Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 44
June 6, 2017
Review- Umberto Eco - Faith in Fakes
Faith in Fakes: Travels in Hyperreality by Umberto EcoMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
I like to pick books at random and wander for a bit. Sometimes these wanderings take me places I want to go and find rewarding, other times they just take me wandering.
But wandering is important. It's important to get lost, to try new things, to add spontaneity to your life.
I wander into an essay about garments in this book that changes the way I write this book review.
In one of the essays, Eco describes how the garments of our time shape our personality, even our writing.
Eco writes that a garment that squeezes the testicles makes a man think differently.
I put that theory to the test by wearing underwear two sizes too small for parts of this review. The parts that seem harsh must be times when I am wearing underwear that is too tight. The parts where I am witty and charismatic must be the times when I am wearing a loose-fitting robe and sandals (the true clothes of thinking men).
So what is Faith in Fakes?
Faith in Fakes is a book about spontaneous discovery, thinking as play, and true understanding as rejecting intellectual closure.
It was refreshing to find a book that mirrored my way of thinking. The ideas in this book are often half-formed. They remain that way many times because they push against realities, which, if they were encapsulated in total understanding, would not be understood at all. Let us understand something a little differently, and if we are not entirely satisfied, let's leave it at that. (This must be the loose-fitting robe version of me talking).
It's true that at times the book tends to wander and wander from idea to idea, around and around a message without making that message clear. The experience can be frustrating (Underwear two-sizes too small persona talking). When you feel this way, my advice is easy -- wear loose-fitting clothes, loose-fitting undergarments, or simply read the book again nude and see how you feel about it.
One reviewer on Goodreads suggested that Umberto Eco was William Gibson ten years in advance. I see Umberto Eco as inhabiting a category of thinker similar to Michel Foucault -- just when you want to put a label on him, he changes. "Don't label me," should be his moniker. If you label me, you've killed me. (I tear the label off my two-sizes-too-small underwear!)
Because power adapts, because people adapt, because culture and society are moving objects with thinking things at their core, and because our own thinking is never outside this process, we too must adapt or die as thinkers - that's how I see this book. It's that quality of creative play that makes a book of essays written in the 70s and 80s feel timeless.
As Umberto Eco himself says, No everyday experience is too base for the thinking man.
At times when I was reading this book, I heard the distinct voice of Aschenbach, the cloistered traditional German author who is the protagonist in Death in Venice (The tight underwear is back). True, Eco is not the cloistered man -- he is a man of the world. But he does represent the dignified elitist academic writer (in the best sense I can mean this?). In other words, he is not afraid to write ideas that go over our heads.
If he is the dignified academic in some essays, he is the witty and resourceful humorist in others. He pulls off this intellectual flexibility with such grace and without pulling any muscles (Any good essayists needs either flexible tights or a monk's robe).
So, I wander. From idea to idea. I throw away my too-tight underwear and my robe and sandals and sit nude in my apartment with a martini contemplating the deeper meanings of Thomas Aquinas, Disney World, and football (what Americans call "soccer").
I don't think Umberto Eco would have it any other way.
View all my reviews
June 3, 2017
The Underground Novel - And Now, the Good, Good Advice
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
And Now the Good, Good Advice
First, the Good, Good Advice:
Watch Booty Call twice. Not once. Twice.
Now, the Good, Good, Good Advice:
If you didn’t get it the first two times, watch it again.
The Good, Good Advice on Dating:
Oh, yeah, you should definitely do it, but bring Tylenol.
The Good, Good Advice on Vengeance:
(Steps 1-3)
If you’re going to do it, do it effectively and with style.
Step 1, create a budget. Make sure your Vengeance doesn’t infringe on any of your other expenses. Creating a budget allows you to keep your Vengeance within your means.
Step 2, create a schedule. Nothing can be more embarrassing and frustrating than claiming Vengeance and not having the time to follow through with it. That’s why it’s important to create a schedule and stick to it.
Step 3, create an integrated plan. Make sure this plan fits both your schedule and your budget. Plans of Vengeance can be single-faceted or be multifaceted, depending on your resources, your time restraints, and of course, your own particular tastes.
Single-faceted plans tend to be simple, straight-forward and relatively unproblematic; however, if you are planning a multifaceted Vengeance plan, you need to make sure your operation is integrated. Each part of your plan needs to compliment the other if full Vengeance is to be realized.
The Good, Good Advice on Integrated Vengeance Plans:
Integration means all components working together: for instance, hiring a beautiful woman to date your enemy, sending him a package of M&Ms that are really laxatives, and then stealing the toilet paper from his house.
Integration means: sending the midget strippers and prostitutes over the day your enemies in-laws are supposed to arrive.
Integration means: publicizing a party at your enemy’s house with FREE BEER the same day a Hell’s Angels reunion is in town.
Integration means: replacing his tube of lubricant with Ben Gay the night of a big date.
Most importantly, Integration means never having to say you’re sorry you claimed Vengeance.
The Good, Good, Good, Good Advice on Vengeance:
When all else fails, sleep with his or her sister.
Now, the Good, Good Medical Advice:
When you get that feeling, you really do need sexual healing.
Now, what’s “that feeling”? Nausea. Sore muscles. Headache. Sore throat. Broken bones. Diarrhea. Dizziness. Depression. Manic episodes. Multiple Personality Disorder. Obsessive-compulsive Disorder. Snake bites. Flea bites. Man of War stings. Shark bites. Mosquito bites. Anthrax. Malaria. Skin Cancer. Brain Cancer. Carpal-tunnel syndrome. Vertigo. Scraped knee. Scraped elbow. Gunshot wound. Blisters. Melancholy. Flatulence. Awkwardness. Boredom. Kidney disorder. Liver disorder. Bleeding from the ear. Bleeding from the nose. Lice. Torn ligaments. Skull fracture.
The Good, Good, Good Medical Advice:
“That feeling” also includes: ingrown toenail, lower back pain, shoulder pain, alcoholism, gall bladder disease, hearing loss, osteoporosis, seizures and epilepsy, serious abdominal cramps, not-so-serious abdominal cramps, attention deficit disorder, constipation, chest pain, hepatitis A, B, C (and sometimes D, E, and F), cramps, toothache, lazy eye, bad vision, good vision, hearing problems, dry scalp, itchy scalp, arrogance, pretentiousness, anger, pregnancy, happiness, sadness, restlessness, sleepiness...
Contact your doctor for more information.
The Good Good Advice on Reading:
When sexual healing isn’t available, you might want to try moving on to the next chapter.
And Now the Good, Good Advice
First, the Good, Good Advice:
Watch Booty Call twice. Not once. Twice.
Now, the Good, Good, Good Advice:
If you didn’t get it the first two times, watch it again.
The Good, Good Advice on Dating:
Oh, yeah, you should definitely do it, but bring Tylenol.
The Good, Good Advice on Vengeance:
(Steps 1-3)
If you’re going to do it, do it effectively and with style.
Step 1, create a budget. Make sure your Vengeance doesn’t infringe on any of your other expenses. Creating a budget allows you to keep your Vengeance within your means.
Step 2, create a schedule. Nothing can be more embarrassing and frustrating than claiming Vengeance and not having the time to follow through with it. That’s why it’s important to create a schedule and stick to it.
Step 3, create an integrated plan. Make sure this plan fits both your schedule and your budget. Plans of Vengeance can be single-faceted or be multifaceted, depending on your resources, your time restraints, and of course, your own particular tastes.
Single-faceted plans tend to be simple, straight-forward and relatively unproblematic; however, if you are planning a multifaceted Vengeance plan, you need to make sure your operation is integrated. Each part of your plan needs to compliment the other if full Vengeance is to be realized.
The Good, Good Advice on Integrated Vengeance Plans:
Integration means all components working together: for instance, hiring a beautiful woman to date your enemy, sending him a package of M&Ms that are really laxatives, and then stealing the toilet paper from his house.
Integration means: sending the midget strippers and prostitutes over the day your enemies in-laws are supposed to arrive.
Integration means: publicizing a party at your enemy’s house with FREE BEER the same day a Hell’s Angels reunion is in town.
Integration means: replacing his tube of lubricant with Ben Gay the night of a big date.
Most importantly, Integration means never having to say you’re sorry you claimed Vengeance.
The Good, Good, Good, Good Advice on Vengeance:
When all else fails, sleep with his or her sister.
Now, the Good, Good Medical Advice:
When you get that feeling, you really do need sexual healing.
Now, what’s “that feeling”? Nausea. Sore muscles. Headache. Sore throat. Broken bones. Diarrhea. Dizziness. Depression. Manic episodes. Multiple Personality Disorder. Obsessive-compulsive Disorder. Snake bites. Flea bites. Man of War stings. Shark bites. Mosquito bites. Anthrax. Malaria. Skin Cancer. Brain Cancer. Carpal-tunnel syndrome. Vertigo. Scraped knee. Scraped elbow. Gunshot wound. Blisters. Melancholy. Flatulence. Awkwardness. Boredom. Kidney disorder. Liver disorder. Bleeding from the ear. Bleeding from the nose. Lice. Torn ligaments. Skull fracture.
