Dear Management,
There is a girl named Alexis who works at your fine establishment, the Claire de Lune, whom I now have a not-so-secret-crush on. My friends gave her a silly note earlier today, of which I was the impetus. If you could relay this message to her along with my email and number, that would be stellar.
Thank you.
Jared Robbins
President of the Slovakian Bee Keeping Club
***
Dear Jared,
We do not have an Alexis that works at the Claire de Lune.
Are you sure you have the right coffee shop?
-Management
***
Dear Management,
I realize now I have been the subject of a cruel and unusual (but creative) prank. My friends went to great lengths in fabricating an exchange of notes with the Asian looking girl working today around noon (whose name isn't actually Alexis). Apologies for the confusion. I still think the barista in question has serious swagger, whatever her name may be. Feel free to still pass my info along. I was the spectacled boy who repeatedly came up for water refills.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
May, 2012 -- UC-Riverside Crime Alerts
Several times a week I receive alerts from the UC Police Department. Just got this one:
The subject has been in the store before; once
yelling at staff when the line was too long and left the store, another
time when he spat on the floor and another when he grabbed a bag of
chips and threw it on the floor.
To: UCR Community
Fr: UCPD
Re: Suspicious Subject at HUB C-Store
On 5-22-12 at about 7:00pm, a subject entered the
HUB C-store. C-Store staff saw as he walked to the register, he walked
closely behind a female customer and had one hand in his pants pocket
and appeared to be touching his groin area.
On 5-24-12 at about 3:50pm the same subject entered
the store and purchased an item. After leaving and standing outside, he
had one hand in his pant pocket and appeared to be touching groin area.
He was not looking at staff or anyone specific
while doing this.
Friday, April 06, 2012
Six Months in Pictures
view from my department building
daily walk
standard breakfast
wind farms on way to palm springs/joshua tree
brother's birthday gift to me
new year's eve in ann arbor
painting in the garage
Missed Scholarship Opportunity - April, 2012
There was a scholarship opportunity that came across my desk. It was intended for married persons, but sorta/kinda open to everyone. While I considered applying, I ultimately did not. Below is my un-submitted essay:
My name is Jared Robbins and I am an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at UCR. I am not married, but not by choice. It's just that I haven't found a mate yet who fits the bill. And not by any lack of effort on my part -- Lord knows, I've been looking. In malls, bars, under seats; on airplanes, dating websites, and the lot. But one knows that you can't force these things.
That said, I still believe the Neumann scholarship would prove of great benefit to me. I am a writer; writers are poor; and single writers are people too. I walk through family housing every day on my way to school. It is the most serene part of my day -- that is, when it's not raining. There are always half-clothed little kids running around and laundry blowing on the line; I see the mountains in the distance and imagine I'm in a bucolic faraway land.
My work is interdisciplinary: I write drama, short fiction, and poetry. Regular motifs include, but are not limited to, loss of innocence, brotherly bonds, unrequited love, eccentric characters, and thick spectacles. It is informed by a diverse background that includes a bachelors degree in political-science, a grandpa who lived to the age of 97, and a year spent teaching in Asia.
The Neumann scholarship would enable me to focus more on my writing and less on determining which Subway sandwiches are still on special for five dollars.
Thank you.
My name is Jared Robbins and I am an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at UCR. I am not married, but not by choice. It's just that I haven't found a mate yet who fits the bill. And not by any lack of effort on my part -- Lord knows, I've been looking. In malls, bars, under seats; on airplanes, dating websites, and the lot. But one knows that you can't force these things.
That said, I still believe the Neumann scholarship would prove of great benefit to me. I am a writer; writers are poor; and single writers are people too. I walk through family housing every day on my way to school. It is the most serene part of my day -- that is, when it's not raining. There are always half-clothed little kids running around and laundry blowing on the line; I see the mountains in the distance and imagine I'm in a bucolic faraway land.
My work is interdisciplinary: I write drama, short fiction, and poetry. Regular motifs include, but are not limited to, loss of innocence, brotherly bonds, unrequited love, eccentric characters, and thick spectacles. It is informed by a diverse background that includes a bachelors degree in political-science, a grandpa who lived to the age of 97, and a year spent teaching in Asia.
The Neumann scholarship would enable me to focus more on my writing and less on determining which Subway sandwiches are still on special for five dollars.
Thank you.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Riverside Life - Jan. 2012
-A buttermilk biscuit with blackberry jam and a glass of chocolate milk makes for a nice snack.
-Too much time on my hands to think, and now that reading and writing have become my area of study, they no longer fit as well as hobbies.
-Riverside works on a lot of levels (the university is swell, there's a Trader Joe's, I live in a spacious house with a pool and pay reasonable rent), but not so much on others (it has the worst reputation on the planet; and there's a severe dearth of college-educated cosmopolitan twentysomethings painting the town on a Friday night).
-One space after a period.
-Fish Tank was a good movie.
-Too much time on my hands to think, and now that reading and writing have become my area of study, they no longer fit as well as hobbies.
-Riverside works on a lot of levels (the university is swell, there's a Trader Joe's, I live in a spacious house with a pool and pay reasonable rent), but not so much on others (it has the worst reputation on the planet; and there's a severe dearth of college-educated cosmopolitan twentysomethings painting the town on a Friday night).
-One space after a period.
-Fish Tank was a good movie.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Beijing Highlights - June 2011
Sat next to two silly Thai girls on the plane ride over. They wrote me love notes in Thai that I still need translated.
