It was Saturday, and though I hadn’t found a job yet, I still treated it like a weekend morning. Some interviews were lined up, and since rent wasn’t an obligation, I wasn’t in a rush to start my day. I ate cereal and watched television. I had the apartment to myself while my party-planning uncle, Mark, pulled extra hours on a bar mitzvah. After sipping the last of the milk from my bowl, he called me.
“Hellllllllllllo,” he elongated. He asked me to dig around to see if he had any incense left. I found them in one of the drawers of an end table. He instructed me to stuff them in a tote with the large Bic lighter. There were two options: he could send somebody to pick the things up or I could bring them over. I agreed to head over.
“How much money do you have?” he asked. I dug through the pockets of the pants I wore from the night before. Six bucks left after dropping some cash at the bar by myself. He assured me that he’d pay the cab fare, so I threw on some clothes and locked up, running over to 16th St to catch a cab to the Four Seasons.
When I got to Georgetown, Mark walked out front and slipped the driver some bills. I didn’t think he got a lot of sleep, but he looked pretty intact.
“What time did you get back last night?” I asked.
“4:15. Slept, showered, got back here at 6:30.” He stared off before returning his attention to me. “6:15.” He had pretty much been there for fourteen and a half hours. But that’s what he does, always trucking along enthusiastically, like a man feeling the residual effects of a cocaine bender.
Mark led me inside, down into the basement. An arched entryway congratulated Joshua in English and in Hebrew. I waited outside while my uncle made the rounds, giving instructions to the waiters, the hotel staff, and whoever else were his employees for the day. I met a woman with a shaved, silvery head named Annie. She looked like an aged, frumpy version of Kanye’s model girlfriend. We stood silently before Mark returned and dragged me inside.
I finally saw what Mark had been talking about: the Middle Eastern marketplace. But, you know, not really a Middle Easter marketplace. More like if the Middle East received a makeover from your home decorator. Produce stands that could be a display at a high end furniture store. In the next room, one stand had Falafel, another had salmon. And all of these things were appetizers.
We ran into Susanne, the woman in charge of organizing this event, except she requested Mark’s help at the last minute, so she seemed to possess less authority. Some gauze was taped to her chest and sticking out from her spaghetti strap top. Instinctually, I thought ‘Breast Cancer Survivor,’ but remembered Mark mentioning her face looking pretty good “after getting some work done.”
Mark and I squeezed through a curtain into a backroom. I saw two rows of set tables. A carpet-like partition and some additional curtains blocked off another room, where a boy sang from the Torah. The tour must be over soon, I thought. Then Mark grabbed flowers to use as center- or end-pieces, so I assisted him. When he started to show me how he wanted a pile of nuts at each place setting, there was a tacit understanding that I was going to help out for the day.
The had a process for the nuts: scoop them with a cup, pour some in my palm, release them on the table near the upper corner of each plate. This proved too slow, so I simply splashed them onto the table straight from the cup. A younger woman stopped me. Because there was no lighting, I could barely make out her face or the blonde, frizzled hair, and her all black attire helped cloak her in the shadows.
“You need to stop that,” she said, flat hand atop my wrist. “The guests are complaining.” Mark overheard, so he stepped in while I continued to work. I reverted back to my palmed nut technique, which seemed to make the girl happier. But she stopped me again a few minutes later.
“This is way too loud. He’s reading the haftarah. It’s the most important section of the service,” she said. Her voice dripped in condescension. Would she enjoy the irony of instructing a fellow Jew? I thought.
Again, I remember Mark gossiping about Susanne’s daughter, Corrine, a twentysomething that had worked as a nurse in New York but returned to DC after a series of panic attacks or emotional episodes. To give her something to do, Susanne put her to work, despite little experience. I didn’t need any verification to know that I was dealing with Corrine.
When the service finished and the guests were led out of the room, the employees and I stacked the chairs and cleared the area. With the partition moved and the curtains widened, we brought out the tables from the backroom. We fine-tuned the place settings, added some fruits on the table to complement the nuts. “Nephew, nephew!” Susanne cheered each time I passed. Waiters placed spoons in bowls of hummus and tahini sauce. Some Yiddish four-piece band started performing in the corner. After roughly thirty minutes, the room for the bar mitzvah was converted into a dining room. The curtains had stretched along the ceiling, giving the effect of a succah. My Catholic uncle was responsible for a lot of this.
