Edit Alexander

Berlin!

2008-11-12T06:52:00.000-08:00

The latest post is something I wrote for a school newsletter, hence the slightly more rigid writing style. This weekend I'm off to Marrakesh--later this month, London & Switzerland. Updates to follow!

Study Trip to Berlin

Berlin welcomed us with open arms and open clouds. Forced to imagine Berlin’s beauty on a summer day rather than live it, we focused instead on the beauty inside buildings, starting with a few of Fredrick the Great’s palaces in Potsdam. Roccoco rooms, lavish and fitted so that the walls complimented the furniture and even the flatware—our tour guide pushed past the Ikea upgrades and the oil paintings, illuminating the lives of the monarchs who once lived there. Crippled princes and overbearing mothers, feminine sons and murderous fathers—history came alive to tell us that, though the place looked beautiful, money and power couldn’t buy good parenting.

At the house where the Wannsee Conference took place, we discussed the beginnings of the Holocaust and the historical details that were most striking to us. It was strange to stand in such a lavish house and look out the windows at the beautiful view, only to realize that 60 years earlier, men calmly calculated the final solution under the same roof.

Our visit to the Stasi prison was one of the more fascinating moments of our tour, and one of the more sobering. We were shown interrogation rooms, torture tactics, and a thorough history of the prison, described by both a historian and a previous resident. The prison stood as a monument to the human rights violations of the past, and as a reminder of those taking place currently around the world.

We were lucky enough to see several museums on our trip. The checkpoint Charlie museum was a monument to the sadness and pain that the Berlin wall brought, as well as the ingenuity it inspired in many when it came to means of escape. The Jewish museum pulled back the focus from German treatment of Jews during WWII, and gave us a larger picture of conditions surrounding Jewish life in Germany for hundreds of years. The German history museum allowed us to see the evolution of Germany, from before the Romans to present day and everything else in between. All of these museums could have taken days to fully experience, just as Berlin would take many years—but we got a great taste, and for many of us this translated into a desire to return.

At the Reichstag, we were able to ask questions on world affairs of Hans Ulrich Klose, member of the Bundestag. Mr. Klose educated us on the political climate of just about every continent, giving his opinion on the future of energy, the economy, the environment, elections, and world stability. He was eloquent, candid, and good humored, and one of the highlights of the trip.

Some of us also managed in the midst of our busy schedule to sample Berlin’s night life, sampling the local culture and the local beer. Overall, it was a fantastic trip that allowed us to more fully understand the German past and the German present.

Fish Market

2008-10-14T11:36:00.001-07:00

Apparently there is a tradition in Hamburg to stay out all night on Saturday and then go to the fish market (open only on Sundays) just as it opens. Originally, we were informed that they opened at 5, then around 4 AM we were informed that the fish market actually opened around 7. At this point, we figured we were pot committed, so we kept out dancing until 6:30 and SHUT DOWN the club. Sans red bull, I don’t know how I would have done it. Managed to dance with about ¼ of the club, and speak about 3 languages as well as a drunken 2 year old native (*Including English, sadly). After we flooded out of the club, a group of about a dozen of us sloshed down to the waterfront. The fish market turned out to be a glorified flea market—the same chatchkas I could have bought in China town in SF were sold on the Hamburg Harbor. At this point in the night/day, I was unwilling to select from the display cases of gamey, uncooked fish sandwiches. Overall, though, the night/day got an A+--great folks, hilarious antics, non-facebookable pictures, and dancing. On another note, this was all done in the Reeperbahn, the red light district of Hamburg. Fun fact: when Hamburg was at its height as a national harbor, 1/3 of the female population were prostitutes. Currently, it's legal and taxed (there is a box you can check on your tax return for pro). But best of all is how you can identify the bulk of prostitutes here—they wear fanny packs. That’s right—that same object of clothing that identifies overweight tourists in the states, when found in Germany, is perched inches away from sexual service.

Returning at 8 AM to the dormitory I’m staying at, I couldn’t help but harken to the days of undergrad, and realize that I was not nearly as nostalgic for them as you’d suspect.

SMOKE!

2008-10-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

In the last week or so, I have had the overwhelming urge to smoke cigarettes. I attribute this to several factor:

1) German cigarette advertising is AMAZING. Seriously, everything features rugged, outdoorsy figures—a couple who have gone camping, and wake with what appears to be a post-coitus glow, enhanced by the sunrise, a coffee, and a cigarette. What better to complement the beginning of a new day? Ads for menthol cigarettes feature a fresh sprig of mint, still dewy from the morning air. In some ways, the ads are just ubiquitous—every wall is plastered with brands I don’t even know—John Player’s Special, HB, and West. West is especially interesting to me, and not just because it appears to have the same lettering as Newports in the states. From what I understand, Germans are kind of obsessed with the American west (as were we, until the 60’s), which would make the West brand an attempt to connect to sprawling landscapes, manly men and…um…cows?

2) Much like the advertising, smoking itself is ubiquitous. Everyone is lighting up, and everyone in Germany looks healthy—what could be the problem? Octogenarians are lighting up, then doing swing dancing in the park (no joke). Then again, maybe they just look like octogenarians…

3) I need something to do with my mouth, ‘cause it ain’t talking. Again, relating back to language—I can’t speak to people. So when I’m alone, and I don’t have a book or food or something to occupy my time with, something needs to keep me busy. It’s less about the smoke or the look, it’s something to fill the silent gaps with. Maybe I should try gum or carrots.

4) I’ve noted this before—smoking is so freakin’ social! What better way to meet Germans or anyone else at a bar re on the street than to learn the simple phrase “Do you have a light?” (Haben Sie Feuer?) or “Can I have a cigarette?” (Kann ich eine Zigarette?) Further, it works both ways—if you’re out smoking, someone will come and do the same—from what I understand, the tax on any loan like this is that during the minute or two that you’re smoking, you’re partially obligated to stand there and spark up a conversation. Not the same with booze—no one just comes up and asks “can I borrow a pint.” Booze is usually done indoors (yet far less regularly in Germany, a plus), and is far more expensive a gesture.

