My very own Surreal Life

This afternoon I'm taking a break from the usual self-involved bitch fest, per the request of a very regular reader. Today's proposed topic: who would comprise my ideal Surreal Life cast?

At first I was tempted to pick my seven favorite totally awesome celebrities. I was thinking Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman, Bill Clinton, Jodie Foster, Edie Falco, Gwyneth Paltrow and Frances McDormand. But it occurred to me that casting stars of that magnitude wouldn't really be true to the Surreal Life format. What makes the Surreal Life compelling is that its participants are sub-celebrities--desperate enough to be on the show in the first place, and to participate in a host of degrading activities (flipping burgers, cross-dressing, stripping) just for a little basic cable face time.

I IMDb-ed the show, and it quickly became apparent to me that the show has a very specific-- verging on rigid--casting formula. These are the seven distinct "types" that round out every cast, almost without exception:

-The Washed-Up Child/Sitcom Star (e.g., Christopher Knight, Bronson Pinchot, Dave Coulier)
-The Washed-Up Rapper (e.g., M.C. Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Flavor Flav, Da Brat, Pepa)
-The Washed-Up Model (e.g., Traci Bingham, Brigitte Nielsen, Caprice, Marcus Shenkenberg)
-The Washed-Up Reality Star (e.g., Jerri Manthey, Adrianne Curry, Omarosa)
-The Washed-Up Rocker (e.g., Vince Neil, Jordan Knight, Jane Wiedlin)
-The Train Wreck (e.g., Tammy Faye Bakker, Joanie Laurer, Janice Dickinson)
-The Freak/Curiosity (e.g., Emmanuel Lewis, Verne Troyer, Ron Jeremy)

Keeping this schematic in mind, I present the Surreal Life cast of my wildest dreams:

-Bea Arthur (Sitcom Star)
Cause old ladies are funny. (I hope she's still alive.)
-Will Smith (Rapper)
I guess he's still got a viable movie career, but his rapping career has definitely ground to a halt. So he gets the nod.
-Elizabeth Hurley (Model)
She's hot. And English.
-Jon "The Blazer" Benarroch (Reality Star)
He was on a VH1 show called "Kept." He graduated from North Haven High School in 2000. When asked how many halves are in a whole, he's been known to respond, "Depends on what kind of hole you're taking about."
-Ozzie Osbourne (Rocker)
Remember when "The Osbournes" was awesome? A stint on the Surreal Life would be a fitting epilogue to an incomprehensible television career.
-Paris Hilton (Train Wreck)
If she was spoiled and stuck-up, she wouldn't be doing this.
-Rebecca Sealfon (Freak/Curiosity)
Just watch the video. (Is "freak" a euonym for this girl?)

And there you have it. Too bad there's not a "disaffected college graduate" slot to fill. I'd be in there in a hot second.

The law school option

One of the recurring themes of this chronicle has been my decision to apply (or not to apply) to law school. There was a period back in the winter when I pored over paperback law school guides and toiled for hours inputting statistics into spreadsheets so I could get some idea of where I might get in (Results: Harvard/Yale=impossible; Michigan/Georgetown=longshots; BC/BU=likely; UConn=safety). But then over the holiday season--with all its idealism and optimism--the idea of law school grew stale and started to fade and the desire to pursue my creative passions (ha) grew more urgent. I started working on some creative pieces. And kept working on them. And kept working on them. And now, a couple of months later, I still don't have one solid piece of short fiction that I'd feel comfortable submitting to any kind of writing program. Every morning, I go back and read what I've written the day before, and I cringe and I'm embarassed.

The June LSAT is a little more than two months away. In some ways, law school would be a get-out-of-jail-free pass. It's not free, either in terms of money or effort, but it would certainly tie up a lot of the loose ends of my life (one more year to kick around, hopefully doing something fulfilling; three years of school; thirty years of a potentially-lucrative career; ten [knock wood] years of retirement). But at the same time, I can't help but think that going to law school is a little defeatist. I know that a lot of people who read this are in law school, or will be soon, and my intent is not to denegrate anyone else's decision. It's just that in my case, enrolling in law school will mean acknowledging that I'm not cut out for all of those things that I wish I was cut out for.

The most compelling aspect of law school is that it would be a second chance to have a fully-realized adult (not in the pornographic sense...or at least not entirely in the pornographic sense) social life in an academic environment. It's not that I didn't love my years as an undergraduate, nor am I looking for Bright College Years 2.0, but there's something almost irresistable about that ready-made assortment of interesting people that one finds in any academic program. But is it worth three years of hard work and tens of thousands of dollars? Decisions, decisions.

Status report:
-I'm finishing up the project I've been working on for my uncle (the plastic perfume pump tycoon). Should be getting paid for twenty hours of work pretty soon.
-Half a dozen jobs I've applied to in the past couple of weeks have all been dead ends. Surprise, surprise.
-I'm contemplating applying to work at Foxwoods Resort and Casino. Maybe as a cashier or something totally mindless. The pay is decent, the environment is at least mildly amusing, and I probably wouldn't feel guilty if I decided to quit after a month.
-If I can cobble together twenty double-spaced pages of creative writing by April 14 (I've got ten right now), I'll probably submit to the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop summer program. The program runs from the beginning of June to the end of July. Hopes are as low as they can possibly be.

