Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 14

WRITER'S REMORSE

WRITING HAS NEARLY DRIVEN ME TO A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN . . . So wrote famed American author, Truman Capote (pardon my paraphrase).

In the introduction to his book, "Handcarved Coffins," Capote recounts a rather unnerving event: seems the "Enfant Terrible" of American Letters was perusing some of his more celebrated works, when a wave of nausea unexpectedly swept over him. It was a moment of epiphany. Capote suddenly realized that his much lauded works were flawed; in most cases, he'd taken pages to achieve effects which -- with a little more literary sweat -- could've been nailed in a single paragraph. Capote was devastated. After decades as a best-selling, critically acclaimed author, he'd simply come to the realization that he could've done it better -- and did: the result being, "Handcarved Coffins."

George Plimpton, interviewing Joseph Heller for The Paris Review, asked the author of "Catch 22" what was the most important lesson he imparted to students in his writing class?

"That writing is hard." Responded Heller, "And that all books are rewritten."

In that same volume of The Paris Review, Plimpton queried Irwin Shaw on the nature of the beast: did Shaw find that writing became easier with experience?

"No." Answered Shaw, "When you first start out it's simple; you know only one way to begin a story. Later you learn there are a hundred different ways to begin that same story."

My point? Well, to quote Joseph Heller: "Writing is hard." Shit . . . It's more than hard -- it's damn near impossible!! As writers, we suffer from the dreaded "Double Whammy." Not only must we contend with our own limitations, but those of a woefully imperfect and inadequate instrument: The Written Word. A painter must wrestle with the conundrum of recreating a 3-dimensional world on a 2-dimensional canvas -- but daunting a task tho it may be, nature has provided him (her) the perfect tools: the contrast of light and shadow; perspective. The writer is not so fortunate. His (her) only tool is an archaic, frustratingly limited, imprecise written language: the product of equally limited and imprecise human beings. As writers, we are preordained to fail; to live always with the gnawing feeling that we could've done it better. What a bitch!! We'll never reach our intended destination. But there's this: each time we sit down to face the blank page, we'll do so with the fervent hope that indeed, we will do it better.

"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive." Wrote a wise man.

Pity the mountain climber who scales Everest: once the summit has been reached, there's nowhere to go but down. Learn to enjoy the climb.

WALL STREET AFTER DARK

I was fondling Annette's breasts. Quite a rack. Annette, a nymphomaniac, was my colleague; a fellow stockbroker at the investment firm where I was employed: horny as a yard dog with an ingrown penis . . . and crazy. Seems I always attract the crazy ones (go figure).

Annette and I would sneak off to the computer room several times a night: we'd have wild makeout sessions, including the afore mentioned breast fondling. Sometimes she'd have me spank her. It was better than a coffee break and I didn't have to worry about all the extra caffeine. There were only three of us in the office at that hour: myself, Annette, and Chuck -- fresh off a forced psych leave after accidentally igniting the trousers to his 100% worsted wool suit while attempting to light a fart: a little ritual of Chuck's intended to kill time between calls. Had his ass not caught fire, inadvertently setting off the sprinkler system, management would've been none the wiser.

So this was my fate. More than anything in the world, I yearned to be a writer -- like my idol, Henry Miller. Instead I found myself here on Wall Street: my lot cast in with a nymphomaniac and an inveterate farter.

We worked the late shift, taking calls after the other brokers had gone for the day; mostly clients looking to place trades for next day's opening . . . or seeking the occasional stock quote. I slipped out of the computer room while Annette arranged herself and fixed her lipstick. We'd been carrying on for several months, and although Chuck knew damn well what we were up to, still tried to maintain appearances.

I punched up some closes on my Quotron. A couple stocks I'd been day trading. I was on a streak: five, six, sometimes eight hundred bucks a day bouncing in and out of stocks; I'd buy on a hiccup of bad news, then bang 'em out as soon as they rebounded. I really didn't care about the scratch. I blew most of it wining and dining Annette: bottles of Cristal at Seaport bars; expensive, late night dinners at Robert Deniro's place over in Tribeca; then a $150 cab ride out to Flatbush to drop off Annette, and back to Queens. Hell. You only lived once.

"How'd you do today?" Asked Chuck.

"Not bad. Netted six bills blowin' out that shipping stock I picked up yesterday."

"Sweet . . ."

An odd look came over Chuck's face. Odd looks and Chuck went together like Daimler & Benz.

"Hundreds of years ago, ships carrying horses from Spain would get stuck in the Sargasso Sea. There was no wind, so they'd just drift for weeks and weeks. Eventually the horses would start dyin' 'cause they'd run outa food and water. The sailors just tossed 'em overboard. For miles and miles all you could see were those dead horses floatin' in the ocean. They called it 'The Horse Latitudes'."

