Merry Christmas, folks.(If you don't celebrate Christmas, then Happy Holidays.)
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Winter
In the dark, mostly, Lewis paces in Persephone's room.
First, I mean, cold. That one is the most obvious, and what does it mean? Moving slowly. Being alone. Stale pizza. Death, of course, death, and dying, and also purity - that is to say of course freedom from impurity. Did you know they put menthol in Listerine to make your mouth feel that sort of icy feeling? Cold is clean, that is an easy one. Second, what? Light? This has always been sort of counterintuitive for me because the days are shorter but just generally everything is brighter, the way the sun reflects off the snow and the roads turn that dirty white with the ground-in salt. I want that to be about knowledge so badly, you know, illumination and stuff. I want that to be about precision. Winter is a time to cut so, so carefully. To think before you speak. Dryness. Winter is about sucking the moisture out of your skin and exposing you for what you are. Winter is about cracked fingers and raw palms, winter is a time to drop discs, because the bottom line here is that winter isn't on your side. Summer, summer will be your friend. Summer you could have a drink with, but winter is something to be fought, with hats and gloves and balaclavas. You'll never win, I mean, but it is a matter of just lasting, of letting it run its course, I'm sorry. God, I have never been much good with symbols, but seasons might be my favorite of all and what, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Persephone is working on her translations (she is always working on her translations when he is there), and so she flips to a new page - clean and white and fresh - and writes at the top and on the left and then holds it up for him to see: It is winter, and I am always cold.
First, I mean, cold. That one is the most obvious, and what does it mean? Moving slowly. Being alone. Stale pizza. Death, of course, death, and dying, and also purity - that is to say of course freedom from impurity. Did you know they put menthol in Listerine to make your mouth feel that sort of icy feeling? Cold is clean, that is an easy one. Second, what? Light? This has always been sort of counterintuitive for me because the days are shorter but just generally everything is brighter, the way the sun reflects off the snow and the roads turn that dirty white with the ground-in salt. I want that to be about knowledge so badly, you know, illumination and stuff. I want that to be about precision. Winter is a time to cut so, so carefully. To think before you speak. Dryness. Winter is about sucking the moisture out of your skin and exposing you for what you are. Winter is about cracked fingers and raw palms, winter is a time to drop discs, because the bottom line here is that winter isn't on your side. Summer, summer will be your friend. Summer you could have a drink with, but winter is something to be fought, with hats and gloves and balaclavas. You'll never win, I mean, but it is a matter of just lasting, of letting it run its course, I'm sorry. God, I have never been much good with symbols, but seasons might be my favorite of all and what, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Persephone is working on her translations (she is always working on her translations when he is there), and so she flips to a new page - clean and white and fresh - and writes at the top and on the left and then holds it up for him to see: It is winter, and I am always cold.
Monday, November 29, 2010
For Once, Regarding Friendship
He lives in New England now and also he writes in the present tense and in third person, maybe so it is all fiction, maybe because it makes everything more real, regardless, I mean, here we go:
He lives in New England now, and, late at night and in her car, he is still marveling at the whole thing. In the Mid-Atlantic you can't see stars like this because it doesn't get dark like this, like here, where the sky is light and wispy and the mountains are silhouettes, black, formidable and poorly-defined, like in a poem you read one time that made you wish you went camping more. He wants to fall into that dark, but maybe another time - for now, they drive.
She pulls over just past the state line – a little after midnight in the town where his dad grew up – and they cross the road after trying not to look too shady for the dumpy blue sedan that represents the only other person awake in three miles. The moon is so bright that there is a ring around it, something about crystals in the air, I don't know, and they trek up the last hundred feet in the sort of way you trek up a hundred feet in the middle of the night wearing Sperry Top-Siders; she is leading, so sure-footed and with such poise, he is behind, breathing heavily because he can't even manage the workouts she could do in her sleep, and this is important: he is waiting for everything to be clear. The valley is there, they both know it for sure, but there are trees and bushes in the way of the view and she already knows the end of this but he doesn't. As far as he knows it is always going to be as obscured as this, this, like the piece of dirt you had in your eye and couldn’t get out, like the movie you watched that had a weird dark line down the middle of the theater screen, like the stars look too near that huge mall that you and he and she have all driven by. He wants to understand, he wants to take it all, and most of all he worries he won’t be able to except there is her and it’s a little bit of faith longer four more steps and he never saw it coming and then, suddenly, they are on a soft hill. The dirt is hollow. There are no trees. You can see forever, tens and hundreds of miles, and here is what he realizes: you can be friends with someone and also drive around with them in the middle of the night; you can stand on the top of a mountain in the moonlight and be unromantic about it and want no other company; everyone was wrong about everything. At the top of the mountain and in the dark there is the sort of clarity he is looking for. For once he is overwhelmed with friendship, and he loves it – in, you know, a friendly way.
He writes it down on the way home for Thanksgiving, and, as the looming Berkshire mountains and towns named for old Native American tribes turn to fields of distant apartment buildings and suspension bridges, the details start to go. He knows it wasn’t epiphany, but it was special, anyway. He lives in New England now, and he’s beginning to come to terms with it.
He lives in New England now, and, late at night and in her car, he is still marveling at the whole thing. In the Mid-Atlantic you can't see stars like this because it doesn't get dark like this, like here, where the sky is light and wispy and the mountains are silhouettes, black, formidable and poorly-defined, like in a poem you read one time that made you wish you went camping more. He wants to fall into that dark, but maybe another time - for now, they drive.
She pulls over just past the state line – a little after midnight in the town where his dad grew up – and they cross the road after trying not to look too shady for the dumpy blue sedan that represents the only other person awake in three miles. The moon is so bright that there is a ring around it, something about crystals in the air, I don't know, and they trek up the last hundred feet in the sort of way you trek up a hundred feet in the middle of the night wearing Sperry Top-Siders; she is leading, so sure-footed and with such poise, he is behind, breathing heavily because he can't even manage the workouts she could do in her sleep, and this is important: he is waiting for everything to be clear. The valley is there, they both know it for sure, but there are trees and bushes in the way of the view and she already knows the end of this but he doesn't. As far as he knows it is always going to be as obscured as this, this, like the piece of dirt you had in your eye and couldn’t get out, like the movie you watched that had a weird dark line down the middle of the theater screen, like the stars look too near that huge mall that you and he and she have all driven by. He wants to understand, he wants to take it all, and most of all he worries he won’t be able to except there is her and it’s a little bit of faith longer four more steps and he never saw it coming and then, suddenly, they are on a soft hill. The dirt is hollow. There are no trees. You can see forever, tens and hundreds of miles, and here is what he realizes: you can be friends with someone and also drive around with them in the middle of the night; you can stand on the top of a mountain in the moonlight and be unromantic about it and want no other company; everyone was wrong about everything. At the top of the mountain and in the dark there is the sort of clarity he is looking for. For once he is overwhelmed with friendship, and he loves it – in, you know, a friendly way.
He writes it down on the way home for Thanksgiving, and, as the looming Berkshire mountains and towns named for old Native American tribes turn to fields of distant apartment buildings and suspension bridges, the details start to go. He knows it wasn’t epiphany, but it was special, anyway. He lives in New England now, and he’s beginning to come to terms with it.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Snoverwhelmed
They lie on the snowy flats, the only spots of color on an otherwise white landscape under a white dome with that sort of smell in the air like cold and wood and the bin full of scarves on the top of your closet. They are heavy with down jackets and snow pants and mittens and feelings, so many feelings, and also balaclavas which are not as weighty as feelings but still important. The snow is soft and fresh - we are in the middle of a storm here that is taking a break to perhaps catch its breath and it is calm for the moment with the sort of silence that comes after the world is covered in a layer of ice and tissue and felt. The trees are bare, you couldn't point to the sun if you tried, the mountains are dotted with the sort of houses your sister has always dreamed of retiring to, and they, they, they are on the ground, staring up at the sky.
She says: I want to tell you something important about myself.
He says: yes, do that.
She says: I have often thought about lying on the ground and having it snow like two feet at once, just like a huge thick pile of snow falling on me. Can you imagine what it would be like to be overwhelmed like that?
There is a beat in which they keep looking up, his hair messy and weird from the hat he had on, her eyes blinking with all the gray, and then he turns on his side and touches her sleeve with his mitten and that, my friends, is where it is too much for us, just too private to continue any longer. We are out of here, moving back to look at them from further away, tiny dots on the map. It starts snowing again.
She says: I want to tell you something important about myself.
He says: yes, do that.
She says: I have often thought about lying on the ground and having it snow like two feet at once, just like a huge thick pile of snow falling on me. Can you imagine what it would be like to be overwhelmed like that?
There is a beat in which they keep looking up, his hair messy and weird from the hat he had on, her eyes blinking with all the gray, and then he turns on his side and touches her sleeve with his mitten and that, my friends, is where it is too much for us, just too private to continue any longer. We are out of here, moving back to look at them from further away, tiny dots on the map. It starts snowing again.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Lists
I'm sorry about this.
1. Sadness of knowing you can't win; sadness of knowing it is all your fault; sadness of missing; sadness of love; sadness of death; sadness of poorly-flavored crackers; sadness of a stuffy nose; sadness of mistakes; sadness of in-laws; sadness of cold fingers; sadness of injury; sadness of poor punctuation; sadness of lists.
