David Marchese

Drunken Marksmen

2012-01-29T15:00:00.001-08:00

Writer's Block

2012-01-29T12:23:00.000-08:00

He punched me in the shoulder so I shot him in the leg. I should've aimed higher. He owes me now I guess. So do a lot of people, for a lot of things. Some know. Others don't. They all find out sooner or later. Or maybe I'm assuming. I haven't been doing this very long. What do I know? But a little fatalism seems fine. Appropriate even. I'm a bad motherfucker.

I notice my shoe is untied, so I kneel before Emily, while he, Pinky, whom I shot, swears and clutches his leg. I got down on one knee for Emily once before, three years and five months ago. It didn't go well. In my opinion."How did you know he was here?" she asks.

"Knowing is my business now," I say.

Pinky moans. Emily kicks him twice.

"Jesus," she says. "You go from insecure to egomaniac instantly. It's tedious." I shrug. Over time I'd come to sound stupid to her, or at least like an irritation. I don't expect a thank you.

I ask if she's going to Sharlene's. That's a bar. They've got free latkes on Friday nights. I'm hungry and thirsty and broke. As it happens, Amram's having his birthday party there tonight. He just got a new assignment, one I wanted -- he's flying to Laos to write about a pop star running for President. I pitched that same story to my old boss. He turned it down. He said I didn't have the necessary reporting experience. "What makes you think you can report that story out?" he said. I gave a two-word answer. The words weren't "I quit" but had the same effect. Fucking Amram. I swear he invites me his parties, and he throws a lot, because he knows he makes my eye twitch.

"Yeah, I'm going," says Emily, "with Tevin." Tevin is white. I hate Tevin. Last time I saw him he was wearing a rope belt. Emily looks down at Pinky, who's been dribbling out a low moan for a minute now. "How are you gonna get rid of this guy?" She kicks him two more times.

I step forward, put one in Pinky's head, and decide he doesn't owe me anymore.

Ahead of the Curve

2012-01-24T06:04:00.001-08:00

The First Time

2012-01-23T10:57:00.000-08:00

We were standing by the Alex Harvey CDs and I put my leg between her legs and leaned in close and said I wanted to try it. She said do you think standing as close to me as possible is the way to get me to sell you some? I felt sheepish. It would end up taking another few years. Jimbajimabimabaimabimabaimabimaiabaimginaghinadigninaifon.Classic guitar break!

Stop and Go

2012-01-17T18:04:00.000-08:00

I live on a short quiet block of brownstones with a traffic light at either end.

A red car sped by much faster than cars usually drive down my street. It was followed closely by another, this one black. The light at the end of my block turned red. The driver of the first car braked hard. The second car slammed into it. There was a violent noise, then smoke and quiet. The driver of the first car opened his door. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet, a black blazer, and a blank expression. He turned his head in my direction. I couldn't see his eyes through the visor of his helmet. He walked with a slight limp to the driver's side window of the second car. He took a handgun from the holster across his chest. With a quick chopping motion he used the butt-end of his gun to smash the window. He reached into the car with his free hand and held it against something for a moment. Then he began walking in my direction.

There are so many different ways to get to the places I go in my neighborhood. But I always walk in the same straight lines.

Here is my ballot for the 2012 Pazz and Jop music critic's poll.

And here is a new song I enjoy:

Somewhat Exegetical Dick

2012-01-14T16:15:00.000-08:00

Jesus Christ, Cristina. Doesn't this fit together? I know it's true; I mean, I know now that what I've been seeing which I assumed was many sources, many doctrines, was and is the worldview and knowledge, the gnosis and secret wisdom of the Essenes who favorably informed and educated and directed and influenced society from 2 A.D. on, and even before. A synthesis of all the really useful stuff from the Antique Classical Past -- now alive again, e.g., in my head at night; it's in my head because I was your friend and teacher and so fort, as I've said. From the Qumran Scrolls he got all this synthesis of the wisdom of Antiquity and then he died and then he "came across" to me and so now I've got it.

I think I'm putting the pieces together, the final ones. For God's sake, Cristina, be cautious with who you discuss this, if you do at all with anyone. I'm being super careful as to whom I'm telling this to -- in all candor, just you and my dog; other people like Jimi even, and Peter Fitting and so forth -- just fragments. I'm not kidding, be careful.

It's adding up and it spooks me, for obvious reasons. As I nail it down I get more and more frightened, but then I calm down and feel very relaxed because it's such wise stuff, such good stuff that's coming to me at night. Last night, for example, I heard her (you know, my anima, the sibyl), singing along with a choir:

There is a Hand to turn the time, Though thy Glass today by run, Till the Light that hath brought the Towers lowFind the last poor Pret'rite on . . . Till the Riders sleep by ev'ry road,All through our crippl'd Zone,With a face on ev'ry mountainside,And a Soul in ev'ry Stone. . . .

With advice like that, how can I lose? (Seriously, she did sing that, but what it means I have no idea. I don't even own any slippers. Two nights ago I dreamed about the Goddess Aurora, who is the Greek Goddess of the Dawn. I sure have odd nights.)

Key Figures

2012-01-14T16:00:00.000-08:00

Humorous Advice

2012-01-06T10:02:00.000-08:00

About Thin Lizzy and David Lee Roth.

Pynch Me It's Christmas.

2011-12-25T17:18:00.000-08:00

I'm a sentimental man, she said, looking out over the veldt. It had been misty for some days prior but on this afternoon, the sun leaked yellow from unknown angles. Major Lunczerny was displeased. Sentimentality is the dungheap of emotions he said to Francis, then loosening the rope belt around his/her jodhpurs. His/her Hebrew disposition had long been a blister on the Major's Caspian hide, at least since Tunguska . . .

Captain Kirk

2011-12-13T07:00:00.001-08:00

This is the truth

Sal St. Monica Is on the Case

2011-11-29T10:50:00.001-08:00

My review of the new Black Keys record is now up on SPIN.com. Read it here.

Progress

2011-11-10T19:10:00.001-08:00

Improvement.