I sipped scotch in the corner by the bar while guests were led back inside. A couple of adults made toasts, while some kids goofed off just outside, their faces stuffed with grapefruit and figs or chocolate and almond caramel squares. Mark had said that about $48,000 was spent on food alone. “White people with too much money,” he laughed, shaking his head.
One of Susanne and Mark’s co-workers, Meghan, passed by.
“You’ve helped out Mark with other parties, right?” she asked me.
“Nope. Actually, this is the first party of his that I’ve even been too.” And it was true, although I had seen a few pictures from other events, heard about how he threw big spectacles for the Smithsonian and Republican National Convention.
“After my bar mitzvah,” I told her, “I hid in my basement with my best friend and played my new guitar.” I smiled.
“I know, right?” This agreement was more like her interpreting my story allegorically, like I was indicting the upper class. She left to chat with someone else.
Later, Corrine passed by.
“My feet are killing me,” she complained.
“Ahhh, bummer,” I said. “Were you here since last night too?”
“No.” She looked at me like I told a bad joke. “It’s these shoes.”
After my drink, I milled around, snuck in a few snacks for myself. Mark and I reunited back at the arch at around 2:15. Our services were no longer needed; Susanne and the crew would handle clean up. She had to set up another party that evening before heading to Europe the next day.
“This is wild,” I complimented. “I haven’t seen anything like this before.”
Mark smiled. “This is maybe a third of what I usually do.”
(note: besides Mark, names were changed)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
An Open Letter to Jay Leno
Dear Jay Leno,
Congratulations on usurping the 10PM primetime slot every weeknight. Though there was a good chance that the time would’ve been filled with crappy medical/police/court dramas, you have denied five different hour-long programs from getting a chance to find an audience.
Most of us understand NBC is struggling right now in the rankings, but your network is known for capturing a younger audience. After all, you’re part of the family that airs “The Office” and “30 Rock.” NBC has been able to strike a great balance between the hyperactive idiocy of Fox and the geezer-ish tendencies of CBS (ABC is ostensibly non-descript). Wasn’t there just the slightest possibility that one of those five hours during the week could’ve been a gem, a quality program that could’ve reached a large audience?
Of course, that’s where the risk came in. You were on top with “The Tonight Show.” The leader of late night, wasn’t that your title? Millions of viewers, albeit with an older audience. Still though, picking you guaranteed success. So after whining like a baby, reluctantly handing the reigns to a program that many argue you shouldn’t have even hosted in the first place, NBC revamped their schedule. Not just a show but a five-night-a-week gig, “The Jay Leno Show.”
This is an almost equally risky move, considering it’s unprecedented. The comedy/talk show format during primetime? But hey, you had the built-in fan base, not to mention you’d be pretty cheap. Well, relatively speaking; you’d continue to be paid an egregious salary, but the show is cheaper to produce and is a cheaper investment than five hour-long shows (let’s just swipe the notion of a half-hour sitcom stuck in there).
With a new move like this, surely the formula for your show would be different? I mean, it’s not “The Tonight Show,” it’s “The Jay Leno Show” (the ubiquitous ad campaign made sure we knew that). And what changed? Not much. A new, tacky set, sure, but a lot seemed intact. You brought your band with you, you continued with your unfunny monologues. And ‘Headlines’? Oh, how could you have a show without it? Don't forget about ‘Jay-Walking.’
Perhaps it’s just a difference in comedic tastes, but I thought you would’ve expanded a little bit. The comedy and the bits are as broad as ever. Jim Norton complaining about airports? Are you fucking kidding me? We’re on the cusp of 2010. If the public wants comedy but has to deal with more of your brand of humor, I think we’re ready to laugh at a different observation, ya know?
Oh, but the probing interview with Kanye! One day after an unflattering moment that received an unwarranted amount of attention (his anti-book rally didn’t receive as much attention), you had one of the first (the first?) interview with him. In a Barbara Walters-esque 20/20 moment, you asked him if his mother (whom you met!) was still alive, what would she say? I’m not trying to excuse West’s behavior, but it’s not like he worked at Dachau. Did you have to exhume his mother? In this instance, Ye’s embarrassment supersedes Taylor Swift’s
Besides interfering with the possibility of new programming, your unwavering adherence to your tired schtick, your refusal to get off the air, PERIOD, you’ve committed the worst atrocity. When Conan hosted “Late Night,” he was coveting your time slot. He had to endure your position as the lead-in, and after a shaky start, spending years crafting a unique, comic persona and show, and after having his show aired at an ungodly hour during the work week, he finally got the desk in June 2009. And after a mere three months, you’re back on right before him.
