A tribute to the good weather, sunny days, iced coffee in the park, and the return of women's breasts. Incidentally: do heterosexual women share the same joy at the first few days of summer?
It never ceases to amaze me that every single March there is one warm day where I'm suddenly reminded that underneath all those layers: women have breasts! I swear every year I have to stop myself (it's usually in union square) from staring at women's legs as though I just left the priesthood.
Two songs by some old Irish boys and one from my old sweetheart:
Recently I've been sending things to McSweeneys, figuring of course that this is the hot way for young authors to get noticed--in 1999.
They're actually quite nice about submissions.
Hi, Brendan -
A fun conceit, but the execution doesn't make me laugh enough to let through, I'm afraid. Feel free to send your other one whenever you like.
Best, Chris
It has occurred to me recently that--since I have no idea what magazines are looking for at any given time--that I lose nothing by getting to know these guys.
An Email from Goethe's Agent's Assistant Re: FAUST
Dear Johann,
Good to hear from you! And thanks for sending this along. Your play sounds interesting and ambitious.
I'm sorry that we have to decline right now. FAUST, which I understand is based on the first half of Christopher Marlowe's play FAUSTUS is interesting and engaging but we just don't do fan fiction.
Some thoughts:
Part I
"Mephistopheles." Odd name for a devil. Sounds more like a Greek diner.
The character "Margaret" ("Gretchen?" you seem to switch back and forth--is that a German thing?) is sexy, but she turns into such a downer. First the lovers sneak around but then she kills her mother with a sleeping potion so they can be alone? And then right as it gets juicy again she's pregnant and and drowns her baby? What makes her "tick"?
This play wants a setting. You start in Heaven with the Greek Devil making a bet with god and then all the sudden we're in Faust's study. How did we get there?
Part II
You really need to have a blockbuster first and write the sequel later.
Again, the settings are all over the place. What kind of stage to you picture this on? First chapter there's suddenly this German emperor (did I miss him in the first part??) and the Greek Demon
I'm sorry that I can't be entirely helpful on the recommendation front - we tend to be attuned to what kinds of work editors are interested in rather than other agents, so I really don't know who to suggest. Also, the agent I work for is in her 60s, so the other agents I know are through her and are also in their 60s and rarely taking on new clients. My best advice would be to search agents through the Association of Authors' Representatives website ( www.aar-online.org), where you can search for who specifically likes what sorts of books. We're part of the AAR too, and it's generally a good gauge for respectable agents. Also, as lame as this sounds, going to the acknowledgements page in books of authors you like is a good way to find agents whose interests might overlap with yours.
Let me know if you have any other questions - I'm happy to help.
A couple of weeks ago I was at rehearsal. It was big and this was my big chance. The rehearsal studios were on the 28th floor or a building in midtown. Doing anything whatsoever for me in midtown is hilarious. Tasks in midtown are usually accomplished at about 1:30 in the unshowered afternoon of my day off. And I make sure to dress in such a way that no one accidentally offers me a job.
(I have two jackets that I wear in cold weather. One is a respectable and smart-fitting overcoat I bought in Florence, the other is a leather jacket I sewed back together myself. If you are ever looking to intimidate strangers or if you run out of ways to tell people that you've seen The Basketball Diaries a bunch of times--get a leather jacket.)
Every floor in the elevator ends up in somebody else's world. Dentist offices, TV Networks, etc. These two Dilbert-types walked into the elevator, "He should've seen that coming."
"Seriously. It's like Tony used to say, 'Friends don't let friends use powerpoint.'"
I don't think the backup dancers heard him, nor the singer. But I laughed a little bit to myself. I assume that they think like that.
The next day I flew to Miami on no-sleep went directly from the airport to soundcheck. I think the goal of any major artist on the verge should be to put the best foot forward. And any artist who is not really one the verge should focus on getting as much free-shit as possible while on tour.
We had twenty-five minutes off between shows and I ran to the beach. This would have been fine except the entire fucking label was having lunch together at a sidewalk cafe. I emerged from the beach, dripping, shirtless, and wondering which way I needed to point myself to get to my hotel room. And I got caught.
We played out first show and then went directly to sound check for the next show. Every single action from then on was followed by an equal and opposite reaction from the label. Doing business via cellphone in big loud clubs is not only impossible, but comical.
At the end of the second show I had a series of text messages from the label. Apparently they thought they were giving me instructions. "Louder." "Wet the vocals." But they mind as well have been telling me, "Part the red sea," because I am not a sound technician.
I slept for 15 minutes in my hotel room after that and went directly to the airport to go to LA. A couple of weeks later I returned to New York. The job I thought I could come back to had disappeared and I found myself wondering if I even still know how to use powerpoint.
Another novel I'll probably never get around to writing: The Diaries of Dora, Freud's case study on "hysteria." I'm convinced she was a clever bitch who really liked the attention.
Things are going very well for me this week. Yesterday I decided that there would not be many more times in my life where I could just pick up and go to Paris for two weeks so I am now saving up for the end of the summer.
It is important to have goals.
Yesterday the mail came--which I of course have learned to dread--and instead of the usual bad news I discovered that I had been paid for the video I did in LA! (I had been convinced that the label would find some way to charge me. Especially since I keep wearing the shoes I stole from the shoot.)
I feel fantastic today. The only words I have for how I feel are words you would find on the stickers of an eight year old girl's notebook. Super!
Awesome!
I might go so far as to say I am totally stoked. Isn't that radical?
On wednesday I was obscenely depressed, trudging around town with my resume. It was a Costanza day. I went to one place where a friend of a friend had just been hired as a manager. No luck. He shook my hands and swore he would keep my resume on file.