2. One couch without two cushions, one drying rack, one TV (never used), one desk, one chair, three pairs of cleats, one pair of running shoes, one movie poster, one box from home, one small container of dish soap, one used band-aid, one old piece of fruit.
3. Sleeping in, successful layouts, warmth on cold days, riding bikes inside, playing a game you are too old for, original music, the xylophone, losing and feeling okay about it, laughter (of course), friendship, snow, kittens, inside jokes, rhetorically mindful text messages, inconclusion.
1. Sadness of knowing you can't win; sadness of knowing it is all your fault; sadness of missing; sadness of love; sadness of death; sadness of poorly-flavored crackers; sadness of a stuffy nose; sadness of mistakes; sadness of in-laws; sadness of cold fingers; sadness of injury; sadness of poor punctuation; sadness of lists.
2. One couch without two cushions, one drying rack, one TV (never used), one desk, one chair, three pairs of cleats, one pair of running shoes, one movie poster, one box from home, one small container of dish soap, one used band-aid, one old piece of fruit.
3. Sleeping in, successful layouts, warmth on cold days, riding bikes inside, playing a game you are too old for, original music, the xylophone, losing and feeling okay about it, laughter (of course), friendship, snow, kittens, inside jokes, rhetorically mindful text messages, inconclusion.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Weather
She shuts the phone after the beep and steps through the chapel door onto the dark, empty quad, surprised to find that, outside, it is still late October in New England. The chances of his picking up were slim, and she knew it. Gritting her teeth against the cold, zipping up her fleece - she's from California, and this was never going to be an easy change.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Similes
Here is what love is like: flowers. Flowers, love is like flowers because it dies, or maybe because it blossoms or because it is perennial, I mean I don't know. Just pick something, and love is like flowers, and also like lettuce, romaine lettuce, because it is hard to keep fresh and also it can leave a bad taste in the mouth and it is frequently green and served with too-salty dressing. Love is like hitting a baseball, because it is something that people think is ordinary but actually it is hard to do well. Love is like fine art, because it is often imitated but difficult to find the real thing, or it is framed and hung in a museum, what? Love is like the perfect huck, because people say it's not real but we've all seen it, once, or even twice, maybe, and because it takes practice and it is beautiful and it involves a lot of drive from the hips, more than you'd think. Love is like a nice pillow, comforting (of course), and soft, and sometimes a little cold. Love is like a pocket watch in that it seems pretty reliable but it is easy to lose, and love is like a mug of hot chocolate in that it is best when there is snow and the time is maybe 5:00,or 5:30. Love is like a rubik's cube because the goal is simple but the process is difficult and love is like aspirin because it makes stupid things hurt less, I don't know. I don't know. Love is like this: you don't know, I mean you don't know and you can't know. Love is like this: you want to summarize it but you know you can't, and I guess in that way love is like everything. Love is like similes because both are stupid and unnecessary and almost always inevitable. Love is not like anything. Love is not like anything.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Conversations after the End of the World
1 - Day - Main Street - 1
In the small, post-apocalyptic New England town, things are quiet. The air is red and dirty, the sun is too hot, nothing moves saves the occasional plastic bag blown by a tiny, hot breeze. All human life has been destroyed, with two exceptions. They are about to meet.
Onscreen over the town: CONVERSATIONS AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD
Enter GIRL, from the town's grocery store. She's pretty in the way everyone watching her wants her to be, and her clothes are as dirty as everything around her. Her hair is long and tied back. Her hands are small. She has an eco-friendly grocery bag slung over one shoulder and a shotgun held low in her opposite hand. She wanders across the street, sits down at a bench, and digs through her bag for an old-looking orange. She eats it.
As GIRL continues eating her orange, a low rumbling is heard in the distance. It grows louder. She hears it and puts away her orange.
2 - Day - Town - 2
Overhead shot. A white, beat-up Escalade is speeding into town towards main street.
3 - Day - Main Street - 3
The GIRL, still sitting on the bench, looks down the street towards the barreling SUV. As it passes her, the occupant inside its blacked-out windows must spy her - it screeches to a loud halt thirty yards down the road from her.
A beat.
The door of the Escalade opens, and BOY steps out. He's on the short side and has the kind of face so forgettable you'd probably end up asking his name four times. He stands next to the car and stares at GIRL, who stares right back.
Another beat, then he approaches her. He sits next to her on the bench.
BOY
Hey, I'm Lot, what's your name?
GIRL
Jenny.
They sit awkwardly.
BOY
Where are you from?
GIRL
New York.
BOY
City, or state?
GIRL
New York state. Just outside of Albany.
BOY
Oh, really? My grandparents lived in Highland.
GIRL (vaguely)
Oh, cool.
Another pause.
BOY
So, yeah. How's the zombie uprising been treating you so far?
GIRL
Okay, I guess. You?
BOY
Yeah, pretty okay. I mean like it's not quite what I expected, but I'm adjusting okay.
GIRL
Yeah, yeah.
A beat.
BOY
Well.
In the small, post-apocalyptic New England town, things are quiet. The air is red and dirty, the sun is too hot, nothing moves saves the occasional plastic bag blown by a tiny, hot breeze. All human life has been destroyed, with two exceptions. They are about to meet.
Onscreen over the town: CONVERSATIONS AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD
Enter GIRL, from the town's grocery store. She's pretty in the way everyone watching her wants her to be, and her clothes are as dirty as everything around her. Her hair is long and tied back. Her hands are small. She has an eco-friendly grocery bag slung over one shoulder and a shotgun held low in her opposite hand. She wanders across the street, sits down at a bench, and digs through her bag for an old-looking orange. She eats it.
As GIRL continues eating her orange, a low rumbling is heard in the distance. It grows louder. She hears it and puts away her orange.
2 - Day - Town - 2
Overhead shot. A white, beat-up Escalade is speeding into town towards main street.
3 - Day - Main Street - 3
The GIRL, still sitting on the bench, looks down the street towards the barreling SUV. As it passes her, the occupant inside its blacked-out windows must spy her - it screeches to a loud halt thirty yards down the road from her.
A beat.
The door of the Escalade opens, and BOY steps out. He's on the short side and has the kind of face so forgettable you'd probably end up asking his name four times. He stands next to the car and stares at GIRL, who stares right back.
Another beat, then he approaches her. He sits next to her on the bench.
BOY
Hey, I'm Lot, what's your name?
GIRL
Jenny.
They sit awkwardly.
BOY
Where are you from?
GIRL
New York.
BOY
City, or state?
GIRL
New York state. Just outside of Albany.
BOY
Oh, really? My grandparents lived in Highland.
GIRL (vaguely)
Oh, cool.
Another pause.
BOY
So, yeah. How's the zombie uprising been treating you so far?
GIRL
Okay, I guess. You?
BOY
Yeah, pretty okay. I mean like it's not quite what I expected, but I'm adjusting okay.
GIRL
Yeah, yeah.
A beat.
BOY
Well.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
The Nighttime Adventures of Huron and Victoria
Here is something, Huron says to Victoria, there is no scientific distinction between a lake and a pond. It is night time, and they are both sitting on the tire swing next to the lake or the pond or whatever. You probably know the scene: they're close but not touching, her hair looks nice, he is not wearing sneakers. What I mean is you could call the Great Lakes the Great Ponds, did you know that? You wouldn't be technically wrong.
In the dark, Huron looks close at Victoria's freckles and thinks about kissing her cheek but decides against it. I mean he's not even sure if this shit is a date, and, with the moon behind the clouds like it is, things can get a little tricky to distinguish.
In the dark, Huron looks close at Victoria's freckles and thinks about kissing her cheek but decides against it. I mean he's not even sure if this shit is a date, and, with the moon behind the clouds like it is, things can get a little tricky to distinguish.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Notes
With my leave for college impending, I will be discontinuing the regular posting policy and resuming the sort of policy in which I post whenever the inspiration hits me. I want to thank all of my loyal readers this summer for keeping up with the numerous posts and forgiving the multiple late posts.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Effective Communication
This question is from the online driver's ed course I'm taking to lower my insurance premium.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Notes
Due to a sudden illness I will not be updating three times this week. I will resume next week.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Two Weeks at Rokenbok Construction
06-01First day on the job here at Rokenbok Construction. Mr. Rokenbok seems nice if a little boring. I got in my dump truck and moved some balls around.
06-02
Was instructed to move around some more balls today. It was sort of fun but I got bored fast. After I delivered a few loads of balls today I noticed there were suddenly more balls in the loading zone where I pick them up. I wonder where they come from.
06-03
I am finding this whole ball-moving thing very difficult. The controls on the truck are hard to figure out; wish I had received training. Plus I can hold, like, four balls at a time, unless they are the red ones in which case I can hold five. What is the difference between the balls, anyway?
06-04
Moved some more balls today.
06-05
Today I noticed a lot of red balls and less blue ones. I moved them all around.
06-08
Monday! I miss the weekend, when I didn't have to move any balls. Today I moved some balls. We worked pretty late into the day and I noticed none of the lights came on. They didn't have bulbs, they were just plastic.
06-09
MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH:
I spent a few minutes today wandering around the site to watch the whole ball-moving process. THE BALLS DON'T GO ANYWHERE. I literally move them to one truck that picks them up and then dumps them in a machine to drop them back to my loading zone. What is going on here?
