The Future

I'm afraid of the future! What that means isn't necessarily clear, nor does it need to be. I don't want to have to buy a flat-screen TV for digital cable. Call this number: 877-393-4448.

I'm afraid of this! I get freaked out when I see TVs on top of taxicabs. I get freaked out when I see a TV in my house. I wonder how many times people with iPods listen to the Rolling Stones' song "Satisfaction" underground everyday while in the MTA subway system. Leonard Cohen has a very dark album from the 1990's called "The Future". I can't recall the lyrics right now, but you can pull it up on Pandora and freak out everyone in your office, too.
Do you think that I'm crazy? Do you think that I creep in the night and sleep in a phone booth? I can't even find a phone booth to sleep in anymore with all the Bloomberg fuckers swarming around with these microchips in their ears. Bluetooth headset gnawing away at the synapses that would have otherwise be firing in the left side of their brains. Buy, sell, trade, overweight, anorexic -- THIS IS WHERE MAIN STREET & WALL STREET INTERSECT!

"The next stop on this train is Lexington Avenue. Stand clear of the closing doors."

Thank you for your time,

The Daemon

I. The First Conversation

A white eagle circled, serpent in its claws,
the dogs of the town all howled and hid under porches;
Hairs prickled on the backs of necks and
the daemon was near.
The wells of the town pumped blood
for the remainder of that day
and blind men could see,
but what they saw was not the earth:
A shadow realm
from whence the daemon came,
a place of haze where no right angles are present
a skewed horizon, speckled with petrified trees.
Infinite space,
frictionless surface,
dark viscous liquids,
and hazy shadows, all slide across the coaxial plane.
Where the shame of the daemon
burns upon a Sea of Fire.

The World's Shortest Story

"For Sale: Baby Shoes: Never Used."
-Ernest Hemingway

SHOPPING IN SoHo

The Seventies SoHo loft with space enough to casually toss canvases about now goes for $17,000 a month, or $23,000 for the penthouse. Either way, it's a good place to live, or die. Below all of these Viking ranges & awkward couches, one skips down the cobblestone streets to find high-end boutiques, white tableclothed bistros, & women wearing shopping bags like bracelets. In a zone such as this, the shopping trip is a status grab, living through a line of credit, on-line, off-line, thick, black Am Ex.
Lay it onto the counter with a cool “click”.
“This should take care of it.”
One day, I wandered into Dean & DeLuca in dire need of a shot of espresso. The morning espresso or coffee is essential but the mid-afternoon espresso fires up those synapses in the brain for the remainder of the day in the best of ways. The place was teaming with fresh aromas, impeccable displays, eager purveyors yearning for eye contact & a “free” taste, a butcher with a snow white apron devoid of blood & guts -- it was a perfect, gourmet scene. At Dean & DeLuca, everyone can be a “top” chef who uses organic goods that inflate the cost of a meal to the restaurant level. One might call it gastronomical proportions. On impulse, I grabbed a chocolate bar with Hazelnuts (the nocciola flavor, in Italian, to refer back to those days of cookery).
Once in (on) the check-out line, I lusted after a four dollar peanut butter brownie but abstained, thinking that the small chocolate bar would “sorensify my sufficiency”, as my grandmother would say. The shock came when the cost of the chocolate turned out to be six dollars. At the risk of looking like the broke fool I was, I opened my wallet and handed over the cash. Who knows if my stone face & glasses hid my sheepish embarrassment? Everyone has the inherent fear of appearing cheap & a seeker of bargains in a luxury setting. Why shouldn’t a shitty deli coffee & a Snickers bar suffice for all of two dollars? Why didn’t I call upon my acquaintances at Vosges Haut Chocolat for a sampling of nouveau-fusion, miso-truffle delights? Why is New York the most expensive city in the United States? Why am I a corporate whore? Why do I not live in that cold water flat for 80 bucks a month with salsa music blaring & Puerto Ricans screaming below my feet? Why do I live in no man’s land in between Bushwick & Williamsburg? Where does East Williamsburg begin? Where does it end?
Even so, I’ve resolved to pay the dues. As the great Hunter S. once wrote, “take the ticket, take the ride.” The view will always be free.

INT. CAFE DELLE COSE SPORCHEE’. MID DAY

FURAMA sits at a small table flanked by a mixed group of individuals, some are dressed in cowboy attire while others resemble turn-of-the-century Italian anarchists.

The CAFE DELLE COSE SPORCHEE’ is an ornate, wood-paneled place with high nicotine stained ceilings. There is one BARISTA wearing a bow tie, standing in front of a huge stainless steel espresso machine.

