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.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Oh, you read Stephenie Meyer? Cuz I read Michel Foucault.
While perusing The Book Bench, I found a link with an interesting story about blue collar workers' (sarcastic use of the euphemism) perception of books and reading. Here's a succinct quote about readers: "[they] don’t know how to live."
The study also show's that these 20 million working class find the reading world too intimidating. If anything, this belief transcends class. I'm surprised how many people on the T aren't afraid to read in public and endure the leers and silent judgments of the, ahem, other socio-economic group. At least with your iPod you could pretend you were listening to Matmos when you were secretly enjoying ABBA, but it's difficult to hide what book you're reading. The anomaly, of course, being the few Kindle owners that have sprouted up.
While one of the books I see being read is already a ubiquitous title, the other book I always see on the T is "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao." I loved the book, tore through it, treating the pages like they belonged in a flipbook. And while it's received many accolades, it's not an easy text; it's riddled with footnotes--not "Infinite Jest" level, but still--and it features a couple different points of view and plotlines, not to mention it features a lot of history and research. I don't want to seem like I'm bent on stunting advancement or anything, so unless you're an unassuming housewife that got it from Oprah's Book Club and are just starting it, how immersed can you be in a book like that--or, for that matter, a dense college text--when you're traveling from Cambridge to Downtown? That's where I think this idea of intimidation comes in.
Self-conscious about what you read? Let me rid you of your anxiety: a former classmate of mine carried a worn paperback of "The Great Gatsby" in his back pocket. You know, like, for dramatic effect. It epitomizes conspicuous "reading" habits for me; hard to judge anything after that.
It's almost refreshing to see the umpteen billion people in public reading about teen vampires. They're not stopping you from reading Updike--and they know he's dead, okay?--so let them read "Twilight." Let's not go Mussolini on everybody, shall we?
The study also show's that these 20 million working class find the reading world too intimidating. If anything, this belief transcends class. I'm surprised how many people on the T aren't afraid to read in public and endure the leers and silent judgments of the, ahem, other socio-economic group. At least with your iPod you could pretend you were listening to Matmos when you were secretly enjoying ABBA, but it's difficult to hide what book you're reading. The anomaly, of course, being the few Kindle owners that have sprouted up.
While one of the books I see being read is already a ubiquitous title, the other book I always see on the T is "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao." I loved the book, tore through it, treating the pages like they belonged in a flipbook. And while it's received many accolades, it's not an easy text; it's riddled with footnotes--not "Infinite Jest" level, but still--and it features a couple different points of view and plotlines, not to mention it features a lot of history and research. I don't want to seem like I'm bent on stunting advancement or anything, so unless you're an unassuming housewife that got it from Oprah's Book Club and are just starting it, how immersed can you be in a book like that--or, for that matter, a dense college text--when you're traveling from Cambridge to Downtown? That's where I think this idea of intimidation comes in.
Self-conscious about what you read? Let me rid you of your anxiety: a former classmate of mine carried a worn paperback of "The Great Gatsby" in his back pocket. You know, like, for dramatic effect. It epitomizes conspicuous "reading" habits for me; hard to judge anything after that.
It's almost refreshing to see the umpteen billion people in public reading about teen vampires. They're not stopping you from reading Updike--and they know he's dead, okay?--so let them read "Twilight." Let's not go Mussolini on everybody, shall we?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Dream: 03/22/09
There’s no love at first sight. Not for him. He sees it as a heightened sense of self-consciousness, an awareness of the power of someone’s presence on himself. And when he sees that girl, his train of thought loses its course. It takes a long time before he can fully regain that composure. He can’t appreciate a pair of long legs; they’re tools of asphyxiation. A woman’s beauty topples his own vanities, and that’s what he can’t handle.
And this particular case of ‘love’ wasn’t his first sight. In fact, the number of times he’s seen this girl is incalculable. She wasn’t cute enough to invade his mind or shake his concentration; her non-descript cuteness was singed with greasy hair and a smile like a snarl. Plus she shared a dissatisfaction for nearly everything, unwavering disgust, a palpable hate, etc. How could she be worth hating, he thought, if she can’t hold my attention?
He became infatuated with hundreds of girls since he last saw her and loathed each moment of it. But while standing in line for a lecture, he spotted her. She stood at the end of a block, a vertex that formed as the line bent around the corner. Despite her small size, he saw only her, nothing before or beyond her.
What’s her name? he thought. He hadn’t bothered to learn it, so he assigned her the name Lily. He used to view her as an uptight pseudo-feminist, despite never knowing her, but now he sensed a calm aura. Perhaps it was the flower tucked behind her ear or the blue summer dress that influenced his will to surrender.
He ditched his friend for ‘the greater good’: closer proximity. He inched up to Lily and performed a sardonic shuffle, cluttered with clumsy steps and slides. He finished by opening his arms and waving his hands. But she didn’t offer any applause. In fact, his attention to this detail distracted him from analyzing the impulsive jig he had performed. It was that specific action which mattered most. A sarcastic dance couldn’t mask its inherent sweetness, a symbol that represented a shift from his own needs to that of another. His schtick wasn’t solely for his benefit; his smile remained contingent on the arrival of hers.