Thomas met me at the airport and we grabbed cheap good food just around the corner from his apartment - one of those storefront restaurants which could double for someone's home kitchen. There was a table of chinese guys next to us who kept getting up to pee on the wall across the street. This in turn made me feel comfortable shooting food debris off my tongue whenever I felt so inclined.
The apartment we're living in is posh. Might even cost over a million dollars. I should carry around photos of it in my wallet like people do with their children.
note: The correct pronunciation of Beijing is "Bay-jing." The way American newscasters say it and popular perception is a bastardized attempt at sounding foreign. Blame the French.
On day one, I hooked up with 11 other people (I'm a slut, I know), some friends of friends, and we bused it to a village 1.5 hours outside the city nestled along sections of the Great Wall that haven't been refurbished.
We stayed at an incredible house. Went hiking. Ate elaborate meals. Drank plentifully at night.
Can't use Facebook, which is a massive inconvenience considering that’s how I conduct most of my correspondence.
***
Return from countryside retreat. Eat dinner at a Korean bbq place where they cook the meat on a mini-grill in front of you. It’s like having an uninvited guest at your table. All the girls in this particular establishment have tattoos. Thomas is automatically impressed by Chinese girls with tattoos.
As for the bbq, I’m less than thrilled only getting to eat one piece of meat or onion every five minutes - the amount of time it takes for them to cook something and divide it up amongst the three of us.
At night, one of Thomas’ Chinese prospects comes over. She looks cartoonish with her big eyes and small frame, but definitely pixie cute. There is a tattoo on her wrist, so after Thomas confesses attraction for her and she responds that “It had never crossed her mind,” Thomas does not believe her.
***
Spend loads of time in the apartment reading and editing short videos compiled from pictures and vids of my trip so far. Reading The Sheltering Sky, which is quick and easy prose that hints at greater heaviness. Three Americans wandering around North African desert in the aftermath of WWII. There is a love triangle and resonant theme of Americans in foreign land. Talk of the Sahara makes Beijing feel not-so-remote.
***
Been eating loads of baozi and gong bao ji ding.
Thomas' bike was stolen yesterday, even though it was locked up. Somebody just picked it up and walked off. So we buy him a new bike. This time he gets two locks. We ride the new bike down a ways, me sitting side-saddle on the back, to a market that sells dumbbells. It is a massively arduous process getting them home.
I learn about “Beijing Air-Conditioning” - the phenomenon where Chinese men pull their shirt fronts above their nipples to cool off.
***
Bike ride around town in the afternoon. Thomas harasses me for not going fast enough on my rickety rental bike. Wend through Hutongs, past Forbidden City and along Tianemen. Feels great to be out and about.
Join Seb for Shabbat dinner at Chabad House. Seb was on the group retreat to the Great Wall that first day. Catch the tail end of services. Can’t understand anything. I only came for the free dinner and booze. There are an assortment of different looking Jews - Arabs, Brooklyn Black Hats, Russians, nerds, etc. They all know their prayers better than me. My kippah refuses to stay on my head. A man behind me points out I’m in fact wearing two stuck together. Even with just one, it keeps falling off.
There must be 100 people at dinner. I’m seated with guys around my own age. Wash hands for chamotzi. There are loads of other prayers I don’t know throughout the multi-course meal. The Rabbi continuously comes around to fill up our disposable medicine cups with nice scotch.
“They know how to party,” Seb tells me.
The Rabbi makes some spiel about nepotism corrupting the world. I am confused. I thought the Jews were all about nepotism.
Thomas met me at the airport and we grabbed cheap good food just around the corner from his apartment - one of those storefront restaurants which could double for someone's home kitchen. There was a table of chinese guys next to us who kept getting up to pee on the wall across the street. This in turn made me feel comfortable shooting food debris off my tongue whenever I felt so inclined.
The apartment we're living in is posh. Might even cost over a million dollars. I should carry around photos of it in my wallet like people do with their children.
note: The correct pronunciation of Beijing is "Bay-jing." The way American newscasters say it and popular perception is a bastardized attempt at sounding foreign. Blame the French.
On day one, I hooked up with 11 other people (I'm a slut, I know), some friends of friends, and we bused it to a village 1.5 hours outside the city nestled along sections of the Great Wall that haven't been refurbished.
We stayed at an incredible house. Went hiking. Ate elaborate meals. Drank plentifully at night.
Can't use Facebook, which is a massive inconvenience considering that’s how I conduct most of my correspondence.
***
Return from countryside retreat. Eat dinner at a Korean bbq place where they cook the meat on a mini-grill in front of you. It’s like having an uninvited guest at your table. All the girls in this particular establishment have tattoos. Thomas is automatically impressed by Chinese girls with tattoos.
As for the bbq, I’m less than thrilled only getting to eat one piece of meat or onion every five minutes - the amount of time it takes for them to cook something and divide it up amongst the three of us.
At night, one of Thomas’ Chinese prospects comes over. She looks cartoonish with her big eyes and small frame, but definitely pixie cute. There is a tattoo on her wrist, so after Thomas confesses attraction for her and she responds that “It had never crossed her mind,” Thomas does not believe her.
***
Spend loads of time in the apartment reading and editing short videos compiled from pictures and vids of my trip so far. Reading The Sheltering Sky, which is quick and easy prose that hints at greater heaviness. Three Americans wandering around North African desert in the aftermath of WWII. There is a love triangle and resonant theme of Americans in foreign land. Talk of the Sahara makes Beijing feel not-so-remote.
***
Been eating loads of baozi and gong bao ji ding.