The Good, Good, Good Medical Advice:
“That feeling” also includes: ingrown toenail, lower back pain, shoulder pain, alcoholism, gall bladder disease, hearing loss, osteoporosis, seizures and epilepsy, serious abdominal cramps, not-so-serious abdominal cramps, attention deficit disorder, constipation, chest pain, hepatitis A, B, C (and sometimes D, E, and F), cramps, toothache, lazy eye, bad vision, good vision, hearing problems, dry scalp, itchy scalp, arrogance, pretentiousness, anger, pregnancy, happiness, sadness, restlessness, sleepiness...
Contact your doctor for more information.
The Good Good Advice on Reading:
When sexual healing isn’t available, you might want to try moving on to the next chapter.
May 31, 2017
Progress Traps...or, the Party Ends (Underground Novel, Chapter 1, part 6)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Rule of Narrative: As the plot progresses, new problems arise.
Business Rule: Beware progress traps*.
*A progress trap is the condition human societies experience when, in pursuing progress through human ingenuity, they inadvertently introduce problems they do not have the resources or will to solve. (Source: Wikipedia)
It happens suddenly, just like tornadoes happen suddenly. Like Marilyn Monroe having her skirt blown over her head happens suddenly.
Suddenly: “Mrs. Jenkins, I think you’re trying to seduce me.”
She’s spread out naked on my bed and has broken into my stash of pornography. That’s how I find her when I come into my room.
I remind myself that I’m out of college and that it’s time for me to become respectable. Naked, she looks more like a fit twenty-eight-year-old than a fifty-something-year-old. If it were a wrinkled old Anne Bancroft, then this would be different. As it is, I’m tempted.
“What’s the matter, Dustin? This is your graduation present.”
“The problem, Mrs. Jenkins, is Mr. Jenkins. My mom and dad, also. And think of what the community would say for that matter.”
Fat chicks, Mr. Rogers shaving his legs, Al Capone giving his Tommy Gun a head job, Noam Chomsky with Margaret Thatcher—Agamemnon telling his troops to stand down. Stand down, damn you.
“Mr. Jenkins? Oh, Dustin, don’t be silly. Mister Jenkins is in the closet with a camcorder and a martini. He’s quite the little pervert. As for the community -- well, we all have our dirty little obsessions.”
Yeah, it was all like one boring episode of The Days of Our Lives, big deal. I’m more worried about Mr. Jenkins being in my closet. Rich people are notorious kleptos and I have a lot of valuable stuff in there.
I open up the closet. “All right, Mr. Jenkins. You can come out of there now.”
The old man has his pants around his ankles. And it’s a relief to find that both hands are occupied with the aforementioned camcorder and martini. But still, the whole thing has become embarrassing and disturbing.
I look at Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins with pity, and I don’t really know what to say. So this was the “Real World” I had to adjust to? I take out a bag of weed and toss it over to the naked Mrs. Jenkins. “Here you go. Get high off me. If you guys end up doing it on my bed, though, just have one of your maids come back to wash the sheets.”
I was depressed. I was going downstairs to have some nachos and drink some more alcohol.
Like an afterthought, I hear Mrs. Jenkins say something. “Oh, by the way Dustin, I saw our little princess with your friend. I charge you not to tell her about our little encounter.”
“You’re a freak, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Nonetheless, Mr. Jenkins and I are very powerful people. We could make it very difficult for you and your parents. Am I understood?”
“Go to hell, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative…Oh, and another thing. I know it was just my imagination, because if it wasn’t, you’d be in a lot of trouble right now, but I could have sworn I saw the two of them in an intimate embrace. Keep that hairy clod away from her. He simply reeks of poverty. We value our princess very much.”
Mr. Jenkins was rolling up a joint.
“Understood, Mrs. Jenkins. And please, enjoy the weed.”
“We will, Dustin.”
*
I call Cronon.
“I’m in love, Dustin. We’re running off to Vegas to get married. She’s a fucking freak, dude.”
I want to kill him.
“What about the monkey?”
“Keep the monkey, he’s in her car. Door is unlocked. I’m in Fucking Love!” he shouts before hanging up.
I don’t care, anymore. I’ve had a long day. I think about maybe hibernating for a month or so and letting this whole thing figure itself out. Later I think: He’s high. This will all blow over. My dad is an idiot but he’ll come around. Cronon will leave her once he gets halfway to Vegas. He’ll come back for the monkey. Lisa’s parents will be understanding as long as the weed doesn’t run out. My dad will learn what it means to love again, reject the money-culture, take up charity work. I’ll spend the rest of the summer emailing my Latin professor, getting my subjunctive cases straight, and will have the equivalent of a Harvard education in the Classics by the end of the summer.
World Peace will reign, and I will have my own business dealing in the lucrative market of human satisfaction, just like what’s his name in Risky Business. Damn, Tom Cruise’s character. Fuck, I love that movie. Rebecca De Mornay make me hornay. Human satisfaction, though. That’s what it’s all about. Fucking-aye, I think.
Now what do I do with the monkey?
Rule of Narrative: As the plot progresses, new problems arise.
Business Rule: Beware progress traps*.
*A progress trap is the condition human societies experience when, in pursuing progress through human ingenuity, they inadvertently introduce problems they do not have the resources or will to solve. (Source: Wikipedia)
It happens suddenly, just like tornadoes happen suddenly. Like Marilyn Monroe having her skirt blown over her head happens suddenly.
Suddenly: “Mrs. Jenkins, I think you’re trying to seduce me.”
She’s spread out naked on my bed and has broken into my stash of pornography. That’s how I find her when I come into my room.
I remind myself that I’m out of college and that it’s time for me to become respectable. Naked, she looks more like a fit twenty-eight-year-old than a fifty-something-year-old. If it were a wrinkled old Anne Bancroft, then this would be different. As it is, I’m tempted.
“What’s the matter, Dustin? This is your graduation present.”
“The problem, Mrs. Jenkins, is Mr. Jenkins. My mom and dad, also. And think of what the community would say for that matter.”
Fat chicks, Mr. Rogers shaving his legs, Al Capone giving his Tommy Gun a head job, Noam Chomsky with Margaret Thatcher—Agamemnon telling his troops to stand down. Stand down, damn you.
“Mr. Jenkins? Oh, Dustin, don’t be silly. Mister Jenkins is in the closet with a camcorder and a martini. He’s quite the little pervert. As for the community -- well, we all have our dirty little obsessions.”
Yeah, it was all like one boring episode of The Days of Our Lives, big deal. I’m more worried about Mr. Jenkins being in my closet. Rich people are notorious kleptos and I have a lot of valuable stuff in there.
I open up the closet. “All right, Mr. Jenkins. You can come out of there now.”
The old man has his pants around his ankles. And it’s a relief to find that both hands are occupied with the aforementioned camcorder and martini. But still, the whole thing has become embarrassing and disturbing.
I look at Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins with pity, and I don’t really know what to say. So this was the “Real World” I had to adjust to? I take out a bag of weed and toss it over to the naked Mrs. Jenkins. “Here you go. Get high off me. If you guys end up doing it on my bed, though, just have one of your maids come back to wash the sheets.”
I was depressed. I was going downstairs to have some nachos and drink some more alcohol.
Like an afterthought, I hear Mrs. Jenkins say something. “Oh, by the way Dustin, I saw our little princess with your friend. I charge you not to tell her about our little encounter.”
“You’re a freak, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Nonetheless, Mr. Jenkins and I are very powerful people. We could make it very difficult for you and your parents. Am I understood?”
“Go to hell, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative…Oh, and another thing. I know it was just my imagination, because if it wasn’t, you’d be in a lot of trouble right now, but I could have sworn I saw the two of them in an intimate embrace. Keep that hairy clod away from her. He simply reeks of poverty. We value our princess very much.”
Mr. Jenkins was rolling up a joint.
“Understood, Mrs. Jenkins. And please, enjoy the weed.”
“We will, Dustin.”
*
I call Cronon.
“I’m in love, Dustin. We’re running off to Vegas to get married. She’s a fucking freak, dude.”
I want to kill him.
“What about the monkey?”
“Keep the monkey, he’s in her car. Door is unlocked. I’m in Fucking Love!” he shouts before hanging up.
I don’t care, anymore. I’ve had a long day. I think about maybe hibernating for a month or so and letting this whole thing figure itself out. Later I think: He’s high. This will all blow over. My dad is an idiot but he’ll come around. Cronon will leave her once he gets halfway to Vegas. He’ll come back for the monkey. Lisa’s parents will be understanding as long as the weed doesn’t run out. My dad will learn what it means to love again, reject the money-culture, take up charity work. I’ll spend the rest of the summer emailing my Latin professor, getting my subjunctive cases straight, and will have the equivalent of a Harvard education in the Classics by the end of the summer.
World Peace will reign, and I will have my own business dealing in the lucrative market of human satisfaction, just like what’s his name in Risky Business. Damn, Tom Cruise’s character. Fuck, I love that movie. Rebecca De Mornay make me hornay. Human satisfaction, though. That’s what it’s all about. Fucking-aye, I think.
