Paul wrote on my wall: We're almost halfway to 70. How do you feel?

I wrote back: When I look at it that way ... not good.

When Paul and I met, we were only halfway to eight. Back then, we spent most of our days together. We were best friends, and really more like brothers. We also happened to be born a day apart. So it was never just my birthday. It was our birthdays. And I liked it that way. I liked sharing my birthday with Paul.

My mom usually took us out for pizza at Mr. Gatti's. And Paul and I would celebrate another year of life by shooting spit-balls at the big-screen TV. Then Paul would stay over and we'd be up late doing Mad Libs, laughing like we were out of our minds, and imitating Bob and Doug. Or sometimes we'd turn philosophical and discuss things like, I don't know why I never noticed this before, but Princess Leia is kind of hot.

What's amazing to me isn't the fact that I'm halfway to 70. It's the fact that I've known Paul for 31 years. Age by itself is sort of an abstract. You just go on feeling like you. It's when you put your age in relation to things and people that it takes on meaning. Because you recognize that while you are still you now, you are not the same you you were when you were halfway to eight. Or halfway to twenty. Or forty. That, in fact, you've been several different yous between there and here.

I tend to see my life in phases. Sometimes a phase revolves around place—a neighborhood, a city, a school. And sometimes it revolves around people. I usually don't know a phase is happening until it's a memory. I keep piling up new phases. And that's good, I guess. I mean, it's better than the alternative. But it's also sad. Because entering a new phase means leaving behind an old one. And there's always a certain amount of forgetting that is to be done and doors to be closed. And more and more I appreciate the people who span the phases and help me remember. There are lots of them now. More every day. And they help me keep the doors open.

Today I live in New Jersey. I think I'm in the middle of a phase that started in Baltimore. But I won't know for sure until it's over. Paul just moved to Argentina. We don't see each other very often, so we won't be shooting any spit-balls at TVs in Mr. Gatti's. But we can write on a wall on Facebook. And talk long distance for free using Skype. And we can continue to span the phases in modern style. Until we stop referring to age as "halfway" to anywhere, because suddenly "halfway" won't seem like much of a possibility anymore.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Birthdays  Chewing  Childhood  Friends 

The writing workshop I'm taking at NYU is going really well. For the first time, I've shown a section of the novel I'm working on to somebody other than myself. And that's been constructive, because myself tends to nit-pick relentlessly and is, overall, a huge asshole. So I've appreciated getting some perspectives that are more objective and less ... dickish. It's given me a good feel for what's working in the thing and what isn't, and it's really helped me zero in on the important plot bits. My prof is great, too. I have to say, he's very good at being positive while pointing out things that are problematic in your story or with your prose. I've been involved in several workshops over the years and I know that this is a real skill that not every professor has.

Anyway, recently the prof asked us to bring to class a writing sample (somebody else's work) that we find "beautiful" or "dangerous." My first thought was: beautiful OR dangerous? Isn't that redundant? I thought better than to correct him. It's been a while since college, but I seem to recall that correcting the prof never goes over well.

I like the idea that something dangerous can be beautiful and it usually turns out this way in artwork that speaks to me. In writing, for instance, I like authors such as Martin Amis, Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway. To me, these are all writers whose prose has a degree of danger to it, but at the same time is beautiful to read. In film, one of my favorite movies is Pulp Fiction, which I think is one of the great examples of danger and beauty for the risks it takes both stylistically and with plot. My favorite painters are the abstract expressionists from the 50s: Rothko, Motherwell, Pollock, artists who, as I think art critic Clement Greenberg used to say, "did battle" with the canvas. The movement was about the artist as hero, somebody who took risks, delving into the sub-conscious, the imagination, the mythic. Somebody who searched for "truths" through their art and in doing so, became a sort of "existential matador." (Again, I think this was Greenberg's phrase, but I can't find the quote). In music, I'm a huge fan of 50s and 60s jazz, which to me is about these same ideas of "artist as hero." The whole idea of improvisation and play in art gets to the root of a beauty that is mixed with a sort of inherent danger as the artist engages in an exploration of the unknown and a sort of "competition" with the other musicians.

Interestingly, I should point out, that the beauty/danger rule doesn't necessarily apply to things that aren't art. For instance, I was lucky enough to receive a tick bite over the weekend. As it turns out, tick bites are dangerous, but there's really not much beauty in them. All I've discovered so far is annoyance, along with a general anxiety about bacteria and Lyme's disease. I don't recommend them. Now, a photo of my tick bite, taken at a certain angle and with the right lighting ... that might be beautiful and dangerous. I'm just not sure if I'm talented enough as a photographer to pull that off.

Anyway, back to the assignment ... after I figured out what my prof meant (translation: bring something to class that is fucking brilliant), I knew exactly what it would be, and it should come as no surprise to anybody reading this blog: the first couple of paragraphs of chapter one of London Fields.

I thought it would be fun to post the passage here, though I do feel a little weird about it. First of all, even though I named this site after one of the main characters from the same book from which the passage is taken, this isn't a "fan site" by any means and I don't want it to be. So maybe posting a long passage from the book would be awkward or a conflict of interest. This could be the case, or I could just be over-thinking it. I decided it was probably the latter. Secondly, it's a long passage, and I don't want to piss off any attorneys out there that might be concerned about copyrights. But you can also read the full passage (and more) here if you want so it's not like this is the only place you can find it online. And I'm not making any financial gain from it, so it's hard to get mad at me over it, right? I finally decided to just just post it and stop thinking about it. Here you go:


I love this passage. It's dark, and funny, and it feels dangerous—and therefore beautiful. Stuff like this is the reason I want to write. Parts of it read like a poem to me. Of course, this is something that's totally subjective, one of those things I think you either feel and love or you don't. When I read this, I catch glimpses of God. When you read it, you might just see words on a page. I accept that. It's why some of you may scroll through this post, bored as shit, while some of you may read it all the way through (still bored, mind you, but perversely interested in exercises of self-torture). It's my taste, and you don't have to agree with me on its quality or correctness. (It's just that if you happen to disagree, you're clearly wrong. And that's okay—it's okay to be wrong.)