Annette was back. She'd fixed us both a cup of coffee.

"Were you two boys talking about me?"

"Chuck was just telling me a story about dead horses. Don't ask."

I don't remember much about that night other than Chuck's story. Sometimes a seed is planted; takes root, without us even knowing. Horse Latitudes

MESSAGE TO AN AUTHOR

Greetings Graham --

Just wanna let you know I received my copy of "No Hope for Gomez!" -- MUCHAS GRACIAS!! Even now I clutch it to my chest with trembling, nicotine-stained fingers! (Very disconcerting, since I don't even smoke -- must see doctor about that.) C'mon now. You know I'm lying. How can one clutch and type at the same time?? Seriously though: sampled a few pages and it's obviously a very funny, cynical, off-beat work: the prose crisp as one of those new $100 bills the U.S. Treasury keeps printing by the bushel to give to CEOs of big corporations & failed insurance companies. I wish I was living in the fuckin' Netherlands -- but I digress.

I will have a copy of HL out to you shortly (honest injun). Have been a wee bit in the weeds lately as my career as a successful (Did I spell that right?) author keeps me very busy & constantly traveling . . . usually from my living room sofa to the liquor cabinet. Keep wailin' my friend. Regards -- Quinn


**Note** Graham Parke is the author of "NO HOPE FOR GOMEZ!" -- you can find him right here on Goodreads.

IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU MUST BE FRIGGIN' CLARK KENT!

Dear Ms. Feldberg:

WELCOME! Congrats on your new gig as editor of the Las Vegas Weekly!! Now that we know each other, let's dispense with the formalities . . . for the love of GOD!!! -- When are you gonna get rid of that abominable, impossible-to-read, blue (??) typeface now defiling the pages of your (our) beloved magazine?? After 8 weeks of straining to read the stuff, my eyeballs now resemble the snake-like orbs of Master Poe -- the sage Shaolin monk of "Kung Fu." Is this a plot to drive me insane?? The only way I can read a copy of the friggin' Weekly is to don a pair of 3-D goggles from an old "Vault of Horror" comic book. (The translucent, blue typeface appearing to float wraith-like before me.)

This IS a plot. First you get rid of Dickensheets, now you're messin' with our optic nerves! What's next? Josh Bell's movie reviews printed in the strange, alien hieroglyphs found at the Roswell crash site?? . . . Maybe the entire Arts & Entertainment section in Pig Latin?? What the hell is wrong with black type on white paper? It was good enough for Gutenberg! Unless you're planning on expanding circulation to the planet Krypton, please cut it out. Sincerely -- Quinn

OWEN WILSON: I'M GLAD YOUR DOG IS DEAD (WISH YOU WERE TOO)

Ya gotta love life. Just when all the doors are shut, a window opens. For the past few days I've been racking my brain; trying to think of something -- anything -- to write for my blog. Today my prayers were answered. I woke to greet the morning (afternoon) with my usual mixture of apprehension & disgust: warmed a cup of day-old coffee in the microwave, and clicked on the plasma. I found myself about 45 minutes into the movie "Marley & Me." I'm not gonna punish you (or myself) by reiterating the plot. I'm sure you're all familiar, and for those who aren't -- let's just say it's a movie that stars Owen Wilson, Jennifer Aniston, and a dog (not necessarily in that order).

Normally, the mere sight of Owen Wilson would send me diving for the remote, but today something stopped me: a scene with Wilson and the venerable Alan Arkin (his gruff, but affectionate boss: a role Arkin seems to have cornered the market on) which takes place in the bullpen of a local Florida newspaper. Seems Wilson is a fortyish writer who's grown tired of churning out a popular column he finds creatively stultifying -- tho pays him lavishly enough to afford a sprawling house with built-in swimming pool, in which he frolics with the naked Aniston. As if things aren't bad enough, at age forty, he feels he hasn't accomplished all he's set out to do in life (imagine that) -- and even tells this to his dog, Marley, in a poignant scene which caused me to reach for the Kaopectate. Ah, but wait! . . . Wilson lands his dream job as a reporter for a major newspaper; buys an even bigger house, and, oh yeah . . . the dog dies.

Now, before I get any death threats from the folks at PETA, let me just say that I love dogs. Throughout my life I've known many. They're wonderful animals: intelligent, noble and loyal; and, as any dog owner will tell you, all posssess distinct personalities which at times appear to render them almost human. (I mean that as a compliment.) No, it wasn't Marley or the day-old cup of joe that caused my lower-intestinal distress: it was that milksop Owen Wilson -- and the whiny, sob sister character he was portraying.

