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February 9th, 2010
02:48 pm
I missed my meds for two days and a few things happened:
- I don't feel like talking in group, or even insulting people.
- My sex drive is nuts. I masturbated, like, four times yesterday, which normally wouldn't be such a huge departure but I've been abstaining recently, mostly because there's no opportunity, and for the last week I've just been too exhausted.
- I have an urge to write.
- I walk around scowling, evidently. Black Chris: "Whoa, Jon, you makin' a crazy face!" Little does Black Chris know that I practice my scowl--and many other faces--when I think no one is looking.
I walked in from work one day last week to find all of Andrew's stuff moved out, replaced by a patterned quilt neatly laid on the bed opposite mine, and a pair of Timberlands on the floor at the foot of the frame.
Timberlands, I thought. A black person!
But I soon found out that Andrew did not move out voluntarily, and that my new roommate was a one-legged son of a pig farmer, and also that he was white and his name is Chris, which is why the other Chris must sometimes now be referred to as "Black Chris" and the other Chris, my Chris, as "White Chris".
At first I was hesitant and a little afraid that being roomed with someone with one leg would be weird. Would I stare a lot? Of course I would. His fingers on his left hand are also messed up--all of these are the result of a terrible motorcycle accident, which is the subsequent cause of a relapse into heavy drinking (which first began in junior high, and he was diagnosed with severe compulsive and bipolar disorders), cocaine use, break up from a long-term relationship (8-years), and an attempted suicide via "death-by-cop".
"Interesting," I say. "Pig farming, huh?"
He tells me about how, before this whole thing (life has a before and after in this place, and we like to consider ourselves on pause), he used to cut and clean pig valves for heart transplants, which he would then pack in ice and containers and then UPS all over the world--Chicago, L.A., Germany, Sweden, U.K., Japan--up to five hundred hearts a day.
"How long do those valves last?" I ask.
"Up to seven years. The mechanical ones supposedly last up to ten, but a lot of people still buy porcin. That's what they call it, "porcin". That's the scientific word for pork. We get sixteen dollars a valve, fifteen of which I give to my dad and I keep the dollar. So I made up to five hundred a day, plus my base pay. It was pretty good."
"Hmm. And if a Jew buys a valve, does it have to be kosher?"
"Yeah. We have a...what're those Jewish priests called?"
"Rabbis?"
"Yeah--we have a rabbi on the slaughter floor at all times to perform his ritual thing on the pigs as we shoot 'em in the head. That's all it takes, and they're kosher."
"I didn't think any pork was kosher."
"I guess it is. If they need a bigger heart, they have cow valves too, but we don't slaughter kosher cow." He describes to me one farm he took a tour of, a farm that was not USDA certified, that produced kosher beef: in excess of employing a rabbi, the cow must be hung up by its hind legs and its throat slit. "--and the rabbit is standing there--" he holds one hand close to his chest as if holding a holy book, a Torah, and he waves the other up and down in a vertical motion that pivots from his elbow, as if casting holy water from an imaginary aspergillum "--getting drenched in cow blood!"
He's about my age, has an eccentric-albeit-slight collection of music that is a little too heavy on "ironic joke-country" tracks, thinks a 32gb iPod will take him a lifetime to fill up, and detests cruel animal-slaughter practices. "I mean, I was raised to love animals. I can't stand that shit." He described to me one farm where he saw a 8-week-old calves being herded into a pen where a man bludgeoned them in the head with a pipe until dead. PETA has, on multiple occasions, chained themselves to various trucks and farming equipment under his supervision, including an incident in Boston's Chinatown he recalls with particular fondness, it being on the news.
I haven't seen him without his leg. I walked into the communal bathroom while he was taking a shower, turned into a bathroom stall, and was startled to see the bottom half of a person standing to the side of the toilet. Chris' leg was standing up straight in his pair of pants and his shoe, with the other shoe sitting on the floor exactly under the empty pant leg.
* * *
Every once in a while--maybe once a month, at the rate I've been here--a formerly large name band will play the Albany Armory. It's always some kind horrible Nu-Metal / Post-Grunge blend band, the kind with no attractive or intelligent fans. Puddle of Mudd was here back in early or mid-January, and just last week, Three Days Grace was here with Chevelle and Flyleaf. Suddenly, Central Ave is crawling with white people dressed in black and too much make-up, usually overweight with poorly conceived facial hair / head hair--goatees, soul patches, those long wirey beards in stringy braids, over-gelled spikes in loose twists, burgundy-dyed-chin-length-center-parts, or any of these in combination with anything. These people mix in pretty strangely with the other fans--football jocks and the mothers of cheerleaders in the midst of mid-life crises and "x-treme" leather fetishes, which amounts to leasing a Harley. But because my wardrobe consists of mostly black, and because I have shaggy hair and also look pretty "jaded".
But I stopped using that word when I was thirteen for the exact reason that, when I see the crowds of Puddle of Mudd and Three Days Grace fans shuffling down the street in their black parachute pants with straps and zippers and their girlfriend's black baby-T with pink lettering that says "Bitch," I walk very quickly away opposite the flow of traffic, with my head down.
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February 8th, 2010
02:05 pm - Filosophie
I did this for Elly. The scan looks so much better than the original because you can't tell that it's drawn on printer paper, or the extra little smudges and stuff. I should get a better stock of paper.
"Filosofie" Penicl, Ink, Charcoal.
I went to the local art supply store on Lark Street, and the guy estimated the framing--the cheapest, most basic matting I could think of--to be around 48.00.
"This is cute," he said, then stammered, "Well, I shouldn't say 'cute'."
"No, I know," I said, feeling the sting of his knuckled on that backhanded compliment.
"This is good, like something you would see hanging on the walls in a fancy restaurant."
...And WHACK, a left-handed back-hand. Get thee to Wimbledon, Sampras.
I told him I'd be back to buy a 3'X2' foam core ($6), 2'X2' matte board ($3?), and a piece of glass ($8) separately and would assemble the thing myself, or otherwise would find a cheap document framing option, or would steal the materials from Micheal's.
