Friday, December 28, 2007

The Great New Year Crossword Challenge: A Quest For Perfection

The New York Times Crossword, according to legions of cruciverbalists, is the creme de la creme of American puzzles. Since watching the documentary "Wordplay" in the spring of 2006, I've been haunting the nether regions of the weekday Arts Section, scribbling away at the various acrostics. Looking back, the beginning was shameful- the puzzle increases in difficulty as the week progresses, and those first Mondays and Tuesdays were mildly difficult, Wednesdays were a challenge, and Thursdays and Fridays were impossible.

ALL THIS HAS CHANGED.

My skill has improved gradually, and I'm at a point where a missed box Monday through Wednesday is an anomaly, Thursday success rate is at or near 80%, and Friday hovers around 50%. From where the sun now stands, a perfect week is distinctly possible. I may have already achieved this phenomenon, or perhaps not; I haven't kept track.

But starting next week, the GREAT NEW YEAR CROSSWORD CHALLENGE is on:

**Complete all five puzzles in one business week, Monday through Friday, to perfection, with no missed letters and without reference to secondary materials**

I'll update each afternoon, except for Tuesday, which is January 1st and doesn't require me to work. I'll update Tuesday's puzzle on Wednesday morning.

The stakes: If I fail, I have to clean the doorstep of every man in town for two moon cycles. If I succeed, I choose my first wife from the eligible women of the village.


Also, "Wordplay" is a fun documentary to see if you haven't already. It's like watching the spelling bee, except the contestants are older nerds, with the pain of life well-etched on their faces. The filmmakers follow some of the best puzzlers around in the weeks and months leading up to the climax, when all in question converge on a Connecticut hotel for the annual crossword championship. The finish is dramatic. There are also cameos from famous crossword puzzlers like Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart.

See you on Monday.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Life Lessons for Women

Today I taught a life lesson to a woman on g-mail chat. We can call her Emily.


me: let me tell you something emily
a life lesson
if you were nice
like me
you'd have over 100 dollars in gift certificates
to various dunkin donuts and barnes & noble type places
all from bosses at work, mind you

emstrachan: yeah im getting nothin for xmas

me: instead, you're at home with nothing to your name but a frown and some vague ideas

emstrachan: grinch
way to rub it in

me: people love me
that's the point i'm trying to make

emstrachan: i get it ok!

me: i ask around here about you
nobody knows you
i show them pictures of you
they don't really say much at all
they just give me a look that says "i don't know what to say to this"

emstrachan is offline.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Crass Historical Motherfucker: In the Building!

Yay-yo yay-yo, diggity dayity
cancel all my calls to the rain-drop deity
I know he ain't recognize my spontaneity
like the Pope ain't speaking straight to the laity


Word and power, brothers in things past, I am the Crass (gasp!) Historical (what?) Motherfucker (drop that song, make it long, turn it hostile with a gong!).


Today, brothers, I got some improper shit on the mind. I'm like Vlad the Impaler on a rainy morning when he feeling itchy, dig? Your mind be doing more revolutions than all of Central America since back in the day! My ideas is iller than the Incas after Francisco P. gave them diseases!


First off, yo, before we gets to bullets, I want to address a point. I heard some rattety-tattety-scim-scam-scattety coward-boom-battety Kats on the message boards talking shit 'bout how the CHM ain't truly crass. Say what? Get out my nest with them critiques, blood! If a fruitcake expect me to be getting crass in the modern way, he done ignored the Historical in my name. And I sure as gutters ain't doing no old-school crasstastic material, cuz them fools was dirty beyond what's cool. I got to live in this day and age, heard, so I don't make time with no old school savagery. I'm serious, y'all- medieval brains basically invented forty-six ways to violate a dude in what folks in the know call "the prison way." They only had a mind for one sort of crass behavior, but brother did they expound. You couldn't barely haggle with a crippled dude hawking gourds without the man making promises about your rectum and the town's bluntest object (oftentimes the gourd itself). I'm just saying.

So I crass lively in the middle ground, best I know how. On to the bullets:


*The Crass Historical Motherfucker be wondrin' why any respecting twee-bird would cotton to routine showerin' of a morning. Does the ign'rent fool misunderstand some basic facts about time and washing hoh^ body?

^Let me interrupt myself. HOH is a word adopted by folks of politically correct ideas to mean 'his or her.' You ain't suppose to denote particular gender when talkin' in the universal, and typing out 'his or her' can get bulkier than the Holy Roman Empire in the days of its penchant for overextending. Maybe you think hoh is a bullshit pronoun, but I ask y'all to consider the Amish. Those backward barn-dwelling haters use the pronoun 'hine' on holidays and special occasions. That's some ancient English. If they gonna hold on to old usage like it was a thing, I can't hardly fault no feminist with bad teeth, loud concepts, and armpits like a dude for hatching her own style. I'm on board, Pat (insert your favorite androgynous girl name if you're of a mind).

Back to the thing-which-is-next-to-Godliness. I've known some humans in my day, and not many was nocturnal. We go about our day getting dirty in a thousand ways. This is a fact even Doubting Thomas wouldn't dispute. So what sense does it make to sleep in that filth? Shower by night, fool! Then rest your night hours stationary, like 99.9% of mankind will, and a morning shower is 8 kinds of redundant- as long as you keep a clean bed! I got some ideas 'bout that, too, but I wouldn't want to bore a brother. Point is this: standing under the nozzle in concert with a rising sun is equal parts foolish with sending your Mongol sailboats to Japan in the season of Kamikaze wind. It's bad timing, yo!


*There's a tune out in recent times called "2080" by the band Yeasayer. A dullard who half-reads the CHM, mouthing every word and taking breaks to lick peanut butter from his fingernail, still understands I ain't a homeboy much interested in the future. Such a song title, you'd think, would send me on coughing fits to a dusty museum. But this shit is timeless, yo! It spits more arsenic than Napoleon on Saint Helena, and I mean that in the best way. And much as a dude digs on things historic, I do value an era with buttons that rewind a tune without fuss. Sometimes you want to hear a song 84 times in a row, and let no man tell me that's wrong. Plus, it do beat listening to some frizz-haired prophet-without-a-home preach Leviticus on the gray underground, with his jaundice eyes and above average hysteria potential.


*Riffing on subways, I want to let y'all know of a poster that spouts some serious spurious information. Come as it do from a clothing store called Daffy's, it ain't likely to fool a discriminating man no-how, but still and all I got obligations for even the least of our kind. To a basic point, Daffy's promises "High fashion. Low prices." Maybe that idea holds some charm for you. But I have it on good authority, from a girl who knows more than how to put on a pair of pants, that any dude wearing Daffy's threads might as well be burning a cross among the one group of Crusaders that knew how to fight, far as his chances of impressing go. Don't wear Daffy's!


*The Crass Historical Motherfucker wishes to give props to the AFL-CIO for no special reason other than a feeling of 'preciation. The fellow who works for his scratch is ever vulnerable, past what's proper. Don't forget, my peoples, we're spinning on a planet where men of power kept slaves until modern minds got some higher ideas. If somebody don't protect the steadiest shoulders, the bluest collars, in no time flat they'll be toiling extra hours for the right not to be jailed with men of low mind. Good looking out, AFL-CIO!


*Lastly, an epiphany. The CHM realized of late why a soul with liberal ideas got to wear morals on its sleeve, and why a conservative seems overall reserved on the matter. It hit me, yo: a conservative ain't got to have morals, because hos (he or she) has the smarmy confidence of a thing been proven time and again: money concerns gonna trump all in the end. A liberal is like a Hiroshima school kid shooting rubber bands at the Enola Gay.

Yo, I didn't say it was a happy thing. Some days don't end happy, brothers. Some words bring rain. Some history ain't bear repeating, but that don't mean it won't come 'round no-how.








Nah, fucks to that. Let's end high: the CHM met a female. She was straight wearing a tricorn and handing out pamphlets for a re-enactment of Bastille Day. Instant chemistry. I'll keep a steady reader updated. Big promises and love,

-THE CRASS HISTORICAL MOTHERFUCKER.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

An Item to Discuss

No man or woman of the city may call me a follower of pop culture. It would be a ridiculous assertion. I do not while away the hours lauding the latest celebrity triumph or excoriating their mishaps. I keep a respectful distance, recognizing the power while quietly maintaining my polite disinterest.

Yet a man can't keep from reading posters on the subway. It is natural for the eye to wander, as history teaches. Lately, I've been inundated with the idea of Tyra Banks as a talk show host. A former model, Banks is apparently making the leap to television. This is as much as I know. The posters, featuring the star in various smiling poses, suggest an atmosphere of intriguing, impish fun. Words like "Conversationalist" (playing off the idea of a conservationist, which we may safely assume Miss Banks is not) are emblazoned across their center. Another poster says "Gabology," conveying the concept of Banks as an instructor, albeit in a nontraditional field.

Enough description. Here is the plain fact: Tyra Banks has a weak face. She looks like someone who had to watch an aggressive uncle beat a pet dog to death at age seven. Since then, her smile is a defense. She shrinks at meeting new people. Confidence in herself is shattered. She fights a constant battle to forget the harsh world impinging on her purple thoughts.

The hype for her new talk show seems sad and desperate, like a spastic vegan hawking his wares at a gun show in Abilene, Texas. The more we see of Miss Banks, the more eager her promotion, the more we are prepared for her failure. She plainly lacks the composition to hold together a dinner party, much less a television show. Jay Leno, smirking like a fat pasha, will be using her name as a punch line in mere months.

