Are you guys enjoying this? Hating it? How's the tone? Dialogue? Critique me. Critique meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
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Ambrose was not happy. He was also tired, confused, a little thirsty, and felt an overwhelming need to scratch his genitals. This made him more unhappy still because he couldn't seem to move at all. Not intentionally anyway. He felt as if he were floating in sludge. He was breathing, the thick nothingness filling his lungs. He felt as if he were moving slowly, but constantly; Spinning in place like a planet revolving in orbit. He tried to look around, but all he could see was pure darkness. Everything was black.
He was about to give up straining his eyes against the all encompassing nothingness he lay in when a speck of color appeared off in the distance. Straining anew, he managed to force a stop to his unintentional revolutions in the air and focused his eyes on the speck, concentrating on it harder than he could remember concentrating on anything since his fascination with Jillian Earl's ass in 9th grade. The main difference here, he thought to himself, was that the speck was coming rapidly closer, instead of making every effort to get as far away as possible.
Itchy genitals forgotten, Ambrose concentrated still harder. He pushed his feet down hard, willing them to find something vaguely solid to support him. After a moment of kicking and stumbling through the unsupportive thickness of the void, he steadied himself and began walking, one step at a time towards the speck. He felt that it was like learning to walk all over again, with each and every movement carefully considered and specifically ordered by his conscious mind. Left. Right. Left. Right. The next left caught itself in the darkness. He imagined it was like an old horror movie and some hideous sea creature was yanking on his ankle. Quickly forgetting the thought- more a result of his attention span than any intentional effort to calm his nerves, Ambrose stuck his arms straight out to the sides like a tight rope walker and continued plodding slowly towards the speck.
And Ambrose walked. And he walked. Then he ran. Then he paused to catch his breath. Then he walked some more. And after the almost unendurable two and a half minutes during which he trekked towards the speck, he stopped again and suddenly he knew that the incredible torture he'd been put through for such a great length of time meant that he must be home free, his debts paid in full, paradise awaiting him, as represented by the speck. The speck, he realized, while catching his breath, wasn't so much a speck as it was an unearthly beautiful woman, dressed only in a flowing silken robe that shone in almost the same manner she did, and consequently gave her an appearance of near nakedness despite the fact that she was carefully covered with two layers. In one hand, the woman held a stick, which she kept stuck out low to the darkness in front of her. In the other hand, she held a leash. A leash for the glowing, heavenly dog Ambrose could now see with her.
Ambrose didn't realize how close to him she was until she stopped short. "Ambrose D'Agosto?" She asked him, giving the distinct impression she knew the answer would be affirmative. "Justice. Charmed, I'm sure." Ambrose wasn't sure if she was charmed to meet him, or if she was simply stating that she was sure he was charmed by her. He felt the latter more likely. His suspicions on the subject were certainly confirmed when she added "Please don't come any closer. I may be blind, but I can smell perfectly well and my lunch is happy where it is.” Ambrose had to admit that he preferred his anthropomorphic personifications of ephemeral ideals feisty. “I’ve come to deliver the message you deserve to hear."
Ambrose stared at her hungrily looking her up and down, but being an instinctive creature that he was focused on something he could more reasonably obtain than a Goddess. "What did you eat?"
"What?" Justice's lips quivered, as if trying to remember how to frown after an eternity of never seeing it done.
"For lunch? What did you eat? Personally, I'm starving."
"If you must know, I had a Rueben, Sour Cream and Onion potato chips and an iced green tea. Thirteen dollars. Can you believe it? Let me tell you, there's no justice in Manhattan. It's such bullshit."
"Life is." Ambrose agreed, nodding sagely. Mostly he was just looking for an excuse to examine the woman before him from as many angles as possible.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Night of the Living Debt Part II
“So how was your vacation?” Roy Baumann Jr. asked.