I’d totally be all over this if it weren’t for the whole cancer thing.

HAMBURG

2008-10-02T04:38:00.000-07:00

The first few days in Hamburg felt like taking a test that everyone else has studied for. Finding housing, manipulating the transit system, meeting with people without the aid of a phone—all of this in a language I know a few dozen words in. The stressful atmosphere was heightened by the fact that, from a distance, Hamburg emergency sirens sound like the first few notes of the Jeopardy theme song. Order a donner kebab? Double Jeopardy. The nice thing is that I received rewards every time I succeed in using the German language—when I learned the word for chocolate (Schokolade), I felt like a puppy that had learned a trick and earned a treat. Hopefully, this will instill a Pavlovian response, and German words will pour forth from me like drool. My lack of language lead me to spent my first weekend here virtually silent, which meant that when I finally met up with an American friend, I found myself gushing, talking about anything, just enjoying the fact that I could talk and be understood.

Being isolated makes you realize how many hours there are in the day. Without people to chat with on my cell phone, the internet or an ipod, I found myself with enough time to write the great American novel. Of course, as soon as I got my housing set up, a LAN line and a converter, I saw the great American novel disappear and become a series of short stories. When the other students in my program, all English speakers, began to show up, short stories transformed into blog posts.

Mead Medici

2006-11-14T22:04:00.000-08:00

It was simple.

“We want to pay you gobs of money,” he said.

This was a curve ball.

Dreams of earning money had died upon declaring myself an English major in college. Upon signing up for Graduate school, I’d resigned myself to living a debt-ridden, monk-like existence.

To supplement my nonexistent income, I’d taken up writing for fishing and hunting magazines.

Wading through the crisp Colorado mountain stream, I pursue the mighty trout with only a rod and my wits.

Crouched behind a duck blind in the dead of winter, I huddle next to my trusty lab, Duncan, scanning the horizon for the next swarm of mallards.

“Hemingwayesque,” he called it.

I’m not an outdoorsman. I’m an indoorsman. Animals tend to bite me.

“Go on.” I said.
Simply put, they were going to pay me gobs of money to write. Hunting, fishing, boxing, bull fighting, whatever. As long as it involved sweat, death, and manliness, I could pick the topic. I’d be set up in a nice place of my choice with a lavish expense account, a personal cook—no distractions to keep me from writing. The down side? I’d have to shift my dust jacket image—no more rock concert t’s and Elvis Costello glasses. I’d have to grow a beard, wear more flannel, maybe take up pipe smoking and actually get a dog (Whether I named it Duncan or not was up to me, but I was told that Bitsy and Tinkerbell were out.) That, and I had to start punctuating the end of my paragraphs with “Crisp Mountain Beer” instead of periods.

It didn’t always have to be Crisp Mountain Beer, specifically. He represented a specialty publishing house, Stout Stories, which represented a number of horizontally and vertically integrated conglomerates—I could choose from any number of brands and products, mostly booze and other vice products. After a long day on the water, alone in my dinghy, I could stare across the motionless lake, warming my cockles with glass of Oakhouse whisky, aged 18 years. I could also exhale thick plumes of smoke after lighting up a Buchanan Gold cigar—it was up to me.

They were, as he put it, the future of advertising. “With Tivo, Netflix and the internet, product placement is the last bastion of advertising,” he told me.

I was confused—from what I’d understood, I’d chosen an anachronistic medium still available, save for stone tablets. —

“Yes,” he said, “Print is on the way out. However, the few people who still manage to pick up a book are what we in the advertising community like to call ‘Alpha Consumers.’ Higher education, interest in luxury goods, more money to burn.”

“So if regular consumers are canned sardines, getting an Alpha is like landing a Dorado?”

He beamed at my fishing metaphor.

“Exactly. I knew you were right for this.”

I envisioned the future me on the back of a hardcover—patchy beard, red face, overheated from the flannel, eyes watery due to pipe smoke and Duncan’s dander.

“I’m worried about this impacting my standing as a writer.”

“You’re worried that people will actually read your work?”

“No…”

“Because they will. Every author we’ve ever backed has made the best seller list.”

“Really?”

“Really. This isn’t bloated Orson Welles selling jug wine. This is classy. This is subtle. We see your talent. We want to encourage it, fertilize it, let it grow. We just want to grow with you. You get to give the world your message—so do we. It’s a win-win.”

We both knew what I was really worried about—being seen as a sell out. He assured me that all my checks would be from Stout Publishing, and that no one would ever know about our arrangement—it wouldn’t appear to be advertising, just preferences, color, flavor.

The beard came in better than I’d expected, and I really only had to wear the flannel for photo shoots. Though I’m not a fan of the cigars, I’ve found I’m a huge fan of Finnigan Scotch, and a few of Winemar Vineyard’s cabernets.

Though I have to keep him in the backyard of my Spanish style villa due to allergies, I did buy a dog.

He’s with me on the back of my first book, the New York Times best seller “The Mountain and the Sun,” about a man low on water, losing himself in the heat and the hunt. He’s low on water, but he packed plenty of cigars and scotch.

The dog in the photo is a black lab.

I named him Orson.

Devil's Haircut

2006-10-10T20:36:00.000-07:00

For those that have called my attention to the lack of content as of late, I apologize. (Chernobilsky, this is for you)

I've been working this piece through in my mind for a while--it isn't a final draft, but I hope you enjoy it.

Devil’s Haircut

When they show God in the movies, it’s always a curveball. He’s a woman. He’s black. When you meet the devil, you’re not surprised. He’s pretty much exactly what you’d expected. I mean, he doesn’t have horns, or a tail, or a goatee or any of that crap. He just kind of exudes his devil-tude. I’m not really supposed to go into any of the details—I signed some sort of a non-disclosure waiver-thingy, but he introduced himself as Damon, “you know, like Matt,” kind of giving me that finger pointy thing with a wink. It was kinda cool, because you knew that he knew that finger point thing was something that only jerks do, but because he knew, it somehow became cool again. He made a lot of little “you’re cool because you’re in on the joke” jokes…but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The devil, Damon, dresses like a stockbroker on his day off. Designer jeans and a button down dress shirt with uneven bands of color running lengthwise. That, and a wrist watch with more dials and indicators than the dashboard of your car. He let me in on a little secret—he was always letting you in on secrets—the watch was a calculated move. It hung from his wrist like a necklace. He never bothered to get it fitted. He wanted it to look like he didn’t really care/didn’t have the time, while actually, he liked the fact that the more links it had, the more metallic clicking it produced when he spoke—he always spoke with his hands—calling attention to the expensive watch. That was basically his look—calculated casual. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of the fact that he was cooler than you—just so long as you knew.

