JMWW Spring 05

is now up. Enjoy!

Coming Attractions

My story "The One-Up" will appear in the Summer Issue of 13th Warrior Review and "Percy's Pinup" is forthcoming in SubtleTea.

Ultimate Fakebook

I've always written as a means not only to understand myself but to try and understand others, which many authors have done and which can be extremely challenging. Of course, as hard as I try, there is always a little bit of me in every character, just because its unavoidable. That said, I've been writing a short story for the past week that I can't identify with at all yet I feel must be written, about a Hispanic woman whose husband leaves her and who has a miscarriage shortly thereafter and what she must do to make life meaningful again. Okay, so I've cheated a little and made her a high school art teacher in the District. However, I find myself at strange odds with this story. Although this character has been living with me for a bit and wants to get out, I have no way to authenticate her, her voice, her feelings. Hell, I've even had to resarch Hispanic foods, holidays, and motorcycle clubs on the Internet. Even as she begs to be written, I can't help but feel I'll fail, that I'll write the perspective of a white woman and try to cleverly hid it behind Spanish phrases and burritos. For instance, I've totally avoided the subject of faith, even though it is incredibly important for many in the Hispanic community, because I don't want to make her two-dimensional or less sympathetic in the eyes of the audience who will probably wind up reading the story. However, am I really understanding this woman's culture, or am I trying to assimilate her into mine? What do we ultimately do as writers? Do we bring our readers to the other, or do we force the other to conform to our lens?

A Journalist Doing His/Her Job

My bad. Actually, a weathly Washington socialite has offered $10,000 for any information that proves whitehouseringergayprostitute Jeff Gannon left "no marks, rather impressions" on White House insiders. Now, when will Bernstein, I mean, Larry Flynt, get involved?

Tsunami Photos Recovered

The conventional wisdom on tsuanamis has always been that if you can see the wave, you're too close.

Farewell, Hunter S. Thompson

What a long, strange trip it was, huh?

500 Words About 4 Movies

A Beautfiul Mind: A little too Hollywood for me, maybe because Ron Howard directed it, I don't know. I enjoyed the costumes and sets from the 50s; I had a hard time with the oversimplification of schizophrenia. Although a true story, I'm not sure how effectively someone can "control" schizophrenia without meds and still led a productive life. Jennifer Connelly was excellent as Mrs. Nash and, despite her role being merely a prop to Russell Crowe's, managed to create a memorable presence. Russell Crowe completely submerged himself in this character and is obviously more talented than I have previously given him credit.

The Assassination of Richard Nixon: Inspired by a true story of a man (Sam Beck, played by Sean Penn) in the throes of divorce (wife is Naomi Watts, a brunette here), a slimy salesjob, and the stranglehold of his sense of propriety in life, who decides that no statement would be stronger for the modern man, he of broken spirit, if Richard Nixon, the incarnate of greed and corruption, were assassinated. Eerily enough, Sam plans to hijack a plane and fly it into the White House (yet more proof that Condoleeza Rice is a f*cking liar). I love Sean Penn. I love him because he creates characters that you want to sympathize with but just can't—they've gone just a little too far over the edge and all you can do is watch from a distance and hope they don't hurt anyone.

Maria Full of Grace: I only saw the last twenty minutes of this, but I liked what I saw. Colombian girls swallow rubber bags, the size of eggs, full of drugs (heroin? cocaine?), as many as sixty, and fly into the US, where they poop them out, get paid for their troubles, and fly home. That is, if they don't die from the transport, i.e., a bag getting caught in one's intestines or rupturing. English subtitles. Based on true stories.

21 grams: They say the body is 21 grams lighter after the soul leaves it. Three lives intertwine unknowingly through tragedy. As Sean Penn (you gotta love the guy), says in the end, "You know what is lost, but what is gained?" Shot (and written?) cyclically instead of linearly, it's still easy enough to figure out the core of what happens fifteen or twenty minutes into it. Then it's a long night of fitting every small piece together, although not unenjoyable. The cinematography is beautiful, and the music is haunting. Benicio de Torro is wonderful, and Sean Penn again creates a character that I can't help dispising, even as he tries to "right" what he feels are karmic imbalances in the world. Naomi Watts does a good job, given the immensity of her suffering, but I can't help but feel her transition from what she was to what she becomes was too fast, too easy. How long a period of time does this movie take place? A few weeks? A few months? Very hard to discern.

From the Dept of Miscellaneous

Ugh, I had that stupid school dream again, the one in which it's my last semester or so at school and all my friends have already graduated and I suddenly have no one to room with, or even a place to stay, and I am desperately trying to create some sense of place. ie, making a home where there isn't one anymore. I thought once you "discovered" the meaning of your dreams you usually stopped having them. I guess the feeling of being "in transition" is still looming large with me. We were talking, since we had most of our basement hauled out last weekend, what we would do with the extra space. One answer was to leave it open; if we're planning to move within the next few years, why fill it up again with stuff? The other answer was to spend several thousand dollars converting it into a family room and transforming the current living room into a library. We would have much-needed space for entertaining but would be committing to staying here for an indefinite time. Since I don't want to commit to either option, I say we convert to the family room if it improves the resale value of the house substantially enough to eat the costs should we decide to beat it out of town. Ah, the joys of having it both ways.

