Wednesday, December 31, 2008

The Bad Idea Man's Suicide Note, Part 3

I rewound the tape, hoping I had heard wrong.

Sell bad ideas.

It was unmistakable.

For a year I've sold bad ideas. I made 1.4 million dollars before expenses selling bad ideas to over a hundred thousand people from around the world. My bad idea was being eaten up by the public.

What about a week from now when I wake up and it turns out that bicameral legislatures are a bad idea? What about music? Is music a bad idea? Love? Peace? Democracy?

If you're finding this note, I am already dead. The world wasn't meant to have a bad idea man. Bad ideas should be found out on their own or not at all - selling bad ideas is simply a bad idea, and so I'm done here.

I'll look through the records. I'm sure I've come up with more than enough ways to kill myself.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

The Bad Idea Man's Suicide Note, Part 2

Last year was the year that I got the concept of marketing my bad ideas, after a conversation with a cousin at Thanksgiving. He called to me from across the Thanksgiving table, "Hey, Mr. Bad-Idea-Man, should I carve the turkey now, or would that be unwise? Maybe you should take a nap and see."

I gave a sarcastic little chuckle as I folded my napkin onto my lap. "Real funny."

My aunt jumped to my defense. "I think your bad ideas are kind of neat," she said, talking to me but glaring at my cousin, "if I had bad ideas like yours, I'd write them all down so I knew what to avoid."

It was a few months after that that I started the Bad Idea Blog. The concept was simple enough: I recorded myself talking in my sleep during the night, typed it all up the next morning, and then sold access to my insights for $11.99 per year.

At first it was just my family that signed up, but it wasn't long before a few local media sources found out about it. A few catchy headlines later, NBC ran the story on a slow news day. There was an immediate spike in my number of readers, and when the surge finally receded I was left with a regular and reliable climb. I hit the hundred thousand mark a month and a half later and took a trip over Niagara Falls in a cardboard box to celebrate. My arm was broken on some rocks, but it was worth it. I was living the life of a king, and all I had to do to stay successful was sleep.

This was the story up until two days ago, when disaster struck. I was listening to the previous night's recording, typing up the bad ideas:

Buy an iPhone for your dog.
Wear a bluetooth in both of your ears.
Break up with your girlfriend via skywriter.

There was a pause here - I rolled over in my sleep, I think - and then, without warning:

Sell bad ideas.

Monday, December 29, 2008

The Bad Idea Man's Suicide Note, Part 1

When I was twenty I tried skateboarding with my eyes closed, and I fell down the flight of concrete stairs that leads up to the entrance of the quad. I blacked out and they took me to the hospital, and, since I was unconscious, the doctors figured out my name by rummaging through my wallet. Unfortunately for me, I did not have my driver's license in my wallet at the time. Instead, I had a fake ID. The doctors took the name the ID had on it - not my own - and, viewing hospital records, determined that I was someone who I was not. By some terrible twist of fate, this someone was not allergic to ketamine, a common anesthesia that I am actually extremely allergic to. I have a medical bracelet for it, in fact, but I never wear it.

I don't know whether it was my body's reaction to the allergen or the surgery they performed on me or all of the alcohol I consumed at the party I went to an hour after I was released from the hospital on the grounds that I would get plenty of bed rest, but something inside me was changed. That night my roommate woke me, telling me I had been talking in my sleep.

"What was I saying?" I asked him.

"I dunno, man," he said, looking bewildered. "I thought I heard you say something about skydiving during a lightning storm."

The next two nights the same thing happened. I would open my eyes and he would be standing over me, telling me I had been muttering about juggling cats. It was at this point that it occurred to me he might have been playing a joke. The next evening I tape-recorded my sleep, and discovered, to my surprise, that I was not being lied to. I was chattering all night long about all sorts of nonsense: "wear sweatpants to a funeral," I said; or, "play russian roulette with a semi-automatic." Every night I kept talking, and every night I would suggest the same sort of things:

Bad ideas.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Scenes 6

One:
The team scored and so I lifted up my bells and you lifted up your bells and the drums started and we laughed.

Two:
I didn't know where the door led but I was willing to figure it out and you were too and so the alleys were dark and damp and deserted but we were not afraid.

Three:
There was a poison zombie and we named him Sebastian.


I realize I've been doing these a lot lately but I wanted a sample post so I could introduce the following: write your own scene (or scenes). Email them to me, comment them, send them by carrier pigeon - I'll pick my favorites and publish them on the 31st.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Scenes 5: Christmas Edition

One:
I am very little and very warm and very in-my-pajamas and my toes are curled up in the shag and I look outside into the upstate New York landscape and the swing set is buried in snow.

Two:
You are decorating the tree and I am playing the piano.

Three:
An expert informs me that Christmas trees are better when you look at them cross-eyed (pictured above).

Monday, December 22, 2008

Scenes 4

One:
We are looking at the Mona Lisa and you say why do you think she is smiling? and I think that is the dumbest question I have ever heard there does not need to be a reason to smile people can just smile because they want to smile why does there have to be a reason to smile people always ask that question when they see this painting but it does not mean a thing it does not mean a thing it means nothing but I say I'm not sure.

Two:
We are on a bus and it is late and all around us people are discussing religion angrily and you are a devout Christian and I do not believe in God but we have been best friends since sixth grade and I ask if I can put my head on your shoulder and you look a little uncomfortable but you say okay and your shoulder is a little bony but I fall asleep just the same.

Three:
You try on my shoes but they do not fit.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Scenes 3

One:
You told me I was not a nerd and I said Not a nerd? I must be dreaming! Then I woke up.

Two:
You hit the scientist in the face with a crowbar and he screamed and died and we laughed for about twenty minutes.

Three:
I was posting on my blog but it sucked.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

On Fate

You have heard of fate, I am sure, because people say you were fated to meet them, they say you were fated to be together, that every moment of every life is leading up to this, that you are here and it was fate that brought you here today, and though I like the idea I cannot help but wonder if people are fated to not be together, if people are fated to be strangers, if people are fated to miss each other.

During the average school day you miss one hundred eighty-seven people. Fourteen could have been your friend, but four would have found you annoying; twenty-nine would have said something funny; eleven could make cookies and would have made cookies for you; nine share your passion for Hunter S. Thompson and miniature yorkshire terriers; and one - exactly one - would have put her hands on your chest and told you to close your eyes and would have pressed her lips up against your ear and whispered, softly, sweetly: "I love you."

Once, as an experiment, a kid decided to stop missing people for a day. He went to school with a sandwich board on - one with a list of his hobbies and the sports he played and his favorite bands - and introduced himself to everyone he didn't know. That day he made fourteen new friends, laughed twenty-nine times, and received eleven different batches of cookies (seven chocolate chip, three oatmeal raisin, and an odd variation on a peanut butter cookie that included bits of celery and chopped up sausage links). Unfortunately for the boy, however, the girl who would have loved him had a sore throat that day and stayed home sick.

