mushroom journals

Tel-Love-Vision

My latest movie. (7th really?)

I don't wanna do any movies for a while.

But I think this turned out all right.


What do you think??


and special thanks to Roxanne and Ramsey for the help!

One and One story

11

Inhaling, and, “Aum…”

Exhaling, and, “Shi-va-ya Va-shi…”

Inhaling, and, “Aum…”

Eugene was sitting still on his bed, lets wrapped up in the traditional lotus position. I was waiting around at his apartment for him to finish, he said he had to meditate before we could start brainstorming on the story. It was twenty minutes later and he was still going. Very bored, wishing he did this before I came over, I wandered to his living room where the computer was. As I transferred from the incense scent of his bedroom to the foul odor of the further outward living quarters, I couldn’t help but note how fucking gross the place was.

The apartment was filthy, I had to tip toe around to not step on all the books and clothes piled on the floor. All sorts of comicbooks and dvds and underground press occult texts. Every table and shelf was picked with empty glass beer bottles or zines, and the smell of rotting food from the sink was horrible. Poor Eugene, he really needed a woman to take care of him.

I sat in front of the computer and logged on to MeSpace. I had been spending an inordinate amount of time building up my page. Eugene, so helpful and encouraging, took dozens of digital pictures of me to upload. We even went to Kinko’s and scanned my last remaining headshot.

The site was more addicting than I thought it would be, I could spend quite a few hours wasting time on the message forums typing about nonsense and commenting on people’s blogs, and before I would know it hours would pass.

I was still building up my page. Under ‘networking’, I typed ‘actor-producer-director.’ And getting quick lessons in html code, I brightened up the background and added music. I listed all the music I could think of, and under ‘movies’ I had about fifty, as with books and television and general interest. Just so Eugene, or rather ‘--**Gene-pool 2012!**--’, wasn’t my only friend, I was adding as many rock band pages and meaningless acquaintances as I could find.

When my page was near-complete I found Lena’s on there and added her as a ‘friend.’ It was such an incredible and creepy process at once, this MeSpace phenomenon. Lena gave out so many details about herself for total public consumption. I understood why people wanted to get a girls’ webpage these days before going out. I could learn all about her music and film tastes, her height, her single status. She even wrote a few blogs, complaining about high school and arguments with her parents. It was great to be able to read all this, so surprising, such a plethora of free information. Guess I was getting used to the times after all.

Lena’s page said she was 18, but I suspected it was a lie. I didn’t really want to know for sure, I had a vague idea she was in high school but I wasn’t going to specifically ask what grade. I preferred ignorance. One my own page I lied and said I was two years younger, at 27.

I felt a bit lame for doing all this work for the sake of online networking. But I did it anyways.

Typed up my email and password to find a bright red ‘New Messages’, the homepage declared. I read.

SUBJECT: RE: whats up?

FROM: LENA-CHAN

I clicked.

Fenton,

so how’s the production going? Any genius works of theater in action? Stop keeping it such a topsecret! I’m so curious, you have to let me in on this when you’re done. We're reading the Crucible in english class right now, its kind of boring, but I decided to go see it on thursday night at school. you know how it is, i always mean to see more plays but i never get around to it. I’ve decided to be more sophisticatedd! Hehe, your a good influence

seen any good movies lately? I really want to see the new Miles Samson one, where hes a oceanographer. Dat shit looks funny. What are your days off?

later

-Lena

Very nice. I replied.

SUBJECT: RE: RE: whats up?

FROM: FENTON

Ha, glad to be a good influence. You’re wrong though kid, I’m a horrible influence. But everybody should see more live theater I’d encourage that.

Me and Eugene have been getting a ton of work done. I’d estimate that in just a few months preproduction will be finished and we’ll be up and running. But showbizness always takes longer than planned, so you never know. I’m actually at Eugene’s right now and we’re writing so much. Its very exciting, I’m loving the creative energy over here.

I’ve decided to stay in Cincinnati for a few more months longer than planned. LA can wait, it’ll still be there whenever I return. I’ll definitely keep you updated on the as-yet-unnamed-show. Pretty soon we’re going to be casting ya know...

We should see that movie sometime.

-Fenton

I hoped I was saying the right things. It’s hard to interpret subtleties of conversation with just typing online, a new tricky communication I was not used to. Clicked on the send button, too late to worry about it now, the message sent off into the ether. Logged off and turned off the computer, and checked back with Eugene, back to the incense clouded domain.

“Aum…”

Jesus. “Come on man!” I interrupted, “we need to get some work done!”

He breathed in slowly and exhaled slower. “Please don’t interrupt. I am almost completed.”

I sighed and relegated back to the living room. Eugene soon came out. Finally. “I wish you would show some respect my ways.”

“I wish you would do that faster. I’ve been here 45 minutes and we haven’t done anything. You’re the one who wants me to write this damn play for you so much.”

“And you’re the one who’s too lazy to write it yourself. If I’m going to co-write this bitch I need to be in top creative form. Don’t you understand that the Vishuddha chackra must be aligned? It’s the chackra of communication and expression, and of the god Hermes. This is important work, I need to be in top astral form.”

“Whatever man.”

“And of the sacred mantra Aum! Every vowel contained herein, all language, ah-uh-mmm, the curvature of the mouth. Consonants are only the interruptions of that perfect form. It is of the utmost importance to the art of speech that I perform this feat.”

“Couldn’t you do this meditation shit before I got here?”

“Yeah, that’s my bad. I shouldn’t have slept in so late. Thanks for waking me.” When I got to Eugene’s place he was asleep. At 3 in the afternoon. And I was the one working nights.

Eugene yawned and started making himself coffee. The coffee machine and counter was stained with so many different shades of brown it was rather expressionistic. “Want some coffee?” he asked.

“No thanks.”

We edged towards the Mac and Eugene opened a Word file. Titled it Super Genius Play 1, typed up ‘brainstorming’, and bit his lower lip.

“Well? Let’s go.”

We stared at the blank Word document.

“Any ideas?” I asked.

“I thought you had the ideas,” he answered.

“Not really.” Stared at the screen for a time. I thought and thought, and stared and stared, but the blank screen didn’t help. My eyes drifted to the ceiling and I thought about character. They say write what you know. “Um… who is the main protagonist going to be? The star, the star… I was thinking maybe a struggling writer?”

“A struggling writer? That’s the lamest idea for a protagonist ever. Writers always write about writers, how many times has that been done before?”

“Yeah I guess you’re right.”

“Maybe the star should be in some kind of show business. Hmmm,” Eugene thought.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s make, like a comment about the media.”

“Sure.”
We sat in silence for ten more minutes as the coffee smell enveloped the room, rather pleasantly replacing the rotting wet food smell. The silence grew louder.

“Maybe he can be a struggling writer after all,” Eugene finally said.

“Okay,” I agreed. Fine, let’s just get this over with. At least have something to work with.

Eugene typed up Protagonist: struggling writer. Commentary on media culture.

“This has to take place in Los Angeles, right?” I added.
“Sure. You’re the expert on continuity though, I’ve never been there.”

“Yeah, let’s say this takes place in Silverlake or something.”

‘Setting: Silverlake in LA’ he typed.

“Yep…” We stared at the computer screen for a few more minutes. “Okay,” I said, “a character needs a motivation. He needs motivation, a goal. And the antagonist needs to be an obstacle to that goal. That equals plot. It’s pretty simple when you break it down.”

“Wait,” Eugene confused, “we need a plot?”
“Duh.”
“Oh. I thought this might be more artsy experimental.”

“Everything needs a plot. Some kind of foundation structure, and you can get experimental later. But let’s focus: so what’s this guy’s motivation?”

“Uh… he’s trying to write a play?”

“We’re just getting more and more original as we move on. Why not just make this an all-out autobiographical piece, a one-man show starring me?”

“Yeah?!” Eugene excited, not aware of the sarcasm.

“Eugene, one-man shows are the most terrible things in the world to watch. Even my ego isn’t so bad that I would make the audience suffer through one of those. If we’re going to do this let’s do this right. A real cast, real characters, real plot. Motivation plus obstacle, characters change in the end, a climax, a resolution, and goddamn entertain people.”
“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm,” I replied.

