Thursday, July 6, 2006

Fueled by a steady intake of chocolate chip muffins and Peplab, what some would identify as a self-contained bulimia kit, I’ve planted the beginnings of a book. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to produce the great American novel, a work that would invite the spirit of Cliff Hillegass–yellow, striped, terse–to do its sinister work. Then again, such a qualifier may be slightly inaccurate, because these same readers probably require goddamn adhesive arrows on their escalators.

I can stop wondering, though, and here’s why. Now, we weren’t precisely alive back then, but don’t you get the impression Twain and Steinbeck made their masterworks effortlessly? Sure, some thought probably went into the process, but they didn’t agonize over it. They didn’t break out the graph paper, you know? They just did, without the pomp, given wholly to circumstance, and in a flash of insight there, in the literary manger, they laid down their one and onlies, again and again. That’s genius.

Agonizing is a kind of ritual for me. I like agonizing about the process and how the greats manage to pull their great thoughts from the swirling ether. This alone precludes me from the club, but there are other horizons to explore, namely pulpier novels. Or maybe a really good screenplay, gripping as it is dramatic. I’d be content with that. Attend well:

INT — MEDICAL FRIGATE — NIGHT
Yoda: Grave it is, strong he must feel. Surprised, you will be.

Chewbacca: ROWHRR, ROWHRRRRR.

Yoda: Tested he was, results he saw–

Chewbacca: ROWHRR DURRRRR ROWHRRRR?

Yoda: –Force Crabs, he had.

Chewbacca looks out THE WINDOW into the deep black reaches of NEBURRON V, thinking. Turns out he’s thinking his REFLECTION is another WOOKIE.

Yoda: Dumbshit, you are.

Wednesday, July 5, 2006

What do you call it when you know the honeymoon’s going to be short, yet you plunge into the fray with gusto, willful ignorance attuned to high, blinders pointed forward? “Stupidity,” it’s been said in some circles, but in other circles–mine, primarily–it’s synonymous with apartment hunting.

Oh, there are perks to my new digs, don’t get me wrong, and at the same time the knowing treachery that forged the lease has made itself apparent. A month ago, I stepped onto something crunchy while touring one of the units in this apartment complex.

“So, Joe, does this building have any roach problems?” I inquired, shifting my foot off the dead cockroach.

“Never,” he replied in his thick accent. “The inspector comes once a month.”

“What’s that?” I pointed to the crime scene on the bathroom floor.

He bent down, septuagenarian knees giving him pause, and quickly disposed the corpse.

“Just a fly.”

Moments later, his favored verbal tic came to the fore.

“I tell you this,” he said, hand on heart. “Ask anyone in this building. I’m fair. Trustworthy.”

In the past three days, I’ve terminated two silverfishes, an earwig, and this morning I interred a cockroach after a proper Norshore funeral–right in the fucking toilet. There are sounds of scurrying in the ceiling panels, behind which I can only imagine what dangers lurk. I guess I subconsciously expected the roach family in my apartment would be different, rolling into town in a Bentley or, at worst, the back-up Jag. I’m still pretty pleased with the place, though. Like I said, perks.

Sunday, July 2, 2006

Secondhand Rants will return on Wednesday, July 05.