feelin good

Today I had the pleasure of hearing someone's voice that I wasn't even aware I wanted to hear echoing through my voicemail. I have to call Mr. Shapiro back tomorrow but it sounds like I got the internship! I am oh so elated. This means (1) I get to write/edit/be an actual author/filmmaker's bitch for an extended amount of time (yes, this makes me happy- call me masochistic) and (2) I will have a reason to be in the city more often (which means happy hour after work every so often, finding new falafel places, searching for records on arbitrary street corners, beacon's closet, walking anywhere/everywhere ipod in hand, all the other wonderful and less than wonderful reasons I fell in love with New York to begin with). You may not know his name (you probably don't, I didn't) but that being said, Dana Adam Shapiro is the man. Like, the fucking man. He had a senior editor's position at Spin but gave it up to make what turned out to be an award winning documentary called Murderball. It's about paraplegics who play rugby. Also, check out this letter he wrote. It is entitled My Bloody Valentine and is aptly composed of the lyrics to 69 break up songs:

"Dear __________,

Your picture is still on my wall. A little black cloud in a dress, with your chrome heart shining in the sun — so pretty when you’re unfaithful to me. You don’t look different but you have changed.

It’s coming on Christmas. They’re cutting down trees, they’re putting up reindeer. It’s so cold in this house. I can’t stand the rain against my window. The bed’s too big without you. I’ll be sleeping with the television on, talking to the shadows from one o’clock till four, thinking how it used to be. It’s a desperate situation. All I perceive is wasted and broken. Yeah, we still go to dinner sometimes, but we don’t sneak a kiss when the waitress turns around. I’ve been forgotten.

You don’t love me and I know now. Nothing hurts like someone who knows everything about you leaving you behind.

Everybody’s high on consolation. Who would’ve thought that a boy like me could come to this? I go walkin’ after midnight, doing anything just to get you off of my mind. Confidentially, I never had much pride. But now I rock a bar stool and I drink for two. And then the jukebox plays a song I used to know:

“I used to fart under the covers and she’d just laugh.
She even cleaned my balls when we would take a bath.”

There’s always something there to remind me. I saw two shooting stars last night — I wished on them but they were only satellites. Is it wrong to wish on space hardware? It’s not a question, but a lesson learned in time. Did you stand by me? No, not at all. Tell me, where did you sleep last night?

Oh shit. Don’t speak. Shut up, ’cause I know all about it. You keep lyin’ when you oughta be truthin’. Heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from another you been messin’ around. Your cheatin’ heart, headed for the cheatin’ side of town. Kind of evil make me wanna grab my submachine.

You thought you could keep this shit from me? Into the arms of Mr. Rebound — that alley-cat-coat-wearin’ crumbcake, like a matador with his pork sword. You swallow his kids? Lookee here, honey — you don’t need to be coy. Why’d ya do it? What’cha gonna say now? Lift me up, hold me, just like you told me you was gonna do. That’s what I thought — you’re pitiful.

I wish I was as mellow as, for instance, Jackson Browne, but “Fountain of Sorrow” my ass, motherfucker. I’ve lost my equilibrium, my car keys, and my pride. There’s only so much wine you can drink in one life, but it will never be enough to save you from the bottom of your glass. I’m glad that you’re sorry, but it’s too late, baby, now it’s too late. Cry me a river. Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.

Wait. Give me my money back, you bitch. And don’t forget to give me back my black T-shirt. Take my picture off the wall. Give back my TV. I don’t wanna walk around with you. I don’t like a thing about your mother and I hate your daddy’s guts too. You can tell your dog to bite my leg. I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes — you’d know what a drag it is to see you. You’re just…a fuck. I can’t explain it ’cause I think you suck. I’m taking pride in telling you to fuck off and die. Die, die, my darling. Just shut your pretty mouth. Don’t call me anymore. And the next time your ass gets horny, go fuck one of your funky-ass friends.

I’d show you everywhere you’re wrong but I’m never talking to you again. If the phone doesn’t ring, you’ll know that it’s me.

Loveless,

__________ "

Oh and here's some nostalgia. My favorite episode, probably:

of course

the planet for scorpio is pluto.

Pluto
Pluto is concerned with the unconscious or things not seen. It is associated with genitalia and human reproduction. Buried emotions tend to be one of it’s most active traits.

Elimination or abrupt change are a part of this planets characteristics.

Pluto, the mythical god, was the one that carried people to his land of death beyond the river Styx. No one could escape him. He was great at seduction.

