Facebook

I thought that I was done with these stupid social networking sites, but I guess my desire for Internet Fame is still there. So now, you can friend me on Facebook.

If you don't friend me, I may have to eat a boxful of Entenmann's Little Bites. That won't be pretty and I'll look like this:

Evil Videos

Hey there, I just wanted to post here because while it may seem that nothing's going on, in fact a ton of stuff has been happening at DJ Evil Twin.

First, I have been learning to use MovieMaker to make music videos to accompany my remixes and I've made YouTube videos of all the Tracey Thorn mixes that I've created as a way to promote them. A couple of the mixes have been very well received, but I've also had some people exclaim that they totally suck.

In the past, I would've totally stewed on this and it would be such a blow to my self-esteem that I would be driven to drinking and lowering my standards for one night stands, just to re-assure myself that I am a decent human being.

Has that happened to you? Someone disses you online and it cuts you to the core?

But with the wisdom I've gained through many years of blogging, I've learned to cope with this and take criticism in a stride. I do this primarily by hiding in a closet and smoking a joint.

Check it out below. You can download the mixes here.

  
  
  

Installation

What I feel, when I am at an art gallery, is a feeling of inspiration coupled with a opposing force of jealousy. I marvel at the creativity and the ingenuity of some of the pieces, such that it sparks in me the desire to create as well. But then it also makes me feel totally inadequate and that anything I do will be a pale shadow of these masters. I try anyway, optimism and pessimism co-mingling into one thick soup.

This past weekend, on a trip to Seattle, I visited the Seattle Art Museum, I had a chance to see the original of Mark Rothko's #10. It seemed even more luminous than any reproduction of it I've seen. It seemed simple, yet complex and completely assured. It would be the type of art that some clod would say, "That's art? My two year-old could paint that!" and if I were to be honest, I would also add, "I could do that."

But of course I can't.

In one of the rooms was an installation by Eli Hansen and Oscar Tuazon, called Kodiak. In the stark white room, there is a log which is installed across the room, like a low beam. You had to duck a little to get underneath it. There is a partial staircase and a couple of other small pieces. It is an "architectural fragment" which references and evokes a log cabin or similar structure. The card on the wall said some bullshit about how just these few pieces in the room transports one into the woods and be in an urban setting at the same time.

Then, I had an idea for my own installation. It would be a smaller room, maybe like the size of someone's sewing room, painted white and brightly lit. All the walls will be blank except for a small white card in the far end of the room, which would have the title of the piece. The smell of fart would be piped in intermittently. The title of the piece would be "Silent But Deadly."

I got the idea when I inadvertently farted at Kodiak installation. I had Indian for lunch, sue me. Good thing I was the only guest in there. But as I quickly tried to escape the room, I thought that what could be more transporting to the reality of something such as the smell of fart? Imagine the people visiting my installation, walking in, smelling fart, thinking about the nerve of the person who farted, then walking to the card and reading the title.

It's totally immediate, visceral and profound.

I could even do variations of the piece, like maybe "Smelly Cab" with a fare meter on the wall and the smell of sweat, patchouli and ass piped in...

Podcasts

Add podcasts to my list of time-wasters.

Even though I've had an ipod for a couple of years, I'd only started subscribing to podcasts recently. I'm not really sure why, since I'm such an early adopter--I had gonorrhea of the throat looong before it was fashionable to get it. And the podcasts I'm currently subscribing to have had offerings for quite some time.

What's even more puzzling about this is that these podcasts are free. FREE. I'm not one to refuse a freebie. I send postcards to get free movie sreenings, take home the free shampoo from a hotel, even take a free sample of tampons. I know I know, but I'll find a use for it somehow, maybe fix a leaky roof or something.

This was what ultimately made me finally get on the bandwagon: once, when I was in my car, I had to cut off This American Life on NPR because I had arrived at my destination. I would miss the last part of the radio show. So when I found out about the podcast, I downloaded it.

I only listen to the radio in the car. I find that there are certain things that I do in a car that I don't normally do outside of it. Listen to country music. Have long political discussions. Swallow.

