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Alan Turing.
The girl who hands me my coffee is seventeen or eighteen years-old and pretty as a model. I take the cup of hot coffee and pay with my credit card. I apologize for not having cash. Behind me, I hear a man’s voice slurringly ask if they have beer. I walk outside with my paper and sit down. I smoke a cigarette. I read about healthcare reform.
There’s a full page ad on the next page from the pork producers’ association, asking people to keep eating pork, assuring them that they won’t get swine flu by doing so. The ad features blurbs from public officials testifying to the safety of pork products. They remind me of the book I read last night, about chatbots and Turing tests, about how we’re all working off pre-recorded scripts.
The slurring man from inside sits down across from me, uninvited.
“Bullshit, man, you guys think you can do this to me…”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“No, sorry.”
”I know who you’re with, man.”
”Who I’m with?”
He laughs derisively. ”You’d do it if you could. If you had something to say to the world, you’d say it right now, man. But you can’t.”
“I guess I don’t really have much to say.”
“You guys think you’re something, but you’re not. Your fuckin’… whatever they call those, shirts. You think you’re something, but you don’t mean shit.”
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“You know who Miles Davis is?”
“Yeah, he’s a jazz player.”
“Bullshit. I have it like him, man. The heart zone. Right in here.” He motions to his chest.
”That’s good.”
He laughs. ”That’s not good, man. That’s not good. It makes me… Just watch, man, just watch what I do.” He makes an expansive gesture with the pen and sunglasses held clumsily in his right hand.
I watch the pen carefully, to see if it’s capped. On television the other day, I saw a man stab another man in the neck with a pen.
“You guys think you can do this to me, put me out of here. That’s bullshit, man.” His mustache is stringy and overgrown. He wears red hiking socks that go halfway up his sun-darkened calves. His shorts and t-shirt are almost matching browns. The shirt bears the logo of a company that makes shoes for skateboarders. He digs into his plastic grocery bag and pulls out a Member’s Only jacket. He struggles to put it on. ”Just watch, man, just watch what I’ll do.”
I gather up my paper, put my cigarettes in my pocket, and stand up to leave. ”Well, I gotta get going. Work…”
“Get the hell out of here then.”
“I’m going.” I turn and walk away. ”Good luck,” I call out over my shoulder as I go. In my head, I add, “You’ll need it with a script like that.”
May 11, 2009
Germany, the summer before I left home for college.
NOTE: My Downtown Year was written in 2004. I will be using excerpts from My Downtown Year in a book about San Diego that I’m currently writing. For more context on its serial presentation on this blog, click here.
Smoked some grass, walked to the video store. Along the way, a homeless man was berating a portly fellow who had kindly enough invited the homeless man into his house. “You fat pig fucker. Bacon-ass bald-headed fucking cocksucker.” It was for the best really. What good could have come of the homeless man accepting Fatty’s invitation? One or both of them would have undoubtedly been disappointed by the encounter. At least this way, Fatty is able to feel martyred, and Homeless Man can put the remembrance of what it is to have a home back into the depths of his subconscious.
It’s really a positive turn of events for Fatty. He’ll never have to give another dollar to a pan-handler again. He will likely live the rest of his life feeling fully justified at looking into a sun-scarred, toothless, unkempt memory of a face and saying simply, “No thanks.” (Note: I meant to start writing earlier in the evening, but of course I had to choose music that would properly stimulate my writing. Obviously it’s all very strange music, stuff you’ve probably never heard of before, so I won’t bother “dropping” any band names.)
And so our lives become parenthetical to their own stories. In this free-market fascism, we are all identical, whether wearing Soviet grey or Gap khaki.
There’s a girl on the bed and it would be so very Hunter S. to say that I don’t even know who she is any more. But today, and for me, I know more about her all the time, but less about myself. And as I know her more, she knows me more, and both of us feel like we know our own selves less for the effort. But we will never know ourselves any more than we do now. We are the illegitimate love children of a failed revolution. And that was so Chucky P. of me to say.
500,000 marched against our Marlboro Man in the streets of New York City this week. The next day, I woke up and drove a fossil-fuel-powered automobile to work. I wasn’t making any more money. I was still tired. I still had to step over drunks and junkies to get to my car. Five-hundred thousand people screamed a collective “FUCK YOU!!!!” and two-hundred-eighty million replied with a resounding “Eh, whatever.” The Million Man March won’t be effective until it’s the One-Hundred-Fifty Million Man and Woman March Apathy is the ultimate mind control.
In rear-screen projection, the car appears to be traveling extremely fast, but in reality it never moves an inch. (Note: My apartment is quickly becoming a museum of Ramen noodles, styrofoam coffee cups and empty cigarette packets. I’m also out of rolling papers.)
