October 31, 2004
Goddam. I'm perfectly happy to believe that writers who get picked up based on a weblog stunt will burn out as fast as they lit up. But seriously. Can you beleive this shit?
OCT. 13 Mr. Newton's co-worker Andy Baio publishes the first link to [the fake Nick Nolte diary] on his blog, Waxy.org, at 10:10 a.m. At 1:49 p.m., the Hollywood gossip site Defamer.com discovers the diary and mentions an entry about "Nolte's" car accident with the actress Rosanna Arquette. ("As I gave her my attorney's card, I made a joke about celebrities never having license plates. Then I saw she indeed did have them. I felt embarrassed but I think the scene would have worked in a film.") At 4 p.m. Jason Kottke, a prominent technology blogger, comments on Nick Nolte's choice of blogging software (Movable Type).
...
OCT. 18 Mr. Newton and Mr. McAdams receive a cease-and-desist letter from Mr. Nolte's lawyers at Jackoway Tyerman Wertheimer Austen Mandelbaum & Morris.
OCT. 19 Google citations reach 6,850. The home page now reads "Not Nick Nolte's Diary" and contains the disclaimer "The following is a work of fiction." Mr. Newton and Mr. McAdams begin receiving calls from sitcom producers and literary agents.
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October 30, 2004
I made these almost two years ago and found them today on my computer and figured this'd be the week to post them again.
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October 29, 2004
A tubby German walks up to me, "Zo, are you studyink art heestory?"
"Just finished," I pour him a glass of expensive champaigne at the Soho art gallery where I'm bartending for the night. Please god, oh please don't let him ask me what I study. The only movement that comes to mind is "Dada" and I can't think of anything intelligent to say on that.
"Masters or Doctorate?" I have five years left of being thrilled when people assume I'm older than I am. I tell him Masters. "And are you an ahtist? Do you paint? Or you dwaw?"
"Paint, mostly," I think of painting Annie's apartment to keep a straight face. "On the side."
"No, no," he puts his glass down. "No, you paint. Zat iz what you do. Zhis, bartending, zhis iz what you do to pay zee bills."
At times like this, I pleasure myself by thinking of the gap between art and artists. I think of art as something rich people buy in galleries while they sweat gallery owners for a polite glass of expensive from from someone who will call them sir. Artists--and her I may overgeneralize--are sweaty awkward types who spend their free time trying hide what they want to say and working on new hairstyles.
People buy art because it matches their living rooms. Artists create art because they hate their fathers. And somehow, by pouring champaigne, I feel implicated.
"Tell me about zis piece," the german says, after asking for my home address and phone number.
"That's a bookend, sir," I say after giving him a fake address and Ben's number.
"And who made it?"
"Pottery barn."
"Just finished," I pour him a glass of expensive champaigne at the Soho art gallery where I'm bartending for the night. Please god, oh please don't let him ask me what I study. The only movement that comes to mind is "Dada" and I can't think of anything intelligent to say on that.
"Masters or Doctorate?" I have five years left of being thrilled when people assume I'm older than I am. I tell him Masters. "And are you an ahtist? Do you paint? Or you dwaw?"
"Paint, mostly," I think of painting Annie's apartment to keep a straight face. "On the side."
"No, no," he puts his glass down. "No, you paint. Zat iz what you do. Zhis, bartending, zhis iz what you do to pay zee bills."
At times like this, I pleasure myself by thinking of the gap between art and artists. I think of art as something rich people buy in galleries while they sweat gallery owners for a polite glass of expensive from from someone who will call them sir. Artists--and her I may overgeneralize--are sweaty awkward types who spend their free time trying hide what they want to say and working on new hairstyles.
People buy art because it matches their living rooms. Artists create art because they hate their fathers. And somehow, by pouring champaigne, I feel implicated.
"Tell me about zis piece," the german says, after asking for my home address and phone number.
"That's a bookend, sir," I say after giving him a fake address and Ben's number.
"And who made it?"
"Pottery barn."
