Monday, March 27, 2006

Letter Writing 2: Write Harder

Dear Tedd's Couch:

I know Tedd's Mom doesn't like you—the way you used to be brighter, whiter and exotic. I'd rather you be the quixotic and idiotic register of my comfort than the vision of Mrs. Wood’s perfection. Please, no disrespect to her, she’s a saint, but you’re a martyr. You have suffered in both hue and retinue—a dull seat due to the entourage of Virginians and North Carolinians that have occupied your formless cushions.

The stains on your exterior tell no tales, but I lounge on you rather than wondering if you would've fared well in a thrift store or died on the streets of Richmond, VA. You accommodate the tall and wide like the handicapped stalls of fast food restaurants, yet you seemingly take up little space. You provide the comfort of a post work atmosphere, yet you cradle the long term nap or full night’s sleep. I’ve slept on you drunk, visiting, watching television, listening to depressing albums. I’ve kissed women on you, convinced them to stay in my house. I’ve caroused and capered on you, sentimentalized and anthropomorphized you. I’m around you and get jealous of others when they sit on you-castigating me to the other smaller couch.

I know that you have lived in rooms and seen me do devious shit—unmentionable unwarranted acts of carnage—and you would never hate me for it. Yours is a personality of a true warrior; a battle tested friend with a quiet verisimilitude. You are true like trivia show answers, sports triumphs, news broadcasts and reruns of treasured sitcoms.

Though dirty, you glow like late night television, casting light onto my closed eyes. Though covered by a sly slipcover, you’re true color cannot be displaced; your pillows exposing your off-whiteness like blonde eyebrows on jet black-haired hipster girls. You know I love them. You know me better than friends or family—my secrets and indiscretions are ingrained in your cracks. Your couch pulls out revealing your inner strength.

I sit on you now, honoring you, hoping that I won’t have to get up until it is time to sleep. My legs resting on you like you were the patriarch—the proud yet presumptuous father I already have but never see anymore. I sit on you now and consider writing this letter to Tedd’s mother. I would show her your importance beyond that of worn-in comfort and stability. The metaphorical giant that lies within you resembles a thicket of wheat. Feeding the overwhelmed constituents within your blades, you remain steady as the weighty wind tries to break you at the stalk. Though not unbreakable, you are, at least in theory, utterly irreplaceable. Yes, in theory you are a beacon of sturdiness worth your weight in visiting patrons and live-in denizens.

Mrs. Wood, I disagree.

Sincerely,
J--

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Friday, March 24, 2006

The Brooklyn Syndrome

New York has a way of stripping you to your simplest inputs. The separation and isolation of trains, cabs and largeness can create a piecemeal inward narrative; a self muting diatribe worthy of exclusion from normal context. For example, I need eggs. This is normal. By the time I reach the eggs, however, I have talked myself into ham sandwiches, beer, bread, and I never even buy eggs. The city moves around you, not through you. Everything the inner dialogue wants is a warped version of something better. Better always exists: better jobs, better apartments, better men/women, and better arguments. Yet, there remains something better than you. It’s Brooklyn.

I live in Queens. Bringing this up is an inherent mistake. The divide in any conversation in New York revolves around one of three things: your neighborhood, your entertainment choices, and your old friends. However, no conversation matters after you admit to living in Queens.
Queens, like the unmentioned portions of any cities lies dormant in minds like old movies—the Sunday TNT/TBS movies that everyone watches hung over. Brooklyn’s hip exterior awaits you like new movies. The new movies await you in theatres. The new movies gleam like alabaster. The new movies exist solely to mock your empty wallet. The new movies are better, glitzier, and heavier. They hang over you in advertisements, water cooler conversations, and appear with well timed veracity—topically variant and beautiful like fresh snow. Brooklyn exists one hour away (by train at least). As a borough, Brooklyn is the definition of uncharacteristic cool. All your young friends live there and assume you do. Manhattan is old hat—though cheaper in Harlem. Queens has the bigger rooms, better landlords, overall tighter feel, yet it seems so uncool. Brooklyn uncoils itself in back alley bars packed with the elitists. Essentially, stripped to it’s core, it is the definition of the lunch table I was banished from in my one year of public high school. The only difference? That lunch table never had anything I wanted in the first place. Brooklyn’s style belies that of what I want—interesting conversation and musical heretics.

