The Silence of the World

Ian McEwan is the best writer of our generation, and it's a shame it's taken me this long to figure it out. People know him for his novels, particularly "Atonement" and "Amsterdam," but it's his short fiction that just blows me away, books like "First Love, Last Rites" and - now - "Inbetween the Sheets." Tonight I read the first story in the latter collection, called "Pornography." It's the most wrong, twisted, perverse thing I've read in ages, and it's also the most beautifully written, so you're torn between utter horror at what happens at the end, and this sense of awe at his command for the language, and the way he's toyed with you along the way. The whole time you sense something bad is going to happen, and then when it's finally revealed, it's beyond your fucking wildest dreams where he's taken it to.

I know I'm prone to hyperbole. When I'm introduced to something for the first time, whether it's a work of art or a girl or just the crispy tacos at Nick's, I get overcome with excitement, and can't contain my enthusiasm. It's always harmless, it's always exaggerated, but it's also something I refuse to change. I just read the most brilliant story and I'm on a high as a result of it, and I offer no apologies here.

Tomorrow, I'll read another story in the collection, and perhaps it will be even better. But for tonight, for right this minute, I can calmly say, this is why I'm a writer, to be exposed to such genius, and I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world.

Cracking

1. Yesterday was one of those lay-in-bed-my-soul-hurts kind of days, which meant I finally had time for The Ice Storm. I first saw it eight or nine years ago, back when it was the talk of certain intellectual circles, and I remember enjoying it, only something has prevented me from watching it again. It's an interesting film, though, one that follows the coming apart of two affluent suburban families in Connecticut during the '70s, with the "storm" being the metaphor for how their protected, insulated worlds are suddenly "cracking." Joan Allen is amazing in every thing she does, and her performance here is no different, just powerful in such a subtle way. And Kevin Kline, Sigourney Weaver, Tobey Maguire, Christina Ricci and Katie Holmes are all excellent as well.

2. Saturday afternoon I went to Oakland for a few hours. At the Montgomery BART station this guy hit on me, using the Red Sox as a means to start up a conversation (he was from Swampscott, where my mom grew up), then asking if I was chef because he thought the novel I was reading was a cookbook. (Why he thought that, I have no idea.) The scene though, with everybody watching (or at least it felt like they were) was so over the top, so ridiculous, so blatant, that I just looked down at my book, re-reading the same sentence three times while he talked, hoping he would get the hint. Finally, after a few awkward silences he was like, okay, I'll let you get back to your book, but he said it in a way like, please tell me if I'm wrong, but when I didn't say anything he darted off, pretending to see someone he knew. In a weird way I felt sorry for him, though, and didn't mean to be a dick, but then again, what's the proper response when you want to say, look dude, you've got it all wrong here?

3. At Ben and Nick's in Rockridge, they have this IPA called Hebrew Double. It's ABV is 10%, and it comes in this special glass, with a photo of a bearded Lenny Bruce under his original name, Leonard Alfred Schneider. The bartender remembered me, so when I got all excited about the glass, talking about the design of it and how cool the concept was, he was like, keep it, which at the time I thought was quite generous, only now I realize how absurd it was to get all worked up over a logo from Shmaltz Brewing Company, let alone then take a napkin and wipe it down and put it in my bag. (It is a nice looking glass, though, one that is now in my rotation at home.)

4. They played RBL Posse at the bar Saturday night, where we were celebrating a friend's birthday. There was a moment where the whole place was bobbing their heads in unison, just before closing time, and I looked over at Greasy and he was right with me, getting the humor of it. I called Tara in the middle of the song, my second drunk dial to her that day, but when I held the phone up, all she could hear was an explosion of static, and at a certain point I realized I couldn't articulate why the moment was so priceless, so iconic for our generation, so I said I'll call you tomorrow and she hung up, disgusted.

5. I have a former student who just went to Iraq. Last Thursday night she sent me a text with her mailing address. We proceeded to exchange four or five messages. She said she was guarding 6 Iraqis at the time, one of whom kept trying to give her a yellow apple, and I couldn't get over the contrast between her situation and mine. Here I was watching the Nets and Clippers game in my warm studio, occasionally looking at a design book (but really doing nothing important) and here she was, at the same moment, on the other side of the world, risking her life in some crazy war that seems to get more chaotic each day. If that wasn't surreal enough, I asked her if she needed anything, thinking I would send her a small gift to make her life a little easier over there. She told me she could use an IPOD adapter for her jeep, because she wanted to listen to David Sedaris while driving. Again, she's at war, and the one thing she wants is an accessory for her IPOD, to listen to an author I turned her on to less than two years ago, which says something about how funny life is, and how strange things have gotten.

