I was waiting in line at CVS, a long line, since they only had two registers going, behind this cute young thing buying herself a knee brace, and I heard a commotion behind us in the store. Apparently some guy had been caught stealing eyeliner, and was being confronted by someone -- this sharp-voiced Latina. I wasn't sure if she was an in-store Loss Prevention type or what, but she confronted the guy about the eyeliners, told him to empty his pockets. We're all turned in line to watch this fracas, and the guy, who looks to be perhaps Latin, himself, or Italian, or some other olive-complected soul, with a heavy black coat, a ball cap, and a black goatee-type beard, walks slowly out of the store, with the woman on his heels, telling him the cops were coming, and that she got a good look at him. She was on a cell phone at the time.
The babe ahead of me looked at me like "Huh?" (I could see she had braces on her teeth, which was a nice accompaniment to the knee brace she was getting) and I just said "Busted."
Nobody stopped the guy from leaving the store, although the Loss Prevention people (?) kept after him, watched him slowly walk down Armitage, busy trying to be inconspicuous. After purchasing my stuff, I went to the curb and last saw him near the Irish bar down the way, the River Shannon.
Meantime, I wondered: Eyeliner??
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Scene: Furry
The other day, on the bus ride home, I saw a gay guy clearly out cruising. It amused me, because he was pretty old, but was ogling everybody who boarded, looking for play. That, and his outfit. Oh, my. First, he was balding at the top of his head -- so, he had that bit of a tonsure going, but that didn't stop him from zazzing up his gunmetal gray-silver hair with some product, so he had it spiked up ahead of the tonsure, which was an odd image if you saw him from anything but head-on.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
He was wearing some pointy-toed shoes (maybe calf boots? I can't actually remember that), and some fashionable jeans. But the real cornerstone of his ensemble was his fur coat -- waist-length, not a long fur coat, but a brown fur coat -- beaver? Not sure. It was clearly the centerpiece of his get-up, accentuated with some shiny rings. The grizzled rooster hair and that fur coat, oh, man -- priceless! I wanted to photograph him for the sake of fashionable disaster posterity -- a sartorial Hindenberg, he was, and yet he carried it off with a flinty-eyed, hard-won kind of swishy dignity, I suppose: he didn't pretend to be anything but exactly what he was, and he was so clearly out for whatever he could hope to get that night.
Quite a look he had going, like some European sexual tourist run amok. He got off in the Gold Coast, for parts unknown.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Scene: Grrl Freitag
I was writing on the bus, on the way to the HP, and a hipster chick sat next to me, dug out her copy of the New Yorker and briefly read it, before popping on some headphones and chilling out. She was average height, black hair, slightly sallow complexion, assiduously plucked eyebrows, black knitted beret, black leather jacket, black skinny jeans, melon-colored socks and black Keds-style canvas sneakers. She had a big turquoise ring on her left middle finger that was two triangular pieces of turquoise pointing toward each other, off-center, like two ships passing by. The overall ring was fairly big. She had a worn, dusky silver-toned messenger bag with "FREITAG" as the label, which amused me, made me want to snap a picture of her -- especially with the whole black ensemble going, except for the nerdy socks. I would have liked if her name was "Tuesday" -- that would've been perfect, seeing Tuesday with her Freitag bag on a Thursday morning.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
She sipped at her coffee, kept stealing glances at my notebook while I was writing. Normally it bugs me if people are trying to read over my shoulder (HATE that), but my handwriting is nearly incomprehensible, so I doubt she could read much. Reminds me of when I used to take the South Shore train line, and a couple of teenaged girls marveled at my handwriting, watching me write in a notebook, and one said "What LANGUAGE is that?" in that nasally teenaged way of talking, and I told her it was English, and she asked to see it, and I showed her, and she said "Dude, that writing should be a font!"
Details about Grrl Freitag, let's see... her hair was a brown-black shag, from what I could see, since she had on that beret. The eyebrows stood out to me, just because she'd definitely worked them over a bit -- just short of the point of being too much, in my view, with my whole eyebrow thing. Her upper lip was utterly hairless (a good thing in my view, and if her eyebrows got that kind of attention, no doubt the mustache had no chance!) -- I bring up the upper lip only because she kept nursing her coffee, kept venturing tentative little sips, because obviously it was hot, so it was this kind of dance with her lips perched atop the white Starbucks coffee lid, a beverage tango. With the sun streaming in, her face had turned to gold, which showed a lot of detail, the steam rising from the cup.
That's about it. She loped off the bus, and I kept writing.
Yessssss
I worked on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." all morning. It's hot. It's humming along very nicely. It is very much in the spirit of Richard Matheson, one of my influences -- it's my own thing, in my own style, but somebody who likes Matheson would find a lot to like in this story.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
It tickles me, writing longhand again. While I don't write as quickly as I type, I like being able to write at will. Of course, with a laptop, I get the best of both worlds, so that just puts a laptop at the top of my to-get list.
But anyway, the story's humming along beautifully. I should be able to bang this one out and then delve back into the PC at home and wrap up the ones I'd mentioned the other day.
