This thing of blogness I acknowledge mine

Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.

Monday, October 27, 2014

Clack-clack

So this is my second first draft for the entry into the 'Rejection' book. Not genius, but hopefully not awful. And mostly true. Picture unrelated--I just thought I'd post it to keep that other picture out of bounds.



Preeti's hands were on her desk, and I could tell it was serious. I sat across from her in a chair that did not swivel.

Her chair swiveled.

“Marc,” Preeti said in a way that made me wish I were in her chair. “You're great. You're doing well here. But we're letting you go.”

Preeti swiveled. Her hands left her desk, and she took her chair out for a spin. It was a smooth spin. “I don't want to fire you,” she said during her rotation, “but your work--”

“This is about the meth I snorted in the bathroom last Friday. I understand. Thanks for giving me a shot.”

Preeti used her hands to stop her spin. She'd taken the spin to assess her office, which was just across from Bryant Park but without a view. Her spin was to a windowless office in a building with a killer view, and all around her were items meant, I assumed, to compensate for her windowless office. In her spin, I'm sure Preeti glimpsed the signed copy of Erica Jong's Fear of Flying. I'm sure she saw the picture of herself with T.S. Elliott's widow. Perhaps her eye skimmed across the framed mock cover of an edition of Shakespeare plays attributed to Edward de Vere.

“No. That's not why we're firing you.”

“Good. I'd hate for that to be the reason.” Actually, I preferred that to be the reason.

“...You did meth...?”

“In the bathroom. I swear it isn't something I usually do. I had a bad day.”

“Day?”

“Week. It was a bad week.”

Preeti dug her fingers into her desk while her face shifted—swiveled--to concern. “I honestly had no idea you were, you know. I didn't mean...”

“Nor did I.” My hands were in my lap. I wanted them to be on a desk but that seemed presumptuous of me.

“Your work lately is shoddy.”

“Because of the meth.”

“I was going to say because you seem bored, but now I--”

“Meth.”

It wasn't meth. I mean, it was, in that I had done meth. My brains we addled, and each day I went to work, I was bowled over by what I saw: an original Tennessee Williams manuscript, a framed copy of Will Eisner's “Elder's of Zion.” I was working in a place that didn't require a view, where one could do a 360 in a chair and see wonders. My job was to send out checks to authors. I worked in the royalties department, and knew which authors, and estates of authors, made the most money.

Incidentally, William Carlos Williams made a lot of money.

A lot.

Preeti stared at me. She blinked. “The bathroom?” she asked.

“I didn't know I was being filmed. Is there video?”

“Marc. There are no cameras in the bathroom. I didn't know you were doing meth on company property. Obviously if I had... well, we would have fired you anyway.”

Here's an interesting thing I knew about Preeti's desk that she, I'm sure, did not know. Secreted away in the top left drawer of her desk, I'd placed a poem. The poem was written by me, and it had been placed in the top left drawer of Preeti's desk a few days before I discovered a small packet of crushed-up meth in my coat pocket. Preeti had gone to lunch, and I slipped into her office with a few sheets of paper upon which was printed what I thought was a fairly decent poem. I kissed the top sheet, then opened the drawer. Inside, I found several ledger books, a few post-it pads, a half-eaten granola bar, and a company memo nearly a decade old. I lifted up a few of the ledgers, slid my poem between them, and returned them. Shut the drawer. Returned to my desk feeling as if I'd just let go of a part of myself I'd never get back. I'd created a Horcrux not important enough to destroy or reclaim.

“I'd fire me too, honestly.”

“It was a pleasure working with you,” Preeti said in a way that made me wonder if anything about me was a pleasure. “We've had our share of temps, and you were one of the best.”

“And this was my first temp job, so I can honestly say it was my best temp job,” I responded, without irony or cynicism. Truly, working for the publishing house had been my dream job.

I seldom dream big.

Later, on the train home, I listened to the muted clack-clack of the rails traveling beneath me, dully thumping in my head which was plugged tightly by the ear buds jammed into my ears. I wasn't listening to music. I was pretending to listen to music. Instead, I was listening to the train careening down the tracks.

