» Fringe Blog – Writing on Film, Culture, and Things on the Fringe

The Music My Car Makes

jelewis8 — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 17:53:15 +0000

Monday. A time for speculation, gray matter scratching, pondering, waking up slowly, and meandering inside the comforting and familiar space of a coffee shop. At least, that’s what most Mondays are to me. Not today. Took one of the roommates to work in Van Nuys, due to his car being out of commission. The drive there–not so bad. The drive back–a nightmarish, tortuous wandering among side roads and main drags, skips and jumps on and off the freeway, down to inches crawling forward, soldiers in mud fields and bullets (I believe I saw a bullet-riddled car drive past me at an agonizing pace, like a wounded combatant still attempting his duties). The return might not have been so bad–I was making decent time, despite the above-histrionics–but I was rearended coming down Interstate 10, a scant five miles from home.
Granted, bumper-to-bumper snail driving doesn’t lend itself to explosive wreckage or excessive damage, at least not outside the world of entertainment and Michael Bay films (note, the two ideas are distinct and separate). So the impact was not great. But I, in my little Honda Civic, already battered by one wreck earlier this year, was nearly consumed by the Escalade that struck my rear bumper. Despite the slow rate of impact, I was jolted and briefly my heart rate went vertical. A minor bumper indentation and phone and license information later, I was on my way again.
It’s funny the things we consider important. I, for instance, rather like the squeaking my car makes as it careens over bumpy, ill-paved streets. It’s like an old chattering friend who only stops talking when the road smooths over. With the absence of my stereo, the squeaking is a bit rhythmic and melodic, and I feel comforted by the sound. Like an old Jewish mother who only wants everything in the world for her son, my car possesses an infinite variety of squeaks, creaks, cranks, strains, whines, and wheedles, all directed from the car’s heart, the center. And on a long drive in traffic, it’s my music. Should I get a stereo again, the music would change. But would I?

Back On The Fritz

jelewis8 — Wed, 21 Mar 2007 01:06:23 +0000

I swear I think the days are getting shorter, not longer. It’s not because I’m getting taller. I’ve measured, and I’m holding steady at 6’0. And it’s not because the sun’s dying, as is posited in the new Danny Boyle film Sunshine. I know for a fact that the sun is pretty young, by star standards, and apparently has a few hundred million years left in it before it even hits retirement age. And supposedly, those are the golden years. I wonder what the sun’s 401k plan is like…
No, it just seems like lately, the days run incredibly short compared to how they went when I was blissfully free in my freelancery. I tell you, life was sweet and delicious and full of vigorous doings, which as most of you know, is my MO. I like doing things. When asked what I wanted to be, I said, I don’t want to be, I want to do. (Oooh, note to self: Use in a script for inspiring graduation speech scene for as yet unwritten movie.) And my doings, of late, have been short, not really all that sweet, and very to the point.
Naturally, I’m not referring to my recent trip to New York, which except for the rapid way in which the days passed, was absolutely sweet and all things good and wonderful, the epitome of the perfect weekend, the events of which shall remain private, for private moments seem to dictate private thoughts and reflections. Needless to say, it was a much needed time with Em.
The computer is still on the fritz (see Nazi references below), making my life as a home tech support guy a burning, angry pile of suck. I had to solder a piece back onto my video card because my huge monkey paws accidentally wrenched off a capacitor. Me, soldering. Not good. Molten plastic and body parts everywhere. Remember that scene in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Nazis’ faces melted and then exploded?That was me and all my roommates last night as I attempted to fix my video card. The good news is, the video card is fixed. The bad news is, none of us have faces anymore, which is going to make getting my driver’s license renewal a bit more challenging. More on that in five years.
Writing, despite it all, has progressed to the point where I’m not dismayed at the lack of results. Which is a round-about way of saying I’m working hard, but not quite as hard as I could, but I’m still getting enough done not to cause me to jump off my balcony. Which leaves me back at stage 1, Melted Face Guy. But it’s better than Totally Dead Guy, and much better than Exploded Nazi Head.
Once I get my lovely computer back up and running, I promise to have a Fringecast up thereafter. It’s all ready to go, in that we’re all anxiously biting our lips and counting down from 100 and saying the alphabet backward, hoping that this infernal machine will once again bow down to its master in humble acknowledgment that while electronics may rule our lives, we control the current.
I bet that’s just what they said just before activating Skynet.
Oh yeah, Happy belated St. Patrick’s Day.