You and I could have missed each other - it would have been easy - but for one instant something happened: fate blinked, maybe, or fate sneezed; fate's wife walked in and asked him if he wanted grilled cheese or tuna for lunch and he stopped paying attention while he looked out the window (his kid was flying a kite), and when he looked back down there we were, meeting, our strings crossed permanently, tied in one of those knots that are not complicated but that are so damn small it is just impossible to get them undone. I’m not sure if there are words out there that can express how glad I am that I did not miss you and that you did not miss me, but if there are I have yet to find them.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

A Haiku

I frequently find
myself at a loss for words;

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Become Inspired

Here is a good way to inspire someone:

Your friend comes to you because he has not taken a good picture in a while and he needs an idea for a story because he is like a balloon ready to pop he is ready to pop he has everything he needs just under the surface he has all the energy and motivation he just needs a needle he needs you to be a needle for him you are very good at being a needle for him so what you do is he will come to you and say all of the pictures I have taken lately are terrible and you say so take a good one and he says I need a story idea will you give me a story idea and you say no.

Sunday, December 07, 2008

Regarding Trips by Train, and also Being Alone

I'm on a train while I'm writing this - the 4:09 from Baltimore to Philadelphia - two cities that members of my family call home. My sister and I grew up just outside of Philly in a little suburb called Wayne and now she's a psych major at Johns Hopkins and I'm still in high school. I was visiting her this weekend (the second in December), and now I'm headed home. It's a Saturday evening; the train is quiet.

Outside, it's snowing. It started about an hour ago at ultimate practice and now we're in the thick of it; the sky is gray and the air is foggy and filled with flakes. This kind of weather makes for good traveling along the Northeast Corridor - the forests look empty without leaves, dark branches silhouetted against a light background. When we're lucky enough to pass over a body of water, the gray surface turns the same shade of gray as the sky; the horizon disappears, leaving only a solid gray wall.

We'll be pulling into Wilmington in a moment.

In the seat in front of me are a young woman and her son. She is reading and he is cutting out little Christmas trees out of green construction paper. I cannot help but admire the attention he is devoting to his task.

The fog is letting up a little bit, and the sky is darkening. The train begins passing through more residential areas.

I am riding alone. I like to ride alone, even though I don't do it much. I visited my sister once last year, but other than that I don't think I've ridden alone. I know that there will be no shortage of times in my life when I travel lone. I think it's something of a rite of passage. It's pleasant enough to be in solitude; as young children, we don't get much in the way of being alone. We're with people: our parents, our teachers, our chaperones. As adults, we're alone all the time. We take the bus alone. We go to our jobs alone. We fall asleep alone. If we're lucky we get married or we have children - we get people so we don't have to be alone, but even with people we have to be alone sometimes. Adults have to be alone sometimes. It's just the way things are.

Solitude is nice. Right now I'm feeling okay about being alone. The bottom line is this, though: being alone is okay, but being with people is better. I'm taking this train because I wanted to visit my sister in Baltimore and now I'm headed home on a Saturday night because I want to see my friends and tomorrow I'm performing in a concert because I want to be with people and to sing with people and to show off for people.

The Christmas lights around here sure are pretty. I wish you could see them.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

The Anti-Jeff: Part 3

Things were turning out okay.

Jeff had gotten new glasses (the inefficient kind, without frames), so I took the opportunity to get some new ones of my own. The government recently published some new information reporting that inefficiency could be contracted through eye contact, and I think Jeff was starting to notice that I was avoiding looking him in the eye (he mentioned something when I started looking around the corners of my house with hand mirrors). The new pair I bought was complete with government-issued Jeff Reflective coating. It was expensive, sure, but my health and efficiency were worth it.

My plan was working perfectly. Every week Jeff went to visit the other Jeff in a warehouse just outside of town, and I tracked him every time with a locator in his shoe.

During one of the meetings I made a call from the house to a certified JeffFree purveyor of firearms. The purchase was going to be quite expensive until I told him what I was planning on using my item of choice for; in the end, he offered me the gun for free, his only condition that I not come to the shop but rather that he stash it in the trunk of my car in a few days ("can't be too careful these days," he explained, "what with all the Jeff spies been runnin' around"). I agreed it was for the best.

Finally, the day came. It was a Saturday evening in November, I remember - a little chilly, dark by 5:45. I pulled my government-issued outer garment close against me as I snuck from my car to the building I now knew Jeff to be in. I pushed open the door. It squeaked.

I moved slowly.

The warehouse was large and dark, lit only by the small amount of moonlight that was able to struggle through the grimy paned windows. The primary feature in the space seemed to be large wooden crates. A metal catwalk was hung from the ceiling, connected to an upper level door. A crack of incandescent light streamed out from the crack under the door.

I climbed up the rusty ladder, cursing every tiny noise my feet made against the iron. Once up on the catwalk I crawled, maneuvering slowly towards the slit of light that seemed my only hint as to the Jeff's location.

Faint voices emanated from under the door. They sounded Jeff-Like.

"Oh man, this whole 'against the Jeffs' thing is getting a little ridiculous. How are people falling for this?"

Yes, definitely Jeff-Like.

I pulled out my gun and kicked open the door and there they were, sitting in a small table in a small room and looking small themselves and so thoroughly at my mercy. Unfortunately for them, I wasn't feeling merciful. The fear in their eyes was instant and for that I was grateful - I wanted them to be scared.

I stepped into the room slowly, my gun leveled, my finger poised.

"No long speeches," I said, "no melodrama. This ends here."

I pulled the trigger.

***

Appropriately enough, this picture was taken by Jeff B. I think it sort of fits with the post, and I also quite like the photo in and of itself.

There will be one more installment of this story.

Monday, December 01, 2008

The Carpet

We performed Sweeney Todd freshman year, which was a pretty good time; to be honest, I preferred it to Footloose, though I had a much smaller part. Contributing factors to my enjoyment were the obvious ones: the freshness of the experience, the fact that Mr. Joseph directed, and so on, and so on, and though these reasons were all very important it was for an entirely different reason that I really look so fondly upon the experience.

It was one of those late rehearsals, the kind that happen right before the show and last about eight hours or so, especially if they run long (this one was running long). About ten minutes into the second act (Johanna, Reprise) I began to get sleepy - not tired, for tired implies real exhaustion, and I was not exhausted. I was just comfortable - Tyler had shown me the wonders of removing my sneakers and socks in the orchestra pit and I was discovering the joy of being barefoot inside, in public, where I was really not supposed to be that way. My toes dug deep into the carpeted pit floor.

Oh, that carpet. I don't think I've encountered one quite like it in all my life. It was soft and fluffy - the kind that deserved to be in front of a warm fire - and it almost seemed like it was in front of a fire that night, what with the bright, burning spotlights on stage and the dim pit surrounding me. Outside, it had just started to snow - big, fluffy, fat flakes that drifted downwards as if in slow motion - and I had just recently sprinted back from the potluck dinner at the middle school. My hands had warmed up quickly after a brief chimes solo and now I was content, cuddly, and comfortable. I looked over at Tyler and saw that he had spread out on the floor. I decided I wouldn't mind a little rest either.

(As you can probably deduce from all the time the drummers have on their hands to relax, Sweeney Todd is not a percussion-heavy musical.)