Identity II

IV.
Weary and trembling
Imagine a warm corner
To fend off the cold

V.
When we are broken
We cleave with desperation
To nothing at all

VI.
Unable to move
Look back and see no footsteps
When nothing is right

[This will probably be the last of these. Next post should be a return to the narrative form.]

Identity

I. Looking, hopelessly
Confident pictures
I can see you know yourself
I wish you knew me

II. Cut down to size
"I guess I just thought
About how it affects me."
"Well, that's how you are."

III. Decline of a dog
Tremor down her back
Her legs give out beneath her
No pain in her face

Today/tonight

Brunch in Westville with Phoebe, who doesn't read this.

Came up with a name for my buddy at the Vermont Welcome Center: Vin (as in Vincent). Not Mike (as in Michael).

Bought Dave some beer at the packie. He doesn't read this either.

Party in Cromwell. It may or may not have been called Cromicon II.

UCLA sux.

Made friends with four perfectly pleasant high school senior girls. Kids these days.

Got a call from one of my favorite south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-liners.

Came home and listened to "Move Along" about ten more times.

Wrote this. Duh.

Bball and The History Channel

I can tell already that this is going to be a boring one. Sorry kids. You can't expect gut-wrenching self-pity every day.

Boring: My NCAA bracket is totally shot. I had Gonzaga in the Final Four and Duke in the championship game, and both of them lost last night. That Gonzaga/UCLA game was a heartbreaker. With a minute left, I was all set to send out a couple of consolatory/taunting emails to people who had picked the Bruins.

I can't quite put my finger on the reason for my Gonzaga affinity. There's just a freshness about them. They've got polish without the pedigree. And maybe it's also their unfortunate habit of late-season disappointment. Even when they're dominating, they still feel like an underdog.

Slightly less boring: A copy of my resume is currently in the hands of an employee of The History Channel. He's the boyfriend of the daughter of one of my father's coworkers (got that?). It'd probably be a cool gig, if I can land it. I'd get to move to NYC, which is the most appealing aspect of this opportunity. (I stopped looking at New York-based job ads a couple of months ago.) I've got to say, though, I'm not too keen on all of this someone-who-knows-someone business. I'd rather make my own way in life (even now; especially now), and I try to avoid getting things via backdoor channels. But my father has been hounding me (in his unflinchingly passive-agressive way) to allow him to help me in my job search. He wants to "take a more active role" in my life, and says that I should "use him as a resource." It's a last-ditch parenting blitz, and I'm trying hard to grin and bear it. Just between you and me, I can't !#%@* stand it.

But I said he could give my resume to his coworker, who in turn would give it to his daughter, who in turn would give it to her boyfriend. (I can just imagine my resume fluttering around the offices of The History Channel. It's probably being shuffled from pile bottom to pile bottom. If I'm lucky, maybe somebody is using it as a lunch napkin.) I'm supposedly going to have a phone interview early next week. I'll let you know how it goes.

These are the jobs that I'm currently waiting to hear on:
-Part-time literary assistant in North Branford (no response after several weeks, even after repeated follow-up emails).
-Temporary office worker in New Haven real estate office (no response after one follow-up email).
-Assistant for small public relations firm in (get this) West Cornwall, CT. Here's where it is in relation to New Haven. Yikes.

$$$

One more item for the day:

I was talking to a friend on AIM last night and she said something to the effect of "Yeah, I wish my parents would give me money so I could live at home and not have to work."

Her intent wasn't to be mean-spirited, but still I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I realized that her's is probably the obvious assumption to make.

In the interest of full disclosure, and in an attempt to restore a little of my integrity, I would like to let the record show that I DO NOT TAKE MONEY FROM MY PARENTS. I live rent-free and I eat approximately one meal's worth of food per day that my parents have purchased, but other than those things I take care of my own expenses. Between a solid (but soon-to-be-depleted) savings account and the occasional influx of blackjack winnings, I provide myself with gas for the car, cell phone service, most of my food, all of my beer and movies and entertainment expenses, and all other incidentals. Obviously, my intention is to move out of the house the second I'm earning a paycheck of any kind.

It's demoralizing enough that everyone knows that I live at home, but it was far worse to realize that people might think that I get an allowance. No sir, no ma'am. Like I said in the slam poem, "No job, but not broke/I'm no rich kid, I just got some cash saved up." Word.

Fiction is stranger than truth

So, in what may prove to be a momentary lapse in judgment, I've decided to post a few hundred words from a creative piece that I've been working on. Similarly impulsive moves haven't really been working out for me lately, but screw it. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't know that the vast majority of people who'll read this are folks that I know (and trust...for the most part).

There's no title to the piece at the moment, and the main character doesn't have a name. This selection is the beginning, and it's very rough (hedge hedge hedge).