“Eh.” Duane knew that Roy traveled constantly. Two semesters abroad, 4 honey moons with three different women, each to a different place. Travel for work. Two vacations a year. And he still acted like a little kid. Roy never stopped talking about any of it. Where he went last time. Where he’d go next. Why everyone else was wrong to go to the Cape, the Grand Canyon, Hawaii, the Parthenon, the Great Wall or anywhere else they chose to go because he’d undoubtedly been there (twice) and realized it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Life would be nice, thought Duane, if I were the CEO’s son. But Duane had worked hard for everything he’d ever had. He slowly crawled his way up the ladder. When elbow grease and connections weren’t enough, cheating, lying, and blackmailing had pushed the odds in his favor. However, if he was ever going to have the luxury that Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons, the city’s largest importer of fancy European cigars and foodstuffs had, he couldn’t waste time on idle chatter. Any indication that he’d tolerate a conversation with Roy could set him back on his current project by a week.
“So why Reno? I went there once. No, twice. Once with Julia and once…twice with Cindy. So three times, I guess. Anyway, Cindy. My little Cinderella. My princess. What a woman. What a whore. She was right about Reno, though. I only took her the second time to annoy her. You know what she said to me? She said ‘What can you possibly do in Reno you can’t do better in Vegas?’” It was classic Roy. His fat cheeks practically blotted out his eyes as he smiled at his companion, causing Duane to feel a little nauseous. Duane was not pleased with that. He didn’t care to risk losing his expensive lunch. Duane had always been a quick learner, though. As a kid, his family was very fond of telling him about the Boy that Cried Wolf. He wasn’t sure why they’d been so fond of that particular tale, but the story had taught him that being honest at select moments was just as crucial, enjoyable, and underhanded as lying at others. When it’s unbelievable, honesty is the best weapon one can have.
“I shot a man just to watch him die.” Duane told his boss in a level voice, staring deeply into the celery of his tuna salad, contemplating the great mysteries of overpriced Manhattan delis.
“Oh.” Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons responded. “Sounds fun.” Duane tossed him his salesman smile and turned his attention back to his lunch, tearing a large bite out almost immediately and smiling, satisfied in the knowledge that he’d be able to enjoy his customary twelve dollar tuna sandwich without interruption for once. He even felt a small, almost orgasmic shiver when he looked back at Roy Baumann Jr. and estimated from the look on the other man’s face that Roy wouldn’t bother him at least until they were halfway back to the office. A small victory, perhaps. But he won, as he always did. That was the important thing.
*
“Eh.” Duane knew that Roy traveled constantly. Two semesters abroad, 4 honey moons with three different women, each to a different place. Travel for work. Two vacations a year. And he still acted like a little kid. Roy never stopped talking about any of it. Where he went last time. Where he’d go next. Why everyone else was wrong to go to the Cape, the Grand Canyon, Hawaii, the Parthenon, the Great Wall or anywhere else they chose to go because he’d undoubtedly been there (twice) and realized it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Life would be nice, thought Duane, if I were the CEO’s son. But Duane had worked hard for everything he’d ever had. He slowly crawled his way up the ladder. When elbow grease and connections weren’t enough, cheating, lying, and blackmailing had pushed the odds in his favor. However, if he was ever going to have the luxury that Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons, the city’s largest importer of fancy European cigars and foodstuffs had, he couldn’t waste time on idle chatter. Any indication that he’d tolerate a conversation with Roy could set him back on his current project by a week.
“So why Reno? I went there once. No, twice. Once with Julia and once…twice with Cindy. So three times, I guess. Anyway, Cindy. My little Cinderella. My princess. What a woman. What a whore. She was right about Reno, though. I only took her the second time to annoy her. You know what she said to me? She said ‘What can you possibly do in Reno you can’t do better in Vegas?’” It was classic Roy. His fat cheeks practically blotted out his eyes as he smiled at his companion, causing Duane to feel a little nauseous. Duane was not pleased with that. He didn’t care to risk losing his expensive lunch. Duane had always been a quick learner, though. As a kid, his family was very fond of telling him about the Boy that Cried Wolf. He wasn’t sure why they’d been so fond of that particular tale, but the story had taught him that being honest at select moments was just as crucial, enjoyable, and underhanded as lying at others. When it’s unbelievable, honesty is the best weapon one can have.