There's more to write, but I won't bother, partly because none of it is important--it's mostly about work and appropriate footwear--and partly because I'm exhausted. I haven't been able to sit down and write any fiction. I really need to get on it. Get motivated not to collapse into bed at 8:30, beaten and depressed.
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February 1st, 2010
03:16 pm
I had my first real day on Sunday, and did two appointments that were just for me. One was a Dalmatian mix--the owner said they called her "Chrissy the Cow" at the shelter, as she was a short, fat thing--and a pit bull, who also was very sweet, up until I got near her with the sprayer, at which point she turned REALLY aggressive. "Don't let them push you around," said Lavade (pronounced "Nevada," but with an "L"), a young groomer who has worked there for three years or so. She put a muzzle on her, tied her with a proper leash ("What's this doohicky you rigged up here?" she said of my two leashes tied together and then buckled to a ring on the wall. "We're going to have to teach you some knots!" Little does she know, I am incapable of three things: mental subtraction [45-17= uh...I have no idea, I pass]; commitment; and knots.) and just went at her. And though she thrashed at first, once she was soaked she settle down, sort of resigned that she was wet and soapy and that's how it was.
Why I was being careful with the dog was, the training video said so. When a little Maltese started scrambling, trying to get out of my headlock to bite Lavade, who was cutting its nails, I let it go of it after about 30-seconds, so it would calm down. Lavade rolled her eyes at me. "You're a man. Use those man muscles. Hold the dog like this--" she positions my one arm so that the dog's neck is in the crook of my elbow and its body is cradled in the crook of my other arm--"and use those man muscles and Don't--Let--Go."
The reception part I'm a natural at, of course. A little nervous, a little unsure because I'm just getting to know where things are, what the prices are, where to find information on the services we offer, on scheduling, etc, but for a first day, I think I did alright.
Lavade told me I was hired because Stephanie, the salon manager, liked my resume, and because I was a man. "We haven't had a man in here for a while. It's been mostly girl who apply for this sort of thing." The last guy they had in there, she told me, was kind of a creep. "He had a crush on one of the groomers--she's no longer here--but he would stalk her and stuff."
Therefore, it's a good thing the girls in the salon are not my type. However, the associate manager, the dog trainer, and one of the cashiers are all pretty cute. And I will be kind of tempted to sit in this glass fishbowl all day and stare out at them with my long dark hair and my dark pants and my plaid shoes and my smock, looking creepy, I'm sure.
(The clothing I just mentioned I bought the other day, and I got a lot of compliments on the shoes, and I will post pictures later.)
And while a lot of the corporate-training-video stuff is ignored in practice, there is one policy that is never overridden: never leave a dog unattended. This is something I have to never forget because I have a tendency to be pretty absent-minded, or, at least not plan things ahead. I have to remember to have all my materials in the back with me--a blue leash and a muzzle, especially--when I take a dog in the back to be bathed.
That was just a note-to-self. Onward:
I haven't been writing at all. I just have other things to do, and the time I could spend writing, I usually spend drawing. If I have downtime, I usually make a Spelunky run or two, but I need to get rid of this game (or at least delete the desktop shortcut) and find another, like the Dawn of War demo or something like that. The only problem is, it'll take forever to DL from a legit site from the library. I HATE that I can't bittorrent.
Does anyone have wireless I can come over and use for, like, a day? I can work around your schedule, I think.
I have three drawing projects underway:
1) Elly's commission. I found a good subject that's classic and I hope she won't find it too "hip". I'm certainly not doing anything clever with it--it's just a straight interpretation.
2) Two portraits for tattoo design.
3) Portfolio on a CD.
4) Inking. I need to go over most of my pictures with a good felt-tip. I also need a white-ink pen, so I can do more detail and more contrast. I think it'll really knock it out of the park.
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January 29th, 2010
02:43 pm - Position: Assistant Groomer / Brusher / Bather
The salon manager, Stephanie, opened the store wearing a Metalocalypse hoodie, so at 8:00 am on my first day, I knew things would be alright. And after about 5 hours of training videos and mouse-clicking and password entering, I got to get to work.
...and by "get to work," I mean, PLAY WITH PUPPIES. I trimmed the nails and shampooed three dogs, and even painted one's toenails alternating red and green with glitter. They were the two other groomer's dogs, so they were well-behaved. "He's licking your face because he can sense you're nervous," said Kayla, one of the groomers, of her pancake-faced dog, Nergul (sp), who she named after the god of pestilence from Warhammer 40k. The trick is to approach every situation with confidence. I was just really afraid of "quicking" him, although it isn't supposed to hurt them--not much anyway--it does bleed, and causes the dog "discomfort". She kept indicating to a gray, dry-looking point on the cross-section of the clipped toenail as "a pink, wet-looking spot," and this was the quick. Fantastic, I thought. Now if the dogs would all just stand still. But if this was a really well-behaved dog, what would your typical dog be like?
"They kick all over the place and whine and growl and bite."
This is going to be exciting. I was watching the "sales associates" out of the salon window, stocking inventory and ringing sales and putting hooks into pegboard and I thought, I could do that with my eyes closed, but goddamn do I hate that shit. I got lucky.
My counselor at SPARC told me that in order to "graduate" I needed to participate more, particularly in the "Family" group. So I did last night, and it turned pretty heated. One ruddy-faced 50-something alcoholic asshole, Steve, started projecting his own frustrations about his step-daughter on to me, and called me "an ungrateful brat." It was for precisely this reason--and precisely because of Steve--that I hadn't spoken up sooner, because I knew by the way he spoke he was exactly like my step-father, Dan, and that if I ever talked about my family issues, the two of us would likely come to blows.
It didn't go quite that far, but I had the entire group--all older men, all fathers--at my throat, yelling at me that I don't know what it's like being a parent, that parents sacrifice so much for nothing in return. And I was yelling back that, though I can't even imagine how it must be to raise a child, if they thought they deserved reciprocation for gifts or for love--even something immaterial, like respect, or less, gratitude (these are my words, verbatim), they are in the wrong fucking game.
