Jenny's Deli

So, 62.5 people brought to my attention that the video of Mel playing mini golf wasn’t working. What can I say—You-Tube let me down.

For the record, I slept under 2 hours last night, and I’m sitting in this tiny office, going through the new issue of Poets & Writers, and I’m sort of zoning out on Jennifer Egan’s face. I’m not sure what her eyes are saying, but I’m starving, so I’ll assume they’re saying, “Hey there, big guy! How about a sandwich?”

To answer your question, Jennifer. “Yes, I’d really fucking l o v e a sandwich right now.”

Would Jennifer Egan make me a sandwich if she was here and I asked nicely? I’m trying to decide if she would by looking at her face, before reading the article about her “powers of perception.” I’m sure it says nothing about making me lunch. Wait, let me check….

No, it doesn’t.

Today is grammar day, and my students are bursting to take notes. I just know it!! They will love my grammar lesson on active versus passive verbs.

Jacob is licking the sidewalk. - NO
Jacob licks the sidewalk. - YES

In other news, The Black Crowes are playing a massive 3-plus hour show in NJ this November, and yours truly just got tickets; this place is super tiny and intimate—looks like this will be the last one of the year. As soon as I figure out how to afford getting there, I’ll be really excited.

I don't believe it...

from amorica.org (Black Crowes web community)

We want to inform our fans that Ed Harsch will no longer be performing with The Black Crowes due to personal issues. We are excited to announce Rob Clores as keyboardist and look forward to the fall leg.

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First Kate and Chris, now this! I sense trouble. And their 2 CD set "Lost Crowes" scheduled for this Tuesday was pushed back to Sept. 26th.

Dear Ernesto

It looks like you’re gaining speed—this pleases me. Please come to Wilmington and rip this town a new ass; its current ass is a little out of shape, and I’m sure your stormy winds can whip it into shape. There’s nothing like a town with a flabby ass. Please knock over all of the church signs that advertise solutions to my problems, since, come on, if the Lord is all powerful and mighty, He’ll get those signs back up in no time. But maybe the Lord sent you in the first place; so now I’m confused. Perhaps hurricanes are the Devil’s playthings—if this is true, then my message to God is God help You…or is it You Help You. Whatever floats your arc—Noah style.

Also, since a large part of my novel deals with a massive category 4 hurricane, I’d like the opportunity to drive and run around the madness with my digital recorder, documenting my firsthand experience in the mess, so don’t kill me okay. Think of it this way: I’m working on a book that embraces your ferociousness; in a way, I’m plugging you, spreading the word out there. You have to let me live. And don’t touch my girlfriend! She is tiny and will fly away if you come near her. I will SO turn my back on you if this happens.

And I don’t want to teach my classes. So, if possible, try to strike Wilmington next Monday through Thursday; I know this is a lot to ask, but you really don’t want to come here over the weekend. That’s like, so OBVIOUS. Be an original hurricane and hurt the general public on their workweek. I don’t know where you stand on the whole ‘liking people’ thing, but be a hurricane of the people—piss off the bosses by closing businesses, canceling classes, etc. The little men and women of our flabby ass town will sing your praises, I assure you.

But beware of Wilmington’s flabby ass. Don’t underestimate its bubble cheeks! They might steer you out to sea where you’ll regress to a tropical storm, then finally, a depression. I don’t want to see you become a depression. We all get depressed. If you read my blog, Ernesto, you’d know that we have a lot in common. We all have our off days—me: I’ll often cry or complain about my status in life, but if you get depressed, everyone will mock you and say: Ernesto was nothing, once a hurricane, then a tropical storm, and now he’s just a depression, a silly old no-for-good-pathetic-couldn’t-turn-over-a-box-of-cheerio’s-depression. You don’t want this to happen, do you?

So please, Erni (Can I call you Erni?), come to Wilmington and strut your stuff. We’ll all hide indoors and drink in your honor. You’ll give us the excuse to throw a party. And do you know what happens during these parties? Well, I don’t want to toot your eye or anything, but people get drunk and sometimes have intercourse! That’s right! Intercourse! You’re such a pimp, Ernesto. You sly little lamb. Baaaaa.

