The come-clean post (with music!)
22 February 2008
Yes, I have been back-dating my posts. (Though not this one, or the previous one.) The reason? Work. I don’t want to complain about it (too much) since everyone has busy patches at work, but I’ve been working a crap-ton for the last two months. And not that I do this at work, of course, since that would be simply foolish, but when I get home from a long, hard day of doing whatever it is I do for a living, after dinner and reruns of SVU/The First 48, I don’t feel up to crafting 2200 word treatises with titles like “Tory Lane vs. Sunrise Adams: An Eschatological Analysis of Pornography Through Its Ultimate Brunette and Ultimate Blond” and “Wood for the Trees: My Penis and Genital Hygiene, A Retrospective.” So I date the posts on the day they were started. If I finish them a few days later, I use the start date. I’m sorry. But I think this is a forgivable sin, and I promise that we won’t live a lie any longer.
I am actively considering moving out of NYC. Bear in mind, I use the word “actively” very loosely, so this could encompass everything ranging from discussing my options with my friend/life coach Kyle and strolling MySpace for lady lovers in different cities. But I made a very serious promise to myself many years ago: I am going to marry whoever I’m dating when I turn 30. And after seven years in NYC of a practicing a scorched earth policy like it was goddamn banjo, I think I have to get out of the city if I hope to marry anyone that has all four limbs working and intact. Not only that, once I get married at 30, I will shortly thereafter have a child, as I am extremely fertile (I should really just write that red -$650 every year in my annual budget at the start of the year), so if I want to get out and live, I have to do so sooner rather than later.
Nothing’s set yet, but that’s your heads up. That being said…
It is on. This weekend, I am going down the Jersey shore, where there is no internet or even decent cell phone reception, to “finish” my book. Yeah, that one.
You know what’s a good scene? When you sell a book and then your imprint collapses. Whoops. So your publisher pays you out and releases you from the contract and gives the book back to you to re-sell. Then you decide to get an agent, since the last time you negotiated your own book contract, and it went something like this:
Editor: “So how much are you looking for?”
Me: “Um, I don’t know, maybe [a number that was later determined to be a small number, as told to me by my lawyer, TV agent, friends, family, passersby on the street and people I met in dreams]?”
Editor: “SOLD! Remember, this phone line is recorded and that was a binding oral agreement.”
So you get this agent and she’s wonderful and you tell her, “You know what? I want to really get into the manuscript and not necessarily do it over, but really get in there and make it perfect before we take it out to try to re-sell it.” And she totally supports you in that. And then you spend the next eight months eating pudding and writing several dozen words a week until you realize you have to do what you did last time to “finish” the fucking book: you must go down the shore in the dead of winter to get shit-bombed by yourself for five days and dance around in a condo alone at 5am with a glass of super cheap wine in your hand and not shave and bath only minimally and just keep getting drunker and drunker and drunker, so that when those five days have passed and you finally sober up enough to drive home, you turn on your computer and somehow, magically, the book is done. And then you think, How did that happen? And then you think, You know what? Whatever – it’s done and it’s gorgeous.
This is what I’m doing Friday night through Wednesday. I can’t wait. My beard is going to be HUGE and I’m going to consume a lot of creamed chipped beef and cheap wine. This is what we call, I believe, heaven.
Then I’m in NYC for one night before flying out to LA next Thursday night for a week, in order to try to pick up the shards of poison glass of my former TV writing career. The strike may be over, but there was a serious casualty that directly affects me. Namely, these days no longer exist:
[JASON in pitch meeting with NETWORK/STUDIO EXECUTIVE, 2005]
Executive: “So what’s your idea?”
Jason: “Well, it’s about – ”
Executive: “Wait a minute, you have a funny blog, right? Did I pronounce that right, blog?”
Jason: “Yes, that how your pronounce it and yes, I do have a blog. Anyway, it’s – ”
Executive: “SOLD!”
Jason: “What?”
Executive: “Blogs are so hot right now. Here’s $4800 in cash to start you off. Let’s fuck.”
[JASON and EXECUTIVE fuck on pile of rejected scripts written by stand-ups who’ve been playing nine shows a week for fifteen years straight and are considering armed robbery to feed their families.]
Instead, it’s now closer to:
[JASON in pitch meeting with NETWORK/STUDIO EXECUTIVE, June 2008]
Jason: “So the show follows –"
Executive: “Wait a minute – you’re one of those bloggers, right?”