“What if this was a structured story and everything, but what if it was self-referential. Like Robert Anton Wilson meta-fiction, and Kaufman, and Morrison?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s writing a play, he’s a struggling writer, but we make a big joke out of that cliché. Do you know what I mean? We acknowledge and mock the cliché of writers writing about writers. So we write about the process, we have a character who is writing a play about being a struggling writer and dealing with the inner conflict of being clichéd. That makes it interesting, a new take.”

“I think I might see what you’re getting at.”

“He writes about us.”

“Us? Huh?” I was thrown off. “Now I’m lost.”
“This guy is writing a story about two characters named Fenton and Eugene, and they’re writing about him. An infinite feedback loop of self-referentiallism. Meta-fiction.”

“So we are going to write about a character who is a writer. And he is going to write about us writing about him. This seems kind of confusing to the audience. It’s confusing to me.”

“It’s simple. It’s brilliant.” Eugene typed self-referential meta-fiction. Protagonist dude writes about us. “Ah-ha! We’re channeling Artaud you see, a new virtual reality experience of this age.” He saved the file. “What a productive day.”

“Yeah. I need time to think about this, sort it all out. Want to call it a night?” I said.

“We’ve barely started!” Eugene yelled. “There’s a lot more we could do. What’s this guy’s name anyways?”

“I don’t know. What sounds like a writer’s name?”

“Should he be half-Asian or something?”

“No, that’s too obvious referencing to me,” I said. “I guess he could be some kind of ethnic.”

“But not too ethnic.”

“Ethnic enough. Like, I guess I could write about people having inner conflict issues with assimilation and whatnot. Being white but not quite totally white. Having a foreign Mom. European last name.”

“All white people have European last names. You’d know that if you were white. Asshole.”

“Well, like a Germanic last name. And a nerdy first name. We can all relate to that.”

“Fuck you Fenton.”

“Fuck you Eugene. See?”

“Fine, nerdy first name. What sounds like a dork’s name? Ronald, Robert, Raymond, Reginald, Regis.”

“Why beginning with R?” I asked.

“Why not? Howsabout Roy? I like that.” Eugene typed in ‘Roy.’
“Roy with an ethnic last name. Hmm.”

“Yeah! Let’s make him a Jew.”

“A Jew? In the entertainment industry, in Hollywood. That’s so cliché.”

“So. Its cliché because its true isn’t it? That’s the whole point of this work. Let’s make this dude Jewish.”

“Okay, a Jew with a foreign Mom. Eastern European or something. But he has to have inner conflict issues with being a Jew. It’s more interesting that way. He should be ashamed of how Jewish Hollywood is, or something like that.”

“Sure, sure. And we can use this as a pull to quote Qabbalah.” Eugene typed in Star is a Jew. Immigrant Mom. Quotes Qabbalah.

“Right on. Whatever you want, that’s your expertise. Say, we need a title too.”

“A title. But what the hell is this about?”

“It’s about Hollywood and the art process and, uh, ‘meta-fiction’ or whatever you called it.”

“Title, title, title. What’s he writing? What should the title of his work be? His work that is about us…”

“Is he writing a play?” I wondered.

“Nah. Maybe he’s writing a novel.”

“He’s in Hollywood though. Shouldn’t he be writing movie screenplays?”
“Whatever. He wants to be different that all the Hollywood assholes around him right? So Roy here with the ethnic Mom is trying to be unique by writing a novel. So what’s the title of it?”

“Something funny,” I thought out loud, “something mocking, something self-deprecating. Something about… losers.”

“Losers…” Eugene pondered. “Loser boy, loserdom, loser fun, loserville, L for losers, hmm…” He typed writing novel: Loser Parade.

“That works,” I said.

“It does work. Man, this is turning out all right.” Eugene stretched out his arms and leaned back on the metal folding chair. “I’m exhausted. This writing shit is hard. Want to wrap it up?”

I looked at the computer screen. There were about three lines worth of notes. “Yeah, we got a lot done today. Awesome start.”

I is star

student film by Cheryl Beddoes.... and co-starring me.

also with Chad and Scott


So the other day I was helping a fellow student do a last-minute silly little film. Fun times. Here it is, behold my brilliant acting ability. Now you know.

Loser Parade chapter 1

Would you read a novel that began like this?

The rest of it doesn't have much to do with this scene.



Loser Parade Chapter 1


I wasn’t in the best of spirits. To say the least.

Sick of life, sick of trying, sick of inevitable failure.

Underground, hidden away, head weighed down by gravity and staring into Hell. My ass was sore from sitting on the uncomfortable metal chairs. Every ponient little ridge against my soft bottom a mark, a permanent memory. Why can’t they put plush seats up in the subway? Bastards. They know people wait here all day, would it be so hard to invest a bit of money into soft seating?

I waited for a thousand years. Not waiting for any specific train, just patiently hanging around until the world to change into something else. If enough time passed than an escape plan might present itself. In a matter of time, no doubt, a solution would exist. So I told myself.

Maybe it wasn’t a thousand years, maybe it was more like a thousand minutes. However many hours that added up to. Down here beat the outdoors. One floor up, a thousand years ago, a California sun pushed heavy light through an ozone hole down my backside until it burned, a force of light weighing a hundred pounds ever present.

So I ran away, down the escalator. With little to speak of, with pockets full of the richness of nothing. The clothes on my back and some crap I could fit in a high-schooler’s stolen bookbag.

Was it supposed to be this hard? I know, I know, life is supposed to be a struggle, For a long time I thought I was okay with that. But at what point does one declare enough is enough?

I lived in the city for five years dragging my boulder up the mountain. I came so close to the peak, but I was too lazy to reach. So many challenges, none of them ever felt so insurmountable. Yet here I was, wretched and finished.

Cars, jobs, shelter, all that drag. Surviving without a car in the city was tricky enough for the last few months, but I made do. Busses and rides and even subways, I was getting along. And then my job evaporated. Kindness and credit made it seem survivable. But yesterday the final pillar of my crumbling foundation went under. She changed the locks. I was kicked out into the world, no more pity and no more excuses. All my bag of illusions ran out and I couldn’t fake it anymore. Nowhere to sleep tonight. With no shelter to call my own, no roof, everyone around me was sick of my freeloading and I was sick of asking. They were sick of giving and I was sick of taking, in that regard we were in harmonious agreement.

Janie kicked me out. We were done. She hated me, she wouldn’t talk. And she was right to hate me, she was right to cut me off. We were done for weeks, if not months. We hadn’t slept together since ancient memory, she was constantly upset with me, we could never stand to be in the same room. Who could blame her? I was a complete failure, nothing to offer but my obsolete state. A novelty worn off very quickly.

Constantly bickering, and I was only further defensive the more she told the truth. As if to rebel against this sorry life that had done me wrong, I refused to accommodate Janie. I wasn’t a very good stay-at-home-spouse. Why should I be her housewife and clean up, why should I pay my own cheap way in chores and sweeping, vacuums and dishwasher soap, trash bags and laundry? Why should I be fair to her when the world wasn’t fair to me? At least I deserve to relish my suffering in dignity. No cleaning up after myself necessary, no cooking, no shopping errands, cleaning appliances, no picking up my straps and starting over. Only the endless hum of a television in the background as I stared at the ceiling. This lasted months.

In that last month it came to Janie’s complete avoidance. She came home only to sleep, and of course never with me. My space was the living room couch, her bedroom off limits. I missed it, the soft matters against her soft form. I missed the scent of her hair, the taste of her face, the feel of her skin up and down her slender stretched body.

Why did I mess it all up? Because I knew I deserved it.

First the car, then the job, than the apartment. The girl was last. My final thread to hold on to life. I was a fool, I brought this upon my self. I was not suited for the reality of the situation once it manifested. Homelessness and self-punishment was not as romantic as the flagellation cults of old had me convinced. One night earlier I slept in the pavement in an alley for some four hours. Besides the scratches on my arms and the throbbing of my skull on concrete, far from a comfortable setting, I was too frightened that I would wake up stabbed and the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket vanished. Today, I thought, I’ll wait at the subway station and figure something out. I stole some food from the convenience store and wandered down. That was at dawn. I left a few times to pee in an alley and by the last route it was getting dark. How many trains passed me by? How many gusts of cold wind as my thoughts descended into formlessness?