Unlike my younger days, I now realize the understated is the obvious. Simplicity contains the grand design of the articulate and gravitas. Warranted explanations are the décor of the writer and artist, thus creating the social fold of Brooklyn’s elitism. Obviousness seeps through it’s streets, and plants itself at the local watering holes. Isn’t that what high school is for though—realizations of the simple? Back then, overstatement was the ruler of the day. The only objective was to be seen. Look at me, I have a tie and no collared shirt. Look at me, I play sports. Look at me, I have a girlfriend. We are holding hands and making out at lunch. People sustained themselves by simply standing around others more popular than they were. Semi-circles of future enemies and elitists formed around the social norms; groups defined by choices of all kinds (clothes, music, even smell at times). Now, as aforementioned, the simplest inputs are readily available. The pared down group can be geographical, musical, monetarily similar, work environment related, et cetera. Placement in social order depends less on commonality, and more on sheer locale. I can become great friends with nearly anyone merely through the need to communicate. The only problem is where I live. A typical conversation, when drinking in Brooklyn:

“Where do you live?”
“I live in Queens.”
“Really. Why? I mean, it’s so far away, y’know?”
“Yeah, but I like it.” I know this isn’t true (it takes less than 25 minutes to get to lower Manhattan), but I don’t explain over the horrific droning of the pointless DJ.
“Oh.”

Conversations like this one are not generally snobby by any means, but they provide little openness—they are counterproductive. Saying I live in Queens invites snarkiness and closes off a sense of belonging to both parties. Often, in fact, I have had to leave after these conversations because the conversations dried completely. Awkward silences tend to follow the “oh” like they do when the trains reach optimal speed and make it impossible to hear the person next to you. So I leave the person to consider why a man in his mid-twenties would live in Queens when, aside from its apparently horrendous locale, it’s the antithesis of New York’s atmosphere; the literal opposite of the cultural elite.

Queens, to its discredit, does offer very little by comparison to the two major boroughs. There are fewer youths, bars, theatres, museums, etc. There is a lack of excitement and reciprocity. Queens does not give me options like I give it rent. Dormant for the most part, I feel no need to linger after I get home from work. Queens’ strongest arguments are merely ill-conceived dopplegangers of the rest of the city. Their version of Chinatown looms large, but realistically, Flushing is a long train ride away for the Americanized version of Manhattan’s foul smelling haven for cheap bus rides and delicious foods. The New York Metropolitans, despite the influx of new and expensive talent, are the second rate Major League Baseball franchise. The museums reek of second hand information—my bus stop includes a sign directing you to Kaufman Theatre—an Andy Kaufman version of motion picture insight. Not the most interesting perspective; a de facto argument against calling Queens a “hip” place to live.

In the midst of these arguments, Queens stands put as my choice for a home for the time being. I would be remiss in saying I am not planning on ever living in Brooklyn. I will. The thing is—and this goes for Manhattan too, the same thought process that guides me to buy beer instead of eggs is the same that will ultimately drive my distrust of Brooklyn’s endless faux hawks and needless bar DJs. On the way to Brooklyn’s more capable conversations, I need to drink alone for a little while. Sure, eggs are cheap nourishment for a man who has lost thirty pounds in five and a half months, but beer’s inebriating quality is more prevalent right now. I’d probably have a steady girlfriend and more opportunities to network in Brooklyn, but I need that hyper-loneliness that drives me. Queens’ non-English speaking contingent alongside its anti-youth movement capitulate the attitude of the slacker and quitter better than any hip bar or trendy haircut. I suppose I could live in Bedstuy or thirty eight stops off of the “L” (or “fashion”) train, but, in essence, we are discussing the same mindset anyway.

The beauty of Astoria hits you at four in the morning. Drunk after a train ride from Manhattan, I sop my last piece of bread onto a sauce ridden Styrofoam plate—the remnants of a beef souvlaki shish kabob affectionately referred to as “meat on a stick.” The particular souvlaki joint I frequent—quite literally a cart on the corner of Broadway and 32nd street) was overrun with muscle bound men waiting in line as their all-Greek dance clubs shut down for the night. Several Puerto Ricans hang their heads out of their trucks blasting “Mas Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee. The two groups shout at one another. In the midst of it all are my roommates and I alongside two males our age. They praise our meat on a stick contingent, and admit that they drunkenly drive from Brooklyn every Friday for the delectable yet unidentifiable meat.