I thought about my own life as a writer. Here I was: The Big 5-0. I'd earned exactly $50 for my last published piece. (HEY! A dollar for each year I've been alive!) Still working a day job to support myself (one I liken to laboring in the ancient copper mines of Midian); desperate; despondent -- my tax return still not filed (the one for 2007); my book only available for purchase from an obscure sect of Bedouin traders in Kandahar (special order). But did I complain? -- You bet yer ass!! . . . Wouldn't you??

Oh, I really don't wish Owen Wilson any harm -- even if he is a nancy-boy who once tried to off himself because they ran out of crab cakes at Spago. 10 mil a picture; doin' 'em four at a time, and can't get through the day without a Xanax. Buck up Owen. Things are bound to get better. As the old Italian proverb goes: "God gives candy to people with no teeth."

EXCUSE ME, I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MY HEAD IS ON FIRE . . . NEW NONFICTION IN THE LV WEEKLY

Misfortune had brought me to Vegas. Like many, I'd landed hard: found work with a company that serviced ACs and low-temp coolers. I was riding with Chris: the most frenetic human being I'd ever encountered. Chris wasn't runnin' tweak; greater demons drove him to pin the speedometer -- take hairpin turns on two wheels a la Neal Cassady. I was certain he'd roll the van and kill us both . . .

Read the complete story, "The Ice Queen": www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2010/aug/...

Wanna know what I might be reading?? (Didn't think so.):
www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2010/aug/...

FAST TIMES AT THE MASSAPEQUA MALL

Windows down, Blaupunkt cranked, I was cruisin' in style: a two-tone chocolate brown & cream Mercedes 250 C; REO's "High Infidelity" in the cassette player; my favorite track, "Don't Let Him Go," rattlin' the coaxials . . .

"He's got plenty of cash, he's got plenty of friends.
He drives women wild, then he drives off in a Mercedes Benz . . ."

Didn't have plenty of cash or friends, and the only woman I was driving wild was the one who occupied the bucket seat beside me: my long-suffering girlfriend, Linda. Each weekend, Linda and I would head to Long Island to catch a movie. It was the early '80s, and most of the theaters in our native Queens were ancient, run-down affairs: their best days in the wind. It was the age of the multiplex, and the shopping malls of Long Island were burgeoning with these clean, well-ventilated, cubicle-like multi-theaters: your ass didn't stick to the seats, and man you had options! Six, eight, sometimes twelve flicks to choose from . . . it was paradise! Best part for me tho, was the cruise out in the Benz.

Massapequa, NY: a small, working class town less than 30 miles from Manhattan; infamous as hometown of the "Long Island Lolita," Amy Fisher. Upwardly mobile, yet close enough to the back alleys and elevated train stations of Queens to absorb some attitude. It was here, at a multiplex inside the local mall, that I spent many a Friday night. The Massapequa mall looms large in my consciousness. There are times when I still visit it in my dreams. It's one of those rare places that somehow, in some way, define my youth. Don't know why. Nothing extraordinary ever happened to me there. No sexual exploits in the theater balcony (there was no balcony): just a shitload of movies viewed (over 200 I've been able to document) -- not to mention the mountain of popcorn washed down with enough Diet Coke to float a battleship.

We'd just caught the last showing of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Not a bad flick. I had no idea I'd just witnessed a piece of cinematic history: three young actors who'd each cop a gold statue one day (Sean Penn and Nick Cage pulling a deuce) -- not to mention what would become the most iconic scene of a young girl exposing her breasts ever committed to celluloid. (God bless Phoebe Cates!) What I recall most vividly about the evening (even more so than Phoebe's bodacious set), was the strange kinship I felt with the young actors I sat watching on the screen. I felt I too, was destined for stardom.

Several months earlier, I'd boldly quit my job as a specialist clerk on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange (easy to be bold when your ass is sheltered by your parents' roof), and had thrown myself into what I felt was my true calling: that of cartoonist/illustrator. Things were lookin' up. I'd recently broken into the pages of National Lampoon magazine: An estimated 8 million readers a month -- the godamn juggernaut that'd come to be regarded as the very epitome of cutting-edge humor; spawning the likes of "Animal House" and SNL. And that wasn't all . . . me and my two buds -- Tommy Donohue and Francis Romano -- were ridin' the crest of the "NeWave" comix movement. With the backing of one William L. Snyder -- Academy Award winning animator and producer of those old Tom & Jerry cartoons -- we were about to launch our own zine: "Depraved Comix: The Magazine of New Wave Humor." Oh yeah . . .