“I shot a man just to watch him die.” Duane told his boss in a level voice, staring deeply into the celery of his tuna salad, contemplating the great mysteries of overpriced Manhattan delis.
“Oh.” Roy Baumann Jr. of Baumann, Baumann and Sons responded. “Sounds fun.” Duane tossed him his salesman smile and turned his attention back to his lunch, tearing a large bite out almost immediately and smiling, satisfied in the knowledge that he’d be able to enjoy his customary twelve dollar tuna sandwich without interruption for once. He even felt a small, almost orgasmic shiver when he looked back at Roy Baumann Jr. and estimated from the look on the other man’s face that Roy wouldn’t bother him at least until they were halfway back to the office. A small victory, perhaps. But he won, as he always did. That was the important thing.
*
Monday, April 11, 2011
Night of the Living Debt Part I
The thick night air was as calm as it was suffocating. The distant lights from the city meant next to nothing so far out in the desert. The two men arguing in the dark could hardly see each other. Ambrose was a tall Nevada native. He looked half cowboy, half hobo and all drunk in his long beige coat, crumpled hat, and shaggy throat beard. Duane was built like a linebacker a foot too short, with his greasy dark hair slicked back. He’d had it that way since he was a child and found, now that he was suddenly over the hill that it worked for him as well as any other comb over.
“I won’t settle for so little.” Ambrose said.
“And what, pray tell is it you’d like from me? A Spanish Dubloon? A pearl the size of your head? Maybe the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? It’s the easiest fifty bucks you’ll ever make. You don’t even have to do anything.” Duane rubbed his lucky Ruby ring. The presence of his birthstone made him feel immortal and unstoppable. And by keeping it on the middle finger of his right hand he knew he’d have plenty of opportunity to show it off living in New York.
“A hundred. Bare minimum.” Ambrose tugged on his wild beard in a manner that struck him as defiant and struck Duane as absurd. Never the less, the shorter man smiled, oozing false pleasure as he’d learned to do in his youth as a salesman for an electronics company.
“You drive a hard bargain, friend. I like it. It’s hardly worth a hundred, but because I respect you, I’ll give it to you anyway.” Ambrose’s eyes lit up as Duane spoke. His hand stopped moving as fast, but gripped the beard with greater ferocity. A hundred dollars would mean more to Ambrose than he’d care to admit. He knew he’d fallen a long way, but he knew he could rebuild it all; his house, his career, his life. He silently vowed that this deal would be the first step in his new life. No more booze. No more soup kitchens. No more handouts. A man lives or dies by his own ability. He’d forgotten it for a time after the fire had taken everything he had, but the old Ambrose was back, ready for his life to begin again. Ambrose smiled and was about to agree when Duane cut him off. “I can only give you half now. Half after.”
That stopped Ambrose right where he was. The emerging smile slowly curved the other way. Sucking his teeth, Ambrose closed his eyes and moved his hand from his beard to his mouth sticking his forefinger under his nose and his thumb beside it. Duane checked his watch. 9:43. Ambrose slid his finger from under his nose up into it, swirling it around and looking for prey. Duane checked his watch. 9:44. Ambrose’s finger plunged deeper into his nostril. The motion nearly mesmerized Duane. Ambrose removed his forefinger from its sheath and without any hesitation moved his hand to his ear, and stuck his pinky in. After a moment of digging for lost treasures, Ambrose removed his pinky and, making devil horns put his forefinger and pinky next to each other and stared long and hard at each, comparing one to the other. After a moment of that, Duane had the sense to check his watch again. 9:47. Ambrose continued to study his now slimy fingers. Duane considered the virtues of suicide until his watch told him it was 9:51.
“I’ve made my decision.” Ambrose informed him, moving his hand away from his face again. Duane noticed that his fingers were now clean again, and forced himself to believe that they’d been wiped on the ragged clothes the Reno hobo was wearing.