Thomas' bike was stolen yesterday, even though it was locked up. Somebody just picked it up and walked off. So we buy him a new bike. This time he gets two locks. We ride the new bike down a ways, me sitting side-saddle on the back, to a market that sells dumbbells. It is a massively arduous process getting them home.
I learn about “Beijing Air-Conditioning” - the phenomenon where Chinese men pull their shirt fronts above their nipples to cool off.
***
Bike ride around town in the afternoon. Thomas harasses me for not going fast enough on my rickety rental bike. Wend through Hutongs, past Forbidden City and along Tianemen. Feels great to be out and about.
Join Seb for Shabbat dinner at Chabad House. Seb was on the group retreat to the Great Wall that first day. Catch the tail end of services. Can’t understand anything. I only came for the free dinner and booze. There are an assortment of different looking Jews - Arabs, Brooklyn Black Hats, Russians, nerds, etc. They all know their prayers better than me. My kippah refuses to stay on my head. A man behind me points out I’m in fact wearing two stuck together. Even with just one, it keeps falling off.
There must be 100 people at dinner. I’m seated with guys around my own age. Wash hands for chamotzi. There are loads of other prayers I don’t know throughout the multi-course meal. The Rabbi continuously comes around to fill up our disposable medicine cups with nice scotch.
“They know how to party,” Seb tells me.
The Rabbi makes some spiel about nepotism corrupting the world. I am confused. I thought the Jews were all about nepotism.
Monday, May 30, 2011
I had/I have
I had a cousin who was big and masculine and forced to flee the country. After which he became a woman and died in a fire.
I had a conversation with a girl in which I relayed the cool things I had done. I could see her face get all twisted up with excitement, then melancholy, at the prospect these things were unattainable to her.
I feel that way a lot, when people tell me about all the cool things they've done. It's like a drug - you get real high hearing about travels and nights out and accomplishments, and then you get real depressed thinking these things are out of reach; that they require all sorts of impossible hoop jumping.
I have a plane ticket to China for June 16th. Now don't go twisting your face.
I had a conversation with a girl in which I relayed the cool things I had done. I could see her face get all twisted up with excitement, then melancholy, at the prospect these things were unattainable to her.
I feel that way a lot, when people tell me about all the cool things they've done. It's like a drug - you get real high hearing about travels and nights out and accomplishments, and then you get real depressed thinking these things are out of reach; that they require all sorts of impossible hoop jumping.
I have a plane ticket to China for June 16th. Now don't go twisting your face.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Notes from Kansas City
Dear Jared,
A couple of the guys from Small Black ended up coming to my apartment after their show in Kansas City and _____ made out with my friend on top of my washer and dryer.. And I'll have you know we had a cheers on your behalf earlier at the bar.
CG
A couple of the guys from Small Black ended up coming to my apartment after their show in Kansas City and _____ made out with my friend on top of my washer and dryer.. And I'll have you know we had a cheers on your behalf earlier at the bar.
CG
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Vital limbs of mine
Many a night have you rode home with heavy eyes. Too much drink.
Who even says that?
The unique. The unique who care enough to actively emulate creative forebears.
Tired.
The man across from you is old and a creeper. You hate that term, but it applies with all fire of definition now.
When he was your age, did he know it was in his interest to provide for himself? Work hard? Get a law degree? Have kids who would be successful? That way he could at least be an old creeper with some tie to legitimacy.
No. This old man is purely a lecher. There is no purity of heart. He had never intended any different. He looks every girl up and down their entire stretch, violating them with every eye tick. He salivates with lust. He is lonely.
Fuck. I am lonely. We are all lonely.
But for him, there is no forgiveness for lack of any foresight. He lived like a Buddhist - in the present - in the worst way possible. And he paid for it. In his case, being present-minded reflected selfishness. Mindlessness was his sin.
And so he aged. Thinking nothing but of himself, with nobody to love and no children of which to pass the baton.
Farewell, thy lecher. You will suffer a fate worse than being forgotten. You will grow old and ugly. You will lust after young flesh that wishes no part of your deteroirating condition. Not only shall you be rendered irrelevant, but disgusting as well. You are a disgusting lecher who knows not his place. Just die already and leave the young alone.
The youth speaks. He says, let me off wherever on the subway. Vital limbs of mine, I shall run home.
Drop me off wherever. I care not of the leper. Vital limbs will carry me home. Big breaths. Playing woodwinds growing up, I can swim a length under water. I can breathe deep gasps to carry me across continents.
I am young!
Who even says that?
The unique. The unique who care enough to actively emulate creative forebears.
Tired.
The man across from you is old and a creeper. You hate that term, but it applies with all fire of definition now.
When he was your age, did he know it was in his interest to provide for himself? Work hard? Get a law degree? Have kids who would be successful? That way he could at least be an old creeper with some tie to legitimacy.
No. This old man is purely a lecher. There is no purity of heart. He had never intended any different. He looks every girl up and down their entire stretch, violating them with every eye tick. He salivates with lust. He is lonely.
Fuck. I am lonely. We are all lonely.
But for him, there is no forgiveness for lack of any foresight. He lived like a Buddhist - in the present - in the worst way possible. And he paid for it. In his case, being present-minded reflected selfishness. Mindlessness was his sin.
And so he aged. Thinking nothing but of himself, with nobody to love and no children of which to pass the baton.
Farewell, thy lecher. You will suffer a fate worse than being forgotten. You will grow old and ugly. You will lust after young flesh that wishes no part of your deteroirating condition. Not only shall you be rendered irrelevant, but disgusting as well. You are a disgusting lecher who knows not his place. Just die already and leave the young alone.
