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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.
Wild turkey.
Ok, I know I said new stuff was coming yesterday, and there’s nothing, but… I bring gifts in supplication: two new series of posts! I’ll cover those in a second, but first, personal news/excuse: Andrea and I are quitting smoking, for reasons that include our own health, the health of our beautiful pug dog Ignatius, and vanity. We started on the patch yesterday, which is the main reason why I’m just now getting this post up.
It’s a bit stressful quitting smoking, and though we’re both on nicotine patches, we decided that this Sunday and Monday were good days to sleep in, eat fatty breakfasts/lunches and say, “I love you,” a lot. Love works, to put it crudely, like the best bank account you ever had: God help you if you make a false deposit or overdraw, but the credit and interest build fast and strong.
As for the two new series:
(Drumroll…)
Series 1: My Downtown Year
– Written in the summer and fall of 2004 (not my finest seasons, for oh so many reasons), this incomplete, post-post-postist, marginally-fictional, semi-conceived series of what-was-supposed-to-be-365 “daily” installments, serves as a reference point/verite intro to what I’m writing now; it’s a prequel, sorta. And you’re getting it here, now, absolutely FREE (out of context and in little excerpts, but still…)!!!!
*WARNING/SPOILER ALERT!!*
My Downtown Year contains: accounts of nudity, sexuality and marijuana use and abuse, rhetorical displays of now-embarrassing love and near-plagiarism of the late Hunter S. Thomson, and a pasty flair for the dramatic. Please read this in context: as a teaser; this should be read as the failed “novel” of a character in my current novel, which will be, God-willing, nothing like this series in any way. If all this disclaimer and context isn’t charming enough, remember, the character in my current novel , the one who wrote this little fiasco of a series is: me! BUT, it’s me five years ago, and writing in the first-person as a fictional character. Granted, that fictional character is myself as Raoul Duke. Yikes. BUT, it’s still a good read. I hope.
Please please, use the comments. Email me at: jesse.rosato@gmail.com, unless you are a spam robot.
Whew. Ok. (Drumoll? Drumoll, please? I know you’re tired, please though, just a little drumroll? Ok. Fine. No Drumroll.)
Series 2: San Diego, a Journal
– Yes, yes, yes! This is the hot-off-the-grill new stuff. Daily writing journals! Sounds lame, but I’m really excited about this. This is gonna be where I work out what I’m going through as I settle into writing the story of San Diego as I saw it. I’ll be talking detail selection, use of jargon, exactness of “quoted dialogue”, self-censorship, the writing guts. If I stall and fail and flame out, at the very least I’ll write about that. Right here, absolutely FREE!!!!
You’ll find the first installment of My Downtown Year below, and the first part of San Diego… will be here tomorrow. I’ll be rotating them like that and interspersing a potpourri of other curiosities for a while, so read on, and stay tuned!
March 2, 2009: One Day Smoke-Free.
- 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