When the dance failed, he tried some intentionally corny jokes, but Lily still didn’t smile; irony, after all, isn‘t the way to a woman‘s heart. Instead of refueling his veiled sense of misogyny, he gave a shot at some physical gags. Impressed by his resiliency, she cracked out a smile, teeth perfectly aligned. But the sexiest thing about her was the look she gave, a look that proved he still remained a bit caught up in himself. Her eyes didn’t say, “You’ve ensnared me,” but “Alright then, I’ll give you a shot.” The line moved forward like a conveyor belt, and Lily grabbed his hand and led him inside.
And this particular case of ‘love’ wasn’t his first sight. In fact, the number of times he’s seen this girl is incalculable. She wasn’t cute enough to invade his mind or shake his concentration; her non-descript cuteness was singed with greasy hair and a smile like a snarl. Plus she shared a dissatisfaction for nearly everything, unwavering disgust, a palpable hate, etc. How could she be worth hating, he thought, if she can’t hold my attention?
He became infatuated with hundreds of girls since he last saw her and loathed each moment of it. But while standing in line for a lecture, he spotted her. She stood at the end of a block, a vertex that formed as the line bent around the corner. Despite her small size, he saw only her, nothing before or beyond her.
What’s her name? he thought. He hadn’t bothered to learn it, so he assigned her the name Lily. He used to view her as an uptight pseudo-feminist, despite never knowing her, but now he sensed a calm aura. Perhaps it was the flower tucked behind her ear or the blue summer dress that influenced his will to surrender.
He ditched his friend for ‘the greater good’: closer proximity. He inched up to Lily and performed a sardonic shuffle, cluttered with clumsy steps and slides. He finished by opening his arms and waving his hands. But she didn’t offer any applause. In fact, his attention to this detail distracted him from analyzing the impulsive jig he had performed. It was that specific action which mattered most. A sarcastic dance couldn’t mask its inherent sweetness, a symbol that represented a shift from his own needs to that of another. His schtick wasn’t solely for his benefit; his smile remained contingent on the arrival of hers.
When the dance failed, he tried some intentionally corny jokes, but Lily still didn’t smile; irony, after all, isn‘t the way to a woman‘s heart. Instead of refueling his veiled sense of misogyny, he gave a shot at some physical gags. Impressed by his resiliency, she cracked out a smile, teeth perfectly aligned. But the sexiest thing about her was the look she gave, a look that proved he still remained a bit caught up in himself. Her eyes didn’t say, “You’ve ensnared me,” but “Alright then, I’ll give you a shot.” The line moved forward like a conveyor belt, and Lily grabbed his hand and led him inside.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Q: What are you doing? A: Blogging
I’m facebook friends with Aziz Ansari (I assure you, I’m not bragging). He’s one third of the comedy troupe “Human Giant,” plus he’s a co-star on that new show with Amy Poehler. It’s on that network with the newer, better Conan.
But I digress. Aziz is pretty funny. He posts some ill shit on his blog. But every time I log-on to facebook (which is frequently), he’s got a new status update courtesy of Twitter. I can’t avoid what Aziz is doing or what he’s thinking about. Not a huge problem, and then I noticed that non-celebrities (ie: real friends) had Twitter accounts. I guess I’ve lost the knack for catching on to emerging trends and now I’m finally ready to accept its ubiquity.
I honestly thought it was a small thing, with the occasional Kanye West user texting his ‘twattings.’ But it’s more than a celebrity or two using it; if a musician is on there, perhaps his/her record label is too; a sitcom star has to compete with a user that consistently churns out clever headlines. And it really hits you when a friend has an account. The service suddenly seems more stable than the constant flux of viral videos or other forms of internet ephemera.
I know it seems silly to blog about Twitter, especially if your condemning it. And yes, by acknowledging that, it gets even more annoying and reflexive. But the typing and tapping of words, excitement and vitriol, even if it all seems to disappear into the ether, can have meaning. At least in a blog, you’re not restricted to 140 characters. And not everything in blogs are profound--in fact, most things aren’t--but at least blogger’s can delude themselves by thinking that they’re capable of proffering these profundities. You’ve gotta have some terse prose to have a transcendent Twit. And some people could do that shit before Twitter came along.
If people barely give a shit if I (attempt to) do something that has creative value, then nobody will give a fuck if I eat a banana.
But I digress. Aziz is pretty funny. He posts some ill shit on his blog. But every time I log-on to facebook (which is frequently), he’s got a new status update courtesy of Twitter. I can’t avoid what Aziz is doing or what he’s thinking about. Not a huge problem, and then I noticed that non-celebrities (ie: real friends) had Twitter accounts. I guess I’ve lost the knack for catching on to emerging trends and now I’m finally ready to accept its ubiquity.
I honestly thought it was a small thing, with the occasional Kanye West user texting his ‘twattings.’ But it’s more than a celebrity or two using it; if a musician is on there, perhaps his/her record label is too; a sitcom star has to compete with a user that consistently churns out clever headlines. And it really hits you when a friend has an account. The service suddenly seems more stable than the constant flux of viral videos or other forms of internet ephemera.
