wardrobe, the lead’s outfit. And I did a fantastic job, which all the girls were somewhat surprised at… why?
She was hot. I simply picked clothes to accentuate her hotness.
Which is why I can pick out my wife’s tops.
But it also… explains why coworkers1-3 can’t have their husbands shop for them.
Is that diplomatic enough?
I mean, don’t women want some input on these things from their partners? I email my wife a top and say, I think you’d look good in this… where’s the confusion….
Okay, so I went batshit crazy last week.
About a week and a day ago.
By one week ago today, thanks to the cardio versus muscle days, I know I was almost totally fucking gone.
What suffered? Let’s see… too much to list right now. I might do little post-marriage counseling thingies, but I don’t know yet. Haven’t decided.
But this blog definitely suffered.
Driving home, passing the bus stop, I noticed there weren’t any cute girls. Which got me thinking about having sex with a cute girl on a bus. Which got me thinking about having sex with a cute girl on a train. Which got me thinking about having sex with a specific beautiful young woman on a train. Which got me thinking about Risky Business.
Warner Bros is making a big deal with their Warner Archive DVD series, but they haven’t discussed whether they’re going to do anything really interesting–like the director’s cut of Wyatt Earp or the director’s cut of Risky Business.
See, has this specific beautiful woman seen Risky Business? Not really for her generation–I’m pretty sure the M1 is from that generation where Tom Cruise was no longer popular. Though I’m not a 100% on it, I’m pretty sure.
Well, can she see Risky Business? Sure, she can rent it.
Can she see the director’s cut of Risky Business? No.
Because Warner didn’t include the director’s cut of Risky Business, didn’t do streaming, just slapped the director’s cut ending (the rest of the film is Brickman’s) on the recent special edition disc. Want to make a director’s cut? Have to do it yourself, like I did.
It’s not just not being able to recommend it to M1–my douchebag best friend can’t even see it and he’d love it. I mean, I could go through the trouble of sending him a copy, I could easily make a copy available for her to download (but won’t because I’d rather she watch the other movie I recommended)… but then, driving home, still thinking about all this malarky, I realized I might have encoded it while my Elgato Turbo.264… which does an ass job. Not an ass job, but nothing something I’d want a permanent copy of a film in.
So I can’t decide if I want to check… or just pretend it’s fine since I won’t watch Risky Business again for at least nine months (douchebag best friend is coming to AWP… if he bookends it with some extra, non-drunken stupor visit time, we might watch it). M1 is, oddly, also invited to AWP, so if we timed things right, she too could see the Risky Business director’s cut. But I don’t think she’s coming out for AWP. I’m psychic about these things. Just like Warner Archive is never going to give me my nice anamorphic Wyatt Earp Director’s Cut… M1 is sitting AWP out next year.
Other douchey non-DVD releases… oh, there’s only one, starring everyone’s favorite anti-semitic bigot Mel Gibson. I recently had a discussion about him with a gay friend–yes, Mel Gibson is a piece of shit. Total piece of shit. Good movie star. Ransom rocks. Need the director’s cut. The theatrical cut is lame. But that’s a Disney thing, unrelated to Warner.
Or Risky Business.
Or my douchebag best friend.
Or the bus stop.
Or the drive home.
I really missed this fucking blog.
We don’t talk about dreams at work.
I had one job where people would come in and talk about their fucked up dreams. That was fun.
The people I work with now probably don’t have very fucked up or entertaining dreams.
I was thinking about using the girl dressed as Fozzie the Bear thing in something–but I’d have to lose Sherlock Holmes fetish reference in the novel so it ain’t happening–and it reminded me of one of my finest moments.
I stole it, of course, but I stole it from WKRP in Cincinnati, which gives it some real texture.
One day at work, a few people were talking about their dreams. And I followed them with: yeah, I dreamt I killed my father and crawled into bed my with mother–weird, huh?
Everyone just stared at me. No one knew what to say.