“Good news, I hope?” Duane asked the other man, grinning again.
“Absolutely. Fifty now, fifty after.” Ambrose grinned back at Duane, or more accurately, the fat wallet that the shorter man produced from his pocket. The smile on his face threatened to split his head in half as Duane pulled out an old, but remarkably well kept fifty dollar bill from the top of the clipped pile of cash he kept in his Italian leather wallet. It was the first fifty Ambrose had seen since he’d been laid off three years earlier. Then suddenly, it was the first fifty he’d touched since he’d been laid off. Ambrose could just feel the great destiny waiting him. A real life rags to riches story. Prime material for second rate motivational speakers everywhere. Someday, he’d be a legend. Someday they’d say that the greatest corporate empire ever to be would never have existed if it weren’t for the tenacity of one man who couldn’t be broken by poverty. Or perhaps he’d run for office. Now that he was back in the money, all the old rhetoric about the land of opportunities came back to him, and those bleeding hearts with their socialistic nonsense could kiss his ass. It’s not as if he owed them for three years of food or the time the volunteers spent on it. He knew now that there was no stopping it. His destiny was set. And no one could reasonably ask for a greater destiny than the one he was sure was his, whatever it happened to be. His smile grew still wider.
And that’s when Duane shot Ambrose. Once. Clean in the chest. The sound barely carried in the dense night air. Ambrose crumbled like a house of cards, clutching his hard-won fifty dollars to his heart.
“Well,” Duane said, mostly because he felt something needed to be said to fill the awkward silence. Or perhaps it was that, like a critic reviewing to a performance, he felt it necessary to voice a reaction immediately afterward to keep the experience fresh in his mind. “That was certainly underwhelming.” He squatted next to the body of the deranged hobo and examined his work, careful not to touch anything or even breathe on the dead man. He saw the fifty dollar bill soaked in blood and cursed softly. “Shit. What a waste.”
*
“I won’t settle for so little.” Ambrose said.
“And what, pray tell is it you’d like from me? A Spanish Dubloon? A pearl the size of your head? Maybe the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? It’s the easiest fifty bucks you’ll ever make. You don’t even have to do anything.” Duane rubbed his lucky Ruby ring. The presence of his birthstone made him feel immortal and unstoppable. And by keeping it on the middle finger of his right hand he knew he’d have plenty of opportunity to show it off living in New York.
“A hundred. Bare minimum.” Ambrose tugged on his wild beard in a manner that struck him as defiant and struck Duane as absurd. Never the less, the shorter man smiled, oozing false pleasure as he’d learned to do in his youth as a salesman for an electronics company.
“You drive a hard bargain, friend. I like it. It’s hardly worth a hundred, but because I respect you, I’ll give it to you anyway.” Ambrose’s eyes lit up as Duane spoke. His hand stopped moving as fast, but gripped the beard with greater ferocity. A hundred dollars would mean more to Ambrose than he’d care to admit. He knew he’d fallen a long way, but he knew he could rebuild it all; his house, his career, his life. He silently vowed that this deal would be the first step in his new life. No more booze. No more soup kitchens. No more handouts. A man lives or dies by his own ability. He’d forgotten it for a time after the fire had taken everything he had, but the old Ambrose was back, ready for his life to begin again. Ambrose smiled and was about to agree when Duane cut him off. “I can only give you half now. Half after.”
That stopped Ambrose right where he was. The emerging smile slowly curved the other way. Sucking his teeth, Ambrose closed his eyes and moved his hand from his beard to his mouth sticking his forefinger under his nose and his thumb beside it. Duane checked his watch. 9:43. Ambrose slid his finger from under his nose up into it, swirling it around and looking for prey. Duane checked his watch. 9:44. Ambrose’s finger plunged deeper into his nostril. The motion nearly mesmerized Duane. Ambrose removed his forefinger from its sheath and without any hesitation moved his hand to his ear, and stuck his pinky in. After a moment of digging for lost treasures, Ambrose removed his pinky and, making devil horns put his forefinger and pinky next to each other and stared long and hard at each, comparing one to the other. After a moment of that, Duane had the sense to check his watch again. 9:47. Ambrose continued to study his now slimy fingers. Duane considered the virtues of suicide until his watch told him it was 9:51.
