imanant. look at me go.

Tommy's gun

2007-11-01T13:44:00.000-04:00

There was a gun on the table. It was an updated six shooter, the sort butting out of a cop’s utility belt. I’d never seen one like this before. It was just there: still, calm, all potential and no bang. I was horrified by all of that potential. Like staring down into the ocean from a cruise ship, with no idea how to swim. Get anywhere near that sea of tranquility and you’ll run out of air pretty quickly. And a shot is even quicker than a gasp. So I asked her, “What is that doing here?”

“It’s a fancy paperweight. Try and disturb my shit and bang!” She cocked both hands into the shape of a Tommy gun and began to mow down imaginary attackers with invisible bullets. They sounded more like drops of rain than bullets though, “Pewpewpewpewpewpewpewpew!” Was this really a grown woman’s kitchen I was sitting in?

“A normal rock would suffice, don’t you think?”

“A girl can’t be too careful. Don’t worry, it’s all legal. Got the papers right over there.” She pointed to a stack of papers sitting in the next room. Bills, magazines, junk mail, if it was there, she was doing a fine job of keeping it securely hidden. Wish she’d done the same with the gun.

Maybe another time.

2007-09-21T17:55:00.000-04:00

painting by Anthony Goicolea, Wallflower (bloody nose), 2005

If you really want to know, there were song birds singing and there was a scent of lavender in the air.

It's a lovely story, really, but it ends with a punch in the nose. Maybe another time.

Dick's day off.

2007-09-13T00:08:00.000-04:00

Richard, Dick actually, no one called him Richard (especially the people who didn't like him), was late for work. It was 11:37 am and he had not yet gotten out of bed. Since his alarm first went off at 7:30 am that morning, he had, on average, rolled over once every 2 and a half minutes, flopped from belly to back every 5, and grunted sporadically during these futile attempts to fall back asleep.

At around 9:00 am, Dick stopped his alarm from buzzing by tearing it from the wall socket and chucking it across the room, knocking a copy of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea into his fish bowl. Charlie Chaplin, his goldfish, didn't seem to mind. As many times as Dick grunted that morning, Charlie was surprised to find a new addition to his 8" by 10" fishbowl. This was not an unpleasant experience.

Dick hadn't slept well until around 4:30 am when he finally fell into a deep sleep. At that point, the exhaustion was too much even for his coffee reinforced nervous system. He'd finally powered down. So when he was woken up only three hours later, he felt a great sense of indignity and decided to play hooky, even if it meant a day of restless shuffling around his queen sized bed.

At around 10:00 am, he unplugged his phone. It only took a couple of rings for him to recognize the danger of leaving that line of communication open. There would be no one to stop him from rolling and tossing and turning and grunting and shifting. He could even flip and flop and fold and curl if he was so inclined. It was his day, and he didn't need anyone else to give him a reason to be uncomfortable.

It was liberating.

Commuting #4

2007-02-01T00:04:00.000-05:00

The fans overhead were loud, making conversation difficult. More frustrating was the dense awkwardness which had settled on our shoulders, clenching invisible fingers around our throats whenever we tried to speak. To be sure, not much was said standing there under Grand Central waiting for the 7 train to Times Square. Even after the train arrived and we sat kitty corner to each other in the less noisy, yet crowded subway car, the prior moment's silence seemed to resonate, continuing to smother conversation. So we settled on smiling and raising our eyebrows. Half smiles, like toothpicks were raising our cheeks. A couple of times I pointed to funny subway ads. Another crooked grin, followed by some noncommittal nodding - yeah, that's funny, I guess, if you like that kind of thing. I tapped my feet, she pulled on her sleeves.

A few minutes later when we reached Port Authority she went south and I went north. Across the platform from each other, we waved goodbye before my train took me uptown. After I pulled away, she must have breathed a sigh of relief. I tapped my feet some more in time with the rattling subway door.

Perhaps I should have introduced myself.

Gray Eyes

2006-10-06T01:47:00.000-04:00

I have to write something. Their existence and power must be documented for posterity. For the children.

She had gray eyes. Who has gray eyes? Slate snow silver plains like you've never seen. Martian maybe. Thinking back, all I really remember is the color. Her eyes could have spanned from her widows peak to her cleft chin, but I don't recall enough to say otherwise. My entire thought process, every gray cell I could muster, was focused on those carbon down irises.

"Paper or plastic?" she asked. My response was delayed, simple, and all I had to say.

"Whoa, you have beautiful eyes." I was told once by a female friend accustomed to men celebrating her figure with whistles and claps that complimenting a woman's appearance is not necessarily rude or disrespectful if done properly. This was not one of those ways.

"I mean, wow, like, are they real?" Her hand snapped up, closing the the top button of her uniform. Her head titled to the side and she dropped her jaw in awe of my seemingly piggish audacity.

"No, no! I mean the color of your eyes! Really, they're just so...gray." She straightened her soldiers and breathed a loud huff of air through her nose.

"Yes, they're my real eyes," she hissed.

"They're awesome, just awesome," I responded, not picking up on her irritation. Breaking my stare, I began to feel uncomfortable at how creepy I was becoming. I began fumbling through my wallet. "Umm...how much?"

"That'll be $6.97." She passed me my purchases in a plastic bag: Astronomer's Weekly and a Milky Way. As I handed her the money I tried not to look, but was caught again by the beauty of those amazing moon colored spheres. I could take no more.

I ran: straight out of the store and into my car, driving as fast as I could to the hills at the east edge of town. When I reached the cliff, I jumped out of the car without bothering to turn off the engine. Standing on the mouth of the fall, looking down at the city, I screamed. I yelled and I hollered. I lost my voice. My emotions are under my control, I thought, no woman can take power over me. I screamed some more. It was all I could do.

The Days of Miracle and Wonder

2006-10-04T02:03:00.000-04:00

I'm going to write a play called 'The Days of Miracle and Wonder' all about post-graduate life. It's a miracle when something goes well and it's a wonder it doesn't go worse. Paul Simon will recieve this thanks in the dedication,

To Paul - My dad loves your album.

It'll be set in Portland. Maybe it'll even be funny.

More Jersey nature writing

2006-09-09T01:53:00.001-04:00

You had to be there.
Against a deep blue canvas, with soft pink-purple overtones sit two dim stars. New Jersey is an awful tourist spot for those who like to find their heavens by simply looking up. I believe heaven rests to the east; our sky is actually the bottom of the river Styx. Those two stars are torches marking the western shore. Or they are the last two anglerfish in the underworld, damned for all eternity to float aimlessly, hungry and lonely.

With such a dearth of heavenly splendor hanging above our homes we are at least comforted by the occasionally pink moon and our technicolor sunsets. Indeed, when our rotation brings the sun and moon, those heavenly bodies, within our horizon, they graciously customize their hue and shade to make up for an underwhelming night sky. Like autumn revealing Jersey's beauty, the transition from afternoon to night is our most beautiful time of day. It couldn't provide us with a happier image if Bob Ross had painted it himself. Where there's purple, there's blue. When there's blue, there's gold. If gold, then red. After red, comes pink. Next to pink is the darkest, most cavernous slate nature can muster. An astounding sight produced by pollution and haze, without help from a single twinkling celestial notable. We don't need stars in New Jersey, those glam rockers of the galaxy, those patsies of points beyond, dandies of the Milky Way. Our sky appreciates the value of considered composition. We take our time, and between day and night we get nature's charisma in a small dose before going back about our business. Who has time to spend standing still, neck craned skyward at the great up there anyway?

break from the uptight fiction...

2006-07-29T05:47:00.000-04:00

I really want to start a fire.

Five weird opinions a la Sarah, who is dope, didn't you know?

1. Mission Impossible 3 is exactly what it should be. Shit blew up, Keri Russel fired a gun. That crazy fucker Tom Cruise did things against all of Newton's laws and Murphy's law. Swing down 50 flights and NOT crack your spine? Yer shitting me! But was it entertaining? Hell yes. I mean, shit blew up. boom.

2. Portland is not as cool as you think it is. Last call is at 2, there are NO good pizza places, the sidewalks roll up most nights of the week around 10, and it doesn't have a subway (something about being in the middle of some volcanos). I'm not talking shit, I'm just leveling with you people. Accept it for what it is.

3. I should be drunk right now. Less of an opinion more of a wish.

4. Velocity Girl is the worst band with the best name. I've been trying to like them since early college, but I can't do it. Her voice is irritating, the songs are kinda lame, and there's nothing outwardly captivating about their music. But that name! Velocity Girl, it's got movement to it. Some umph. Their music: no umph.

5. People who think Ok Computer isn't one of the five best albums of the 1990s are categorically wrong. There is no need to lay out my argument...the world is round, the sun is the center of our universe, and Radiohead made an album as close to perfect as possible (even filter happier, for what it was, wasn't that bad.

We'll return to irregular updates whenever I put words to paper again. TIll then, go listen to dope tunes at Blitzen Trapper's Myspace. This band renews my faith in the power of music to make your life better. My cup runeth over.

New Jersey, in the fall.

2006-07-15T01:33:00.000-04:00

Purple, brown and orange. The sky, the leaves and the in-between. I've always been a bit melancholy; please understand by a bit I mean very, everything in Jersey has a tendency for excess. As such, I was the only kid who didn't begrudge the coming of September. Finally out of the hot summer months when I couldn't get to sleep, my t-shirt sticking to my hairless chest and the air outside my front door so thick with humidity it was oppressive, like the threat of a bully keeping me hidden in the cool of my mother's shadow. Enter September, a month painted with reserved tones and kept at moderate temperatures, all suited to match my disposition. Less than three months earlier, me and every other soprano child had smiled and, while thinking of swimming, camp, or otherwise (just not the person they were talking to), wished everyone a good summer and to "see them next year." Our year went September to June, with July and August a nebulous nevertime. Summer: endless nights, long days, we'd tire ourselves out before our parents had a chance to call us in for bed. September was the New Year, with new opportunity, just like the adult's January 1st New Year we were still too young for. Though we hated the homework and the domineering teachers, it was a chance to be social again, establish ourselves among our classmates. I was never a social climber, the normal, everyday interactions made me nervous, so I found great calm in looking out open windows with my chin on my desk, smelling the autumn air drifting in and watching the leaves I'd crunch on the way home fall from the trees. It was the only time of the year I was at equilibrium with the world. Jersey summers are too hot and the winters are too cold and spring never really materializes, so for about two or three months of the year, we have the fall to lend a reprieve. I miss the leaves and I miss the smell. I miss the perfect temperatures and my flannels, which always matched the turning leaves. I miss New Jersey, in the fall.

Infinity

2006-07-03T02:26:00.000-04:00

And then, rather suddenly, when I can't afford to call, the true distance between me and the people I love manifests itself. There is a phase change. No longer, "I'm lonely." Now, "I'm alone."

A subtle shift closer to infinity, a branch of existence where change sill leaves you with the same label and location. That fallen over eight, with its loop-d-loop track, my new path in life. Like beer goggles, I lose perspective on direction - forward, backwards, sideways, front ways, there's no longer any clear distinction between them. Full on inertia maybe? Who's there to say otherwise? That tree in the forest - It just lets out a plaintive whine.

And the song in the background provides a funny as in funny ha-ha coincidence, "A prize fight between your entropy and cowardice."

Is alone, was alone, will be alone. Present, past, and future, not so perfect. Then atrophy hits. I count the leaves on the tree outside my window and, no, you're not hungry, don't be ridiculous it doesn't remind you of salad. No, I'm not bored either (by the way, you and I become uncomfortably similar when I'm alone - and! - bored). When you're young, it's called jaded, a term of indignation, holding on to some of its dignity. Now it's just boredom, hollow and unbecoming.

I stare at the phone, contemplate throwing it at the tree outside my window. My hand even goes for it once, but I only end up beginning to dial, shucking the cost. Call it a drunk dial, with all of infinity making my vision swim. I'm amazed I get your number right.

