Blunt Object

Thu, 30 Dec 2004 01:53:41 GMT

Death of Inspiration

Show me a writer who thinks writing is easy and I’ll show you a homicidal maniac that has been cutting out letters from magazines to send “fan” letters to Markie Post and sees signs that she leaves for him in the clouds and in the credits of The Lion King.

Writing sucks. Praise rocks.

In college I took a course on Sam Beckett. I think his work is fascinating, weird and wonderful. I have to be in the right mood for it, and that mood has really only struck me twice, and I think it might again sometime in 2013. My professor’s thesis for the course was that Beckett was trying to stretch the limits of “story.” He was writing around the story and writing towards silence, thus each of his stories was shorter and shorter.

I think that’s fascinating. The same way that I think that someone actually has to write all the words on a coupon is fascinating, or the way that I wonder what you call the guy who rivets mailboxes.

I know that every story has already been told, but how arrogant is it to think that you are so talented that you’re going to write around a story or suggest a story and that will be good enough… brilliant even. That’s cheating.

Manufacturing a plot, creating a great character, figuring out how to say something that matters when all you have personally experienced is a white bread middle class existence is tough.

If you don’t have something really important to say, just shut up.

Thu, 23 Dec 2004 19:19:59 GMT

Just because I like it... see more at www.strange-snow.com That's my wife's website.

Thu, 23 Dec 2004 04:56:29 GMT

Inaugural Suckhole

We are four weeks from Inauguration Day. It is a curious day in the nation’s capitol. As a transplant to DC, I can tell you that the day is nothing like what you see on TV. On television you see a speech from the steps of the Capitol Building with an adoring crowd and a sea of people stretched out on the Mall. Then there is a parade from the Capitol to the White House. That’s just ducky. If you live here this is what really happens.

For about a month you see construction around the Capitol and Pennsylvania Avenue. Grandstands are going up, fences and scaffolding appear. Inside the Capitol there is a mad scramble for tickets. Each office of the House and Senate gets an allotment. The Representative or Senator doles out tickets to key campaign contributors and family and friends. Constituents from their home state can call in and request tickets. You will usually get them. This allows you to get onto the middle of the mall about 5-7 blocks from the actual event and view the ceremony on a giant fuzzy television…in the January cold. Lucky you. In all seriousness, you’ll be so far away that binoculars won’t help much.

Then the parade starts and heads down Pennsylvania Avenue back to the White House. (Small trivia note. The Treasury Building is right beside the White House. Rumor has it that it was built there intentionally to obscure the view of the Capitol from the White House.) Once the President passes into a more secure area in front of the Treasury Building, he gets out of the limousine and walks in front of the grand stands at Lafayette Park. It’s very spontaneous. All the networks are already set up at the exact point that the president decides to get out and wave to “the people.” These people are usually contributors who got good tickets.

Then in the evening the parties start. The President’s motorcade closes nearly every street in the city while he goes from Ballroom to Ballroom at the Hotels. Contributors have paid anywhere from $5,000 to $20,000 per ticket for some of the Inaugural parties. Where I work, we paid $50,000 for five executives and their spouses to get into one party. It is expected that most organizations in Washington will do this. If you do not, it is noted and you will pay in some other way.

If you live here, it gets even better.

First off the government employees all get to take the day off. That’s great because the traffic will be less and the Metro (subway) will be less crowded too. The problem is that a lot of roads will be closed and so even with less traffic, everything will still be jammed up. The same goes for the Metro. They will go to a “holiday” schedule and there will be less trains and everyone will be stacked on top of each other anyway.

Because the day is a mess, some businesses will close. But the whole thing will be random. You won’t be able to guess who is likely to stay open and who won’t. And you will be stumbling over tourists everywhere who assume that they will be able to get close enough to see the ceremony. Fat chance. No significant contribution? No dice.

I guess I shouldn’t complain. Washington is a beautiful city and it is cool to live in a place that makes history on a daily basis. But if you feel disconnected from the powerful elite in your corner of America, try living right on top of it and viewing the exclusion first hand.

Wed, 15 Dec 2004 02:13:26 GMT

It's a White Trash Christmas

Dear Relative that I rarely speak to and who often makes me feel sick and superior simultaneously…Otherwise known as Aunt Helen:

Merry Frigging Christmas! This year has been a corker.