Day 3: Our sensitivity has overwhelmed our political sensibilities. I was wrong yesterday when I said that 500,000 screamed a collective “FUCK YOU!” In reality, 500,000 whispered a collective, “fuck you, please?”
London, the summer after sophomore year. That's me with the camera.
- June, 2000: Junior Prom
My god, the world is a different place at night. Self-consciousness sets itself in motion. It’s to the point where forecasting criticisms of future critics has become commonplace. Every thought is filtered through its eventual perception by an audience of fans and critics, admirers and detractors.
And so does the machinery of the corporate world trickle down into personal applications. We are the first wave of buyers who accelerate the market penetration of new products and ideas. Our product is ourselves: the newer, better, cooler versions of ourselves. (Note: As I lit my cigarette just now, I pulled the lighter from my cigarette and my cigarette from my face in an overly dramatic manner.) (Note also: I smoke Camel Lights, as they offer the time-tested Camel brand name combined with the reduction in perceived-risk of a light cigarette.)
And so it is that our mirrors become proof-sheets for a photo shoot that hasn’t happened yet. (Note: I am currently wearing tight jeans with an interesting, but not overwhelming, wash. To complement my jeans, I am wearing a Shins t-shirt. I have donned a jaunty army cap for the occasion, complete with a small button advertising an up-and-coming local band that you have never heard of, yet are the best band in the history of music.)
That last paragraph was really only one sentence, with a three sentence parenthetical. Strunk says perfunctorily (Does he ever say anything otherwise?), that parentheses are far too formal for conversational style (Strunk can be a real dick sometimes).How witty, how clever. “He really is the voice of his generation.” “Look at how he subverts grammar and structure to fit his ends.” The point of knowing the rules is to be able to break them.
And so are we left with a grand design that has been implemented six billion times too often. We have learned how to ride a bicycle so that we can invent a tricycle. We “said no to drugs” so that we would do drugs in moderation. “A wannabe H.S. Thomspon, and a second-rate one at that,” – Dapper Literary Critic, New York Times Book Review. (Note: Dapper Literary Critic is a widely recognized dapper and literary sort of fellow who dislikes Susan Sonntag but who admires, if not the message, the style of On the Road.)
What a question: the drug question – the drug question that has itself become rhetorical and isn’t even asked anymore. And so it has become a question punctuated with a period rather than a question mark. It is a question in the same sense as the abortion question. Abortion question period. Rather than ask the question, we have decided just to ask the opposing parties to separate into distinct groups. (Note: While I dislike the idea of aborting a potential life, I feel that it is the woman’s right to choose. It is her body, after all.)
And so cohesion falls by the wayside. Less than a page by my count, but judging by the general word-to-page ratio for books by “the author of his generation”, these words will probably fall on the second or third page of actual text. What the true page numbers of those pages will be depends on whether this is the hardcover, pocket edition soft-cover, or the special edition featuring photographs from the new motion picture now being produced by Columbia Pictures. We also would have to factor in any special “Anniversary” editions, which invariably include all sorts of forewords and “looks back” by various literary and social luminaries.
And so we come to the question of our generation; we do not come to that question directly mind you, but we come to it nonetheless. To have an enemy, that would be something. We erect figureheads of enemies, sure, but a figurehead is not the thing. Our enemy is in fact faceless, or, more correctly, infinitely faced. Masks of our enemy are not popular Halloween costumes.
And so we come to the question of how one goes about describing a faceless enemy. Finally, a question with an answer! The answer of course is no… or rather, do not. Those that recognize the enemy do well not to reveal its identity. I’ve probably said too much already.
“A work of pretentious, self-important, obtuse and inefficient metaphors for nothing.” – DLC. (Note: Dapper Literary Critic has gone to using only his initials instead of his full name, so chic.) god damn it, he is good, that Fucker. You’ll all have to let me know if they capitalized that “god” there. Those bastards, I bet they did. By “those bastards”, I mean my editor. She’s a very smart, imaginary, young girl. She was brought on by the publishing company, also imaginary, and renowned for publishing very smart work, to help bring some focus and discipline to my writing. (Note: My torrid affair with my imaginary editor will be the subject of a period film, illustrating how deeply a work of art can touch a person.)