So, yeah. Here it is. My one request would be that if you have something particularly vicious to say about it, send it to me in an email rather than posting it in the comments section.

Driving northbound on Interstate 91, a few miles past the Massachusetts state line, [name] pulled the car off the highway and into the parking lot of the Vermont Welcome Center. Characteristically lead-footed, he was making great time and could afford a rest stop.

A shock of frigid northern New England air assaulted him when he opened the driver’s side door. Thanks to the miracle of climate control, he had spent the past two hours driving in a comfortable cocoon of recirculated 70 degree air. He was surprised by the sharp drop in temperature between this spot and his starting point in New Haven, only a hundred and something miles away.

The cold air made him jealous. Connecticut had been experiencing an unseasonably warm winter. He’d had virtually no occasion to don a pair of gloves or his favorite knit scarf this season, and it was already early February. A sub-tropical climate seemed to be overtaking the southwesternmost New England state, working its way from the wealthy outer suburbs of New York City and creeping steadily up the Long Island Sound shoreline, its progress encouraged by the fuel tanks of SUVs that were standard issue in those parts. He was sure that it wouldn’t be more than a few decades before his home state was stripped of its New England bona fides altogether, left to graft itself begrudgingly onto the Mid-Atlantic likes of New Jersey and Delaware.

On the short walk from the car to the entrance of the Welcome Center, he pulled on a tight-fitting grey wool hat, thrust his hands into the pockets of his synthetic fleece jacket and shrugged his shoulders up towards his ears in defense against the cold.

He had visited this rest stop once before. He had been traveling with his mother to Hanover, New Hampshire, where he’d scheduled an admissions interview and campus tour at Dartmouth. He thought of the Dartmouth campus, recalling its uniform architectural style of white brick and deep green shutters. He wondered what it was like to be a Dartmouth man. It must be nice to go to school out in the woods, he thought, far from the pressures and judgments of city life.

The edifice that rose above him now was rustic, and was built to resemble an old barn. The dark stained wood planks that covered the exterior seemed authentic enough, but the date on the cement cornerstone—1999—betrayed the building’s youth.

Each of the double doors to the main building was affixed with a long wooden handle, carved to depict a woodsy tableau. The plank on the left showed a pudgy beaver hunched over a stream, a buck-toothed grin etched onto its face and its flat tail raised in a kind of wave. In the background stood a pile of logs stacked so neatly they might have served as the foundation of President Lincoln’s childhood home. On the opposite side of the stream stood a lone living tree, a portion of its trunk gnawed down to the size of a baseball bat—presumably by the giddy beaver.

The handle on the right was dominated by head, upper torso and front legs of a large moose, which gazed thoughtfully off into the distance. Behind it stretched a placid tree-lined lake, the sky above it dotted with what appeared to be a formation of loons or some other migratory bird. As [name] opened the door, he allowed his hand to graze the moose’s bas relief antlers.

I can't believe I'm about to post this. Eesh.

Note to The Sopranos

I'm sorry for doubting you. Can you ever forgive me?

Two words to describe last night's episode: Devastatingly brilliant.

Odds and ends

-I've probably watched over a dozen hours of basketball since Thursday afternoon. (My bracket is doing pretty well in the pool that I entered. I picked a good upset in Wichita State over Tennessee, but I've already lost one of my Elite Eight teams [Kansas]. My Final Four are UConn, Duke, BC and Gonzaga. I'm really only worried about the Zags, but they looked good last night even without a stellar performance from Morrison the Mustache.)

-On a related note, the game that I'm currently watching is Bradley vs. Pittsburgh. On the score graphic, the schools are abbreviated "Brad" and "Pitt." Seriously.

-I've been listening to the song "Move Along" by The All-American Rejects non-stop since I saw the music video for it at Kate's house last night. No song should be that good.

-I'm going to be pissed if tonight's Sopranos episode is a flashback. The blurb for the episode mentions something about Tony going on a business trip, which doesn't sound like something that someone who's just been shot would do. The show has earned a lot of acclaim largely because it is unapologetically realistic (within the context of a mob story, anyway) and because it unfolds at the pace of real life. For the show to lapse into worn-out tactics like cliffhangers and convoluted timelines would constitute a major retreat from its usual sophistication. I could handle a flash-forward, but the idea that last week's episode was in fact the chronological end of the series feels cheap and disappointing.

All right, that's it. Over and out.

Correspondence course

People must wonder why I've been so ineffectual at securing a job (of any kind). I wish I had a definitive answer (I probably wouldn't be writing this if I did). Are there higher forces at work here, conspiring against me, forcing me to pay some karmic debt? Maybe. Take a look at this recent job-related correspondence, and judge for yourself.
------------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 15, 2006 3:37 PM
Subject: Legal Assistant position

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to you in response to your posting on Craigslist advertising an opening for a part-time legal assistant at your law office.

I am a recent college graduate, with a bachelor's degree in English. I am seriously considering applying to law school and am interested in gaining some work experience in the field.