Sleep

2011-10-10T19:03:00.001-07:00

Shining A Light on Nuit Blanche

2011-10-02T18:23:00.000-07:00

I came to Toronto from New York City this past weekend to experience Nuit Blanche. That's an all-night event where Scotiabank sponsors different art installations throughout the city. The fantasy with these babies is that the cold urban landscape will be transformed into a fine art wonderland of magic and culture. Walking through Kensington Market on the way to check out some art, I saw a placard with a sign advertising "Nuit George." Turned out this was a fundraiser for a guy looking to get treatment for MS. Down a back alley and up some stars, two bands played. The first I didn't really pay attention to, but they used a theremin and were noisy and ragged in an engaging way. The second was a heavy metal band called Blood Ceremony. They sound, to be reductive, like Black Sabbath mixed with Jethro Tull -- but with a woman as a singer. The music was menacing, but the feel in the room was the opposite. Good causes and whatnot. It sounds cheesy to say, but it's nice that people do stuff like this. Here's Blood Ceremony:The rest of Nuit Blanche didn't feel nearly as homespun or warm. Walking down University, the sidewalks were very crowded with people whose age skewed to their late 20s, I'd say. The art was not easy to find. Unless you knew where you were going, I don't think you'd stumble upon anything. Magic is less magical if you seek it out. I was trying to find some sort of fire-involving installation called the Heart Machine at Bay and Adelaide. I couldn't find it. I did see lots of Scotiabank branding -- oh, and lots of similar signage for car companies. I forget which ones. My sister had mentioned that there was an increasing amount of corporate branding at Nuit Blanche. Art isn't as fun when you feel like someone's letting you see it in return for something as crass as market-share. I saw a large lit-up balloon floating above Adelaide. It lit up and emitted a bell-like tone at seemingly random intervals. That was at least enjoyable in an inscrutable way. Less so was a live drummer playing inside a deconstructed car surrounded by signs for Ford or Nissan or whoever.There was some cool lasers interacting with the fountain at Nathan Phillips Square near City Hall. It was cool in an arena rock show kind of way. I gotta say, maybe I was just being a crabapple and not grokking the true intent of the event, which is just to get people out and having a good time. The throngs of people generally seemed to be enjoying themselves. I think Nuit Blance needs to go either of two ways. Either concentrate the installations in a smaller area, or just hide things throughout the downtown and not clutter the scenery with information booths with scotiabank signs. That is, designate an area where all the art is gonna be, or don't tell anyone and actually do something towards creating a situation where people might innocently stumble upon something amazing. Neither of those things is ever likely to happen, though. Banks don't sponsor humble surprises. But maybe they can get in touch with the guy who threw Nuit George. That dude knew how to have a good time.

Mick Jagger with a Beard

2011-09-28T14:48:00.001-07:00

Laszlo Puzzle Man/Animal

2011-09-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

He wants to break free; there is no blood in me, there is no lymph in me, I am too big. Every space is too tight for me. It is impossible to confuse me with anyone else. Shut tight your gates, and plug up the cracks, put up the beams and bring out the barbed wire, and protect yourselves from all sides. You are my master, I'm inside you, just like that, inside you, you who are standing there. I sniff at the ground, I'm looking for something; the minute in which I shall go mad.

I'm looking at the stars now. Do you see that? Withdraw into protection and safeguard all that is important to you.

I don't understand anything. I don't even know moreover why it is so dark above and why it is so bright below. For only the bare crust of the earth remains, only the thick black dead cold ashes, in which we stand facing each other, tensed, on each side pure muscle, and now there is only the question:

Curiously

2011-08-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

B.J. Speaks Up

2011-08-21T11:48:00.001-07:00

-- Pass me another beer, Beej.
We were coming up on the Canadian border. We'd been driving since four in the morning. It was getting late again. We'd put B.J. in the trunk of the Explorer after he'd threatened the attendant at a Lukoil near the Lehigh tunnel. We knew he'd woken up when we heard the sound of beer cans being opened. We shouldn't have put B.J. where the beer was.
-- Beej, can you pass me another beer? B.J. and Craig worked together as insurance fraud investigators.
-- Fuck you.
-- Seriously, Beej?
-- When we get to the border I'm going to call the customs person a [******].
-- What the fuck, Beej?!
-- Shut up, Beej!
-- I don't think you should do that, Beej.
-- Why the fuck do you care? I'm saying it, not you.
-- -- I'm in the fucking car with you, Beej. I'm showing them my passport at the same time as you. That's why I care, Beej.
-- I'm doing it. Why'd you make me lay in the fucking trunk?
B.J. sounded sad.
-- Because you were behaving like a drunken asshole, Beej.
B.J. was still dressed in his official New York Jets replica jersey.
-- Beej, can you pass me a beer?
I could tell it was annoying Craig that I was asking Beej for a beer.
-- Can you wait a second?
-- Yeah, I'm calling the customs offical a [******]
The overheard sign said that Canadian citizens should stay in the centre two lanes.
-- [******] [******] [******] [******] [******]. I'm saying it.
-- You don't even know if they're black, Beej!
-- I'm saying it.
-- Pull the car over.
I pulled into the parking lot of the duty free. B.J. opened another beer. We needed to have a discussion.

Kafka the Actor?

2011-08-14T08:03:00.000-07:00

Is this a heretofore unknown photograph of Franz Kafka?

Damn skippy.

How did I chance across a discovery likely to shake the foundations of literature's Ivory Tower? My neighbor, Mack Liebrod. Mack's a bit of an oddball. He wears the same t-shirt every day, winter or summer. A plain pink number that stretches tightly across his gut. On it are the words "I Got the Steely Dan Tee Shirt" printed in Franklin Gothic typeface. He's also a bit of a hoarder. I say a "bit" because Mack occasionally divests himself of crap by putting it on his front stoop for anyone to take. It's often cool shit -- Daguerrotypes; Roman coins; Tijuana bibles; shards of ancient pottery; vintage Blue Oyster Cult lapel pins; and so on and so forth.

Yesterday morning I was on my way to get my daily bialy with soy cream cheese and Mock Lox when I espied Mack placing an overflowing box of black and white photographs outside.