(Note: the ashtray next to my keyboard is now full to the brim as I smoke incessantly while writing.) (Note also: I write in the very late-night/early-morning hours as the friscillating light from the city streets leaks through a haze of cigarette smoke into my ironically-appointed downtown loft.) I met a homeless man once, and he told me a funny story that made me laugh. The story didn’t really have any meaning, but it’s a beautiful image isn’t it? Me listening to this homeless man’s crazy story? (Note: It’s far too late for me to still be awake, but it’s more important that I capture these ideas that are bouncing around like electrons in my head than to be well rested tomorrow.)
“Told in a series of disconnected vignettes…” – Dapper Literary Critic. I see he dropped the initials thing. Good for him, it came off as pretentious. I heard he was doing too much blow during the “initials” phase of his critical career. He’s been through rehab now though; I heard that going back to the full name was part of his leaving his past behind him. You always have to return to the beginning to leave the past behind. (Note: your shirt looks wrinkled, you should change it before you go out. No, no, I don’t mean like artist/rugged wrinkled, it looks like it’s really been in the hamper for too long.)
Great pornography lets you jack-off without thinking about jacking-off.
2004
"Are you tired of eating this stuff yet?"
On my last day, I carry boxes of my things with me to the car as I head out the door to work. There’s a spot open in front of the shop, so I park there, feed the meter, and walk inside, mumble-singing the song from the radio, “Two step, and let your shoulda lean.” I say hello to Laura as I walk to the back of the shop. I set my backpack down in the back, grab an apron from the hook on the storeroom shelf. I walk into the bathroom. I look in the mirror, splash some water on my face and smile at my reflection. ”One more day.”
I wash my hands in the sink behind the counter. I wave my hand in front of the paper towel dispenser. It spits out an eight inch sheet of paper towel. I tear it off and wave my hand in front of the machine again. Another eight inch sheet. I tear it off and dry my hands with the two sheets. Laura is talking to someone who looks like her brother. Maybe it’s her boyfriend.
“Been pretty slow?” I ask her.
“No, it was really busy actually. It just slowed down.”
“Wow. Well, the weather’s pretty nice.”
“Yeah… Last day, are you excited?”
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait…”
“I bet.” She walks over to the table, under the pass-through window and starts packing her things.
I look in the gelato case: fresh pan of cannoli, fresh pan of tiramisu, fresh pan of malaga, everything else is about half full. I look in the sorbetto case: fresh pan of pineapple, fresh pan of tropical, fresh pan of pomegranate blueberry, fresh pan of lemon, everything else is running low. I take a spoonful of pomegranate blueberry. It’s cold and smooth, and as it warms the flavor melts across my tongue, sweet and a little bit tangy. I swallow it down.
Laura dons her backpack and walks out with her friend. ”Have a nice life,” she says with a smile as she puts on her scooter helmet.
“Nice working with you.”
She leaves and I scoop a little bit of chocolate sorbetto and a little bit of pomegranate blueberry sorbetto into a small green corn-plastic cup, into a cupcake-like mound. I sit at the little table under the pass-through window with my cup of sorbetto. I run my corn-plastic spatula-spoon over the humping purple-chocolate meridian. The schism smoothes and softens. I round off the hump into a lump, into a bump. I put the spoon, sorbetto-down, on the middle of my tongue, and pull it towards the front of my mouth, scraping the sorbetto from the corn-plastic spatula with my tongue. Each frozen bite slips down my throat like a candy eel.
I finish my sorbetto. I take off my apron and set it on my chair. I walk back to the storeroom and take an Altoids tin from the front pocket of my backpack. I take out one of the cigarettes Andrea left there for me. I put it behind my ear. I walk to the front of the shop. I pour myself a cold cup of coffee from the urn behind the counter. I heat it up with a splash of boiling water from the espresso machine. I walk out to the patio, set my coffee at the small table, in the back corner, and sit down. I light my cigarette. Across the street, I see the woman in the motorized wheelchair, rumbling towards me. ”Goddammit,” I mutter, stubbing out my cigarette, “Goddammit.”
January 31, 2009
I'll take my Chevrolegs.
I take my pack of cigarettes from my right pants-pocket, remove one from the pack and place it between my lips. I close the paper flip-top lid and stuff the crumpling pack back in my right pants-pocket. I take a red plastic lighter from my left pants-pocket and use it to light the cigarette between my lips. I take my phone from my right sweater-pocket and check the time. I have fifteen minutes to make it to work. I usually give myself half-an-hour to make this walk. I wonder if I can catch a cab closer to downtown. Shit. No money. I walk faster.
I drag on my cigarette and my stomach churns and gurgles echoes of a receding flu. I reach the bridge into the financial district and flick my cigarette into the street. It’s run over by a small gray Toyota, northbound. The pressure of my backpack against my sweater against my t-shirt against my dermis heats the latter above its sweat threshold, and moisture gathers in the small of my back, in the hallows between my clavicles and deltoids under the straps of the backpack. I stop on the bridge and take off my backpack. I put it on the ground at the base of the suicide-fence and take off my sweater. I open my backpack and put my sweater inside. I zip the backpack closed.