I told my counselor that it would go down like this, but he wanted me to do it anyway and he wouldn't take no for answer, and lo and behold. The thing is, I don't think about my parents that much. It's been suggested that, since I'm so angry at them, I must care a lot, or maybe I'm not really angry at them, I'm angry at something in them that I see in myself, but neither of these are the case. It's very straight forward: I feel wronged = I disown them.
I also told the group the story of why I stopped speaking to Alec when I was eleven or so (he stole some basketball cards; I stole them back and got in trouble for the whole thing) and they were aghast.
"Oh my god!" said the facilitator. "Just for that, you stopped speaking to your brother?" She turned to the guy next to her and said, "Remind me never to make him angry! He sure can hold a grudge!" So now I'm the sociopath of the group, and the spoiled kid, etc. So, lesson learned, don't open up in group therapy sessions because, no matter what, you're always right and people are always assholes.
In fact, the only thing that I've never once brought up in those stupid fucking groups, and the only thing that ever bothers me is Jasmine. It really bothers me. It's the only thing I ever regret. Should I message her? Should I try to keep in touch? It doesn't seem reciprocated. Should I keep my distance? Should I just wait and see, and if she wants to be friends, she'll find me? But the waiting is the hardest part, I'm so impatient. I just want to know what she feels now. And even then, I'm afraid to find out, because the worst thing would be to find out, sorry bud, she doesn't feel any which way, and whatever.
Here's a REMASTERED drawing, a redo from an old concept I did back in highschool. It was easy and fun to revisit.
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January 27th, 2010
03:50 pm - Rape
TASC employs an interesting cast of characters. There's Dave, who can be heard yelling to someone or another over his cell phone at all hours; there's Sylvester, who, despite my unfaltering cordiality and patience, treats me like a punk (just yesterday, he burst into my room, accused me of not eating breakfast, called me a liar, and said TASC was a "snitch factory."); there's Wesley, who sounds exactly like that fat, gay, Jewish actor in Independence Day; Joe, the only white guy on staff, who is in his late 60's and could sleep through a 5-alarm fire on his balls; and, until recently, there was Bill.
Bill is somewhere between 50 and 60 years old, Black, is about 6' 3", his feet smell like the worst kind of cheese, and he is pretty open about his criminal past. It is well-known that he had an extended stay in state prison. It is also well-known that he has been accused of sexual assault in the past, though if the victim was a man or woman, a boy or girl, or if this charge is related to his prison sentence, no one can really be sure. What is less well known, at least by clients of TASC, is that, while in prison, Bill assuaged his loneliness by engaging in sodomy and violent rape. This may seem a likely way to pass the time in lock-up. And Bill is, at his age, still an imposing presence. I can imagine this man, the queasy smell of sour socks growing stronger as he approaches, until he fills the steel frame of an open cell door. It's kind of terrifying.
With that said, Bill is also a very friendly man with a good sense of humor, with the attitude that if you treat him with respect, he'll reciprocate. These qualities are apparent from the get-go. What I'm saying is, upon first impression, you would be hard pressed to peg Bill as a rapist of full-grown men.
When I first entered TASC, however, things were amiss. Sometimes clients would sneak up on one another and whisper into each other's ears: "Ssshh. It's just me, Bill." I passed this off as an inside joke, but it persisted, even as clients "graduated" and new clients came in. "Shhh," someone would say with a big stupid smile on their face. Then they would lightly put their hand on their victim's arm: "It's just me. Bill."
Bill did act strange--he stared a lot, watched people, stood in the hallway outside of people's rooms. Again, I passed this off as being alert. That was his job, after all. It didn't even bother me that much when he started bursting, Kramer-style, into my own room, though my roommate took a great offense to this kind of intrusion.
"He's trying to catch me naked!" This was possible, I thought. But, more likely, Bill was trying to catch my roommate on his conspicuous iPhone that Andrew, my roommate, was trying to pass off as an mp3 player around the staff to varying degrees of suspicion. Bill was not buying it, but he had to catch him actually talking into the device, which should have been easy because Andrew was always one it, behind closed doors. But a few fortuitous anomalies of the room kept Andrew from being caught:
1) The door is heavy fiberboard, and poorly hung; it scrapes mercilessly where the corner meets the tile, leaving a wide gash. You need to throw your weight into this door to open it, which makes entering noiselessly impossible, and gives the occupant ample time to ready himself for an unwelcome guest.
2)Andrew's bed is positioned behind a barracks-style armoire such that, whenever Bill shouldered the door open, Andrew had time to slip the phone on the side of his bed frame and peek around the standing closet with a "Who? Me?"-look before Bill could see him using it.
So it did not strike me as that strange that Bill would burst in, willy-nilly. And after he left, Andrew would raise his finger for me to be silent, wait about thirty-seconds, go to the door and fling it open to find Bill there with his ear to the door.
"Oh, hey, Bill!" Andrew would say loudly, mockingly, and Bill would mutter and shuffle off. "What a fucking creep."
* * *
I am almost never at the house, and when I am, I am sequestered in my room. I am often admonished for being antisocial, but I find it's best to stay away from people like those at TASC. It's all a bunch of gossip and melodrama and uppity to-do. The staff talked to many of the clients about Bill's behavior, and Andrew reports that most of Bill's attention focused around our room--the two of us, Andrew and myself.
After talking to the other residents, he says that Bill never burst so rudely into anyone else's room. The other evidence against Bill is that Andrew had just got out of the shower one night and was in a towel, shaving his face, when he looked up in the mirror and Bill was staring at him from over the saloon-style bathroom door. Also: "He might just have a staring problem or something, but during the meeting the other day, when you walked by him--you wear those tight pants, you know?--he was definitely staring at your ass."
And, as I hear it, Bill had touched someone's ass--in jest, I guess, because their ass was showing, gratuitously--and that, ultimately, was what got him fired.
* * *
"I feel bad," Andrew told me. "Bill was the nice one. I didn't want him to get fired. I don't care if he's gay, I just want him to knock before he comes in here, you know?" I agreed. The other staff are far less friendly, besides Wesley, who is okay, and Joe, who I rarely see conscious.
"I wouldn't feel comfortable alone in the house with him, though, you know?"
