| I have absconded. |
[31 Dec 2007|07:18pm] |
That's the proper word, I think.
And this is where I have absconded to:
http://brenner861.vox.com/
I'll check in here for my friends' posts, yes,
but I'll be posting in there instead.
Also: The water's wonderful, come on in.
*splash*
*splash*
*grin*
|
|
| Salvage Vanguard Theatre ... |
[02 Nov 2007|11:27am] |
... does this thing once a year,
called The Best Salvage Vanguard Holiday Ever,
and this is, what, the tenth year of it?
Long time running, in any case:
An hour-and-a-half, approx, collection of ultra-short plays
performed at Little City coffeehouse downtown.
A very popular gig, much camaraderie,
people packed like human jam in the small space.
And this year, finally, head honcho Jason Neulander
tapped me to write one of the pieces for the show.
And each year there's a word or a concept to be addressed;
the writers are given this word, then they have a week in which to write.
This year's word is "Cheer."
This is what I've done with it:
SOMETIMES LIFE CAN BE SO EASY TO ENJOY
SCENE: Two people, A and B, standing around talking at the counter of a coffeeshop.
A: You seem kinda down today.
B: Yeah ... [shrug] I am a little, I guess.
A: But there's nothing drastic going on, right?
I mean, there's no specific problem or anything, right?
Because you said ~
B: Yeah, no, there's nothing in particular. It's just ...
A: This time of year?
B: Yeah ... that's probably it.
It's just this whole, you know, the whole "holidays" kind of thing.
A: Like SAD, right? Seasonal Affective Disorder?
B: Well, maybe.
I don't know, I ~ I mean, I hate to think it's something
that you could classify as a Disorder, y'know?
Like somebody just happens to have a feeling
and suddenly it's this fucking Disorder all of a sudden.
A: Well, I didn't mean ~
B: No, no ~ it's cool. I know what you mean, okay? It's totally cool. Seriously.
[beat]
A: I heard this thing somewhere ...
B: Yeah?
A: Or maybe I read it ~ this thing about smiling.
B: Oh yeah?
A: Yeah, about how, supposedly, if you're feeling morose or whatever, if you're feeling, you know ~
B: Gloomy? Glum?
A: Yeah, if you're feeling like that ~ like, despondent or whatever ~
B: Like, depressed? Dejected?
A: Yeah, exactly. If you're feeling like that, that you should smile.
B: Why, out of spite?
A: No, no, not out of spite ~
B: Because who the fuck would you be spiting, right?
You'd be, like, spiting yourself. Which would only make you sadder.
I mean, if you had any sensitivity at all, and somebody's spiting you,
even if it's yourself ...
A: Yeah, no, that makes total sense.
But that's what I mean: It's not about spite, see, it's because when you smile?
The act of smiling ~ the muscles that you have to use to smile ~
it releases these chemicals in your brain that make you feel better.
B: Oh, c'mon ...
A: I swear, this is what I read.
B: What is it, like endorphins?
A: Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't know, I don't really remember, okay?
I just remember that, if you smile, it's supposed to make you feel like you do
when you're smiling naturally. Like ... happy or something.
B: So, like, instead of a Runner's High you get a Smiler's High?
A: Yeah, something like that.
B: And you want ... what? You want me to give it a try?
A: [shrug] Sure, why not? I mean, you know, if you want to. Whatever.
B: Okay. Okay, fuck it. Okay? Check this out ~ [grins, really pushing it]
A: [smiling, watching B's big smile]
BA: That's great. That's, yeah, that's a hell of a smile.
B: [looks around, kind of head-bobbing, maintaining the fierce grin, looks back at A]
A: You feeling anything?
B: [still with the grin] Yeah, I'm feeling something.
A: Good, good.
B: I'm feeling like a fucking idiot. I'm gonna stop. [stops smiling]
[beat; maybe B rubs jaw]
A: So ... you don't feel any better?
B: I'm fine, I feel fine.
A: You feel happier?
B: I feel pretty much the same.
A: I thought you said ...
B: Yeah, but you know what?
Every now and then, I get a little depressed, okay?
And sometimes it's around the holidays, because ...
well, you know, there's a lot of things that get associated with holidays,
and ... it's just fucking depressing sometimes, that's all.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Y'know? Seriously.
It's like, there's a time for cheer, and there's a time for lack of cheer.
There's a time to laugh, and a time to mourn.
That's, whattayacallit, Ecclesiastes, right?
A: That's The Byrds.
B: Yeah, whatever.
A: No, really. [singing:]
To every thing ~ turn, turn, turn ~
There is a season ~ turn, turn, turn ~
B: [joins in with A so they're both singing]:
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
F I N I S
|
|
| So Alan Metoskie asked me ... |
[11 Oct 2007|12:34pm] |
... if I'd write a short script
for the St. Idiots' upcoming holiday show.
He seems pleased with what I provided.
This:
P I K A M A S
by Wayne Alan Brenner for the St. Idiot Collective
Two people ~ two line cooks, say, taking a break out back of the kitchen,
sharing a single cig which they pass back & forth, puffing, as they talk:
One: So what're you doing for Christmas?
Two: I don't do Christmas.
One: Yeah? What're you, you're like the fucking Grinch?
Two: Not everyone does Christmas, man.
One: Yeah ~ the Grinch. The Grinch doesn't do Christmas.
Two: Fuck the Grinch. This has nothing to do with the Grinch.
[beat; they pass the cig]
One: So why don't you do Christmas?
Two: Because it's bullshit, man.
One: [nodding] Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean.
It's all about money these days, isn't it?
It's become this totally capitalistic thing.
Two: No, man, it's just a rip-off.
It's a totally Christian rip-off of ancient pagan tradition.
One: So you do, uh, whattayacallit?
The solstice? You do the solstice instead?
Two: Saturnalia, man.
One: What's that? Is that like Bacchanalia?
Two: No, it's like Saturnalia.
One: So you celebrate Saturnalia?
Two: I don't actually CELEBRATE it ~ I'm not really into rituals, okay?
I just, you know, I note its passing.
One: You note its passing.
Two: Exactly.
