Hello, readers, all one-point-five of you. (The point five are those who stumble upon here by accident, particularly if you were once Googling the author of this book.)
Since it's Halloween, here are some spooky stories with poorly written prose for commuting zombies.
Adapted as an assignment for a vampires class, "Vacancy" is the ever-changing pathetic first chapter of a novel I've been writing in my head since high school, and what sucks is that David doesn't die in the novel. (Well, eventually he does, though not in the first chapter.) I think Greenpoint holds the archival first pen-to-paper version. I'm sure if I wrote about the thinking of this book, it could fill volumes. Still waiting for my inner Neil Gaiman to kick into gear. Oh, just got an idea. Too bad I have to leave for class.
"The Waitress and Margarita" was also written for class. The assignment: Modernize Paradise Lost. It follows what usually happens to my short stories -- really good in the beginning, then heavy leaning on dialogue by the end. Contains my most favorite sentence I've ever written: "Preparing to exit the car, she subtlety stepped on the man’s tattered trench coat and allowed the material to snag in the sliding door."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
since "real" people live their life on the Internet
I've ignored this blog for a month and change, and even though I had an idea for a post ("Vampire Verisimilitude"), this update has nothing to do with undead bodice rippers.
Perhaps it has something to do with reality and fakery and facades. I don't know.
I know Pseudo Hipster Doofus, AKA Strange/Weird Pete -- kind of like Homer, the epithet depends on the meter of the particular sentence in which I'm mentioning him -- AKA I detest this fucking wanker and read his blog to feel better about my own life (which I think hits the nail on the head), AKA PK. He lives his life completely on his blog, which isn't even a blog but an instrument with which he wastes time at work. He'll get caught and reprimanded one day, I tell myself. His "posts" include pictures of himself (sans kissy faces, thank the non-existent god), random links to other things, or self-aware prose that is almost completely self-referential, as everything links to something else -- kind of like this paragraph.
It's pathetic, and I'm pathetic for reading it. However, because I read it, I'm then allowed to call him a crybaby when he bitches about life without cable and Internet service, a microwave, and a toaster. Why doesn't he purchase these items, you ask? He blew a bunch of money gambling. Now, I'm not one for being the moral authority when it comes to vices, as binge drinking and chain smoking all have their place in the Socratic ideal of all things in moderation, but you have no right to complain about lack of money when you blow it without thinking. Just as you have no right to complain about a shitty computer when you shell out $600 to be the first on your block with an iPhone. The hypocrisy burns.
And it's hypocritical to write about him when he lives for this "Internet fame" shit, though I doubt he'll get even one new reader from this ill-kept blog [ed. note: "this ill-kept blog" meaning the one you're reading right now]. Meg earned Vox fame for her travel blog by walking on a rope bridge, and I myself was quoted on New York Shitty last week for watching Greenpoint rapidly hipster-fy. If Gawker attracts oddballs like Emily and Michelle, then perhaps it's no surprise Peter found himself on its hallowed posts.
Yes, there's bad blood between me and Peter, mostly because he thinks he's hot shit and I disagree. And I am infallible, as Stanners will testify.
Now I'm going to explain why I'm finally (publicly) lashing out at him: He's got a girl who's apeshit for him because she's still writing about him two years after their "relationship" ended (Did it ever begin?), yet I withstood text messages about "talking the talk but not walking the walk" and IMs about disrobing to give a book value. And I am kicking myself for inviting such advances to begin with -- I was desperate for someone to explain what "dead inside" meant, and I thank him for knocking me to my senses -- but the whole book thing was weird, too weird, even, for Weird Pete.
Tomorrow night, he's going out with apeshit girl. Please, don't pass up this opportunity to patch things up so someone else can police you into seeing your shortcomings and hypocrisy.
And I'll be reading, laughing, and getting hot under the collar because that's my hypocrisy -- telling other people how to live their lives when my own is in shambles.
Perhaps it has something to do with reality and fakery and facades. I don't know.
I know Pseudo Hipster Doofus, AKA Strange/Weird Pete -- kind of like Homer, the epithet depends on the meter of the particular sentence in which I'm mentioning him -- AKA I detest this fucking wanker and read his blog to feel better about my own life (which I think hits the nail on the head), AKA PK. He lives his life completely on his blog, which isn't even a blog but an instrument with which he wastes time at work. He'll get caught and reprimanded one day, I tell myself. His "posts" include pictures of himself (sans kissy faces, thank the non-existent god), random links to other things, or self-aware prose that is almost completely self-referential, as everything links to something else -- kind of like this paragraph.
It's pathetic, and I'm pathetic for reading it. However, because I read it, I'm then allowed to call him a crybaby when he bitches about life without cable and Internet service, a microwave, and a toaster. Why doesn't he purchase these items, you ask? He blew a bunch of money gambling. Now, I'm not one for being the moral authority when it comes to vices, as binge drinking and chain smoking all have their place in the Socratic ideal of all things in moderation, but you have no right to complain about lack of money when you blow it without thinking. Just as you have no right to complain about a shitty computer when you shell out $600 to be the first on your block with an iPhone. The hypocrisy burns.
And it's hypocritical to write about him when he lives for this "Internet fame" shit, though I doubt he'll get even one new reader from this ill-kept blog [ed. note: "this ill-kept blog" meaning the one you're reading right now]. Meg earned Vox fame for her travel blog by walking on a rope bridge, and I myself was quoted on New York Shitty last week for watching Greenpoint rapidly hipster-fy. If Gawker attracts oddballs like Emily and Michelle, then perhaps it's no surprise Peter found himself on its hallowed posts.
Yes, there's bad blood between me and Peter, mostly because he thinks he's hot shit and I disagree. And I am infallible, as Stanners will testify.
Now I'm going to explain why I'm finally (publicly) lashing out at him: He's got a girl who's apeshit for him because she's still writing about him two years after their "relationship" ended (Did it ever begin?), yet I withstood text messages about "talking the talk but not walking the walk" and IMs about disrobing to give a book value. And I am kicking myself for inviting such advances to begin with -- I was desperate for someone to explain what "dead inside" meant, and I thank him for knocking me to my senses -- but the whole book thing was weird, too weird, even, for Weird Pete.
Tomorrow night, he's going out with apeshit girl. Please, don't pass up this opportunity to patch things up so someone else can police you into seeing your shortcomings and hypocrisy.
And I'll be reading, laughing, and getting hot under the collar because that's my hypocrisy -- telling other people how to live their lives when my own is in shambles.
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