It was freaking great.
I’d love to use it again here; I don’t know if anyone could deal with it (and my boss might say he dreamt he killed his mother and crawled into bed with his father). It’d be superb. Too bad they’re all so boring.
Apparently, I wrote a good female protagonist piece. Not a good piece–there was no comment on its overall quality and it’s certainly not one of the best–I’ll never be submitting it, without serious and almost fundamental revision, for publication as a stand alone–but a good female protagonist. Well, successful.
Have I already talked about why I don’t do the female protagonist? I used to do it a lot more, in undergrad, because at a certain point of writing development, guys really love writing female protagonists. I don’t understand why, maybe because they don’t want to attribute some thought to a male character–like checking out the receptionist’s ass every day–their mother might ask about. Or wife.
So I 86’d the female protagonist all through grad school. No one seemed to miss them.
But I ended up–24 days into the new project–writing two of them so far. The last one was really close. And it got a solid review (as being from a female point of view) from an unbiased female reader.
My concern is I’m going to start using them more, especially as the project has become so multi-layered and confusing already–I don’t know if I have all the characters yet, there could be more still. One of the main characters, a female character, is still unnamed. I’m not going to do the written equivalent of Maris Crane or Norm’s wife on Cheers–I just haven’t figured out what her name is yet. Given how long it took to come up with the male protagonist’s name (thanks to an unintentional Summer School reference) it might take a while. I really can’t justify leaving her unnamed, of course. It needs to be done.
My fear–have I already started a paragraph with “my fear?”–is I’m going to change gender in some of the more edit-friendly pieces to give her some attention after I name her.
These are the things I worry about at work instead of work. Having a real job must be difficult. But it occurs to me, even when I did have a real job–I mean, working at the Options Exchange was a real job–I still had time to think about this kind of shit. More possibly.
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Is this sexist, piggish or just misanthropic?
I hate getting guys at the Starbucks drivethrough. I hate having to make small talk with some coffee jerk. The guy today was fine, however. After an obnoxious Earth Day greeting over the intercom, he just shut up when I got there and left me alone.
Does anyone else lose underwear?
I mean, I have–because I bought packs of these things–eight pairs.
And I can’t find anyone of them. And I did all the laundry Sunday. So… that means I should be down three pairs, maybe four, depending on when I started the laundry.
I don’t remember having any accidents. I don’t remember needing to be changed. So that means four to five pairs should be clean and wearable.
They’re fucking missing.
Which leaves me wearing something uncomfortable today. Especially given my morning post writing. I’m worried I’m going to have the blood cut off and it won’t be able to get back circulating.
None of this is particularly interesting.
However–my douchebag best friend.
He used to have something like three pairs of underwear.
And didn’t do laundry.
I missed his wedding reception, so I couldn’t talk about it during the best man speech (also, given his wife’s family, I wouldn’t have done it). But I’ve got to keep that one on the tap for telling her about. He gets really funny when confronted with his past as a dirty hippie.
So, coworker1 can look at shoes all day online but when I look at clothes, there’s something wrong with it?
She told me to buy a suit at JC Penney. I mean… I suppose if I needed a suit for something and had a budget… I’d get a suit at JC Penney or Target or Goodwill or whatever the fuck. But I don’t need a suit for anything except looking good in a suit.
I like coworker1 and all, but I can’t stand being around women who don’t understand why a man would want to wear fine clothes.
Where does one look for this kind of thing?
Couple remembered dreams. Both of them day specific… so I figured a fast post before I got caught up in writing today’s post for the M1, which kind of makes me feel like having to write The Erasers in one drafting, without any notes.
The return to caffeine and the general lack of sleep (six hours a night) are cutting into what I can remember from dreams. But I’m thinking, depending on what I read next, it could get shaken up.
Ok, so… I’m going to get some nice jeans. To show off my fit ass.