I put down my sweatshirt as he stood up to begin playing the next song, the first of many that included no part for me. I sat down, testing the waters, seeing if it was really okay for me to be lying down in the pit. I let measures go by and nothing happened - no reprimand, no calling-out - I was simply not needed. I was free to lie down, and I did, cautiously.

I was short freshman year: this much you know but I want to make it clear that my voice was squeaky and that I was short enough to extend my legs all the way from the tam-tam to the timpani, an impossible feat for nearly anyone else. As soon as I settled in, I realized it: this was bliss. Being tired in public, secretly, staring up through the vibraphone keys and listening to the lilting alto, my head raised only enough to be comfortable but not enough to be useful, hidden, buried under a mountain of trap table legs and bass drum stands: this was something new, something incredible. I was surrounded by good friends and good music and I was just there, cozied up with the crash cymbals we kept on the floor, enjoying my surroundings silently.

I drifted off in the pit that night, only briefly, not enough to miss a cue but enough to fall in love with that carpet - that furry one that I dug my toes into one winter evening rehearsal.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Get Happy

Let's get happy, you and me and everyone reading this, let's get so so happy is anyone with me you should send me an email if you are with me let's get happy.

No no no see this could be easy actually we don't have to walk around the world though we could I guess let me know if you are interested we don't have to skinny dip in a warm lake at night though that would also be an option it seems intriguing are there snapping turtles in lakes like that it's just something I want to try I think we don't have to stand on top of buildings or milk a cow or get drunk and fall down the stairs we just have to shut our eyes shut your eyes and pretend you are somewhere else with someone you love or something you love do you like to fish? Let's pretend you are fishing it is a moonlit evening and you are alone and you get a little nibble and you pull it up and there is a little fish and the moon looks pretty in the ocean it is all ripply and the moon looks ripply in the reflection it is a little cold you pull your jacket tighter around you and you pull the fish up and stand up from the chair you brought and unhook it without a problem and you look at it and it looks at you (imploring) and you drop it back and it makes ripples and swims off to go get happy to go back to its family and say you will not believe what happened I got hooked but I'm better now and its wife will say "oh".

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Scenes 2

These posts are fun for me, but if you guys don't like them, let me know. Alternatively, feel free to write your own in the comment section.

One:
We are on a balcony fifteen floors up and I'm looking at the street and you're looking at the moon and I say I like being this high up and you say, I've been higher.

Two:
I am hanging my jacket up on a hook and you tell me you have a thing but that it can wait until I am hooked and I say I am already hooked and you say your jacket is not hooked and I say I know.

Three
You are smiling and smiling but then suddenly you are not smiling you are falling and your face has that look on it that says I am not smiling I am falling but I am there, for once in my thoroughly uneventful life I am there in front of you and I grab your arms and steady you so that you are not falling you are smiling and I look you in the eye and say are you okay [I have waited my whole life for that to happen] and you give this tiny little sigh and say: yes.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Notes

1. I am very attracted to the idea of tall buildings. I would like to construct tall buildings or picnic on top of tall buildings or perhaps jump off of a tall building but not in a way where I die just in a way where I feel what it is like to be falling through a city skyline. Are there flying classes? Can I afford to take them? Can I afford not to take them?

2. Nature and nurture are one and the same (you were wrong about that). After two million years we evolved like this, governments are the natural successor of everything that has happened and nurture is our nature. Love is a real emotion, and though perhaps it stems from something in biology it is ours now, it is not yours, you cannot have it back.

3. Consider skinny dipping in a warm lake. Also, play the marimba. Maybe at the same time? (check on this one)

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

On Forgetfulness

In seventh grade, I think, though it could have been sixth and it could have been eighth, Sanjana came over to my house with her whole family. Her dad and my dad worked together and she had a brother that was my sister’s age, and so our parents had arranged a small dinner party for our families. We made some awkward small talk and then the kids played a board game while the parents enjoyed hors d’oeuvres. We ate a meal; we had dessert; we said good night.

I had to ask Sanjana her name four times during the course of that evening, and then each time after that that our families got together, which is troubling. I have never prided myself on being a great host, but I at least figured that I was capable of remembering the one name I was responsible for. I guess all I can really do is be thankful that she was so willing to overlook my forgetfulness, and though I could speak endlessly of the many reasons why Sanjana is an extraordinary specimen of humanity I will not; to be honest, I only mention this small fact because it serves to illustrate a point I wish to express to you in no uncertain terms, and that point is this: I forget things.

I forget things, which is broad and vague and worthy of condemnation by fine writers everywhere because fine writing is precise and pristine and does not resort to such bland generalities as “I forget things”, but the point remains: I forget things, and lots of them. I forget the obvious things: names, dates, names. These things are easy to forget. These are the things your mom forgets and then paces around her kitchen for, a fish out of water, floundering and flapping unpredictably until, with a silent sigh of relief, she suddenly finds herself back under the surface, alive and alert, the fact no longer merely on the tip of her tongue but also on her mind, in big, blocky letters. I forget worse things: faces and events, for instance, or the reason I am calling or the fact that I’m in a synagogue and thus not supposed to be swearing wildly. People tell me stories where I play a main role that I have no recollection of at all, and when they are done they grin with disbelief at the blank face I have on and then they ask, “don’t you remember?”, at which point I will smile and laugh because no, I do not remember, and that is both amusing and heartbreaking at the same time and I can only hope it is breaking their heart as effectively as it is breaking mine, though I am certain it is not.

I forget things but I find ways around my forgetting things so that, sometimes, I forget that I forget things, at least for a little while. I do things early when I can so that I will not forget to do things later, or, if for some reason I am forced to delay the completion of a task, I make notes on my hand or in my assignment book, which I read faithfully, at least when I remember to. I surround myself my with people that have great memories, which is sometimes excellent and sometimes less than excellent; it is excellent when I need to find out an assignment I forgot but less than excellent when I am repeating the same joke over and over and I begin to tell it to people who have heard it already, which happens more frequently than you might at first suspect. My poor memory can even have its upsides. I have a tendency to obsess over mistakes I make, so it comes in handy when I forget the reason I’m obsessing in the first place. When that happens, I chalk one up to good luck and move on, which is nice to be able to do.

Forgetting things can have its advantages but I don’t want you to think that I am glad I forget things because I am not. I hate that I forget things. It gets in the way constantly. I will schedule two events at the same time and won’t realize it until the day before. I will walk into U.S. and be informed that we have a test that I should have been preparing for for a week. I will forget about this sentence, the one that I’m reading right now, and then next to go will be the dinner with Sanjana and then the essay and then the prompt and then the class and the teacher and then you. I will have a fantastic ending to an essay all planned out in my head,

***

Meredith took the picture, entitled "sharp fuzz". I would highly recommend clicking it to view it full. The fuzz looks really fantastic up close.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Nowhere

In the country, Jim's grandfather used to say, there was nowhere to hide. The city was full of niches and cracks, little places to stow yourself away, but in the country, where the soybeans stayed low to the ground for fear of heights and where there wasn't a house around for miles, there wasn't much hope for those who didn't want to be seen.

It was a moonless autumn night, and Jim saw them from afar because in the country there is nowhere to hide. He knew something was wrong from the start; two people weren't out this late on a cold evening like this if they weren't doing something (Jim was walking his dog), and these two people weren't doing something.