I also agreed with this. You just got that feeling, you know?
"Jesus, I bet Bill's furious. I'm going to see him around, you know. I always see him." Andrew's eyes get really wide when he's nervous or angry, and his eyes are doing that now. "I hope he doesn't come in here and rape me."
When I come back from treatment at around 8:30, Andrew is laying in bed. Whenever I open the door, I see, just for a split second, his hands quickly shuffle under his blankets; I know he is either putting his phone or his dick away. He turns and leans to see around the armoire. "Sshhh," I say with my index finger to my lips. "It's just me, Bill."
* * *
When I was thinking about the possible sexual dynamics between Bill and Andrew and myself, i.e., that there might be some un-reciprocated, creepy predator / prey vibe thing, I thought of Elly. More than once has she complained about strange stalker-ish things happening to her and I've always said, "Gee, I would love to have a stalker." And I've always fantasized that my stalker would be some crazy / cute, pale girl--who would be kind of short--and who would write me rambling letters about killing herself if we couldn't be together, and I've fantasized about how this person's co-dependency issues would feed my own in the worst, most destructive way, and how badly I treat this person, ultimately ending in her own self-destruction. This fantasy ends with no physical harm done to myself (in real life, I would probably not be so lucky) but adds some background to a kind of narcissist-as-tortured-artist caricature that I sometimes paint myself as, and it's pretty romantic in that dark, self-serving, good-story-for-a-memoir kind of way.
At the very least, I thought, my stalker might be gross, but at least the attention would be flattering. So Bill was staring at my ass! That's what it's there for, right? And that's what I told my roommate when he told me he caught Bill staring at me--I told him, well, why wouldn't he, the big fag?--I'm gorgeous!
But, honestly, it's a little scary. I can rationalize that the probability that Bill could feasibly harm me is slim, despite his size and his smelliness (which bears mentioning, because it makes the idea so much more repulsive)--still, the idea that someone has it out for me in particular--and when I use the phrase "has it out," I actually don't know what they intend--is frightening.
So here's a picture of an actual slogan I've seen.
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January 25th, 2010
08:08 pm - JizzOb
I was sitting on the toilet as I often am (I am known for my frequenting this place: it is a sanctuary for me, a place of rest, where God would have retired to on the seventh day) when I began to slip down the spiraling cascade of despair. Stephanie at Petco had said she would call either Sunday or Monday, and TASC business hours for Monday were growing short.
"Of course they don't want me," I thought. "How could they? My new criminal record, my living situation, my so-called addiction--all of this will come out in a proper background check, which any company worth its salt will run twice over." The interview that Saturday began to roll through my brain like film on the reel of a projector. I pictured every awkward moment, every pause, every stumbled-over answer, every joke that fell flat. "No, no no. They can smell the putrescence of failure on me like dogs smell fear."
It was here, while I was contemplating the idea of "hope" as some Borgesian aleph found under he basement stairs, and "disappointment" somehow its inverse--the idea of the false aleph of his cousin, or was hope the false aleph in the first place?*--when a call came.
"Are you still interested in the position?"
I start on Thursday, bright and early at 8:00am, to fill out paperwork and do some on-computer training. I've never had a job with so many people above me--in the past, I have been able to count on two hands, at most, my bosses all the way to the top, and the company owner usually has known me by name, if not by reputation--and I'm sure I'll hate every aspect that deals with "Corporate" or the "Regional Branch," or whathaveyou.
I don't care. There's at least one cute cashier there (Social +1) and I will be making money, and in my spare time, I can play with RATTIES SQUEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAL!!!!
Two things:
- An employee of TASC was fired for inappropriately touching people. More on this later.
- I think I saw Erica Tucker at SPARC, but I really can't be certain.
*What is pseudo-intellectualism? What makes intellect fake? Sometimes I feel like an impostor, like, at least in this environment, I'm getting away with it. I have a lot of insecurities in that area, and they stem mostly from being very bad at math and copying off other people in middle school, mostly out of laziness. There, I've said it.
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January 24th, 2010
02:20 pm - Tupee
*In Addition* After spending about a half hour trying to edit this poll in a previous entry, I paid a visit to an LJ FAQ and found that such an edit was impossible. An education.
So, in review:
(Step 1) I accept that I was powerless over my hair.
(Step 2) I have decided to turn my hair and styling choices over to the wiser decision-making of others.
This is the longest I've had it, really.
Thus:
Poll #1515967 Que va? Hair-o (Edit)
This poll is closed.
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 4Should I Cut This Off? If I cut it, what style would be best? Can you give an example?
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January 23rd, 2010
04:00 pm - Neurogobbledygook
I had an interview with Petco today for the position of "Dog Bather". Basically, I would shampoo doggies, cut their nails, express their anal glands (finger their buttholes, more or less) and talk to customers. "Sounds fun," I said. And honestly, it kinda does. I'm just happy I finally got in for an interview, and I think I made a good impression.
Never one to narrow my options, I also applied for a few jobs at Albany Med:
- (3) Clerical, desk jobs in the most clandestinely goriest departments available: hematology, triage, and Neurogobbledygook.
- Medical supply courier. All the job requires is a clean driver's license, which I have.
- Lab Animal Technician. Clean cages. Feed animals. Part time, and probably depressing, and if there are going to be any anonymous casualties in an ALF attack, it would be the person in that position. But someone has to do it because the scientists have science to science.
* * * EDIT * * *
I've officially submitted my short story "Arithmetic" to TIN HOUSE, The Paris Review--
*interjection* A guy wearing a jacket that can best be described as a bear suit just walked in, and he smells like a fucking contact high. This guy definitely gargles with bong water "to get the real deal". */interjection*
--Glitter Train, and Columbia. I'm going to also get it to EPOCH and FENCE. Here is the final version I sent out, sans indentation and the proper heading. Joanna, the head of TASC, read about four paragraphs, got offended, and put it down, saying, "Hm, cute." I don't know if that's a good thing or not:
( Arithmetic )
I have officially been at TASC 90 days. It's been an interesting experience, and mostly on the "fucking rude" side of the "interesting" spectrum. There have been a couple of guys who have gotten to the house, straight from jail, and said, "Fuck this! No one tells me what to do," taken their stuff, and have run out, which, of course, is immediate violation of probation and grounds for a bench warrant. The house itself isn't bad at all, especially considering what an EZ-ST welfare is. I spoke to my case manager and she said that DSS (department of social services) will often pay for first month's, last month's, and sec. deposit on an apartment in a low-income residential area. The neighborhoods for which this assistance is approved are not always...how do I put this?...agreeable to my pigmentation deficiencies. Especially after dark. But I have gained a lot of "moxie", have little to steal, little to lose otherwise--and no other choices.