One: The passing of Saturnalia.
Two: Fuckin' A.
[beat; cig pass]
One: What are you, like a Wiccan or something?
Two: No, man, I'm not a fucking Wiccan.
I'm not into any of that organized shit.
One: But you note its passing.
Two: Yeah, the passing of Saturnalia. I'm aware that it's happening.
One: Yeah, but Christmas is happening, too.
Christmas is going by at the same time.
Two: Yeah, but fuck it, it's total Johnny-Come-Lately bullshit.
I'm not gonna acknowledge that, I'm not gonna do it the goddam favor.
It was created by popes to sit like a fucking cowbird
in the original pagan nest, and that's the only reason it happens in December.
It's not even Jesus's real birthday, y'know? So fuck it.
One: Jesus's birthday isn't the 25th?
Two: It's not even in December, man.
One: Yeah? So when is it?
Two: Fuck, I don't know. But I know it's not in December.
One: Then what's so special about December the 25th?
Did they just, what, pick that date out of a hat?
Like one of those big pope hats?
Two: Because it's when the Romans celebrated the birth of the sun,
that's why. And the Christians thought it'd be a hoot to usurp that shit
with the birth of the "son" of God, ho ho ho, big fucking joke, try the veal.
[beat; cig pass]
One: You know whose birthday's on December 25th?
Two: Yours?
One: Nope. [grins like he's got a Big Seekrit]
Two: Okay, who?
One: Pikachu.
Two: What?
One: You know that Pokemon character? Pikachu?
Little yellow guy with lightning coming out of him?
Two: You're kidding me, right?
One: No, no, I'm totally serious.
Pikachu's birthday is December 25th.
He's Pokemon #25 and his birthday is December 25th.
You can look it up. Check Wikipedia or whatever.
Two: What're you, twelve years old?
One: [shrugs] Hey, one mythology's as good as another, right?
[beat; cig pass]
Two: So, what, you celebrate Pikachu's birthday?
One: [shakes head and smiles all sly & cool]
I just note its passing.
[beat]
Two: [mock-angrily, trying not to smile] Fuck you, man.
|
|
| Monday. |
[01 Oct 2007|09:43pm] |
A workday, yeah.
Got the Chronicle Listings fully edited
and into production for the week's print edition,
wrote that Will Eisner DVD blurb for Badgley,
tracked down a photo for a review, drank a bunch of (excellent) coffee,
answered half a dozen emails & re-directed thrice that many
to where they should've been sent in the first place.
Guh.
Also polished & sent out party invitations.
^_^
Transported the Spawn to her class while chatting with her about
Naruto & The Simpsons & various Netty things.
Now I'm home & not feeling very industrious,
especially as there are three volumes of Naruto
as yet unread in the Pile o' Books near the bed.
"Gah," I imagine Kat saying. "You still need a night-table!"
Yes, well. Perhaps I'll get one,
sometime in the next ten days before that Kat arrives to visit.
But, right now?
I'm off to The Village Hidden In The Leaves ...
|
|
| Ah, but wait ... |
[30 Sep 2007|11:21pm] |
Let me attend to this meme before I sleep.
A cherished old friend like Jereeza asks, what else can one do?
Thus:
You're on my friends list. I'd like to know 27 things about you. Just copy and hit reply and paste in the comments section with answers. Thanks! You'll be surprised how much you didn't know about your friends after this! Then copy the meme and see if anyone answers you.
1. Do you have a tattoo?
Yes: A crudely rendered radiation symbol over my heart.
2. How old are you?
Dude. I'm 45.
3. Are you single or taken?
Taken. And how!
4. Eat with your hands or utensils?
Depends on the food, dunnit?
5. Do you dream at night?
Yes, often spectacularly.
6. Ever seen a corpse?
Hell, I've helped embalm corpses.
7. George Strait or Jay Z?
Neither, really, habitually. But prolly Jay Z if I had to choose one to listen to.
8. How did we meet?
We met in Yahoo Chat's Books & Literature section, back in, what, '97?
HERE COMES THE INTERESTING PART...
9. What's your philosophy on life and death?
Enjoy the former, for the latter is coming.
10. If you could do anything with me, and have no one know, what would it be?
Share a picnic in Croatia's most ornate cemetery.
11. Do you trust the police?
Not as much as they'd like me to.
12. Do you like Country music?
The new stuff is mostly sugary hogswill;
the old stuff like Hank Williams and Sons of the Pioneers
and Patsy Cline, that's some good stuff.
13. What is your fondest memory of me?
Online, you and Minerva122 arguing aesthetics;
IRL, you laughing so happily at FoleyVision's Turkish Star Wars.
14. If you could change anything about yourself what would it be?
I'd have skin like Jude Law's.
15. Would you cheat?
Nope. It's self-defeating, innit?
16. What do you wear to sleep?
Boxer shorts.
17. Have you ever peed in a pool?
Uh, yup. Gah.
18. Would you hide evidence for me if I asked you to?
Done & done.
19. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?
Whatever the hell you wanted.
20. Which do you prefer - short or long hair?
Depends on who's wearing it, really. Kinda short, for myself.
21. Do you sing in the shower?
Constantly.
22. What's your favorite color?
I wear black on the outside, because ...
... that's what I like wearing.
23. If you could bring back anyone that has died, who would it be?
Old Magnolia Cafe co-worker Tom Churchill,
killed at 28 by a drunk driver.
24. Tell me one interesting/odd fact about you?
I'm an (extremely) amateur arachnologist.
25. What was your first impression of me?
Smart as a whip, funny as hell, ridiculously talented.
26. Have you ever done drugs?
That's an affirmative.
27. Will you post this so I can fill it out for you?
How's this:
1. Do you have a tattoo?
2. How old are you?
3. Are you single or taken?
4. Eat with your hands or utensils?
5. Do you dream at night?
6. Ever seen a corpse?
7. George Strait or Jay Z?
8. How did we meet?
HERE COMES THE INTERESTING PART...