06-10
Noticed the city was taking bids for the road repaving project, and suggested to Mr. Rokenbok we give them an estimate. He said, "no, we move balls. That's what we do. Get back to moving balls." After that, I moved some balls, mostly blue ones.
06-11
Moved more balls today. After the fourth time today that I messed up dumping the balls into the other guy's dump truck he seemed to get frustrated and spent the rest of the day trying to push my truck over. It is good the fork-lift arm is so weak, like it is never used to lift anything but tiny bits of plastic. Weird but lucky.
06-12
I talked to Mr. Rokenbok again today, but he just told me to move more balls. When I tried to a few balls fell out of my scooper. Then a giant hand came out of the sky and put them back, as if some cruel god was sick of watching me try to push the balls against a sturdy, flat surface so that I might pick them up. After that I accidentally drove my truck off the ramp. We should make the guard rails out of something other than plastic; that seems dangerous.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
You Got This One (Two)
An aspiring beekeeper purchased a small hive and began producing his own product, which he stored in his basement. Things went well for a while, and he used his profits to buy more bees. A few months later, though, he had just harvested all of the honey and was having difficulty stacking it all in his basement. He had finally finished placing all the jars on the wall when he stepped back to survey his work. Suddenly, all the shelves collapsed! The glass jars fell and broke, and the bees outside in the yard sensed the delicious goods they had been robbed of. They flew through the cellar windows and stung the beekeeper all over.Later, the beekeeper was talking about it with his friend. After he heard the whole story, his friend shook his head. "Well, you know what they say," he said.
Friday, August 13, 2010
A History
Below you can find a history of this blog as chronicled from its beginning to early August 2010. Due to the way blogger formats its updates the posts are in reverse order - you have to start with the one at the bottom of the page and then move up. Good luck, and thanks for visiting Mostly Harmless!
A Historical Conclusion
January started on a high note with the publishing of An Exposition, the script for a three-act film featuring hiccups, hijinks and Hannah Montana. I came up with the story idea on January 4 and wrote the script in the following three days. The only other really noteworthy post that month saw was With Apologies to Seth Zweifler, Editor-in-Chief, which attracted enough attention to earn me an invitation to write a school guest column. Though January didn't feature a whole ton of really awesome stuff, it was promising that I posted nine times. College apps were done, and I had more time on my hands.
On Friday, February 5, 2010, visitors to Mostly Harmless were greeted not by a story or photograph but with an announcement. The weekend forecast was calling for several inches of snow, and I planned on staying inside and blogging 12 times - more posts than I'd ever written even in a single month since December of 2008. I scheduled my posts faithfully; I had agreed to publish at 2:00, 6:00, and 10:00 every day, AM and PM. In the end I was left with what the marathon produced, which included two puns, one poem, and an original ukulele cover of a mildly popular indie rock song. The posts were not of incredible quality, but they were decent enough to consider the weekend a success.
March was another groundbreaking month for Mostly Harmless. A friend had recently convinced me that what my fiction really lacked was symbolism, and so my stories this month were stuffed to the brim. I was even giving my characters real-deal literary names: Azrael Pearlman, for the angel of death and a bass drum company, and Euterpe, for the muse of poetry and music. This was deep stuff. It was in March that I also wrote Storage, one of my favorite posts that didn't seem to catch on with many of my readers. March closed with On The Final Knight, a gut-wrenching tale of heartbreak and poorly-planned chess strategy. I guess that happens.
On May 1, I embedded Three Breaks onto my blog, an entry for my high school's film festival. Its script was based on the aforementioned An Exposition, and the movie itself won "Best Writing" at the contest, which was funny because anyone who glanced at the script would have known half of the lines were ad-libbed.
On Friday, February 5, 2010, visitors to Mostly Harmless were greeted not by a story or photograph but with an announcement. The weekend forecast was calling for several inches of snow, and I planned on staying inside and blogging 12 times - more posts than I'd ever written even in a single month since December of 2008. I scheduled my posts faithfully; I had agreed to publish at 2:00, 6:00, and 10:00 every day, AM and PM. In the end I was left with what the marathon produced, which included two puns, one poem, and an original ukulele cover of a mildly popular indie rock song. The posts were not of incredible quality, but they were decent enough to consider the weekend a success.
March was another groundbreaking month for Mostly Harmless. A friend had recently convinced me that what my fiction really lacked was symbolism, and so my stories this month were stuffed to the brim. I was even giving my characters real-deal literary names: Azrael Pearlman, for the angel of death and a bass drum company, and Euterpe, for the muse of poetry and music. This was deep stuff. It was in March that I also wrote Storage, one of my favorite posts that didn't seem to catch on with many of my readers. March closed with On The Final Knight, a gut-wrenching tale of heartbreak and poorly-planned chess strategy. I guess that happens.
On May 1, I embedded Three Breaks onto my blog, an entry for my high school's film festival. Its script was based on the aforementioned An Exposition, and the movie itself won "Best Writing" at the contest, which was funny because anyone who glanced at the script would have known half of the lines were ad-libbed.
The summer after I graduated I decided to post every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday. This policy soon just became a general "three times a week", as I don't have the follow-through to actually post on time for that long. Though the first post of this adventure was a pretty good one, the demand for quantity soon meant a decrease in quality. Though I managed to scrape together a couple love stories towards the end of July, by mid-August I had resorted to writing a history of my blog.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
More History
January 2009, and I mean we are talking months ago here. This is recent past. I was trying to do something differently, but it was pretty clear that I didn't know what: I stopped on the street to take people's picture (I forgot to tell them not to smile), I finished serials, I wrote scenes and stories and essays. Things genuinely improved around here.
I reached a slight peak in creativity around March and April. My stories were about all sorts of ideas that I'd always wanted to write down, and I was finally finding that I had a voice to do it with. Of note were The Key Card and I'll Change For You, two reader favorites.
I reached a slight peak in creativity around March and April. My stories were about all sorts of ideas that I'd always wanted to write down, and I was finally finding that I had a voice to do it with. Of note were The Key Card and I'll Change For You, two reader favorites.
The second of these stories, though, was the last before a creativity dry spell that lasted pretty solidly through the summer. May saw the creation of my first and only "Guest Week" series, which further facilitated my not having ideas, and in July I wrote three posts total - a number I hadn't been down to for nearly a year and a half (though one of these posts was The Kayak Bandits, a personal favorite).
August marked a slight improvement, featuring the first of my puns (the trapezoid one doesn't count). Besides that, August had a nice photograph, a Frisbee-related pantoum, and not much else.
This terrible period culminated in September, when I posted about the frustration I felt about my lack of ideas, and then, days later, I sat down and wrote Ball Golf, a fan favorite for those willing to read the whole damned thing. The ball was rolling again. The puns kept coming, and I managed six posts in October and another six in November. The stress of college applications forced my December count down to two, rounding us off with 75 posts for the whole year - my lowest ever. 2009 wasn't a great year number-wise, but I like to think I grew in other, less tangible ways. I was ready for 2010 and the finale of the thrilling conclusion of A HISTORY OF MOSTLY HARMLESS, to arrive later this week.
August marked a slight improvement, featuring the first of my puns (the trapezoid one doesn't count). Besides that, August had a nice photograph, a Frisbee-related pantoum, and not much else.
This terrible period culminated in September, when I posted about the frustration I felt about my lack of ideas, and then, days later, I sat down and wrote Ball Golf, a fan favorite for those willing to read the whole damned thing. The ball was rolling again. The puns kept coming, and I managed six posts in October and another six in November. The stress of college applications forced my December count down to two, rounding us off with 75 posts for the whole year - my lowest ever. 2009 wasn't a great year number-wise, but I like to think I grew in other, less tangible ways. I was ready for 2010 and the finale of the thrilling conclusion of A HISTORY OF MOSTLY HARMLESS, to arrive later this week.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
A Brief Interruption
I thought Tim was just being paranoid about the whole Dove chocolate wrapper thing, but this is getting ridiculous.If you don't read Tim's blog, Looks Like A Tangent, I'd highly recommend it. It's also worth mentioning that he in no way endorsed this picture.
Friday, August 06, 2010
An Even Further History of Mostly Harmless
The dawn of 2008 finds itself in the middle of my sophomore year, and, in between time spent discovering ultimate frisbee and racking up hundreds and hundreds of hours on Team Fortress 2, my blog is suffering. January and February had a total of five posts containing a total of two original stories and two photographs. I had lost my camera charger very promptly, and so the pictures were just not happening. My memory can't account for the weird, emo poetry, but whatever the cause, it was there and that was that.
In March, I broke down and bought a new charger, and, by April and very suddenly, my posts were photographs and stories and the stories were not gross and violent anymore. This seems silly to say, but these posts were the first ones on this blog that I'm not generally embarrassed about. April 2008 - I discover my format. Let's write this somewhere important. It only took me two and a half years.
The first fish-eye tests showed up mid-July curiously around my birthday, and it quickly became an addiction. I managed to give it up in August, and, although I didn't realize it at the time, this move marked a pretty decent change in direction for the blog. I began focusing less on the photographs and more on the stories. I was influenced by what I read (noticeably The Things They Carried) or I came up with better ideas or I did something, something. I wrote essays and scenes and stories of love, love, love, for friends and for words and for writing utensils, whatever, I wasn't picky. Love was in the air, apparently, and I wrote it down.