So there I was, alone in a train stop, waiting for nothing. The hours sank away into the void like a toy boat with a sinking hole that won’t get it over with and drop into the bottom of the bathtub, but ever so slowly graduates towards the drain.

One seductive option intrigued me. Just before each train arrived the wind would warn me. I could time it so perfectly.

How easy it would be, time it just right, peek over the edge and see the lights coming past the tunnel.

And jump. Wouldn’t feel a thing.

Like I have the guts to go through with that.

Sometimes it’s fun to fantasize.

Every so often I would stand up and walk in a circle. Debate in my head to take a train to another stop to repeat the process, or go back up to the surface world and readjust. After a few short minutes I sat back down, my feet tired from the work. What would be different anywhere else?

My bookbag sat on the floor, my loyal companion. Containing three t-shirts and one pair of jeans, a paperback mystery novel that I couldn’t begin past the first three pages before my mind slipped away, and laughably one dozen copies of my headshots with sleek resume printed on the back. And my SAG card.

How did I get here? Two years at the Flighty Theater on Santa Monica blvd. Down in dirty grimy Hollywood edging towards the Eastern end, the real thick of it all. Miles and miles away from the posh gay scene in the West, the hard end of Hollywood. The times that were had. I was acting. It was real. While few in the world cared to notice me, I knew was moving forward and unbridled optimism filled my soul. The energy, it was true and it was for real.

Shitty art plays with no structure, room to rehearse smaller than my apartment (back when I had an apartment), audiences that you could count with one hand and far outnumbered by the cast, but performances well worth the ten bucks fee. We were all going to take over the world, Janie and me and all the rest.

The dream and to be alive. For all the hardships of life it wasn’t so bad as long as the faith was there. I didn’t care when they shut off my electricity and I couldn’t afford Ramen noodles. It was part of paying dues, I had ultimate faith that I would be rewarded in the end. Eventually, I would be disappointed.

None of us wanted to be Broadway stars and we knew it. We were about three thousand miles away from that dream. We were going to be movie stars. In all the filth, in all the cracked buildings and dirty smells and soggy dreams, we were in Hollywood and there was something magical about it.

Was this so bad? Was this worth the punishment? All I wanted was a better world for me. A world where I was famous and everyone loved me.

It didn’t work out. The Flighty lost its celebrity sponsorship, Miles Samson decided to fund someplace bigger, and nobody else wanted to hire me. My B.A. degree useless, I refused a 9 to 5 that would cut into auditioning, my landlord hardly empathize with my plight, my friends gave up on me, and now Janie was sick of my mooching. What to do?

Losing my composure, I started staring at the passing commuters. My solid sense of self, my inflated ego from so many years back, my core big-star identity, all chipped away these past months like marble rock at a waterfall. I didn’t notice the returning stares. I was invisible, I was disappearing, and that gave me the freedom to look.

Awkward, nobody likes being stared at by strangers. Was I so haggard looking? I hadn’t shaved in days but my half-Asian facial hair has never particularly apparent. My clothes were a little bit dirty since I hadn’t washed them in weeks, but at least it was a fashionable polo shirt atop clean slacks, if you ignored the rips and dirt.

The plump round Mexican mothers with their four children following behind the baby carts, they looked away. White people in suits stared back, as if to challenge, sneered, struggled, and then looked away in defeat. All sorts of people take subways, punk rock squatters with tattoos on their faces, naïve fat tourists who never predicted how disgusting Hollywood could be, small ethnic children left on their own to navigate the city, older kids on skateboards, gang-bangers who tagged the walls with thick Sharpie markers and made no attempt to hide it. A beautiful melting pot of a city.

One particular Mexican kid didn’t appreciate my audience into his affairs. I watched his silly graffiti, impressing his stupid friends with his brazen-ness. Four Mexican teenagers with gelled hair slicked back and baggie jeans and obnoxious attitudes. They were laughing about something, I don’t know what. The tags were those pointy geometric angles with abbreviated wordage, the Jewish star-looking ones that have the letters. You can tell the gang graffiti by how terrible it is, the artistic colorful fonts underneath the highway overpass was done by the good kids.

“What you looking at? You got a problem man?”

Ah, this is what I needed. A challenge, a goal. A motivation for my character to further the plot.

I thought of the worst things to say. You asshole, you street trash, you primitive son of a bitch. Let’s go.

I thought of the worst things to say. I thought of describing his mother’s cunt, poetic verse of such fat lips upon my pale smooth cock. Fuck you and all your world. I allow myself this anger, I allow myself these feelings. What’s to lose?

“Wha--, what the fuck?” was all that came out. I stood up, I walked.

He laughed at me, ready to perform for his friends. “Damn!” one of the yelled.

“What you think you doing? You better back up fucker.”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” I continued to walk towards, and stopped up close to his face, backing him against the grey wall. “What’s up?”

“Chinese faggot, you better get the fuck away.”

“What the hell you gonna do?”

His hands thrusted against my shoulders, strong fingers squeezing, and shifting me around until it was my back was against the wall and he pushed it into me. Fast and hard my back against the cold wall, I was out of breath for a brief moment. It took me a moment to process, and at the absurdity of it all I laughed.

“Ha! You guys are fun.”

They laughed in return. The three others at least. The fellow I’d become so physically acquainted wouldn’t budge his stilled expression. The others taunted.

“Man, he wants to start some shit.”
“Don’t let him get away with that.”

“Crazy-ass fool, you better wise him up.”

I smiled and spread my arms open. “You guys can all fuck off, you know that?”

They stopped talking. I noticed in the foreground the whites and the family Mexicans were staring at the scene, perplexed by me and perhaps even compassionate, but completely unwilling to intervene. The first Mexican kid grabbed me again.

“What’s your problem huh?”

I lifted my arms to twist myself out from his hold. With the force of my body I scraped his should against the grey wall, and for a moment I escaped. I hopped back and balled my fists. My heart was racing, it was incredible, I should have done this more often. When I had things to lose life was scary. Fuck it all, tomorrow no longer exists so why not take it out on the worst of the urban trash I could find? Made sense to me, at the time.

My heart thumping blood and adrenaline through my veins. My breath like the music at a 90s rave, drums pacing faster and faster. Fighting was a bit like sex, that nervousness and excitement and confusion all at once.

The kid’s fist was headed to my face and I ducked away. Wow, like a movie! With his torso open I pushed him by his shoulders into the wall.

The buoyant energy didn’t last. Faster than I could react a quicker punch connected. Bang! Flash of feeling into the middle of my face. I could feel his brown ashy knuckle against my cartiledge, a split-second of lightening over black, and enormous pressure in my skull.

“Ow! Fuck!”

I grabbed my face and fell back. In what was no doubt a comical addition, I fell down on my ass, which was already a sore area. “Ow ow ow ow!” I yelled as the blood escaped.

“Fucking asshole!” I heard, and felt a kick in my ribs interrupt the darkness. I couldn’t breath.

But they were merciful enough not to add anything. And their train was coming anyhow, we could all feel the wind.

“Fuck this guy. I’m getting out of here.” I heard. I opened my eyes and watched them walk dragging their drooping hands with one arm while carrying markers with their other. The staring whites and Mexican moms backed out of the way as they headed south, to a destination unknown to me and really I could have cared less.

The hot iron red fell through my finger tips down to my face. It had that metallic taste reminding me of a child chewing on aluminum.

Wash everything away, blood of my blood. Wash away this past and future and most importantly the present. I didn’t want to exist in this, it wasn’t doing me any good. I closed my eyes and pretended I left the planet Earth, to a better place of colors and light and no rules.