FURAMA smokes a metallic pipe ferociously. He puffs like a steam-powered train. The AUDIENCE does not see his face.

In a LONG SHOT, LANGDO enters the cafe, brandishing a single-shot pistol. He is holding it high with his arm at a ninety degree angle.

As if on cue, FURAMA ducks to the side as the bullet strikes a less vigilant & self-aware ITALIAN ANARCHIST in the shoulder.

There is a loud CRASH as the bullet exits the shoulder & smashes a mirror into tiny pieces.

ITALIAN ANARCHIST
Che’ cazzo fa?
(Subtitle: What the fuck is he doing?)

LANGDO drops the pistol casually and queues up at the counter.

LANGDO
Prendo un cafe’ doppio.
(Subtitle: I’ll take a double espresso)

BLOOD spurts all over the table like cranberry juice.

A CLOSE UP on the HAND of FURAMA - ornate titanium ring on the marriage finger - as it reaches for his espresso cup, which is splattered with BLOOD.

Culled from the Vaults

Passages of Relevance

"The alienation of the avant-garde from bougeois taste and morality demanded an alternative society. New York's Greenwich Village became its center...Both a geographical entity and a state of mind, the Village was where individuals could go to reinvent themselves through psychoanalysis, feminism, fashion, revolutionary politics and unorthodox sexual relationships...While the West Village would generally remain a center for the avant-garde throughout the first half of the twentieth century, the postwar era saw a gradual shift of the downtown artistic community toward the Lower East Side, particularly the section north of Houston Street and below Fourteenth Street, bounded by Fourth Avenue on the west and the East River on the east. This shift was precipitated primarily by economics (high rents) but also had roots in artists' resistance to being co-opted by the kinds of mainstream activity commodifying the late 1950s West Village arts scene. The commodification took forms as various as increased police harassment of drug users, organized tours bringing suburban residents wanting to experience bohemia into the West Village for a day, sugar-coated media representation of bohemian theatre and poetry, and deflationary or dismissive attitudes toward the often-revolutionary beliefs underpinning the avant-garde."
-from All Poets Welcome: The Lower East Side Poetry Scene in the 1960s by Daniel Kane

The same result will surely affect "Williamsburg". Just as it did happen in Paris in the 1920s post-Hemingway and Fitzgerald, buses of tourists will flock to experience the hipster neighborhood. This is worries me. However, I am not worried about Madonna claiming "New York isn't what it used to be, it doesn't have that same energy." Yes, this is the truth Madonna. It is a place that is constantly changing and if you seek out that nostalgic spot on the dancefloor at Studio 54, it will not be found. Chronologically, Studio 54 was not much more than a flash in the pan, closed down after an explosive few years from 1977 to 1980...the search for the party continues...

April is the cruelest of them all

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Eliot, T.S. THE WASTE LAND

Spring has begun to "spring", as they say. Things have begun to change. In that same vein, R.J. Reynolds decided to change the design scheme for Camel Lights. The package now has much more of a "retro" look. The "style" is a certain brand exudes is oft talked about. The idle cigarette conversation is a pivotal moment for all social smokers. The smokers are able to discuss all of the cigarettes they have experimented with over their years burning the tobacco leaf, sucking it through a filter and letting it seep into the lungs.
The first time I smoked anything was at age 11. With some neighborhood kids, I found an "Indian Tobacco Plant" perched below a hillside in Playa del Rey. We pillaged the plant and stuffed it's leaves into bags to take home to dry out. A few days later, I removed the leaves I had stored and crushed them up. Taking some old newspapers, I rolled a "cigarette" and stole away into the garage to light it up. The smoke smelled rustic and of nature, and I excitedly puffed hard on the shoddily rolled cigarette, if you could even call it that. Years later, I remember stealing some filter-less Marlboros from my friend's mom and smoking them in a jacuzzi. High school was the time during which I decided on a brand.

Parliament Lights, with its regal packaging, became the choice. They were easy cigarettes to smoke since they pretty much taste like paper. Everybody has an idea of what their preferred cigarettes taste like. American Spirits taste like "chocolate", Marlboros taste like the "Wild West", and Camels taste like "garbage". I found myself casually smoking Parliaments, enjoying the perforated, recessed filters and feeling debonair. The full effect did not take hold until I found myself paired up with a lady, who also smoked "P-funks" - however, never called them that. We sat on my porch in Portland and chain-smoked, argued, and then made up. The bars of Portland invite the bar goer to smoke cigarette after cigarette. It is one of the last places where one is welcome to smoke, drink and cuss like hobo sailors. 1-5 Cigarettes per day gradually escalated to 5-7. Once we went through our nasty break-up, where brutally I damned her life to be "mediocre", I made the switch to Camel Lights.