Now what do I do with the monkey?
May 28, 2017
Decorum and White-Money Culture vs. the Real of Desire (Underground Novel, Chapter 1 Part 5)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Decorum and White-Money Culture vs. the Real of Desire
Business Principle: There is no better business than the Real of desire.
Optional Rule: When in the company of aristocrats, remember your decorum….or not.
*
I would have looked suspicious walking into the house with bundles of cash. I’m pretty sure my parents already suspect I’m a drug dealer. So, I walk back inside the house and am met by my mother.
“Is that your friend from college outside, Dustin? Why don’t you invite him in?”
“He’s fine, mother. I need to find Lisa, Shirley’s daughter. Have you seen her?”
“She’s over there talking with the Hendersons.”
I walk over to little Lisa, hoping to turn a precarious situation to my advantage. I need a
place to stash the monkey for an evening, and I have a solution.
“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson I need to borrow Lisa from you, just for a second.”
I have Lisa in a corner next to the musicians where nobody can hear us. We’re in the view of everyone so no one would think we were in collusion.
“Lisa, did you bring your car?”
“Yes.”
“I need to borrow your car for the evening.”
“Why?”
At the moment I can’t think of a lie. Truth, oh truth, don`t fail me now. “Well, quite frankly, I need to hide a monkey.” Normally, I would opt to hide the monkey in my car, but my car is in the shop getting some work done.
“A monkey?” Normal question to ask in this kind of situation.
“Don’t ask.” Normal response.
“Does he poop?”
“I don’t know any monkeys who don’t. Listen, I know this is a hassle so I’m willing to hook you up with a little weed for your trouble.”
“Is it good weed?”
“I don’t sell bad weed.”
“I want to get high right away.”
“Lisa Jenkins, Lisa Jenkins -- just say no!...to getting high at this very moment, okay. Say yes to getting high tomorrow.”
“I want to get high right now or I’m telling everyone about your monkey.”
“Go ahead. I’m not hiding him from anybody.”
“You just said you were. I’m not stupid.” Damn, she was seventeen. Her brother was so much slower than she was at that age.
“Go outside. You’ll see some sloppy kid in a Judas Priest shirt. His name is Cronon. Tell him I said it was okay that you smoked with him…You know your mother is going to have a fit if she ever finds out, and I’ll probably be…”
“Oh, go fuck yourself. And fuck my mother too. You know you want to.” She could read minds as well—well, maybe that one wasn’t too difficult to figure out.
“Fuck, when did you start talking like that?” This was the same girl who used to call me “snaggle-nose” when she was seven years old—now all she wanted was to use me to get to some quality hash, and all I could think about is how she had matured in all the right ways over the span of ten years. Damn my libido. Damn hucksterism. Damn the entire lot.
“Just go outside. You guys can smoke in his car. Tell him not to smoke in the front yard though. Tell him to go around the corner where the new construction is and do it over there. And don’t forget to put the monkey in your car. Your windows are tinted, right?…Alright, Alright.”
I see her walk outside and begin to talk with Cronon. I watch from the window. He gives me a thumbs-up and grabs Lisa’s ass -- she laughs like she likes it, and this pisses me off. Usually, none of this would be pissing me off, but I was trying desperately to change my image. I wanted to make a go at this whole Real job/respectability thing, and I wanted my parents to see that I had matured and that I was becoming a responsible person. I couldn’t tell you why, but I wanted these things. At least at that moment in time.
I walk over to the kitchen where I think I can have some privacy. I take out my cell phone and begin to dial Cronon’s number.
My mom, with her cyborg son-sensory vision, spots me out of a crowd and comes to check on me. “Are you having a good time, dear?”
“Fabulous time, mom. I just need to make a phone call really quick.”
“Your father wants you to meet some of his clients. They work in plastics, and your father says they might have a job for you in their firm. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Plastics, I think. It all comes down to plastics.
“In a second, mom. I just have to make this phone call.”
She looks at me, and hangs around while I call Cronon’s number. This is a drag and I’m hoping she will get the hint and go away. She doesn’t.
“You want me to go, don’t you?”
“It’s a girl, mom. I like to talk dirty to my women.”
“You don’t have to be so vulgar,” she says shaking her head as she leaves.
Cronon picks up. “What’s up?”
“Hey Cronon…”
“Dude, this chick is awesome. She’s seventeen! She`s seventeen! Praise the lord almighty, she is seventeen!”
“Listen, make sure the monkey gets in her car. Also, make sure you guys are out of the neighbors’ sight.”
“Alright, but J.P. has to take one more hit before he goes into the car.”
“Dude, don’t let the monkey smoke,” I say this a little too loudly, and Mr. Peabody gives me a strange look. I wave, and am lucky that this comment out of context makes absolutely no sense (which bears a startling similarity to the statement within context, anyway).
The term “special needs” starts to make more sense.
“Lisa is such a fucking hotty,” he says. I have to agree, but I don’t want Cronon touching her.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” I remind him. “She’s seventeen.”
“That’s awesome.”
“No joke. You touch Lisa and the deal is off. You can get someone else to look after your damn monkey. See how easy it is to find someone to take care of a monkey with a drug habit. How about that shit?”
“J.P., give the pipe to Lisa. J.P.! I’m sorry what was that? Listen, I’ve got to go. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure the monkey gets in Lisa’s car.”
He hangs up, and I’m furious. I see this going south really fast.
“There’s the college graduate.” My old man is bringing in the pastiest white guy in the room. He’s not quite as old as my father, but he’s old.
“Dustin, this is Mr. McKenzy. He’s part-owner of Plexicorps Plastics and chief executive. He has some business to discuss with you.”
“Dustin,” Mr. McKenzy says, “I’ve known your father a long time.”
This is bullshit. He couldn’t have known him more than five years, because that’s how long it has been since he sold out to do corporate law.
“He says good things about you. He’s very proud of his college graduate. Now, I know the job doesn’t sound glamorous. You’d mostly do filing, some typing, making coffee—mostly secretarial work. It doesn’t pay much at first, but it’s a foot in the door. And the opportunities for advancement are endless.”
My dad is beaming, and I think he wants me to say something encouraging like, “I’m grateful for the offer,” or “I’d be more than happy to start at the bottom and work my way up”—something like that. And for a second I generally want to make my dad proud.
“Sure, how much does it pay?” I say automatically.
“Dustin!” my dad says angrily.
“Oh, the boy is just looking out for his pocketbook. There’s nothing wrong with that in a businessman, is there?” He thinks. “Well we usually start office boys at ** dollars an hour, but I can go as high as $11.50 or even $11.75.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say as another automatic response.
(Keep in mind, this is 2004. But even by 2004 standards, this sucks.)
In college I could make as much as 650 a week doing odd shit, peddling, being a general entrepreneur, getting what people needed. And this was when I was attending class. When I had some serious time, and when I was favored by the Fates, well…I invested too, I should mention that. Nothing major, but I had a mean portfolio. Now this cat wanted me to make 11.50 doing bullshit work. Fuck, I’d rather baby-sit a monkey.
“Sorry, Mr. McKenzy. I am, however, humbly grateful for the offer.” Humbly grateful? I sound like an ass trying to talk like them.
My dad pulls me aside. “Dustin, your behavior is inexcusable. Are these the kind of manners they teach you over in college?”
My dad wants me to be a respectful, decorous adult. But it’s been hard for me to take him seriously ever since he dumped his old clients, stopped donating to charities, and started reading shit like Money magazine or whatever the hell it is rich white people read to get their ideas about decorum and vanity. It wasn’t that he was a greedy money whore. So was I, kind of. It was the fact that he had bought into the whole money-culture.
He bought in, and he bought in big time, and he was swindled.
As any hustler knows, an idea can be a mighty persuasive thing, and a culture…well, that’s the fucking motherload. They pitched it to him, and he bought big. Money-culture, his money-culture, free market hucksterism matched with elitist decorum, or as Bernard would say, “White people, being white people” -- to me it was on par with decadence.
One more way to avoid the Real of human desire.
“We’ll talk about this later, Dustin.” He walks off.
I want to punch him with some brass knuckles, gangster style, watch him bleed out his nostrils. Stand over him and stuff Benjamin Franklins in his mouth until he vomits them back up.
I stand for a while looking at the ground, angry at everything, especially my dad.
I’m interrupted by Mr. McKenzy. “Don’t let the old man fool you. He really is very proud of you. If you reconsider the job, give me a call.” He gives me his card, and then he stands there for a little while, smiling, shuffling his feet. He looks around to make sure we’re alone. He looks like he wants to ask me out.
“I’ve heard from a reliable source that you have certain…substances. I was wondering if I could score some marijuana from you.”
He says the word score like such a honky, but I begin to warm up to this guy, Mr. McKenzy. We’re all human, after all. We all have needs. And when it comes to the commerce of fulfilling everyday wants and desires, we’re all in this business together, right?
Fucking-aye.
