All I Ever Wanted

I've spent my summer so far a dull self-promotion machine, wrapped up mostly in writing and performing in and being disappointed and ecstatic over shows. The one tomorrow is going to be excellent.

It's been a summer of Scotch and Sodas, sometimes too many, enough to make me the kind of clear, businessman drunk that only fictional ad executives and movie accountants (who have just discovered something terrible about their own futures, that will allow them to finally live life to the fullest) get. The kind of drunk that makes a visit to a children's museum difficult the next day.

I've been reading John O'Hara's very short stories. They put contemporary flash fiction* so much to shame that I shouldn't even talk about it. John O'Hara is an important lesson about being nice, because his reviews were based more upon how unlikable he was than how good he was at writing. He was also notable for his drinking, like Faulkner was, except that Pottsville boy lacked a certain Mississippi charm.

What I mean to say is, I'm going on vacation. My first as an adult. One that will allow me to drink cheap Scotch on Faulkner's grave, visit my childhood ghosts, and see the world's smallest city block. I'm headed South. After Second Stories, that is.


*It's fair to say that I'm wary of flash fiction. Almost as much as I am prose poetry, which I feel is the lowest form of either genre.

Enter the Rant-O-Wheel Daredevil Storytelling Competition!

One Small Step for Jaime...

A story I wrote, "Confetti" will be published in this month's Eastown Fiction.

Bonerama!

Similarities

Stepdads

(poster by Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum)

If a Tree Falls in the Forest

I’ve known The Sixth Borough since their inception in dismal January 2007 at the Ric Rac and in our living room. I was at stage left switching lights at their first show. I peddled “ADULTS” tickets, drunkenly disparaged Die Actor Die judges on their behalf, joined them on the radio. They are my friends and my colleagues, and in some cases, closer to family. I’m sentimental because I’m proud: at Snubfest this weekend in Chicago, they won both the Audience and Judges' prizes for sketch comedy.

When my friends do well, I’m happy for them. Not only because they should do well, but because it gives me hope. I do what I’m doing in a bubble. I have my shows, and lord knows The Dive has given me more opportunities than I’m worth, but the room is only so big, and will only get me so far. I am good at reading, but who’s ever sat down with my writing?

I’m not alone like this. I went to college for this kind of disappointment. I was told, a few weeks before graduating that I am “not [a writer].” That afternoon, fuming, I looked around the room and realized I was one of very few who were willing to fight against that. It’s only natural to worry now it’s all been for naught.

When things like this happen to people that I love and respect who have earned it with cleverness and talent above anything else, it reminds me, however fleetingly, that what I am working for could be worth something, and that persistence is pretty much all I’ve got in my favor. But it’s something, and occasionally, it pays off.

Something's Afoot Finally

Hey, remember that radioplay that Jeremy and I wrote and performed with the Sixth Borough six months ago? No? Well, here it is, available for your listening pleasure.

Feverish

On Tuesday, I was so taken by fever that I forgot to introduce my bit on Doctor Who monsters properly. The audience just assumed that I had made up a series of strange creatures that I thought might attack earth. The part about building underground cities in strategic locations was intentional, though.

Terrible Ideas I've Had Today

1. Making a mix cd utilizing every single cover version of "You've Lost that Loving Feeling" available.

2. Getting my hair cut like David Cassidy's.

3. Trying to hang up posters without bringing any tape.