They were under one of the few streetlights that dotted the dirt road, the streetlights that were fifty yards apart, no more, no less (there had been a big town meeting about that decision), and one was sitting up and the other was lying down, lying still, in a position that did not suggest sleep but suggested something slightly more sinister, on the opposite side of the man sitting up. All but his legs were hidden to Jim, who approached slowly.

He was under the streetlight next to theirs when the man sitting up looked at him. He was tall and overweight and wearing a heavy down jacket over his overalls. He coughed, violently, a racking cough.

Jim continued approaching.

The man sitting up gave him some sort of face, one of pain, maybe, but more importantly one that Jim was unable to decipher from where he was, and so Jim continued approaching. The man coughed again, and then he looked back at Jim and shook his head.

"Sir?" Jim asked, stepping nearer.

The man kept coughing and shaking his head. He held up a hand.

"Sir?"

He was close now, and his dog was whining. The man sitting up just kept coughing and shaking his head and holding up a hand.

Up close, Jim could see the man was in bad shape. A tiny drip of blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth, and he was breathing hard. He struggled to say something, but Jim was unable to hear. He leaned close, allowing his dog to smell the man that was lying still.

"Sir?"

The man's jacket fell open, exposing a bare, bloody chest. Blood pumped out from everywhere, warm and wet, drenching the inside of the man's coat. The man coughed again, and red liquid squirted anew from the wounds on his body.

Jim stared. The man stopped coughing and looked Jim straight in the eye.

"Run", he rasped.

Jim heard a whine, and suddenly the body lying next to the man was alive and hurting his dog and then reaching out to grab Jim but Jim was running and running as fast as he could, unable to breathe or think or swallow and only able to pump his legs, one after the other, and he was one hundred and seventy two yards away and seventeen seconds from the streetlight when he turned around and look back, his head swimming and hot from the effort.

He saw a long stretch of empty road.

He kept running.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Scenes

One:
We have decided it is a good idea to throw around a frisbee on the elementary school that we climbed on top of so you throw me a long pass and I am running for it but suddenly I am falling for it and I thud flat on my face on the soft grass and then the frisbee hits me in the head.


Two:
It is eleven thirty at night outside starbucks and you got vegetable chips and I got a really awful rice krispie square that is only a little bit bigger than my head and for some reason the people at the vegetable chip factory decided to make their bags impossible to open without some sort of power drill so I ask you to hold my rice krispie square while I open the bag for you and I pass you my rice krispie square but it slips out of our hands and falls on the ground but we both start laughing so hard we cry.


Three:
You asked me if I was afraid of heights and I said no because I am not afraid of heights, and then I asked you if you were afraid of heights and you said maybe you were a little bit afraid of heights and I asked you how much a little bit is and you told me you had seen a specialist for eight years because you were afraid of heights and the only reason you stopped seeing him was because it had been eight years and you still couldn't breathe right if you looked out your bedroom window because it is on the second floor and then the elevator dinged eighty-six and we stepped out onto the windy roof.

Monday, November 10, 2008

On Everything, On Everything

She took notes on everything, on everything.

He loved her, and the little we know about the whole event suggests an unusual motivation for his love, which was partially in her face and her mind but primarily in her pocket, next to her phone - he loved her because of a green sharpie, and because of what she did with it, what he saw her doing with it when he saw her and loved her: taking notes.

She took notes on everything, on everything, which required clarification from the beginning but which no longer serves our purposes without it, so, to explicate, she took notes on everything, on everything: on all subjects and surfaces. She took notes on bow ties on an advertisement in the subway; she took notes on how sad people look on a table in McDonald’s; she took notes on cars on cars. She was unlimited in her note taking, and so he loved her when he was walking down the street and she was on the opposite sidewalk, pressed up against the glass of Daisy's Dresses and Things, one hand curled lazily up against her hip and the other clutching her sharpie and writing on the glass and then turning around without examining her work because she was practiced at this; she knew she was right; there was nothing to examine. He stared, and she looked at him because to take good notes she needed to see everything, to take note of everything, and so she did not look in his eyes she looked at his eyes and then she looked both ways and crossed the street and looked back at his eyes but this time she was in front of him, in note taking range, and she squinted with effort and stood on the tips of her toes and wrote on his face in green sharpie and then walked away and he was left looking across the street at the store window of Daisy's Dresses and Things which had two notes now, except one of the notes was backwards because it was written on his face.

Sharpie, for our intents and purposes infinitely less permanent than promised, washed off his face after two days and two nights and two showers and he never saw her again, but sharpie, for his intents and purposes as permanent as the writing on the window of Daisy's Dresses and Things ("this store used to sell chocolate") which remained, permanently, remained, permanently, not in his face or his mind or his personality but in his pocket, next to his cell phone and wallet. His sharpie was red and his notes were far more limited than hers, for he took notes on everything but not on everything, which is of course to say that he took notes on all surfaces but not on all subjects; he had only one subject – three little words – which seems unsatisfying but was actually not.

And so he took notes on everything but on only one thing, and since there was not much to say on only thing it ended up that all of his notes were the same: "I love you," written on walls and ceilings and floors and windows and public telephones, to which her green sharpie reply, as constant as the note she was replying to, as constant as the many subjects and surfaces she took notes on, as constant as the flowing ink which has served to communicate ideas and feelings for generations before us and will continue to do so for generations after, as constant as everything, as everything, was always scribbled neatly under his note and was always breaking our heart in exactly the same way and always said, from top-to-bottom and left-to-right, "I know".

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Briefly, On the Making of Lists

Things should be concise.

Things should not be short, or rather, things need not be short, though they are still welcome to be, which is exactly why lists are so excellent: lists are potentially endless but demand conciseness by definition. No one wants a list made up of paragraphs. People want lists made up of sentences. Fragments. Lists of nouns, lists of verbs, lists of nouns and verbs with each item containing exactly one noun and one verb: cut grass, clean room, call grandma. The numbers go on and on but what is constant is the nature: condensed, compact, curt, like a bump in the hallway, a nod in your direction, a telephone conversation with your mother's mother on mother's day.

Lists have an overwhelming potential for frivolity, like that list you wrote about things you want to do before you die, which is so important it becomes pointless (go skinny dipping, punch someone, sex with a french girl), but lists also have an overwhelming potential to do good, to serve purposes, like your list of the major accomplishments of Benjamin Franklin (discovering electricity, inventing insurance, sex with a french girl), but lists have an underwhelming potential for extraneousness because lists are by definition brief and also briefs; they are both brief and briefs; they are brief briefs because they batter you with a barrage of blunt bulletins, a basket-full of bright bits, a bombardment of benign beings.

In summary:
  1. Lists are good.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Regarding Storm Doors

I don't mind winter.

I prefer summer, sure, which is no one's fault if not my sister's, who has convinced me to thrive on flatness and heat and in-and-out forehands, but winter is okay - I don't mind winter. I like snow, and I can deal with the cold. Even the early darkness has its upside: when it's dark I get down to work, so the earlier the sun sets the earlier I start the notes I have due for U.S. the next day.

I have one qualm with winter, though, and it's not even a big one. It's a pet peeve, really, and one that is quite low on the list, resting well below stubbing my toe and only just above people who don't pause for rests while singing.

