The Book of Writes: First unedited Entry

Remembering and Documentation of Past Events

I finally found a pen worthy of writing in this thing—my fancy new writing book. Now I can start my novel or the memoirs my crazy rock and roll lifestyle. I think I’ll call my novel Delusions of the Grandiose, or The Impeccable Reality of Irony or Make it to the Strip Mall: Consumer of Decadence or some other equally vague and clever title that will make people snicker. You know when something is dreadfully clever, like when Salinger says, “she was speaking in Italics.”

A least my audience will accept my sarcastic way of looking at life. If of course my target demographic is twenty-something’s infatuated with being hip. [My soul weeps for the time when I was unaware of what a ‘demographic’ was] Through coke bottle lenses boasting a crotch grabbing gesticulation stating, “if I write it, someone might find it interesting enough to pay me so I can quit the job that affords me the opportunity to complain on paper.”

I’m such the suffering anecdote of pretense.

If I am not miserable where will I draw my inspiration? Like a pebble on a windshield at seventy mph, headlines and police ride along, a check to check-to-check existence is the only war worth suffering for.

Poor. Ugly. Happy.

Course anyone who believes that shit will succeed by proxy or the integrity by which the systems quality meter will corrode itself.

Lunch in a tin can or really expensive domestic microbrews, imported cold cuts, prociutto from Spain, books with Ralph Steadman water colors covered and sleeved and bound by human hands. It’s a half moon life, being terribly clever, well read, college educated (lazy education of the bourgeoisie—don’t sing songs about the proletariat, the type who lives with mom and dad in the suburbs and bought a Man Is the Bastard 7”). Yet now as a member of the taxpaying proletariat they ask, “Have you paid your dues?” and Jack Burton replies, “Yes sir, paid in full.”

Now to play the part of the teacher of the future me, he was finishing a movie script wasn’t he? Should I change majors again, or at least get an I.T. degree and do some computer work?

Anyway, for the novel, I’ll make my character a contemporary American lit professor so he can seem fashionably ironic, and the beautifully trite thing about my novel is all my characters will merely be caricatures of myself. Self involved, self-centered, the instant coffee’d instant gratification earmarks of my generation.

Subway drunks smelling farts in the cabin of economy seating—airplane air stiff with re-breathed air. Lovely isn’t it. Some indie rock Tyler Durden, bereft of emotion, wrapped in the pinnacle of drunken midnight punching. And I’ll give my novel a marketable hard cover style, except it will all be in Helvetica text, bound in soft leather (with assurance pertaining to the pissed off voicing of the PETA hydra and her many blond vegan heads) and full of venom and disdain for my fellow scenesters and country men.

Smoke a cigarette now, but it might be better it were chemical free. Some fancy tobacco boutique bought hand rolled Venezuelan filter less death stick. Because it not only gives you lung cancer it will be chemical additive and preservative free, and will lose its taste within three days of opening the pack.

This is all verbatim from my first “journal” entry so time line and story is pretty much a useless tools of the literarazis. A recollection of my senior advanced writing class in college—quite a few Sylvia Plath lesbians and one or two Tolstoy fanatics. For our final class, instead of being painstakingly politically correct in our critiques, we get to go out to the BAR! The bar turns into the gay dance club later on – hazy smoke – cab rides. I write in disjointed angry spurts common among drunks at the black jack tables or dive-y downtown bars.

This one kid (a fellow writer) makes me for a Bukowski acolyte stewing in my drunken prose; they all think its crap. I tend to agree. He sees some connection, read about the dog, wants to collect on his rights of usage for the fire hydrant.

There is that tousled hair, short black and smooshed in front and long and spiky in the back arachnid in low top Chuck Taylors. His black rimmed glasses pushed back on his recreational cocaine sniffing nose, reciting his poems about fingering his ear lobe while he stands in naked squalor eyeing the girl he wants to fuck but can’t muster the courage to approach her. I saw him at places. We would nod. He always gave me that look—that, “I’ve read more short stories by Raymond Carver than you and copied the Webster’s dictionary by hand into a couple of notebooks when I was playing Rifts or Dungeons and Dragons in high school…For FUN!”

Like I know what he knows and that makes us brothers. So I didn’t read any Carver but I hand copied Raymond Pettibon drawings for fun onto my trapper keeper and listened to “Police Story” on repeat.

I get drunk at the stupid dance club and purposely spill my vodka tonic on his vintage leather jacket. Apologizing, I smile and hope he questions my intent but my party is leaving and I just wanted to smash his smug little pucker in. Visions of blood squirting from his nose as he falls to the floor I dip my glass under his flow and toast the room, then leave and write it into a movie.

Alternately the guy never said two words to me and I felt very out of place and left without saying goodbye to any of those writing class people. I hoped I would never have to hear any of their ass kissing bullshit again.

Basic disdain for those imaginary enemies aside I actually learned a lot about what kind of writing I never wanted to do. What kind of poetry I never wanted to attempt and most importantly the kind of literati I never wanted to associate myself with.

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