He met me at a Starbucks on Sunday—apparently, that’s when Damon does most of his business. When we got inside, he gave a signal to the barista for two of something—the barista went to work immediately—apparently, the Devil was a regular. He then pulled up to a table, lounging in one chair, draping his arm across another. He pulled up his black, wire-rim aviators, then plopped what looked like a giant screenplay in front of me. It wasn’t a screenplay, but somehow, you know the devil has one. “This is it,” he told me. He started moving his hands in parallel, as if taking measurements of the air. “I like you,”—he always tells you how much he likes you—“so I’m giving you something a little different from the standard contract.” You get three days, satisfaction guaranteed, your soul back if you’re not 100% pleased with the results.”

I know, these things always turn out bad. I know that eternity is a really long time. But everyone else was happy, and I wasn’t. My life was either stuck in traffic, stuck in an office, or stuck in my apartment. Sometimes I wondered if I’d already sold my soul, and that this was the result. I wanted to get un-stuck.

The devil’s barista brought our drinks. He came to our table—he didn’t just scream our orders or our names—he brought the drinks himself. Damon reached in his pocket—not his back pocket, for his wallet, but his front pocket—he had a silver money clip, the same burnished silver as his watch—and he started peeling off some cash. He made the move—it was a gesture—I knew, he knew, what would happen next. “No, no!” said the barista “I couldn’t possibly.” The devil did the whole “I insist” thing, while at the same time putting his roll firmly back into his pocket. The barista gave the devil what almost looked like a little salute—a little one fingered point to his eyebrow, gave a little nod to me, and he was gone. The devil shrugged with mock embarrassment, then sipped his drink, pinkie extended.

It was like having coffee with the Godfather.

I stared into the bowl of murky black the barista had left in front of me. “Drink it,” Damon said, “you’ll like it.” I did, and immediately felt more awake that I had for years. I think I must have jumped a little in my seat, because Damon laughed. “It’s like espresso, only stronger, and more of it.” The devil looked at me with raised eyebrows and a smile, then glanced down to the contract. I was taking up too much of his time. I reached down to my pocket, in search of a pen. Of course, the Damon was six steps ahead—he handed me a heavy pen made of a metal so soft it almost melted into my hand.

I signed.

The devil took his pen back, and took a small notebook out of his pocket. He scribbled something down. “Show up at this address—you’ve got an appointment in 30 minutes. Ask for Frank.” He gulped down the rest of what was in his bowl—what had to be half a liter of scalding liquid—then flicked down his sunglasses. “If there’s a problem, you’ve got my cell.”

The loud purr of a foreign engine sent a tremor through Starbucks, and then he was gone.

I felt a little, I dunno, naked. I felt like the devil and I had something meaningful going, and that maybe we’d go and get breakfast and chat, but then he left abruptly, leaving me in bed without enough sheets to cover myself. I started thinking that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

I looked at the address on the paper. Uptown.

I caught a cab, and was there in a little over thirty minutes.

When the cab left, I looked at the building, and again at the address. The devil had sent me to—a salon? I looked at the address again, then went in.

Everything was white. White marble counters, a white porcelain chandelier. At the front desk, a thin man dressed in black spoke on the telephone, his back turned to me. He reminded me of the devil, if only because of his ironic European-mullet hairdo—again, he knew how uncool the mullet was on everyone else, but because he knew that you knew that he was doing it on purpose, making a statement, he was cool again. He turned to reveal three days of dark stubble on his pale face, gauged earlobes. “One sec.” He put the phone to his boney chest. He looked me up and down, starting at my tennis shoes, going up to my face, then detouring back for one last look at the shoes. “Can I help you?” His tone implied that he couldn’t.

I said I had an appointment. He gave me a smile—sure I did—and then casually perused the large white book in front of him. His needle like finger paused about half way down.

He hung up the phone.

I was talking to a different man. He asked to take my coat, then led me to the back of the salon, farther back than I thought it would go. As we walked through the salon, I was surprised—I didn’t see any other patrons. I didn’t see anyone cutting hair. I looked at the brilliant white tile floor—I didn’t even see any hair. We walked down a set of stairs, the man looking over his shoulder, shooting me a smile every few seconds. At the bottom of the stairs, the thin man pulled open a door and ushered me in.

The stairway had been dark, and I was expecting my eyes to adjust to another bright, white room. Instead, there was soft light. Wood paneling. Red leather chairs. The thin man asked me to take a seat—Frank would be right with me. Would I like a water? A soda? Some tea? I shook my head, and the thin man left. I slumped down in the red chair—it felt more appropriate for me to be shorter. It was as if I were 4 again, getting a haircut at the barber’s down the street. Spaced a few feet apart on the shelf below the mirrors, there were jars full of blue liquid with combs inside. Old magazines. There was even a mini-candy cane pole attached to the wall, plugged in to an outlet so that it turned, appearing to spiral ever upward.

A black sheet flapped in front of me. It descended onto my chest, and was tied in the back, only after a small slip of crepe paper was tied around my neck. The mirror revealed a short man, barely over five feet. He was clean shaven, a few whisps of finely manicured blond hair covered his scalp. His eyes were bright blue.

Frank didn’t ask me to point to one of the seven or eight “men’s cuts” displayed on the wall opposite. He spun my chair around, put his hands below my jaw, and turned my head from side to side. He pointed my head down and stood on his toes, taking in the full lay of the land.