Decorum and White-Money Culture vs. the Real of Desire
Business Principle: There is no better business than the Real of desire.
Optional Rule: When in the company of aristocrats, remember your decorum….or not.
*
I would have looked suspicious walking into the house with bundles of cash. I’m pretty sure my parents already suspect I’m a drug dealer. So, I walk back inside the house and am met by my mother.
“Is that your friend from college outside, Dustin? Why don’t you invite him in?”
“He’s fine, mother. I need to find Lisa, Shirley’s daughter. Have you seen her?”
“She’s over there talking with the Hendersons.”
I walk over to little Lisa, hoping to turn a precarious situation to my advantage. I need a
place to stash the monkey for an evening, and I have a solution.
“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson I need to borrow Lisa from you, just for a second.”
I have Lisa in a corner next to the musicians where nobody can hear us. We’re in the view of everyone so no one would think we were in collusion.
“Lisa, did you bring your car?”
“Yes.”
“I need to borrow your car for the evening.”
“Why?”
At the moment I can’t think of a lie. Truth, oh truth, don`t fail me now. “Well, quite frankly, I need to hide a monkey.” Normally, I would opt to hide the monkey in my car, but my car is in the shop getting some work done.
“A monkey?” Normal question to ask in this kind of situation.
“Don’t ask.” Normal response.
“Does he poop?”
“I don’t know any monkeys who don’t. Listen, I know this is a hassle so I’m willing to hook you up with a little weed for your trouble.”
“Is it good weed?”
“I don’t sell bad weed.”
“I want to get high right away.”
“Lisa Jenkins, Lisa Jenkins -- just say no!...to getting high at this very moment, okay. Say yes to getting high tomorrow.”
“I want to get high right now or I’m telling everyone about your monkey.”
“Go ahead. I’m not hiding him from anybody.”
“You just said you were. I’m not stupid.” Damn, she was seventeen. Her brother was so much slower than she was at that age.
“Go outside. You’ll see some sloppy kid in a Judas Priest shirt. His name is Cronon. Tell him I said it was okay that you smoked with him…You know your mother is going to have a fit if she ever finds out, and I’ll probably be…”
“Oh, go fuck yourself. And fuck my mother too. You know you want to.” She could read minds as well—well, maybe that one wasn’t too difficult to figure out.
“Fuck, when did you start talking like that?” This was the same girl who used to call me “snaggle-nose” when she was seven years old—now all she wanted was to use me to get to some quality hash, and all I could think about is how she had matured in all the right ways over the span of ten years. Damn my libido. Damn hucksterism. Damn the entire lot.
“Just go outside. You guys can smoke in his car. Tell him not to smoke in the front yard though. Tell him to go around the corner where the new construction is and do it over there. And don’t forget to put the monkey in your car. Your windows are tinted, right?…Alright, Alright.”
I see her walk outside and begin to talk with Cronon. I watch from the window. He gives me a thumbs-up and grabs Lisa’s ass -- she laughs like she likes it, and this pisses me off. Usually, none of this would be pissing me off, but I was trying desperately to change my image. I wanted to make a go at this whole Real job/respectability thing, and I wanted my parents to see that I had matured and that I was becoming a responsible person. I couldn’t tell you why, but I wanted these things. At least at that moment in time.
I walk over to the kitchen where I think I can have some privacy. I take out my cell phone and begin to dial Cronon’s number.
My mom, with her cyborg son-sensory vision, spots me out of a crowd and comes to check on me. “Are you having a good time, dear?”
“Fabulous time, mom. I just need to make a phone call really quick.”
“Your father wants you to meet some of his clients. They work in plastics, and your father says they might have a job for you in their firm. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Plastics, I think. It all comes down to plastics.
“In a second, mom. I just have to make this phone call.”
She looks at me, and hangs around while I call Cronon’s number. This is a drag and I’m hoping she will get the hint and go away. She doesn’t.
“You want me to go, don’t you?”
“It’s a girl, mom. I like to talk dirty to my women.”
“You don’t have to be so vulgar,” she says shaking her head as she leaves.
Cronon picks up. “What’s up?”
“Hey Cronon…”
“Dude, this chick is awesome. She’s seventeen! She`s seventeen! Praise the lord almighty, she is seventeen!”
“Listen, make sure the monkey gets in her car. Also, make sure you guys are out of the neighbors’ sight.”
“Alright, but J.P. has to take one more hit before he goes into the car.”
“Dude, don’t let the monkey smoke,” I say this a little too loudly, and Mr. Peabody gives me a strange look. I wave, and am lucky that this comment out of context makes absolutely no sense (which bears a startling similarity to the statement within context, anyway).
The term “special needs” starts to make more sense.
“Lisa is such a fucking hotty,” he says. I have to agree, but I don’t want Cronon touching her.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” I remind him. “She’s seventeen.”
“That’s awesome.”
“No joke. You touch Lisa and the deal is off. You can get someone else to look after your damn monkey. See how easy it is to find someone to take care of a monkey with a drug habit. How about that shit?”
“J.P., give the pipe to Lisa. J.P.! I’m sorry what was that? Listen, I’ve got to go. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure the monkey gets in Lisa’s car.”
He hangs up, and I’m furious. I see this going south really fast.
“There’s the college graduate.” My old man is bringing in the pastiest white guy in the room. He’s not quite as old as my father, but he’s old.
“Dustin, this is Mr. McKenzy. He’s part-owner of Plexicorps Plastics and chief executive. He has some business to discuss with you.”
“Dustin,” Mr. McKenzy says, “I’ve known your father a long time.”
This is bullshit. He couldn’t have known him more than five years, because that’s how long it has been since he sold out to do corporate law.
“He says good things about you. He’s very proud of his college graduate. Now, I know the job doesn’t sound glamorous. You’d mostly do filing, some typing, making coffee—mostly secretarial work. It doesn’t pay much at first, but it’s a foot in the door. And the opportunities for advancement are endless.”
My dad is beaming, and I think he wants me to say something encouraging like, “I’m grateful for the offer,” or “I’d be more than happy to start at the bottom and work my way up”—something like that. And for a second I generally want to make my dad proud.
“Sure, how much does it pay?” I say automatically.
“Dustin!” my dad says angrily.
“Oh, the boy is just looking out for his pocketbook. There’s nothing wrong with that in a businessman, is there?” He thinks. “Well we usually start office boys at ** dollars an hour, but I can go as high as $11.50 or even $11.75.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say as another automatic response.
(Keep in mind, this is 2004. But even by 2004 standards, this sucks.)
In college I could make as much as 650 a week doing odd shit, peddling, being a general entrepreneur, getting what people needed. And this was when I was attending class. When I had some serious time, and when I was favored by the Fates, well…I invested too, I should mention that. Nothing major, but I had a mean portfolio. Now this cat wanted me to make 11.50 doing bullshit work. Fuck, I’d rather baby-sit a monkey.
“Sorry, Mr. McKenzy. I am, however, humbly grateful for the offer.” Humbly grateful? I sound like an ass trying to talk like them.
My dad pulls me aside. “Dustin, your behavior is inexcusable. Are these the kind of manners they teach you over in college?”
My dad wants me to be a respectful, decorous adult. But it’s been hard for me to take him seriously ever since he dumped his old clients, stopped donating to charities, and started reading shit like Money magazine or whatever the hell it is rich white people read to get their ideas about decorum and vanity. It wasn’t that he was a greedy money whore. So was I, kind of. It was the fact that he had bought into the whole money-culture.
He bought in, and he bought in big time, and he was swindled.
As any hustler knows, an idea can be a mighty persuasive thing, and a culture…well, that’s the fucking motherload. They pitched it to him, and he bought big. Money-culture, his money-culture, free market hucksterism matched with elitist decorum, or as Bernard would say, “White people, being white people” -- to me it was on par with decadence.
One more way to avoid the Real of human desire.
“We’ll talk about this later, Dustin.” He walks off.
I want to punch him with some brass knuckles, gangster style, watch him bleed out his nostrils. Stand over him and stuff Benjamin Franklins in his mouth until he vomits them back up.
I stand for a while looking at the ground, angry at everything, especially my dad.
I’m interrupted by Mr. McKenzy. “Don’t let the old man fool you. He really is very proud of you. If you reconsider the job, give me a call.” He gives me his card, and then he stands there for a little while, smiling, shuffling his feet. He looks around to make sure we’re alone. He looks like he wants to ask me out.
“I’ve heard from a reliable source that you have certain…substances. I was wondering if I could score some marijuana from you.”
He says the word score like such a honky, but I begin to warm up to this guy, Mr. McKenzy. We’re all human, after all. We all have needs. And when it comes to the commerce of fulfilling everyday wants and desires, we’re all in this business together, right?
Fucking-aye.
May 27, 2017
A Review of Everything's Eventual
Everything's Eventual: 14 Dark Tales by Stephen KingMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Let me be clear, Mr. King. You earned this one fair and square. You had to win a skeptic over and you did.
