Blog

  • Were We Not Entertained?

    I know that I am not the first person who thought about Hunter S. Thompson yesterday while watching the Super Bowl being played in Las Vegas. I’ll let those better-informed people speak on how American has descended into what Thompson envisioned. Me, I was just a viewer showing up to a “happening” to see what would happen.

    And things happened. It started slow, and then it picked up. The thing that everyone thought would happen happened; KC winning that is. (Not the Swift/CIA Psy-operation.) I can admit that I am cynical about everything outside of the game that was played. As football games go, I was entertained, and I felt like both teams were evenly matched.

    As for everything else…

    At some point this bubble of sports and entertainment excess has to burst, right? The extravagance and glutenous abandonment can’t continuously one up itself, year after year? Doesn’t everything have a tipping point? When what was good and fun, shifts and starts to be evil and detrimental?

    I am old enough to know that some people will try to push their cynical and contrarian views as innovative and creative thinking. I full well know that I have nothing new, innovative or creative to say about the events in Las Vegas and the Super Bowl. But it all did feel like a WWE spectacular, which one of my friends told me he was fine with.

    What I am reminded of is a statement an even more cynical friend of mine said about Super Bowls in general; “I don’t understand what is fun about cheering on millionaire players, and billionaire team owners who are fighting over a glorified piece of silver. No matter the outcome of the game, they’re still going home rich, and all we get is three and a half hours to forget about how we don’t have affordable healthcare, or whatever your big issue is. Our time makes them richer, and we get nothing for it other than a collective reality amnesia. Doesn’t feel like a fair exchange.”

    But Usher was cool.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Anyone Remember This, Super Bowl, and Sketchbooks

    (Guidelines are for losers)

    Does anyone remember Faces of Death? I’ve never seen it, nor do I want to. But the other day the movie popped in my head. I had a flashback of a memory from high school of finding out that it would be playing at a local dollar theatre at midnight, and how we all had to go. Through a combination of curfews and chickening-out, most of us didn’t go and see it. The handful of guys who did go just ended up arguing about how much of the movie was real or faked. (Turns out most of it was faked.) It’s funny thinking back on how controversial Faces of Death was back in the early 90’s, but also it’s not surprising how we couldn’t keep away from it. And don’t get me started on Banned from TV.

    I pick KC. I will also buy frozen hot wings from Trader Joe’s along with those frozen Mac ‘n Cheese balls this weekend for the game. Don’t give two craps about Usher; not that I have anything against him, he’s a talented man, just never been a fan. So… yeah; super bowl, yeah…

    I haven’t been drawing in my sketchbook lately. I have in my bio that I am a “sketchbook enthusiast,” but with my lack of production lately, I’m not sure if I can call myself that anymore. (It also begs the question; does anyone read bio’s let alone mine?) My daughter got a couple of sketchbooks for Christmas after having been inspired by her art teacher. She tries to draw something every day, and most of what she draws are cartoon characters, which is great. I hope that she establishes this as a habit that she keeps up with. Not that I am expecting her to become some “artist.” I just would like for her to have a creative outlet – a way to express herself and her feelings. Nothing bad comes from that.

  • That Was A Fast Rejection

    So, I had a flurry of submissions that I sent out at the end of January. On the 31st of January to be exact. The month had flown by, and I had fallen behind on some projects, but I made a promise to myself that I was going to get submissions out before the end of the month. I sent out a handful, all to lit journals that I felt my work complimented. Just playing the game like a million other writers.

    I do appreciate that the readers and editors of these journals can get inundated with submissions, and though they try their best, it can take time before they are able to respond. (I once got an email from an editor apologizing for taking so long on my submission, and then a month later they rejected me.) Everyone wants an answer sooner than later, and I do like that some journals says that you should expect a response after three months… if not sooner.

    This afternoon I just received a rejection, after only nine days.

    They were fast; I do like that.

    It was substantially shorter than three months; I don’t like that.

    In all fairness, it’s a rather odd duck of a flash piece.

    See, I want to believe that there was a little bit of a debate over there. Like the reader is fighting for my piece, but the editor is holding strong that there really isn’t a place for my story in their publication, even though it is well written. Then other editors and readers start weighing in. The debate starts getting tense. Voices start rising. People are getting mad. Resignations are threatened; accusations of favoritism are made; mass chaos envelopes the office!