There's something about the enclosed confines of a car that seems to cocoon you from the rest of the world, suspending reality. Calories consumed are not absorbed into the body; ova are impervious to sperm; doing the chicken dance is not embarrassing. This probably explains the abundance of fat, hick parents.

In fact, I was recently listening to a BBC podcast Thinking Allowed, a science talk show that explored how it seemed that people talk more honestly and are more receptive to communicating in a car. This is probably because of the block of uninterrupted time coupled with the seating configuration, which lessened eye contact, making people more honest and apt to listen.

They said that if you wanted to tell someone something important, something you want them to listen to, you should tell them during a trip. It will increase the chances of it sinking in. So I am going to take a trip and tell my boyfriend something important: he does not do a good Barry Manilow impression. I hope he will stop singing Barry in the shower. God, I hope it works.

Anyway, I'm not really a science geek, but listening to BBC podcasts makes me feel more sophisticated. I feel that when I listen to it, I should have some wine and cheese and a side order of mad cow disease. Plus, English accents make everything sound smarter and funnier. I mean, you could yell out 'I'm having massive diarrhea!' and everyone would nod and clap and hand you a lace doily to wipe your ass. Go on, say it out loud in an English accent. See what I mean?

And because you want to be me (c'mon admit it), I'm going to list down what podcasts I'm subscribing to. Bloggers like lists because it's an easy way for us to paint a totally false impression of our personalities. I don't know if there is a way to paint an honest picture of someone except through careful, meticulous and painstakingly applied torture. So here it is, my list, check it out. It's free.


This American Life (Chicago Public Radio)
Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! (NPR)
This I Believe (NPR)
11 Central Ave. (PRI)
Story of The Day (NPR)
StoryCorps: Recording America (NPR)
Science Friday (NPR)
What Would Rob Do? (NPR)
Youthcast (NPR)
Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4 (BBC)
The Music Week (BBC)
Hmmmn...Krulwich on Science (NPR)
Fresh Air (NPR)
Driveway Moments (NPR)
Design For The Real World (PRI)
Satire from The Unger Report (NPR)
Thinking Allowed (BBC)

Spring Showers Bring May Flowers

I found this in an alley near Wrigley Field.



It's IML weekend here in Chicago. Coincidink?

Open Thread #2

You know what a Dead Pool is right? It's when you bet that somebody that you've put on your list is going to die this year. You do this with a group of your morbid yet fun-loving friends.

Anyway, in celebration of Cher's 62nd birthday today, I am putting together my own less cruel, but still amusing version of the Dead Pool. I'm calling it the Hip Replacement Pool. The way it works is this, whoever's list has somebody in it that gets a hip replacement this year, gets a customized No Milk Please guitar pick AND a DJ Evil Twin CD. But to win, you have to join.

Cher's on my list because I predict that with her Las Vegas show, she's bound to break a hip or something, it happened to Prince.

Here's my Hip Replacement Pool:

1. Tina Turner
2. Cher
3. Michael Jackson
4. Michael Stipe
5. Steven Tyler
6. Mick Jagger
7. Iggy Pop
8. Tom Jones

Add yours in the comments. The more names in your list, the better your chances of winning!

Another Super Power!

Just today, another super power had revealed itself to me, one that I've probably always had but didn't really acknowledge, kinda like like how I knew I was always gay but never acknowledged it until I realized one day I didn't want to fuck my high school girlfriend, I just wanted someone to help me make my audition tape for MTV's The Real World.

My power manifested itself when I walked into the men's room and I realized I could identify every single guy who was taking a shit in the stalls just by looking at their shoes peeking underneath the walls. The guy with the black Sketchers in the first stall was the IT guy Jared; the guy with the loafers who was multi-tasking by also reading a newspaper (I heard the rustle of the pages turning) was Bob, another IT guy; the guy peeing in stall three wearing a pair of Reebok sneakers was an engineering temp--I don't know his name, but he has cool hair.

Is it just me? Am I the only one with this awesome power? I feel powerful and all-knowing! What would my superhero name be? Toilet Oracle Man? Magic Toilet 8 Ball Kid? Diaper Genie?