I've always thought of you as the Nicholas Cage of writing. Try enough random stuff regularly without hesitation and at least some of your stuff will be pretty good. But try enough random stuff and you're sure to come up with some very bad writing as well.
There is also another dark secret -- some of this variability occurs in the same book. They might start off well enough, get really good, then fall apart, then try to pick up the pieces, and then fall apart again.
Much of what you write sometimes seems like a first draft.
But for all my hesitancy to ever pick up a book by you again, I did. And it's clear --you're a great short story writer. You know how to craft compelling characters, dramatic tension, details that really sell the story and make you want to read them again.
Not everything you wrote in this book was great. I gave up at least two short stories before finishign them. You have also cemented for me the metaphor that you're the Nick Cage of writing. But you're Nick Cageishness works wonders in the short story medium. You just go for it! Without reservation or apology. And when your short stories fall apart, I can forgive you, because I know you're just a writer working at his craft -- just going for it whenever you can.
My experience reading this book was so good that I'm contemplating writing Nicholas Cage a letter asking him to stop acting in feature length movies and to just do two-hour features with eight to ten mini-movies. Thus, whenever he does a little mini-movie where he yells, "Aw the bees!" and flashes me strange demented grins for another ten minutes, I can forgive him and wonder, Aw yes, but what's next?
And so, I leave this review wondering, Aw what will Stephen King do next?
When I do pick up another book by you, I think it'll be a short story collection. Why not? It's like "Riding the Bullet" of fiction. Nick Cage knows what I'm talking about, "Aw the bees!"
View all my reviews
May 23, 2017
The Underground Novel - Monkey Business
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Monkey Business
A Rule for Compelling Narrative: When the story slows down, add a monkey and see what happens.
A Rule for Business Success: When business slows down, add a monkey and see what happens.
Handy Reference -- Famous Primates in Fiction and Film
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of...
http://collider.com/10-best-movie-mon...
Does this really need set-up? After all, all the great dramas of our time have had the archetypal primate, right? Where would Clint Eastwood have been without Clyde in Every Which Way But Loose? Where would Aladdin have been without Apu?
(My literary inclined friend Pierce assures me that a gorilla named Ishmael from the book Ishmael is also important? Since, that books is another work of philosophy told through narrative with the use of a primate as a plot device, I might delete this note from future editions so as not to distract you from this one. I don’t believe in eliminating competition -- that’s against my business philosophy. But I feel strange mentioning a character I don’t know much about. After all, unlike Pierce, the egghead with too much free time, I’m too busy running a business to read every work of philosophy that features a primate.)
Anyway, back to the monkey.
So, the quick-quick explanation: Cronon is a pretty weird guy: nice, but he watches too much Friends, and he hates his roommate. His roommate, Tony, is no saint; some ass from New York. Everyone on our floor in the dorm hates him. Cronon thinks it’s funny how on Friends, Ross has a monkey that stays with him (at least that’s what I think is going on, I never watch the show). So he threatens his roommate: he tells him one day he’s going to replace him with a monkey.
And so, Cronon comes to me one day with a proposition: “Wouldn’t it be funny if we really did replace my roommate with a monkey.” Cronon hasn’t smoked in a week, and he has that strange look of sanity in his eyes.
I know it’s crazy—all of it. A monkey living as a roommate with Cronon. Cronon, the stoner, taking care of a monkey. These are all very bad things. But Cronon offers me an absurd amount of money if I can make it happen. (Interesting how two absurdities tend to make a reality—at least where free market economies are concerned.) And I know I would be doing a great justice to the Van Duggan Dorm Building in general if I can make it happen.
Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) everyone on our floor is down with it. They all offer to help because they hate Tony.
Believe it or not, getting the monkey is actually the easy part. It’s getting Tony kicked out of school that takes some work.I thought it could all work out in some strange kind of National Lampoon way, but this is reality and we have to think of something more concrete, practical. Finally, I just sit down with him one day and start talking with him. Turn out he’s just an asshole because he misses his girlfriend from high school. So, I find his ex-girlfriend and convince him to take him back. He moves back home. And it’s just that simple.
I still keep in touch with Tony. The residents of the Van Duggan Dorm room still don’t carry fond memories of him, but I like to get in touch with him every once in a while to see how he’s doing.
Long story short, Tony moves out, monkey moves in. Later, when a new student tries to move in, Cronon gets his own place to stay so he can hang out with his monkey.
But school is out for the summer and Cronon needs to ditch the monkey.
“Just until school starts.”
“Until school starts! That’s like three and a half months. Honestly, you should have thought about this before you ordered the monkey.”
I can see the monkey, J.P., in his car pretending like he’s driving.
“You’ve been teaching him how to drive?” I ask.
“I let him steer, a little,” he says. “He’s pretty good….So, I can give you twelve thousand for the summer.”
Not a bad take, you know, for some monkey business.
“Really? You know I`m going to check that they’re not counterfeited, because I know how you like to do that shit.”
“Twelve thousand real American dollars. Cash my friend.”
“Interesting proposition. For that kind of money you could get anyone to take care of him. You could even hire him a chauffeur.”
“Yeah, but I know I can trust you to take care of all his special needs.”
I wasn’t too sure at the time what he meant by “special needs” but I had some pretty good ideas—all of this was beside the point (at least for the time being).
“I have a life to live, man. I don’t do this kind of thing anymore. I need to find a Real job. Besides my parents would kill me.”
“Fifteen thousand. And some extra if you can sell me a little weed. I’m running low.”
Running low in Cronon terms meant running empty. How desperate was he?
“I don’t deal anymore, I told you that. And you’re wasting my time. Listen, I need to get back to the party.”
“Fourteen thousand.”
“You said fifteen thousand before; besides, I know you’re good for twice that amount, rich boy. You’re not fooling anyone with you messed up khakis and your Judas Priest shirt, rich boy. But I wouldn’t do it anyway because I told you before: I need to get A REAL JOB, and I can’t do that if I’m babysitting a monkey. So forget it.”
“Three grand and…” he thought for a moment. “I can get you Suzie’s number.”
Suzie, the name went off like an alarm in my head.
“You know, I like you, Cronon. You’re a good guy, even though you bullshit a lot. I like what you did for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation. That was class. You try really hard to look like a weirdo, a stoner like you’re not rich. But you have class Cronon, and you have heart, and that’s even more important. So, I’ll take care of your monkey for twenty thousand dollars—chump change to you. But I want half up front. You can give me Suzie’s number if you want. I consider that outside our little transaction. If she wanted you to give me her number, that’s cool. I can hook you up with some of my stash at a discounted price, depending on how much you want. As for the monkey, I make no guarantees: he chokes, falls off a bridge, commits suicide, murders the queen of England, I take no responsibility. Do we have a deal or not?”
He keeps a suitcase in his car filled with tens and twenties in thick bundles.
I don’t bother to ask why he has bundles of cash in his trunk. The less I know the less I can be held accountable in a court of law.
He starts to divvy out bundles.
“Actually,” I say, having a change of heart, “why don’t you write me out a check?”
Monkey Business
A Rule for Compelling Narrative: When the story slows down, add a monkey and see what happens.
A Rule for Business Success: When business slows down, add a monkey and see what happens.
Handy Reference -- Famous Primates in Fiction and Film
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of...
http://collider.com/10-best-movie-mon...
Does this really need set-up? After all, all the great dramas of our time have had the archetypal primate, right? Where would Clint Eastwood have been without Clyde in Every Which Way But Loose? Where would Aladdin have been without Apu?
(My literary inclined friend Pierce assures me that a gorilla named Ishmael from the book Ishmael is also important? Since, that books is another work of philosophy told through narrative with the use of a primate as a plot device, I might delete this note from future editions so as not to distract you from this one. I don’t believe in eliminating competition -- that’s against my business philosophy. But I feel strange mentioning a character I don’t know much about. After all, unlike Pierce, the egghead with too much free time, I’m too busy running a business to read every work of philosophy that features a primate.)
Anyway, back to the monkey.
So, the quick-quick explanation: Cronon is a pretty weird guy: nice, but he watches too much Friends, and he hates his roommate. His roommate, Tony, is no saint; some ass from New York. Everyone on our floor in the dorm hates him. Cronon thinks it’s funny how on Friends, Ross has a monkey that stays with him (at least that’s what I think is going on, I never watch the show). So he threatens his roommate: he tells him one day he’s going to replace him with a monkey.
And so, Cronon comes to me one day with a proposition: “Wouldn’t it be funny if we really did replace my roommate with a monkey.” Cronon hasn’t smoked in a week, and he has that strange look of sanity in his eyes.
I know it’s crazy—all of it. A monkey living as a roommate with Cronon. Cronon, the stoner, taking care of a monkey. These are all very bad things. But Cronon offers me an absurd amount of money if I can make it happen. (Interesting how two absurdities tend to make a reality—at least where free market economies are concerned.) And I know I would be doing a great justice to the Van Duggan Dorm Building in general if I can make it happen.
Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) everyone on our floor is down with it. They all offer to help because they hate Tony.