I have a new idea for a poster. It shows America in a post-apocalyptic moment. Tyra Banks and an unidentified man are the last two people on Earth. She is wrapped in black fabric. An earthquake has split the ground before them. The man, with a near-hysterical expression, is hanging from the ledge, having been caught in the new crevice. It is obvious he has protected her in the days since the old world ended, keeping her from catastrophe. Now, having fallen to ill fortune, he merely needs her hand. But Banks, traumatized, can only rock back and forth in the fetal position, gripping her dark cloak. She seems him out of the corner of her eye, but is paralyzed to the point of inaction.

Beneath, the caption reads:

Tyra Banks Will Let This Man Die.


We know you are weak, Tyra Banks.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Expressions!

Shit evolves when I discuss business with Kyle. Today:

"That show is so good, you'll start humping the air."


We have: AN EXPRESSION.

Other examples a person might use:

"Man, that new line of Nissan Altimas make me straight up hump the air."

"This top 40 song is so hot, you'll get orgasms from oxygen."

"That actual orgasm was so poor, I felt like I was humping the air in Denver."




(The air is thinner in Denver. It's not a good place to hump the air.)



In other news, if an office puts exotic trees all around, they're basically telling you they want to make the place a jungle. That means that all the laws of the jungle apply. Be aggressive if you can, and be careful if you can't. Personally, I just released a boa. I don't know what to expect, but havoc is a safe bet.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Oh the Misanthropic Topical Arrangement...

Kelly, get in the OWNED line. Here's me owning her while she tries to apply for a class at an improv theater:



Me: I just applied for an experimental improv class
Her: applied??
Her: how do you apply?
Me: yeah you have to write in and apply
Me: they review everyone
Her: sounds cool
Me: hopefully it works out
Her: what the hell...it doesn't say how to apply...
Her: do you write a letter or what?
Me: you have to do a 200-word paragraph
Her: i don't get how they're supposed to review anything about you
Me: about what your goals are in improv
Me: and like your comedy idols and stuff
Her: oh
Me: i think they just go on the essay
Her: where does it say that?
Me: in the about section on the webslant
Her: fuck man...all i see is to see the instructions below and there are none
Me: did you click the webslant?
Her: what's a webslant?
Me: the part with the star on top
Me: the about section
Her: this is the page i'm looking at: (link)
Her: which part are you talking about?
Me: wait how many times did you refresh
Me: just now
Her: uhh i don't know. i didn't refresh
Me: ok so you're fine
Me: just visit the webslant and click the star
Her: what is a webslant shane
me: by the about section?
me: do you want me to just write your essay?
Her: fucking nevermind




Punchline: There is no such thing as a webslant.


Someone get that girl a weep-dish pizza.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Wicked Gil

Kyle wrote a song. I named it "Mary Girl"


The Flower doesn't think
Does it even know?
The little mary ran up the stairs
Thinking lightly
Like an explosive miracle
Does the past even know?

Mary Girl

Sorry to say
The stub could stick with me
Revolving in tiny little motions
Some Say
'Pansy, you like it that way!"
I'll tell you

I never liked it that way

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

I'm not too proud to say that I'm okay

Kyle gives me a taste of my own medicine on g-chat.


Kyle: i've got to get rid of a couple Beirut tickets for Wednesday I need to rid of. interested?

Me: The country or the band?

Kyle: THE GAME

Me: HEY-OH

Kyle: you just got p3wed








Someone get me a tear mug.

Monday, September 24, 2007

I got a permit with the city, you should see it sometime

I owned the piss out of Brian Glidewell today on g-chat.


Brian: i've got to get rid of a couple Beirut tickets for Wednesday i need to get rid of. interested?

Me: the country or the band?

Brian: band

Brian: $56 for the pair

me: then nah, not interested

Brian: k










Someone get that son of a bitch a crying pan.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

It's Hard to Find Nice Things

I want it on record that I coined the following phrase:

Levity is the soul of tit.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Wild Wild South

"We tried a desperate game and lost. But we are rough men used to rough ways, and we will abide by the consequences."

-Cole Younger, member of the James-Younger gang, upon his 1876 capture following the attempted robbery of a Northfield, Minnesota bank. Younger, along with his two brothers, was sentenced to life in prison. Bob Younger died in prision in 1889. Cole and Jim younger were paroled in 1901, but Jim committed suicide in 1902. Cole went on to tour the south with Frank James in a wild west show, and he became a Christian in 1912. He died in his Missouri hometown in 1916, age 72.



"Governor, I haven't let another man touch my gun since 1861."

-Frank James, while surrendering himself and his firearm in 1882 to Missouri governor Thomas Crittenden. Five months earlier, his brother Jesse had been assassinated by fellow gang members under Crittenden's employ. Due to his voluntary surrender, James stood trial in Missouri and Alabama only, avoiding extradition to Minnesota to face murder charges for the Northfield robbery, where he shot and killed a cashier. James' status as a confederate hero and champion of southern rights garnered sympathy and led to his acquittal in both trials. He went on to work as a shoe salesman, theater guard, telegraph operator, and entertainer. He died on his farm in Missouri in 1915, age 72.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

The Sporting News

Since I know most of you turn to this blog for all your sports information, I am declaring today a feast of celebration. It is a day of wonderful athletics, and the weekend will only continue the theme.

Baseball: The Yankees have triumphed twice against the Red Stockings, winning the home-stand. This afternoon at one they attempt the sweep. There is nothing like afternoon baseball to alleviate the oppressive boredome of my average Post Meridian. A victory today would set us 5 games back in the East, give us an 8-7 edge in the season series, and keep the pressure on the Mariners, who share our lead in the Wild Card hunt.

College Football: The season begins tonight. The main event is #2 LSU taking on Mississippi State. If you can't get behind SEC football, there's nothing to be done for your sad soul. The southeastern United States is a congealed mass of anger, impotence, poverty, and crime. Yet each autumn, stadium lights shed a sort of grace on that beleaguered land. It is like the smile of an ugly child receiving an award for sheer persistence. Even the teeth of a dog glow in the sun.

Unfortuantely, I will be practicing improv in some godforsaken dump of a theatre. I will be attempting to conjure imagined events in a manner approximating reality, while on any of myriad local televisions, fierce men without the luxury of pretense do battle against one another for the only kind of pride worthy of human exertion.

Tennis: Andy Roddick attempts to enact his bullheaded advance in the US Open, while Roger Federer skims along unruffled. Barring upset, the two will meet in the quarterfinal. For young Andy, the soulless embodiment of American excess, all flash and no spirit, the slow advance is akin to a covetous 13th centure Hungarian king. Yea, cruel despot, you may storm the native landscape, accumulating useless fiefdoms, but listen! Do you hear the thundering horde advancing from the east? Do you reckon their numbers? Do you tremble at their might? For they are the Mongols, and at their head is the great Khan!

From now on, I will only write about sport. There is no higher plateau.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

You can find me on the internet

This is a list of things I've had published on the internet. Compiled more for me, a place to keep track, but feel free to peruse as well. McSweeney's: Humor Site Nabokov Monologue: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/monologues/20ryanadams.html Anagram Feature: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2007/8/10ryan.html JunkMedia: Music Reviews Mew Album Review: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1862 Nick Castro Album Review: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1835 Yo La Tengo Album Review: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1867 Interview, Jonas Bjerre, Mew: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1862 Interview, Justin Rice, Bishop Allen: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1935 Interview, Beat Radio: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1953 Live Review, Jens Lekman/Handsome Family: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1839 Live Review, Band of Horses: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1868 Live Review, Sufjan Stevens: http://www.junkmedia.org/index.php?i=1891 EdgeMedia Sigur Ros feature: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=music&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=3923 James Blunt feature/interview: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=music&sc2=features&sc3=&id=1750 Theatre review, When the Lights go on Again: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5412 Theatre review, Striking 12: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5460 Theatre review, How the Grinch Stole Christmas: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5414 Theatre review, All the Way Home: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5429 Theatre review, Elliot, a Soldier's Fugue: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5244 Theatre review, Losing Louie: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5261 Theatre review, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5225 Theatre review, The Thugs: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5217 Theatre review, Nixon's Nixon: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=theatre&sc2=reviews&sc3=performance&id=5202 Movie review, Indigenes: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=movies&sc2=reviews&sc3=features&id=5519 Movie review, Breaking and Entering: http://www.edgenewyork.com/index.php?ch=entertainment&sc=movies&sc2=reviews&sc3=features&id=5572 NewsGroper.com: Parody Blog Site The A-Rod blog (all but the first 3 entries): http://www.newsgroper.com/alex-rodriguez/ Showbiz Weekly: Film and Theater Reviews: All archives deleted! Boo! Actually, this is good, as a shite editor ruined everything I wrote. Good riddance, three Showbiz Weekly articles! The Renegade Speech Therapist: Blog written by me in the voice of 5 characters http://renegadespeechtherapist.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Chilly walk home

Today am I endorsing a product.

The product: Vaseline Intensive Care Aloe Cool & Fresh Body Lotion.

The story: Yesterday, while attending the US Open (my first professional tennis event), I neglected to cover the thigh area above my knees with any kind of sunblock. The result was a vicious burn. But this morning, in search of relief, I purchased the aforementioned lotion. Even before application, I was reassured by the non-threatening sea green of the bottle and the assertive dark blue of the cap. I had a feeling I could trust the firm yet gentle image implied by such a well-wrought chromatic combination. In the handicapped bathroom at work, I applied the cream to the affected areas, and the sensation brought to mind the loving ministrations of a Geisha covering a samurai's war wounds with ameliorative cucumbers. Minutes later, the throbbing red pain had all but vanished in vast, glistening pools of aloe, and I moved about the office with strides both confident and unhindered, earning admiration from my peers.