All best to you and your journey past Cuba and into the Keys. I hope your northeast trajectory is as ballsy as the media claims. See you soon. I ‘heart’ Erni.

T.

Dear Rain

Enough already! I get your point. You’re wet, but big fucking deal. I’m on campus today, trying to teach eager young minds who think I’m insane (and I am) but I could use a little sunshine, just a smidgen, not even a whole ‘sun,’ just a ‘su’ will do. So, please give me your su, and no, not your best rendition of su sussudio. I’m not Phil Collins. Do I look like Phil Collins? Wait…don’t answer that. Phil Collins loves you enough with songs like, “I Wish It Would Rain Now.”

I am writing a new song called, “I Wish It Would Stop Fucking Raining Now And While I’m In This Bitter Mood, Screw Phil Collins’ Entire Catalogue,” though I’m not sure this title will fit on a record or attract any major labels, cause yes, I plan to release it on vinyl with a limited edition run, possibly packaged inside an umbrella.

This day is moving slow. I feel like a yogurt factory worker who’s fed up with corporate policy. Sad thing is: I don’t even know what that really means, but I’m sure it’s not good. I imagine a yogurt factory smells nice, but I’m not sure about how too much yogurt will smell at once…actually I lose sleep because of this. But you don’t, do you, rain? My only comfort, as I write to you from this tiny little office in the library: Zeppelin’s “Ten Years Gone” just made a nice transition (via I-Tunes) into “The Rain Song.”

And I do love “The Rain Song.” I suppose I’ll give you credit for this tiny little success, Robert Plant and all, cause plants need rain in order to grow—like I don’t know what you’re up to. But seriously, when the song’s finished, please go away. I don’t mean to rain on your fucking parade, rain, but I will, and it will be a rain you never dreamed of, even though you are rain itself—yeah, fucked up isn’t it?

Another thing while I got your ear, or cloud, or whatever it is you listen with: stop with all the fucking puddles. I got new boots from Aldo and I LOVE THEM! Did you not see my earlier blog entry? What is your problem, rain?

I thought we were friends. I mean, you treat me fine when I need a solid writing day. You make sure I don’t feel bad about missing out on something better, something in the sun. I suppose I should’ve seen this coming.

If you have any guts, you’ll apologize, or at least state your case…

Leave Worries Here

I’m at PCJ for the first time in a month; it’s my safehouse. I don’t know why, but I never realized the sign on the front door that reads: leave worries here. It’s a comforting thought, and I hope the suggestion is that simple since I’m halfway through this novel and on the cusp of consuming another Red Eye.

I know it sounds crazy, but I’m a little upset about the Kate Hudson / Chris Robinson split. I hope Chris doesn’t self-destruct and return to heroin—granted drugs played a significant role in the band’s collective works, and ultimately their downfall at various stages.

Of course, this incident could lead to a double CD of absolute heartbreak and soul. I just hope wherever Chris is or what he’s going through, I'm praying for a safe transition into whatever’s next. The band’s official message board is quiet re: this, like it’s the elephant in the room.

It must be an interesting gig—creating something that affects lives, whether it’s music, writing, merely existing. That’s a whole set of pressures I’m not familiar with, but I’m up to the challenge if given the opportunity.

The last few entries have been a little crazy. I suppose my head and life are in a weird place, and I’m fumbling through the motions with webbed feet, but you know, I’m human—not a monster (or a duck in this case), and I’m doing the best I can, even if PCJ’s new buffalo chicken wrap didn’t live up to my expectations.

I'm a loss for words...

(AP) NEW YORK Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson are splitting up after nearly six years of marriage, said her publicist, Brad Cafarelli. "Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson have confirmed that they are separated," Cafarelli told The Associated Press on Monday. The couple married in 2000. They have a 2-year-old son, Ryder Russell Robinson.Hudson, 27, is the daughter of Goldie Hawn. She was nominated for a supporting actress Oscar for her role as rock groupie Penny Lane in 2000's "Almost Famous."Her screen credits also include "You, Me and Dupree," "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" and "The Skeleton Key."Robinson, 39, is the lead singer of The Black Crowes.The singer's representative, Todd Brodginski, told the AP he had "no information to report."