The youth speaks. He says, let me off wherever on the subway. Vital limbs of mine, I shall run home.
Drop me off wherever. I care not of the leper. Vital limbs will carry me home. Big breaths. Playing woodwinds growing up, I can swim a length under water. I can breathe deep gasps to carry me across continents.
I am young!
Friday, March 11, 2011
I Keep Walking
Passing by Barnes and Noble in Union Square, a teenage goth-looking girl
with blue hair and pale skin, smoking a cigarette, stops me. I try and
politely continue walking but she paces me.
-Hey mister, I need your help. Can you...can you buy me a nook?
-A nook?
-Yeah. I really need you to buy me a nook.
-Sorry. I can't help you buy a nook.
I keep walking and she stops, then calls after me.
-Well fuck you. When I'm rich, I'll buy myself a nook.
-Hey mister, I need your help. Can you...can you buy me a nook?
-A nook?
-Yeah. I really need you to buy me a nook.
-Sorry. I can't help you buy a nook.
I keep walking and she stops, then calls after me.
-Well fuck you. When I'm rich, I'll buy myself a nook.
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
The dog's name is Sila, not Beatrice
Chirp chirp goes the bird. Best to start off simple.
Rearrrrgggghhhhh! shrieks a Pterodactyl.
We crack ourselves up. Our onomatopoeia’s are limited.
This is how we amuse ourselves cutting through the dusk air on rickety bikes with loud spokes purchased at Morley’s annual garage sale. This year we also made off with a working 4 track recorder. JR and I are starting a band. There’s only the two of us so far. I reckon we’re off to a fortuitous beginning. He sings and I’ve got a recorder I’m teaching myself to play. We’ve written one song together. Not too surprising that it’s called “Pterodactyl”. That’s the name of our band as well, at least for now.
Dear Rory,
I remember when we would ride our bikes to the town dances, hair slicked back, smelling like aftershave even though we weren’t old enough to grow facial hair. Remember how we tucked our right pant legs into our socks so as to not ruin our nicest pair of slacks that mom bought us at the beginning of summer? We spent that whole summer moving crates in the unbearable heat and cooled off at the end of every day swinging into the lake from the vine by the high rocks. That was a good summer. I miss you.
-JR
Rearrrrgggghhhhh! shrieks a Pterodactyl.
We crack ourselves up. Our onomatopoeia’s are limited.
This is how we amuse ourselves cutting through the dusk air on rickety bikes with loud spokes purchased at Morley’s annual garage sale. This year we also made off with a working 4 track recorder. JR and I are starting a band. There’s only the two of us so far. I reckon we’re off to a fortuitous beginning. He sings and I’ve got a recorder I’m teaching myself to play. We’ve written one song together. Not too surprising that it’s called “Pterodactyl”. That’s the name of our band as well, at least for now.
Dear Rory,
I remember when we would ride our bikes to the town dances, hair slicked back, smelling like aftershave even though we weren’t old enough to grow facial hair. Remember how we tucked our right pant legs into our socks so as to not ruin our nicest pair of slacks that mom bought us at the beginning of summer? We spent that whole summer moving crates in the unbearable heat and cooled off at the end of every day swinging into the lake from the vine by the high rocks. That was a good summer. I miss you.
-JR
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Here You Go - January, 2011
stop moving and that's it
My bro's got a dog. Beatrice, her name. B fo short. B fo beautiful beagle. B for boo - living in New York far from the dog.
Landed some peculiar but generous paying work this week in Soho helping out a friend's girlfriend's mother who is about to purchase a huge chunk of real estate in Harlem. Putting to use those quality 'assistant' skills you've got to offer.
Spend time wondering at what point, the precipice irreversibly crossed, in which people become their parents, adults; when the affectations instantiate and become truth.
You think about your consciousness, how it's impossible to verify. You think about what it means to be intelligent. Most adults can read and articulate themselves. Unless you're highly specialized, life experience becomes the great equalizer. The only necessary reality is what it takes to survive and maintain the wits about one's self.
What is so noble about the quest for truth?
Assassin confronts his target. Before he shoots, he shouts, Here you go.
After firing six shots, he turns the gun on himself and exclaims, Here I go.
You think I have no dreams but I'm a dreamer all right.
Oh yeah? What the hell do you dream about?
I dream about leaping across subway platforms, of defending you against an attacker in heroic fashion, of us being rich.
With agonizing sincerity.
How does a blind man dream?
Straight shot on the C from 109 in Washington Heights to Franklin Ave in Brooklyn. Train won't move. Without movement there is no heat. Spent whole night shivering at friend's with a broken heater. Feel tired like on mornings you had to wake up early for family trips to the airport. Only four hours of sleep. Many people regularly make do on this amount.
It's MLK day. You wonder if your thoughts are worth committing to record. Actively try and arrange them in literary way, even when not jotting down. Stream of consciousness has become affected from too much reading and other influence.
What are any longer your thoughts and not the thoughts you want an audience to hear?
Ulysses as big as a textbook in your jacket pocket. Incomprehensible. 180 pages deep and ready to quit. Seemed like a noble challenge.
In two days you will quit (at least for the meanwhile) and pick up Maugham's The Razor's Edge. It will prove a great relief.
Friday, October 08, 2010
In Finer Fashion - The Fall of Autumn
Thoughts:
-If you’re a Chilean miner who has been trapped beneath the Earth’s surface in a cramped mineshaft for the last two months, for how long after your liberation will you think of every day as divine? Remember that woman who missed the ill-fated flight from Brazil to France, the one that plunged into the ocean, only to die in an automobile accident two weeks later?
