Recently I have been watching the HBO series Deadwood, which I like, and which, as any actor who did a commentary track for the DVDs will tell you, features the unique writing of creator/executive producer David Milch.
"This is such a typical bit of Milch writing," they might say, or
"I love this monologue coming up, it's so quintessentially Milchian," or even,
"Ha! 'Fucked up flatter than hammered shit!' Only David Milch could have written such a line."
Of course, David Milch is not alone as a writer of unique dialogue. People are always talking pretentiously about the "heightened speech" of David Mamet, or Quentin Tarrantino, or even Aaron Sorkin. I thought (and you probably saw this coming) that by infusing my own attempt at "heightened speech" into the following anecdote it might become more interesting (without something added it's not really worth telling).
"Every year for Cara's birthday I buy a book or a DVD," I said to Courtney at a Chipotle restaurant nestled in the bosom of the Stony Point Fashion Park.
"This year I want to expand giftwise; I feel that there must be one amongst the myriad possible gifts I have left untried that might please our friend more than some favorite trade paperback of mine, which she could certainly purchase on her own any day of the fucking week."
"Truf." said Courtney.
So we departed the burrito restaurant in search of a gift.
"The summer fast approaches," said Courtney. "Let's find dear heart a moisturizing balm and a pumice stone, that she might make her feet more presentable. For sandals, like."
So we went to Bath and Bodyworks, where we were assaulted by an overly friendly sales girl.
"Oy, you customers!" she called, "Got some loverly perfumes over'ere! Discounted deeply they are!"
We thanked her politely and moved toward the foot products. She followed.
"How about some cocoa lip gloss? No sooner do I put it on, then my tongue of its own volition emerges from my mouth and licks the flavored vaseline from my lips, leaving me with no choice but to re-apply the product!"
"Verily, cunt, we have no need of yer flavored grease," replied the ever-assertive Courtney, and arm in arm she and I sang sea shanties all the way to Sharper Image, where I bought Cara an overpriced black pillow with some sort of beads in it. Courtney swore that Cara would like it, and, as far as I could tell, she did.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Saturday, March 19, 2005
An attempt at fiction
I'm not good at writing fiction generally, but I have made a stab at it. Actually, I made a stab at it several years ago, but I just did some revising. I think it's better now.
Liz could hear her roommate talking to herself in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator and mumbling about something. Now she was coming into the living room, and Liz quickly turned the sound up, knowing it wouldn't help but making the effort in spite of herself.
"Somebody ate my Kraft singles," said Jen. She held a ham and cheese sandwich at arm’s length, an expression of disgust submerged beneath one of mock patience.
"I’m watching Trading Spaces," Liz said cheerfully, hoping in vain that Jen might pull up a seat and be quiet.
"Elizabeth, somebody ate my Kraft cheese singles. They ate my Kraft singles, all of them, and left behind these cheap Giant brand ones."
"Look! They’re just about to show each other their new rooms."
"You know, everybody else in this apartment buys cheap stuff. Which isn’t to say there’s something wrong with that, there isn’t, but I bought KRAFT singles. Because I wanted some nice cheese, and some thoughtless person came along and ate them. And now I’ve got Giant brand cheese on my sandwich.”
She had slipped into the tone she used with the second grade. It came naturally to her, and was usually somewhere in her voice just never this pronounced, unless she was either angry or trying to win an argument. Right now it was because she was angry, and Liz tried to focus on Paige Peak, hoping that Jen would tire herself out in a minute; work the self-righteousness out of her system and then eat her sandwich. Jen, not to be brushed aside, stepped between her and the television. Liz would never find out how Wayne and Sally liked their new den.
"I spend a little bit extra because I want good cheese, and after two slices somebody comes and filches the rest of the pack. Is that fair?"
"Did you say filch?"
"Yes, filch."
"So that makes the thief a filcher?"
Jen had lost her calm, and Liz, having waited through the forty-five minutes of Trading Spaces that bored her only to miss the ten that she was interested in, was starting to do the same.
"You understand that they're both American cheese," Liz said, "that there’s absolutely no difference between the two?"
"If there was no difference, why would I spend more money for it?"
"I guess you like their ad campaigns."
"What?"
"K-R-A-F-T!" sang Liz, explaining.