In my lap was a book. A Confederacy of Dunces. I was pretending to read the book while pretending to listen to music while actually listening to the clack-clack of the tracks. As I listened—or pretended to listen while pretending to read—I imagined what I would say to my boyfriend of six years when I got home early, jobless. “Greg, it may seem bad now,” I would say. “But in ten years, we will laugh our asses off about the time I confessed to drug use at [Publishing House] and got fired. Please stop crying.”

Eventually my eyes wandered from the book I wasn't reading. I began staring at a woman I wasn't seeing. Clack-clack, clack-clack. All I was aware of was the sound, and the reverberations of the sound, and how my body seemed to me in that moment an empty drum filled with the fake heartbeat of the city.

The woman I was not seeing had grey hair, tightly curled in a way my hair was not (my hair was straight, and long, and if I'd been in a more present frame of mind would be tickling the back of my neck as it slipped into my collar as secretly as my poetry slipped into Preeti's volumes of ledgers). The woman was someone's grandmother. She was dressed for a hard day in the cold city—a bulky black coat, boots, scarf. No hat. Just hair. Curly. Perhaps the hat had been removed and tucked inside the strained-at-the-seams Barnes and Noble canvas bag resting between her boots on the floor of the clack-clacking train.

I'm not certain who became aware of my staring at her first: she or me. But when our eyes locked it became apparent that I was not entirely present or responsible for the direction of my eyes. She smiled at me and I looked away.

Then she leaned forward. She folded herself in half, reached out with one hand, and waved that hand in front of me until I looked back.

“That's a great book,” she said to me.

Pretending to be lost in music, I squinted at her, held up a finger, and plucked the ear buds from my ears (I'd heard her just fine, but in writing I'd been taught to show, not tell. It was best to show her I was listening to music than to tell her I was faking). “Sorry?”

“Great book. John Kennedy Toole.” Because of the noise of the train, the woman needed to shout. There were empty seats beside both of us, and it became obvious during the ensuing conversation that we each were consciously choosing not to move closer to one another. We maintained the subway-aisle separation for the next three stops. Instead of moving closer, we leaned into each other, and shouted our conversation because that is what one does in New York. You never sit beside a stranger and have a conversation. You instead sit across from the stranger, and shout at him or her as if the world had gone deaf in one ear.

“It is a good book.” I waved it at the woman. “So funny and with such a sad history.”

“Oh yes.” The woman scooted a bit closer, anchoring her butt on the edge of her seat. “Sometimes the confederacy conspiring against you is in your own head.”

“What?” I shouted back.

“The dunces are in your head!” the woman screamed back. The tracks between Columbus Circle and 72nd Street are exceedingly loud.

“There's always talk of making it--” I waved the book at the woman again-- “into a movie. A mistake, in my opinion.”

“A mistake!” she shrieked. “My god. Don't do a movie of the book! Do a movie about the publishing of the book!”

I nodded, the only appropriate response. “His poor mother. She spent a decade forcing people to read this. Imagine how she felt when one person finally said, Okay lady. I'll just look at it. No promises.”

“And then told her it was not only being published, but it would win a Pulitzer.”

We were at 81st Street now. Some weeks earlier, I'd watched a butterfly get on at 103rd Street, float around the train car for a few stops, then exit at 81st, which is the stop for the Natural History Museum. At the time, I imagined the butterfly was visiting relatives. This time, I watched the woman gather her things, stand, and give a nod to me.

No hat was ever pulled from the canvas Barnes and Noble bag. It seemed the woman was fully capable of braving the elements with her curly head of hair unprotected.

When I arrived home, I explained to Greg, my boyfriend forcibly transplanted from home in Alabama to the madness of New York, that I was jobless. “It was a temp job,” he said. “You didn't really have a job anyway.”

On cue, our upstairs neighbor dropped something, and the sound from our ceiling went clack-clack.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Let's Try This


Ben's depression, after his break-up, was so severe it caused the off-Broadway production of 'ET: The Musical!' to close before it even opened. Ben was not in the new musical. Ben was not associated with the new musical. Ben did not have tickets, yet, to see the new musical. But after Gordon left him—taking the dog, of course—the density of the empty space surrounding Ben became so concentrated that, inevitably, unrelated victims were sucked in and crushed.

Or something. Elliott would not perform the second-curtain encore of 'He's Alive!' because Gordon had packed up his belongings—and the dog—and moved in with a woman twice his age, twice Ben's age, and many decades older than the dog.

