In preparation for what we nerdy Irish kids like to call the Holy Trinity of Holidays, that string of Edenic hours between 3.14 (Pi Day), 3.15 (The Ides) and, of course, 3.17 (Saint Paddy’s Day), I invite you to join me in reflecting on the timely subjects of infinite extension, total betrayal and serpents extermination.

* trapaniadalva

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Panem et Circenses

March 4, 2009

Dig if you will the picture…

barnum

Famed entertainer P.T Barnum, a man well-versed in pushing the public’s curiosity buttons and wringing their wallets dry like waterlogged rags once hung a sign in his American Museum in New York City that read “To The Egress!” Patrons who had already paid their admission fee were met by the sign somewhere near the middle of the exhibition hall and those who followed soon found themselves in the back alleyway locked out, learning the hard way that “egress” meant “exit.” Surprisingly, many made their way back around to the front to queue up once again and pay for another ticket…

G-G-G-Geeeee-U-nis!

Don’t Call it A

March 2, 2009

J

Ok so we’re lagging but whatever life intervened extension requests were semi necessary academia frowns upon the shining lights that will guide the short-sighted ones stumblingly into the po-po-mo which only we know is the triple helix but  the time for fullon namby-pamby jammy marmalade  is practically upon us so batten down and prep for the word deluge in the upcoming segments cuz adrenaline is pumping and bonus as a tune-up  here’s a piece that I read out loud to people who I didn’t know last week much to collective horror and secret “mine is betters” be sure to focus on the heady doses of pretension and bad grammar. good appetite:

New Direction Home

You’re going to have to trust me, although of course you have no reason to, when I say that I generally try to avoid grandiloquence in my introductions, but this is a situation where truth overwhelms even literary inclination, so here goes. It has been exactly a year since I last wrote dramatic fiction. It’s probably important to know the effort I put into this research, so understand that I have to hit the crusty power button on my decrepit laptop 17 times while rubbing the base of the machine in a somewhat risqué manner to turn it on, but in this case it was worth it because I now have definitive confirmation that the story I wrote on Februrary 25th, 2008 was my last piece of creative work that was not designed with humor in mind.

It’s hard to explain why I decided not to write something funny for this event. Laughter is insulating, a necessary element to carapace, a compulsion that is difficult to shake, so there has to be some impetus behind this unadvised drive to bore you all to death. Maybe it’s this… Like a lot of us, I try to generate multiple layers that insulate my precious grey goo from the horrifying reality of the outside world, protective filters that are especially relevant on the daily subway commute. However, as I boarded my downtown train 3 days ago I was assailed by an earth-shattering sea of events that has only been matched in my lifetime by a childhood incident that somehow left me with both a hernia and a concussion. Anyway as I was trampling my way onto the relevant traincar my ipod battery crashed to a halt, silencing Axl Rose mid post-modern warble and immediately depriving me of the most crucial Adam/Life barrier. “No worries,” I thought confidently, which is rare for me, “I have a book, and not just any book, a Japanese novel with a really bomb-ass cover, the kind that will cause my future fiancé to look approvingly at me from across the aisle and conspire by glance alone to rendezvous at the final stop for key lime pie and literary discussion and the hazy potential of second base,” and so I boldly whipped out Kenzaburo Oe’s J only to immediately read the following sentence, and this is an exact quote so don’t blame me: “J had recently become obsessed with the concept of getting on a crowded subway car, pressing his shaft against a woman’s buttocks, and ejaculating.” I slammed my book shut in a nervous fervor, terrified to even look around me and meet the disapproving glances and right crosses to the eye that surely were awaiting me from my now alienated neighbors, and wished that I had just decided to reread Watchmen like everybody else in the fucking world. No Ipod, no book, I certainly couldn’t CONSIDER looking at anyone visually interesting after this frottage mishap; and even the traincar advertisements were terrible, believe me I can always lose myself staring at Dr Zizmor’s strangely perfect complexion and imagining the promise of an acne-free life, but there was nothing to distract me, and that’s when life invaded and I realized that with my barriers gone I could finally write honest dramaShit this is funny. This is funny isn’t it? This is a funny story. Ogod. Ok I’m going to have try something else, maybe it’s too soon to write about me, let’s get some 3rd person action going.

“Nothing in life had come easy to Samuel Kouzamonanoff…his mother had tirelessly worked two jobs to send the stuttering young man and his silent twin Roderick to a school whose students rewarded her efforts by giving Samuel unneeded fully clothed showers in mid day and Roderick a cocaine habit, actions that resulted in Samuel becoming silent and Roderick acquiring a stutter. 3 years in, Samuel came out of the closet despite his 60% conviction that he was attracted to women so that under New York State law he could defend himself from the soccer team furies with the promise of hate crime legislation, an action that soon resulted in his perverse, life consuming friendship with Natasha Svetonova, the Russian ingénue whose good looks and derring-do had captivated the entire eleventh grade and whose favorite secret activities that only her closet friend was privy to consisted mainly of scanty fashion shows and endless pontification on the yet unknown but assuredly desirable nuances of oral sex, and all this came to a head on March 18th when And this is funny too.”

come on come on time is at a premium, I think what it really comes down to is an idea, a sentence that has been worming its way in with some time, a sentence that I don’t think has the potential to be funny, so here it is, please don’t enjoy. “Everyday I have to walk two blocks from the 77th street subway to my office, and so everyday I walk past the hospital where I was born, and morning and night, I see a group of orderlies defeatedly chain smoking cigarettes in small circles outside the main entrance, and I’m never quite sure if its appropriate to find it ironic.” This is part of a dramatic narrative. I just can’t figure out if it should be the first sentence of my story or the last one.