On November 12, I posted my first round of scenes, which were just little vignettes I thought would be interesting enough to read. In December I posted four scene posts in a row, which is ridiculous by any standard. Luckily after that I wrote a three-post long story about a guy that kills himself, so, you know, problem solved. That story, along with The Anti-Jeff, were my first real attempts at multiple-post serials. For a brief time I toyed with the idea of putting all those miscellaneous serials on one blog, but it proved to be more effort than it was worth. Miscellaneous Serials is now all but abandoned.
As the year drew to a close, questions remained unanswered: would my stories ever gain in depth and intelligence? Would the downward trend in photograph quality continue? Just who is this masked man, and why has he never been photographed together with 6-year-old millionaire playboy Calvin? FIND OUT NEXT TIME ETCETERA!
In March, I broke down and bought a new charger, and, by April and very suddenly, my posts were photographs and stories and the stories were not gross and violent anymore. This seems silly to say, but these posts were the first ones on this blog that I'm not generally embarrassed about. April 2008 - I discover my format. Let's write this somewhere important. It only took me two and a half years.
The first fish-eye tests showed up mid-July curiously around my birthday, and it quickly became an addiction. I managed to give it up in August, and, although I didn't realize it at the time, this move marked a pretty decent change in direction for the blog. I began focusing less on the photographs and more on the stories. I was influenced by what I read (noticeably The Things They Carried) or I came up with better ideas or I did something, something. I wrote essays and scenes and stories of love, love, love, for friends and for words and for writing utensils, whatever, I wasn't picky. Love was in the air, apparently, and I wrote it down.
On November 12, I posted my first round of scenes, which were just little vignettes I thought would be interesting enough to read. In December I posted four scene posts in a row, which is ridiculous by any standard. Luckily after that I wrote a three-post long story about a guy that kills himself, so, you know, problem solved. That story, along with The Anti-Jeff, were my first real attempts at multiple-post serials. For a brief time I toyed with the idea of putting all those miscellaneous serials on one blog, but it proved to be more effort than it was worth. Miscellaneous Serials is now all but abandoned.
As the year drew to a close, questions remained unanswered: would my stories ever gain in depth and intelligence? Would the downward trend in photograph quality continue? Just who is this masked man, and why has he never been photographed together with 6-year-old millionaire playboy Calvin? FIND OUT NEXT TIME ETCETERA!
Monday, August 02, 2010
A Further History of Mostly Harmless
When we left off last time, our intrepid hero had just changed his blog's name to the one that would stick for more than five months. It was June of 2006: Pixar had just released Cars, gamers were actively awaiting the soon-to-be-released Wii, and Sam Austin was still busy posting lengthy paragraphs of boring nothingness on his dark void of a blog.
Noteworthy during this period was less what I was doing and more what else was happening in the very tiny blogosphere in which my friends and I spent so much time. The Guest Blog, an experiment I had tried with my friend, had pretty much officially failed, a couple of friends and I were trying a team blog called Triple Threat (which would later be deleted), and The Vanquisher of Anonymous-ness was beginning to become a regular on our comment threads. I only mention this shady loner because of the inspiration he provide me with - I wrote Anonymous in December and Ideas Are Bulletproof in January of the next year. Both of these extra blogs were pretty terrible, but I like to think of them as important stepping-stones down a path that would lead to what is now my world-famous and award-winning blog.
In September 2006, I started posting photographs with every post. They weren't fantastic pictures, but I still had some favorites. This went on pretty well for the whole time I spent in ninth grade, but, a year after the photographs started, a slump in the picture-taking process immediately preceded the mysterious loss of my camera. Between July and December, my posts became sparse and irregular. I started writing The Propagandist again - a story I had started in February - but stopped after just a few chapters. I dreamt up the briefly aforementioned Bloggies, but lacked the follow-through to actually give the winners the trophies they could put on their blog.
Chapter 2 of this exciting account ends with New Year's Eve of 2007, when I wrote an appropriately upbeat post about the wonderful new camera I had received for Christmas a few days earlier. With this gift I was prepared to fight back the demons of apathy and laziness to revive my blog. Would it be done? Would I be successful? Would Mostly Harmless survive to one day possibly see its thoroughly uninteresting history chronicled in multiple-post format, possibly, like, after its author graduated high school? Find out on Thursday, when the thrilling HISTORY OF MOSTLY HARMESS resumes!
Noteworthy during this period was less what I was doing and more what else was happening in the very tiny blogosphere in which my friends and I spent so much time. The Guest Blog, an experiment I had tried with my friend, had pretty much officially failed, a couple of friends and I were trying a team blog called Triple Threat (which would later be deleted), and The Vanquisher of Anonymous-ness was beginning to become a regular on our comment threads. I only mention this shady loner because of the inspiration he provide me with - I wrote Anonymous in December and Ideas Are Bulletproof in January of the next year. Both of these extra blogs were pretty terrible, but I like to think of them as important stepping-stones down a path that would lead to what is now my world-famous and award-winning blog.
In September 2006, I started posting photographs with every post. They weren't fantastic pictures, but I still had some favorites. This went on pretty well for the whole time I spent in ninth grade, but, a year after the photographs started, a slump in the picture-taking process immediately preceded the mysterious loss of my camera. Between July and December, my posts became sparse and irregular. I started writing The Propagandist again - a story I had started in February - but stopped after just a few chapters. I dreamt up the briefly aforementioned Bloggies, but lacked the follow-through to actually give the winners the trophies they could put on their blog.
Chapter 2 of this exciting account ends with New Year's Eve of 2007, when I wrote an appropriately upbeat post about the wonderful new camera I had received for Christmas a few days earlier. With this gift I was prepared to fight back the demons of apathy and laziness to revive my blog. Would it be done? Would I be successful? Would Mostly Harmless survive to one day possibly see its thoroughly uninteresting history chronicled in multiple-post format, possibly, like, after its author graduated high school? Find out on Thursday, when the thrilling HISTORY OF MOSTLY HARMESS resumes!
Sunday, August 01, 2010
A History of Mostly Harmless
It's been two months of posting three times a week, and before I start one more grueling set of 12 posts, I figured it would be an appropriate time to take stock of the five years I've been writing this blog. For those of you that have just stumbled upon Mostly Harmless, this probably isn't a bad place to start.
The first post of Sam's Blog was written on December 13, 2005. It was the second effort at starting a blog that day, as the first post on the first blog I started insulted my math teacher and was therefore vetoed by my parents. I was 13 and in 8th grade at the time, and, evidently, I had far too much time on my hands - there were only 19 days left in that first month, and I wrote 29 entries. The posts were rambling and mostly about the process of writing the blog, and by far the most interesting ones were by my sister Rachel. For this reason, the blog quickly became something of a team effort and was renamed Four Years Apart. This development lasted for five months pretty successfully due mostly to the constant commenting of my friends, who were apparently as bored as I was. I regularly received as many as 20 or 30 comments per post, which was obviously justified when you considered the awe-inspiring quality of my posts. Take, for example, this artful haiku from the post after post 115:
Anticipation
It seems as though it won't come
But I know it will
I assume the Pulitzer was lost in the mail.
May 2006, though, and, somewhere between deciding she wanted to go to Johns Hopkins and actually picking out the best egg-crate foam for her mattress, my sister decided to give up posting. I changed the name of my blog to "I HEART IRONY" because I'm just that cool. Every post featured a daily irony, a facet of my blog I enjoyed writing substantially more than my readers enjoyed reading. Those were dark days.
This sad time in everyone's life lasted for a little over a month until my post on June 18, 2006. When I checked the comments the next day, I found I had received a particularly one from Sri, a friend I had before I read his hateful, hateful comment:
This is why your LAST layout was better. Your posts are beginning to suck. No offense.
Can I just say very briefly that 100 percent of my blog back then was just rambling? I sat down at the computer and typed random shit, and somehow that shit had become shittier because I changed the already shitty name of my blog to another (and apparently shittier) one? What the shit.
This obviously poorly-conceived comment, though, precipitated what would be a defining moment in this wonderful experiment. On June 20, I gave up on irony and changed my blog's name to Mostly Harmless. Though that was a foggy time for me, I vaguely recall a choir of angels. We were off to the races, and, though we didn't know it back then, our whole lives would something something something something.
****
This history will be continued in Part 2, to arrive TOMORROW, AUGUST 2nd. I apologize for the lateness of this post.
The first post of Sam's Blog was written on December 13, 2005. It was the second effort at starting a blog that day, as the first post on the first blog I started insulted my math teacher and was therefore vetoed by my parents. I was 13 and in 8th grade at the time, and, evidently, I had far too much time on my hands - there were only 19 days left in that first month, and I wrote 29 entries. The posts were rambling and mostly about the process of writing the blog, and by far the most interesting ones were by my sister Rachel. For this reason, the blog quickly became something of a team effort and was renamed Four Years Apart. This development lasted for five months pretty successfully due mostly to the constant commenting of my friends, who were apparently as bored as I was. I regularly received as many as 20 or 30 comments per post, which was obviously justified when you considered the awe-inspiring quality of my posts. Take, for example, this artful haiku from the post after post 115:
It seems as though it won't come
But I know it will
I assume the Pulitzer was lost in the mail.