“I’ve made my decision.” Ambrose informed him, moving his hand away from his face again. Duane noticed that his fingers were now clean again, and forced himself to believe that they’d been wiped on the ragged clothes the Reno hobo was wearing.
“Good news, I hope?” Duane asked the other man, grinning again.
“Absolutely. Fifty now, fifty after.” Ambrose grinned back at Duane, or more accurately, the fat wallet that the shorter man produced from his pocket. The smile on his face threatened to split his head in half as Duane pulled out an old, but remarkably well kept fifty dollar bill from the top of the clipped pile of cash he kept in his Italian leather wallet. It was the first fifty Ambrose had seen since he’d been laid off three years earlier. Then suddenly, it was the first fifty he’d touched since he’d been laid off. Ambrose could just feel the great destiny waiting him. A real life rags to riches story. Prime material for second rate motivational speakers everywhere. Someday, he’d be a legend. Someday they’d say that the greatest corporate empire ever to be would never have existed if it weren’t for the tenacity of one man who couldn’t be broken by poverty. Or perhaps he’d run for office. Now that he was back in the money, all the old rhetoric about the land of opportunities came back to him, and those bleeding hearts with their socialistic nonsense could kiss his ass. It’s not as if he owed them for three years of food or the time the volunteers spent on it. He knew now that there was no stopping it. His destiny was set. And no one could reasonably ask for a greater destiny than the one he was sure was his, whatever it happened to be. His smile grew still wider.
And that’s when Duane shot Ambrose. Once. Clean in the chest. The sound barely carried in the dense night air. Ambrose crumbled like a house of cards, clutching his hard-won fifty dollars to his heart.
“Well,” Duane said, mostly because he felt something needed to be said to fill the awkward silence. Or perhaps it was that, like a critic reviewing to a performance, he felt it necessary to voice a reaction immediately afterward to keep the experience fresh in his mind. “That was certainly underwhelming.” He squatted next to the body of the deranged hobo and examined his work, careful not to touch anything or even breathe on the dead man. He saw the fifty dollar bill soaked in blood and cursed softly. “Shit. What a waste.”
*
Friday, April 8, 2011
I am Known as Schizo Scattershot and my Power is Bullshit
The other day I was eating out at the local Chinese buffet. Why? Well, sometimes you want to be where everyone knows your name. Come to think of it, the fact that they know me is a good indication that I should stop going so often. Still, it's the only place I can go and feel thin.
Plus, it provides an excellent place to think. For instance, all the roads nearby have names like "Tomahawk" and "Little Bear." Except of course of "Mancini" street or that private residence with the enormous sign proudly proclaiming the presence of the pervasive and perfidious Lupinacci crime family. I have no choice but to assume that the town with one of my beloved buffets is the first and perhaps last refuge of the Italian Indian. Pardon me, Italian Native American. Can't you just see it?
You'd walk into a teepee and your friend would be sitting cross legged. He'd say "Buongiorno kimasabi. I was just preparing some Buffalo al forno with an antepasto of pepperencini and maize. Later I can show you how to string a bow with angel hair and we can go hunting for wild meatballs."
I dunno. I was amused. If it strikes you as racist...oh wells. I suppose it is, but then again, prejudice preys upon the thin skin of cry babies. It's like how you can't blackmail me by threatening to expose that I'm an asshole. That's totally obvious. And it's not like there is some evil master plan to it. Almost the other way around even. Then again, maybe my solution interpersonal conflict is skewed on account of being a serious nerd. Afterall, if there's anything that defines the modern nerd more than unusual hobbies, social inteptitude, obsession over trivial nonsense, and an iconoclastic image (as if we had a choice after all that) it would have to be our tendency towards bizarre and frequently sophmoric humor that considers nothing sacred- least of all ourselves, friends and shared nerd culture. As an example (NSFW for Language):
Starting next week, I'll be posting pages from a story I wrote a couple years ago called Night of the Living Debt. Originally, I wrote it as a sample to toss at two dudes named John as they performed on stage to convince them to give me the thumbs up to write a short story collection tentatively titled "Gigantism: The Impossible Dream" but I pussed out. And so my awesome idea has been left thoroughly unexploited.