“I would live in Queens for this. In fact, I might move into Astoria soon.”
“For the meat?” I’m shocked.
“Yeah—that and it’s cheaper here and closer to Manhattan than where we are now.”
His friend pipes in—“Yeah, and I mean, what the fuck? It’s all New York City.”
Intrinsically, I nod with pride. I live here. I already knew that. I freeze for a moment, and realize that I am just as guilty of prideful indignation as any resident of Brooklyn. That’s fine. Simple as it may be, I live here is a justifiable response. The simplest inputs are usually the ones that make the most sense. As I walk, the background noise settles into the slow paced rhythm of Astoria—the occasional car, a couple laughing, my roommates enjoying their late night meal. I will sleep without noise, and sleep well. I live here. This thought resonates through the drunken haze. I have learned to like the Mets, Andy Kaufman was pretty funny, and i don't have enough money to watch new movies anyway. Sure, everything will get better, but I’m exactly where I want to be right now.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

1996 Wasn't That Cool. And Neither Was I.

Two days ago the age of 25 warmly and somewhat recklessly greeted, accepted, and then fondled me in a series of Lower East Side bars. Reaching quarter of a century status has particularly resonated with me for several reasons--the most notable of which is that I'm several years older than the characters portrayed in the movie "Reality Bites," and I still make substantially less income per week than protagonist Leliana Pierce's (portrayed by the lascivious Winona Ryder) $500 a week. Amidst this stark realization, and the forty glamorous hours I spend at The Strand per week, I managed to allot some time to sit down with myself at the tenderly depressing age of 15 for a Q and A. What follows is a lovingly transcribed account of a wholly revealing dialogue with myself ten years removed from, well, myself:

Tedd Now: So Tedd thanks for taking the time to meet with me. What have you been up to?
Tedd Then: Nothing. I don't do anything. Life sucks.
Tedd Now: Provocative. Surely there's some news you like to share with me.
Tedd Then: Not unless you consider sitting around the basement and watching VH1 and listening to hours of music "news."
Tedd Now: I see. Well, there's a lot of good stuff coming up for you. Believe me I know, I am you.
Tedd Then: Yeah, like what? More school? Fantastic.
Tedd Now: Well you get to start driving next year. That's something. Of course you kind of total Mom's car...wait, never mind.
Tedd Then: I'll pretend I didn't hear that.
Tedd Now: My point is simply that you should cheer up a bit.
Tedd Then: Right, cheer up. There's nothing like waking up every morning hating life, yourself, and everyone around you. I'm such a loser.
Tedd Now: Look 15 year old Tedd there's something I've been wanting to hash out with you for a long time now.
Tedd Then: And that is? Christ, I'm sure this will be good.
Tedd Now: Bottom line is you really need to quite being such a pussy. I mean damn man. This whole "No one understands me, I'm the enigma" thing really is pretty tired.
Tedd Then: *Looks sullenly at the floor*
Tedd Now: Look man, I'm sorry. I'm really not trying to be harsh, but you need to cheer up some. Everything isn't that bad, and it gets a lot better. In a few years you'll see what I'm talking about. Doesn't the prospect of being happy intrigue you at all?
Tedd Then: If I were to become happy I'd miss the comfort in being sad.
Tedd Now: Don't fucking quote Nirvana lyrics to me Tedd at 15. Jesus.
Tedd Then: You still caught that reference after 10 years huh?
Tedd Now: Of course I did, if anything I've had 10 more years to listen to the same songs you're listening to now.
Tedd Then: So I'm still kind of a dork ten years from now? Great. If you called this meeting just to rub it in it's totally not appreciated Future Tedd.
Tedd Now: Sorry bud, that wasn't my intention. On the up and up you do get into some other music than just Nirvana and The Beatles.
Tedd Then: That's pretty sweet I guess.
Tedd Now: Yeah, and you actually have people to listen to it with.
Tedd Then: Hmmm.
Tedd Now: And you play and write music a lot. In fact you'd be surprised to see where you end up living and what you're doing.
Tedd Then: Like what? Where?
Tedd Now: Well, for starters you meet some really good people and do some decent bands with them.
Tedd Then: Do we do any Nirvana covers?
Tedd Now: Just get off of Nirvana for a minute okay? And you're living in New York with great friends.
Tedd Then: New York? How is that?
Tedd Now: Well it's kind of like existing in a massive, seething, I-Pod commercial.
Tedd Then: What's an I-Pod?
Tedd Now: Don't worry you can't afford one.
Tedd Then: Fuck.
Tedd Now: I know. All I'm saying is in the future you're going to really forget about all this over-thinking everything you do, and all the journaling about hating everyone and move on.
Tedd Then: So I move past being a teenager basically?
Tedd Now: Exactly, but your 20's are kind of marred with the same sort of disillusionment, but combined with being very poor.
Tedd Then: Wait that sounds pretty bad...
Tedd Now: But factor in alcohol and there's some moments of mindlessness where none of that matters. Plus you'll be able to grow a sweet beard.
Tedd Then: I could get into that.
Tedd Now: Well, look Tedd at 15 thanks for taking the time to sit down with me again. I could keep asking you questions, but fact of the matter is that I already know what your answers are going to be. I am you.
Tedd Then: Sure thing I guess. You want to hangout and listen to some music?