“Not funny, not funny! One of my roommates is a thief."
"A filcher," Liz corrected.
Peeking out from behind Jen’s big ass Liz could almost see Sally reacting to her new window treatments.
"Teasing only makes it worse. I'm a victim here, I don't deserve teasing."
"I'm sorry. You know," Liz craned her neck in vain, "Courtney probably just used your cheese for the hamburgers this weekend. By accident. Don’t worry about it, we’ll buy you some more."
Jen crossed her arms and stared Liz down without blinking. She thought that this unnerved people. Maybe it did unnerve third graders.
"Make sure they’re Kraft," Jen said, sneering, and retired to her room where she would find solace in the Dixie Chicks.
Turning back to the television, Liz was just in time to catch the credits for Trading Spaces. Angrily, she prepared for A Dating Story by smearing Jen’s Skippy peanut butter onto some of her Pepperidge Farm honey wheat bread.
Liz could hear her roommate talking to herself in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator and mumbling about something. Now she was coming into the living room, and Liz quickly turned the sound up, knowing it wouldn't help but making the effort in spite of herself.
"Somebody ate my Kraft singles," said Jen. She held a ham and cheese sandwich at arm’s length, an expression of disgust submerged beneath one of mock patience.
"I’m watching Trading Spaces," Liz said cheerfully, hoping in vain that Jen might pull up a seat and be quiet.
"Elizabeth, somebody ate my Kraft cheese singles. They ate my Kraft singles, all of them, and left behind these cheap Giant brand ones."
"Look! They’re just about to show each other their new rooms."
"You know, everybody else in this apartment buys cheap stuff. Which isn’t to say there’s something wrong with that, there isn’t, but I bought KRAFT singles. Because I wanted some nice cheese, and some thoughtless person came along and ate them. And now I’ve got Giant brand cheese on my sandwich.”
She had slipped into the tone she used with the second grade. It came naturally to her, and was usually somewhere in her voice just never this pronounced, unless she was either angry or trying to win an argument. Right now it was because she was angry, and Liz tried to focus on Paige Peak, hoping that Jen would tire herself out in a minute; work the self-righteousness out of her system and then eat her sandwich. Jen, not to be brushed aside, stepped between her and the television. Liz would never find out how Wayne and Sally liked their new den.
"I spend a little bit extra because I want good cheese, and after two slices somebody comes and filches the rest of the pack. Is that fair?"
"Did you say filch?"
"Yes, filch."
"So that makes the thief a filcher?"
Jen had lost her calm, and Liz, having waited through the forty-five minutes of Trading Spaces that bored her only to miss the ten that she was interested in, was starting to do the same.
"You understand that they're both American cheese," Liz said, "that there’s absolutely no difference between the two?"
"If there was no difference, why would I spend more money for it?"
"I guess you like their ad campaigns."
"What?"
"K-R-A-F-T!" sang Liz, explaining.
“Not funny, not funny! One of my roommates is a thief."
"A filcher," Liz corrected.
Peeking out from behind Jen’s big ass Liz could almost see Sally reacting to her new window treatments.
"Teasing only makes it worse. I'm a victim here, I don't deserve teasing."
"I'm sorry. You know," Liz craned her neck in vain, "Courtney probably just used your cheese for the hamburgers this weekend. By accident. Don’t worry about it, we’ll buy you some more."
Jen crossed her arms and stared Liz down without blinking. She thought that this unnerved people. Maybe it did unnerve third graders.
"Make sure they’re Kraft," Jen said, sneering, and retired to her room where she would find solace in the Dixie Chicks.
Turning back to the television, Liz was just in time to catch the credits for Trading Spaces. Angrily, she prepared for A Dating Story by smearing Jen’s Skippy peanut butter onto some of her Pepperidge Farm honey wheat bread.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Has-Been Celebrities and the People Who Date Them
When you sign-in to Hotmail they have all kinds of crazy headlines posted for you to look at.
"Kidman's Love Life Stalls" it might say. Or "Koala's Face Extinction." Maybe "Michael Moore's Shocking Speech," or "10 Ways You Can Get a Tan Safely."