Frank opened a drawer, taking out one pair of scissors. He unscrewed the cap the closest of the blue liquid jars filled with combs—with a pair of metal tongs, he removed one, giving it a gentle flick, sending a liquid line of blue spray into the sink.

Frank was thorough. On both sides of my head, he took my hair in his thumb and forefingers, measuring, calculating. He snipped in small, controlled movements, altering only a few hairs at a time. He took his time. After what felt like an hour or so, my mind began to wander. This place really was like where I used to get my hair cut, down to the large jar of colored lollipops, reserved for the good boys who sit still. The only difference was that Frank didn’t have many picures. There wasn’t one of him with his wife or girlfriend by the Grand Canyon. No graduations or baby pictures. No buddies with fishing rods, displaying the winning catch. The only shot stuck to Frank’s mirror was one of Frank, his bright blue eyes staring straight forward, smiling for his barber’s license.

The black sheet was whisked off of me. Frank took off the crepe paper around my neck, and slowly took an electric razor to my neck and my sideburns. He then dusted me off with a camel hair brush, then stepped aside so I could see his work.

It was as if I’d stepped out of Frank’s lair to the bright, white room upstairs. My eyes had to take a moment to adjust. Yes, it was still me. Same nose, eyes, lips, ears. Everything was just…framed differently. My ears didn’t look so uneven. My nose didn’t look so big.

Frank spun me around, holding up a mirror so I could look at the back. I was suddenly mesmerized by the back of my head. Something I’d never taken much time to look at before suddenly held me in rapt attention. I would have kept staring, but Frank eventually put the mirror down. He washed off the scissors and the brush, placing the brush back in the blue liquid. He gave me a little nod, and then was gone.

I stood up. I suddenly felt very tired. I went back up the stairs, back up to the salon, only to find it dark, utterly uninhabited. For a moment I thought the thin man had locked me in. But I tried the door, and was able to make it outside into the cold, night air. It was too late to call a cab, so I walked downtown. On the walk, I thought about my haircut—this was it? I mean, it was a great haircut—but c’mon now, my soul for a haircut? I felt like I’d given away the family cow and wound up with beans. I needed to call Damon in the morning.

The light outside my window woke me—I was late. I didn’t have time to shower or to shave—I just tossed on Sunday’s clothes and ran out the door, only to realize I’d left my keys by the bed—I sprinted back to my room, grabbed the keys, then paused and stared at my bed. Specifically, I stared at my white pillows, flattened from a night’s sleep. No bits of hair, no stray strands. I looked at my watch, but before I made my way to the door, I picked up my pillow, looking at both sides. Nothing.

I expected to be at least an hour late for work, but for once, my lateness worked out in my favor. The morning crush of traffic was already off the road—when I got into the office, I was only about fifteen minutes late. This was still enough to give Cheryl, my boss, license to make my life a living hell—no signature required.

When I got off the elevator, I could see Cheryl waiting for me through office’s glass double doors. She was perched on high black heels, one of which was tapping. Her eyes were firmly affixed to the office clock, but not so firmly that they didn’t snap back to me when I sheepishly pulled at the heavy glass door, then pushed—after 6 years, I still couldn’t get it right when under pressure.

Cheryl turned to the door, her face crinkled up as if her nose, rather than her ears, had alerted her to my presence. I cringed—the fight long being knocked out of me, flight not an option, I prepared for the blows. But none came. Cheryl looked as surprised as I felt. She smiled a little, rotated her tight string of pearls between her fingers, then turned on her heel.

I was off the hook? Our receptionist, Nancy, also braced for the coming flood of venom, gave me a confused look, followed by a smile. Cheryl barely crossed my desk all day—only once did she bother me, only to say that she was going to get some coffee, and would I like some? Without her constant hovering and browbeating, the bulk of my work was done before lunch. I spent my extra time getting ahead a little, and even struck up a bit of a conversation with Nancy. She told me about a pub quiz her and some of her friends were going to the next weekend—did I want to come? In six years I hadn’t been invited to a non work function that didn’t involve a Styrofoam cake from Ralph’s.

Up on my work, I was able to slip out early, again beating traffic. At home, the fridge was empty. I hadn’t shopped in weeks—I looked at my watch—not only did I have time to grab food, I had time to walk.

On the way to the grocery store, two people smiled at me, a small black boy on a tricycle outside his house, and a withered old woman with a small white dog, yellowed at the fringes. I bent down and pet the dog. He licked my fingers.

The grocery store was a madhouse. With a small basket, I maneuvered through the crowd. I figured I’d cook an omelet—I grabbed eggs, cheese, and a six pack of soda, then went down to the produce isle to find something green to throw in.

I’m not really sure what happened next. For me, interactions with women are car accidents. Things happen in the blink of an eye—I’m never sure how I got from point A to B. Something usually winds up broken. The other person always insists I’m at fault.

From what I can piece together, it went this way—Bette (I’m not sure when I learned her name), said something about my groceries—cheese, eggs and soda—then said something about that being unhealthy. Maybe she called it “bachelor food.” I immediately went on the defensive, insisting I was about to buy a green vegetable. She laughed. Soon thereafter, I got her number—I think that’s when I learned her name. She said she’d cook me dinner. When she smiled up at me, she looked at me as if she were talking to a tall man. It was only when I turned away that I realized—she was looking at my hair.

Still buzzed, I headed towards the checkout. It wasn’t that far from the produce isle—the long lines had extended out, meeting me half way. A man with a beard, suspenders, and a nametag that said “Sam,” walked by and gave me a nod, pushing a dolly loaded with canned tuna. He stopped, placed the dolly to the side of the isle, then made a U-Turn. He walked back towards the checkout and ducked under the spiral of wire separating the nearby closed out line, lifted the wire, and waved me over.

After checkout, he told me to have a nice night. I responded in kind.

It was the best omelet I’d ever had. I’m not sure why. Was it the eggs? Had I worked up an appetite with my walk? Or had the luck of the day simply seeped into everything else?

I smiled and ran my hands through my hair. I put the pans in the sink to soak, then walked to the bathroom. I turned on the light and stared into the mirror.