May 2006, though, and, somewhere between deciding she wanted to go to Johns Hopkins and actually picking out the best egg-crate foam for her mattress, my sister decided to give up posting. I changed the name of my blog to "I HEART IRONY" because I'm just that cool. Every post featured a daily irony, a facet of my blog I enjoyed writing substantially more than my readers enjoyed reading. Those were dark days.
This sad time in everyone's life lasted for a little over a month until my post on June 18, 2006. When I checked the comments the next day, I found I had received a particularly one from Sri, a friend I had before I read his hateful, hateful comment:
Can I just say very briefly that 100 percent of my blog back then was just rambling? I sat down at the computer and typed random shit, and somehow that shit had become shittier because I changed the already shitty name of my blog to another (and apparently shittier) one? What the shit.
This obviously poorly-conceived comment, though, precipitated what would be a defining moment in this wonderful experiment. On June 20, I gave up on irony and changed my blog's name to Mostly Harmless. Though that was a foggy time for me, I vaguely recall a choir of angels. We were off to the races, and, though we didn't know it back then, our whole lives would something something something something.
****
This history will be continued in Part 2, to arrive TOMORROW, AUGUST 2nd. I apologize for the lateness of this post.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
More Love Stories
0.Jonah falls in love with a girl who plays flute. Love is like this, and I'm sure we'd like to explore this part for a while but it can't be what our story is about. All we need to know is Jonah falls in love with a girl who plays flute, flute, flute, which I guess is an excusable offense if you're in love.
1.
In his dream, Jonah is in the very middle of the ocean with nothing to hold on to. He isn't drowning, but it doesn't matter - he is without reference point, lost and alone, head barely above the sea, the water a steely blue-gray and the sky overcast. It is hopeless, but he treads water anyway, his breath desperate and ragged.
2.
You can put your fingers right on top of other instruments, you can get a feel for them, or at the very least it doesn't matter a whole lot where you strike them; with the bells, you have to hit a target the size of a Snickers bar from 8 inches away without looking. I want you to understand this: when you play the glockenspiel, you are dropped in the middle of the ocean, you have to distinguish between every wave, there isn't room for error.
3.
Jonah talks to his best friend, who tells him: there isn't an instruction manual, Jonah. Just talk to her, or don't, or, you know, do something. Stop acting like we all aren't drowning out there. I can't be your flotation device. This is very typical coming from someone on drumline.
4.
Jonah joins the marching band, and he learns that it's possible to get through all this stuff without the reference points but that it takes a lot of practice.
5.
He practices.
Monday, July 26, 2010
How To Write a Love Song
Tuesday night at summer league, Sara catches the disc on an in-cut, takes one look, and then turns to dump to Joe, except she gets hand-blocked, which is like super amateur and she feels bad about the whole thing.While sitting with her accordion afterwards, she thinks about him, the boy she's known since he was on her team three seasons ago who can throw hucks like it is his job and who found her keys for her when she dropped them after the fourth game and who is just a cool guy, you know, the sort of really nice-looking handler that any city club team or recently graduated 22-year-old Spanish Econ double major would be lucky to call their or her own, respectively. She wills her fingers to come up with a song that could express exactly what she feels about him, which she isn't even sure of herself.
Thursday night after the game she calls him on the phone to ask if he took her disc by accident. He puts it into his backpack and bikes it over to her and ends up staying and talking for three hours until 12:30, which is the sort of hour at night we all know you can only talk until if you are in love or discovering love or at least involved in a pretty serious bromance. They are both tired the next day at work, and with every futile cup of coffee they think: this was worth it.
Saturday during finals weekend the team is in the red zone and Sara jukes in on the the force lane, takes three steps out until her defender bites, and then cuts towards the break side endzone corner towards Joe, who knew where to put the disc as soon as he saw that first fake, flip flip flip, his arm comes up - this is the amazing part, his arm just comes up, not across or around, and he lifts it to the spot where she runs it down.
He drives her home and she gets out her accordion again when there is already something of a melody in her head. She knows she'll have trouble rhyming with "huck", but for the first time she finally knows what to write about.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
You Got This One
Two nuns are walking around their abbey when one nun notices that the other nun's cloak is trying to steal her wallet.
"Hey," she says, "your cloak is trying to steal my wallet."
"Oh, shoot!" the second nun replies. She immediately takes off her cloak and punts it away.
"Why did you do that?" the first nun asks.
"Hey," she says, "your cloak is trying to steal my wallet."
"Oh, shoot!" the second nun replies. She immediately takes off her cloak and punts it away.
"Why did you do that?" the first nun asks.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Ascent
At the bottom of the observation tower, they are debating the climb."I have been on an airplane before," Edmund says to his mom, "I do not need to see the world from higher up."
"Airplanes go very high in the air. This is much lower. It is a different view."
"Airplanes have to go low first before they go higher."
Hillary tips her water bottle up to her mouth and watches Edmund wipe his rec specs with a lintless cloth. After a second: "But they go over a runway or whatever. This is a state park! Don't you want to see a state park?"
"I can see the pictures on Flickr. I'll make one your desktop background," Edmund says.
His mom sighs dramatically. "Oh, I knew you'd be too scared. It's probably too high for you anyway."
"I'm nine, mom. That doesn't work anymore."
He is not a bad kid, and they get along fine. This isn't a fight - it's genuinely a debate, and one Hillary knows she can win.
"Have fun biking home, then. I'll see you tonight." She turns smartly and marches briskly over to the observation tower.
Edmund laughs and rolls his eyes. "Okay, mom, whatever."
He pales a little when he realizes she is showing no signs of turning around.
"Mom?"
She disappears through the heavy concrete doorway.
He drops his helmet and runs after her, calling: "Mom! Mom!"
At the top, he is reconsidering his original position. "It's nice and breezy up here. I like the smell of the ocean and stuff. You should have mentioned the breezes."
She ruffles his hair even though she knows he hates that.
Monday, July 19, 2010
With Apologies to Daniel Handler
For example, you could break the ice by purchasing a hammer and then using it on the lake down the street, or you could break the ice by telling that nice-looking night-shift cashier at the hardware store about your passion for swimming in the very cold water in the dark, or you could break the ice by purchasing a hammer and then asking if the cashier wants to come down to the lake with you to go swimming, and there may be situations in which the ice is broken and the ice isn't broken, like if there are big cracks in the surface of the lake but if the thought of the two of you floating naked in the freezing water makes everyone a little uncomfortable, or if the hammer turns out to be too small but she is laughing at your jokes, and if you're really into breaking the ice you could try breaking the ice with the ice, by making jokes about ice or by picking up a big chunk of ice and throwing it at the ice or even by talking to the ice as if to make pleasant conversation, in which case you could break the ice with the ice with the ice, perhaps by asking the ice what it is like to be ice, and though I would not recommend breaking the ice with the ice by breaking the ice with the ice, you could still try it, it might be nice.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Amy Vanderbilt and the Rude Zombies
ONSCREEN: AMY VANDERBILT's eyes, looking fearful. She walks forward.NANCY (V.O., whispered)
They can't know you're not one of them, Amy.
Flashes quickly: MALE ZOMBIE 1 - who appears perfectly human - spitting on the sidewalk.
AMY keeps walking. We see her now from the shoulders up. The street around her is full of people, wandering aimlessly and in a very rude manner.
NANCY (V.O., whispered)
Our old world, that's gone now. You have to understand this. You have to blend in.
Flashes quickly: MALE ZOMBIE 2 yawning in a business meeting. He fails to cover his mouth.
AMY keeps walking.
NANCY (V.O., whispered)
We look the same. At least there's that. You can do this. They'll never know.
Flashes quickly: FEMALE ZOMBIE 1 receiving an inappropriately garish gift from MALE ZOMBIE 3. She does not tell him how inappropriate it is.
AMY turns the city corner and walks into a ZOMBIE.
AMY
Excuse me.
A beat.
All the ZOMBIES attack.
ON SCREEN OVER BLACK: AMY VANDERBILT AND THE RUDE ZOMBIES
ON SCREEN OVER BLACK: COMING SOON
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Variations
Apologies for the poor artwork and late update, and, of course, please don't read too far into this post. It is merely a bit of wordplay. I in no way endorse long-handled gardening tools and/or immoral pleasure seekers.
Monday, July 12, 2010
This Isn't a Love Story
1.On the phone with her friend, Jenny discusses her new coworker, Oliver - an attractive college graduate like herself. His interests include model airplanes and skinny ties. I cannot get enough of guys in skinny ties, she says to her friend, who wants her to get a number.
2.
In a letter to her friend Jenny writes, this isn't a love story, just because she hates all that cliché nonsense and she knows she will never meet an attractive man at an expensive hotel in Paris. Girls meet guys all the time and they don't fall in love.
3.
Jenny runs into Oliver at the post office when she goes to mail a letter. Do you want to come with me to fly this new plane I got? Oliver asks. Jenny says yes. She throws out her letter.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
How to Play Frisbee in the Rain
It's hard, man, because you want to relive memories through your talking about them. You want to write facebook statuses and tell stories about these things you did that were so different - sports in the rain and sprinting in the middle of the night, you want to write about how you have to think about gripping the disc in your fingers and describe the feeling of the track on your bare feet, but it is never the same - you can't go back; that layout is never as good the second time around.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Brevity!