THE PACKAGING OF YESTERDAY
Camel Lights were a new found joy. They offered more punch than Parliaments. Lights were always the easy way out since you can establish a protectorate between yourself and the evil cancer. The graphic on the box had much more character too it. As opposed to the plain "Royal Blue" of Parliaments, Camel portrayed a camel in profile - once a royal pose - in the foreground of a pyramid and an oasis. Joe Camel was long since banished due to his influence upon the schoolkids below his cartoonish billboards. He was a character of the lost age of Spuds Mackenzie, where these figureheads of sin would appear in nightclub scenes where scantily clad babes would abound, saxophones blow with raspy, sexy tones, and the everlasting party was always beginning. The Marlboro Man was not invited, he was too much of loner. It was an age where Ads were still cooler than you, whereas now, they have moved more into the realm of being "dumber-than-thou".
Today, we as the audience view some hopeless jerk with look of bewilderment trying to parallel park his car and laugh as he hits the cars on either side. We see "normal" looking folk experience awkward circumstances that force them to bashfully look foolish. And then we laugh again at the awkward office interactions. It's ludicrous and nonsensical. Are we altogether convinced? The only thing I've ever been convinced of is ponying up those hard-earned dollars for the Camel Lights. It's a brand to die by. I'm in the same sinking ship as the hotshot businessman who swears by the speed of his hot red Maserati, which will eject him through the windshield into the arms of an oaktree, impaled, bleeding to death. Drive a fast car, cut hard and have no regrets.

Made to Order

A simple red sauce is a good starting point for any communal Italian-themed meal.  Sure, there is always the option of just opening up a jar of Rao's Vodka Sauce, but you will find it much more rewarding to create your own sauce from scratch.  The great thing about doing so is that there are no set guidelines, as with anything, you are free to improvise with the ingredients you have.  Do you think those poor peasants in the hill towns of Southern Italy were able to go to Whole Foods in order to get a specific kind of basil?  Heavens No!  They feasted upon raw onions because that's all they had.  That's why "onion breath" is such an insult.  It implies that someone is poor - originally, the Egyptians fed the slaves who were constructing the pyramids onions and garlic.  

Think of how foolish all of those travelers were to cross the globe just to get some silly spices from the Far East.

Work with what you have, add, subtract and multiply!  The recipe listed below is not to be followed strictly but should be used as a loose guideline.  Every time I do it, it happens in a different way.

1 28 oz. Can San Marzano Whole Plum Tomatoes -OR- Trader Joe's Whole Plum Tomatoes. Do not use Hunt's Tomato Sauce!

1/4 White Onion, chopped finely.  Do not use too much onion or you will be considered poor!

3 Cloves of Garlic, 1 minced. 2 held in reserve.

Red Wine, a small amount of old wine at your discretion.

Olive Oil, preferably not Extra Virgin.

Butter, a sliver.

Red Pepper, crushed.

Salt

Pepper

Sugar, a pinch

Basil, if you have it...

Begin the process by giving your saucepan a light coating of olive oil with a sliver of butter over medium-high heat. Wait until the butter liquifies and bubbles and now add the onions with some salt and pepper.  Once the onions have become somewhat translucent and no longer crunchy, add 1/3 of the garlic.  Let this mixture sizzle in the oil for a few minutes, moving it around so it does not stick.  Now, add the entire can of tomatoes and turn the heat up to high. As it boils, work the tomatoes with a spoon or some blunt instrument until they begin to separate.  Once the mixture has begun to form a "sauce", reduce the heat to low.  

Add the 2 whole cloves of garlic and a little bit of red wine.  The wine I typically use is the stuff that is left open overnight after a party, since it does not matter how shitty the wine is. Allow the sauce to sit for 45 minutes to an hour, periodically stirring it and tasting it.  You will notice over time that the tomato flavors become less acidic and tangy.  Your sauce will be done once you notice a fine film of shiny oil forming on top.  At this point, add a little bit of milk to mellow it all out, the basil and begin boiling your water for your favorite type of pasta.

Next, we will explore the experimental Ragu Langdonese...

Please visit daintyfatman.blogspot.com for pictorials of Red Sauce Reverie.