I am REALLY looking forward to my own place. I don't mean I would mind a roommate, but to finally have a place where I can feel at home. Even all those years ago, on Pleasant street, or on Beach street, I never felt at home. I had my room, sure, and I was comfortable there, but I rarely spent time in the living room except to play PS2 or PS3, and later, at Cleveland Street, I think it was pretty clear that I didn't feel at home at all. It will be nice to put my things down and have a space all to myself, or at least a space I can be comfortable being myself in.
Also, I talked to an employee at The Daily Grind about First Friday, and if I could display art in the store. He said yeah, generally. Alls I gotta do is bring my portfolio, on a CD or in a booklet, preferably, into the store manager and he would "put me in line." I liked that idea. It also means that I might have to work a little harder at what I do, i.e. add some color, do some painting, and especially start matting and framing these things myself.
Could things be looking up for Yours Truly?
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January 22nd, 2010
05:21 pm
Submitted story to Tin House, Paris Review, and Glitter Train. Will also submit to FENCE, because, really, who is going to publish this crap? I hate it more every time I reread it.
Ehhhhhhh alright.
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January 21st, 2010
08:02 pm - Poem
Clinton Ave
Two beautiful,
small-breasted women
ticker by on bicycles.
It is the noise of Yaz
clipped to the spokes.
"Show off!" the other
kids yell at me.
No--the noise is the link
of a chain spinning through
a mechanical elbow
performing one perfunctory task:
shifting gear.
A man grasps his red truck's
door and wrestles with it--
the latch is stuck.
It swings open with
an unlubricated grinding.
The muffler grunts and they
rumble down the street
together.
Bees bounce around the blue
lupine bushes in front of the porch.
For a moment, it is quiet.
I wait for the street to
...come again?
My hearing isn't
so good anymore.
Not what I used to be.
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04:00 pm - Untitled
This is the first short story I've completed in a long time. I'm submitting it to The Paris Review. And when I get a rejection letter from them, I'll submit it to FENCE. And from there, I dunno. I keep looking at it though, and changing things. >:(
* * *
You see a "Beware of Dog" sign posted on a fence on the side of a house, but you don't see a dog, and you say to yourself, "Is the dog out back? Is the dog inside? Is the dog at the vets?" because the dog is nowhere in sight. Then you stand there for a moment. Then you think, "Could the dog be...invisible?"
Invisible dogs are the worst. Sometimes you feel...spontaneous. You know, swarthy, swashbuckling. So you take a shortcut and hop a fence. Then, all of a sudden you hear a bark, maybe, and then comes this frantic galloping rhythm--duhdmduhdmduhdm--fast, coming up right behind you, and then, Whoa!, something is tearing at your left calf. And you can't put two and two together because you look back and there's nothing there, but one way or another, you'll discover that you've been run down by a clandestine canine. It's bewildering. Something's whipping around at your pant leg, digging its little fangs in--little, though they feel just about as big as railroad spikes--but you can't see what. Regular dogs are one thing, but those invisible dogs...
No normal person likes math, but in some lines of work, you're kind of forced to do some rudimentary arithmetic.
Suppose there's one of those "Beware of Dog" signs but no dog in sight. The sign is not necessarily indicative of a dog, not in your opinion. The sign is a warning--helpfully alluded to by the property's own caretaker--that the precarious situation in which you now find yourself requires a risk assessment. Quick: what's the likelihood of a dog owner advertising the ownership of his dog (i.e., is the posted sign some kind of ruse)?; what's the ownership ratio of normal dogs to invisible dogs?; what's the risk:reward ratio of your being in someone else's backyard, uninvited? To what proportions do the risk:reward ratio flux as you make your way across the yard, closer to a darkened, dead-quiet house? And what if you were to, hypothetically, enter this house, and by what means necessary? What are the chances that what you find inside offer a greater reward than the risk of entry?
"Reward," or profit, is easily quantifiable (e.g. currency--dollars, pounds, yen, marks, etc.-- which have exact rates of exchange; or, also e.g., the "off-market" values of second-hand luxury items, the most popular being: TV's, computers, stereo equip., game consoles, and CD's), but the concept of "risk" is a little more vague. There are too many variables to consider. Garden edging, rhododendrons, nosy neighbors, unoiled hinges, insomniacs, midnight snacks, heart attacks, broken backs--the entropy is endless. And never forget invisible dogs. You can't possibly assign a value to everything under the stars, especially not when you're busy. Not when you're trying to work.
"No Trespassing," says the sign. "Violators Will Be Prosecuted."
America is obsessed with statistics, so it's hard not to make working with people into a numbers gig. Like when you see a woman holding a leash and the leash is just hanging there curiously in the air, you can figure there's about an eighty-five percent chance that there is an invisible dog on the end of it. Also, fifty-fifty that she's single. Because, while owning a dog is sometimes a surrogate for childless women, or like training wheels for would-be parents, she might only own a dog for protection. Which probably means she's alone. It's dangerous out there.
There was this Rueter's study that pedestrians walking dogs are ninety-percent less likely to be mugged than those walking alone. (The study failed to specify what kind of dog.) Cheap-skates--men, mostly--they just carry around a fake invisible dog leash and pretend to be walking their invisible dog in rough neighborhoods or after dark. In that case, here's what you do: standing from a good distance, you throw a bottle at them. The mark will jump back and if the leash doesn't start going crazy, then you know it's one of those fake invisible dog leashes and it's on. Of course, if it's a real invisible dog leash with a real invisible dog, you start running.
