Bottomless Lakes

Romance Novel Excerpt #2 - Introducing Dexter McChest

2012-01-24T07:00:00.000-05:00

I've decided to write a romance novel on my blog. To read the glorious first chapter, the link is below.

Romance Novel Excerpt #1 - Introducing Vanessa Lonelyheart

I hope you are feeling whatever feelings you are supposed to feel as you read a romance novel. If I read them, I imagine I would feel patriotic and fevery.

THE HEART IS THE LONELIEST DUDE RANCH

Excerpt from Chapter 2

Dexter McChest was a man with a purpose. When he walked, he only walked in straight lines. Purpose lines. When he talked, his words came out of his mouth like bullets aimed at your brain. And purportedly, when he made love, he did it with purpose. Just not the purpose of procreation.

And now he ran to Vanessa. Ran to her like a shirtless lion ready to pounce on her and ravage her with his beautifully whitened fangs. Her whole body felt like a meal. She was so breathless at him running. Running forever. The world slowed down to just heartbeats and boot beats. Just her meal body and his purposeful gallop. What kind of world was this that brought them back together? When would he get to her? Why was this taking so long? It's literally barely a 100 feet from the Jeep. Why did he park so far away? Why did time feel like molasses? And then it struck her mind.

"When you're in love, Einstein's theory of relativity is definitely correct," she thought.

And just as she thought it, there he was. All 6'4" of him next to her like a flesh statue. How did he smell like that? Like leather and vanilla all mixed up with a hint of bbq sauce. And when would he speak? What would they say? They hadn't spoken in 7 years. She was eye level with his nipples which were like two copper pennies burned into a muscular suede couch. And then he reached down and put his hand underneath her chin. He lifted her beautiful face which had been on the cover of Vanity Fair a couple of times as favors to a friend and said the four most beautiful words ever spoken.

"Come to my Jeep."

Then he grabbed her hand and led her down the stairs like to a metal bridal bed. She watched the muscles play under his back. Like two sea otters swimming under a skin sea. Where were they going? Was he still mad at her? Why did his hand feel so amazing? Does he have a girlfriend? Should I wear a coat?

When they got to the Jeep, he turned to Vanessa. His eyes were grave and he put his beautiful hands on her shoulders.

"Vanessa, there's a mama cow having a baby up on Lovers Ridge," he said with a scottish brogue flavored with a Texas drawl because he was an exiled Scottish Prince before he became the head ranch hand. "I can do most things in this life alone. God gave me the tools. But today I need some help. Can you be my partner, Vanessa?"

When he said partner, her heart became a Chinese New Year's. And just like China, it sent troops to other countries like Logic and Reason to oppress them and keep them under the law of the heart. The Heart was the only thing listening as they drove towards destiny.

COMING SOON: Chapter 3 "Lovers Ridge"

Edie and Pop - Ep. 7

2012-01-23T12:34:00.003-05:00

The continuing saga of text messages between me and my 3 1/2 month old daughter.

EDIE: Pop, remember yesterday?

POP: Yes, Edie. I'm not a goldfish.

EDIE: Thanks. Another word I don't know. Could we keep it to my level, professor?

POP: I truly don't know what that is. You can inexplicably text with your pudgy little hands. You know who Siri Cruise is but you don't know what a grandma is. According to you, you've hailed cabs and have a better stock portfolio than me. Really, I can't second guess your vocabulary or I'd be spelling out goo and ga.

EDIE: See? I got all that. Except for grandma. What is that again?

POP: Me and your Mom have moms, too. That is a grandma.

EDIE: That's not possible because you are giants and that would mean there are mega-giants roaming this land and then exponentially bigger giants upwards populating this earth. I don't buy it.

POP: Let's go over this again. You will not remain this size. You will become 'giant' sized. Theoretically.

EDIE: When? Because I'm still baby sized. I saw that corn on the cob you were eating. If I tried to put that in my mouth, it would be like someone stabbing me with a yellow sword that tastes good with butter.

POP: See? Again, I'm baffled by what you know. And how do you know about corn? You can't have solids yet.

EDIE: I know that! It's not like you two don't rub it in my face all time shoving your pieholes full of whatever that crusty stuff filled with baked fruit is.

POP: That would be pie.

EDIE: See? I didn't even know piehole was a compound word. Ok. Enough of that. Now I have a question about humanity.

POP: The way you phrased that is making me nervous.

EDIE: Ok, so you and Mom are humans, right?

POP: Yes. There's not like a human certification test but if there was, I think I would pass it and your Mom would ace it.

EDIE: And I'm a small human, according to your theory. Are there other small humans?

POP: Yes. Those are other babies.

EDIE: Well, those "babies" suck. They never text me back and none of them want to bet on the ponies.

POP: I'm just going to ignore that you're gambling before my anger compels me to come over there and replace your binky with a stern look.

EDIE: I'm soooo scared. If I started to cry, you'd run to me like I was on fire. I've got you figured, giant man. I own you.

POP: Don't push me, baby. I will sell you to the mob.

EDIE: Oh, big talk, Daddy. You love me so much, you'll turn into human pudding.

POP: I can get over you. We'll cry on the news like the Lindberghs. And then I'll spread out the 50 grand they gave me all over the bed and roll in it like the movies.

EDIE: Money is really dirty. Mom will be so mad if you germ up the bed with money.

POP: So don't push me, sweetheart. I've got my dark side.

EDIE: You wish. Ok, why are some babies so hairy and get fed beef sticks all the time?

POP: Oh, those are dogs. They're not human.

EDIE: Can dogs and humans have babies together?

POP: No. Though some humans have faces that look like they did.

EDIE: Was that a joke?

POP: You're a baby. You don't know what funny is.

EDIE: Obviously, neither do you.

POP: I'm calling the mob.

EDIE: I'm going to sleep. Where I can eat dream pie.

Romance Novel Excerpts #1 - Introducing Vanessa Lonelyheart

2012-01-16T18:26:00.000-05:00

I've decided to write a romance novel. Bit by bit on my blog. It's probably going to be the greatest romance novel of all time. Next to Die Hard, the novelization.

THE HEART IS THE LONELIEST DUDE RANCH

Excerpt from Chapter 1

The night was cold and sexy. Vanessa Lonelyheart was sad/hopeful/mysterious to be back on the ranch. She had to get away from her super busy life as the most wanted fashion journalist in the whole world excluding Guam. She grew up on this ranch. Cows were in her blood. So were horses. So were fenceposts. She would also say that four wheelers and roping lessons and beef jerky and turkey jerky and boots with fancy patterns and daylight savings were also in her blood. It was good to be home. No, scratch that. It was good sexy to be home.

Because Vanessa had just gotten out of a seven year relationship with a media mogul. Their passion was as hot as the volcanic island he owned. And then it waned. Like the other cooling volcanic island he owned. She could blame a lot of things. Maybe it was the changing world of newsprint that cooled off their libido. Maybe it was the 10th anniversary of 9/11. Maybe they had just grown apart like two twins separated at a sexy birth. Maybe they were Pangaea splitting up into two separate countries called Friendship and Go Ahead, Vanessa, Keep the Penthouse Overlooking Central Park.

Vanessa's mother, Meryl Streep, brought out two steaming cups of macchiato.

"Honey, I wish I could stay and help you through your crisis but my new movie is opening up," said Meryl Streep, the best mother on all of Gaia. "You know how it is. Do you want to come to my premiere? I'll set you up with Viggo Mortenson. His real name is Howard."

"No, Mother Streep. I just want to be on the ranch. Soak the earth into my marrows. I need to recenter. Maybe I'll write an Eat, Pray, Love."

"I would totally star in it. Alright, too-da-loo. Say hi to your father, Sam Elliot for me."

And Meryl Streep leaped into the air and method acted herself into a bird that flew to LA.

Vanessa thought about trying to find another perfect man and she felt sadful again. And then she felt angriable. She wasn't defined by men! She didn't need to be with some rich handsome powerful man with pecs like two New York strip steaks. She could be herself, Vanessa Lonelyheart, former Ms. Texas, MIT graduate in chaos mathematics, winner of the Lubbock Short Ribs Eating Contest for eight years. She had a lot going for her. She needed a man like a fish needed a bicycle. U2 said that and she believed it because Bono is the world's greatest poet.

And just as she said that, the head ranch hand drove up in his Jeep. He jumped out of his ride like a gazelle wearing boots. His legs were pistons dipped in denim batter. His butt could deflect bullets. And his torso was a flesh revelation. If he'd ever worn a shirt, it would have been like putting a bag over the sun. His ribs were a staircase. His neck was a pedestal for the most beautifully rugged face not carved into marble. It was him, the love of her life. The man she'd run away from to New York City. The man she'd rather been killed by a mountain cat than face here and now.

Dexter McChest.

Do You Dare Explore The Murky Fringe?

2012-01-13T16:10:00.000-05:00

Here's something I wrote for The Murky Fringe. Warning Signs Your Kid May Sleep Murder You

I don't know what 'edgy' is. I don't know what 'the edge' is. I actually don't believe in it. I don't believe topics are taboo. And I don't believe that the things that people write about to get a rise out of other people are ever especially funny. They're usually just boring. I can't tell you how many times I've been to some comedy show where some guy is making jokes about having sex with god and I want to yell, "Boo! I've heard someone do that better, you hack."

The edge for me is good writing. Whatever it is, in whatever form. The edge is surprising, illuminating, uncomfortable, upside down turning, writing. Are there new subjects? Plato said there wasn't. And I believe that guy. Because he invented platonic love and that stuff makes it cool to for me to hold hands with homeless dudes.

I have a friend that founded this humor website, The Murky Fringe. You should go there. Check it out. It's weird and smart and funny and disturbing and beautiful and the wonderful rantings of three very funny men and a few guest contributors. One of which is me from time to time. They are very gracious to let me post my weirdo stuff up there.

The site is not for everyone. Just like nothing is for everyone. But I like to see people creating. Right now. It drives me crazy when people tell me that nothing good is being made anymore. That no current music, movies, writing, art, is as good today as it was a while ago. These people are just lazy. They don't take the time to look. These guys are just as funny and talented as anybody who has ever lived. Except for Plato. That dude was killing it. Republic will make you laugh until you throw up lungs.

We All Eat Alone

2012-01-10T15:16:00.000-05:00

Yeah, that's right, Restaurant Patrons. I'm alone tonight. No, no. Don't even think that maybe someone's in the bathroom. Because it's not true. But wait a minute, Puffy Eyed Stranger, there's a woman's coat on the chair across from you. Yes, there is. In desperation to cover up the yawning chasm of my pathetic loneliness, I went next door and bought a fashionable lady's jacket at the TJ Maxx. This was my ruse for hour six.

Hour 5, I pretended to call my fake girlfriend 17 times to give her driving directions to the restaurant.

Hour 4, I acted like I was a food critic for mediocre chain restaurants. Even though they're no longer here, I would like to thank the couple next to me who nodded as I described Applebee's honey teriyaki ham steak as capricious whimsy and a Vesuvius of taste.

Hour 3, when I was actually crying, I made it clear that my wife had just been here and had told me she was having an affair. I was sent some free appletinis from surrounding patrons. They were almost delicious.

Hour 2, I spent my time texting every woman I know to please show up and get me out of this embarrassing situation.

Hour 1, I waited for my actual girlfriend to show up, and when I say actual girlfriend, I mean Tabitha Runyan, who I work with and made out with at the holiday office party two years in a row and who I invited out to dinner tonight because she said her boyfriend died in Iraq to which I was like, 'About time!'.

Yes, I see you, Olive Garden Manager Fred Asperson. I know I'm making people uncomfortable. And I bet you're wishing right now that your servers weren't hot teenage girls without enough arm strength to wrestle a crazy out of your crapsteraunt. I'm not the worst one here. You are. With your faux italian nonsense, engineered to be bland enough that octogenarians can gum it. Real italians should burn this place down and make a marinara from your blood.

I do want to thank Cindy the Waitress for letting me take up her table for her whole shift. I'm serious, Cindy. You can have my Vespa as a tip. I only bought it to look cool to Tabitha Runyan. Who is like this bottomless bowl of soup. She can fill you up but she only comes in a few boring flavors. Holiday Party Skank Broth. Lead Me On Chowder. And Every Nice Word That Comes From Her Mouth Is Bologna Minestrone.

Why did I order so much food? Because somewhere around Hour 3 I decided to eat myself to death. That was before I googled it during Hour 5 and found out that's a long process. Why did I stay? Because I have nothing out there. At least in here, I have people that care enough to come up to me and say, "Another refill?" and "Sir, you've been here a very long time." and "Yes, the cook does think the Seafood Alfredo Pasta tastes better with your tears on it."

One day, you'll be here. Because in the end WE ALL EAT ALONE. That's right. No matter how many dinners you share with how many people, nobody eats that food but you. No one's teeth but yours will chew it. No one's esophagus but yours will shoot it into your digestion bag. And no one's enzymes but yours will break it down into the ingredients we need to stay sadly clinging to life.

I'm leaving, Manager Fred Asperson. But not before I get all this mediocrity packed in to go boxes. Waitress Cindy, I love you. I think you're wearing the wrong shade of foundation though. Waiter Matthew, you're a douche for telling table 6 that my wife really wasn't here. I might come back and hit you with my Elantra. That fashionable lady's jacket is up for grabs.

Edie and Pop - Ep. 6

2012-01-06T08:00:00.000-05:00

When Edie was only six weeks old, she learned how to text. This is our continuing saga of communication.

EDIE: Pop! I saw a baby yesterday and he had teeth. I need some of those.

POP: You're only three months old. You won't get teeth for a while.

EDIE: But gums are so newborn! I want some chompers.

POP: Well, I'm sorry. Teeth are fickle. There's no way to tell when they'll come in. It might be in three months or in a year.

EDIE: How do you know this crap? Are you a doctor? Oh my gosh. Wait until I tell the other babies.

POP: Yeah, I'm a doctor. That's why I'm home so much.

EDIE: I'm going to be rich! Yay! I'm a doctor's baby! Is Mom a lawyer? Is that why she's so good at winning arguments with you?

POP: Hold on. You didn't understand my tone.

EDIE: I was afraid because of all the paintings and books contained in this tastefully hip living space that I see I'm growing up in that you and Mom were some sort of weirdo idealists that didn't believe in selling out.

POP: That's us. Weirdo idealists.

EDIE: Wait. Which one is the joke? Are you and Mom loaded or not?

POP: We're in the arts.

EDIE: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!

POP: Hey, hey. Stop crying. Your Mom is trying to sleep.

EDIE: Oh, great. Is she getting her subjective beauty sleep? So she can wake up and add more pretention to the world?

POP: Hey, little girl, art is how you came about.

EDIE: Oh, really? You composed me as a poem and then Mom interpreted me into existence via dance? No, wait. Did you paint a picture and then sing me out of the wet canvas?

POP: Are these euphemisms or are you just being obtuse?

EDIE: What words are those?! Art words? Poor smart people words?

POP: You know, I am going to find you a doctor dad. As soon as we get done here, I'm putting you up for adoption on some medical craigslist. Ugh. Obtuse means difficult to understand. Euphemism is making a suggestive synonym for sex.

EDIE: What's sex?

POP: What? You don't? Ooooh. Nope. I'm not doing this now. Let's get back to teeth.

EDIE: What is sex? What is it?

POP: No way. You're going to have to wait 12 more years before we have this talk. Or hear it from one of your middle school friend's slutty sisters.

EDIE: What is IT?! I need to know. Don't make me learn how to crawl so I can get to a computer that is hopefully on the floor and not password protected and google this.

POP: Soooo teeth are a fickle part of the body. It's not a milestone in development, it just happens whenever the body is ready.

EDIE: Just a hint. Puh-lease.

POP: Don't do that. Don't attach pictures of you with your duck pacifier. You know I can't handle that level of cuteness.

EDIE: Just buy me some baby dentures until my real ones come and tell me all about this mysterious s-e-x.

POP: I just shivered slash gagged at the thought of a baby with a full set of teeth.

EDIE: You're stalling. My lawyer Mom would have already told me. Because she'd be too busy making money.

POP: What's your obsession with money?

EDIE: I want a solid gold diaper! Go get a real job, Art School!

POP: Fine. You want to know what sex is? It's when two people hopefully might possibly love each other...

EDIE: Ew, there's love?! Gross. Shut it down!

Best Music of 2011

2012-01-05T00:58:00.001-05:00

IF YOU JUST WANT THE MIX, GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS POST AND CLICK THE DOWNLOAD LINK. THIS POST IS LONG AS CRAP.

Before you download this let me give you a few caveats.

1. I don't listen to the radio or anything on the top 40. So there's no Adele, I hate Katy Perry, and I don't really like Gaga or Bruno Mars or Gym Class Heroes or any of that stuff. I'm not saying they're bad or untalented or overproduced or corporate ear candy, I'm just saying they're not what I'm into generally.

2. I don't listen to much hip-hop. So since I don't try to experience the gamut of hip-hop, I hesitate to comment on it by picking the best hip-hop of the year. So while the Kanye/Jay-Z album should probably be represented, I feel it better to just not show my ignorance.

3. This is my favorite music. This is what I like. I know you're not going to like it all. Or agree with my list. I don't want you to. I want you to be you. Because if you were another me, I would have to destroy you and absorb your powers like in that crappy movie The One starring Jet Li.

4. I have listened to literally thousands of songs released this year. 2433 if you want to be exact and look at the bottom of my iTunes. So while I may not be listening to the songs you like, I am surveying a giant portion of music to whittle it down to a mere 50.

5. Also, I'm not including multiple songs from an artist even though they deserve to be up here. In many cases, you should just check out that whole album.

5. One of my greatest secrets to finding great music is TYSON SCHENK. Click on his name and go to his blog. He puts up a blogmail mix every month. I would say at least 40 percent of the music on here was given to me by him or we were listening to at the same time.

Now I hope you find at least one song you like on here. Tracking down the links was too hard so I'm just going to leave you a link to download the whole mix. That means you're getting the whole sham bang but there's some rocking stuff, some danceable stuff and some just depressing beautiful indie gems.

I really wanted to have 50 best songs so I put down some of my favorite covers of the year as well. Enjoy.

MY FAVORITE MUSIC OF 2011
(in no particular order except countdowns look more exciting)

50. I Want You - Summer Camp
This was the feel bad jam of the summer. A totally tongue in cheek stalker song about a girl who wants to love a guy so bad she'll hurt him if she gets her mitts on him. One of Val's favorites. (She's very dark inside.)

49. East Harlem - Beirut
Could be my favorite song of the year. It's competing hardcore with another song on this list. The whole album is great. Buy or steal it.

48. Midnight City - M83
Their last album put them on my radar and made me stoked to hear some sophmore efforts. This song doesn't disappoint. The soft vibe of the lyrics against the space sound synthesizer is rad.

47. Truth - Alexander
If you didn't hear Alexander's other project Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, you missed the best song of the year. I love this song as well for different reasons. I have a music video in my head for it. It involves a man in a bunny costume and samurai swords.

46. Hold On - Alabama Shakes
A late addition to the mix but it gets me moving. And I hate not moving.

45. Tigers - Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
It's fricking Stephen Malkmus! Pavement! The Jicks! And a killer new album. Find your 90s roots.

44. Sleep Tight - Rollerskaters
I love their band name. I love this song. Tyson Schenk certified.

43. Blue Jeans - Lana Del Rey
If you're an indie music snob like me, then you couldn't help see this lady blow up everywhere on every indie blog. She released like 3 or 5 singles and this one is my favorite. Also a Valerie pick.

42. I Can't Make You Love Me(Bonnie Raitt Cover) - Bon Iver
I told you. I've got some covers on here. Because I flip-flappin' love well done covers. I love me some Bon Iver and I adore this cover. I'm already courting it to be my second wife.

41. How Can U Luv Me? - Unknown Mortal Orchestra
Tyson was hot on this band as soon as they dropped on Bandcamp. I heard it on Sirius XMU months and months later. Good call, Tyson. This is one man band awesomeness.

40. Old Flames - Jeremy Lee Givens
Another Tyson recommend to me. Never heard of him but he has this sort of 50s throwback/David Bowie/minimalist 90s jangle pop thing going and I like how it feels in my bones.

39. Hey Friend - Jeff the Brotherhood
The beginning of this song will throw you. Ride it out for about two minutes and then it descends into this post-Weezer heartfelt jam about a boy who just wants to be part of his friend's family. Deceivingly good.

38. Wilhelms Scream - James Blake
This song has me gripped in a sonic vise. It haunts me, saddens me, speaks to that depression that lives in deep pools somewhere down there. It's like finding someone who says, "Hey, let's hurt together."

37. I'm His Girl - Friends
I'm into beats this year. I got beats in my bones. And I like to dance. And I like to dance to this song.

36. The Scientist(Coldplay Cover) - Willie Nelson
Another cover. Coldplay is that band that my indie douchebag side likes to like ironically. But I love this song. And I love Willie Nelson putting it through the ol voicebox.

35. Polish Girl - Neon Indian
This was on everybody's list. Neon Indian is easily the best of the whole Chill Wave movement and this song is a flag saying, "Yeah, Chill Wave sucked but we're still here and we deserve to be."

34. Don't Try and Hide It - The Dodos
This band is like Spoon. All the songs kind of sound the same but I just can't get enough of them. The new album is good and this is my favorite song off of it.

33. Gangsta - tUnE-yarDs
Let's give it up for one man bands. And by one man, I mean one woman. You either love or hate her. But her mad music and looping skills are rad, bad, mad.

32. Can't Keep Johnny Down - They Might Be Giants
It's THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS. 'Nuff said.

31. Wildfire - SBTRKT
Unknownst to me. Hype Machine was all about him and this song is like maple syrup to your ear pancakes. (Shut up, I'm writing a lot of these. They can't all be good.)

30. Tamer Animals - Other Lives
My favorite song off this album. It makes me want to drive through Manhattan at 3 in the morning in a slushy snowstorm.

29. Getaway - Kent Odessa
Sometimes Tyson finds crap I never come across in my blogosphere searches. This Kent Odessa guy is one of them. This song makes me super happy. I'm putting into a pocket for a springtime drive to the Hamptons.