I know it seems silly to blog about Twitter, especially if your condemning it. And yes, by acknowledging that, it gets even more annoying and reflexive. But the typing and tapping of words, excitement and vitriol, even if it all seems to disappear into the ether, can have meaning. At least in a blog, you’re not restricted to 140 characters. And not everything in blogs are profound--in fact, most things aren’t--but at least blogger’s can delude themselves by thinking that they’re capable of proffering these profundities. You’ve gotta have some terse prose to have a transcendent Twit. And some people could do that shit before Twitter came along.
If people barely give a shit if I (attempt to) do something that has creative value, then nobody will give a fuck if I eat a banana.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Dream: 3/17/08
Returning to an old job is not like returning to a childhood home. It’s more like a childhood trauma, a force that’s triumphed over your evasive efforts. That’s why I shielded myself from what I thought were awestruck stares of my former co-workers. A vainglorious perception on my part; if I was noticed, it was for my unfamiliarity, since there’d been a shift in the staff. Instead of the faces I knew--Garet, Liz, John, Chris, Jen, Melissa, etc.--I saw young bodies, cherries intact and never popped by the predator known as mall retail.
FYE looked the same. Still cozy in it’s prime spot in the center of the first floor, still sitting unfashionably on the fringe of cool, still polluted with ratty packs of teens. It might’ve blew up in size to house more shit, but it still incorporated the same feng shui. Even the head manager, Steve, held his old post. Luckily I danced out of his sight when I headed for the back room.
I returned sporting the gray shirt and black slacks. No name tag dangling around my neck though. I stepped my way to the register and noticed Stephen, a former co-worker from my stint at Blockbuster Video. He managed to cut loose and flee Florida, like I did. Good for him, I thought, accompanying me on my return to Emerald Square Mall. But the strike of shame proved too great for me to greet him; he’d notice that all I did was swap one trauma for another.
Customer service: that’s what FYE thrives on. At least that’s what I thrived on, being simultaneously assertive, friendly, and neutral, making sure everybody’s helped, always spreading a smile, and never commenting on the consumer’s tastes. Didn’t work on commission, so my title seemed like an abstraction. Yet it felt like the only source of meaning that I could achieve from an otherwise trivial position.
I straddled the demarcating section that segregated CDs from DVDs. A middle aged woman approached me with her baby carriage and ostensible friend. A little girl skipped up behind her.
“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me for a second,” she asked. Her voice hinted at exhaustion and embarrassment, and I could immediately sense that she was a savvy city dweller, not part of the usual dumb-townie clientele.
“Sure thing,” I responded. I smiled wider. “What is it?”
“High school diploma,” she answered back.
“Uh, what?”
“’High School Diploma,’” she repeated.
“Do you mean ‘High School Musical?’”
“That’s it,” she said, nodding her head. “It’s for my daughter,” she added, as if I wasn’t keen enough to infer her intentions.
We walked over to the children’s DVDs and I plucked the title from the shelf. She murmured something appreciative and I absentmindedly assured her that it wasn’t a problem.
“Would you like to watch it with us?” she asked me.
I found myself in a modest house outside of Harvard. My scenery switch assumed the guise of teleportation, but I took the sudden gap in time to be a result from some sort of stroke. I can’t remember how I got there, but I have a faint memory of ditching work, taking the train, making faces at the woman’s daughter. Though all of it got sort of muddled up, I could celebrate the success that accumulated from the series of phantom events.
The mother peeled the stickers that bordered the DVD case. “Are you ready to watch the movie?” she asked, though she didn’t even need to.
FYE looked the same. Still cozy in it’s prime spot in the center of the first floor, still sitting unfashionably on the fringe of cool, still polluted with ratty packs of teens. It might’ve blew up in size to house more shit, but it still incorporated the same feng shui. Even the head manager, Steve, held his old post. Luckily I danced out of his sight when I headed for the back room.
I returned sporting the gray shirt and black slacks. No name tag dangling around my neck though. I stepped my way to the register and noticed Stephen, a former co-worker from my stint at Blockbuster Video. He managed to cut loose and flee Florida, like I did. Good for him, I thought, accompanying me on my return to Emerald Square Mall. But the strike of shame proved too great for me to greet him; he’d notice that all I did was swap one trauma for another.
Customer service: that’s what FYE thrives on. At least that’s what I thrived on, being simultaneously assertive, friendly, and neutral, making sure everybody’s helped, always spreading a smile, and never commenting on the consumer’s tastes. Didn’t work on commission, so my title seemed like an abstraction. Yet it felt like the only source of meaning that I could achieve from an otherwise trivial position.
I straddled the demarcating section that segregated CDs from DVDs. A middle aged woman approached me with her baby carriage and ostensible friend. A little girl skipped up behind her.
“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me for a second,” she asked. Her voice hinted at exhaustion and embarrassment, and I could immediately sense that she was a savvy city dweller, not part of the usual dumb-townie clientele.
“Sure thing,” I responded. I smiled wider. “What is it?”
“High school diploma,” she answered back.
“Uh, what?”
“’High School Diploma,’” she repeated.
“Do you mean ‘High School Musical?’”
“That’s it,” she said, nodding her head. “It’s for my daughter,” she added, as if I wasn’t keen enough to infer her intentions.