-- What are those? I said to Mack.
-- I meant well enough, Mack said.
-- Yes, but what are those? This time I pointed at the photographs.
-- No, said Mack. We are not authorized to tell you that. (Mack speaks like that. Weird fucker.) You will be informed of everything in due course. I am exceeding my instructions in speaking freely to you. But you will continue to have good luck in your choice of neighbors.

Mack then rapidly shuffled through the photographs and handed the photograph you see above to me. Much better to give these things to you than to hand them over to the depot, he said. I turned the photograph over. Written on the back were the words, "Franz Kafka, Screen Test, 1919."

Could it be?

I was determined to find out. Luckily, a friend and former lover, Lora Diamante, is in employ of I.R.K., or IRK -- the Institute for Research on Kafka. I called her at her office in Glendale, California.

She asked me to scan the photograph and email it to her as "jpeg". This I did. She said she would call me back upon inspecting the image. I hung up, cracked open a bottle of Diet Black Cherry soda, and anxiously awaited Lora's reply.

I'd taken but two sips when my cellie began vibrating.

-- David, said Lora.
-- Hit me, I told her, not for the first time.
-- This. Just. Happened.

Lora directed my attention to the faded words at the bottom right hand of the photograph: "Der Lebende Leichnam".

My German isn't what it used to be, but I knew well enough that those words translated to "The Living Corpse," also, and I apologize if I'm stating the obvious here, the title of a posthumously published play written by Tolstoy.

-- Yes, yes, so what? I said to Lora.
-- You KNOW Kafka was a great admirer of Tolstoy's, don't you?
-- Of course, of course, I said to Lora while making a handjob gesture.
-- And you do know that Kafka's final years were spent trying to film a version of Der Lebende, don't you? One in which he was to star?

Oh shit.

I made a splooj gesture.

The rest of the day was spent in furious cross-research. Googling this; Lexis-Nexising that. Calls were made to Kafka scholars in Praha and Pardubice. Kafka's desire to become a film actor was little-known, but known nonetheless. There had been rumors of images pertaining to that desire being in circulation. But legend has it that The Writer had systematically destroyed the headshots after concluding "Sie lassen mich fett aussehen." (Loosely: "They make me look fat.") Here, though, for the first time was proof.

The headshots did make K look a tad puffy.

As I pondered the benefit that modern retouching techniques could've bestowed upon Franzie Wanzie's photo, my Blackberry again began to throb in my shoulder holster.

It was Lora. She been in touch with the archivists at Neumann, the august German microphone manufacturers. The company had been one of the stronger presences in the budding Czech film industry at the time Kafka would've been making the audition rounds. In order to help test the sound technology the company hoped to apply to then-silent films, Neumann, as a practice, recorded all screen tests conducted by their talent scouts. Lora had engaged the archivist, Titorelli, in examining any and all tapes that might have related to Der Lebende Leichman.

In so doing, Titorelli found the following (translated from the German):

-- You're going too big with your gestures. Can you, like, dial everything down per cent?
-- Shit. Sorry. I can totally do that. [Vigorous exhalation noises] Look, one minute. That's it. I should feel better about this. I'm sure of it. I'm usually not so weak about this kinda thing. I'm more of a words guy, frankly. But gimme one sec. I can definitely give you what you want. I only need a little support. Not much. I don't usually get so nervous. I'm having a panic attack or something. Can I take a seat? I feel dizzy.
-- Get a hold of yourself, you feeble fellow.
-- I fucked this up, didn't I?
[No response]
-- Fair enough. I'm a writer anyway, you knew that, right?
-- Many thanks to you.
-- Hey, while I have you, I've got an idea for a film that I think would be great for you guys.
-- Louder.
-- It's about a guy who wakes up one morning and realizes he's turned into a cockroach.
-- Jesus. You think we're RKO? You know the budgets we're working with. We can't pay for special effects like that. Why do you think we're making a fucking movie based on some Tolstoy shit?
-- Marketing. Think marketing. Kids love bugs.
[Tape ends]

Der Lebende Leichnam was never filmed. Kafka was never cast, the role of Fyodor Protasov going instead to Vsevolod Pudovkin, "The Tatar Valentino." Cinematic justice was finally served when Jeremy Irons played The Writer in a 1991 biopic directed by Steven Soderbergh.

That was the only evidence we had of Kafka as a screen presence. Until now. Just look at those eyes.

I Solved America

2011-08-12T18:35:00.000-07:00

I had a difficult day at work. I took the subway home. The train came quickly. That made me glad. It meant I would be able to go to the gym. The gym closes early on Fridays.

When I got home, I ate a mozzarella and arugula sandwich that I'd bought earlier in the day. A co-worker had asked if I wanted to go get lunch. I'd already eaten -- a yogurt parfait and turkey sandwich -- but didn't want to turn down the invitation. So I went with him, bought the sandwich, and saved it for dinner.

After I ate the sandwich, I read sports websites for 15 minutes. Then I went to the gym, where I used the elliptical machine for 30 minutes while listening to Steppenwolf. My knees hurt now. I think that's partly due to walking around all last weekend at Lollapalooza. I will put Tiger Balm on them later.

I took a shower after returning from the gym, and then did my evening meditation. Lately I've had trouble favoring my mantra over other thoughts that occur during my meditations. I think that's made me ornery, or at least a little less psychologically flexible than I like to be.

I took a walk after my meditation. I passed a woman panhandler with a face like a plains indian when I went into a convenience store to buy some groceries. She was shaking her change cup and saying, "Please help me" in a pathetic voice. The sound of her weak voice and the jiggling metal coins made my jaw tense. I hated the noises she was making. I wished she would shut up. I gave her a dollar when I left the convenience store.

I then selected Pocahontas by Neil Young to play on my iPod.

On my way back to my apartment, I saw a book laying on the ground called "Racquetball Fundamentals." I considered picking it up, then decided to leave it. I'm running out of shelf-space because I take too many books that I find on the street. I've found books about alien abductions, developing mind-control power, and getting rich.

I have hit one perfect backhand in my life. It was clean winner down the line. My opponent was well back in the tennis court, but had no chance. I can remember it clearly. The year was 2002. Give or take.

lolla 2

2011-08-07T12:05:00.001-07:00

lolla

2011-08-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

Lollapalooza

2011-08-05T16:51:00.000-07:00

If you're so inclined, you can read my Lollapalooza live blog. I'll be posting regularly till Sunday night. Go here!