Little Bess lost her last baby tooth gnawing on a hubcap. Thank god for that! What 14 year old do you know who still has a baby tooth? We wrapped it in tinfoil to “keep out the voices” (oh that Bess!) and waited for the Tooth Fairy. Well, the tooth fairy left Bess a pair of knitted socks that look just like the ones you gave me for my Birthday!

Jeffrey posted bail just in time to see the Daytona Five Hundred. We haven’t heard from him since, but as you know, with Jeffrey, no news is good news! If he stops by, it’s best to just loan him money and let him crash for a night. Since I know you haven’t seen him since his last arraignment you’ll know him by the tattoo on his face, it says “Sit Here”. He’s such a card.

Dad had another finger amputated this year. It was a shock, but now his hands match. No more building birdhouses after a case of Busch Lite for him!

Mom had another giant mole removed. Before the doctor weighed it, he smacked it like he was spanking a new baby and yelled “Breathe!” Lord, didn’t we all laugh. Doc says the next mole is free.

Melissa and I are back having marital relations. We’re too modest to go into more details, but she’s not as dry as sawdust no more, and my winky doesn’t drip like a faucet too much now…if you get my drift.

Well, as you can see, we have truly been blessed. The lord has besieged a might bounty on our lifes. The truck is running great. We heard they finally fired that faggot teacher at the high school.

Long live president Bush, and Happy New Years Eve.

Sat, 27 Nov 2004 20:03:26 GMT

This is my wife's cartoon. You can see more at www.strange-snow.com . Strange snow is from one of her favorite lines from Shakespeare. Check it out.

Sat, 27 Nov 2004 19:35:07 GMT

Burn All of Your College Writing

I was a creative writing major in college. I started out in business administration and couldn’t stand it. Maybe it was the stats class or maybe it was my desire to “stick it to the man,” but I bailed on business classes to write.

I thought it was cool because my first creative writing teacher was such a hoot. One day we were supposed to turn in a poem for class. My buddy sat down and realized that he had completely forgotten and had no poem. He pulled a disheveled piece of paper out of his back pack. It was a math quiz. He scribbled a bunch of garbage on the back and handed it in. Sure enough, later in the week when we all got our poems back, the professor had ignored the garbage poem and graded the math quiz instead. He wrote, “Very inventive. Never knew you had it in you. Keep experimenting. C-.”

I have to admit that I was hooked.

Somewhere around this time I started writing “serious” fiction. All of the stories were poorly conceived and lacked basic plotting. Kind of like this! (You’ll notice that I routinely break the exclamation point rule. A teacher once told me that everyone is issued two exclamation points at birth, and once they are used up, they are gone. That’s all you get.).

So I wrote this painfully contrived short story. The protagonist was a young city guy with a wife and kid. He traveled to the northern woods of Maine to reconnect with his father who had retreated to the woods after raising his children and his wife’s death.

The young man who had hated fishing as a child reconnected with his old man. They learned to understand each other, and all that bullshit. Hell, it was so sappy and condescending that they probably cried at sunset over a pitcher of Sangria.

So imagine me this summer. I’m swinging quietly in a hammock in the northern woods of Maine. I’ve just been to a large family reunion and I’m remembering this shit story.

How closely did that story track to real life? Well, first of all, my Mom isn’t dead. I don’t think she ever read that story and let’s not tell her about it.

I am married, but no kids. I took my wife to the last spot on Route 1 in Maine and she loved it. There is no television except by satellite and the only radio is in French. Tons of cousins and aunts and uncles were there. I hadn’t seen some of them since I was ten or eleven years old. We laughed our selves silly and fell asleep after late night bonfires with fresh trout, hotdogs, toasted marshmallows and sing-alongs. We couldn’t have had a better time if we tried.

But I still hate to fish.

My old man hates taking me fishing and I’m sure that we will never wade down a brook again together in our lives.

You know what? That’s just fine. As a condescending little turd in college I envisioned a time when I’d be too smart or too rich or ed-u-ma-cated for my family. I can’t stand that I ever thought that. Oh sure, I never said it. But I wrote it.