9. Whats your philosophy on life and death?
10. If you could do anything with me, and have no one know, what would it be?
11. Do you trust the police?
12. Do you like Country music?
13. What is your fondest memory of me?
14. If you could change anything about yourself what would it be?
15. Would you cheat?
16. What do you wear to sleep?
17. Have you ever peed in a pool?
18. Would you hide evidence for me if I asked you to?
19. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?
20. Which do you prefer - short or long hair?
21. Do you sing in the shower?
22. What's your favorite color?
23. If you could bring back anyone that has died, who would it be?
24. Tell me one interesting/odd fact about you?
25. What was your first impression of me?
26. Have you ever done drugs?
27. Will you post this so I can fill it out for you?
|
|
| WOKE UP AT TEN THIS MORNING ... |
[30 Sep 2007|10:32pm] |
... having been up until 2am with
Alex Robinson's excellent page-turner, Tricked.
Then I spent another hour reading that graphic novel to its conclusion.
Damned fine book, I think. Could easily be a damned fine movie,
not that that would improve the experience.
Figured I could use some exercise,
so I jogged down to the H.E.B.,
all huffing & puffing past that green Japanese-style suite of apartments,
and picked up the photos from the camera I'd deposited yesterday.
(Also: A can of Freeze brand Thai coffee,
and a head of iceberg lettuce with which to provide
a foundation for my Sesame Chicken Cous-Cous
and to feed to my millipede, Kakashi.)
Jogged on home & pushed a few weights on the exercise machine
while listening to grrl-centric new wave music via Pandora.com.
I love me some Siouxsie & The Banshees and Romeo Void,
some Manda & The Marbles and Blondie.
Did a load of laundry. Just. One. Load.
Sang old Jethro Tull songs (from Songs from the Wood, mostly) in the shower.
Answered a couple of emails,
then spent about three hours exploring Second Life's "Burning Life"
with my sweetheart and our friend Anhinga Chaika.
Lots of interesting (and often silly) builds & particle effects to see.
High lag in those sims, though, sometimes, what with the heavy prims and traffic;
much more relaxing, later, just hanging at Ani's beach house & chatting.
Wrote up the invitation for the Kat Party on the 13th,
to be sent out tomorrow; wrote a rent check for this apartment;
re-organized my paperstrewn desk & gathered stuff to bring my Spawn
when I take her to her college (!) class tomorrow.
Said Spawn is bringing me the next couple of Naruto volumes.
Question: How the fuck is a man supposed to get anything done
when there's so much compelling media to be consumed at all times?
Possible answer: Sheer determination.
Right.
Race of Vikings!
Rar!
And now it's time for bed.
|
|
|
[29 Sep 2007|09:15pm] |
Hey, I know:
How about a quick albeit lengthy entry
without a whole bunch of crafting to it?
Like a sort of list, a re-cap of the week?
Why, gee, I thought you'd never ask ...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Earlier this week I completed what I'd been calling
my seekrit Girlfriend Project No. 1:
An original T-shirt design for Katherine,
utilizing a stencil that I handcut, red acrylic paint,
and flocked black letters from Hobby Lobby.
All to represent, in a sort of Brenner-meets-Rennie-Mackintosh style,
the letters OGFFF,
which, as coined by Erika May months ago,
means Old Girlfriend From Florida.
Done & mailed & received!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And damned if last week's Listings at the Chron
didn't go all smoothly; because they did go smoothly, pretty much,
regardless that there're more listings to deal with this year
than there have been, ever, in the past.
Austin's population is growing like ... uh, rabbits?
Yeast?
Yeasty rabbits?
Well, there's more people, is my point,
and too fucking many of them have started theatre companies
or art galleries or improv troupes that are sticking around longer
than the mayflies they usually imitate the transience of.
Gah.
But, anyway, there were no Offended Artists
or Neglected Dance Troupes
or anything like that to deal with this past week.
Yay, me!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And Peggy Burns, the publicist for Drawn & Quarterly,
sent me the new Adrian Tomine collection, Shortcomings,
now out in a lovely hardcover edition and ... wow ... excellent work.
(If I ever win the lottery, I might pay good money to see if Tomine
would sit down for a recorded conversation about ethnic heritage
with the Chronicle's Office Manager, Cindy Su.
Partially because Cindy is of Asian stock, herself;
but also because Cindy discussing anything with anyone
is usually a hoot & a half.)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In other news,
I've developed a sort of Poor Man's Sonny Chiba backhand move
that works, much more often than not, and effectively,
during our glorious forays on the Chronicle volleyball court.
It's a fine complement, I think, to my Bastrop Butterfly move
and its mirror-twin, the Reverse Butterfly.
[ Doug "El Cajun" St. Ament was the one who christened the Butterfly,
and was a bit mystified by its Reverse.
Doug: "What is that? That's more of a moth." ]
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And just today, what have I been doing?
Getting stuff done.
(And for a while this Livejournal may bear witness,
at the end of each day, to what I've accomplished
since each day's ~ increasingly early ~ beginning.)
Got up at 8am this morning,
worked out, attended to the sink's backlog of dishes,
went to the post office, stopped at Quack's for a large coffee,
then home & watched a documentary that's gonna screen
at the Austin Film Festival next week ('twas a biography of Will Eisner,
that I have to blurb for the Chron next week),
then online and completed the 3.5 hours of
the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission's alcohol-server certification course.
That last because, ah, I'm going to be picking up the odd brunch shift
at the Magnolia Cafe where I used to be fully employed five years ago.
I have an unexpected federal-tax debt of about $900, see,
which is giving me a pain, as I don't want that neg to fuck with
the money I'd earmarked for various Endeavors ...
And so I'm going to work it off at the old Mag, yessiree,
just covering somebody's unwanted shift like once a month or so;
so went down last week to check with the G.M.
~ the ever-charming Ross Harper ~
and hadn't been sitting at the counter for more than five minutes
when I snagged a Sunday Brunch shift on October 7th.
But I needed recertification, TABCwise;
and now that's done, too, and next I'll talk to the Floor Manager
~ the almost-as-charming Heidi-who-looks-like-a-Nubian-Princess ~
to make sure my paperwork's renewed and I'm in their computer system,
and woot! Back to it!