I hate storm doors.

Just as my love for all things disk-shaped, I get this one at least partly from my sister too; when she was nine my dad was replacing the storm door window with the screen and she didn't know. She pushed down on the door's handle with her right hand and pressed her left against the space where recently there had been glass and so she plunged, head-first, through the frame and came crashing down a million feet below on our concrete stoop, taking only a brief rest-stop during the trip to shatter through the plate glass that my dad had rested on the ground.

(My sister, incidentally, has a bit of a feud with doors in general. The morning before her last day of middle school I watched as she punched through the glass on our side door.)

My own problems with storm doors began when our house was robbed in sixth grade. I came home from the bus one afternoon in February to discover the front door smashed into a thousand pieces but the storm door intact, waiting for me, as if saying, with a big old grin, your house was broken into, but don't worry, I'm fine, I'm still here, I didn't break. I was understandably upset about it. Our front door had sacrificed itself in the name of the defense of our house, had fought bravely as an unnamed man in a black turtleneck split the wood at the dead bolt and splintered the hinges into dust, and our storm door had sat there, watching its companion being slaughtered, and quaked in fear and hoped it would be spared.

Storm doors remain a nuisance. I can't shut the exterior doors of my house anymore because of the cushion of air in between the storm door and the door I'm shutting. The satisfying slam created in the presence of a screen is gone, replaced with a frustratingly gentle wfff of air coupled with the light tap the edge of the door makes as it hits the frame without nearly enough force to move it any farther. I have to press up against the door to shut it, a necessity that drives me crazy beyond belief. And while storm doors make it nearly impossible to shut a door with any sort of force, they also make it completely pointless to open a door; there is no purpose in having an exterior door open if the storm door remains closed, so on an unusually warm day in December our doors are shut even though I want to invite the weather inside and ask it if it wants a soda or something. I could drink a soda with winter, I think - I don't much mind winter. It's storm doors I can't stand.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

How Jeremy Broke His Nose

Jeremy thought cutting himself was gross, so he broke his nose.

Jeremy was a nice guy, really. He got okay grades and he worked hard. He was pretty quiet, but he had a few friends and this one girl in his Euro class who looked at him every once in a while. Jeremy was happy; that part is important. Jeremy was happy and remained happy for the duration of this entire little episode.

The problem with Jeremy was not that he got sad, but rather that he got frustrated. He said the wrong thing frequently and imagined that whoever he told it to was still thinking he's the stupidest person in the world. Jeremy also liked to think that the world was straight forward, even though he knew it wasn't. Jeremy pretended there was a very direct correlation between pain and gain, so that whenever he was hurting, something was getting better. Somehow the lack of blood distinguished between self-mutilation and whatever Jeremy was doing, so he never drew blood, but when things went wrong he punched himself in the head or bent his fingers backwards because he thought it might fix things.

Jeremy stumbled over his chair and words after Euro one day, in precisely that order. He was getting up and suddenly he was falling down, falling into the girl who smiled at him, knocking her down too, knocking the egg she had to carry around for AP Psychology down, breaking it from one bonus point to a mess that was all over her new dress.

"Oh, christ," Jeremy stuttered, "I'm so sorry. Oh god, I'm really sorry. I meant to do that. I meant- I didn't mean- I'm sorry, I meant I meant to do that. I didn't mean- I really like you I'm so sorry."

The girl was already running out of the room.

Four minutes later Jeremy wandered into the nurse's office, talking wildly to himself.

The secretary looked up at him. "Yes?" she asked.

"I think my nose is broken."

She looked at him carefully, noticing nothing wrong. "It's fine," she said.

Jeremy made a quick fist and hit himself in the nose. Something cracked.

"It's really not."

Monday, October 27, 2008

In Defense of Wrinkles

I want to be wrinkly.

Wrinkles are the result of a life well-lived. Wrinkles mean you smiled a lot, wrinkles mean you played the piano, or raised your eyebrows, or jumped or moved or ran, depending on their location. The bottom line is I want to have done all of those things, and so when I'm old I hope I smiled and ran and wrinkled, wrinkled and enjoyed every minute of it. I hope you wrinkled with me, I hope we smiled and ran together, or not together but at the same time, in different directions, in different places. I hope we smiled and ran into each other, and got a cup of coffee and talked about how we got our wrinkles and raised our eyebrows at each other and laughed, laughed so for every wrinkle we talked about we got ten more. I hope you told me about the wrinkles that you didn't tell other people; I hope it was dark and we walked on a cold windy beach and you told me about the wrinkles that came from crying or fighting or falling down the stairs. Wrinkles don't always mean happiness. They mean experience. I want you to have told me your experiences and I could tell you about mine and I want to have experienced with you and got wrinkles from it. I like it when you smile and when you smile you get wrinkles, you got wrinkles, and we could be wrinkly because we experienced everything together and smiled. I hope we were walking and someone offered us anti-wrinkling cream and we laughed and wrinkled because we wore our wrinkles on our sleeves. We let everyone see them and everyone got jealous because they were blank pieces of paper and we had lines all over us, our wrinkles were our lines, our wrinkles drew pictures of everything we did and didn't and wished we had and regretted and laughed about. We could be wrinkly because we wrinkled and loved every minute of it.

Wrinkle with me.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Un Soir dans Paris VI

This is an insert that will eventually go between parts II and III. When I'm done with the whole thing, I'll fix the numbers and probably combine it into one long story on another page. Also, I've posted this picture before, but I just recently found a photoshop tutorial for making a good grunge photograph. I like how this came out.

****

Cold was fluorescent.

Cold kept things slow and bright; cold left nothing unexposed. Cold examined everything, every opportunity you missed and every mistake you made, but more than that cold was synonymous with the dirty kind of light that illuminated everything, that bounced off grimy cement walls and oily snow and damp asphalt and blinded everyone. Cold had good intentions, probably, but in the end cold didn't really solve problems. It just provided the light people needed to get things figured out.

On this evening, Nicolas had an idea that changed everything, and he had it in a cold, bright library under the streets of Paris.

Nicolas was a poet by birth and a scientist by profession but a worker by every other standard that anyone cared to name. He wanted change and was one of the few people in Paris working for it, and he was doing it the only way he knew how: science.

Things were not going well. He had energy and stamina but no ideas, which were the things that really mattered. He was willing to be meticulous and careful but didn't know what he had to be meticulous and careful about, at least until this night when he had his idea.

Nicolas had a theory. He thought people fought because it was hot; people fought because it has hot and they were sweating and it only seemed natural to be fighting when it was this hot. So he had an idea to change the heat and the fighting all at once, an idea that would make people smile again, an idea that would save the life of a stranger he had never met and would never meet, an idea that would shed light on a problem enough to solve it.

Nicolas would make it snow.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

--Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay"

Monday, October 20, 2008

Airplane

Here, Rachel, make this your background.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The Bell Whisperer

There was a bell whisperer.