So, what happened? How come there has never been a need to “reconnect?” Why has every conversation with my dad been the same as always? Probably it was his patience with me. Probably it is because down deep I am proud of where I came from and how tough it is to scratch out a living there in the sticks.

Maybe I just grew the fuck up.

Sat, 27 Nov 2004 01:36:18 GMT

I'll See Your Crappy Vacation and Raise You a Moving Trip From Hell

Well, I finally did it. I trekked over 1700 miles cross country in a rented moving van! Skip dee doo dah! I finally realized my dream of having a flat tire on said truck and waiting by the side of the road for three hours while a service guy came out and replaced a cheap ass Firestone tire that had the tread roll right off.

What was the purpose of this Homeric (Simpson) Epic? My mother-in-law finally decided that after three years of marriage to her daughter I was of sound enough mind and outstanding character and that she could indeed leave her only child with me, our cats and mortgage and head back to the family homestead in Wisconsin. What a joyous 8 days was had by all.

My list of accomplishments:

Dear Diary

1. First I got to load the moving truck all by myself. One can’t underestimate the fulfillment you can get by hoisting dressers, boxes of text books, and all manner of useless shit up over stairs and into a truck. Like the kid in the diaper commercial, “I’m a big boy now.”

2. I got to make unscheduled stops for her cats. The “chase” car following carefully behind me held my wife and mother-in-law and two cats who desperately wanted all of their previous meals outside their bodies…. by whatever means possible.

3. We were all privileged to spend one night in “Arm Pit” Hotel outside glamorous Pittsburgh, PA. (Ok, it was a Motel 6. Twist my arm why don’t you.) When we returned from a dinner of inedible food, we were informed that we wouldn’t need more than the one towel in our rooms because our hot water was a little tepid. By tepid they meant of course, testicle-shrinking-absolute-zero cold. The cats showed their disdain by again emptying themselves of all food particles.

4. After a morning that held no hot shower, and the cat’s stomachs fully on E, I got to drive about three hours until the above mentioned tire episode. Exit 118 of scenic interstate 80 in Ohio offers an amazing view of tractor trailers, litter, and family farms poised to go tits up. Don’t they all? I thought the family farm was in a museum in Canada.

5. Fate smiled on me and allowed me to have a piece of dirt get lodged under a contact lens while doing about 75mph near O’Hare Airport in Chicago. We managed to find a truck stop just north of Chicago where a truck driver who was toweling off in the men’s room and got to see me run my contact under the tap and stick it back on my eye. At that particular moment I would have preferred to remain sightless.

It was also at this stop that my back reminded me that I’d been in a vehicle (moving and at rest) for nearly 17 hours of the last two days and that as a PR hack, lifting multiple heavy objects is not a usual part of my day, unless of course you want to count hauling my soul around.

6. We achieved the dream of pulling into my wife’s grandmother’s house well after the dark in freezing rain. The best was yet to come.

7. I can now also check off “shrieking like a little girl” from my list of things to do before I die. About 2:00 a.m. when my body decided to roll over in the bed the pain said, “Hello MAGGOT! ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME SNOWBALL?! DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY PRIVATE JOKER?!! Why don’t you lie face down on the floor for about a half an hour until the ibuprofen starts to kick in?” And so I did.

Well, I could go on and on. I’ll end with the “local boys” who came over to unload the truck for me because of my back. Right now in some Wisconsin bar there are a couple of guys yucking it up about the city guy who was too delicate to unload the truck. Yeah well screw you. We gave you each 10 bucks to bend your backs and in DC you can’t get a sexy look for less than $50. HA HA! We’d have given you a hundred to unload that crap and get on with our lives!

Hollow, I know, but you take your victories where you can.

Tue, 29 Jun 2004 11:17:54 GMT

Dead People That I Miss

I was sitting in my favorite tavern hoisting a St. Paulie Girl, watching the cable news. As usual I was shirtless and talking to Mike… my navel.

“Did you see that today?” I said. “That was something. Bremer’s hair had a special coating of gloss to it today and we gave Iraq back to the Iraqis. Is this a great country or what?”

Silence from Mike.

“Hey are you losing hair?” I asked.

“You know, when are you ever going to learn?” Mike asked. “You saw the same thing I did and all you got out of it was a hair cut. Where did you go to school? Harvard?”