So what about you, then? If you made it this far, is there something you find beautiful and dangerous. Or something that is beautiful to you because it's dangerous?

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Writing  Art 

"What is it? Do I stink?"

"Kinda like dog."

"Cool. Honey and I have bonded in smell."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"The thing is, Baby...she doesn't smell like you. It's not a two-way street."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Cath 

One way to relax after a Sunday afternoon herding leaves is to have a couple of beers and sit on the couch with your hand under your belt and watch some football and feel good and fine and strong—and downright brawny, damnit, like the guy on the paper towel rolls—for having worked hard and for having cuts on your hands and dirt under your nails and an easy sort of pain in your muscles. Another way is to swallow two indomethacin and four tylenol and lay flat on your back feeling anything but easy, anything but strong, and cursing your tendency to overdo it and waiting for your kidneys to give out from all the pills. Yesterday, I chose the latter option. I still got in that football thing, though, watching the Giants come back against the Eagles as I faded in and out of consciousness. But it weren't fun. And I didn't feel strong ... or anything resembling "brawny."

The AS has been flaring for the last week, I think due to the weird weather, and I haven't been listening to him. Instead, I've been swallowing extra pills and deliberately taunting him with all sorts of names. And I could feel his temper getting hot, but I kept at it. And yesterday, just as I was wrapping up for the evening he hauled back and punished me something good for not taking him seriously, the bastard.

I had started out the afternoon with some roof climbing and gutter cleaning, then moved on to some pruning. Then I blew out the beds and raked the grass in the back yard, rounding the leaves into piles and then transferring them to front curb in batches using a big rubber trash can. And all the while I grunted and strutted and did a great deal of chest thumping and I think while I was on the roof I may have even let out a Tarzan-like howl. And all was good; or rather, okay. I was just teetering on the edge of something, but it was mild and I laughed at it and I said, Is that all you have for me, pussy!

And then I decided to play a game of tug-o-war with Honey. And holy crap she's gotten strong, and so as I bent over and pulled at the deflated soccer ball and started to lift her up off the ground, doing that dance that we do. And she did one of her crazy, possessed head-jerking-side-to-side things, which caused my body to twist in a direction it wasn't prepared to go, and I heard it quietly object with a little "whoopsie-daisy" (I hate when my body sounds like Hugh Grant in Knotting Hill) and then—then, I believed. And I stopped, because I knew I had about ten minutes to get someplace warm where I could collapse.

The rest of the night was all about holding on to countertops and railings to stay upright and cat stretches on my hands and knees in the hot, hot shower. And curses in my sleep every time I had to roll over. And this morning I walked Honey at the pace of an 85-year-old man and I squatted to pick things up by holding desperately on to my knees and I implored God, Please, please, God...let me get back up. Don't let my neighbors find me lying in the street. God understands that when he hears from me, most likely my back is shattered. And I think now he just laughs at me for being his rainy-day friend.

And I've been down this road before. And I've bored you with the details of the aftermath. And I kind of hate having you see me like this. So I'll stop now. Otherwise, I'll be tempted to go on with the whine. And besides, I think it's time for another hot shower.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Weekend  Oogah  Lawn  Ho_Hum  AS 

Late at night, when I'm in my office and only the halogen arm lamp above me is on, Honey will sometimes catch a glimpse of my reflection in the sliding glass doors and she'll start barking her deep burglar-alarm bark. I'll assure her that it's only me, but she keeps at it, the hair standing up on her back, until I can finally snap her attention away from the reflection and show her that look, I'm right here, Honey. And she will look at me, pupils big and dark, her brow creased with worry. Then she'll look back at the night glass casting my reflection. Then back at me. And she will huff and sigh and make this agitated noise, almost like speaking and almost like howling. And she will come over to me and nudge me with her nose and put her paw on my leg and wag her tail. Like she is so goddamned happy. So relieved that I'm there. Because, holy crap Daddy-O, did you see that? There was somebody who looked just like you outside. And that was some scary shit, man.

The funny thing is she makes this mistake again and again. Because she doesn't get that it's an illusion—that I'm the thing she's seeing out there. And the fact that she gets so upset, and then so visibly relieved when she sees me ... it kind of cracks me up. Because otherwise she's a smart dog. She can sit and lie down and roll over. She can lift her front paw in the air when she's prompted to "wave." She knows how to fetch her leash from the doorknob when it's time for a walk. But the whole reflection thing, it just escapes her every time.

And I love that about her. And I get it. I do. Because we all have those things that we just don't grasp. We all have those mistakes we make, over and over.


Despite what you may have heard, I am not a dog. I walk upright. I understand the truth about mirrors. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy. And I can do any number of tricks. But I've got these mistakes I keep making. I've made them as long as I can remember, and I've yet to learn the trick of how to stop. And actually, if I'm going to be honest, I don't really want to. Because sometimes I like to make them. Sometimes, I set out to make them—on purpose.

And I used to get angry at myself about this. I used to huff and howl and scream at my reflection. But all that did was make me go hoarse. And so now, more and more, I just laugh. And I drink to forget. And I resolve to myself that I will do it again as soon as I can. Because the mistakes define me, brother. The trick is learning to deal with the consequences. And I guess that's the whole point. And I guess I kind of like that.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Chewing