-Lobster Bisque from a can is never going to be as good as you hope, even if it says “Gourmet” on the label.
After the improv class finished, I immediately began a freelance job doing administrative work for the website Howcast. It provided structured 10-6 hours, a cushy office with free cereal and coffee, coworkers who choose to communicate over gchat even when sitting directly next to each other, and no questions asked when I headed home for two weeks in August. My college friend Luke was getting married in the Upper Peninsula. Watching him tear up at the altar while he watched his bride descend the aisle was like witnessing a redwood cry. It caused me to well up before I could detect what was happening.
“Who rubbed horseradish under my nose?” I asked aloud, searching for the culprit amongst my friends.
***
Man, do I like the band Frightened Rabbit. All three albums = stellar. After hearing an interview with the lead singer I found myself mimicking his Scottish accent in the shower last night. Once when I was drunk I thought about penning them a fan letter before quickly coming to my senses. There was in fact nothing quick about it, rather I was too drunk upon returning home and passed out right away. The last and only fan letter I've written (excluding pornstars) was inexplicably sent to MMA fighter George St. Pierre following his shocking upset loss to Matt Serra back in 2007. He seemed like such a classy guy...and that French-Canadian accent.
***
Though it seems like a distant dream of a different person nowadays, I attended Interlochen Arts Camp as a youth, from ages 10-13. My subjects of focus were piano and acting, the former of which is a non-entity in my present, whereas the latter persists as but a fantasy unsubstantiated by action - the kind where I star in the film I write and direct that becomes a hit at Cannes and propels me into the annals of greatness and onto the cover of Vanity Fair, the masses and fashionistas hailing me as the next iconic sex symbol who will single-handedly end the reigns of Taylor Lautner and Angelina Jolie.
I bring up Interlochen because today at work I used google and Facebook to track down one of my closest friends from that period, David M., grandson of the camp's founder. We were both scrawny little late-bloomers, though he bloomed earlier than I. One summer he showed up and was so proud of his development that he pranced about the cabin showcasing his mangina. I laughed nervously, praying to God I wasn't next on the chopping block. My pubes wouldn't come for several more years, a fact my brother never lived down. Once in a fit of desperation I glued hair from a fake beard to my underarms, and as I kissed my father goodnight, lifted my arm in exaggeration so he could glimpse at my manhood. He didn't care. My brother on-the-other-hand made me pay with ruthless insults and slapping, not fooled for a second by the foolish ruse.
David continued right along in pursuing the talent he began cultivating during those early summers. He's currently getting an MFA in painting at Indiana University. We laughed (via LOL's) about how our first counselor stood us shoulder to shoulder, examining our backs and telling David he would be scrawny as an adult while I would be muscular due to my v-shaped back; this same counselor who transformed into a rageful tyrant after his hero, Jerry Garcia, died that summer. Who knew Deadheads could be so mean? I believe this was the same summer David fell out of the top bunk and his leg caught in the metal frame. He writhed in pain while dangling upside down as I looked on from the bottom bunk. We reminisced about another boy, Elias from Mexico, who always had a pack of chili candies and perpetually stained red lips (probably from popsicles). And then there was the older Aquinas who was extraordinary at ping-pong and chess. Aquinas once had me stand between him and another boy as he screamed into my ear as the other boy attempted to hear the scream pass through my head and out my other ear. The tinnitus lasted for days.
I always wonder if the people I remember from long ago will remember me, for many of the people who remember me I fail to recall. As a boy, all the kids at Interlochen seemed as they might as well have been from faraway lands. When you're 9, there's no difference between living an hour away and residing in China - they're both insurmountable distances.
Two of my best friends from Interlochen similarly attended the University of Michigan. We were unsuccessful in refurbishing our bond. I always remembered the fact that Jens had been bitten by a brown recluse spider and nearly died an infant. He had struck me as fearless, much like my schoolboy pal Danny Demay who taught me to do standing front flips as an 8 year old, shaking off failed attempts of landing on the head like a gossamer on the shoulder. I can only assume the quality of genuine fearlessness, reckless abandon, is one that resonates with me for it is so far from my natural state. At Michigan, Jens joined a frat and we ran in different social circles.
And then there was Marc R. Marc had been my hero at Interlochen. He was a Mexican-American of European descent, tall, swarthy, good-looking, and with a freckle in his eye. As an 11 year old, he drove the girls wild before we even knew what girls were. No idea what he attended Interlochen for, but at Michigan he would captain the crew team, and while we never reunited in person, he was material enough for lore transferred by way of friends. As campers, the only spat we ever got into was over taking turns at playing a cabinmate's violin. We had to catch the bus and one of us didn't get a fair turn. I called him a 'big bitch.' He didn't much care for the insult. I impulsively issued it again. That's when he cracked the handle of a broomstick against my elbow. And then what did I do? I called him a 'big bitch' one final time before taking off in a sprint. As we reached the bus, being that he was taller and drastically more athletic, he caught me with one final shove that sent me careening into the vehicle's side. I'm sure we reconciled, but that's my most definitive memory of Marc R.
Interlochen. I don't want to say I was a poseur, because at that time I was talented in regards to piano and acting, but what became of them?
***
And now for some Fitzgerald quotes:
"By her three minutes of utter unwavering indifference the girl had lifted herself from a high but somehow casual position in his mind, to be instead his complete preoccupation. However much his wild thoughts varied between a passionate desire for her kisses and an equally passionate craving to hurt and mar her, the residue of his mind craved in finer fashion to possess the triumphant soul that had shone through those three minutes. She was beautiful - but especially she was without mercy."