So where are you, my inamorata, my savior?

For Matt

2006-06-14T18:06:00.000-04:00

A script

2006-06-06T19:43:00.000-04:00

I started writing a script inspired by one I read the other day. Here is the intro.

INT – JG’s bedroom

Jon, sitting center, looks up at his father. We can only see the back of his head.

Jon’s Father
Jon, your mother and I have talked it over and we’ve decided that instead of sending you to Englewood High, you’ll be going to St. Francis.

Jon
The catholic school?

Jon’s father
What? It’s the best school in the county. It’s ranked very impressively state wide as well. Don’t worry you’ll have a fine time. Now – your mother is preparing dinner, wash your hands and come downstairs.

Jon’s father exits, shot remains static, centered on Jon.

Jon
Holy shit.

TITLE: Gods and Gentiles
Music: a catholic hymn, perhaps Gloria In Excelsis Deo

EXT – Jon’s walking to school

Jon (to camera)
We should start off with a little background. In the beginning…

Montage and action narrated by Jon. All characters speak with Jon’s voice.

Jon (cont’d)
There was a grand nothingness. Having grown bored with black always being the new black, God took a few days and created the cosmos. A little star dust, a splash of color, and a couple of naked folks later, and he called it a day.

God
Ok, back to my sitcoms.

Jon (v/o)
Thus the human race came into existence. Voila. But Adam and Eve may not have been as up to spec as God would have liked because they broke the only rule he gave them.

God
What? The buffet wasn’t good enough? You needed more fiber in your diet? Just ask, I create things! It’s what I do! You wanna be so independent? Fine, take your leaves and get out of my yard.

Adam and Eve exit.

Jon (v/o)
So in one fell sweep, God banishes Adam and Eve and creates guilt as well. Adam and Ever then went on to multiply like the stars.

Adam (to Eve)
You’re pregnant again? That’s like our 4,000 kid. How am I going to send them all to college?

Jon (v/o)
And their progeny spread over the land, starting wars, establishing tribes, and getting into a whole mess of trouble. Everywhere you went, new gods. The god of hair, the god of shoelaces, the god of pancakes. Everyone was god and idol crazy, until a young boy named Abraham came along and got fed up.

Abraham
It’s all too much! I can’t take it!

Jon (v/o)
So he destroyed all of his father’s idols and proclaimed…

Abraham
There is no God but God!

Jon (v/o)
Smart kid, that Abraham, he was really on to something. Started a whole movement that one. Fast forward some time and Abraham gets married to Sarah. Sadly, they are without kin.

Abraham (in bed, to sarah)
This was so easy for Adam and Eve.

Jon (v/o)
So Abraham did what he knew how to do and prayed to God.

Abraham
Oh lord, won’t you grant us a child?

Jon (v/o)
Now that God had some time on his hand, what with All My Deities now canceled when Abraham destroyed those idols, God decided to answer his prayer. Unfortunately, he didn’t act quickly enough for Sarah, who told Abraham to go do it with their servant Hagar.

Sarah
I won’t watch.

Jon (v/o)
So Abraham does the deed and Hagar has a son, Ishmael.

Hagar (pulling child from OC)
Ta-da!

Jon (v/o)
This was about the time God got Abraham’s message.

Answering machine:
You have one trillion messages…six billion and one. (Abraham’s voice) Oh Lord, won’t you grant us a child?

God:
Huh. (looking down and seeing Hagar, Ishmael, Abraham, and Sarah) Did I do that already? Hmmm…better put another bun in the oven just to be sure.

Sarah (now with child, to her surprise)
Whoa! Thank you God! Well, no need for you two. (To Hagar and baby) Be gone!

Jon (v/o)
So in one of the less bright moves of eternity, Abraham kicks out Hagar and Ishmael, leading to the great divide between Jews and Muslims. Now, craving some melodrama, God tells Abraham…

God
You know what Abe, I’m not too sure you really appreciate this baby and truly love me. Sacrifice your son to me.

Jon v/o
Now Abraham, he’s distraught.

Abraham
My son! Oy!

Jon v/o
But what can you do? It’s God, you know? So Abraham takes Isaac up the mountain and is all ready to strike when God sends down an Angel to say…

Angel
Smile! You’re on Candid Camera! Thanks for playing along; you’ve been great. Now, slaughter this goat, I’m famished.

Jon v/o
So Abraham wipes the sweat off his brow, says…

Abraham
Whew! You really had me going. Good one big guy!

Jon v/o
And he let’s a very relieved, but very traumatized Isaac go free. Not being one to let an opportunity for a twist ending slip by, God tells Abraham…

God
You know, I’m still not feeling your heart it totally in this. You need some skin in this game. I’ve got it! Circumcise yourself and your son!

Abraham
Circum-what? (Angel leans over and whispers in his year) What! Can’t I just kill him instead?

Jon v/o
After some serious hesitation, Abraham brings Isaac’s trauma to a whole new level and circumcises them both, thus beginning a long line of intense traumas experienced by Jews, leading them to become the most neurotic people on the planet.

Isaac (lying on a psychiatrist’s couch, woodie allen accent)
First, my father is going to kill me, but instead he just cuts off my foreskin! And my mother just wanted to know why I got blood on my shoes!

Jon v/o
Fast forward a few hundred years, and the children of Isaac are enslaved in Egypt. If you want to know the back-story, just go see Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat.

A snippet of the musical is shown, concluding with a finale pose.

Jon (cont’d)
Really, it’s quite smashing. Anyway, after a rash of prayers for freedom from enslaved Jews…

God’s answering Machine
Let us go…save us…ouch! Please, enough with the whipping… Please, for the love of everything that is holy, would you just get us out of here already?

Jon v/o
God, with one of his more psychedelic displays of power, tells Moses to free the Jews.

Burning bush (to Moses)
Tell Pharaoh to free the Jews! (Moses looks down at what he’s drinking, smiles, and chugs the rest)

Jon v/o
So Moses and his brother go to the Pharaoh and say, in two part harmony…

Moses and his Brother (singing)
Let my people go!

Moses
I am sent by the one called I Am!

Jon v/o
The ‘I Am’ bit just confused Pharaoh, so he told Moses to scram. Not one to be snubbed, God rained down some toads, destroyed some crops, killed all the first born Egyptian males, really making a mess of Cairo until that uppity Pharaoh said…

Pharaoh
All right! Sheesh! You’re free! Get out!

Jon v/o
So Moses led the Jews out of Egypt and through the desert for 40 very long years.

Jewish Lady #1
Moses, for crying out loud, just ask directions!

Moses
I know where I’m going! (to his brother) For real, where the hell are we?

Jon v/o
Eventually, they come upon Mt. Sinai and Moses goes up the hill, chats with God, and gets the Ten Commandments.

God
I’ve been working on them for some time. I think you’ll like what I’ve done.

Moses (reading the commandments)
I am the Lord your God, Do not have any other gods before Me. Really, you don’t say…

Jon v/o
Two days later, Moses comes down the mountain only to find his people worshiping a golden calf.

Moses
What the hell! We’ve been in the desert 40 frickin’ years, you couldn’t wait two more days?!? Fuck this! (Moses chucks the ten commandments over his shoulder, walks OC, then comes back on and looks at the shattered tablets) Oh shit.

Jon v/o
So Moses walks back up the mountain to carve the commandments again.

Moses (carving)
Sabbath has two B’s, right?

Jon v/o
After that, everyone but Moses gets to go into the holy land.

Moses (looking at a sign saying “Welcome everyone! Except you, Moses”
What the fuck? Fuck this! (tosses down commandments again and walks OC)

Jon v/o
Fast forward through some more wars, the Romans, the Christians, the Muslims, and some Mel Brooks films and you basically have the history of the Jews.

Jon comes back on camera, church bells ring as he walks up the steps of the Church

Jon
That’s my song. Time to get to class. Spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch. (crosses himself sarcastically and makes the sign of the cross, then tucks the star of David around his neck into his shirt)

It's Raining.

2006-06-04T23:44:00.000-04:00

It’s Raining.

It’s raining, and not that cowardly drip which doesn’t even so much as leave an impression on dark fabrics. It’s raining the kind of rain garnering responses like “Whoa! Well, I guess it really is raining.” People are standing behind closed windows, mesmerized by the violence of it all. This is not the time to disagree for the sake of it, to stand out from the crowd of nodding indoors’ers, shaking your head. Sure, there are various degrees of rain, the torrential downpour, the pitter-patter sputter drizzle, the downpour-but-bring-the-umbrella-and-we’ll-be-fine, the wind blown slanting wall of water, the sun shower, the Chinese water torture drip (an enemy of children everywhere waiting at the window for the final sky trickle so they can go back outside)…sure, there are tons of kinds.

But do you see the water falling from the sky right now? It’s fucking raining. Small houses are huddling under the awnings of larger houses and cars are covering their roofs with their wheels – leaving one wheel down, of course, to keep grounded from a potential lightning strike. Even the sidewalks are looking pale, the color having slunk off to the edges of the street to take shelter. The trees are all staring where their shadows would normally be this time of day, wondering how long this will take. They’ve got basking to do before the day turns to dusk and then into what will be a very wet night. And look at that guy! His umbrella has been inverted, his tie is over his shoulder, and he’s lunging ahead, step-by-step, squishy sock by squishy sock.

Go outside if you must, if these dry walls and this crunchy carpet are leaving you feeling dehydrated. If you’re brave and don’t mind smelling like a wet dog when you return, then by all means, wander proudly, but, at least for me, puddle hop if you do.

The Gratefully Dead

2006-06-01T05:16:00.000-04:00

I had a brief discussion with a friend on whether or not this was poetry. To end it, I put it in paragraph form. I guess it's prose. This is dedicated to Mary.

The Gratefully Dead

Their daughter of 24 – or was it 25? – decided that was enough, so it would seem, and took her life into her hands. The sky in her neighborhood would go days without cloud cover, the sun acting like a child starved for entertainment, “Just five more minutes!” Although we east coasters see the same bright sun, our view is scuttled by sky-high flotsam and jetsam. She had sunny days to spend pondering. So she told one friend one thing and another friend a separate thing, leaving the most bodacious piece for herself, not that we’ll ever know the specifics. Isn’t that the irony? We ask the suicidal to talk about it, as if those wishing to kill themselves feel they have time to chat. What the fuck are we thinking?

And in the afterlife, how would they decorate? The genially departed, the gratefully dead. Overjoyed to be cut loose, do they fill their space with merry knickknacks and comfortable chairs? Painting the walls soft pastels to match the curtains waving gently to the sunlight meandering in through half open windows. Or, dreadfully, has nothing changed? Is the something they wished so deeply to rid themselves of so hidden within their recesses even death can’t cut it out? Makes you wonder; do they keep killing themselves searching for the right exit wound?

Travel writing.

2006-05-16T16:46:00.000-04:00

On Friday, I move to Portland. Travel writing will no doubt follow. And perhaps one day Patrick Middleton will find whatever it is he is looking for.

Two new slightly edited chapters of Patrick Midleton losing it.

2006-03-28T02:13:00.000-05:00

play catch up:
Chapters 1 & 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

“Chapter” Six

As I lay in bed I could hear the apartment shift. Unsteady piles began to slip, unbalanced pieces sliding to whatever surface lay below. Magazines on to the desk, books on to the floor, computer printouts everywhere. Menus held up by magnets on the freezer door began their slow decent downward until they all collected just above the gap between the freezer and refrigerator doors. Dishes caught drips from my leaky kitchen sink faucet, saucepan pools overflowed to create a lagoon of kitchenware. As the heat came and went, the house would creek, expanding and contracting. Curtains hanging above closed windows would sway gently against rising heat. The light bulbs creaked in time with the banging of my old steam heater. I’d imagine water flowing through the pipes like the blood of a circulatory system and I saw myself as a malignant growth in an otherwise healthy apartment building body, spreading my sloth like a paste across my one bedroom, third floor apartment. Therefore, I felt it’d be better for everyone if I stayed mainly within my cancerous confines.