When I opened my eyelids back to this stupid world of vision I was still here. I looked at the familiar seat. Surrounded by a new round of patrons, the next batch of people waiting for the Red line going North sitting to the left and Southbound to the right, and at their dirty shoes my backpack was still there. Nobody wanted a rugged bag, there was no fear of theft at all. My clothes and headshots were safe. One last thing buried in the bag, my cell phone with two days left until they shut it off.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I guess I have to give in, I thought. I have to call my mother.

new video by me: Book Report

"Book Report." Enjoy people, number six in my epic filmographies. Somehow inbetween all else I finished another little movie assignment.

Let's constructively criticize shall we? There is good and bad in here, I need to learn, hopefully I can be objective in evaluating myself.

First I'd like to note that I rushed through this ridiculously. I shot it in three hours and edited it in four hours. Perhaps I'd be good at doing 24-hour film projects eh?

I hate DPing. I really hate it. I did not worry about lighting at all, which accounts for speed of the shoot. Usually that's forgivable for something with crappy online resolution. But there are a few cuts that have very terrible lighting continuity errors. No excuses, that was bad.
But the composition is pretty nice, overall. Headroom and leadroom and rule-of-thirds and stuff. I dare say that most it is plenty visual appealing.

I definitely think the editing is great, if I can self-congratulate. You know, usually student films are way too slow-paced and just boring. I don't like that, I want to give in to the ADD MTV generation and cut as quickly as possible. Everything needs to be fast-paced or its not interesting. When I shoot I make specific story boards and always consider the edit. Perhaps its the comic panel similarity, but cutting up a visual story is so much fun to me.

And my actors did a good job, I'd like to thank them for working hard with only a Chipotle meal as compensation. Percy is a pro with lots of experience. His cousin Russell helped out who didn't have experience but did good work. I appreciate their timeliness and listening to instruction and everything. Finding good actors is hard.

Unfortunately, what I didn't take seriously enough in making this movie, was the story. This is what makes it all suffer. Sure its clear and decently structured, this protagonist with a motivation and then conflict via antagonist providing obstacles with a resolution at the end. The initial premise of doing a book report is just not very interesting. There's no way to fix that after the fact, I should have written something better in the first place.

Also, the music. I just used more of Ramsey's music he sent me a while ago. Thanks Ramsey. Thing is, this music is way too good for this little film! I don't know if it fits. At least I didn't steal anything and learned more about original scoring.

Like most of my other stuff, I predict that people involved in film will appreciate what works, but people who don't understand what goes on behind the scenes will not analyze it and go with an immediate first impression. Which is perfectly fair, thats what regular audiences do and thats what we got to learn to deal with. Sadly, that immediate first impression is probably not going to be too kind. Let's see.

At least I finished the assignment and I'm getting through the class. I did my job and everything worked out, and I can complete a task I set out to do. Hopefully for all the flaws I'm getting a little bit better every time.

Bloody hell, I don't even want to be a director. I just want to write. I do write, but somehow my real scripts and my student shorts don't ever overlap.

Enjoy nonetheless.

(by the way, for anyone new, do check out my Youtube for more)

New York Zoning Appropriations (part II)

(Concerning the New York trip of 4/10-4/16)

DAY FOUR

It’s Friday, it’s the weekend, let’s see what the city has to offer. I woke up! Then I went back to sleep. Slept in, a bit ashamed at the night before. Later wandered down and while eating lunch/breakfast I overheard a Jewish guy having political discourse with some European girls.




Ah, my topic of choice. My ears twitched. Zionism, the Jewish question, and the supposed anti-Semitism of Old Europe. These girls were basically saying that its hard to feel sorry for Israel because of how they treat the Palestinians and the Jewish guy was saying that the real reason people criticize Israel is because everyone is secretly racist. I had to chime in. I butted into the conversation and got my kicks criticizing my home country; about the immense foreign aid Israel gets, about the historical rationale for Zionism, poor Israel with their small amount of land, the treatment of Palestinians, about what is really good for Israel, blah blah. And I didn’t play the Sabra card once, nobody’s business, for all they knew I’m just another liberal anti war young college student with no personal stake.

Really, politics is such ridiculous subject matter when one takes it too seriously. The world is screwed up and there’s always going to be suffering as long as humanity exists as territorial primates with hierarchal alpha male political structures. That’s just the way it is and its probably going to be that way forever. All utopian ideologies are terribly naïve. Either humanity completely evolves into something else or it’s never going to end.

But while I choose to toy with a Zionist-type debate, here’s the bottom line point: it just didn’t work. The purported goal of Zionism was to end anti-Semitism by giving the Jews a homeland. Did that succeed? Nope, that went horribly wrong. I cannot say that Jews are safer and racism has ended because they have Israel, I cannot say that at all. And it’s a shame because regardless of history the country is there today now and people should get along. I wish it could be a bi-national state and nobody had to fight over the semantics. But people are stupid and want to kill over pride, over who gets this stupid parch of land. The Arabs are fucking stupid for making such a big deal of it too. I don’t get what hooplah is over, it’s not that great a country. It’s just another dessert where they built some cities and for some reason religious nuts think its special. Get over it.

(And also, some say the goal of Zionism in actuality to about the ‘Jewish Communist Conspiracy’ taking over American and then the world. Even if this was the case, that goal didn’t work out either. Another simplification by the conspiracy theorists. Israel has power but it obviously does not ‘run the world.’ As much influence as the Israeli lobby has over America the Saudi lobby has power too. OPEC and oil play a role on every side of the conflict, for example Greg Palast has written about infighting between the Neo-cons and Big Oil. The System is not as in control of everything as the paranoids think…

Then again, what if the goal of Zionism all along was neverending unresolved conflict? What if the goal was just for the arms industry to sell their crap forever by dragging out the conflict perpetually? Nobody ever really wins, but the F-16s and bombs and Uzis charged to American taxpayers, the terrorist threat looming in the backdrop a constant motivation. That’s probably how it works, sides are taken, but nobody wants to ultimately finish the job, they just want money.)

Anyways, this conversation dragged on for a while. It was rather fun, I love a healthy debate. But everybody had to get going. Funnily enough, I ran into the Swedish girls again, and they were leaving the States soon so they gave me an extra ticket they had to a show at the Natural History museum. How nice. I went to the museum, which I think was mostly free, and this ticket being specifically for a planetarium show. I remember planetariums being pretty lame when I was a kid but this one was very interesting. About interstellar collisions, hosted by Robert Redford. Afterwards I still had plenty of time and I looked into what else was available. Dinosaur exhibits!





Nothing cooler than dinosaurs. Upstairs to the Tyrannosaurus and Triceratops skeletons, charts of Sauropod evolution, eggs, and all that. O to be a kid again and be in love with dinosaurs. There was plenty of other stuff at the museum; I wandered for a few hours, and then it closed. I need to go to museums more, I’m such a philistine. I never did end up going to the Guggenheim. Well, I did end up going to a novelty sex museum, but that was later.

Inbetween I looked for a movie theater to kill some time at. I wanted to watch the Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie, I think the movie poster is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I miss cable, I want my Aqua Teen fix. I never did see that film yet but I did see this Japanese movie called ‘The Glamorous Life of Sachiko Hanai.’ It was an… interesting movie. There were funny bits, and plenty weird, about a call girl who is shot in the head and becomes a genius. The villain was a terrorist who cloned George Bush’s finger to press a button for doomsday weapon. Mostly the movie was about , uh, intellectual dirty talk fetish. Like, there were all these sex scenes were the characters discussed existentialist philosophy and rationalism and Noam Chomsky. But it was a pretty shitty produced movie, outside of the novelty of the bizarre it wasn’t very good.



As said, it was Friday night; and I was headed to this rock show I had gotten an email about, ‘Rock and Hard Place’ show at the Crash Mansion on Bowery. I rsvp’d and everything. Friday night this place was really packed. Some good bands played. One band, the Press, made a particular impact as they all played in their underwears. And their music was great too, I’ll have to look up their web page or something.