I've held numerous office jobs in the past, and I like to think that I pick up new skills fairly quickly, so I'm sure that I would be able to efficiently complete any task that might be set before me at your law office. I am a good independent worker, I'm very easy-going, and I think I would be a good fit for the position as you've outlined it.

I have attached my resume to his email, formatted as a Microsoft Word document. Please let me know if you are unable to access this file, or if I can provide you with any additional information about my background and qualifications.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

[Me]
-----------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 15, 2006 4:30 PM
Subject: Re: Legal Assistant position

Dear [Me]:
Stamford is a bit of a hike for a p-t job, but if you're still interested, can we meet Tuesday, march 22 in the AM?
[unnamed lawyer]
----------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 16, 2006 9:56 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

Ms. [Lawyer]-

Thank you for getting back to me. I would very much like to come in to meet with you, and any time during the morning of Tuesday the 22nd would be fine with me.

I did consider the distance between New Haven and Stamford, but my primary concern at this particular moment is finding a job that's a good fit. Plus, I've got a very sturdy vehicle.

Is there a particular time that works best for you on Tuesday?

[Me]
----------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 16, 2006 10:22 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

[Me],
10 AM is good for me.
Take exit XX off the Merritt and I'm about X miles up on the right hand side.
[lawyer]
-------------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 16, 2006 12:26 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

I look forward to meeting you at 10 a.m. on Tuesday morning.

Thanks,

[Me]
-------------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 16, 2006 1:05 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

[Me]:
If you have any last minute complications, just let me know. Likewise, I'll do the same.
--------------------
From: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
To: [Me]
Date: Mar 16, 2006 3:52 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

Dear [Me]:
Since I was planning to close down the office in the next few months, I have decided to do so at the end of this month, so I regret that I will not be hiring anyone.
I am moving to New Haven in the near future and will start the transition process at the end of the month.
Sorry about the timing, but best of luck in your search for something appropriate to your very excellent credentials.

---------------------
From: [Me]
To: LegalAssistantJob@craigslist.org
Date: Mar 17, 2006 9:27 AM
SubjectL Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Legal Assistant position

[Lawyer]-

Thanks for letting me know. Best of luck in your transition to New Haven.

[Me]
-----------------------

I guess I'm posting this sequence because I think it's emblematic of the overwhelming absurdity of my job search. Expectations are raised and hopes are dashed. The tide comes in and the tide goes out. So I beat on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Mystery solved

Note to the prankster: It's all good, man. I ain't mad at ya. You're a little zany, but I won't hold it against you.

Note to the young female legal assistant: You owe my boy a drink. Big time.

Note to everyone else: Don't miss the Groundhog Day post (one down). It's a real beaut.

Groundhog Day

I'm sure you remember "Groundhog Day," the quintessential '90s Bill Murray movie. I caught myself thinking about this movie as I drifted off to sleep last night. After a series of fitful dreams populated by imaginary versions of real people, I awoke in much the same way that Murray's character awakes countless times in the film--not to the last few bars of "I've Got You Babe," but to the familiar but still devasatating realization that I'm where I was yesterday.

It's going to take more than getting a job for my personal Groundhog Day to end, I can see that. A job for me is not far off. I've got an interview on Tuesday (for a part-time legal assistant position in Stamford) and I'd like to think that this is the real deal. Even if it doesn't work out, it's not like I'm going to be unemployed forever. But whenever I start working there's still going to be work to do; in fact, it will be at that point that the real work can finally begin. My joblessness isn't the cause of the mental/emotional rut that I've been in, it's a symptom. And earning a paycheck certainly isn't going to be a miracle cure.

It takes more than hooking up with Andie MacDowell for Bill Murray's character to wake up a day later. He wastes a lot of time trying to manipulate the world around him. He engages in a lot of destructive acts, like robbing banks and insulting people, which obviously aren't going to improve his situation. But when he gets around to doing nominally good deeds--saving lives, fixing flat tires--he's still no better off. It takes a wholesale reinvention, taking himself apart and putting himself back together piece by piece, for his living nightmare to end.

Throughout most of the film, everything the character does is intended to force himself out of the present and into the future. But the next day only comes when he finally lets go, accepts the present, and allows the future to come to him.

Another mystery

Just when you (and I) thought this blog couldn't get any more "exciting", a new mystery begins to unfold! The seeds were planted about a month ago, when I began getting emails from someone I knew from college. He asked how I was doing, and told me a little about his job. In a second email, he congratulated me on being offered a job with Kaplan (suggesting that he had been reading this blog). Attached to this second email was "something to celebrate [my] newfound employment." It was a .pdf file, and it had been designed to resemble a New York City Transit Service Notice (look above).

I was impressed and very grateful to this guy for taking the time to make what I thought was a clever memento of my unemployment (at the time, it looked like Kaplan was a done deal). ["J. Lo," by the way, refers to me. It was a dumb nickname I had for about 5 seconds in college.]

Clearly, my friend had been reading the blog pretty thoroughly. The text of the poster makes direct reference to several post topics, and contains a direct quote.

