November 30, 2005
It's very hard to impress upon someone else how difficult it is to get drunk in New York City. Drinks are expensive and sometimes difficult to get at the bar. Sometimes you'll pay five bucks for a budweiser in a bottle. Then you tip, etc. If you're not drinking alone you're probably with someone who for some reason wants to go to the other side of town on the off chance that there is a better bar somewhere else that serves the same drinks.
You drink and you socialize and then somehow you have to get home. If you're far enough uptown you have to spend the entire subway ride forcing yourself awake, let alone the time you waste waiting for a night train that may never come. Or you can blow fifteen dollars on a cab ride home and hope you don't get car sick on the way home.
So sixty dollars later you're home, almost asleep, and in the same situation you have been many a night in college for about five bucks. Last week when I was DJ'ing a friend from college came to see Pete and I. The bartender was feeling very supportive that night and poured us all an entire glass of Jameson. It took five swigs to go down. I then washed my charred esophagus out with the free beer that they always give me.
I came home hours later smelling of mustard gas and roses. "Oh god," Annie said. "Are you drunk?"
Having stood in the face of the normal trouble one has in getting to this state, I smiled. I spent ten dollars on tips, I didn't have to go to a bar that I didn't like, the music was fantastic, I was with good friends, I didn't have to drink cheap whiskey, and I made it the entire way home. "Yeah, aren't you proud of me?" And she never is.
2) After one of these nights--and I only tend to have them about once a month now-- I wake up in the morning in terror. Where the fuck did I leave my glasses? is usually my first thought. When your last memories of the night are blurry to begin with (end with?) I often find myself lying in bed wondering if I somehow vomited my glasses into a toilet and forgot about them the night before. When I find them (usually in the kitchen) I then search for my backpack, which I've trained myself to wrap around my knee when sitting in cabs and subways just in case I get absent minded.
You drink and you socialize and then somehow you have to get home. If you're far enough uptown you have to spend the entire subway ride forcing yourself awake, let alone the time you waste waiting for a night train that may never come. Or you can blow fifteen dollars on a cab ride home and hope you don't get car sick on the way home.
So sixty dollars later you're home, almost asleep, and in the same situation you have been many a night in college for about five bucks. Last week when I was DJ'ing a friend from college came to see Pete and I. The bartender was feeling very supportive that night and poured us all an entire glass of Jameson. It took five swigs to go down. I then washed my charred esophagus out with the free beer that they always give me.
I came home hours later smelling of mustard gas and roses. "Oh god," Annie said. "Are you drunk?"
Having stood in the face of the normal trouble one has in getting to this state, I smiled. I spent ten dollars on tips, I didn't have to go to a bar that I didn't like, the music was fantastic, I was with good friends, I didn't have to drink cheap whiskey, and I made it the entire way home. "Yeah, aren't you proud of me?" And she never is.
2) After one of these nights--and I only tend to have them about once a month now-- I wake up in the morning in terror. Where the fuck did I leave my glasses? is usually my first thought. When your last memories of the night are blurry to begin with (end with?) I often find myself lying in bed wondering if I somehow vomited my glasses into a toilet and forgot about them the night before. When I find them (usually in the kitchen) I then search for my backpack, which I've trained myself to wrap around my knee when sitting in cabs and subways just in case I get absent minded.
2:32 PM | [permalink] |
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November 28, 2005
There are lots of things that I still have to get to about Italy and about my weird high school reunion. I really hope I get to them.
2:04 PM | [permalink] |
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November 22, 2005
"“Music is conjured by mighty Zeus who imparts it to men to make them sad.”
-Homer, in the newest translation of The Oddysey
Liam, the main character/narrator of my project writes songs. Most of them are bad songs. He wrote one called "Pencil Case" and the last two mornings I've woken up with it--a fictional song--stuck in my head.
-Homer, in the newest translation of The Oddysey
Liam, the main character/narrator of my project writes songs. Most of them are bad songs. He wrote one called "Pencil Case" and the last two mornings I've woken up with it--a fictional song--stuck in my head.
My pencil case has a plastic plate,I should also add that I went to The Strand yesterday and could not find the above quote from Homer in any of the other translations.
Shows me where all the capitols stay
With a stick to the ocean,
A stick to the ocean,
where she should be.