Friday: he has long since abandoned describing his characters or the setting, he has eliminated foreshadowing and symbolism (except for allusions to chess; he just loves those), and, in his quest for minimalism, he has finally arrived at an important question: how much can you strike?Saturday: he writes a story about a nameless character in a blank room without a chess set.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Notes
I'll be taking a brief hiatus for the holiday. I will return to my usual schedule of posting this coming Thursday, July 8.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Very Angry Commercials
1 - Int. Train Station - Day - 1The ATTRACTIVE MAN looks across the track and sees the ATTRACTIVE WOMAN in the car opposite himself. It's not his train, but he's in love, and what can you do? He whips out his phone in a way that makes it very clear that all is not lost. He quickly hits the giant "change ticket" button, and then he's picked up his bags and he's off.
2 - Int. Train - Day - 1
Inside the train, the ATTRACTIVE WOMAN stares wistfully out the window whil ethe doors close with a whoosh. The ATTRACTIVE WOMAN turns to her purse in the seat next to her, but then, suddenly, at eye level: the bottom of a familiar green sweater!
ATTRACTIVE MAN
Is this seat taken?
3 - Ext. Train - Day - 3
Through the window: the ATTRACTIVE WOMAN moves her purse, the ATTRACTIVE MAN sits down next to her. The train rolls slowly out of the station.
4 - Int. Train - Day - 4
The ATTRACTIVE MAN and ATTRACTIVE WOMAN are having an attractive conversation.
ATTRACTIVE MAN (continued)
And that's when I found five dollars.
ATTRACTIVE WOMAN laughs hysterically. She wipes away tears.
ATTRACTIVE WOMAN
I've only known you for thirteen seconds, but I already feel very comfortable with you, as evidenced by my easy laugh.
ATTRACTIVE MAN
You will make our children delicious sandwiches. I will take out the garbage. You will give me knowing smiles as I leave for work in our attractive car.
The CONDUCTOR wanders over.
CONDUCTOR
Tickets, please.
The ATTRACTIVE WOMAN smiles and hands her ticket to the CONDUCTOR. The ATTRACTIVE MAN takes out his phone.
ATTRACTIVE MAN
I used my phone to change my ticket.
CONDUCTOR
What?
ATTRACTIVE MAN
I used the "change ticket" button. It was so big I felt like an above-the-shoulder camera shot could have seen it! Gosh.
CONDUCTOR
That's not- you need a physical ticket. Have you ever ridden a train before?
ATTRACTIVE MAN
Of course. Didn't you see my travel-worn duffel bag in the overhead bin?
CONDUCTOR
You need to have a ticket! What is wrong with you?
ATTRACTIVE MAN
I told you, I pressed the-
CONDUCTOR
We don't have a change ticket button. Last minute cancellations cost, like, seventy dollars, and you can't make them on the platform with your phone.
A beat.
CONDUCTOR
This is- massively- this is so inconvenient. Why would you do this to us? Why- forget it. I need you to get up.
Another beat.
CONDUCTOR
Dammit.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Nights
Nights, and the graduating class has taken to staring at the clock on their microwaves and picking at their fingernails. They're on a precipice here, and the slower that summer goes, the better.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Why Would You Tell Me That
One in twenty games I don't feel hungry afterwards. Nearly all of the time I come off the field demanding burgers and pizza and fishsticks with custard, but after five percent of matches, just five percent, my friends and teammates go out for Wendy's; I go home and catch up on my webcomics. I take a shower. I read a book. I think about how I played.And then right when I am about to go to bed - in fact, right when I am about to brush my teeth - I get hungrier than I've ever been, and for cereal, cereal, cereal. I pull on sweatpants and go downstairs to lay waste to the cabinet next to the sink. I've eaten whole boxes of Multigrain Cheerios and Raisin Bran. I drink water - room-temperature, in a glass - and I eat more cereal than I ever could in a week of usual breakfasts.
And here is my question: why do I want you to know that? Why am I interested in telling my friends that sometimes I like eating cereal late at night? What possesses me to tell people the water's temperature? This is a boring story. This is a then-I-found-five-dollars story. This is unworthy of recounting.
At night, I could shuffle my day's anecdotes into those worth telling and those that should not be repeated. It could never be an exact science - if I have a forgiving audience I might tell one of the less interesting ones - but it is a procedure that I like to think could be performed in a fairly accurate manner. If there's anyone out there that does this, please let me know. I'd like to hear how and when you started, if you think that would be an interesting tale to repeat. At the very least I could take a look at your filing system.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Evidence, Evidence
It was a problem you can only come up with if you are never worth anything but the designer suits you wear: he needed evidence of himself. Evidence, evidence, evidence. He filled a house with all of his receipts, because he could afford to. He wrote his name in the books he took out of the library and the ones he gave to charity. He gave money to colleges he didn't attend so that he could be on plaques in front of wings and libraries and auditoriums. He was the sponsor of scholarships that were for interest in nuclear science and others that were for the deconstruction of every nuclear power plant in the world. He got speeding tickets so cops would write his name in their little books. He was bad at parties; one time he met this girl that was kind of cute but he never worked up the nerve to ask her number.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Scenes 12
One:When I tell you to lift me up above the crowd at the party, you ask how high. That is awesome. Really awesome.
Two:
You ask me to kill that bug. I mean it is a scream, frankly, or at the very least a shriek. Afterwards, I realize I used your Mensa day-to-day calendar. Forgive me. It was so close to making it under the armoire, and I didn't really have time to look for a newspaper or anything.
Three:
I hear you have serious ass cancer; I hear it's fatal.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Track
The sky is brown and bright and hot and a thousand gnats buzz around the runner's face as she looks up from the shadows of the empty classroom across the courtyard. There were trees here once, four months ago, but then things got hot and people got angry and now the trees are dead and the runner can see all the way across the flat, dead grass to the door that serves as her finish line. She used to run real track. She could fly, man.Coach gave her this advice: "It's about 70 meters, and you'll have 8 seconds from the time the gun goes off. After that, it's no promises. I'll tell the starter to try to cover you. The baton is on the desk through the door; you have to break the biohazard glass."
They - they - sit inside unless the courtyard motion alarm goes off. It's cooler there, and that's the route the senseful unwary would take. They don't waste energy. They sit still.
She touches the edges of the window where the glass is broken, and then steps up into the frame, crouching, as close to a real starting position as she can get.
Her earpiece buzzes with static. Break, break. It's a regular thing.
Then the shot goes off, and she runs.
Monday, June 14, 2010
All Snared Up
Onstage before the Fourth of July concert, things were going to hell."I have this tradition," said Tom to Belle, the other percussionist. The strings were busy tuning up. "It's sort of to get me pumped up. Get some energy out there, you know."
Belle smiled nervously, glancing around at the tiny flags and the freedom-themed streamers and watching while Tom dug through his pocket. He took out a little boxcutter.
Tom said, "I think that's important to have before a concert. Energy. You know that head-pounding, blood-pumping feeling? It makes my rolls sizzle better." He walked over to the snare drum.
"What are you doing?" Belle asked, "is this a joke or something?"
Tom glanced at his watch. "I told you, it's tradition." He touched the tip of the blade to the drum's tight mylar skin. Belle shouted, "Stop! What are you doing?" A couple trombones turned around to look what was going on. From the wing, the conductor straightened his tie and nodded to the kid pulling the curtain. The blade dug in further.
"No one has ever objected before," he said. Then the curtain opened, the conductor strolled out graciously, and, over the applause in the dark, stifling auditorium, no one heard the quiet snapping noise from the back of the orchestra.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Three Minutes from the Day it Rained Watermelon
11:13 AMB_____, Delaware
MARY
What's happening?
COLIN
It's raining watermelon. I mean watermelon.
MARY
Like the fruit?
COLIN
Yes, the fruit.
11:14 AM
W_____, PA
GEORGE
Fluffy! What- how did this happen?
FLUFFY
(whimpering noises)
GEORGE
This is terrible. Is that watermelon? Jesus.
11:15 AM
A_____, NY
ELEANOR
Gosh, it's really coming down out there.
LARRY (from bathroom, shaving)
Oh yeah?
ELEANOR
Yes. Plus, that's definitely watermelon.