6. A while ago I did an interview with XFuns, which is this design magazine in Taiwan. It was supposed to come out in December. Things got delayed, for one reason or another, but it's now set for an early February release, and I've given them over thirty of my photographs, which means you should check it out, if you have the time.

Recommendations

A. Literature: The Contortionist's Handbook, by Craig Clevenger. I haven't read prose this tight in a long time, and it's one of those books you just cruise through in a matter of hours, obsessed with every word. It's dark, twisted, vibrant, and funny, everything you'd come to expect from Chuck Palahniuk, who in a quote from the front cover calls this "...the best book I have read in easily five years. Easily. Maybe ten years." It's also a fascinating study of identity, and how we are always reinventing who we are based on the little details we reveal to others - things most of us aren't conscious of doing, whether it's a small detail you tell your doctor, the way we keep our hands hidden when we lie, or in a story told to an authority figure to get them off our backs. The conclusion is a bit of a let-down, only because the premise is so fascinating, and the writing so sharp, and it's hard to live up to that promise. And yet, it's a fun, intelligent, bizarre ride, and a book that should be receiving more attention than it has.

B. Cinema: Get Carter. No, not the Sylvester Stallone remake, the original British version, starring Michael Caine, who in 1971 was one of the coolest guys on the planet. Dark, atmospheric, very '70s in terms of the look and the soundtrack (a supposed inspiration for Portishead), it reminds me in a weird way of Dirty Harry, just the way it's shot, only it's much better. This is a classic British gangster film, gritty, harsh, and soulless, one that needs to be seen more than once to really embrace all of the little details.

C. Web: Nadissistic: I can't tell you how beautiful these self-portraits are. Each image is so vibrant and surreal. Check out all three sections of her portfolio to see what I'm talking about. My favorite is "Autumn 2006" although the new black and whites are amazing too. Luckily, she's agreed to collaborate on my next book project, and I can't tell you how honored I am. This is amazing photography.

D. Television: Extras: The latest Ricky Gervais project, a partnership between the BBC and HBO. The first season just came out on DVD, and it's hilarious. Just like The Office (the BBC version), it takes a moment to really pick up on the inside jokes and the level of the humor, but once the terms are established it's just as funny, and just as absurd, which is really saying something. Here's a clip from episode one (Season One), where Kate Winslet plays a nun who gives phone sex advice to two extras on the set of her latest film.

It Should Take Awhile

I'm in the process of adding a bunch of new photos to the site, and tinkering with a few things design wise. In the meantime, I have a new splash page, and I've included some of the work I've just picked up from the lab. Cheers.

Karma

There's this homeless guy I see every couple of days. For some reason he's drawn to me (perhaps it's just because I take the time to listen) and is always giving me reports on how he's doing, how close he is to getting a job, what motel he's trying to get into, whatever is going on in his life. A few weeks before Christmas, on a particularly wet day, I saw him just sitting out in the rain in front of Starbucks, catching cold, and my heart broke. He said he needed $5 to get into a motel for the night. I gave it to him. He insisted on paying me back but I knew that wouldn't happen, and I didn't care. Two days later I met the most gorgeous blonde, a girl who was really cool and fun, and my mind instantly went to the $5 gift, thinking I had been repaid for the generosity. A few weeks later, right before New Year's, I again gave him a couple of bucks, so he could get a haircut because he claimed to have a job interview. Each time he hugged me afterwards, which was touching on one level - he really appreciated it - but also maddening, because I instantly felt the need to go wash up. I saw all the germs floating in the air and got neurotic. A few nights later I met another cute girl, and again, thought it was some kind of karmic payback.

In my own mind, it seemed like I had the secret to success. The perfect formula. Give this guy money, meet hot women. It all seemed so simple.

Last week I had pink eye. When he saw me on Friday afternoon he was all concerned, wondering where I had been. I told him what happened. Instantly he tried to give me a couple pills he had in his pocket. I was flattered and amused, but also not interested. He then whispered to me, "Was it some pussy that got you sick?"

For obvious reasons I was offended, taken back, embarrased. We just weren't on that kind of level, and I had no interest in bonding with him other than to not be that cynical guy who refuses to look this population in the face. I assured him that no, that wasn't the problem, that I had a cold, but he kept smiling at me suspiciously.

Yesterday, at lunch, I walked out of the office and there he was, with a change cup. He was excited to see me. I said hi to him and kept going. He asked for some change, but I didn't have any on me, and I can't keep doing this - it's not like I'm rolling in cash myself. At the same time, two attractive blondes walked by. I was in stride with them, admiring their beauty. One smiled politely. Then, from down the street, my friend yells, "I hope that pink eye clears up soon, buddy! You better leave the ladies alone for awhile." When I turned he was putting his finger through a circle in his other hand, in-out in-out, the universal sign for sexual intercourse, and he had this crazy smile on his face.