“But Mike,” I pleaded. “We did a good thing today. We kept a promise. Our word is our bond once again.”

Mike let out a deep sigh. It was disgusting to watch.

“Mike,” I said. “Do you know when you do that you look like an anus?”

“Look,” Mike went on. “I know this seems like a big deal. Three months ago we were all yucking it up because Bush went on TV and admitted that we didn’t know who in the hell we were going to turn Iraq over to. The ability to demonstrate basic competence is no reason to be dancing in the streets.”

“Sour grapes my friend, sour grapes.”

“Now listen to me. We’ve got a ton of crap on our heads and today we moved a thimble full of it. And we moved it off our big toe. I’d prefer it if we dug the shit out of our ears first if you don’t mind.”

“You’re losing me Mike.”

“Blunt, buddy. No one knows who we are any more. What does America stand for? Yeah, sure, people want to come to the U.S. in droves. But didn’t it used to be that they came here for a chance at a new life and because America stood for something good, and different from the rest of the world?”

“We still do.” I was getting hot and considered dumping my beer on Mikes head. But a crotch full of St. Paulie Girl isn’t exactly a great way to charm the ladies.

“Aren’t you tired of America only standing for big screen TVs, SUVs and The Swan? We’re a country that used to dream big. Cross the continent with steam locomotives. Put a man on the moon. Fight poverty. Kill injuns…ummm. Ok, not everything we did was good, but still. And when the big scary day descended on us, the best the government could do was tell us not to stop shopping? So what did Bremer hand the Iraqis when they signed the papers? Coupons? A gift card to Best Buy?”

“Yeah, that’s a real puzzler there Mike.” My navel was falling asleep. Ranting makes him tired. Some wingman he turned out to be.

Well, the above was a terrible experiment. I apologize. It’s just that it’s been over seven years since Mike Royko died and I miss him terribly. God, I wish he’d been here through the impeachment; the 2000 election and all the terrible and Kafkaesque machinations of the current administration. I miss Slats Grobnik. I’m dying to know what column he’d publish today.

Observing the columnists and pundits of today is like watching the new Star Wars movies and yelling, “What do you mean there’s no Hans Solo in this turd?” Progressive used to also be funny. I can’t live in the land of the shrill. I lost Mike Royko and all society gave me in return was Paul Begala? I got ripped off. I got hosed. I want a motherfucking refund.

I don’t personally know any public figures. Never have. But there are a bunch that I miss, and Mike Royko is at the top of the list. I read him and appreciated him when I was just a kid and didn’t know all of the context of the larger world he was eviscerating. I do now, and it makes me miss him all the more.

Jacob Weisburg eulogized him better than I ever could. Check out the link. Tell me if you don’t get a pang.

http://slate.msn.com/id/23389/

Tue, 22 Jun 2004 01:43:27 GMT

Sure Thing, My Checking Account Number is...

"PRINCE ZUMA" <p_zuma@zwallet.com>;

06/14/2004 10:18 AM
Please respond to prince_zuma

To: undisclosed-recipients:;
cc:
Subject: ATTENTION ON DISTRESS CALL

Dear Sir,

I know that this proposal might be a surprise to you but it as an emergency.In a nutshell, I am MR.P. ZUMA, from the republic of south-africa, now seeking for refuge in Dakar Senegal under the(UNHCR).I got your contact during a desperate search here in Dakar for a possible transaction.

My (late) father DR. ZUMA KENT WILLIAMS, was the managing director of Gold Mine company in SOUTH AFRICA. But he was assnated by his business assoicate and all his properties was totally destroyed. However, we managed to escape with some of my father's documents covering $18.3 Million dollars which is presently deposited safely in a security and finance company here in Dakar.

Meanwhile,we are saddled with the problem of securing a trust worthy foriegn personality to help us transfer the money over to his country and into his possession pending our arrival to meet with him. Furthermore, we only want this done this way because your country is politically stable for any profitable investment and only if you accept our proposal, you will serve as the beneficiary of the fund on commencement of this proposed transactions.

I am giving you the offers as mentioned with every confidence on your acceptance to assist us, we have decided to invest 40% of the total fund based on equity participation in your company. Secondly, we shall also take 5% out for any miscelleneous expenses that may occure.