Speaking of old friends, LLB and I will be having dinner with another SMC alum on Monday! LLB and I haven't seen each other in more than ten years, but I bet we haven't changed a bit! Should I dig up the pictures or should we just start anew? I know there are many blanks to fill.

Speaking of new friends, K and I will be having dinner with David this weekend. I plan to pepper him (contrary to popular belief, Maktaaq, not to eat him) with many questions about his new enterprise, a lovely store that sells eco-conscious furniture, coffee, and other goodies. Please take his survery if you get a chance; you might win yourself a $100 gift certificate to his new business!

I got up and there was snow outside this morning. I had really gotten it into my head that spring was coming, and this happens. I feel so betrayed. Any plans for the weekend, friends? Any suggestions on movies? After K and I have David for dinner, um, whatever, we would like to see a movie.

Monsters, Inc

We watched Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends the other night on Cartoon Network. It was created by Craig McCracken, who you may know from the Powerpuff Girls and Dexter's Laboratory. I was really amazed at all of the different monsters. I could never think of monsters growing up, even though I'm a decent artist. They just required a creativity that I was not accustomed to; plus, all my monster fears were more pyschological, not physical. The wolfman and Dracula and Frankenstein didn't scare me, but the crack in the doorway did, or the unknown evil behind you as you were walking up the basement steps, or the sound of someone walking down the hall when everyone was asleep (which actually happened to be the sound of my heartbeat in my ears).

What monsters scared you? What could your monster look like? And, most importantly,
What Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla


I am... a nice guy
WILT!

The Stomach of a Women's Heart

I'm feeling uncomfortably full as I write this. I guess that love really does hurt. Saturday night I took K to Martick's, a little French bistro, for Valentine's dinner. She had the beef burgundy, I the blackened salmon. We split a bottle of Pinot Noir and peach bread pudding. I was surprised Sunday morning by K with breakfast in bed—an omelet souffle with aspargras, gruyere, and carmelized onions and fresh fruit. Well, not really surprised, since I listened to her wrestling with the blender for a good half hour. This evening, we made a seafood lasagne with shrimp and crabmeat mixed with feta and mozzarella. It was heavenly, but so rich we could only have a piece each. Since there are six pieces left, we'll eat have two lunches and one dinner of leftovers. There is much to look forward to.

Oh, and did I mention the pound box of hand-picked chocolates? Mostly dark, many nuts. Many days of bliss. Who says that the way to a women's heart isn't through her stomach?

The Boston Patient

Anyone who knows me knows I work rather diligently at home every day with my trusty sidekick, Maggie, snoring away on the bed beside me. Sometimes I leave for a few hours for a doctor's appointment or go to the gym if I'm finished working early, but usually we are like glue until K comes home.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend I haven't seen in about six months. It was a two-and-a-half-hour lunch, nothing too terrible, and I came home immediately after. I let Maggie out and then deposited her back on the bed, where she snorked and complained and generally was uncomfortable for the next few hours. Finally, as I made her dinner, I noticed a bit of blood on her blanket. I didn't think much of it, as Maggie has a cyst on her eye that sometimes ruptures and oozes. However, picking her up, I noticed that the fur on her right side, between her front and back legs, was wet. Wet with blood.

After a little examination, I decided that Maggie's mysterious injury was out of my league and took her to the vet. Turns out she has a perfect puncture wound the size of a mini M&M. One hundred plus dollars later, she's resting comfortably on the bed, shaved on the affected side to let her puncture heal, and full of turkey lunchmeat (her convalesence meal). I've looked around outside and in the house and have no idea what she fell on to create such a puncture, and it's not a cat wound. All I know is that sometime, while I was out on a rare date, enjoying myself, Maggie was injured. Karmic punishment? Egads, I hope not!

No Child Gets Ahead

If Bush's budget is passed, Perkins Loans will get the axe. If it wasn't for Stafford and Perkins loans, I wouldn't have been able to attend college. It's a shame that the president has put kick backs for his wealthy contributors ahead of education. Of course, why should he care? The bastard is an arrogant idiot. Ergh, I'm still trying to figure out the ONE THING I would say to the President if he passed me in a line somewhere (assuming I would somehow get pass his "screeners" at his Potemkin village events). It almost makes my head explode to not articulate my anger. Pop! Goes my brain like a Peanuts character in the spelling bee.

Goofus and Gallant Revisited

I was outside waiting for Maggie to finish her bank deposit when I noticed a truck going the wrong way on our one-way street. I thought briefly about signalling to it but decided that the driver would figure it out soon enough. Never mind, of course, that I've almost been hit by such trucks when I'm pulling out of my parking space and my vision is obstructed by an SUV or something. I kept thinking, after the truck thundered by, that if a little car suddenly turned left onto our street, that they would get flattened by this truck.