Apparently, the last time I wore tight jeans to show off my fit ass, I didn’t realize I had some kind of fit ass, then I found out it was the discussion of many a female college student. Nothing like being told about that, btw. By multiple women.
But now the wife’s telling me designer jeans aren’t made for women with nice asses. Which doesn’t really make any sense to me. Since jeans on a woman look funny if she doesn’t have a nice ass. I thought I’d heard this complaint, or something like it, years ago, but maybe not.
This was my friend D’s problem with this area–the women don’t have asses. I mean… at all. It’s like invasion of the booty snatchers around here or something. I can’t imagine being single here. I was behind this woman in line at the 7-11 this morning. No ass.
I mean, we hit the mall this weekend to see a movie and for dinner on night (yeah, that’s right, food court–actually no… I don’t want to be thought of as an individual who thinks it’s acceptable to take anyone to a food court for a dinner). But I love clothes shopping. I mean, I can’t figure out how the hell to buy for New Orleans in August (shorts on men just seem wrong). But I could have dropped an easy three grand in one swoop.
Why am I talking about clothes shopping? I can’t remember.
Dear Apple–and Steve Jobs, but mostly Steve Jobs:
Steve… WTF man?
I know you’re on a leave of absence and all–and I’ve got my fingers crossed for an iNetbook or whatever the fuck it’s called because then I could pawn my MacBook off on the wife and have some kind of bitchin’ tablet slash movie viewing slash writing computer or whatnot–but what the fuck?
You take a friend of mine’s iPhone in for repairs or maintenance or whatever and you don’t give her a temp to cover?
That isn’t right, man.
I mean, regardless of the fact she’s some beautiful girl, you really ought to hook the customer up.
With something, man, something.
Really… wtf? It’s not like an iPhone’s just a fucking phone, you know….
I think I had a couple memorable dreams last night.
Well, I definitely had one. We went to the downtown gym (instead of the one closer) for a morning workout, which we’ve never done. Not only was the door locked–they opened late (the nightmare of having to start work at 7… if I’m not at the gym at 5:30, there’s not time). It was a completely different location, in the bottom of a mall, a basement, enormous–except everything had been moved so there was no way to do cardio. All the cardio machines were in the back, in the cafeteria area.
Up front, people were lifting bean bag chairs and moving them. It was really awkward.
Then there was a fight in the cafteria. Like the Nation of Islam members got into it with some other members. Bow ties. Bow ties were the giveaway.
And I never did get to use an elliptical machine–though I did get one this morning at the gym, thanks for the concern.
My only other memorable dream, the one I had before waking up an hour early at 4, had to do with renaming my twitter moniker and I can only remember bits of pieces of that one. Dreams about the internet are even weirder than the dreams I have about watching movies or reading books.
Last night’s dreams
My vanity checklist
WARNING: This post is going to be incredibly boring, unless you’re real interested in web hit trends and movie review websites, so I suggest you avoid it like the plague.
I stopped doing daily updates on my movie website about a week ago. I just remembered I haven’t really looked at how it’s been doing, hit-wise, and figured I’d update the stats.
Basically, it’s not closed, but it’s no longer open for the same kind of business, not as a blog. The majority of the hits come from IMDb and MRQE and google… so worrying about updating it daily for the five or ten regular readers… at least five of whom are friends and family… what’s the fucking point.
It steadily grew through awards season (because I was reviewing stuff I watched on bootlegged Academy screeners) and then died.
So, there was no point in worrying about it (to keep it going on a week-daily rate, I had to watch something like six movies a week, which isn’t really possible if I want to a) read, b) write, c) go to the gym, d) live). I tried dropping it to four or something, then decided it had peaked. I’d finally written the one response I was proud of (and it got taught in a college writing course) and so fuck it. I still have a bunch of responses I’m too lazy to post and I’m sure, you know, if I see Dogma in the theater tomorrow night, I’ll write that up….
But the stats? Since they’ve gotten better since I stopped doing the daily updates. Not a lot, but a little.