When I'm feeling sad I go to the Strand on Broadway. It's the most wonderful bookstore in the world. You walk in the Strand and security takes your bag--which I found annoying as a kid and now that I'm old I relish in the freedom of strolling around the store without a coat and backpack in hand.
When you first walk in there's a table stacked high with great, gorgeous, beautiful books. Each one is a book by an author you've heard of, been hearing about, or meaning to read. Keep walking.
In the back is the world's greatest bookstore employee, a soft spoken grey bearded black dude named Ben. He's been there for over 25 years. In my research for Mercutio he was more helpful to me than the goddam librarians at my research library. I walk in to talk to him frequently. "Ben, I'm having trouble figuring out what birds would have been in fourteenth century Italy."
I expect nothing more out of this man than for him to tell me where the animal books are kept. But he looks up from his reading glasses and says, "Go up to the second floor, ask for Adam and have him show you the illuminated manuscripts from such-and-such monastary. The monks of that timeperiod would have painted them by hand from the birds they saw."
And then I stand there, slack jaw, as if I've been blessed by the new pope. "Thank you."
But on wednesday when I walked in I said to the girl at the door "Do you like working here?"
And I went upstairs to fill out an application. This place is like NORAD. I had to take a special elevator to the rare books room and stand by a Guttenburg bible and Adam's breakup letter to Eve.
This is completely pathetic of me to admit: I froze. I looked at the application and I thought, "What am I going to put down? That I was a writer in '99? That I've been bartending? That I won a fiction contest three years ago? Who gives a shit about that?"
And then I thought, "Do you really want to be the girl who stands at the front door and tells people whether or not she likes working there?"
They also stipulate that you have to start with your most recent job first. Staring Salary___ Last Salary___ What did you like best about this job? Least? Reason for leaving? These are all questions I literally cannot answer.
1 Native Son 2 Of Human Bondage 3 The Cantos 4 Silas Marner 5 Poetics 6 Labyriths 7 Vindication of the Rights of Women 8 The Master and Margarita 9 The Golden Notebook 10 The Trial.
I have a degree in literature and I bombed. I haven't taken a matching test in ten years. "Let's see...uhm...Native Son, that's the black guy...okay Kafka's definately The Trial and..." I realized then that I knew nothing about these books unless they were either made into a movie or they had a pretty cover that I've fondled. Richard Wright Native Son (frequently on the back fiction table), Aristotle Poetics because it's in the Loeb Library. I've also never read The Trial, and I really only know it because Ben and I saw a movie about it in English class in high school and his mom liked referring to things as "Kafkaesque," and it had to be explained to me that this did not mean "a situation where you wake up as an insect."
I pretended to get a phone call and left.
I also hadn't eaten all day. It was five O'clock. So I did the classiest thing I could think of: I went to the bar down the street where I know the bartender. I was hoping a new job might fall into my lap that day or somekind of happy-hour DJ meltdown would happen right before me and I could swing in to the rescue. Instead I drank and smoked cigarettes in the middle of the afternoon.
Most of my friends have already resurfaced from the post-college internship/entry level/career builder and I realized wednesday that if I do get a career I will start at the very bottom. And I won't know what to do with myself all day.
But last night I had my first night at a new bar. I couldn't believe how great of a job it is. At 7 O'Clock I was convinced they were going to yank me out of it with a shepherd's crook. After that they gave me a real-live break, had me fill out some paperwork. Within two hours I went from getting yelled at by managers on my training day to the head manager deciding that training was over and I would be paid for a full night.
I was out the door at 11 with a full stomach and they told me to call back in the morning. I went out and had a celebratory drink. And when I called back this morning they said immediately that I should come in tonight and come back tomorrow.
I'm also very excited to be in this situation as a grownup. It's very, very, very easy (for obvious reasons) to get wrapped up in the scene in big bars and restaurants. You work closely with the same group of 1/4 naked girls, you work late you get tired. The management openly discusses which waitresses they would like to fuck in the bathroom.
High-end cocktail waitresses are basically escorts. Wealthy guys pay big money to have them sit with them and they do shots with them and drink champaign. Some of these girls don't know the right garnish for a gin-and-tonic but they walk out of their with hundreds of dollars in their new Chanel handbags. They could lose their jobs tomorrow, of course, and they would have to work in restaurants and cover other people's lunch shifts just to pay the rent.
I'm making this sound like an easy business. But I've spent years in it. I got this job because I moved to Chicago and met worked in a bar and met some girl and her exboyfriend got me a job in another bar and then I met another girl and her best friend heard they're hiring at this place over there. That last sentence spans 4 years of my life. I could have finished medical school by now.
Now that I'm older I'm just excited to pay off my debts, put out the next record, and eat the free food at my new job. I haven't had a regular gig since December and even then I was only really working two nights. And it shows. I haven't paid the electricity since then. I have no idea why they're still pumping gas into my stove. Every month I get a call from my auto-loan asking me where I keep my Vespa parked.
Just off the coast of Brooklyn there is a tiny little island that I go to whenever I can--usually once a day. I had a job interview today at another trashy bar on the Lower East Side of the island. It sucked. The only thing I hate more than working is looking for work.
But since I was already on this little island and had to work there later that night I went to meet up with Leigh for dinner before I went to DJ. As we walked into the place she noticed the bartender, "I used to model with that girl. Great. Now we're going to have to have that awkward, so-what-are-you-doing-now talk."
"I hate that." I hate it more now that I actually have something to tell people. "Maybe she won't recognize you now."
"Hey you!" the hostess at the door screeched and wrapped her arms around me. "How've you been?"