(If it weren't for volleyball three times a week,
I wouldn't be in shape for it at all. Srsly.)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And after that TABC course
~ which I aced, btw ~
~ mostly because it is Teh Simple ~
~ or else I wouldn't have been able to
simultaneously read up on the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood ~
~ which I did, ha, so much for singlemindedness ~
After that, I say ...
I chatted with my sweetheart for about an hour
and thus had my spirits lifted to greater heights
by her humor and intelligence and [Insert Moooshy Romantic Jabber Here];
and then went and bought an air filter for my Echo,
and also groceries at the H.E.B.,
some of which (but none of the air filter)
have been transmogrified into food for the coming week:
Chicken breasts, slathered with sesame oil & pepper,
broiled, cubed, then added to the tasty (but making-it-up-as-I-go-along)
mix of Cous-cous With Apples and Onions Sauteed in Olive Oil.
Also: Mustard Greens with Corn.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And I did a page of panel breakdowns of The Ada Clark News
for my Spawn to do the pencils of (and I'll do the inks) later this week.
We're at that part of the narrative where Ada goes to party
with Vanilla Ice at the La Quinta on Ben White Boulevard,
and so this page is the last before the scene shifts from
Ada recounting the story to her friend Dirk
to a depiction of the actual event at La Quinta.
Ange & I will have to take some pics of the La Quinta lobby for reference.
(Most of the, erm, action in the hotel room will be rendered in total blackout.)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So. Having attended to all of that, now,
and having logged it here as a matter of quasi-public Record,
I feel justified in simply lying back and reading
Alex Robinson's Tricked
(as lent to me by Sofia Resnick, Chron Proofreader
& GF of recently mentioned Alan "The Mustache' Metoskie).
And then ~ it's a Good, Long Book ~ to sleep.
Ah, blessed sleeeeeeeeeeep!
And then ~
Well ~
There is much to be done.
|
|
| Monday Morning Follow-Up |
[17 Sep 2007|02:48pm] |
If one were to write the words
"Yeah, that's what I like about working here:
the people in charge really back you up,"
one could possibly mean that in a sarcastic manner.
But, lucky me, since I work at the Austin Chronicle,
and since, admittedly, this particular incident just happens
to strike our editor pretty much the same way it strikes me ...
well, I haven't had to deal with being undermined.
People who don't know Louis Black personally
have railed and howled (in print, in public, on the radio, etc)
about what a jerk, what an absolute asshole, he is.
Now, I know the man only from working with him,
from being one of his employees, for going on seven years.
But I can tell you with some authority that
~ while, yes, he can be a jerk and an asshole,
even more intensely than many of us other jerks and assholes can be ~
that is sufficiently far from the entire truth of the matter
that the person railing or howling may as well show us
his or her astonishing skills of psychic spoon-bending at the same time.
(And this is even truer now than it used to be in the recent past.
I've heard stories from the oldbies, about the early years of the Chron;
comparatively, these days, Louis is a goddam pussycat.)
I'm not going to get into any What I Like About Louis list here, though;
due to our workplace relationship, that would be tantamount to asskissing,
and anyway he doesn't need me to defend his good name or whatever.
So, no:
I'm just going to relate the editorial fallout
from the (minor, really) incident that was reported in my previous post ...
I saw Louis in the hallway this morning.
And he did the usual thing that he does when he sees me
(and possibly when he sees other Chronstaff that he doesn't know outside work)
(and possibly when he sees anybody, for all I know, even his wife and son).
Which is to say: He did a sort of combination wince-and-smile.
And he said that he'd gotten the complaint that the artist had addressed to him,
and that he'd looked it over and left it, as I was probably aware, on my desk.
And I said, "Uh, yeah, heh-heh," not sure where he was going with this.
And Louis said, "Who wrote that listing, anyway?"
And I said, "I did."
And he said, as if that had confirmed something to him, "Ah."
And I said, "You know why I wrote that part?"
And I told him about how I'd been responding
to the cumulative effect of the tragedies listed
and that it was the whole "extinct species" thing at the end
that had been the tipping point for me.
And Louis said, "You know, there's this John Denver song,
where he's apologizing to some woman.
And Denver's like, 'I'm sorry for this,' and 'I'm sorry for that,'
and then he says 'And I'm sorry for the way things are in China.'"
Louis looked at me, smiling.
"That's one of my favorite lines," he said,
then went into his office and closed the door.
|
|
|
[14 Sep 2007|02:57pm] |
Yeah, so it's been a while, LJ friends, it's been a while ....
And things have been going great,
especially after I overcame the flu-like sinus crap that was attacking my system;
especially while attending a superdelightful party by the Rubber Rep folks;
especially, earlier, when I was in Orlando and spending a long weekend
with my sweetheart Katherine.
And but this morning?
This morning, at the Chronicle,
where we're getting the latter half of the day off from work
just so we can attend the various Friday afternoon things at ACL Fest if we wish
(because that's one of the perks that our idiosyncratically generous bosses
visit upon us throughout the year)?
Yes, this morning?
Gah. What a krenk in the tuchis I had to deal with!
Let me explain it as I explained it, more or less, in a letter to Kat:
Editing the Chronicle's Arts Listings last week,
I'd noticed (because I've been making a concerted effort, lately,
to do a better job than the Just Good Enough job I've been doing
while writing extra articles on Improv and the like) ...
I'd noticed that my Visual Arts stringer, Benne Rockett,
had failed to list an exhibition at the (newish) Else Madsen Gallery.
So I resolved to just go ahead and put the goddam listing in there myself,
at the last minute, before sending the whole shmear to Production in time for deadline.
Which I did.
And in describing the show (which I of course had not seen),
I slightly paraphrased the description offered on the gallery's website:
"Drawings based on casualties of the World Trade Center destruction,
the Iraq war, Hurricane Katrina, and the species expected to be extinct in this century."
And then, because those subjects seemed a bit relentlessly bleak to me,
especially the and the species expected to be extinct in this century part,
which made the exhibition seem like something
that The Onion might've parodically concocted ...
because of that, I added an editorial comment of my own,
for my readers' empathy and amusement.