"Warning..." cautions a sign.
"Why?" you think to yourself. "Does the porter have an invisible dog around here somewhere? Please be more specific."
"...may be hazardous to your health."
And what about the relativity of risk? Suppose you are working with a partner: who's to say his perspective of risk is congruent with your own? You consider what would happen if you and your partner were to find yourselves cornered by an invisible dog, unable to escape. Your partner has killed an invisible dog before, finds it easy, or at least says he does.
"Ya don't even think about it," he'll say, coolly. He'll give you a shrug. "Ya just hold out your forearm like this and he'll grab for it. When he gets a good hold, just give 'im a good whack between the eyes. Right here," he'll say, tapping the crooked bridge of his nose. "Do it with yer bar and he's outta tha game."
"Danger," says a sign, bolted straight and alert on a steel girder, making a barrier in your line of sight to the other side. "Third Rail."
For your partner--when it comes to electrical current and invisible dogs, at least--the risk is negligible: he steps over the rail (a beam no thicker than a brick elevated about eight inches off the ground) as if he had no inclination it was quietly on fire with nearly fifteen-hundred volts capable of melting his eyeballs.
But could you kill a dog? Could you kill an invisible dog? If you couldn't, is it because of cowardice or ethics, and if you could, is it because it's invisible and you don't have to see it die? You don't have to look in its eyes? You can't see it hurt, but it is. You play the idea of its injury in your head, imagine it limping away, invisible blood hemorrhaging from its invisible snout between its big invisible brown eyes. You can't see it, but you have a good inclination that it is dying from the cruel blow. You think of the rewards now. Had you overestimated the risks? The word "doggedly" comes to mind. Adverb, you think. "Trudging." "Fatigued but dutiful." "Loyal."
"No U-Turns."
"It's just one less thing," your partner would say. "Put's the odds in yer favor. You want 'em in yer favor, right? That's the name of the game."
But somehow, the responsibility in taking that life--small and transparent though it may be--is all too taxing. But what is taxed? The imagination? The invisible conscience? The invisible soul?
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January 20th, 2010
02:19 pm - Lit(h)ium
I am currently applying for a position at Petco, but I fucked up my application (totally my fault) and now my first impression is one of bumbling ineptitude. Then two pretty girls passed me on the street and didn't look at me and I didn't know how to cope with either this or the back-and-forth with Petco (because I can't even get a menial, demeaning job). "I should bite my tongue off and throw my hands up and bleed to death in the street before anyone has any idea what to make of it" I said silently to myself. Luckily, I got my Zoloft upped and, if I so choose, in three weeks I can go on Lithium. It's not wine, but it's fine.
Since I started pseudo-advertising--putting myself out there on Facebook, designing tats for people, etc.--I've been getting pretty positive feedback. Here are a few more drawings:
And this is the tattoo design that I did for a guy who lives at the TASC house based on a photo he gave me of his kid:
He really likes it, I gather. He even said, unsolicited, that, although this stuff might be easy for me (it isn't), I deserve more money for it. Maybe, but it's not as if I can earn enough to pay rent with it, so what's the point, right?
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January 19th, 2010
03:20 pm
I had an interview for Bombers last night, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get the job. That's alright. I was applying for a counter position, but when I got there (the Bier Garten, where the interview was being held), Conor The Kitchen Manager told me that counter positions are usually reserved for girls. It's a sexist policy, but I see why that's the case, and it works best for everyone, assuming they split tips at the end of the night. Therefore, by default, I was applying for the burrito roller position, for which I have no line-cook experience or proper kitchen experience, and no server experience. So fuck me, right?
But I took out my aggression by going to town on the group facilitator when she handed us a packet detailing the sub-symptoms of "denial" (which itself is a purported symptom of addiction). I surprised myself with what a good, level-headed argument I can make when I know I am in the right; basically, I pointed out that saying someone is in "denial" when speaking in broad, unquantifiable terms, like addiction, is a Catch-22 and a logical fallacy based on it's infallibility. I can't remember the exact term for that, but I could give plenty of examples and she was fucking floored and it made her look very stupid. I was proud that I can remember Philosophy 101: Introduction.
Tonight I'm going to get my Zoloft.
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January 18th, 2010
09:27 am
Note to self: move the fuck on.
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January 17th, 2010
03:10 pm - Careerist Entitlement
panic attack at the library
have to remember how to breathe:
www.macfound.org:
The MacArthur Fellows Program awards unrestricted fellowships to talented individuals who have shown extraordinary originality and dedication in their creative pursuits and a marked capacity for self-direction. There are three criteria for selection of Fellows: exceptional creativity, promise for important future advances based on a track record of significant accomplishment, and potential for the fellowship to facilitate subsequent creative work.
The Owls:
Air
(No head no heart no hurry no hate no fun no muss no city no state no card no can no call no kiss no book no bread no hit no miss no juice no laugh no love no sin--no hand to put my handshake in--no header no footer no girl no boy no good no better no touch no . toy. There is only air where I used to care.)
www.gf.org:
Often characterized as "midcareer" awards, Guggenheim Fellowships are intended for men and women who have already demonstrated exceptional capacity for productive scholarship or exceptional creative ability in the arts.
During the rigorous selection process, applicants will first be pooled with others working in the same field, and examined by experts in that field: the work of artists will be reviewed by artists, that of scientists by scientists, that of historians by historians, and so on. The Foundation has a network of several hundred advisers, who either meet at the Foundation offices to look at applicants' work, or receive application materials to read offsite. These advisers, all of whom are themselves former Guggenheim Fellows, then submit reports critiquing and ranking the applications in their respective fields. Their recommendations are then forwarded to and weighed by a Committee of Selection, which then determines the number of awards to be made in each area. Occasionally, no application in a given area is considered strong enough to merit a Fellowship.
www.artomi.org:
Ledig House International Writers Residency is located approximately two and a half hours north of New York City in the town of Omi, in the scenic Hudson River Valley. Writers and translators from all fields are encouraged to apply for a residence lasting anywhere from one week to two months. Up to 20 writers per session--10 at a given time--live and write on the stunning 300 acre grounds and sculpture park that overlooks the Catskill Mountains.