To-Do List

7 Mar. '08
STUFF TO DO

1. Get film camera and start shooting photos (people, buildings, streets, etc.)
2. Put together small photo albums
3. Start sketching (still life, portraiture - Em nude!!!)
4. Play music (stoner jams)
5. Write more (Blogs, One-Act plays, Fictionalized memoirs)
6. Drink in moderation
7. Smoke in moderation
8. Talk more in unfamiliar social situations
9. Make funnier, more accessible jokes based in situational humor rather than absurdist humor
10. Clean room
11. Buy chair for room
12. Paint room some other color than Simpsons' Yellow
13. Buy new computer
14. Steal new computer
15. Steal new computer from friend/acquaintance as part of a ruse
16. Explore different parts of Brooklyn (other than Williamsburg)
17. Avoid Midtown
18. Meet more people
19. Make more friends
20. Eliminate some friends
21. Don't look at girls on the subway that are not Em
22. Look at girls only quickly that are not Em
23. Eat in more
24. Eat out less
25. Sleep more
26. Stay in and do it
27. Watch Law & Order
28. Catch up on Lost
29. Do nice things for Em
30. Imply that Em should do nice things for me
31. Run for public office
32. Lose while running for public office
33. Follow politics
    
34. Look for a new job
35. Create own company
36. Live in Manhattan
37. Die in New Jersey
38. Shower more
39. Smell better
40. Eat fruit
41. Eat vitamins
42. Drink more water
43. Shave beard
44. Dress well
45. Regard stupidity as a commonplace
46. Hide emotions more
47. Swear less
48. Do the Sunday NY Times Crossword puzzle (the whole thing!)
49. Ride the train to the end of the line
50. Make more lists!
    

Welcome to Brooklyn, Now Go Home!

I am a resident of New York City - the borough of Brooklyn, "East Williamsburg", to be finite and exacting. East Williamsburg isn't really a geographical place, it's more of a real-estate term. Formerly, the border of Williamsburg was the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, commonly known as the "BQE". Eager brokers and realtors coined the further reaches of the BMT L line to be"Williamsburg" as they hock their jacked-up postings on the internet. Perhaps East Williamsburg is more of an internet term. It serves as a place that many strive to call home and be known as a long-standing resident of.

With what's been referred to as the "L-ification" of Brooklyn, bright-eyed kids began to be pushed further and further out onto the reaches of the L train from the original Bedford Avenue enclave right upon the banks of the East River. We have David Byrne's sympathies though, he mentioned in a Filter article how he felt bad for us having to head out to Bushwick in order to have cheap rents and "create art". In his day, everybody lived in SoHo lofts for next to nothing. If you trace the migration of "hipsters", they have travelled from West-to-East over the past fifty years. Back in "The Village", Bob Dylan lived on West Fourth and Jones Street in a one-room apartment for $80/month (adjusted for inflation and he would be paying the rough equivalent $500). From Greenwich Village, they bounced from SoHo to the East Village until finally landing upon the Plymouth rock of Bedford Avenue. I'm sure there was a ferry that took over the émigrés in droves, sometime around 1998. The elder hipsters scoff at "East Williamsburg" and "Bushwick", because they were here first. They knew something was happening. They consider you a fool for waiting to move to New York. "What were you afraid of?" they might say. Don't be afraid of these people or what they say to you. What do they know? They are 35. They are consider opening a restaurant because everybody tells them that they can cook. It will be a French-American fusion with a catchy one syllable name. It will be featured on blogs and all of their friends will eat there until it closes down and is forgotten. That is progress, baby. The name will always be in the place.

My own Apartment is a turn-of-the-century building on Humboldt Street. There are three stories and the exterior is brick red with green trim and a sloped french-style roof. Across the street is La Gallina, a live poultry market, which is next door to the New Jason Market, a bodega. Directly in front of the door is an active (since now semi-active) crack cocaine spot, which serves as a lingering reminder of the ghost town neighborhood which existed in the zone of the Montrose stop of the L. According to a former officer from the 90 Precinct (the "Nine-Oh"), there were an average 60 rapes and 100 murders in the span of one year. I find this to be alarming, even if it is something of an exaggeration. Even so, the Williamsburg Houses will ever remain a block away and the occasional hipster will continue to be robbed of his iPod in the late-night hours. The area is rapidly gentrifying with new "loft-style" apartments going up; the air is constantly filled by the sounds of a dozen or so construction sites. On our block, we are the last original building standing, sure to be torn down eventually. Our black and white tiled entranceway will be replaced by slate grey concrete, our buzzers will all be electronic with security cameras and the locals will continue to curse the onslaught of the privileged, the gentry, as they arrive from California. I personally try not to stand in the way of progress or catch myself becoming too nostalgic for the Brooklyn of the past. It's better to affect an attitude akin to the Futurists - destroy all sentimental nostalgia, museums are graveyards - but not quite as extreme. It is true though, mediocrity need not be preserved for very long. All of the worthy old buildings will be preserved and what is not deemed worthy will be razed. It is necessary to remember that New York is a place greater than any building that composes it's skyline, if we were in search of just living in old buildings, we'd be better off just moving to Pittsburgh, PA.