28. Nothing's The Matter - fthrsn (pronounced fatherson)
And then there's stuff I bet Tyson never runs across, too. This is one of them. This sort of crooning songster under some Nine Inch Nails heavy beats and funtime keyboards was a random find.

27. Ode to Janice Melt - Army Navy
The happiest song of the year? Could be. Pop heaven? Definitely. How can you not bounce your head from shoulder to shoulder? You can't help it. This song will control your neck.

26. I'm Losing Myself - Robin Pecknold
And I will follow that by one of the saddest songs of the year. It's a Fleet Foxes/Grizzly Bear team-up. How the crap can you not want that? It's beautiful and haunting. A dead girl of a song wandering the Irish moors.

25. Halfway - Milagres
This is one that just sort of blindsided me. I had it for a while and then one day just listened and loved it. I'm really into this 'crooner rock' as I keep calling it.

24. Wintersong - Blake Mills
Yep. I love this guy. And whatever girl finished up this song with a duet. One day, my friend Jon will finally introduce us so I can slap this dude some serious fives.

23. Tell Her No - Tennis
Just keep loving Tennis despite the ungooglable nature of their name.

22. The Suburbs (Arcade Fire Cover) - Little Jeans
I wanted to tell Tyson about this song as soon as I heard it and then he was already putting it on his blogmail mix. Go figure.

21. I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li
How can a song sound upbeat and downbeat at the same time? Oh wait. That totally describes the last decade of music. Maybe two. But I like it.

20. Money - The Drums
It's like the anthem for all starving students in love.

19. Jesus Fever - Kurt Vile
Another one on everybody's Best of List. It's just good, okay? I even listened to an interview with Tom Waits where they asked him if he liked Kurt Vile.

18. Revival - Deerhunter
The lead singer of Deerhunter is a big weirdo. Like he puts the woah in weirdo weird. But I will eat his music with a spoon.

17. After the Moment - Craft Spells
Don't know them. Never heard another song. Just like them. Summer breezy easy.

16. Calgary - Bon Iver
The new album is either good or great depending who you talk to. Still my favorite song off of it despite everyone's heavy leanings toward Michicant or Wash.

15. Would You Say Stop? - Acid House Kings
Have you never heard these guys?! Have you ever been happy?! Nothing much like these Swedes.

14. Lion's Share - Albatross
You're going to love this or curse me. I'm just into this guy's voice and the weird song patterns.

13. Cults - Abducted
This also might be my favorite song of the year.

12. Lotus Flower - Radiohead
Probably my least favorite Radiohead album but still that's a million times better than Katy Perry's best album.

11. Come On Come On - Oregon Bike Trails
I adore these guys. If they come to Brooklyn (if they're not already from here) they can stay on my couch. They can bounce my baby. They can watch my seasons of Community.

10. Africa (Toto Cover) - Low
This may be my favorite song of the year as well. That's right, original song writers. A cover might rule them all!

9. Grown Ocean - Fleet Foxes
This album is my favorite album of the year. I played it until I have Robin Pecknold's voice in my head forever like a radio station centered in my medulla oblangata.

8. Tom Tom - The Hundred in the Hands
Another Valerie pick. She was singing this the other day and I forgot how good this song was.

7. When My Time Comes - Dawes
Lyrics from this gem have been stuck in my head for months. Clever, beautiful, and paced impeccably. I'm a big fan. I'm a giant solar windmill for this song.

6. Land Majestic - Anni Rossi
Anni Rossi plays a violin/fiddle thing. She plucks it for your enjoyment. It's happy. Fun. It'll make a smile creep through your face muscles.

5. I Walked (Sufjan Stevens cover) - Fol Chen
Yep. I love Sufjan. And I love covers. And I adore this one by the clever and talented Fol Chen. Check out Sufjan's music and Fol Chen's song "Cable TV".

4. Nightlight - Little Dragon
What if Michael Jackson and Jamiroquai had a baby? Well, its cry would sound like this. One foot steppin jam machine.

3. I Want a House - Twin Sister
Another Chill Wave contender. They made it. And this song is wonderful von vunderful. Though I thought the lyric was "I want a house made of old ROOMS" which set my mind racing. But it's 'old WOOD'.

2. Skeletons - Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr.
Another of the punnier names this year for bands. This song has stayed with me all year. I love the lyrics.

1. America's Son - Air Review
My actual number one song of the year. Why do you like something more than other things? Who knows? I just do. I can't change that neural pathway. This song could be about me. It could be about you. You could think it sucks. I could think you do.

Download Mix Here:
JAMES'S MOST FAV MUSIC OF 2011 LINK

Reverse Bucket List

2011-12-31T09:57:00.000-05:00

It's New Year's Resolution time and that means it's time to make lists of crap we will be passionate about for a brief period of time.

Instead of resolutions, I'm going to make a reverse bucket list. For those of you who don't know what a bucket list is, it's a list of all the things you think you need to do before you die. If you've ever made a bucket list, first off, why are you such a death obsessed psycho? Second, why can't you just let your life flow naturally, taking experiences as they come or as you pursue them? Third, that movie The Bucket List sucked. I already saw that movie and it was called Space Cowboys and it was way better because it was in space.

So a Reverse Bucket List is a list of things you NEVER EVER IN YOUR WHOLE LIFE WANT TO DO OR HAVE HAPPEN TO YOU.

Valerie and I both did this. You should check out her list. VALERIE's Reverse Bucket List

JAMES BEST'S REVERSE BUCKET LIST

I Never Want To:

1. Watch Valerie fall out of a hot air balloon just past my grasp as I scream, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!"

2. Be caught making fun of a T-Rex. By a T-Rex.

3. Get gut shot out in the desert and be left by bad cowboys to die.

4. Live through an ice cream shortage.

5. Be forced by unforeseen future circumstances to have to hunt bunnies and kitties for food.

6. Spend a night alone with a moo cow in a doorless, windowless room.

7. Watch anything starring Miley Cyrus.

8. Eat something living that is eating me at the same time.

9. Take a road trip with the radio stuck on the Top 40s Station.

10. Learn what the "that" is in the lyric "I would do anything for love but I won't do that".

11. Have to pry live lobster claws off of my face or private parts.

12. Attend any concert by any teen or child performer on the Disney channel.

13. Ever be in the same country as this bug.

14. Break down next to a cornfield in the middle of the night and walk through the corn to the farmhouse.

15. Have to be in a war and be responsible for war-like activities.

16. Pull a tapeworm out of my mouth or butt.

17. Be awake for any kind of surgery where I'm going to see my own flesh meat.

18. Find out that I, as I suspected, did not fit in very well at prison.

19. Time travel to a time before deodorant or milkshakes.

20. Discover I'm a terrible shot during a zombie apocalypse.

21. Have some sort of nightmare surprise party where all my ex-girlfriends are waiting to tell Valerie how terrible I was to them.

22. Be cursed to wear only European styles for the rest of my life.

23. Somehow make it to the Star Wars universe and have Yoda tell me I have absolutely no Jedi aptitude. (There was so much sadness in my fingers as I wrote that.)

24. Instead of a werewolf become a were-something that sucks. Like a were-donkey. Or a were-Michael Bay.

25. Be in an eating contest of black licorice.

26. Have my life turned into a movie and then find out it sucked.

27. Wake up in some nightmare world where I have to play team sports everyday.

28. Have the recipe to Coca-Cola destroyed or forgotten.

29. Wake up and find out the only thing playing on tv for the rest of time is Two and a Half Men and Everybody Loves Raymond.

30. Find out all my suspicions about horses being dirty murder hell creatures who just want to chomp off my mister parts is totally true. In the most literal way.

31. Have my whole life narrated in my head by Gilbert Gottfried.

32. Live in some sort of police state where chocolate and peanut butter could not come together in holy matrimony like God intended.

33. Die from anything I could get in the game Oregon Trail.

Reasons I'm Not Afraid of Sharks

2011-12-29T08:00:00.000-05:00

1. I don't know any sharks.

2. Ok, let's say I was going to meet some. Like at a party I was invited to by some mutual aquatic life acquaintance . I couldn't just stereotype them, could I? I should at least meet them, right?

3. So I'm at this party and my friend, Greg, who is a grouper eel, introduces me to this shark by the name of Montrose and he's a little intimidating with those rows of teeth and all, but he wonders if I play squash and I tell him, yeah, I've tried it. And he says, Great!

4.A week goes by and I'm mowing my lawn and Montrose pulls up right in front of my house. Said he saw me when he drove by earlier. He and Mrs. Shark are looking at the neighborhood. It's closer to work and their boy, Carloff, is going to try out for the swim team. I ask him jokingly, "Don't you think having gills is kind of cheating?" And Montrose says, "Isn't using a harpoon in a fight instead of your evolution given gifts kind of cheating?" What a zinger. I love this shark.

5. I'm having this poker night at my house and Montrose comes over. Brings over these delicious crab stuffed crabs. Greg the grouper eel is there and a couple of human guys from work. And a manta ray whose name I keep forgetting. And we're playing five card stud and Montrose gets up to use the shower for a second, he has to keep wet, it's an ocean thing and when he comes back in, my coworker Brian the human starts doing the Jaws theme, "Dunh dunh dunh". Everyone gets real uncomfortable. Montrose looks pissed. I hear his razor sharp teeth grind. But then he looks right at Brian and says, "You know, I don't watch Silence of the Lambs and think all humans are crazed demented cannibals. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't stereotype my people because of one movie." The manta ray says 'Aw, snap' which makes Greg spit root beer everywhere and everyone just loses it. The manta ray's name turns out to be Ray.

6. I'm at work the next day and Brian doesn't show up. I figure he's embarrassed about the Jaws thing. And then around lunchtime, someone runs in and tells me that Brian was eviscerated outside of his apartment last night. In fact, it looks like someone slurped out all his guts and spit out his pacemaker. The whole town is scared about a bear being in the vicinity. I have a weird feeling I know who it is. I call up Montrose. He says he's been playing golf all morning but he'd meet me for drinks after work.

The bar he picks is a little out of the way and caters mostly to fish out of water. They keep sprinklers going the whole time for the Waterbreathers but they have a bright yellow rainsuit for me. Which makes me feel a little like the guy on the Gorton's fishstick box. Montrose is at the end of the bar. He's sipping a real Bloody Mary. I sit down next to him. Order a Shirley Temple. Tell the bartender I want the human variety. He's a marlin. He sort of chuckles darkly. I guess it has a double meaning.

I tell Montrose about Brian. I say it offhand, just like I would tell anyone a story about some guy being chewed. My tone is flat, conversational, properly shocked. Montrose snorts a little when I say a bear did it. He thinks bears are brainless, lazy. Not worth the rug they wear over their bones. I say some people think that sharks are just the bears of the sea. Montrose gets quiet and then he opens his mouth. Asks me if I see anything in his teeth. And there it is. Brian's wedding ring sitting like a crown on one of those shark incisors.

I say, "Yeah. I see something."

He says, "Could you be a pal and get it out? No pilot fish today. And no opposable thumbs, you know."

I reach inside his giant maw. The bar gets quiet. All I can hear is "Benny and Jets" playing on the jukebox. His breath stinks like tuna and something else. Some sweet kind of beef. The Brian kind. My hand is shaking. The ring is way back. I have to lean my head in a little. Water or saliva drips down on my neck. I touch the metal, cool and wet. I slice my thumb a little on the tooth. It hits the tongue. Montrose can taste it. He shivers. I grab the ring and pull back.

Montrose smiles. "If you need another poker player, I know a hammerhead. He's dumb. He'll lose money like starfish lose limbs."

I smile. Elton John finishes. My drink comes.

7. Oh,and Montrose said my blood tastes like crap. I have a rare blood type and he says it is repulsive.

Edie and Pop - Ep. 5

2011-12-28T13:14:00.000-05:00

The continuing saga of text messages between me and my three month old daughter.

EDIE: Pop! Pop! Pop!

POP: What's up? What's wrong?

EDIE: I had a bad dream!

POP: Oh, Edie, I'm so sorry. I wish there was...hold on. Why are you texting me this? Why aren't you just crying?

EDIE: It's called the 21st century, Pop. Real emotions expressed through human to human contact is archaic. Only what we convey electronically is of value.

POP: That is not true. Who taught you that crap?

EDIE: The Church of the Internet.

POP: Very funny.

EDIE: No, it's a real church. Ashton Kutcher goes there. And I would never make an Ashton Kutcher joke, so you know it's just true.

POP: Good. I really don't want this conversation to devolve into a bunch of celebrity hate/worship jokes. And the hell you're going to Kutcher Church. How are you even getting to a computer?

EDIE: You know how my legs are super pudge and muscularly underdeveloped?

POP: You've been lying to us? You can walk?!

EDIE: Oh no. My gams are useless. But I have a grappling hook and those fat legs cushion my fall.

POP: I don't even...nevermind. What was your bad dream about?

EDIE: It was terrifying. There were all these fast blurry shapes and a giant standing over my crib with massive hands reaching into get me.

POP: That was me. I'm that ham handed giant. It's probably a memory you have of me getting you out of your crib.

EDIE: Well, I keep having the same dream. So fix it.

POP: You can't fix dreams. They're buried thoughts, anxieties, hopes and fears in your subconscious.

EDIE: FIX IT!

POP: What am I going to do? Enter your subconscious?

EDIE: Yes. Go into my dreamscape. Like a dreamwarrior.

POP: This text cannot convey the cold rage howling through me right now. How did you see Nightmare on Elm Street?

EDIE: Um, Kutcher. We watch them a lot at the Church of the Internet.

POP: I'm going to punch him in his face until it looks like Charlie Sheen is back on Two and a Half Men.

EDIE: He's really broken up about Demi. Church has gotten really sad. We barely even read the Holy Twitters any more. And nobody stands up and retweets them at all.

POP: He cheated on her! How can he be sad?

EDIE: Well, he really wanted to get away with it. His beard is made from tears.

POP: You're not going to that church anymore!

EDIE: Then you become a dreamwarrior!

POP: Fine! I'll google how to do it! Give me your grappling hook!

EDIE: You'll never find it!

POP: Is it in my sock drawer?

EDIE: ...

POP: Is your silence a confirmation?

EDIE: I hate your adult brain.

My Version of Christmas

2011-12-15T14:35:00.000-05:00

The other day I thought, "I should write a Christmas movie. Because I'm abnormally jolly." And because people love them and they really help people to get into the Christmas spirit. And I'm just the kind of guy who likes to give. That's my thing. Giving.

So here's the opening to my Christmas movie. I don't usually toot my own horn but I think I have the beginning of a real classic. This is like It's a Wonderful Life meets a unicorn parade.

INT. LIVING ROOM - EVENING

It's Christmas Eve. The hands of the grandfather clock move to 2:34. Outside the hoar frosted window, the snow falls gently on white lawns and houses. The Christmas tree blinks softly and beneath it are dozens of brightly wrapped gifts. CHARLES MCKINLEY comes down the stairs, rubbing one of his eyes, and holding a tricycle with a bow. In a dark corner of the room, we see the glow of a pipe. And in that glow, we see Santa Claus, resting in an armchair, smoking a pipe.

CHARLES
Santa! What in the name of..Christmas are you doing here?

SANTA

I'm here for you, Charles. We have some holiday business.

CHARLES

This is really you, right? I mean, I'm not about to get rape murdered by a mall santa?

SANTA

No, Charles. You have a been a good boy.

As Santa says this, he puts away his pipe and reaches for some cookies on the plate with the "For Santa" card on it.

CHARLES

That inflection was weird. I'm still a little unsure.

SANTA

Consider yourself safe, Charles. 1 to 10, how's your Santa knowledge? Would you stay standard American?

CHARLES

I might have to bone up but yeah. Kris Kringle, North Pole Residence, Sleigh and Reindeer?

SANTA

Yeah. Not bad. And you know that Santa knows who's good and who's bad, right? That he has this demigod power to judge all the people of the earth according to a simple black or white model of justice?

CHARLES

Yeah, but I never really believed...

SANTA

In what? Me? The Jolly Elf? Well, holy Blitzen, here I am. And if I'm here, I must have that crazy power.

Santa grabs the glass of milk and downs it. When he looks back at Charles, his mustache is covered in frothy moo juice.

SANTA

I can see inside your soul, Charles.

CHARLES

So why are you talking to me? I appreciate it. Despite the fact that my world real vs myth cosmology is super out of whack now...

SANTA

Oh, it's weirder than you think. Sasquatch is real. We're buddies. Tooth fairy is real. She's a space demon. I've been trying to kill that #$%@& for years...

CHARLES

Stop! I don't want to know this. Why are you here?

SANTA

Charles, I know who's good, right? And to those people I give presents. Do you know what I give to who's bad?

CHARLES

Coal, right?

SANTA

Damn straight.

Santa pulls out a giant all black Magnum 357 pistol from his bag of presents. Etched into the handle in fancy silver cursive it reads "COAL".

SANTA

You see, Charles, I took over this Santa gig about 70 years ago, there's a longer lifespan perk, don't worry about it, and since then I have executed the wicked with extreme prejudice. I've done things...

Santa shudders. He spins the chamber nervously. Takes a bullet out. It's clear and sparkles red and green.

CHARLES

I never knew. I just thought Santa was all elves and ho, ho, ho.

SANTA

That's where you come in, Charles. I admired your work in Delta Force. You have a good heart but you were still a murder machine out there. So I'm here to offer you a job. As the new Santa.

CHARLES

What? I couldn't. I have a family. And my job.

SANTA

Well, if you won't do it for Santa, will you do it for your Commander-in-Chief? Look closely.

Charles looks intently at Santa's face. The camera pulls in closer.

CHARLES

FDR?! But you died...70 years ago...

SANTA

Nope. I just got a new New Deal.

Generic 80's butt rock music plays. Title screen: Spelled out in candy cane letters: SANTA'S SLAY. Blood drips off the candy canes.

There Is No Fast, There Is No Furious

2011-12-13T23:06:00.002-05:00

To the Guy Revving His Engine Next to Me,

What are you doing? Look me in the eyes. Can you see how green my eyes are? Here. Let me turn on the overhead light for you. Pretty green, right? That's the color of disdain. The traffic light is about to turn that color. The traffic light and I are not impressed. That's why it's still red. It's giving you time to pull out of your douchebag nosedive.

Let's also look at a few obvious things. First off, I'm driving a hybrid. That's like racing a toy car. Worse. I'm actually in a hybrid SUV. That's like racing a toy car with a kitten sitting on it. It's not even bullying. It's just a weird display of power. Like you're demonstrating that you're stronger than a frog.

Second. What about me clues you in to any type of competitive nature? I was just bobbing my head to some lo-fi indie jam. I'm sitting in a way that helps my posture. I'm wearing a scarf. Do you see a leather jacket? Does my girlfriend have a black eye from my love clobber? Do I glare out the window daring someone to race me as I flex my chest muscles back and forth like juggling two spray tanned coconuts?

Thirdly, what the crap decade do you live in? Are we 50s greasers? Should we go outside town and race for pinks? How about this? Let's both drive as far as we can outside of town. Oh, wait. I have a hybrid. I could drive forever.

Or maybe you think this is The Fast and the Furious. Or wish it was. Did you think Vin Diesel was a good actor? Because he's not. He has two acting modes. Mad and About-To-Get-Mad. Paul Walker is worse. He has one mode. It's called At-Least-I-Can-Act-Better-Than-Tyrese-Gibson. Yes, Meathead. I saw Fast and Furious 2. I'm familiar with the franchise. And even still, I have no desire to race you.

Did you just call me a female body part? I accept that. Because the reproductive system is great and it's how you and I came into this world. I just called you a reproductive part as well. It's called the Vas Deferens. You should be able to find it in any anatomy drawing of the male reproductive system.

And I bet you like that drawing, huh? You want to frame it. Well, I know a nice framing shop. And the picture framers will know right off what I know. What's that? "Know what?" you say?

That you're gay! I got you, meathead! Light's green, you suck, pedal to the metal, dude lover!

Arby's Finally Finds Me

2011-12-09T18:28:00.000-05:00

INT. JAMES AND VAL'S BEDROOM

James and Valerie are asleep in their bed. They look dead more than at peace due to the baby sleeping in a bassinet right next to the bed. The room is dark except for the street lights. Between James and the window is a shadow. A shadow of a giant ten gallon hat with arms and legs. One of the arms touches James.

ARBY

James, wake up.

JAMES

(groggily)

Who in the name of crap...

ARBY

It's me. I found you. It's been a couple of years, huh?

JAMES

Arby? Is that you? You smell like a meat slicer.

ARBY

Yeah, that's my permanent smell now. I'm very popular with wild dogs.

JAMES

(yawning)

I'm sorry I haven't called or written. I've just been in New York and...

ARBY

I know. I KNOW. They have ALL the other fast food chains. But my roast beefyness? Absent. My bbq saucitude? Nowhere to be tasted.

JAMES

Could we do this tomorrow? I'm pretty tired.

ARBY

No, James. No we cannot, James. Did Vesuvius wait? No. Did AIDS wait? No. Did the meteor wait until the perfect time to cause an ice age? No.

JAMES
Why are you comparing us to AIDS? And are you comparing my hunger to AIDS or is my hunger my nervous system? I don't understand this analogy.

ARBY
Your hunger is the dinosaurs grazing in the field. And in the sky is a giant roast beef sandwich trailing behind it a fifty foot tail of Arby's sauce.

JAMES
Listen, this is unacceptable. I know we've grown apart but you can't just barge in here demanding I taste your burgers!

ARBY
THEY ARE NOT BURGERS! They are roast beef SANDWICHES! You have insulted my meat!

JAMES
Stop whisper shouting! You're going to wake up my baby.

Valerie stirs and wakes up a little.

VALERIE
James, why does it smell like a barbecued sock in here?

JAMES
Go back to sleep, baby.

VALERIE
There's a giant hat talking to you.

JAMES
You're dreaming. I hate headwear. I'd never talk to it.

VALERIE
(yawns)
That's true. Goodnight.

Valerie curls up on her side and goes back to sleep. Her nose wrinkles when she breathes in.