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October 26, 2004
1) In order to keep my news-whoreness to a minimum, I started another page just for politics. It's called fair fight. The name comes from a non profit group I invtented one day while bored at work in Chicago, back when I thought I would be in Florida for the fall, registering people to vote. Go there every day. All day. I'm working on it with a conservative whom I find intelligent.
2) My new bartending job is terrible. If I could figure out words to explain why it's terrible I would, especially if I could think of one funny story.
3) My favorite part of October is the annual revivification of the song "The Monster Mash."
4) Pete, employed and frequent reader of this site, told me about how he works for The Brooklyn Superher@ Supply Co and now I volunteer there two days a week. It's a genius creation of McSweeney's, 826 NYC, and the mind of one graphic designer. To raise money for our drop in tutoring program for kids we sell masks, truth serum, anti-matter, helium-gum, x-ray glasses, invisibility potion, and capes (which you can test on the superfan). It's the only job I can imagine where I can have this conversation:
2) My new bartending job is terrible. If I could figure out words to explain why it's terrible I would, especially if I could think of one funny story.
3) My favorite part of October is the annual revivification of the song "The Monster Mash."
4) Pete, employed and frequent reader of this site, told me about how he works for The Brooklyn Superher@ Supply Co and now I volunteer there two days a week. It's a genius creation of McSweeney's, 826 NYC, and the mind of one graphic designer. To raise money for our drop in tutoring program for kids we sell masks, truth serum, anti-matter, helium-gum, x-ray glasses, invisibility potion, and capes (which you can test on the superfan). It's the only job I can imagine where I can have this conversation:
me: Okay, the thing about the fog machine is that you're always going to have to keep it full or else it will clog up. You know how a carburator works? It's like that, the weakest part will go first so it's hard to ruin it.
boss: How long will it take to fill the room? 'Cause we have that One-Day Villians-Only sale on Halloween. Do you know where we can get a lot of frozen brussel sprouts for the villains to give away? Also, do you have a good villain costume?
me: I'm gonna have to work on that for now.
boss Good.
Labels: Chicago
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October 25, 2004
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October 24, 2004
Fair Warning: I started another bad job today, which means I'll probably whine about it for three or four more days. I also spent my absolute last nest-egg dollars to take a writing course taught by Jonathan Franzen. It's actually taught by five people: the current biggest big-shot novelist, an agent, a publisher, a promoter, and a young author from Connecticut who, according to NPR "has done it all: bartending, janitoring, and now: novel-writing." Other people's success really irritates me.
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October 22, 2004
It's been a good two months of not working, but I start a new job today. I'm working at a bar in Williamsburg that sells dollar PBR's to kids in hundred and fifty dollar blue jeans.
But I have to get going on something. My own alumni directory is ashamed of me. A girl from my alma mater called last week and asked me what my occupation was, I told her that I'm bartending and DJ'ing. Now my profile reads:
But I have to get going on something. My own alumni directory is ashamed of me. A girl from my alma mater called last week and asked me what my occupation was, I told her that I'm bartending and DJ'ing. Now my profile reads:
Company: unknownAccording to them I could be anything from the bassist of a wedding-songs band to a fat cigar-smoking blackman named Cedric.
Work Number: unknown
Occupation: entertainer
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October 21, 2004
I know that I'm getting older because now when I have company, I clean the house.
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I don't even live in that busy of a neighborhood, but everytime someone scores in the penant game, I can hear it from upstairs in Brooklyn. "Arghh! Mutherfu-what the hell!" Someone jammed on their brakes when the Yankees scored and the bar below me went wild. I thought someone got shot.
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October 20, 2004
1) There's not enough money in my account to use the ATM any more. I've reached the end. It was a good two months. But now I have to get a job.