Plus, it provides an excellent place to think. For instance, all the roads nearby have names like "Tomahawk" and "Little Bear." Except of course of "Mancini" street or that private residence with the enormous sign proudly proclaiming the presence of the pervasive and perfidious Lupinacci crime family. I have no choice but to assume that the town with one of my beloved buffets is the first and perhaps last refuge of the Italian Indian. Pardon me, Italian Native American. Can't you just see it?
You'd walk into a teepee and your friend would be sitting cross legged. He'd say "Buongiorno kimasabi. I was just preparing some Buffalo al forno with an antepasto of pepperencini and maize. Later I can show you how to string a bow with angel hair and we can go hunting for wild meatballs."
I dunno. I was amused. If it strikes you as racist...oh wells. I suppose it is, but then again, prejudice preys upon the thin skin of cry babies. It's like how you can't blackmail me by threatening to expose that I'm an asshole. That's totally obvious. And it's not like there is some evil master plan to it. Almost the other way around even. Then again, maybe my solution interpersonal conflict is skewed on account of being a serious nerd. Afterall, if there's anything that defines the modern nerd more than unusual hobbies, social inteptitude, obsession over trivial nonsense, and an iconoclastic image (as if we had a choice after all that) it would have to be our tendency towards bizarre and frequently sophmoric humor that considers nothing sacred- least of all ourselves, friends and shared nerd culture. As an example (NSFW for Language):
Starting next week, I'll be posting pages from a story I wrote a couple years ago called Night of the Living Debt. Originally, I wrote it as a sample to toss at two dudes named John as they performed on stage to convince them to give me the thumbs up to write a short story collection tentatively titled "Gigantism: The Impossible Dream" but I pussed out. And so my awesome idea has been left thoroughly unexploited.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Los Autores Locos con Sombreros Grande
So I was telling a friend not too long ago about how I wanted to form a comedy troupe of authors. I believe my exact words were “I can’t believe that no one’s done this yet. So I assume they have and I’m just too stupid to have noticed.” She liked it though. Although I may be the only person enamored with calling each member by their signature Large Hat. She’s in a similar job and place in her life, but with actual acting experience. So here comes the crazy question: Do any of you live in or near NY and actually want to do this? Seriously. Does anyone want to try and make this happen?
On an unrelated note: Don’t send a query to my agency addressing a different agency and then demand absolute secrecy because you’re afraid other people at the agency will steal your idea and give it to another author. It really doesn’t help your case.
So, something else that might interest all of you: http://editminion.com/. It's sort of an auto-copy editor. Someone posted that on Twitter a couple weeks ago. Problem with twitter is that even following a relatively small number of people, stuff gets lost in a crazy jumble. I more or less say “Okay. Which two tweet links will I follow today?” This happened to be one of them. And it ingratiated itself to me by giving me the all-green, with the possible exception of ending sentences with prepositions on a few samples I pasted in. It’s not perfect, but heck. It’s worth giving it a whirl. Instant addition to my favorites list.
On an unrelated note: Don’t send a query to my agency addressing a different agency and then demand absolute secrecy because you’re afraid other people at the agency will steal your idea and give it to another author. It really doesn’t help your case.