We're Just Getting Started

2011-07-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

My Pa always comes home late at night after I'm supposed to be asleep. Sometimes I hear him talking with other fellas whose voice I don't recognize. The voices are high-pitched sometimes, like a lady's. Other times those voices are low and loud, like they're fixin' to fight. I've heard things break a time or two. Usually I hear cards slappin' on the table. No matter what I hear I don't get scared, though. My Pa said being afraid is for folks who are scared of being free. Birds aren't scared of anything, my Pa says, and they're the freest things on earth. They'll fly away on instinct he says, and that ain't fear. That's smarts. He says the way to be is be like a bird.

It's always a long time before the voices quiet down and I hear the last one leave. I make sure to stay up and listen all night. I can't really make out what anybody's saying except for a word or two here or there. I pretend in my mind what the conversations are. My Pa drives a cab, and I bet a lot of times the people he brings home just wanna keep talking about what they were talking about in the cab. It's not the kinda cab with the sign on top, but it's still a cab. My Pa's let me sit in the front seat with him on his shift sometimes so long as I keep quiet and don't bother nobody. I bring my book to make sure of that. Even though I'll be looking at the pages, I'm really listening to what the people say. Some people don't say no more than where they want my Pa to take them, but most people like to talk and talk. My Pa will give a little poke sometimes. How's it goin'? Rough day? Like that. Then the guests--that's what my Pa calls the passengers--the guests will start talkin'. I think the people who come to the house when my Pa thinks I'm sleeping are guests that just wanted to keep talking. My Pa's not the type to turn someone away if they got something they need to say. That's what I think anyway, supposin' you asked.

New to the L.E.S.

2011-07-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

SHTETL

{Appetizers}
Watercress matzoh ball soup .... 18
A trio of knishes: goose liver; chanterelle; quinoa .... 23
Caramelized beets soaked in kirschwasser; nest of ramps .... 25

{Mains}
Kohlrabi "Cabbage Roll" stuffed with ground wagyu beef, shallots; no-noodle purple-potato kugel ... 32
Herring filet; Sephardic tsimmes ... 34
Deconstructed cholent ... 39

{Dessert}
Mascarpone blintzes ... 14
Nutella mandelbrot ... 12
Tupelo Honey sweetcake ... 13

*Absolutely no substitutions.

Play time for Dingletron

2011-07-12T07:22:00.000-07:00

I did a piece about Mila Kunis for GQ. It's the cover story for their August issue. You can read parts of it here.

Singers and the Song

2011-06-26T10:31:00.000-07:00

On my subway ride to work the other day there was a guy singing for change. He had a nice voice. I've seen him before. He's stocky and black with chin-length dreadlocks. He sings wispy love songs. He was walking down the subway car, singing, holding out his brown paper bag, when he stopped and started talking to two men. He asked why they were trying to clown him. He kept saying clown. Try and clown me? You're gonna clown me? It seemed that he thought one of the two men had tried to make fun of him by singing over him. I didn't hear it if they did. The singer started talking to the whole subway car. These fools are trying to clown me. He laughed a one-syllable laugh. Huh. That's what the laugh sounded like. Huh. Not ha. The singer was cursing under his breath when the subway got to Canal, where he switched cars and I got off.

This afternoon I was eating blueberries while listening to a Terry Allen album. A song came on called The Beautiful Waitress. It's about a guy at a diner who falls in love with his waitress. That kind of thing happens sometimes.

A Worthwhile Metaphor

2011-06-20T11:48:00.000-07:00

Bonnaroo

2011-06-14T05:56:00.001-07:00

I had to post a bunch of pictures here because Tumblr makes you have a URL to upload photos in a text entry. So here's where all these photos wound up. My Bonnaroo blog for SPIN.

6

2011-06-12T18:42:00.000-07:00

rec

2011-06-12T16:44:00.001-07:00

r4

2011-06-12T16:42:00.000-07:00

w2

2011-06-12T16:38:00.000-07:00

ty

2011-06-12T16:36:00.000-07:00

ty

2011-06-12T14:30:00.000-07:00

45

2011-06-12T14:27:00.000-07:00

xs

2011-06-12T14:25:00.001-07:00

2011-06-12T14:24:00.000-07:00

32

2011-06-12T14:19:00.000-07:00

r2

2011-06-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

one more

2011-06-12T13:10:00.000-07:00

lf

2011-06-12T13:00:00.001-07:00

vf

2011-06-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

fv2

2011-06-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

fv

2011-06-12T10:18:00.000-07:00

q

2011-06-12T08:56:00.000-07:00

rec

2011-06-12T07:39:00.001-07:00

5

2011-06-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

bootsy

2011-06-11T21:30:00.000-07:00

jesus

2011-06-11T17:14:00.000-07:00

9

2011-06-11T16:44:00.000-07:00

aziz

2011-06-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

wiz

2011-06-11T12:57:00.001-07:00

e

2011-06-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

2011-06-11T12:34:00.000-07:00

stuff

2011-06-11T12:24:00.000-07:00

1

2011-06-11T07:12:00.001-07:00

f

2011-06-10T19:56:00.001-07:00

e

2011-06-10T16:20:00.000-07:00

n

2011-06-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

c

2011-06-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

taddfo

2011-06-10T09:41:00.001-07:00

w

2011-06-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

Live Blogging from Bonnaroo

2011-06-10T08:00:00.001-07:00

That's why I've been posting those unexplained photos. I need some place to host them. You can read my blog here.

b

2011-06-10T07:53:00.001-07:00

a

2011-06-10T07:45:00.001-07:00

z

2011-06-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

v

2011-06-09T17:14:00.001-07:00

t

2011-06-09T12:00:00.001-07:00

I Missed It

2011-05-29T20:04:00.000-07:00

Just Now

2011-05-19T20:59:00.001-07:00

I ran into a friend at a bar for maybe the 5th time. I'd had an inkling I might run into him. He is a mayor. When I was walking home, I saw a dude holding two books. I'm looking for a new book to read. I asked the dude what he was reading: Albert Camus's the Myth of Sisyphus and Before the Storm, a political biography of Barry Goldwater. Barry is a funny name. After I asked the guy what he was reading, I continued my walk home. I was listening to music on my iPod. I was listening to the Magic City by Sun Ra. The title track is 27 minutes long. I listened to 23 minutes of it. I hope to see the Sun Ra Arkestra this week. They're playing in town. I've meant to see them before but haven't. The bandleader, Marshall Allen, is, I think, 87 years old.