Since it is New York still, the "community" is actually measured by the people who reside there. The locals are largely Dominican and Puerto Rican. Close to my apartment, Graham Avenue turns from Via Vespucci to Avenue of Puerto Rico once passing Grand Street. The taunts and jokes are fairly harmless. It's not a big deal for someone to poke fun at someone else for dressing strangely. On Humboldt Street close to Metropolitan Ave, I was walking to get brunch once Saturday afternoon and saw an elderly Italian man wearing a shirt that with bold lettering that read: "Welcome to Brooklyn, Now Go Home!" He muttered something about "California" when he passed Emily and myself. Yes, I am a hipster, what of it? The style I affect is relatively plain, compared to most people who don the flavor of the month, neon t-shirts and hack-chopped lopsided haircuts. Sometimes I do wear a beard and longhair like Jesus Christ, but for the most part I am conservatively dressed. I wanted to explain to this guy how my Mom's family were hardworking, blue-collar Italians who lived on the Southside of Philadelphia and how they probably came from the same part of Italy as he did. If it were possible, I would like to feel more akin to my Italian brethren, maybe join the Little Giglio Boys Social Club on Lorimer Street. I'm certain I could shoot the shit with them at their summer barbecues and whip up a helluva mean red sauce, it's in my blood. I could easily reminisce about the old days when the Profaci family had an outpost in Williamsburg and how they actually kept up the neighborhood. I don't have any mob ties myself but I do have a temper when provoked.

However, none of this is of any consequence. I will forever be branded as an invader. An invader who is turning the neighborhood to shit. An invader who is hated by the locals for driving up the costs of living. An invader who brings haute corner bistros where the bargain store used to be. An invader who is scorned viciously and anonymously by fast typists on the blogs. They wish for pain and suffering for the vapid hipster. Of course, everybody loves to hate hipsters. Most of these nameless shit-talkers are nothing more than self-loathing hipsters themselves or even better. Admit it, we all would love to be living in a cold water flat with shirtless lunatics banging on bongo drums, if we could. We would all love to smoke joints with Ginsberg and secretly piss off of the roof at the party in clear view of the bridge, whatever bridge. For now, we bide our time with our corporate junior jobs, make rent more often than we make art and plain and simply, live in New York. We put foot in front of foot each and every day, trudging to the entrance of the train. We are not sheathed by glass windshields and protected by the moving enclosure that is an automobile. Nobody ever said it was going to be easy.

Inaugural Post

Here begins the first installment into what will be a glimpse into the life of a sometimes angry, and sometimes young man. First of all,  I would like to formally apologize -- not in a pompous way -- to the other blogger who started a blog entitled Next Great American Novel. Please note that she has never made any posts.  Perhaps, it goes along with the idea if you don't use something that you own, it will eventually be robbed of you. 

The formative plan of this electronic endeavor is to constantly update this site with writings and ramblings with a wide range of subject matter.   The intention is to never wander out of a vague, hazed out zone where clarity betrays a sense of mystique.  We all should strive to maintain the composure of international men (and women) of mystery.  The only danger is when we become static caricatures of ourselves, living sit-com lives, where each episode comes to a head and ends in applause.  None of this will ever reach any conclusion.  It will just continue until it doesn't continue anymore.  Not to be grave and ominous sounding, but if you know me, you already are aware of my love of the melodramatic, which brings us back to a point:  if you have read this far, you probably know me.

For those of you who DO know me on a semi-intimate level,  I have fashioned myself as a writer of many things: poetry, prose, one-act plays, lyrics, short films, medium-length films, desperate four A.M. emails, and grammatically correct text messages.  I felt like I should join the ranks of bloggers. Everybody has a blog these days. Life Blogs, Photo Blogs, Political Blogs, Cooking Blogs, Hate Blogs, Love Blogs, Dog Blogs, Car Blogs, Pizza Blogs, Burrito Blogs...I bet your Grandma even has a blog!  It may end up being a painful process.  I can't write anything without freaking out and editing it about a dozen times, checking the ebb and flow.  There comes a time when your thoughts should be public though. They need not have any bearing on your character or others' perception of your character but just exist as a collection of words.  In short, don't judge me for what comes out of this whole process. Christ, I promise that each and every post won't be as pretentious and self-aware as this one.  I just felt like it should be some sort of preface, you know, where everything is outlined. We must establish some ground rules, draw some lines in the sand. Oh well. Next time, we will try harder, the royal We, that is.

And so it begins,  please come early and often.