The Open was a blast. Roger Federer is one of the more graceful humans alive. He could dance with Apollo and reduce that quintessential heliophile to clumsy, supplicating tears.

Fall is almost upon us, which means the advent of college football season. Continuing last entry's theme of apropos nomens, I bring you LSU wide receiver "Early Doucet." Upon his christening, could fate have hidden, in its folds and nooks, any profession excepting star athlete for the crying babe?

I think not.

Finally, would you wish to wait in the backfield, mandated by shouted numbers to receive a hand-off and dash boldly through the guard-tackle hole, when across the line, in the linebacker position, crouches a man named Xavier Adibi?

I think not, redux.

QED.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Look like the tin can that swallowed the kitchen

I've become obsessed by a name.

A statement of that sort sounds like the cutesy ramblings of a junior high attendee, I know. You may think I'm of low mind. Maybe I've turned. I'm afraid the monomania this name has induced may be irreversible.

The name is Wee-Bey.

It's from a show called "The Wire."

I think it's the greatest nickname ever. If there was a contest, people would stop when a fellow called out these two syllables. He would be raised upon shoulders and gallantly toasted while a jealous rival cringed in a corner, staring at a piece of paper with the smudged word "Totem."

"Totem" is a good effort, rival monikerian, but it's no Wee-Bey.

Wee-Bey.

He's a drug dealer on the show.

They call him 'Bey sometimes.

Yo Bey.

Wee-Bey.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

I am A-Rod

Based on the astonishing success of my McSweeney's piece, I've been approached by www.newsgroper.com to pen a parody blog for their website. They asked me who I'd like to write, and I immediately thought of A-Rod.

You can read the blog here: http://www.newsgroper.com/alex-rodriguez/

My first entry was the 8/17 one, titled "A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." That was not my title. The content is mine, though. There should be a new entry up soon.

Anything below the 8/17 entry was written by the guy before me. Those missives portray an arrogant, crass A-Rod, which I find to be a predictable choice with predictable results. Hopefully they get deleted soon, but apparently it would be stepping on toes, or something, and I have to just post until they're off the front page. Still, their presence rankles, so read them with a ready scoff on your lips.

My own entries tell of A-Rod's adventures at a grocery store, and a mano-a-mano duel with Mike Mussina.

Anyway, the site is more or less boffo, so after you've read and admired my A-Rod entries, be sure to check out whatever else they're offering. I don't say this out of any vested interest in the website; as per usual, I am not being paid for my formidable talent. Their possible failure does not concern me. My purported appreciation of the format is forthright.

I imagine it's only a limited time until the A-Rod blog is being universally lauded by everyone who has ever loved sport.

Meanwhile, the Yankees are in the process of humiliating themselves in Anaheim. Their unbelievable incompetence against a team they may face in the playoffs five weeks hence is beyond worrisome. Another first-round exit seems entirely probable. In other sporting news, Duke University basketball is saddled with talentless whites, Notre Dame football is unranked, the Giants are poised for another .500 season as their feckless quarterback whines to the media, the Knicks are doomed to at least fifteen years of mediocrity, and my new one-handed backhand is a disaster. It is not a good time to be a sports fan.*

*Unless you like other teams than the ones I like.

Goodbye.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

There's a Portrait

The best e-mail address of all time is officially:

I_Have_Email@email.sex

Monday, August 20, 2007

Plays in the street as the cold wind blows

The top floor of a ten-story building in Angevine City, in the heart of Crumland, housed the office of the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister of Crumland was a dangerous position, subject to constant assassination attempts perpetrated by the disgruntled and adventurous. The ten-floor edifice in question often served as the focal point of such intrigue.

The nebbish building manager, though he valued protection, found himself at the mercy of budget restrictions. He decided to implement an electronic swipe-card system, which, though pricey as a one-time fee, would allow him to lay off every security guard. After four months, he'd recoup his original expense, and in a year he'd have saved a goodly sum. Assassins, he reasoned, would be unable to get past the unyielding turnstiles without proper identification.

Four days after the system was implemented, three assassins vaulted the turnstile, took the elevator to the top floor, and shot the Prime Minister fourteen times in the face. Because there were no security guards in the building, they managed to escape before the notoriously slow Angevine City Police arrived.

The next Prime Minister moved in the following day, and the nebbish building manager realized he'd have to take further steps for protection. He removed the turnstiles, hired one security guard, and built a chain link fence in the lobby. Only the guard could open the fence's single gate, and only when shown proper identification.

One week later, four assassins entered and told the guard they'd shoot him if he didn't open the gate. The guard complied, opened the gate, and was shot. The assassins took the elevator to the top floor and shot the Prime Minister forty-six times in the gut. Because the building's lone security guard was neutralized, the assassins escaped before the Angevine City Police could dispatch a car to the scene.

The next Prime Minister moved in after the weekend, and the nebbish building manager destroyed the chain link fence. In its stead, he had a large cement wall built in the lobby, ensuring that no assassins could pass through. Because the builders constructed the wall on a night when the Prime Minister was working late, he effectively isolated the new leader inside. For two weeks nobody could enter or leave, but the manager stuck obstinately to his new policy, arguing that at last the Prime Minister was safe. On the fifteenth day, the Prime Minister, on the verge of starvation, took the elevator to the second floor, jumped out the window, and survived with mere scrapes. He found a pay phone and dialed the Angevine City Police, who vowed to send a car. Unfortunately, ten assassins were tipped off, arrived before the precinct telephone operator remembered to report the call, and shot the Prime Minister eighty-nine times in the carotid artery.

The nebbish building manager had the wall destroyed with a wrecking ball, and the new Prime Minister moved in the following week. All security guards were re-hired, installed outside the leader's office, and ordered to shoot any person taking the elevator to the top floor, with no exceptions. On the second morning, the first security guard to arrive shot the rest of the security guards as they tried to exit the elevator, and then shot the Prime Minister, who had slept late. In the Angevine Medical Center, the Prime Minister made a slow recovery until sixteen assassins found his room and shot him three hundred and twenty-four times in the small intestine. The Police Department arrived on scene six days later, after getting severely lost in the city's labyrinthine streets.

The next Prime Minister moved in a month later, and the nebbish building manager, changing tactics, had flyers posted all across the city saying that the new leader was dead. This, he reasoned, would prevent any and all assassination attempts. The news was shown on all major stations, printed in every newspaper, and led each radio broadcast. The ubiquitous false report of the Prime Minister's death depressed the Prime Minister so much that he killed himself.

At his funeral, one hundred assassins disguised in priestly vestments shot him six thousand, eight hundred, sixty-four times in the adrenal gland. The police investigation began three months later, but stalled when nobody could find the proper grave.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Come disconnect the dots with me, poppet

David the Collie craned his neck and bayed. Down his genetic line lingered the ghost of a wolf ancestor, and some lucky recombinance made the atavism surface on clear nights. Julie knelt by his side and stroked the golden mane. The name came from a chapter of her brother's history book, about the war, when the Jews wore their yellow insignias. "Star of David" sounded fierce, like a shield or torch held by an ancient watchman. She wished the symbol had existed to protect, but it just marked them instead.

Her dog would be a protector. By an instinct needing no experience, she knew you couldn't keep someone from choosing you as an enemy like the Nazis had done; that everyone brave gets their own Nazi.

They wandered far into the pasture, and the motion lights on the long porch dimmed and died. Hidden among the withered wheatgrass, Julie leaned into the panting dog's warmth. She followed his gaze, and the moon's bludgeoned eye returned the ache in gloomy, muted white. David's longing echoed her own, throbbing tonight and always with the wrenching distance of faith.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

A Confusing Incident

I was on Third Avenue, coming home with a bag of two Spicy Tuna Rolls from a restaurant called Sushi Time, when I spotted a very attractive, young brunette just ahead of me. She had dark, shining hair, long legs, and was chattering into a cell phone. A small boy, maybe 7, trotted on her left, and she patted him on the head. I wondered if the boy was hers. She seemed too young to have a kid that old, but you never know.

I watched for a long while, thinking about things, but pretty soon I overtook her on the left. Her arm was swinging, and I guess one of us veered toward the other, and for an accidental second our hands met, and one or both of us, in that instant of contact, clutched.

She looked over, I began to mumble an apology, and she said "I love you."

For a strange moment, gazing into her brown eyes, I felt really connected. It didn't matter that she might have a kid. Maybe that was just the thing I needed to grow up, to mature into a man. It all seemed perfect, like fate was finally looking out for me.

"I love you too," I said, and reached for her hand.

"I was talking on the phone," she responded, and jerked her arm away.

I had forgotten about the cell, invisible on her right side. I thought she'd just been fixing her hair.

"I wouldn't want someone with a kid, anyway" I said.

"I'm babysitting him," she told me.

Thinking quickly, I hailed a cab. The driver got mad when I asked him to drop me off a block away, at my work, so I tipped him ten dollars. The whole thing took so long that the girl caught up with me, and I had to sprint to my office to avoid any more conversation.

What a confusing incident.

Monday, August 13, 2007

SNAPSHOTS! NEW YORK CITY! GLAMOUR!