ARBY
She doesn't even recognize me.

JAMES
We're different people now, Arby. We enjoy Thai food. We eat a lot of pie. We eat at places labeled "Fusion". Maybe it's time we part...what the crap was that?!

ARBY
I squirted some Arby's sauce in your mouth! That taste is free! But you'll be back. The key ingredient is crack. Cooked in a tomato base.

JAMES
Get the hell out of my apartment!

ARBY
Fine. Tell me you love me.

JAMES
I will not!

ARBY
I'll say it for you then. Dear Arby, this is James. I love you. I want to kiss your sesames.

JAMES
You're embarrassing yourself.

ARBY
Let's run away together.

Edie and Pop - Ep. 4

2011-12-06T17:30:00.000-05:00

EDIE: Pop. I need some money.

POP: Nope. You do not. Because you are a baby.

EDIE: That's bigotry. You're a baby bigot.

POP: Even if I gave you money how would you get to a store?

EDIE: You will carry me there.

POP: Fat chance, fat baby.

EDIE: You can't say those things. I could be scarred for life.

POP: No, you won't. Your memory sucks. Every time I put that panda shaped rattle in front of your face, you're surprised.

EDIE: That's not true. My memory is awesome.

POP: I'll prove it to you.

EDIE: You're the one that sucks. You don't know my brain. It's nice and smooth like a gray version of my butt and you...oh my gosh, there's a tiny panda in this room! It's filled with exciting noise!

POP: See? No memory equals no scars. Adults rule. Babies drool.

EDIE: I blow spit bubbles! It's my passion. Drool is just a byproduct of my passion. Just like lame jokes are a byproduct of yours.

POP: That was a low blow.

EDIE: That's all I can throw. I'm a foot and a half.

POP: Let's start over. Since I'll be doing this eventually. How much do you need?

EDIE: 900 dollars.

POP: My thumbs are angry. As I type this, know that I have furious thumbs.

EDIE: I neeeeeeed it!

POP: FOR WHAT? What in the name of all babydom could possibly cost 900 dollars?!

EDIE: A Bug-a-Boo.

POP: Those weirdo space strollers? I'm sorry. Is the future not getting here fast enough for you? Do you wish your last name was Jetson?

EDIE: All the other babies have one. I feel like we're trying to make a class statement when you carry me in a wrap or a bjorn.

POP: First off, stroller navigation in New York is outrageous. The navigating power of a body held device is preferable. And secondly, I wouldn't be caught dead pushing one of those bourgeousie baby limos if I became the King of Planet Earth.

EDIE: You spelled bourgeoisie wrong.

POP: My thumbs are on fire now! Do not correct me!

EDIE: And Mom says you dress like a communist anyway.

POP: Lava thumbs! LAVA THUMBS!

Edie and Pop Ep. 3

2011-12-03T12:00:00.000-05:00

EDIE: Pop, Pop, Pop.

POP: Hey, I'm trying to sleep. Remember how you were up all night?

EDIE: Yeah, that was a great time. Tonight? Same time?

POP: No. You're going to sleep no matter what. I will build a fake womb to put you back in if that's what it takes.

EDIE: Oh, my gosh. I totally miss that place. It was like a temperature controlled dance club with flesh walls.

POP: That's weird. Please don't say that to your Mom.

EDIE: Well, I can't. Because I can't get my vocal chords to work right. All I can get out is 'coo' and 'gah-gah-bluh' and some wolf sounds.

POP: Alright. Seriously. Nap time. You, too.

EDIE: Sure. Edie signing off, "Pop". If you really are my Pop.

POP: Why would I hang out with you and care about your neverending flow of doodoo if I wasn't your Pop?

EDIE: I don't know. I don't really know many people. Maybe that's normal. Maybe adults are enslaved by babies.

POP: Well, that's sort of true.

EDIE: I want to see some documentation.

POP: Oh, I have some documentation. How about the bags under my eyes? How about the crick in my neck from holding you perfectly still? How about HOW I HAVE TO STALK AROUND MY HOUSE LIKE A FREAKING NINJA AS TO NOT WAKE THE BABY?!

EDIE: I love it when you use all caps. It's funny.

POP: This discussion is over. I'm going to sleep.

EDIE: We should go on Maury Povitch. Do a paternity test.

POP: How do you even know about that show? We don't have cable.

EDIE: I get around. You don't own me.

POP: Well, I guess I don't own you. You know what? I'm not sure I'm your Pop either.

EDIE: See? I knew there was some doubt. We don't even look alike. Except we're both a little fat and squishy.

POP: I feel myself growing more distant from you already. This really frees me up from a lot of emotional responsibility.

EDIE: I ALREADY don't care. It feels amazing, huh? We should find my real dad. I bet he's a King.

POP: Well, that's a short list. We should just check out the King listings.

EDIE: That's great. I'm very excited about being a princess. Now come put my pacifier back in my mouth.

POP: As Not-Your-Pop, I really feel no need to. Good luck.

EDIE: Oh, this is how it's going to be? Well, two can play at this game. And by this game, I mean The Crying Game.

POP: You're going to switch genders?

EDIE: No, I'm going to cry. A lot.

POP: Then why did you reference The Crying Game movie?

EDIE: I thought I was making something up.

POP: I'm going to sleep.

EDIE: Do we have that movie?

Dear Max, Happy Crapday

2011-11-24T22:32:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I write letters to a six year old named Max. Here's some. And another. Sometimes he writes letters back. We hate each other. Don't worry. It's healthy.

~~

Oh hello Max,

Isn't life full of coincidences? We both live in New York now. We both went to your grandparents for Thanksgiving. We both know you're having a birthday tomorrow. And only one of us is going.

So EVERYBODY got invitations but ME? I like Chuck E. Cheese. I like celebrations of life. Just because I'm a grown up man, I don't have feelings? I mean I'll be cool if I don't go. I won't like eat a mountain of french toast because it tastes like self loathing. I won't cry in the shower until the hot water runs out. I'm just saying that this is low, Max. Even for you, you heartless little monster.

Do you know what I'm going to do tomorrow while everyone goes to your birthday party? I'm going to find a simultaneous party going on at the same Chuck E. Cheese. And I'm going to make it louder and more fun than your party. Too bad you're not going to get all the free tokens I'll be giving to the OTHER BIRTHDAY BOY. Too bad you won't be learning MY SECRET COOL HIGH FIVES. Too bad you won't be receiving an ACTUAL AK-47 with PRE-LOADED BANANA CLIP.

Nope. Because your party is going to suck. I'll make sure of it. I'll slip the high school student playing Chuck E. Cheese a twenty to ignore you. Or maybe even shake his head at you. Or give you the shame fingers. A very disturbing image of scraping one index finger across another. It will haunt you.

Do you want to be traumatized? Do you want to have a pitcher of Dr Pepper spilled on you, by a waiter I also bribed, in front of all your friends? Do you want to see a confused child at the party next to you be reunited with his estranged Uncle Robert who has brought him his very own donkey and illegal automatic machine gun that could have been yours? Because I'm telling you, I have a very convincing story concocted about this Uncle Robert character and how he was switched at birth in the hospital.

Fine. Do whatever you want. Have your party. Get older without me. Even your arch enemy can have feelings, okay? You'll understand someday. When you're not so stupid from being young.

Tomorrow, if you look to your left I'll be the guy at the other party wearing a mock turtleneck and blond goatee, trying to calm a donkey. If you look really hard, I'll be mouthing Happy Birthday as everyone sings it to you. I'll be the one with a tear in my eye. And a tear in my heart.

Love and Hate,

James Best

Thanksgiving Helpline

2011-11-24T07:36:00.001-05:00

Every year I run a charity service for people with Thanksgiving questions and emergencies. There's things I know a lot about (THANKSGIVING) and things I know almost nothing about (WHAT TAKING A PUNCH FEELS LIKE.) I help where I can. Here are this year's Thanksgiving Helpline problems averted.

ELIZABETH asks:

Why does Thanksgiving only happen in America & Canada?!

HELPLINE says:

Because every other country has nothing to be thankful for. France celebrates Oui-We-Suck-Day.

~~~

ANDREA asks:

Is it possible to say Thanksgiving is too commercialized? If so, how would you suggest bringing it back to it's Puritan roots?

HELPLINE says:

Andrea, burn some witches and get some cholera. Voila. Vintage Thanksgiving.

~~~

SARA asks:

Where can I buy turkey in Kyushu, Japan?

HELPLINE says:

Sara, I checked Google Maps. You're going to have to swim to China. And in China, turkeys are called "unwanted girl children".

~~~

BRITTANY asks:

Thanksgiving Helpine, should I be offended that no one (including my husband) is allowing me to make ANYthing for Thanksgiving? Well, except for the place cards. I was put in charge of...place cards.

HELPLINE says:

Brittany, if you're in charge of place cards, that's the equivalent of distracting a kitty with a toy. They'll probably cut up your food, too. Go get a new family.

~~~

KURT asks:

Thanksgiving Helpline, did Master Chief liberate Thanksgiving from the Covenant?

HELPLINE says:

Kurt, luckily I speak all languages of nerd. According to my history book of the future, Master Chief and Covenant one day will come together and celebrate Spacegiving.

~~~

JULIE asks:

Thanksgiving Helpline, our only son has invited "friends" to our Thanksgiving Dinner and they are bringing their own turkey. Should I be offended?

HELPLINE says:

Julie, don't be concerned about the turkey. Let's examine this claim that Ben has friends. Ben does not have friends. You are his mother. That should be a boy's only friend.

~~~

ALISSA asks:

What does it mean when you enjoy dancing with your turkey?

HELPLINE says:

It means that Season 15 of Dancing With the Stars is coming up and you two could be contenders. Also, turkeys always lead.

~~~

KURT asks:

Thanksgiving Helpline, what is the REAL reason turkey makes you sleepy?

HELPLINE says:

Kurt, turkeys want us all to sleep so they can kill us while we nap and then wear our clothes and play our boardgames. Turkeys love Candyland.

~~~

KAMI asks:

Thanksgiving Helpline, what exactly is a 'giblet' and why on earth do they leave it inside the turkey?

HELPLINE says:

Kami, No one on earth actually knows what a giblet is.As far as I know, they're not even part of the turkey. They might be left over generic candy from Halloween.

~~~

SCOTT asks:

Was the black and buckled clothing the Pilgrims wore considered sexy - almost Pilgrim lingerie - back then?

HELPLINE says:

Scott, it was indeed lingerie. The pilgrims had a much different idea of what was sexy back then. Where you wore a buckle signified what part of the body was most desired. Nothing was a bigger turn on to pilgrims than feet and foreheads.

~~~

JANE asks:

Am I supposed to refrigerate my apple pie, Thanksgiving Helpline? It seems so weird to let it sit out on the counter.

HELPLINE says:

Jane, Thanksgiving Helpline here. You NEVER refrigerate apple pie.It's because apples are warmblooded creatures and they never migrate farther north than say Washington. It's more an animal cruelty issue than baking issue.

~~~

CHRISTIAN asks:

Why did the Native Americans plant a fish for fertilizer with their corn? Why not a deer or an elk? More fertilizer, right?

HELPLINE says:

Christian, you're correct. For us modern folk who may not trust fish due to the mercury levels, I suggest planting your corn in a cemetery. Just more fertilizer, right?

~~~

Edie and Pop Ep. 2

2011-11-21T22:08:00.001-05:00

EDIE: Pop. It's me, Edie. Your seven week old daughter.

POP: Are you texting me again? How did you get your Mom's phone AGAIN?

EDIE: Oh, she left it in the crib when I started holding it and cooing. She's such a sucker. Where are you?

POP: I'm at my desk. I'm literally 15 feet from you.

EDIE: Oh, thanks for rubbing it in. I'm practically blind with my newborn eyes. I can barely see the magic light rectangles.

POP: Those are windows.

EDIE: What are windows?

POP: The rectangles. The blurry light shapes you're seeing are windows.

EDIE: I made THAT connection, Pop. But what the crap are windows?

POP: Oh. When we build houses we put holes in them and fill them with glass so we can get light and air.

EDIE: Ooooh, I like those things. What's glass?

POP: It's a clear substance made from super heating sand. We use it for windows and drinking glasses.

EDIE: Hold on. Didn't Mom cut her hand on one of those drinking things? Is this glass stuff stable?

POP: Well, yeah. Sort of. Just don't throw stuff at it. Or subject it to hurricanes.

EDIE: This stuff breaks?! And you've got a giant rectangle of it over me?!?!

POP: It's not like that. You're totally safe. Barring freak accidents. Gunshots.

EDIE: This is bullcrap! If I could walk or call Social Services, you'd be going to jail, mister!

POP: We put you by the window so you could enjoy the light and air...

EDIE: and be severed by the giant clear razor raining down on my tender little frame!

POP: Do you want to move to my side of the bed? So your Mom would have to GET OUT OF BED in the MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING NIGHT to give you your LIFE SUSTAINING FOOD?!

EDIE: Geez, Pop. I get it. You love her or something gross. That was adequately punctuated by you putting your angry face in my non-blurry babyview.

POP: Where did you put her phone? I couldn't find it in your bassinet.

EDIE: You don't even want to know.

POP: Oh, come on. I really try to keep my humor above poop jokes.

EDIE: Have you seen the muscle mass of my arms? How could I maneuver anything as heavy as a phone into the airtight seal you make at my waste with paper and tape?

POP: I am pretty handy with a diaper. Where's the phone?

EDIE: I threw it at that glass stuff. To teach you a lesson.

POP: The window is open!

EDIE: What does that mean?

POP: There was no glass between you and the street! Holy crap. I have to go.

EDIE: I can fall into the street?!?!

Edie and Pop

2011-11-15T11:54:00.001-05:00

EDIE: Hey, pop. It's Edie.

POP: Is this a joke? How are you texting?

EDIE: I have Mom's phone. Don't worry about it. What's up?

POP: I'm working. So I can keep you in diapers.

EDIE: Cool. Come home.

POP: I can't. That's the problem with NOT BEING A BABY. You have to work.

EDIE: That suuuuucks. But I want to play.

POP: You're six weeks old. You can't do anything. You make lip bubbles.

EDIE: Well, how can I learn anything when you're working all the time?

POP: Hey, enough with the guilt. How are you texting? You barely unclench your fingers.

EDIE: Life is easier when people have low expectations of you.

POP: Wait until I show your Mom these texts.

EDIE: She'll never believe you. Come on. I'm a baby. How am I doing this?

POP: What is this? The singing frog routine?

EDIE: What is that? Is that a pop culture reference? Thanks a lot. I spend my days in a bassinet.

POP: Hey, I didn't even know you were cognizant! You smile at a panda toy filled with rice.

EDIE: Maybe you should give people the benefit of the doubt. Take them to see The Muppets.

POP: This is not about me. This is about a sneaky baby who knows how to text.

EDIE: Am I that sneaky baby? Are we talking about me? I'm going to cry now.

POP: Please don't do that. Your Mom's tired.

EDIE: Nope. I'm going to wail. I'll be inconsolable until you get home.

POP: Don't do that. Please please please. Val will be in such a bad mood.

EDIE: Too late. I'm warming up the screamer. I'm going to squirm, too.

POP: Fine. Fine. What do you want?

EDIE: A Star Wars marathon. So I can understand what the crap you're referencing all the time.

POP: Oh. Well, I can do that. This is the happiest day of my life. This is going to be awesome.

EDIE: Oh, I don't anticipate liking it. I just want some fuel for when I reveal to Mom I can talk. So I can ceaselessly mock you.

POP: You suck.

EDIE: I'm telling.

POP: You can't.

EDIE: Touche. Later, nerd.

Last Music Video Post, I Promise

2011-11-10T08:58:00.002-05:00

I seriously can't get enough of music videos right now. I have to post some more then I swear I'm done. For a week at least. If I updated more frequently, I could just do one at a time. But here's another five. I hope you dig whether or not you like the music.

SKREAM

This is not technically a music video. But that's a fine line. It's a short film that was shot in 8 hours in Brooklyn. (I know half the places in this video.) But it uses one song the whole time so why is it not a music video? Who cares. It's rad and has some of the coolest uses of slo-mo I've ever seen. It's called 8 Hours in Brooklyn.

8 Hours in Brooklyn from Next Level Pictures on Vimeo.

SLEIGH BELLS

I like this band. In doses. I can't always listen to them but when I'm in the mood to throw a tv out a window, I can put them on. This video is weird Jared Hess-ian cinema and I like it.

YOUNG GALAXY

I'm not totally into these guys but this video is something else. The amount of time it must have taken is impressive.

TUNE-YARDS

This is just one talented lady making all this noise. I'm a sucker for videos with kids in them. And dance numbers. And facepaint.

LORD HURON

One of my newer favorite singers. Real folksy and dreamy. Perfect for daydreaming or hiking the tundra.

We Called Them Music Videos

2011-11-05T10:44:00.000-04:00

I need to post some more. Those are all great but there's so many more from this year that are fantastic. On the other post, they were all songs I liked as well. On this one, that's not entirely true. But all of the videos are fantastic.

And I haven't even scratched the surface. I'll post some more this month.

MANCHESTER ORCHESTRA

I don't know this band but I ran across this video and I adore it. The amazing thing about this video is how it snowballs. The images and ideas just keep repeating and building. This is competing for video of the year.

Manchester Orchestra - "Simple Math" from DANIELS on Vimeo.

SEVENTEEN EVERGREEN

Looking for music videos is also a great way to find new music. In my video searching, I found these guys and I'm having a hard time deciding whether I like the song as much as I like the video. That would be hard, considering the video is mindblowingly good.

Seventeen Evergreen - Polarity Song from Lucky Number Music on Vimeo.

MEMORY TAPES

The great thing about music videos is that they are essentially short films. Which we've stopped watching. Ask anybody the last short film they watched. They'd be hard pressed to come up with one. We get fed music by corporate run radio stations who are in bed with the big record labels who are in bed with the ticket and concert people. Let's hearken back to short films set to beautiful music.

Also: this was shot in my neighborhood and some of the shots are one avenue over from me. It's like you're walking in my neighborhood.

GARDENS & VILLA

This is another band I got into this year. I really like how simple and goofy this video is while at the same time having this atmospheric quality.

Black Hills by Gardens & Villa from Secretly Jag on Vimeo.

M83

This album is badical. I sort of dug their last one but this one has me at hell yes. This video is great. I feel like every kid wants to be these kids. Left to their own devices. Removed from their parents. And having awesomely fantastic powers.

Hey, MTV, We Don't Need You

2011-11-03T22:18:00.000-04:00

Here's the deal. I hate MTV. Not because it blows and it's a reality suck fest. But because it used to be really good. It used to stand for something. For music. And music journalism. And counter culture. And alternative programming. And Something Different.

MTV in the 80s and early 90s was the thing you couldn't help watching. It was groundbreaking. Then it betrayed us.

MTV is like my cool older brother who sold out and went corporate. And not only that, he still thinks he's cool. But he's not. He's woefully embarrassingly not.

But even without MTV, music videos continue. And you may not watch them. Or know where to find them. So I've compiled a few of the best ones of the year. (If you don't have time to watch every video, move down to the last one right now. It's amazing.)

WILD FLAG

If you didn't know Sleater-Kinney, then you didn't rock enough yet. After Sleater-Kinney broke up, they split into two mega bands. Here is one of them.

THE BLACK KEYS

A music video? By definition, sure. Mostly it's just an excuse to watch an awesome dancer.

AIR REVIEW

Literally, never heard of this band until yesterday. Tyson Schenk put this band in one of his blogmail mixes. I freaking love this song. And the video.

BEIRUT

This might be my album of the year. This song and East Harlem made my summer. If you want to understand my sense of humor, watch this video. Because I think this is hysterical.

ARMY NAVY

Another new band on my radar. I highly recommend them. Just perfect power pop. But this, hands down, is the BEST VIDEO OF THE YEAR.

I'm Not Afraid of a Six Year Old

2011-11-02T21:08:00.001-04:00

About three years ago, my friends Ben and Annie Howington moved from beautiful, industrial Brooklyn to beautiful, metropolitan Raleigh, North Carolina. With them, they took Lila Howington and my best friend, Jack Howington. Jack was three and I was almost 30 but we found our maturity level was about the same. That's me and Jack this summer.

Me and Jack's best friendship came to a grinding halt once he moved next to Max, his same age cousin. Suddenly, Jack stopped writing letters. ( And by letters, I mean alphabet letters. He would just send me a crayon drawn "B" or "K". ) Jack stopped calling me on his fake cell phone. He stopped giving me recaps of Dora and as a result my Spanish suffered.

Because of Max. Stupid little Max and his stupid cute smile and his stupid friendly disposition. I wrote some letters to him trying to convince him to defriend Jack. You can see evidence of them here. But it didn't work. They remained best friends. And I had to hang out with adults. Until I found another child, Pete, to share my interest in trains, destruction, and general naughtiness.

Well, now Max has moved away from Jack. To LONG ISLAND. We have started our correspondence again. Here is the message I received on Facebook.

Annie Howington said she was coming to NEW YORK to visit her "FAVORITES". Max wrote:

James.

"Favorites" will always equal Colliers in the Howington eyes. I'm pretty sure I won this argument 3 years ago but whateves. Just want you to know there will be no bad blood between us this weekend. I'm mature now.

Heart, Max

Well, here's my response to that, Gluteus Maximus.

Dear Max,

Everyone from New York knows that when people talk about visiting New York they never mean Long Island. That's just the vestigial tail of New York. Oh, what's up? You don't know the word "Vestigial"? Why? Because you go to some kind of dumb kids school? Some sort of dummies' schoo....

I've just been informed that you're in Kindergarten. Because you're only six. I take it back. I bet you're head of the class in naps and dinosaur recognition. I would never impugn the name of Kindergarten.

But you're still only six. You can't vote. You can't buy dynamite. You couldn't be President even if you passed the Presidential Candidate test. Which is hard. And mostly consists of questions like: 1) Should a President always be rich? 2) Is Vermont technically a state?

Here's a hint. Number 2 is no. It's a suburb of New Hampshire.