This Entry Deserves a Title

Feel like I just woke up from a coma, but my headache's gone. Praise the lord!! Did you churchgoers grab the Big Man's attention??

If so, thanks for the sleep prayers. I slept for 16 hours.

Can I get an Amen? Feeling better now. Must make lunch. Thanks for listening.

i 'heart' sandwiches; they make everything better.

This Entry Doesn't Deserve a Title

The most annoying thing is that I’ve only had 4 hours of sleep over the last three days. I’ve been lying in bed for the last hour tossing and turning and I’m so fed up. God, I’m SO sick of this shit. I don't even know how long I've been awake.

Happy fucking Sunday. If you’re a churchgoer, tell God I said he’s not listening. I am SO going back on antidepressants. All I want is a good night’s sleep. Is that really too much to ask for?
Oh, and did I tell you how excited I am to start a new semester with a ton of work and an income that still qualifies me for food stamps. How does someone with a Master's degree wind up in this position?

Here's something--I stopped at this place on Route 17 in the middle of nowhere, enroute to the Wilmington on my way back from the Outer Banks--it was called King Chicken. This shack sat on the side of the road in this town that you probably wouldn't find on any map. There was a young girl in there, ordering food, and she knew the clerk like she had ordered at that particular time each day for years. She said to her, "I'm still working six days a week and saving money for community college." And there I was, wearing a Doors Trunk Ltd. shirt, PD&C jeans, snake skin boots--basically an outfit that would pay for her textbooks. Me, standing there--Master's degree, no money in my wallet, thinking I had it tough. Bullshit. It could be so much worse, but still, I complain. Seeing that tiny moment really brought me back to earth and I felt so sick with myself for questioning my status or position in life, but now it's like it never happened, and that poor girl's story has turned into something as meaningless as this blog entry.

How can I describe the 24 hour splitting headache I cannot seem to get rid of? It’s like someone has my head locked in a vice while using a saw to slice through my every thought. If I take another Tylenol, my liver might fall out. Perhaps a blood vessel exploded in my brain. If I should die, take what you want and let the vultures eat the rest. I’m going out for a cigarette.

Sorry…not doing so good these past few days. Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal or anything. I’m not famous enough for death, nor do I have a body of un-famous work that would become famous after my death, so really, as shitty as I feel, there’s nothing to gain from death, and personally, I’m more curious if this feeling could get any worse than if there’s an afterlife.

Need to push on with BLOG. I'm sort of maxed-out at the moment.

So many people have told me to go to hell in this lifetime. But you know, someone else once told me that “Hell is where the best bands are.”

Somewhere Else

For the record, i'm in the fucking gutters right now, and I can't sleep, but here are some pretty pictures of clouds I took on the plane ride home.



Maybe it was the combination of xanax and gin, but I wanted to crawl out the tiny airplane window and swim toward this paradise.



Problems seem so pointless from this viewpoint. On the plane, the girl next to me was having a nightmare and twitching. I woke her up and she called me Aaron. She traded me a perocet for a xanax. Thank you US Airways for your seating assignments. Now if you could just make sure that baby food and I-pod aren't explosives, I'll feel much safer taking drugs on your flights.



It's 7 am? What now? A little happiness would be nice. I'm tired. Think I'll try to pass out on the couch. Another novel day ahead of me. Halfway done.

Slobida

Florida is sort of strange. The rain here is unpredictable. The skies open up with a hellish downpour while the sun is still shining then everything stops in a matter of seconds and returns to normal, which leads me to the conclusion that the sky is bipolar and needs medication, but what medication could the sky take and how would such a medication be delivered?