The two women quickly looked at each other with disgust. My face went red. I felt warm around the temple. My eyes caught a ray of sun and began to tear. I decided to look down.

I also slowed up, giving them the chance to get ahead of me. At the same time they picked up their pace, walking significantly faster. At the cross-walk, they turned, and just like that, they were gone.

Clearly my luck has run its course.

Ruby Tuesday

A few more photographs from the Stones concert in November, ones that I finally got developed.

Shadowboxing

It's funny because, most of the writers I'm really into, people like Kerouac, Henry Miller, Tim O'Brien, Denis Johnson, David Sedaris, William T. Vollman - actually there are countless others - they all write stories using semi-autobiographical first-person narrators. Of course in some respects their stories mirror real life, or at least elements of it, but I've never read something and said, jesus, this guy is a freak, or this guy clearly has issues because he chose to write about certain subject matter. They're just stories, things written to reveal something deeper about the human condition. Often one finds great clarity in dark subject matter. I mean, if we don’t write stories about complicated people does that mean their problems don’t exist? We can all go and hide? What are you supposed to do, write pretty little tales about Shetland ponies? About drinking at trendy hipster bars with the beautiful people? I don’t understand that mentality. Of course this is my profession, what I've studied and lectured about for years, so perhaps I have a better vantage point to get these things, but still, it amazes me how so-called intelligent people can miscomprehend even the most fundamental ideas.

Actually a big part of post-modern literature is just the idea of playing with notions of "truth" and blurring the lines between fiction and reality. That is a space I'm interested in, and I've never felt the need to explain what parts of my story are "true" and which sections have been embellished, manipulated, and/or invented to fit the needs of the narrative. In fact, part of the fun is not clarifying for people, so they just read the stories for what they are - interesting snapshots of life, often funny, often absurd - rather than try and analyze who each character is, and what parts actually happened.

Even when my mom said something to me at Christmas, how she wished I didn't write so many personal things about my own life, I didn't feel the need to clarify for her. I've assured her enough times that I don't have substance abuse problems, that I've never put anything up my nose, that the girls in my stories are not the ones I associate with in real life (at least most of the time).

If something feels real in a story, that's because it's good writing. I apologize for sounding pretentious, but if I spend enough time studying something, I can make you believe almost anything. I'm that good.

In fact, for the better part of my adulthood, I've avoided the temptations of other friends, choosing to spend the majority of my time studying, first in the deep recesses of libraries at the different colleges I attended, then in the various studios I've kept since. While friends from high school started to experiment with meth, or coke, or gambling, or the adult industries, I read books, and studied cinema. Of course I was interested in hearing their stories, and of course I had my share of fun and experimentation, of course I partied some, but I knew when to draw the line. After college, when everybody my age was making lots of money, I turned to art, and literature, for salvation, unconcerned about material things. I went to grad school, got a master's, became a College Professor. I spent three years changing lives, on a substandard salary, because teaching was that important to me. When academia got to be too much, I quit, to write a book.

I've learned to live vicariously through the characters in my stories, so my mind goes to places in art that I want to avoid in real life. To me, that's about the healthiest thing a person can do. Avoid real life problems by exploring them in fiction.

And yet, I'm the crazy artist?

You see, recently I met a girl that I liked. There was a spark there, a real one, based not only on physical attraction, but also how our minds connected. When we talked we couldn't get enough of each other. The conversations flowed. We had a similar sense of humor and a fascination with how bizarre the world is.

Then she read my book, and rather than discuss the issues with me, or wait until she saw things that should concern her, she ran. She sent cowardly text messages, played mind games. She ran her mouth and discussed our business everywhere except with the person who was most affected by her narrow-mindedness. Part of me feels like I shouldn't have to explain anything, that if she isn't bright enough to get the difference between how I am, and an artificial creation on the page, then she isn't worth my time. Part of me, though, feels sad, like how can this person that I thought was different, be so selfish and self-absorbed, and ultimately, psychotic?

The truth is, if she isn't sophisticated enough to get it, then she's the one with the issues, not me. I mean, I have flaws, but I know them, and I don't pretend to be something I'm not.

So no matter how many times she watches Sex and the City, and no matter how many pretentious “rules” she creates to guide her through the dating game, she’ll still end up being the clueless one, the poseur, the fraud.

Strange Days Indeed

I was in the middle of doing laundry last night, and I look over, and there's this little blonde girl - maybe 20, 21 years old - sitting on the step inbetween two rows of machines, completely secluded from the outside world, and she's reading my book. I'm not kidding. I almost snapped my neck when I saw it the first time, and then confirmed, despite my blurry vision, that it was indeed my cover.