Most People Don't Know That I Actually Wrote This

2011-05-17T05:35:00.000-07:00

Today at Tacochako

2011-04-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

Scab Dan said he was bored of the burritos and that it was time to intro a new creation. And if Scab Dan says it, then it must be true. He's been comin' in twice, three times a week, for as long as we been open. It's kinda weird because we've been open seven years and I thought Dan woulda graduated by now, but hey, he's helpin' pay the bills know what I mean?

It was a slow afternoon, its exam time, which means mostly delivery orders and Rainwater handles those, so I spent a good chunk of the day workin' on a new burrito -- tempeh, pinto beans, sauteed green peppers, Boston bibb lettuce, and a touch of a new chipotle tandoori sauce I've been experimenting with that R.K -- my designated guinea pig -- said was the tits. Oh, and there's acai in that bad boy too. I think people are gonna dig it (R.K.'s never been wrong before!). I don't have a name yet. Any ideas? I'm thinking something like Mexindian or Indexico. But I'm open to suggestions.

Had kind of an interesting run-in early this evening. After handing off the evening shift to Besh, I went over to Scruff Muffin to recharge the batts with a frozen chai latte. I noticed a dude in there sitting by himself writing notes in a little pad. The student turnover means there are always new faces in town, but it's almost May, and I feel like I've got a good sense of who hangs out at Scruff's and I didn't recognize this guy at all -- also, he was wearing orange skinny jeans. I don't even know where you'd buy those between here and Albany. So I asked the dude what he was writing. He was nice enough, but sort of answered in a way that suggested he wasn't looking to have a chat. But he said he was in town working on a story for a magazine -- about a particular program at the school. I asked how long he was around for and he said three days. He asked if I knew anywhere good to eat and where -- something about this makes me laugh -- "the kids around here go to have a good time." I bet this guy's idea of a good time doesn't quite jibe with the Plattsburgh vibe. But who knows? I told him to come by Tacochako. I said he could have one on the house. Maybe I'll bust out my newest masterpiece for him. I'll let you know if he shows up. I bet he does. Peace.

Nice Marmot

2011-04-22T14:25:00.000-07:00

Essential information

The Five Points

2011-04-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

I wrote a story about the band Pentagram in the current issue of SPIN. You can read it here.

Some nice people had some nice things to say about it here.

For Good Measure

2011-04-05T20:31:00.001-07:00

Platitudes kill.

P.S.

2011-04-05T20:26:00.000-07:00

For That

2011-04-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

You have to do it.

Much

2011-04-05T20:16:00.000-07:00

Turns out, though, you can't just think it.

So

2011-04-05T20:15:00.000-07:00

Then you realize, well, maybe you'd like to do that other thing.

Well

2011-04-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

So you do that thing. Then you do it some more. Hopefully you get better. Hopefully you enjoy it. Then . . . this?

A Big Show

2011-03-27T06:38:00.001-07:00

I have a piece in the New York Times magazine about LCD Soundsystem. Read it here

The End

2011-03-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

The New Yorker review of Seersucker

2011-03-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

In this week's issue of the New Yorker there is a brief and somewhat nasty review of a new restaurant, Seersucker. The New Yorker does not run a ton of restaurant reviews. There are many new restaurants in New York City that are probably worth reviewing. The restaurant reviewed in the current issue was, as far as I know, not especially high profile. That is to say, it was not, I don't think, the kind of restaurant -- like a new Mario Batali restaurant -- that the New Yorker's readers were clamoring to have reviewed. So why would the New Yorker bother running such a bummer of a review? If the magazine is only going to devote a small amount of space to restaurant reviews, it seems a bit ungenerous to bother running negative ones about low profile restaurants.

David Says

2011-03-17T08:16:00.001-07:00

Kafka Saw It Coming

2011-01-16T12:32:00.000-08:00

Someone mailed me a book called "Microwave Cooking For One". I assumed it had been sent by my mother. It had not. I ultimately determined it had been sent by a friend. Clever on at least three levels. Yet, there is no sadder title.