Ledig House provides all meals, and each night a cook prepares dinner. Days are reserved as quiet hours, while evenings afford a more communal environment. During each session, several guests from the New York publishing community are invited for dinner and discussion. Bicycles, a swimming pool and nearby tennis court are available for use.
Unless otherwise arranged, writers must provide their own transportation to and from Ledig House. A colony car will be sent to pick writers up at the train station in nearby Hudson, New York. All writers should be proficient in English.
Created in 1992, Ledig House International Writers Residency is named after the German publisher Heinrich Maria Ledig-Rowohlt. Ledig had a reputation as a man with an unerring sense of literary quality. His publishing list included prominent writers from around the world--Thomas Wolfe, William Faulkner, Yukio Mishima, Jean Paul Sartre, Vladimir Nabokov, John Updike, Toni Morrison, Albert Camus, and Thomas Pynchon, to name only a few.
yaddo.org:
Artists who qualify for Yaddo residencies are working at the professional level in their fields. An abiding principle at Yaddo is that applications for residency are judged on the quality of the artists' work and professional promise. Yaddo accepts approximately 200 artists each year, about 18% of the number who apply.
Applications are considered by five independent admissions committees in the artistic disciplines represented at Yaddo: Literature, Visual Art, Music Composition, Performance & Media, and Film & Video. Membership in these committees rotates frequently and the members are artists whose work is recognized and esteemed by their peers.
Residencies vary in length – the average stay is five weeks. The minimum stay is two weeks; the maximum is eight weeks. There is no fee for residency. There is a nonrefundable application fee of $30, payable in US funds. Two funds, one exclusively for writers and a second for artists working in other disciplines, exist to provide limited financial aid to artists, based on need. Only individuals who have already been invited for visits may apply for financial assistance. Specific instructions and an application form are included with each letter of invitation.
Lit Mags / Publishing Presses of interest based in NY:
- Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art
- Fence
- Four Way Books
- Epoch
- The Paris Review
- Soft Skull Press
( Godel, Heisenberg, Shannon )
* * *
Stagger Lee; aka Stackolee; aka Stag O' Lee; aka Stagolee:
Lee Shelton (March 16, 1865 - March 11, 1912) was an African American cab driver and pimp convicted of murdering William "Billy" Lyons on Christmas Eve, 1895 in St. Louis, Missouri. The crime was immortalized in a popular song that has been recorded by numerous artists.
Lee Shelton was not a common pimp, but as described by Cecil Brown, "Lee Shelton belonged to a group of pimps known in St. Louis as the 'Macks'. The macks were not just 'urban strollers'; they presented themselves as objects to be observed."
Shelton died in prison in 1912, of tuberculosis.
* * *
I have an interview tomorrow to work at Bombers. Not exactly a Guggenheim.
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January 16th, 2010
03:55 pm
I need a hug.
I drew a picture of this guy's kid at his request, and when he gets out, he's going to get a tattoo. I'll charge him $4, so that I can buy Jujy Fruit and Mountain Dew.
I have this problem with a secure wireless network that I really need access to. There are ways to gain access with free software called "Aircrack" and several of it's siblings. There is a HUGE problem with tech-science nerds, however, and that is the staggering specialization that being one requires, and the sequestering esoteria subsequent thereof. The lexicon is fraught with acronyms and arcane numerology; consider the Wikipedia entry:
"Aircrack-ng is a network software suite consisting of a detector, packet sniffer, WEP and WPA/WPA2-PSK cracker and analysis tool for 802.11 wireless LANs. It works with any wireless card whose driver supports raw monitoring mode (for a list, visit the website of the project or [1]) and can sniff 802.11a, 802.11b and 802.11g traffic. The program runs under Linux and Windows; the Linux version has been ported to the Zaurus and Maemo platforms, and a proof-of-concept port has been made to the iPhone.
In April 2007 a team at the Darmstadt University of Technology in Germany developed a new attack method based on a paper released on the RC4 cypher by Adi Shamir. This new attack, named 'PTW', decreases the number of initialization vectors or IVs needed to decrypt a WEP key and has been included in the aircrack-ng suite since the 0.9 release."
For example, why is the original Aircrack program appended with an "-ng" in the new versions? Does that have some significance, or is it arbitrary? Upon clicking on a few links, I discovered that "802.11a" is some kind of range within the 5GHZ frequency standardized by the government. What makes an "IV" a "vector"? Is it because it has a length and direction?
The one thing I did recognize is the name of a network "sniffer" program called "Kismet." (I first learned this term from a Magic: The Gathering card (white) that causes all creatures to enter play tapped; it's also a term meaning "The Will of Allah," a predetermined course of action, or destiny.) This got me thinking about how self-referential literature is, how different mathematics is from literature, and how they both use a language to convey ideas.
I also have no knowledge or education in math, by choice--I've always viewed it with irrational hate. I respect it, as one respects venomous swarms of Africanized bees--it is a force of nature I must be wary of it lest it kill me--but I don't want to have anything to do with it. I suppose this is one reason that the technical sciences blow over my head.
The other is that the wireless sharing of information, and computing in general, is a relatively new frontier whose continued expansion and profit lies in the ill-understood realm of quantum mechanics, and the language to describe the Rhineland where our LCD screens and imperceptible dimensions of physics theory converge to bring us movies of naked women getting "gaped". This territory has a smaller background to reference, and so tech-minded nerds get bogged down in boring acronyms and straight-forward descriptors.
What I'm saying is, if these guys described this stuff using more metaphorical and florid prose, I would be programming by now. Or at least not so put off.
This is not necessarily related, but a gay Indian Scientist tried to pick me up last night on lark street.
I had no idea what was going on. I stopped outside of Bombers because I noticed they had the entire place torn up, top and bottom, and a small sign in the window said they were hiring and contact Conor@etc, so I pulled a pen out of my bag and began writing it down on my hand, which is something old people HATE, so I do it all the more. And this tall, thin Indian guy in a green sweater comes up to me tentatively and says, "Do I know you? You look familiar."
"I don't think so, but I get that a lot," I say, because this is true. I do get this a lot, but more on that in a second.