Tommy, aka "Bubbles," was the best street artist ever to come out of Queens, NY. I remember the first time I laid eyes on one of his pieces -- the image is still seared into my brain. It was a "Jimmy Page" he'd done on the back of a denim with a set of iridescent markers: a demonic "ZoSo" workin' his famous double axe -- the twin guitar necks morphing into serpents; flames dancing and writhing; colors so pure, so intense, it was like staring into the flame of an acetylene torch. And the style . . . all the primitive power of Gaugin, fused with the trippy, cosmic grandeur of Peter Max . . .

And Francis -- don't know whatever became of him. Be he dead or alive. Perhaps living on some uncharted Polynesian isle -- worshipped as a god by flower-crowned, half-naked exotic beauties -- or hooked up to a set of electrodes at the local electro shock clinic. Francis had the most facile, the most brilliant comedic mind I'd ever encountered. Period. With Bubbles in tow, we aspired to set the newly birthed NeWave movement on its ass.

Leaving the theater that night with Linda, I felt good. Feeling good was not something that came easily, or naturally to me. But the future seemed bright. I remembered a bit of dialogue from an old movie I'd once seen: "The Magic Box" -- bio flick of William Friese-Greene, inventor of the motion picture camera. Much like Philo Farnsworth -- the backwoods teen who invented the television for his high school science project (an incredible story if you're not familiar) -- Friese-Greene was ultimately cheated out of the patent for his life-altering invention. The dialogue, as I recalled, was between Friese-Greene and Fox Talbot -- one of the pioneers of still photography . . .

"If you do this," Talbot tells Friese-Greene, still struggling with his invention after many years of trial and error, "Then never again will you ever be completely unhappy."

And so I believed too, as we neared completion of the first issue of our zine, that never again would I ever be completely unhappy. It wasn't until we hit the parking lot, that an odd feeling crept over me. There bathed in the ghostly luminescence of an overhead lamp, was my Mercedes. Oh, I know it sounds shallow, even foolish, but it was beautiful! I'd just treated it to a new coat of Turtle Wax; the rich, brown laquer appearing almost black -- like polished onyx -- under the bright light. An earthy, nubile young German - American beauty at my elbow, and all I lusted for was fine German engineering -- and four coats of rich acrylic laquer.

It was then it hit me. That somehow I'd reached a high point. That a moment like this would not come again. That life was neither long, nor its possibilities infinite. That one day I'd be old, remembering this moment -- like a ghost seen in a rearview mirror.

"What are you thinking about?" Linda asked.

The question seemed intrusive; it bothered me, as Linda's questions so frequently did.

"Think I'll get some new rims for the Mercedes."

Linda wasn't buying it.

"What were you really thinking?"

"That I hope I never get old."

"Everyone gets old."

"That doesn't help me."

The feeling passed as quickly as it had come over me. Linda put some Pat Benatar in the Blaupunkt, and we headed for home -- a stop at the Flagship Diner on Queens Blvd: a couple of their famous bacon cheeseburgers, oozing so much grease and melted cheese that the fries -- equally as grease sodden -- stuck to them. Excellent.

May you never, ever, be completely unhappy.

A HEARTWARMING BEDTIME STORY

Gonna lighten things up a bit. Thought I'd share a little bedtime story my father would sometimes use to lull me to sleep when I was a tot -- if a shot of Yukon Jack and a couple bong hits didn't do the trick. Try it on your little one . . .

Once upon a time, long, long ago, lived a wise king. The king was much-beloved by his subjects, and although a good egg in general, had two very peculiar traits: an insatiable appetite for mutton, and a penchant for sending his knights on strange quests intended to test their resourcefulness and fortitude.

One dark and stormy eve, the king summoned his favorite knight to the throne room.

"Brave knight," said the king, his words muffled by a mouthful of mutton, "I have a quest for thee!"

The knight bowed and braced himself for what was to follow.

"I wish thee to sally forth on this most odious eve and fetch me some ping-pong balls." The king said, chewing noisily on the mutton.

Although the request seemed odd, the loyal knight did not question his wise monarch. Bowing once again, he vowed not to return until securing the objects in question. Donning a suit of shining armor, he mounted his white charger and set off at once amidst the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning.

Days, weeks, months, and finally years passed, but the knight did not return. The king was greatly saddened by the loss of his champion; women wept, and tales and legends sprouted amongst the people about the fate of the brave knight.