So the final description went like this:
Drawings based on casualties of the World Trade Center destruction,
the Iraq war, Hurricane Katrina, and the species
expected to be extinct in this century. Happy happy, joy joy.
Right.
Well.
This morning, me barely propped awake by a bracing cup of java,
our receptionist (the elegantly mustachioed Alan Metoskie)
comes into the editplex to tell me that there's some guy in the lobby.
He's from the Else Madsen Gallery, Alan says,
and he wants to talk to me because he's angry about the listing.
And so I go out to the Chron's small lobby,
and this guy introduces himself as one of the co-directors of the EMG,
and tells me that he and the other directors and the artist
are extremely upset by what I've written.
He says that what I've written is inappropriate and insulting
to the artist, to the gallery and its directors, and to the countless victims
of those tragedies that the exhibition is concerned with.
Further, this guy insists that the offensive phrase be removed
and that I write, in the Chronicle, a formal letter of apology to all concerned.
Well.
This guy is a tall, handsome blonde fellow, twentysomething,
very stylishly garmented and bespectacled,
as is appropriate (if not de rigueur) for an arts-facilitator type.
He's not some shabby wastoid from off the streets, in other words.
And although his demands are (I believe) outlandish,
he remains decidedly calm, insistent yet not belligerent
and not at all wild-eyed or foaming
(which some of the people I've dealt with about similar things have been).
And so I'm inclined to be polite and reasonable with this man,
even moreso than I'd usually be in such a situation.
Also, I generally dislike confrontation, yes?
And so I tell this Else Madsen co-director
that I will remove the phrase completely,
as soon as is technically possible,
because it was certainly not my intention to offend anyone with it,
but that I feel it was a legitimate editorial response to the subject matter listed
and that I am not contrite and I do not and will not apologize for having written it.
And he responds with disbelief.
He does not understand, he says, how someone could be that way
about this obviously inappropriate remark,
how I could refuse to apologize for having written --- and printed! ---
such a scathing insult, and so on.
And I reiterate (because I'm feeling defensive)
that the remark will be removed immediately,
that I'll see to it myself as soon as this conversation is over.
"But," I continue, wanting to make sure this is Understood,
"I do not apologize, and if you want a formal letter of apology, sir,
you can write a formal complaint to my editor, Louis Black,
and when Louis comes to me and says 'Brenner, you're either going to write
a letter of apology to these people or I'm going to fire your ass,'
then I'll write a letter of apology, but not before then."
And after a few more volleys of that sort,
the two of us basically repeating our stances
in slightly different words and with slightly different frowns,
he simply turns and walks out of the building.
I checked with my peeps (Alan and the Classified adstaff
had been listening avidly, of course, and my voice tends to project)
and they assured me that I had done Okay in the situation.
Although Alan thought that I might've been a bit too forceful
with the "I will not apologize" statement,
that I could've been more relaxed about it.
And he's right, actually;
but my anti-authority button had been pushed,
as it had been pushed by a cop in Orlando 20 years ago,
and that newbie line-cook at the Magnolia Cafe when I was a waiter there,
and let's not even consider my beloved ex-wife Molly;
and so I, well, I got all puff-chested Patrick Henry about it.
Right.
So about half an hour later, the artist in question comes into the Chron
in somewhat high dudgeon, and assures Alan that, no,
he does not wish to speak to this Brenner person,
but that he wishes to speak to Louis (who's out of the office) about the matter.
And he leaves behind a package
(of exhibition materials and a Formal Complaint, one assumes) for Louis.
And Alan comes into the editplex and relays this info to me,
after Kate Messer has spent approximately fifteen minutes telling me
how I shouldn't have caved in to this Else Madsen guy
because it's an editorial matter and people can't be coming in off the street
and telling us what to put in our editorial sections,
and, Brenner, you should've had better journalistic integrity
than to even think about removing the "offensive" phrase...
(It should be noted that dear Kate expressed this
in a tough-lovingly, big-sister-mentorly fashion,
not at all with a dunning or shrewish intent.)
Gah.
Guh.
And so, anyway, friends and neighbors,
that's what I had to deal with on this lovely Friday morning,
and we'll see how it all plays out in the days to come ...
|
|
| You'll Want To Read The Previous Post First ... |
[06 Aug 2007|08:11pm] |
... if you haven't read it already, that is.
So.
There I was, looking at another half an hour, roughly,
in the offices of my dentist, Dr. Milner, while he
extracted what remained of my bad, bad tooth.
He'd never done any work on me until this day,
had only supervised a check-up and a cleaning,
so I was a brand-new patient vis-a-vis a heavy Procedure.
Which fact abetted me in a little maneuver
that I like to call Gaming the Dentist.
Because, you know, I don't enjoy a lot of pain
and am, in fact, rather reluctant to experience even
small amounts of pain.
And I don't do much recreational drugging around these days,
haven't dropped acid, for example, for, hell, over a decade by now.
And so you can know that when a tooth extraction is happening
in the confines of my own personal mouth, me & the insurance company
will be paying extra, tyvm, for some lovely nitrous oxide.
And so Doc Milner starts up the nitrous and tells me to relax.
And he's chatting with me while his assistant is gathering tools.
He's asking me pleasant, small-talky questions and saying how he wants
to give the nitrous oxide a chance to start working.
He'll be keeping track of this, I figure:
The nitrous oxide's effectiveness or lack thereof.
And I'd learned how to, as the druggies say, maintain
even while under the cherished assault of some pretty fierce,
speed-enhanced acid, years ago.
And it occurs to me that if it seems like I'm relatively unaffected by the gas,
the good Doctor may well decide to increase the percentage in the airflow.
DO WANT
And so I'm responding to his light banter
in the most reserved and polysyllabic manner possible
under the increasingly fuzzy circumstances.
And, sure enough, a minute later, he's like,
"Is that nitrous having an effect yet?"
And I say ~ oh evil, scheming me ~ I say, carefully, as if I've had to consider it:
"Well, it seems to be working a little ..."
And the doc's like, "Huh, let me increase the concentration ..."