On the subway, the white boy with the buzz-cut, jean shorts, and black sneakers glances at me over sunglasses to let me know just how rough he might be. The hipster with the Colin Melloy hair uses serene hipster eyes to seduce a girl leaning against the door. Both men do well in their respective haunts, I imagine. Later, in the bank, the slim Asian girl with the odd sagging ass can't stop looking back at me. I wonder if this is a weird flirting ritual or if something's amiss in my appearance. I've just come from the coin machine, depositing maybe four months worth of change. If you guess near the final total, you get a prize...a Commerce Bank pen, I think. I guess 47 dollars and 34 cents. The actual total is 116 dollars and 76 cents. The Blarney Stone at 3pm is already full of ruddy middle-aged Irish Americans, or Americans who want to be Irish, and one of them comes to the serving line to speak to the Hispanic cook. He praises the chicken cutlet. "It's good," he repeats four times, with other words sprinkled between. His inflection is surprised. The Times puzzle is a cinch, and I have time to read an article about a television show where a man named Mystery teaches virginal white boys to seduce women with social manipulations. The writer, a woman named Virginia, ends the article by calling Mystery's tactics "ingenious." Then another article talks about a crap show with David Duchovny as a New York writer in Los Angeles with writer's block. But Alessandra the writer and I both know that writer's block is bollocks. Saying that now, I don't even feel inclined to knock on wood. On Third Avenue again, a blond from behind looks beautiful in a white dress until I overtake her and see she's older by fifteen years than first imagined, and inside the lobby of my building the security guards have new card readers that don't beep like the old ones. Maybe I'll knock on wood anyway.

Hilarious and/or Apropos Take-Offs on Common Adages, Part 1

You can lead the Norse to slaughter, but you can't make them slink.

MORAL: Scandinavians are brave to a fault.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Two Videos I made

Below you'll find two YouTube videos I made recently for a Video Sketch class at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre. The first is a straight-up comedy featuring my friend Brandon, while the second is a drama/comedy featuring, among others, John Adams Atchley, III.



Monday, July 30, 2007

Parable 1

Edward's headphones were made of synthetic styrofoam, and conformed to the contours of his inner ear. Their design effectively blocked outside noise, which proved especially convenient on his morning subway commute.

One September, at the end of a long summer, the city buckled and burned under the season's final heat wave. The eyes of the citizenry were tinted rageful red, and exhaustion dueled with fury for atmospheric dominance. On Edward's C train, the air conditioning unit had malfunctioned, and pressing bodies, athrob with discomfort, shared their temperature. Edward wore a large blue backpack, filled with library books to be returned at lunch, and while he dimmed his thoughts in deference to the music, a grinning rider unzipped the bag's small pocket in tentative increments. Inside, he found a cell phone, a pair of keys, and various receipts, all of which he kept. Others on the train saw him, and some began to protest, but the man took a pistol from his left pocket, and his grin increased when he showed them. He brought one finger to his lips, and the gun tilted down.

Edward remained oblivious.

At the next stop, the man with the gun stepped off, and a woman tapped Edward on the shoulders. He removed his earphones, and she told him everything. "Why didn't you stop him?" he asked, and she told him about the gun.

While the train waited in the station, the doors remained ajar. Edward raced out, and another passenger stepped onto the platform. He pointed at a departing figure, and Edward gave chase.

The gunman took his time, and Edward caught up at the turnstiles. Both slowed while they exited the station, and Edward's energy dissipated as he considered his next course of action. "Hey," he said, and the man turned around. "You stole from my backpack."

"And what'll you do?" said the man. His hand drifted. Edward felt compelled to move, and because the man fumbled his weapon, the altercation became immediate. The gun stayed in the man's pocket until a pen had wrenched his eye from the socket, and then he spun around, howling, and shot all six bullets into the ceiling. Edward ducked. Everyone ducked. Soon the gun clicked, empty, and pieces of debris fell from the cement ceiling of the station.

The police questioning lasted two hours, all processes included, and Edward was free. At the desk, he picked up his phone and keys in a plastic bag. The man was arrested.

Afterward, Edward feared the man with one eye. He spent two years worried that they'd meet on a late night, in the subways, where the man would have his revenge and more. He looked over his shoulder with increasing frequency, and anyone who fit the man's build, even slightly, quickened his pulse.

On the second anniversary of the incident, Edward had a breakdown. He moved out of the city, and for a time his life returned to a liveable state. He married and had children, and gradually, as the children grew, his fear returned. He began to worry about revenge on his family, enacted with all the ferocity of satisfaction delayed. He saw the man with one eye wherever he looked, and his sleep was interrupted by nightmares.

The stress ate, and soon his wife left with the children. Edward felt some relief, thinking this cleared them from the one-eyed man's revenge, but his own fear persisted. Soon, he left the country.

This too proved a measure short, and he underwent plastic surgery, changed his name, and moved again.

For twent years he lived this way, until business forced him, one summer, to return to the city.

The trip found Edward distraught, and before he'd been two hours out of the airport, he returned to the police station. There, he explained his history and requested records on the whereabouts of the assailant. This information was confidential, and his request met an official denial, but the clerk followed him outside, and the two struck a deal. An hour later, they reconvened on a nearby street corner, and copies were exchanged for money.

The records said the man had died twelve years prior of a heroin overdose.

Edward considered.

The one-eyed man had faked his own death, he decided. He'd gone underground, dispatching his own identity, and had been hot on Edward's trail since.

Edward had another breakdown, and his wife paid for him to live in a rest home in the country. Drugs kept him mostly sedated, but the image of his pursuer never left, and he never achieved the rest that would let him leave the home.

As he died, old and withered, Edward looked up at the faces of his children, but all he saw was a man with one eye.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Accepted McSweeney's article

The good folks at McSweeney's have finally come to their senses and accepted a piece of mine for the main page. Previously they'd rejected me twice, accepted a piece for their Short Imagined Monologues section, and followed this minor validation with the heinous error of rejecting the spectacular piece you can read in the previous entry. Now, on try #5, I've cracked the front page. Hurrah! Here's a sneak preview. By 'sneak preview,' I mean to say that I'm pasting the entire thing into my blog. It's a magnum opus of humor and egotism, and it would be a crying shame to isolate it to one humor magazine, no matter how well-respected. I don't know when it will go on McSweeney's. They just say "in the queue," without giving any hints as to the length of said queue.



People Whose Names Are Anagrams of My Own- Shane Patrick Ryan- Hold a Town Meeting


SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Alright, everybody, let's settle down and take a seat.

"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: I'd rather stand.

SHERRY ANNA PATICK: That's fine, Sara. (she bangs a gavel) As Mayor of Bluff Creek, I call this meeting to order. Mr. Anikaph, please proceed.

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Tonight's first order of business is-

PHANTASIA KRYNCER: Why is Secretary Anikaph's placard spelled wrong?

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: For the last time, I am NOT a secretary! I'm just helping Sherry keep things in order. Secratary is my first name, it's Romanian, and yes, it's spelled differently. Can we move on, Phantasia?

PHANTASIA KRYNCER: Fine with me.

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Thank you. Now, the first order of business is the vandalism problem, which has only gotten worse since last month's meeting. In the past week, the town's front lawns have been littered with garbage, most of it stolen from the landfill.

CHRIS P.A. TANNYAKER: Isn't the culprit obvious? It has to be Trash-Can Rik.

"TRASH-CAN" RIK PAYNE: Excuse me? I take offense to that, Chris! You're new to Bluff Creek, so maybe you didn't know, but my nickname stems from a deep commitment to proper waste disposal.

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: That's true. Rik's done a lot of good. This hits him harder than anyone.

CHRIS P.A. TANNYAKER: My apologies. In that case, I'd look to the town drunk. The vandal strikes at night, right? I'd bet alcohol plays a big role.

"TIPSY" KAREN CHARNA: Go to hell, Chris!

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Everyone calm down! We won't get anywhere with all this shouting! I see a hand…go ahead, Seth.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: Have you questioned all the minorities?

(loud boos)

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Seth, we've talked about this before. If you're going to be racist, we'll ask you not to attend the meetings.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: I'm just saying…

HARRY STANCAK PINE: Look, I hate to say this, but maybe Seth, in his backward way, has a point. Bluff Creek is a small, insular community, and we natives have a way of being cold to outsiders. Couldn't the guilty party be a disgruntled out-of-towner?

SIR CARY K. TANNAPHER: Surely you don't include me among the accused!

HARRY STANCAK PINE: Well, no, it probably wasn't you…

SIR CARY K. TANNAPHER: A Knight of the Crown has no business among trash! Further, he will not stand to be so impugned!

HARRY STANCAK PINE: What about the Greek guy? He's always angry.

PHINEAS CINTAKARRY: I have a name, you bastard!

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Order! Order! It's unfair to accuse outsiders with no evidence, Harry. And look, maybe this is endemic of a bigger problem…let's face it, there's just not enough space at the landfill. People are more wasteful than ever, especially the youth.

HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: I disagree. I'm only seventeen, but very thrifty.

HENRY "RAT PACK" NISA: Anyone want to go watch a Dean Martin film?

HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: Be quiet, dad!

HENRY "PARK ACT" NISA: I still support the 1881 Yellowstone Park Act.

HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: Grandpa, you're embarrassing me!

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: People, can we focus? Does anybody have a valid idea on how to stop the vandalism?

PERRY TANIACI KNASH: Yeah, I've got an idea. I've got a great idea. Let's ask Icy Pants.

"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: If one more person calls me Icy Pants, based on nothing more than the fact that I have a Norwegian last name, I am going to fucking explode!

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Why don't you address the allegation? Where were you on the nights in question?

"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: Gee, I don't know, maybe I was de-frosting my jeans, Secratary!

PHANTASIA KRYNCER: He's not a real secretary.

PERRY TANIACI KNASH: So you do have icy pants!

"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: I was being sarcastic!

"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: What if it's terrorism??

ATICAS PHERRYKANN: Oh God, I see where this is going.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: I bet you do. Careful everyone, Mr. Muslim extremist here might be strapped with dynamite!