Should I go out and buy a cape and tights? None of the capes I currently own would do, for instance, I have a black silk cape with a red lining that goes with a tuxedo. It makes me look like a vampire. I wear it on halloween, Buffy conventions, Red Cross blood drives. It's always a hit.

But much as I enjoy having this power, like any other person, I wish my super power was more practical, you know, like having the ability to make anybody shit in their pants at will.

I know I know, you were expecting something like invisibility or flying right? Whatever. Trust me, those abilities will only get you into trouble and you'll probably end up being locked up in maximum security weirdo jail.

But having the ability to make people shit in their pants? Dude, you can bring down world leaders with this power. With one thought I can change world history by making Padma Lakshmi on Top Chef take a shit in her panties and make Antonia win. I fucking hate that smug Dale and the know-it-all Richard. If I had my super powers Ryan would still be on the show even though he can't cook shit. I'd keep him around coz his dimples are sooo adorable.

And imagine what I could have done if I invoked my super power during a Supreme Court confirmation hearing. I was too young to do anything about Scalia, but Justices Alito, Thomas and Roberts would never have been confirmed.

Think about it.

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My other super powers:

Mind Control - I used my powers of the mind during Christmas

Super Powers - These were the powers I wished for when I was young

Birthday Card

I had sent my dad a birthday card last week.

In my card, I had written something different than the usual best wishes, thanking him for all the hard work he's done over the years to support our family, trying to make ends meet. I wrote that even though I am not the son that he might have wished, it didn't change anything, he's done well by me.

Here's my mother's e-mail to me reporting on my dad's receipt of my card. It is interesting (at least to me) to step back and read it objectively; my mother's cadence and use of language is very interesting. I can see my own style in hers.

My sister is going through a rough time right now and my dad has been very worried about her situation, which explains some of the dramatics.

Here is her e-mail, in a largely unedited form.

Dear Paul,

The birthday card you sent I put it on the table in the sala for your Dad to see this morning after he talked with [your brother] Peter over phone.

He was surprised when he saw the card, he seemed happy after reading. You wrote so well and touching.

I am glad you took the steps to heal after all that had happened. It had hurt him so much all these years, I have not wanted to talk about this with you before, although he always tried to show a sunny face when talking with you kids. I could see his agony, his struggle with his emotion. He had always felt so proud, because he thought he had provided us well. He started from scratch to provide us a financial well-to-do life, your grandfather, your uncle Q, his cousin uncle W all gave him nothing but debts to pay back.

He had his weaknesses, your paternal side of family had given him too many troubles, but he cared so much, and tried to help. They betrayed him, lied to him, but still he could not abandon them. On top of that, my too much unreciprocated love to my side of family caused resentment he felt towards them, there was also inferiority complex unconsciously hidden deep inside him too because of his humble background. He felt slighted when my relatives said or did something unintentionally, thinking they were looking down on him.

His voice broke when he talked with Peter [about your sister's] family. Father and I are both 65 years old now, no longer young, and the state of family we are in, I Pray God to have Mercy on us.

Take Good Care of yourself and Peter there.

Love,
Mom

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Other posts:

A Conversion With My Father - Only a computer program can save my relationship with my father. Melodrama - The dramatic letter before this one.

My First Beer - My father told me that this was the only way I could grow hair on my chest. Shame - My father told me not to embarrass my ancestors. Yes, my dead ancestors.

The Bowerbirds

As if we were leaving
the small forest tower that we built,
with a moss carpet and mosquito chandeliers,
and laughing at it.
I can't believe you used that word--
in an argument, no less.
But we would never break this way,
loose, affectionate, wry.
You straighten,
add an ornament.
This is somehow part of our staying.
If you left, a black cape would flap
like a crow winging,
and I would make a hundred harried calls.

- Dana Goodyear

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Poetry - Schmoetry. Stuff that rhyme and shit. Some of my favorites.

Burning

If you're havin' butt problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but my butt ain't one.