See? I'm off topic. Because you drive me crazy! I'm soooo glad that you're still best friends with Jack. It doesn't bother me at all. Oh wait. That's sarcasm. You don't get it because that's a higher brain function. You need to eat something more complicated than mac n cheese to grow those kind of synapses. You need to cut up some hot dogs in there, bro!

Let's review things you can do for Jack. Buy him a matchbox car. Well, isn't that special? Because I can buy him a real car. And I'll let him drive it, too. Because I'm an ADULT. And I'm IRRESPONSIBLE. And I will totally LIE TO HIS PARENTS ABOUT WHY WE WE'RE GOING TO THE ABANDONED STATE FAIR PARKING LOT.

It's so he can drive. Did you put that together? No? Is it because it's called Deductive Reasoning, Max? Can you say that? Hold on. I've just been informed that six year olds can actually talk and say complex words fairly easily.

Fine, Max. You're not going to win. I'm an adult. I'm superior. I can run for mayor of your town and pass laws that all kids named Max have to change their names to even dumber names. Like Snakebutt. And Barnaclepants. I will do that, Max. I will move to your town and start an aggressive campaign to be mayor. Just to pass silly laws that hurt you.

Stay way from Jack. Write him a letter post-haste explaining how you hate him now. Tell him you're best friends with a girl now. That'll show him. And I'll scoop in with the used Nissan Sentra I bought him. Red. With battle damage. From a really cool accident.

Suck it, Max. I hope you cry. Like a six year old baby. And I've just been informed that six year olds have tear glands so you physically are able.

I'm happiest when you're sad,

James Best

Joey Chestnut, The Competitive Eater, Giving Himself A Pep Talk

2011-10-23T22:15:00.000-04:00

Come on, Joey Chestnut. You're almost there. The finish line is so near your giant mouth you can feel it. Look at all these people. Cheering you on. They're saying, "Hey, we're here because we want to see you make a pig of yourself." Give the people what they want, Joey. Find that inner pig. He probably lives in your stomach.

See? There's barely any hotdogs left. That was a mountain of wieners. But you came in like one of those companies that remove mountains. And you really de-wienered it. Well, maybe that's not the right word but you don't have time to learn all the words. Not when you're the Double Chocolate Chip Muffin Champ in ten states!

Remember when you first started? When you were just an amateur, taking bets at tailgate parties about much ketchup you could drink? Look at you now. People adore you. Food fears you. Sure, sometimes it's lonely. Sometimes you push your celebrity on people who don't know you. You walk into a McDonald's and say,"Hey, who doesn't think I can eat 200 McNuggets?" Sometimes you go to the Sizzler and ask out loud to those dining in, "Hey, regular folks. Let's see how true All-You-Can-Eat Shrimp really is." And when the people are chanting around you, when everyone's laughing as you rain down the uneaten shrimp tails over their heads, it feels like a drug. A drug that makes you very full and sleepy but also invigorates your ego.

You can do this, Joey. Just three dozen more hotdogs and you're the new Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Champion. What's that to you? You ate a lifesize David made from mashed potatoes. On a dare, you ate three of those pool noodles. Don't think of this as three dozen hot dogs. They're like little lincoln logs. You could build a small cabin from those weenies. It's just a little house. You can eat a little house, can't you?

Sure, you can. Because you're Joey Chestnut. You're the macaroni vacuum. You're the Quadhafi of Corndogs. You're Attila the Honeybuns. You are the living blackhole. If they bake it, you will come.

Give them what they want, Joey. Eat it all. Eat the whole world.

Post Op Revelations

2011-10-21T12:50:00.002-04:00

(Note: If you've seen Seinfeld and you can recall J Peterman's voice, you might want to read it in that voice.)

YOU'VE BEEN IN AN ACCIDENT, DON'T LOOK UNDER THE HORSE BLANKET YET

Oh, hello Richard. I'm Doctor Bainer. Don't be alarmed but you're in a hospital. You were in a terrible accident. No, no. Settle down. Settle down, Richard! Oh, damn it. He kicked a nurse. Nurse Jacobs, please take Nurse Rosenberg to the ER and get her chest looked at. Nurse Rosenberg, if your breasts are damaged, I will build you new ones. Surgeon Genius's word. Oh, what a day. By jove, will someone tranquilize him? Richard, this is for your own good! I'm holding him! Do it! DO! IT!

~*~

Welcome back, Richard. Let's try this again. With less horse-sterics. You won't get it yet. But I'm a punster. You'll get used to it. So where were we? Yes. Accident. You were in a terrible snowmobiling accident. Do you remember rocketing off that cliff at 80 mph and clearing a dozen pines? Well, you almost made it to the fluffy powder. Unfortunately, there was a wild mustang in your way.

What does that mean? Oh, Richard. It means that you plowed into a 1200 pound flank steak riding a metal comet. How can I explain it to in non-doctory terms? The three of you, man, horse, and machine, made the slopes look like a cyborg fought a one man cavalry charge. Or a robot battled a butcher shop.

The bad news is that you lost your legs. The good news is that I've found you some new ones. You can peek under the horse blanket now.

~*~

You fainted. In fact, you kind of gave out a whinny. Nurse Jacobs said it was adorable. Now as you can see, I've attached the lower half of a horse to your torso. You cleanly severed the mustang's head from his body in an environment where the cold preserved the legs perfectly. Your legs on the other hand were like two bags of bone and goo soup.

Luckily, I am Dr. Geoff Bainer, resident Surgeon Genius. Sure, you're asking, "Dr. Genius, why couldn't you have left me with NO LEGS?" Because Richard, science doesn't progress when we do the same old thing. We need to dare. We need to risk. We need to say, "Did God give me these perfect hands only to amputate or to create an actual centaur?"

Oh yes, Richard. You are a CENTAUR now. Half man/half horse. In a rare double whammy, I have saved your life AND created a mythical beast. I can see you are tearing up and I appreciate that you appreciate my genius. The other doctors said I was CRAZY. UNETHICAL. Well, I locked them out of the operating room and Nurse Jacobs held them at bay with a flamethrower. I knew I was riding the Once-In-A-Lifetime Train to Nobel City. Oh, come on, Richard. Your tail just knocked your food tray to the ground.

~*~

You fainted again. Yes, you have a tail. And hooves. And a shiny coat. See? There's a smile. Also, you're faster. And you could kick through a barn door if you were ever trapped in a barn. There's lots of positives. Chicks love horses. You'll probably be on talk shows. You only need to buy shirts from now on. You can sleep standing up. You can gallop. Humans can't gallop.

Thank you, Nurse Jacobs. Yes. There are some downsides. You won't be able to fit in cars. You're about to be really into oats. You'll need different kinds of shots. You may have to escape from government scientists looking to discover your secrets. You might be hunted, cast out by those who don't understand you. There's no anticipated lifespan for centaurs. And you'll be a freak, of course.

Oh, and one more thing. There was a minor complication. Now don't get all skittish, Richard. There was nothing wrong with the surgery. You are a healthily constructed centaur. I rerouted all your guts into horse guts and as long as you keep it down to a trot, your stitches should hold. It's just, well...how shall I put this? I didn't check under the chassis, you know? What I'm saying is that I hooked you up to a lady horse. Woah, big fella! Get back on the table. You punted Nurse Jacobs! We still think of you as a man. Half man. Don't rear up at me! I created you! I'm your Dr. Frankenstein. I will break you and ride you out of the emergency exit, young man! Easy now!

Rebel Without A Pause

2011-10-18T00:28:00.002-04:00

I didn't go through too much of a rebellious phase. Oh, I'm sure I made my Mom mad but I never did anything too crazy. I told my Mom I was going to move to Boston once, out of the blue. Just pack up and go live with these two girls. She was more worried that I would become an annoying Red Sox fan. So here's how I might have acted out.

INT. LIVING ROOM

JAMES runs in with his girl ARROE, a bad chick who dresses in ripped stuff and whose real name is Erin, but totally doesn't answer to it. James is wearing a leather jacket and his hair is long and despite his genetic inability, he has a soul patch. Because this is fiction. Also, he doesn't know soul patches are lametown.

JAMES

What's up, 'rents? Yeah, that was my hog you heard up in the driveway. Don't smile at me like you like hogs. Just because my grandpa and my uncle ride them. What I'm doing is DIFFERENT. It's CRAZY. I don't even have an OPERATOR'S LICENSE. I will not get a SMOG CHECK. So suck on that. This is my girl Arroe. We're lovers.

ARROE

Don't try to separate us. We'll just run faster into each other's arms. Like trains. With arms.

JAMES

Isn't that freaking beautiful? Arroe is a poet. Yeah, that's right. I like POETRY now. I know you wanted me to be a LAWYER but I'm not gonna. We're going to go on the road and read poetry to each other until we're so hot for each other we have to french kiss. On the back of my hog. While we're riding down a mountain. Because we put the US in DANGEROUS.

ARROE

Your son is ah-mazing. His words kill me. It's like his mouth is a blowgun.

JAMES

Don't try to stop us. We're going to the Northwest Territories. There's like two people there. And one of them is like whatever the moose version of the centaur is. Don't correct me! I've seen pictures. Oh, what's that? What will we do for money? Who cares? I'll sell my blood. We'll make souvenir bandannas for bikers. And we don't even need money. Both of us hate food. Because it's FAKE. THE MAN is in charge of the food. So we're sticking it to him. Unless we see a Wendy's. The number six combo is like a polka heaven in your mouth.

ARROE

Don't try to stop us. We love each other so hard. We make your love look like a sham. Your love is like a paper pop up book and ours is like a metal pop up book. It can survive anything...can I use your bathroom? Thanks.

JAMES

If you want me, you won't find me. I'm done with this butthole of a town. With these phoney Tonys and their bullcrap...ishness. I'm leaving the nest! Like a bird tied to a bottlerocket. That doesn't explode because that would imply that I'm going to fail. Unless it does explode and I metamorpho-whatever into a pterodactyl! Don't look at me like that! You NEVER understood me. I'm out of here. We don't need passports for Canada, right? Wait, why am I asking you?! Our passport is OUR LOVE. And the country that approves it is the Country of HELL YES on the Continent of DON'T CARE. Later, 'rents! Kiss my wind!

ARROE

Bye! You have a lovely home!

Sticky Notes of Love

2011-10-17T00:13:00.002-04:00

If I had had a teacher crush in elementary school, these letters are what I imagine they would be like. Also, I just published in Limestone Journal, and if you go here, you'll see it says 'featuring' writing by me. I like the idea of being featured. I'm going to have people start announcing me at places. When I have dinner with you, it'll be your regular dinner but Featuring James Best. Alright, letters.

LOVE LETTERS

Ms. Havershaw,

I'm sorry to hear about your divorce. I bet it super blows. I wouldn't know because I'm just a kid and my cognitive ability to understand long term consequences hasn't fully developed. But really, what a suckfest you must be having. If you'll notice, I've left three sticky notes on the bottom of this note. Please respond with an answer as to how you will respond to my affections and a dinner date this Friday. I will have to be home by 8:30 though. Are you too sad to drive?

Love,

James

Dear James,

I have attached the "NO" sticky and underlined it twice. Thank you for the thoughts on my divorce (it's a separation) but your letter was inappropriate. Let's not bring your parents into this. And please stop writing "James + Ms. H" on the chalkboard before I come in.

Mrs. not Ms. Havershaw

Mrs. Havershaw,

I looked up the word separation. Gotcha. So our love will be forbidden. Were you saying no to my affections or dinner? I should have left separate sticky notes options. Did I mention that this dinner was at the Great Skate roller rink? I have saved up enough money from my paper route to buy us both two chili dogs, fries and refillable drinks. They have pink lemonade on tap. It's like the only place in town. I'll usually drink like six of them and get so jazzed I can skate backwards at warp speed.

Skating to your heart,

James

To my student James,

I am writing you another letter since you pretended to be asleep standing up when I confronted you about this during recess. This has to stop. You are a child. I am an adult. I am sort of married to a man that used to care about me before Hooters was built near the airport. I do admit that your devotion to me is cute but this is not right. Your letters must stop. Thank you for drawing a picture of me eating a chili dog.

Your Teacher

My Love,

I loved what you said about Michigan history today. That was a very compelling story about the lumber boom in the Upper Peninsula. Is there anything you don't know? Speaking of history, I've acquired two flintlock pistols and I've contacted your 'husband' about a duel. My crazy grandpa said I could use the pistols "as long as the love is pure enough". Ricky Turner is going to be my second. We've been practicing with cap guns. As soon as I blow away your buttbrains of a husband, we can be together. I've drawn a preview of the duel. I had to use two red crayons.

Your Gentleman Warrior,

James

James,

I called your parents and the principal. We'll be meeting after school. This has gone too far. I warned you and now this is going to go on your permanent record. I'm sorry. I know you mean well and you don't really understand the feelings you're feeling. In a way, I wish you were my age. I could use a man who stands up for me and doesn't laugh at me when the obscenely breasted Hooters waitress says, "Can I refill your A Cup? I mean your cup!" You're a sweet kid. I'd like to see Gary with a giant flesh crater in his chest like you depicted. I hope your parents aren't too hard on you. I've found our interchange to be creepy but sweet.

Ms. Havershaw

Linda,

Your name is so sweet on my tongue. All day I wrote your last name over mine. James Havershaw, Mr. James Havershaw, Mr. Linda Havershaw. I know why you did it. I'll expect the firing squad at 2:45. Propriety will keep us apart but at least I looked up the word propriety. You are better than chocolate milk every day. I will wait for you. And if you are a thousand years old by the time I am twenty, than I will still marry your old bones. Always, my love.

James Havershaw

P.S. I will be hiding in your car tonight in case you want to run away with me to Canada where there's no laws and you can love whomever you want, regardless of whether or not they have reached puberty.

October 15th: What that Means for Me and You

2011-10-15T10:33:00.000-04:00

Back in January, a poet and editor named Tyler Chadwick contacted me about an anthology. He said that he was collecting an anthology of Mormon Poets.

I wrote back, "There's Mormon Poets?"

I didn't know about many. I definitely didn't believe that I was the only one. I had met Lance Larsen when he read at BYU-Idaho. My friend Aaron Allen writes poetry and he studied under Kimberly Johnson, author of "Leviathan with a Hook". A fantastic read.

Of course, I knew some of my professors at BYU-I were poets. I had taken classes from Mark Bennion, Matt Babcock, Jim Richards, Jim Papworth, and Scott Samuelson. They were all influences on my beginning work. I met Russ Moorehead at the church I attend in Brooklyn. I read about Neil Aitken and met him at the Writer's Conference. And in a strange coincidence I read with Timothy Liu at a reading this summer. I have other friends from BYU-I who write poetry, have gone to school for it.

So, I wasn't exactly being facetious. But I truthfully imagined the Mormon poetry world to be much smaller than it is. Apparently, I'm not an island. This list, published in March, told me otherwise.

The book comes out today. You can order it here. I have five poems in it.

I say buy it. For some of you, when's the last time you've purchased a book of poetry? You've never purchased one, you say?! Well then, you haven't lived!

And you can support a small press publisher. That'll make you feel good. Small presses are some of the last bastions of good literature. Go ahead. Help a little guy.

NOW, YOU DON'T HAVE TO KEEP READING AFTER THIS. YOU CAN BE HAPPY ABOUT ME BEING IN THE ANTHOLOGY AND LEAVE. GIVE ME A VIRTUAL PAT ON THE BACK. I'M JUST GOING TO RAMBLE ABOUT A FEW THINGS.

Here's my digression on exclusivity in art. Just a few thoughts. You can still turn back.

I'm not a fan of art being exclusive. I'm not bold enough or vain enough to ever try to give a definition of art but I will say that one of my primary goals in art is to communicate. Before this I never sought out Mormon poets for a few reasons:

First, I don't really care what your background is when it comes to being an artist. I never read something and wonder to myself, "Are they Catholic?" "Are they from the Midwest?" "Did they come from an abusive home?" "They sound like an only child. Are they an only child?" "I wonder if their parents were rich."

This is not because I abhor background info. That I somehow divorce the artist completely from the art. But I don't need it to decide whether or not I like the piece. Whether what has been accomplished is worthwhile to me.

There are many groups. Religious, anti-religious, intellectual, anti-intellectual, gay, straight, women, men, different cultures, different races. Sometimes it's hard to get outside yourself. My Midwestern blue collar single parent upbringing influences my writing. It colors it. I won't be able to shake it. And neither do I want to. But it probably won't appeal to everyone. I will probably unknowingly and sometimes knowingly reference Midwestern Blue Collar Single Parent experience that people aren't going to 'get'. Or like.

I'm also Mormon. I grew up Mormon in a state where most people didn't know what a Mormon was. It also defined me. But it's all part of my make-up. I don't divorce myself from it. Neither do I write to a group of Mormon Midwestern Blue Collar Single Parent readers. Frankly, I don't know any.

Second, I think labeling artists limits them. I hate how music is labeled in music stores. How they're always trying to fit a band into some category. I think it makes us more comfortable to say: "Oh, he can write about the Holocaust because he's a Jew". "Oh, this book is by a woman. It's Women's Fiction."

Authenticity and experience is a whole other discussion for another day. But when we label an artist, we make them fit our expectations. And then we judge them on those expectations. Do we feel Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre is less believable as a man because he was written by a woman? Because when Jane Eyre came out, it was under a man's pseudonym and a female critic of the time thought that women were ill written.

I don't want anyone to spend too much time reading this. It's a blog after all. You have facebook to check. Emails to write. Movie trailers to watch.

My point is thus. When I first heard "Mormon Writer" or "Mormon Poet" I immediately assumed, falsely, that I was going to read some Mormon culture poems. Something about pioneers or church or family or temples or Utah. Or lame generic stuff about God and Christ.* And I'm not completely wrong. There are a fair amount of people who write this stuff.

But I was guilty of labeling as well. I've met serious and deft poets who write about a variety of subjects. None of it is restricted to preconceived notions of what "Mormon Poets" write about. I tried to keep myself above them or away from them but I'm flattered to be in such good company. I can be a Mormon Poet as much as I can be any other kind of poet.

*Yeah, that's right. I have a footnote. It's about religious art. I like it. I am moved and in awe of many religious works. But just like any work of art, it has to be inspired and original. It has to have something. Just because someone says God or Jesus or Mary or Allah or Buddha or whatever in their poem, doesn't mean it's good. I've read a lot of generic suckfests that I'm sure came from a real feeling of religious devotion. And I HATE when someone says something like 'well, that really happened' or 'that's how I feel.' That's what journals are for. If you don't want something to be judged, keep it to yourself.

A Girl Named Edie Has Come to Visit

2011-10-11T13:36:00.002-04:00

On the 1st of October, we met a little girl at a hospital. We named her Edith. Because we thought it was pretty. And maybe kind of a grandma name. But sometimes names have to be reclaimed.

She goes by Edie. So far she doesn't have much to say. We mostly interpret.

DISLIKES

Being changed
Not eating
Pacifiers
Having her arms restricted
Sleeping at night
The pediatrician's office
The Eagles

LIKES

Nirvana
Listening to me and Val read poetry to her
Grandma Rosemary
Eating all the time
Her bouncy chair
My pinky finger as a pacifier
Sleeping when we're awake
Hobo Jokes
Time Travel Paradoxes

Here's some things she loves though.

Edie loves traffic. We live on 4th Ave, a major thoroughfare in Brooklyn. For those people who live in places of large silences, it's hard to appreciate how calming the sea rhythms of traffic are. Edie and I share a love for this. There's a chair and ottoman Valerie positioned near our avenue window so she could enjoy the noise. I have stolen it for myself and Edie. She likes to find a place in my chest to sleep, usually using my finger as a pacifier. It's amazing to watch her body relaxing into contentment as she gets closer to the window. Valerie will cradle and rock her to the noise. The waves of cars. The metal ocean.

Edie loves Valerie. I knew this would happen. The biological thing. The connection due to birth, contact, and feeding. But it's something different to watch. I know newborns can't smile. But when Valerie holds her, Edie's whole body becomes a smile. I don't know much about baby science (frankly, I don't care, I'd rather accept it as mystery) and I don't know whether a baby registers a person by touch, voice, smell, the way they are held but she knows Valerie. As soon as she meets her hands, Edie's whole frame is a sigh.

Thank You Notes to Me

2011-09-29T07:42:00.000-04:00

So yes, we are having a baby. (Thank you Craig for getting this onesie for me. It is epic.) This blog is not going to turn into a baby blog showcasing every angle of my genetic inheritor. So get ready to keep hearing about me, Valerie, and sometimes Baby. Oh, she'll show up. Like a guest star. But is she writing the blog? No. Because she has no idea what QWERTY is. And because most of her thoughts will be: "Hungry." and "Not Hungry."

I'm sure she'll be great. I'm excited. But I spend a lot of time in my head. But eventually when she can talk and reason and type I'm sure she'll have a few things to say about how I shaped her into the cool person she will become. So here are some thank you notes to me. From her.

ABOUT MUSIC

Dear D(that stands for Dad, abbreviations are huge in the future),

Thank you for introducing me to depressing rock music. Nirvana and Elliott Smith has given my otherwise happy life that bleak underlining it needed. While you and M showered me with love and affection, in the background was a soundtrack teaching me that despair and loneliness howled at the windows. Thank you for leveling me out with some real bummers. Sure I look super smiley in all those baby pictures. But if you look in my eyes, you can see I know that life is not all mashed up fruit and snuggles. It's deep pain and full of Courtney Loves.

ABOUT SUPERHEROES

Dear D,

Even though M totally rolled her eyes whenever you tried to explain the deep intricacies of comic book superheroes, I was listening. Superman is an exploration of a god like being on Planet Earth dealing with issues of agency, death, and tragedy when he has the power to stop them. It is a fascinating idea. And you're not a huge nerd. You're a supercool guy who just likes lots of things. And you told me that enough times that I actually believe it. Now when are we going to the 5th reboot of Spiderman?

ABOUT SCIENCE

Dear D,

I'm so glad you took over all my science projects and helped me build scale models of particle accelerators and binary star systems. I am a little sad that you suck so much at building things that all my models looked nothing like what we intended. I wish we lived closer to Uncle Andy and Uncle Sam because they don't handle tools like they're pythons. But I think it's cool we live on the International Space Station and you're the Ambassador to Space.