Not the first time Ben's depression had unmounted a mounted production. A few years earlier, as his relationship with another, less Gordon-like man disintegrated, the Met announced the cancellation of its production of Lohengrin. “We regret,” said a spokesperson for the Met, and Ben didn't bother to read the rest of the statement in the Times. “We regret,” to Ben, was all that needed to be said.

Ben was in bed and not yet aware of the influence his gravitational depression was exerting on the orbiting worlds of the performing arts. Ben stared at the ceiling. He stared at his left index finger. He stared at the empty spot in the middle of the bed where the dog would be if Gordon had not taken him.

Or her.

To be honest, Ben didn't like dogs, didn't know the missing dog's name, and certainly did not know if the dog was male, female, or neutral.

But he missed the dog because he missed Gordon. He said Gordon's name aloud and listened to it bounce around the Gordon-shaped void: “Oh, Gordon,” he said in a voice he imagined tinged by despair and inconsolable loneliness. The spokesperson for the Met, however, would recognize the true sound of Ben's voice immediately. “We regret.”

Indeed, several blocks downtown from Ben, the spokesperson for the Met, a diminutive young woman fresh out of Julliard with a penchant for perfect pitch and no training in media relations, was preparing another announced cancellation of Le Nozze di Figaro. The longer Ben stayed in bed moaning “Gordon” over and over, the more dense his depression became, and the more performances orbiting him fell into, then crashed into, his depressional field.

The diminutive young woman sat at her desk, drafting the required statement, and wondered why it was necessary to state anything at all. One opera is the same as another, really, when one gets right down to it, so who truly cares if they're seeing Figaro or seeing Carmen, so long as there are pretty sets, impressive notes, and bodies moving about on stage in a way that resembles—but isn't quite like—the way normal humans move about when not on stage? On January 15th, there would be a lot of bodies moving about the Met stage. They just won't be moving about to Mozart's score.

The diminutive young woman typed, and typed, and searched for the right words to please the patrons and the public, considered her life-choices, pushed away from her desk, spun her chair around, stood up, and marched out of her office. She was never heard from again.

Ben, unaware of anything other than his right shoulder-blade at the moment, became aware of a bleating alarm clock. Rather than wake up, he dreamed he was both Scottish and wandering the Highlands.

In his dreams, the Highlands were way above sea-level, and the sheep were full of peanut-butter.

It
BLEAT
was
BLEAT
a
BLEAT
good
BLEAT
dream.

Ben didn't know he had fallen asleep, and was surprised to be awake. His right shoulder-blade winked at him.
 

Friday, September 12, 2014

The View from 9/12

The way I see it [spit-plunk] there ain't much to tell. You could say one thing and someone would correct you, so you could correct yourself, and someone would call you a damn fool. [haaaax-pthu-plunk]. The only way to see it is something bad happened, and then more bad things happened, and then we couldn't decide on what was bad things and what was good things.

To quote the good Reverend Casy: There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do.

And we people sure do. We sure do all over the damned place.

Thirteen years ago and a day, we were just doing, we just virtue-ed around. Til we came up against some others thinking about their own virtue who did something too. I reckon [pootwee-plunk]... excuse me. I was saying I reckon we all know what those virtuous others did. And I reckon we all know what our virtuous response was. And those stuffs people did are large-scale, the way Pompeii was large-scale. Those stuffs people did were air-grasping and oxygen-starved. No matter what level of sin or virtue you were at, those stuffs were not doings anyone--except the virtuous--would want done.

[Hchok-spit-plunk]

The result of those stuff-doings is what we should remember. Not the stuff-doings themselves. What we should never forget is that we little people with few connections to those doings became little monsters intent on building connections to bullshit creeping up our legs like rabid spiders encasing us in webs. What I'm saying is that, for the most part, the only way most of us got a good grief on is that we sent some of us off to war, or went to war ourselves, or went to war against. Don't matter which side of the virtue you were on, you suddenly felt the need to be a part of something to do.

Stripped of sin and stripped of virtue, you're left with what you done. And if you done it, you really done it--[chaw-chew-plunk]. Funny thing is, all anybody learned from doing is that the stuff people do is bi-a-nary. It's either sin or virtue, and ain't got nothing to do with what you do. It's all about what was done, and you did what you could do to avoid being done back on.