We walked over to the children’s DVDs and I plucked the title from the shelf. She murmured something appreciative and I absentmindedly assured her that it wasn’t a problem.
“Would you like to watch it with us?” she asked me.
I found myself in a modest house outside of Harvard. My scenery switch assumed the guise of teleportation, but I took the sudden gap in time to be a result from some sort of stroke. I can’t remember how I got there, but I have a faint memory of ditching work, taking the train, making faces at the woman’s daughter. Though all of it got sort of muddled up, I could celebrate the success that accumulated from the series of phantom events.
The mother peeled the stickers that bordered the DVD case. “Are you ready to watch the movie?” she asked, though she didn’t even need to.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A succinct story in 94 parts...with more on the way...
The season premiere of Breaking Bad was pretty sweet, another example that AMC can produce quality original programming and do more than just air “Waterworld” and other pieces of shit. Thing is this: the lead character has terminal lung cancer. Yes, I know, the character and not the actor. So how much longer can the show last? According to the lead actor, Bryan Cranston, perhaps they could take a cue from “M*A*S*H” and extend the show beyond its intended premise.
All this begs the age-old question in television: when has a series run its course? Technically, the audience decides, which can yield some unfavorable outcomes. With an ultimate goal of reaching syndication level, some shows have churned out episodes with relative ease. Sometimes a simple formula is enough to satiate the viewers needs; “House” follows a similar trajectory each episode, reliable and predictable like a disco song; “Seinfeld” amended the definition of situation comedy, allowing the characters to pursue any avenue or plotline.
However, some people (ie: me) feel that fictional TV can achieve something more than simply occupying our time. It can go beyond the realm of “just a show” and become a narrative that infiltrates our lives, albeit a narrative continually disrupted by adverti--
When is it time to call it quits? When a high concept show manages to extend its run for longer than anticipated, things usually start to decline. Or if there’s a shift from the show’s expansive world of characters to focus on zany and absurd plotlines, not to mention tainting a legacy, that might be another sign. There’s no science to it; the number of viewers dictates the shelf-life and most shows don’t know how to quit when they’re on top (always an exception or two, of course).
Danny McBride takes the smart approach with his new series, “Eastbound & Down,” by following the Ricky Gervais/BBC route of a six episode season. If only more shows did this, bridged some sort of gap between a mini-series and fucking “Gunsmoke.” Thing is, “Breaking Bad” has too much potential and I’d hate to see it go stale only its second season. I was skeptical about the high concept (a chemistry teacher with lung cancer cooks crystal meth to raise money for his family, employing a former student as his dealer), but its meticulous pacing and mixture of drama and dark comedy make it appear like a series produced by the Coen brothers. Not to mention that Bryan Cranston is a great lead; his plight both makes me cringe and root for him. I’d be bummed if it melted into some exaggerated form of itself. I’m almost praying for people to stop tuning in.
All this begs the age-old question in television: when has a series run its course? Technically, the audience decides, which can yield some unfavorable outcomes. With an ultimate goal of reaching syndication level, some shows have churned out episodes with relative ease. Sometimes a simple formula is enough to satiate the viewers needs; “House” follows a similar trajectory each episode, reliable and predictable like a disco song; “Seinfeld” amended the definition of situation comedy, allowing the characters to pursue any avenue or plotline.
However, some people (ie: me) feel that fictional TV can achieve something more than simply occupying our time. It can go beyond the realm of “just a show” and become a narrative that infiltrates our lives, albeit a narrative continually disrupted by adverti--
When is it time to call it quits? When a high concept show manages to extend its run for longer than anticipated, things usually start to decline. Or if there’s a shift from the show’s expansive world of characters to focus on zany and absurd plotlines, not to mention tainting a legacy, that might be another sign. There’s no science to it; the number of viewers dictates the shelf-life and most shows don’t know how to quit when they’re on top (always an exception or two, of course).
Danny McBride takes the smart approach with his new series, “Eastbound & Down,” by following the Ricky Gervais/BBC route of a six episode season. If only more shows did this, bridged some sort of gap between a mini-series and fucking “Gunsmoke.” Thing is, “Breaking Bad” has too much potential and I’d hate to see it go stale only its second season. I was skeptical about the high concept (a chemistry teacher with lung cancer cooks crystal meth to raise money for his family, employing a former student as his dealer), but its meticulous pacing and mixture of drama and dark comedy make it appear like a series produced by the Coen brothers. Not to mention that Bryan Cranston is a great lead; his plight both makes me cringe and root for him. I’d be bummed if it melted into some exaggerated form of itself. I’m almost praying for people to stop tuning in.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Dream: 3/5/09
Some might call the kid a shit-for-brains. But then again, many tend to envy the brave.
I’m not sure what put him in the bed, but I’m pretty sure he’d been there for awhile. But I’m sure that frustration—of being bed-ridden, unable to function—eventually builds up and unleashes, and there isn’t much you can do at that point. Like a dog breaking the choke of a chain. I probably wouldn’t have acted the way he did, but whatever.
