Hello Dear Breaders,
You remember Henry David Thoreau? The guy who invented English Muffins, then went to Walden pond to write about it? In his seminal work, Walden Thoreau said he wanted to live "deliberately." Then for the next two years he pretended to live in a cabin.
The Wombury's new apartment in the Bronx is supposed to be his cabin by the pond. This blog is his Walden, but it's hard, kiddies, it's hard, and the Wombury is steaming inside.
Ron Kalish told me the project will cost me 60,000 dollars and two years to complete. fuck me with a foreman grill. I don't have the time or inclination for this bullshit. There are at least seven other major things I need to do, things I haven't told my dear readers about. There are places I need to go. There are TRUTHS the Wombury needs to uncover, and he cannot, under any circumstances, afford to spend two years and 60,000 dollars slaving away on a project that he doesn't, on the whole, even like that much.
There, it's said, out in the open, on the table, where everyone can see it, like the time back in high school when the Wombury' s mother found a nickle bag of swag his friend Rachel gave him for his birthday and called him home from school and when he got the front door she was holding the tiny bag in her hand for me to see she knew. So It's there. The Wombury doesn't like this fucking project. Are you happy now Anon, you miserable little toaster strudel. If that girl is reading this, are you happy too? The Wombury cares about this project because he spent 12, 000 dollars on it, because he lost that girl for it, but he does not like it. It's stupid. The world does not need it. The world barely needs 1/99th of the bullshit we call arts and entertainment.
Do you know why the Wombury made this project, Anon? Because I wanted to be special. Because my friend Patrick published a book and the Wombury went to a bar on the Lower east side and heard Patrick give a reading from his book and complete strangers asked Patrick to sign his book, and the Wombury watched all of this through eyes blurred by 8 jack and cokes, and he said to himself, You want that. Now. You want skinny nerds with bad skin to ask you for your autograph. You want more money to buy better food at nicer restaurants. You want to have copious amounts of intercourse with women prettier than one you got.
How's that, Anon? Do you want me to go on?
Write what you know, they say. You know what the Wombury knows, Anon? Crazy. The Wombury knows crazy the way your dentist knows teeth. Sometimes, Anon, I like to put on a suit and tie when I write these blogs because I like the feeling wearing a suit gives, and because the Wombury rarely has a legitimate reason to wear a suit and tie, so he makes one up. You like Shakespeare, right Anon? All the world's a stage, isn't that the line? We're all in our private self-financed reality shows, aren't we? That's what I know. A million characters in search of an author.
Do you know why I write this blog, Anon? Because I want my voice. The Wombury is trying to find a voice to sing with.
They say write what you know. They say that in Intro to Creative Writing. You know what I know? Identity confusion, role playing, acting. Sometimes, Anon, when I'm staring into the abyss I ask myself whether I've ever had an genuine experience in my life, and I'm starting to think the answer is no. Even losing that Girl couldn't force me into the genuine authentic for more than a twinkie's moment. I would study myself in the mirror crying to see what it looked like. And you ask why I hide behind humor and word play and irony, Anon. Because no one should see these things in print. It's embarrassing. Family members read this anon. What do you think goes through a parent's head when he reads these things? If you know, don't tell me.
You know what I'm looking for? The Wombury is hoping for that nail-on-the-head diagnosis that will help him make sense of all the broken relationships and all fuck-up bonehead failures. Remember the Cosby Show, Anon? Remember when Theo kept fucking up at school and he couldn't figure it out and then doctors diagnosed him with dyslexia, and it was really meaningful and someone explained how dyslexia is what happens when smart people can't read and then everyone wanted to wear colorful sweaters and be a middle class black guy for a year? And every one went, "oh, now I get it." That's what I want, Anon. And then I want my fucking pill, the one that every Tom, Dick, and hairy Jane is alloted to them, as part of the Bill of Rights, that makes it all go away so I can finally FINALLY have my reading in that bar in the Lower Eastside. Can you give that to me, Anon? Are you a doctor or shaman or an apothecary? Are you a beautiful middle-aged woman with a fondness for tortured souls? Will you let me read to you?
