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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
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.
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