They're the sort of short, eye-catching, incredibly stupid one-liners that are all over our culture, particularly in promo spots for TV news broadcasts and on magazine covers, little tastes of the empty mass-produced crap inside. Hotmail is where I notice them the most, and I have been keeping a list of their best headlines over the last year or so.
Man shoots self in groin.
When stars buy real estate.
Improve your sex appeal.
Could you have a stroke on Monday?
Did Nicole turn down Jacko?
Oprah’s name: a mistake?
Quiz: Why are you still single?
Should You Marry a Fixer-Upper?
What was Ashton’s major?
Donald Trump, the fragrance?
Why do I intimidate men?
Which Disney princess are you?
Has-Been Celebrities and the People Who Date Them.
This last one particularly resonated with me, and although I didn't click on the link to find out more, it did start me thinking about which has-been celebrities I would date. I was going to put up a list, but I couldn't think of many has-been celebrities. My list had one name on it.
1. Phoebe Cates
Other has-been celebrites that I thought of were either gross (Gennifer Flowers, Kirstie Alley, Roseanne), or male (Bjorn Bjorg, Kirk Cameron, Tony Danza). I also had a hard time knowing whether to consider someone based on how they look now or how they looked when they were a celebrity. Elizabeth Taylor now and Elizabeth Taylor circa 1960 are two very different things.
To respond to several of the other headlines--
I'm sure the real estate is attractive and that the stars pay a lot for it.
Were my sex appeal to increase even slightly it would be disastrous, as packs of screaming girls would no doubt chase me everywhere trying to tear my clothes off. I would have to quit my job, and unable to find another position would likely end up trading on that very sex appeal with which I was cursed, spending the rest of my life as a high-priced gigolo to the stars. Stars including, perhaps, the aforementioned Ms. Cates.
[deleted easy joke about Nicole Kidman not being a little boy]
I guess it's possible that Donald Trump could smell good. [Perhaps you wonder why I made a show of avoiding an easy joke a moment ago only to turn around and make one here. Who knows. I am fickle.]
I see myself as a combination of Jasmine's eyes, Snow White's complexion, and Ariel's sassy, rebellious attitude.
"Kidman's Love Life Stalls" it might say. Or "Koala's Face Extinction." Maybe "Michael Moore's Shocking Speech," or "10 Ways You Can Get a Tan Safely."
They're the sort of short, eye-catching, incredibly stupid one-liners that are all over our culture, particularly in promo spots for TV news broadcasts and on magazine covers, little tastes of the empty mass-produced crap inside. Hotmail is where I notice them the most, and I have been keeping a list of their best headlines over the last year or so.
Man shoots self in groin.
When stars buy real estate.
Improve your sex appeal.
Could you have a stroke on Monday?
Did Nicole turn down Jacko?
Oprah’s name: a mistake?
Quiz: Why are you still single?
Should You Marry a Fixer-Upper?
What was Ashton’s major?
Donald Trump, the fragrance?
Why do I intimidate men?
Which Disney princess are you?
Has-Been Celebrities and the People Who Date Them.
This last one particularly resonated with me, and although I didn't click on the link to find out more, it did start me thinking about which has-been celebrities I would date. I was going to put up a list, but I couldn't think of many has-been celebrities. My list had one name on it.
1. Phoebe Cates
Other has-been celebrites that I thought of were either gross (Gennifer Flowers, Kirstie Alley, Roseanne), or male (Bjorn Bjorg, Kirk Cameron, Tony Danza). I also had a hard time knowing whether to consider someone based on how they look now or how they looked when they were a celebrity. Elizabeth Taylor now and Elizabeth Taylor circa 1960 are two very different things.
To respond to several of the other headlines--
I'm sure the real estate is attractive and that the stars pay a lot for it.
Were my sex appeal to increase even slightly it would be disastrous, as packs of screaming girls would no doubt chase me everywhere trying to tear my clothes off. I would have to quit my job, and unable to find another position would likely end up trading on that very sex appeal with which I was cursed, spending the rest of my life as a high-priced gigolo to the stars. Stars including, perhaps, the aforementioned Ms. Cates.
[deleted easy joke about Nicole Kidman not being a little boy]
I guess it's possible that Donald Trump could smell good. [Perhaps you wonder why I made a show of avoiding an easy joke a moment ago only to turn around and make one here. Who knows. I am fickle.]