My hair looked perfect, untouched by the day, the night of sleep. Not one hair had moved—not in a creepy, plastic way—it just looked perfect. I took out my comb and ran it through my hair. Every strand fell back into place. Mussed it with my hands. The same. I filled the sink with water. I sunk my head into the sink. When I came up, my face was soaked. But my hair was dry. Not too dry—but just right.

The next day, I woke up early, refreshed. I made breakfast, still getting out early—I beat the traffic. Cheryl, get this, Cheryl actually smiled at me when she saw me at my desk. She told me something good about the work I’d done yesterday—I was too surprised to take it in—I think it was something about my punctuation on a memo—and again, the day went quickly.

When I got home, there was still some light—I decided to bring a book to the park. I had a lot of books, but rarely got to read them. At first, the walk was pleasant. The sun was going down, giving every object a yellow, cinematic glow. People in the park smiled, but it wasn’t like the day before. They smiled, but they didn’t smile at me. They didn’t even acknowledge me, meet my eyes. They smiled above me, at my hair. I was the old lady, my hair a cute yellowing dog perched on my skull.

It was unsettling. I sat down at a park bench, but the people kept looking. I left the park. I needed to talk to Damon. As soon as I got home, I rummaged through my dresser drawer, searching for the scrap of paper with Ralph’s address and Damon’s number. It wasn’t there. Of course. I tossed about my dirty laundry to find Sunday/Monday’s pants. There, in the left pocket, was the paper.

I dialed the number.

It rang a couple of times, but then clicked over to voice mail. I tried again, this time it went directly to voice mail.

The devil was screening my calls.

I looked at my watch. It was getting late. Crap. What was the deal? Three days? What exactly did that mean? Three twenty four hour periods? When did the first one start? When I signed the contract, or when the devil first appeared? Or did he mean three days—I looked out the window at the setting sun, and immediately knew—as soon as the light was gone, the deal was set.

I made one more call—straight to voicemail. This time, I left a message. “I want out.”

I frantically thought of some other way to void the contract. I paced around the house, trying to think of an answer—it was in the jar of pens on my desk, the pair of orange circles poking out of the top.

I grabbed the scissors and headed to the bathroom—as I raised the scissors to my head, there was a knock at the door.

I looked out my bathroom window. The sun had stopped setting, had stopped, inches away from the skyline, mid movement.

I knew who was at the door.

Not taking the strand of hair out from the scissors, I carefully made my way to the door.

The devil let himself in. This time, Damon looked a little more traditional. Not quite casual, he was in dinner attire—black suit, red shirt, no tie. The devil was drunk. More accurately, the devil seemed half drunk, half hung over. The devil is an angry drunk.

“Put the scissors down.”

I didn’t put the scissors down. The devil ran his hand through his hair, and each hair dropped perfectly back into place. Perfect, calculated causal.

The devil sighed. “It was a good haircut, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, ever so slightly, causing the scissors to run up against my hair. The devil cringed, as if his hangover had kicked in just that much more.

“C’mon now. It wasn’t just good. It was fantastic. Frank does a fantastic job.” The devil pointed to his own hair.

I told him his hair looked great, but that mine wasn’t working out.

The devil gestured with his hands, causing his watch to jingle. “Listen, I went out on a limb for you. Do you know how hard it is to get an appointment with Frank? That guy is booked for centuries! I had to pull some major strings. And now you want to renege on our contract, at the last minute?”

I told him I hadn’t known how hard it was to get in to Frank’s. But the hair wasn’t working out.

The Devil was pissed. “Are you trying to get something extra, here? What, you want a little more money in your pocket? Women? Power?”

I wavered for a moment. The devil is very good at picking up on wavering.

“Listen,” the Devil said, “all that comes with the hair. You’ve already seen some of the effects—I promise they’ll keep pouring in. By the end of the week, you’ll get a raise. By the end of the month, you’ll have a girlfriend. Wait a few years—I kid you not—you’ll be a Senator.”

I started to think. The devil always makes you think.

“It’s all in the hair.”

The devil nodded to my hair, breaking eye contact with me. Again, I remembered the people in the park. It gave me the willies.

I wanted out. The devil asked me if I was sure, one hundred percent sure.

I was.

The devil frowned, looked away, then returned with a smile, as if something had just occurred to him. Nothing is so disconcerting as when the devil smiles like this.

“There is a clause in the contract.”

There is always a clause in the Devil’s contracts.

That night, in my bathroom, the Devil gave me a haircut. It was brutal. I sat on the toilet while he worked, orange handled scissors in one hand, an oversized bowl in the other. Chunks of hair hit the floor as the devil destroyed Frank’s work.

Satisfied, the Devil let himself out.

I cleaned up the hair first. There was a lot of it, much of which had fallen back behind the toilet, in the hard to reach area where the pipes run through the wall. Finally, I worked up the nerve. I went to the mirror.

The Devil had not cut my hair haphazardly, like I’d thought. The Devil had used technique. My ears appeared to have moved horizontally in opposite directions. My nose hooked to the right. My eyes—when did my eyes begin to look in opposite directions? My lips were a perpetual frown. The Devil’s haircut was everything that Frank’s was, but opposite.

Soon thereafter, I lost my job. I eventually called Bette, and she came to my apartment to make dinner—it was short meal. Eventually, she asked me to take my baseball cap off, and for the rest of the evening, couldn’t stop staring at the battlefield that was my scalp.

Every morning from then on out, I woke to more hair on my pillow. The good news is that the Devil’s haircut turned out to be temporary. The bad news?

I was bald within a month.

The Tenderloin Trifecta

2006-08-27T23:53:00.000-07:00

Today, in a ten minute period, I saw someone:

1) Buying crack
2) Smoking crack
3) Throwing up due to crack.

Okay, as to the third bit of evidence, I have no actual, hard and fast proof that it was crack that made him puke. There was no close visual inspection of said puke, nor did I send any samples back to the laboratory for analysis. But I’m not just working on pure intuition here—there was circumstantial evidence to back up my claim.

1) His demeanor
a. Though before today I would not have deemed myself an expert on crack/users of crack, I direct you back to numbers one and two in my Trifecta claim.
b. That being said, the guy looked like he was on crack.