A Short Story

2011-01-14T13:44:00.001-08:00

Park
Not By Robert Bolano
Not Translated by David Marchese

I kicked artificial sweeteners and went back to Park Slope and began using agave, which I bought at Blue Ribbon, and I had nothing much else to get up for each morning, and I would read ESPN.com and try to sleep through the night, but I was unable to, something was keeping me from closing my eyes and resting, and this was my routine until I couldn’t take it anymore, so I bought a black hoodie at Brooklyn Industries and went to Prospect Park with my black hoodie, a towel, and my iPod, and I would roll out my towel, stretch out on the grass and listen to sad Bob Dylan songs, considering whether or not to get something from Connecticut Muffin, and there were many reasons that occurred to me in favor of doing so, though many reasons not to go in also occurred to me, the children playing at the playground, for example, so that finally I would simply sit there killing time before returning home, and the next morning I bought some deodorant and went to the park again and at noon I marched to Ozzie's and took my dose of agave and nodded at the familiar faces, not one of them a friend, just faces I knew from the neighborhood, surprised to see me standing there in my black hoodie, but I couldn’t have cared less, and then I went back to the park, getting my nerve up to talk to a stranger this time, and though I couldn’t, to me it was enough to have tried, and the next day I walked back to the park, and remembered to use deodorant and fell asleep on the grass, and when I came to I felt quite refreshed, and didn't smell at all, and another week passed – maybe two, I don’t remember – the only certainty was that every day my beard grew thicker, every day I spoke to no one, and every day I felt better, or different, which is not the same though, in my case, it seemed the same, and one day an old woman and an old man appeared in the park, and it was clear to me that they had spent a great deal of time together, the woman fat and round, and there, walking alongside her for something like seventy years, a man, skinny, beyond skinny, a walking skeleton, that was what had caught my attention, whereas generally I barely noticed any of the people that came to the park, and I tried to affix a cause to his skinniness, and I saw it and was frightened, shit, I thought, it’s death coming for me, but he did not come for me, it was only an old married couple, him seventy-five and her seventy, or the other way around, and she seemed to be glowing with health, and it seemed that he was ready to begin groping her at any moment, or that this was his last summer, and at first, after my initial fright, it was hard for me to pull my gaze away from the face of the old man, which looked like a skull covered by a thin layer of skin, and then I got used to looking at the two of them without their noticing, sprawled across the sand on my stomach, my face covered by my forearms, or I would sit on a bench along the bicycle path beside the great lawn, pretending to brush grass from my body, and I noticed that the old couple always came to the park with a little parasol, whose shade the woman would quickly step into, without a turkeyburger, though sometimes I did see her in a stroller, but more often in an oversized summer dress that made her look a little less fat than she actually was, and under the umbrella the old woman spent hours and hours reading a very thick book, while her skeletal husband stretched out on the grass in only a miniscule swimsuit, almost a thong, soaking up the sun with a voraciousness that brought distant memories back to me, of turkeys, blissful, motionless, turkeys concentrating entirely on what they were doing, the only thing that they could do, and then my head began to hurt and I walked from the grass to the esplanade and had a coffeecake muffin and a skim chai latte and a two-bite Toblerone and stared at the park through the windows of the coffee shop, and when I went back the old man and old woman were still there, her under the umbrella, him utterly exposed to the sun, and then, for no reason, I suddenly wanted to cry, and I went onto the grass and started jogging, and when I was far away from everyone else I looked up at the sun and it seemed strange to me that it was there, so enormous and distinct from us, and then I was able to jog back to bench (I nearly tripped twice) and when I got there I dropped onto the bench, where I remained a long time, breathing quickly and with difficulty, but always looking for the old couple, and maybe I fell asleep lying there on the bench and when I woke up the park was beginning to empty out, but they were still there, her holding a novel under the parasol and him, mouth open, standing in a space without shade, his eyes closed, an odd expression upon his skull, as if he was trying to feel each second that passed, to take a pleasure in it, even though the sunlight was weak, even though the sun was on the other side of the buildings lining the park, on the other side of the city, but this seemed unimportant to him, and then, at that moment, I awoke completely and stared and stared at the sun, and I felt a slight pain in my back, as if I had been burned that afternoon more than I had thought, and I kept watching them as I got up, doing a little dance, and I went and sat on one of the benches of the esplanade, where I pretended to brush grass from my legs, and from there, from that height, the vision of the couple was different, and I told myself that maybe he was not about to die, and I told myself that time might not exist as I thought it existed, and I continued thinking about time while the sun grew distant and the shadows of buildings stretched forward, and then I went home and took a shower and looked at my red back, a back that didn’t seem to be mine, but someone else’s, someone who it would take years for me to know, and then I turned on the television and watched a sport that I was completely unable to understand, until I fell asleep laying on the couch, and the next day the cycle was the same, the park, the coffee shop, the park again, the old couple, a routine that was sometimes interrupted by the apparition of other beings in the park, a woman, for example, who was always on her feet, never laying down on the grass, who dressed in jodhpurs and a blue t-shirt, and when she would go onto the grass she crawled on her knees, and I was reading, like the old woman, and the woman remained on her feet, standing there, sometimes slouching, but in a very peculiar way, and she picked up a half-liter bottle of Jones Cola and drank it standing up, radiant, then left the bottle on a towel, which I don’t know why she brought if she didn’t intend to lie down on it or do a little dance, and sometimes the woman scared me, she seemed so strange, though mostly I just felt sorry for her, and I saw other strange things at the park, which always happens, maybe because it’s the only place in my mind where we are all half-naked but it’s simply no big deal, and once while I was walking to the shore, I thought I saw a scab like me, sitting on a mound of dirt with an infant balanced on his knees, and another time I thought I saw some Russian girls, three Russian girls, who seemed vaguely whorish, and they were speaking, the three of them, on a mobile phone, and laughing, but in truth, I was only interested in the old couple, in part because I had a sense that the old man was going to die at any moment, and when I thought this, or when I realized that this was what I was thinking about, a range of disparate ideas occurred to me, that after the old man’s death there would be a tsunami, that Brooklyn would be destroyed in a tidal wave, that there would be a sudden trembling, that there would be an enormous earthquake, brownstone Brooklyn disappearing in a wave of dust, and when I thought about what I’d just said I hid my face in my hands and started to cry, and while I was crying I dreamt (or imagined) that it was night, maybe three in the morning, and that I had left the house and gone to the park and at the park I encountered the old man lying facedown on the grass, and in the sky, there with the other stars but much closer to the earth than the other stars, there was a glittering black sun, an enormous sun, black and silent, and I fell upon the grass and stretched out on the grass, and the only two people at the park were the old man and me, and when I turned and opened my eyes, I realized that the whorish Russian women and the girl always on her feet and the scab like me with the child in his arms were watching me with curiosity, maybe asking themselves who this strange guy could be, this guy with the black hoodie, and even the old woman was looking at me from the shade of her parasol, her reading interrupted for a few interminable seconds, perhaps asking herself who this silently crying young man was, a young man of 28, who had nothing, but was recovering his will, his courage, and who knew that he was going to live a little bit longer.

Looking For Who Exactly?

2011-01-09T08:41:00.000-08:00

This past week I was doing some research for a story. I found the name of a dude who managed the band I'm writing about back in the '70s. I figured I'd look him up. Couldn't find much other than links to some old album reviews he wrote. He has a common name, which didn't help. I emailed some people who I thought he might've worked with back in the day. Zilch. He wasn't on Facebook, MySpace -- none of that shit. More emails: Try this guy; get in touch with that person. Clues emerged. Then, boom: The guy I was looking for has been dead for more than 30 years. I didn't like that so few colleagues seemed to remember him. I did find a brief reference to a funny story he told in another, more famous (but not actually famous at all), writer's book. More digging. More emailing. More clues. There is the expectation that we can reconstruct a life from Google searches. I went to a university library yesterday. I found everything that this guy wrote for a famous magazine. 115 pieces in all, none of them very long. I'm going to keep digging. If only because I hope someone would do the same for me.