Fuck you.
Sincerely,
Justin Levine
Congratulations on usurping the 10PM primetime slot every weeknight. Though there was a good chance that the time would’ve been filled with crappy medical/police/court dramas, you have denied five different hour-long programs from getting a chance to find an audience.
Most of us understand NBC is struggling right now in the rankings, but your network is known for capturing a younger audience. After all, you’re part of the family that airs “The Office” and “30 Rock.” NBC has been able to strike a great balance between the hyperactive idiocy of Fox and the geezer-ish tendencies of CBS (ABC is ostensibly non-descript). Wasn’t there just the slightest possibility that one of those five hours during the week could’ve been a gem, a quality program that could’ve reached a large audience?
Of course, that’s where the risk came in. You were on top with “The Tonight Show.” The leader of late night, wasn’t that your title? Millions of viewers, albeit with an older audience. Still though, picking you guaranteed success. So after whining like a baby, reluctantly handing the reigns to a program that many argue you shouldn’t have even hosted in the first place, NBC revamped their schedule. Not just a show but a five-night-a-week gig, “The Jay Leno Show.”
This is an almost equally risky move, considering it’s unprecedented. The comedy/talk show format during primetime? But hey, you had the built-in fan base, not to mention you’d be pretty cheap. Well, relatively speaking; you’d continue to be paid an egregious salary, but the show is cheaper to produce and is a cheaper investment than five hour-long shows (let’s just swipe the notion of a half-hour sitcom stuck in there).
With a new move like this, surely the formula for your show would be different? I mean, it’s not “The Tonight Show,” it’s “The Jay Leno Show” (the ubiquitous ad campaign made sure we knew that). And what changed? Not much. A new, tacky set, sure, but a lot seemed intact. You brought your band with you, you continued with your unfunny monologues. And ‘Headlines’? Oh, how could you have a show without it? Don't forget about ‘Jay-Walking.’
Perhaps it’s just a difference in comedic tastes, but I thought you would’ve expanded a little bit. The comedy and the bits are as broad as ever. Jim Norton complaining about airports? Are you fucking kidding me? We’re on the cusp of 2010. If the public wants comedy but has to deal with more of your brand of humor, I think we’re ready to laugh at a different observation, ya know?
Oh, but the probing interview with Kanye! One day after an unflattering moment that received an unwarranted amount of attention (his anti-book rally didn’t receive as much attention), you had one of the first (the first?) interview with him. In a Barbara Walters-esque 20/20 moment, you asked him if his mother (whom you met!) was still alive, what would she say? I’m not trying to excuse West’s behavior, but it’s not like he worked at Dachau. Did you have to exhume his mother? In this instance, Ye’s embarrassment supersedes Taylor Swift’s
Besides interfering with the possibility of new programming, your unwavering adherence to your tired schtick, your refusal to get off the air, PERIOD, you’ve committed the worst atrocity. When Conan hosted “Late Night,” he was coveting your time slot. He had to endure your position as the lead-in, and after a shaky start, spending years crafting a unique, comic persona and show, and after having his show aired at an ungodly hour during the work week, he finally got the desk in June 2009. And after a mere three months, you’re back on right before him.
Fuck you.
Sincerely,
Justin Levine
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
DC 1: Introduction
Yesterday started with a 6.5 hour car ride. I slept through the first part of it, spending the rest of the time talking with my uncle or scanning the radio for tolerable songs. It wasn’t until the final leg of the trip when I realized I was living in a new city.
I’ve been to Washington, DC a number of times, including a recent trip in June, but it’s still an unfamiliar place to me. It’s not like Boston, where even after my earliest visits reminded me how comfortable I felt in New England. Sure, I’m living with my uncle, but I’m in a new city and, for all intents and purposes, I’m all alone.
We arrived at his apartment in the early afternoon. It overlooks the Meridian Hill Park, and though it’s close to a few major neighborhoods, my uncle places it on the fringe of Columbia Heights, the ‘rich part’ of DC. His place is small; the fridge takes up more than a quarter of the kitchen and the dining area and office form a hybrid corner. Despite the size, it’s luxurious. The complex’s roof overlooks the city, with memorials on the periphery and the Washington Monument jutting out in the distance. But my uncle’s personal touches still stuck out the most; a plasma screen hanging on the wall, free of stray wires; a plastic-pouched organizer hanging in the closet, clothes stuffed in every pocket; silver containers to consolidate the food, separated by cereal, pasta, coffee, etc. And tucked in close to the window, by a ledge shelved with glass vases that shimmer like diamonds: my bed for the next few months.