Heading to the North Country

jelewis8 — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 18:33:45 +0000

I’m going out of town this weekend. I know, I know, you’re thinking when does he not go out of town. The truth of the matter is, more often than I’m willing to admit to myself. Except that by typing that, I am acknowledging the fact, thus an admission has been made, and so my guilt is assuaged. I don’t feel bad about leaving Los Angeles, though I always figure out about twelve hours out why I don’t like leaving my hometown for too long. I am not a homebody per se, but I do like staying in a general radius that’s approximately equal to my apartment plus a block and a half in all directions. That gives me a wonderful coffee shop, a 7-11, a hair salon, and a movie studio. Pretty much all I need. Roommates do the grocery shopping, so I’m set for food.
I was gathering my CDs together for a trip playlist, and I realized, with mounting horror, that I have more country music than I realized. Technically, I can justify it. Most of it is actually more accurately considered bluegrass. Unlike Nashville country music, that bastard child of Elvis and Dolly Parton, the country music I enjoy ranges from Ralph Stanley, who is about as old-school American as you can get, to Kasey Chambers, who is an Aussie and has a rich, sultry voice that’s one part apple grove two parts vodka martini straight up. Mmmm, me like Australian country. But then there’s Alison Krauss and Union Station, and for my money, she’s got the most amazing voice in all of musicdom. If Alison’s an angel, though, Gillian Welch, technically more folk than country, is the voice of wisdom and sagacity, plaintive and expressing more sadness and regret than any woman should, yet somehow, it doesn’t seem wrong or too tragic when she sings that way. You get the feeling she’s looking at you through the lyrics and saying “Life as expressed this way is just the surface of a pond. Look underwater and you’ll see it’s a lot deeper and more profound.” I’d also add there’s a lot more fish too, but that might cheapen the message.
So I’m heading up to Northern California to see friends and loved ones, which I assume is at least partial code for drinking lots of wine, since it’s smack in the middle of Napa and Sonoma, though I’m not entirely convinced one can be in two valleys at the same time. I’m going to try, however. Might even get a Sideways-esque tour in, though not with the lovelorn habits of the inimitable Paul Giamatti. I like to think that though I lack the wine expertise, I know what I’m doing when it comes to relatio—
Oh, who am I fooling? I’m a complete numbskull when it comes to relationships. I fly by the seat of my pants. Women are a mystery, wonderful and blanketed in allure, difficult to resist even when you’re sober. I constantly question my own input into my relationship with Emily, who is kind enough to tell me that I’m perfect for her. So I’ll drink a glass or two to her this weekend, and hope I continue to remain so.
So I’m off to the great blue and green and orange North country. I expect it will be somewhat like the Iberian peninsula, except with fewer Spaniards and more Hispanics. I imagine seeing clouds there, like serious cumulous clouds, not the watery cloud cover that flies in from the ocean and sits over Culver City sometimes like pea soup. With grape vines stretching further than the west or east, and the promise of something like freedom.
It won’t last too long, because I always remember I love my little block and a half radius. It’s just how I am, I guess. The nice thing is, people do make the journey and the leaving worthwhile. They say it’s not the place, it’s the people. I’m inclined to think that’s true.
Sorry for the light posting this week, but it was either the novel or the blog. Since the blog is never finished, I figured I’d be okay. Have a great weekend, I’ll see you Monday.