Conclusively, i wish you send me a reply immediately as soon as you recieve this proposal so that we shall arrange on how to lift this consignment out of Dakar Senegal to your country.

On commencement,this transaction will take nothing less than 14 working days to be accomplished. All documents covering the fund are safe and intact. i remain with the best regards.Please kindly responce to this 002216496768) .

Thanks yours,

Mr Prince Zuma.

Dear Mr. Prince Zuma,

I have read your recent e-mail with great distress. I was saddened to learn that a Prince such as yourself has been ousted from the Republic of South-Africa. How did you manage to smuggle your throne out of the country? Was it disassembled and placed in body cavities and removed one wooden piece at a time. My curiosity consumes me. Do you have a fear of splinters?

I must admit that Dakar Senegal seems an odd choice for asylum for a Prince such as yourself. Might I suggest Monaco or Paris instead? The accommodations would be more to your liking. I hear that Euro Disney has improved mightily and that you can even get beer in the Park! Imagine that!! Do you know what the Senegal word for Winnebago is?

I also must admit that I greatly admire what your father has apparently done, renouncing his throne in the name of medicine. (And after all the trouble you went to getting it out of the country!) At what point did he decide that being King Zuma Kent Williams was less desirable than Dr. Zuma Kent Williams? Do you know Matt Williams? I went to high school with him. Does your father know a good remedy for bunions? Are you related to Andy Williams? Were you ever on his Christmas special?

As for your financial woes, I have had a flash of inspiration. Has your father looked into getting a checking account? He should have no trouble attaining one with his $18.3 million dollars (euros? pesos?). He might even get a free toaster oven or cappuccino machine. My checks have Scooby Doo on them. That might not be to your liking since I just looked up Senegal on Google and found that they eat scooby doo's over there. I might also suggest getting a credit card.
We give them away like venereal diseases here in the U.S.A.

Unfortunately, I will be unable to help you with your financial problems. I have quite an aversion to money and have recently taken vows of poverty, chastity and stupidty. I am also fasting, meditating and doing community service. (One little bar fight and the next thing you know you're spending every Saturday out on highway 80 in an orange jump suit looking for a cigarette with a couple of puffs left.)

God speed with your endeavor.

Blunt Object

Mon, 21 Jun 2004 02:19:49 GMT

Here's to Lame-Ass Beginnings

Ok.

Ok then.

An inauspicious beginning. Low expectations. That’s the trick.

Let me get the Admiral Stockdale questions out of the way first.

You, a blogger (is that even the right term? I’m so new at this. I’ve never even read a blog. What if I accidentally offend the blogging community? How will I keep from shooting Archduke Ferdinand?). You read these often. You dabble in writing.

Me, a mid-level public relations flack inside the beltway. I’m anonymous because, well, Washington is the smallest town there is. If you’re reading this in Ohio or Texas or wherever (there’s a goal, READERS) I’m sure Washington seemed large when you said, “Oh, it can’t be a far walk from the Washington Memorial to the Capitol… look, it’s right there.” But Washington is a small town. It’s made small by the small minds, large egos and gossip, which as we all know really makes the world go ‘round.

I’ll tell you the truth. There’s an idea. But I’ll have to warn you. I don’t always know what it is. I know a few things that it isn’t. It’s not politics, no matter which party you want to take to the prom. It’s not government, even though perhaps the best evidence that it is working right is that most everyone hates it. Truth isn’t religion either, not that I needed The Da Vinci Code to explain modern religion to me. (A digression. What a gigantic turd that book turned out to be. I should have known better, but I picked it up and, egads, I read it, assuming you can apply “reading” to that book. On the other hand, how amusing that an out-and-out onslaught against organized religion landed on the best seller’s list in George Bush’s America.)

The only thing that I know is true is that no one is in charge. We all know this, but our reactions to it are as varied and nuanced as human existence. (I promise not to write sentences like that often, but I couldn’t help myself.) That’s how I see the world, and it colors my perceptions, relationships and my career. Of course that might just be my mood.

Anyway, the above mental masturbation will be kept to a minimum. I prefer visceral, immediate and occasionally ill-conceived commentary.

I hope you visit again.