So, something else that might interest all of you: http://editminion.com/. It's sort of an auto-copy editor. Someone posted that on Twitter a couple weeks ago. Problem with twitter is that even following a relatively small number of people, stuff gets lost in a crazy jumble. I more or less say “Okay. Which two tweet links will I follow today?” This happened to be one of them. And it ingratiated itself to me by giving me the all-green, with the possible exception of ending sentences with prepositions on a few samples I pasted in. It’s not perfect, but heck. It’s worth giving it a whirl. Instant addition to my favorites list.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Excuses, Excuses
So, I should probably start by apologizing for being so moody the other day. I am sorry about that, really. It’s just that, well. It gets complicated. See, thanks to Tier 1 Pensioners draining the state, which we can ill afford being that we have to carry half the damn union on our backs, New York instituted yet another emergency luxury tax. Oh, before it was always just on soda and stuff and they could pretend that they were doing us a favor, like when they did it to cigarettes. Didn’t really make sense. You ever get a second hand cavity? But recently, they enacted a luxury tax on “humor, happiness and goodwill.” So I can scarcely afford to be a decent, much less pleasant human being. Two things make this fun, but don’t tell my state government. First is that it only reinforces the image of New Yorkers as being mean, self interested jerks. We probably wouldn’t be if our ludicrously high taxes weren’t used to fund welfare that supports red states who turn around and vilify New York for, of all things “pork barrel spending.” Secondly, and you probably should have seen this coming, but Goodwill is taxed non-stop under this new law and they’ve begun a law suit. Shame they ran out of money roughly 36 seconds after signing their pricey law team, so they’ve decided to withdraw from the state permanently, in a spectacular “screw you!” to people who don’t make 90 million dollars a year. And let me tell you, that magic number of 250,000 bucks that people assume constitutes rich? Not in New York it doesn’t. Meanwhile, I’m applying for jobs with $30,000 starting salaries. And not hearing back because half the time the companies decide to hold off because they can’t afford it right now. Boo hoo, Kentucky. Your starting salary would be 27,500. But our rent is 1200 a month on a closet in a crime riddled neighborhood. So screw you. You don’t want pork barrel? Great, me either. Carry your own damn weight. Do I look like I can carry you? A fragile little slip of a thing like me?
Also, most of that was a lie. Not the stuff about tax redirection or tier 1 pensions though. That, unfortunately is all too real. But after bitching and moaning last time, I remembered that April is good for at least one thing. Fake news. I know this cheered me up enormously. Why, I used to do such things myself.
So, I got some good suggestions for reading material last week. So I might as well ask more questions. For instance: Would you guys be interested in seeing more of my writing, like I did with 2nd: The First Ever Serialized Adventures of YOU! Or am I getting too self indulgent again?
Also, most of that was a lie. Not the stuff about tax redirection or tier 1 pensions though. That, unfortunately is all too real. But after bitching and moaning last time, I remembered that April is good for at least one thing. Fake news. I know this cheered me up enormously. Why, I used to do such things myself.
So, I got some good suggestions for reading material last week. So I might as well ask more questions. For instance: Would you guys be interested in seeing more of my writing, like I did with 2nd: The First Ever Serialized Adventures of YOU! Or am I getting too self indulgent again?
Friday, April 1, 2011
April Makes Fools of Us All. Or Possibly Just Me.
It really does. For one thing, it's snowing right now. Pretty hard, too. Why is it doing that? It's freaking APRIL. What's that saying about March? In like a lion and out like a lamb? Why is my bloody lamb roaring at me?
Here's another way it makes a fool of us...or at least me and everyone I know my age in publishing: we're all poor. I have now been looking for full time work for three months and can't so much as get an INTERVIEW despite the fact that the average entry level requires only a college education, where I have several years work experience IN PUBLISHING and a master's degree. Pretty much all my friends are in the same boat except for one. Who has ten years experience in a middle positon and who'll be deported if he can't get a company willing to sponsor him to sign his checks. There are three things that make the situation intolerable- firstly, that companies jump at the chance to have me for free, but even networking all I ever get is "yeah, you seem pretty good. There's an internship spot you can have OR you can try talking to Whoever, Director of Whatever at Wherever Inc." Director Whoever, however, will only say the same. Secondly, there's my family's insistance that this makes me a huge failure and that obviously I'm not trying hard enough, which is bullshit, but it's what I've come to expect from my family. The third problem is similar to the second but from the other way around. It's sympathy. Usually more like mutual wound licking. I don't want to hear that, either. For one thing, it makes me feel even worse. The more people in my position talk about how we're going to starve in the streets one day very soon despite being dedicated and massively overqualified, all it does is remind me how many people are screwed. And what happens when I finally get a gig? Assuming that ever happens (which it won't from the looks of it)? Then I'll be thinking about how many people I know who would want that job and aren't getting it. I don't like guilt. I'm too good for guilt. So don't tell me your problems because then I have to feel for you. And I can barely feel for myself. I don't exactly have an excess of concern right now.