I unpacked my things, fitting all my clothes into one closet, the excess of my bags underneath the daybed. Shortly after, my uncle drove us to the Costco in Virginia, and we hauled boxes of groceries back to apartment. I helped my uncle meticulously organize our goods. Eventually, we ate, and when there was nothing left to do, I reminded myself: I’m in DC.
Instead of spending my first day exploring, I stayed inside. The lack of motivation to head out was akin to my first day of college, where I found my sense of excitement and fear colliding and creating a sort of paralysis. I indulged in an unhealthy amount of cable TV. I figured I could sleep off the last of my anxiety.
After breakfast this morning, I went for a run past various embassies, the White House, and the Washington Monument. In the afternoon, I applied for some jobs while sitting in the local café. I stumbled around Dupont Circle, admired the variety of restaurants, perused a bookstore. In the evening, after venturing home, I sat in Meridian Hill and read. It was reinvigorating.
Nothing huge happened today. I wasn’t in shock or awe of my new environment, like Gauguin in Polynesia or the American ex-pats in France. Perhaps my limited city experience has left me a bit jaded. But all the same, it was life changing. I made a conscious attempt to change my life, and though it can turn out shitty or sweet, at least I made the change.
(As you could infer from the title, this is the inaugural post in what I intend to be an ongoing series. That means you'll have to ignore the initial intention of this blog, which was to avoid my personal trials. Whatever).
I’ve been to Washington, DC a number of times, including a recent trip in June, but it’s still an unfamiliar place to me. It’s not like Boston, where even after my earliest visits reminded me how comfortable I felt in New England. Sure, I’m living with my uncle, but I’m in a new city and, for all intents and purposes, I’m all alone.
We arrived at his apartment in the early afternoon. It overlooks the Meridian Hill Park, and though it’s close to a few major neighborhoods, my uncle places it on the fringe of Columbia Heights, the ‘rich part’ of DC. His place is small; the fridge takes up more than a quarter of the kitchen and the dining area and office form a hybrid corner. Despite the size, it’s luxurious. The complex’s roof overlooks the city, with memorials on the periphery and the Washington Monument jutting out in the distance. But my uncle’s personal touches still stuck out the most; a plasma screen hanging on the wall, free of stray wires; a plastic-pouched organizer hanging in the closet, clothes stuffed in every pocket; silver containers to consolidate the food, separated by cereal, pasta, coffee, etc. And tucked in close to the window, by a ledge shelved with glass vases that shimmer like diamonds: my bed for the next few months.
I unpacked my things, fitting all my clothes into one closet, the excess of my bags underneath the daybed. Shortly after, my uncle drove us to the Costco in Virginia, and we hauled boxes of groceries back to apartment. I helped my uncle meticulously organize our goods. Eventually, we ate, and when there was nothing left to do, I reminded myself: I’m in DC.
Instead of spending my first day exploring, I stayed inside. The lack of motivation to head out was akin to my first day of college, where I found my sense of excitement and fear colliding and creating a sort of paralysis. I indulged in an unhealthy amount of cable TV. I figured I could sleep off the last of my anxiety.
After breakfast this morning, I went for a run past various embassies, the White House, and the Washington Monument. In the afternoon, I applied for some jobs while sitting in the local café. I stumbled around Dupont Circle, admired the variety of restaurants, perused a bookstore. In the evening, after venturing home, I sat in Meridian Hill and read. It was reinvigorating.
Nothing huge happened today. I wasn’t in shock or awe of my new environment, like Gauguin in Polynesia or the American ex-pats in France. Perhaps my limited city experience has left me a bit jaded. But all the same, it was life changing. I made a conscious attempt to change my life, and though it can turn out shitty or sweet, at least I made the change.
(As you could infer from the title, this is the inaugural post in what I intend to be an ongoing series. That means you'll have to ignore the initial intention of this blog, which was to avoid my personal trials. Whatever).
Friday, June 26, 2009
I'm Back, I'm Back, C'mon
Michael Jackson is dead and I feel conflicted.