You see, there was this biker guy, a father of the kid’s comatose roommate. That was the ostensible reason for the frequent hospital visits, but mainly the biker was there to harass the kid. I’m not gonna psychoanalyze here and make any sort of specious claim about the biker’s behavior, but he really had it in for that kid. And what could you do? Stand up for yourself? The kid is bed-ridden, plus the guy’s a biker. Dusty leather jacket, American colored bandana, white trash ‘stache, the whole sha-bang. Built like a bulldozer, an ominous mother fucker.
So the biker’s been tormenting this kid, presumably poking him, calling him names, fundamental bullying. The kid was crumbling at the start, being a sensitive soul and whatnot, on the cusp of inevitable teenage misery. But then he started to harness his hate, manifesting his rage into an almost regrettable action: spitting in the biker’s face.
Now you see, technically, I wasn’t there for the climatic event. But I can vividly recall the seismic shift in the kid’s face right after, from triumph to fear. And I remember the look radiating from the biker and the sound of his toxic snarl.
Then, a gaggle of bikers stepped in. They engaged themselves in menacing poses, cracked their necks, smacked their fists against their palms. I swear I saw the biker guy lick his lips. Regardless, they were all hungry.
They all took turns poking the kid, a requisite foreplay technique for bullies. Eventually, they all agreed that they should rape the kid. They wanted to tear him apart. And the kid starts screaming, crying for help, but he can’t be heard. The bikers were closing in slowly, a cliché move from a horror B-movie. And then, as if an answer to wishful thinking, the biker’s son awoke from his coma. He started yelling at the rugged men to stop.
“See?” the kid cried, “He’s my friend. Please, don’t do this, not in front of your son.”
I don’t know how you can befriend someone deep in the fathoms of a coma, but apparently this kid did. And the biker considered this plea, searching the corners
of the room with his eyes, as if the inanimate objects and other contents could provide him the answer. Didn’t see what eventually happened, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t good.
That’s why I’m here at Wal-Mart with my former roommate, Lee. We’re gathering up weapons, equipping ourselves with the cheapest artillery we can get, the real blue-collar defense. Sure: we’re fucking hopeless; trying to prepare like we’re on the precipice of war, but never gotten slugged by a fist, not even witnessed an actual brawl. Lee’s got tennis rackets and baseball bats, but I’m not categorizing my weaponry. I’ve got hangers, knives, pens & pencils, kiddy lightsabers, anything to fill the contents of my cart.
Not quite sure if he’s really after us, but I’m guessing he thinks I know what he did. Him and his legion of sickos. I’m a shit-for-brains too. Perhaps I’m lacking the impetus that forced the kid to act, but trying to be as brave. So if those guys really do come after us, we’ll be fucking ready.
I’m not sure what put him in the bed, but I’m pretty sure he’d been there for awhile. But I’m sure that frustration—of being bed-ridden, unable to function—eventually builds up and unleashes, and there isn’t much you can do at that point. Like a dog breaking the choke of a chain. I probably wouldn’t have acted the way he did, but whatever.
You see, there was this biker guy, a father of the kid’s comatose roommate. That was the ostensible reason for the frequent hospital visits, but mainly the biker was there to harass the kid. I’m not gonna psychoanalyze here and make any sort of specious claim about the biker’s behavior, but he really had it in for that kid. And what could you do? Stand up for yourself? The kid is bed-ridden, plus the guy’s a biker. Dusty leather jacket, American colored bandana, white trash ‘stache, the whole sha-bang. Built like a bulldozer, an ominous mother fucker.
So the biker’s been tormenting this kid, presumably poking him, calling him names, fundamental bullying. The kid was crumbling at the start, being a sensitive soul and whatnot, on the cusp of inevitable teenage misery. But then he started to harness his hate, manifesting his rage into an almost regrettable action: spitting in the biker’s face.
Now you see, technically, I wasn’t there for the climatic event. But I can vividly recall the seismic shift in the kid’s face right after, from triumph to fear. And I remember the look radiating from the biker and the sound of his toxic snarl.
Then, a gaggle of bikers stepped in. They engaged themselves in menacing poses, cracked their necks, smacked their fists against their palms. I swear I saw the biker guy lick his lips. Regardless, they were all hungry.
They all took turns poking the kid, a requisite foreplay technique for bullies. Eventually, they all agreed that they should rape the kid. They wanted to tear him apart. And the kid starts screaming, crying for help, but he can’t be heard. The bikers were closing in slowly, a cliché move from a horror B-movie. And then, as if an answer to wishful thinking, the biker’s son awoke from his coma. He started yelling at the rugged men to stop.
“See?” the kid cried, “He’s my friend. Please, don’t do this, not in front of your son.”
I don’t know how you can befriend someone deep in the fathoms of a coma, but apparently this kid did. And the biker considered this plea, searching the corners
of the room with his eyes, as if the inanimate objects and other contents could provide him the answer. Didn’t see what eventually happened, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t good.
That’s why I’m here at Wal-Mart with my former roommate, Lee. We’re gathering up weapons, equipping ourselves with the cheapest artillery we can get, the real blue-collar defense. Sure: we’re fucking hopeless; trying to prepare like we’re on the precipice of war, but never gotten slugged by a fist, not even witnessed an actual brawl. Lee’s got tennis rackets and baseball bats, but I’m not categorizing my weaponry. I’ve got hangers, knives, pens & pencils, kiddy lightsabers, anything to fill the contents of my cart.