ATICAS PHERRYKANN: Seth, you have known me your entire life. You see me every weekend at church, and, further, you know my last name is German. It is different- I repeat, different- from Louis Farrakhan. Who, for the record, is also not a terrorist.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: Well what about-

PAT NYACKER SIRHAN: Seth, I know what you're about to say, and I'm warning you to stop.

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Enough! If nobody can be civil, I'm ready to adjourn this meeting, and the trash problem will continue unabated!

STEPHANIK CANARRY: Pardonnez-moi, si vous plait. I may only be the town's hair stylist, but there is one man whom nobody has mentioned. I'm speaking of the mysterious Armenian butcher.

"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: Cipher Syntarakan!

(The back doors burst open)

CIPHER SYNTARAKAN: Did someone say my name?

(general gasps)

CIPHER SYNTARAKAN: That's right, citizens of Bluff Creek. It was me! I dumped trash on everyone's lawn! And I'm talking everyone! I'm talking Ayn Tanrick Parish, the girl named after Ayn Rand. I'm talking Yanshir Trespancek, the Bosnian refugee! I'm talking Terin "Ash Can" Pyrak, the chain smoker! I'm talking "Prankster" Cay Hain and his lesser-known sidekick, "Prankish" Arny Cept, who finally got a taste of their own medicine! I'm talking H.N. "Paris Racket" Nya, the man who runs the French black market. I'm talking "Aspen" Ricky Hartan, the arrogant rich guy who skis a lot! I'm talking NN Party-ac, i.e. Shark, who I'm not real sure what his deal is, except that he creeps me out pretty bad. I'm talking-

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Enough! Someone subdue that man!

(Cipher Syntarakan throws smoke capsules to the ground. When the smoke clears, he has escaped. Only a note remains, pinned to the door. It reads "I escpr! Ran! Thnk ya!")

"TIPSY" KAREN CHARNA: Did something just happen?

Monday, July 2, 2007

Rejected McSweeney's article

As everyone who reads this blog probably already knows, I recently had an article accepted at McSweeney's. My first two submissions were rejected, and they accepted my third. In a fit of inspiration, I wrote and submitted my fourth on Friday, and received a rejection notice this morning. Although the good people of that website don't agree, I liked this better than the piece they accepted, so I'll post it here. Some of you may recognize the poem from an earlier blog installment. On a sad side note, I tried to copy and paste from Word into gmail, and while it looked okay in my submission, the rejection revealed that it was interspersed with long, strange bits of gmail links. The editor probably didn't even bother to read it. It looked such a mess, I can't say I blame him. Enjoy!

A Poetic Recap of the Hypothetical Dogfight Between WWI Flying Aces Eddie Rickenbacker and Manfred von Richthofen, aka “The Red Baron,” as Written by an Enthusiastic Patriot to Celebrate Independence Day in America, with Endnote Commentary by a Humorless Historian.


FLYING CIRCUS [1]

Fearless Eddie Rickenbacker [2]
left his helmet in the locker [3]
and said unto Le'gens du arme, [4]
"Today my soul is free from harm."
He swaggered to the waiting plane-
a Nieuport 28 from Spain- [5]
and once the rear guns were aligned [6]
(and confidential papers signed), [7]
he made the tiny engine sing [8]
and woe! the Hat (was) in-the-Ring. [9]

Sipping on his grail of tea, [10]
the Baron smiled, sick with glee. [11]
He thought of evil things he'd do
aboard the Albatross D-2. [12]
A finger traced the Kaiser's crest; [13]
the wicked German beat his breast. [14]
Soon with gestures quick and mean,
he drank a human blood canteen [15]
and in a flash- his craft aloft-
the deathly red beret was doffed! [16]

The pilots met above the lake
called Vunderlee ("the steady drake") [17]
and circled twice around before
they made their silver missiles roar. [18]
But Rickenbacker saw his chance:
he flew up close, he drew his lance [19]
and leapt into the German plane- [20]
a tactic some had called "insane." [21]
But with a shout of "U-S-A!" [22]
he slew the Nazi; Oh, hooray! [23] [24]



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] A reference to Von Richthofen's Jagdgeschwader 1 air unit.

[2] Eddie Rickenbacker's first flight, on April 29, 1918, came eight days after the Red Baron's death.

[3] The practice of flying without a helmet is forbidden by military protocol, and there is no indication that any pilot seriously challenged the rule.

[4] Rickenbacker, an American, would not have reported to a gendarme, a title which describes a French military policeman. Its inclusion would seem to be for convenience of rhyme only. In addition, the French spelling is inaccurate.

[5] While I'm surprised to report that Rickenbacker did, in fact, fly the Nieuport 28, none of this model were ever manufactured in Spain. Again, rhyme would seem to be a motivating factor.

[6] This is wholly spurious as a supposed preparation for combat.

[7] See #6.

[8] The engine was actually larger than average for WWI-era aircraft. It is unclear why the adjective "tiny" is utilized.

[9] A reference to the 94th Aero Squadron, sometimes called "The Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron."

[10] There are no historical documents to confirm that Von Richthofen drank tea, much less from a grail.

[11] Any assumption of sadism would also appear to be poetic license.

[12] At the time of this hypothetical encounter, Von Richthofen had switched to the Albatross D-III for its superior maneuverability.

[13] No such emblem existed.

[14] Along with being inaccurate, this line may be borderline offensive.

[15] See #14. Completely unsupported by historical evidence.

[16] As stated in endnote #3, aviators wore helmets, not "deathly" berets.

[17] There is no lake in Germany called "Vunderlee." Further, the word itself is nonsense, and does not translate to anything resembling "The Steady Drake."

[18] Neither plane was outfitted with missiles, silver or otherwise.

[19] The idea of a pilot carrying a lance, in any epoch of aerial combat, is preposterous.

[20] Even in the context of the poem's largely questionable content, I find this detail especially unrealistic for reasons too numerous to list.

[21] This tactic has never been seriously discussed by military strategists.

[22] Such a shout would be inaudible above the engine's din.

[23] Nazis did not exist in World War I. This line displays a stunning lack of research and passively condones a harmful stereotype about the German population.

[24] As a final comment, I feel obliged to point out that the aftermath of such a stunt would be highly problematic for Rickenbacker, who, after a series of unlikely acrobatics, would now find himself alone in an enemy plane. The act of landing the plane in a friendly field would prove extremely difficult. In light of this and other shortcomings, I'm sorry to report that I cannot give this poem an official endorsement.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Musings on Harry Potter

I was speaking with my ex-girlfriend on The Google Chat, and she mentioned that her chief desire at the moment was to curl up on her couch with Harry Potter.

Being a waggish devil from way back, I asked whether she meant the book or the man himself. She said both.

This brought to mind a scenario where a girl lays on her couch, reading, with Harry Potter sitting on the floor watching his television programs.

"What're you reading?" Harry asks absent-mindedly.

"Ummm..." replies the girl.



This situation is awkward at best, and I was sorry I ever posed the jocular question.



TODAY'S LESSON: Mind your jokes, young man!

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

When Parodies are Lamer than the Original

This happens on occasion.

Example:

Those Inspiration/Motivation/Whatever posters with a positive word, a nature picture, and a caption.

These are pretty lame. You can find them in a dentist's office or on the living room walls of well-meaning middle-aged mothers. However, the parodies, with titles like Indifference, Stupidity, or Laziness, are lamer. They are not funny, and what's the story...are they meant to shock dentists or moms? Are they meant to signal rebellion against the establishment? It doesn't work- even if moms or dentists are authority, they're too kindly.


Example:

The periodic table of elements.

This is extremely useful as a scientific guide, make no mistake. The periodic table of drinking elements, which some may argue is not a parody at all, is nonetheless a lame college thing to hang. I never walked into any dorms and saw an actual periodic table adorning the wall, but if I did, I'd be impressed.


Example:

Jeopardy.

This is a tough call. The SNL parodies are pretty funny, but in the end, Jeopardy is just a sweet quiz show that provides hours of enjoyment (aggregate). The parody is lamer.


Example:

Paris Hilton

I've seen a million Paris Hilton parodies, but none of them are ever funny. They are the only things in the world lamer than Paris Hilton, except possibly Paris Hilton look-alikes. Also, Paris Hilton parodies never made a pretty good sex tape.


Example:

Life

While the magazine and the board game are semi-interesting, they cannot compare to the original cereal, or its cinnamon offshoot.


Example:

Bohemian Rhapsody

Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" doesn't even sound like the awesome Queen song, and is a pretty lame parody.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Spring Spring Spring

I'm in a good state of mind at the moment. Thanks for tolerating uninteresting entries. Or you're welcome for variety. The ToM will roll on, these things need to incubate.

Plot of an upcoming story:

Girl in park, lonely
Notices guys walk by, wonders if they'd be reliable
Makes a composite sketch of her favorite guys, stealing features from each
Projects mental/emotional qualities on them, takes the best for her composite
Goes home, writes it all up into a Classified Ad
Sleeps on it, decides to submit
Gets a load of responses
Sets them all up to meet at the same place, same time in the park by a monument
Goes herself
Ten women show up, at first worried about the others
Eventually realize the set-up, one cries, some laugh, others just leave
Four agree to grab a drink, including our heroine
Something happens that night

Look for that one in Harper's or maybe The New Yorker.

This weekend was beautiful. Spent time outdoors, running and reading and the like. Last night I finally saw Contempt, and thought of this quote, which may not be original and may not be true: Women are essentially simple and spend their lives pretending to be complicated, while men are a jumble and spend their lives pretending to be simple.

The more I think about it, that's probably tripe. Not a good idea to generalize, but I bet we could find at least two humans in the world to whom it applies, so there's truth in it. It passes the world's most lenient test of worth. Good thing, too, my thoughts need to be mollycoddled.

