ones and zeroes

Better living through modern chemistry.


i feel obnoxious when i say "poignant"

love is k-mart

You know, I doubt St. Valentine ever saw that one coming. While people bitch and moan about the glass colossus being erected in Astor Place, K-Mart gets to equate itself with love. Pick your battles people - psychedelically twisty glass mirror, or ridiculous big K suckhole - who you gonna hate?

Hey, do you read David Byrne's journal? He has some nice things to say about the Arcade Fire, and knock-off designer bags. I've got nothing to tell you about Saturday except that I walked over 120 blocks in one day, smoked a lot of reefer, and got drunk and full of french fries thanks to Eileen being the best when I stopped by Dylan Prime to visit her. She hooked me up with a couple of awesome Sapphire tonics and then sent me on my way(sted).

the conspiracy widens

First the Red Sox. Ugh. Then Bush. BAH! Now the Patriots? What the fuck is going on here people? Everything about Superbowl Sunday RULED up until the last 2 minutes of the game. It started off at 9th St. Market, which is oh-so-conveniently right across the street from my apartment. I always see the owner (Todd, I think his name is) around and we're real friendly and he seems to like me very much. Like Jay says, "a strange relationship." He says my name a lot. Anyhow, Jay headed over around noon and after some final bingers (more on that later) we headed across the street, skipped the line and slipped in for brunch. Jay and Ei were both hurting from similar nights of booze-and-no-sleep but we all took down our food as best we could. After gorging myself on cream cheese, cucumbers and coffee we split up for the remainder of the afternoon. Puffed ourselves into oblivion till about six and then we headed over to Jay's. After an unsettling conversation with the deli-guy at the corner of Houston and A ("who is with who?! who is with who?!") we finally made it to 186 loaded up with PBR and Rice Krispie Treats.

Chips, dip, chili, lads and lasses all were present including Dan and Dana, Jay and Steve, and Matt "I Know Where the Best Egg-and-Cheese Can Be Found" Gallagher. The game was nerve-wracking through and through right up to the end when Jay declared "This is where Storybooks get written, kids." 24-21 with a couple minutes to go, but after a lame onside kick and a nail-in-the-coffin interception the Eagles were defeated. Lucy and I could only shake our heads and imagine Beach's pain. I bet Baltimore ran out of Petron that night. Well, the chili had been awesome and Mario Tennis was fun, and so I was still in high spirits. We headed back to Lucy's, where I was dreading the end of the night, because . . .

. . . i'm on sabbatical

Tumbleweed loves to smoke marijuana, don't get me wrong. When asked, a couple years ago, what his five favorite things in the world are, he answered: Sight, Sound, Drugs, Love, and Uncertainty. In no particular order. And the longest break I've ever taken since the habit kicked into regular gear during the summer before college, has been about 12 days long. That break's been taken on maybe three different occasions, two times cause of vacation in a potless country and once because of dire financial straits. So why now? Well, as my final semester of college winds down I am beginning to realize how much I need to make the moolah. And not just job-wise...that's a whole other story. I'm talking about write-something-and-sell-it money. Because that's how I intend to spend my life, is writing - stories, screenplays, novels, articles, whatever I can work my brain around. It used to be I could get stoned and the words would floooooow like guacamole at a Mexican wedding. I'd take some bingers, sit on my bed with my typewriter in my lap, and churn out 20 pages of prose or poetry, and six or seven of those pages would be top-notch, which is a wonderful ratio. It was almost effortless (this of course lending itself to my unwillingness to edit, which I need to work on). Well things have changed lately. I got nothing. Nothing at all. Put the pen to paper, and the well is dry.

I took Robert McKee's Story Seminar in October, and it was a great experience. It's the basis for the screenplay seminar in Adaptation. At one point McKee said of writer's block, "You do NOT have fucking writer's block. Nothing is stopping you from reaching your muse, or any horseshit like that. You can't write because you have NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT! You need to stop trying to write, go read a book or see a film or just experience life, and then draw on those experiences to write." Great advice for lazy writers like myself. But the trouble is, I don't have much experience to draw on even if I am reading and watching and living, because lately I can't even separate the days without consulting the Mercury Lounge calendar and orienting myself show-wise. I am wandering through New York City in a complete haze and, frankly, I would be absolutely fine with that if it wasn't for the fact that I realize I need to develop a regular writing habit and start making my calling my job.

So when I smoked a bowl on Sunday night a little before midnight that was it for me for a while. I've set some ground rules for myself but I'm also allowing for flexibility. This may sound fishy, but I think I have a better chance of sticking to a no-smoke policy if I acknowledge that I could slip and do it sometime. So my loose ground rules are 1) No smoking the pots at all until March 1st - and only ON March 1st for the Interpol show. 2) After that, still no buying any pot until April 1st, but perhaps a toke each week, and each a week apart. 3) Spend 3-4 hours of alone-time set aside for writing at bars around the neighborhood and at Dylan Prime. 4) See how I feel after all that. BUT, also, since tumblehawk is tumblehawk, he has to make one final exception for himself, realistically: if someone tells me they have access to one of my two favorite psychedelic substances, I will throw aside everything I just wrote in this paragraph. Cause they just don't come around often enough anymore. Anybody listening? Grin. All right, enough about that now.

fast, cheap and out of control

No, no, no, I'm not talking about San Loco. I'm talking about Errol Morris' 1999 documentary of the same name. Before we get to that though, I spent most of Monday either in class or at the English department dropping my freaky Folktales seminar. I ran into Matt in front of the Stern building, and he was headed to a deli where he claimed there resided a man, nay a god, who would prepare the greatest egg-and-cheese in the area. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you he was right. The red-awning deli on Broadway between 10th and 11th has the best 2-egg-and-cheese I've ever had. Tasty fucking egg. We headed to Washington Square to chow on them, caught up a little, and then headed over to Shisha, the best head-shop in the city that I've come across. Matt picked up some tobacco, I drooled over bongs I couldn't use for 2 months even if I could afford them, and then we went our separate ways for the rest of the college day. The evening was spent resisting temptation while Lucy and Eileen smoked ridiculously good-smelling pot that Lucy had picked up back home and rocking out to the Magnetic Fields. 69 Love Songs is my new obsession.

Oh yeah! Rewind, and back to Fast, Cheap & Out of Control. Have you seen this fucking movie? You should! What a wonderful experiment. It was the exact kinda thing I would have liked to watch stoned, and it didn't matter one bit that I wasn't because it was really an amazing experience just seeing it at all. We missed the first 10 minutes or so but within another 10 I got really into it. The documentary is about 4 people in completely different walks of life, all eccentrics in their own ways: a circus lion-tamer, a ancient gardener/caretaker of the world's largest animal garden, a mad scientist attempting to create independently intelligent robots, and a weird dude in a bow-tie obsessed with naked mole-rats. By weaving together interviews with the four men (all of whom are dealing with "animals" in some strange way) along with a score that shifts between light-hearted and haunting, film clips from bad b-movies, and images that seem to be completely independent of the narration associated with them, Morris makes an intense cinematic statement about the interrelatedness of all aspects of life, especially by throwing out any notion of linearity in telling these men's stories. What could these four people possibly have to do with each other? By the end of the film, the question is more what don't they have to do with each other? First I have my Varsity Blues virginity stripped from me, and now this. I'm on a damn roll.

a kibble & a bit

-David Blaine's weird. And this clip is even weirder.

-Fred Durst is one of those people I love to hate. He writes the stupidest things. But why, Wes Borland?! WHY?!


Post a Comment

<< Home