It took me a minute to recognize her. It took me even longer to remember her name. Oh, whiskey you're me devil. "Hey...you?"
She sat us at a table right in front of the bar where Leigh's ex-model friend was bartending. And then it turned out she was also our waitress. It took me a minute and then I remembered: this was a girl I had a date with sometime last summer. But she cancelled because her cousin died.
She came to see me DJ at some trashy bar on this little island. I met her at Beauty Bar and we talked about tattoos. However. There was something off about this girl. Catherine asked me about her and I said, "I can't tell if she's gay or just from Brooklyn."
"I'll find out." Catherine disappeared and came back later. "She's straight."
"How did you find that out?"
"I said, Are you gay? No? Oh, because I just wanted to tell you that I love your hair."
Sometimes I wish I were a normal person because I would be able to keep my mouth shut. I didn't want to make it look like I was tacky enough to be on a date with someone in another girl's restaurant (I, in fact, was) and I didn't want the girl I was out with to think that there was something going on with me and other girl. And I also didn't want to say what I ended up saying outloud right after that, "How have you been? I haven't talked to you since your cousin died."
A long time ago in a pre-9/11 galaxy far, far away there was a small press in the Lower East Side. The publisher himself was a man named Sander Hicks and at the time he was a god to me. He was the building superintendent in a building. It's a very romantic idea and even more romantic when I think about how it actually happened. There was a time when the unutterably coolest person in publishing was editing novels in Quark, fielding calls from 60 minutes about his Bush biography and then going upstairs to fix somebody's toilet.
St. Martin's press had dropped J.H. Hatfield's Bush biography. When Softskull did the first print-run of it they cut the spine off of the St. Martin's edition and sent it to their printer.
I've been waiting forever for someone to steal this documentary online. Horns and Halos. I remember wandering through the L.E.S. as a kid and walking into a bookstore (this seems ridiculous now and I hope someday it seems charming) with copies of a short story I had written as a 'zine. I printed it myself. I was very proud of the book because there was no publishing software available to me then.
You had to be Adam Conover to know how to do something like that. To make your own book you had to make a dummy version by hand. You'd decide that if you were going to have a twelve-page short story that you would need to have a cover, a back cover, and then whatever would go on the title page. That was 16 pages. Each piece of paper is therefore four pages so you take four pieces of paper, fold them in half like a booklet, and number each of the pages. This means page 1 is the top of page 2 and the 12th page of the story is the 14th page of the booklet, but also the bottom of the backside of the third piece of paper.
If for some reason you had to add more pages: you were fucked.
Little Brendan with his greasy hair and vegetarian sneakers would wander around the big, bad Lower East Side and stop in on people waiting for their coin laundry to finish drying and hand them a short story.
It was then that I met Sander Hicks. My memory of this period is already fading, but there used to be a Softskull bookstore at 98 Suffolk St. and then it moved to 107 Norfolk in the front of what used to be a rock club called Tonic.
He walked out from behind an iMac and I asked him a question about one of the titles. I didn't realize it was him at first. We started talking and he took a big stack of my short story* and put it in the 'zine rack. "Wow, you're Sander Hicks. I read about what you did with the Bush Biography. I mean, I'm not trying to kiss your ass or anything but I think it's awesome what you did."
He smiled and we kept talking. Then he invited me to a debate at a bar around the corner. This was before the Lower East Side became a playground for microbrewery consultants and yet already we were discussing how the neighborhood was going straight to hell. "Wow, this place used to be a big anarchist hide-out. Now it's all fancy." I agreed.
We walked into the backroom, which had it's own scene going on.**
There was nobody checking IDs because no one really cared. I was underage at the time and I didn't even drink. Sander bought me an orange juice--this was at an age and era where I could not believe that orange juice cost $3. He passed me off on a friend of his and we began chatting. I asked questions that I would now find obnoxious. It turned out the guy had just written a book for D.C. comics.
Then there was a debate between Sander and another guy about global capitalism (this was right after the WTO meeting in Seattle).
That summer the author commited suicide in a hotel room. He left his wife and daughter a goodbye message, made his own funeral arrangements and overdosed on his prescription. Just before it happened the news came out that he had tried to get a credit card under his old co-author's name.
On September 9, 2001 I was back in school and the big news was that Sander was fired from his job as the building superintendent. I caught up with him later that spring in a different New York City. Sander was living in Long Island and working construction. He was working on a play for the New Dramatists that was loosely based on this story. I went to the reading of the first draft.
All of this comes to mind because yesterday, when I was looking for my dream job on craigslist I found that he had opened a new coffeeshop way out in Brooklyn. It is partners with a publishing-on-demand bookpress next door. I love technology. This is basically the printing press that Mark Twain lost all his money to and it probably could have saved Sander years ago. If I had any money I might actually try and get a version of something bound.
*It was called "The Test" and the cover of it was written on a scantron sheet with my name spelled out in the little bubbles. It was the story about how even-littler Brendan in second grade failed his IQ test because his little mind wandered during a standardized test and at the last minute he filled in the bubbles at random.
**By which I mean, of course, that some of the people there knew each other.
Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead! That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Rom. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end.
Enter Tybalt.
Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Rom. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity, And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back again That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both, must go with him. Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. Rom. This shall determine that.
Normally when I finish a novel I walk around Williamsburg smoking and smiling. It's usually a very wonderful feeling. And it will be again. But I have to tackle this next draft first.
1) A long time ago I was dating this girl who was a producer for a women's talk show that was a spin-off of the host's career as a TV cook. The host's ungoogleable last name is the same as the title of the Ray Charles biopic.