Contempt was great, ps. So far by Godard I've seen:

Contempt
My Life to Live
Band of Outsiders
Breathless

They've all been good. Band of Outsiders was my favorite, but Breathless and Contempt were both great. My Life to Live dragged a bit, but I still give it a positive rating.

On that topic, here is my list of the best American films of 1970s. That's my favorite decade for movies, and these are my favorites. No order, there are twelve total.

Five Easy Pieces - 1971

Exceptionally well-acted film featuring Jack Nicholson, it's basically the story of a talented guy who can't get his life together and hurts a lot of people because of a selfish/noncommittal streak. Interesting to note the director did a few great films in the 70s, then somehow found his way to directing straight to video pornos.

M*A*S*H - 1970

One of the first from Robert Altman, this one is about a MASH unit in the Korean War trying to deal with the shitty realities all around. Very sad, but also one of my top 5 comedies of all time.

Nashville - 1975

Another Altman film, and the last I'll include, though there could be more. This is the man at the peak of his directorial style. The ensemble cast flits in and out of the country music scene in the titular city, building up to an outdoor festival organized on behalf of a populist presidential candidate. Amazing story, great acting all around.

The Conversation - 1974

The outstanding factoid about this film is that Coppola made it as a side project between Godfather 1 and 2. Starring Gene Hackman, it's the story of a sound technician coming face to face with the implications of his job. Was nominated for Best Picture and lost to...The Godfather part 2.

The French Connection - 1971

Gritty, suspenseful detective film starring Gene Hackman. Nothing much to say about this one, just that it's a masterpiece.

The Deer Hunter - 1978

Robert Deniro and Christopher Walken star as small town boys from Pennsylvania steel country who get called on to serve in Vietnam. From the magnificent montage of a Russian orthodox wedding to the disturbing war scenes, to the desolate afterword, this gets my vote for the best of the Vietnam films.

Midnight Cowboy - 1969

Yeah yeah, it's 1969, but it won the Best Picture oscar in 1970, so I'm counting it. Jon Voight plays a Texan with a troubled past who comes to the big city trying to make a career as a gigolo. Enter his pal, Ratso Rizzo, played by the greatest actor of our time, Dustin Hoffman. The relationship between the two is (in my opinion, of course) the best friend dynamic in the history of cinema. Sad stuff.

Dog Day Afternoon - 1975

Al Pacino is a novice bank robber trying to appropriate some funds for his gay lover's sex change operation. Smart, funny, tense, and depressing, I've always found it to be Pacino's best performance.

Deliverance - 1972

Based on James Dickey's novel, this one stars Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight as two of four pals who take a canoe trip through the deep woods of the south. Things go bad, and the friends are forced to rely on one another to make it back to civilization. Voight is incredible.

Badlands - 1973

Terrence Malick's first film, about an outlaw and his teenage girlfriend going on a killing spree. Martin Sheen plays the lead in a logical forerunner to his turn on The West Wing. Or not. Beautiful landscapes of the Dakota badlands.

The Last Detail - 1973

Another Ashby film, this one with Jack Nicholson and Randy Quaid, about two soldiers assigned to take a kleptomaniac to a military brig in the northeast where he's been sentenced to ten years. They decide to give him a good time on the way. A very gray movie, heavy and sad as snow, but also funny.


I made that list a while ago, and it would probably change now if I really thought about it. I should probably see One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest again, that probably belongs there. Also, I didn't include The Godfather movies on purpose, even though they were awesome. Too obvious. Clockwork Orange could be up there too.

Man, Jack Nicholson had a really good decade. Check this out:

Easy Rider (1969)
Five Easy Pieces (1970)
The Last Detail (1973)
Chinatown (1974)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
The Shining (1979)

Those are six films to hang your hat on.

Okay, enjoy the weather. Go running and listen to breezy music. Maybe The Papercuts' album "Don't Go Back," if you feel like a recommendation.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

This one's for Egypt

After Spring

Your sister called them agents
when she saw the flag branded
on the steel-blue hull. You waited
through fog, through morning-

her artistic anger stewed
like years before when bitter cold
kept you inside with dad sequestered
and the poor woman unwanted by all
we could name except the coddled mutt
who broke her with a preference
for slight affection and its reluctant crown
rising between crests of irritation
and a cry for old solitude
fashionably recollected in that house
of trap doors and high ceilings
where whispering walls urged
blistering children in limited roles
to loathe the general and vaunt
lonely souls until over-exposure
cast them in harsh tones magnified
to degrees no hero could withstand
when they seared and the waves broke
to be felt all over those rooms
cold and whistling with winter drafts
Little man the warmth has a cost
we never lacked but Little man keep
a clenched fist for the memory
of days when it wasn’t so easy

but it never felt easy
when silence would summon
a ghost with its gavel
while she walked on shattering
shells with a grimace
recalling the moment
abroad in the autumn
his breakable knee when
she could have cried murder
and kept every future
from choosing the tunnel
where views of a gold street
illumined the targets
who caught all the excess
to aid our survival
each day in that fort
that was built like a prison
and how could we know,
the quiet believers,
that all of the windows
could double as mirrors
reflecting the judgments
in clever disguises as
you tried the feat
of escaping in pages
where words from a genius
brought tears and resentment
for all you imagined
kept hidden in corners
so jealously guarded
by dragons with faces
like neighbors and leaders
and every intention
just hammered and hammered
your delicate smile
until it was bitten
by years that had never
been lived by me either

And all that I’m good for
abroad in the summer
is squinting at schooners
that sail from the harbor
and nod through our silence
and heighten the wonder
of finding the angel
again in the ether

See that I’m here,
little sister
you know me-
when you want your own
you just have to ask me.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

ToM: West Region, Second Round Results

(1) Google
def.
(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

For a passing moment last evening, it looked as though the tournament's overwhelming favorite had begun to retreat. Google, straying for the first time from its YouTube attack, sent out a battalion of American bloggers to confront Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys. Armed only with ennui and questionable writing ability, the bloggers were quickly decimated by a series of sickly green, pulsating moons whose three hundred mucous-coated lips spewed devil-red saliva which burned faces and condemned souls to Hell (as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys.*)

Acting on their early momentum, Outer Space charged ahead, determined to mount an advance on the central Google server. On its way, however, a concave construct of projector screens played the YouTube-embedded music video "Tonight, Tonight" by the Smashing Pumpkins on repeat. Outer Space slowed, multiple mouths agape, and eventually oozed to a complete bilious stop. One word could be heard repeating like a chant from the collective voice, and it was "Heaven."

Capitalizing on the revelry, Google used thousands of antique Civil War mines purchased illegally on Froogle to annihilate the enemy. Because Elizabethans had no concept of the vastness of the universe, and could only consider outer space on their small terrestrial terms, the internet monolith finished the job in less than fifteen minutes. Following the victory, reporters speculated that the "Tonight, Tonight" sting had been the primary plan all along, and the initial ruinous offensive had simply been a convenient way for Google to thin its bulky ranks of bloggers.


*Their conception of hell is much more accurate than their conception of space.



(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
def.
(3) Bread


Unlike Newt Gingrich, who could not resist the temptation of bread and eventually succumbed in gluttonous fashion, Unreliable Husbands of the Old West showed zero dependence on the ubiquitous vittle. They seemed content to consume an endless supply of tequila and vodka, produced from agave and potatoes, respectively. "We gets our starch from the tsar's madeira," commented one vagrant, using one of vodka's many nicknames and showing a surprising worldliness for a fellow of his stripe.*

Onlookers applauded the rebellious spirit. One loquacious gentleman stood upon an actual soap box and declaimed on behalf of the itinerants. "Truly, these heroes have embodied the American spirit of dependence! We are not slaves to any man or substance, be it red or bread! Like those tax-weary colonists whose bravery preceeded them, our courageous Unreliable Husbands cast off the yoke of grain which has so dominated human cuisine since-"

At this point, the man was accidentally shot by an errant bullet from saloon festivities, becoming the third bystander casualty of the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. Nevertheless, the spirit of his remarks pervaded and took root, and Unreliable Husbands of the Old West earned a strong win and the right to play Google for the West Region Championship.


*It was later discovered that this person was not an Unreliable Husband of the Old West, but a confused cast member of the HBO television show "Deadwood."





WEST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(1) Google
vs.
(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West

Monday, April 16, 2007

ToM: Midwest Region, Second Round Results

(5) Bobbing For Apples
def.
(1) The Rosetta Stone


In a year replete with surprise upsets, it should come as no shock that Sunday's action saw two underdogs advance to the Midwest Regional Championship. In the opening match, yet another top seed fell, leaving Google as the tournament's only surviving one-seed. The Rosetta Stone, after violently decimating Babe the Blue Ox in the first round, came into the day as heavy favorites against insouciant upstart Bobbing For Apples. Sticking with the tactic that proved so effective against Babe, the Stone invoked ancient Gods and scaled the firmament's of a rust-red barn directly over a group of children engaged in the eponymous opposition activity.

At the apex of the slanting tin roof, poised next to a rooster-bedecked weather vane, the Stone tumbled forth with deadly accuracy. Yet at that exact moment, one of the children below had captured a rosy fruit and stood to celebrate. The four other competitors lifted their heads to view the spectacle, and the descending Rosetta Stone landed directly in the full barrel, impacting none of their heads.

Though some water was displaced by the splash, enough remained to completely cover the fallen tablet. Terrified, the children sprinted away screaming, and Rosetta Stone proponents insisted that the retreat signified forfeit. Officials on scene agreed, and only required that the submerged stele free itself from the barrel to claim victory. Hopeful supporters kept a vigil for three hours, but despite a prodigious climbing ability, swimming was beyond its means. As the sun reached its meridian, and activity inside the barrel ceased, officials congregated and determined that the children had instigated the match's only successful maneuver by eluding the crashing slab, and thereby earned advancement.