2 Yesterday I got a bartending job at a glorified Brooklyn diner called "Any-time"
3) Right now I'm looking for an interesting conservative person to start a political weblog with me. It's not that I wanna jump on the bandwagon, but that in a few years when I crawl around Manhattan begging for writing jobs, I know I'll be talking to old, National Review reading quiche-hounds who wouldn't know anyones face if they didn't see it on TV. And when they ask about my lack of legitimate experience, I'll say, "Oh, well, remember all those FOX News stories about political weblogs? I had one. I'm so goddam cutting edge. Check out these witty and insightful things I've made available to others." And then they'll get wise, find this post, and I'll still be out of a job.*
4) If that happens, I hope I can be as content then as I am now. I wrote for seven hours, downloaded "Team America," threw my resume in other people's trashcans, walked to the library, and had a free Thai dinner and beer at Annie's restaurant.
* This resume padding brought to you by Woody Allen's IMDB site, which says that he wrote for The Tonight Show fifteen years before directing Annie Hall, but which seems to think that he wrote for television in 1950 when he was fifteen years old.
2 Yesterday I got a bartending job at a glorified Brooklyn diner called "Any-time"
3) Right now I'm looking for an interesting conservative person to start a political weblog with me. It's not that I wanna jump on the bandwagon, but that in a few years when I crawl around Manhattan begging for writing jobs, I know I'll be talking to old, National Review reading quiche-hounds who wouldn't know anyones face if they didn't see it on TV. And when they ask about my lack of legitimate experience, I'll say, "Oh, well, remember all those FOX News stories about political weblogs? I had one. I'm so goddam cutting edge. Check out these witty and insightful things I've made available to others." And then they'll get wise, find this post, and I'll still be out of a job.*
4) If that happens, I hope I can be as content then as I am now. I wrote for seven hours, downloaded "Team America," threw my resume in other people's trashcans, walked to the library, and had a free Thai dinner and beer at Annie's restaurant.
* This resume padding brought to you by Woody Allen's IMDB site, which says that he wrote for The Tonight Show fifteen years before directing Annie Hall, but which seems to think that he wrote for television in 1950 when he was fifteen years old.
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October 17, 2004
At this grave time in our nation, I think it's important that we all worship Tony for finding this clip of Jon Stewart on CNN's Crossfire where he tells both hosts that they're doing a terrible job.
CARLSON: You had John Kerry on your show and you sniff his throne and you're accusing us of partisan hackery?
STEWART: Absolutely.
CARLSON: You've got to be kidding me. He comes on and you...
STEWART: You're on CNN. The show that leads into me is puppets making crank phone calls.
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October 16, 2004
At my Gramma's wake last night I wound up at the end of the receiving line and my heart went out to all the fifty-year-olds going through the motions, working the line. Since I was the caboose, most people ran out of material by the time they got to me. "It's tough...for you...kids...you know...she loved...God works in mysterious ways."
It would be great if science could come up with a palatable concept of death, because I can't stand it the way people talk about it right now. They send cards, trying to console the people they care about with visions of my grandmother in valhalla, dressed in white, eating from a plate that never empties, surrounded by the deceased loved ones of her loved ones and all their ex-pets. "Old Uncle Danny and Sparky are taking good care of her right now in heaven." "She's up with St. Peter, and my Aunt Hellen will show her the way."
"Now she can be at peace with my old houndog Charlie for company."
Peace my ass. The American construct of heaven sounds like the worst house-sitting job ever. People's neighbors will knock on your door every day, "Hey, we told your daughter we'd take good care of you. Why don't we stop over for monopoly later?" "Oh, you must be Brendan's gramma. Heard you were coming. Here (hands over a leash), why don't you take care of their dog that got hit by a car six years ago."
Ding Dong
(Old woman in white gloves struggles in with a five-gallon aquarium.) "Good thing St. Peter collects all the goldfish your grandchildren flushed."
"Now you can go to sleep every night to the sweet songs of that blue-jay that flew into your windsheild in '67. Won't that be--AH!--lady you've got rats!"
"No, sorry those are just my four children's nine hampsters."