She had several obnoxious habits that derived from a career spent playing alpha-bitch with the 30 women on staff.
She did, however, make a career out of reading those porn-for-anorexics magazines, each of which includes how-to-please-your-man articles. This made me the testing ground for various techniques. This is another one of those things that sound much cooler if they happened only in a single episode of Seinfeld.
We lost touch for a few weeks and one day, when I was not doing well, she sent me a text, "I don't think I can get to bed tonight without my sweet guy to tell me Italian Folktales."
To which I replied, "Why don't you do yourself a favor and delete me from your phone and forget I ever existed? Thanks."
Now that I'm poor again I find myself thinking of her. Because I love her boss's recipe for Kettle Corn:
1/4 cup vegetable oil 1/2 cup popcorn kernels 1/4 cup sugar 1 teaspoon coarse salt In a large pot with a tight-fitting lid, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Add the popcorn. When the oil sizzles, sprinkle the sugar over the kernels. Cover and shake the pan until the popping slows down, about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and toss with the salt.
2) I really love being poor. I've missed it. It's very liberating and free. When my phone rings I never think, "Oh shit, was I supposed to...?" I've been trying to do my best and get done the things that people imagine they would get done if they had more free time in their weeks.
On Thursday Leigh and I repainted my bedroom. Until that morning I still had pink and purple walls from living with a twenty-one year old undergraduate. The light over my desk had the smears of a haphazard attempt to create space by adding a third color--fuschia. It looked like someone's rambuntious younger sister had repainted her brother's model sports cars with mommy's nailpolish for her Barbies.
My bedroom is now a flat white that brings the colors in the oak floorboards to life and kindly frames my back yard where my bird feeder is daily visited by a cardinal the size of the pope.
3) As we pulled in on my Vespa on thursday I had to park it on the sidewalk so it wouldn't get towed for street cleaning. As I pushed the bike down the sidewalk the sounds of Today's Hottest Hits followed me. I turned around and there was Ray-Ray.
My other homeless guy. When homeless Jackie was in prison I paid Ray-Ray to go find out where she went and how I could go see her. His primary job was to find out her actual last name. Ray-Ray was on the case.
"Hey Brandon, I'm back! You heard I was upstate, right?"
In my delirium over the day's sunshine, and my un-triumphant return from LA I said the dumbest thing, "Did you now? How was the weather?"
He has no way of knowing that I'm just some white guy who thinks of upstate as a vacation spot. He acted as though I didn't believe him. Not because he can't afford a weekend in the Catskills, mind you.
He pulled out his inmate ID card. "Oh you went in upstate."
"I'm back now," he said. "I could use some help, though."
I felt bad, like I usually do. I haven't seen homeless Jackie since the time she lied to me about leaving the city. But I don't have the money to give to Ray-Ray. "Sorry. I'm out of work. Come back later in the week."
4) I missed the last three summers almost completely. In 2005 I was a waiter in a steakhouse. I had doubles every sunday. In 2006 I was working so much and Annie was a weekend nanny for some rich couple. By the time I was able to get away to Kentucky it was August and I hadn't been out doors in years. In 2007 I was working and reeling as unnecessarily hard from a breakup as I ever would. I also got fired from the job I'd had since the year before.
I completely forgot that I even submitted to this magazine last year. When I was younger a rejection letter would take me all day/week to recover from. Now I realize that they all come from well meaning people who are definately not getting paid for the work they do.
Thank you for sending your novel The Death of Mercutio to n+1, and apologies for the delay in responding. Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish an excerpt. As a biannual, n+1 is only able to publish a small number of fiction selections each year. We do appreciate your submission and wish you the best of luck placing The Death of Mercutio elsewhere.
Sincerely, The Editors
-- n+1 magazine 68 Jay St. #405 Brooklyn, NY 11201
The alarm rang all morning I call tell how productive I will be in a given time based on how interactive I am with my alarm clock. Normally this is the kind of day that will go to hell but today I decided that no matter what I needed to get to the next seen before.
And for once I did.