New York has the most beautiful girls in the world. Much better than L.A. And obviously preferable to the overweight Midwest. The ‘hipster scene’ there or whatever, is filled with so many amazing girls. And they seem real, they seem less pretentious than over here. Deep L.A. has plenty of ugly people (if I can be so judgmental) but even at some nicer O.C. beach in the summer the skinny hot girls don’t seem very interesting. Empty bodies, no brains. New York girls seem so cute and intelligent all at once. Of all the places I’ve traveled to in my times I say that New York has the best people in the world. Not just beautiful ladies but sincere nice people who will tell you to fuck off with honesty as well as sincere moments of kindness (NOT like fake L.A.), intelligent humans with something to add to the world. But maybe I just idealize because I’m not there.

So I tried to talk to a few girls at the show, but not to much avail. After the last band performed the DJ played some shitty music, and nobody was dancing anyhow. So I left.

DAY FIVE

Saturday, what a day. My time was up at the hostel and when I went down to rebook they were filled up. Dammit, frustrating. I called the Chelsea hostel and they seemed helpful. But when I went down there they said I had to wait until 2 to get a room. I did some laundry there, very necessary, and that quite lessened the weight in my bookbag. What to do to kill time?

Marguerite told me about an anarchist convention thing at a church in Washington Park. So I went over there. Interesting stuff, all these little publishers selling books and talking about upping the system. As stated, I’m a bit over upping the system. But its nice to see these people mustering up energy I don’t have (assuming it makes any bit of difference at all, assuming their point of view has any objective reality, assuming I’m not an apathetic waste, assumptions awry). Although, there were quite a bit of Marxists there, rather disturbing. How can communists who believe in strong central government be anarchists anyways, that never made sense to me? I’ve still got that Libertarian memetic indoctrination in me.

My big prediction is that global anarcho-capitalism is the future. But it’s not something I necessarily believe in, not something I want. Its going to suck and a lot of people are going to suffer. But it’s the lesser evil against all tyrannical government systems, that being no government at all, and we seem to be at a crossroads of one or the other. Global anarcho-capitalism will at least force us to evolve. Hopefully we don’t destroy the environment in the meantime and the planet survives, which all I can do about that is have blind faith that it will. This isn’t really something to fight for, something to revolution over. Just a prediction and a hint of cynical optimism. Fighting for revolution is stupid. I hate to say but that’s what history has taught me. All revolutions throughout history have failed and either compromised to a slightly better but still plenty fucked (mainly America) or having the post-feudal system becoming far worse than the one before (first French then Russian and all subsequent communist overthrows…)



Nevertheless, fun to see all these wacky anarchists. I talked to one publisher, networking la la, and gave him my comic. Need to email that guy with some of my prose and see what happens. (I brought a few copies of my comic but didn’t find as many people to give them to as I’d like. All that work for what? Well, once I get a cover and find the motivation to do some more. I’ll start a minicomic series of my own. Skylight books over in Los Feliz even said they’d consign, and that’s a great start. But a topic for another day…) One booth apparent was for the Freegans. Freegans, I hear, are vegan squatters who are against food waste so they dumpster dive for food. They claim its healthy and were giving out free samples but I declined. Some of these really hardcore activists didn’t smell so good by the way. Nice up the system technique, but I’m too judgmental and stuck in my patterns to be so hard up as to eat trashed food. I’m sure one day it will come to that but not right now. And there were some Brazilian performance artists in bloody pornographic outfits, among some panels, but I didn’t stay long. The whole ordeal reminded me of a small comic convention. It would be nice to fit in with some of these hardcore outcasts, but I guess I’m outcast enough I don’t like mainstream society but see so much of the counter-culture as full of it too. Either they’re poser phonies or naïve true believers, either way it’s not for me. They just seem to try too hard for no change, posturing about how much integrity they have but nothing matters. You can’t win in my cynical system huh? I’m upset with society for accepting so much stupidity, and I’m against the phoniness of working towards change. I’m against compromise and I’m against apathy, I’m suspicious of passion and weary of acceptance. All I can do at this point is observe for observation’s sake and believe in nothing. That can be fun. In fact, that should be the true artist’s way.





I went back gay scene Chelsea at the hostel and put my clothes in the dryer, and it seemed I was rather lucky to get a room. The girl working there was from Long Beach and she was saw my license and was like “now I have to give you a room.” Lucky me. 34 dollars plus ten deposit, I had a bed. Only one more night to book and I would finally be done worrying about finding a place to sleep. If all else failed I knew I could go back to the Brooklyn hostel which would never fill up. But that would be a bad idea on the day of my flight because if my stuff got locked out again I could miss my plane. But the next day I did fine, so no worries.



I went back to the anarchist show for a bit but it was played out and I looked for other activities. Noticing an interesting flyer I looked into this Kink sex museum. Only ten dollars with student ID, I checked it out. It was interesting but kind of stupid. More or less it was a pornography museum. They had a gallery on fetishism and a gallery on the history of porn. A lot of people just went there for the joke novelty, I could tell. Porn-wise, some nice education on the history and genres, most of it gross, but some of it rather hot. There were plenty of girls there, one particular girl I remember sitting down watching an explicit educational film on erotic massage, and I never did talk to her or anyone else there. At that kind of place, a bit creepy.

But still, filled with the emerging lifeforce of a perverted depraved energy, I scoured the city for something else to do. Flipping through the back pages of the Village Voice





[censored]





Feeling weird but still journeying ahead I walked about. Went to the Manhattan Mall for a bit, then Time’s Square again, Rockefeller center area (where Fox News is), ate, thought about seeing a comedy show but never did, looked into seeing that Aqua Teen movie around Time’s Square but the theaters there were too crowded and it sold out too early. It was all too crowded over there on the weekend, and I was so sick of that place by then. I checked out the Village again looking at some clubs but they all had twenty dollar cover charges and seemed to high-class for me. Getting late, I took the train to Brooklyn and wanted to go back to that bar from my first day and see if there was any fun to be had. Well, I tried but Brooklyn trains are trickier. It’s not as congested so when I tried to transfer to the next train I couldn’t find the other station and went the opposite direction. I gave up and just went back to my room, called it a night.





DAY SIX

This day sucked! I woke up and it was raining so damn harsh outside. I tried to persevere and went out. This was probably the worst weather I’ve been in my entire life. Karma punishing me? It was ice cold and my shoes weren’t too good. I thought maybe the rain would let up like on Thursday but it didn’t. The endless downpour of cold water everywhere. My shoes weren’t too good (I need to buy new shoes so desperately) and my socks were soaked. I went to Washington Park again because I thought the anarchist thing was continuing but apparently I was wrong and nothing was going on there. It was so utterly ridiculous outside (I ain’t used to this! I was made for tropical regions, I though I moved away from the cold dammit), I was in such horrible pain from the cold all I could do was laugh. I was even scared that my cell phone and electronic stuff in my pocket, iPod & camera etc., would break from the water but luckily they didn’t. Which is a miracle, I totally felt like the equivalent of just jumping into a pool and stepping out. Eventually had to go back and stay indoors. I took a hot shower and hung my clothes to dry. I just washed them and now they were so messed up.



There was nothing to do but read and play Game Boy. I talked to these mook British guys I was staying in a room with, they were okay guys but not terribly interesting. Later I went to the halls at the hostel, paid to get online for a little while. Just drinking some coffee in the kitchen and hanging out, and there was a British girl named Nicci there I got to talking to. British accents are so cute! Not that I have such intentions, or do I. There wasn’t much to do so we just talked for a time. She was visiting from a small town in England with a friend (I always assume all British people are crazy Londoners cause that’s my experience, but it really isn’t the case). One funny thing is they were going to rent a car and drive all the way to Los Angeles for their trip. Nicci, and her friend Claire, seemed very cool. Perhaps we’ll stay in touch and I’ll show her around this half of American in the months to come. We exchanged phone numbers and email and all that. I even gave them a copy of my comic. They seemed a bit impressed that I’m a writer, or at least profess to be (I still feel a bit embarrassed to label myself ‘a writer’). Maybe I should play the ‘I wrote a novel’ card more often to impress girls eh. Yeah right.