For a brief period I began to believe in ghosts. I’d see Jamie, now a translucent silver, walk over to a pile of Billboard Magazines and poke at it with one finger like an inquisitively like a child learning the world for the first time. When the stack would tumble, she'd giggle to herself. She had a great giggle. It would bubble up from her throat before she could do anything to conceal it. Her body wouldn’t allow anyone to dictate where she could find pleasure. A sense of humor that free is confidence bubbling over. I bore witness to her unconscious snubbing of the little things which pile up on the rest of our shoulders. And it wasn’t that she was naïve or unaware, she just naturally focused was elsewhere. She entered situations like a scientist looking for enlightenment. When she found a connection, she’d smile, she’d laugh, she could warm to a stranger in minutes, as they would warm to her. She'd ask questions which showed she was listening. She'd direct the conversation, but could make anyone feel like the lead.

Besides her charm, Jamie was physically disarming. A girl next door brunette, with a beauty that resisted a simple definition. Her true beauty could be found in her softer and unseen features. The corners of her mouth rested natural up, ready to raise her apple cheeks just below her eyes with a smile. Her wavy honey-brown hair would slip from behind her tiny ears to frame her face on either side. Not a tall girl, she had a child like presence, that is, until challenged. I’d kid with her that her ancestors were porcupines. Cute until you dare try to make them lunch. When faced with an opinion she couldn't abide, she'd launch a full throated opposition, feeding on the fire of intellectual competition as it burned.

There was her real beauty, the hidden piece which made all of her features, from her tiny fingernails to her bad knees from years of field hockey glow radiantly. It was the confidence which drew me to her. During a lecture on Evolution vs. Intelligent Design, she began an argument with the speaker during the question and answer period over not speaking harshly enough on the separation between real science and "scams labeled theory by political hacks playing on the general public's inability to define theory”. I cut in front of three people at the cheese and crackers table to talk to her.

And yet here she was now, finding humor in toppling my old Billboard magazines. I’d call out to her, but she’d vanish when our eyes met, as a dream upon waking. This was my first specter.

So I lay there among the still of the ever changing apartment, trying not to let my mind drift. Yet my shift from healthy and clean to unstable and unpleasant was so sluggish, I didn’t even recognize the change until I woke up one day and realized I had no idea what day it was. I was in a state of collapse, the apartment was just an extension of my slide.

After my two week break and five calls from Chuck I didn't return, he left me a message letting me go.

“Look, I know it’s been rough, but we have a business to run. I can’t have employees who don’t show up for work.” Chuck sounded regretful, whether it was because he had to do it over the phone (to an answering machine no less!) or that he had to do it all, I wasn’t sure. “Give us a call when you get back on your feet. Ok buddy? I’ll speak to you soon.” The end of that sentence was a bit stuttered. S-oon. He wasn’t expecting to hear from me soon. He expected I'd fall off the face of the Earth. Become a mountain man in the adirondacks. Move to Walden Pond and set up camp next to the ice cream vendors. What’s more, I don’t think Chuck wanted to hear from me. No one did. I'd spooked them all away. A co-worker of mine, Randy, had stopped by to see if I was ok (i.e. still alive) a couple of days before the final call from Chuck.

“Pat? Patrick? Dude?” I heard him knocking from my bedroom. At first, I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t spoken to anyone but delivery men since I left work before my vacation and in my sleep-deprived state, I’d almost forgot how. I challenged myself and opened the door.

“Randy. Hi.” The greeting took a moment to remember. I opened the door enough to poke out my unshaven face. “What’s up?”

“Hey…Dude…,” perhaps my uncouth appearance came as a shock to him. What’s more likely is I fit exactly the image he’d cooked up for me on the way over. “We were worried about you at work, wanted to see if you were ok.” Randy had known me since I first started at MarketShare two years before. A gentle guy, we got along well enough talking mainly about work or our shared love for the Albany River Rats, but this conversation was out of our range.

“Yeah, great. Doing fine.” My face was tense, my voice overly peppy, like a labrat about to snap because he can't find the damn cheese. Unsure of what to do and perhaps feeling a rush from the cloud of awkwardness which floats around the defeated souls of the bereaved, he split real quick like.

“Well, ok, great. I’ll tell everybody back at the office. Ok, see you at work!” Then he turned to go. I watched him shuffle hurriedly down the stairs, careful not to trip over his tail. He no doubt was the sacrificial lamb come to tell me I’d been let go. I closed the door, went back to bed, and stared at the ceiling some more, hoping to ward off Jamie’s ghost before she got bored with the piles and started knocking down walls.

“Chapter” Seven

Have you ever had caked blood on your hands? I mean copious amounts of caked blood? It’s like sun-dried clay, with a glaze of cum. Thick, sticky, and so repulsive you don’t want to touch yourself. Rank, putrid, rancid, yes, all of the above, but none more qualified to describe the feeling than this: death. I felt Jamie dieing on my hands. Whether she was dead already, I’m not positive. I’d learn later her neck was broken when the front passenger side absorbed our impact with the barrier.

As we were spinning, the last thing she said was my name, like it was her last thought.

“No! Patrick!”

But she didn’t take her seat belt off and she didn’t respond to my shaking. She didn’t respond to my screaming, she didn’t respond when I finally dragged her out of the car. Is it morbid to suggest she was just there in spirit?

By the time the police officer who’d been waiting in a speed trap only a hundred or so yards ahead found his way over to us, my shirt was red. I’d been clutching Jamie’s head against my chest. The cop didn't say a thing.

"Chapter" Five of "Oh, That Wacky Patrick Midleton!"

2006-01-16T00:23:00.000-05:00

“Chapter” Five (I'm still working on this one, so please, leave some feedback. especially if you know anything about being an editor.)

I’d started talking to myself.

“Take a shower. You know you always feel better after a shower. It’ll clear your head.” If that’s not a sign of depression, someone clue me in on what is. Jamie had been dead for three weeks. I wasn’t sleeping anymore, one, maybe two hours a night. I’d even been given a managerial order to “chill out”.

“Patrick, you’ve had a rough time,” is the first thing Chuck told me when I entered his office. He leaned casually against his desk, crossing his arms above his nascent middle aged man belly. He did this to butch up.
“But we really need you here, buddy.” Hearing your boss call you buddy is like kissing your sister. “Here’s what I propose…” He picked up his alabaster Compedia Publications desk globe, his fanciest paperweight, and shook it gently, focusing on it like an eight ball.
“Take some time off. I’ll forward you some vacation time.” He looked back up at me for approval. “Two weeks?” He put the desk globe down next to a gold trimmed picture of his wife and ten year old son Allen he took at our annual company softball game. Editors vs. layout. He stood up from the desk and took two steps toward me. Here comes the kicker.
“Try to take it easy. Don’t think about work. Chill out.”

Each letter, a monologue.

C – h – i – l – l o – u – t.

Every muscle in his face worked in unison to form those letters, that sentence, those two words; I saw it happen. Contraction and release, tensing and relaxing. I’m not sure where the strength came from, but the moment that balding, I’m-40-but-still-hip, son of a bitch told me to chill out, I resisted a carnal impulse to leap from my chair and strangle him with his metal slinky until his eyes bulged from their sockets. Instead, I nodded a couple times, stood up slowly to give the appearance of a man who’s gotta do, what he’s gotta do, gave a polite thank you wave, and gathered some things from my desk. Then I left without making even the faintest of a scene. Every pair of eyes in the room was on me and their respective brains were all wondering the same thing.

“Did he just get fired?”

Since the incident, my work had gone steadily down hill. A day after the crash, I was released from the hospital with some minor sprains and bruises, and with a powerful urge to work. I assisted Jamie’s family in arranging the funeral, filed a report on the accident, spoke with insurance agents, leaving a trail of crossed T’s and dotted I’s in my wake. I alone defeated the second law of thermodynamics. The day after Jamie was in the ground, buried adjacent to the plots reserved for her parents, I went back to work with a passion hotter than the depths of hell.

Sixteen hours a day, six days in a row (the office was closed on Sunday), sleeping on the couch in the lounge, going home only a couple of times to change. I edited, drafted, jazzed up, toned down, and smoothed out thousands of words separated by single spaces and punctuation. I can’t recall one piece I worked on during that first week after her death, or whether they were any good. But work I did. I was a machine. No one told me to relax. No one dared. No one dare even speak to me. Fire spurt from my ears like a race car’s tailpipe. When I’d come around for a pit stop at the water cooler, my co-workers would just stare at the floor, scratching the back of their hands and then excuse themselves. I was a silent warlord. A silent racecar warlord. Earnhardt in a Viking helmet.

When I showed up for work the furst Sunday after Jamie died, to my surprise I found the building closed. I had no clue what day it was, so I waited a little while for someone to come and open it. After an hour or so, I walked home. “I should never have left last night”, I chided myself.

After speed walking to my apartment, it hit me the moment I crossed the threshold. The door closed and I dropped my bag to the floor with a noticeably pronounced thud. The entropy had caught up with me. The loneliness, the boredom. The excruciating anxiety. It was like a team of school children was marching around my intestines singing “The Song That Doesn’t End” and poking me with homemade flags.

“What do I do now?”, I asked the empty room. I looked at my books, pilled arbitrarily around the apartment. I looked at my stereo and the shelves of records which seemed to spring forth from the wall.

“I could listen to some music, “ I thought. I looked out the window at the apartment buildings and stores across the street. I saw people going about their lives like, to the best of their knowledge, everyone who mattered was still alive. I sat on the couch and turned on the T.V. I flipped through the channels, but couldn’t tell the difference between the shows. When I turned off the television, my reflection stared back at me; all gaped and wide eyed. I crawled to the television to get a better look. Even with the light from windows reflecting on the screen, I could still make out the bags under my eyes. I got up and hurried to the bathroom and pressed my face into the mirror over the sink. I was feeling something, something very intensely, but I couldn’t pin point it long enough to give it a name.

Then I vomited. Twice. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and took two steps out of the room, falling face first onto my bed.

I started to cry. I hadn’t cried in years. I didn’t cry when Jamie died. I didn’t cry in the hospital. I didn’t cry when my grandfather died. I didn’t cry when Nails, my Jack Russell Terrier, got hit by the ice cream man. I never cried, but there I was soaking the sheets.

When I thought of how pathetic I must have looked, I cried some more. When I thought how Jamie wouldn’t want me to cry, it came harder. Tensing my face into a prune couldn't halt the flow. Nearly smothering myself with a pillow wouldn’t make it stop. So I cried and cried and cried.

I must have gone into some weeping induced coma because when I came to, it was Monday morning and almost time for work. I didn’t even change my clothes.

That’s about the point my colleagues ended their silent pity party, if only out of necessity. I began screwing up every assignment I had. I overheard two of them questioning whether the shock of the accident had caused me to forgot how to read. At first I really did try to keep up, but I couldn’t focus. Words began to blend and pages began looking like Rorschach tests. A chapter from the Albert and McKinsey’s Microeconomics, 7th Edi., looked like a bunny eating a pumpkin.

After two weeks of missing every their/there/they’re error, I gave up trying. Each assignment received no more than a couple minutes of my abbreviated attention, regardless of length. Sometimes, if I got bored with creating flip books out of my steno pads, I’d randomly insert paragraphs from an Anthropology text on Aboriginal woman into cookbooks.