The whole point of having a movie blog–at least as I figured it went I started it four or five years ago–was to get a paying gig, but that didn’t happen. I didn’t even get free passes, which blows.
It’s 4:32. What the hell am I doing up?
I actually woke up at 4:20, something I would have found incredibly amusing when I was twenty.
I realized, as I was trying to get back to sleep, I haven’t heard from my old writing prof. She’s not in a good place right now (the job is ass, well, the students).
Think I’m going to call her today. I guess giving her the nickname old writing prof isn’t appropriate… it’s more of a Mr. Miyagi type thing.
What the hell am I going to do for the next forty-five minutes before I can leave for the gym though?
Okay, so I have Freudian slips all the time.
My best is a short story I wrote where some girl showed up in a wet t-shirt and the word nipple was in there for no reason (I wrote this story when I was nineteen, so I hadn’t learned about editing yet).
Anyway, some woman just wished me a happy holiday and–she’s in Louisana–I got confused. First I thought, is she wishing me a happy Passover? Then I realized she shouldn’t be on the phone if she’s wishing me a happy Passover.
Easter. I forgot about Easter (because it, unlike Passover this year, doesn’t affect me in the slightest).
But more–Easter’s a holiday you wish people to have a happy holiday over?
Pragmatically speaking… you don’t a) get presents or b) get a day off of work (which actually makes it one of the more acceptable federal holidays to me, since it doesn’t fuck up my mail). So what’s there to be happy about? There aren’t Easter pies or cakes, are there? I mean, Thanksgiving and Christmas have good desserts at least.
So, like I said before, I grew up the child of a couple failed Catholics. Even though I’m pretty sure my dad wasn’t raised Catholic for long. His mom was raised Catholic at some point and it’s kind of always there. My mom was a nun. So… I guess if you quit being a nun for liquor, tobacco and men, that makes you a failure as a Catholic. My father, as far as I know, never went to church except for funerals and weddings. My mom was the same way, though she threatened to go on a couple holidays and rarely did.
Growing up, until high school, I basically knew Catholic people and Jewish people. There must have been protestants in there–I mean, my hometown has a fuck-load of churches–but they never talked about it. I did have a friend who was Jehovah’s Witness or something… he couldn’t celebrate holidays. Anyway.
In high school, I encountered my first churchy. He wasn’t that bad… he thought dogs had a heaven, so obviously, he wasn’t a good churchy.
After high school, I worked with Jewish people and Catholic people. My closest “friend” when I worked on a stock floor was this devout, self-loathing Catholic who was a hoot. Got thrown out of college for robbing his frat’s treasury to buy coke. Hilarious guy. I’m sure he’s dead. He was a bit of a piece of shit, but an amusing one. And he’d talk to me about religion, him being a Catholic. Made me watch The Exorcist once, didn’t understand why I wasn’t as freaked out as he was. Whatever. Solid guy in a lot of ways. Nice to my mom. I kind of miss him. But not really, he was a sexist, racist piece of shit. The Jewish guys I knew were older, they were traders; we had breakfast most days of the week.
Somehow, though, it didn’t occur to me until two days ago I have no idea what Passover is.
I think I got days off of school for it. No idea what it is. Considering I thought Easter was all about the Easter Bunny–no religion in my family holidays, though I did manage to offend my mother, when I was twenty-two, by suggesting a Jesus doll that sang “Hey, now, it’s my birthday” and kicked his legs out to the sides on a cross–I’ve since learned, of course, there’s a connection between Passover and Easter. Somehow. I’m not really interested in that connection, I wanted to find out what Passover was all about.
And, if you’re reading this and you think you know why I want know about Passover or you’re the reason why I wanted to find out about Passover, you’re right. Thanks, you’re encouraging me to learn. That I’m only learning this because of you… eh… ignore that part.