2) His location
a. Though before today I would not have been able to tell you where a good place was to find crack/crack heads in the city, I again submit numbers one through two as evidence.
b. Now secure in my knowledge of places to purvey crack, I can attest that aforementioned gagging guy was in CLOSE PROXIMITY to crack smoking and dealing.

Thus, though I still cannot claim with 100% certainty that he had crack in his system, I believe I have proved, if not beyond a reasonable doubt, at least by a preponderance of the evidence, that sick boy was in fact sick due to crack.

That or booze. Come to think of it, there were a lot of drunk guys, too.

Still, I’m going with Trifecta.

(In case you’re curious, Law School is going great.)

Real Clowns Do Cry

2006-07-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend was a Mexican wrestler
While I’m just a circus clown
She’d practice with her partner
Whenever I wasn’t around

They’d get each other in head locks
Practice breaking chairs
They rip off each other’s masks
Pull at each other’s hair

Whenever I’d come home
They’d act as if nothing had changed
I’d notice their new rug burns
The furniture, rearranged

I’d wash away my thick make up
But couldn’t wipe off my frown
I missed their reindeer games
They’d play without me around

Things were all fine
‘Till I came home one day
To find balloon animals
In much disarray

My monkey wasn’t in his tree
He was straddling a coconut
My puppy was on all fours
Like some common mutt

The room was thick with smoke
A hint of Mexican blend
Someone had messed with my porridge
But who and why, to what end?

I took off my fake nose
When I saw the note that said
“I’m sick of all your clowning
There’s a present under the bed”

The number one rule of clowns
Is to never cry out loud
We keep it all inside
To not upset the crowd

But this clown broke the rules
When I found her last good bye
The picture that she left
Brought a river to my eye

Ninja, You Are Put on Notice

2006-07-08T16:29:00.000-07:00

Ninja Attack

My best friend was attacked by a ninja
It happened in the dead of night
It probably wouldn’t be that funny
Lucky my friend is alright

My pal was happy and smiling
When he stepped out of the bar
Unbeknownst, a ninja was stalking
When he motioned to hail a car

No one saw
The figure in black
That stealthy ninja
Who launched the attack

He felt the first blow
Then fell to the floor
But it wasn’t over
The ninja had more

He kicked my friend
Straight in the face
Faded back in the night
Without a trace

We’ll never know
What provoked the attack
What caused said ninja
To approach from the back

Did he hit on the bastard’s girlfriend?
Did he say a disparaging word?
Was he trashing Mutant Turtles?
Do you think the ninja heard?

Whatever the case
My friend is okay
He lives on to fight
On some other day

But if on some evening
When leaving a bar
I glimpse a katana
Or a throwing star

I’ll pretend not to notice
And then double back
I’ll sneak up behind
That figure in black

I’ll hit him with a rock
Then kick him in the face
When I’m done with El Ninja
He’ll get his own parking space

So listen close, you ninja
I’m after you, your Ma and your Pa
When I’m done, your whole family
Will eat sushi through a straw

Inspired by Merritt

2006-07-05T21:08:00.000-07:00

Just posted an article on Flakmag.com about Stephin Merritt-- http://flakmag.com/music/lyricists/merritt.html

Here is my best attempt at a lyrical homage:

Bulb

Love is like a tungsten filament
Small and rare and intricately bent
It glows for years, it breaks
And then it’s spent.

Hmm... my next love simile--Love is like a marathon, or perhaps an 18 hour flight to Australia?

The Biscuit Will Miss His Cris...

2006-06-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

Jay-Z has given up Cristal, and with good reason. As it happens, my current daily consumption of “Cris” is seven cases a day. Now, I know what you’re thinking—is this all the champagne C-Biscuit buys daily? Heck no, my delicate palate requires variety. Pack on seven cases of Dom and you’re on the money. Do I drink it all? Please. At least half of it goes into bathing. Another quarter has to be dolled out to my posse, leaving me with only about 4 cases for personal consumption. It’s not all imbibed while partying, or held opposite my mic wielding hand, while on stage, feeling my flow. Little known fact—Cris is delicious on cheerios.

This leads to a tricky question… if I support Jay-Z’s position, should I cut out Cris from both my consumption, and my lyrics?

Will I never again be able to go on stage and spit my rhyme:

Bling on my wrist and bitches on the flo’
Butler’s pourin’ Cris and I’m sayin mo’ mo’!

Or the timeless classic:

My Bentley Limo’s rollin and I’m feelin’ pretty nice
The ladies all love me ‘cause my mouth is full of ice
I’m drinkin’ so much, that every time I piss
It’s ten percent water and the rest is all Cris’

I couldn’t ever touch my lyrics—they don’t belong to me anymore, they belong to the people. So now it comes down to my Cris consumption. I’ve decided that I can’t immediately cut out Cristal cold turkey—this year’s tour cannot be held up while I and my posse are in Cris withdrawal. Therefore I have decided to slowly phase out Cris over a 10 month period—by mid two thousand seven, I will be a strictly Dom and Krug man.

Though my breakfast cereal will never be the same, I’m with Jay-Z, both in spirit, and in action.

Peace-out,

C-Biscuit

Myspace Love?

2006-06-20T14:54:00.000-07:00

I didn’t need to say that you’re the one
In your orbit, I was Saturn, you the Sun
But you’re six degrees away and on the run
And distance never leads to any fun

You’ve got a smile to light up any place
You’re not the first or second, you’re the race
I want to know you better and embrace
…you really make me want to get Myspace.

My friends they tried to my Myspace brewing
They said it’s what the cool kids were all doing
I didn’t want to start with online stalking
But thoughts of you have my mind walking

Signing up would mean that we’re connected
Through a mesh of friends we’ve mutually selected
But even so, I think that I’ve elected
To leave our first date up to chance

Should my internet prejudice be erased?
Is my faith in fate misplaced?
I think you’re the one, in any case.
You almost made me sign up for Myspace.