Jason: “Well, I mean, I have a blog, but – ”
Executive: “Get the fuck out of my office.”
Jason: “What?”
Executive: “You people are no better than the fucking terrorists. And if you jerkoffs had one-one millionth of the talent of Raymond, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. Why do you go back to Iran, you fucking terrorist? Huh?”
Jason: “I don’t under-”
Executive: “And don’t think I forgot about that $4800, which you have 72 hours to return to me or else. Now get the fuck out of my office before I rip your dick off.”
[JASON leaves the office and returns to the parking lot to find his rental car on fire, lit by a pile of rejected scripts written by stand-ups who’ve been playing nine shows a week for eighteen years straight and will seriously rob you, because their stomachs hurt and they’re looking for a purse to snatch.]
[JASON looks from his flaming car up at window of EXECUTIVE’s office, where EXECUTIVE is standing watching JASON and gives him a finger gun sign before closing the curtain and walking away from the window.]
So that’s gonna be fun.
On the following Thursday night (3/6) I fly back to NYC, and then next day, six friends will show up at my place and crash there for the weekend, all for the sake of our glorious fantasy baseball draft (see previous post). Then an Easter visit to Boston and wow. Just wow.
It’s on. And it starts in just about a few hours. Pray for me.
************
Six Songs
“Message of Love” The Pretenders
For the first 28.5 years of my life, I hated the Pretenders. For the past month, I haven’t been able to stop listening to them. I never realized how dirty and slutty they sound. It kinda makes me wanna F, even though they’re not talking about f’ing. I don’t think that makes sense, but I don’t care. I want to F. In lieu of F’ing, potato chips will be fine. Thanks.
“Damn This Foolish Heart” Stellastarr
Another band that I absolutely couldn’t stand until about a month or two ago. One of the bands I’ve always hated (and still hate and will always hate) is Interpol, and these guys were supposed to be the new Interpol, which is kinda like someone touting the benefits of a new form of penile cancer. So I stayed away. But just like I was with penile cancer, I found myself drawn in. This is just a fun rock song. Don’t hate. Just rock. If I did it, you can too.
“A King and A Queen” Okkervil River
God, this song gets me. I never really listened intently to the lyrics before, since the singer has a very mopey-sounding voice that is not conducive to the studying of lyrics. But then one day, probably when I was feeling sorry for myself, I googled them and – wow. Everything in that last verse just after 2:00 that starts with “So the best thing for you would be queen, so be queen.” I mean, wow.
(God, I am such a pussy. It’s getting kind of embarrassing, I think.)
“Grand Canyon” The Magnetic Fields
If I could have only five albums – defined as single releases that can be double or triple albums but not retrospective box sets – with me on a deserted island for the rest of my life, they’d be The White Album (The Beatles), Exile on Main Street (The Rolling Stones), My Aim Is True (Elvis Costello), A Love Supreme (John Coltrane) (to calm me down after I’ve killed something), and 69 Love Songs (The Magnetic Fields). I’ve thought about this for years now and this would be my five. This album is indescribable, so I won’t write anything else about it (I’m getting tired, too). However, I will say this about the song: it has so much going on sonically, but the lyrics read like a poem written by a seventh grader (a extremely intelligent, homosexual seventh grader who smokes Clove cigarettes and has serious depression issues, but a seventh grader still). So much of this album is so crushingly depressing, it makes me feel better about myself. Really, can you ask for anything more from music?
“Cold Hands Warm Heart” Brendan Benson
The complete opposite of crushingly depressing, despite its lyrics about the decline of a relationship. I can’t stop listening to this song: my favorite breed of catchy, harmony-filled rock.
“Fear of Sleep” The Strokes
If I had discovered these guys in college, my head would have exploded. Instead, I discovered them after college when I was living in NYC, and they conveniently became an object of intense hatred and jealousy for me. It’s hard to believe it now, but in 2002, the two hottest things in NYC were The Strokes (kinda believable) and Jimmy Fallon (seems almost like a joke now). Thus, I was not a Strokes fan and many times commented that if I was a trust fund kid, I too could probably write twelve solid songs in twenty-six years of life. But then they got less annoying and Jimmy Fallon is sucking dick for fries at the White Castle in North Williamsburg, so I’m not bitter anymore. I picked this song because, really, is there any worse insult than if someone were to say, “You’re no fun” and really, truly mean it? Most people can take cracks about their appearance, their surroundings/home/home cities, their jobs, their athleticism, and even their intelligence. But I’d rather be ugly, from Sacramento/Camden/Iowa, a semen handler, a terrible swimmer, and dumb than not be any fun. I mean, that is just a cold thing to say, let alone scream.