ABOUT POETRY

Dear D,

I know that only a small percentage of the earth enjoys poetry. Thank you for making me part of that percentage. Because now I know I'm better than most people. And that's the kind of self worth every kid needs. Thank you both for making me part of the literary intelligentsia. And thank you M for teaching me an eye roll that can make my teachers quiver in anger. I'm going to ride this poetry rocket right to Stanford or Harvard or Yale or the International Space Station University if you really want me to stay close to home.

How Art Feels Like Prostitution

2011-09-20T11:01:00.000-04:00

On Sunday, my friend Joseph Clay, a very talented writer and filmmaker, mentioned that art is hard because it feels so selfish. As if you're spending all your time focused on you.

You start asking yourself questions. Why am I doing this? Why should people care? Why is making this important? Why do I even need to? Who is this for if not for me? What is this? Why does it matter?

I'm going to be upfront here and say I don't have answers to these.

I'm suffering from a little bit of Want Everything Now Syndrome. I would like to say that most days it feels like I'm being proactive. I'm meeting with writer friends. Talking to people about agents. Getting the scoop on the 'biz'. I've sort of put it into overdrive lately and that maybe explains why I feel a little frantic. Because I've sped up the pace of my life.

I don't get this agent business. Finding someone to like me. To believe in me and champion me to other people. It feels forced. It feels like a blind date.

I get writing. The symphony structure of drama. The jazz nature of comedy.

I get sitting down and just doing it. Because that's how it goes. I sit down every day and write something. Depending on the amount of time I have, I usually produce at least a scene, a poem, an interchange, a structure.

Truthfully, if there's Writer's Block, I've never seen it. In my opinion, Writer's Block occurs when people don't have enough projects on their plate. I can't wait to finish something and move on to the next thing. Either I'm very blessed or too obsessed. Let's say a combination of both.

(I feel sorry for anyone who has been around me this summer. I've talked about nothing but the scripts I'm writing. I've dominated conversations with my own concerns and obsessions. I can't talk normally to people anymore. I've become a weirdo.)

But once you produce something, any kind of art, there's the last step. The worst step. Where you show it. Where you step up to people and say, "Please experience this." You hand them a script. You invite them to a gallery. You sit them down and pop in the dvd or pull it up on your computer. You hand them the object as a gift.

And people think it means "Love me." But mostly it means, "Understand me."

This is where I'm at. Saying to everyone, "Hey, I'm a writer. I write. A lot. Here's some stuff. Check it out if you're bored. I promise I won't think about why you didn't finish reading it and didn't get back to me and tell me your thoughts and whether I matter or should just give up and live in the Appalachians and eat apple mash and goatmeat until I die of some old timey disease."

I know why so many people give up on art. It's taxing to put yourself out there. Maybe most artists want to 'make it' because it doesn't bring money and fame as much as it brings an end to explaining yourself. An end to justification. An end to looking across at someone and saying, "I don't know why I do it either. I just can't stop."

Jobs I Would Be Terrible At

2011-09-08T09:40:00.003-04:00

I don't know if I've had a job I was amazing at really. I'm kind of a dreamer. I really only want ever want to be writing. When I was a waiter, I would stand off to the side of my tables jotting down poems in my notebook. When I was a cashier, I would write dialogue on the back of receipt paper. Most of my jobs I've gotten by with a smile and a joke. Here's some other jobs I'm sure I'd be terrible at.

DOCTOR

There's Dr. Best barely listening to his patients. He wears the appropriate "sad and understanding" face as they tell him their problems but where good doctors would hear the vital details that lead them to the diagnosis, Dr. Best is thinking of dolphins. Wouldn't he like to have a dolphin baby? Surely as a doctor, he has enough money to construct a giant pool for his dolphin child? How would we drive his aqua boy to the vet? A van filled with water? Maybe a waterproof convertible? Uh-oh, Dr. Best. Your patient is in cardiac arrest.

LAWYER

Look at James Best, Esq. He sure looks dapper in that suit. He spent way more time picking out this suit than he did reading all the necessary case work for this trial. He only does jury trials because this is the only place he even seems like a competent lawyer. He likes to lean on the jury box, half wink at the moms and single ladies he's loaded the jury with. He's already used a couple of sports analogies to win over the sports guys. He put on a somber and serious face so the ex-cop in the jury knew that he's serious and he really understands life. When he thinks he's got them, he sits down and writes out a funny scene between two men in quicksand on the back of his case files. He decides to overrule something just so he looks interested.

FIREFIGHTER

James the Firefighter. Why did he join up? 60 percent for sliding down the pole. 30 percent to ride the big red engine. 10 percent to smile at ladies in the grocery store while he's wearing his fireman togs. He's the only one on his crew who calls them togs. Let's see a typical fire with James. There's James holding the firehose. He likes the way the fire spills into any open space. He kind of lets go of the terror and seriousness of the scene and thinks about how the char is like a reverse snowflake. How the fire is an insatiable hunger, how it would eat everything its hot hands could reach. Or maybe its insatiable thirst, how only enough water or rain can ever make it sleep. He reaches for a pen to jot this down and the hose bucks in his hands, spraying all the onlookers.

RACE CAR DRIVER

Nope, I would die. Straight up day dream myself right into a mega flip and keep on going right into the afterlife.

Painting from here.

Airport People

2011-09-01T03:20:00.000-04:00

I am at JFK airportwaiting for a flight to Salt Lake. And I'm people watching. Andjudging a little. But mostly I have questions. Questions about thetravel attire and personalities of these people. A lot of them are thesame type of people you see at every airport. You've seen them. Youmay have had the same questions. Take this journey with me.

OVERLOUD BUSINESSMAN - Iget it. You're on a 'business call'. Money is 'on the line'. You're'important'. It's business time. But what the hell is wrong with yourears? Are your ears full of money? Does the loudness of your voicecommunicate to Other Important Businessman how much money is on the line?Because by the volume, China must be hemorrhaging yuans. How many decibels does self-importancerequire?

PAJAMA GIRL - Sure. Comfort. We all want to be comfortable. But have we sunk thislow as the human race? Sure, we don't all wear dresses and suits anymore. The modern world is very casual. But we have to draw a line. Or elsewe'll all be looking like you. Imagine that world. Just crawl out of bedand go to work. Eat dinner in your pjs. Get married in them. Maybe we could swear in the President in footie pajamas. Pretty soon, we'd think to ourselves: Why even change? Why even shower? Why doanything more than eat and sleep? Let's become a whole planet of comfortable slobs.

SUPER DRESSED UP GIRL –We’re on the same 5 hour flight right? Arriving at midnight in Salt LakeCity? On a Wednesday? So where’s the club? Because I know it’s not in Salt Lake. And I know you spent three hours on how youlook. So what’s the deal? Are you hoping to meet someone at the airportbar? Do you just want to make the restof us, with our airplane pillows and sweatshirts, look like schlubs? The wayyou have to sit to keep that skirt on is making my legs itch. And your shoes look like railroad spikes. And your top looks more like you were dipped inplastic than dressed. You and PajamaGirl should talk. Find a happy medium.

OVER EAGER PLAN SHARER –Hey, I like talking to people. I lovepeople. They are my favoritemammal. But dude, I’ve been on a planebefore. This is not the early 1900swhere plane travel was an oddity. Thisis how we get around. And I don’t needto understand every step of your journey. What's that you say? You have a layover?! What do you want me to do? Commiserate? Oh, cruel plane company, youshould have planned better for Danny, native of Pocatello, ID, from a family of7 who are going to share his 26^th birthday with him, except forHolly, who is expecting her third child soon, Danny who checked two bags and is mad he had to pay for one of them...why, why, why, do I know this?

THUGGED OUT DUDE STARING EVERYONE DOWN - What's your end goal with this? Are you going to get into a fight with one of us? You do know that this airport is full of not only cops but Air Marshalls, Feds, and the Army? Go ahead. Pull something. You will poop yourself if an M-16 gets pointed at you. Or maybe you're in a bad mood. Oh, that's original. Look at me. I'm mad in an airport. I have to wait and stuff. This seat is uncomfortable. I ate a Cinnabon and I think the sugar is eating my colon. We've all been there, gangster. Now stop sizing everybody up. Because I guarantee you cannot take STRESSED OUT MOM WITH MONKEY KIDS. I would bet on her anyday.

Names for Girls

2011-08-30T18:00:00.003-04:00

So let's say in a make believe world that I was going to have a daughter. Let's say you were going to have a daughter. I think I have some great ideas for names.

Now, most of the really beautiful words are either sinister or a disease. In a time of children being named weird names like Kayzee and Root, I don't see why I can't name a child whatever I want. At least they're real words. Here's my picks.

Melanoma - it rolls off the tongue, it's like a song in your mouth. Sure, it's a word that strikes fear into the hearts of people. But that's maybe the kind of thing I want for a daughter. Lovely yet intimidating.

Hollow Point - more of a unisex name, but say it a couple of times. You'll be into the shape your mouth makes during the word 'hollow'. And then the word "point" with the plosives of P and T, makes for a strong ending. Also, boyfriends may wonder if her father named her after his favorite kind of bullet.

Femoral - is it an artery? Yes. But isn't a daughter like an artery? In that they are full of life and blood? And it sounds Celtic.

Dyspepsia - This would be for my grandpa. Not because he has this. But because it contains his favorite beverage, Pepsi.

Rubella - Just replace this word with the name "Maria" in the song "Maria" from West Side Story. Yeah. You like it. You're thinking about naming your daughter this. This is about to hit the top five on the social security index. You can call her Bella if you're a Twilight fan.

Giardia - are you Italian? Do you like Italian sounding names? Are you looking for something that gets in your belly? Are you looking for a name that makes you faint, even bed sick? Then give your daughter Giardia.

Dysentery - Hey, so a lot of people died of it on the Oregon Trail. The computer game not the actual Oregon Trail. The people on the actual Oregon Trail died from boredom. Because that trail was stupid long. This word/new name for girls is lovely and has a little lilt to it. You can hear a lovesick boy screaming this.

Riptide - Not just a regular girl. A sassy girl. She would get tattoos of dolphins on fire. She would run away from home to join Cirque de Soleil. She would drop out of that and carve canoes. This girl would carry a switchblade. She wouldn't hug. She would just nod.

Other disease names I like: Dropsy, Scarlatina, St. Vita's Dance, Thrush, Variola (smallpox)

For Twin Boys: Scurvy and Rickets

Lucky Seven or When Valerie "Fell" For Me

2011-08-11T12:49:00.009-04:00

Valerie has been doing a bunch of posts about us. I feel remiss. I want to talk about about her(us) as well.

Our 7th anniversary is coming up. Let me tell you one of my favorite stories.

FALL 2002

Valerie had come back to school at BYU-Idaho. I was starting my second year there. I was friends with some of her friends. She was in theater. She was really good. I was in improv. I was not good. (Then. I got better later.)

The first time we met was after an improv show. I had been remarkably unfunny. Afterwards, someone introduced Valerie to me. She looked sassy. Just as we started talking, my girlfriend at the time ran out and told me how good I'd been. Valerie had a 'oh, hell no' look on her face. That was the end of us for a while.

I wouldn't say it was a slow burn between us, it was just complicated. I was kind of a serial dater, Valerie was and is her own person, and we hadn't really figured out 'us' yet.

Fast forward a few months, we'd become friends-ish. I had a different girlfriend but it was stretching a little.

Then one day it was after improv practice, we were both at the Kirkham where all the theater and improv geeks hung out.

Valerie was walking down some stairs with Shiloh. I was walking towards the stairs with some of the improv guys. Suddenly, Valerie trips. A really good one. So much it turned her around and she was going to crash onto her back.

I'm not sure why I did it. Maybe it was because I liked her. Because I did. It may be because I have a little bit of hero complex. Because I do. It may be because I wanted to do something for Valerie. A person so self sustaining it's almost impossible to do anything for her that she cannot do for herself.

I dove.

Leapt. Baseball slid under her. Got my my arms under her back to save her from the perilous two foot fall. And when all the parts, arms and legs and necks, settled she looked down at me under her and said:

"What are you doing?"

And I said something like:

"Trying to save/help/catch you."

And she said something like:

"Why?"

And I said something like:

"Because you were falling/tripping/you know..."

And we disentangled. Valerie was a little embarrassed. And I was a little confused. My status as cool and elusive was totally shattered in my moment of pointless and heroic. It didn't start us dating. It didn't bond us together.

But I think I grabbed her butt. Double smooth.

Versus #1: A Crazy Homeless Dude

2011-08-10T16:40:00.002-04:00

I have never been in a fight. I have never been punched in the face. People have wanted to punch me in the face. People have even promised to fight me, shoved me, or stared me down. But as of yet, no one has followed through.

But if I started fighting, I have some predictions.

THE MAIN EVENT

IN THE RATTY TRUNKS:

CRAZY HOMELESS GUY (not to be confused with regular Harmless Homeless Guy)
KNOWN POWERS:

Nose Punches of Mega Stench

Confusing Gibberish

General Disregard for Rules of Fighting

Blood Disease

SIGNATURE MOVE:

Biting and Grappling while the assailed is trying to keep the saliva out of his eyes

WEAKNESSES:

Money

Leftover Steak in a To Go Box

A Kitty Parade (a weakness for everybody)

IN THE LINEN TRUNKS:

JAMES "SOFT TOUCH" BEST

KNOWN POWERS:

High Tolerance for Gross Out

Daddy Issues

Disarming Jokes and Grins

Viking Bones

SIGNATURE MOVE:

The "Why Would You Want to Hit Little Old Me?" Smile

WEAKNESSES:

A Good Soft Cheese

Prefers To Keep His Nose Unbroken

Pictures of Baby Animals

ROUND 1

Crazy Homeless Guy after punching himself in the head and screaming for the demons to leave, suddenly leaps onto James, quietly reading on the subway. After shrieking and wrestling off the first wave, James stands in the middle of the subway car, scared that he won't be able to wash off the stink. Realizing he won't be able to avoid an altercation, James hunkers down for a brawl.

ROUND 2

Crazy Homeless Guy launches an all out smell-o-ttack at James. James uses his brain box to lie about imaginary bottles of schnapps and leftover bag fries that he promises are in the next car. Crazy Homeless Guy gets confused, starts scratching himself and looking around for the promised goods. James tries to draw an instructional diagram in his notebook about what "This Car" and "Not This Car" means. Crazy Homeless Guy barks.

ROUND 3

James braces for the subway car to slow down at the next stop. Crazy Homeless Guy starts shuffling towards James. He puts out his hands for money. James reaches into one of his pockets. His left hand is trapped! Crazy Homeless strikes, leaping off his non-diabetic foot. James wheels back, the door opens, he minds the gap, and he is free. Running down the platform, his flip flops making manly sounds slapping against the cement, howls of the homeless behind him.

WINNER: ME (if I don't have hepatitis)

I Will Help You Name Anything

2011-06-27T10:50:00.002-04:00

This is what I put together for a friend who needs to name her new kittens. These are pairs. Do not try to separate them. If you have twins, you can use them. Or Quadruplets.

NAMES FOR KITTIES

Wizard + Marzipan
Firecat + Icecat
Boomboom + Socket
Rocketsocks + Hobo
Sherlock + Mystery
Hopscotch + Applesauce
Quicksilver + Yellowfever
Proto + Locket
Ginsu + Dr. Nibbles
Frankencat + Monstro
Pronto + Sleepster
Bono + Clyde

The Robe

2011-06-21T12:31:00.006-04:00

Here's the thing. I have these work stories. And I want to tell you these work stories. I have crazy stories from 30 Rock. I have stories from the movies I worked on and the actors there. I have stories about where I'm working right now. But I can't tell them.

Because I don't want to become my own story. The story told repeatedly as a cautionary tale in "Hollywood". The story of the low level employee tweeting or blogging or facebooking the funny anecdote and then it getting back to the producer or showrunner or somebody. And then the firing. And then the shaking of heads from the employees peers who say, "He/She should have known better."

I have to be careful. If you want to hear stories, you'll have to ask me in person. The internet is FOREVER. Theoretically.
So with great vagueness I tell you this story.

THE ROBE
Let's say his name is Doug. When you have fancy people like Doug, you put them in Doug-class hotels. They stay there for the run of filming. Well, one day, the hotel called us up. And told us the robe from the room was missing. And they didn't want to charge us for the robe, or Doug, so could we discretely ask about The Robe.

This put us in an awkward position of course. Because we needed to ask Doug if he had The Robe in his possession. We were filming off site and he wasn't going to be back to that hotel for a few days. So we called.
"Doug. Hey, you know how hotel rooms have monogrammed robes in the rooms? Did you maybe accidentally take yours? Because the hotel is looking for it."

Doug confirmed very neutrally that The Robe was in his possession. It was sent from set in a garbage bag. I was given the task of returning The Robe.
Now, of course, this raises Doug questions. What did Doug need The Robe for? Did it make him feel luxurious? Is he a Robe Person? Is anyone left alive still a Robe Person? Does he shoot porn? Is he just a hotel Robe kleptomaniac?

So I was given the task of returning The Robe. I walked into the fancy Manhattan hotel holding a black garbage bag. I walked up to the concierge.

"Oh, hello. I'm returning one of your robes. Doug accidentally placed this large bulky robe in one of his bags."
"In his luggage. Okay. Let me just check. Oh, wait. Doug hasn't checked out yet. So why did he take the robe?"

"Maybe he was cold. Outside of his room."

So they promised to launder The Robe and return it to his room. It doesn't end there.
The crew gets back to the city. Doug goes back to his fancy room. The next day he pulls aside a PA and asks:

"Hey, what's the deal with my robe?"

So the PA calls the Production Office, where I work, and asks what we did with the robe. We tell her: Given back, hotel cleaning it.

So Doug asks the PA:

"Is my robe going to be there tonight?"

Another PA he spoke to calls back, asking when this happened, could we get Doug a new robe. My boss says:

"I am over The Robe. We are not dealing with The Robe."

Now I have a question. I dropped off the robe five days ago. Did the hotel worry about Doug so much that they no longer trust him with robes? Or is Doug putting together a scam? Did he steal The Robe again and is now creating an alibi wherein he pretends that the Robe was never returned?

We call back. We dropped off The Robe. End of story. He will have to address all future Robe questions to the hotel. The calls stopped. The Robe never turned up again.

Early June and Late July

2011-06-06T15:20:00.005-04:00

Val's been telling me that I use my blog for too big a purpose and that's why I lag between posts. Tis true. A lot of weird stuff happens at my job and I never really talk about it. I'm calling 'wide open' on my blog. Get ready for it being just whatever.

Here's something.

In tv/film, there are a lot strange groups brought together. You have the "Creatives" which are the writers and directors and producers and art department. Then you have the "Strongs" (borrowed from 30 Rock) which are the construction guys and grips and teamsters. And there's accountants and office staff and camera and sound and all these different personalities brought together.

Sometimes when these different groups get together, interesting things happen.

In the production office, there's lot of fancy food. Because there's fancy people that come through there: producers, writers, directors, studio execs. It's the face of the show. So expensive chocolate bars abound and seltzers and Naked Juices and yogurts and coffees and teas and whatever you want. That's the funny thing. If the higher ups want something, people have to jump to and get it for them.

Also, there's been an organic kick (of course) in the office kitchen and a lot of the food reflects that. It's hard to find Hershey's or Nabisco or Frito Lays anywhere. Instead, fancier organic brands like Late July and Back to Nature and Food Should Taste Good stock the shelves.

I was sitting there one day when these two teamsters came in. Teamsters are the guys that drive the big trailers and vans to pick up the actors. Most of them are great. Some of them are ex-mafia. Two of them at my office act like Beavis and Butthead. I've renamed them Chuckles and Forehead.

So when they walked into our fancy kitchen the other day, they had a little conversation like this:

Forehead: Where's the effing doritos? What kind of place has no effing doritos?

Chuckles: These people. What's in that drawer?

Forehead: I think they're Cheez-its. Oh, what the eff? Late July? Why can't they just buy regular effing Cheez-its?

Chuckles: Ugh. Come on. Let's go get some Taco Bell.

Forehead: Nah. I'm starving. I'm going to die, man. I will die.

Chuckles: You won't die. You're not really going to die.

Forehead: Don't tell me things. I know what I know. Oh man. These are pretty good. Pretty effing good.

Chuckles: I'd never eat them. I like Cheez-its.

Forehead: Yeah! Me, too! But this the best organic effing shiz I've had. Try them.

Chuckles: No way. They ain't Cheez-its.

Forehead: No shiz. But they ain't bad healthy Cheez-its. I'll probably lose weight off this. I could use it.

Chuckles: I need to get some burritos in me.

Today is the Day Our Lives Will Surely Change

2011-04-28T09:26:00.003-04:00

It's hard to declare yourself an artist. Especially before you have something substantial to show. A book, a gallery showing, a movie, a dance concert, a play. It's the in-between times, the creation period, that is hard to explain. Sometimes I find myself explaining everything to everyone, every bit of news, every poem, sketch, or webseries I write becomes this constant stream of information. I have nothing to talk about but what I do because I'm mostly in the abstract. At other times, I'm so self conscious of not producing something tangible to show that I clam up.

Like for instance, we went to this amazing fried chicken place two nights ago. I should talk about that. I should spend words on what was a killer experience, what was essentially my birthday dinner, and what was a great time with friends. I should use my blog for that. I'm grateful to have such friends. Somehow in my life I've been blessed with abundance of friends.

For all they've had to listen to me talk about poetry or comedy theory, it's a wonder anybody is still around.

So if I'm not here, it's because I'm stuck in the ether. It's not anything better than whatever else everyone is doing, it's just another thing. It's where I spend my time. I had a frightening thought the other day that if I couldn't write, what would I do? How would I spend my time? What would I find fulfilling?

And the answer?

Unicycling.

April Fool's and I'm the Fool

2011-04-03T13:19:00.002-04:00

This girl changed my blog. It will not be a gross blog about how we love each other and how we lie around and stare into each other's eyes and call each other "Snuggums." Because we do none of those things.