Let’s put aside a few things: though there are definitely more important things to report, the non-stop media coverage of MJ was/is inevitable. Whether you’re a fan or not, the man was a colossal, GLOBAL pop star. Even with Britney at her height or the current Jonas Bros./Miley Cyrus mania, it can’t approximate MJ’s reach.
It seems his death has a polarizing effect. Not only are people expressing their shock or disinterest, they’re focusing on celebrity death in general. There is a mixture of superstitious beliefs that MJ fulfills the role of final death in the ‘Celebrity Rule of 3s,’ or ranking deaths (“to be honest: I was much more upset about Heath Ledger,” from a facebook status update). But this doesn’t concern me either.
MJ has put out some classic pop records, songs that I thoroughly enjoy, and yet his actions regarding children are questionable (at best). Maybe it’s because I’ve never been attached to him or his music the way his most rabid fans are, but I find it difficult to reconcile these prominent aspects of his life. ?uestlove recommends that we “separate the ART and the ARTIST,” so I took his advice and reflected upon my connection with the music.
How will I try to remember the King of Pop? I’ll remind myself about the ‘Michael Jackson Sing-a-long’ at Coolidge Corner. I’ll think about my friends there and how we tried to imitate his movements in the “Thriller” video, or how we danced along to “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough.” And if that night wasn’t a fitting enough tribute, I’ll have the recent memory of blasting some of his hits in a Ford Taurus with some of my best friends as we roadtripped to the Bonnaroo music festival.
I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I shat on MJ’s death, considering I could reconcile Woody Allen’s actions with my love for his films. Luckily future generations won’t have to deal with MJ infecting their enjoyment of his music.
Oh yeah, I'm apologizing to myself for neglecting this thing. Gotta stay on top of things.
Let’s put aside a few things: though there are definitely more important things to report, the non-stop media coverage of MJ was/is inevitable. Whether you’re a fan or not, the man was a colossal, GLOBAL pop star. Even with Britney at her height or the current Jonas Bros./Miley Cyrus mania, it can’t approximate MJ’s reach.
It seems his death has a polarizing effect. Not only are people expressing their shock or disinterest, they’re focusing on celebrity death in general. There is a mixture of superstitious beliefs that MJ fulfills the role of final death in the ‘Celebrity Rule of 3s,’ or ranking deaths (“to be honest: I was much more upset about Heath Ledger,” from a facebook status update). But this doesn’t concern me either.
MJ has put out some classic pop records, songs that I thoroughly enjoy, and yet his actions regarding children are questionable (at best). Maybe it’s because I’ve never been attached to him or his music the way his most rabid fans are, but I find it difficult to reconcile these prominent aspects of his life. ?uestlove recommends that we “separate the ART and the ARTIST,” so I took his advice and reflected upon my connection with the music.
How will I try to remember the King of Pop? I’ll remind myself about the ‘Michael Jackson Sing-a-long’ at Coolidge Corner. I’ll think about my friends there and how we tried to imitate his movements in the “Thriller” video, or how we danced along to “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough.” And if that night wasn’t a fitting enough tribute, I’ll have the recent memory of blasting some of his hits in a Ford Taurus with some of my best friends as we roadtripped to the Bonnaroo music festival.
I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I shat on MJ’s death, considering I could reconcile Woody Allen’s actions with my love for his films. Luckily future generations won’t have to deal with MJ infecting their enjoyment of his music.
Oh yeah, I'm apologizing to myself for neglecting this thing. Gotta stay on top of things.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Those Amazonians sure are draconian...
Man, some distributors and sellers really underestimate the consumer. They're not just assuming that we're not savvy, but that we're idiots.
Perhaps I'm oversimplifying, but this shit smells like censorship. According to site Dear Author:
"Amazon has excluded GLBT books from appearing in 'some searches and bestseller lists' based on the premise that books about gays falling in love and possibly having sex is 'adult material.' Barnes & Noble had committed to shelving Running Presses new m/m romance fiction line in the romance section but is now moving these dangerous to our children books to the GLBT section."
Sort of fucked, no? In addition to this, some works have been stripped of their sales rank. And not just trashy/pulpy romance novels--which would still be messed up--but canonical titles. Sorry, Mr. Baldwin.
Luckily, "Smart Bitches, Trashy Books" (and perhaps the Twitter community--which I'm starting to acknowledge as a respectful tool) have fought back; Google 'amazon rank' and check out what comes up as the number one result. The internet strikes back.