Benvolio walks me over to Montague’s house. Inside they have a feast prepared for the afternoon meal. “Mercutio!” Montague shouts. “How good of you to join us. Your cousin didn’t seem to think you would make it.” “My cousin?” I look over and see that this afternoon Luncheon is actually a pity party for Paris and my Princely Cousin. There is Paris, in his best smock. His bejeweled hands make him look like the Pope. Next to him sits Cangrande in equally as regal an outfit. “Let us make a toast,” Cangrande raises his glass. “To Paris and Juliet.” “Paris and Juliet? Did I miss a wedding invitation?” “Goodness no, Mercutio. This is what we have to celebrate today. Capulet has assured me that young Juliet’s hand is secure in sweet Paris’ grasp. Aren’t you excited?” I wonder how long it will be before Friar Laurence’s cell doors open and Juliet and Romeo are joined. “Delighted,” I smile and accept a glass of wine. “Here is to many years of happiness ahead!” It is then that I look over and discover that Mr. Dante has found his way to our table. How soon he has become Cangrande’s own little pooch, feeding off the scraps of the master’s table. “Dante!” Montague throws and arm around the old bastard’s scrawny neck as he refills his cup of wine with a free hand. “Dante, my boy. I’ve been meaning to ask you about this new volume of yours: the one about heaven.” “I should be done shortly.” “And you’ve…ahem…you’ve made a place for your old pal Montague up there, no doubts?” “It’s complicated, of course, sir.” “It must be.” A clattering of coins between their robes rings out as Montague fills Dante’s purse. “I do not anticipate you having a hard time finding a place for yourself in heaven. You’ve kept your family in good standing. But of course the afterlife isn’t like the seating arrangements at a fancy party. It’s not about who you know so much as your relationship to the host.” Dante glances up at the heaven like a worried nun. “Of course, of course.” Montague shuffles around in his robes once again and further weighs down the purse that dangles from Dante’s belt. “And of course, you know, what the Lord said about a rich man entering into heaven.” “Rich man? Rich man? Ha! If you could see my—” Montague cut himself off as the glances from his worried wife silenced him. “Right you are, Dante. It is in fact easier for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of heaven than it is for a needle to go through the eye of a camel.” “Well studied, sir,” Dante catches my eye and I cannot believe that we are laughing at the same joke. “It is such a great work,” Montague says. “I would hate for something to happen to you before it could be finished. Tell me, have you trained your sons as apprentices?” Just then my cousin Paris wanders over. “Gentlemen, Gentlemen, how is everyone on this fine summer day?” “Paris! My dear sweet Paris,” Montague says. “Surely you will be the one to control the reigns of the house of Capulet in the coming years.” “No doubt about that at all, sir.” “I was just talking to Dante about finishing his great work.” “I hear it is to be a marvelous text.” Dante loosens himself from Montague’s grasp. “It is already out now.” “Right, of course, of course, I had just planned on reading it all the way through, once,” Paris says. “Right now I understand it is not finished.” Dante brings his cup of wine to his lips, “Of course I fear that when the work is finished then I shall be finished also.” “You shouldn’t talk like that, Dante!” Paris says. “You have plenty of years left in you.” “If I have plenty of years will I be so lucky as to have plenty of verse? And which one would I choose if I had to? Years of exile away from my beloved Florence, eternally an honored guest without a homeland? I have become the Moses of Lombardy, wandering the desert of this peninsula,” Dante presses his purple-stained lips to the source of their color. His cup of wine. “I assure you,” Paris fills Dante’s cup as he speaks. “Once Cangrande and I organize our forces we will only be too glad to unite the armies of the area and storm into the gates of Florence. It has been far too long.” “What Florence? The Florence where my wife entertains another man? The Florence where politics keep me away? I have been given the choice, surrender myself and I may return. Sign this, Dante! Your may return as a servant of the court. Or I can align with you against the great Florin,” Dante opens his newly filled purse and pulls out the mighty coin. The Florin. The only money worth trusting these days, “And when you have defeated it then I may once again enter into a place of the same name. But it will not be my home.” “I think Mr. Dante has had a long day,” Benvolio interjects. “And who are you, sir?” “Nobody, Mr. Dante. Nobody.” “Good for you, sir,” Dante slurs. “Good for you. The Inferno is paved with great names from great legends. And great souls in there cry out in great pain. The great river Styx would be nothing but a creek if not for the great bodies that toil upon one another inside of it. And the mountains of Purgatory would never be so steep without the crowds of people in front of you.” “And what about Beatrice?” “Like you proclaim to be, sir. She is nobody.” Dante, without meaning to, had accidentally begun to hold court at this pre-engagement party. Every ear in the house had tuned itself to the words of this drunk, old visitor with the funny accent. “Then let me ask you a question,” I say into the nervous silence of the party. “Only if you promise to let me answer it,” Dante replies. “Then what of Arlecchino? What happens to a servant between these two houses. What happens to a man who served one master only to be slaughtered by another?” “And may I ask—” “An ignorant servant like Arlecchino. He was as loyal as a lapdog and would have served any master just for the crumb of bread that might fall from his master’s table.” “And who is this Arlecchino you speak of?” “He is nobody, Mr. Dante.” “He is nobody.” For the first time I catch a glint of humanity in Mr. Dante’s eyes. The old poet looks up to me and smiles through the crowd of seducers and flatterers. His eyes shine past the simoniacs and diviners, the barterers and hypocrites. Many of them were no doubt considered thieves by the former tenants of their landholdings. They are evil counselors to each other or they were like my cousin who would divide a great power into a schism of some kind and feed off of both sides. They are falsifiers. They are treacherous to kin, country, hospitality, and to their Lords and Benefactors. To some Degree even poor Dante, who lies at the middle of this, cannot helping being all of these things. And he knows that. “Then blessed are the nobodies. For they shall see God,” Dante says and then he stands up and walks out of the silent room.
"One of Jules Verne's famous novels, a favorite of Tomas's in childhood, is called Two Years on Holiday, and indeed two years is the maximum." - The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The Jazz Club I've been working in just closed. Evil thoughts take over my brain. I have my money from touring and nothing else. It seems like it might be time to give up on the fantasy life and go do something else.
Immediately after thinking that I realized that I can't do anything else. When I left journalism I thought I could come back to it.
I'm also convinced that I will get really depressed as soon as I get a real job again. How do people with jobs find time to sit in the park and blog about the book they're reading in the middle of the afternoon?
This never happens to me but it doesn't stop being exciting:
Today I woke up on time in the happiest place on earth. It was 5:30 in the morning. I had packed the night before--miraculously--and had everything ready to go. Normally I am bolting out the door a the last minute with a forgotten passport and toothbrush. It also helps that I am a disgusting human being in general and doing things like showering or brushing my teeth do not occur to me.
Ms. Roach was awake and in the kitchen. I had left her in the elephant-skin walled livingroom of their house where so many strangely important moments in my life have taken place. It's odd to think and embarassing to admit but when I was there last summer--reeling, painfully, through my break up with a lingerie designer I used to date--I mapped out the voice, diction, and structure of Mercutio while watching Heath Ledger in a historic sex-comedy.
Last night we fell asleep with the rest of the nation watching John Adams.