- cribbed from Jay-Z's "99 Problems"

You know how when your ears are burning, somebody you know is thinking about you? Well, my butthole is burning, do you think that somebody I know is jerking off about me? I hope so. I need to tell him I may have given him VD.

Or maybe it's hemorrhoids. That would be embarrassing. Can you imagine that? I would have to use Preparation H on my butthole instead of my eyebags? That's like the world has turned upside down.

That's like, if somebody told guys that women's vaginas were for shitting and assholes were for fucking. There would be an angry mob. Men would be so angry and upset, because, you know, somebody could have told them that sooner. Assholes are sooo much tighter.

TMI? Too much information? Sorry, I was going to blog about Step It Up and Dance, but that was less compelling than my burning butthole. Besides, it's not too much information unless somebody writes a wiki about it. By the way, that is a pic of my butthole in there, I posted it for your reference.

I leave you with this ditty from Midnight Oil, which I hope will keep repeating in your mind, so you can think about my butthole all day.

uhh, uh, UHHH!
How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep when our butts are burning?

(repeat forever)

Earthquake!

Did you feel it? Did you feel it? I had been having a restless sleep, when at 4:45am, Brian and I were woken up by shaking. Brian thought I was humping the bed. When it was clear that I was not humping the bed or otherwise masturbating, he left the bed and put his ear down to the floor. He thought that our annoying neighbor downstairs was doing something stupid, like maybe humping his bed. Huh???!? That's what I thought.

We were still disoriented from waking up, but I immediately knew it was an earthquake. I jumped out of the bed just to make sure. When I stood up, I relaxed a little bit because it wasn't as strong. However, when I sat back down on the bed, I felt it again. The shaking had turned our bed into a waterbed.

The tremors lasted for more than 30 seconds. I felt that we needed to leave the building; but I didn't want to overreact. The last time I did that, I bought a pair of shoes because they were 40% off and two sizes too small. I should've kept my head and waited a week for it to be at least 50%.

I didn't know how old our building was; whether it was up to code for earthquakes. And I still had my doubts. What if it was just the train nearby?

I was scared. I had been in a massive earthquake nearly 18 years ago in the Philippines* that caused two hotels to collapse, killing nearly 2,000 people. In that quake, the tremors were so hard, the walls shook a foot. I was at work, on the seventh floor of an 8-story building. We all went under our desks. I could see people crossing themselves, which was crazy, because they were visiting hare krishna's. A pregnant woman in her third trimester who was in cube next to me was in tears, praying, mumbling something about 'he said he was going to put it in for just one minute.' I assumed she was talking about putting a piece of bread in the toaster. Maybe he liked it medium like I did.

But here in Chicago, earthquakes are extremely rare. The last earthquake in this area was at least 10 years ago, which I only found out in the news after I woke up in the morning. I think it was a 2. I've had orgasms stronger than that.

We turned on the TV to see if there was any reports. But since it just happened, the folks on Channel 5 didn't seem to have felt it. Then about 5 minutes later, people started calling into the station to tell them of the quake. It was a 5.4 magnitude earthquake (5.2 if you're optimistic or General Petraeus), epicenter in West Salem, Illinois close to the Indiana border. We were relieved to know that we weren't crazy. Isn't that weird? Even though we figured it was an earthquake, we still had to be validated. It's like, one time when I knew I had a cold sore, I still felt that I had to ask somebody about it, after I made out with them.

It's about 5:30am right now. I am still a bit hunted, nervy. But maybe I'll relax after I watch some porn...

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* I researched this, it happened 07/16/1990 with a magnitude of 7.7, killing 1,621 people

Melodrama

Today, I got an e-mail from my mom that seemed a tad melodramatic. I had casually mentioned that I had planned to visit home this year. Granted, my family back home is having a bit of a crisis with some financial trouble that my brother-in-law got in, but I'm convinced that if someone in my family had a splinter, my mother would still write me this e-mail:

Dearest,

If you plan to come home, just let us know when. It has been chaos here for all the happenings, and it is not nearing end yet. But you are always welcome to come back home. I am glad you know we can not afford to entertain you very much, but to be together again is great happiness for us already.