There ain't no doing and there ain't no done. There's just virtuous people doing sin, is what Casy should've said. [Stbech-plunk]


 
Bob Dylan - Isis (1976) from Freddy Batman on Vimeo.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Pause for Laughs

So Robin Williams euphemismed himself. (Beat.)

He offed himself. (Pause for laughs. Hold jovial expression.)

Hey, there are worse ways to go. Think about Catherine the Great, and the poor guy who was employed as her equestrian trainer. "I'm sorry, Paul I. All she said was she wanted to go out for a ride. If I'd only known..." (Hold the expression. Give them time. Pause for laughs.)

There are better ways to go, too. Aeschylus died when a bird mistook his bald pate for a rock and dropped a turtle on his head in an attempt to break open the turtle's shell. The turtle didn't break, but Aeschylus' head sure did. Lesson learned: toupees are protective wear. (Cough. Sweat. Funny gesture to indicate a turtle landing on head. Pause for laughs.)

You know, dying from laughter is an actual thing. It even has its own entry on Wikipedia. What a way to go, amiright? Much better than going from shitting too much, which also happens. I expect death by shitting happens far more than death by laughter. Hell, according to Wikipedia, most deaths by laughter involve pants-shitting. (Squat on stage. Mime laughter. Mime shitting. Fall over and mime death. Pause for laughs.) Not even pants-shitting--toga-shitting. Now they call it 'CBS Monday night'. Back in the day, it was just known as the 'haha/caca'. (Open arms wide. Hold expectant expression. Pause for laughs. Spin bowtie if required. Do NOT deploy the dickey yet.)

So, as I was saying, Robin Williams killed himself. Offed. Removed himself. There's nothing funny about that, folks. We're just lucky Bicentennial Man is not being mentioned much in his obits. (No pause here--keep talking as the audience lightly chuckles.) Cadillac Man? I didn't see that mentioned anywhere. Which is a shame, because I remember my father taking me to see it, and I remember laughing so hard I thought a turtle had landed on my head. (Pause. No laughter.)

True story: Bergman famously did a film about the three smiles of a summer night. It was turned into a musical by Sondheim, then a terrible movie featuring the three sizes of Elizabeth Taylor. In my youth, I had three smiles of Robin Williams. (Wait for uncomfortable shifting from audience.)

The first smile of Robin Williams: The World According to Garp.  I was eleven when I saw the film on HBO, and became obsessed. Read the book it was based on, became a huge fan of John Irving.

The second smile of Robin Williams: Dead Poets' Society. I saw it first while on a trip with an aunt and uncle. The film made me cry, and also taught me I held the key. Literally. We spent hours after the movie searching for the key to our hotel room, only to discover it had been in my shoe the entire time.  (Pause for laughs.) The key had turned green by the time we found it. A few more hours and it would've dissolved.

The third smile of Robin Williams: Aladdin. Hey, we've all been there--go on a ski trip with a straight guy you're in love with, make a constant ass of yourself trying to impress him, spend 10 hours in the only movie theatre in a ski-resort town watching one movie over and over. 'Never had a friend like me' could never be so poignant. (Waggle eyebrows. Pause for laughs.)

Oh. Then there's this:


(Wait for applause.)

(Pretend there's applause. Set mic aside to indicate 'real talk' moment.)

Here's the thing about the tweet sent out by the Academy people: It's offensive. But it isn't. It is, but it isn't.

Truly, there were several people upset by the implication, which, for those just joining us, is that suicide is a form of freedom. "Suicide is a permanent solution to short-term problems," it has been said. There's something to be said for permanence! It's what Americans love most! It is what most amazes me as an American: we strive for both permanence and progress. We are all for freedom, but only if it doesn't disrupt our lives. (#Ferguson here.)

"Genie, you're free" is a.... thing. The truth is Robin Williams never got freedom. We would like to think so--we want to feel he progressed to the afterlife, or something. That his suicide released his soul, as if choking the vessel to death released the tortured, contained spirit within, and that spirit is now free to romp and roam about the galaxy, a prankster for eternity, occasionally doing a maudlin surprise attack.

"Genie, you're free" says more about us than about Robin Williams. We thought of him as the genie, which makes this Academy tweet offensive. He was our dancing monkey, our court jester, expected to be funny at all times, in all appearances.