I woke up and turned on my laptop fearing the usual. I knew I would be in the middle of a scene and not know what the fuck to do with it. You often hear stories about how Stephen King doesn't remember writing Kujo because of the drink. And then it actually happened to me.
I found pages and pages of work that had been in my head, bouncing around and distracting me when my mind should be focussing on not missing flights.
I have never been immune from the trap that we all fall into. I'm sure Hemingway went over to Fitzgeralds and thought, "Ooo look at me I'm Scott, my wife does all my copy editing and can retype anything in twenty minutes."
And Fitzgerald looked back at him thinking, "If only I didn't have this big house to worry about and Zelda poking her nose in at me every five minutes. Then I could get some work done."
It occurred to me that there is no harm in being envious of myself. The Roaches are the single greatest hosts I've ever had in my life. I was reminiscing with Robyn about various trips I had taken to her house and we both lost count of how many times.
Last night she cooked up chicken and tagliatelle with edamame and we had a wonderful family dinner together just after sunset with the caws and pleading of songbirds. I stepped outside just after we ate--for some reason it was really important for me to download last week's Daily Show from the wireless signal of the back office. In the protection of the early darkness the birds called out to each other. The unseasonable rain had turned my old mint-hunting field into a wetlands, which charmed a lone blue heron to venture close to the house.
Every time I go to Kentucky the most difficult thing for me to do is get away from myself. There's usually a lot of catching up to do. Me and my fucking stories. Then I have to call my mother. If she's on the way to meet my brother then I call him. I check in with people back in New York. I send iPhone pictures to my old assistant.
Yesterday I took a walk down the road where the creek had flooded in and a lone blue heron ran away from us. I walked to the corner store and had an Ale 8. I walked to the train tracks that run through the middle of town. When I first came to Midway in 2000 the town center was mostly a relic. It is now quite a wonderfully chic place with nice restaurants, a tavern and a bookstore in the basement of a big cafe.
I walked down there to see Chet, the all around great guy who helped me find a great old edition of The Confessions of St. Augustine (in Los Angeles I referred to my novel as The Confessions of Mercutio and I got the unbelievably L.A. response: "Good title.")
I sat down in the late afternoon sunlight and poured over his amazing collection. I bought two books by Mark Twain to remind me that it's okay to enjoy being an old bastard, another by Nabokov. I must have left there with ten volumes.
I walked back to the cabin and caught up with my voice mail. This story is entirely out of sequence and it would irritate me if I weren't in danger of missing my flight to Newark.
My trip to L.A. was by most (of my) standards a huge failure. But from the perspective of Old Bastard Brendan--whose birth is quickly approaching (I will be 26 in a month)--it was an unforgetable trip that will meld in my mind into the trips that have already come before and after it. Someday I'll be twice this age and I'll say, "Los Angeles? I went there in--two thousand....six? Eight? I don't remember--Wow look at that, a blue heron just landed in that pond."
right now I am on a flight to charlotte from Kentucky. I'm working on my favorite scene from right now. It is, however, the part that I was researching last fall when I went completely fucking crazy. It is strange to have large passages of Shakespeare memorized merely because I once repeated them to myself over and over in the dark of my apartment. I have friends who would wake up for work each day with a text message from my insanity. "...therefore thy earliness doth me assure/ thou art uproused by some distemprature. Or if not so then I hit it right. Our Romeo hath not seen bed tonight."
I now wonder what exactly my insanity was thinking. Did it expect someone to rush over to Brooklyn at noon and walk me back to the land of the sane? If so a great start would be sleeping normal hours.
There came a point last night where I realized I had finally had my Hollywood moment and I was officially allowed to return east. I went to the Griffith Observatory all afternoon and watched awesome things about stars. When it comes to planets: I am a five year old.
Afterwards I went to a loft owned by this insane Russian classical painter for a lecture about the Mars Rover. I had a really huge loft in a far away world of Williamsburg 2004, but this fucking place was the size of the Lower East Side. In the center of it--say, Rivington between Essex and Suffolk--were a series of couches surrounded by melting candles.
The Russian gentleman looks like Gallagher and Freddy Mercury's love child. Every single person at the party had the same question as we stood around this Maude Lebowski-esque building. "How do you know Nikolai?"
At this point--I'm not kidding--two girls found a pair of fencing swords in the umbrella bucket to the left of the couches. "Can I play winner?"
There I am in Los Angeles, my first time out here as a grown up, and I'm fencing. "How does Mercutio die again?"
(Mind you, we're fencing during this discussion.)
"Tybalt is Lady Capulet's cousin so he's trying to prove he's a Capulet. Mercutio is likely drunk. Tybalt runs after Mercutio looking for Romeo but Romeo can't fight him because he's become Tybalt's cousin in the brief time that he's been off stage. Romeo tries to pry them apart and Tybalt stabs Mercutio under Romeo's arm."
"Are you in theater."
"No. Right now I'm at a weird party."
I've mentioned this before that I am already uncomfortable discussing this. I come from a gigantic family where frequently my aunties forget which middle-aged person in the room is my father. At easter my youngest uncle was late because he had lunch with his wife's family and desert with his own.
He's a great guy that I've looked up to my entire life and I look up to him extra because in his forties he decided to go back to school, take a huge pay cut and become a teacher. Now he's the principal of an elementary school. He strolled into Easter between lunch and desert in a brand new beautiful Irish-green blazer.
And what does his fucking brother say? "Thanks for coming. Wow--and you won the Masters!"
I'm at an airport bar in Denver right now awaiting my connecting flight to Kentucky and I'm laughing my ass off about that still.