Not quite sure if he’s really after us, but I’m guessing he thinks I know what he did. Him and his legion of sickos. I’m a shit-for-brains too. Perhaps I’m lacking the impetus that forced the kid to act, but trying to be as brave. So if those guys really do come after us, we’ll be fucking ready.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
David Foster Wallace and Breaking the Form
Having been beaten to the punch by Rolling Stone, the New Yorker finally got their shit together for an obituary/tribute to David Foster Wallace. While there is a fair amount of overlap with the RS article, D.T. Max features a bit more in-depth analysis of DFW's fiction as well as a glance at some of the author's unfinished work.
I recently finished reading his first novel "The Broom of the System" and was reminded how much I enjoyed his fiction. Sometimes his writing can reach dizzying heights of post-modern zaniness, but it captivates and connects you with the world, not to mention it challenges you. Sure, "Infinite Jest" has morphed into a sort of status symbol, the literary equivalent of a Porsche in the garage, but DFW's books are more than just maximalist gobbledygook. He always shifted his approach, from his novels and story collections to his various forms of journalism. And more importantly, despite the outlandish plot lines, extensive footnotes, and failure to focus on his personal demons, his work never felt evasive; his essays are candid, his fiction probing.
In "Wiggle Room," an exercept from his unfinished novel, a low-level auditor manages to achieve a level of pure, unfathomable boredom. As a recent college grad ready for the workforce, this portrayal of cubicle disillusionment frightens me beyond belief. However (to be uncharacteristically personal/confessional for this blog [and therefore contradict its title/purpose and rendering it as a misnomer]), I'd at least find solace in having job security. I've recently finished a temp gig and am now marginally employed at a law firm, but I have a degree in an industry on the decline, partly because of a recession but steadily because of technological advancement. It's unfortunate to have an unfulfilling job, but that lack of fulfillment begins to permeate your entire life when you don't have a job.
And perhaps the paradox of tapping out blog entries devoid of personal history and anecdotes is futile. Maybe this is the one entry to acknowledge blogging's inherent narcissism, the time to throw that crippling sense of self-consciousness out the window. Because that's what DFW struggled with throughout his career: producing creative, meaningful, honest writing without the artifice, irony, disingenuousness, etc. So maybe that was the impetus for this blog, even if it's strictly surreal encounters in dreams or casual pop-cultural quips, that it can forge some sort of connection. If barely anybody reads this, fine, but here's my 'vulnerable' moment of actually appearing human before returning to the task of hyping the new Grizzly Bear album and recalling a non-existent memory of chasing after Aaron Eckhart.
If you've ever thought about starting a blog, put all your thoughts and insecurities aside and just fucking do it. Chances are somebody will read it and get something out of it.
I recently finished reading his first novel "The Broom of the System" and was reminded how much I enjoyed his fiction. Sometimes his writing can reach dizzying heights of post-modern zaniness, but it captivates and connects you with the world, not to mention it challenges you. Sure, "Infinite Jest" has morphed into a sort of status symbol, the literary equivalent of a Porsche in the garage, but DFW's books are more than just maximalist gobbledygook. He always shifted his approach, from his novels and story collections to his various forms of journalism. And more importantly, despite the outlandish plot lines, extensive footnotes, and failure to focus on his personal demons, his work never felt evasive; his essays are candid, his fiction probing.
In "Wiggle Room," an exercept from his unfinished novel, a low-level auditor manages to achieve a level of pure, unfathomable boredom. As a recent college grad ready for the workforce, this portrayal of cubicle disillusionment frightens me beyond belief. However (to be uncharacteristically personal/confessional for this blog [and therefore contradict its title/purpose and rendering it as a misnomer]), I'd at least find solace in having job security. I've recently finished a temp gig and am now marginally employed at a law firm, but I have a degree in an industry on the decline, partly because of a recession but steadily because of technological advancement. It's unfortunate to have an unfulfilling job, but that lack of fulfillment begins to permeate your entire life when you don't have a job.
And perhaps the paradox of tapping out blog entries devoid of personal history and anecdotes is futile. Maybe this is the one entry to acknowledge blogging's inherent narcissism, the time to throw that crippling sense of self-consciousness out the window. Because that's what DFW struggled with throughout his career: producing creative, meaningful, honest writing without the artifice, irony, disingenuousness, etc. So maybe that was the impetus for this blog, even if it's strictly surreal encounters in dreams or casual pop-cultural quips, that it can forge some sort of connection. If barely anybody reads this, fine, but here's my 'vulnerable' moment of actually appearing human before returning to the task of hyping the new Grizzly Bear album and recalling a non-existent memory of chasing after Aaron Eckhart.
If you've ever thought about starting a blog, put all your thoughts and insecurities aside and just fucking do it. Chances are somebody will read it and get something out of it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Preemptive Defense of the Watchmen Film
A recent pop-cultural epiphany: I'm excited as fuck for the Watchmen flick. My rekindled interest compelled me to go back and flip through the comic for the first time since my freshman year of college. Though I can't say I was a big fan of Snyder's last film, "300"--though I adore the trailer--I'm not writing off the film like I had initially done.