This planet’s negative traits are slyness, criticism, secretiveness and cruelty.

Pluto is the planet of profound inner change and growth.

oh, inconvenience.

too much coffee, lies, things misplaced

vingt et un

To describe last night using any word other than "shitshow," would be to err. It was Courtney's twenty-first birthday so we did what any good standing friends would do: ordered two twenty four racks of Coors Light to our college campus (thanks completely legitimate beer delivery service) and started the toasting at 5:30 p.m. There was some chugging, some poetry, some painting, some dancing, some laughter. Some Jack Daniels? Some Jack Daniels. Then around 10 we decided it would be a good idea to take the Valiant to what is possibly the sleaziest bar in White Plains (you guessed it, Kelly's). Courtney tried to get on with a just opened Tall Boy, but the driver was afraid of it spilling, so she chugged the whole thing infront of him. Once we got to Kelly's one of our friends who was using my old driver's license couldn't get in so I proceeded to rationally (read: belligerently) argue with the bouncers and then we all left for another bar (Korova, which is actually very cool, it's modeled after the bar in one of my favorite books- A Clockwork Orange). This is where the night becomes hazy. There were lots of Pink Ladys (highly recommend this drink). There was also a point in time when I convinced the "DJ" (I use this term lightly) to let me play my own music only to realize that I had left my ipod at school. Oh and funny story, our friend threw up on the bartender's coat and our friend's friend threw up on what we later found out was the bartender's car. Then we got kicked out. I just saw Sonja and the bartender apparently texted her something along the lines of "Man, you guys were fun last night."

I haven't been writing enough lately, but this is my most recent poem:

New York

City of the insomniac
the strip steak
the philanderer
Your air is as rotten as your disposition.
Your gold paved streets are no longer visible,
no longer neccessary.
They say your have lost your soul.

...perhaps they are not wrong.
I have born witness under aching constellations
to your metabolic negligence that permeates the streets
like poison.
You are a casualty of the apathetic.
They say you are vengeful and I believe them,
for I have seen the faces of the dead who haunt your
haggard island in shackles leashed by men in suits
that cost too much.
You must realize you are enslaved of your own accord.
They say you are immoral and I believe them,
for you are the city of the existentialist, seeking solace
in the absurdity at the corner of Broadway
and desolation.
Your thousand churches are ornate but uninhabited.
They say you are deceitful and I believe them,
the web of lies you have so intricately spun falls like a
curtain draping your steel structures in shadow.
Your skies are not blue but grey.
They say you are destructive and I believe them,
answering in defense that it is but your nature.
You do not heed your own advice.

Oh ye of little faith, come disappear here
in this place, this empire, this inferno
to which one is drawn like a fly to flame.
You will become a familiar lover pr a recurring mistake
amidst the nothingness.

Come and show me a city with so persistent a spirit,
who regurgitates failure so often it has grown accustomed
to selling it as success, head held in the clouds so as to
look down on all of creation seen as inferior.
New York, you are instinctive and calculating with an
artillery of charm that is at best savage.
Always erecting,
destroying,
erecting once again,
you are cunning in your creation.

I can hear the contagious laughter rolling off your tongue
and across the Hudson as I pound away at keys that
will never feel your blind happiness or desperation.
If you never spoke again, it would be too soon.




I really miss the city. Everything about here is too small.

everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

It's kind of unreal, life. I wish that I could snap my fingers and the ribbon on my typewriter would magically be fixed, that would help things. My instincts are quite good and I don't know why I don't trust them more, why I don't trust anything enough. Also I drink far too much coffee.

Enough introspection and bullshit, I'm never going to get to the meaning of life, the heart of it, on the world wide web...pretty sure that is irrefutable.

When will spring come? The question I keep asking myself.




Madonna's still got it.

if you're still alive by the time you're twenty-five should i kill you like you asked me to?

“ Words, words, words! They shut one off from the universe. Three quarters of the time, one’s never in contact with things, only with the beastly words that stand for them."
— Aldous Huxley, Point Counter Point

The past week could have benefitted from walking around with this attached to my forehead. I really think that the depths of winter make people crazier than they'd like to admit to...logic is certainly discarded once we reach for our heavy coats ("no I absolutely cannot cross the quad to get to Dammann, that is too far") and I can't even begin to enumerate the amount of misconstrued conversations, there's no way the persistent cold weather drunken stupor is helping that either. As for me, I have taken to obnoxious amounts of black coffee, warm socks, and curling up under two down comforters.

I have also rediscovered my love for classical music (don't hate), especially Brahms.