You see, yesterday was kind of a long one for me, first returning back to work after five days (my eyes still all puffy and bloodshot but I could manage the rest), then trying to get caught up on things but feeling overwhelmed, and then getting kind of a lame email at the end of the day, and well, it was all just kind of a downer.

Anyway, I had a cold, lonely walk home, taking the long route through the Tenderloin (had to stop by the photo lab on Polk and Sacramento) - which made it more brutal, and I was just bummed and wanted to get into bed and watch DVD's - the latest batch from Netflix arrived - but I had a few loads of laundry that needed to be done, so I went across the street, lost two bucks on a broken machine, was lectured to in Cantonese for several minutes by the owner, and was basically at wit's end, ready to lose it, when suddenly there she was, with my book.

It was one thing when the manuscript first arrived and I saw my name on it, it was another for two heroes of mine to say they really liked it, it was even another to see it propped up at certain bookstores, looking official. But to randomly see a complete stranger, a little blonde nectar at that, reading it, I mean fully engrossed, with a twisted little smile on her face, just took me all the way.

I thought about saying something. I should have. But I was tired, and flattered, and it would have just killed the moment to speak up.

So I'm telling you.

Under Blackpool Lights

I watched The White Stripes concert film, Under Blackpool Lights, last night, and it was quite a treat. It was one of the first documentaries that truly captured the live experience for me, and it brought back a ton of memories of seeing them at The Greek Theater in the fall of 2003. I don't know if it was the grainy 8mm footage, or just the way they edited it - mixing in so many different vantage points, or perhaps even the awesome sound quality, but it makes you feel like you're right there. They come out rocking too, and just never stop, going full throttle through a twenty-six song, hour-and-twenty-minute set. Meg always is in some state of ecstatic bliss while playing the drums, and in a strange way it makes her hot. I mean, she's not physically beautiful, but just the way she carries herself, the way her head tilts back in rapturous delight, you feel this affection for her. And Jack is Jack. When he sang the Dolly Parton classic "Jolene" my spine had a little tingle going down it, and even though I've heard it a thousand times, seeing it visually takes it to a whole new level of emotional catharsis. At one point I even got a little choked up, connecting it in some ways to my personal life, which is what we always do with great music. Anyway, it's definitely worth exploring.

Design Links

Sophie Griotto is an amazing illustrator.
Vincent Gallo is out of his mind, but Buffalo 66 still gives him immunity for life.
Johann Fournier creates beautiful images.

From the Deathbed Of

Monday I was in pretty bad shape. Not only were my eyes swollen, but they were dripping this clear fluid, and every time I woke up I had to take a cold wash cloth and rub the corners before my lids would open. That evening it was assumed my mom would drive down from Sacramento the following morning to take me to the hospital.

Then a funny thing happened. I was watching the BCS championship game (I just knew Florida would win), and I had my floor heater cranked, and I was nestled under four layers of sweats and my new maroon quilt, and the bottle of Tussin was within arm's reach, and suddenly I felt this calm come over me, and my mind - always quick to panic - suddenly alerted the rest of my body that things were going to be okay. Often people say, you have to think positively, you have to believe you're going to get better, and for the most part it goes in one ear and out the other. It's not that I don't think the mind is that powerful, it's just that I've never been one to look on the bright side - I just don't see the world that way. But like I said, I had this feeling about things, and I suddenly told myself that I was going to be okay, that vitamins and rest and drinking lots of water - coupled with a healthy outlook - were going to be enough. I also promised myself that I wouldn't take any more antibiotics, that after last year - when I was on four different ones - I had to be concerned for my immune system, and that I wanted to have my body's natural resistance fight its way through this.

Anyway, yesterday I was a little better - enough to mail a few packages and grab a burrito at lunch - and today I feel like I'm finally over the hump. My eyes still look bad - Cheech and Chong could never look this blazed - but they aren't nearly as swollen, and more importantly I feel like the sickness is almost gone.

I'm working from home right now, and if I go anywhere I'm going to wear my old blue Vuarnets so I don't look like a junkie, and little by little I'm going to familiarize myself with the outside world again. And I'm going to try once again to live every day like it's my last, because you never know, one of these times I might not get better so quickly (or at all), and there are way too many things still left for me to do, and way too many words left unsaid that I need to get out, and even if this latest crush falls by the wayside - which no matter how beautiful she is, it inevitably will - there's still a lot of love left for me to give.

p.s. I just sent an email informing her that I'm back in the realm of the living, no longer a sick puppy dog, and that she has no chance to resist my charm now that I'm near full strength. Call me delusional, but I think it's going to be a big success.

The New Year

I have pink eye - with clear pus dripping down both cheeks as I type this, a new friend who's got to be the most adorable (and sweetest) Happa ever, and I haven't had a pastry in over a week.

I'd tell you more, but for once there are a few personal details I'm going to keep private.