Now to the mystery: I've been talking to this same friend via another medium, and when I recently thanked him for the sign that he made for me, he had no idea what I was talking about.

I was stunned. The email I got was clearly made out to look like it was from him. Not only was his (distinctive) name in the "To:" field, but the email also accurately described this guy's work situation and other things about him. I told the real guy about the emails that I had received and about the poster, and he was understandably freaked out.

Now, I'm not sure whether I'm the butt of this joke or if he is. Aside from one or two off-kilter moments in the emails, I felt like they were genuinely supportive. They certainly didn't feel malicious. Even looking at the poster after the fact, I still think it's funny and not at all condescending or cruel (unless you really take it literally). Aside from the falsified identity, there's nothing that would suggest that these notes are anything but benign.

But if someone wanted to send me an encouraging email, why would they co-opt someone else's identity? And why would he pick this particular guy to imitate? Now that the deception has been revealed, the real guy is worried that this identity theft (if that's what you'd call it) stretches beyond the couple of emails that I've received.

There's a very short list of people who could be behind this. It's got to be someone that both of us know and are friendly with--and there are really only half a dozen people that fit into that category. The real guy and I have narrowed it down to one prime suspect, but he denies any involvement. Nevertheless, I'm confident with the conclusion that we've reached.

On Tuesday morning, when I first realized that I'd been played for an idiot, I was furious. I was ready to cut off all ties with whoever was behind this stunt. I felt manipulated, and I was embarrassed that I'd been forwarding my own effusive responses to the real guy (who had never actually contacted me to begin with).

But I've cooled off now, and I can sort of see the humor in this gag (even if it is totally bizarre). I think it would be very decent of the perpetrator to step forward and fess up (especially if he's reading this). He need not fear reprisal.

My day at the office (Part 1)

I'm going to be doing a little contract work for my uncle. He's the president of a small-ish perfume pump company (yes you heard right) in Stratford, CT. His parent company is mulling over whether to move the Stratford facility down to the southeastern U.S. or into Mexico where labor is cheaper, and my uncle is looking for some research on the pros and cons of such a move. (I think he doesn't want to move out of Connecticut and is looking for some evidence that proves that companies go south...when they go south.) He asked me if I'd be willing to do this research for him, and I told him I would.

I drove down to his office this afternoon to go over some of the specifics of the project. I had no idea what a vibrant experience I was in for. Or, perhaps more accurately, what a vibrantly un-vibrant experience.

Let me start out by saying that the word that kept flashing in my head throughout this entire experience was "soulless." I'm sure there are a host of more descriptive, less cliche words that I could use to describe what my day in a real live office was like, but "soulless" was the one that grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.

The name of the company that my uncle presides over is [deleted]. Somehow the name manages to be disingenuously futuristic and repulsively clinical at the same time. The plant, or factory, or whatever-you'd-call-it facility is located at the end of a very long industrial road. The road is called Lordship, as I recall. The street name made me think of England, or one of the Commonwealth countries. I imagined it as a grand boulevard lined with tall, majestic trees and ornate old buildings. In fact, it's a strip of crumbling grey pavement running through the tall yellow grasses of a tidal marsh, lined with low brown warehouses and fast food restaurants.

When I got to [deleted] HQ, I drove around to the front (which was actually located in what I would consider the back) and parked in a visitor space, honking as I did to shoo away a couple of seagulls who were gnawing on a hamburger wrapper. I followed the signs to the main entrance (red octagons on short posts spaced every twenty yards from the visitor parking area to the main door that proclaimed "STOP! All visitors must sign in at Main Entrance").

Just inside the entrance, in a small glassed-in alcove, was a grey felt sign with removeable white letters that read "[deleted] Group Incorporated WELCOMES Y-O-U".

I walked through the alcove and into the main reception area, where a woman--who, with stark blonde hair and a short lime green skirt, looked like she was trying very hard not to look 40ish--greeted me and told me to sign in and write my name on a visitor badge. My uncle was still at lunch, she said, and I should have a seat in the waiting area. My seating options were a black leather couch and a black leather chair. I opted for the chair, next to a tall leafy plant (I picked a leaf and ascertained that it was real).

I took a moment to assess my surroundings. Directly across from me, along one entire wall of the waiting room, was a large glass case filled with cosmetics bottles. Perfumes, lotions, ointments, creams, colognes, aftershaves, breath sprays--any product you can imagine that might require a pump was represented in this case. It was a colorful assortment: reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, and on through the spectrum. But the color of each bottle was slightly off, tampered with in some way. Some sparkled (as did several containers of liquid soap marketed toward children); some were excessively glossy and metallic (as were a collection of aerosol perfume sprays); and some were bright pastels or neons (a suntan lotion line, among others).

After a moment it dawned on me that this was the company trophy case. A shrine to all of the products whose functional, stylish plastic pumps were a testament to the [deleted] Group's dedication to sophisticated craftmanship.

Above the leather sofa was a series of photo prints. The photos might have been family portraits, but in the place of smiling children were the shiny metallic cylinders that topped fancy glass bottles of perfume. The [deleted] Group's proud offspring.