Let's toss aside all the bullshit first: filmmaker Terry Gilliam considering the comic to be unfilmable, a pesky lawsuit regarding which studio had rights to the film, Alan Moore's distaste for adaptations of his work. What's left is a bunch of whiny fanboys (and fangirls, I s'pose. Fan...people? Oh right, fans.) complaining about a film they haven't even seen yet. So here are some things I must address.
"The comic is too large in scope. How are all the chapters, backstories, subplots, etc. going to be captured on film?" is a common defense for the fans' vitriol. Not everybody can be a Snyder fan (though the "Dawn of the Dead" remake pretty much shifts my bowels), but people can find solace in Snyder's appreciation for the comic. Disagree? How about a near 3.5 hour director's cut of the film for DVD? I assume this extended version will feature everything, but at the very least contains the Black Freighter-comic-subplot. Which is great to read, don't get me wrong, but seems superfluous for film. So why did Snyder shoot that particular material? To satiate the needs of a bunch of nerds.
Respect for the source material is fine and well, but so what if Snyder slightly strays from the events in the comic? Condensing and omitting sections or subplots can present a more concise narrative for the purposes of film. As I recently discussed with some friends of mine, one doesn't need to judge a film adaptation by its relation to the initial text; they're independent works. Hell, some might argue that one must divert from the source material to create something great. The book's nihilism, politics, and rich characters could translate well to film, but that's the only real overlap the film needs for it to be great.
Perhaps it might be easier to not treat the "Watchmen" comic like its sacred. I found that after rereading it that it lacked the punch it initially packed when I tore through it three years ago. Its impact had already been made; it shifted the way I view comics and art in general. Perhaps a widely distributed film can introduce a new set of people to this amazing story. There's no better time than now for this flick.
I, for one, will be watching the Watchmen.
Let's toss aside all the bullshit first: filmmaker Terry Gilliam considering the comic to be unfilmable, a pesky lawsuit regarding which studio had rights to the film, Alan Moore's distaste for adaptations of his work. What's left is a bunch of whiny fanboys (and fangirls, I s'pose. Fan...people? Oh right, fans.) complaining about a film they haven't even seen yet. So here are some things I must address.
"The comic is too large in scope. How are all the chapters, backstories, subplots, etc. going to be captured on film?" is a common defense for the fans' vitriol. Not everybody can be a Snyder fan (though the "Dawn of the Dead" remake pretty much shifts my bowels), but people can find solace in Snyder's appreciation for the comic. Disagree? How about a near 3.5 hour director's cut of the film for DVD? I assume this extended version will feature everything, but at the very least contains the Black Freighter-comic-subplot. Which is great to read, don't get me wrong, but seems superfluous for film. So why did Snyder shoot that particular material? To satiate the needs of a bunch of nerds.
Respect for the source material is fine and well, but so what if Snyder slightly strays from the events in the comic? Condensing and omitting sections or subplots can present a more concise narrative for the purposes of film. As I recently discussed with some friends of mine, one doesn't need to judge a film adaptation by its relation to the initial text; they're independent works. Hell, some might argue that one must divert from the source material to create something great. The book's nihilism, politics, and rich characters could translate well to film, but that's the only real overlap the film needs for it to be great.
Perhaps it might be easier to not treat the "Watchmen" comic like its sacred. I found that after rereading it that it lacked the punch it initially packed when I tore through it three years ago. Its impact had already been made; it shifted the way I view comics and art in general. Perhaps a widely distributed film can introduce a new set of people to this amazing story. There's no better time than now for this flick.
I, for one, will be watching the Watchmen.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button's Nomination and Other Nonsense
A confession: I've only seen one of the nominees for best picture. With that said, I'm not the only one hoping that "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" doesn't win. The technical nods would be well-deserved wins, but do we need another long, overwrought, cheesy film to swipe best picture?
I'm still more than interested to tune in and see what/who wins, but I agree with David Denby's sentiment: "The envelope, please—I guess."
Plus there's the two things that everybody is bitter about, such as the constant reminder that there's a separate category for animated films. The last time an animated film was included in the Best Picture category was 1991. Does the Academy truly believe animated movies are kids fodder or that they're not as good as their live-action counterparts? Or is it difficult to accept that an animated film with a wider audience is better than some quiet, boring, self-important Holocaust film that nobody saw?
Oh yeah, and the failure to include the Dark Knight for any other major category kind of sucks. Plus there's that conflicting feeling about Heath's nomination; he definitely deserves the nomination--perhaps the win, for that matter--but only received it as a form of pity. Sadly, I feel like a win for him would signify something worse: the inherent self-congratulatory nature of the Oscars, the "look at us, we're great for awarding this dead guy" factor. Wouldn't be the first time the Academy patted itself on the back for making a brave choice.
Now is not the time to release a film if you have any hopes of it being nominated for something. If so, it sucks to be you (but really, who am I kidding? The Academy doesn't embrace 'genre' films).
Here's a list of all the nominations. Happy watching/picking.
I'm still more than interested to tune in and see what/who wins, but I agree with David Denby's sentiment: "The envelope, please—I guess."