And either he's double-bluffing
~ because, who knows with these cunning medicos ~
or he actually does adjust the gas's amount upward.
Which would explain why I hear an increased hissssss
and why the air in the mask has more of a taste than it had seconds before
and why all the objects in the room are now doing a slo-mo jitterbug
and the air is suffused with shifting motes of light.
And so I'm still totally maintaining,
more or less, giggle,
but now also enjoying, also grooving heavily behind,
this wild gas-altered state of consciousness.
And Dr. Milner takes his needle and shoots fat doses of novocaine
into several places in the meat around the tooth to be extracted.
And a few minutes pass in which I watch the ceiling play Twister with itself,
and then the doc and his assistant Get Down To Business.
I didn't feel a thing but pressure, as they always say.
At one point there was a lot of fucking pressure ~
and that was probably where a small chip of my jawbone
was wrenched out with the tooth's tenacious root ~
but even then the sensation never became definable as pain.
I was in trippy awe, feeling so much pressure
and knowing that it should hurt,
and knowing that it didn't hurt,
and watching the air in the office shift like the aurora borealis,
and listening to the voices of the doc and his aide
as if I were hearing those voices drift up from a mineshaft somewhere,
and just, in the midst of this flesh-rending Procedure,
enjoying the hell out of myself.
So, anyway.
Done & done.
And I asked for my extracted tooth
(because I like to see the thing,
I like to personally acknowledge that removed part of myself)
which was brought to me as Dr. Milner told me that "You did good"
~ vis-a-vis not impeding the Procedure, I reckon ~
and confessed that he'd also yanked a bit of bone out with the tooth,
as it'd broken off while he was wrestling with my (notoriously hooked) roots ...
And the assistant informed me, Officially, what Steps I must now take
to ensure that no harm attends my post-op recovery.
Right, cool.
And the doc handed me scripts for antibiotics and Vicodin.
And I nodded, smiling, promising to do all that was Required,
but also figuring that I'd save myself some bucks
and just get the antibiotics and pass on the Vicodin,
just gulp some of the Chron's supply of ibuprofen instead,
as the next few days deemed necessary ...
But, so, check this:
Big fierce extraction of a very rotted tooth
and a little chip of bone coming right out of my jaw, besides, right?
Well.
The novocaine wore off sometime before I went to bed that night
and I took 500 mgs of ibuprofen to help lull me gently sleepward.
But since then, since the night after the day of the Procedure?
Not a single painkiller.
And I'm not being all tough or whatever.
It's just that, after all that dentistry-based carnage and wrenching,
a day later and ever onward (it's been a week, now),
I haven't had the least bit of discomfort.
Not the slightest.
I mean: Whoa.
For lack of any other explanation,
I can only chalk this up to Dr. Milner's skill,
and so must highly recommend him.
Also, his nitrous is very good.
|
|
| The Holed Tooth (and Nothing Abuts the Tooth) |
[05 Aug 2007|09:47pm] |
It's gone, it's gone for good.
I'm not out of my head, but my tooth is:
The tooth that'd been bothering me,
the tooth that was, intermittently,
the source of a fiery and expansive ball of infected tissue
in its own nerve cavity and, as it turned out, beyond.
I booked an appointment to see Dr. Milner, my dentist:
the man who's checked and cleaned my teeth before,
the man initially recommended to me by the Chronicle's Mark Gates.
Mark Gates is the man who also first hipped me to the White Stripes,
lo these several years ago, and so of course his judgment is as sound
as the ickiest of thumps.
The good Doctor's judgment was also, in this case, quite sound.
Because I hate going to the dentist, y'know?
I hate going not because I'm scared of the Procedures
so often visited upon a man in the soft yet firm and reclining chairs
that are frequently the best thing about a dentist's domain.
No, I hate going because I hate spending money on something
~ teeth ~ that I originally got for free.
And just because I failed to take sufficient care of those teeth
when I was younger and being dysfunctionally raised by people
who were much less competent parents than I am, I daresay,
now I'm supposed to shell out mega spondulicks for their repair?
And yet, I must assume, even post facto my poor childhood,
a certain Responsibility for the reprehensible condition
that my teeth have found themselves in
in their little oral hideaway between my nose and my chin.
Which means that I feel a bit guilty, too,
when I have to spend a bunch of money on dentistry;
and this only adds to the not-wanting-to-spend-that-money feeling
that generally obtains in dentistry-related program activities.
Because the spending is a sort of tacit acknowledgment of culpability.
And who doesn't tend, at times, to avoid that sort of acknowledgment?
So I don't like a lot of fuss, see?
I don't like a lot of reconstruction, in particular,
because that can be even more expensive than sheer removal,
and, fuck it, I can do without a couple of molars here & there,
big hairy deal.
And I'm used to this (shall we say philosophical) stance
meeting with some resistance from dentists, who may be both
1) legitimately concerned for their patient's current & future health, and
2) wanting to make that final payment on their fully restored Stutz Bearcat.
So I was a bit surprised when Dr. Milner said,
without preamble and perhaps sadly,
"We're going to want to remove that."
I was stunned for a few seconds before being able to rejoin:
"Y'know, dentists usually argue with me about reconstructing instead."
Dr. Milner shook his head.
"Yes, well," he said, "in this case, there's not enough left to reconstruct."
"Ah," I said. "Wow. So should we set up an appointment to ~ "
"Oh no," he said. "This needs to come out now."
And he showed me where, on the X-ray photo, the abscess
was beginning to impinge mightily on the jurisdiction
of the other, nearby teeth, and using the gum along my bottom jaw
as a sort of pus-filled conduit to armageddon.
Ah, heh.
No wonder I'd been in such pain ...
So I phoned Nora, my "lieutenant" at the Chronicle
and told her that, whaddaya know, it's not just a check-up,
the dentist's gonna go ahead and yank a molar from out my jaw
and so I'll be a little late getting back to the office.
And then ~
Ah, but look at the time!
Lateness falls, my friends, and I have grown weary.
(I've been trying ~ and succeeding, mostly ~
to keep myself on my sweetheart Katherine's schedule:
It just makes more sense, is why ~ for a host of reasons,
of which love and synchronous activities are but two.)