Despite the holiday, I'm sure the folks at Amazon are planning a course of action. Expect to hear something within the next couple of days. An apology would be nice; as long as there's no excuses, like it was someone inexplicable technical glitch. Fuckers.
Perhaps I'm oversimplifying, but this shit smells like censorship. According to site Dear Author:
"Amazon has excluded GLBT books from appearing in 'some searches and bestseller lists' based on the premise that books about gays falling in love and possibly having sex is 'adult material.' Barnes & Noble had committed to shelving Running Presses new m/m romance fiction line in the romance section but is now moving these dangerous to our children books to the GLBT section."
Sort of fucked, no? In addition to this, some works have been stripped of their sales rank. And not just trashy/pulpy romance novels--which would still be messed up--but canonical titles. Sorry, Mr. Baldwin.
Luckily, "Smart Bitches, Trashy Books" (and perhaps the Twitter community--which I'm starting to acknowledge as a respectful tool) have fought back; Google 'amazon rank' and check out what comes up as the number one result. The internet strikes back.
Despite the holiday, I'm sure the folks at Amazon are planning a course of action. Expect to hear something within the next couple of days. An apology would be nice; as long as there's no excuses, like it was someone inexplicable technical glitch. Fuckers.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Dream: 4/5/09
Here’s a sun drenched shopping plaza. Dirty and grimy, it fell into the cracks after the suburban sprawl. We’ve got brown-bagged forties. It’s part of our tacit agreement: we won’t give the storeowners shit if they let us drink.
There’s six of us, including me and Joe. I’m slouching on a bench, already wading in drunk-dom thanks to my malt liquor. This seems to happen a lot. Everyone else carries on without me, stirring their excitability and getting pumped for Joe’s demolition derby.
I’m having trouble mustering the enthusiasm, but I figure relieving myself might alleviate my sense of sloth. A few of us head into one of the shops, leaving our bottles outside. The bathroom is filthy, far worse than that of a gas station, and it reeks like a fucking latrine. I must be really drunk, since I’m getting pissed on. It’s spraying from a few different directions, and I can hear one of my friends laughing at me.
And this is how things go.
-------
“How was the derby?” Koch asks.
“Alright.” He doesn’t actually care, so I don’t bother to elaborate. He won’t hear about Joe’s crashed car, how it flipped a zillion times before it returned to the ground. And I don’t want to tell him that I couldn’t stop sweating, or that I held my head between my legs and tried not to cry.
Koch is only around when he needs to bail me out. Since Joe’s dead, I can’t live at his house anymore. I’m scum, but I’m not tactless; I’m innocuous scum. Koch practically sped to the scene before I even finished dialing him. And now, he’s backing down Joe’s driveway, a looped, paved hill about 1/10 mile. I can’t even back out of a parking spot, but Koch can follow the curves of the driveway like a needle tracing a groove. He’s backwards coasting on autopilot.
Sometimes, we harbor hatred for good people, in part because of insecurities and vanities. And because of this one vehicular talent, something that shows his talent, I’m resentful. The spotlight should be on Koch for his selflessness, but the attention’s reverted back towards me. I can allow anyone to enable me.
-------
I’m cleaning a house. It’s in the slums, but free of noise; I imagine myself as the sole survivor of some unpublicized apocalypse.
Has this become my home? Blank walls, cold concrete floor, no windows, a stained mattress lying directly on the floor. My only personal item is a bulky backpack, composed of hidden compartments and superfluous pockets. I grope around for something and detect a bump, so I unzip one part and pull out an iPod. Tiny sounds emerge from its pair of attached headphones. I stick them in my ears, but it’s all warbled. And the screen is a melted mess, so I’ll never know this song.
How long was it before I reached this point? It happened way too fast.
There’s six of us, including me and Joe. I’m slouching on a bench, already wading in drunk-dom thanks to my malt liquor. This seems to happen a lot. Everyone else carries on without me, stirring their excitability and getting pumped for Joe’s demolition derby.
I’m having trouble mustering the enthusiasm, but I figure relieving myself might alleviate my sense of sloth. A few of us head into one of the shops, leaving our bottles outside. The bathroom is filthy, far worse than that of a gas station, and it reeks like a fucking latrine. I must be really drunk, since I’m getting pissed on. It’s spraying from a few different directions, and I can hear one of my friends laughing at me.