Dad and I are 65 years old. I hope God will take pity on us to let us not suffer more, Jon* has been trying his best to help out, it is a real consolation with him around, but it is also hard on him too.

Take care.

Love,
Mom

You know, how in old movies they used to superimpose the image of the letter writer over the reader, narrating the contents of the letter, as if the writer is standing right there? Well, as I read this e-mail, I had sort of that moment. The image of my mother in the Philippines, standing there, hands together, narrating this letter while she is wringing the blood from a chicken she had just slaughtered for dinner. Hey, this is the Philippines, you know, they have real chicken instead of the zombie chicken slurry we have here in the U.S.

I thought that if I had a child who never came home to visit, I would totally send this e-mail. I can't wait to put in my name on the list to adopt children, wait for the Supreme Court to give me the right to be a parent, raise it and then send this e-mail to him or her when they've moved out of the house.

This one is so good, it's going into my saved e-mail folder, along with the one I got from an ex-boyfriend who broke up with me, writing 'It's not you, it's me.' What? That was an apology? Of course it's you, you sniveling, egotistic asshole.

My mother, with her passion for dramatics taught me--even though she didn't know it--everything I knew about being gay and slaughtering a chicken. She even gave me this valuable tip: don't wear white after Labor Day. This tip applies to both being gay and slaughtering a chicken.

Besides, I wasn't sure what she meant by entertaining us, because I was planning to come for a vacation, not sit in a production of Hairspray. I just want to have dinner, not dinner theatre. I don't want them to put on a production for me. Granted, nothing's more interesting than watching my Dad yell at the TV with a chicken leg hanging from his mouth, but I'd rather not have to pay for it. I mean, I'm their kid, my tickets should be comped. And Ticketmaster charges exorbitant fees these days.

Anyway, I am still planning to visit as soon as I can get the money together and some time off from work. I am planning to go later this year because my parents are getting old (65!) and I would like to spend as much time as I can with them while they are still around and can teach me how to skin a cow.

-----
* My older brother

Letter From Home - I come across a letter from my mother which tugs at my heartstrings.

Things I Think About On The Treadmill

Why am I here?

Showmeshowmeshowme how you do that trick, the one that makes me scream she said.

How can I get rid of my mortal enemy?

I'm going to die alone.

That guy is running very awkwardly. How would I describe that in a blog post?

. . .

A duck with a limp! Must write that down after this.

My leg hurts, is it cancer?

This is so fucking useless.

Mamase mamasa mamacusa.

I'm going to die alone.

And fat.

Fuck. Is it over yet?

I hate working out.


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Related posts:

Tribes - My observations of the denizens of the gym.

High - The treadmill is torture without a runner's high.

Wading Pool

You fellow writers probably know what I mean. After starting my novel in January, I should be well into depths of the plot instead of kicking around in the wading pool, but that's where I am.

I have written thirty pages in long hand, as I learned in my writing workshop, and it has been a very successful method for me.

When I am scratching my words on paper, the story feels more organic, like it moves on its own. I don't try to correct myself during this phase of the writing. If some thought comes to me after I have moved on to another scene, I would simply write in between the lines and margins, sometimes cramming words and sentences like intestines overlapping internal organs.

I spend a few hours a week, usually on weekends, squeezing in my writing life in between the laundry, brunch with friends and drinking binges. I feel like there isn't enough time to devote to writing even though I love it, those moments when the words flow like when you piss on a wall in an alley and it flows down and pools between your feet and you have to widen your stance so your shoes won't get wet. It's like that. The characters take form and run run run as if they have stolen somebody's purse. Even though it's wonderful like that, life interferes and I have to go back and do the totally mundane like giving blowjobs to my boyfriend. I wish I could stay suspended in that mode, but my boyfriend will just keep hounding me until he gets his rocks off.