Perhaps We'll Meat Again

2006-06-18T17:40:00.000-07:00

Recently I read an article on Slate that made me rethink being a carnivore. I realized that instead of thinking about the ethical issues surrounding meat, I preferred to table the discussion and just enjoy the hamburger. After thinking about it, I decided to try life without meat. I still eat eggs, milk, and cheese. I was also able to convince myself that eating fish was still okay (They don’t have complex nervous systems). In the three or so weeks that I’ve been doing this, I’ve met with quite a few discoveries.

It turns out that there are a ton of great soy products that mimic meat. Products like Gimmelean are tasty enough to dull the pain of meat loss, allowing me to remember that I broke up with her, and not visa-versa.

Meals are a bigger deal. I only weigh a little over a buck fifty, and really don’t want my diet restrictions to impact my health negatively/lose weight. This means I have to think a lot more about what I eat, a double edged sword. I cook more now and have gotten pretty creative when it comes to spicing up a veggie meal. On the negative side, hunger is very immediate—if I don’t feed myself extremely regularly, I get headaches. Veggies and soy don’t seem to keep me satisfied as long as meat does, which means I’ve got to get organized when it comes to feeding times.

Overall, I feel a lot healthier. A veggie diet not only seems to have effected my physical system in a positive way (I won’t get detailed on that), but it also appears to have effected me mentally—I’ve never heard of this happening, but I feel a lot more upbeat.

And the last thing. It turns out that when I get really tired, I forget that I’m a vegetarian. I recently worked a fourteen hour day and had a meat relapse. Hot dogs were being barbequed, I was starving, and I inhaled one. I didn’t even savor the forbidden treat. It took me an hour to realize what I’d done.

I can only assume that if I keep this up, being a vegetarian will become a more permanent part of my identity and I won’t forget that hot-dogs are a no-no.

Have I eaten my last hamburger? I doubt it, but only time will tell.

The Sun Sets on The West Wing

2006-06-05T21:22:00.000-07:00

John Spencer, we hardly knew you

The last episode of the West Wing reminds us of what we loved about the series by withholding it. They typical episode of WW gave the viewer an all access pass to the inner workings of American government. Aaron Sorkin’s dialogue infused the political process with a sense of honor and humor that can only be found on television.

WW did not go out with a bang. The last episode of the WW was quiet. If one were to count out all of the words used in this episode and weigh them against one discussion between Josh and Donna about our tax dollars at work, the former would be found wanting. The episode is filled with pregnant pauses, meaningful looks—none of which are explained or developed. In this last episode, it feels like we’ve lost our insider status. The season finale can be boiled down to a single scene, when CJ, rebuffing Josh’s umpteenth offer for a job, exits the white house for the last time. A man with his child stops her and asks if she works at the white house. Instead of saying yes, then no, rethinking her departure, and then giving the child a bit of parting advice, she simply answers “no.”

It’s incredible when a television show manages to be entertaining. The WW did more. It was complex, funny, touching—it got viewers talking about their government, it gave democrats a presidential dream in the midst of a presidential…reality. One has to ask, with Bartlett-like simplicity, what’s next? What show will fill the vacuum created by the departure of the best show on television?

There’s always subscribing to Showtime or HBO. The current network trend appears to reality TV, the crack of programming. While a show like WW requires a budget for talented actors, writers, set designers, etc, all a reality TV show requires is cameras, people desperate for attention, and an editor. Beautiful idiots who aren’t housebroken living together. Socialites making an appearance milking cows, only this time being filmed without night vision.

It’s human nature to slow down and look at a train wreck, but the WW actually appealed to the better parts of human nature. In the episode, “And It’s Surely to Their Credit,” there is an ongoing joke about Gilbert and Sullivan. In reference to “The Pirates of Penzance,” it is asked “isn’t that the one about duty and honor?” The response: “Aren’t they all about duty and honor?” And so we come to a summary of the WW. Bright, motivated people leave their high paying jobs in order to seek an ideal, attempt to change things.

Perhaps one should protest. Launch a petition. Run for office and get elected on a “Bring Back the West Wing” platform. We’ll get around to that…

…right after America’s Top Model.

Vegas

2006-04-24T16:42:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote a small piece about Las Vegas advertising for Flakmag's TV section, http://flakmag.com/tv/vegasbaby.html

Some haiku I wrote were cut. I couldn't bear to just leave them to rot on my hard drive. Enjoy.

A brief history of Vegas’ portrayal in Film and Television, in haiku form:

Casino
Friends in the desert
Beat and bury many folk
At last, all fall down

Swingers
Friends drive all night long
Double down, lose the whole wad
Almost sex, drive back

Leaving Las Vegas
Watch Nick Cage Drink Booze
Pay whore to watch. Drink, Nick, Drink.
Drunk man dies, whore cries.

Indecent Proposal
Happy when we start
Husband pays debt with his wife.
Not so happy. End.

Godfather 2
Reject mob buyout
Corleone kills everyone
Voilà, mob owner

National Lampoon’s Vegas Vacation
Family goes on trip
Fun to watch Chevy lose it
Son wins savings back

Rainman
Cruise finds savant bro
Teach him cards, go to Vegas
Win a lot then leave

Celebrity Poker
B-List Plays Poker
Witty banter, bad playing
Free PR for all

ESPN Poker World Champions
The pros play poker
Just play, not so much banter
This is not a sport

Ode to a Chihuahua

2006-04-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

Your ever-watering eyes descry
A sadness silent and profound:
Periscope nose from Fendi bag,
Paws that seldom touch the ground.
You shiver through the summer months
Though wrapped in hand-spun sweater pod.
You bark at dogs ten times your size
But you’re no Irish setter god.
My cat could eat you, not think twice,
A rat could beat you, as could mice.
You push repulsiveness so wide
You come to cute from the other side.

Bauer Power?

2006-04-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

Fox news just referred to Jack Bauer from 24 as “America’s hardest working secret agent.”

I’m having trouble with that, because from what I can see, Bauer is like Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny—he only works one day a year. Actually, it’s less than that—the series works on a time lapse, so we jump periodically, each season taking a break of several years. Jack Bauer is more like the Olympics, coming once every four years, sweating like crazy for a day, and then going back into hibernation.