I want my name, Anon. The priests, the poets, the philosophers, and the revolutionaries, they get their names. Lenin, Bono, Fr. Simeon, Anon-they got their names. I want my name, I want my God, my religion, and my revolution. And don't tell me the Revolution starts from within. And don't tell me to grow up, and don't tell me to get a job, and don't tell me it's going to be alright. I can't stand it when people say things like that. Where the fuck do you people get all this shit from anyway? Your life? Don't you know wisdom is found in mid-80's romantic comedies?
You know what That Girl told me, a long time ago? She told there wasn't a book because there wasn't a story, and you just can't go around making one up. And that girl might be right. And I melted that girl down like the israelites and turned her into a video documentary, and the lord was angry. And that girl is gone. And that life is gone. what remains is this bedroom I call my Walden in the Bronx.
Until then,
The Wombury
Look, Anon,
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Update
I found the source of the music. The Cabellero Club is playing in a room in a classic New York pre-war 8 story brownstone apartment across the street. The room is green and festooned with Christmas lights and from the roof of my building you can the shoulder of the guy strumming a guitar and even though it's the dead of winter it sounds like a summer evening in Mexico.
Sparkling Wine in a Shoebox
Hello Dear Breeders,
As the Wombury writes this post he's being treated to a free Tuesday night concert being held outside of his window. It's 10 o'clock and apparently the Caballero club is convening for a casual session of yelling in Spanish accompanied by an accordion.
Funny thing happened today. A casting director from a reality show contacted the Wombury to invite him to be apart of an episode that will be taped January 29th at 4:30 pm. See, back in December, three days after returning to New York, the Wombury was approached at the Union Square Barnes and Noble by some dude. Dude buttered up the Wombury with shameless flattery, told him he was casting for a reality show about unfamiliar tourist destinations in New York. Then he gave the Wombury a quiz and a card and said a casting director would call in December. Well, December came and went without a call, so it was out of mind, but lo and behold, she phoned today. She told the Wombury to expect a phone call 2-3 days before the target date with information about my "site." She said a crew would film for an hour and half and then edit down the footage to five minutes.
She also told the Wombury to bring a few friends along. Friends who would be good on camera. Have a good time. What, the Wombury isn't good enough on his own? He needs to bring other people? The question is, who do I bring? Most of the Wombury's friends are either funnier than the Wombury or better looking than the Wombury, or smarter than the Wombury. A few surpass him in all three categories. This is supposed to be the Wombury's big break. ME ME ME ME. What do you think of that Anon? Should I bring you along? Maybe Mlevy. Maybe Louie. This feels like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except the Wombury is too big of an asshole to be in the role of Charlie or the Grandpa. The Wombury is like Veruca Salt or the fat slob who eats his hand or his mom or whatever.
This is what will happen: The Wombury and friends will be together at their undisclosed location, probably a bar or a tire factory, and they'll be having a decent time, but the Wombury will get all panicked that his group is not being "fun" enough, or "humorous" or "photogenic." Worse yet, he'll start worrying he's not being funny enough or that Louie is getting all the big laughs. Then he'll start "trying" too hard. He'll say something unintentionally hurtful like, "maybe you should stop sleeping with married men." Or he'll try to flirt with the waitress, or he'll pretend to trip on the hood of taxi cab. The other members of his party will avert their eyes, there will be awkward silences and pauses, the Wombury will continually massage his bald head and stroke his beard and pick his nose and peel labels off of bottles and make comments about sexual frustration and wonder how big Freud's cigar was, and then after seven minutes of filming the producer will say "thank you, I think we have enough. Here's my card; we'll be in touch." End of episode.