    But, then cooler heads prevail. Drinks are had; apologies given; laughs are shared; everyone starts talking about why they got into publishing in the first place; the power of words and ideas; given people opportunities to share their voices and insights. It’s a thankless job; always on the verge of collapse; no one makes any money.

    “We do this because we love it.” Someone says.

    Everyone agrees, and smiles.

    Then the managing editor adds, “But we got to reject that story.”

    “That’s true,” the reader agrees.

    “Send him the form letter of death!”

    They all start laughing…

    I guess what I’m saying is that if they would have held onto it for at least a month, then my ego wouldn’t be so bruised.

    But, rejection is part of the game.

  • Short Story Review: “That Girl” by Addie Citchens

    (The short story “That Girl” by Addie Citchens appeared in the February 12th and 19th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Derek Abella

    Oh, it’s so much fun reading something that reminds you how powerful a short story can be. In a very deft, strong, subtle and powerful voice, Addie Citchens presents a complex and compelling narrative, as well as a fascinating character in Theo. “That Girl” is the type of story that, at the same time, inspires me to keep writing, and also reminds me how high that bar is to create something inspiring.

    I could say that this is a story about first love, but that description would be disservice to all the elements and themes in this story. Maybe not love, but it is about the discovery of passion and desire where it never existed before. Of kindness, and menace, and doing something that’s been deemed wrong but at the same time awakens the knowledge of the larger world around you, and how could that be wrong?

    Citchens’ takes us on Theo’s journey, which begins during her summer before she goes into ninth grade. One hot day she meets Shirlee, an older girl who should be going into eleventh grade but is still in ninth. This first section perfectly works at setting up the whole story, showing the desire, motivations, and direction of the characters. And the world these characters occupy is a place where violence is always just below the surface, and these girls are aware of it, and how powerless it can make them. It is easy to understand how and why Theo finds Shirlee’s kindness and understanding so intoxicating, especially for a girl who feels isolated in her loneliness.

    As I have been thinking about this story, and there are so many things to talk about, but I have been marveling at Citchens’ language, and her structuring of this story. Reading the piece, I never felt like a word was wasted. The language was pared down to the most essential and powerful. I was on Theo’s journey, and it would take time, but never did I feel like my time was wasted. (I can’t explain it, but I felt like Citchens respected the reader more than any writer I have read in a very long time.) And the structure of the story was in the mold of the “hero’s journey” but never for a second did it feel contrived or predictable. This was a brutal, at times, but honest journey that laid out it’s points so well, that when the story concluded, I knew the choice that Theo had to make, but I was still left heartbroken for her.

    And there are layers and layers to this story. I haven’t touched on half of them; mother’s and daughter, religion, sexual assault, growth and confidence, generational abuse… But also love, compassion, validation, and just listening… But I don’t to spoil this work, and ruin the magic spell that this story is. Addie Citchen’s “That Girl” is the best thing I have read in a long time. It is technically well crafted, beautifully written, and I love the character of Theo and wish I could learn more about her journey in this world.

  • The MTA Gods

    Oh! How the MTA gods have forsaken me!

    It was only to be a minor trip. An expedition to the 93rd Street Trader Joe’s.

    A goodly visit to precure sustenance for myself and my family. To feats vastly not only for this week, but for the conclusion of the week when the Bowls are Super.

    But low, my hubris caught up with me. The flaw was tragic, the results ordained by Oracle of the IRT. For I, though humble in my ways, forgot to leave the sacrificial offering of Beam in the Holy Shot Glass on thy fire escape, thus anointing me, and allowing my transits to be good.

    Neigh, as the sacrifice was forgotten, so was the transit ruined. The signals of 59th refused to obey thy will of the conductor, and thusly the trains ground to a halt.

    No, this was not an incapacitated passenger, not a police investigation. Nor was it the, not as rare as you think, fire on the tracks.

    This was green, yellow, and red lights escaping to the realm of “No Power,” and leaving New York City at a standstill. Well… At least the Upper West Side.

    It was I, stuck at the 96th Street Station, with three heavy and bulging bags of well-earned groceries, that was stuck for almost an hour, waiting on a C Train. I could have been happy with a B even – I could have made that work.

    But I, fortune’s fool, who forgot his sacrifice, was punished by the MTA gods. BMT and the Lexington Line punished me by blowing up my schedule. Not allowing me the time to do my work.

    Learn, dear ones, from me. Never let the cold, or the hour of night, delay you bourbon offering for good and safe travels. Because if you forget, the MTA never will.