Boil the asparagus in gently boiling water until cooked, but still al dente. This should take about 8 to 10 minutes, depending on the thickness of the asparagus. Melt the butter in a small pan. Women performed not only the normal domestic chores and child care, but used their skills to weave fish nets, paddle canoes during the hunt, tan hides and harvest wild rice and maple sap. An Ojibwa woman was free to shun the protection of a man, if she so desired, as long as she was prepared to follow the male pursuits which were necessary for survival. Arrange the warm asparagus on four plates, and drizzle over it the melted butter. Sprinkle with a little salt, and some coarsley cracked black pepper.

When that bored me, I’d pretend I was Yossarian from Catch-22 and return unfinished copy to the previous editor with words blacked out randomly. I thought it was a gas. One of these letters was passed up the chain of command. Really, I’m lucky he didn’t fire me then. He was probably nervous I’d start acting crazy.

Jumper

2005-12-26T19:30:00.000-05:00

The Washington Monument, removed and disinterested, stood above a luminescent and contagious blinking city. Or it stood by while the city was on fire - from that height Reese couldn't tell. Small yellow and white lights, patchy and spotty across the diamond, ostensibly changing shape and altitude, made their existence and message known to anyone who would look down on them. jump jump jump...they were calling out to Reese. The chant mellowed to a steady hummmm, their screaming and yelling saved for some real action. Reese was listening. He was fifteen floors up, minus the thirteenth, which was technically the fourteenth, but had been left out by superstitious architects and engineers afraid their souls would be eaten alive by savage hell demons with dried blood between their molars if they crossed the threshold of a floor marked with the number thirteen. Fifteen floors up: not an optimal height if a nearly 100 square mile city is chanting jump jump jump within earshot. Though labeling Reese suicidal wouldn't have been accurate. He wasn't thinking about dieing, he was just thinking about jumping off a balcony 150 feet off the ground, the same way someone pauses before jumping into a pool on an Indian summer’s day, not so sure if they smell an oncoming chill in the air. Or the way a steel worker eating lunch on top of Rockefeller Center wondered what it’d feel like if their body was broken into a million little pieces, held together only by putty after slamming into the pavement traveling at terminal velocity. Or the way a pedestrian contemplates what it'd feel like if a Mac truck slammed them into a brick wall. No, it's not that Reese was suicidal, he was just attracted to possibilities. What happens the moment your life is registered kaput? Do the lights shut the fuck up and stop blinking or do they find a new victim? Would the Washington Monument take notice? If it did, what would it do? Reese pondered all of this and took another sip of beer.

‘I could just slowly kill myself with this stuff’, he thought. "But would that make it easier or harder for everybody else? Watching a slow, painful demise or dealing with a moment? It'd be an easier story for the police. 'One second he was talking about the Redskins, the next he walked to the balcony and he was gone.' Drinking myself to death would be much worse.’ He imagined his family and friends telling their own single sentence version to a news reporter or a coroner or a barber. He gazed back through the deck’s screen door. They all stood around his living room, making conversation. He wasn't entirely sure anyone had noticed he'd left the room until he locked eyes with his friend Amanda. He smiled and turned back to the sociopath city across the river. Had they locked eyes long enough for her to interpret it as a message to come outside? Or did he crinkle his brow just so as to make it appear like a cry for help? He stood still for a moment waiting for the screen door to open. It didn't.

The wind began to pick up. At fifteen, that is, fourteen floors up the wind has more room to dance and play. Listen closely at that height and you can actually hear the wind whistling Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. Absolutely smashing. If Reese's apartment was actually in D.C (it was in Arlington, VA, the missing piece of the world’s formerly largest baseball diamond) he would not have been able to mingle with musical winds at eye's level with an aloof and phallic monument. Within the district, no building may stand taller than the Washington Monument, as if George Washington would be forgotten or the city would be any less intimidating to visitors if the Morgan-Stanley building was allowed to gain more office space in the sky. Still, Reese appreciated the symbolism. Let nothing stand taller than what this monument stands for. That got Reese wondering about whether it'd hurt more to jump, that is, fall from the top of the monument onto the grass below it or leap from his deck, or any deck really, to a street paved with concrete, if it'd hurt at all. If it did cause the faller pain, would the experience be altered by different kinds of concrete or grass? He didn't have long to question because behind him the screen door opened.

"It's a bit brisk out here," Amanda chattered, rubbing her upper arms and leaning against Reese. "What's going on?" His right arm began to feel a bit warmer, meaning he was taking some of her body heat. He felt this must be rude, but would it be more rude to move away? Would she still think he was playing the cootee game from kindergarten?

"You get used to it after a while." He remained still.

"What are you thinking about all alone out here?"

"Nothing much. How's the party doing in there?"

"O.k. Funny bunch, but they're doing their best to make conversation. Mostly talking about new year's resolutions and plans for the upcoming year. Your Uncle Marty told some story to all of us about you and a bulldog."

"It chased me up a hill, I was a small child, what was I supposed to do?" Being eaten alive by a dog must hurt more than being pounded through a brick wall into the next building. Would it hurt more or less as a child?

"No, you did what any kid would have done. It was a cute story." For a moment they stared out at America's capitol, seeing different cities. "OK, I'm cold. Come back inside, I think your mom wants you to open more champagne, and the ball is dropping soon." She smiled, showing her teeth, slid the screen door open, and walked back inside. Reese watched her walk away.

'She has a wonderful ass', he thought. 'Why didn't we ever hook up?' He took another sip of his beer. 'Maybe if we just got drunk together, then it'd be harmless. What a funny story it'd be and we could retell it to each other with some inside jokes, it'd bring us closer together. Who knows, maybe we'd actually make a great couple. I don't think grass or concrete would hurt any more of less, regardless of type. Instant death is instant either way.' Another sip.

'She did touch my arm. Maybe she wants me already.' Reese followed a plane descending slowly into Regan airport. For a moment, the city lights shut up. An optical illusion, perhaps, but no true jumper would have passed up such a reprieve. Maybe it'd even cause them to go back inside, turn on the television, have a soda.

Reese took a sip of his beer and then lobbed the bottle to the street. As it spun some beer spilled out, saying jump jump jump. He couldn’t hear the crash, but the rainbow of chanting alcohol was clear. When the descent was over, the sparkling shatters of glass joined in...jump jump jump. Reese looked towards the west, straight past the monument and the capitol dome, beyond the Chesapeake Bay, over the Atlantic, father than the European Union, through the minarets of Oman, around the Great Wall of China, farther than the sun over Japan, higher than the Pacific's waves, overtop the Rocky Mountains, and back to his deck just as he leaped to the concrete. As when the plane passed, the city was drowned out by a falling body.

With grace surpassed only by passion, Reese shook his head from left to right then up and down, clearing concrete from his nasal passages. Then he walked back inside to open the champagne.

Chapter "Four" retelling the fuckup and eventual salvation of Patrick Midleton

2005-12-26T00:21:00.000-05:00

[find "chapters" 1,2, and 3 below, on earlier days.]

"Chapter" Four

Five-thirty in the morning and I'm in Robyn's bed, but I don't really
know that. I forgot. I'm in a place my body never forgot. I'm warm,
I'm safe, it's like the moment right before a star goes nova. My eyes
are closed and the light on my lids could be from a sun or a oncoming
train, the Dali Llama has nothing on my calm. The sun's resting it's
chin on the horizon and the birds are still whispering to each other
as not to wake the squirrels. I unfurl my toes, take in bits of
jersey sheet and then let go. I may never move again. Languid orange
cream sunlight warms the modestly furnished bedroom. A long since
abandoned high heeled yellow converse props open one of the room's two
windows, letting spring air plump with dew drift in, lightly twisting
the bucktooth window blinds on it's way past. The other yellow
converse hangs from a dusty ceiling fan by it's laces. Adjacent to
the window is a bookshelf swollen with used paperbacks, old textbooks,
and magazines. On the other side of the bed is a blue, 4-shelved
wooden dresser with socks springing from the second shelf and a cotton
bra strap dangling from the first. Outside, although some dirty and
stubborn snow still crowds corners and edges around town, it's spring
in upstate NY. Excluding those in the great leak states, no one in
the lower 48 appreciates spring more than land locked upstaters.

I lay there, preoccupied and oblivious, her back to my shoulder, I
might as well have been asleep. I might as well have been dead.

Before there was Jamie, Robyn Harte and I spent three unusually steady
years together. Our families put odds on who'd propose first.
Mornings like this were the norm. I was content. A physical
therapist, Robyn knew what moved me. A writer, I knew what words
stirred her. Her previous boyfriends left her nervous, quick to
judge, and "estranged from inner-self". I was safe, fresh out of the
gate, with only one serious girlfriend before her. I listened, I felt
her pain. I was an emotional sponge. Half the time I had no idea was
going on, but I had stamina by the bucket and she just needed an ear.
I needed to feel like I was important to someone. An ideal
arrangement.

Outside Robyn's window, the occasional car passes or door slams and
some unfortunate soul slogs off to work. I pay no mind. Robyn could
sleep through a fire; she hasn't moved since she fell asleep. That
girl and me, two peas in a fuzzy pod of exhausted passion. There is
noting more comfortable than being wrapped in sheets warm from a
night's worth of body heat. Something vaguely embryonic about it. I
was set, ready for the day and I hadn't even gotten out of bed yet. I
hadn't had a morning like this in a long time.

One wanderlust summer many summer's ago while I was still in college,
my bed was an old couch on a friend's balcony. My alarm clock was the
sun rising from the roof line. I've never slept so well. Suddenly
fresh air wasn't just a sign of the oncoming day, it was my morning
wine. My technicolor visions of oxygen molecules flowing from trees
into my lungs felt like prophecy. This was perhaps, also, the closet
I've ever come to religion. Even during the accident, I never called
out for god, never begged for intervention. When I finally understood
the red in Jamie's hair and the rouge in her cheeks was blood, the
infinite never crossed my mind. The mornings I woke on that mold
green, rotten pumpkin orange and piss yellow knit couch, left me with
no questions about an infinite because it was right there in front of
me – all around me; me. Oxygen I couldn't see fed from nearby trees,
nurtured my body and a star some thousand light years away kept me
warm and woke me up. To say I was an element of the infinite would
predefine boundaries. Everything is in flux and for a little while,
some particles had a party and formed my body. Soon, they'd disperse
and start other subatomic parties. This was before I'd known anyone
who died.

That morning, between the time I lay half awake until I dashed for the
door, I was flush with the same naïve comfort. Everything smelled
like Robyn, smelled of life. In one nostril and out the other. My
Mother Earth, the sun shined and the tides changed at her behest.
Planets revolve in sequence to hum her name. The galaxy spread itself
out until it reached nothingness to preach of her being. Literally,
nothing else in the entire world mattered for those few minutes. I
thought about love, children, death, honeymoons, the time we did this
and that, and a photo of her looking up at me like we were meant to
be. I thought about crunchy leaves, crunchy snow, kites, picnics, and
every other cute couple day trip we never took. I remembered the
first time we had sex. I remembered the last time we had sex, only a
couple hours before. I wondered which was better. I remembered how
brilliantly blunt we'd become with each other, like two appendages of
the same organism communicating with one another. I remembered all
this and I was happy. I was never leaving that bed again. What a
fool I'd been.

I rolled to my side and threw an arm over her. She moaned lightly,
nudging back against me. Patrick and Robyn, the natural way. The sun
woke me up in a warm bed I knew so well, couldn't remembered why I'd
left, and for a moment I forgot I'd known someone who died. Someone
close to me. Someone…someone…

Then, with the efficacy of a car crash, I remembered everything.
Feelings of being pent up, finding nothing in common aside from our
corresponding neediness, and the memory of the other guy, that son of
a bitch fuck she slept with. Some guy was fucking someone I love. I
was angry, depressed, confused. My moment was up, the only good day
dream I'd ever had was over.

So I left, or more properly, ran. I'm not proud. I didn't say a word
to her. I snuck out of bed, put on my clothes, and left the apartment
like a thief, like a victim. The worst of it was, If I wanted to come
back that night, I knew I could.