Believe it or not, getting the monkey is actually the easy part. It’s getting Tony kicked out of school that takes some work.I thought it could all work out in some strange kind of National Lampoon way, but this is reality and we have to think of something more concrete, practical. Finally, I just sit down with him one day and start talking with him. Turn out he’s just an asshole because he misses his girlfriend from high school. So, I find his ex-girlfriend and convince him to take him back. He moves back home. And it’s just that simple.
I still keep in touch with Tony. The residents of the Van Duggan Dorm room still don’t carry fond memories of him, but I like to get in touch with him every once in a while to see how he’s doing.
Long story short, Tony moves out, monkey moves in. Later, when a new student tries to move in, Cronon gets his own place to stay so he can hang out with his monkey.
But school is out for the summer and Cronon needs to ditch the monkey.
“Just until school starts.”
“Until school starts! That’s like three and a half months. Honestly, you should have thought about this before you ordered the monkey.”
I can see the monkey, J.P., in his car pretending like he’s driving.
“You’ve been teaching him how to drive?” I ask.
“I let him steer, a little,” he says. “He’s pretty good….So, I can give you twelve thousand for the summer.”
Not a bad take, you know, for some monkey business.
“Really? You know I`m going to check that they’re not counterfeited, because I know how you like to do that shit.”
“Twelve thousand real American dollars. Cash my friend.”
“Interesting proposition. For that kind of money you could get anyone to take care of him. You could even hire him a chauffeur.”
“Yeah, but I know I can trust you to take care of all his special needs.”
I wasn’t too sure at the time what he meant by “special needs” but I had some pretty good ideas—all of this was beside the point (at least for the time being).
“I have a life to live, man. I don’t do this kind of thing anymore. I need to find a Real job. Besides my parents would kill me.”
“Fifteen thousand. And some extra if you can sell me a little weed. I’m running low.”
Running low in Cronon terms meant running empty. How desperate was he?
“I don’t deal anymore, I told you that. And you’re wasting my time. Listen, I need to get back to the party.”
“Fourteen thousand.”
“You said fifteen thousand before; besides, I know you’re good for twice that amount, rich boy. You’re not fooling anyone with you messed up khakis and your Judas Priest shirt, rich boy. But I wouldn’t do it anyway because I told you before: I need to get A REAL JOB, and I can’t do that if I’m babysitting a monkey. So forget it.”
“Three grand and…” he thought for a moment. “I can get you Suzie’s number.”
Suzie, the name went off like an alarm in my head.
“You know, I like you, Cronon. You’re a good guy, even though you bullshit a lot. I like what you did for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation. That was class. You try really hard to look like a weirdo, a stoner like you’re not rich. But you have class Cronon, and you have heart, and that’s even more important. So, I’ll take care of your monkey for twenty thousand dollars—chump change to you. But I want half up front. You can give me Suzie’s number if you want. I consider that outside our little transaction. If she wanted you to give me her number, that’s cool. I can hook you up with some of my stash at a discounted price, depending on how much you want. As for the monkey, I make no guarantees: he chokes, falls off a bridge, commits suicide, murders the queen of England, I take no responsibility. Do we have a deal or not?”
He keeps a suitcase in his car filled with tens and twenties in thick bundles.
I don’t bother to ask why he has bundles of cash in his trunk. The less I know the less I can be held accountable in a court of law.
He starts to divvy out bundles.
“Actually,” I say, having a change of heart, “why don’t you write me out a check?”
May 19, 2017
The Economic Principles of a Literary Life
A strong addiction and predilection to reading, writing, and other literary pursuits (often associated with hippies, bohemians, and people who wear tweed jackets) can also provide you with superior financial insights.
The following principles will illustrate my point.
A different approach to economy.
Any person with literary insight will know the first sentence is too long. Abundance is not always wealth. It should read: “Writers see value where others can’t.” Value comes from an economy of words -- the words not spoken or written are as valuable as the ones that are.
Libraries.
Of all the publicly provided goods, libraries are perhaps the most neglected. They are the repositories of well-managed word collections.
Literacy.
Literacy is a positive sum game that lifts all boats. If you can’t read or refuse to read we’re all poorer.
If you’re reading this, you are probably reading it for free. You probably understood that I’ve received no money for my efforts.
And yet…
Somehow…
We are both richer.
Want to increase your wealth?
Try reading more short pieces from “The Pure Writerly Moment” here on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/383925253-pur...
The following principles will illustrate my point.
A different approach to economy.
Any person with literary insight will know the first sentence is too long. Abundance is not always wealth. It should read: “Writers see value where others can’t.” Value comes from an economy of words -- the words not spoken or written are as valuable as the ones that are.
Libraries.
Of all the publicly provided goods, libraries are perhaps the most neglected. They are the repositories of well-managed word collections.
Literacy.
Literacy is a positive sum game that lifts all boats. If you can’t read or refuse to read we’re all poorer.
If you’re reading this, you are probably reading it for free. You probably understood that I’ve received no money for my efforts.
And yet…
Somehow…
We are both richer.
Want to increase your wealth?
Try reading more short pieces from “The Pure Writerly Moment” here on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/383925253-pur...
May 10, 2017
The Underground Novel - The Moreness of Privilege!
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
The Moreness of Privilege!
Rule 3: Beware the moreness of privilege.
(Source: Joel Leon, read more here: https://extranewsfeed.com/the-more-ne... )
Rule 3a: Plastics!
So, I’m watching The Graduate. I’m at that part where Dustin Hoffman is with one of his father’s friends, Mr. Maguire, who says he wants to talk to him about his future.
Mr. Maguire: “Come with me for a minute. I want to talk to you. I just want to say one word to you, just one word.”
Dustin Hoffman: “Yes, sir.”
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Plastics.”
Then he walks off to leave Dustin Hoffman to consider his word of wisdom.
Mrs. Robinson is played by Anne Bancroft. Anne Bancroft is not that hot, I think. Dustin Hoffman got suckered because the daughter is ten times hotter, and Anne is just wrinkled. I`m sorry, no offense to those people out there who liked Anne Bancroft, or who just got a kick out of the fact that a younger man got to sleep with one of his mom`s friends. Honestly, though, she`s not that hot.
My father calls me down from my bedroom.
“It`s your graduation party,” he informs me.
He wants me to meet all the guests he has invited and talk to them about my future and all that other crap. So, I walk downstairs and I see all of his money-grubbing friends cohorting, talking about how much money they have or what kind of sports car they drive.
I try to clear one thing up right away. “This party is not for me. You threw the party so you could compare Rolexes with your friends. I don’t mind, but please don’t pretend that this is for me.”
The fascist’s face turns red.
“Okay then. I`m off to talk with your friends,” I say before he can yell at me.
I start, because I have to start somewhere, with Mr. Romero. He deals in importing and exporting -- although I’m not sure what it is he imports or exports. He’s trying to tell me, but I don’t have to listen because I’ve mastered the art of gesticulation as communication and non-communication. I nod, I repeat phrases, I smile, laugh, wrinkle a brow. The entire time I’m focused on his stupid little laugh -- that laugh doesn’t just expose what a fraud he is, but rubs it in your face.
That laugh.
They all have that laugh. That laugh makes me want to slap him, punch him in the face until blood is running down his nose. It takes all my self-control not to call him white-devil.
That’s what my roommate, Bernard, used to call all the white business majors I knew. He was kind of a racist, and he knew it; but he didn’t just hate them because they were white and going to be successful, he hated them because all they cared about was being successful in a financial way, which was what he called, “the narrow-minded white business culture” way.
“Beware the ‘moreness’ of privilege,” he would say in ominous tones while we were getting high together.
There I was, smack dab in the middle of it.
Yeah, I want to unleash a little bit of Bernard’s hatred, but I don’t because I know this (arrrggghh) is my clientele for the remainder of my years—no longer people like Bernard who just want some good hash to “transcend the white single-minded ideal of monetary success.”
What would I do? Would I work in finance? Would I work in marketing? Somewhere, a white person needed another white person to talk about money with. Oh, the bitterness of fortune. The anger of Hera knows no bounds. She’s a vengeful bitch who mooches off Zeus’s executive of the universe salary, paints her nails, gossips, and dabbles in stocks.
Next my father introduces me to Shirley Jenkins. She’s been our neighbor for countless years, and I know I’ve met her before: other dinner parties, other mansions. But she looks different. I can’t put my finger on it. She has her hot, hard-body daughter, Lisa, with her, who I want to get with in the worst way (a reminder that fortune is not a harsh mistress but rather a fickle ninny-woman who can’t make up her mind). She’s seventeen and I’m 22-goingon-23. So I talk to Shirley, who wants me to give Lisa advice about what to do for college, and all that other crap. So I give her the usual shit about how to stay productive, make contacts, and the rest. All the crap you vomit out in front of parents to look good.
The conversation goes on, and all the time my eyes are moving between Shirley and Lisa, mom and daughter, because, for all of Lisa’s hotness, her mom doesn’t look half-bad either. I’m thinking strange thoughts: Shirley Jenkins doesn’t really look like Lisa’s mom; she looks more like her older sister. I push this into the back of my mind, with my disgusting 22-going on-23 fingers for the purpose of possible future reflection (read: masturbation).