Anyway. The point is that in my family--and I literally can't imagine anyone else's is any different--you have to put up with jokes in order to see the family. I know how it works. I complain about lots of thing and I ran away from my hometown as if it were on fire--and my fault. But this week I was in wardrobe in L.A. for the video and I found a slap-wrap bracelet and I said, "You see this? It's not genuine unless it says Main St. Toy Company, Simsbury, CT."
I've got a cousin in the marines and when he was in Iraq he'd be out on patrol and telling his boys, "That gun you just fired. Read the barrel."
"MADE IN HARTFORD, CT."
"Fucking-A-right it is."
That same cousin will turn up my songs on the radio while his friends make allegations of homosexuality. "That's my cousin's gay-ass song!"
That matters more to me than meeting strangers in a party in Hollywood and pretending to be a big shot.
My various editors have always said that I have a hard time writing about joy. But that's it. The video will come out next month and I'm going to look like Liberace's Gay Nephew. You are all welcome to make fun of me when I'm break dancing in slow motion. I'm going to look ridiculous.
2) Again I thought the flight would be a great time to get some work done. Waiting in the airport helped me finish the balcony scene and I'm not entirely happy with it yet. The flight from LAX to Denver was short enough that I couldn't have my laptop open, legally, for the hour up and the hour landing. But they did have direct TV for $5. It was a gratuitous cost and I elected to have it gratuitously.
I used to travel around and pretend to be someone else. Something interesting like a travel writer. I really should start doing that again more.
I flew one of those midwestern budget carriers that you never hear about. For some reason they are always the sassiest.
The line for the bathroom line grew quickly before our descent. I had become a little irritated on the trip up because--after paying $5 to watch VH1 classics of Freddie Mercury--every little announcement they made over the PA interrupted the discovery of one man's journey as to whether or not we will or will not rock you.
" On behalf of the crew I would like to remind those of you in the bathroom that there are passengers behind you."
It was another ten minutes before the door opened. It was a sixty year old guy who was missing his right leg. His pants were pinned at the knee. "Sorry." He said to the silent people in line. "The bathroom is not handicap accessible."
The rest of the airplane looked on as the man hobbled--crutchless--back to his seat while they watched Discovery Channel documentaries about the anniversary of Martin Luther King's assassination.
1) Ben's new video is hilarious. I think the first time he showed it to me I laughed and thought it was funny but now I'm in LA with these people and it is unstoppably hilarious how true this video is. Everyone I show it to ends up singing it.
2) I am accidentally engrossed in a coffeeshop in Echo Park called Chango. All along I thought that I was this beautifully unique snowflake and it turns out that not only am I nothing special--but I am unrepresented. Everyone in here is working on a screenplay or having some kind of meeting. And I'm the asshole pretending to get up and take important iPhone calls while I read over their shoulders.
JEFF:
So that's it then? How could you leave me like this?
ASHLEY:
You're just not empowering me enough to emote my way through this scene.
JEFF:
Please stay. I love you.
I giggle because I'm not a very good person. I'm also taking it out on them for writing more than just emails. My hands started hurting again while I was out here and doing things like texting my brother have become labor-intensive processes. Using my iPhone has become as difficult as it was for my grandfather to find the mute button on the remote.
3) For the amount of pictures taken of us while we were in Miami I'm surprised that not a single one of them is any good whatsoever. Here is us in a suspiciously ungoogleable major media outlet from a large city north of San Diego. Upon arrival I thought it might be the equivalent--nominally--of the Manhattan-based major media outlet. It turns out to be a slightly-crappier version of the newspaper I once worked for. Except people actually advertise with them.
My least favorite thing when I worked for the Hartford Courant was checking my voicemail on the day one of my stories came out. When you have an article in what was once a great newspaper you hear about it everywhere. My aunties would call me just to tell me that I had made the big time--the boys at the gas station were discussing--intently--the article I had written about the rising cost of graduation parties.
I would stroll into the office on that day past the eighteen-foot printing presses, through the bustling newsroom like a gladiator. And then I would get to my desk while my editors were congratulating me on the fact that their superiors congratulated them for editing me--and my voicemail would be full of assholes I had interviewed. They would all whine about the least important details to the story.
There is a huge difference between a story and a human being. Some of them were moronic phone calls ("You should be ashamed of the way you sensationalized my daughter's sadness over the break up of 'NSYNC!")
But now I'm on the other side and I want to call this guy and say, "Seriously? You stayed for the whole fucking day and you took pictures of us at soundcheck? Mutherfucker I had to bring six costumes in carry-on and you can see my fucking luggage under the booth. What are you--new?"
4) Last night I DJ'd in a giant club. It's really weird to me that you can actually make money and enjoy yourself in Los Angeles. The club is 18 and over which means that everyone's younger brothers and sisters get all excited to get dressed up and pay $20 to drink redbull. In New York I rarely get to leave the turntables for more than half a cigarette. When I cheat and use iTunes I feel like I'm not doing my job. If I DJ with someone else I usually have to pay them almost nothing or split it with them.
Everywhere I go I keep getting recognized--not because I'm the next big thing or because anyone respects what I'm doing--but because I'
Among my most pathetic New York habits is that I still find a certain literacy in expensive restaurants. Yesterday I was walking along Melrose in LA (long story) and I fell for the same trick I've pulled on myself for years. I thought, "Why don't I sit down somewhere and write. Maybe I'll get a coffee."
My New York mentality kicks in in really embarrassing ways out here. When I think about having a coffee I immediately just start walking down the block. It took me an hour and a half to find a fucking coffeeshop.
When I finally found a little place near Fred Segal and all the other clothing lines that people talk about in teen movies I said to myself, "You've had enough coffee. How about some wine?"