"The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his best picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff and falsehood and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and a third - before long the best lines cancel out - and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the pictures have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture."
"There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless."
"With a stray boyishness he saw himself a power upon the earth; with his grandfather's money he might build his own pedestal and be a Talleyrand, a Lord Verulam. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence, all at their maturity and dominated by some purpose yet to be born would find him work to do... With no record of achievement, without courage, without strength to be satisfied with truth when it was given him. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making careers out of cocktails and meanwhile regretting, weakly and secretly, the collapse of an insufficient and wretched idealism."
-THE BEAUTIFUL & DAMNED
-If you’re a Chilean miner who has been trapped beneath the Earth’s surface in a cramped mineshaft for the last two months, for how long after your liberation will you think of every day as divine? Remember that woman who missed the ill-fated flight from Brazil to France, the one that plunged into the ocean, only to die in an automobile accident two weeks later?
-Lobster Bisque from a can is never going to be as good as you hope, even if it says “Gourmet” on the label.
After the improv class finished, I immediately began a freelance job doing administrative work for the website Howcast. It provided structured 10-6 hours, a cushy office with free cereal and coffee, coworkers who choose to communicate over gchat even when sitting directly next to each other, and no questions asked when I headed home for two weeks in August. My college friend Luke was getting married in the Upper Peninsula. Watching him tear up at the altar while he watched his bride descend the aisle was like witnessing a redwood cry. It caused me to well up before I could detect what was happening.
“Who rubbed horseradish under my nose?” I asked aloud, searching for the culprit amongst my friends.
***
Man, do I like the band Frightened Rabbit. All three albums = stellar. After hearing an interview with the lead singer I found myself mimicking his Scottish accent in the shower last night. Once when I was drunk I thought about penning them a fan letter before quickly coming to my senses. There was in fact nothing quick about it, rather I was too drunk upon returning home and passed out right away. The last and only fan letter I've written (excluding pornstars) was inexplicably sent to MMA fighter George St. Pierre following his shocking upset loss to Matt Serra back in 2007. He seemed like such a classy guy...and that French-Canadian accent.
***
Though it seems like a distant dream of a different person nowadays, I attended Interlochen Arts Camp as a youth, from ages 10-13. My subjects of focus were piano and acting, the former of which is a non-entity in my present, whereas the latter persists as but a fantasy unsubstantiated by action - the kind where I star in the film I write and direct that becomes a hit at Cannes and propels me into the annals of greatness and onto the cover of Vanity Fair, the masses and fashionistas hailing me as the next iconic sex symbol who will single-handedly end the reigns of Taylor Lautner and Angelina Jolie.
I bring up Interlochen because today at work I used google and Facebook to track down one of my closest friends from that period, David M., grandson of the camp's founder. We were both scrawny little late-bloomers, though he bloomed earlier than I. One summer he showed up and was so proud of his development that he pranced about the cabin showcasing his mangina. I laughed nervously, praying to God I wasn't next on the chopping block. My pubes wouldn't come for several more years, a fact my brother never lived down. Once in a fit of desperation I glued hair from a fake beard to my underarms, and as I kissed my father goodnight, lifted my arm in exaggeration so he could glimpse at my manhood. He didn't care. My brother on-the-other-hand made me pay with ruthless insults and slapping, not fooled for a second by the foolish ruse.
David continued right along in pursuing the talent he began cultivating during those early summers. He's currently getting an MFA in painting at Indiana University. We laughed (via LOL's) about how our first counselor stood us shoulder to shoulder, examining our backs and telling David he would be scrawny as an adult while I would be muscular due to my v-shaped back; this same counselor who transformed into a rageful tyrant after his hero, Jerry Garcia, died that summer. Who knew Deadheads could be so mean? I believe this was the same summer David fell out of the top bunk and his leg caught in the metal frame. He writhed in pain while dangling upside down as I looked on from the bottom bunk. We reminisced about another boy, Elias from Mexico, who always had a pack of chili candies and perpetually stained red lips (probably from popsicles). And then there was the older Aquinas who was extraordinary at ping-pong and chess. Aquinas once had me stand between him and another boy as he screamed into my ear as the other boy attempted to hear the scream pass through my head and out my other ear. The tinnitus lasted for days.
I always wonder if the people I remember from long ago will remember me, for many of the people who remember me I fail to recall. As a boy, all the kids at Interlochen seemed as they might as well have been from faraway lands. When you're 9, there's no difference between living an hour away and residing in China - they're both insurmountable distances.
Two of my best friends from Interlochen similarly attended the University of Michigan. We were unsuccessful in refurbishing our bond. I always remembered the fact that Jens had been bitten by a brown recluse spider and nearly died an infant. He had struck me as fearless, much like my schoolboy pal Danny Demay who taught me to do standing front flips as an 8 year old, shaking off failed attempts of landing on the head like a gossamer on the shoulder. I can only assume the quality of genuine fearlessness, reckless abandon, is one that resonates with me for it is so far from my natural state. At Michigan, Jens joined a frat and we ran in different social circles.