Writerly
I started working on "Wash, Spin, Rinse..." yesterday, on the bus ride home. Writing longhand, as is my lot for the moment, until I can afford another laptop. It's going to be an interesting story, I think. The voice of the character flew out of me, male protagonist, snarky, sarcastic, cynical -- sound like anybody you know?
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
I know I was going to wait on it, but the character's voice started going and I just had to take dictation, get it down. I have these fab Papermate pens I bought at the store the other week -- they're click-pens with black and white patterns on them. Love the patterns and the black and white. Just kinda Mod, I think. I may have to buy a few more packs of them, just to have, before they disappear.
I know I was going to read "The Road," but I paused in favor of an "American Gothic" anthology compiled by Joyce Carol Oates. That's keeping me entertained at the moment, keeps a shade of Halloween alive well past the holiday itself.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Not On My Hands
I find when confronted with Halloween-hued Peanut M&Ms (said hues being: black, orange, purple, and chartreuse), I selectively eat the purples and the oranges, getting them out of the way, saving the black and chartreuse ones for last. There are only two left, now, in my little dish: one black, one chartreuse. Those colors, together, look lovely to me. Wicked, like a witch's kiss.
Their time at last has come....
Their time at last has come....
Idea Man
I was surging last night, just had a ton of ideas. I kept jotting them down on a slip of paper, which I kept on me all night, just in case more came (they did). Love when I'm on the creative upswing, surfing the waves of my subconscious. Stories I have to finish...
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
- Smartbomb
- Vista
- Old Hickory
- Deadline
- Wash, Spin, Rinse, Shoot, Repeat
- Statuesque
Of course, I have to repeat the process of pimping stories out to markets, which is proving a little more difficult. I may bundle a baker's dozen of my short stories as an anthology and see if I can get any agency's interest for those.
Speaking of that, I sent out another query for the book. Fingers crossed. I really, really hope something clicks for this one.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Scene: Poke-Poke-POKE!
I didn't recognize Muttonchops McGee when he first got on the bus. Actually, I think I almost recognized him, but couldn't quite place him -- red-haired guy with an Edwardian kind of visage to him -- somehow, familiar. I realized once he sat down that it was Muttonchops McGee, but he'd shaved off his signature 'chops. It was his thing. He was a regular feature on the Hyde Park bus. He'd habitually grow his hipster hair out very big, would have these massive muttonchops going, and then at some arbitrary point in the year, he'd get shorn like a sheep and would repeat the process all over again.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Today he looked almost respectable in his blue jeans (holes in the pockets that may have gone all the way through the jeans, not sure), well-worn white canvas sneakers with black laces, a suitably autumnal sweater and an oxford shirt, and a windbreaker. He boarded the bus with his characteristics stone-faced and drowsy bearing, and I would have ignored him but for one thing: he had a woman with him. Girlfriend? Lover? Both?
Bride of Muttonchops McGee was smartly attired -- brown herringbone jacket, navy blue knee skirt, zebra pantyhose, shiny black ballet flats. She was pretty in a bitch-mouthed kind of way -- blue eyes, thick brown hair in a shoulder-lengthed shaggy cut that was tousled just so. Not bedheaded, but just city breeze-blown, or something. Her nose was prominent, eyebrows sculpted, expression someplace between weary and contemptuous. The perfect bookend for Muttonchops McGee.
I watched them while I half-read my Hawthorne ("The Man of Adamant;" and I have to say that while Hawthorne in youth was my broccoli-and-medicine, I have come to strongly admire him over the years, his work and boldness to stick a thumb in the eye of the Puritan morality -- maybe the rise of the fundamentalists makes it extra-satisfying, and that Hawthorne had the courage to call out their hypocrisy way back then. Very bold. Bravo!) -- anyway, the couple dozed in their seats, both of them, side-by-side, their heads bobbing. Muttonchops McGee looking grave even in half-slumber, and his babe's expression not much changing. I noticed she had headphones leading to her bag, a black iPod or equivalent MP3 player of similarly slender and sleek design. She had a claddagh ring of silver on her left middle finger. Maybe that meant they were fuckbuddies? Not sure the code of the claddagh, only know that it's a fun word to say.
On and on the bus went, their heads like gyroscopes, tracking the passage of the vehicle toward the HP. Sometimes one of them would half-awaken, only to drowse off again. Eventually, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he did not react.
Finally, reaching the University campus proper, she basically woke up, her expression not much changed from what it was when she was dozing, and Muttonchops McGee just stay there, eyes shut. Then she poked him in the ribs with an elbow: Poke.
No reaction. Poke-poke.
I could see her eyes on him, head turned.
Poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not acknowledge, did not react.
Poke-pooooooooooooooooooooke.
That last one a long poke, like an extended Morse Code poke rendering, the telegraph operator leaning on the switch awhile. McGee finally opened his eyes, looked at her in annoyance, then leaned a bit away so he was out of range of her elbow.
She smiled to herself, resumed poking. Although the poking was surely annoying, it made me smile, the playful way she was trying to wakeup her douchebag boyfriend. She continued, not realizing I'd noticed this whole little exchange:
Poke. Poke-poke. Poke. Poke. Poke-poke-poke-poke.