Which, honestly, is what makes this Academy tweet so very heartbreaking. This tweet is an apology from all of Williams' fans to Williams: We didn't know. We're sorry we couldn't help. We're sorry we just waited for you to be funny, and didn't let you go into obscurity for a while to seek real help.

We'll never know why Robin Williams euphemismed himself. There are several people I know who suffer from depression, and it's a tough disease to master. The American view of progress comes off as an insult, the perception of freedom even more a tomb. In America, we pretend to search for freedom and progress, but all we want is routine--we want our comedians funny, our baristas obedient, our roads clear, and our Robin Williamses not trying to slash their wrists before wrapping belts around their necks and strangling themselves. We want our oceans clean and our cars running. We want our beer cold, our TV loud, and our homosexuals flaming.

(Pause for laughs.) 

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Surprise Parties

Gracie Allen runs for president: Down with common sense.
Gracie Allen, well-known better half (literally) of the married comedy team of Burns and Allen, ran for president of the US once. She was (probably) the first woman to run for such a higher office, but I had a public education so may be mistaken.

Gracie Allen ran on the Surprise Party ticket. She called her party the Surprise Party because her mother was a Democrat, her father was a Republican, and she was a surprise. Her party's mascot was a kangaroo named Laura because the year she ran for president was a leap year, and because her campaign slogan was "It's in the bag."

Here's the thing about Gracie Allen: She was an incredibly smart woman who made a great deal of money playing dumb. Imagine if she had won? During interminably long State of the Union speeches, one Congressperson or another--or even a brave member of the Supreme Court--could've called out, "Say Goodnight, Gracie!" and she would've cut off mid-sentence, bade goodnight, and ended her speech. If any one of her press conferences got boring, an enterprising journalist (Helen Thomas, say) could shout out a question about Gracie's family.

Many comedians mined their family over the years, but President Gracie Allen would've easily segued from cattle futures to an uncle who once told the future of his cattle for three cents a prediction.

Gracie's Surprise Party held a convention in Omaha. She was also invited to speak at the Women's National Press Club by First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt. She appeared on numerous radio programs speaking her "dotty" mind, and of course this was all a Colbert truthiness stunt but it was also a real attempt to draw attention to women's very viable political future.

Gracie was a showperson, but she was also quite brilliant. Hell, twenty years before she "ran" for president, women weren't even allowed a vote in the US.

Currently--and this is nearly a century after women getting the vote--the rights of women are under attack again. Same-sex marriage has made some strides, and transsexual rights is gearing up in a way that makes me proud, and women's rights... is suffering 1970s-level hits. Phyllis Schlafly is back, Ann Coulter is echoing her, and most of FOX News is providing back-up. And you have this Men's Rights movement full of straight white-male privilege demanding to know why no one is thinking of how badly the victimized poor white males are being treated.

Specious fact: nearly 30 US states have laws mandating that men who rape women, and beget a child upon that raped woman, have visitation rights should that raped woman choose to give birth. Of course since most states have very byzantine laws about abortion, that raped woman is forced to give birth, and then forced--out of human decency towards her child--to have a civil relationship with the man who forced himself upon her.

"In the bag," indeed.

And just this week, a young man from privilege went on a random surprise-party shoot-out targeting women who rejected him for sex. He was 22. At 22, I'd had limited sexual contact with both men and women, and it never occurred to me to go on a shooting spree. [Insert obvious joke here: I often, at 22, went on a shooting spree, but the only casualties were my supply of lotion.]

I read Elliot Rodger's manifesto, and I watched his videos. His vlogs. And it's true: the man suffered from a very toxic and very damning trait in US culture: straight white male privilege. Yup, I realize he was biracial, and I realize his father was a second-unit director, and not a primary director, of a blockbuster. I realize his BMer was hardly a pussy-wagon in Santa Barbara. I realize he was nerdy in a place that keeps nerds in back rooms.

Here George Burns shows his love for Gracie Allen
But the man--and he was a man--was culturally a white male, and he was by self-definition straight, and he was a complete creep. Yet he has his defenders.

And he has his enablers, who gave him tacit permission to act as he did.

So, to the point: This guy would not've voted for Gracie Allen. And I do not trust anyone who would've given the Surprise Party a pass, and instead staged their own convention.  Down with common sense, because we don't need to be so common.

About Me

My Photo
New York, NY, United States

Search Blogness

Loading...