It would be great if science could come up with a palatable concept of death, because I can't stand it the way people talk about it right now. They send cards, trying to console the people they care about with visions of my grandmother in valhalla, dressed in white, eating from a plate that never empties, surrounded by the deceased loved ones of her loved ones and all their ex-pets. "Old Uncle Danny and Sparky are taking good care of her right now in heaven." "She's up with St. Peter, and my Aunt Hellen will show her the way."
"Now she can be at peace with my old houndog Charlie for company."
Peace my ass. The American construct of heaven sounds like the worst house-sitting job ever. People's neighbors will knock on your door every day, "Hey, we told your daughter we'd take good care of you. Why don't we stop over for monopoly later?" "Oh, you must be Brendan's gramma. Heard you were coming. Here (hands over a leash), why don't you take care of their dog that got hit by a car six years ago."
Ding Dong
(Old woman in white gloves struggles in with a five-gallon aquarium.) "Good thing St. Peter collects all the goldfish your grandchildren flushed."
"Now you can go to sleep every night to the sweet songs of that blue-jay that flew into your windsheild in '67. Won't that be--AH!--lady you've got rats!"
"No, sorry those are just my four children's nine hampsters."
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October 15, 2004
Damning The Man, One Rental At A Time
Let alone all the Christian-coalition entanglements, the mom-and-pop-stores-can-go-to-hell attitude of Blockbuster Family Video--because most of all I detest paying five dollars to rent a goddam DVD.
"Hey, I don't have my card on me. It's been a while since I've been home." Normally I give them my card from the British Blockbuster I went to in England and watch as it confounds the little trekkies until they end up tossing my videos out the door.
"Can I have your last name?" I give it to them. Having an Irish last name in New England means no one can ever, ever look you up in the phone book. There's five Sullivans on my street. "I'm not seeing one under Brendan or under Firetown Rd. Would there be another?"
"I don't know, John, Steve, Conor, Margaret, Peggy, Peter," I make up names and watch his eyes.
"Did you say Mary?" Now he's making up names too. "On Hunter Ave?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Okay, great. Remember they're due back on thursday by noon."
"Of course," I say. "Gotta make sure not to leave Mary with any late fines."
Let alone all the Christian-coalition entanglements, the mom-and-pop-stores-can-go-to-hell attitude of Blockbuster Family Video--because most of all I detest paying five dollars to rent a goddam DVD.
"Hey, I don't have my card on me. It's been a while since I've been home." Normally I give them my card from the British Blockbuster I went to in England and watch as it confounds the little trekkies until they end up tossing my videos out the door.
"Can I have your last name?" I give it to them. Having an Irish last name in New England means no one can ever, ever look you up in the phone book. There's five Sullivans on my street. "I'm not seeing one under Brendan or under Firetown Rd. Would there be another?"
"I don't know, John, Steve, Conor, Margaret, Peggy, Peter," I make up names and watch his eyes.
"Did you say Mary?" Now he's making up names too. "On Hunter Ave?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Okay, great. Remember they're due back on thursday by noon."
"Of course," I say. "Gotta make sure not to leave Mary with any late fines."
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October 12, 2004
When you watch a Woody Allen movie, especially if you're a male of a certain age and weight-class, you walk around the rest of the day with your thoughts blaring in stereo.
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I'm pretty sure that my day would be about six times better if I could speak or understand French with any competency. Because then I could be watching this and laughing the rest of my ass off. My friend French Ben from Bordeaux told me about it when I was in England and I looked for it forever. It's a puppet news-show where all unknown American political figures are played by Sylvester Stallone.5:13 PM | [permalink] |
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October 08, 2004
The Morning After the Bridal Shower For Men the groom (my brother) calls me up at 9:30 in the morning, having spent money in dollar bills only all night: "First one to drop off my car gets to bang the bride."
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October 06, 2004
At the Dude-bar near where my brother works. Half the cars out front are work-trucks for contractors, landscapers, pool cleaners, etc.