I took all of this in as best I could, trying not to dwell on the surreality of it all. So, I thought to myself, this is an inside look at the world of plastics manufacturing, nothing more. It's not the downfall of civilization; there's no need to comdemn a society that would exalt pieces of molded plastic as works of art. Just close your eyes and wait for your uncle to get back from lunch.

I was doing so well, until the receptionist answered an incoming call.

"[deleted] Group Incorporated, how may I direct your call? Oh, hi Dottie! Oh, yes, fine I had a wonderful weekend, thank you, the weather was so lovely and Christiana was in town and we went into New York for the day and, can you believe it, it was 70 degrees, and when I got here this morning everyone was asking me, 'How did you know that the weather would be so good to take the day off'...uh huh, we really lucked out, I couldn't believe it, the luck we had, and yes, the train down was lovely, except we were waiting at Cos Cob for fifteen minutes while they wheeled an old woman in a wheelchair onto the train, yes I know, me too, God forbid someday one of us should be confined to a wheelchair, but God willing we'll have the decency to not take the train during peak hours and make everybody wait while they roll out that big metal ramp and keep everybody waiting..."

To be continued...

[Note: I've taken the company name out of this post because I realized that it's conceivable that a Google search for the company name could lead to this site, and I wouldn't want to get myself or anyone else in any trouble.]

SLAM!

A friend of mine is playing a "show" this evening at, of all places, Starbucks. Just him and his guitar, a couple of covers and a couple of original pieces that he still has to finish writing. To ease his nerves, I told him I'd be his opening act and do a little slam poetry before he went on. (What a funny guy I am.) I don't really know the first thing about slam poetry. Any attempt I might make to perform a work(?) of slam poetry would probably fairly be categorized as offensive and mocking. I won't actually do it. But let's see what I can come up with.

[Postscript: it just took me about an hour to complete this novel little experiment, but I've kept the revisions to an absolute minimum. Brace yourselves. You're in for a treat, if I do say so myself.]

SLAM!
Crash! Crash!
Brokeback Mountain
Drinking fountain
Sinking, counting
The days til I'm starting
I'm off to a good start
If only I could start,
I might get going
Going, going places
I've got friends in high places
Future lawyers and doctors
I'm living at home, with no job and no prospects
No job, but not broke. I'm no rich kid
I just got some cash I saved up
Trying to get my mind made up
Playing some blackjack
Give my mom a heart attack
Spending the money I stole from the red man
Is 'red man' offensive?
Now don't get defensive.
Say what you will, just sit there attentive.
I spend all day writing
I'm a writer, a blogger
I'd probably be better off if I were a jogger (OUCH!)
You look in my eyes and you see what I'm missing
You hear in my voice a meek hesitation
I'm sitting, I'm thinking
I'd rather be doing
Instead of my thoughts and emotions construing
But I've got what I've got
I'm still stuck with my lot
Until I roll those dice and go home with the pot
Pot of gold
Into the fold
Get me out there, outside, out into the cold
I'll take it, I'll shiver
I'll freeze and I'll quiver
It's got to be better than this
At least for my liver (OH!)
Drunk on a Monday
Sounds like a fun day
Come home and someday I'll tell the whole story
It's gory
For sure-y
Get ready,
It's heady
Stop whining
Start shining
I write emails and don't send them
I get flesh wounds, try to mend them
I meet people and forget them
Or they forget me
Which is sadder?
It doesn't matter
Enough of this chatter
I imagine a life that I'll have in the future
All that I want is to try to suit your
Expectations. Whose are they
Though really?
They're mine
But listen, I whine
Where the hell is my spine?
Someone give me a sign
It's high time
That this rhyme
Was finished
Diminished
Shelved for the ages
Leaf through the pages
Five years, ten years from now
If God will allow
I'll be taking my bow
And looking back at how
This soft little kid
How he hid
What he did
What he didn't do
What he could have done
How he could have won
Could have been a son
To be proud of
How'd it have
Looked to myself
Ten years old, twelve
How will it look
To myself
Thirty years, older,
Getting colder, hopefully bolder
Not fitting the mold, or
The plan, or the norm
Weather this storm
Time to get born
Enough with forlorn
Fears, tears, doubts
All. Now. Shorn.

Caution: Pretentious terrain ahead

For whatever reason, I woke up this morning thinking about a couple of passages from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Most mornings I wake up with a cloyingly infectious pop song in my head (like most normal people), but today it was cloyingly esoteric modern poetry.

It'd be nice if I could carry around my own little T. S. Eliot in my pocket (I mean a miniature version of the poet, not his works). I could take him out whenever I wanted, whisper a few thoughts or feelings in his ear, and let him do the talking.

Here's what he'd say today:

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

["If I thought my answer were to one who would ever return to the world, this flame should stay without another movement; but since none ever returned alive from this depth, if what I hear is true, I answer thee without fear of infamy."]

And then:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.