Ah. A star is born. Speaking of taxi cabs, here's a picture of butler,
(Your lips like wine, your hair like twine, your words like swine )
As the Wombury writes this post he's being treated to a free Tuesday night concert being held outside of his window. It's 10 o'clock and apparently the Caballero club is convening for a casual session of yelling in Spanish accompanied by an accordion.
Funny thing happened today. A casting director from a reality show contacted the Wombury to invite him to be apart of an episode that will be taped January 29th at 4:30 pm. See, back in December, three days after returning to New York, the Wombury was approached at the Union Square Barnes and Noble by some dude. Dude buttered up the Wombury with shameless flattery, told him he was casting for a reality show about unfamiliar tourist destinations in New York. Then he gave the Wombury a quiz and a card and said a casting director would call in December. Well, December came and went without a call, so it was out of mind, but lo and behold, she phoned today. She told the Wombury to expect a phone call 2-3 days before the target date with information about my "site." She said a crew would film for an hour and half and then edit down the footage to five minutes.
She also told the Wombury to bring a few friends along. Friends who would be good on camera. Have a good time. What, the Wombury isn't good enough on his own? He needs to bring other people? The question is, who do I bring? Most of the Wombury's friends are either funnier than the Wombury or better looking than the Wombury, or smarter than the Wombury. A few surpass him in all three categories. This is supposed to be the Wombury's big break. ME ME ME ME. What do you think of that Anon? Should I bring you along? Maybe Mlevy. Maybe Louie. This feels like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except the Wombury is too big of an asshole to be in the role of Charlie or the Grandpa. The Wombury is like Veruca Salt or the fat slob who eats his hand or his mom or whatever.
This is what will happen: The Wombury and friends will be together at their undisclosed location, probably a bar or a tire factory, and they'll be having a decent time, but the Wombury will get all panicked that his group is not being "fun" enough, or "humorous" or "photogenic." Worse yet, he'll start worrying he's not being funny enough or that Louie is getting all the big laughs. Then he'll start "trying" too hard. He'll say something unintentionally hurtful like, "maybe you should stop sleeping with married men." Or he'll try to flirt with the waitress, or he'll pretend to trip on the hood of taxi cab. The other members of his party will avert their eyes, there will be awkward silences and pauses, the Wombury will continually massage his bald head and stroke his beard and pick his nose and peel labels off of bottles and make comments about sexual frustration and wonder how big Freud's cigar was, and then after seven minutes of filming the producer will say "thank you, I think we have enough. Here's my card; we'll be in touch." End of episode.
Ah. A star is born. Speaking of taxi cabs, here's a picture of butler,
(Your lips like wine, your hair like twine, your words like swine )Until then,
The Wombury
The Wombury
Monday, January 14, 2008
An Open Letter to Anonymous
Hello Dear Readers,
Note: I'm going to break what is most likely a cardinal rule of blogging (not that there is a manual of bloggers that I'm aware of) by removing the "mask" of the Wombury in order to address a comment posted this evening by "Anonymous."
This is the comment, printed in full: "Ah, the traditional battle between appearance versus reality. Isn't this a theme of nearly all Shakespeare plays? What is interesting is that while you are attempting to seek out authentic experiences they continue to evade you. Judging by these blogs, you are neither Odysseus nor Picasso. Instead, you are allowing yourself to become a pawn in someone else's chess game for a project that has taken on a life of its own. The real story lies in us readers watching you inside these adventures and less in your ability to make sense of them on your own or to find greater meaning in the apparent oddness of your situation. As long as this is satisfying to you, carry on. When, though, it becomes too much, realize that you can get out from in front of the camera lens and get back behind it. The question is how long will you let your life be a chess game?"
Dear Anonymous,
It's all in your head. Actually, it's probably all in my head. Including you.
Until then,
The Wombury
Note: I'm going to break what is most likely a cardinal rule of blogging (not that there is a manual of bloggers that I'm aware of) by removing the "mask" of the Wombury in order to address a comment posted this evening by "Anonymous."