And then there was Marc R. Marc had been my hero at Interlochen. He was a Mexican-American of European descent, tall, swarthy, good-looking, and with a freckle in his eye. As an 11 year old, he drove the girls wild before we even knew what girls were. No idea what he attended Interlochen for, but at Michigan he would captain the crew team, and while we never reunited in person, he was material enough for lore transferred by way of friends. As campers, the only spat we ever got into was over taking turns at playing a cabinmate's violin. We had to catch the bus and one of us didn't get a fair turn. I called him a 'big bitch.' He didn't much care for the insult. I impulsively issued it again. That's when he cracked the handle of a broomstick against my elbow. And then what did I do? I called him a 'big bitch' one final time before taking off in a sprint. As we reached the bus, being that he was taller and drastically more athletic, he caught me with one final shove that sent me careening into the vehicle's side. I'm sure we reconciled, but that's my most definitive memory of Marc R.
Interlochen. I don't want to say I was a poseur, because at that time I was talented in regards to piano and acting, but what became of them?
***
And now for some Fitzgerald quotes:
"By her three minutes of utter unwavering indifference the girl had lifted herself from a high but somehow casual position in his mind, to be instead his complete preoccupation. However much his wild thoughts varied between a passionate desire for her kisses and an equally passionate craving to hurt and mar her, the residue of his mind craved in finer fashion to possess the triumphant soul that had shone through those three minutes. She was beautiful - but especially she was without mercy."
"The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his best picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff and falsehood and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and a third - before long the best lines cancel out - and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the pictures have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture."
"There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless."
"With a stray boyishness he saw himself a power upon the earth; with his grandfather's money he might build his own pedestal and be a Talleyrand, a Lord Verulam. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence, all at their maturity and dominated by some purpose yet to be born would find him work to do... With no record of achievement, without courage, without strength to be satisfied with truth when it was given him. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making careers out of cocktails and meanwhile regretting, weakly and secretly, the collapse of an insufficient and wretched idealism."
-THE BEAUTIFUL & DAMNED
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Funny Crux Never Goes Away
If this city didn't have 8 million people, I would've run into you by now and articulated with laconic speech and genuine charm how you caught me during a funny crux in my life; explained away that angry tirade I made on your bed about hipsters being dead (http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/features/4840/why-the-hipster-must-die). While I've kept busy and upbeat, the thought of you still tugs at me here and there some months later.
In my last email it was hard not to sound petulant. And curses to John Cusack in "Say Anything" for holding a radio above his head outside Ione Sky's window and teaching kids like me that persistence was a good thing.
That about sums up my thoughts on this damp Thursday morning.
***
"Dude, you romanticize the old days too much! There were always games... It's just that women had less choice about who to pick."
In my last email it was hard not to sound petulant. And curses to John Cusack in "Say Anything" for holding a radio above his head outside Ione Sky's window and teaching kids like me that persistence was a good thing.
That about sums up my thoughts on this damp Thursday morning.
***
"Dude, you romanticize the old days too much! There were always games... It's just that women had less choice about who to pick."
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Improv & Premiere Party Crashing: Late July, 2010
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Another day of improv intensive at The Magnet Theater. The class and Armando affectionately (or so I hope) refer to me as sugar tits since I wore a tight polo revealing my larger than average mammories. It's not that I'm particularly huge, it's just that everyone in the improv community is particularly puny.I'm coming along nicely in my improv development, though I still feel awkward and tend to play it safe in my scenes. I signed up for this three week class to get more comfortable on stage and ignite the creative juices within. I needed to get unstuck, and I also needed the structure during a stint of unemployment. It's been nothing but watch and perform improv, day in and day out. I have an inordinate amount of respect for the theater's regular improvisers. They're mini-celebrities to me these days, and it seems they all live in Clinton Hill. It feels rather fateful running into them on the train rides back to Brooklyn, especially when I'm drunk.
Tonight was another episode of awkward film mixers. I used it as an opportunity to catch up with pals Matt and Aaron from GreeneStreet. We chatted with a girl named Courtney. The four of us together crashed the premiere party for The Disappearance of Alice Creed at the posh Crosby Hotel in SoHo. We passed Gemma Arterton on the way in. She inquired if I was single. I politely declined to comment being that her husband was present.
I swore I wasn't going to drink tonight since I had McDonalds on Monday and Tuesday and haven't exercised in over a week. That plan went out the window as the clock ticked past 11 and there was fancy free wine to be had. Servers paraded around with gourmet appetizers: fancy sliders, bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese, mushroom pastries, and other delectable goodies.
I felt like a somebody again, for a moment.
Favorite Discussion Topics
Jared's favorite discussion topics (according to Leah):
- everyone having derivative opinions; reading the same media and regurgitating it for show, rather than inventing original thoughts
- the ethical perils of NYC's social anonymity
- "that kind of girl" who every guy wants because he thinks she's really nice and JUST shy of cover-model-hot to be gettable; but therefore she gets lots of male attention
- rampant infidelity
- girls like bigger guys... growing up skinny... hipster look vs. muscles...
- dilettantism - jack of all trades, master of none
- feeling compelled to say something - anything - to beautiful women
- mean girls and how you love them
- the allure of a status job
Other thoughts:
1. I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize how tasty and easy broccoli is to cook with a little salt.
2. Cereal gets soggy way too quickly in milk.
3. If we know how to compress files into a .ZIP, why can't we teleport people?
4. Seems inefficient that humans are biped. Evidence: nobody knows what to do with their arms while standing waiting for the train.
- everyone having derivative opinions; reading the same media and regurgitating it for show, rather than inventing original thoughts
- the ethical perils of NYC's social anonymity
- "that kind of girl" who every guy wants because he thinks she's really nice and JUST shy of cover-model-hot to be gettable; but therefore she gets lots of male attention
- rampant infidelity
- girls like bigger guys... growing up skinny... hipster look vs. muscles...