"You look exactly like this guy I went to grad school with. The hair and everything," he said.
"Where did you go to grad school?" I am being polite.
"Maryland blah blah of Technology blah*."
"Hm. Yeah, I never did grad school. Went to college in Boston though."
"Oh, are you from around here?"
"Yeah, I'm back for a while until I can make some money and move away again. you know how it goes." I turn away to scribble more on my hand--kind of an international sign for "occupado"--but he stands there and watches me.
"What do you do?" he asks.
"I am a writer, but it's not really working out, hence the writing-the-bombers-job-contact-info-on-my-hand-thing."
"Would you like a piece of paper."
"No thanks." He continues to stand there, so, sufficiently awkward-ed out, I ask him what he does."
"I'm a blah blah scientist blah."
"Oh that's neat. I know lots of people in the (I make air quotes here) scientist (end quotes) field. They like it." This is not true. I know only one person who used to work at Economy who had a degree in Chem-Bio blah blah and found a job in California as a research biologist.
"Yeah. I did some technical writing, but it's so dry."
"Yeah." I look down at my hand again, and sufficiently finish scrawling "BUR RITO BA R. COM" across it.
"Like I was saying, you have hair just like this guy I went to grad school with. I really like it. Has it always been that long."
At about this point I gay out a little, because I'm not one to deny indulging my fans on the lurid details of my hair care. "Well, no," I begin. "I've had it mostly short all my life, you know, and I started growing it out for someone--but that's over, but that's no longer the reason I haven't cut it, so I think that's (air quotes again) "getting over it." Besides, it's fun to use product."
"It's very seventies."
"You think so? I was just about to go get a pair of fake glasses, you know, horn-rimmed, solid frames--change the whole style up, do something new, re-invent myself."
"I'm sorry, I'm not keeping you from something, am I?"
"Oh, not really."
"Would you like to get some coffee?"
"Oh. No, I can't. But nice meeting you." And I shake his hand, which I'm not sure is an appropriate thing to do when politely rejecting a gay man, and walk away.
Then I started thinking about all the other times men have come up to me and said, "You look really familiar..." and I thought, wow, I really don't understand how this sort of thing works. Is that how I'm supposed to make conversation?
*I don't even listen when people interject technical-sounding terms. It's all superfluous and poseur.
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January 13th, 2010
07:40 pm
Since when do employers take the time to send emails stating that they "received your resume," and "do not currently have a position for your skills, experience, and education"? And since when are those skills, experience, and education not adequate for the ticket seller position at the Palace Theater? HUH?
You know, I could just sit around all day like this guy, Ray, does and has done, living off the state. I could sit around and wait for March, when Gamestop and Barnes & Noble told me they will be hiring again. But I don't want to. I want a job--
I want to get the people I love back! I want to see them all the time and to be around them! I want to live in a productive, intellectually stimulating world! I don't want to be a black man on welfare!
I did find one good thing today. I went into an eyeglass store and tried on a few pairs of frames. I found a pair that looks pretty good on me: They're horn-rimmed, solid-framed--nice. Respectable. Smart-looking. I'll try to make a simulated picture in PAINT tonight.
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January 12th, 2010
07:47 pm - If You Have A Place Out Of NY...
Petco - Colonie: Sales Associate
Conifer Park - Glenville: Transcriptionist
Benson's Pet Supply - Colonie: Sales Associate
Barnes & Noble - Colonie: Book Seller
Gamestop - Colonie: Not Hiring, Accepting Apps
Gap - Crossgates: Not Hiring, Accepting Apps
Case Worker: "Yeah, you could move into Supported Housing. They have a policy where they don't allow you to work for three months."
Me: "Then how am I supposed to pay for it or move out?"
SPARC Counselor: "Molly said you aren't participating in her group. She wondered if maybe you wouldn't be better suited in another group. What are you trying to get out of this program?"
Me: "Nothing. I only come so I don't have to keep coming."
Construction Worker: "When you believe in God, you accept that you just don't want to argue anymore. That's the best argument."
Me: ">_<*"
NOTHING MAKES ANY GODDAMN SENSE I AM FUCKING LOSING IT. I am going to try to up my Zoloft and convince everyone that the doctor said it was okay. The counselor at SPARC would call this "addict behavior" but there simply is no outlet for my stress besides chemical lobotomy, which I've been trying to do for years to varying success.
If you have a place out of NY state where I can live for a while--a pool house, a room above your parents garage, something like that--can you let me know? I really need to get out of here.
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January 11th, 2010
02:28 pm
As if to twist the knife, Penny Arcade announced it was hiring for the first time in five years today. I don't come within light years of PA's apogee when it comes to the minimum requirements, being mostly proficiency in Javascript, Photoshop, XHTML, and some other things that I am decidedly not. I have a small portfolio, but not a great one. I never got into Photoshop either, at least not past adding some filters or whatever--certainly not to the point of illustrating any of my drawings.
Another job I simply will not be allowed to interview for is one at the liquor store at Lark and Central. What else can I do? Just sit on Craigslist and TimesUnion.com/jobs and Careerbuilder and Emerson's eHire and Monster.com until something or someone replies to one of my emails or someone calls me back?
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January 8th, 2010
01:22 pm - Artist Needs Food Badly!
You may already associate your good friend JON COVERT, T.A.C, with Super-Great-Everything. If this is not the case you need...
( HUUUUUGS! )
I found out that TASC had a small scanner that they didn't know how to hook up. Being "such a nice guy," I offered to hook it up for them and then scanned, like, 46 drawings and uploaded them. I'm going to clean them up a little (I was hoping I could download photoshop, but will probably just end up doing it in PAINT) and maybe make a few issues of a zine or something. Regardless, I can now send copies of my stuff to gallery owners, employers, tattoo shops, other artists, etc, via the interwebs. Finally.
Here are some ( highlights )
I gave my case worker the first part of my short story.
"I thought it was good. The first sentence really had me. I was like, "How does he know the doctor has herpes?"
"That's called a 'hook'," I said.
"It hooked me!"
Now, if only I could turn this crap into money.
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