Plus there's the two things that everybody is bitter about, such as the constant reminder that there's a separate category for animated films. The last time an animated film was included in the Best Picture category was 1991. Does the Academy truly believe animated movies are kids fodder or that they're not as good as their live-action counterparts? Or is it difficult to accept that an animated film with a wider audience is better than some quiet, boring, self-important Holocaust film that nobody saw?
Oh yeah, and the failure to include the Dark Knight for any other major category kind of sucks. Plus there's that conflicting feeling about Heath's nomination; he definitely deserves the nomination--perhaps the win, for that matter--but only received it as a form of pity. Sadly, I feel like a win for him would signify something worse: the inherent self-congratulatory nature of the Oscars, the "look at us, we're great for awarding this dead guy" factor. Wouldn't be the first time the Academy patted itself on the back for making a brave choice.
Now is not the time to release a film if you have any hopes of it being nominated for something. If so, it sucks to be you (but really, who am I kidding? The Academy doesn't embrace 'genre' films).
Here's a list of all the nominations. Happy watching/picking.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Dream: 2/18/09
You wake up, rising simultaneously with the sun. Instead of getting up, you choose to sprawl out and immerse yourself in your bed. Something’s wrong; you’re anxious, not feeling quite right. It’s inexplicable, but somehow it’s not a threat if you remain under your covers.
Your phone’s on the nightstand. You grab for it to check the time and notice you’ve got a message. The voice is muffled and you can’t place who it is, though it sort of sounds like a kid you knew in high school. Only certain words and phrases can be picked out from his call: ‘investment,’ ‘good deal,’ ‘company…all figured out.’ You barely knew this guy, and you’re surprised he even knows your name, let alone your phone number.
Another ten minutes pass and you muster up the courage to head downstairs. It’s clear now: this is the house where you grew up. Your brother’s in the kitchen, still dressed in his pajamas, a wifebeater revealing his glowing tattoo. He takes a break from his cereal to shoot you a look, then returns to his meal. You’re too distracted to question his attitude, so you head to the family room.
You’ve been settled on the couch for a good minute before you realize someone in your dad’s favorite chair. It’s the kid that left you the message, and somehow you’ve pulled his name from the contours of your memory.
“Andre.”
“Hey, man,” he says. He’s slightly different than how you remember him, less gangly, heavier, shorter. But he still has that baby face.
“I’ve got this great idea,” he continues. “Derek and I make t-shirts. We’re gonna need some capital if we want to start selling them. Thought you could help us out.”
Your brother’s standing on the periphery, not questioning Andre’s presence, but whether or not you’re going to help him.
“Sorry, man,” I tell him, treating him like a friend, “but I can’t really afford that right now.” And as soon as you say this, you’re wondering if this is why you’re living at home.
Andre just shakes his head. He doesn’t make any effort to leave. Your brother shakes his head disapprovingly. All this leaves you even more anxious, but you’re saved when your mother enters the kitchen.
“Hi, honey,” she says. She smiles reassuringly, and Andre and your brother have vanished. But still, you’re stressed. You don’t understand what’s happening. Are you dying?
“I’ve got your birthday present for you,” she tells you. You manage to pull yourself from the grip of the couch and follow her to the foyer. She digs through the closet, and though it sounds cluttered, it appears almost empty. She stops, turns to hand you the gift, and that’s when you really wake up.
Your phone’s on the nightstand. You grab for it to check the time and notice you’ve got a message. The voice is muffled and you can’t place who it is, though it sort of sounds like a kid you knew in high school. Only certain words and phrases can be picked out from his call: ‘investment,’ ‘good deal,’ ‘company…all figured out.’ You barely knew this guy, and you’re surprised he even knows your name, let alone your phone number.
Another ten minutes pass and you muster up the courage to head downstairs. It’s clear now: this is the house where you grew up. Your brother’s in the kitchen, still dressed in his pajamas, a wifebeater revealing his glowing tattoo. He takes a break from his cereal to shoot you a look, then returns to his meal. You’re too distracted to question his attitude, so you head to the family room.
You’ve been settled on the couch for a good minute before you realize someone in your dad’s favorite chair. It’s the kid that left you the message, and somehow you’ve pulled his name from the contours of your memory.
“Andre.”
“Hey, man,” he says. He’s slightly different than how you remember him, less gangly, heavier, shorter. But he still has that baby face.
“I’ve got this great idea,” he continues. “Derek and I make t-shirts. We’re gonna need some capital if we want to start selling them. Thought you could help us out.”
Your brother’s standing on the periphery, not questioning Andre’s presence, but whether or not you’re going to help him.
“Sorry, man,” I tell him, treating him like a friend, “but I can’t really afford that right now.” And as soon as you say this, you’re wondering if this is why you’re living at home.
Andre just shakes his head. He doesn’t make any effort to leave. Your brother shakes his head disapprovingly. All this leaves you even more anxious, but you’re saved when your mother enters the kitchen.
“Hi, honey,” she says. She smiles reassuringly, and Andre and your brother have vanished. But still, you’re stressed. You don’t understand what’s happening. Are you dying?
“I’ve got your birthday present for you,” she tells you. You manage to pull yourself from the grip of the couch and follow her to the foyer. She digs through the closet, and though it sounds cluttered, it appears almost empty. She stops, turns to hand you the gift, and that’s when you really wake up.
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