On a completely unrelated April Annoyance issue, check this out. I have eleven first cousins, including once removed. There are 365 days in a year. What are the odds that any share birthdays? Short answer: such an occurance would be very unlikely. But they do. And not only is this the case, but on THE SAME EXACT DAY I have a friend(specifically, starving, overqualified classmate) who is having an apartment warming party to celebrate finally moving in with her long time boyfriend. Which obviously I can't go to because I'm going to be in Massachusets, celebrating one birthday (ignoring another) and preparing for Faux Passover. Well, fuck. Maybe a few people can get married and I can die from the stress and then everyone will have something to remember April 16th for. Every year. Forever. What is so goddamn special about April 16th, huh? All I can say is "AAAAAARGH."
Come on, me. Look at the bright side. The Goldberg children are very naive. Now that I've sucessfully convinced them that Charlie Brown has Leukemia, I can bullshit about something else and giggle like a little girl when they fall for it. That oughta cheer me up.
Here's another way it makes a fool of us...or at least me and everyone I know my age in publishing: we're all poor. I have now been looking for full time work for three months and can't so much as get an INTERVIEW despite the fact that the average entry level requires only a college education, where I have several years work experience IN PUBLISHING and a master's degree. Pretty much all my friends are in the same boat except for one. Who has ten years experience in a middle positon and who'll be deported if he can't get a company willing to sponsor him to sign his checks. There are three things that make the situation intolerable- firstly, that companies jump at the chance to have me for free, but even networking all I ever get is "yeah, you seem pretty good. There's an internship spot you can have OR you can try talking to Whoever, Director of Whatever at Wherever Inc." Director Whoever, however, will only say the same. Secondly, there's my family's insistance that this makes me a huge failure and that obviously I'm not trying hard enough, which is bullshit, but it's what I've come to expect from my family. The third problem is similar to the second but from the other way around. It's sympathy. Usually more like mutual wound licking. I don't want to hear that, either. For one thing, it makes me feel even worse. The more people in my position talk about how we're going to starve in the streets one day very soon despite being dedicated and massively overqualified, all it does is remind me how many people are screwed. And what happens when I finally get a gig? Assuming that ever happens (which it won't from the looks of it)? Then I'll be thinking about how many people I know who would want that job and aren't getting it. I don't like guilt. I'm too good for guilt. So don't tell me your problems because then I have to feel for you. And I can barely feel for myself. I don't exactly have an excess of concern right now.
On a completely unrelated April Annoyance issue, check this out. I have eleven first cousins, including once removed. There are 365 days in a year. What are the odds that any share birthdays? Short answer: such an occurance would be very unlikely. But they do. And not only is this the case, but on THE SAME EXACT DAY I have a friend(specifically, starving, overqualified classmate) who is having an apartment warming party to celebrate finally moving in with her long time boyfriend. Which obviously I can't go to because I'm going to be in Massachusets, celebrating one birthday (ignoring another) and preparing for Faux Passover. Well, fuck. Maybe a few people can get married and I can die from the stress and then everyone will have something to remember April 16th for. Every year. Forever. What is so goddamn special about April 16th, huh? All I can say is "AAAAAARGH."
Come on, me. Look at the bright side. The Goldberg children are very naive. Now that I've sucessfully convinced them that Charlie Brown has Leukemia, I can bullshit about something else and giggle like a little girl when they fall for it. That oughta cheer me up.
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