- dilettantism - jack of all trades, master of none
- feeling compelled to say something - anything - to beautiful women
- mean girls and how you love them
- the allure of a status job
Other thoughts:
1. I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize how tasty and easy broccoli is to cook with a little salt.
2. Cereal gets soggy way too quickly in milk.
3. If we know how to compress files into a .ZIP, why can't we teleport people?
4. Seems inefficient that humans are biped. Evidence: nobody knows what to do with their arms while standing waiting for the train.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Dear Max/Dear Jared - June, 2010
Dear Max,
I'm drowning in a maelstrom of self-pity. The cause?
Amanda Setton came into the office again today. The mean-looking brunette from TV shows I’ve never even seen, Gossip Girl and One Life to Live. She’s beautiful and I’m only moderately good-looking.
I really do want to see the first season of Gossip Girl, though maybe I shouldn't. Entourage used to be so much fun, but when I turned it off I got depressed. It was like, here is this really glamorous life that's not yours, now go back to your mundane existence. Some people enjoy seeing good-looking people. For me, it's a painful taunting of greener pastures.
I have never talked to Amanda Setton. Through Google stalking I discovered we share a mutual friend - my good friend's ex-girlfriend attended college with her - but I cannot mention this for obvious reasons (read: stalking, ahem, internet research, is a tough sell), and even if I did, I would have to make such a confession in front of the other models/actresses waiting for auditions. That would be beyond awkward.
The helplessness I feel with the Amanda Setton situation only exacerbates the crisis of joblessness come 6pm tomorrow. I’m 25, without riches, without dynamo girlfriend, and without creative masterpiece. Now I shall be without job. The goal of becoming a complete intellectual who expresses himself through film and writing (read: dilettante) has proven ripe with pitfalls, abstraction, and ambiguity of financial viability. When there is no structure, all frightening existential fears come to an overwhelming head.
Damnit, pretty girls kill me. This solipsistic mind of mine can only wrap its tentacles around death and girls, girls and death, death and girls, and once in a while, creative output, which it doesn't take a genius to tell me is merely a means of getting the girl and avoiding death.
-jared
Dear Jared,
Amanda Setton came over last night and gave me head while I finished my novel. I told her we had a mutual friend in common at the distribution company, but she was more concerned about using her tongue correctly and when would be a convenient time for her to come around tomorrow. Read: fellatio.
-max
I'm drowning in a maelstrom of self-pity. The cause?
Amanda Setton came into the office again today. The mean-looking brunette from TV shows I’ve never even seen, Gossip Girl and One Life to Live. She’s beautiful and I’m only moderately good-looking.
I really do want to see the first season of Gossip Girl, though maybe I shouldn't. Entourage used to be so much fun, but when I turned it off I got depressed. It was like, here is this really glamorous life that's not yours, now go back to your mundane existence. Some people enjoy seeing good-looking people. For me, it's a painful taunting of greener pastures.
I have never talked to Amanda Setton. Through Google stalking I discovered we share a mutual friend - my good friend's ex-girlfriend attended college with her - but I cannot mention this for obvious reasons (read: stalking, ahem, internet research, is a tough sell), and even if I did, I would have to make such a confession in front of the other models/actresses waiting for auditions. That would be beyond awkward.
The helplessness I feel with the Amanda Setton situation only exacerbates the crisis of joblessness come 6pm tomorrow. I’m 25, without riches, without dynamo girlfriend, and without creative masterpiece. Now I shall be without job. The goal of becoming a complete intellectual who expresses himself through film and writing (read: dilettante) has proven ripe with pitfalls, abstraction, and ambiguity of financial viability. When there is no structure, all frightening existential fears come to an overwhelming head.
Damnit, pretty girls kill me. This solipsistic mind of mine can only wrap its tentacles around death and girls, girls and death, death and girls, and once in a while, creative output, which it doesn't take a genius to tell me is merely a means of getting the girl and avoiding death.
-jared
Dear Jared,
Amanda Setton came over last night and gave me head while I finished my novel. I told her we had a mutual friend in common at the distribution company, but she was more concerned about using her tongue correctly and when would be a convenient time for her to come around tomorrow. Read: fellatio.
-max
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Kristen Bell - May, 2010
Reunited with Kristen Bell in the office today. After some memory jogging she remembered me.
It was hard to do anything but name drop and reminisce of people from our past. We acted in two plays together 15 years ago. I still have a paper plate award from her that reads: "Most likely to call when he turns 16." Her number's on the back.
At one point I said, "I guess it doesn't make much sense for me to ask you what you've been up to."
I tried to be cool but my voice kept quaking.
My expectation was that she would say, "You should totally come out with me and Dax tonight."
It never happened.
I eventually excused myself after we hit a lull. Duck-out classy.
My expectations were high, so I left disappointed. She remained reading on the couch in the lobby for another 45 minutes but I dared not to leave my little hole again.
I can't even remember what she looked like now.
It was hard to do anything but name drop and reminisce of people from our past. We acted in two plays together 15 years ago. I still have a paper plate award from her that reads: "Most likely to call when he turns 16." Her number's on the back.
At one point I said, "I guess it doesn't make much sense for me to ask you what you've been up to."
I tried to be cool but my voice kept quaking.
My expectation was that she would say, "You should totally come out with me and Dax tonight."
It never happened.
I eventually excused myself after we hit a lull. Duck-out classy.
My expectations were high, so I left disappointed. She remained reading on the couch in the lobby for another 45 minutes but I dared not to leave my little hole again.
I can't even remember what she looked like now.
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