The End

2010-12-29T08:53:00.000-08:00

It's the end of the year. I wrote about the end for Ryeberg. Check it out here. The Doors, mystical Sufi music, doom metal, transcendental meditation and popular science magazines are discussed.

My Year Inwards

2010-12-27T13:51:00.000-08:00

Below are links to a bunch of stuff I wrote in 2010. It's not a complete list.

Seeing my work grouped together gives me mixed feelings about the year that's about to end, but I guess things are moving in the right direction, generally speaking.

An essay about Dogs Dying.

A reported essay about pimple-popping.

For a while this year I was into interviewing people about creativity. I think the ones with Leonard Nimoy and David Lynch turned out the best but none stink (I don't think).

A short essay, with accompanying videos, about seeing a midget on display at a state fair.

My review of Arcade Fire's The Suburbs.

A profile of Jamey Johnson.

Bands that were big in 2010 under the radar.

(A bunch of my SPIN work is here.)

SPIN's blog on Yahoo! Music.

I had some fun writing vulgar jokes with a friend.

A man I know well, who is in fact very much like me, was writing some remarkably astute columns for the Ballast. My favorites are the one about dominating an Old Folks' Home and enduring an industrial metal concert with coked up Germans.

I told a story about impersonating a bouncer for the CBC. I think my bit starts around 35 minutes in.

As for this here blog, I liked my post about getting abducted by a cult of Satanists on Halloween. I also enjoyed creating this long lost Fleetwood Mac studio tape. Oh, and I recapped a vicious bar fight. I not a good judge of all that shit, though. I could read my own blog for hours.

So that's that. Happy New Year.

A Real Conversation From A Busy Bar

2010-12-17T11:54:00.000-08:00

"Stop pushing me."
"My friend is getting us drinks."
"Good for your friend. I was here first."
"If you let me get ahead of you I'll get out of your way faster."
"I don't give a shit about your logic."
"You're here alone aren't you?"
"You look familiar to me. Ah! You're [redacted]'s make-up person."
"Yeah! You were the writer!"
"How's it going man?!"
"Good, good. Great to see you. It's so busy in here!"
"It's crazy! Hey, I'll buy you a drink."

Moneychangers

2010-12-03T18:06:00.000-08:00

So I was listening to the Bob Dylan live album that came out like ten years ago that was a recording of a 1966 concert where a fan called him Judas. If you're into Dylan, like, if you read a bunch about him, the Judas concert is famous. It happened not long after he'd stopped playing acoustic folk music and switched to playing wild electric rock'n'roll. He wasn't just singing about the system, man, and how we should all get it together because the times are changing and sounding like Woody Guthrie with a real thing going on on the moon and started playing spink spank rock'n'roll and singing lyrics that sometimes didn't make sense till the 13th listen but that you felt first time around. Anyway, people into wooden Dylan were mad about the change and at a concert in Manchester some fan called him a "Judas."

Can you imagine that? You're up there, in front of people, doing your thing, and someone calls you Judas? Like, if I was at my desk and wrote a sentence that was in a different style and shared a different mind than the ones I'd written before and someone yelled me Judas? Wacky.

It, Judas, is a pivotal moment for Dylan devotees. Sony Columbia started selling it in, like, 1998 or something. I remember buying the album when it came out at a store in Toronto called Sam the Record Man. Sam's ain't there no more.

So I'm listening to this album tonight on the subway ride back to Brooklyn. I hear the Judas moment. It's electric. Substitute vibe for sound, you know? Electric. But, like, this became available as a consumer good 32 or however many years after it happened? 31 and 3/4 years after it became legend? That's weird, right? Why didn't Sony Columbia put this shit out like the next day?

And, like, Dylan's played thousands of concerts. Of those, maybe a dozen became lore. How many were recorded? Seems nutbars, or maybe not nutbars at all, that a big percentage would've been recorded. But, like, who's good at probability? I'm no scientist or math-man, but are the odds good that a show in Manchester England would've been recorded in 1966? Not just a show, but the show?

Isn't it possible that if you're a duder working a desk at Sony music in 1998 or thereabouts, that you're sitting at your desk, thinking, "We could use some new Dylan product" and you start leafing through a book or peeping a fansite and see, "Shit, seems like there's a lot of hookywooky about this 1966 Judas dealio."

Man, if only that concert had been recorded.

(There was a guy who used to search through Dylan's garbage, looking for clues.)

It takes 32 years for the most famous Zimzam concert ever to garner green?

"Wig-wam bam, man, if only I could sell, on behalf of Sony, this ab-fab super-duper Dylan show. Shucks and tuff luck that it wun't recorded."

They can do amazing things with sound technology these days.

"Can't we make us some Judas magic?"

Sure they can. Sure we can. Of course, of course.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-27T12:28:00.000-08:00

Human beings have written and recorded some excellent songs. Here's one:

Two Conversations

2010-11-25T15:28:00.001-08:00

In a bookstore, by the discounted coffee table books. Two men, both middle aged. One thinner with a mustache, the other husky and balding.

Thin: "That's the thing about dogs and people."
Husky: "What is?"
Thin: "Dogs want food, people want love."

Outside a Bob Dylan concert. A white man with curly blond hair is negotiating with a black man in a black leather Sean John jacket.

White man: "You saving a ticket for yourself?"
Black man: "Nah, man."
White man: "You gotta see Bob Dylan. You ever see Bob Dylan?"
Black man: [Chuckling] "Why I gotta see Bob Dylan?"
White man: "You wanna know why you gotta see Bob Dylan? BECAUSE HE'S BOB FUCKING DYLAN."
Black man: "So you gonna give me $100 for these?"

The Birth of the Cool

2010-11-20T11:20:00.000-08:00

An interesting encounter between an urban explorer and a fierce mother.

And an audio-visual treat:

Titles of Paintings by Rock Stars

2010-11-03T07:22:00.000-07:00

"Most of the titles for my pieces arrived because on computer you have to call them something , so I have. The easy way to look at it is, if it has a hat on - it will probably be called Hat Man" - Ringo Starr, 2005

Two works by Paul Stanley:

This one is called Winter Sun.