(7) Toothpaste
def.
(3) Greenery Day in Japan


The evening match can effectively be called a case of poor luck, with a determined, strong competitor handcuffed into serving its opponent with each well-intentioned advance. Known for unerring discipline and tireless work ethic, Greenery Day's army of tree-planters went to work fast and early, sprouting new and variegated forests in trademark fashion. Predictably, oxygen levels rose, which in the past has hindered opponents and led to victory.

With Toothpaste, however, Greenery Day faced an opponent whose cleansing qualities were only fortified and enhanced by the uber-oxidized environment. Normally taken for granted as a bathroom fixture, Toothpaste's new cleansing abilities cast it into the limelight, earning universal laudations. Before day's end, Toothpaste had booked an interview slot on The Morning Show, been chosen as Time's Man of the Year, and had its cardboard container officially selected by Oprah's Book Club.

Relegated to anonymity, Greenery Day in Japan proved incapable of variety, instead clinging robotically to the original blueprint. Upon notification that Toothpaste was the overwhelming winner, the Greenery Day Army committed mass suicide by impaling themselves through the pointed crowns of Bonsai trees. In a gesture of sportsmanship, Toothpaste offered to clean the teeth of the dead, but only on the condition that they receive a Christian burial. The terms were rejected by His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Akihito.



MIDWEST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(5) Bobbing for Apples
vs.
(7) Toothpaste

Friday, April 13, 2007

ToM: South Region, Second Round Results

(5) The Concept of English
def.
(8) A Child's Peashooter


Following its stunning first-round upset of David & Goliath, A Child's Peashooter found itself in the unenviable position of competing sans ammunition. Its lone pea had been used to great effect against the Philistine giant, but faced with a company of wildly-spinning cue balls, it could only lie in wait for inevitable destruction.

Ineluctably, the destruction came. In mere chaotic moments, the once-proud peashooter was reduced to splinters by repeat high-velocity cue ball attacks. Yet for the second match in a row, great controversy surrounded The Concept of English's victory.

"In my mind, the win against A Child's Peashooter had nothing to do with 'English'," said renowned cellist and TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS super-fan Yo-Yo Ma. "It was just a bunch of billiards balls flying straight. Whatever spin they might have had didn't matter in the least. If this was a movie, I'd accuse the writer of rank negligence."

Following these comments, Yo-Yo Ma was bitten by several snakes, and all his cellos were destroyed in various fires.

After its first-round triumph over The Know-Nothing Party, The Concept of English faced allegations of collaboration with Pope Pius IX. It is not known whether the 19th-century Roman Catholic leader continued his support in round two, but critics maintain that the motive for revenge against a child's toy which destroyed a key figure of the Old Testament may have proved too strong a temptation to resist.


(7) Vladimir Nabokov
def.
(3) My Friend Dustin

In a see-saw battle which lasted fourteen days and featured innumerable elegant twists on the English language, history's pre-eminent novelist narrowly edged the game associative dynamo. Although the outcome was in doubt for most of the fortnight, Nabokov showed too much class over the final day, and Dustin's ambitions collapsed when he inadvertently connected two of the Russian's most famous works, completing a strange circle and verifying the author's claim that the entire breadth of human knowledge and beauty is contained within his oeuvre. As My Friend Dustin struggled to conjure some topic on which Nabokov couldn't claim influence, journalists on scene transcribed the fatal stream-of-consciousness narrative:

Dustin: "Greek...Greek History...Plato...Play-Doh...Elephant...Trunk...clothes...vacation...retreat...elite...replete...Lolita...Greek Pita...Bread...Sandwich...Peanut Butter...Jelly...Deli...Pickle...Tough Spot...Hot Spot...Hell...Heaven...Church...Bell Tower...Spire...Pyre...Funeral Pyre...Pale Fire..."

Upon uttering this last title, Dustin dropped to his knees, exhausted and demoralized. The venerable writer approached and, in a seemingly magnanimous gesture, offered his hand. When the fallen opponent reached to accept, Nabokov withdrew in a juvenile gesture. Dustin collapsed face-first in the dirt, and the Russian danced gleefully to the disgusted boos of a pro-American crowd.

As he circled the stadium, gesturing profanely to spectators, Nabokov tore his cardigan in two, revealing a t-shirt with a picture of a peashooter snapped in half. The text below read: "You're Next!" When fans began to laugh, pointing out that A Child's Peashooter had lost days before, he feigned humiliation. Yet as the mocking reached a fever pitch, the writer had another surprise in store- he ripped the t-shirt in one swoop, exposing a tattoo on his bare chest. The inked image brought a sudden hush to the arena; a series of cue balls, cracked and useless, were crushed beneath a bookshelf containing Nabokov's novels.




SOUTH REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(5) The Concept of English
vs.
(7) Vladimir Nabokov

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

ToM: East Region, Second Round Results

(4) Meryl Streep def. (1) Creighton Blue Jays On any normal day in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS, a one-seed falling in the second round would be cause for surprise. But on the eve of Creighton's match against Meryl Streep, an unbelievable gaffe on the part of coach Norton Douglas made the outcome all but inevitable. Speaking to reporters in the lobby of his hotel, he called Meryl Streep's integrity into question, accusing her of poor parenting. The excerpt below captures the worst of the ill-timed remarks:

"And, what's...what's the story with her daughter...that Kate Hudson? A different last name? To me, that's just...that's being a bad mother, to put it bluntly. You don't let your kid take another last name just for the sake of having a different identity. Just so she can land a few movie roles? You let her make up a whole new name, for that? I'm sorry...maybe I'm old-fashioned, but where we come from, out in Kansas, folks stress family values. Plus, it's widely known that Kate Hudson is promiscuous."
Unfortunately for Mr. Douglas, he ignored certain key facts: 1) Kate Hudson is not widely known as promiscuous. 2) Kate Hudson's mother is Goldie Hawn, not Meryl Streep. 3) Kate Hudson did not make up her own name. Her father is the comedian Bill Hudson. It was Ms. Hawn who chose to keep her maiden name after marriage. 4) Creighton University is in Nebraska, not Kansas. The story exploded in the morning papers, and popular sentiment shifted to Streep. A disheartened Creighton squad never stood a chance. Star point guard Eddie Santangelo shot a mere 1-17 from three point range, and Streep's 'Oscar Defense'- placing her various statuettes in dangerous positions on the floor- effectively hindered the Creighton attack. At the half, they had scored only 9 points, and Coach Douglas sat on the team bench with his shoulders hunched, the picture of a defeated man. Streep kicked off the second half by performing the "fuck fish" monologue from "Adaptation." The crowd erupted, unaware or unconcerned that the lines belonged to the character of John Laroche, played by Streep's co-star Chris Cooper. Completely overmatched, the Creighton players left the court to catcalls and derision. (2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975 def. (6) The Atlantic Ocean On the morning of the match, the Atlantic Ocean entered a period of widespread calm referred to as 'The Halcyon Days.' Usually occurring before the winter solstice, this legendary annual timespan ushers in fourteen days of complete calm, when not even a slight ripple disturbs the surface of the otherwise unpredictable and turbulent ocean. Red Army team members, upon taking the ice at the neutral Reykjavik Arena, could harly believe their good luck. "I am not believing what I see," said astounded netminder Vladislav Tretiak, in broken English. "I think 'oh, maybe huge salt waters from Atlantics make us into food for fish. But no, we win. Soviet Russia win again." And win they did, as the lone team in the arena, scoring exactly one hundred goals in three periods of play. The Atlantic's strategy of overcoming Iceland (and with it the arena and the entire Red Army team) with a series of shark-led tsunamis faltered when it couldn't summon a single wave. Coastal residents of Iceland watched in fear as thousands of sharks congregated near the shore, but their trepidation became outright joy when the creatures were forced to retreat to the deep. "For the first time, we have defeated the sharks that have terrorized our country for centuries!" said Icelandic premier Gzryuny Ven Der Bang. In addition, national poet and songwriter Ermitz Smits-Bakker composed a new national anthem to commemorate the event. Translated, the lyrics are as follows: Iceland! Iceland! You have faced the great whites! They have come in fierce hordes! Like they have done before! Oh those years, they were difficult! Difficult years, O Iceland the Brave! Your children were eaten, oh yes! You could not swim, except in their mouths! But now there is one white greater! This time a separate white knew triumph! A white land free of sharks! It is you to whom I refer, Iceland! Iceland! White Country! Iceland! White Paradise! Now your children are not eaten!* *It should be noted that much of the poem's beauty is inherent to the Icelandic tongue, and is therefore lost in translation. Also, there are more exclamation points in the original. EAST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP: (2) The USSR Red Army Hocket Team, 1975 vs. (4) Meryl Streep

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

A Healthy Dose of Pain

Last night I had the longest, strangest dream of my life. A bit of an epic, actually. It kept referencing itself, switching locations and people, but coming back to close the circles. Unlike most dreams, it seemed to end at the perfect spot, even though the ending was sad and a bit terrifying. I've tried to map it out here, because it's pretty interesting, but my divisions are going to be laughably imperfect. I'm reasonably sure of the sequence, and I'm positive on all the details. Unfortunately, I think there was a beginning I've forgotten, and other small details must also be gone for good. Anyway, here it is, unedited and true. I hope it's somewhat interesting for the synchronicity, if nothing else, but I'm jotting it down more for myself, so if you get bored and stop reading I can't say I blame you. However, there's a surprise ending.