Finally, one day as the king sat eating his mutton, there was a violent pounding at the throne room doors. Into the room burst a strange fellow pushing a wheelbarrow. Scarred, bruised and bleeding, the man's wild mane of hair and grizzled beard were caked with mud; his clothes in tatters.

"Sire! Sire!" The man panted, on the verge of collapse, "It is I, your noble knight, returned from my quest!"

The king stopped chewing and regarded the strange man and his wheelbarrow; the contents of which were cloaked in a blanket.

"Brave knight, thou hast returned! But pray tell, what has troubled thee lo these many years? All I asked for were some lousy ping-pong balls!"

Slumping to the floor, the knight looked up at the king wearily, "PING-PONG BALLS???? I THOUGHT YOU SAID KING KONG'S BALLS!!!!"

The moral of the story: ALWAYS question authority!

PLEASE SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE, GREG GUTFELD!

Does anyone else wish the Red Eye host would stick a sock in it -- or something that rhymes with sock? While I avoid Gutfeld's show like a Jehovah's Witness with hepatitis A, managed to catch him on Huckabee earlier this week (don't ask). Gutfeld, a former editor at Maxim (don't know if I'm more shocked by Gutfeld being an editor; or the fact that Maxim actually uses editors), had his panties in a bunch over the recent firing of General Stanley McChrystal. Gutfeld is one of those "pseudo patriots" -- y'know -- all for sending you and yours off to war, but would be the second guy to have his ass on a plane to Canada, should he be called upon to serve. (And second only, because my precious, white ass would already be in the seat in front of him.)

Gutfeld was whining about what a scumbag the Rolling Stone reporter who wrote the article on McChrystal is -- and even had the gall to snark: "Who reads that magazine (Rolling Stone) anyway?" Hmmmmm? Well Greg, one might ask the same of your former rag. Who the fuck reads Maxim?? Some twenty-something, Jersey Shore rejects who wanna know which protein bar has the fewest carbs -- or maybe sneak a peek at Lucy Liu's camel toe? Seriously Greg, are you gonna argue the case for Maxim vs Rolling Stone when it comes to journalistic excellence? That would be almost as ridiculous as comparing a no-talent, sub-turd like you to Hunter S. Thompson! But let's get back to that McChrystal thing. Whether or not you think the reporter who wrote the article is a snake; or don't care for Jann Wenner's politics, fact is, McChrystal screwed himself.

Why the hell is a 4 star general poppin' off to a reporter from Rolling Stone, like he's John Mayer dishin' the dirt on Jessica Simpson's fellatio skills?? McChrystal showed a stunning lapse in good judgement, not to mention a serious flaw in his cognitive thinking process. And it cost him his job. Period. Apparently the General doesn't know what even a kid from the streets of Queens, New York knows: never let your guard down -- EVER! Given this fact, maybe he wasn't the right guy to be running the war in Afghanistan? (By the way, I hear Petraeus is a pretty good general himself.) Time will tell. In any case, why blame Rolling Stone?? The right to free speech and a free press are the bedrock upon which this country was built. You're a patriot -- right Gutfeld? Ever notice how these same rights are expressly forbidden by the very thugs we're fighting? There's a good reason for it. Give people the right to free speech and a free press and who knows -- democracy may break out.

WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO THE LAS VEGAS WEEKLY?

You've really done it this time Dickensheets. Just picked up a copy of the "new & improved" Las Vegas Weekly. I'm stunned. Flabbergasted. I haven't had a visceral reaction to a magazine this bad since High Times put Barbara Bush on the cover. Honestly, your new format is the worst thing that's happened to a local weekly since City Life stopped running Joshua Ellis's column. What's next? A "Queer Eye" makeover for Josh Bell?

What have you done to my beloved Weekly? Why these joyless, sterile, antiseptic pages? What happened to those wild, confused graphics that overloaded the senses like a Jackson Pollock viewed on amyl nitrate poppers? Not only stimulating for the mind, but a delight to the eye! And what of that netherworld of mirth and satire that once inhabited the margins of your glorious rag? Mini-Elvis gleefully plugging a TV on the "Screen" page; or taking a dump atop the book review (this alone should've earned you "Editor of the Year").

Is this really you Scott? -- Or some mechanized, corporate clone, hatched from a pod in Bruce Spotleson's wine cellar? For shame! I can see you now at the Monday morning staff meeting: Swept away by your own megalomania; your soy latte and power tie; feverishly scribbling away on a chalkboard a la Glenn Beck (misspelling the word "autodidactic"). And who will dare challenge you??

Disraeli was right. Change is inevitable -- so are death and taxes. It's one thing to draw a mustache on the Mona Lisa; quite another to turn her into Lady Gaga.