Later on when the rain was just a little bit better I walked to a nearby theater and saw Year of the Dog, the one with Molly Shannon in it, directed by the writer of the Good Girl. It was okay but sometimes indie movies are not very well made. A lot of it could have been shot way better, like way too many symmetrical conversations far too dull. Hell, over-the-shoulder shots anyone? For me it’s difficult to get lost in the story because I think too much about beat shifts and composition and lighting consistency editing pace and all that. Seriously, taking film classes and then even seeing real sets totally destroys the illusion of enjoying film. You can’t just turn off your brain to watch and enjoy, you’re too aware of the hundred people standing behind the camera. Oh well. I still enjoyed it for all its flaws. At least the movie, while cynically self-mocking, overall had a nice pro-vegetarian message.



I texted that girl (her phone was Americanized for her stay or something) but we never did meet up for drinks and I had to get to sleep early anyways. My last night in New York and tomorrow morning I had to get to the airport on time.

DAY SEVEN



Not much to tell. Only woke up checked out commuted to LaGuardia. Goodbye New York. My flight was delayed a little bit cause of the weather but I survived. Read more of Neuromancer, glad Wintermute and the Neuromancer A.I. got a happy ending but I wish Molly didn’t disappear and I hope Case will be alright though I didn’t understand the whole 3Jane thing very well. The Zelda game I got stuck on and didn’t continue it until I could get to the internet to cheat with a walkthrough guide. So I read and listened to my music and ate overpriced airport food. Southwest sucks by the way for not giving you any food, not even snacks. My ear-popping wasn’t so bad this go around, perhaps I’m getting more used to it. Transferred in Chicago, I guess O’Hare change their name to Midway or something, and back to LA. California, my adopted home country. And it was kind of cold but nowhere near New England. (I have never been to New York in a warmer time of year, perhaps next time.) At night the green line to blue line took so freakin long and I didn’t get home until pretty late. I’m getting sick of public transportation here, especially after comparing it to New York’s, I need to get a car. But I can’t now, I already spent all my money.

CONCLUSION

So now I’m back home. What to do. Had to go to school immediately the day after and start editing my movie that I’m turning in late, had to half-ass study for some tests, had to go back to the grime of work. Same old same old.

So what was ultimately the point? Just to go somewhere for the sake of going somewhere and experiencing some things just for the sake of experience? I guess that’s a worthy endeavor.

I do love New York. This was the longest I’ve ever been there; a whole week, and I witnessed a lot of the city. (I do regret I didn’t see any comedy or theatre or whatnot, but then again if I really want to there’s plenty of that in LA) Perhaps one day when I make more money and times are a bit more stable (or then again perhaps another day when I still make no money and life still makes no sense) I will ultimately move there. Yet what’s the big deal, geography doesn’t matter so much anymore. New York isn’t what it once was. You know, people write that the art scene might be moving out of New York and it’ll never be the clubbin 90s or the Warholian 70s ever again. The thing is, geography isn’t so important any more, not just in New York (or LA) but everywhere and nowhere. Mass media tech is making it rather irrelevant. You don’t have to live in New York to be on the cusp of cultural evolution or even live in LA to make movies; the internet is putting all of us on a more leveled playing field. It’s getting more and more virtual, you can do anything anywhere, and community sure isn’t so important. For now New York definitely still has the best creative energy, but who knows how relevant that will be in the future.

New York is as good a place as anywhere else, I would prefer it, but why do I want to keep moving? I don’t even know why I spent all this money on this trip, really and honestly what the specific point was. What am I searching for? I’m lost people, I’m very lost. Searching for some kind of meaning in existence that I’m not finding here, and I tried my hand somewhere else. It’ll probably never manifest, meaning is just a phantom. It’s not like I had any romantic adventure, just wandering about observing what I could find, but even if I did make some kind of real human connection what would it ultimately mean? Whatever, no sense overthinking the process. All is done, continue forth. And once again, the time comes for reinvention and a focus of will. I’ve got a lot to do, I’ve got to catch up, the future waits for no one but me, maybe you, slugging along, a gravity to escape, a shooting on the news, reality so real, perception so important, goodnight and carry on.

New York timez pt. 1

I have survived my travels back and forth between the coasts of this so-called great land. (Oh it’s plenty great all right, but we must all question clichés now and again.) What do I really have to show for it? Not much. Just a bundle of neurological memories which may or may not exist, giving me the hallucination of a journey. Little evidence outside my skull. But there is also the matter of money disappearance from the bank, however virtual all moneys are, my unestablished locale from the Long Beach area in those six days, an email printout of a ticket, and those pictures on my camera.

The supposed story of my recent New York travels:



PRELUDE
I’ve been going stir crazy. Matter of fact, I can’t really recall a time when I wasn’t stir crazy. But for six months straight I have not traveled more North than Van Nuys, more South than Mission Viejo, more East than East L.A., or more West than the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I am trapped by gravity, ready to escape to distant lands but only able to drag across short distances. The last time I went anywhere far was a drive to San Francesco and even that isn’t so far.

School was bugging me. I just let myself get overwhelmed too easily, and for what? It’s all meaningless in the end. Don’t let me sound so morbid, it’s a fun ride and I suggest everyone to make the most of their short lives via any and all education. But nothing is worth stressing out over, it’s just a silly human experience. Would that I would follow my own advice. School and work are easy, even with the handicap of no car, but it’s mainly just the issue of film class. This is a tired subject I’ve gone over, but for the benefit of any new readers, suffice it to say that everytime I have taken a film class for the past two years I have gone through a period of immense self-doubt and am constantly on the verge of dropping the class though sheer overwhelmingness. And in the end I make a few short crappy yet moderately hopeful movies, and life goes on. Well, there I was again. Questioning why I do what I do, what is the point, I’m no good, I’m trash, you’re better, no scratch that you suck, everything is rot, nevermind it’s all okay. Along the lines. Actually, in the end, I got a camera and I got actors and I even got ideas, and the shooting commenced in one short half-day. Matter of fact, earlier I was at the school editing lab finishing it up my little piece, albeit late, but better than never, so they say.

And Spring Break approacheth. This must be seized! I had to get out of Long Beach, by any means. Luckily I got a few hundred dollars from tax season, but more importantly I got a few very nice checks from the state’s financial aid department. Oh to finally be an official resident of California, making it all worthwhile. I researched places to go. Tokyo. Amsterdam. Hawaii. London. I wanted to go somewhere very far away and somewhere I’ve never been. But in the end I only had so much money and so many international contacts, so instead I *settled* for New York. Not that one settles for New York, that is the town of towns. The archetypal American city that defines all else. If I must stay within the continental U.S., that’s the place worth going. Revisit old haunts and discover some new ones. 314 dollars spent on Expedia.com and thusly decided; no turning back. I organized the days off work, caught up on what I could: (Sunday was Easter and no work for once, helped me to catch up) watched my Netflix, wrote my story until I reached ten thousand words, read my comics, showered, shaved, laundered, packed, mailed some letters, workout one more time (argh I’ve been so bloaty lately, not right), cashiered a relaxed Monday shift, and forced myself to fall asleep at early early early by midnight that hazy Monday.



DAY ONE

My spiritual journey of running away in search of here begins. I woke up at 6 and actually didn’t fall back asleep. Really, it’s not so hard to wake up early when there is something important to be done. It’s that tricky self-motivation, when nothing is scheduled but I want to be productive, that usually amounts to me sleeping until noon. But not today. I caught the bus down PCH and went to the train stop, up North on the Blue Line then West on the Green Line. Made fairly good time; only took abouts an hour to get to LAX. I am not a fan of airports. Waiting in line is the pits. At least I have my iPod. Hate to be bored. Had my novel too.



The book I brought with me was Neuromancer by William Gibson. I read it when I was 18 or so years back, and to be honest I barely understood it. The first cyberpunk book y’know, but written in such intense technical language besides the stylistic approach. This go-around I followed the plot better but it was still tricky. All the week on airplanes in mid-air and subways underground I picked at the book until I was done, but it was not easy. Other entertainment that helped: my new Gameboy Advance that Adrian bought me was put to great use. I beat the Naruto game, though it wasn’t so hard, and started my adventures in Zelda: the Minish Cap. Also brought my sketchpad that I only used on three occasions. And I brought a notebook in case any bits of creative inspiration lightninged into my skull while I was in the creative center of the universe; and I sadly didn’t get any writing done. My new story comes slowly. Mostly though, the iPod was best for alleviating boredom. I refuse to be bored you see, I require constant media bombardment at all times, otherwise the thoughts become unbearable. ADD is a wonder.