I’ve been working on BLOG again, working out the kinks before I push on to newer sections, and it’s been interesting writing here, especially at night on the lanai (insert Golden Girls joke here), poolside after everyone goes to sleep; I hear 1001 different animals scurrying around in the woods, coyotes especially--they’re some scary mother fuckers. The stars are amazing.

Been spending a lot of time with my mother, which is great since I only get to see her twice a year, it seems, and being with her and her husband over a period of a few days is pretty comical. The best way I can describe their dialogue is if you randomly cut together alternating lines from two different books. Their conversations consist of two separate stories and plotlines that have no relation. Here’s an example:

“We went over to the mall today in Tampa.”

“The doctor’s office called and they said I need to reschedule my appointment.”

“It’s a nicer mall than International and we didn’t feel like going to the one by the airport.”

“So, I set it for 10:30 on Wednesday morning.”

“We already ate at Olive Garden, so if you’re hungry later, I’ll throw something together.”

“But 10:30 conflicts with me other appointment, so I’ll need to switch it again.”

This is not a joke. This is seriously what I have to sit through each day. I must admit, I’ve sort of grown used to this way of communication since I‘ve been here, so if I’m a little confused upon my return to Wilmington, and it seems like I’m not listening to you, please have patience with me--the effects, I assume, are only temporary and normalcy will be restored within a few days.

Also, I’ve met many of my mother’s new friends and neighbors. Apparently, my mother has the party house where everyone meets up and hangs. So, there’s been all these random people in and out each day, which is sort of strange. I met this 6-year-old girl named Alicia whose mother is in Kuwait, whose father walked out on her when she was 2; it pained me to listen to her thoughts on where mommy was. Here’s a rough playback:

“I’m not so worried because the good guys always win and mommy is one of the good guys. When she first came house last year she was crying to see me because she had to go back again to the bad place a few days later. I don‘t know where my Daddy is.”

Broke my heart to hear this; she was so adorable and vulnerable and innocent. She wandered into our house a few mornings ago. Her two brothers, both in their early twenties, are apparently irresponsible and can’t look after her without losing track. Alicia’s grandmother works all day, so she’s pretty much in the hands of these two idiots who seem to not care. So, yeah, she just waltzed right in one morning, and it was like, “Oh, hello. Who are you?“ So, say a prayer for Alicia and her mother. Pray to whatever God you choose: JC, Buddha, Ronald McDonald, The Guy Who Invented Gobstoppers--your pick.

Spending lots of time in the pool and reading TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE, and I KNOW I’m the last to read this book, but I feel like I want to edit her. Her sentences seem…rough, sort of like my blog on a good day (insert punch line cymbal crash here). But seriously, I find myself making comments like, “Fuck, that sentence would be awesome if she just cut this word and that word!” Did anyone else have this reaction? Is it just me? Do you like ice cream on your stomach? On the backs of your thighs? Don’t answer that! No, do it. Wait.

I was discussing my new obsession with the Black Crowes, and my mother caught on pretty fast. I’ve done nothing but play various live recordings and bootlegs all week on the porch speakers. And my mother says, “They’re sort of a mixture of The Allman Brothers and The Rolling Stones, a little Grateful Dead.” I mean, fucking A right THEY ARE! I was most impressed with her assessment since, you know, she’s not really the best judge of music.

And lastly, why the fuck does Disney bring out the worst in people? OBVIOUSLY, I wasn’t in China but Epcot. Side note real quick: I ate in just about every country and my eating habits were borderline suicidal. Is it possible to eat oneself to death? I know that guy in SEVEN did it, but did it ever happen at Epcot? Perhaps I’m just a slob, but gosh darn, I’m a cute slob!!! No, really I am. There are SLOBS out there who look like and act like disgusting slobs, but my slobbery is sort of innocent-I-feel-comfortable-around-you-and-I’m-sort-of-cute-ish, which also means it’s okay for you to let your inner slob out when you’re around me. Aren’t you excited!!!??!!! Will you be a slob with me?

What the fuck is up with this word: SLOB. Actually, it’s a great title.

SLOB
In stores December 5th