What followed was a blur of mid-90's rock n' roll, peppered with a healthy dose of classic rock--mainly Led Zeppelin's "II" and Pink Floyd's "Animals." I left Tedd at 15--his tattered jeans, army jacket, greasy under-cut, and Nirvana "Sliver" shirt and all--with no real conclusions about what has transpired in the last ten years. I did come to realize that Stone Temple Pilot's lyrics are still about absolutely nothing, and my suspicions that Oasis was in fact not the second coming of The Beatles have been confirmed.

Friday, March 10, 2006

A Letter Writing Campaign

I've decided to write some letters. Some will be funny. This one really isn't. Enjoy.

Dear Youthful Idealism:

I have been better. The yellow stains around my collar are forming deeper, and my feet are weary. My headaches and drinking are getting worse, but are still infantesimal comparative to the space between myself and the goals I warranted as my own years ago. I eat less than Orwell's Animal Farm inhabitants. I am a small fish in a pond the size of New York City. The people there are dejected and hate you, Youthful Idealism. They think you are funny joke, but an indiscriminate idea long out of reach. Their hatred of you causes them to hate me for holding out hope. Hope glimmers in my eyes like clenched hands on a just born infant.

I won't liken you to a prizefighter, Youthful Idealism. I won't. It's too easy. I'm giving up on easy. Easy is a countryside and a car full of cheap gasoline. Easy is an all-night Coin Laundry. Easy is an old vinyl record without skips.

I'll never have it easy, will I? My father taught me that. He hates you too, but he still believes in you through me. I am martyring myself aren't I? I'll probably learn how to cook well, and never be able to afford the real ingredients. I've learned to look impressed at grocery stores. I walk the aisles and marvel at the choices; the comprable prices of cheeses and cereals. The ebb and flow of the soda aisle's colorful exterior is rife with your understanding. You offer the wealth of colors, but in the end you are a pale comparison to the happiness of the kids on macaroni boxes. They beam with pride. Their lives have arrived at a happy point.

What I'm saying is that you are a poorly constructed crab cake. Your ingredients are unattainable. You break apart at the hint of failure. Interminable shame accompanies those who follow you to large cities, small colleges, mid-tier publishing houses, and bars. No one really realizes your cruelty. Your loving arms wrap around us and offer us a beer in our apartment, and then hang around long enough to cheer against our sports teams, puke on our bathroom floor, and clog the drain with your thick spitted realism. You hit on our significant others and eat our Tostitos, complaining that the lime flavored ones are better.

God I hate you, Youthful Idealism. I need you around like ex-drinkers crave cigarettes. I welcome you like a high schooler welcomes an internet synopsis of a long British novel. I believe, but I still hate you. Improbably, I warrant hope, and I slave for the men and women that once held you dear. They wear a predictable smile when I am unable to fulfill job vacancies or publish marketable fiction pieces.

You motherfucker, you better give me more chances. You live in every drink I mix, every hyphen that lengthens my already long sentences, every pair of socks I re-wear because I can't afford laundry, every call about college loans I don't answer. You'll die alongside my hope in a few months when I reassess my choices. You'll smile as you pass through me to some other foolish young face, brightening each table they serve.

You're a poorly disguised repossession officer. You're an upstanding pederast. You're in my kitchen right now refilling my whiskey glass and forcing me to talk about my narrative voice. I want you to sleep on the couch tonight, Youthful Idealism. I can't sleep with you in the room, but I won't sleep unless you're around.

I won't ever forgive you. I won't. Youthful Idealism, I can't even hear what you're saying-- not even the inflection in your voice or the way you slip in and out of my thoughts can appeal to me right now. Not even a little. Not even a lot. I'll sleep better ignoring you, but knowing you're there.

Respectfully,
J--

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