Saddam didn't even give us reasons this good

2005-12-14T07:42:00.000-05:00

...a small break from the fiction...

While in the midst of Nuclear talks with Britain, France, and Germany, the Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said Wednesday "the Holocaust is a "myth" that Europeans have used to create a Jewish state in the heart of the Islamic world." During his speech, the crowd chanted "Death to America".

Is he asking for Tehran to be carpetbombed?

"Chapter" Three in the amazing failures of Patrick Midleton

2005-12-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

"Chapter" Three

I didn’t really start worrying until the blood began to gather around my tongue. Catching my finger nails in the steering wheel was a warning shot. Having the air knocked out of me when the seatbelt constricted, I admit, was a bit worrisome, but I kept my cool. I only screamed because she screamed. It’s like yawning. Ten and two, turn with the skid. I wondered, “So…which way do you turn if you’re flipping?” When I began choking on blood, then perhaps I became a bit nervous. My anxiety quickly began to subside when we came to a halt, which seemed a bit sudden, upside down against the barrier. I felt bad for all those mornings I quietly cursed road workers for holding me up as I was clearly just trying to get to work on time. They did quite a good job on that barrier. Firm. Reliable. It did a fine job of preventing us from rolling into the Hudson River. I chided myself for not recognizing the necessity of their craft or the quality of their work sooner.

“How predictable”, I thought, “to not see the hard work others put in to keep me safe.” At that point, the blood began rushing out of my mouth and into my head, which would account, I think, for my strange line of thought.

When I finished imagining the smiling construction workers who had so skillfully placed the line of concrete barriers along Rt. 87, I felt myself smile. I’m alive, I felt it. I was sure of it. Everything was so real. The scenery vivid, the smells pungent. My noteworthy lack of pain curious.

“That must be my passive nervous system kicking in, or whatever it’s called.” I wasn’t thinking that clearly, I mean, I was hanging upside down in a totaled Toyota Camry.

The sun was setting over the Hudson. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, PCBs reflect well in the environment. The colors were astounding. A purple and orange sheen stretched thin across the sky, complimented by their faint reflection in the Hudson. What Upstate NY lacks in color culturally, it makes up for in beautifully polluted sunsets. Had it not been late fall, the trees no doubt would have coordinated well with the sky.

“Perhaps I should get out of the car.” So I began my first attempts at moving. “I wasn’t alone, was I?” No, I wasn’t, I remembered. Jamie was in the car with me. And so she was, in a way. I looked over and there she was.

“Jamie, we’re alive.” Her hair looked more red than I remembered and her cheeks more blushed. An accident will do that to you, I surmised.

“Jamie! We’re alive!” The passage words take from conception to expression in my body is not very long, so I have an awful habit of speaking without thinking. Those are the two dumbest words I’ve ever let fly.

Later, when two separate ambulances took us away and I was drugged on something so I would stop screaming Jamie’s name, my dreams were krayola colored. Small schoolchildren were put to the task of storyboarding the accident. I give them credit for trying, but really, what kind of detail can you achieve with a crayon? In this purple skied world, a brown quadruped, wait, no, car, came to a great halt against the back of a blue blotch with two black dimples before the blue blotch rotated and flipped off the back of a white box with brown dimples. The blotch took on a triangular shape and began to get lost in sea of sea foam green water and purple sky. A sun, or an orange, hung low in the sky. Two “skin-toned” stick figures raised their arms in surprise. When I attempted to critique the children on their efforts, I was scolded by a bleeding and broken school teacher who bore a striking resemblance to Jamie.

Odd, I thought. Jamie’s dead.

Slang v. Ant

2005-11-28T01:14:00.000-05:00

I deeply respect good writing, as much as I'm infuriated by those who seem to do it naturally. Sometimes I write for Slang Editorial. It's a blog, as this is really just a live journal in disguise. Every once in a while, I lose the confidence I've worked hard to achieve and find myself without anything worth saying to more than the five people I know who read this page during their coffee, or hot tea, break. I'm fine with this area seeming like the kid's table at the punk rock thanksgiving, I'm just uncomfortable blemishing a space which could be occupied by great writers if they ever got around to posting with any consistency. Saying things in front of other people has never been what I'm good at. My skills are more consistent with pushing buttons and pulling levers backstage or running around making sure the talent gets to the venue on time. I work best when there is no direct popular attention, or, specifically, when the pressure has just one face. This I can handle. Sometimes I’m even good at it.

This is all to say, I think I'll keep this space for fiction. So there.

I'm writing a story.

2005-11-23T00:09:00.000-05:00

Here is a draft version of the first couple of "chapters".

Here’s To Successful Escape Plans.
by Ezra

“Chapter” One:

All I had to do was stand up and walk away. Choose a direction, any bearing. One foot in front of the other and then all you have to do is not fall down. There’s never mystery in staying. We’ve seen the same movies.

Get up. Walk. Move.
Don’t just sit there.

The endless possibilities. The most enticing left me prone, like a lab monkey sacrificing its life to find a cure for dry skin. Somewhere, my face is a on a PETA pamphlet.

Stand up. Andelay!
She’ll be back any second.

Staying means sex. Sex mean getting back together. No mystery there.

Get the fuck up, you idiot. Don’t do this to yourself.
Get up!

The change in the fountain reminded me of those colored shapes you see when you shut your eyes really tight in protest of eating your artichokes. Or my eyes were closed. Either/or. I can convince myself of anything.

Don’t do this to her.

“Patrick?”

“Chapter” Two:

Sleep less than your body deems necessary and you’ll see things. I call them specters, day dreams without even having to close your eyes. The mind wanders and you have a front row seat. Do a double take and the yellow brick road evaporates. Relax your eyes and the channel changes. There’s no nodding off, you’re much too wired for that. A marionette strung up by I.V’s of adrenaline. Sometimes you’ll just see a quick flash, an icouldaswronisawherfaceanambulanceorohmygodnonotagain.

Sometimes, at its worst, you can’t change the station. Imagine getting lost in a mall playing the same muzak version of Smells Like Teen Spirit in every store. Or your brain on basic cable at four A.M and real life becomes the commercials. Eventually, something jumps out at the you from the white noise Rorschach test of American advertisements. A billboard or a store fronts will be vulgar enough to momentarily snap you from your daze. Or maybe it’ll be the new Usher single from a passing car that jolts your eyes to attention right before you walk into the brunette in the mauve power suit who thinks you’ve been staring at her for the prior 50 feet. I’ve heard advertisers turn the volume up on commercials. I guess the theory is whatever is the loudest will echo the longest. Or they’re just trying to get your attention in the kitchen or bathroom. Eventually, you return to your regularly scheduled programming. The bell tolls and the specter lurches away.

Right then, and that whole day, my mind was hosting a talk show to discuss the previous night’s inaction. From the moment I woke up in Angie's bed till 14 hours later when I passed out on Nikki’s couch, I watched myself walk off in every direction away from that fountain before she came back. Intermittently, I’d see the accident.

Sometimes I’d talk to myself. Sometimes out loud.

“See Patrick? If you’d gone this way, you could have gotten pizza on your way home.”
“Lena’s was just northwest of you. You could have seen a show.”
“The Hudson was only a few hundred yards away. You could have jumped, you sucker for a self-fulfilling prophecy, wannabe Hamlet.”

As the undergrad with the Uggs boots behind the counter at Dante’s Italian Take-Out counted my change out loud I switched gears and started conjuring scenarios which would have allowed me leave even after she returned to the fountain and sat down again.

“That’s one…”, I could have told her the truth.
“Two…”. I could have lied and told her it was the truth.
“Three…” Faked tears and ran away.
“Four…” Told her I was gay.
“And five…” Pretended I was someone else.
“Have a good day!” Pretend she was someone else.

Before she’d left me sitting alone at the fountain, we’d gone through the motions of the talk. That’s not what we were there for, but we had it anyway. It’s all we know how to have. The trite, bitter at a simmer, how-could-you-do-this-that-and-the-other-thing talk that every relationship will have when it begins to be crushed by its own weight. This most involved, yet utterly superficial conversation, has two outcomes.

One, you relieve some pressure. Chop off some dead weight and find yourselves sweaty and better than ever after having the best make-up sex of your lives. If you’re in a relationship and your hay rolls have been lacking, but you’re on strong ground otherwise, go ahead, exploit a weakness and have a talk. With no actually predicament, it’ll be over relatively quickly and you’ll end up coiled together in a slip knot.

The climax of the second outcome is not as pleasurable. After you take turns poking holes in the others defenses, the skin of the relationship begins to decay until the body hemorrhages like a gunshot victim and all that’s left is a dried up carrion and you’ve both become vultures, but you're afraid to take more than a nibble because it’s your last meal.

As I left Dante’s, I watched Angie walking back to the fountain. Ah, the All My Failures channel.

I’m sitting head to knees on the lip of the fountain. She sits down next to me and I look up. She mumbles something about how she’s regrets the melodramatic entrance, I deserve more. My inner monologue is having a fit.

“NONONO! I DON’T! LEAVE! NOW! I’M A SON OF A BITCH LOOKING FOR A WARM BED!” My outward response is an overly passionate kiss. I don’t know why. Habit? Fear of being alone? Maybe I’m in love with her for real this time? A mishmash, an amalgam, a psychological potluck. Jamie’s dead two months and I’m about to relight an old flame, like those fuses you see in the Wile E. Coyote cartoons.

Then we’re in her bed.
Then I’m on Nikki’s couch.
Then I’m seeing things.
Then the girl with the Uggs…one…two…three…
Then there I am, holding my lunch outside Dante’s. The cinematography is fantastic. I should remember this for that movie I am going to make one day. I’m watching myself remember. A surrealist instant replay.

A girl yelping something about “Oh no he didn’t!” brings me back to the land of the aware. I pause. “This is getting serious.”

"I have a BA." ... "So?"

2005-11-14T22:39:00.000-05:00

Want to know what your bachelor's degree in who-the-fuck-cares will get you at Barnes and Noble?

"I see that you requested $8.50 an hour," the manager told me over the phone. "I can't get you that, but because of your degree I can bypass the system and give you 8.00 an hour."

The base salary is $7.50. My degree allows her to bypass the system for .50 cents more an hour. My zipper can hardly contain my excitement.

Ezra's Apartment

2005-11-10T22:15:00.000-05:00

Ever see Joe's Apartment? It was the first MTV movie. I saw it during my Beavis and Butthead phase (which ended, uh, earlier tonight). In between periods of blinding frustration, I patiently search through craig's list for the magical 1 bedroom apartment, next to the subway, in a safe neighhorhood, that I can afford. I will not find this apartment. If I get lucky, I'll find someone who will let me sleep on their floor for $600 a week.

More likely, I'll end up living in a place that looks like this:

That spiderman poster is kinda sweet. It'd go great next to my Mallrat's poster. Who needs an apartment though, really? My grandmother always said, "Why buy the cow when you get the sex for free."

3, 2, 1, 1, 2, 3, what the heck is bothering me?

2005-11-07T22:28:00.000-05:00

"There is literally no one in the world I don't hate right now," so says a wise old television sage.

New Jersey is purgatory. Someone buy me a punching bag. I need to get out.

For the last week or so I've done my best to play tour guide for an out of towner around NY. It's been revealed I don't know dick. I'll get confused, say we should go right, she'll say left, and she'll be right. Every time. I have no idea where I'm going. I think it's best if I just start listening to everyone else. My guts do have shit for brains.

One time, I was told every time was two words. I had mistakenly typed it as one. I wanted to punch them in the face.

I was just told I'm going to get an advanced copy of Blitzen Trapper's new album. Happy day.

Avatar fun

2005-10-23T14:59:00.000-04:00

imaSPcharacter
Originally uploaded by suemez.