Back to those thirty handwritten pages begging to be transcribed on to my computer. This does not flow as easily. If creatively, writing on paper is pissing on a wall, typing it up is like a hard piece of shit that is lodged in your anus: your body knows it's coming out, you want it to come out, the shit itself wants to come out, but somehow, something is holding it up. It's laborious and yet there is some bit of creativity, some flash of brilliance, a tin can catching the sunshine on the beach. I type anyway, because I am afraid that I will lose these handwritten pages on a bus, or if somebody breaks into my car and steals them. Ask any writer, they will all tell you that they are all afraid that somebody will steal their pages or accidentally use it as fishwrap. Go on, I'll wait.

I have typed up three chapters, the fourth is waiting after this post to be typed. Even now, I know that I have a lot of work to do later in terms of editing. I need to fill in descriptions, clarify points, and a "voice." Ask JadePark and she will also tell you that while it seems to come easily in my blog, this "voice," it is very much labored in my novel. It's a balancing act of being there and being unobtrusive at the same time. Since I am writing in the third person omniscient, my narrator shouldn't be conspicuous, otherwise, I should change the point of view. Besides, I don't want my novel to sound like my blog, because it's not about me. Just characters based on me.

Even this blog post feels like an affair in a seedy, damp smelling motel room. I feel that every word I am typing right now is a betrayal. I must go back to writing. I must.

I must get out of the wading pool.

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Related posts:

Thinking the Unthinkable - He said/She said things about Lynda Barry's writing workshop.

My Writing Life - Starbucks is the only place I can write. God help me.

Heart

Is it just me? I had always thought that the emoticon <3 was a penis.

I've always thought that "I <3 You" meant "I want to fuck you."

The 3 looks like an ample pair of balls, don't you think? I mean, I much prefer it to be <======3 of course, helloooo, I'm gay and gigantic penises are all that's important to me.

(But you know, privately, if I was stinkin' drunk at 2am at Roscoe's, a little <3 wouldn't be so bad specially if there was $50 at the end of it.)

Anyway, it finally dawned on me that I had it wrong when I was reading the Sarah Marshall Fan site and I saw that they had colored the emoticon red like "I <3 Sarah Marshall" and then I got it--it meant a heart as in "I Heart Sarah Marshall."

Frankly, I liked my version better. When I read things like:

Mom <3 Tabasco

Kevin <3 Cucumbers or,

Condi <3 Bush (you can take that in sooo many ways)

it always made me giggle a little. I think the world is a duller place now that I have this knowledge...

Jacket Days

You know, the day before yesterday, I had put away all my bulky winter coats because I thought, hey, finally! spring has arrived. I was so excited and I took out all my spring jackets and stuffed them into the hall closet. I love jackets because I love the whole layered look. Layered. Listen to me. I'm gaaaaay.

Some people are shoe-aholics, I am a jacket-aholic. I have so many jackets, that I can't wear them all more than once in short time in spring when it is between 38 to 50 degrees, when I can wear a jacket without sweating my smooth, hairless balls off.

Sometimes, I wear them inside the house even though I am not going anywhere.

Sometimes, I am jealous of homeless people because they get to wear a jacket everyday, sometimes two at a time. I could never pull off that look though. The homeless look, I mean. Too baggy.


So yesterday, I put on a new Converse One Star Poplin Hoodie Jacket that I had bought from Tar-zhay, along with my distressed jeans, white shirt and preppy tie and was feelin' really totally stylish and then bam! whadayaknow: fucking heavy, wet snow starts to fall and suddenly it was frickin 20 degrees. I froze my ass off. I had prematurely put away my winter jackets.

Don't you hate that? When you put something away, you don't expect to have it make a comeback. The last time this happened, my great-aunt Sophie woke up after we thought she had passed away. It was totally unexpected because we had just smothered her with a pillow. We needed her bedroom because we had just bought a pinball machine and needed somewhere to put it.

Anyway, I dug one of the winter coats out back out last night, just in case this freeze lingered on. But I am not putting it on unless it's like zero degrees or something. Time's running out before it's too warm to wear a jacket and then I have to start wearing something more appropriate to warm weather: a thong.

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Related posts:

Rule of One Hotter - I've always wanted to be hotter than I am. Don't you?

Open Thread #1

Blaine Fridley over at Diary of Fools had the balls to say what most people only think: The New Yorker cartoons suck and are "consistently lame." Interestingly enough, that's what my BF also thinks about them.

