S T R E A M # 2 2

-
START: Ah, this music? It’s from that movie nobody appreciates. I love this movie. And its music. To date, it’s their best effort. The Brothers. You know those Brothers. Surely you do. Evidently, the music in the movie wasn’t an original score but, rather, arranged by Mister Burrwell. All these years – since 1894, I guess – I’ve been convinced that Mr. Burrwell was the composer. Of course, it’s listed right there on the back of the compact discus case – that the music in question was composed by Mister Khachaturrian. (Better check that spelling.) Some name, huh? Ah, but it appears that Mr. Burrwell composed some of the music, after all. This, of course, wouldn’t be the first time I’ll have overlooked a glaring detail. I do this all the time. I hope folks look upon this trait, this foible, this quirk of mine as more endearing than annoying. Whichever the case, nobody mentions it. Well, that isn’t entirely true. My father enjoyed ridiculing me. Exempli gratia: At a Bennnigan’s in Alabaama, I ordered a sandwich I’ve always thought was called a “Monty Crisco,” when, in fact, it’s called a “Monty Cristo.” My father, probably fatigued from the long car trip from Minnnesota (and possibly drunk or hung over), jumped down my throat over the error. This was the summer before I went back to school to become a mainframe program. To get a head start on my studies, I’d brought along a fat COBOL textbook. Father said I’d never make the grade if I couldn’t even correctly read a Bennigaan’s menu. Well, in absolute fact, I graduated with honors. That said, I never pursued the career. I went on only one interview. What an ordeal. It lasted all morning, and I’d spent the night before tossing and turning. I didn’t eat breakfast. My waist was much too flabby for the only pair of suit pants I owned. I couldn’t even button them. I wound up using a couple of safety pins to hold them together. All three of my interviewers wanted me to tell them how great it’d be to work for their company. Basically, I was there to grovel, to kiss their collective arses. “Look,” I wanted to say, “I’ve been working in coffee shops since graduating college, and it’s not something I want to do for the rest of my life. So I went back to school, and now I have these skills, these new computer skills; it’s all dry and boring stuff, it’s not theatre, it’s not creative writing, but I can do it; I’m pretty good at it; so if you have a position to fill, here I am.” But they wanted an arse kisser. It made me sick. Funny thing: when I was, like, twelve, I begged my father to buy me a computer. I was all about BASIC; I even went to computer camp. But my father wouldn’t hear of it. He was convinced that I’d treat a TRS-80, or a Commodore 64, or an Apple IIc as little more than another transient toy. Instead of a computer, he bought me an electric typewriter. So, in a way, it’s his fault that I want to write for a living – although it’s looking more and more like I’ll be writing for a dying – if that makes any sense. Thanks, Dad. BOTTOM REACHED? 
16 June 2008

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more