This guys is way more handsome than I actually am.

This album will never be done, but at least I have a 45345374 different covers to choose from when it is done.

I want my money back

2005-10-22T01:03:00.000-04:00

Domino blows and I want my money back. The story is awkward, it's way too long, the ending has little to do with the rest of the movie, and Keira Knightly doesn't pull off the badass thing - she looks like a child holding a shotgun, but don't worry, I still love you Keira...even if you are all of 20. It's the accent that does it for me. Think I'll move to England.

-------------------------------

You know Pinedbender? You should.

Pinebender : Varsity from The High Price Of Living Too Long With A Single Dream on Lovitt Records.

Power to the people making money with their mouths

2005-10-20T23:59:00.000-04:00

BLOW YOUR MIND:

CADENCE WEAPON : Oliver Square

Listen to the chorus, rewind, play it agin. Bump it. Make your friends listen. Pick a fight fifteen seconds in. Start a club. Come home to your fridge full of condiments.

I think I'm gonna go pick a fight.

peep Cadence Weapon

Cartoons and Death

2005-10-19T23:38:00.000-04:00

The problem with being dead is you can't come back to say you're alright. If you could come back though, don't act like this. Love me some Bob the Angry Flower.

Hot Riffs, Biker Chicks

2005-10-14T15:18:00.000-04:00

Want to hear some hot tunes? Turn on Power 105.

Want to hear a boy and his plaintive guitar? New imanant tunes here.

Death, ergo Destruction.

2005-10-13T14:45:00.000-04:00

Phil Eckstein, a Skidmore College student died early sunday morning. It makes me particularly irritated imagining members of the Saratoga community blaming the kid because he had a few drinks, as if the town didn't run on beer and horses. Rest in peace.

"In the tsunami 1.5 million people were made homeless, but in this case we expect more than 2.5 million to be homeless." A cold truth? Death is the easy part?

Bird flu will get the rest of us.

And penicillin won't always help. In an evolutionary war, it sucks to have the longer generation gap.

Have a good day.

The Jersey Quagmire: a complex

2005-10-11T19:18:00.000-04:00

I've been had. Bamboozled. Fimflammed. Hornswoggled. New Jersey is not the land of opportunity I was told it'd be.

Will Post-College Ride rise? Will John Drinkwater return? Will Hollerpop ever make joyous noise? Will I ever finish a cover letter?

Here's to escape plans.

to canvass

2005-06-16T01:25:00.000-04:00

I knock on doors, i say the same thing each time, i write the same words, i use the word 'awesome' to a nauseating extent. i am a canvasser, not by choice, more like an act of fate. It is my density...destiny. I ask strangers for money for a cause I don't fully understand. i am turned down - constantly. i am not paid nearly enough for this, yet I am overpaid. i respond like a sine wave: huge money day or i should have just stayed in bed. where are the transitions zones? i am a canvasser, but i was manic/depressive-esque first, so that tendency takes priority and then takes control.

i believe this is democracy in action. i think about this very little because if i think to long, well, the first rule of canvassing is you stick to the script. we require immediate satisfaction, we do not ask questions of such things. we educate the public. tell me week one canvasser, what are the effects of toluene on the endocrine system? It's bad, here's why and I agree.

we make money. that is what we do. we are capitolists with a cause. the causality is intense, the goals are high, the words are memorized.

i am a canvasser. i canvass. help me. just say yes. dear diety, say yes.

Do you like tea?

2005-04-24T20:34:00.000-04:00

Right now, I think I am being stood up. I won't know for sure until I go to bed, but I am pretty sure. I was supposed to go out tonight for tea with a girl. I called her at 6 and left a message, but she hasn't called back. I also called her friday thinking it was saturday (funny story: i got through leaving her a message when I realized I'd said "see you tommorow", so I I fixed that little error with a short ramble about how i lost track of the days because I work 7 days a week. maybe I freaked her out, but I digress...). I've left my number on her voice mail three times now (two the first message and once today).

She seemed so psyched to go too. What if she doesn't call? Do I assume alien abduction? She lost her phone? She's saving orphans from a burning building while acting as her alter-ego The super powered Nose Ring Girl? There seems to be a trend of girls not calling me back. Do I call too often? Do I just imagine calling, but never actually follow through with the physical act? All I have is my memory to back me up. And the outgoing calls log on my phone. Ahhh, technology.

Do I go to her store to see her if she never calls? Should I never show my face there again? There are other markets. Or would that be childish. Only children avoid their problems. Small ones who fear the bigger kids making fun of them. Surely I am not that child--

I am that child.

So I never go to the store again and she never calls. I'll be in Portland in a month, I can live with that. I can't live with that, why does this keep happening? I like that health food store and she is probably saving orphans from a burning building. Maybe I should call her. No, no, that would be pathetic. Or maybe just small. Like a child. One who's afraid of the sun. Maybe she just hasn't seen her phone. But if she was waiting for me to call, she would have seen it. Yes, yes, she must be doing something else. Like saving orphans from alien abduction. Yes, yes, that must be it.

It's 8:40. I'm being stood up.

What's in a name?

2005-04-02T21:03:00.000-05:00

Just a short post. NCAA basketball is on the tube and everyone is in to it but me.

Right now, with no hockey, the only news item in the world of sports holding my attention is right here:

TaxationWithoutRepresentationStadium.com

Check it out. Pledge some cash. Can you imagine how wonderful it would be to hear on television, "And we go live now to Taxation Without Representation Stadium for the Washington Nationals..." I pledged $10. Match or beat me. I dare you.

Taylor Hanson is a guy.

2005-03-27T14:14:00.000-05:00

In high school, I was co-President of Spectrum, a gay-straight-lesbian-you know, like, whatever you want to be club. Discrimination of gays and lesbians makes my hair stand on end. So why did I want the gay guy in my store to leave so badly just now?

He was a nice guy. Very polite, even complimented the store - he did nothing wrong. This was only the second time I've seen him in the store, so I'm not bored by him, either. Oddly, the driving force behind my impulse to run and hide was the possibility that I think he was hitting on me. Not overtly, but noticeably. As an enlightened male comfortable with my sexuality, this should be of no consequence (although, it doesn't take much to make me, ezra "(fill in the blank) makes me nervous" selove, uncomfortable about much of anything).

Am I not as englightened as I think? I've had gay friends, gay bosses (two of them, in fact), and I have gay family members, so my uneasiness is distressing. I assume it's the result of just never having been hit on by someone of the same sex. How does or should one respond to that? Is it polite to say, "sorry, "I like chicks. A lot", or is that rude? I imagine it is. I suppose it can be likened to being hit on by someone of the opposite sex you have no interest in. You have nothing against them, there's just have no interest. As far as I know as a thick skulled male, this has never happened to me, but I've experienced it from the other side of the coin, so my interpretation is based on what I've reacted to.

Then what is wrong with being hit on by a member of the same sex? Now know I have universal appeal. One guy and a couple chicks dig me. That's not so bad, I can live with it.

I won't even worry that I 'seem gay.' First, because that doesn't real mean anything unless you are Harvey Fierstein. Second, no gay man is going to be anywhere near as awkard around females as me. For real, I'm about as awkward a hilltop in kansas.

Just to prove how comfortable I am though with my sexuality, not that I need to, I want everyone to answer this one question: Who wouldn't wanna do this guy?

Come on, don't lie to yourself.

discounts, senators and babies

2005-03-14T22:35:00.000-05:00

I work at a used bookstore on E. Capitol and 5th called Riverby's. Nice place, tons of old books and we serve tea at 4:30. It caters to the local folk, mainly upper-class white liberal types. A couple of weeks ago, I had a customer who was clearly not the richest guy in the world. At some point he made a comment under his breath about wishing the books were cheaper so he could buy more of them. I felt for him. If it were my store, I would have given him some sort of discount. He was obviously a knowledgable fellow, as while I was ringing up the books he chose (a couple on Teddy Roosevelt), he began explaining the national debt at its effect on taxes and America's GDP. He probably would have appreciated reading our books more than our normal clientle, if simply because books at our store would probably constitute a major purchase for him.

Of course, this is all conjecture and influenced by my distaste for any significant concentration of wealth. I just hope the guy comes back and finishes explaining the national debt to me. While he's at it, I'll give him a discount, if only for having the good taste to shop at our store.

In other news, Senator Mary Landrieu came into the store the other day dressed down in a pair of spandex pants and a baggy sweatshirt. She introduced herself as Mary Landrieu from next door and asked to borrow some printer paper. I cut her off and said, "As in Congressman Landrieu?" She smiled politely and said, "Yes, Senator, actually." I meant to say Senator. I was thinking Senator. I wish I'd at least had the good grace to say Congresswoman Landrieu. It was a simple mistake and was forgotten immediatley. Just another classic example of my tongue moving waaay faster than my brain. I've resolved to, as best I can, think before I speak as to, 1) speak more clearly and slowly and 2) find the correct words before I open my mouth. For the past 22 years my father has been telling me to enunciate. My general reply is, "imwurkinonit." Hopefully, I'll soon be able to unclutter than miasma of syllables into "Yes father, I am working on it as we speak."

You know what's fun though? Babies. Helen, my bosses daughter, has a 4 month old baby named Sarah. She's adorable. Her knees are chubby. Who's ever heard of chubby knees? I've spent practically no time with infants in my life so I don't really know how they work. But I do know they're cute. I was left alone with Sarah for about a minute today and we just looked at each other inquisitively. I wanted to pick her up but was afraid I'd scare/break her. Then she spit up a little but I'm told that's normal. There was a constant spit bubble on her cute little baby faced lips. I asked Helen if I should get her a tissue and she told me not to bother, then wipped Sarah's mouth with her sleeve. Sarah didn't seem to mind or notice. One day I assume I'll learn how they (babies) work, till then, I'll just make funny faces at them when they pass me in their strollers on the street.

Hey buddy, you got a minute for Save the Children?

Fidgeting Wildly

2005-03-01T20:42:00.000-05:00

In just a couple of hours I will be standing in the same room as Centro-Matic. I think elated would sum up how i'm feeling.

Second bit of news, the next imanant album will be released sometime before summer and be called 'I love you for real this time.' I've stolen the title from this via slang.

i might even cop the picture for the cover. My designs generally have about as much soul as I do. Diaz will never know. Unless he googles his name and finds this...not like I'm selling the album...whatever.

TIME FOR CENTRO-MATIC.

new years? nah, new year, singular. there's only one playa.

2005-01-01T17:28:00.000-05:00

The bathroom door couldn't handle the traffic and neither could the tweeter on the stereo system. Who needs the high end though, right? It's the bass that keeps ya bumpin...er, sumthin...the party was a-rockin' good time. Unlike many of my compatriots, I'm thankfully not feeling the effects of a hangover. The benefits of being a light-weight. Three drinks and you'll think I tanked the keg myself. No complaints here.

While I was still self-conscious and sober, I took the time to watch the other upper-class white youth do their thing. Ah, America. Give those with the potential to make change a cheap distraction and you can get away with anything. My generation should be the heads pushing the revolution. And by revolution, I mean getting back the core values of America, or as I like to sum it up, stay out of your neighbors backyard, but be there when they need help. Let our experiment of a social contract really mean something again. Just saying we have the best country in the world doesn't mean we do. It's still a happy day, so I am keeping this rant short, but I am sure it will be revisited.

Two other quick points:

- I hate 'em, but we may need them. Halliburton should get their people into Indonesia and the other areas effected by the Tsunami and re-build their infrastructure. They have the means, they have the people.

- Jeb Bush is being sent to Indonesia with Colin Powell to asses the damage and decide how America can help. They are giving Jeb face time with Colin, he's going to be compassionate and I am sure conservative as well. They are gearing him up for '08. McCain better throw his hat in, I don't think we can take another four years of compassionate conservative, spend it all, ask question later policy.