So now I learn they take away your waterbottles and toothpaste in airports these days. I had my special Tom of Maine toothpaste no fluoride poison, now I had to but evil Aquafresh. It wasn’t even whitening. Still, I’m sure I’ll survive. Overpriced waterbottles also a factor. I had to buy quite a few waterbottles this trip because orangey New York tap water does not need to be in my system.



Waiting around in the airport. I hope that the future of our society is not being foreshadowed in the form of airports. The constant loudspeakers of “report anyone suspicious, do not leave bags unattended”, must have your tickets available, hyperintense security, take off your shoes, workers have photo I.D. at all times. Imagine if a mall was the same experience as an airport. That might be the fascistic future we face. I hope not.



As for the plane ride, once the lines and security waiting commenced, I don’t like flying either. I’m rather sensitive, and not just emotionally so, but my skull is sensitive to air pressure. My ears pop and then next day I can’t hear anything and its just no fun at all. Oh well, the price we pay for convenient cross-country transportation. When we layed over in Chicago, and there appeared to be an overbooking. They asked for volunteers to give up their seats for later flights and get 400 dollar vouchers. I thought about it and concluded it might be fun to stay the night in Chicago. Hell, I had no specific appointments it wouldn’t matter where I was as long as not home. I volunteered and had to wait until we boarded to know for sure. While waiting around I called my ailing great Aunt Gloria who recently moved to Chicago, but it was probably too last minute to organize a dinner or anything. And when the flight was boarded they didn’t ask for me so I guess the overbooking wasn’t an issue after all.

Finally, landing in LaGuardia! I lost three hours going East, it was now nighttime. Yet another thing that sucks about flying is that it takes all damn day, and you pretty much have to minus that day from doing anything other than traveling. From LaGuardia I caught the bus to the train taking it down to Brooklyn. 24 dollars for a Metro Card unlimited for a week (and that’s what you pay for gasoline per week at the least). 24-hour trains, I love New York.



There was a hostel I found out about online and I rather like Brooklyn so I checked it out. The day before I called and they said reservations wouldn’t be necessary. When I got to the address circa 11:20 it was a bar. Huh? Only a Tuesday night and they were totally crowded. I talked to them and sure enough they had a hostel upstairs. So I paid and got a key and went up. They didn’t seem to take the hostel aspect of their establishment very seriously, it wasn’t that nice a place, but the bar part seemed fun. The Cherry Tree, for future reference. I went upstairs to the third floor and caught my bearings for a moment, letting my stuffed bookbag drop to the ground, away from my tired back. I only brought what I could fit in one reasonably sized bag, I needed to travel light and most of all I hate waiting at the baggage claim. I was tired but then again it was thee hours earlier in my time, so I contemplated what to do. Should I take a shower and get the airline grime of me? Or should I go down and drink the night away while the moment was sill opportune? I put off cleanliness and went downstairs.

A cute bartender called me by my name, apparently noting me when they took my ID for the hostel stuff. Well that seemed a good sign. I talked to her, Annie (and half-Asian!) and she introduced me to a friend of hers (less cute) who was moving to California. An agent girl who works in comedy moving to Malibu, and there was nice conversation. Actually, I spent a lot of time in New York talking to people about LA. It was a bit disconcerting, the whole point is to get away from all this, but the topic of LA kept coming up. Like I’m such an expert, like this is my true home. But everybody used to live here or is interested or whatever. And constantly talking about the film industry too, another of my moderate expertise but I thought I was running away from it. Talking and talking, LA and what is God and some stream-of-consciousness writing with another fellow, and buying alcohol and buying alcohol, it was rather fun. New York bars, you do know, are open (legally) until 4! Eventually I checked out a bar across the street, a bit more chill there. Had more conversation with another LA-related girl named Annie. Of course cards were exchanged. This was a nice pep talk, drunken inspirationalisms on how easy it is to just move to New York and this is where you need to be. I must agree, it is easier than we think. I know its expensive there, but I talked to one musician fellow about 500 dollar rents in Hollywood and he said he paid less than that in Brooklyn (albeit probably sharing it with ten roommates), but is fucking doable. Perhaps if I want to be such an inspired artist I do need to move there already. Give me time.

I ended up staying at the other bar until 5 and I was damn drunkenly exhausted. I’m not very good at drinking, I must admit. Then when I went back I was locked out, though knocking at the bar did let me in. But then I found out that I was locked out of my room too! What a rip, some crazy woman locked herself in there. I slept somewhere else but I was scared for my bag and mostly scared for my charging iPod.

DAY TWO

Wednesday morning, lovely comicbook day, and I woke up after six hours. Much of this trip was a good training exercise, I drank way too much, I didn’t sleep enough, and I didn’t eat too good either. So I went up to go to my room and I was still locked out. What the fuck?! This lady that locked herself in there was some kind of bitch. I waited so long knocking while she was in there talking on the phone and ignoring me. This whole setup of the hostel was weird; the keys worked on some rooms but the main entrance was locked and I couldn’t do anything about it. Eventually she left and I got my stuff. I tried to shower but there was no hot water, further frustrations. I was not going to stay at this hostel any longer. I checked out and went to another reserve place I’d heard about in Chelsea.



Took the train there, finally in Manhattan. This other hostel cost four dollars more but it was nicer, and I finally got to shower. I wandered about Chelsea and Union Square and East Village, going to an occult bookstore recommended (but it was more of a New Age bookstore but that’s okay). Eventually I called Marguerite and asked what there was to do. Marguerite was my only contact in the city. Jeremy didn’t end up meeting with me, lazy-ass stuck in the Midwest. Rushkoff and no other famous writers wanted to hang out, and thus I was mostly alone. I knew Marguerite from Myspace and the last time I was in the city we met. And she’s a bit political into the 9-11 activism scene.



Being the 11th, the New York 9-11 Truthers had a tiny rally to organize. I met with Marguerite and followed these guys through the city into Time’s Square. Time’s Square, by the way, I’m so tired of and don’t want to see again. Tourist BS that I saw too much of (just like Hollywood blvd but bigger and shinier and emptier. At least Hollywood blvd has dancing and ghetto). As for the 9-11 Truth movement… I don’t know. What’s really the point. I think most Americans these days really do accept that the 9-11 attacks where an inside job and our government covered something up and they lie to us everyday to get us into wars. Everybody knows but we’re still apathetic. But what does non-apathy bring? I don’t know. A doze guys in Time’s Square yelling “9-11 was an inside job!” and passing out flyers and Infowars.com links, well it’s nice but what does it really do? I tried to be nice and hand out flyers, but it felt so insincere. I didn’t fit in with these people. And I really have come to the conclusion recently that while that the NWO obviously exists and the world is manipulated differently from behind the scenes via intelligence agencies and occult secret societies and international banking and what have you, I just don’t think they’re as omnipotent as they are portrayed to be. I think they are having lots of internal problems and always have. They fuck up the world domination plans all the time and that’s just the only conclusion I can make if I’m going to be optimistic about the future of this planet. Anyways, I’m happy to talk about the issues if someone approaches me, and that’s the only way anyone learns anything is if they want to learn it, but I can’t be part of shoving a point of view down people’s throats. Ultimately activism is a one-way statement directed inwards, its all about ‘look at me, look what I stand for.’ But most people ignore it and it doesn’t do much to change minds. It’s interesting though that these conspiracy theories are now a permanent fixture on the city, all over the place you see stickers and flyers.

Perhaps I’m just a lazy American and I’m responsible for the blood on my government’s hands. Maybe. But I can’t help being tired of fighting the invisible. It’s not a denial of information, I fully support everyone being made as aware as possible. But to let the horrible suffering reality of the world drive up your being… it’s just not something I want to do. I’d rather be a little bit stupid and focus more on my own nonsense than worry so much about the problems of the world. I’m sorry.