All twelve or so of you will please pardon me,
I trust, as I stumble bedward and complete this dental tale
at a later (perhaps tomorrow) date ...
|
|
| My Tooth Hurts and Nyarlahotep is Dead |
[22 Jul 2007|05:49am] |
No, not Nyarlahotep the elder god who dwells with Cthulhu
and Yog-Soggoth & Shub-Niggurath & All That Crowd
in the non-Euclidean vortices of space & time beyond human ken,
but, rather, my Hadogenes Troglodytes, my Flat Desert Scorpion,
who (up until last night) dwelled in a decidely Euclidean tank in my closet.
Now he dwells in the freezer, covered in cellophane.
Which leaves me with no live scorpions, currently.
Which situation will be rectified, eventually,
because I like to always have at least one pet scorpion
lurking about in a glass tank somewhere in the apartment.
Bugs: I just like them. Especially scorpions.
It's something, among all the other reasons,
about how they've managed to persist for so many
hundreds of millions of years, pretty much unchanged
while the world has undergone sometimes catastrophic
transmogrification around them.
My tooth, the one that hurts, has gone through
a few transmogrifications of its own in the past few decades,
although to call it, even at its worst, "catastrophic"
would be to put too fine a point on it.
(And one prefers not to have a pointed tooth
when that tooth is not one of the canines favored by vampires,
but a middle molar on the lower right side,
so it's just as well we're leaving it unpointed, yes?
Even that metaphorical file: Put it away now, please.)
But: transmogrifications.
That tooth, when I was a child, used to be a full tooth with a cavity.
Then, when I was about six years old, that cavity
was drilled & filled by one Dr. Saab, a Lebanese dentist
who worked in the capitol city (Monrovia) of the country (Liberia)
that I lived in from ages 4-10 while kids back in the States
were happily glutting themselves on The Brady Bunch and Laugh-In.
Then, about eight years ago
(ie, three decades after the procedure),
a piece of that filling came out.
Whether this tragedy was due to
a less than excellent job on the part of Dr. Saab
or the rigors to which I'd subjected my dental architecture over the years,
is unknown. But, out came a smallish chunk.
A small piece, which I at first thought was a bit of errant grit
in my breakfast taco of eggs, beans, and cheese,
but the identity of which became apparent soon enough,
especially as corroborated by the minute change in my tooth's topography.
(Funny: How a person looks while stretching his mouth wide with fingers
and twisting his head around to view a back tooth in the bathroom mirror.)
And then, the next year, out came even more of a chunk.
And so I had, for years, this tooth hole,
this substantial recess in the crown of my tooth,
into which bits of food would inevitably become lodged;
and I'd have to pry those bits, those gobbets, out with a toothpick or,
as inadvisable as it may seem, a paperclip.
Or whatever was handy.
Yes: Ill-advised.
Certainly my frequent and vigorous efforts at such spelunking
is what finally caused most of the rest of the remaining filling
as well as half the remaining top of my tooth
to break off about six or so months ago,
leaving the shattered ruins of a tooth-top
surrounding a raw bed of gum which barely serves to insulate
the tooth's nerve and which gummy nerve-bed,
unprotected, hosts a rather too frequent
celebration of infection and swelling and pain.
And, yes, that same nerve-bed (as we're calling it) is currently enflamed.
I borrowed some Naproxen-based painkiller from Meghan last night,
and took some (five-year-old-and-so-actually-inert?) Advil I found
in the basket of outdated pharmaceuticals & such under the sink ...
And of course this household never wants for oil of clove ...
And so, currently, I'm alright.
This is like six hours after I took the meds, now, and I'm still okay.
Gonna make an appointment with the dentist on Monday, though,
likely have to give myself over to some oral surgery real soon.
I just don't want this situation interfering with the visit
of my darling Katherine this coming weekend.
We've not seen each other for two months, goddamnit,
which is way too long a time.
Although, considering that we'd been apart
in a much more serious and divisive way
for nigh on twenty years before this January saw us reunited like Peaches & Herb ...
Pffft! Two months es nada.
Which is how we've come to have
this whole History/Not-History between us,
those twenty years.
Which is such a reassuring foundation upon which our union is built.
And which History/Not-History will, we believe, continue extending
into the future as more and more of a concerted History.
Especially when Kat moves to Austin approximately thirteen years from now.
Seems like a long time, sometimes, those thirteen years ...
But that depends, doesn't it, on the comparative framework?
Also: Unlike the scorpions in their time on earth,
Kat and I have changed a bit over the years we were apart.
We're still kind of the same people we used to be, in many ways,
as when we lived together in Orlando when I was 25 and she was 18 ...
back when my most hyper, as-if-onstage aspect (in lesser evidence these days)
was the state I was even moreso and constantly in ...
back when Kat was about as babe-in-the-woods as a girl can possibly be
in spite of the powerhouse of sheer intelligence working in her favor ...
But we've had a lot of experience by now, and it's helped to
shape us into better (we like to think) versions of the kids we once were.
Specifically, and this is the most rewarding thing,
it's made each of us more compatible with the other.
(The Design of it seems so Intelligent, even,
that I'm offering hosannas to the Flying Spaghetti Monster
each time I pass the ramen section of the H.E.B. in Hancock Plaza.
"Thank you, O FSM," I sing, at one end of the soup aisle,
"thank you for creme brulee and Donnie Darko
and Sarasa pens and human language and lolcats
and Faun Fables and dark chocolate and insulin pumps
and the Alamo Drafthouse and Nick turning in "Soccer Watch" early
and, great FSM, for touching my beloved and me with your Noodly Appendage!")
Basic compatibility is a good thing for longterm relationships,
is the premise I'm suggesting here.
Not just regarding a compatible sense of humor or general philosophy
or cultural referents or similar taste in fashion and all of that
(although those are, don't get me wrong, some mighty powerful medicine),
but in how one deals with the quotidian things, the everyday details
of which a life is made ... how one is able to share such things
and to accept and make room for another, to, perhaps,
forgive them their trespasses better than one forgives one's own...