I started at wikipedia, kind of browsing their article. I got caught up with the matzo thing. It seems very complicated, like I might need a diagram. I mean, really, I know the place names from The Last Temptation of Christ, so… it’s kind of hard. I might need a map too.
But, I figured, if the Agnes Moorehead of Colloquial Blogs isn’t for explaining how an athiest learns about Passover, what the fuck is it for? I don’t know if Agnes Moorehead would be proud. I doubt it. It’s not an insult. She’s an incredibly handsome woman. It’s kind of Orson Welles’s fault for never casting her as the love interest.
Anyway. Passover. For Athiests.
So, I found chabad.org’s article, which seems to be written for kids. (I also can’t understand why they allow comments on it–first rule of cheap hits, attacking someone’s religion–which the first comment is–I did this to great effect in a short story once, I was so proud of myself, immediately turned everyone against the protagonist). But, I get it now. Some of it.
Let’s take into account… most of my understanding of Jewish traditions come from things like The Big Lebowski.
Walter Sobchak: I told those fucks down at the league office a thousand times that I don’t roll on Shabbos!
Donny: What’s Shabbos?
Walter Sobchak: Saturday, Donny, is Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don’t work, I don’t get in a car, I don’t fucking ride in a car, I don’t pick up the phone, I don’t turn on the oven, and I sure as shit
Walter Sobchak: don’t fucking roll! Shomer shabbos!
The Dude: Walter…
Walter Sobchak: Shomer fucking shabbos.
The Dude: Oh fuck it. I’m out of here.
Walter Sobchak: Dude, come on…
[rolls his eyes at Donny]
Walter Sobchak: BABY…
Which does not provide, really, a lot of information.
The chabad page is okay–the links are really neccesary, like the one to the Laws of Yom Tov, for people like me, who also probably learned most of what they know about Jewish tradition from episodes of “Seinfeld,” which might not have had education in mind.
Am I just confused, Christians don’t do stuff like this, right? Do they? There’s the long repetitive thing Catholics do at funerals, which I’ve blocked out (not because I’m a general dick, but because I’m a specific dick–it reminds me what a fucking lousy grandson I was), and some other stuff… but…
I mean, I think I’ve seen The Ten Commandments–but, as a bored kid–so….
I’ll close this with something I think Lewis Black needs to do. He has to do a TV series where he lectures about the New Testament. It’d be fucking hilarious. Here’s his skit about Christians talking about the Torah.
For those wondering if the whole point of this post and my survey into Passover was simply to find out what was up with one person for the next seven days (i.e. level of communication). Yeah, it probably was… I mean, what the fuck, right?
Am I worried this person is going to think I’m shallow? Not really… a little bit, but nothing to be insecure about.
Like I said before, the reason I learn something isn’t as important as that I learned. I only learned to read as a kid because of Penthouse Forum*. The blog’s not called Frontal Lobe Disinhibition for nothing.
Have I done anything productive today?
I suppose I did some “work.” In fact, I probably only slacked on a little bit (there are a couple people I’m trying to avoid having to call). I had one screw-up that turned out not to be my fault.
I read Cat’s Cradle, probably twenty pages. I’m being a little lame about getting it finished, but only because I can’t sit and read it at work. My best job ever–in a bank mail room one summer in college–I sat around and read Ulysses, Mason & Dixon and at least started Gravity’s Rainbow. And that was fine. Oh, and I read Tales of Ordinary Madness and A Moveable Feast, which just freaking rocks. I need to read that again. I learned how to write dialogue from A Moveable Feast.
What else did I do?
Wrote a post.
Fell on my ass making a mix tape. It started to feel like I was hacking it out so I dropped that. I think that’s the problem with the internet–yeah, the only one–the easy transfer of songs makes arranging a mix less important.
Visited the wife at lunch.
Ol’ girl facebook friended me. Don’t quite know how to handle that (the wife doesn’t like me having female facebook friends).