Macarena Party

jelewis8 — Fri, 03 Feb 2006 02:03:48 +0000

What is more rockin’ than receiving a Christmas package in February?
I’ll tell you: Midgets wearing sombreros. But beyond that, nothing beats tearing into that brown box filled with Christmas cheer. Receiving a late gift is like rewinding back into the previous year for a moment in time, and all the foibles and follies of that hallowed time come rushing back in a blast of merciless disgruntled panache. There is merit in returning to days of yore, if only for mere moments. For one, it helps you to recall just what was so awful about the previous year that made you glad it was all finally over. For another, you can often recall who owes you money.
For what it’s worth, I declare 2005 to be the Year of the Toblerone. Everyone at my apartment received Toblerones for Christmas. I got two huge packs of it. Another of my roommates got five sold in a polygonal form that could easily have been used as a murder weapon in a bizarre Clue-lawn sports hybrid.
PLAYER 1: I deduce the murder was committed by Dr. Chocolate, in the Larder, with the Toblerone bar.
PLAYER 2 (wailing): You sunk my Bocce Ball!
Six more days until my official blog anniversary, and I couldn’t be more excited. As you now may have guessed, it doesn’t take much to get me excited. Just last week, I saw a squirrel doing the Macarena. I was bombastically enthusiastic about that event, even though the Macarena is like, so 1997. Anyway, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do to celebrate on the day of. I might rob a convenience mart. Or trash talk Jack Valenti. Haven’t decided yet.
So my good friend and DC resident journalist cum coffee snob Greg Piper is hanging up his blogging spurs. Not for good, just until he decides that the free time he saves by not blogging is being squandered with his investigations into which church girl will be least likely to stick him into the dreaded “Friend Zone”. Come back when you’re ready, Greg…the real world is a cruel and harsh mistress. The blogosphere’s yoke is easy, and the burden of writing is light.
I may throw Greg a party when he returns (in less than a month, is my guess). A gigantic, blogospheric party. Of course, we’ll all do the Macarena. V-logging of the event will be encouraged.

Life of a Bum

jelewis8 — Wed, 12 Oct 2005 22:08:35 +0000

I hate Wednesdays. More appropriately, I hate what Wednesdays bring. I got another “street cleaning” ticket. I think the trick to not getting tickets is to own your own driveway. That’s what really steams my gourd. We’ve got two spaces in a garage and I didn’t use the one that’s currently available, leaving it to one of my roommates. ‘Tis better to give than to receive. And that’s all there is to say about that.
On the flip side, I recently paid a certain amount of money to State Farm for car insurance. Since turning 25 my insurance dropped by almost half of what I had been paying. Well, I usually send two payments, half each. Just today I received a reimbursement check for the half of the amount I had already paid. State Farm called it an overpayment. And I also received a notice that informed me that I needed to pay the other half by December. I’m sure it’s an accounting error, and I’ll have to write another check. Nevertheless, it somewhat mitigates the effects of LA’s extortion.
Los Angeles is experiencing a bit of cooler weather here lately. It’s been nice. It reminds me of autumn, only with palm trees instead of the deciduous trees that line the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’m pretty sure palms don’t turn different colours, though one can hope. They do have lemon trees here, which seem to be retaining their brilliant green.
I’m too young to have much of an impression of the world. I see and hear things, read the news and books and feel the pangs of societal upheavals and the mundane everydayness of…well, everyday. I appreciate the good things, get miffed at the things that get me miffed, and ever so often do something monumentally stupid as to add another note to the ledger of my life, like angelic writing that will get reviewed and analyzed, the dust blown off when my time has come, and I’m asked “Why?” I suppose that’s part of life, the stupid things you do that you don’t think about. At the time it seemed like a good thing. Or it didn’t seem like anything at all, just an act, just a thought, just a moment in which an occurrence happened. Clinical terms cover a multitude of sins.
So the story is, I’m walking down the street, by myself, and I’m approached by a crazy man. He’s gotta be, right, because no one in their right mind would dress or look the way he does. Teeth rotting, unshaven, a wild eyed stare, he’s muttering to himself, and as I draw closer I hear what he’s saying. It’s not something I can repeat on this blog. Suffice to say, he was very upset an an unnamed party, and villified them in stark terms. I approached and he saw me, and he raved some more toward me. It is a frightening prospect to be raved at, somewhat less so to be raved toward. Still, the usual plan is to pick up the pace and ignore, or at least offer a sympathetic eye and then hurry on.
This last option I did, and he responded with gesticulation and cursing, and somehow my mouth moved faster than my brain. I said something back to him. Something smart, something which was better left unsaid. I don’t even remember what it was exactly, but my brain caught up with me and propelled my legs faster, and I could hear him wagging off like I had just cursed his mother. Whatever I had said, it upset him.
That, in and of itself, is not surprising. What is surprising is it made me feel good. Most people sort of feel indifferent or sorry for crazy people/bums. Until recently, I did too. Now I look at them with annoyance. What makes them so special that they can feed off the goodwill of passersby and not contribute anything to the community? What gives them the right to be the pariahs of what might otherwise be a clean neighbourhood? Why should I feel guilty whenever they ask for change and I have none? Just once I’d like to go up to a bum on the street and ask them if they have $.35 for a phone call, or a dollar for some food. I don’t know, if I could heckle and curse and mutter with impunity and receive looks of pity in return, maybe I would do it more. But I’d have to go to a lot of trouble. Because you can’t heckle someone when you’re wearing good duds. So you gotta get gussied up with ragged clothes; you gotta find a shopping cart somewhere that you can put random crap in and push around; you gotta smear crap all over your skin to simulate not having taken a shower in the past six months; you gotta do all this stuff and then, all you get is a lousy pitying look from strangers on the street?
It’s not worth it. Just go out and get a job–it’s a lot easier than playing a bum.
UPDATE: Since trackbacks don’t seem to work on my site anymore, I’ll incestuously link to Greg’s piece on street beggars (his post links to mine, hence the incestuousness of it all), in which he goes much further than I in categorizing and describing the differing levels of street begging. My favourite is the Seinfeldian sounding Low Talker.