I figure secret agents who pull a regular 9-5 yearly work just as hard as Bauer, if not harder. Granted, they may not have to pull as many all-nighters, but in a year they’re going to pull over two thousand hours. Four years, that’s eight thousand hours. I don’t care how much Bauer does in twenty four hours; there is no way that is going to equal eight thousand hours in normal service.

Then again, in the line of duty and over the course of five seasons Bauer has:

Hacked off a friend’s arm, shot a suspect’s wife in the leg, killed countless agents and civilians, got addicted to heroin, died (twice), lost his wife (permanently), lost his daughter (once because she was kidnapped, currently because she is pissed he faked his death)…

I’m torn. Is Bauer TV’s hardest working secret agent?

Movie Review: The last 30 Minutes of KRULL

2006-04-06T19:25:00.000-07:00

Colwyn. Lyssa. Ynyr. Torquil. Ergo. Kegan. The Seer. Titch. Turold. Eirig. Vella. Bardolph. Oswyn. Rhun. Merith. Nennog. Darro. Quain. Menno. Rell the Cyclops.

These will be the names my children bear. I think my first child will be named Peter Yates, as tribute to the director of KRULL, the most awesome filmic journey of all time.

At least the last 30 minutes of it that I caught.

I’m not sure I even really watched a movie tonight. I might have gotten food poisoning, and in my sick and delirious state, went to the back yard and ate a batch of wild mushrooms. An event such as this surely was surely foreplay to the conception of KRULL.

This is one of the films Father Time forgot, most likely because Liam Neeson paid him off. That’s right, not only Liam Neeson was in this film, but also Robbie Coltrane (Hagrid), David Battley (Mr. Turkentine, the guy who sells candy in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory), and just about every other British character actor you’ve ever seen.

What, other than the amazing cast, made me sit down to watch the last half hour of this film, riveted? First of all, the synopsis offered by On Demand cable—“A prince needs a razor-tipped boomerang to free his beloved from the fortress of the Beast.”

You couldn’t stop me from seeing this movie if you had a herd of flaming Clydesdales and a thousand storm troopers with laser guns.

Which KRULL, in fact, has.

This film felt like it was created by the same minds that spawned “Legend” with Tom Cruise and Tim Curry—again, star studded cast, crazy set design and images, but the finished product makes you feel like you stepped into the middle of a movie that has already been running for a few hours.

Which, with KRULL, is what I did.

I think it was the old albino shape shifter being killed by a Cyclops with a triton that stopped me from changing the channel.

Moments later, David Battley held my attention by changing into a beagle puppy (for no particular reason) in one of the worst examples of green screen ever seen.

From what I gathered, a rag-tag band of sword/axe/triton/razor-tipped boomerang-wielding men/boys/Cyclops/shape-shifters is in search of a mysterious iron castle that changes locations periodically. In it, a huge beast that resembles Swamp Thing keeps a princess with crazy red hair in a prison that looks like a vagina with teeth.

They get the next location of the roving castle from a woman who used to date a member of the band. Currently, she’s living in the middle of a giant white spider’s nest, where she has aged several times faster than her beau. She gives the member of the group the location, only after informing him that 1) they had a baby, 2) she killed it at birth, 3) He’ll die soon after leaving the spider’s nest.

He smiles and caresses her face.

After this, he dies, and the group decides they can only reach the castle in time if they steal a bunch of fire horses, depicted in this film by Clydesdales whose hooves are on fire (I believe I missed a "no animals were harmed in the making of this film" placard at the end of the feature for a reason). They run through the air like Santa's flaming reindeer. The Clydesdales drop our friends off at the castle, where the warriors are soon pinned down by laser fire from storm troopers at the castle gates. The Cyclops, wielding his triton, arrives at the last minute on a flaming Clydesdale to save the day, only to be crushed soon thereafter by a giant rock wall.

I pause now to point out that I am not making this up, and that I am stone-cold sober.

The prince throws his boomerang, which looks like a jewel-encrusted starfish with switch blades attached to it, at the fleshy wall of the chamber that holds his princess. It spins in the air like a buzz saw for about two minutes as it carefully saws a hole, and we cut to various cohorts dying by laser fire and castle booby traps. The prince fights with Swamp Thing/"The Beast," only to lose his boomerang when it becomes stuck in Swamp Thing’s chest.

Swamp Thing isn’t dead, and the prince gets nervous. The princess holds out her hand, which is now on fire (is she part Clydesdale?), and the prince holds it, taking her as his wife. Now his hand is on fire. A huge pillar of fire shoots out of his outstretched hand and defeats swamp thing. The castle starts to crumble in a mess of miniatures and particle board, so the group runs away.

We blast out of the castle with our fire-hands, and find ourselves in a giant meadow, where the castle is torn out of the ground and into the sky with fireworks and much gnashing of teeth.

A booming voiceover declares that the prince and princess marry and become king and queen of the world. A sequel is hinted at, because the voice also tells us that their son will rule not just the world, but the galaxy.

Drugs are for suckers. The last half hour of KRULL has expanded my mind more than any psychedelic ever could.

2006-04-05T22:38:00.000-07:00

I am at a total loss for photos... next time I get my hands on a scanner, more will be posted. In the meantime, here is a picture of me (in the middle) and two of the afore mentioned roommates. Shawn is the underage one with the, um, root beer. Jordan is the one with the Nor Cal shirt. For the last time J, Nor Cal does not suck. Fall Out Boy? Yeah, that's still up for debate.

Post the First

2006-04-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

Got home to find that my roommates had built a fire, brewed a pot of tea, and were listening to Ryan Adams. Oh, our debaucherous bachelor pad--no woman is safe within these walls. I feel like I should empty out a few beer bottles and strew them about to make this place look a little more authentic. Yesterday I sent out 115 query letters trying to get people interested in my Zombie/Comedy (Zomedie) screenplay, EAT MEAT. Today I finished Augusten Burroughs "Magical Thinking," watched enough Law and Order qualify me for the California Bar, and saw "Thank You for Smoking." Oh yeah, and I created this Blog.