She showed me where on my pencil case.
Said she was going to the Lake
But she never came back,
She never came back
She never came back this way-yay.
I crayon a big cloud over Michigan
I draw a big snow over Canada
And hope it gets to cold to stay.
Hope it gets too cold to stay,
Hope it gets too cold to stay away.
When rivers make borders on my pencil case
They divide this country from state to state
But they never show where
They never show where
They never show where to chay-yase
8:39 AM | [permalink] |
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November 17, 2005
Last night I was sitting around the fireplace at the rural Italian home of a 75-year-old British novelist, catching up and discussing his latest work over a glass of local wine while his wife checked on the lamb from the farm next store, which was now dead and changing temperature in the oven. Much to my own surprise I mentioned something that somehow involved reality TV, the latest translation of The Odysee, American hero worship and Plato"s general disgust at Homer"s work--specifically his depictions of the gods. This is further what I mean when I say I am losing my edge.
11:57 AM | [permalink] |
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November 13, 2005
Whenever I travel to another language I always try and learn how to say "Do you speak English?" in whatever language I am butchering at the time. Which is stupid because the answer will be "Yes" or "No" no matter how I say the question.
5:20 AM | [permalink] |
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November 09, 2005
1) In about twelve hours I leave for Italy. I just want to be upfront about one thing. I've realized that the reason that I have never been to italy is because it gives me castration anxiety. Everytime I hear of a woman who has gone to Italy (including my own girlfriend, who lived there for a year) they launch into a proto-orgasmic moan fest.
"Oh my god--Italy! Oh! Oh my god! Oh my god! (eyes rolling back) It's just soooooooo goood!" And it frankly makes me uncomfortable. I have the same demi-mysogynistic fear for women who loooooove chocolate, but not for those who like motorcycles or horseback riding.
2) People die in my family. I'm not really that afraid of diseases and cancer because everyone in my family dies in horrible accidents that people later discuss antisceptically to decide whether it was "ironic" or merely "coincidental." It makes me both nervous of- and manically inclined to- travel. But if I die, my manuscript is saved in a file called "401.doc." I still need to cut all the boring section and trim the dialogue to make it less young adult.
Also, I made up a band in the novel and they have made up songs. If when I die anyone wants to sell "The Aeroplane to Heaven" to Razorlight and have them play it at my funeral. That's totally fine. Like the novel, it needs some work.
"Oh my god--Italy! Oh! Oh my god! Oh my god! (eyes rolling back) It's just soooooooo goood!" And it frankly makes me uncomfortable. I have the same demi-mysogynistic fear for women who loooooove chocolate, but not for those who like motorcycles or horseback riding.
2) People die in my family. I'm not really that afraid of diseases and cancer because everyone in my family dies in horrible accidents that people later discuss antisceptically to decide whether it was "ironic" or merely "coincidental." It makes me both nervous of- and manically inclined to- travel. But if I die, my manuscript is saved in a file called "401.doc." I still need to cut all the boring section and trim the dialogue to make it less young adult.
Also, I made up a band in the novel and they have made up songs. If when I die anyone wants to sell "The Aeroplane to Heaven" to Razorlight and have them play it at my funeral. That's totally fine. Like the novel, it needs some work.
On the airplane to heaven you can stand up when they land.Razorlight or Sweatmaster. Either one is fine.
And you never have to wait until the captain says you can.
You don’t have to wait in line, although you wouldn’t really care.
Because when you get to heaven you are already there.
And everyone gets to everything they meant to do.
The bands you used to listen to come and say hi to you.
You always bought our records and we want to say thank you.
We couldntna gone without ya, and sorry it took so long to say so.
And all the stars in the movies, they buy popcorn for the crew.
They don’t roll the credits, but they sit and tell you who was who.
The director always wants you to stand up, bow, and so you do.
Cause at the movies in Heaven everyone’s glad to finally meet you.
The Jews all go to Heaven, though they never knew they would.
Everyone goes to heaven because everyone meant to be good.
But some never got around to it as much as they could’ve.
But when they get to heaven they already agree that they should’ve.
St. Peter doesn’t work there, even if you think he should.
He doesn’t keep your scorecard or even know if you’ve been good.
You don’t have to wait in line, although you wouldn’t really care.