And I was to blame.

This incident posed quite a philosophical dilemma for me. On the one hand, nothing happened, and hopefully no karmic imbalance has been caused for which I will someday pay. What if, however, I did nothing and an accident did occur? What if I did something, say, flailing my arms to get the driver's attention, thereby causing an accident that could have easily been avoided had I not? What if I tried to get the driver's attention and he didn't see me and an accident did occur?

I decided that I must make decisions based on my own sense of propriety and rightness, even if I feel the action is useless in the larger scheme of things. For instance, even though my intervention today could have 1) caused an accident, 2) prevented an accident, or 3) affected no balance, I must always act in the mindset of 2, regardless of the futility.

Which is why I realized I must continue to fight the good fight against the moral-lacking, profit-driven choads that have infiltrated our government and state-run media. I had been considering dropping out of politics for awhile because I'm tired of being angry and helpless all the time. I figured that nothing I was doing was changing anything, except my blood pressure, so why bother? But that's not the point: even if I know that stepping on one roach while thousands swarm around my feet is useless in the large scheme of things or that telling America she's driving down a one-way street while she fiddles with the cell phone perhaps won't prevent her head-on with reality, maybe our collective futility counts for something. Like a big, karmic bitch slap across George W. Bush's face. Or at least another outbreak of rosacia.

Hypocrisy, thy name is Republican

If you've been following the Jeff Gannon, aka, pseudoreporterwhitehouseplanthomophobicrightwingcolumnist, things just got a lot steamier.

Are You a Neocon?

Take the quiz to find out. I was...drumroll, please...a liberal. Surprised?

What's Your High School Stereotype?

Thanks to Mal for the quiz:

You scored as Loner.

Loner		88%
Goth		69%
Geek		69%
Punk/Rebel		50%
Drama nerd		50%
Stoner		38%
Prep/Jock/Cheerleader		19%
Ghetto gangsta		0%

What's Your High School Stereotype?
created with QuizFarm.com

Revenge of the Nerds

From my friend Eileen, an update on the new location of Balitmore's Book Thing. Please consider chipping in a few bucks to help pay off the closing costs. If you've never been to the Book Thing, you're really missing out on the generousity (and kitsch) that make Baltimore the greatest city in America. The philosophy of the Book Thing is simple: whoever shall want a book shall get one. Therefore, all books are free, and the books never run out. People donate their old books, pick up others, and continue the cycle, thus maintaining the most symbiotic chain of literacy in the world. In addition, Russ, the owner and founder, makes up palattes of donated books for schools and prisons. Why, the Book Thing is so unique and popular that Russ was featured in Biography magazine (same issue as Madonna—words fail me here) and had interviews with MPT and the BBClast year. Anyway, give up some money or even some time (volunteers always are needed to staff the location) and help bring our old city motto back, "The City That Reads."

Upcoming Exhibitions

I was inspired by Heb's posting on Dali to write about an exhibition I'm looking forward to, Slideshow at the BMA. Kodak announced recently they will no longer be manufacturing slide projectors, so to see artists who have created works via a slideshow will be particularly pleasing (or Luddite, Jeff!). I'm especially excited because Nan Goldin's "The Ballad of Sexual Dependency" is one of the exhibits. Goldin is one of my favorite artists. She's lumped into that late seventies feminist school that includes Cindy Sherman and Laurie Simmons, but I don't regard her as a feminist. Humanist, perhaps--her photographs of her friends and lovers over the years look like garden-variety snapshots, but that's because she makes the spontaneous somehow look easy, with perfect framing and lighting. I've only seen maybe one or two of her photographys up close, and I'm thinking they were part of a Whitney exhibit a few years ago. Anyway, I strongly recommend that you go. Or, in you happen to be in Charm City, give me a call and we'll go together.

To Baby or Not to Baby

It had to happen sometime, I guess. Although babies, in my dreams, usually symbolize other things (infantile behavior—mine or someone else's, a growing burden, needing to take ownership of a problem), the baby in my dream last night, I think, was just a big ol' baby. My friend Kevin and I were at a bar when I remembered that I was supposed to be taking care of the baby. I brought a cold, wet baby (sweat? urine?) from the back room and tried to change its diaper and clothes. I realized that I hadn't bought diapers in months and that the ones I had no longer fit. I promised my little girl I'd be better about taking care of her, and she smiled and cooed at me.

Boy, was I in love after that. Of course, now that I think about it, sounds like another symbolic baby dream. Oh well.

While we're on the subject, a few stipulations for my having or adopting a baby: must be a girl. Must skip ages of two and three. Must sleep through the night. Must be a quiet baby. Must not be a biter.

None of my friends have babies, except for one or two couples. Why is that? Have your friends found their way into parenthood? Why is a whole generation of thirtysomethings shafting their breeder duty? Are we self-centered or scared? When I listen to my ovaries, I hear a flatline. But I know time is running out. So hence I ponder: to baby or not to baby?