(Not that there's a whole lot of trespassing going on.
There's very little of that, in fact, if any;
which is a True and Good Thing, I think,
because of how much more enjoyable life is when one isn't
called upon to forgive trespasses too frequently.
Because that Overly Frequent Calling Upon,
in concert with Other Things That We'll Not Mention Here,
can sunder a union faster than, um, shit through a goose?
Yes.
Sunder.
Shit through a goose.
Even if it's a slower goose than some.
No geese, here, though: We're talking about scorpions.)
Back in Silurian times,
back with the trilobites and the first instances of vascular plant life,
there were scorpions.
And now, in these times,
with the Internet and the nuclear waste and the peak oil
and Kismet maybe wanting to play with his yellow toy,
there are scorpions.
I like that which remains. That which sticks around.
You get to be 45, you see a lot of things come & go,
in the world in general and in your own life in particular.
You get to have a greater appreciation for things that stick around,
especially if those things bring a greater joy
into the recesses and hollows and meadows of your complex life.
Which is one of the many reasons,
some blatant and some subtle and barely discernible,
why the whole History/Not-History situation
is so compelling and reassuring for Katherine and me.
And why we're sticking around.
And what about you, my friend?
|
|
| No? |
[19 Jul 2007|10:04pm] |
Alright, then.
How about:
1) I'm working on a Chronicle article
about Spank Dance Company's upcoming performance at Austin Figurative Gallery,
where the dancers recently posed for painters ...
2) I'm working on a(nother) Chronicle article
about the scheduling and housing logistics of the Out of Bounds Improv Festival,
which means I'll have to have lunch or somesuch with the likes of
Shannon McCormick and Jeremy Lamb and Andy Crouch. Huzzah!
3) I want to produce a full-length show at Hyde Park Theatre
by the brilliant dance/music trio Little Stolen Moments;
am still trying to get in touch with that Stanley Roy Williamson ...
4) I gave design shaman Marc English a Giant Millipede for his birthday;
much to his credit, he promptly christened it "Foot-Foot"
and then nearly set us all on fire with an ill-conceived attempt
to launch a bunch of fireworks from a sort of homemade mailing-tube bazooka ...
5) Kat will be here in eight days ...
6) Kat will be here in eight days ...
7) Kat will be here in eight days ...
*grin*
|
|
| POST |
[19 Jul 2007|10:02pm] |
Posta-posta-post.
Postity-post
Post.
Post.
Post!
There, that oughta hold it.
|
|
| I'm Running the July Dionysium on Tuesday! |
[06 Jul 2007|12:06pm] |
THE DIONYSIUM: MEAN & GREEN
Head honchos Buzz Moran and Laughing Boy Deyo are out of town,
so they've turned the monthly Dionysium reins over to Wayne Alan Brenner,
who's wrangled a spectacle of environmentally provocative presentations:
The Chronicle's Nora Ankrum pimps the citywide Kill-A-Watt Challenge;
the Alamo's Henri Mazza screens
a mind-croggling compilation of eco-disaster movie trailers;
and there's a rousing debate on
Resolved: Human-Generated Environmental Disasters Will Be the End of Us.
(As opposed to, as the negative side will argue,
natural plague or asteroid impact or supervolcanoes?)
Oh, and there's more, like live music from the Invincible Czars'
keyboard-slaying Bill Peterson.
Recommended for your intellectual dismemberment
and alcohol-fueled good times.
Tue., July 10, 7:30pm.
Alamo Drafthouse South, 1120 S. Lamar, 476-1320. $8.
www.dionysium.com.
|
|
| independence day |
[04 Jul 2007|12:14pm] |
Oh yeah, right, like we're not all interconnected?
Has no one read James Burke?
Has no one seen Babel?
Has no one tripped over the banality
of this post thus far, for that matter, or is it just me?
Regardless: Independence from the workplace, at least,
here in this mittelwoch or whatever a proper kraut would call it,
here in the bared midriff of this humpday fourth.
And so? What?
You want a laundry list?
Funny, because laundry's the first thing on it,
and it's spinning now, likely in the rinse cycle already,
in the laundry room across the walkway from my apartment.
Damn, I have a lot of dark clothes.
Not all black, mind, nor would I want that.
All gray, though, perhaps someday,
with just a few small bits of black and red and dark green.
A bit like one of these in a fog-shrouded forest.
And, also today:
2. General apartment cleanup and paperwork (bills, correspondence) filing.
3. Reading and evaluating of manuscripts for American Short Fiction.
4. Inking of Angelica's excellent pencilwork for The Ada Clark News.
5. Designing a gig poster for Alan Metoskie of The DNA-Holes.
Somewhere in the midst of that: a balm for the soul,
a stimulant for the intellect and an excitation of the senses.
That is to say: Chatting with Katherine.
<--- luckeh
<--- stoopid luckeh
Also: Busy.
|
|
|
[02 Jul 2007|11:25am] |
Well and of course in that earlier post about cultural touchstones,
wherein I rambled like a homeless guy on biker speed and a half-assed understanding
of precisely what's happening to the informational constructs of this world ...
In that earlier post, of course the "culture" to which I naively referred
is not actually culture in the old sense of traditions growing naturally
from the private activities and public industries of a particular region,
but, rather, pop culture, ie, a product, whether artful or not,
churned out by producers for consumers who have (due to the progress of
civil---so-called---ization) too much fucking time on their hands
and thus require constant diversions from their relentless journey toward the grave.
Okay?
Okay.
But, even with that amendment ... don't pay much attention to that earlier post.
I'm not going to delete it; I'm going to let it stand as an indication
of how much of a fool I can be when I begin spouting off the top of my head
without fully reckoning the implications of what I've, really, only glimpsed ...
When I start thinking I'm the Second Coming of Malcolm Gladwell,
who hasn't even left yet and who has much cooler hair ...
So, yes, let's disregard all that.
Let's just say that I'm getting smarter, okay,
and that one recurring pitfall in the path of that wisdom
is the knowledge of just how ignorant I was only recently?
Yes: Let's say that.
|
|
|
[01 Jul 2007|02:20pm] |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