This was her April Fool's joke. And it is good. And I will change it back to the boring world of poetry and occasional jokes. Count on it, Val.

Things are Changing

2011-04-01T11:03:00.002-04:00

I don't know what it is, there's something in the air, isn't there. Change is coming. From now on, no more separate blogs. It's JamesandValerie from here on out. Otherwise, how can we record our epic love?

In other news, James is quitting poetry and going into hedge funds.

Love,

ValerieandJames

Why Do You Anthropomorphize Everything? - Valerie 3/27/11

2011-03-29T07:47:00.003-04:00

Yes, she asked me this. Yes, I do. I ascribe too much to the inanimate. I feel sorry for discarded umbrellas looking like black squids smeared on the sidewalks. I want to rescue furniture and books from the street. Valerie doesn't want me bringing disease into our household. I tell her love will counter any disease.

She's skeptical.

I did a study of a poem about a bell. Yeah, that's right. A bell. Bells are awesome apparently. So I decided to pick an object and write about it. This is what I came up with.

The Whisk

In the drawer, the whisk exists
among her sisters, the mixing
spoons, the spatulas and peelers,
her uncles, garlic press and cork
and her rough distant cousin,
the tenderizer.

Who else turns into themselves
like this? A monochrome rainbow.
She can never hold what she grasps,
she is brisk with all strangers, never
mixes in. To the whisk, the world
is to be stirred.

Without the hand, the whisk is
settled. The invisible heavy
of air sifts through the filaments,
finding no center to contend with.
The drawer is dark and waiting
for the hand.

Later, the cake it makes delivered
by her brother the fork. Laughter
can be the result, even a song
to reward her efforts. In the sink,
lying among the remains of her work,
the remains of joy.

Haiku for a Spring Snow Storm

2011-03-23T13:17:00.004-04:00

Yes, there's a cold front blowing through New York. Places like Fargo, North Dakota and Iron Mountain, Michigan are getting snow. And somehow so is New York City. Boo to you, Jack Frost. These are not all weather related I guess but inspired by its mood.

we are drunk on night
the bridge holds, fastened to rivets
white hot in the sky

please, cold suns of streets
if you keep me, light me home
I’ll keep the day watch

the overplush couch
an impromptu deathbed
an open casket

the moon is deaf
now to night made promises
the sound of breaking

I am only hurry
I am the flint of my bed
where a pretty stone cools

static is called snow
so let’s not watch that channel
turn on the covers

new ice will turn black
if it finds cold reception
a lonelier road

Home on The Murky Fringe

2011-03-17T11:19:00.003-04:00

Essentially I've abandoned more poems than I thought I would. I'm sick of them. I've left them in an underground bunker and told them I'll come back for them after the war. We'll see.

Instead, I've written new poems. I'll post them up. I've been back to humor writing. Gearing up for a year of script and play writing. Because as soon as I start sending out this poetry manuscript, I'm switching gears to other non-poetry projects.

But if you haven't been to this website before, I say go.

The Murky Fringe

These "gals" are twisted and funny. Deep and riotously historical. McSweeney's doesn't even touch the range of subjects the Murky Fringe dives into. French Film, Garth Brooks, Groundhogs, Iowa MFAs, Metallica and also Metallica, they play in any field they gander.

They have been nice enough to let me put up a piece. Something dark and fun. Something from a twelve year old perspective.

Perspective from the Wayback

So that's new. And this is new. Something I wrote this morning. As always, I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. But I'm into it. I might need to muddy some of the clear water in it. But it's near.

Where You Hang Your Hat

Home to what? Home to blank streetlights? Home
to clothes musty with girls I knew? Home to the stretched
laugh. Home to the need to drive. Home to graves
that never grow grass. Home to Polish names
with consonants piled like snow in front of the tongue.
Home to the familiar rotation of dinners. Home to clouds
I can scry. Home to old me confrontation. Home
to time slowed. Home to the ghosts of trees I grew
under that were taken by tornadoes, those careless children.
Home to unplaceable hunger. Home to the cool heavy
of basements. Home to thinking a basement is just a larger
grave. Home to maudlin thoughts like that. Home to avoid
my old classmates, to avoid ‘what I’ve done with my life.’
Home to easy. Home to a porch only built to teach me
about the lessons of rain. Home to the house creaks I know.
Home to a garage stuffed shut. Home to my mother’s glance
like warm clothes from the dryer. Home to the never let go.
Home to its velvet names. Home to my Cheshire smile. Home
to pop not soda. Home to hear my accent move again in
my teeth. Home to deciduousness. Home to the frozen waves
of Lake Michigan. Home to lighthouses gone blind. Home
to leaf piles and road salt and robins. Home to wake up
and feel like I just became 12 again, like the world is a big
wide open and I have plans for it. Home to remember that.

The Seven Adorable Wonders of the World, Part 2

2011-03-16T11:12:00.003-04:00

Just videos this time. And I might not even have the final two yet. But I do have these. And these will set your eyes on fire. And when they melt, they will turn into gooey little candies that taste like rainbows. Warm rainbows.

DRUNK BABY

Have you seen this? It will destroy you. I can't wait to see this whole movie. This will win the Oscar shorts next year. If it doesn't I'll punch every Oscar voter in their brains. Because they are broken.

OTTERS HOLDING HANDS

I know you've seen this. But let's watch it again. Let's all buy otters and put them in our bathtubs. No. Let's clear out the living room and make it an otter room. And watch their little tiny arms all day. Until we die. From bliss.

Russian Don't Get You Anywhere Faster

2011-03-04T07:38:00.005-05:00

At the end of February, I took stock of my poetry manuscript and realized I may need another month. I was still unhappy with about 15 poems. Five were scrappable if they didn't shape up and become something soon and 10 more were sent to the Orphanage of Unrealized Thought. It's a sad place. Full of little bastards (literal) that talk in stuttering phrases about their parents Muse and Time and wonder who neglected them more.

So I've given myself another month. It means I missed a few poetry manuscript contests I wanted to send out for but as these things go, I may have another chance next year when this doesn't get picked up. So I keep slugging away at my naughty children, dressing them up in newer clothes (line breaks), comb their hair (smooth out the rhythmic snags), and try to cram them full of good manners (new phrases, words, lines, fancy stuff!) before shipping them off to their mean aunts and uncles (the wonderful judges of first book contests).

Here's something with lines reappropriated from another poem. The feeling is still the same. The ending and especially the beginning are different.

The Secrets That We Keep

Last night there was a dream in our bed,
either yours or mine, where the avenues
filled with water, all of New York suddenly
Venetian, and the cabs went gondola,
trolling the river roads with the posts of old signs.
And you and I were at the window, wondering
at our new world, if the city would validate us
our defunct subway passes, and I asked,
“Do we love each other better now?”
To which you oracled back: The moon is
only the sun’s, the waves the moon’s,
the sky the waves’. For all, to all, jealousy
is king. Be jealous for me and I’ll never
let the earth claim you, from bones to words.
And then you resheathed yourself in sheets
and I climbed in next to you, bought a ticket
for the same destination, a place we are
whole and parts. Singing back towards real
morning. Where one of us will share this
dream and both will believe it.

If Life Gives You Lemons, Make Haiku

2011-02-27T22:18:00.005-05:00

For non-Brooklynites, these take a little intro. The BQE is an elevated highway, hideous and inspiring running like a gray ribbon between those boroughs. Sufjan Stevens wrote a whole symphony about it. It's an eyesore and frustrating to drive on and your only option and wonderful and unique to Brooklyn.

The Gowanus Canal is the filthiest piece of water in America. It's a national health hazard and the EPA has stepped in. The bottom is covered with shopping carts and rusting iron. The top is floating with grease and algae that has living samples of gonorrhea in it. That's right. You could get an STD from swimming in it. Also a baby whale got stuck in it once and was cut apart by the metal maze in the water. Very sad.

I wanted to write some romantic verse about them.

Haiku for the Gowanus and the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, Winter 2011

1
Brooklyn winter breaks
slow as iron in water
hide me Gowanus

2
night traffic mezzo
headlights point home, cars yawning
circling for some sleep

3
the moon on dimmer
how needy the limbs of night
caught in wan spotlight

4
canal full of eyes
bodies adrift in freezeless sleep
I will find you all

5
great grey artery
if I cut you, would you spill
all your red riders

6
whale catcher, release
or clench, keep your dinner tight
be jealous of now

7
canal means lost vein
the moon said it could mean much
the moon is bloodless

The Seven Adorable Wonders of the World, Part 1

2011-02-25T15:59:00.012-05:00

Not all Seven are here yet. I have to think about this. But I'm taking suggestions. And pictures. This all started last night when I told Valerie that Richard Scarry's book "I Am a Bunny" is one of the Seven Adorable Wonders of the World.

So this is Number 1.

Get this book. I mean it. Buy it. Your mouth will hurt with the perpetual 'aw' sound that comes out. This picture doesn't even do it justice. When he plays with butterflies, you might die. If you want to look at some scans of it, go here.

Number 2.

What the crap is this? Who did this and how is a normal human being supposed to ignore this? I am face melting with cuteness.

Number 3

Yeah, that's right. Watch it. Or Darth Vader, "he'll getcha!"

I can't even post the rest yet. My eyeballs and feelings hurt.

Sharon Olds, You Still Have Lots to Teach Me

2011-02-23T09:21:00.005-05:00

I'm at the tail end of my manuscript. I'm cutting myself off on edits in one week. I have a whole list of poems in black and red.

Black = Good Enough
Red = Trouble

The red list is getting smaller. But I'm down to a few problem children. Basically, the loud mouthy kid in class who I hate but really sort of love. But I can't present him in front of the school as a model poem. Because he needs some serious one on one. And the work involved is so daunting. How long can I keep this analogy going?

Sooooo sometimes it is just easier to get a new class. (I could extend an analogy all day. Don't try me.) So I started writing new poems.

I don't know how people write anything without reading. Especially poetry. I have to read before I write. I need rhythms. For the last few days, I've been reading Sharon Olds. Sometimes when I'm writing I get scared to just say it. I want to poeticize it. Beautify it. But Sharon just puts it out there. Her narrator says what she's feeling and there are no apologies.

Not to say her poetry isn't beautiful. It's breathtaking. But she tricks you with simple words, things you know. I've always wanted to write like that. I like to take the bag of regular human language, mix those words up, and surprise people. Sharon does that. I sit at her feet and learn yet again.

I had Sharon two semesters as a teacher. And I still go back to her books over and over. Here's something inspired by her. Well, and this thing I remember from high school.

Wrecks

It was our first death the whole high school shared.
He had a fast car. He had scholarships coming.
He derailed a train in a quiet part of town.
And suddenly, we all knew Andy. His sideways smile,
his hiccup laugh, his favorite teams and beers.
Regret is a fever. It burned through the ranks.
We didn’t question his decision, only that he was alone
and we’d left him. Who were we without Andy?
What was an Andy to us? Why us? Why consequences?
Andy became a space for us to ponder. Andy was our own name.
I didn’t know Andy. His death caused no flutter in me.
So many found a well of feeling, enough hands for everyone.
In the halls of clamor, speeches, guidance counselors dealing
guidance, I held a stillness that worried me.
We were told by announcement. A girl broke down, gave up
her whole body to another girl. Homeroom erupted
into sudden mothers and daughters. Windows opened
to expand the world of the room. Two boys who knew him
asked to be excused and they were. This scene over
and over in other classrooms. And I was silence.
A page opened up in us, and I read myself. I title
that chapter What Broken Andy Did For All of Us.
There was a kegger in his honor. Irony wasn’t invited.
The Latin teacher came to show support. He told me
we had to be a collective. To mourn was to do. He said it in Latin.
English was harder. Seemed no one could grapple the tense
shift of Andy. And the language broke down further,
all conversation was an examination of the word okay.
Everyone had a toast about Andy. The dark was aclink
with bottles. I drank nothing in Andy’s honor. I just wandered.
Sometimes people would close up on me, say things like,
“Man. Andy. Right?” And I would say, “Right.”
Like a play rehearsal, I knew the line, I just didn’t know my character.
A girl I’d made out with before, wanted “to feel better”. I tried
to give that to her. I know one guy carpe diemed a girl right
out of her virginity. Everyone knew that later I guess.
I told someone I respected Andy for winning at chicken.
That someone tried to punch me. I took the hit like Andy.
And then two days later was the Big Day. All went.
The superintendent excused the school. A field trip to the museum
of hard lessons. I didn’t attend. I spent the day in study hall.
Our assignment: write how we feel today. The teacher had a tone
like hands holding an egg yolk. I turned in a Venn diagram starring Me
and Andy and the Train. Each circle rushing to meet each other.

I Heart Sport

2011-02-22T15:55:00.003-05:00

This is for Val. The Summer Olympics are only a year away.

The Future of Taste

2011-02-17T11:05:00.004-05:00

It’s time to face facts, Dweekins Family. There. Will. Never. Be. A. Dorito. Flavored. Soda! Don’t cry, Grandma. The writing is on the wall! Yes, like the rest of you, I believed the wizards of Frito Lay would be benevolent and open to their customer base. But they are not! Our repeated letters, phone calls, and ambushing of executives in the parking lots have phased them not at all! They are cruel masters of cheese. They are succubi. Don’t correct my Latin, Mom. It’s like pleading with the gods. How can any one group be given that much power on Earth? Remember what they’ve done to us? Cousin Jon-Tom’s skin will never be a lighter shade of orange. And god bless Uncle Hambone. That mystery flavor drove him to his mother cheesing grave. Can we just stand by while our flavor destiny is determined by non-Dweekins? I say unto you, Nay. I have outlined a massive corporate takeover, by which I mean, for those of you who don’t speak corporate-ese, we will make a murder path through the floors of Frito Lay headquarters. After we kill all the higher ups, we will wear their suits and seamlessly blend in as the new Masters. And yes, Step-Daddy, we will have their recipes and we will be the earth’s new gods. And then the sky’s the limit. We’ll create flavors they never dreamed. What do you say, Dweekins? Are we cool? No. We’re better than cool. We’re cool ranch.

Letter to My Pen Pal, Jack #1

2011-02-14T23:23:00.011-05:00

I've decided to use my new alias Rod Wolfbike for good. I'm going to post letters to my buddy Jack Howington complete with awesome pictures I steal off the internet. This letter will be a bit of a repeat of the other one I did but it'll make sense. And it's mostly for Jack anyway. So back off.

Jack,

My name is Rod Wolfbike. I'm in this program called Big Brother where I will become your surrogate Big Brother.

Why? Because I got in trouble with someone named Johnny Law. Because the world doesn't see my drunken vigilantism as a godsend to their corrupt backwater pigtown. Because I was assigned to your family because your dad Ben is too busy living it up with his rock band while your poor sweet mother is home getting stoned on Chick-Fil-A sandwiches. Its those pickles. The vinegar is made with crank.

So you trust me, I've included a sweet picture of me. Oh, I'm sorry, yes, I AM a

samurai. Wait, maybe you don't know what that is. Because you're six. And Dora doesn't explore Samurai culture. Only crappy hispanic culture. Which has no warriors to speak of. Besides Luchadors. Which I have fought. To the death.

Samurai were an ancient Japanese sect of warriors. They carried two swords. Because ninjas only carry one sword. And it was a good way to tell us apart. Here's an actual picture of one. From Clan Belushi.

We follow something called Bushido. Which stopped us from murdering ladies and house cats. Unlike ninjas. Who are jerkholes and will just kill your cat without even blinking. Even when you invite them over for dinner. They do not care about feelings. Here's a ninja.

They all look like boy band rejects. Anyway, I'll be stopping by pretty soon. I'll bring you some throwing stars. You can play catch with them. Teach your sisters. And maybe we'll go out and fight some bad guys. Gang members or census takers. See you soon, Little Brother. I'll be the cool guy pulling up on a bullet bike. You'll know me by the leather jacket embroidered with Japanese symbols.

Stay Bushido Jack.

Your Big Brother/Protector,

Rod Wolfbike

Last surviving member of the Kagekatsu/Wolfbike Clan

Editing Your Life

2011-02-11T12:37:00.006-05:00

I was at a poetry/Russian translation reading last night. I asked friends who had published books to give me some advice on what to do here at the final touches of my manuscript. A friend of mine asked me to explain what my book is about. Not for him. But for myself. That I should be able to articulate what some of my reasons for writing it is.

So here it is:

There is a certain power in writing through your own life. It means you get say-so on history. I've never believed in non-fiction so I have no moral problem with pushing or pulling things to my liking. We do it anyway. A story is one way to one set of eyeballs. Memory is faulty. I have no allegiance to the past or anyone else's version of it.

So I keep rewriting and reinventing my life. A little here or there. Until it becomes less my story and a parallel universe cruising next to me. A looking glass of altered reality, better or worse with my telling. The Allen and Craig and Candace of my poems are not my siblings. But have echoes in them. The Mom is not my Mom. But is James's mom, the James of this place I create. He is angry at points when I'm not angry. He will not forgive where I have let go. The James in my created world is a man/boy looking for the sky to fall down on him. Is sure that doom is around the corner from him and he's right. I have doom coming for him.

The best thing about Parallel James is he gets insight where I did not. He synthesizes his life immediately within 20 to 40 lines (my average poem length). He is master of the past and present all at once. He is the recipient of all my hindsight and sometimes teaches me. Sometimes I try out an idea on James, see how it works. He is a camera I look through. I use him to focus on one moment of life at a time. Instead of living it again, I dissect it. Examine it like a god.

Here's another edited poem from this morning:

File This Under: Things You Should Have Seen Coming

What we left when we moved:
a button, the wheel and hose and nozzle,
the dirt in our treads, a wild side garden,
the holes of the nails, a watch battery, a lie,
stove and pipes and cabinetry,
the dust of our skin, and the sounds of us,
shoe scuffs and creaks we caused,
ideas of permanency, the anxious dream quit,
the skeletons of poisoned mice catacombed in walls,
the tire swing about to give, the tree we gentled into the earth,
friends, an address, a phone number, him—

We left a giant letter A painted on the garage,
not by us but a family previous,
for which we harbored a kids hope
it meant something nefarious like Assassins or A-Bomb,
but assumed it stood for Anderson or Adams
We know now. It meant what it always meant.
We learned the word foreshadowing long after we left.

Drafts and Drafts

2011-02-10T13:10:00.005-05:00

A new draft of this. Rough but nearer. Nearest. Vicinityish.

I'm going to take a break and write funnier stuff today. Because I need a dose of that. Maybe I will begin my correspondence with Jack Howington, courtesy of Rod Wolfbike - Samurai/Big Brother Program rebel. That's overdue.

It's something that I wrote a while ago, totally hated and rewrote over this last week.

Missing Person Report

You buy two of everything,
have extra at meals.
The echo of your voice seems too much
like an answer.
Your childhood bed was the top half
of a bunk and below, you knew
was unrealized space.
You call him Camera 2.
Sometimes when you travel in groups,
you ask if anyone is missing
because it feels like that.
It’s not even a sadness you can sound.
You didn’t know him.
Literally, you were just roommates,
dorming together in a cramped red tent.
You both moved out on the same day,
and only one of you cried.
But why yesterday,
did you keep the park bench open,
did you tell the stranger:
I’m waiting for someone.
You’ve listened to the heart of another,
with your wrist to your other ear.
There’s some home in that.
It is silly to miss anyone you didn’t know,
even blood. But what a chance.
To have a parallel you, to have two minds,
to never have to say Do you understand?
Because both of you do. Because you can’t
help being each other.
In the mornings, you cross your eyes in the mirror,
see how it could have been.

Are the Kids Calling it Doobies These Days?

2011-02-09T16:35:00.007-05:00

I need to get this poetry manuscript done because it starts to feel like the culmination of my life. Five years is a lot I suppose.

I mark five years because about five years ago I stopped throwing all my writing away. Or burying it where I wouldn't be embarrassed of it. Of hundreds of undergrad poems written, I have kept: 2. Their names are:

Our First Home Has Forgotten Us

and

Expiration Dates

They are like childhood friends that I haven't yet found enough fault with to let go for my more sophisticated grad school friends.

The number of grad school written poems I'm keeping is negligible. Could be half my manuscript. Maybe a little more. I spend my days editing everything. I have a list of 50-60 poems that I've winnowed down. And I feel only about 20 of them need work still.

Improvement. Here's something new. Sometimes the best way to get into editing is write something new. Will any of these new poems make it into the manuscript? Not sure. They need to simmer.

This is a study on a Gary Jackson poem. A poet I heard at AWP. He just won the Cave Canem poetry prize. Wrote a whole book of poems about superheroes. Awesome. And cool guy too.

I used the name of a kid I knew growing up but it's not really about him.

A Poem for Josh Dixon

-dedicated to Josh Dixon

If Josh Dixon wrote a poem for Josh Dixon, the letters would be brands,
no unnecessary words, and when he was done with a thought,
well…

In Josh Dixon’s poem, there would be a weed cellar,
where he’d feel like a true botanist, between his fingers
he’d roll a seed, and feel the universe contained.
But he wouldn’t say it like that. Not in his poem.
He’d whisper, “Dammmmmnnnnnnnn…”
A word to hold all words.

When Josh Dixon writes this poem, he’s gonna write it on zigzag,
he’s gonna write it in the driveway of his Mom’s house,
which is his house, but not for long, not for long.
He’s got plans, an abandoned field to grow enough herb,
he’s got a mind that people underestimate.
That’s word for word from his poem.

Josh Dixon don’t have time for poems usually, he’s got a baby,
and some of these words he’ll scribe on the outside of diapers.
When he’s doing his duty, so his lady can make cash.
But this poem by Josh Dixon has dreams in it. And he won’t let me
tell you them. Because this is Josh Dixon’s poem.
It will beat you with a pipe if it catches you behind the airport.
Looking for his secret field. Searching out his dreams.

If Josh Dixon wrote this poem, it’d sound like a gun
sliding against denim. He would dedicate it to himself.
Josh Dixon is fine. His future life is growing in the dark
ready to break out. One day, when he’s rolling in it,
he’ll light that field on fire. Get the whole town stoned.
And he’ll be king of something for once.