Sign on the wall says, Phone Policy: $1 He's not here $2 He just left $3 Haven't seen him $5 Who? My father, brother, and I do the Connecticut version of the Bloomburg Huddle, having s smoke outside with half the bar, including the bartender.
"I'm freezing my balls off out here," my brother says.
"Well, you're getting married, you don't need'em anymore," says Dude #1.
"The wife'll keep'em in her purse for safe keeping," says Dude #2.
"Or in the panty drawer, with the rest of his underwears." There's something great about the way New England men of a certain job classification say peeanties. The mention of undercarriage reminds dude #1 of something he either heard on the news or go in his email inbox.
He goes on to tell a story about an airport in Brittain where they found a vibrator buzzing, which reminds my father of one of his first jobs working for a town called Bowling View, IL.
"Guy calls up and says (desperate) 'Do you know how to get a penis out of a bowling ball?"' Everyone laughs and exhales at the same time, temporarily hot-boxing the bench. "And I was the new guy so I thought this was my initiation so I say into the phone, 'Jump in the shower.' and he goes 'I tried that it won't work!" So I hang up on him. Turns out the fire-cheif's name was also Sullivan and he got the wrong number from the front desk. The fire department showed up and had to burst the bowling ball with a drill."
My brother introduces me to the bar populace. My favorite it an independent contractor who has printed out an email forward entitled "A Day in the Life of Joe Republican," which broke down to 'Joe washes his hair/drives his car/takes this medication, which is safe because some girlie-man/pinko-commie/wine-and-cheese-eating-liberal fought to make it work for the public, and if it weren't, a trial lawyer would make sure it was."
"Brendan, you seem like an intelligent guy," he says.
"I went to college if that's what you mean."
"Ah, I figured. And you're in Brooklyn, right?" he thinks for a second and gets a traitor-sniffing look on his face, "You're not a Yankee fan are ya?" I assure him that I am not without mentioning that I have no interest in professional baseball and we talk about the election.
Sign on the wall says, Phone Policy: $1 He's not here $2 He just left $3 Haven't seen him $5 Who? My father, brother, and I do the Connecticut version of the Bloomburg Huddle, having s smoke outside with half the bar, including the bartender.
"I'm freezing my balls off out here," my brother says.
"Well, you're getting married, you don't need'em anymore," says Dude #1.
"The wife'll keep'em in her purse for safe keeping," says Dude #2.
"Or in the panty drawer, with the rest of his underwears." There's something great about the way New England men of a certain job classification say peeanties. The mention of undercarriage reminds dude #1 of something he either heard on the news or go in his email inbox.
He goes on to tell a story about an airport in Brittain where they found a vibrator buzzing, which reminds my father of one of his first jobs working for a town called Bowling View, IL.
"Guy calls up and says (desperate) 'Do you know how to get a penis out of a bowling ball?"' Everyone laughs and exhales at the same time, temporarily hot-boxing the bench. "And I was the new guy so I thought this was my initiation so I say into the phone, 'Jump in the shower.' and he goes 'I tried that it won't work!" So I hang up on him. Turns out the fire-cheif's name was also Sullivan and he got the wrong number from the front desk. The fire department showed up and had to burst the bowling ball with a drill."
My brother introduces me to the bar populace. My favorite it an independent contractor who has printed out an email forward entitled "A Day in the Life of Joe Republican," which broke down to 'Joe washes his hair/drives his car/takes this medication, which is safe because some girlie-man/pinko-commie/wine-and-cheese-eating-liberal fought to make it work for the public, and if it weren't, a trial lawyer would make sure it was."
"Brendan, you seem like an intelligent guy," he says.
"I went to college if that's what you mean."
"Ah, I figured. And you're in Brooklyn, right?" he thinks for a second and gets a traitor-sniffing look on his face, "You're not a Yankee fan are ya?" I assure him that I am not without mentioning that I have no interest in professional baseball and we talk about the election.
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October 05, 2004
If you haven't registered to vote go ahead and register me to vote for you.
If you went to Kenyon and registered then you can make your vote actually matter and vote absentee
Or you can just register.