I can’t steal stamps because coworker2 and coworker3 are here–I’m kind of curious just as to what coworker2 has stolen from around here. I figure coworker3 hasn’t taken a thing. But coworker2… I’m shocked she hasn’t taken a computer or something.
I can probably fill the next 30 minutes with… editing. Oh, ha ha. No chance. Damn. Especially since I don’t know WHO last night’s piece is about yet. The one proper noun I used isn’t one I’m sure I want to keep. The thing about using Ulysses as a base text, even just the language, it creates this awkward… tapestry. It’s really the loosest thing I’ve ever written and then again not. It does remind of Lanark, which is nice.
I freaking love this… It’s basically how I wrote for an entire class in grad school (and is the way the novel got it’s start). Don’t think coworker1 is a fan of me sitting over here catnapping though.
So, coworker2 and coworker3 have been talking about their weekends for like two hours.
Not everything you do on the weekend is interesting.
They both have timestamps on their stories–so they must check what time these interesting things (like a dog doing something unspectacular) and remember it for when they tell the story… presumably just to each other.
I’m not even suggesting they should do work, given how little I’ve done today. But at least talk about something interesting.
Now coworker2 is telling me all about why she’s going to be late… yada yada yada. At least it gives me an eye to crook, given how apparently she won’t stay with her stepkids to make sure they get off to school. I don’t think they’re particularly old….
How could anyone want to hear about the mundanities of life? Nobody gives a shit about how I went to one store and not another one because the one store has… I mean, I fell asleep writing the sentence, how could anyone stay awake reading it?
Sure, there are exceptions, there are people who’s mundanities I’d love to hear about. Well, I’d like to hear about M1’s mundanities. And Thomas Pynchon’s. Maybe George Clooney’s. But someone I work with. I could give a shit. And I can’t understand why anyone would pretend to give a shit? Coworker2 and coworker3 really can’t find each other all that interesting–though I do have a theory coworker2 tries to impress coworker3 with her “domestic” lifestyle because she’s in the closet.
Well, I got an email back on the shitty story I’m submitting (the one I could cut to 2500 words, the good one I can’t cut anymore). It’s short-listed. That’d be nice. Not particularly thrilled with the wife’s response (“how much does it pay?”), but it’s about what I expected. I really need to fulfill the dream of the Showtime series based on the first novel, just as an eff you to her. Mature of me, I know. At least a pilot.
The daily writing is going fine. Not as many immediate revisions as I thought there’d be. It’s just too soon to see how it’s going to take shape. I finally am getting to write my Lanark though, it just took a hell of a constraint to get me there.
I had a very strange high school dream.
I must have had e-mail in high school, towards the second half anyway… but this dream was all about me and this girl from high school (who I had a decent-sized thing for) putting together a list of everyone’s email address. But we were making the list on scraps of paper. Not very technologically advanced….
It was very strange.
Lengthy dream about bonding with coworker1 and her husband. He and I talked about exercise and law enforcement. She and I talked about my mother’s death. Guess I don’t want her to quit.
I wonder if it’s all guys who have dating problems who ask out waitresses.
I just went to Starbucks and had to wait for freshly brewed coffee and talked to the checkout girl for three minutes. She was kind of cute–blue hair always reminds me of my first screenplay, makes me nostalgic for simpler times (oh, to write solely for one’s self and think it’s the way to do it!)–and it was a pleasant conversation. Don’t know if it’d qualify as flirting. I don’t think I would.
But I realized my friend D would. In fact, he probably would have asked her out. Sitting there in the drivethough.
I think I already told that story about my other friend who made the joke about having a waitress be nice to him so it must mean she’s in to him. My friend D doesn’t get that. Like, I’ve explained it to him and he still doesn’t get it. Not only does a waitress’s job rely on tips, she probably gets hit on all day. It’s like that episode of the Office where Michael is a boor to the Hooters waitress.
Not being a waitress, I’m only guessing… and considering my track record with waitresses, maybe I’m not the best one to talk about it.