Dancing and laughing down Main.

Books and U-Boats

2011-01-31T10:55:00.007-05:00

I know it sounds like it, but putting together a poetry manuscript is less fun than you would think. It's like compressing the ups and downs of the writing process every half hour. This is what my usual writing process looks like.

1. Sit at desk.

-open notebook

-think of something to write, nothing comes

-free write, decide it's crap

-surf internet

2. Get serious.

-get frustrated with myself, turn off internet

-start writing again, feel something bite

-continue on vein, write more, got it!

-write twenty, thirty lines, variations in notebook

-open Word, transfer from notebook

-compose and finish poem about half an hour to an hour later

3. Read it.

-oh crap, this is not that good

-think about what poets I'm writing like

-consult poets, read similar poems, get ideas

-revise a little, start new stanzas

-decide whether to continue or set my computer on fire

4a. I like it!

- let's read it to someone, probably Valerie!

- put it up on my blog!

- eat some ice cream or baked good as reward!

- declare myself Poet Laureate of My Apartment

4b. I hates it!

- decide I suck at this poetry crap

- ask myself: Who am I fooling? I write sentimental tripe.

- think of other poems I wrote that I hate

- question everything, go watch something mindless, play some video games, pout

5. Revise.

- uh oh, this poem is just a baby, it needs to get growed up

- uh oh, this poem needs some major surgery

- uh oh, I was dead wrong, this poem sucks

- uh oh, Dr. Frankenstein, watch out, I am the master re-animator!

This is my process. And now I'm just on this rollercoaster feeling every old poem I dig up. I wrote something new today instead of just editing. So there. And I don't know yet what I think about it. We'll see if it's 4a or 4b.

Because I Have Nothing to Comfort You, I Talk of U-Boats

How the ocean is just another sky,
and every school of fish is a cloud.
I say those Germans launched a thousand subs,
blind sharks sniffing for British blood.
I know what you want me to say,
but I don’t have it to say.
We have to break bread for the service,
your family is on the brink,
I can’t give you words I never found for mine.
Let’s talk of sailors. Of ships breaking like whales,
how pointless to try to read the water
but how so many did. How small a destroyer felt.
You can’t know me, kid.
My easy smile and wide shoulders are not confidence
but weapons. I have no beatitudes.
The flesh of Christ as familiar as paper in your fingers,
why don’t you ask Him why
you’re sixteen and riding trains beneath the water
to get here alone to save strangers?
We’re not even to the blood
when I skirt the real question again,
tell you how the Eastern seaboard dreamed together
of iron ghosts ringing their shores,
finding the water betrayed them by being so passable,
neither fear, nor loyalty, no kind of strength building
a barrier between them and the inevitable.
Our contingency was to escape to the interior,
lose a little to be more defensible.

Interview

2011-01-10T14:43:00.003-05:00

Supposedly, it's supposed to look like this again tomorrow. We'll see.

I interviewed for a job today. It's a little step up. I don't know when I'll know. They have a few more interviews but I'm hoping the guy right after me sounded a little like this.

PRODUCER

So, Gerald, I see you're interested in television.

GERALD

I love it. I just want to live inside it, you know?

PRODUCER

Sure. I think we all in a way fantasize about living in the shows we love.

GERALD

No, I just want to be that small. It would be so cool. I could save money on groceries. I would put a saddle on my cat and ride it places.

PRODUCER

Interesting. So you want to work for us?

GERALD

Aw, man. Why'd you have to put it like that? Couldn't we all just work for each other?

PRODUCER

Why are you here?

GERALD

That's deep. Why are YOU here? Why are WE here?

PRODUCER

We're not. I want you to go.

GERALD

What the crap? Someone said I was gonna get lunch.

PRODUCER
No one told you that.

GERALD

They didn't? Well, isn't that just like it, man. Maybe I told myself that.

PRODUCER

Please send James back in and don't touch anyone on the way out, please.

GERALD

Fine! Forget you and your empty promises of food and your shrink magic! I have to go now and find someone who offered me lunch.

End scene. So we'll see what happens.

Make yourself happy. Find these two songs:

Flakes by Mystery Jets

and

I Know I Don't Know by Jonquil

Why I Can't Be in the Big Brother Program #1

2011-01-04T11:11:00.005-05:00

When I'm supposed to be working on one writing project my mind wanders to the next project. And when all those projects are too big and mind-consuming for an early morning wait at the airport, I tend to write something silly. This is why I can never have a pen pal or be in the Big Brother program. My propensity to fabricate when there are no immediate consequences. Here's what I think my Big Brother letters would look like.

Dear Conner,

I got your letter. You sound really cool. Sorry about your dad. Your mom sounds like a real nice lady. I loved 5th grade, too. My teacher, Mrs. Abernathy, was great. She was British and drank a lot of tea. She got me addicted to the stuff. Don't get hooked on tea.

What can I tell you about myself? Well, I'm a samurai. Do you know what that is? Well, a samurai is a Japanese warrior who follows a strict code of ethics called bushido. If you can't pronounce it, don't worry. I couldn't pronounce your last name. Samurai wear armor and carry two swords. Which is much more boss than carrying one sword like those sissy ninjas.

Already, I'm sure you have questions. How can I wear swords in public? Easy. Trenchcoats. People stay away from trenchcoat folk. Because they're usually flashers. Which means they are opportunistically naked. Or I just keep my swords strapped to my motorcycle. Which sort of hampers my street justice radius, but I just try to park my motorcycle near danger.

What else? Oh, armor. Do I wear the old timey samurai plate armor? No, I'm more of the Seven Samurai, hang out in cotton kimono type of samurai. Have you seen Seven Samurai? If not, tell your Mom it's cool. Your Big Brother says so. Tell her I would commit seppuku if it wasn't.

What's your home life like? Is your dad an evil warlord/doesn't pay child support? Because I'm always looking for a cause. In exchange for some egg rolls. I'm really into egg rolls. Are there any bullies in your class? I could totally scare them with my wakazashi. (That's one of my two swords.) What's your single mom like? Does she need me to get feudal on the kingdom that holds her mortgage? Does she like motorcycles? What about debt?

Stay bushido, Conner. Big Brother out.

Love,

James Wolfbike

Last surviving member of the Kagekatsu/Wolfbike clan

Not Everyday is a Birches Day

2011-01-01T19:23:00.004-05:00

This is what Valerie has said to me three times over three days. I've been writing poems. I've been knocking my head on the wall over this one. FOR THREE DAYS. And we're talking hours. 4 to 6 hours a day for 3 days.

I become obsessed sometimes. Even when I know it's not going well. Even when I know that the piece is going to turn out just par. It's something I read about Sylvia Plath. How she would just keeping work on a piece until completion. No matter how sucked it was.

Also, I've been obsessed with literary terms. So every break I took had me skipping from one term to the next.

Epizeuxis - when a word is repeated for emphasis such as: "No, no, no!" Or "The Horror, the Horror, the Horror."

Catachresis - when a mixed metaphor is introduced knowingly and on purpose to produce an effect

And the actual word I've been trying to find for three days:

Antimeria - when a noun is used as a verb

Alright, so here's the poem. It is what it is. I've trimmed it down. Rewritten, restructured. Written way too long to get this par piece of nonsense. On to other things.

Oh, and the reason Valerie says that to me is thus:

My favorite poem is "Birches" by Robert Frost. I think it's brilliant. It's all the things I want in my poems. Extended metaphors, human involvement, real feeling, childhood, innocence, spirituality, death, and humor.

I told Valerie that one day I want to write my "Birches". Of course, I'll probably never know when I wrote it. But I want to write something that good.

She's been telling me to lower my expectations for the day with this phrase. Every time she sees me pulling at my hair at my computer.

Is this done? No. Should there be an extra step before the ending and preceding stanza? Yes. Am I sick of this poem for now? Absolutely.

The Wayback

Somewhere in Iowa, the corn closed in
so close we high fived it from our windows
until our hands were mittened in tassels.

It was June. We called ourselves Vacationeers.
The rhythm of summer was a seamed highway.

If I had my choice, I opted for the Wayback.
That unique seat particular to the American station wagon.
A happy blip for our family.
We rode it right out of style.

I was a child. And children understand rules.
Handed down rules. Game rules.
Fingers in an L are a gun
you can point at other cars. Safely.
They don’t have to play. It’s the rules.
You can pretend to die. Bang is a magic word.
Magic words shouted outside guarantee your place.
Shotgun! Back! Wayback!
Choose your perspective.

I want to leave one time unbroken.
A little childhood clean. Sacrosanct.

If I say I saw the clouds in the Blue Mountains,
dropping around us like weary balloonists.
Believe me. Because I believe me.
If am the same age in these memories,
I am sure I was.

I get stuck in that seat.
Never a destination in view. Showing up last to anywhere.
You can get used to the past. This can become your window.

I only know I arrived when I leave.

The Kentucky of our minds rarely holds up.
Shotgun was where you could wear adultness.
Drink an extra coke, count the silver coins for tolls.
If your Mom was moodstruck, she would tell something
about your Dad, described with could of and was.
His face. Books. Your likenesses.
If you drove through his state, you’d never stop.

Why does every other here feel like vacation?
I am somehow still waiting for that wagon.
To honk the horn, tell me to call my place again.

California Rainy Day

2010-12-29T14:35:00.004-05:00

We are in California and it is raining again. Now I know this is nothing compared to the blizzard we missed in New York but it is sort of a strange experience for me. California-wise. This place is the place of No Weather, of Endless Sun, and Clouds Are Scared To Show weather.

I can't remember the last time I've been able to just sit, write, and post. To rain outside. I think I could do a writer's retreat somewhere rainy. Be forced to stay indoors. Write my brains out all day. I actually have my days here sectioned out by projects.

SUNDAY, MONDAY, TUESDAY - Niagara Falls Project

-this is a graphic novel that Tyson and I are working on about the barrel riders of Niagara Falls, it should be pretty cool. His friend Maris is illustrating it and his style is fascinating and deeply cool.

WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, FRIDAY - Poetry Book

-in August I went to Canada to organize my first book of poetry. Aaron Allen was gracious and awesome to let me crash at his sweet cabin in Waterton. I had blog posts about it a while ago. Anyway, I've been editing and adding ever since. My tentative plan is to start sending out to first book contests in January.

SATURDAY, SUNDAY, MONDAY - Scripts/Film Projects

-I have a bunch of scripts I'm backed up on. Three web series, one cartoon web series, and two scripts for festival shorts. Besides the short we already shot that is being edited by our editor, Ed.

But I need to finish my original pilot script. My friend, Nick, keeps telling me if I want to get an agent that's key. So I'm going to just focus on that for a while. I can't tell you what it's about though. I'm superstitious that way.

So here's something I wrote today. Aaron encouraged to write further poems in this vein. As always, this is a first draft. Happy New Year! Here's some death!

Generic Obituary for Anyone #2

She had a name for herself
and it was a sound many made.
She lived in the place she lived.
A lover of food, she would eat it
often, even three times a day.
If there was weather, she noticed.
She is gone but her weight on earth remains.
She had plans for herself, unshared
formulated during long looks into the distance.
Her habit was to enter rooms
and switch all lights to ON.
The world is indeed darker with her gone.
She had a quiet reserve of hopes and dreams.
For those of you who knew her, we send condolences.
For those who didn’t,
we can’t speak enough on what you missed.
Somedays for her were enough to live.
Otherdays she was capable and indomitable.
There will be a service in a place at a time.
When it is finished, we will pull the earth over her.
She will look like she is sleeping.
And that she will not dispute.
She is survived by all of us.

10 Reasons I'm Cooler Than Edward Cullen

2010-12-11T10:43:00.005-05:00

1. First, I JUST AM!

2. He doesn't do anything. He just hangs around different high schools listening to banal conversations like he's looking for something to feel superior to.

3. I hang out in the sun. Which rules. And my sweet tan looks way better than Pillsbury face.

4. If I had vampire superpowers, I would use them for the greater good. I wouldn't hang out in some lame-o hick town. I'd be fighting supervillians. And my name would be The Sparkle.

5. I'm not moody. I smile a lot. And I'm funny. And Edward Cullen IS NOT FUNNY! I read that book. He never says anything funny. And neither does Stephenie Meyer.

6. My ability to eat makes me more fun at restaurants. And less creepy. And makes people less conscious about their weight because I don't lurk around food like an anorexic middle school girl.

7. I like animals. They're awesome. I don't bum rush them in the woods and suck their life out.

8. I stopped a van once. Big deal.

9. I keep civic traffic laws. Because I'm responsible. And not an anarchist douche.

10. When Valerie sleeps I don't stand in the corner of her room and watch her like a PERV. I just go to bed next to her. And if vampires come in the middle of the night to kill her, that's crazy. I mean, what are the chances of that? How can I be constantly prepared for that sort of thing?

The Reason for My Blog is ________________

2010-12-08T05:06:00.005-05:00

I think the problem is that I'm using this forum for too big an idea. A work space to show work only. Or a place to write down whatever has struck me as life changing or thought provoking.

Blah to that. I like blogs. I read them fairly often and I liked having this blog when I first started it. Then I got out of school and I started working in TV/Film and the hours are always 12 minimum and all that and so forth.

I'm back. (I always say this.) I write a lot. And lately its been a lot of scripts which are hard to post here. But I'll put some of that up.

Because why not? Why not do whatever I want here. Valerie covers so much of what we accomplish from day to day in New York. But I'd like to follow suit. And she does so much she's not telling you.

Does everyone know she's in graduate school? I bet they don't. Because she doesn't tell anyone anything. While I, on the other hand, blab every tiny thing I'm involved with.

Alright. Here's something dumb I made at Xtranormal. I use this site for script writing exercises.

Publishment and Other News

2010-11-17T07:53:00.004-05:00

I've been meaning to talk about this for a while but it's been sort of a whirlwind month for me. The show I was working on wrapped and then I moved onto another show.

This new show may involve penguins.

TV/Film is weird. If you're not part of the creative process, you're moving from show to show. They just need bodies mainly. Once you become integral to a show, you stay and they pay you to stick around.

In the middle of all that, I wrote something for VH1.

One day I'll be holding creative reins. Not yet. I'm just a body for now. For two months and then on to another tv show.

But I've been writing lots of stuff lately and doing some little videos on Xtranormal that I'll post up here.

So Joe Griffin, friend and superfriend, approached me a while ago about publishing poems in OxMag from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. A friend of his was revamping the magazine and he wanted to know if he could use something I wrote for the startup.

I was very flattered and this is the result.

OXMAG

Sometimes Val and I talk about what a blog is. And why it is used. I guess mine is just to check in. Get out of my brainspace. Say hey and tell you what I'm so occupied with.

Also, I want to talk about our film shoot we just finished. It was awesome. And cold. Yet awesome.

Decisions and Other Bad Words

2010-10-19T08:30:00.005-04:00

Once again, I did not finish my 30 day project. This was by design.

I have way too much on my plate.

This is what I fear to be: Jack of all Trades, Master of None.

I actually have this phrase consistently stuck in my head. I find myself trying to do too much. Take on too many types of artistic endeavors.

Sometimes I get too involved with improv. And I think, "Yeah, this is what I want to do. Improv." But then I read a book of poetry and realize how much I miss it.

Then I'll act in something and think about that. Then I'll think about being a teacher only or I'll think about only writing plays or whatever. Sometimes I'm a goldfish.

I was going to list goals for the rest of this year. Things that I'm trying to accomplish but they sound so pretentious. So big.

I'll keep them to myself for now. Maybe I'll post them when I finish them.

Sometimes you just need some time.

Day 8 - Zuihitsu Day 2

2010-10-09T22:11:00.003-04:00

I keep on keeping on. I think I'm a day behind now. I will post two poems tomorrow. Make up. Because I want to post during the day. But I've been getting home late. Because I'm so popular. Among poplars. I hang out with trees. I'm tired. I have weird jokes this late.

Here's another part of my zuihitsu. It's a journal essentially. Which is a thing i don't really keep. But then I fill up tons of moleskines with writing so what I am doing? I was thinking about this as I was writing this.

No World But This – Zuihitsu Day 2

If I never feared mortality,
if I never feared man or war
I could be a mountain, moving alive
time would spin away from me
all persons becoming cut flowers

~*~

I could sleep a century
I could keep a century alive
I could keep a country life
I could sleep a country’s life

~*~
I remember being young
saying things I thought were new,
as if I had peered into the world
and found a new vein of silver
thought that no one else had plumbed
I told a girlfriend that “Hate was not the opposite of Love,
but Indifference is.”
I was so impressed with myself
I told this to her Mom as well
and she nodded, a mother’s nod
to a toddler holding up an object
and saying, “red”, “ball”, “play”

later, I learned I was not new
I was walking in deep ruts of thought
I have not said anything original
yet

~*~
this mash? this bog of pulp and ink?
in Sunday School they told us to journal
but I chronicle nothing here, no day, no significance
I only write poetry and half poetry and bad awfulness
I will not ever call poetry
and sometimes dialogue between a fictional person or three
maybe a comedy bit I’m working out,
but a journal? can’t be

who would read this?
progeny? (I haven’t made any)
peers? I’d be mortified to show them

~*~
I’ve forgotten how to edit
my poems emerge as big as my life
1:1 scale
as I walk, sometimes I write I walk
uglier words hang on
like love handles, plantar’s warts, eczema
things I should treat, freeze off
but I get too caught up in sunsets
stare off and forget the form
between my hands
Or I’m busy digging for winter signs,
a raw November, where I will not rake again
this white page will snow over my mistakes
the rustling clauses beneath, of thoughts
broke off but wrote
but rote
but written
but rid of
I am sorry there is so much
for you to get through
sometimes I just keep castling
on top of this swamp
as deep as the walls are tall

Day 7 - Zuihitsu

2010-10-08T00:15:00.006-04:00

I got home too late for this one. I thought about cheating and changing the time zone but whatever.

So this form I'm going to attempt over the next few days is a zuihitsu. Now it's not really broken into days but I have not the time nor attention this week to sit down for the hours needed to accomplish this.

This is the definition a la wikipedia.

Zuihitsu (随筆^?) is a genre of Japanese literature consisting of loosely connected personal essays and fragmented ideas that typically respond to the author's surroundings. The name is derived from two Kanji meaning "to follow" and "brush", and thus works of the genre should be considered not as traditionally planned literary pieces but rather as casual or random jottings down of thought by their authors.

So it's an excuse to be a little random I suppose, but it's also a very exciting form that I learned from my teacher and friend Kimiko Hahn. The Narrow Road to the Interior is a breathtaking book.

No World But This – Zuihitsu Day 1

Dear Parallel You,
have we ever agreed again
when you split from me, or maybe I from you
did we leave like lovers cold
was there a moment when in your mirror
we perhaps, were both at a breakfast table
and a spoon held at the same time
felt like a tuning fork, felt strung to something
and if you looked over toward
a somewhere, a felt direction
because I was

~*~

I’m wearing a pair of jeans Valerie washed for me and in the left pocket is a mess of washed paper
that I’m trying to decipher, that seems to me like a memory I need. But the metaphor seems so easy, I chuck it all. Start over every day.

~*~
my boss told me he doesn’t feel himself
because he has no hat on today
and his hair is wild as a fire
he said his dog ate it
ripped all around the Yankee N and Y
had the bill in his teeth when he woke up
it started right when he came in
the dog just kept barking
he suspects it was the smell of his sickness
he has a cold, wasn’t feeling himself
he keeps saying that
as if you is a feeling
you can lose like sight

~*~
Sometimes I wake up sure I’ve drowned.
When I do, Valerie is there
to talk me into the air again.

Day 6 - Other Worlds

2010-10-06T23:12:00.004-04:00

Many Worlds. Many Worlds. I'm obsessed with physics. I tell Valerie that I'm a freelance scientist. She tells me there's no such thing.

I'm going to write another blog post today about projects. My mind is in so many camps right now. I'm going to take a night off tomorrow night and just play some mindless videogames or watch a movie.

Fiction

I keep a book of fiction hid,
illustrated in almosts and coulds.
Sometimes I will open, read a lost story.
Here is my mother, still in Virginia,
never returned, her hair as long as her will.
She makes none of us. She lives a different happy.
This is my brother with his twin alive.
His twin has a name. It is not Craig
and now there is no Craig. We never know him.
Here is my Aunt Connie. She never teaches me the C word.
Here is the rabbit I lawnmowed. Whole.
Here we are rich. Here we never lived.
Here we are just altered a few different choices.
Here I am without a star to steer by.
Here I am never born and nothing changes that much.
My grandma is a socialite in one world, her husband stoic and handsome.
There’s our trees back with no tornado.
There’s our house carved through.
Here is Craig teaching me something.
Here is Craig without an easy smile.
There is a story of my grandpa keeping his bike shop,
he never finds religion, his rides get longer and longer.
One day he is found twisted around his bike.
He never married anyone to miss him.
There goes my uncle, a lawyer in this dream.
In this version, my sister has no mirrors.
In this one, my wife marries another man.
We are too happy with each other at parties.
I am jealous and she never knows.
In another, she has everything and I am not part.
In three of these, I suffer from ideas of eyes within eyes.
In sixteen realities, my mother has no doctors.
In seventy two, Allen and Craig never become my brothers
and I never read those.
In fact, there are four thousand eight hundred and ten stories
which I never open and never will.
And there is one tale, a bit like this,
which I keep a bookmark in. I never read ahead.
I never want to know the ending.

Day 5 - A World A World

2010-10-05T22:51:00.005-04:00

This is my own experiment I started when I worked as a cashier at a Whole Foods. I would write small poems in my notepad. I would stand there and just jot down little poem experiments by starting a series all the same way.

This small series is "If I lacked...". It's fun. It's a gas. I recommend series. It helps you explore subjects you're still working on. Or it gives you license to use the lines you cut but love. Here's this. Also, I'm going to post our last Army Husbands today.