************
Watch this video.
Then watch this one.
I saw this one night while drinking at my apartment and there were tears in my eyes. So, you’re welcome. This should keep you occupied until I get back to civilization on Thursday.
[Have a good weekend/early part of the week.]
I am actively considering moving out of NYC. Bear in mind, I use the word “actively” very loosely, so this could encompass everything ranging from discussing my options with my friend/life coach Kyle and strolling MySpace for lady lovers in different cities. But I made a very serious promise to myself many years ago: I am going to marry whoever I’m dating when I turn 30. And after seven years in NYC of a practicing a scorched earth policy like it was goddamn banjo, I think I have to get out of the city if I hope to marry anyone that has all four limbs working and intact. Not only that, once I get married at 30, I will shortly thereafter have a child, as I am extremely fertile (I should really just write that red -$650 every year in my annual budget at the start of the year), so if I want to get out and live, I have to do so sooner rather than later.
Nothing’s set yet, but that’s your heads up. That being said…
It is on. This weekend, I am going down the Jersey shore, where there is no internet or even decent cell phone reception, to “finish” my book. Yeah, that one.
You know what’s a good scene? When you sell a book and then your imprint collapses. Whoops. So your publisher pays you out and releases you from the contract and gives the book back to you to re-sell. Then you decide to get an agent, since the last time you negotiated your own book contract, and it went something like this:
Editor: “So how much are you looking for?”
Me: “Um, I don’t know, maybe [a number that was later determined to be a small number, as told to me by my lawyer, TV agent, friends, family, passersby on the street and people I met in dreams]?”
Editor: “SOLD! Remember, this phone line is recorded and that was a binding oral agreement.”
So you get this agent and she’s wonderful and you tell her, “You know what? I want to really get into the manuscript and not necessarily do it over, but really get in there and make it perfect before we take it out to try to re-sell it.” And she totally supports you in that. And then you spend the next eight months eating pudding and writing several dozen words a week until you realize you have to do what you did last time to “finish” the fucking book: you must go down the shore in the dead of winter to get shit-bombed by yourself for five days and dance around in a condo alone at 5am with a glass of super cheap wine in your hand and not shave and bath only minimally and just keep getting drunker and drunker and drunker, so that when those five days have passed and you finally sober up enough to drive home, you turn on your computer and somehow, magically, the book is done. And then you think, How did that happen? And then you think, You know what? Whatever – it’s done and it’s gorgeous.
This is what I’m doing Friday night through Wednesday. I can’t wait. My beard is going to be HUGE and I’m going to consume a lot of creamed chipped beef and cheap wine. This is what we call, I believe, heaven.
Then I’m in NYC for one night before flying out to LA next Thursday night for a week, in order to try to pick up the shards of poison glass of my former TV writing career. The strike may be over, but there was a serious casualty that directly affects me. Namely, these days no longer exist:
[JASON in pitch meeting with NETWORK/STUDIO EXECUTIVE, 2005]
Executive: “So what’s your idea?”
Jason: “Well, it’s about – ”
Executive: “Wait a minute, you have a funny blog, right? Did I pronounce that right, blog?”
Jason: “Yes, that how your pronounce it and yes, I do have a blog. Anyway, it’s – ”
Executive: “SOLD!”
Jason: “What?”
Executive: “Blogs are so hot right now. Here’s $4800 in cash to start you off. Let’s fuck.”
[JASON and EXECUTIVE fuck on pile of rejected scripts written by stand-ups who’ve been playing nine shows a week for fifteen years straight and are considering armed robbery to feed their families.]
Instead, it’s now closer to:
[JASON in pitch meeting with NETWORK/STUDIO EXECUTIVE, June 2008]
Jason: “So the show follows –"
Executive: “Wait a minute – you’re one of those bloggers, right?”
Jason: “Well, I mean, I have a blog, but – ”
Executive: “Get the fuck out of my office.”
Jason: “What?”
Executive: “You people are no better than the fucking terrorists. And if you jerkoffs had one-one millionth of the talent of Raymond, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. Why do you go back to Iran, you fucking terrorist? Huh?”
Jason: “I don’t under-”
Executive: “And don’t think I forgot about that $4800, which you have 72 hours to return to me or else. Now get the fuck out of my office before I rip your dick off.”