Went out with both waitresses I’ve asked, the one bartender/waitress I asked (until my Justin Timberlake-looking friend’s fuck buddy cock-blocked me), and the other bartender/waitress I asked approached me after she broke up with her dude, but that didn’t go anywhere.
So, whenever I think about the waitress thing, I realize I did all right with it. Maybe not McNulty all right, but when watching McNulty pick up a waitress and take her home–my friend not believing it–I was at least able to say, “No, that’s plausible. Likely even.”
Wire reference. Sorry.
Can you believe my wife DOESN’T want to name a kid after Stringer Bell? But anyway….
But I went to visit my friend D and he was bitching and moaning about being unattached and I told him we were going to take care of it. Really, really simple plan. He was supposed to go up to women and ask them out. “Hi, I want to go out with you. Can I call you?”
I think I gave up after pushing him toward a girl on the street. He was a statue.
Instead, we went to drink and he developed a crush on the waitress. Then he drug me to a strip club–which might have been the most awkward experience of my life, a strip club in Texas–and ended up giving a fucking stripper the money for a lapdance on the promise she’d meet him at an IHOP. I sat around a fucking IHOP for two hours–sober, mind you–on this one.
Where all he really had to do is just ask, what, ten girls out? He’s a little heavy, but he’s not ugly or anything. Got a fine personality.
This all happened like seven years ago and I don’t think he’s had a girlfriend since. Because “Hi, I want to go out with you, can I call you?” is apparently a more frightful prospect than self-abuse for a decade or whatever….
The funny thing about Born in the USA… and no, not Reagan using the term without knowing the song’s content…
The song’s are all first-person (are all Springsteen songs first-person?) , he was a huge sex symbol at the time, but the protagonist in the songs is not. There’s a disconnect, but then there’s not–I mean, just look at the Dancing in the Dark video.
There’s a complete and utter disconnection between the guy singing the song, in tight jeans (I need to get some tight jeans), dancing with Courteney Cox and the guy the song’s about. It’s like if Al Pacino or Hugh Jackman played a guy who couldn’t get laid. It should be hilarious, like a spoof, but Springsteen pulls it off. But it’s clear why, after Tunnel of Love, he just couldn’t handle it for a while.
I just realized, it’s been a long time since a porn post.
It’s not like I’ve been skipping them intentionally… maybe I’ve just been too busy, between… oh. Yeah. I’ve been working on the private posts instead. Yeah, I guess the porn posts are going the way of the dodo… the private posts are much more rewarding. Which I’m sure will disappoint all those who show up (or so wordpress’s stats tell me) looking for links. And general readers, since the private posts are, well, private.
I’m also wondering if the endorphin addiction has just gotten to the junkie stage–the wife doesn’t have it yet this week–but I’m constantly craving exercise. It’s like cardio isn’t enough because it doesn’t provide enough movement. Thank goodness tonight’s yoga and weights. It’s bad enough I’m excited about the new equipment I get to use at the gym. I haven’t been to this stage in years… like eight of them. It’s relatively bitchin’.
It’s like I’ve been in a funk since writing. It’s a fine enough response… but it’s… eh. (I’m not talking about the private post for the m1–that was fantastic and possibly the most emotionally draining writing experience I’ve ever had… I’m worried it got my thyroid on hyperdrive, ramping up my metabolism and exhausting me). It’s just an okay 573 words. It’s got me thinking of how to edit–right now I print a copy of the response and go through quickly… since there aren’t weekends off, it’s hard to figure when to do a more involved edit–and what to do in a more involved edit. I think I just got overthinking before I was writing–work IS NOT an acceptable writing place, simply because it doesn’t allow me to give the word cloud enough consideration before responding to it. It’s a shitty day, comparatively, but the whole point of separately this thing into 573 was one part could be shitty and get fixed later. I’m sure there are going to be other shitty writing sessions between now and Oct 22, 2010. It just feels lousy. Fucking constraints, this is why I hate writing with constraints, it means you have to keep with them, even when they don’t work.