The thing I liked most about majoring in English and reading all of these great, sensitive (sometimes tormented) authors was that I always had someone to commiserate with.

Confirmation

Got an email yesterday. It was in regards to the literary assistant job I applied to in North Branford:

Thank you for your interest in XYZ Company - we have recieved your email and your resume and we are in the process of reviewing them. We will notify you soon about further details pertaining the job opening(s) and to set up an interview session.

A pleasant change of pace, to be sure. There's none of the elation that used to come along with getting closer to employment. I've built the walls up pretty high where all that's concerned. I'm just content to be acknowledged. It'll surely be nice to get an interview, and it would be even nicer to get an offer. I swear to God, this is the one I'll finally take. I know I've said that before, but this time I mean it. If the job is scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush, I'll do it. Or I'll eat my hat. Seriously. No, seriously.

In other news, while my dad's cleaning lady was over yesterday, I drove out to Target, parked the car in the outskirts of the lot and wrote intently for two solid hours (i.e., until my laptop battery ran out). I've got two main things going, plus a couple of incidental pieces. One of the stories is a strict autobiographical episode (something fairly recent, but nothing job search-related). The other is still coming together, but I would classify it as (I know this will sound silly) part road-trip, part bildungsroman, part elegy. So far, it's set at the Vermont Welcome Center along I-91. Sounds heady, eh? One of the other random things I've been working on is my Oscar acceptance speech. Heehee.

Other than that, I'm trying to spend less time stalking people on Myspace and taking digital pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror. Ah, the life I lead.

Oscar night

So, how about those Academy Awards? With one gigantic exception, it was a night of few surprises. All four acting awards were easily predictable. No surprises in writing or directing, either. But then there's "Crash," the freshly minted best picture of 2005.

So what gives? Haven't we been living in "Brokeback Mountain's"world for the past few months? Has any other best picture front-runner in recent memory been such a ubiquitous zeitgeist fixation? And hadn't our favorite repressed ranch hands cornered the market on progressive values? So how was it so easy for the seeming-juggernaut that was "Brokeback Moutain" to plummet from dominance to irrelevance with a flick of Jack Nicholson's wrist?

I browsed a few relevant online news sources in search of an expert opinion, hopeful but not really expecting anything substantive quite so soon after the announcement. I was pleasantly surprised when I stumbled upon the following bit of insta-analysis from Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times ("Crash" home turf, mind you):

Sometimes you win by losing, and nothing has proved what a powerful, taboo-breaking, necessary film "Brokeback Mountain" was more than its loss Sunday night to "Crash" in the Oscar best picture category.

Despite all the magazine covers it graced, despite all the red-state theaters it made good money in, despite (or maybe because of) all the jokes late-night talk show hosts made about it, you could not take the pulse of the industry without realizing that this film made a number of people distinctly uncomfortable.

More than any other of the nominated films, "Brokeback Mountain" was the one people told me they really didn't feel like seeing, didn't really get, didn't understand the fuss over. Did I really like it, they wanted to know. Yes, I really did.

In the privacy of the voting booth, as many political candidates who've led in polls only to lose elections have found out, people are free to act out the unspoken fears and unconscious prejudices that they would never breathe to another soul, or, likely, acknowledge to themselves. And at least this year, that acting out doomed "Brokeback Mountain."

For Hollywood, as a whole laundry list of people announced from the podium Sunday night and a lengthy montage of clips tried to emphasize, is a liberal place, a place that prides itself on its progressive agenda. If this were a year when voters had no other palatable options, they might have taken a deep breath and voted for "Brokeback." This year, however, "Crash" was poised to be the spoiler.

I do not for one minute question the sincerity and integrity of the people who made "Crash," and I do not question their commitment to wanting a more equal society. But I do question the film they've made. It may be true, as producer Cathy Schulman said in accepting the Oscar for best picture, that this was "one of the most breathtaking and stunning maverick years in American history," but "Crash" is not an example of that.

I don't care how much trouble "Crash" had getting financing or getting people on board, the reality of this film, the reason it won the best picture Oscar, is that it is, at its core, a standard Hollywood movie, as manipulative and unrealistic as the day is long. And something more.

For "Crash's" biggest asset is its ability to give people a carload of those standard Hollywood satisfactions but make them think they are seeing something groundbreaking and daring. It is, in some ways, a feel-good film about racism, a film you could see and feel like a better person, a film that could make you believe that you had done your moral duty and examined your soul when in fact you were just getting your buttons pushed and your preconceptions reconfirmed.

So for people who were discomfited by "Brokeback Mountain" but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, "Crash" provided the perfect safe harbor. They could vote for it in good conscience, vote for it and feel they had made a progressive move, vote for it and not feel that there was any stain on their liberal credentials for shunning what "Brokeback" had to offer. And that's exactly what they did.

"Brokeback," it is worth noting, was in some ways the tamest of the discomforting films available to Oscar voters in various categories. Steven Spielberg's "Munich"; the Palestinian Territories' "Paradise Now," one of the best foreign language nominees; and the documentary nominee "Darwin's Nightmare" offered scenarios that truly shook up people's normal ways of seeing the world. None of them won a thing.

