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Hi. My name is gregory. I live in Seattle, where it is sunnier than Florida right now. * I have a million things to get started. |
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9.15.2001 Oh my. I have a new crush. It goes by Pretty Girls Make Graves. Spent the last evening looking for my socks, since they were knocked off me at their show last night at Graceland. This is the band I have been looking for in these here parts.
Listen in to 3 Away. 9.13.2001 9.12.2001 “Sandy. Sit down. I want to tell you a story.”
He was large, large like Lenny is large. But dressed as if Lenny were a veteran of a foreign war that never happened. Big green ball cap, awkwardly tinted glasses. A vest with a little radio tucked into one of the millions of pockets, headphones tangled around his neck. His shoes were smooth on the bottom. “Sandy! I want to tell you my story. I call it ‘The Story of the $20 television.’” “Just a minute, Jay.” It was warm this morning in Seattle. Hot even. Sped away from the house to get outside, to soak in the sun. Keep my spirit up. The world’s changed. That’s what the news is saying. But sitting there, staring into 65th Ave. from the deck at the Varsity in Ravenna, nothing seemed amiss. The Olympics rose over the city to the West, unmoved. Buses roved by. A contractor was chatting business with the Varsity’s owner, something about a new deck or a new set of booths inside. A small portable TV sat on the espresso stand, talking heads buzzing on about the investigation, the recovery effort, blood and recessions. A beautiful Swedish girl and her father walked past and sat inside the restaurant, behind the window. She looked at me, accidentally, I think. The sun was baking my black Adidas. I was thinking of eggs and terror. “Hey Sandy. Can I tell you my story now?” “Hang on, Jay.” My eyes were still puffy from crying in the bank parking lot. I stopped to get cash for my eggs. Had called the girl who I called first thing Tuesday morning, when I heard the news. Suddenly, nothing much seemed to be more important than knowing if she was okay with all of this, if she felt alone. I’ll be honest with you. I felt indifferent. I felt like this was the movie of the week everybody seems to be associating this with. I sat in voyeuristic awe watching the footage, over and over. I thought of Greg Louganis at the ’96 Olympics, banging his head against the shortboard. I thought of Ministry videos. I thought of Joe Theismann. I thought of the Challenger exploding. These are the visceral things that flatten into memory for me. All of them visions of things real, but not quite. They are merely visions. Thinking of her, the reality hit me. “Sandy! Let me tell you my story!” My egg and pancake arrived and I sat there with this morning’s Seattle Times, big headline glaring at me, words like “TERRORIST ATTACK” and “HORRIFY” in ominous black Franklin Gothic text. My bacon looked disgustingly good. Behind me at the next table, Jay was getting restless. “Ok, Sandy, here goes - ” Sandy was still talking business with the contractor, a burly, middle-aged fellow who leaned into her from the other side of the deck fence. “Just hang on a minute, Jay,” she kept saying, fending him off. Jay would have none of that. “So, I’m walking to the Varsity the other day, just walking. And I pass a guy selling a bunch of stuff in his driveway.” His voice drones, like a tape that’s playing too slow. My egg is glistening. I don’t want to break the yolk. “Sandy! He’s got this TV, this little TV, like one I have at the house. So I says, ‘Hey buddy. What’s wrong with this TV?” Sandy is still talking with Mr. Contractor, flirting, I think. “Yeah, mm-hmm,” she mumbles. She gives Mr. Contractor a Sorry-Just-Humor-Him. look. “An’ he says, ‘Aw, it ain’t got no antenna! Ain’t got much reception.’ So I keep walkin’ on, and I get to the Varsity and have my orange cream soda, and I think ‘Wait, I have an antenna, I think,’ and I got up and left the Varsity and walked back over to him and I says ‘How much you want for that TV?’ And he says ‘$10.’ And I says ‘I tell you what, I’ll give you TWENTY!’ Because you know, I am a nice guy, right Sandy? Sandy?” Sandy’s completely immersed in Mr. Contractor. “Sandy?” The bacon is too salty. Thick-cut. I never really thought about the taste of bacon, at least this kind of taste. It’s almost like sweet metal, like salty aluminum foil, layered in fat. Chewy and addictive. But too salty on my teeth. “So I says-” Jay pauses. “Sandy! So I says- So I says 'I’ll give you TWENTY for it!' Hahahahaha,” He coughs and puts out his cigarette. “I am a nice guy.” “You are, Jay,” she says, aside. “So I bring the TV home, plug in my old antenna and there ya go. I have perfect reception now. I can see everything. Clearly! TWENTY BUCKS!” Sandy is shaking hands with Mr. Contractor. She turns to Jay. “Did you want anything else, Jay?” “Did you get my story?” “I did! It was a good story." Jay sank into his seat. The Swedish girl and her father paid and left, not an extra glance in my direction. My feet were very hot. The bus stopped across the street. The talking heads still buzzed. “I guess this stuff’ll be on the news for a while, huh?” Jay said. “Hey Sandy! Can I have another orange cream soda? Sandy?” 9.11.2001 “In a very short time our illusions were shattered,” he told them as the midday sun shone through the stained glass. “Suddenly we were helpless. We were terrorized. We were wondering what would come next. Our illusion of invincibility, security, power, self-sufficency, was shattered. This series of events reminded us of our own fragility-our inability to control events or even our own reactions to events."
9.4.2001 Been too busy enjoying the out-of-doors to sit down and crack some creative letterform for you. The weather's been lovely, and I've been walking Greenlake, Bumbershooting and kicking soccer as often as I can. Am weaning myself off of vices, Internet included. Even had a salad. Hi, it's me. But tonight, the fingers itched, so I am only doing this bit of writing to satisfy their needs. I have nothing to say. A recurring theme lately.