This is the comment, printed in full: "Ah, the traditional battle between appearance versus reality. Isn't this a theme of nearly all Shakespeare plays? What is interesting is that while you are attempting to seek out authentic experiences they continue to evade you. Judging by these blogs, you are neither Odysseus nor Picasso. Instead, you are allowing yourself to become a pawn in someone else's chess game for a project that has taken on a life of its own. The real story lies in us readers watching you inside these adventures and less in your ability to make sense of them on your own or to find greater meaning in the apparent oddness of your situation. As long as this is satisfying to you, carry on. When, though, it becomes too much, realize that you can get out from in front of the camera lens and get back behind it. The question is how long will you let your life be a chess game?"
Dear Anonymous,
It's all in your head. Actually, it's probably all in my head. Including you.
Until then,
The Wombury
Samuel Gompers Cheated on his Taxes
Hello Dear Breeders,
Coming to you live from inside your computer, it's the Wombury here, giving you another fresh dose of the medicine we call the Truth. Whaddya say kiddies, howsa 'bout we start today with a few headlines and trends? The credit crisis is worsening, Obama and Hillary are getting all nuanced and weird about the civil rights movement, Romney spent another day pretending he's not full of crap, Iran is picking on our navy, the dictator of Indonesia is dying, everyone is raping everybody else down in South Africa, Britney Spears didn't make it to court and is rumored to be moving to...Pakistan. Poor Britney. It's pretty bad when Iraq has its shit more together than you. (Ooh, the Wombury went current, went topical; like ointment).
...and in the Bronx, Lana and Ernie keep making the Wombury dinner without the Wombury's permission, and it's got to stop.
Seriously, readers, Lana and Ernie cooked dinner 3 out of the first 7 seven nights the Wombury's been in the Boogie Down (do you capitalize the "D"?). And we're not talking quick meals. We're talking: Pesto Chicken and Pasta; Mandarin 5 Minute Sweet and Sour Chicken; and a London Broil steak (!) with Twice Baked Potatoes. I know what you're thinking, "Hey Wombury, why don't you just shut the Kentucky up and enjoy yourself once and in while." (Which reminds me of the old Chincse proverb about a gift horse, or gifted whores. yes, that's it, prostitutes in the talented and gifted program).
Lana actually chided the Wombury, only half-jokingly, when he attempted to cook risotto-for himself-for the third time. She sauntered up the Wombury, amid broth stirrage and clucked, "I see you're making the risotto. Uh-Huh." The Wombury almost stopped cooking the risotto, but that would've been the third time, and that's simply not fair to the Risotto. So the risotto was made, but unbeknownst to it, was demoted from entree to a side dish for steak.
Maybe the Wombury is being ungrateful, but it doesn't feel that way. Rather, "it" feels like a normal, rational response to strange form of control based on hospitality, much as if they're using a spring loaded wire cage shaped like a rented bedroom, baited with meat and potatoes on a plate (color: muted red) from Ikea (the Lars Larsson collection) to trap the Wombury in the apartment. And they don't even ask the Wombury if he wants to join them; they just call him to dinner. The three of us eat,(Jordy is usually at his girlfriend's. Way to go Jordy), engaged in stimulating non-conversation, and usually watching quality cable television shows like When Good Pets God Bad or Gruesome Crotch Wounds. Some days it's like I'm their pet manchild, while other days it's like I stepped into the Bronx version of the Honeymooners. Maybe it's a lost episode of the 'Mooners where Ralph Kramden buys Trixie a bald Wombury for Christmas.
My friend Louie, who's also from the Bronx, says it's a cultural thing. Maybe. As far as whether the meals were just isolated events or part of larger trend, the jury is still out. An email might be in order. Difficult to say.
What isn't difficult to say, is hello in Swedish; it's "Hej".