Because when you get to heaven you are al-rea-dy there.
7:59 AM | [permalink] |
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November 08, 2005
The question which I would most love to ask everyone who has either accepted or passed on my manuscript is this: "When did you stop reading?" With some it is apparent that they decided on page fifty that they would be happy working with it. For others, I can tell that they got to page 200 and thought, Hell no.
Furthermore: awkward? What that fuck is that about?
Dear Brendan,
Thank you for sending us the manuscript of your novel BREAKFAST ANYTIME. You deftly evoke of the awkward details of adolescence and Liam is a great narrator: appealing and changeable and insecure. But while there were a lot of rich parts, the story as a whole never seemed to take off. There were too many points where it lost momentum and sometimes believability. So unfortunately, we’re going to have to pass.
I’m sorry, but sometimes we must pass on books, even good books, that we feel are either out of our range or would require an amount of attention we cannot provide at this time. In addition, with the fiction market being so tough right now we can't afford to take on projects that we're not absolutely confident we can sell. But I have no doubt you will find an agent with the right enthusiasm for your work.
I wish you the best of luck with your writing. Thanks again for considering us.
All the best,
Another Goddam Agent
Furthermore: awkward? What that fuck is that about?
2:25 AM | [permalink] |
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November 07, 2005
I still correct people when they call me a writer. "This is Brendan, he's a writer." I used to say, "No, no I'm a waiter. That must be a typo." But now I don't wait tables anymore and I'm still not a writer. Now it's just a regular error.
11:19 AM | [permalink] |
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November 04, 2005
She blew me off.
All that guy talk. All that "wait two weeks, then call." All that bullshit. It doesn't mean anything. I sent one of my agent friends an email this week saying we should meet up before I head to Italy. And she blew me off.
My girlfriend hates it when I draw long, extrapolated comparisons between dating and getting a novel published. But it's her fault that I have such fitting examples. When Annie and I met we had a nice conversation. I didn't need to get her number because I knew where she worked on Saturday nights. I went in that week (too soon?) and she wasn't there. I went back two weeks later and she was. We met up maybe nine hours later for lunch. Then after dinner that night. Then another dinner. And another lunch.
And then, inexplicably--after everything seems to be going wonderful--she called to say that she was staying home. "Oh, you already have plans?" "No. Just want to lay low." "Do you want to lay low over here?" I said, adding: "We have a couch."
The power in both cases is derived from the potential energy stored up from the inaction. For many reasons, Annie wanted me to realize that my life did not come with an Instant Girlfriend Button and that if I wanted a girlfriend to appear that I would have to put a little more work into it sometimes. The agent has sent me some rewrites, but all I want to do is call her up and ask her if she would't mind doing all the work.
I tried being aloof and busy. I tried not emailing her back for days at a time. But apparently for this relationship to work, I'm going to have to do some actual labor before I start hearing that "taking me for granted' bullshit.
All that guy talk. All that "wait two weeks, then call." All that bullshit. It doesn't mean anything. I sent one of my agent friends an email this week saying we should meet up before I head to Italy. And she blew me off.
My girlfriend hates it when I draw long, extrapolated comparisons between dating and getting a novel published. But it's her fault that I have such fitting examples. When Annie and I met we had a nice conversation. I didn't need to get her number because I knew where she worked on Saturday nights. I went in that week (too soon?) and she wasn't there. I went back two weeks later and she was. We met up maybe nine hours later for lunch. Then after dinner that night. Then another dinner. And another lunch.
And then, inexplicably--after everything seems to be going wonderful--she called to say that she was staying home. "Oh, you already have plans?" "No. Just want to lay low." "Do you want to lay low over here?" I said, adding: "We have a couch."
The power in both cases is derived from the potential energy stored up from the inaction. For many reasons, Annie wanted me to realize that my life did not come with an Instant Girlfriend Button and that if I wanted a girlfriend to appear that I would have to put a little more work into it sometimes. The agent has sent me some rewrites, but all I want to do is call her up and ask her if she would't mind doing all the work.
I tried being aloof and busy. I tried not emailing her back for days at a time. But apparently for this relationship to work, I'm going to have to do some actual labor before I start hearing that "taking me for granted' bullshit.
2:29 AM | [permalink] |
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