Poetry For the Insomniac

jelewis8 — Tue, 27 Sep 2005 11:41:55 +0000

I can’t sleep. I don’t know why. I overslept this (yesterday) morning by an hour, waking up at nine instead of eight. Maybe that’s the culprit.
I find times like these to be the best for inspiration, especially in the poetry department. I often can bang a couple out that may or may not reflect my current mood at the time. My latest, entitled Elemental, is a less than serious musing on some institutions or values (or institutional values, for that matter) that we hold dear, and some things that I, as an individual and an artiste (yes, ar-teest) think about from time to time, including the muse that keeps me awake and writing poetry when I should be in bed dreaming of interpolitical power plays between my roommates and I (as I dreamt the other night). Elemental is less about the real or even the metareal, but rather the scope of such seemingly untouchable qualities, marrying them to real or imagined situations that 1) defy expectation and 2) cause a slight upward twitch in your mouth muscles, causing what might be considered a smile.
Because it’s funny that the City has indigestion. I mean, right?
Of course, it’s all very stream of consciousness and has no real bearing on metered poetry, except the barest hint of a rhyme here and there, and some measure of purpose in verse/line separation. Perhaps Van der Leun can do a bit of editing on it, as he has in the past. Editing my poetry is not one of my strong suits. Once it’s out, it rarely is examined more than once for spelling and grammar and for the most part, I’m confident of its purpose, if not its success. I’m a rare species, a poet with no sense of parting. I don’t miss the words I write, I don’t dwell on them, and I don’t expect any return from their departure from my mind. It is, to me, merely an end to a means, that which only authors and artists and madmen can understand.
Interesting fact #1: I was an English major in college. True. Once I figured out Computer Science was the devil, I briefly flirted with Graphic Design, had an affair with Interdisciplinary Studies when Graphic Design decided not to go out with me (it was a rebound relationship), and then English came along, and I never looked back. Well, there was the ongoing fling with Communications, but that was more of a friendship thing. We never were intimate.
Interesting fact #2: I never took a poetry class. Weird, huh? In fact, as an English major, I think I took fewer English classes than most everyone else. Naturally, we all were expected to take a minimum amount to receive the degree, but I was interested in a wide variety of subjects. What classes weren’t part of my “bare necessities” degree were focused outward, on music and art, on history, and the occasional communications class that I found tedious and wretchedly simple (which is why I did so poorly in them!).
So my training in poetry is pretty much nil. Which makes me about as qualified to write it as the next guy. Naturally, this also puts my poetry in the same pedantic category as everyone else. After all, who doesn’t write poetry? I think it’s safe to say I’ll never be Seamus Heaney. Then again, no one is Seamus Heaney except for Seamus Heaney. And even he isn’t Seamus Heaney on a bad day.
Well, it’s 1:40. I’ve been out here twenty minutes, I’ve written a poem and this stupid essay. I’m going to go back to bed and try and wake up at eight. Waking up at nine is so Senior year of college.

Because I’m Too Busy Today

jelewis8 — Thu, 09 Jun 2005 05:03:01 +0000

You probably won’t learn drums on this, but you might successfully drive your roommates/spouse/SO crazy, if they’re around.
Could I have been anyone other than me?
Via Reality Carnival