"Ooo wine," I said to my other self. "Like Hemingway!"
"Right. Exactly like Hemingway."
"Wow, like Moveable Feast or Sun Also Rises?"
"Will you just walk into the fucking restaurant? Jesus Christ."
"Sorry! Sorry!"
I opened up my laptop and started writing at the bar of a very expensive sushi restaurant. As much as I would love to pretend that I'm this big famous traveling DJ'ing now I really didn't have the heart for it. I don't have an income anymore and I live gig to gig. This meal was brought to you by my HSBC Mastercard.
"Wow, that's great," said the waitress in earnest. "Sitting at a bar with your laptop."
"I'm a recovering bartender myself. I've been looking forward to this for years."
"What are you doing now? Are you an actor?"
I was about to say no, like I have for years but then it occurred to me that according to the IRS I am. This was the third music video I've done in as many weeks, not to mention some of the other things I've been doing. Plenty of much better writers have already explained the degree to which people in the greater Los Angeles area network.
This meant that people wanted to know, honestly, what exactly it is that I'm doing in LA. They ask about where I got my shoes (stolen from wardrobe on the video shoot), what I'm writing ("Wow, I can't wait for it to become a movie!"), what I plan on doing with this band.
I have to be completely honest here and say that I am not at all comfortable with any of this. I like to go into bars and bitch about people and make fun of single men my age or older. I like to be late for flights and to hitch hike and meet people and get into trouble. I like breaking up bar fights.
When I got my bill I found that the bottle of wine I drank during the meal had shrunk itself into only a single glass. I left a 30% tip, knowing full well that it wouldn't be long until I was back behind someone else's bar, wishing I were on the other side.
There was a time when I worked in fancy restaurants and I would go home to my girlfriend and brag about serving a Spice Girl or a Stoke. The biggest impression I've had from these people is knowing that none of them tip as well as you would think they would.
Luckily being on a major record label is like those kids who had rich parents. My sister came to the video shoot and when she said she had to leave halfway through the producer offered her two hundred extra in cash just to stay. That was about three times what the other extras were paid.
The next day I got a phone call from the production company. It was a union shoot and they were trying to fudge my timecard so that I didn't have to get overtime.
I am, therefore, not the slightest bit remorseful about stealing a vintage pair of Nike's from wardrobe. They are the nicest shoes I've ever owned.
And I got about this much work done:
A hungry feeling came over me suddenly. I saw Benvolio trot boldy, lonely and heroically to his home compartment as we abandon Romeo to his humours. But how many more nights of your life do you plan on spending them alone? I have been in Benvolio’s position on so many nights. You roll out your own carpet to go to somebody else’s party and you long, strangely, to be back at home alone tending to your possessions. Benvolio walks away full of wine and the vague worry that he had left a candle burning in his lonely house. Romeo crawls unstealthfully through the thicket of Capulet’s orchard, snapping sticks and crying aloud at the pricker bushes. Mercutio stands alone in the moon-lit street.
If I cannot be here and there too, I decide to follow the mysterious advice of a pot scrubber. I shall be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. “Where is Potpan that he won’t help clean the hall?” the same grumbling servant calls out into the empty entry way. “This Potpan seems to cause you a lot of trouble.” “His cousin is the cook so we can never get rid of him,” the servant says before snapping back into his persona. “Turns out it is all about who you know.” “What are you doing here, sir?” “I…uh…I left something in the back hall.” On my way to my fictitious search for a forgotten cloak I began to wonder what exactly I was searching for. And then I found her.
In the upstairs hallway behind the hanging arras of the ladies’ wing. Lord Capulet’s snores filled the hallways amid the groans of Lady Capulet and her pillow. But around the corner my internal compass found its north star. There. Sitting in a chair on the outside of the door. Matelda. My first obsession. “I thought I’d find you here.” “Ay me!” “She speaks.” “I could summon the guards with one yelp.” “Which one? Should we test them all? Sound the alarms and let the dogs enjoy the ensuing feast.” “Why do you haunt me?” “I’ve been waiting ten years to ask you the same question.” “Mercutio, right? I used to work for your mother?” “Business or pleasure?” “Keep your voice down!” “Why may I ask?” “Shh!” Matelda pressed her face against the door. From between the cracks I heard the minor tones of a young girl’s voice. “(What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man.)” Matelda, the incorrigible creature, smiles. What is it about under-loved woman that makes them idolize other people’s relationships? Are other people somehow not fraught with the same problems we all have? “Is she talking about Romeo?” “Shhhh!”
I'm really not happy with any of the work I've done in the past three months. Mostly I am over-thinking everything. I've been sleeping late, resting, traveling, playing, screwing around. Really the best way for me to get any amount of work done is to wake up earlier than I want to and sit there and do it. There's no amount of coffee or wine or email-checking that can--
"Don't you think you should fix up the word order before you post this?" my other self interrupts again.
"Can't you just enjoy your fucking dinner without analyzing it?"
"Sound the alarm he says? Isn't that an anachronism?"
"They can't all be winners, okay? Someday the machine doesn't want to work. It'll take three seconds to delete that from the first draft."
"But are you sure--"
"Do you know how many bloopers I'm personally responsible for? I broke a glass on Japanese food network last month. At the last shoot the music cutout and I dropped some kid as he was trying to stage dive. Yesterday I hit the cameraman with a fifteen-pound disco ball. It's part of the process."
"You're even starting to sound like Hemingway."
"Somedays I wish you would take a shotgun to your own head so I could go on living without you."
My friends are all getting older and its wonderful to watch their faces age. I love seeing them sprout the footprints of crows feet around their eyes from the years of smiling together.