(there are moments when I forget you existed; how terrible)
Coming to you live from inside your computer, it's the Wombury here, giving you another fresh dose of the medicine we call the Truth. Whaddya say kiddies, howsa 'bout we start today with a few headlines and trends? The credit crisis is worsening, Obama and Hillary are getting all nuanced and weird about the civil rights movement, Romney spent another day pretending he's not full of crap, Iran is picking on our navy, the dictator of Indonesia is dying, everyone is raping everybody else down in South Africa, Britney Spears didn't make it to court and is rumored to be moving to...Pakistan. Poor Britney. It's pretty bad when Iraq has its shit more together than you. (Ooh, the Wombury went current, went topical; like ointment).
...and in the Bronx, Lana and Ernie keep making the Wombury dinner without the Wombury's permission, and it's got to stop.
Seriously, readers, Lana and Ernie cooked dinner 3 out of the first 7 seven nights the Wombury's been in the Boogie Down (do you capitalize the "D"?). And we're not talking quick meals. We're talking: Pesto Chicken and Pasta; Mandarin 5 Minute Sweet and Sour Chicken; and a London Broil steak (!) with Twice Baked Potatoes. I know what you're thinking, "Hey Wombury, why don't you just shut the Kentucky up and enjoy yourself once and in while." (Which reminds me of the old Chincse proverb about a gift horse, or gifted whores. yes, that's it, prostitutes in the talented and gifted program).
Lana actually chided the Wombury, only half-jokingly, when he attempted to cook risotto-for himself-for the third time. She sauntered up the Wombury, amid broth stirrage and clucked, "I see you're making the risotto. Uh-Huh." The Wombury almost stopped cooking the risotto, but that would've been the third time, and that's simply not fair to the Risotto. So the risotto was made, but unbeknownst to it, was demoted from entree to a side dish for steak.
Maybe the Wombury is being ungrateful, but it doesn't feel that way. Rather, "it" feels like a normal, rational response to strange form of control based on hospitality, much as if they're using a spring loaded wire cage shaped like a rented bedroom, baited with meat and potatoes on a plate (color: muted red) from Ikea (the Lars Larsson collection) to trap the Wombury in the apartment. And they don't even ask the Wombury if he wants to join them; they just call him to dinner. The three of us eat,(Jordy is usually at his girlfriend's. Way to go Jordy), engaged in stimulating non-conversation, and usually watching quality cable television shows like When Good Pets God Bad or Gruesome Crotch Wounds. Some days it's like I'm their pet manchild, while other days it's like I stepped into the Bronx version of the Honeymooners. Maybe it's a lost episode of the 'Mooners where Ralph Kramden buys Trixie a bald Wombury for Christmas.
My friend Louie, who's also from the Bronx, says it's a cultural thing. Maybe. As far as whether the meals were just isolated events or part of larger trend, the jury is still out. An email might be in order. Difficult to say.
What isn't difficult to say, is hello in Swedish; it's "Hej".
(there are moments when I forget you existed; how terrible)Until then,
The Wombury
The Wombury
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Wombury asks, "What the &$#! is with Canada?"
Hello Dear Breeders,
That was Real. The Canadian government really made that. To help people. What? The Wombury wants to know who is on the crack team of publicists that decided grease-on-the-face was becoming a pan Canadian epidemic. Is this what happens when your nation doesn't have an army or a foreign policy or criminals? This sort of travesty would not have happened in the Soviet Union. It's enough to make the Wombury nostalgic for 20th Century totalitarian regimes.
Until then, doing his best to serve the public,
The Wombury
That was Real. The Canadian government really made that. To help people. What? The Wombury wants to know who is on the crack team of publicists that decided grease-on-the-face was becoming a pan Canadian epidemic. Is this what happens when your nation doesn't have an army or a foreign policy or criminals? This sort of travesty would not have happened in the Soviet Union. It's enough to make the Wombury nostalgic for 20th Century totalitarian regimes.
Until then, doing his best to serve the public,
The Wombury
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)