Shirley Jenkins goes to get us some punch and lets us “get better acquainted.” Lisa stands silently for a little bit, bouncing from foot to foot. She’s attractive, I think again for the fifth time... (And Shirley is attractive, even if she is old? How old?)
“So, you have a boyfriend?” I say.
She shakes her head no.
“How old is your mom?” A spur of the moment question. “Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?”
“Try fifty-five. It’s her plastic surgery. It makes her look younger than she really is. I think she got it because she likes to sleep around with a lot of younger guys. My father’s in his sixties, so I don’t think he can get it up anymore. Isn’t that disgusting?”
“Yes,” I say, honestly, and then smile.
“You know my brother, don’t you?” she asks.
“Yeah, I had a few classes with him. We went to the same high school, too. I think we’ve met a few time. You were probably too young to remember,” I say.
“No, I remember. You used to come over to our house to sell him weed.”
“What!” I say. “I never did that.”
“It’s alright. I don’t care if you did. I hope you still do, because I could use some right about now.”
Ordinarily, this would not be a problem, but I’m not the man I was in college, I say to myself. Things are different now, and I have to deal with that vague concept called the “Real World” in a very palpable way. As hard as it has been for me, I’ve started to ready myself to become my father’s conception of a businessman.
“Lisa, I don’t deal. Your brother is an ass, and he likes to make up shit about me. Besides, you don’t want to get into that. Just say no, right? Right?” I sound very responsible, I think. Man, she’s a babe.
The doorbell rings and there are forty-five to fifty people in our humongous house—it’s still early and there will be more, but all the help is occupied. Five people serving food, no one to handle the door. My mom is yelling for me to get it, something about it being one of my friends.
Five people serving food, no one to handle the door. Your family’s net worth is only eight digits, trying to stretch to nine digits, and this is an indignity—upward mobility is such a fickle thing, and cursed are those who find themselves on the shallow end of the wealth pool, in the land of eight digits, sojourners to people of nine and ten digits.
I open the door and there is this kid I know.
Homer Cronon.
Grungy and nice looking all at once: rich and an apathetic stoner, his wealth and culture have produced the ultimate in unproductive humanity. What was he doing in my neighborhood? His parents lived in some swank mansion in Beckinsworth.
He has this nervous look as he grabs me and takes me outside.
“Listen, man,” he says, “I need your help.” Typical of Cronon; he was in a perpetual state of need.
“Cronon, what the fuck are you doing here?” I say. “How did you get into our community? This neighborhood is gated.”
“Your mom buzzed me in.”
“Oh, I’ll have to talk to her about that, Cronon. Thanks for coming, now goodbye.”
He grabs me by the shoulder and gives me one of those ‘Hey, we’re friends, aren’t we?’ kind of stares.
“Oh alright, spill it.”
“I need you to look after the monkey.”
You can read more of the Underground Novel here: https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
The Moreness of Privilege!
Rule 3: Beware the moreness of privilege.
(Source: Joel Leon, read more here: https://extranewsfeed.com/the-more-ne... )
Rule 3a: Plastics!
So, I’m watching The Graduate. I’m at that part where Dustin Hoffman is with one of his father’s friends, Mr. Maguire, who says he wants to talk to him about his future.
Mr. Maguire: “Come with me for a minute. I want to talk to you. I just want to say one word to you, just one word.”
Dustin Hoffman: “Yes, sir.”
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Plastics.”
Then he walks off to leave Dustin Hoffman to consider his word of wisdom.
Mrs. Robinson is played by Anne Bancroft. Anne Bancroft is not that hot, I think. Dustin Hoffman got suckered because the daughter is ten times hotter, and Anne is just wrinkled. I`m sorry, no offense to those people out there who liked Anne Bancroft, or who just got a kick out of the fact that a younger man got to sleep with one of his mom`s friends. Honestly, though, she`s not that hot.
My father calls me down from my bedroom.
“It`s your graduation party,” he informs me.
He wants me to meet all the guests he has invited and talk to them about my future and all that other crap. So, I walk downstairs and I see all of his money-grubbing friends cohorting, talking about how much money they have or what kind of sports car they drive.
I try to clear one thing up right away. “This party is not for me. You threw the party so you could compare Rolexes with your friends. I don’t mind, but please don’t pretend that this is for me.”
The fascist’s face turns red.
“Okay then. I`m off to talk with your friends,” I say before he can yell at me.
I start, because I have to start somewhere, with Mr. Romero. He deals in importing and exporting -- although I’m not sure what it is he imports or exports. He’s trying to tell me, but I don’t have to listen because I’ve mastered the art of gesticulation as communication and non-communication. I nod, I repeat phrases, I smile, laugh, wrinkle a brow. The entire time I’m focused on his stupid little laugh -- that laugh doesn’t just expose what a fraud he is, but rubs it in your face.
That laugh.
They all have that laugh. That laugh makes me want to slap him, punch him in the face until blood is running down his nose. It takes all my self-control not to call him white-devil.
That’s what my roommate, Bernard, used to call all the white business majors I knew. He was kind of a racist, and he knew it; but he didn’t just hate them because they were white and going to be successful, he hated them because all they cared about was being successful in a financial way, which was what he called, “the narrow-minded white business culture” way.
“Beware the ‘moreness’ of privilege,” he would say in ominous tones while we were getting high together.
There I was, smack dab in the middle of it.
Yeah, I want to unleash a little bit of Bernard’s hatred, but I don’t because I know this (arrrggghh) is my clientele for the remainder of my years—no longer people like Bernard who just want some good hash to “transcend the white single-minded ideal of monetary success.”
What would I do? Would I work in finance? Would I work in marketing? Somewhere, a white person needed another white person to talk about money with. Oh, the bitterness of fortune. The anger of Hera knows no bounds. She’s a vengeful bitch who mooches off Zeus’s executive of the universe salary, paints her nails, gossips, and dabbles in stocks.
Next my father introduces me to Shirley Jenkins. She’s been our neighbor for countless years, and I know I’ve met her before: other dinner parties, other mansions. But she looks different. I can’t put my finger on it. She has her hot, hard-body daughter, Lisa, with her, who I want to get with in the worst way (a reminder that fortune is not a harsh mistress but rather a fickle ninny-woman who can’t make up her mind). She’s seventeen and I’m 22-goingon-23. So I talk to Shirley, who wants me to give Lisa advice about what to do for college, and all that other crap. So I give her the usual shit about how to stay productive, make contacts, and the rest. All the crap you vomit out in front of parents to look good.
The conversation goes on, and all the time my eyes are moving between Shirley and Lisa, mom and daughter, because, for all of Lisa’s hotness, her mom doesn’t look half-bad either. I’m thinking strange thoughts: Shirley Jenkins doesn’t really look like Lisa’s mom; she looks more like her older sister. I push this into the back of my mind, with my disgusting 22-going on-23 fingers for the purpose of possible future reflection (read: masturbation).
Shirley Jenkins goes to get us some punch and lets us “get better acquainted.” Lisa stands silently for a little bit, bouncing from foot to foot. She’s attractive, I think again for the fifth time... (And Shirley is attractive, even if she is old? How old?)
“So, you have a boyfriend?” I say.
She shakes her head no.
“How old is your mom?” A spur of the moment question. “Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?”
“Try fifty-five. It’s her plastic surgery. It makes her look younger than she really is. I think she got it because she likes to sleep around with a lot of younger guys. My father’s in his sixties, so I don’t think he can get it up anymore. Isn’t that disgusting?”
“Yes,” I say, honestly, and then smile.
“You know my brother, don’t you?” she asks.
“Yeah, I had a few classes with him. We went to the same high school, too. I think we’ve met a few time. You were probably too young to remember,” I say.
“No, I remember. You used to come over to our house to sell him weed.”
“What!” I say. “I never did that.”
“It’s alright. I don’t care if you did. I hope you still do, because I could use some right about now.”
Ordinarily, this would not be a problem, but I’m not the man I was in college, I say to myself. Things are different now, and I have to deal with that vague concept called the “Real World” in a very palpable way. As hard as it has been for me, I’ve started to ready myself to become my father’s conception of a businessman.
“Lisa, I don’t deal. Your brother is an ass, and he likes to make up shit about me. Besides, you don’t want to get into that. Just say no, right? Right?” I sound very responsible, I think. Man, she’s a babe.
The doorbell rings and there are forty-five to fifty people in our humongous house—it’s still early and there will be more, but all the help is occupied. Five people serving food, no one to handle the door. My mom is yelling for me to get it, something about it being one of my friends.
Five people serving food, no one to handle the door. Your family’s net worth is only eight digits, trying to stretch to nine digits, and this is an indignity—upward mobility is such a fickle thing, and cursed are those who find themselves on the shallow end of the wealth pool, in the land of eight digits, sojourners to people of nine and ten digits.
I open the door and there is this kid I know.
Homer Cronon.