His name was Alex or Alec or something, and he had red hair and freckles and he was a bell whisperer. I heard it from a friend, or my brother, perhaps, or someone in his section was in my SAT class or had a sister that went to my synagogue. You've heard it before too, little shouts and murmurs about how much better the band was when he was here or how there was this crazy kid who was sick at the bells. The bell whisperer, he was called, because he could whisper to the bells and they knew what he was saying.

He played the bells, which already makes him a little weird because not many people played the bells, and he had red hair and freckles on his arms and he wore a black hat all the time that had an acronym on it that no one knew. His name was Alex, you've been told, and he was a bell whisperer who played the bells.

The bells are the instrument that you forgot when you were listing all the instruments in the marching band, even though they're bright and clear and you can hear them from the stands, that is to say you hear the music they're playing and you can probably identify which instrument is playing it, though you call them xylophones even though xylophones are actually made of wood and these are bells and bells are metal. Alex might have called them xylophones too, because even though he was the bell whisperer he was still a high school kid who rarely cared to distinguish between pitched percussion. I think there was a kid in his section who got angry when you called them xylophones, but the point of this story is more about the bell whisperer, and he didn't care what you called them or even if you acknowledged them. As far as he was concerned, it was just him and the bells, and even then he really preferred hanging out with his friends to playing his instrument. He didn't even read music, he just heard it and played it, which was miraculous unto itself but not why he was called the bell whisperer.

He had freckles on his face and on his arms and legs and he played the bells but that wasn't why he was called the bell whisperer either. He was called the bell whisperer because he heard the bells talk and he knew what was wrong with them and because during his freshman year he saved someone's life during a parade using a bell set and also he could fix them regardless of the problem. Whether a note was coming loose or a bracket was falling off and the bells were about to fall and the harness was about to crack he knew beforehand and he took the set and walked it back to the band room and fixed it and was back on the field before the number was done, and if he didn't have a screwdriver he couldn't fix the bells because even though he was a bell whisperer he couldn't just fix things that were broken without a screwdriver, so when he didn't have a screwdriver he would just march with the broken set and tell it not to break and it wouldn't, and the kid who got annoyed when you called the bells the xylophones just shook his head and laughed and said something about how good the bell whisperer was at what he did.

He had a black hat that had some acronym on it and no one knew what the acronym stood for and he had red hair that was really more orange and he had freckles all over the place and because of that you called him a ginger kid, but he didn't mind so much. He called himself a ginger kid, but this is less about how he was called a ginger kid and more about how he was called the bell whisperer, and the reason he was called the bell whisperer was because he could fix anything that was wrong with the bells and one year he saved someone's life during a parade because he knew the bells were about to get damaged and damaged bad and so he told his section leaders to put the bells up and they looked at him weird but he told them something was about to happen and so they did.

His name was Alex or Alec, one or the other, and he was the bell whisperer and also a ginger kid, and he had friends that were ginger kids and he was the funniest person you ever knew, or maybe the funniest person I ever knew, or maybe just the funniest anyone in the whole world ever knew, and he was called a ginger kid because he had freckles and orange hair but he was called the bell whisperer because he knew when the bells were going to break and because he knew in ninth grade when the bells were going to break and so he told everyone to put their bells up and the guy with the gun at the parade who shot at the band really didn't do any damage but hit the sophomore girl who walked in the back row who had the pretty hair but who was really quiet but she was fine because for some unknown reason her bells were up even though the band was supposed to be playing and the bullet hit the e flat that was right in front of her heart and bounced off.

He had freckles on his arms and a black hat and his name was Alex, as far as I recall, or as far as you recall, and he was the bell whisperer, which is good work if you can get it.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Tch

Tch was quick. He hit hard, he moved fast, he bobbed, he stretched, he coiled, he dodged, he ducked, he switched directions. He used jabs, he confused his opponent, and he won. He won big. He won all the time.

Tch was a lightweight, but only because he had to be. He would have fought any sound that cared to take him on. Tch was tall and skinny and had stitches down the right side of his face, and though he acted modest in public, he relished the attention. He was a boxer, through and through.

He fought all kinds of sounds. He beat Ch without much of an issue, even though some had predicted it would be a close fight. Tch was infinitely sharper than Ch. Dge was a tough opponent, heavier than Tch, but not as fast, not as cutting. Tch was quick. His fight with Th wasn’t even close. Th was as soft as his sister, Sh. Neither of them were born to be boxers, but it seemed like only Sh realized that. As a publicity stunt, Tch once fought the twins, Ff and Ph, at the same time. Tch won handily; his speed ended up tripping his opponents over one another. Cl, Str, even X. Tch took them on and won.

Tch was mean. There wasn’t much doubt about it. He was practical, sure, and a little bit quiet, but he was mean. He hit his opponents harder than he needed to because he liked the noise that their head made against that last punch, the punch that sent the other sounds sprawling and that started the referee counting. He loved it when his opponent got back up, too; that was his favorite part. The other sound would be standing there, dazed, and the referee would drop his arm and before his victim would even get his gloves up Tch would wind up and send a right hook pounding into his head. He would fall back to the ground, and if he got up Tch would do it again, over and over, mercilessly, until the fight was over.

Tch was a fighter, and a topnotch one at that. Tch was the best.

Monday, October 13, 2008

This Could Be An Issue

I like living on the Main Line. I know it has its faults, but if I could pick anywhere in the world to go to school, I would still pick here.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Un Soir dans Paris V

Heat was paramount.

Sure, heat wasn't infinite. Heat couldn't make it into apartments at night, for instance, which meant that people who took refuge there were safe, at least until daybreak. It couldn't be everywhere, but it could be enough places so that, even if someone hid in an apartment at night, heat would get them eventually. The smart ones knew it: heat wasn't up for discussion. Find ways around it, evade it for a while, seek shelter, drink water, cool down; it doesn't matter. Heat would win out in the end.

Felix and Josephine didn't know that. It was early morning, two or three, and they were hiding in the cover of an alley. The concrete was cool, even if the air was stifling, so they sat and watched the stray cats playing around the dumpster.

Josephine got up, walking over to the dumpster. She hopped on top lightly while the cats scattered. She jumped and grabbed the rusty iron fire escape that clung so precariously to the alley wall. Swinging her feet up, she pulled herself, rung by rung, until she sat on the bottom level of the metal contraption.

Felix watched her, half-amused. "What's going on up there?" he inquired, doing his best impression of what he imagined to be a grin.

She replied, "not much. You want to come up?"

He looked around. "I'm good down here."

"Yeah," she said, drumming a little cadence on the fire escape, "I figured."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"What do you think it means?" she exclaimed, exasperated, "you just don't seem like the type to do something really adventurous."

"I hang out with you," he said.

Josephine laughed.

Thursday, October 09, 2008

HDR Test

I posted this picture before, but in this version I did the best I could to make it HDR, which involves combining a lot of exposures. I just found out that, by using the RAW setting on my camera, I can take a picture, make it into a bunch of different pictures of different exposures, and then make those into an HDR. Look for it in the future.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

Bad Rhetorical Questions

1. If a tree falls in the forest, does the five-second rule apply to beavers?

2. What is the sound of one hand playing ping-pong?

3. Aardvark?

Friday, October 03, 2008

Bad Essay Prompts

1. Assess the relative importance of the days of the week taking into account readers of "Cat Fancy" magazine.

2. Using artistic evidence from the Gothic period, explain the process by which rattlesnakes reproduce.

3. In a well-organized essay, aardvark.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Un Soir dans Paris IV

Heat was predictable, which was to the advantage of those that it bothered.