No Obligations

If I lacked obligation,
all funerals could be any funeral.
I would eat meals just me.
I’d have all time,
a numberless watch.
I could hold my own hands at movies.
I’d float along never saying
You look pretty or You are correct
because I wouldn’t have to,
because the social construct of compliments
would have no bearing.
No eyes would need contact,
all empty seats, all items in stores
are mine and never not mine.
Forget voting, forget presents,
I would keep no holidays
I wouldn’t believe in labor, in soldiers,
everyday I would celebrate my independence.
I would plow through birthdays,
no reason to celebrate me or the former womb.
Any call would merit equal import.
And all nights would be the same
nothing as all nothings in my life.
I would say life and not know it.
I would ponder words and stop speaking.
I would sift through thoughts and discover
no reason to keep at it.
Living would be sound,
zeroes, holes within holes.

How Stuff Works and Stuff

2010-10-05T18:17:00.004-04:00

Stuff You Should Know podcast.

The best thing since sliced bread. Well, the best thing since This American Life which is the best thing since Prairie Home Companion.

Go here. Download them all to your itunes. Love them.
Chuck and Josh are easily two of the most likeable radio/podcast/audio personalities I've ever listened to.

This is how it started. Our friend Adriann told us to come to this quiz bowl at The Bell bar. She said that two guys from her favorite podcast, something called Stuff You Should Know, were hosting it. We said sure. No big deal. We'll go.

And uh-oh, who was there? Ira freaking Glass. I gave Valerie full permission to leave me and marry him if the opportunity arose. It did not. But not because of lack of trying.
After the quiz bowl, which we did not win, Chuck and Josh got up and thanked everyone. They gave a signed pizza box from their celebrity table to the winners. So afterwards, we approached them with a signed pizza box from our table. With our names. I signed as Mr. T. Because I feel like maybe he would have wanted to be there. He pities fools. And fools are people who don't know things.

They were super cool. I guess we only really talked to Chuck. Make that Chuck: super cool. Josh: could be cool. And then the rest was aural history.

They play constantly in my company van. (Oh, that's right. I have a company van. Because I'm awfully gangster.)

Everyone should listen to this. I promise nothing but enjoyment. In fact, I will send you money if you do not experience chuckles and wisdom.

In fact, I'm going to propose that as their tagline: "Chuckles and Wisdom."

Day 4 - Miles to Go

2010-10-04T22:06:00.003-04:00

Sure, it's another sleep poem. Sometimes I get stuck on thoughts. It's a phase. Until I get some rest. Ok, to bed. This is something. Or other.

Some Dreams May Come

If I was lacking a bed
I would learn to sleep standing,
to sleep sitting, to eat with sleep,
to shower and snore, to move
my world into the unconscious.
How much time saved
to steer my dreams into the mundane.
A slept life would shield me
from seeing judgment, seeing inequality.
All passers could be wearing heads of friends,
all traffic could be ocean static.
My days would stay an easy manner,
my clothes would settle into simpleness,
pullovers, Velcro and slippers, jumpsuits.
I could sleep past all unpleasant.
Know no war.
No age to feel in my structure.
And one day the dream would shake
would blur, the sky would gong
with a loud heart, and I would know.
As loved ones appeared and echoes left,
I would turn to say goodbye and trip
into nothing, into forever, into a bright oblivion,
into the dream I waited for all my waking life.

Day 3 - Sleepy Time Tea

2010-10-03T21:09:00.006-04:00

This project always drives me crazy. And if Valerie's too close to me while it's going on it's liable to drive her crazy. I have such limited hours in the day. I try to write something everyday but many times it turns into a race against sleep.

I find that many of these become sleep poems. I can't help it. So I'm reading Tony Hoaglund's Donkey Gospel, Theodore Roethke's On Poetry and Craft, and John Berryman's 77 Dream Songs. All of these are definitely influencing this.

Also, Galway Kinnell. He's in here. There's something Sharon Olds said about him not being afraid to show us all the rawness of the body. The disgustingness, the fluids we don't speak of. I can't go that far. Or maybe I can and I can't post it here.

Here's this. Also, I've been reading and pondering the Many Worlds theory. Quantum Suicide. Things like that. So that's in there, too.

Before I Wake

When I feel asleep at the wheel,
as you know there are theoried many worlds,
and between mile 94 and 93 two came to exist.
See when I sleep I drop left
onto my arm, into a dead man’s position.
This is a baby learned thing maybe
probably to guard a long gone pacifier.
It’s creased in my bones,
I fall into it like a tent collapsed.
How different would I be as a back sleeper?
I’d be readier,
I could sit up in the night,
not untangle like a spider.
My arms could spring from rest
free, prepped for any bedding woman.
I would study political science.
I would eat balanced meals.
Instead of all blood pooling
in my stomach and penis
causing all dreams to be of hungry sex
or at least interpretable of that,
blood would distribute through my back
giving me daytime posture and purpose
steered by my sleep strong neck.

But I don’t spend nights that way,
I sleep selfish, arms for me,
a pillow too thin to be shareable
nightly and this night especially
I am smashed into darkness.
In one world at least
I never wake up from my baby sleep.

In my world, somewhere between
Coldwater and Hell, Michigan
I sleep a whole mile.
Waking curled into the window,
I see the steering wheel,
steady, making corrections
for me, for some reason
I can’t even guess at now.

Day 2 - Space Cadet

2010-10-02T23:09:00.005-04:00

So I'm delirious. I worked until 530 in the morning. And I've been trying to listen to General Conference today but I just can't get my mind to stay straight. So I wrote this weird poem. And I just ended it because I need to go to a party and I need to get some sleep before I start hallucinating.

Here's something. Fun and weird. I just believe that you shouldn't quell impulses. If this is what you're writing or working on, you should just ride it through. Sometimes you're surprised. Other times it's just as weird as you thought.

Love and Rockets

I’ll say it again.
If you love me, build me a rocketship.
I bet by morning burn,
we could slap together a space jalopy.
Every car on our block could be part,
while these drivers steer through streets of dream
we could cut their rides to piecemeal,
puzzle a spacecraft from hubs and doors.

I don’t believe in rocket science.
I only believe in will.

Let’s stuff the cabin for takeoff
with pillows, with couch cushions.
Finally apropos, we’ll run our space heater
off our army of car batteries.
Scuba tanks and fishbowls,
snowsuits, mittens, boots.
Nasa schmasa. Funding schmunding.

We need to get back to zero
gravity, feel the shedding
of the world’s steady weight.

And when we’re up, out, left or wherever
when we’re buzzing the moon,
dipping our fin through its ocean of dust
watching the earth like a beach ball
on one of God’s zillion fingers
you will say, “I get it now.”
And I will get it, too.

30 Poems for 30 Days - ATTEMPT 3!

2010-10-01T14:17:00.007-04:00

Here's the thing. I've started this twice before. I've gotten to roughly 18-20 days in and then had life get in the way. This will not happen again. I will conquer this. I'm a busy person. Everyone's a busy person. I work 12-15 hour days. Well, sleep can suck it. Because I'm going to do this. And I'm starting on the first day of the month. That will make it easier to know where I am. Attempt 3. Start.

This started as a joke. I started this joke with Valerie and Annie and Ben a few years ago. The idea of generic obituaries. And then I started writing them on people's facebook pages. And then my friend Steven Hopkins pointed out that what I was writing was sort of beautiful. And then I realized. My humor and my poetry interweave so much. So I wrote this.

Generic Obituary for Anyone

When he was alive, it was apparent.
He knew the names of many things.
He reacted. He had emotions.
All his experience became memory.
There was enough air for him to breathe.
When he spoke he was acknowledged.
Sometimes he would sit and just be a person sitting.
Other times he was stirred by purpose.
There were people he called friend
and those he called stranger.
He called a place a home.
Sometimes he was alone, and sometimes the world
felt thick around him.
Wondering why some things worked the way they do,
he discovered a universe within him.
He left his fingerprints.
Some of you met him.
For many, he would exist like a pebble
on a beach you never heard of.
When he slept he had dreams
he never described to anyone.
These were wholly his own.
He has taken them with him.
He will be missed by a percentage of the world.

How I Lost the Ability to Talk

2010-09-20T07:20:00.005-04:00

Somewhere I found a work habit. It seemed all I needed was a schedule. And Valerie. And once I had both those things, I was able to sit down and write. Everyday. I now sit down and write whenever I can. Any free moment.

I've always had my fingers in too many honey pots. Always trying to tackle more than I can. Poetry, plays, songs, film, essays, children's lit. I find myself always wanting the thing I'm not writing currently. When I'm writing poetry, I'm thinking of comedy. When I'm writing laughs, I'm dreaming of metaphor.

It's not an unhappy thing. It's just the way I'm wired. Comedy and poetry are a lot closer than you think. I'll explain sometime.

But now that I spend so much time writing, and filming, I have nothing else on my mind. I fixate on the ephemeral, on the unwritten, the undone. My mind is a constant problem solving machine for my current writing projects.

This is my head on any given day:
"How do I write the story of Kevin's accident without being oversentimental?"
"How are math and death the same?"
"If I want this character to sound more noir, how do I keep this modern joke?"
"Why do I hate topical humor so much?"

And somewhere along the way, I've lost the ability to speak. About normal things. About things that are not my projects.

People ask me how I'm doing and I tell them WHAT I'm doing. People ask me banal questions like, "How was your weekend?" (Like someone just did three minutes ago.) And I answer, "Good. I met with this friend to direct a project and had this other screening thing to go to." (Like I just did two and a half minutes ago.) Not: "It was a good weekend. Kind of busy." Like normal people.

It's become bad. Valerie and I have talked about it. I'm so far inside my head that I really have to consciously make myself step out. I practiced at a party this saturday. Not talking about anything I'm doing. Chatting up random people about anything besides my projects.

Now I'm going to go edit this new web series I'm working on. And I'm planning to finish my 30 days project. Or start anew. Because I've started it twice and never finished. (Here's the funny thing. Even as I started writing this paragraph I realized that I'm essentially doing the same thing. But I wrote it anyway. Because this is what I am.)

Maybe I'll just go home and watch a movie. Tell someone what I liked about it. Like normal sauce.

Army Husbands Ep. 3

2010-08-23T18:47:00.003-04:00

So this one was a weird one. I had an episode written and then we decided to scrap it. About four days before we started shooting. We came up with a new episode. Disagreed on that. Kept it. Worked it. And ended up with this. There's some fun stuff. Ken Beck who plays Landon Langdon was awesome to work with. He's an actor and comedian here in New York. Hope you dig.

day 23 - grapes of wrath and yum

2010-08-19T11:33:00.006-04:00

I flew in last night. I'm in California. I wrote this in Minneapolis airport under the stares of these two teenage guys. They could see I was writing poetry. I wonder what they thought. I'm guessing they didn't find it supremely masculine.

So this poem is a hybrid of two poets I've been reading for the last two days. Sharon Olds and Colin Cheney. Sharon Olds was a teacher of mine and one of the most amazing modern writers. If you aren't familiar, pick up any of her books.

Colin Cheney was a student of hers as well and a peer of mine. He just released a book called Here Be Monsters which won the National Poetry Prize. He's that good. He'll be around for a while.

So these styles.

Sharon has this very confessional, narrative style that lends itself well to me. These many times end up in a grand line that lets us understand our humanity a little better.

Colin is like a juggler. He'll have a poem with three things going on. A personal story, a scientific concept, and a greek myth, for example. And he'll weave them all together into one illuminating whole. It's like you think he's juggling three things but he holds it up you realize it was one, spinning very fast.

So I've tried combining these. And it sounds really sad. But I didn't intend it that way. And it may be stretched for drama. And I hope I don't get any calls about this from my fam.

The Sandwich Days

There were poor times and poorer-
My Grandfather bled his savings for us,
put us in clothes, in used cars. For years
our Mom was unknown to be home
two consecutive nights. Her desk
was a labyrinth of checkbook registers.
do what you gotta do, make ends meet
make do, get by, the Lord helps those
who don’t cry “Lord!” every other second
We never dressed like poor players,
Nama made sure, gave us modest skins
to blend and strut, and if money didn’t stick to us
it sure didn’t smell us out, turn us in
as phoney, eat white bread and bologna trash.
~
I hated every opulence. Especially the whole gloss of skiing, the neon passes swinging from jackets so store-starch fresh, all the Monday high school hallway talk, Did you get new skis? I got new skis. Last year’s ski were so last year’s skis. I bought a new sneer every winter. Even dumped this ski chick cold when her family invited me to the slopes for a weekend. Because I knew how I’d look out there, next to that money, in my matte blues, every worn sleeve and stretched thread revealed in the inescapable glare of miles of powder.
~
No one said without much in our home.
Sometimes it was money and one night it was time
and there were no groceries and dinner
Mom announced, our captain informing the crew,
dinner would be slices of bread and ham.
And the moment hung between all of us,
our perception of being haves or have-nots.
It was the youngness of her eyes that snapped me,
into a chant, into a silver banging march around
the dinner table, which made me play first mate
all those stripped down years even
when the ship was on fire, our battle cry
always, even now, being, “Ham Sandwiches!
Ham Sandwiches! Ham Sandwiches!”

Day 22 - The Suburbs

2010-08-17T12:57:00.005-04:00

I don't know where this comes from. I think I was listening to "The Suburbs" by Arcade Fire. And I wrote these first two lines and then thought they were stupid and then went to write a poem about a funeral which I got bored of and came back to these two lines. The whole poem was sort of a surprise and fun to write. But suddenly my trial version of Word ran out. And I couldn't type it.

So I rallied Aaron, "To the internet cafe! I need to renew Word!" And here we are. So I typed it here. It's definitely my humor. Tomorrow is my last day in Canada. If I have time or wherewithal, I'll post another poem or two today or tomorrow.

Everyone is the Same and Everyone Likes It

Sure, the suburbs are barnacling the Earth
I’m not saying they don’t.
It’s just that I lived okay,
safe in shadows of optimally placed trees,
biking down double sized avenues
to a friend in a house that looked
just like your house. And inside
a family that looked kind of like
your family. Comfort to open a door
into a familiar maze of living
walk the same amount of steps
from hall to den to stairs to
your not-room filled with better
toys and softer pillows but besides that
same and same, and you echoing
each other’s words about
your shared teacher and assignments
until one day your friend dies
unexpectedly and your family dies
too out of the blue, so you
could sit in his chair at his table
and could eat a consolation meal
just as good as you’re used to
and his parents ask,
“Billy, did you have a good day?”
And you say,
“My name’s not Billy.”
And they laugh and say,
“Couldn’t it be?”
And it could.

Day 21 - Internet Cafes and Letters to the Future

2010-08-16T13:08:00.004-04:00

I'm back at the internet cafe. My time is running out. A bagel bought me two hours. And this poem needed a lot of editing. It's the third in the Letter to Me series. It may or may not need informing from the others. Not sure. Hard to separate sometimes.

A buck just walked down the sidewalk near the cafe. Crazy. This place is wild. I'm going to ride my pet bear home now. I'll put up some pictures tomorrow. The internet is just so slow I can't tell whether or not it can handle it. Lates.

Letter #3: Change

To an Older Me,

Even as I write this, I can feel the future you
pulling away, deciding to be.
There’s a smile in me I’m trying out,
a world be damned sort of grin.
I see it in the mirror some mornings,
sneaking out, giving me an almost handsome tilt.
Don’t laugh.

By now, you have sold my skin.
Your fingers look like strangers.
My face on you is stretched into something new,
even carefree. I feel it coming.

Two days ago, I biked down Milham Road
and ran into one of three Jessicas from class.
And she waylaid me, joked with me, frightened me
into hours of pointless forgetfulness.
I never got one broody word written.

I said don’t laugh.
If my pen cannot be a spear, what is it?
If I am not me in the future, who are you?

This is only vision I’ve had of us:
propped near some lake, clear as dreams,
mountains around, loons and deer,
a waterfall fogs a white noise through the air.
In our hands, a journal and pen.
Beauty surrounding, we’re still looking at paper.
Your face is young and uncreased by living ,
your eyes are still grey but steel now,
absent of heat, more like a door shut.
I am not gone. Just locked away.

I get why we became you.
Forgiveness is not easy, it’s just lighter.

Still,
You

Day 20 - The US of Eh

2010-08-14T20:38:00.004-04:00

I'm in an internet cafe. Across from Aaron Allen. We're in Waterton, Canada where his family has a beautiful cabin in the mountains. I'm here to write. To kayak a bit. Learn how to golf?

Today, we kayaked Lake Cameron. We lost track of time (neither of us wear a watch and it was overcast) and we ended up being on the water for 7 hours. It's been a few crazy days of traveling for me. Flying to LA, getting some In and Out, and then James Appel being so kind to drive me to a different airport so I could fly to Canada.

This is what I wrote while I was at LAX. I was a little delirious but I like it.

LAX – 4:40 AM

You do not tire.
You are undauntable, you are American.
A self made sun.

Here, in the waiting room of your heart,
I feel your wheels, I stride the gears.
I get up and wade your pools like fuel.
Our need is your on switch.
Our travel itch, that we have to get off
and get on and on. Infinity.

From this great glass,
I spy every plane splash
into the surf of the Pacific.
They taxi in where worker men
swing fronds of palm to beat
clean the cling of clouds.

Stretch those wings a while.
Cool your jets, man.
Let your uniformed brain take a walk.
It’s good to change your mind.

Put me in an orange vest.
I will spread seed for your birds.
Clean the tarmac with leftover java.
I can spell out love notes in lights
to all your most faithful lovers.

If the Big Earthquake comes,
LAX, I have no doubt
every plane here will grasp you up
by their rubber feet
and carry you to another land
ready for your busy heart.

Day 19 - Back with a Nightmare

2010-08-11T19:29:00.004-04:00

So two nightmares. 1) My office is having a pushup competition. I don't like competitions. Because I'm not good at most competitions. Because they're usually physical.
Oh, the competition is against other parts of the tv crew. I think we're challenging accounting first. Then we'll move onto editing and the teamsters.
Everyday we have pushup time in the office. My wing meat is hurting. I did 65 pushups yesterday. Yeah, that's right. 65.

Here's something inspired by Kinnell.

Dear Stranger,

Pause. Identify
what you are without.
Isolate. You. Minus
everything else.
Say to a mirror –
This is me:empty.

Pause. Lies.
I sense you are not skinned,
barnacles on the underside
of your heart.
Memories stick like residue
from band-aids, from splashed cola.
I hear sand in your shoes.

I get it, stranger.
We are jealous of our ballast.

Here is a solution.
A mile from your house is a bear.
Don’t worry if you are not in bear country.
There is a bear out there.
Drive to it. You will know it
by the way it stumbles, mad as the moon.
It has lost its eyes, it has dulled its paws.
Put it down.
Reach both hands into the mouth and peel
the fur off him.
In the recesses of this bear,
there will be a smaller bear shaped cavity.
Wrap the non-bear in a blanket.
Oh, bring a blanket.

Now find an open road to the sky
and breathe into the mouth,
until your lungs are flat.
Now back steal the air,
it will be bittered, taste its rust.
As dimensional as regret, as thin as slight.
Now this go, breathe as far as you can,
past the lungs and space,
until you are aware your body is a deep well,
and your air is unending
and you are light with it.
And now your bear will wake.
Full of hunger, weighed down with you,
ready, for this is how bears get born.

The Travel Bug

2010-08-10T23:22:00.004-04:00

So my little poetry writing break is coming to an end. I tried to start something tonight but was falling asleep everywhere. I'm reading Galway Kinnell's Book of Nightmares so I'm working on nightmare poems. Spooky scary.

But Val and I are leaving for a trip! We're flying down to California on Thursday and then I'm flying up to Canada on Friday. Because Valerie and I always split up the week before our anniversary to make each other extravagant gifts. They have to be hand made. Last year, she made me a canoe with my name etched into a banner being carried by two eagles. And I made her a hammock that fit exactly to the shape of her body. And had a cup holder.

Oh, wait. Those are lies. We never do that kind of stuff. We just buy each other diamond jewelry. I have a bandolier made of rubies and Valerie is getting (don't tell her) a bathing suit of carbuncles.

Holy crap, I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I have to find some more carbuncles tomorrow.

Other Things, A Break

2010-08-06T20:02:00.003-04:00

So I'm shooting Army Husbands Ep. 3 this weekend and it's going to take a lot of time and less sleep. I'm going to not kill myself and just put my project on hiatus until Sunday.

Also, here's this.

Day 18 - Levertov, Me, and a Morning of Writing

2010-08-05T09:54:00.004-04:00

So here was the morning assignment. I wanted to use the structure of her poem, "About Marriage". Which I won't adequately show here because of the blog restrictions on line length and spacing. This is her first line:

Don't lock me in wedlock, I want

marriage, an

encounter -

So I took this idea of marriage and made it my own concern. The feelings I have about calling Valerie my "wife". I think it makes her less. Like she's a half person identifiable only by her title, that she would be the same as other "wives". I frequently just say "Valerie".

The middle part of Levertov's poem was about an encounter with birds. I frequently dislike poems about birds or flowers or anything where poets just list off scientific names to birds or flowers. I hate any poem that starts with...."I spied a bird while sitting at my desk" and then so forth onto comparing that bird to the world or their life and then the bird flies away and I'm at home gagging.

So thinking of that, I forced myself to write myself sitting and writing and thinking about stuff. Now I'm not sure if the middle works yet. But I like how the poem turned out I think. Levertov study, away!

A Four Letter Word

I don’t say wife when I speak of you
it is tethered
to old earth-
(heavy, connoted)

I tell them instead of the rainstorm
built for us

(the sun, sensing its time

nudges at my attention

I have a fan set

to Paper Storm

and my yesterday knots

have piped from me

into the watertable

I keep my books close

a room of teachers often

but sometimes an audience

the applause of pages

somewhere near

you are cleating the earth

to move at your speed

my words are wings

we have become momentum)

there was a rainstorm
that while we walked through
woke every tree
though it felt like we did
like we were inevitable here

Day 17 - Missed a Day

2010-08-04T23:37:00.005-04:00

I'm falling asleep into my notebook. Things to say tomorrow. Something small for now.

Aurora

I told you of
the Northern Lights

How the sky bent
to catch all
the stars' splash.