Hollywood, of course, is under no obligation to be a progressive force in the world. It is in the business of entertainment, in the business of making the most dollars it can. Yes, on Oscar night, it likes to pat itself on the back for the good it does in the world, but as Sunday night's ceremony proved, it is easier to congratulate yourself for a job well done in the past than actually do that job in the present.

Turan offers some powerful insights. (This is the kind of analytical ability I wish I had.) If there's any logic to something as frivolous as a movie award show, this guy has found it.

Moving on, with a glance over the shoulder

All right, it's time to start pushing the previous post toward the back of the line.

It's been an eventful week. Although most of the "events" in question have actually been non-events. Oddly, the Kaplan misfire (which seems like it was ages ago) was relatively low on the turmoil scale. I probably could have benefited from the mileage I would have gotten out of fixating on it. Nothing's a better motivator than failure, or so one would think. (Remember when I said I'd have a job by the end of this week? Ha!) But alas, employment has been taking a back seat of late.

The outlook for the weekend is hopeful. As soon as I'm done writing this, I'm going to submit a resume in response to this ad from Craigslist:

Award winning writers working on a literary masterpiece about today's world and its issues to be a conversational piece for mature audiences. We are located in North Branford, CT and are currently seeking a Part-Time Literary Assistant to assist with our latest project. Hours are flexible. Work atmosphere is very comfortable and casual. You will gain hands-on experience in the professional writing/publishing/production world. The ideal candidate would be an English/Literature Major, who can show excellent drafting, dictation and communication skills, must be organized and capable of taking notes of conversation which will later be used in writing. They MUST have a good personality, have a good sense of humor, and be a team player who'’s fun to work with. They must be able to take initiative and not be afraid to voice their opinions. Typing skills are a plus. This is a great way to gain experience to put on your resume. Internship positions are also available.

I don't have any expectations one way or another. Seems like it should be easy enough, but so do a lot of things. Though I'm curious about what is meant by "a conversational piece for mature audiences." If I find out, I'll let you know.

Aside from that, I've got a lot programmed over the next couple days. A small reunion with the old high school crew up at UConn on Saturday; lunch in New Haven and the big Oscar party on Sunday. I guess that doesn't sound like a lot.

In my spare time I'll be waiting for that missing piece to fall into place.

One more thing:

We got a lot of good snow in these parts late yesterday. It wasn't the usual wet Connecticut snow that comes down in clumps and quickly turns to heavy slush. It was Utah snow--or what I imagine Utah snow to be (I've never been). This snow came down in tiny shimmering grains, like dust. On driveways and on cars it piled up like a layer of fine light sand, with a coating of crusty ice underneath where it melted and refroze to warmer surfaces. Along the road, the wind would sometimes kick up frosty white waves of powder, and thin white strands danced in the wake of passing cars. Colors were muted, or obscured totally. Dark lines and hard edges became fuzzy and soft, and then disappeared. It was an easy world to look at.

Regret

I find that I've been saying "I can't believe I said that" and "I can't believe I did that" a lot lately. I've engaged in a lot of back-pedaling, a lot of second guessing, a lot of wishing for second chances.

I used to think of myself as someone who didn't have any regrets, or didn't believe in regret. I tried to subscribe to the notion that even bad events are ultimately good for us because every experience is a learning experience and blah blah blah (motivational speaker pop-psychology makes me gag). And it's not that I've been terribly successful at adopting that outlook, but even if I could what good would it do me?

I am where I am right now because of decisions that I've made, just as I always have been. There have been times when I've been quite content with my lot in life. Looking back from those moments, it would appear that the right choices had outweighed the wrong ones, and that I'd scraped up just enough luck to be able to find myself in a happy place. It was easy to dismiss regret in those moments because things had worked out right. And anyway what use do we have for regret when we like where we're at and we've got what we want?

But how can we (I) not be haunted by our (my) decisions, naive and well-intentioned as they may have been, when we've (I've) derailed? How easy is it to go back and pinpoint specific moments where a single decision--one action, one sentence, one word--made differently, might have meant the difference between success and rock bottom? Those moments burn so brightly in my mind that it's often hard to think of anything else.

I'm not even convinced of my ability to learn from mistakes--or to translate lessons learned into actions taken. Last Friday night, I found myself in a crowded, smoky two-car garage. I was charged with but a single task--a task which I failed to execute. If I found myself in that same smoky garage this Friday, would things transpire any differently? It kills me, but I think not.

I was sharing some of these feelings with a friend late last night, and I was issued the following words of wisdom:

you just need to learn to relax, take some deep breaths, recognize the fact that youre a cool, fun, smart awesome person to be around and take it from there, just be confident, cause youre a wonderful person

I end this post with these words for two reasons. The first is that they were very sincere and very heart-felt and I wanted to preserve them because I'm very grateful to this friend for having said them. The second reason is so that anyone reading this who might feel inclined to issue a similar decree can be spared from doing so since, well, I've already heard it.