Heat was hot, sure, and heat hit hard, but it was predictable. It moved quickly, where it could, but it had trouble with trees and rocks and apartments and night. Night was bad; night made it cool and less hot, though it was still hot. Apartments at night were the worst, though. Apartments at night were downright bearable, and so even though heat was miserable in almost all cases, Parisians found ways around it.

The meeting was held in an abandoned apartment building in the older section of the city at night. Josephine and Felix arrived a little early, but Simon and a few others were already there. Simon sat at the front of the room, poring over some papers.

"Simon, this is Felix. He's interested in joining the resistance." Josephine's introduction was less than accurate, and Felix flushed. Simon held out a massive hand, and Felix took it, expecting a crushing handshake. He wasn't disappointed.

Simon was tall and well-built, his brown hair dropping in front of his eyes, pushed down by a black beanie.

"Simon's the one behind the whole resistance," Josie explained, patting Simon's shoulder, "he'll tell you it was a team effort, but it was pretty much all him."

Simon laughed humbly, replying, "hardly. I couldn't have done it without you guys. Who smuggled the rifles? Who got the security codes?"

Josie seemed determined. "Yeah, but who planned everything?"

"The meetings are where the planning gets done! It's not like the resistance follows me blindly. We'll leave that sort of devotion to the army."

Felix was surprised to hear Simon calling the government by the term of ill-endearment usually reserved for the Poets.

Simon saw the look on his face. "You prefer that I call them the government? They do no governing. They are killers."

Felix mumbled something, but Simon had already turned away, his voice ringing out over the crowd that had gathered, settling them down.

"Ladies, gentlemen, please. Take your seats."

They did as they were told.

"We have been working for a long time to be as prepared as we are now, on the brink of our fight. The tasks you have completed over the past months and years has been heroic. We have converted fanatics of the army to our side, from the lowest of the workers to top-ranking personnel, and amassed enormous stockades of resources, the least of which include rifles, riot gear, helmets, ammunition, and, of course, our own passion for revolution. The workers have been trodden on for years, but for no longer. We will be heard."

There was some applause, but Simon held up his hands.

"Take the week off. You've earned it. Next week begins the revolution."

Saturday, September 27, 2008

On Hands

I'm very aware of my hands.

I close them, carefully, deliberately, so that my muscles pull my skin taught and the veins on the back stand out, bluish. I stretch them out; thumb to pinky I can reach an octave and a half, though I'd never play much more than an octave. I turn them over, I pop my thumb out, I crack my knuckles, each one, separately. I practice the sign language alphabet. I wreck my nails.

It's not something I do thoughtlessly; to the contrary, I find that it is only when I really think about my hands that I bother doing it at all. I'm sitting somewhere, in a car, maybe, or at a desk, or at a restaurant, and suddenly I'm thinking about my hands and opening them and closing them and wrecking my nails.

I could say I'm doing it to confirm that they're still there, but I'm not. I could say I'm admiring the design, examining the handiwork that went into making me the evolutionary miracle that I am, or that I want to really mean it when I say I know something like the back of my hand, but if you really quizzed me I doubt I could tell you what the back of my hands really looked like. I'm not testing out muscles; I'm not practicing piano. I'm really just very aware of my hands, and so it feels natural to move them around.

I like to think of things as endearing. Little things, like stuttering and freckles and constantly-crooked glasses, looking for the perfect word, or having a weird laugh, or spontaneous dancing. They seem endearing. I guess I sort of hope that my hand thing is endearing.

Don't tell me if it isn't.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

This Is Just To Say

This is just to say:
I know I fouled you
during last night's game.

I ripped the frisbee from your hands
but contested the call anyway.

Forgive me.
It was far too easy
when the trophy was so shiny
and your grip was so weak.

This is an adaptation of a poem called "This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams. Poets and writers frequently write their own version of the poem, and it was recently featured on an episode of "This American Life". Let's get a little collection of our own adaptations; write one and email it to me or comment it on this post.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Xtra Dead 4: Death Kills

The scene: a ritzy hotel bar, 11:30 PM. In the background, a cocktail party rages mercilessly. Light jazz plays. Martini glasses clink gently.

In the foreground, MATTHEW MANN sips whisky. He is dressed in a sharp tuxedo, his hair slicked back. His toned muscles are hidden by the black jacket, but he is clearly a fit man. He looks at ease.

HOT WOMAN approaches MATTHEW. She sits down next to him.

HOT WOMAN (to MATTHEW)
Nice watch.

MATTHEW
I'm not wearing a watch.

HOT WOMAN (coyly)
I know.

She orders a drink, and then spins around on her stool, facing the party. Her elbows rest on the bar, but she still talks to MATTHEW.

HOT WOMAN
So, how do you know the president's daughter and the most famous basketball player of all time?

MATTHEW
Friend of a friend. I was lucky to get invited to the wedding. This reception certainly is beautiful.

HOT WOMAN (eyeing him)
That's a nice tux. What is it, Brioni, 1939?

MATTHEW
Uh, no.

HOT WOMAN
Oh, well. Whatever it is, it must have cost a fortune.

MATTHEW
I'm very good at what I do.

HOT WOMAN (turning towards MATTHEW)
Oh yeah? And what exactly do you do?

MATTHEW (also coyly)
Oh, nothing.

Suddenly, orchestra hits play. In a black and white flashback, MATTHEW is in a hut somewhere in the jungle, wearing a dirty tank top and cargo shorts. He holds an AK-47, and he hits a man with the butt of the gun, violently.

Back in the hotel.

HOT WOMAN (confused)
Wait, you're very good at doing... nothing?

MATTHEW
Er, yes.

In the jungle again, MATTHEW hits the MAN two more times. Orchestra hits continue playing.

Back in the hotel. The background music has faded, leaving a few clarinets trilling. Tension mounts.

HOT WOMAN (still confused)
Wait, are you employed?

MATTHEW
Ah...

In the jungle, MATTHEW is walking out of the hut, holding a cigar. His arm is bloody. He stops for a second, lights up the cigar, and throws away the match. He inhales deeply, relishing the smoke.

He takes out a stick of dynamite, lights it with the cigar, and throws it behind his back. He exits.

The background explodes. Then: another explosion, this time bigger, in slow motion.

A brief pause, then six more explosions.

Back at the party:

MATTHEW
Not unemployed per say...

The HOT WOMAN looks at him.

HOT WOMAN (seductively)
Oh?

MATTHEW
As much as I'd like to continue this conversation, I actually have something to do.

HOT WOMAN (confused, hurt)
What?

MATTHEW gets up from the bar and wades into the crowd. Suddenly, a gunshot rings out from the center of the room. Everyone throws themselves flat except for MATTHEW, the PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER (wearing white), and a MASKED MAN holding a gun in the air and grabbing the PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.

MATTHEW is unperturbed. He walks determinedly towards the MASKED MAN, who is facing the other way, yelling something in Russian.