I see myself as a combination of Jasmine's eyes, Snow White's complexion, and Ariel's sassy, rebellious attitude.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
O magazines, where is thy sting?
Since I began working full-time at Barnes and Noble a little over a year ago I have worked in the bargain section, to such acclaim that my coworkers took to calling me "Bargain Jesus," a nickname referring both to the effortless miracles that I work with bargain books and my divine beard, which people the length of the East Coast visit on pilgrimages.
"See how even though it's predominantly brown there are patches of red? That's proof that God loves us," say the pilgrims, as I blush and sign autographs.
But now, effective March 1, I am "Bargain Jesus" no more. I have been moved to the newsstand, the bargain books given to the talented but decidedly beardless Bob Diller. I have been surprised by how hard this has hit me, and not just because I lose my cool nickname. With the nickname goes my status as someone who knows what they are doing. I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I miss the familiar merchandise, books that have come to seem, if not like friends, then certainly like neighbors, people you don't care very much about but who by their presence put you at ease. I can look at the drunk, drum-beating Jehova's witness across the street and know that I'm home. So it was with The Complete Military Atlas of the Civil War, and I feel the loss of it-- a small loss maybe, but a loss nonetheless. Goodbyes seem appropriate.
So, goodbye Civil War Atlas. Goodbye Do Fish Drink Water?, goodbye Why do Buses Come in Threes?, goodbye Who Put the Butter in Butterfly?, goodbye The Book of Stupid Questions. Goodbye $5.98 "former bestsellers" and enormous $20 "1000 Recipe" cookbooks. Goodbye, to not one but two kinds of affordable hardcover Barnes and Noble Classics (full sized and "pocket"). Goodbye tasteless histories of serial killers, goodbye outdated almanacs, goodbye biographies of celebrities nobody knows.
Goodbye immovable stack of The Harley-Davidson Motorcycle Encyclopedia, I think I'll miss you most of all.
Postscript-
As if to welcome me to the magazines, the cover of this month's Maxim features Jennifer Love Hewitt, her ridiculous Grand Canyon-esque cleavage less than an inch from the words "Al Qaeda Returns!" printed in bold type. My friend and coworker Kathryn (the managers love her not, for they are fools, all) pointed out that Ms. Hewitt is standing in for the twin towers. Well said, Kathryn.
"See how even though it's predominantly brown there are patches of red? That's proof that God loves us," say the pilgrims, as I blush and sign autographs.
But now, effective March 1, I am "Bargain Jesus" no more. I have been moved to the newsstand, the bargain books given to the talented but decidedly beardless Bob Diller. I have been surprised by how hard this has hit me, and not just because I lose my cool nickname. With the nickname goes my status as someone who knows what they are doing. I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I miss the familiar merchandise, books that have come to seem, if not like friends, then certainly like neighbors, people you don't care very much about but who by their presence put you at ease. I can look at the drunk, drum-beating Jehova's witness across the street and know that I'm home. So it was with The Complete Military Atlas of the Civil War, and I feel the loss of it-- a small loss maybe, but a loss nonetheless. Goodbyes seem appropriate.
So, goodbye Civil War Atlas. Goodbye Do Fish Drink Water?, goodbye Why do Buses Come in Threes?, goodbye Who Put the Butter in Butterfly?, goodbye The Book of Stupid Questions. Goodbye $5.98 "former bestsellers" and enormous $20 "1000 Recipe" cookbooks. Goodbye, to not one but two kinds of affordable hardcover Barnes and Noble Classics (full sized and "pocket"). Goodbye tasteless histories of serial killers, goodbye outdated almanacs, goodbye biographies of celebrities nobody knows.
Goodbye immovable stack of The Harley-Davidson Motorcycle Encyclopedia, I think I'll miss you most of all.
Postscript-
As if to welcome me to the magazines, the cover of this month's Maxim features Jennifer Love Hewitt, her ridiculous Grand Canyon-esque cleavage less than an inch from the words "Al Qaeda Returns!" printed in bold type. My friend and coworker Kathryn (the managers love her not, for they are fools, all) pointed out that Ms. Hewitt is standing in for the twin towers. Well said, Kathryn.
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