For the record, 'Vultures Await," the new Will Johnson album is cash money. If you dig slow and melodic songs, with simple yet lively song structure, and a focus on storytelling, all recorded in a living room with fancy equipment, COP IT HERE.

Find yourself a resolution, cause we all know you ain't perfect.

letting the tumbleweeds pass

2004-12-30T01:58:00.000-05:00

Ain't seen many people 'round these parts lately. Prolly due to the lack of updates. Slang has the propensity to keep you busy.

I've been sleeping better. I can hardly focus right now, but I wanted to get something up here. Perhaps giving your life some order is a cure for insomnia. So is South San Gabriel. Lov'em.

I'm going to update this more. Here, I have no fear of appearing monosylabic compared to a slew of english majors. I can rest calmly knowing I appear that way all by my lonesome, with no outside encouragement.

Aesop Rock has a new ep coming out next year. Needless to say, I'm psyched. Ian Mathias Bavitz raps like some hip-hop Pollock, splattering the canvas with words, paying no mind to direct correlation, focusing his attention on cadence and aural-aesthetics. "Jaberwocky superfly" don't mean shit, but I eat it up. When he takes full advantage of his immense vocabulary, no frame and canvas can bear the weight, so he'll spit on any bare city wall he can find, leaving murals for the kiddies to soak up and DPW to wash away. If he ever decides to devote more attention to story telling, the New York Public Library will have to open up a wing to hold this Aesop's musings.

here comes some punditry...

2004-11-10T01:30:00.000-05:00

We've had almost a week to get over the (non-)shock of George Bush's election and I'm ready to put my three cents in (note: not re-election, mind you - de facto judicial appointment without the mandate of a popular vote majority is not 'winning an election' by me).

The Dems lost because the Dems don't got no soul. We are damn sure what it means to be a Republican, but we have lost any sense of what it means to be a member of the People's Party. Here are three ideas/focuses for how to get us Democrats our groove back: (yeah, i said us. The loss has made me reconsider my independence.)

1. Like Billy the Comeback Kid said, "the era of big government is over." Bush's Compassionate conservate big government has provided me more than enough reason to believe that an overly powerful centralized government won't know how or be able to contain itself. They've been frothing at the mouth since they gained control of the senate and the house.

Our federal system needs a refocusing. Widdle away redundancies left over from the cold war (FBI, CIA, the NSA, Homeland Security, and maybe a czar of intelligence??). Leave a strong structure and foundation, with minimal bueracracy focusing on efficency and clear chains of command.

Less "command and control," more working with individual groups to create the best relationship with government as opposed to just ok to bd results across the board (i.e. less lower emmision standards to 1990 levels, more "you have the money and capabilities to lower your emmisions 50%, get on it and we'll talk about a tax break")

2. Moral values? Ok, start by not bitching and paying your taxes so the government can actual help the poor, the sick and the needy by funding jumpstart welfare programs for those who need it. Don't be so damn greedy.

Simplify the tax system to say "if you don't got no money, you don't gotta pay." No more of this, no pulling their weight crap. Have ways of helping those who are in poverty with programs like the Earned Income Tax Credit (EITC)

The major world religions seem to agree with us:

"If you give alms openly, it is well; but if you do it secretly and give to the poor, that is better.
(Qur-an 2:271a)"

"Take heed that you do not do your charitable deeds before men, to be seen by them. Otherwise you have no reward from your father in heaven.
(Matt. 6:1)"

"Tzedakah (צדקה) - most commonly translated as "charity", though it is based on a root meaning "justice" (צדק) According to Maimonides, there are eight levels of tzedakah in Jewish tradition, ranging from publicly giving funds, so that the donor and recipient both know who each other is, to providing the means by which a needy person can become self-sustaining."

This is not to exclude faith based and other community organizations as possibilities for helping the needy, but that should not be the default. I am a little uncomfortable with hoping religious groups will do our work for us and serve the national interest. They have their own agendas, which is fine, just not necessarily ours (federally speaking). That's all I'll say on that for now.

3. Back off of our civil rights! The Democrats should stand for full self-determination under the law, with full 14th ammendment rights. Assure the focus of the argument is on all people. Don't center it on gays or women, that's like only asking for a recount in Dade county.

For a particular example, the discussion of who should be able to marry should have nothing to do with religion. We are not led by religion, we are lead by our Constitution, so this is a 14th, 9th, and 4th ammendment issue (I am sure I could find more if I was stronger on privacy rights). If we look at the history of marrige, yes, it is traditionally a man and a woman. And originally women and blacks couldn't vote, but we changed that. Social change happens, people need to deal with it and worry about the problems in their backyard, not their neighbors.

Specifically, even Rehnquist was on the majority side in Lawrence v. Texas. The court recognizes the government can not regulate sexual relations (duh), but how far does the decision reach beyond that? We are the walls of privacy? I think they extend to who we choose to intertwine our lives with. Marriage allows for that strict intermingling of private lives, where is the constitutional justification to deny the self-determination for that? That's what marriage is, when two people decide to join their seperate lives into one. It is not illegal to be gay, or to live with someone of the same sex, or to tell anyone you want you are gay (except in the military). So it should not be illegal to choose who you want to be with and share your life with, till death do you part. Don't worry stepfather factory, I'm on your side.

I could go on with more civil rights stuff, but I'll just say this: Patriot Act.

I think 3 points is enough for now, this is becoming, well, eh, a bit ranty. Maybe I'll post more on the imanant blog. Who knew it would take a crazy republican expanding the government for a democrat to want to make the government smaller?

Here's one for victory in '08. We are gonna wreck some shit (if there is any shit to wreck left).

Selove for Congress in 2012.

2004-10-03T04:15:00.000-04:00

Eight years, that should be enough time for me to get my shit together and run for office. Sure, why not. I'll just start getting sponsorships when I get down to DC and by the time I hit 30 I'll have enough in the bank to run for Congress. I was thinking NJ-9, it's my home district, but who knows where I'll be. I was told by a couple of friends I needed to find a really liberal district, perhaps in Washington or Vermont, in order to get elected. I don't think so, I'm not that liberal, I think. Besides, 2012 will be a good year for the Dems, I can feel it. Obama in 2012. A good presidental candidate can make everyone else in the party look good, not that I'll need the help. OK, I'll need the help.

Sound bites.

2004-09-06T21:35:00.000-04:00

This is the point in the election cycle where things are supposed to heat up, the candidates are gonna really go at it. But all I hear is,

Bush: "It seems my opponent has again changed his position."
Kerry: "No I haven't, [insert long winded answer explaining why he has not]."

At this rate, Kerry is going to lose this election on sound bites alone. Both sides have focused their campaigns on America's swing states, Pennsylvania, Florida, Michigan, Ohio, etc. Specifically, the Dems and GOP'ers are doing their darndest to reach out to the so-called "undecided voters" who make up, as I've seen reported, about 8% of the voting population.

Wait, "undecided"? How could someone remain undecided after a stolen election, 9-11, two wars, a slumping economy, a dramatic increase in the size of our government (larger than in Clinton's eight years), the Patriot Act, a decrease in environmental regulations, and the "Test 'em all and let the Dept. of Education sort it out" policies of No Child Left Behind, just to name a few. Have these people even turned on the news or read a news paper in the last four years? But I digress...

To reach these "undecideds", you need one of two things: something shiny or a heap of sound bites to batter their senses during the commercial break of "Who Wants To Marry My Dad?" I'm a registered Democrat, but even I have to admit, the Republicans are winning the war of soundbites. Kerry seems to be falling prey to the Al Gore syndrome: boring the daylights out of your audience (but who can forget 'lockbox' though?)

[A sidenote on Al Gore's lockbox. Al suggested taking the social secuirty funds and placing it in a lockbox so the government couldn't get to it. This is the same thing Bush just suggested in his acceptance speech. I'm just saying...]

But back to soundbites. Even given Kerry's very impressive vocabulary, he has yet to put together a single memorable soundbite. Here is one of his most recent attempts:

"It all comes down to one letter - W," Kerry said, meaning the initial in George W. Bush. "And the W stands for wrong," he said. "The W stands for wrong choices, wrong judgment, wrong priorities, wrong direction for our country."

Perhaps that is his attempt at a subliminal message. He just forgot the subliminal part. Maybe the Democrats should hire the advertising execs that Budweiser uses. Those talking lizards and the Wuuuzzzuuuuup commercials were clever.

At least there is hope on the horizon. We've got Obama.

The kids are alright

2004-07-30T03:48:00.000-04:00

Generally, I will prescribe no more than potential to the youth of america given the asinine pop culture they help to fund and thereby proliferate. Of course, I have a closet full of flannel and ripped jeans, every nirvana and pearl jam album, and two Mighty Ducks movies on VHS, so who am I to talk. Recently though, I am discovering that this lowly opinion stems from being so removed from 'the kids'. I've spent the last four years dealing mainly with white middle to upper class academics. We're, like, a pretty homogenous group, dude. Know what I mean, man? Variation exists, yes, but on a much smaller scale. I lived in a more diverse community during high school, others hadn't seen a person of color till they were seven (this fact still disturbs me. It seem the melting pot boiled over leaving only foam in some parts of the country). This homogeneity has skewed my opinion of the youth of America. Quite thankfully, I've been working with some kids that have helped to raise my opinion, albeit only slightly, but enough to take notice (here in academia, incremental change seems to be the norm, if not the limit. Seeing the train barreling towards them, liberal arts institutions continue to crawl towards de facto segregation. But really, I'm not bitter).

....

It is now 2:08 am. I am done with duty for the night and am ready to go to sleep. John Kerry's is now the official Democratic candidate for President of the United States. If you'd like to read his speech, here is a link:

John Kerry's acceptance speech

I'd suggest skipping to the middle. Nothing much interesting going on at the beginning. To be honest, nothing much interesting going on at the end, but at least that is where he starts throwing some fire at Bush.

In other news:

This is from the Nader-Dean debate (it's a fun one, check it out here: NPR Nader/Dean debate)
"Republicans are human beings too."-Nader
"Right-wingers may not be."-Dean

"You were the insurgent, but now you are the detergent, cleaning up the Democrat's dirty laundry." - Ralph to Dean (this is not an exact quote)

"John Kerry will not challenge the bloated military budget." - Ralph, July 9th

"We will add 40,000 active duty troops – not in Iraq, but to strengthen American forces that are now overstretched, overextended, and under pressure. We will double our special forces to conduct anti-terrorist operations. We will provide our troops with the newest weapons and technology to save their lives – and win the battle. And we will end the backdoor draft of National Guard and reservists." - Senator Kerry from his acceptance speech, July 29th

This is why I like Ralph and Dean. I wish our politicians would speak with this kind of earnesty and energy.

It is now 3:48 am.

If the other guy likes it, it must be bad.

2004-07-15T20:19:00.000-04:00

Taken only as a characteristic, it is not necessarily the case that accessability reduces the quality of a song any more than being over played on rock radio can. If the opposite was the case, than we could not have great pop artists. Self proclaimed musical pundits have a tendancy to overlook this while crafting reviews for formerly unknown bands who gain mainstream popularity. I find this type of criticism hard to swallow because it equates any kind of celebrity and increased album sales with an artist's artistic decline. Perhaps those aren't Radiohead and Nirvana's back catalouges in their CD collection.

They wouldn't treat great speakers this way. We exalt those orators who can reach a large audience without losing their message. This is what democracy is based on: find methods of reaching large audiences without sacrificing the core of your argument. So I don't think it is fair to say that once a band has found a way to reach a large audience it is necessarily a reflection of lower standards. Did Radiohead lower their standards for Ok Computer or Kid A? I'm sure Paul and John were thinking, "Ok, think lowest common denominator" when they released the white album.