MATTHEW grabs the gun from him. He spins around, MATTHEW punches him in the face. The MASKED MAN falls.

The PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER looks confused. MATTHEW takes the opportunity to kiss her once, passionately. The MOST FAMOUS BASKETBALL PLAYER OF ALL TIME stands up.

MOST FAMOUS BASKETBALL PLAYER OF ALL TIME
Hey, that's my wife!

He takes a swing at MATTHEW, who ducks. The MOST FAMOUS BASKETBALL PLAYER OF ALL TIME hits his new wife, the PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER. As the MOST FAMOUS BASKETBALL PLAYER OF ALL TIME crouches down to apologize, MATTHEW stands up, straightens his tie, and begins to walk from the room. As he does, he takes out a cigar, lighting up. He inhales deeply and takes out a stick of dynamite.

MATTHEW is walking from the hotel. Behind him, it explodes. He is too cool to notice.

ON SCREEN, as Matthew exits:

XTRA DEAD 4: DEATH KILLS
COMING SOON

The hotel blows up again.

Cut to black.

The end.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

September

September never got a fair fight, which was unfortunate.

January wasn't afraid to wind up for its punches, and June worked more with quick jabs. December cheated; he weighted his gloves with Christmas and New Year's Eve. April and May were girls, and while the rest of the months shuffled their feet and coughed nervously at the thought of fighting girls, April and May hit deliberately. By the time their opponent set aside ideas of chivalry, it was too late. He had already lost.

July and August didn't have much in the way of strength, but they were quick. They dodged left and right, confusing their opponent with heat and relaxation, seemingly never-ending weekends and sand. November punched hard, pummeling into submission. October had a late run, cold and hard until the very end of the match, where he sprang into action with jack-o-lanterns and trick or treats. Even February, the runty, forgotten, underdog, always managed to score a hit or two.

September couldn't win.

September was uncomfortably warm and uncomfortably cold. He was slow and thin. His glasses would always get knocked off, and his shoes were too heavy. He was always on the defense. School started in September, and that always seemed to have him in the corner. Opponents didn't even need an advantage. September beat himself.

When he fought February, he tripped on the ice. Against June he melted. May and April were the worst of all. September would just stand there, letting himself get hit until he couldn't stand up anymore.

Maybe without holidays or school, September could have fought and held his own. The weather wasn't terrible in September. Scarfs were optional, and sometimes Sunday evenings were warm enough for a game of pick-up soccer. September could have been a balanced fighter, not too quick and not too strong, but enough of both to win once in a while.

There was one fight, though, a Tuesday night fight where September fought January, where things were different. No one ever came on Tuesday night, and the manager just wanted a quick fight so he could close up and go home.

At first, the match was predictable. January was inaccurate, but hit hard enough. September was in the corner early, and the referee had to pull January off more than once.

It was the fourth time that the months had gotten tangled up when September did something new. The referee dropped his arm, and January wound up to throw what would everyone assumed would be the last punch of the match. Suddenly, though, September got this calm look on his face. He dropped his gloves.

It was suddenly a warm Friday, early evening, on the campus of a suburban high school. The sun drew straight, long lines with the linearity of the courtyard, chairs stretching for miles in shadows on the ground. Litter was everywhere, and crows and chipmunks scavenged loudly around, looking for dinner.

In the corner of the courtyard, a group of friends sat playing cards and snacking. They wore shorts; the sun that hit their skin was more than enough to keep them warm. A gentle breeze drifted across the area. The friends laughed.

January was reeling. September hit him over and over with his right glove, winding up and striking repeatedly, determinedly, sweat flying. One more punch sent his opponent sprawling on the ground, flat-out.

The referee counted, and, slowly, the month stood up, testing his balance. September looked balanced and alert. He was ready for anything. He brought his gloves up.

Then January snowed, and everyone went home for the night.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Food 2

Though orchestra was, by far, the most painful period of the day, high school wasn't all terror and violins. Sometimes things could almost get sweet. For instance, I remember once at lunch a little freshman came running through the courtyard sobbing about a test. I remember how, as soon as he got through the other door, Ali clucked her tongue and said, "school's a bitch." She shook her head sadly. "Messed up on amino acids, for Chrissake. Poor bastard forgot to study."

On occasions high school was like a Ping-Pong ball. You could put fancy spin on it, you could make it dance.

I remember at lunch every day before U.S., I would always ask Emma what time class started. Every day she had a different answer. Sometimes she would say, "are you honestly asking me that?" Other times she pretended to hit me. People didn't get it. Repeatedly they would hear the question and answer for her. It was still sort of relaxing, though. Both of us knew I knew class started at 12:02. We knew where we stood. It was predictable.

Once there was this student who had the lead in the musical and then, at the very start of the biggest performance, she forgot her lines and started performing the previous year's musical. From there, everyone: stage crew, the orchestra pit, the whole cast, just performed the musical from the year before. No one skipped a beat. It was incredible, it was crazy, it was daring, and the audience left a little confused about what had happened.

I remember Carissa smiling as she told me that story. Most of it she made up, I'm sure, but even so it gave me a trick truth-goose. Because it's all relative. You're stuck in some stupid Spanish class, and then the bell rings and you realize it's lunch time and you get half an hour to spend with your friends, and you walk out and look up and see the sun and a few puffy white clouds, and then immense serenity flashes against your eyeballs. The whole world gets rearranged, and even though you're stuck in school you never felt more at peace.

What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end:

Frances lying down in some dorm room in Tennessee, our whole DI team just there in the dark, and her whispering, "I'll tell you something, guys. If I could have one wish, anything, I'd wish for my parents to sit me down and say it's okay if I don't get an A on a test. That's all they ever talk about, nothing else. How they can't to see my goddamn test scores."

Or Monica teaching a snow dance to Carissa and Hong, the three of them whooping and leaping around while a bunch of freshmen looked on with a mixture of fascination and giggly horror. Afterward, Hong said, "So where's the snow?" and Monica said, "The grader is slow, but the student is patient," and Hong thought about it and said, "Yeah, but where's the snow?"

Or Tim adopting an inch worm, carrying it around all day on his briefcase until Jeff purposefully knocked it onto the ground and stepped it on it with his size twelve sneakers.

We're all pretty young, I guess, so things often took on a curiously playful atmosphere, lots of pranks and horseplay. Like when Jeff stepped on Inchy the Inch Worm. "What's everybody so upset about?" Jeff said. "I mean, Jesus, I'm just a kid."

Sometimes you can't spin it, though. Sometimes high school wasn't fun and everyone knew it so there it is. There it is, they'd say. Over and over, there it is, my friend, there it is, as if the repetition itself was an act of poise, a balance between failing and almost failing, knowing without going, there it is, which meant take it easy, take it slow, don't worry about that math test. Oh yeah, man, you can't change what can't be changed, there it is, there it is, there it absolutely and positively and friggin' well is.

They were tough. They were adaptable. They were confused. They were sure of themselves. They could walk in the hall without a problem. They weren't afraid to shove someone, or to write on the tables in the courtyard. They yelled for people to be quiet. They danced. They sung. They sat by themselves. They carried on, saddling up every day and forming up in through the door and walking towards their classes.

It wasn't too bad.