LARRY
Don't call me melon. And what else would it rain?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
So Many
There were so many, it was like drowning in a swimming pool full of cats and let me tell you why: water is cold and silent like a giant block of solid carbon dioxide carved into the shape of a serial killer, but cats squirm around so much that would just be an unpleasant death. Can you imagine that? Kittens in your mouth? I once had an aunt who snored and she told me once her cat crawled into her mouth and she almost bit it. A cat crawling in your mouth, I mean come on. That is as unexpected as a bat getting caught in your hair while jogging and then having it turned into a novel which is turned into a movie which is turned into a tragic broadway musical love story entitled "AT BAT: HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW", which is a major hit and wins several Tony awards. The Tony awards part, that is the most unlikely, especially when you consider the musical's most well-known songs, including "White Nose Syndrome Took My Baby Away (Fungus Ain't Fun)". Gosh that song is terrible.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Systems
What she said a lot was I need to get this out of my system, like there was poison in her and she had to talk it out, like it would be a gross and messy death if she didn't say what was on her mind: That whistling is driving me crazy, and I really like that shirt. Her friends would recommend something like this: that when you hear her say that, you have to imagine the tiny versions of herself inside looking at the screen and thinking, Keep this, Keep this, and then, No. This has to go. Get it out.So she just talked things out - little things and big things and happy things and sad things, which was an issue because they all became poison, they all became things she had to get out of her system, until over time she was just talking to save her life.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Swing That
In case you guys didn't hear, I'm experimenting this month with updating regularly every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday at 12 AM.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Love and Videogames
Curtain opens very tight on two desks, two chairs, and two computers - a small portion of the Friday night LAN party at a local internet cafe. PLAYER 1 is at the left computer, playing a game. He faces the audience.Beside both of the desks are two large televisions hooked up to the computers, displaying what's happening on the computer. PLAYER 1 is doing pretty well on his game. The other screen is a screensaver.
PLAYER 2 walks on and sits at the other computer. He stares at the monitor. PLAYER 1 looks at him, then turns back to the computer.
PLAYER 1
What's going on, man?
PLAYER 2
I've made a huge mistake.
PLAYER 1 keeps playing.
PLAYER 2
You know that girl who comes here sometimes? She plays, like, sick pyro and everything?
PLAYER 1
Sure.
PLAYER 2
I was just talking to her, right? And last time we were kind of joking around about her bringing me a Mountain Dew for me to drink this week while I'm playing.
PLAYER 1's character dies. He sits back from the computer and waits for the respawn.
PLAYER 1
Speaking of playing, do you want to, like, play? I could seriously use some medicking here.
PLAYER 2
Medic - that's not a verb. You could use a med-
PLAYER 1
Yeah, okay. I could use a-
PLAYER 2
I'm just saying, maybe you could use some healing or something.
PLAYER 1
Just stop griping and get on the damn game.
PLAYER 2 grumbles a bit about verbs as he turns to his computer and opens up the game.
PLAYER 2
So anyway, we're talking about this Mountain Dew thing.
PLAYER 1
I'm on the server we use all the time.
PLAYER 2
The server we use all the time.
PLAYER 1
Yeah, I'm on that server.
PLAYER 2
You're saying the server we use every time - all the time - one hundred percent of the time. You're on that one. That's the one you want me to know you're on.
PLAYER 1 (clueless)
Yeah, man! Connect or whatever!
A beat. PLAYER 2 connects or whatever. There is some silence as his game loads the server. He selects his class - not a medic - and begins playing.
PLAYER 2
She forgot the Mountain Dew, though. That's the thing. She forgot it.
PLAYER 1
Huh?
PLAYER 2
The Mountain Dew she promised me last week. She forgot it.
PLAYER 1
Oh yeah, right.
PLAYER 2
So she says, "oh," you know, like, "I forgot your soda. How can I make it up to you?"
Silence. A spy saps one of the engineer's buildings on PLAYER 1's screen.
PLAYER 1
Spy! Spy, there's a spy. That soldier is a spy.
PLAYER 2
"How can I make it up to you?!" That is just asking for it! I could have just said you can go on a date with me on Friday. Why didn't I say that?
PLAYER 1
Right, man, you've got to- the spy is going to get away. He's cloaking hit him hit him! Ax, man! Use your ax.
PLAYER 2
I just said you can bring me one next week.
PLAYER 2 kills the spy.
PLAYER 1
Good, good, now, can we get some more people around here? [Shouting to the surrounding, off-stage LAN partiers] Can we get some more people around me and player 2? We're going to go for the flag and we need a few more people.
Murmurs of assent from off-stage, but no one is appearing on screen.
PLAYER 2
I don't even like Mountain Dew. What is wrong with me? You can just bring me some next week.
PLAYER 1
Hey, alright, I don't see anyone here. Where are you guys?
PLAYER 2
I bet that could have been something sweet she could have found out about me, that that whole Mountain Dew thing was just an excuse to talk to her.
PLAYER 1
Seriously, no one?
PLAYER 2 (suddenly paying attention to the game)
Let's just go without them.
PLAYER 1
No man, that'll never work. It's safer to wait for a few more guys.
PLAYER 2 starts to run his guy out of the base.
PLAYER 2
I'm sick of doing what's safe! I always just do what's safe! I want to take a risk!
PLAYER 1
What are you talking about, man? Where are you running off to?
His character is running out the door.
PLAYER 2
I want to go! I don't want to be cautious. I just want to-
In the daylight, outside his base, PLAYER 2 is sniped like a n00b. The respawn screen turns on.
PLAYER 1
I told you that would happen. Hey, listen, will you switch classes? I need someone to medic me.
Blackout.
Friday, May 21, 2010
That's So Right
"Is it okay that we've been driving around this much?" Raymond asked, "do you want me to give you gas money?"Carver answered, "it's no problem. I have my parents' card."
He tossed the disc over the fence, and then they both hopped over awkwardly after it. Carver thought about that a lot, that he wished he could just vault over it like other kids from school. He was short though. That was the problem.
The sun beat down. It was Saturday.
They both stepped cautiously down the hill to the turf football field below, feet turned sideways. Raymond slipped a little. He didn't fall.
"Gosh, I can't believe Burk was trying to invite himself to come with us after lunch today," Carver said.
Raymond shook his head a little. "He's a nice guy, but he's just so boring. It drives me crazy."
"That's so right," Carver said.
On the field, they stood thirty yards apart and then started tossing. Forehand, backhand, hammer. It went like that. There were no words.
After a few tosses, Raymond's hammer slipped up and went the wrong way.
"Sorry," he said.
"Don't worry about it," Carver responded, "I mean, it happens to everyone."
Monday, May 17, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Whoa!
"It is stupid to just write a story to make people sad," she said, "I am leaving you."Then some kittens died.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Technical Fowl
This May represents my upcoming second annual Readers' Week! Please email me your stories, photographs, and puns. I'll post 'em up here for all to see.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Waiting
Sometimes, after I have missed several easy hucks or if I'm in a long line or at a school concert or listening to a boring speaker - in short, if I'm faced with a long and unbounded wait - you will hear me make a joke that goes something like this: "eventually, I will make an actual catch," and, "the potential longest we could have to keep doing this is until we die, right?"The joke is just exaggeration, a way of expressing that terrible feeling when you are at a bad place and you could be there for much longer.
But it is worth mentioning that it is not just a joke. Sometimes what I am saying is that this wait sucks but that it will not be much longer and that things will improve, what I am saying was recently and expertly explained to me as Thorton Wilder's message in writing Our Town: that ordinarily life is beautiful, even if you've got a weird chorus of ghosts following you around, and I'm saying that there will be time for us after this wait that will have made it worthwhile, and that it will not be too much longer before this is over. Everything ends some time, and the wait was never that bad in retrospect. I heard this last song is pretty short, and you can take off your bow tie on the ride home if you want.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
April
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT
I was accepted to nineteen schools.
The stage is suddenly lit brilliantly, harshly. The AUDIENCE winces and blinks. THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT stands in the middle of the stage in front of a long, plain table with nineteen identical glasses of water in a row. He's holding a manila file folder.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT
I went to nineteen different sleeping bag preview weekends and stayed with nineteen RA's and listened to nineteen different presidents tell me not to come to their school if I only wanted the brand name experience and that I wouldn't hear that anywhere else. Nineteen tour guides told me to tell them if a car was coming, nineteen sets of people watched me awkwardly wander in late to the information session, nineteen College Prowler Off The Record books are on my bedside table.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT walks upstage to stand behind the table. He places his fingertips on its surface.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENTS
I have nineteen glasses of water here. They're from nineteen different taps from nineteen different freshman bathrooms I visited on nineteen different college tours, and they're numbered.
A beat.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT holds up his folder.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT
I also have a spreadsheet.
Another beat. He puts down his folder.
Then he starts drinking. The AUDIENCE realizes what's happening now, and they hate it. He drinks every drop from the first glass and then breathes and then puts it down and moves to the next one. There are no pauses, just bottoms up and for god's sake don't spill. It's clean. It's mechanical. The AUDIENCE's quiet murmuring turns into nervous chatter. Onstage, it is bright and still. THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT is on his twelfth glass and shows no signs of stopping. People begin vomiting in the crowd, and then the screaming starts. It's chaos.
The PROSPECTIVE STUDENT finishes the last glass of water. He stares for a second, and then he opens the folder.
I was accepted to nineteen schools.
The stage is suddenly lit brilliantly, harshly. The AUDIENCE winces and blinks. THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT stands in the middle of the stage in front of a long, plain table with nineteen identical glasses of water in a row. He's holding a manila file folder.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT
I went to nineteen different sleeping bag preview weekends and stayed with nineteen RA's and listened to nineteen different presidents tell me not to come to their school if I only wanted the brand name experience and that I wouldn't hear that anywhere else. Nineteen tour guides told me to tell them if a car was coming, nineteen sets of people watched me awkwardly wander in late to the information session, nineteen College Prowler Off The Record books are on my bedside table.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT walks upstage to stand behind the table. He places his fingertips on its surface.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENTS
I have nineteen glasses of water here. They're from nineteen different taps from nineteen different freshman bathrooms I visited on nineteen different college tours, and they're numbered.