This open thread asks you:

1. What do you really think of The New Yorker cartoons?

2. Optionally, how would you describe the people who read The New Yorker?

Go ahead, put in your two cents.

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Cartoons - Check these out to refresh your memory of all the years of pointless The New Yorker cartoons here at No Milk Please.

BONUS: Try your hand at captioning a cartoon at TNY. See if you are funnier than they are.

Lo Siento

Hey.

I'm sorry.

I heard that something I wrote hurt and embarrassed you. I read it again and honestly, I never thought that it would cause anybody consternation. I thought I was being careful by changing your name.

Yes, I used a quote directly from you. It was the jumping off point, but it's there, that point. Because this person I wrote about used your words, it sounded like I was talking about you. It sounded like everything I made this person think or say afterwards, were things you thought or said.

I read it and re-read it and I can see how it sounds like that. That second line hangs heavy, like a judgment. But it was about me, when I was in that situation. If you substituted my name in there, maybe you can see that I was speaking of myself.

In Spanish, lo siento which is commonly used to say "I'm sorry," literally translates to "I feel it." It seems appropriate here. My feelings and your feelings entwined.

Gomen na.

Starbucks

(c) 2008 The New Yorker

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Related posts:

Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

My Writing Life - Starbucks is the only place I can write. God help me.

My Writing Life

Writing a novel has got to be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life, harder than the time I had to take off a pair of tight rubber pants I had bought to go clubbing.

They never tell you, but rubber pants are a bitch to take off and I got rubber burns all over my thighs. It also makes you sweat like a motherfucker. I danced all night in that outfit. I was dressed to kill, especially those who were close enough to smell my b.o. Seriously, by the time I got home, I smelled like my armpits, crotch and Amy Winehouse's hair went to hang out at a homeless shelter. I still got laid though.

Anyway, since the January, after I went to the Writing The Unthinkable workshop, I had started writing a novel. This is the first novel I have started writing since I was in college. That last one was a Harlequin Romance-type novel because I thought that I could easily make some money churning out book after book of the same story, just changing a few things here and there, along with a new title. Wrong. I got totally bored after chapter three and the heroine had twelve orgasms the first time she had sex with the hero and his nine-inch throbbing manhood.

It was really hard to sustain interest in that kind of fiction writing for me because there really wasn't that much drama I could muster, especially since I couldn't possibly give the heroine gonnorhea. No publisher would've touched that.

But writing this new novel, has brought back a lot of the anxieties of writing and creating fiction, mostly because I have a tendency to use real life events as a basis and I worry about how my friends would react if they read about it. Would they think I really thought the way I did about a certain event? Would they understand that writing fiction is like trying on different points of view in an event and just because I may have a character react one way, doesn't mean that I would do that myself? But I thought it, therefore it must be true.

The other problem is that writing is such an intense activity that my daily life just interferes with this process. The last thing I want to do after making dinner and doing dishes is to sit down and write. I would much rather do something less stressful and intense like mixing music or writing blogs or crank calling my grandmother.

I have an almost physical need to go somewhere else to write, like Starbucks, except I hate the fucking pretentiousness of writing a novel at Starbucks. It's like so fucking cliché, you know. There I am, with my laptop, looking so fucking smug, typing away, as if I were so much better than everyone else. But I brush it off. Besides, nobody would think that of me, especially since I am going to be wearing my beret. I pack my shit up and head over there.

I am totally productive when I am at Starbucks. I don't know what it is about the place, but I am able to get a lot of writing done there. It's just amazing that I could sit there, elbow to elbow with fifty other hacks, working on our novels that will never be published. I feel a sense of camaraderie in our shared experience. Soon, all our efforts will end up in a publisher's recycle bin. It's sort of comforting to think that I'm not alone in world in this.

It's crazy I know, but the urge to write and create something is stronger than this knowledge of the futility of it all. Even if nobody ever reads my novel, I can take heart in the fact that somehow, somewhere, I can pay $2 at an open mike night and inflict my writing on people.