Apparently, either M1 didn’t see my ass–it was shown, which doesn’t neccesarily mean she saw it (I actually have no problem being lucid on this, it’s just fun to play with the forms of to show)–or she liked my ass.
As it was shown, via the internet.
If she did see it… I hope the internet version looks as good as the real one (I don’t go to the gym to work on my calves).
There’s also the concern this post is incredibly confusing and implying I’m posting pictures of my CG-ass on the internet for, well, 1 m1 to see… but it’s actually a follow-up to a previous post. A sequel, as it were, if posts can have sequels, which I don’t think they can, since a blog is sort of a serialized memoir–or this one is–they’re serialized something regardless. And I don’t think, until the serial ends, you can have a sequel to it. Like those old Flash Gordon serials… once all the episodes were done (twelve a piece I think) you then did a follow-up… except a blog isn’t really supposed to be finite.
But whatever. I’m glad she didn’t dislike my ass showing if she got to see it and whatever… I’m done with the forms of to show. I was thinking it would have sounded better in French, but montrear isn’t all that great a word either….
One of my problems with the internet–and this might be a problem with me, but whatever.
The internet, I always say, is about two things–shopping and porn. Porn’s kind of shopping too, but… it always offends people when you say shopping and porn.
It’s really just about shopping.
I had this one class in grad school where the prof let these undergrads in–they made a movie where they danced around naked and I had to wait for the two hour class to ask my friend if she noticed the one guy didn’t have a dick.
But I’ve discovered a new problem, as I came across a copy of Campbell Scott’s 3-hr Hamlet adaptation from 2000.
Now, I don’t like Campbell Scott–at best I didn’t have a problem with him in a bunch of stuff (though I hear Roger Dodger is the thing to see)–but I got this copy. It’s a FREAKING huge file and it’s just going to sit around waiting for me to get the gumption to watch it. Wow, don’t know the last time I used gumption. Anyway… a three hour Hamlet? I’ll watch the Branagh, which I still haven’t seen on DVD or… drool… blu-ray.
Or, for three hours, The Thin Red Line….
But I’m still getting this flipping Campbell Scott Hamlet.
So ol’ girl emailed me back
and yes, her husband did find the phone call as awkward as I did.
We’ll see how this goes. It’ll be nice to email “talk” to another Mickey Rourke fan, assuming she emails more than my douchebag best friend.
I understand–kind of–why my friend was avoiding the call. We don’t talk on the phone much, emails can go weeks before they get replies, unless it’s a subject line: “Alive?” email, which usually gets answered in a day (we set up a death or injury system back when a friend of mine died in a car accident and I didn’t find out for a week).
So the phone’s got to be bad. Dead mothers, molested sisters, d-i-v-o-r-c-e-s.
But a yippee phone call?
Those don’t happen. I don’t think there’s ever been a yippee phone call, not at least since we were fifteen or something.
It doesn’t help my friend’s the speed dial for a lot of other people’s bad news calls. I’ve seen him get the calls (someone’s wife, for instance, left with the kid) and it visibily knocks him back. It should have occurred to me my drunken voicemails were going to come off as bad news.
It isn’t actually all good news, not for me–I have to explain an “experimental,” he’ll call it, writing project to someone who hates “experimental” writing. He probably doesn’t hate “experimental” good writing, he just hasn’t read enough of it. It’s funny how different grad schools–I mean, he likes Robbe-Grillet’s The Erasers, which I’m sure he would have dismissed as “experimental” before he read it. Not to compare the Ulysses 573 project to The Erasers–I thought about it, an Erasers-like project, but having to figure the geometry of it is a little more than my math-allergic brain would allow.
So I’ve got to curb the explanation of the project a little. Emphasize the publishability of the project and how the end product isn’t neccesarily “experimental.”