Shifts over. In short, I think I'll read less music reviews on independent music sites.

i dun graduamenated

2004-05-22T19:51:00.000-04:00

I'm a college graduate, yet I can not explain one thing: Why was a I given a BA for majoring in biology? To put it simply, WFT mate?

Graduations are silly.

2004-05-17T00:48:00.000-04:00

I spent the weekend in Pennsylvania attending college graduation ceremonies; first at the beginning of a two parter at Bryn Mawr College on Saturday and then Haverford College and Bryn Mawr, Pt. 2 on Sunday. While exposing my body to the most sun it has felt in months, I played camera man, running around the stage with a fancy camera taking photos for the close friend of mine who was graduating.

I can't get over the pageantry of these events. Gowns, funny hats, rabbit fur collars, color guards, bagpipes, speeches about crossroads and alumni donations (get 'em while you can)...these schools go the full 100 yards (Bryn Mawr's was held under a huge tent). Do such events really symbolize the work and dedication we've paid to our studies over the last four years? My image of a ceremony fit for a college graduation would skip the pomp and circumstance and get to the point. Concise, like an essay. Isn't that what they taught us over the last four years? To be fair, a paperboy tossing a diploma on my front steps would be closer to what I deserve for my four years of "work".

It should be noted, I'm a huge party pooper. I just can't help but find all the pageantry ridiculous. A coverup of the bags under tired eyes sagging below the brims of funny hats. Then again, graduation is not really for the students, is it?

Through all the speeches, bagpipe marching bands, and a capella singers, the parents wait patiently for one moment. For four years, their ears have been itching to hear their offspring's name called out over a loud speaker so that they may have their moment of personal jubilee, exalting the genius they brought into the world. Perhaps also because it means they no longer have to pay tuition.

Good for them, I guess. For the work they do, they deserve it. Hell, give them a ceremony...I guess they already have that though.

Nevermind. Graduations are still silly.

Bluetip mixtape

2004-05-01T20:08:00.000-04:00

It takes a big man to realize everything wrong in their life is their fault. Jason Farrell is the biggest man on the planet.

A Bluetip Sampler Mix (cause you, alex, should know more about this band)

1.Spooky "Imagine it's a month from now...suddenly it is."
2.F-"This is a formal apology going out to everyone involved."
3.Castanet"If I miss you, I can still do a damn good impersonation."
4.Ephadrephine"This has been the fastest year yet."
5.Bad Flat"Even good days get old."
6.Nickelback "I never had a headache until I moved in under you."
7.L.M.N.O.P "I feel so L M N O P."
8.Routine Dictates "Scary how strongly routine dictates friendships."
9.Precious "My own exit will be with the birds and bees next spring."
10.Salinas "Never gonna get rid of this defensive belligerence...I guess I never felt too comfortable around you all anyway."

a wish for stronger sentance structure

2004-04-25T23:41:00.000-04:00

In the next life, I want to be Dave Eggers, or a fair summation of his kind.

My favorite McSweeney's Open Letter:
An Open Letter to Ann Coulter

top ten, with a bullet...

2004-04-25T22:36:00.000-04:00

hi alex.

top ten songs of the moment, in no particular order and what I love about them:

1) modest mouse - black cadillacs: 'we were done done done with all the fuck fuck fucking around.' oh man, do i hear you issac.
2) centro-matic - now that you have blown away the cards: when the man gets it right, he gets that shit right. In about a 1 1/2 minutes Will Johnson conjurs up more genuine emotion than most modern bands have in their entire back catalog.
3) bjork - bachelorette: Do I have to explain this one? She's moved beyond some kind of vocal diva into siren territorty. Try not to listen, I dare you!
4) Mark Lanegan Band - Wish You Well: I'm convinced Lanegan is a love child of Tom Waits and punk rock. This song is filled with cold chills and light rain.
5) The Kamikaze Hearts - Tennesse (live version): My dislike of the Foxhole recording of this song makes me love the live version even more. It doesn't even matter if I can't make out what the hell Troy is saying.
6) The Magnetic Fields - I think I need a new heart: There does seem to be something the matter with it.
7) Mike Doughty - From the bottom of a well: A simple keyboard, drum machine, acoustic guitar combo of pure pop genius.
8) Britney Spears - Toxic: Ms. Spears plays second fiddle to the beat this time around. I'm not sure if it is even her singing. It very well may be some talented computer. p.s fuck Clear Channel.
9) Q And Not U - A line in the sand : Clap clap clap clap clap clap clap.
10) The Breeders - No Aloha: Don't worry Kim, I feel left out too.

2004-04-06T00:02:00.000-04:00

Senators are funny. Sometimes.

2004-04-05T02:02:00.000-04:00

The Icarus Line have a new album out soon. Listen to it at their website. The Icarus Line

Not as much yelling, but still good.

yo, alex, cursive is doing three dates at the Bowery on the plea for peace tour. damn.

if anyone else ever sees blog, e-mail me. i'll be friggin' shocked.

2004-03-27T13:31:00.000-05:00

This week in gay marriage:
Ain't Nobody Gettin' Hitched, says Benton County, Or.

Citing the contradiction between the state's equal protection policy and the definition of marraige being a union between a man and a woman as defined in Oregon's constitution, Benton County Commisioners have decided to suspend marraiges to all applicants, regardless of sexual orientation. Makes sense to me. Yes, it does place some heterosexuals out of luck, but if taken seriously, this will hopefully expedite the process some and push the issue through the courts.

Read the article dummy.

2004-03-26T03:12:00.000-05:00

something to smile about.
Guilty Verdict in Mia Zapata murder trial

r.i.p Mia.

2004-03-12T18:31:00.000-05:00

By the way, Come Down is the next big thing. Download their songs now so when they get huge you don't have to spend $15 to buy it at Tower.

Come Down - Whose side are you on anyway?

2004-03-12T18:03:00.000-05:00

I can't help but laugh. I am watching two freshman DJs do practically the same show I did as a freshman. Thursday, Midtown, pop-punk, whatever emo means at the moment, and more fat wreck beats than you can shake a stick at.

TWO HOURS OF ONE SONG PLAYED SIXTY WAYS.

oh richard d. james, soothe my soul...

As promised, some new beauty pill (sorry, it is a .wma, i got lazy):
Beauty Pill - A Western Prayer

2004-03-04T19:50:00.000-05:00

well....that was unexpected.

You're The Great Gatsby!

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Having grown up in immense wealth and privilege, the world is truly at
your doorstep. Instead of reveling in this life of luxury, however, you spend most of
your time mooning over a failed romance. The object of your affection is all but
worthless--a frivolous liar--but it matters not to you. You can paint any image of the
past you want and make it seem real. If you were a color of fishing boat light, you
would be green.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

2004-03-03T02:31:00.000-05:00

One more thing....check out creativecommons.org. They're dedicated to creating a new, easier to use system where we can all share our creations as much or as little as we like without the hassle of extensive lawsuits. They recently ran a video contest asking for 2-minute videos describing the creative commons mission. Check out the winners here, some awesome stuff.
Creative Commons Moving Image Contest Winners

2004-03-03T01:23:00.000-05:00

So what are we to believe? Did now former Haitian President Jean Bertrand Aristide resign to save Haitian lives or was it a coup orchestrated by the U.S? Decide for yourself: Democracy Now! has reported two U.S Senators and the US Ambassador to South Africa received word from Aristide and his wife that the US was forcing them out. The New York Times reported today that he left after a "shove" from the U.S. and that Haiti is in near anarchy; read here. If you ask me, sounds like Bush gave him the boot. We've sent down 450 marines to act as...well, peace keepers, I guess, although they aren't acting playing the part if they are. They don't have orders yet to stop the burning of Haitian art from Port-au-Prince museums or to tell Guy Philippe, the self-proclaimed leader of the rebels, that he is, in fact, not the "chief" of Haiti. To quote the Times article, '"Col. David H. Berger, the Marine Corps commander here, said his troops would not act as police officers. "I have no instructions to disarm the rebels," he said.' Well then.

In other news, outside of Kerry up and quitting, he's the man we are going to have to throw our energy behind to dethrown George II. I just hope Kerry has the political savvy and longevity to stand up to 8 months of heat from the Bush camp. With a campaign that long, the public may just become immune to any negative ads. Just what we need, more reasons for the American people to tune out. Hopefully both camps will realize hardcore campaigning is a waste of resources. All I know is, if I have to, I'd go to the deep south to help campaign for Kerry if it would remove Bush from office. That FMA supporting bigot has to go.

A note on his support of the Federal Marriage Act. Aside from NASCAR dads and devout Catholics, who is going to support him on that??? This week's Economist wraps it up nicely,

"So at last it is official: George Bush is in favour of unequal rights, big-government intrusiveness and federal power rather than devolution to the states."

Check out the full article. It provides an excellent summary of the case for gay marriage and the faults in Dubya's argument.

How about some music? Two tunes from the new Mark Lanegan band EP, 'Here Comes That Wierd Chill'. Mark has one of my favorite voices in rock. I'm convinced he is the love child of Tom Waits and a bottle of Ezra Brooks.
Mark Lanegan Band - Skeletal History
Mark Lanegan Band - Wish You Well
purchase the album here

2004-02-29T17:48:00.000-05:00

For me, the hipster thing, is, like, so lame, man. I hate going to shows only to learn I'm under-dressed. Furthermore, why should I have to wait a week for my hair to become disgusting so it can look good? Can't we find a middle ground between hipsterdom and the down-dressed?

Beauty Pill is that middle ground. They're sexy as sin, but don't let that fool you, they've got the brains to match. With gray matter that runs so deep they'll put that ass to sleep (thanks cube). The bands new CD, "The Unsustainable lifestyle", will be out next month on Dischord Records. I giggled and hopped around the WSPN office when the advance copy came in. When I get the chance I'll post an mp3 or too up here. If you dig it, be sure to buy it. Support Dischord. Till then, here are some older BP mp3s from their two EP releases.

Beauty Pill - You are right to be afraid [You're right to be afraid EP]
Beauty Pill - Copyists [You're right to be afraid EP]
Beauty Pill - The cigarette girl from the future [The cigarette girl from the future EP]
Beauty Pill Website

2004-02-27T01:57:00.000-05:00

Despite my previous claims of innate lameness, I now embrace blogging, although I still detest treating this venue as a diary. But of course, no one is forcing me to read that drivle. People need to share information or life becomes static, so if a method works without causing significant harm, then rock on. Give me a week and I'll probably decide this doesn't work. Maybe two, life's been busy, even though I seem to be dreaming more than ever. Probably my mind jumping to REM sleep during the few hours I allow myself to sleep everyday.

Speaking of dreams, I seem to remember reading that James Watson (of Watson and Crick) proposed the notion that dreams were nothing more than a method of disposing unwanted or unnecessary thoughts. During sleep, in particular deep sleep, he suggests the mind forms loose and random associations of thoughts into dreams so that they may be forgotten or used up. This is comparable to burning off fuel in an engine, only no exhaust is expelled as proof of the combustion. Does this seem to be a load of crap to anyone else? It seems far more logical that dreams are a function of your psyche dealing with those thoughts and issues at hand in your life and not some sort of brain spring cleaning.

Although, if examined in light of nightmares, perhaps dreams are a method of exhausting negative impulses and thoughts out of the body. For example, individuals who have a traumatic experience generally suffer from nightmares of the event (if they can sleep, that is). This could be the mind's way of "tiring out" the memory. Or, conversely, it is the mind's way of trying to come to grips with the event.

I suppose it's a slippery slope to write off a hypothesis from one of the men who discovered the structure of DNA. Ok Watson, I'll let you off the hook this time, but you better be sure to use a higher level of scrutiny next time. Yeah, what.

Having nothing to do with the above aside from the scientific sounding name, The Magnetic Fields write some great music. A wonderful love song.
Magnetic Fields - Strange Powers

more mp3s to come. till then go to said the gramophone. Love that blog.