And this is how things go.
-------
“How was the derby?” Koch asks.
“Alright.” He doesn’t actually care, so I don’t bother to elaborate. He won’t hear about Joe’s crashed car, how it flipped a zillion times before it returned to the ground. And I don’t want to tell him that I couldn’t stop sweating, or that I held my head between my legs and tried not to cry.
Koch is only around when he needs to bail me out. Since Joe’s dead, I can’t live at his house anymore. I’m scum, but I’m not tactless; I’m innocuous scum. Koch practically sped to the scene before I even finished dialing him. And now, he’s backing down Joe’s driveway, a looped, paved hill about 1/10 mile. I can’t even back out of a parking spot, but Koch can follow the curves of the driveway like a needle tracing a groove. He’s backwards coasting on autopilot.
Sometimes, we harbor hatred for good people, in part because of insecurities and vanities. And because of this one vehicular talent, something that shows his talent, I’m resentful. The spotlight should be on Koch for his selflessness, but the attention’s reverted back towards me. I can allow anyone to enable me.
-------
I’m cleaning a house. It’s in the slums, but free of noise; I imagine myself as the sole survivor of some unpublicized apocalypse.
Has this become my home? Blank walls, cold concrete floor, no windows, a stained mattress lying directly on the floor. My only personal item is a bulky backpack, composed of hidden compartments and superfluous pockets. I grope around for something and detect a bump, so I unzip one part and pull out an iPod. Tiny sounds emerge from its pair of attached headphones. I stick them in my ears, but it’s all warbled. And the screen is a melted mess, so I’ll never know this song.
How long was it before I reached this point? It happened way too fast.
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Film That Fell To Earth
Do you know Tommy Wiseau? If you don't, you probably will soon enough.
Here's a brief history, borrowed from various sources: Tommy Wiseau, a man of indeterminate European origin with a tenuous grasp of the English language wrote, directed, and produced a movie, "The Room." Surprisingly, the film was made for about $6 million, a fair cut of it wasted on an overstaffed crew (a few hundred worked on it) and promoting it (renting a billboard in Los Angeles). A large amount of money was also wasted because he shot it on film and HD, mainly because he's film illiterate.
Just how film illiterate? Bad framing, out-of-focus shots, trudging pans, shitty ADR and looping, etc. Pretty much every single way you can fuck up a film from a technical standpoint. But it wasn't just the physical production that sucked. The acting could make Steven Seagal seem redeemable, the writing is a string of dramatic cliches that unintentionally operate as comic non-sequiturs. The film is so terrible, it's unfathomable. Let its trailer serve as a guide.
So the movie premiered in 2003, and over the years developed a cult audience that adopted it ironically. Wiseau then started singing a different tune, tagging it as a "black comedy," but people have unanimously called his bluff. Eventually, "The Room" coursed its way through the celebrity circuit, and Wiseau hopped along for the ride, sticking with his denial about the film's genre.
And that's when I learned about "The Room." Wiseau played himself in a recent episode of "Tim & Eric." They show clips from the film, and the line between hilarious character and oblivious public-access-television-type becomes blurred; Tommy Wiseau is about as real as Dr. Steve Brule. It's not new territory for the comedy duo, but it's the first time I've questioned the legitimacy of a real person on their show.
Apparently the episode has introduced Wiseau to a lot of people besides me. Tomorrow at midnight on Adult Swim, "The Room" will make its television premiere (not to mention it will be followed by the 'Wiseau Episode' of "Tim & Eric"). An even larger audience will be introduced to this phenomenon.
The research started when my buddy, Thom, showed me the "Tim & Eric" episode. We began with Wikipedia and worked our way out. Perhaps the most comprehensive site about the film/Wiseau personality comes courtesy of the AV Club, if you wish to learn more. But here are the two things that make this an important film:
1) Wiseau's mysterious biography; nobody knows where he's from and no one knows how he raised the money for the film (though he hints at a clothing import business and a series of contributions as the source). His life story feeds into our(/my) perception of the film. In the back of the viewer's mind is the question, "How the fuck was this movie made?" It's sort of akin to knowing the story of how "Manos: Hands of Fate" was made, except that film was a response to a bet and not a form of artistic expression. Which brings me to:
2) Wiseau's sincerity and our derisive reaction. The film works because even though its shittiness is cosmically aligned, it's real. It's not Hollywood bad, the calculated product that's test-screened before it's packaged for us. There's no conduit for "The Room" because it's straight from Wiseau's heart, and it exists because he NEEDED to make it. And because of this inherent narcissism, we've indicted him. My mind has been grappling with this issue since I saw it a couple weeks back, because even though the movie is unequivocally bad, his lack of artifice is disarming. Thom wondered whether this film could signify the death of irony, and I believe it is.