[JASON leaves the office and returns to the parking lot to find his rental car on fire, lit by a pile of rejected scripts written by stand-ups who’ve been playing nine shows a week for eighteen years straight and will seriously rob you, because their stomachs hurt and they’re looking for a purse to snatch.]
[JASON looks from his flaming car up at window of EXECUTIVE’s office, where EXECUTIVE is standing watching JASON and gives him a finger gun sign before closing the curtain and walking away from the window.]
So that’s gonna be fun.
On the following Thursday night (3/6) I fly back to NYC, and then next day, six friends will show up at my place and crash there for the weekend, all for the sake of our glorious fantasy baseball draft (see previous post). Then an Easter visit to Boston and wow. Just wow.
It’s on. And it starts in just about a few hours. Pray for me.
************
Six Songs
“Message of Love” The Pretenders
For the first 28.5 years of my life, I hated the Pretenders. For the past month, I haven’t been able to stop listening to them. I never realized how dirty and slutty they sound. It kinda makes me wanna F, even though they’re not talking about f’ing. I don’t think that makes sense, but I don’t care. I want to F. In lieu of F’ing, potato chips will be fine. Thanks.
“Damn This Foolish Heart” Stellastarr
Another band that I absolutely couldn’t stand until about a month or two ago. One of the bands I’ve always hated (and still hate and will always hate) is Interpol, and these guys were supposed to be the new Interpol, which is kinda like someone touting the benefits of a new form of penile cancer. So I stayed away. But just like I was with penile cancer, I found myself drawn in. This is just a fun rock song. Don’t hate. Just rock. If I did it, you can too.
“A King and A Queen” Okkervil River
God, this song gets me. I never really listened intently to the lyrics before, since the singer has a very mopey-sounding voice that is not conducive to the studying of lyrics. But then one day, probably when I was feeling sorry for myself, I googled them and – wow. Everything in that last verse just after 2:00 that starts with “So the best thing for you would be queen, so be queen.” I mean, wow.
(God, I am such a pussy. It’s getting kind of embarrassing, I think.)
“Grand Canyon” The Magnetic Fields
If I could have only five albums – defined as single releases that can be double or triple albums but not retrospective box sets – with me on a deserted island for the rest of my life, they’d be The White Album (The Beatles), Exile on Main Street (The Rolling Stones), My Aim Is True (Elvis Costello), A Love Supreme (John Coltrane) (to calm me down after I’ve killed something), and 69 Love Songs (The Magnetic Fields). I’ve thought about this for years now and this would be my five. This album is indescribable, so I won’t write anything else about it (I’m getting tired, too). However, I will say this about the song: it has so much going on sonically, but the lyrics read like a poem written by a seventh grader (a extremely intelligent, homosexual seventh grader who smokes Clove cigarettes and has serious depression issues, but a seventh grader still). So much of this album is so crushingly depressing, it makes me feel better about myself. Really, can you ask for anything more from music?
“Cold Hands Warm Heart” Brendan Benson
The complete opposite of crushingly depressing, despite its lyrics about the decline of a relationship. I can’t stop listening to this song: my favorite breed of catchy, harmony-filled rock.
“Fear of Sleep” The Strokes
If I had discovered these guys in college, my head would have exploded. Instead, I discovered them after college when I was living in NYC, and they conveniently became an object of intense hatred and jealousy for me. It’s hard to believe it now, but in 2002, the two hottest things in NYC were The Strokes (kinda believable) and Jimmy Fallon (seems almost like a joke now). Thus, I was not a Strokes fan and many times commented that if I was a trust fund kid, I too could probably write twelve solid songs in twenty-six years of life. But then they got less annoying and Jimmy Fallon is sucking dick for fries at the White Castle in North Williamsburg, so I’m not bitter anymore. I picked this song because, really, is there any worse insult than if someone were to say, “You’re no fun” and really, truly mean it? Most people can take cracks about their appearance, their surroundings/home/home cities, their jobs, their athleticism, and even their intelligence. But I’d rather be ugly, from Sacramento/Camden/Iowa, a semen handler, a terrible swimmer, and dumb than not be any fun. I mean, that is just a cold thing to say, let alone scream.
************
Watch this video.
Then watch this one.
I saw this one night while drinking at my apartment and there were tears in my eyes. So, you’re welcome. This should keep you occupied until I get back to civilization on Thursday.
[Have a good weekend/early part of the week.]