Writer's Block is a stupid concept. Has nothing to do with blockage of concepts, more to do with motivation. The ideas are just waiting to be plundered. But getting around to it, well that's my problem. Just need to DO it. Was watching the director's commentary on the DVD of "Hard Eight", Paul Thomas Anderson's excellent first film. Watched it a couple of times through for the director's commentary, just listening to him spout "fuck fuck fuck" through every phrase and tell me all about his "process" or lack therof. He's a funny guy. Annoying, but funny. I could just see him gesticulating with his hands at every turn, like his mouth couldn't possibly tell the whole story. Ball o' energy, that P.T. Anyway, at one point, right at the beginning of the film, he makes a pretty astute suggestion concerning Writer's Block. He explained during the opening shot of "Hard Eight," in which Philip Baker Hall's character Sidney meets John C. Reilly's character John at a coffee shop, that when you don't really have anything for two characters to do or say, just sit them down for coffee and see what happens. An interesting idea. That's how his whole film started, just by breathing a little life into two guys bullshitting at a coffeeshop. Hey! Let's try it! Asian Dotcom Millionaire Theater Presents!: GREGORY: Pass the sugar. GREG, smoking, passes the little wire bucket of white and pink packets from across the corner of the table. His hair is blond and spiky, roots creeping in. He hasn't showered today. Or yesterday. He sinks into the maroon booth, deeper into his folds of his crummy sweatshirt. His cigarette is getting short. GREGORY: You have to be anywhere else today? GREG: Not this early. GREGORY: It's noon. GREG (dragging his smoke): Fuck. I woke up a half hour ago to meet you here. It's fucking early. GREGORY stirs two packets of pure sugar, pinched together, into his coffee. He's bald and tidy. And awake. It appears he is dressed for work. He pours a spot of cream into his cup. GREGORY: Well. Thanks for the effort. Just valiant. GREG blows smoke into GREGORY'S face. GREG: So are you buying me breakfast, or did I just get here to fuck with you? GREGORY: I need your help. GREG: Of course you do. GREGORY: I've got Writer's Block. GREG (taking a long drag): Bullshit. GREGORY: It's true. GREG: There's no such thing. GREGORY: What? GREG: No such thing. You're a tight-ass. GREGORY: This is serious. I can't work. I can't sit there with NOTHING to say! My job is to make people SAY things on paper! GREG: You have a very hard life. GREGORY: It's harder than you think. Harder than fucking sleeping in 'till noon. GREG: Did you ever see "Hard Eight?" GREGORY: Yeah. That "Boogie Nights" guy, right? Yeah. So what. GREG: VHS or DVD? GREGORY: Hell, I dunno. VHS, I think. GREG: Ah. GREGORY: What's the point? GREG: Point is, I saw something in the DVD the other night where the Boogie Nights guy sez to just sit two characters down at a coffee shop and get'em goin'. Something will pop up. It's a cool idea. You should try it. GREGORY: That's a stupid idea. GREG: Try it. GREGORY (stopping mid-sip): What? Now? GREG (exhaling, stubbing out his cigarette): Sure. I mean, you and me, let's pretend to be somebody different, just make some shit up, and something'll come of it. I was just doing this same shit at the house last night before I went to bed. For real. Try it. GREGORY: I gotta get back to the office - GREG: You do NOT have to get back to the office. Come on. You'll have something to take back. GREGORY: This is dumb. GREG (reaching for another cigarette from his pack): Fine. I'll have the Moons Over My Hammy. GREGORY: What? GREG (lighting a fresh smoke): Buy me my fucking breakfast. GREGORY: Okokok. We'll try it. GREG: Fucking fantastic. GREGORY: Who do you want to be. GREG: I'll be you. But you as a superhero in disguise. GREGORY: What? GREG: Fucking look at you, man. You're ClarkfuckingKent. Bald. GREGORY: Fine. Then… I'll be… shit. What should I be? GREG: I know. You could be my archenemy, The Sap. But in disguise. So, I guess you'll be YOUR archenemy. GREGORY: So I'll be YOU basically. GREG: Hardyfuckinghar. GREGORY: This is really stupid. "The Sap?" GREG (sitting up, smoking excitedly): Go with it, ok. Ok, so we work together. Yeah, we fucking work together at like an insurance agency or a fucking dotcom, but we DON'T KNOW WE ARE EACH OTHER'S MORTAL ENEMIES… And the whole thing takes place in a CHAT ROOM. GREGORY: In a CHAT ROOM? What about getting coffee? GREG: Fuck that. This is the new millennium, man. No one goes out to "get coffee" anymore, right? Go with this. This is better. GREGORY: Can I be like "Dr. Vengeful" or something like that? "The Sap" is fucking horrible. GREG: It doesn't fucking matter, dude. You're in your secret identity. GREGORY: Jesus. Ok. Cripes this is dumb. How do we start? GREG: Like this: clarkfuckingkent1110: Hey whassup? GREG: Oh that's fucking GOOD. GREGORY: Thanks. clarkfuckingkent1110:Niiiiice. What r u wearing? clarkfuckingkent1110 logged off at 4:32 p.m. CARL (pounding his keyboard): FUCK! CLARK peers over from his cubicle desk, the one in front of CARL'S. CLARK (pushing up his thick black-framed glasses): Um. Problems Carl? CARL: Grr…rrr…er. Fuck it. No. Um...I'm fine. Just…irritated. Just… crashed my machine, that's all. Shit. CLARK(sliding back into his own chair, in his own cubicle): Okee-dokee. You know, Carl, you really should lay off the coffee. You won't get so worked up over stuff. CARL: Fuck off, Kent. CARL'S eyes widen. GREGORY: That was lame. GREG: Fuck off, Perez. Get me my Hammy. |