1) It started in my stepfather's old blue Toyota truck. The sky was cloudy and a little dark, but it wasn't raining. The passenger seat had an old tattered seatbelt, tied off into semi-functioning strap, and I played with the frayed edges. We were driving on my high school's baseball field, heading toward the football field (it was a big complex where all fields merged, the football field doubled as the baseball outfield, and the home-side bleachers were also home-run territory). I saw sitting on the bleachers, among the crowd, three high school friends, Josh, Kyle S. and Kyle F. I waved, but they didn't see me or didn't respond.

We drove toward the endzone, over the field and without interrupting a game, and he dropped me off at the admission gate. I have a vivid memory of the corner approaching, and wondering where he'd drop me off. He had a strange habit of circling around things or leaving me off well ahead of the destination, which was always a point of anxiety. Once away, I had the feeling of being older, and was happy for it, because I knew in real high school days I'd feel self-conscious walking down the sideline among all the cool kids and upperclassmen. My stepfather drove off.

2) I moved toward the fifty yard line, feeling confident, and noting at least one familiar face standing against the small fence separating bleachers from field. Then I saw my oldest brother T. walking toward me. We both smiled and planned to shove each other at the same time. Neither succeeded, our simultaneous action only serving to disrupt each other's balance for a moment. He laughed and moved away. At this point, my friends who I was supposed to meet on the bleachers were lost from the dream. Next I saw my youngest brother K. reclined on the ground, watching the game. He was a bit older, maybe fourteen, indicating that some time had passed.

It seemed to be the first time we'd seen each other in a while, and he wasn't as shy as I remembered. He stood to hug me, and it was a bit awkward since we had different motions planned, but there was warmth. In real life, K. is one of the people I care most about in the world, even though I live far enough from home that we don't see each other as often as I'd like. In the dream, he became one of the few recurring themes. I was introduced to his girlfriend, whose name was Alissa. She was a thin girl, and seemed annoyed at something. She'd been lying down in front of him and to the right, and she stood up, gave me a quick smile, and said something cutting to K. before walking away. Interesting, because in college I made a film where the surrogate for the girl I'd been in love with was named "Alissa," and earlier that day I'd watched it for nostalgia's sake. In K. I see myself, partly, so the parallel is curious.

3) Also on the field was a step-cousin C. She was taking care of a small child I didn't know, teaching her something I can't remember, but I think came from a book. I haven't seen C. in years, so it was a strange cameo, and it somehow led to the livign room of my dad's old house. Inside, C. took the child and left, followed closely by my step-mother, who had appeared. Both seemed to be a bit condescending toward me, or mildly reproachful at least, and I wasn't sure why. Their departure left me with K. and my youngest sister S.

I somehow knew it was my sister, but she didn't look anything like my actual sister, and she didn't seem interested in seeing me. I tried to call her by old nicknames and make her laugh, but it wasn't happening, and she went away. It had become somewhat clear that I wasn't the most welcome person in the world, and nobody reacted warmly to me except K. He and I went outside to kick a soccer ball.

4) On my old front lawn the day was still overcast. We kicked the ball around a pond and three tall maples, and it was a very pleasant experience. The satisfaction of leading someone perfectly with a pass manifested itself, and this was odd because that feeling is something I get from throwing a football, not kicking a soccer ball. Nevertheless, it was the same. Finally the ball rolled down the hill and crossed the road, and threatened to roll down a gully into the forest facing our house. Somehow K. stopped it right at the edge and laughed.

5) Next I was at the football field again. A friend from college was there on the sidelines, and I said something to make him laugh. He was the kind of person who made you feel like a million bucks when he thought you were funny, but also had a way of attracting people that made them court his approval to regain that feeling. Breaking away from that group of friends was one of the difficult choices I had to make, because it led to a good deal of isolation. But I never belonged anyway, and my actions more or less made the choice for me.

6) Suddenly I was in the game, and that need for approval and belonging returned. We were starting at the softball field, though, strangely, and had to get to the endzone all the way at the admissions gate where I'd been dropped off by my stepfather before. The situation was desperate, time enough for one play only, and a full field to go. There were announcers present, somehow, and they kept talking about my love life in vague terms. We got down to the line, and my younger cousin M. was the quarterback. I was the right guard, for some reason.

Because I badly wanted to be accepted, but also wanted to trick them into winning the game, I played off the announcers and tried to sum up the desperation of the game with self-deprecation. I said "this is like trying to make love in an ice house." There was a bit of silence, and then laughter, and then my cousin the quarterback started to repeat it, but the center to my left thought he was saying 'hike' and snapped the ball. I burst through the line and sprinted for the corner. The journey there mimicked the earlier one in my stepfather's truck. I didn't have the ball, so I don't know what I was doing, but I felt surprised that nobody caught me, since I've never been fast. In any case, we tied the game with six points, and we'd have to make the extra point to win.

7) There was a celebration of the game at my old babysitter's house, which was across from my grandparent's house. K. was there again, along with a bunch of other kids. I was younger too, I think, and we all had towels. We went into the back yard, which was a swampy marsh area, and swam. It was getting late in the day, and more overcast than before. The scene had a strange feeling of post-disaster, but the kids still played happily. I went to retrieve my towel by the sidewalk after swimming, but the neighbor there (not my babysitter) told me it was my brother's towel.

8) I went across the street to my grandparent's. The day became sunny. I felt their presence by the back yard parking lot, and think I may have seen them. I left soon and walked down the road that leads to a cemetery. This was very brief, and I never reached the cemetery, and the concept of it didn't even enter my mind, I think.

9) The dream moved to a classroom. I was standing at the front, speaking with someone anonymous. Other people my age were hunched over desks. I was shorter, thinner, and had a buzz-cut. My bearing was vaguely military, or, more accurately, a poor imitation of the military tough-guy attitude, and my arms were crossed. I was telling the person the story of the game, and a lot of other things about myself. Finally, I came to the tale of a physic's test. I began to retell, but realized I'd reached the present and the test was awaiting me. The person smiled and gestured to the seat, and I took a breath and went over to begin.

10) Back at the football field, my cousin was getting ready to kick the extra point to win the game. Only my dad was around with some people I didn't know. They were fans of our rivals, and he was teasing them because he lived in their town. He made little comments that they semi-tolerated. I asked my cousin if he wanted a tee to kick from (a block, actually, black and with little divots), and he said yes. We re-hashed the game winning play, where he said my line, got the ball, and ran for a touchdown. A faceless center snapped the ball, I held it, and felt tremendous anxiety. He kicked the ball through the uprights, in my head was pure elation.

11) I returned to my babysitter's, where K. and I and the other kids were still swimming in what appeared to be questionable conditions. The old gray sky had returned. Again, I left the group and walked by a scattering of mittens everybody had thrown off before swimming. On the other side of the street, a child who was three years old at most was by himself, but didn't seem scared, just happy.

12) Back at the classroom, I was sitting next to a girl who was very kind, telling her this story with the same self-important (but not malicious) military bearing. Apparently, someone had driven by and seen the same child, and had a wrist bracelet with a number to call in case of this type of emergency. They called, and I hated this person, because they were an informant type from outside the community and didn't realize the child was tethered by an invisible string that kept it safe. A government agent came to visit the family, but he was laid back and not regimented like everyone expected, and he just gave them a warning about the child and the unsanitary swamp conditions. This was a big relief, because for whatever reason, the stakes were high in the case of conviction.

At that point, my Physics test was handed to me. It was in a booklet, and the Physis section was soggy and wet with nothing written on it. I became very worried, and told the girl I didn't do so well. "That's okay," she said. "You'll go to Newport and it won't even matter." I understood that I'd told this girl I was going to a school called Newport. I became a little hopeful, and when I flipped the pages of the book, I saw an essay. It said my name was John, and it mentioned Newport University. Soon, though, the sentences turned nonsensical and disoriented. The writing devolved into chicken scratch. It became clear that Newport was a delusion, and the last sentence of the essay contained the phrase "I have to tame the beast."


That's when I woke up. It was 3am. I looked out my window and half expected to see the devil's staring in at me. Then I checked my own thought processes to make sure I hadn't gone schizophrenic. Everything seemed to be in order, but it took me a moment to regain myself. I turned on the lamp and wrote it all down.

It's difficult, because it's impossible to capture the feeling of the dream with insufficient words, and it doesn't help that I'm interrupted at every turn. But I've never had a dream like it before, and maybe I never will. It included so many people who are important to me, the only notable exceptions being my mother and my friend Brandon. The second return to old scenes, too, is new to me. It almost followed the path of an improv show, which may mean that the system is entering my head. On paper it seems like a random jumble, but at the time it felt like an epic.

I haven't tried too hard to analyze it yet. The end, I think, signifies that my character throughout was imagining his role in things, turning real situations into fantasy, and was probably insane. This would explain the tepid reaction by everyone but K. The parallel of the original truck ride, along with the run in the football game, seems like an overlap, a person who may have imagined themselves in a real game, sprinted toward the endzone from a different field, and possibly interrupted the real game. What's really strange is that my run stopped right before it reached the real field, at the exact spot where the truck entered. So if it was an overlap, my delusion changed toward the end.

The recurring presence of K. might be an indication of my worry for his future, and his difficulty with the Alissa girlfriend character might be the prelude. It was also interesting that he was the only person to really treat me in a kind manner, other than the girl in the classroom.

Ah, this is useless and silly. In the end, I'm grateful for the dream, despite the sad ending. I think the feel of the story, the arc of the highs and lows and the general atmosphere, is more important than what it may have meant. The basic lesson I take is that even in my/John's demented state, the sadness and elation were still beautiful, maybe more so for the imagination.