I touch the back of my right hand against my shirt, just above my hips. I feel the sweat come through the once-worn white t-shirt. I lift my left arm and see a small yellow oval against a field of white cotton, bound for growth. I look through the green mesh of the suicide-fence at the freeway below, at the cars rushing across it. Ceaseless. I think about how I might survive the fall:
A panicked but alert motorist applies the brakes forcefully and leans hard on the wheel. The car veers into the next lane and collides with another, and another, and another, piling up and flipping and crushing and tumbling and rear-ending into an automotive hurricane with me as the eye. A nonplussed island in a sea of mangled metal.
I shoulder my load and feel the cooled sweat set on my skin. I start walking again.
At First and Broadway, an old black man in a security guard’s uniform and cataract sunglasses is arguing with a crackhead in front of the Wendy’s. They’re yelling, but I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying. The light changes and I cross Broadway towards them.
“Fuck you!” the crackhead is yelling. ”Fuckin’ sunabitch dirty mother fucker I should…”
“I told you calm down nigger,” growls the old black man in the security guard’s uniform as I step onto the sidewalk and turn up Broadway. He lifts his hand in a fist and puts it in the crackhead’s face. It looks like he threw a punch that fell a foot short. The crackhead stares at the fist, at the small metal can it holds. The old man with the cataract sunglasses presses down on the top of the small metal can. A spray like a squirt gun, or a sad seltzer bottle, streams silently into the crackhead’s face. He stares defiantly at the old man, his eyes already blood shot. I look at the old man’s cataract glasses and I look at the crackhead’s eyes, drifting, blind now. He stumbles towards the corner, into a bank of newspaper machines.
“Gawn now,” says the old man after him, retaking his post in front of the Wendy’s.
My eyes start to itch and water so I move on up Broadway, towards Fourth, on my walk to work.
January 19, 2009
“Sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to leave the pup outside.”
“No I won’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a service animal. I’m training him.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course, he’s fine then. I’m sorry.”
“You’re supposed to ask, ‘Is that a service animal.’”
“I’m sorry…”
“He’s going to help people with epilepsy. Here, do you want to see his service tag?”
“No, no, I believe you. I’ll take your word that he’s a service dog.”
“Look, here.” She shows me the round brass tag on the dog’s collar.
“I believe you, really. He’s fine, we welcome service animals.”
“Is that a service animal. Remember that.”
”Of course, of course. What can I get for you today?”
“Hmm.” She looks at the motorized wheelchair with a raft of black plastic trash bags lashed behind and around it, parked in front of the sorbeto case. ”It looks like someone forgot their things…”
“She’s just in the bathroom.”
”Hmm.” She looks intently into the gelato case. ”What does the non-fat one taste like?”
“It’s pretty good actually, here, I’ll let you try it.” I take a small translucent corn-plastic spatula and scrape a thumbnail’s worth of non-fat, low-sugar chocolate gelato onto it. I hand her the spoon. ”Here you go.”
She takes the spoon and turns her head away from me as she puts it into her mouth. She swallows. ”It’s not bad.”
”Right?”
“I’ll have a small one of those.”
”You bet.” I scoop the gelato into a small green corn-plastic cup, into a neat mound, one inch higher than the rim of the cup. I take another little translucent corn-plastic spatula, scrape the rim of the cup clean, and stick the spatula into the mound of gelato. I set the cup on the counter, by the register. ”Three seventy-five.” I say, as I enter the sale into the register.
She hands me a five. ”We have problems with homeless at my work too.” she confesses.
“Yeah, she’s a pretty good customer, actually,” I say, “she comes in every day, and she always has money.”
“That’s not good for business though,” she says nodding at the wheelchair, “I work on 7th and C, and it’s a real problem there. That’s the worst part of downtown.”
“Yeah, there’s some hard cases down there for sure.”
“I’ve almost been attacked several times.” She takes a tighter hold of the service animal’s leash.
“Yikes.” I hand her a dollar bill and a quarter. ”I’m surprised to hear that. The homeless here are usually so tame compared to like San Francisco or New York.”
”They’re not all tame.” She takes a bite of the gelato and turns to leave. As she’s crossing the threshold, she stops and turns around. ”Remember: ‘Is that a service animal.’ I’m training people to ask that first.” She walks out leaving her used sample spatula on the counter.
“Have a good one!” I yell after her.
January 13, 2009