If you went to Kenyon and registered then you can make your vote actually matter and vote absentee
Or you can just register.
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Back off, Hitchcock
Chapter 4
"Hartford has maybe five skyscrapers, all bunched up in just a couple blocks down by the river. The thick dust of exhaust and sand and salt blows off the highway on to them all day. Some of them have black glass windows, one of them has gold. A funhouse reflection mirrors the city from the side, making the other skyscrapers look taller or stout, depending on where you stand. You can’t see anyone working in the windows, but lights go on and off in every window. They look like giant computers this way, lights on, lights off, and then when enough lights go on, a full truck pulls out of the loading dock in back. Ben parks in the garage under the building. Conor explained it to me. Every day the new people funnel into their cars, pretty much at the same time every morning, and drive one-by-one to this strange city. They leave their trophy houses and they stop mounting their trophy spouses. They listen to audiobooks, radio, whatever, they come into work and in their half hour commute they’ve stored up half a dozen factoids for the day. And then whenever they run into someone else from work they don’t have to talk about work because they’ve got news bulletins for eachother. Heard today the crime rate was cut in half? And then the other person has to add something else too and so they say, like, Maybe that’s because this summer was the mildest we’ve had in fifty years. And then after that they don’t have to talk to eachother."
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October 04, 2004
Alfred Hitchcock on the problematic, dialogue-intensive first section of my writing project and also on the advent of the talking pictures:
In many of the films now being made, there is very little of cinema: they are mostly what I call “photographs of people talking.” When we tell a story in cinema, we should resort to dialogue only when it’s impossible to do otherwise. [...] It seems unfortunate that with the arrival of sound the motion picture, overnight, assumed a theatrical form. [...] One result of this is the loss of cinematic style, and another is the loss of fantasy.
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In the office of the Doctor who birthed me
Nurse: So you're on over-the-counter decongestants? Hmm... Well, they shouldn't bother you too much. Although some studies show that if you are involved in a heavy, independent creative process such as building a scrapbook, finishing a rock-album, or pretending to write a novel that you will lose your focus, get discouraged, and probably also lose any reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Me: Really? Well thank God. All this time I thought I was--
Nurse: Actually, I didn't say any of that. You, like the rest of your generation, were looking for the proverbial turd in the punchbowl. It's driving you crazy isn't it? Here you're imagining things.
enter doctor
Me: Hey! You shaved your mustache.
Doc: Yeah, almost a year ago.
Me: Well, welcome to the nineties.
Doc: (feeling my glands, including a set of gland on the back of my neck that I never knew I had.) Anyone ever check these out before?
Me: I have glands back there two?
Doc: Big ones. Feels like you've got coffee beens in your neck. Have you been feeling a bit overtired lately? Sluggish?
Me: Yeah!
Honestly, I'd rather have a life-threatening illness than be unmotivated.
Nurse: So you're on over-the-counter decongestants? Hmm... Well, they shouldn't bother you too much. Although some studies show that if you are involved in a heavy, independent creative process such as building a scrapbook, finishing a rock-album, or pretending to write a novel that you will lose your focus, get discouraged, and probably also lose any reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Me: Really? Well thank God. All this time I thought I was--
Nurse: Actually, I didn't say any of that. You, like the rest of your generation, were looking for the proverbial turd in the punchbowl. It's driving you crazy isn't it? Here you're imagining things.
enter doctor
Me: Hey! You shaved your mustache.
Doc: Yeah, almost a year ago.
Me: Well, welcome to the nineties.
Doc: (feeling my glands, including a set of gland on the back of my neck that I never knew I had.) Anyone ever check these out before?
Me: I have glands back there two?
Doc: Big ones. Feels like you've got coffee beens in your neck. Have you been feeling a bit overtired lately? Sluggish?
Me: Yeah!
Honestly, I'd rather have a life-threatening illness than be unmotivated.
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October 03, 2004
Labels: Chicago
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Secret to Happiness