Anyways, I’ve been growing more skeptical lately. The more one researches this New World Order/Illuminati stuff one has the choice of being a hardcore paranoid or a hardcore agnostic (to paraphrase Robert Anton Wilson). I’ve been getting more and more agnostic. The memetics behind our thinking, the psychologies and the immense selectivity of our perceptions, it’s so much more subjective than we think it is. People believe anything and they just don’t respond to logic. Sure it’s obvious to say about the brainwashed masses. But this too includes the ‘truth-seekers’ and you and ME. It does. How do I know anything is real, any information source not suspect, anything in this universe as an objective reality? Some lies are obvious, but the subtle ones are all-pervading too. Bottom line: light is both a particle and a wave and I’m not fit to explain that, so why should I believe in anything to the point of letting it stress me out? Really.



One cool thing about the little rally was meeting Marguerite’s friend Marshall, this lawyer guy, very intelligent. It’s rare to meet challenging minds. We all went out for pizza and drinks through the night, and had the best conversation. Not just on no-plane theories and Bohemian Grove population control, but all about the nature of selective reality and RAW shit and cyberpunk literature as a model for new post-government society. (and I really do believe in the coming global anarcho-capitolist future. Fuck governments, it was a stupid idea whose time has come. Let’s privatize everything and learn to be adult human beings who take responsibilities for ourselves. Remember, mass media tech is human evolution, the military industrial complex is burning itself out and farewell to good riddance. I could be wrong though.)



Afterwards I went back to the bar in Brooklyn. It was emptier. I talked to Annie and I don’t think that was going anywhere. Another lovely strikeout for Ray! I guess part of her bartending flirty tip-getting talents is being really good with names. Still, I gave her a card.

DAY THREE

I had to wake up at the early hour of 10:30 to make it to an appointment with a psychic healer. Yeah, that’s right. My Dad is all excited about this healer character Zeev Coleman, an Israeli guy that supposedly went to the mountains where Moses was or something. Nevermind that Moses didn’t literally exist, he’s just a character. My Dad went to him before for healing and said it worked, that he got a weird mystical ‘tingly’ feeling.



First of all, when I woke up I wanted to rebook another night but they said I couldn’t. That sucked, I had to take my bag with all my stuff before finding another place. So I went uptown near where Central Park starts and all the tall buildings are, and I went to Coleman’s office. It was raining, cold horrible painful rain, and I bought an umbrella from a street vendor that soon turned inside out permanently broke the cheap piece of crap. But I made it to the office building and met this Coleman guy. They put on a stupid dvd and then Coleman took me to his room. He and his assistant seemed like nice enough people, an older Israeli guy. Maybe I’m prejudiced against Israelis (especially myself), but I usually get a bad vibe from all of them. He interviewed me first and I was kind of giving the whole situation a chance, opening up to him a bit. Talking about problems with women and being stressed and money and how I want to have more energy if I’m going to become a motivated writer. He said that he would help me with confidence. He gave me some obvious advice on jobs and goals, nothing too profound. At this point in the interview it seemed like he was squirming, like he wasn’t sure what to make of me. Coleman remembered my Dad who is a believer, but I was more skeptical. I talked about meditation but I didn’t care what he saw of my aura. One thing he said was that 2012 will be a good year for me. Oh, I replied, like the Mayan calendar end of the world thing? And he had no idea what I was talking about. Yep, at this point I concluded this guy does not have mystical ability and did not have occult education. He even name-dropped Barbara Streisand as a client of his like I’m supposed to be impressed, which is just hideously lame.

I laid down on and he did a simple hypnosis technique. You’re relaxing, you’re going down the elevator, everything is happy. It was so stupid. ‘You’re good with the girls, you are confidence’ he said in his Ivrit accent. It was all just so silly. I think he used a feather or something to generate a tingly sensation (the one my Dad thought was so amazing). Basically what this ordeal amounted to was the equivalent of taking yoga classes at Cincinnati State community college. After class we’d lie down and the teacher would narrate relaxation exercises. It’s the same thing, its very simple guided meditation. Some psychics believe their psychics and some are knowingly devious. I hate to be such a pessimistic skeptic, but I think Zeev Coleman is knowingly a bullshit artist ripping people off. I think he knows he’s full of it and just does anything to take people’s money. Them Israelis, and I hate to stereotype, but I keep coming across this. I just don’t want to know how much my Dad paid for this thing.

My father has always had no idea on how to help me in anything. He has always been completely clueless. Problems could always be solved with drugs, be it Ritalin or Prozac (with his fucking junkie background, he has no right to be a parent), or hospital lockup for head problems, and the bare minimum was all required through high school and early twenties, and it was all just a waste. Did he really think seeing this psychic was going to help me in anything? I’m sorry Dad, I know you mean well, but you just have no idea what’s going on sometimes. I mean, my father always loved me and worked hard and meant to do the best, but he just did it all so badly most of the time. Although when I was broke and he paid my rent that time… that was really cool. But as an adult that era needs to be over, I do not need my parents for anything. In my more cynical days sometimes I think that people like my parents should be sterilized by the government, they just shouldn’t be allowed to breed and project all their problems onto the next generation. But that’s just a defeatist attitude in blaming my faults on my Dad, I need to force myself to stop thinking that way. No more whining about my childhood. The only thing I have a right to be resentful for is that I wasn’t raised multi-lingual, everything else I can deal with grownup.

Anyways, I ate lunch/breakfast and proceeded to call some other hostels. I ended up going to one way Uptown on 103rd, and when I got there they let me pay for two nights. At least for one day I wouldn’t have to worry. This was a big hostel more like a hotel but dorm beds and I hung out for a while. I bought an international phone card and called Adrian, always good to hear from that cat. Ilana called me too, apparently she needs some money, and I happily have to give it to her. Such is family. I met some guy at my room, a bit creepy, who wanted to impart all his wisdom of New York to me. He was going to show me around East Village and Greenwich Village but I got tired of waiting for him and left, which was a relief because I did not really want to hang out with him.



Ah the Village, the great counter-cultural nexus from which all others spawned. I went back to familiar St. Mark’s Street and walked back and forth. Walked up to where the Korova Milk Bar was but it wasn’t any more. Then headed west and checked Greenwich Village and that NYU area and new fun clubs to scope. One interesting tidbit, I stopped at a comic store to see what was new this week and Optic Nerve finally came out this year. It really is a beautiful comic. I wrote Adrian Tomine a letter and just out of curiosity I checked the back page… lo and behold he printed an excerpt from my letter. I told the teller at the comic store but they didn’t seem to care much (and I think the girl that worked there didn’t like me because maybe I creepily stayed in the pornography section for too long, but dangit only in New York does every comic store have a porn section to browse through) It’s only an indie comic and Tomine isn’t so famous, but it is always pretty cool to see you’re name in print. Go buy Optic Nerve 11 and see. Although, it’s a pretty dumb letter, now that I mention it I’m embarrassed. I didn’t expect him to print it!

I continued around this new Greenwich Village area. One time I pronounced it “Greeen-wich” but that just shows my bumpkinness, its ‘grehn-ich’. Hung around Washington Park and wandered into an NYU building. That campus is really interesting in that its so urban in the middle of the city; most schools are too open-spaced. There were some girls selling pizza raising charity money and I bought some pizza. I wanted to make some New York friends and talked to them for a while, and one girl was a film major too. But I sensed I was being annoying and eventually gave up. Next it was time for dancing. I killed some time hopping in from bar to bar on MacDougal street; I was waiting until it was late. I had read about some nightclubs in New York and I wanted to check one out in the area. Once it was dark and I was tipsy enough I went there and danced for a few hours. Only five bucks cover charge though it was mostly empty. I drank way too many appletinis and White Russians, and while the blazing techno music was nice while I moved, as soon as I sat down for a moment I felt so sick. I felt awful and called it a night at only 1.

Here’s where it gets a bit gross. Inside a subway station I vomited on myself a little bit. Later on I tried to wash my jacket but most of the time it didn’t smell too good. While traveling North from the village I had to transfer around Time’s Square to get back uptown. So I decided to appropriate a pornography store while I was good and inebriated.




[censored]




I wish I hadn’t vomited on myself.


to be continued...