McGee did not stir. Then the bus reached their stop, and she got up and walked past him, and McGee opened his eyes and got up, and the two of them walked out, her slightly ahead of him, not reacting overmuch, and then he caught up with her, was talking. My bus went on its way, leaving them behind.
Scene It
Alright, here's how it goes: a title with "FICTION:" on it is exactly what it says it is. Whereas, a title with "SCENE:" on it is something I've seen that I'm recounting. Get it?
Counting
1092 words. Not bad for the underside of an hour, although just a sliver compared with what I used to be able to turn out, with time and space (e.g., a 1.5-hour commute each way -- that was the time of 5 to 6000 word a day. God, I loved that).
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
With time and space, I can go and go and go. During my glorious time of unemployment in 1999 (I can't remember how long -- maybe three months?) I'd write hours daily, uninterrupted. I loved that. That was when I knew that's what I wanted to be. Christ, hard to believe that was ten years ago -- what a difference 29 to 39 makes. When you're 29, you're still in the most-favorable demographic, the 18 to 34 age group, the "youth market" -- but when you're 39, you're halfway to being forgotten, at least to the lame marketeers that slice up the populace into audience demographics.
Gen X is screwed, relative to earlier generations, because we have beans for earning power -- in the past, you turned 39 and you were entering your peak earning years. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us, it's just not there (at least going the conventional 925 Grinder route).
Now, however, fewer and fewer of us "make it" by this age. So many of my peers depend heavily on their folks to float them, one way or another. God help you if you don't have that to fall back on.
It's very warm in the apartment this morning; the radiators are hissing and I'm sweating. Steam heat is great, but it does tend to make a place like a sauna, if you can't get the valves just right. At the moment, that seems to be the case.
Working
I'm working on the short story this morning. I have to use the old computer; well, I suppose I could use the iMac, but all of my writing is on the old Dell, so I use that, just to keep all of my work in one place. Having that old, slow computer after being used to the speedy Apple is sort of like having a bag of unpeeled carrots in the fridge -- you want to eat'em, but somehow peeling them seems like sooooo much work. So, I make a big deal about turning the thing on and hearing the old processor grrrrrrrind to life, wait forever for MS Word to open.
It's nearly there, nearly ready....
It's nearly there, nearly ready....
Sunday, November 8, 2009
House of Leaves
I HATE "House of Leaves." I've read that book off and on for the better part of a year, and I hate it. Just to be extra-wanky, I'm doing what they did throughout that book, which is color the word "house" blue every fucking time it would show up in the text. Ooooh, are you scared, yet?!
Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.
I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."
If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.
It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."
And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.
Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."
The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.
So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.
Look, the book became a bestseller, has some kind of cult status associated with it, but the fact is, it's a shit sandwich of a novel. I've found it almost impossible to get through, with all the nonsense addenda the writer threw around the core of the story.
I'm not going to summarize it. If you want a good haunted house story, check out "The House Next Door" by Anne Rivers Siddons. That's worth your time, and is more scary than anything in "House of Leaves."
If, however, you love, I dunno, "Ulysses" and want to feel like you're not just reading a book, but experiencing it, then by all means read "House of Leaves" and blabbity-blah.
It was a debut novel, okay, I get it. An audacious debut, but in my opinion, for all the wrong reasons. This book is editor bait! I can just see some jaded New York editor reading the manuscript and going "HOLY SHIT! I've never seen anybody do THIS before with a novel."
And there's a reason: it's a gimmick.
Of course, now you're wondering what's incensed me so about it, right? Now you'll want to read the fucking book, see what I'm talking about. Go ahead, if you want. Fool that I am, I think a writer has an unspoken covenant with their reader, to take them on a trip worth taking. And this book subverts that covenant -- it is the literary equivalent of a one-man band, with the jackass standing there with a bass drum on his back, cymbals on his knees, a trombone in one hand, a harmonica necklace, a kazoo in the corner of his mouth, and a trumpet in his other hand. He can make a lot of noise with it, might even be able to make a little music with it, but I look at something like that and think "Why not just play one instrument REALLY well, instead of trying to impress us with all the fucking shit you can do? You look like a jackass, you are a jackass, move along, wankbag."
The book is bullshit. And it's just exactly the grade of bullshit that there are douchebags out there who will cleave to it and revere the book in a totemic kind of way, as an art object. It's the kind of book that a writer can get away with once -- because it is a fucking gimmicky contrivance -- you can't make a career out of that, unless you want to be a one-hit wonder.
So fuck you, "House of Leaves." Fuck you very much.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Weather or not
Pretty autumn day, great weather, although very windy, as it usually is in Chicago this time of year. But all of the sun made it nice.
I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.
What a goofy dream...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0
I'm a bit sleep-deprived. Had a surreal dream last night where I had acquired a Sly & the Family Stone picture holder, one of those multiple-frame holders, and this one was festooned with silver glitter and other brightness, and had pictures of Sly featured. I remember in the dream thinking that was pretty great, touting it as the funkiest frame, ever. And it came with a bonus Sly lapel pin.
What a goofy dream...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIA7hZE0l0
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