This one is called Untitled.

Don't Sleep on This

2010-11-01T19:19:00.000-07:00

More genius from the Ballast.

The Night Before Halloween

2010-10-31T08:25:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched Vincent Price in Roger Corman's Masque of the Red Death. A friend had recommended it. He said it was scary as hell. He was right. There's a wicked subplot involving a dwarf jester named Hop Toad who gets murderous revenge on the nobleman who slapped his dwarf ladyfriend. Here's a badass song inspired by Hop Toad:

I finished watching the movie around ten and was ready for a spooky good time. So I called a car service and headed out to this party in one of those parts of Williamsburg that people say is Williamsburg but feels like nowhere -- all empty streets and unused lots and unmarked warehouses. I stupidly didn't write down the address of the party, so I had the driver let me off at what I thought was a nearby intersection. It was only like 10:30 but it felt way later. I immediately regretted getting out of the car. There was no one around.

I get lost easily. But for reasons of pride, I still try and trust my instincts to get me where I need to go. I shouldn't have. After twenty minutes of walking, I was more lost than when I'd started. I got a bit panicky when I realized that if I called a car service I'd have no idea where to tell them to pick me up -- I couldn't find any street signs. I even thought about calling the police and asking them to find me. I stopped at a corner and tried to use the map App on my Blackberry but couldn't get any service. I put on my headphones. I thought I'd be less nervous if I was listening to music. I pressed shuffle. This is what came on:

I listened to that for about nine seconds and put on something more soothing.

I got to the part about Brenda and Eddie still going steady in the summer of '75 when I finally saw another human. This person walked to the corner diagonally across from me and stopped. I couldn't tell if he or she was looking at me. This person didn't check his or her cellphone. They didn't look around like they were waiting to meet someone. They just stood there in their black leather jacket and hoodie. The hood was pulled up so I couldn't see the person's face. It was a bit disconcerting. But I was tired of being lost, so I walked over to ask for directions.

The person, a dude, had extremely thin, pale skin. I could see all the veins in his face. He seemed either super zonked or super tired and didn't answer when I asked if he knew what street we were on. He just turned and walked away. After half a block, he looked back at me and gestured with his head for me to follow him. Fair enough. I started walking. We walked for a long time, and nothing looked more familiar or more like civilization. Just one empty block and lonely warehouse after another. Whenever I tried to walk faster so that I could get beside this guy, he sped up so that he stayed ahead of me. He never seemed like he was trying to move quickly, though. It was weird. Eventually, he stopped in front of a rusty green metal door at the front of an unmarked red brick warehouse. Again, he just stood silently. I asked where we were. He didn't answer. He didn't knock or shout or text or make a call. Then the door opened. We went inside. A fat, shirtless bald man wearing black leather pants and a studded choker and no shoes closed the door behind us.

It was almost pitch black inside. I immediately lost track of the guy I'd been following. The only light was coming from a door left slightly open at the end of what seemed like an extremely long hallway. Music was coming from that direction, too. It sounded like tribal drumming. I was pretty much shitting my pants at this point and wishing I'd called the police or Arecibo. I carefully walked towards the door. A drop of warm liquid fell on my face. I wiped it off and felt it smear across my cheek. I gagged. I heard little tip-taps and squeaks. Something crawled over my foot. I yelled. Someone put their hand over my mouth. It was the shirtless fat man. His hand was moist and smelled like soft french cheese. He removed his hand from my face and stepped back into the darkness. I reached out to feel for the wall and scraped my forearm on something sharp. I reached for the opposite wall. Nothing sharp. I put my back against the wall and shuffled towards the door. The music was by now very loud.

I slowly opened the door and walked in. It was incredibly loud. There were strobe lights set up on the floor swiveling back and forth. The room was full of people dressed all in black and wildly dancing -- but not with each other. They were just sort of convulsing near each other. There was strong metallic smell. I couldn't tell where the music was coming from but it sounded live, not like a recording.

At one end of the room, sitting on a raised platform in a bridge chair was an older man in a cheap-looking black suit and bowler hat. He wore a thin black tie and a white tuxedo shirt with thin red stains over his heart. He looked a bit like William Burroughs but with an elaborate tribal face tattoo. It had almost a 3D quality. In his black gloved hands he held a small knife. I watched the guy for a while, and as far as I could tell, he kept his eyes staring straight ahead, as if he was looking beyond the room. Two women in black corsets sat on the floor on either side of him.

He snapped his head in my direction. There was no white in his eyes, just solid black. He opened his mouth like he was screaming. Veins bulged in his neck. I couldn't hear anything but the pounding drums. The man closed his mouth and again stared into nowhere.

I looked for a bar or a bathroom but didn't see any. I approached a guy with long, greasy hair wearing a black jean jacket with a big Danzig patch. I asked him if there was somewhere to get a drink. He spat on the floor, then pulled a flask from his back pocket. He took a slug. His fingernails were long and yellowy. He held out the flask. I was already freaked out; I might as well be buzzed. And anyway, how much weirder could this get?

I awoke on the G train back to Park Slope. I checked my watch. It was 5:15 a.m. There were bruises on both my wrists. I had a pounding headache and felt nauseous. I stood to get off at my stop and my knees buckled. I couldn't -- and can't -- remember anything after the flask. My chest stung, as if the flesh had been rubbed raw. I felt under my shirt. There were scabs. When I got back to my apartment I undressed to take a shower. On my chest, directly over my heart, was a series of deep scrapes in a familiar pattern -- they were identical to the tattoo on the old man's face.

Fake Bounce

2010-10-30T12:32:00.000-07:00

I told a story on the CBC today. Listen to it here. It starts at 35:45.

What the Hell

2010-10-03T11:10:00.001-07:00

I think most of my posts will be over here from now on.

Let's catch up:

Ballast

A profile for SPIN about country music star Jamey Johnson. I think it turned out well. Only an excerpt is available online, though.

Here's a video-heavy essay about freak shows that I contributed to Ryeberg.

I'm still interviewing people about creativity over here.

I have nothing to do with this art project, but it seems cool.