Grungy and nice looking all at once: rich and an apathetic stoner, his wealth and culture have produced the ultimate in unproductive humanity. What was he doing in my neighborhood? His parents lived in some swank mansion in Beckinsworth.
He has this nervous look as he grabs me and takes me outside.
“Listen, man,” he says, “I need your help.” Typical of Cronon; he was in a perpetual state of need.
“Cronon, what the fuck are you doing here?” I say. “How did you get into our community? This neighborhood is gated.”
“Your mom buzzed me in.”
“Oh, I’ll have to talk to her about that, Cronon. Thanks for coming, now goodbye.”
He grabs me by the shoulder and gives me one of those ‘Hey, we’re friends, aren’t we?’ kind of stares.
“Oh alright, spill it.”
“I need you to look after the monkey.”
You can read more of the Underground Novel here: https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
May 5, 2017
Death in Venice (Book Review)
Gustav von Aschenbach, a German literary giant in his twilight years, decides to leave home for reasons barely understand. His vague desires lead him to travel to Venice where he comes across his own version of perfection, embodied in the figure of a Polish boy.
The first time I read this book, it was all about the sentences.
I had read the more contemporary British interpretation Gilbert Adair's "Love and Death in Long Island," a book filled with wonderful sentences. After reading that book, I thought to myself, let me learn about the origins of that book in the earlier German version.
And so I did.
I read these books in my early university years, hoping to master the art of the very short novel with the postcard-thin plot. I came away with a fascination for sentence-level writing. Both books had prose so beautiful it could easily be called poetry.
Now, about fifteen years later, I've read "Death in Venice" for the second time. And...I had that feeling all over again. Even translated from German, the sentences sparkle.
What else is there to say about this novel?
This is essentially a novel about a writer and writing. If you're someone like me, someone about 20 years into a decadent writing addiction, it will make you think about the great questions of writing.
As the author writes, mirroring the thoughts of the protagonist, good writing comes "out of daily increments of hundreds upon hundreds of bits of inspiration" (p. 15).
Or what about this quote on the quandary of becoming a writer: "Solitude begets originality, bold and disconcerting beauty, poetry. But solitude can beget perversity, disparity, the absurd and the forbidden." (p. 43).
I might never write anything so wonderful about the act of writing and the problems of the writer's life.
The novel violates many of the "rules" of good writing (at least by American standards) -- it lacks scenes in many parts, it has internal narration, a great deal of the book is spent telling instead of showing.
It also has a character who rarely acts.
And yet...
The book is a marvel.
The first two chapters demonstrate how to write a character study, a useful thing for a story or novel but something perhaps best left out of the story itself. These character elements should be revealed slowly through scenes and dialogue, or even better, action.
And yet, it is forgivable.
There is action -- there is the decision to travel, there is the decision to leave, the decision to stay, and finally, during the end, Aschenbach's decision to risk his life to see the face of beauty just a little longer.
Then there is that other bit to talk about -- to name the story.
No matter how many Greek myths are invoked, no matter how much Gustav Von Aschenbach frames his journey as passionate, dignified, noble, and spiritual, he is a German author stalking a Polish boy.
It is a stalker tale. A literary stalker tale, but a stalker tale none the less.
This is something wonderfully captured in Adair's "Love and Death on Long Island". Both are books about the "Real of Desire" and looking foolish in the pursuit of that Desire. Most real love is a fool's errand, no matter how you try to tell it (so why not tell it as the tale of a fool or the tale of a dignified man made foolish).
In the end, the book is instructive about the limits of writing about the inner world, about the possibilities of the minimalist plot, and the power of beautiful language.
The book can be read as a dark comedy or as something dreadfully serious, depending on how you interpret the aristocratic tones. For my own tastes, I like to think of the book both as the death of a particular character and as the death of the self-aggrandizing aristocratic author.
Any way you choose to read it, it is a masterpiece.
April 28, 2017
The Graduate Returns (The Underground Novel) (Chapter 1, Part 1)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines that the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick at his side, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
The Graduate Returns
Rule #1: The Graduate must always preserve the relationships that have nurtured his development.
Rule #1a: Oh, and always leave the monkey at college. Never bring the monkey home.
Rule #1b: "Every man is the artisan of his own fortune.” Appius Claudius Caecus
I took the minor in Classics to piss off the old man: Virgil, Homer, Aeschylus, four semesters of Latin—all for him.
He’s a scrawny bitch in his late fifties. He’s bitter as hell, but he has money and likes to remind me. He’s all about me going into business so I can make a pile of money and someday rule the world like he runs his law firm; decorum, kingliness, nobility—all that aristocratic crap.
In the old days he used to pick up cases in bad neighborhoods, bring home clients, and work pro bono—now he only does corporate law. He’s a prick and I hate him so I recite Virgil at the dinner table in Latin until my mom tells me to stop pestering my father.
“Dux femina facti,” (A female was leader of the deed), I respond to her, and she has this look like she’s about to impale me with her fork.
I love my mom, but I hate when she pulls her Queen of Camelot act. All this makes me want to smoke some serious bud, listen to some Talking Heads, and float on out of there. Where? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, and it never lasts because I don’t really have a place to float. Not yet.
I float anyway.
*
For the purpose of this story, think of me as someone who has always wanted to be rich. But the wealth I wanted to accumulate was of a different mint. I can’t quite explain it, other than to say that wealth is something that has always been in my family—my father inherited quite a bit from my mother`s side and my parents have been a pretty reasonable steward of that money, turning it into even more money—and for most of my life there has always been something depressing about this cycle.
Being rich always appealed to me, I guess, because I knew what a load of crap being poor would be, but it wasn’t until sometime in high school that I started to understand the difference between me and other rich people—that was when I first started catching glimpses of Happy Days.
Happy Days?!
There was always something unreasonably nonconformist about the old Fonz. Something that was a bit of an affront to the establishment. When I first picked up one of my father`s issues of Forbes, I didn’t know what to make of these guys with their millions, and some even billions. Honestly, most of them looked like smug assholes. Many of them struck me as frauds.
But I read and a listened. And I began to look for the difference -- between the person who dealt in true human satisfaction, real value, and the others. The vampires, the bullshit artists.
So, I returned from college, to my parents house, I sit at dinner and try to piss off my old man with my knowledge of Latin.
“ Faber est suae quisque fortunae.” I say as he turns red, ready to pop like an angry, paternal balloon.
And I dream.
I dream of myself on the cover of Forbes, a big thumbs up and a smile, right next to the Fonz!
You can read more here:
Underground Novel -
https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/10246...
The Graduate Returns
Rule #1: The Graduate must always preserve the relationships that have nurtured his development.
Rule #1a: Oh, and always leave the monkey at college. Never bring the monkey home.
Rule #1b: "Every man is the artisan of his own fortune.” Appius Claudius Caecus
I took the minor in Classics to piss off the old man: Virgil, Homer, Aeschylus, four semesters of Latin—all for him.
He’s a scrawny bitch in his late fifties. He’s bitter as hell, but he has money and likes to remind me. He’s all about me going into business so I can make a pile of money and someday rule the world like he runs his law firm; decorum, kingliness, nobility—all that aristocratic crap.
In the old days he used to pick up cases in bad neighborhoods, bring home clients, and work pro bono—now he only does corporate law. He’s a prick and I hate him so I recite Virgil at the dinner table in Latin until my mom tells me to stop pestering my father.
“Dux femina facti,” (A female was leader of the deed), I respond to her, and she has this look like she’s about to impale me with her fork.
I love my mom, but I hate when she pulls her Queen of Camelot act. All this makes me want to smoke some serious bud, listen to some Talking Heads, and float on out of there. Where? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, and it never lasts because I don’t really have a place to float. Not yet.
I float anyway.
*
For the purpose of this story, think of me as someone who has always wanted to be rich. But the wealth I wanted to accumulate was of a different mint. I can’t quite explain it, other than to say that wealth is something that has always been in my family—my father inherited quite a bit from my mother`s side and my parents have been a pretty reasonable steward of that money, turning it into even more money—and for most of my life there has always been something depressing about this cycle.
Being rich always appealed to me, I guess, because I knew what a load of crap being poor would be, but it wasn’t until sometime in high school that I started to understand the difference between me and other rich people—that was when I first started catching glimpses of Happy Days.
Happy Days?!
There was always something unreasonably nonconformist about the old Fonz. Something that was a bit of an affront to the establishment. When I first picked up one of my father`s issues of Forbes, I didn’t know what to make of these guys with their millions, and some even billions. Honestly, most of them looked like smug assholes. Many of them struck me as frauds.
But I read and a listened. And I began to look for the difference -- between the person who dealt in true human satisfaction, real value, and the others. The vampires, the bullshit artists.
So, I returned from college, to my parents house, I sit at dinner and try to piss off my old man with my knowledge of Latin.
“ Faber est suae quisque fortunae.” I say as he turns red, ready to pop like an angry, paternal balloon.
And I dream.
I dream of myself on the cover of Forbes, a big thumbs up and a smile, right next to the Fonz!
You can read more here:
Underground Novel -
https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/10246...