A beat.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT holds up his folder.
THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT
I also have a spreadsheet.
Another beat. He puts down his folder.
Then he starts drinking. The AUDIENCE realizes what's happening now, and they hate it. He drinks every drop from the first glass and then breathes and then puts it down and moves to the next one. There are no pauses, just bottoms up and for god's sake don't spill. It's clean. It's mechanical. The AUDIENCE's quiet murmuring turns into nervous chatter. Onstage, it is bright and still. THE PROSPECTIVE STUDENT is on his twelfth glass and shows no signs of stopping. People begin vomiting in the crowd, and then the screaming starts. It's chaos.
The PROSPECTIVE STUDENT finishes the last glass of water. He stares for a second, and then he opens the folder.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Kilmer? I Hardly Know 'Er!
I think that I shall never seeA poem as lovely as frisbee,
A sport with hucks thrown outside-in
find Steve, whose mark was fronting him,
A sport where swing cuts are divine
to get your handler off the line
A sport that I in summer play
A pick-up game most every day
Upon whose fun does not rely
On sunny days, e'en rain is fine.
Yes, poems may bring you fame and glamour,
But nothing ever beats a hammer.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
On the Final Knight
Here is the problem, he said, moving the pieces around, letting the soft, heavy bases bump deeply against board. Your skewer is good, and it makes me make the move I did (more clicking here, she loved that sound) But after that, it's done. The rook is protected, and it's not worth sacrificing anything for. Take advantage of the position you're in.She blinked at him and then stared at the board some, and after a while she moved a knight to fork the rook and his white-square bishop, a long queen's fianchetto back in the opening - he liked those indirect occupations.
No! She noticed he almost yelled now, and the way he touched his hair and then his ear, struggling, frustrated. He moved his rook and looked back up at her. The rook can move now, you have to-
She took his bishop and handed him the note, and then she left, because sometimes you just have to give up on a good thing.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Storage
1 - Ext. Storage Facilities - Morning - 1An early August morning - hot and humid. You know this kind of dawn, when the dew gets in the grass deep and your shoes get as wet as your armpits and the sun rises fast and ugly before six.
2 - Ext. HANK's Car - Morning - 2
HANK's 1989 Aries is parked outside the site's chain link fence. Its blue paint is faded and chipping.
3 - Int. HANK's Car - Morning - 3
HANK's cargo shorts are sticking to the driver's seat, his Hawaiian shirt soaked with sweat, a woven fedora doing little to conceal his shiny scalp and thinning, wispy hair. He's talking on the phone.
HANK
Listen man, you'll get the stuff or my name isn't Hank Havner.
A pause.
HANK
I know. I would have paid the rent last night if you had given me the cash, but now we lost the storage and I have to bid just like everyone el-
He is cut off. He listens. Whoever he's talking to doesn't sound happy.
HANK
Sorry - yeah - okay. I know, it's totally my fault. You don't have to do that.
A further pause.
HANK
I'll win the auction. It's all in boxes, and they're not allowed to open anything. No one will know any of it's mine or that it's worth anything. As long as I act casual, I'm just another bidder on some random crap.
A shorter pause, then:
HANK
Yeah, listen, they're about to start. I gotta get down there.
4 - Ext. Storage Facilities - Morning - 4
Wide shot. HANK gets out of his car and hustles down through the gate down towards where a crowd is gathered around outside of one the storage units.
Overlay on screen: STORAGE
Overlay on screen: FEATURING...
5 - Ext. Unit Eleven - Morning - 5
HANK approaches a group of around twenty or twenty-five people milling around outside storage unit eleven. He slows to a walk and examines the crowd. JAMES is standing on top of a milk crate right next to the unit's door, a head above the crowd.
Freeze frame on HANK. Overlay on screen: HANK HAVNER as THE PROTAGONIST.
On resuming: HANK bumps into LESLIE, who gives him a dirty look. She's a teenage girl with a prada purse and a scowl that could kill a plant. He doesn't notice and doesn't apologize.
Freeze frame on LESLIE, looking annoyed. Overlay on screen: LESLIE BRADFORD as THE OPPOSITION.
On resuming: JAMES glances at his watch.
JAMES
Okay everyone, settle down.
Freeze frame on JAMES. Overlay on screen: With JAMES SHURGARD as THE AUCTIONEER.
On resuming: WAYNE, a maintenance man at the storage place, strolls by at the back of the crowd. He looks over at JAMES.
Freeze frame on WAYNE: Overlay on screen: And WAYNE HUGHES as THE TWIST.
WAYNE walks on away from the crowd.
JAMES
Settle down folks! I'm not going to ask you again.
They settle down. JAMES looks pleased.
JAMES
The unit up for auction today just defaulted yesterday. I'm going to open up the doors here in a second, but I'd just like to remind everyone of the rules.
A collective groan goes up from the crowd, except for HANK, who looks more confused.
JAMES
You can't touch anything. Bid on what you see. After you win, you have until nine to get organized and clear everything out. Everyone understand?
There are murmurs of agreement.
JAMES
Good. I'll give you a few minutes.
JAMES jumps down to open the garage door to unit eleven. As it slides up, the crowd quiets down. There finally settles upon them a stifling silence. They stare.
Inside: boxes. Boxes and boxes and boxes, all stacked and closed and sealed sight.
And labelled, too. Every one of them, in thick black sharpie and all caps: "HANK HAVNER".
The crowd wanders into the unit. There is not much to see - just more boxes. They whisper quietly.
HANK follows, hanging towards the back.
6 - Int. Unit 11 - Morning - 6
The fluorescent overhead lights flicker on. Another CUSTOMER meanders over by HANK. Both are taking stock of the boxes.
CUSTOMER
Weird lot, huh?
HANK (indicating the rest of the crowd)
Oh yeah, these guys? Yeah, the weirdest! Is this your first time also?
CUSTOMER
I meant the lot that's up for auction.
HANK
Oh, yeah. Yeah.
There is an awkward pause.
HANK
What exactly do you look for in a... lot?
CUSTOMER
Well, different stuff. If everything's messy, it means the owner had a chance to rush through it before they lost the locks got changed. Containers with locks mean valuables sometimes. I have no idea what to expect with these, though. The neatness will drive the price up a little, I guess.
HANK grimaces. The CUSTOMER continues.
CUSTOMER
Sometimes you get lucky and get some jewelry or something, but for all we know this is some guy's collection of old newspapers. Well, not some guy. "Hank Havner," whoever that is.
HANK nods and wipes some sweat off his brow.
Over on the other side of the, LESLIE, on the phone, laughs loudly.
HANK (indicating LESLIE, to the CUSTOMER)
Who's that girl?
CUSTOMER
Leslie Bradford, daughter of the guy who owns the First Federal Bank down on Broad Street. She's not here to resell any of the winnings. She just likes pawing through people's old stuff. She's turned a lot of people off coming to these auctions because the only ones she loses are the ones she's not interested in. If you'll pardon my French, that girl is a real female dog!
HANK laughs weakly, nervous.
JAMES, from the outside, calls in.
JAMES
Alright, guys! Let's get this thing started.
The crowd moves back outside.
7 - Ext. Unit 11 - Morning - 7
JAMES
As usual, we're starting the bidding at a hundred fifty dollars, increments a' ten going up. Do I hear 150?
Someone raises a hand.
JAMES
150, do I hear 160 - 160, we have 160. 170?
HANK bids.
JAMES
170. 180? Who wants 180?
The bidding continues like this for a little while. As it reaches around 250, HANK turns to the CUSTOMER again.
HANK
What do - ah - what do most lots go for usually?
The CUSTOMER ponders the question.
CUSTOMER
If nothin' valuable's in sight, I'd estimate probably around three or four hundred dollars.
HANK raises his hand.
HANK
Four hundred dollars!
JAMES is surprised.
JAMES
Four hundred dollars! We're up to four hundred dollars here, do I hear more?
The crowd grumbles at JAMES. A few people walk off.
LESLIE
Four hundred fifty.
HANK is bothered.
HANK
Five hundred!
LESLIE (on his heels)
Five fifty.
There is a pause. HANK and LESLIE make tense eye contact, then turn to JAMES.
HANK
Six hundred.
LESLIE freezes. She looks over at HANK again.
LESLIE
What do you know that we don't, guy?
HANK laughs nervously.
HANK (weakly)
Oh, just curious, that's all.
LESLIE (to JAMES)
Seven hundred dollars!
JAMES
Eight hundre-
WAYNE (interrupting)
Hank?
There is silence. HANK looks around. WAYNE is standing outside the storage site's offices, dressed in his uniform, looking at disbelief at the crowd.
WAYNE (yelling, running over)
Oh my gosh, Hank! I thought I saw you. Jeez, man! I haven't seen you since high school. What are you doing back? I thought you moved.
HANK looks down, around, anywhere but at WAYNE, who is now walking right up to him.
WAYNE (mock-scolding)
Don't pull that on me, Hank Havner, I'd know that little red face anywhere!
HANK looks at LESLIE, who is open-mouthed with shock and joy.
WAYNE (incredulous, shaking his head)
Hank Havner. I don't believe-
Freeze on WAYNE, overlay: STORAGE.
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