Are we, the savvy hipsters that enjoy "The Room," assholes? Yes, but like I alluded to earlier, we're calling Wiseau out. He's made something terrible, a film devoid of everything that makes art meaningful and wonderful, and he's passing it off as if it's Tennessee Williams caliber (try not to laugh at his MySpace page). Our ironic enjoyment of this film proves we're in search of good film. And even if we've reached irony's saturation point, maybe now is our chance to replace the thing that has served as the basis of contemporary American humor.
Here's a brief history, borrowed from various sources: Tommy Wiseau, a man of indeterminate European origin with a tenuous grasp of the English language wrote, directed, and produced a movie, "The Room." Surprisingly, the film was made for about $6 million, a fair cut of it wasted on an overstaffed crew (a few hundred worked on it) and promoting it (renting a billboard in Los Angeles). A large amount of money was also wasted because he shot it on film and HD, mainly because he's film illiterate.
Just how film illiterate? Bad framing, out-of-focus shots, trudging pans, shitty ADR and looping, etc. Pretty much every single way you can fuck up a film from a technical standpoint. But it wasn't just the physical production that sucked. The acting could make Steven Seagal seem redeemable, the writing is a string of dramatic cliches that unintentionally operate as comic non-sequiturs. The film is so terrible, it's unfathomable. Let its trailer serve as a guide.
So the movie premiered in 2003, and over the years developed a cult audience that adopted it ironically. Wiseau then started singing a different tune, tagging it as a "black comedy," but people have unanimously called his bluff. Eventually, "The Room" coursed its way through the celebrity circuit, and Wiseau hopped along for the ride, sticking with his denial about the film's genre.
And that's when I learned about "The Room." Wiseau played himself in a recent episode of "Tim & Eric." They show clips from the film, and the line between hilarious character and oblivious public-access-television-type becomes blurred; Tommy Wiseau is about as real as Dr. Steve Brule. It's not new territory for the comedy duo, but it's the first time I've questioned the legitimacy of a real person on their show.
Apparently the episode has introduced Wiseau to a lot of people besides me. Tomorrow at midnight on Adult Swim, "The Room" will make its television premiere (not to mention it will be followed by the 'Wiseau Episode' of "Tim & Eric"). An even larger audience will be introduced to this phenomenon.
The research started when my buddy, Thom, showed me the "Tim & Eric" episode. We began with Wikipedia and worked our way out. Perhaps the most comprehensive site about the film/Wiseau personality comes courtesy of the AV Club, if you wish to learn more. But here are the two things that make this an important film:
1) Wiseau's mysterious biography; nobody knows where he's from and no one knows how he raised the money for the film (though he hints at a clothing import business and a series of contributions as the source). His life story feeds into our(/my) perception of the film. In the back of the viewer's mind is the question, "How the fuck was this movie made?" It's sort of akin to knowing the story of how "Manos: Hands of Fate" was made, except that film was a response to a bet and not a form of artistic expression. Which brings me to:
2) Wiseau's sincerity and our derisive reaction. The film works because even though its shittiness is cosmically aligned, it's real. It's not Hollywood bad, the calculated product that's test-screened before it's packaged for us. There's no conduit for "The Room" because it's straight from Wiseau's heart, and it exists because he NEEDED to make it. And because of this inherent narcissism, we've indicted him. My mind has been grappling with this issue since I saw it a couple weeks back, because even though the movie is unequivocally bad, his lack of artifice is disarming. Thom wondered whether this film could signify the death of irony, and I believe it is.
Are we, the savvy hipsters that enjoy "The Room," assholes? Yes, but like I alluded to earlier, we're calling Wiseau out. He's made something terrible, a film devoid of everything that makes art meaningful and wonderful, and he's passing it off as if it's Tennessee Williams caliber (try not to laugh at his MySpace page). Our ironic enjoyment of this film proves we're in search of good film. And even if we've reached irony's saturation point, maybe now is our chance to replace the thing that has served as the basis of contemporary American humor.
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