SKETCHBOOK HELL: "VANITY FAIR"

details:

"THE TRANSCRIPT OF A REAL PHONE CONVERSATION I JUST HAD"

RingRingRing.

ME: Hello?

HIM: Hey Brian, it's me, Steven.

ME: Nielsen? You don't sound like Nielsen. You sound...not gay.

HIM: No, actually I'm Steven Spielberg.

(brief pause)

ME: You're...Steven Spielberg. Right.

MR. SPIELBERG: Yep. I'm Steven Spielberg.

ME: Alright, if you're actually him, then tell me something only Spielberg would know.

MR. SPIELBERG: I directed the movie 1941, starring John Belushi, and I've never even seen it.

ME: Really?

MR. SPIELBERG: Not even the opening credits. It's that bad. Or at least, I hear it was that bad, you know? While we were filming, I had my eyes closed the whole time.

ME: Yeah, I heard that movie was pretty shitty. I guess you really are Spielberg.

MR. SPIELBERG: Yep.

(another brief pause)

ME: So, what can I do for you? Are you calling to apologize for that last Indiana Jones movie, or what?

MR. SPIELBERG: I'll cut right to the chase, Brian: I want to buy your blog.

ME: (spits out mouthful of water in a comical double-take) Whaaaaa?!

MR. SPIELBERG: Yep. I want to buy your blog, and make a movie out of it.

ME: Man, you must be pretty desperate.

MR. SPIELBERG: You have no idea.

ME: How the hell would you make a movie out of a blog? I mean, there's no narrative, no story. I'm sorry Mr. Spielberg, but it's mostly comprised of bitching and whining. Just dumb ideas that metastasize in my head and come dripping out of my fingers onto the keyboard.

MR. SPIELBERG: Precisely! It's that tone, that voice, that I'm looking to capture. "Metastasize in my head, dripping out my fingers", the way you liken creative thought to disease and excrement, that's what the cinema needs.

ME: Maybe the cinema needs more Shia LeBeouf swinging from vines. With monkeys.

MR. SPIELBERG: Alright, alright, enough about that movie. I needed the money. But I'm telling you, your blog needs to be a film. It would be a visual treatise of modern life for a young man. An exploration of romance, of disillusionment, of violence...pursuing the ideals of art and beauty in our modern times.

ME: You're dressing it up a bit, Steven. It's just escapism. That's all fiction is, too: escapism. Make-believe. Self delusion.

MR. SPIELBERG: No, it's art.

ME: Fine, then art is escapism! That's all it is! Art is escaping your mental hospital by painting Starry Night before you ultimately realize how fucked up the world is and cut your own ear off as a result! Art is just delusion, a worthless placebo that temporarily relieves symptoms. Fuck art. Fuck fiction.

MR. SPIELBERG: I really hope you don't mean that.

ME: Seriously, Mr. Spielberg. I do.

MR. SPIELBERG: If you really believed that, you wouldn't be writing this.

ME: What do you mean? I'm not writing. I'm talking on the phone with you, Steven Spielberg. We patiently established this minutes ago.

MR. SPIELBERG: There is no "we", Brian. I'm not Steven Spielberg. I'm just a fictional conceit used to display doubt in one's self. Lately, it seems like you've been having a lot of doubt, so, I was summoned.

ME: Like a genie?

FICTIONAL CONCEIT USED TO DISPLAY DOUBT: Yes.

ME: Do you mind if I keep calling you Mr. Spielberg? I mean, "Fictional Conceit Used to Display Doubt" is kind of a mouthful.

MR. SPIELBERG: Sure. My point is this: if you no longer believed in writing, or art in general, you wouldn't be writing this right now.

ME: Alright, I'll accept that. It just feels so worthless sometimes, you know? It feels like, once the act of writing is over and done with, everything just kind of...fades. The color drains from it, and instead of being an idea, instead of being wrath-like and incorporeal and altogether beautiful, it just becomes another part of the world. And is therefore disappointing.

MR. SPIELBERG: What about the subjects of the writing? Aren't they worth recognizing and celebrating?

ME: You know, I used to think so. But fuck, man. I feel like the ideas of beauty and art I once had are swiftly coming to an end. They feel like childhood dreams, like a favorite pair of pants that I'm awkwardly outgrowing, but still try to wear. I mean, if I try to write about something beautiful, it never lives up to the idea of beauty, you know? And God, trying to find real examples of beauty in the world...that seems to get harder and harder each day. It's just escapism, Mr. Spielberg, and I can't escape forever.

MR. SPIELBERG: What makes you feel this way?

ME: I dunno. I mean, getting punched in the face probably broke my rose-colored glasses, but I can't blame that entirely. Like I said before...things just seem to be losing their color. I don't want to sound emo or anything.

MR. SPIELBERG: You already do.

ME: Is it really worth writing about, though? When things seem this bleak and worthless, is it really worth it to try to create?

MR. SPIELBERG: Brian, this reminds me of when I was filming Temple of Doom. I was having a real hard time with things. I'd just suffered through a divorce, I was getting panned by critics, I'd turned to drugs. And it showed, you know? The movie ended up being quite dark, much darker than the previous film. But while we were shooting, I rediscovered my love of filmmaking. I remembered how much I loved Indy, how engrossing it was to follow him on his adventures.

ME: I really love that movie, but what's your point?

MR. SPIELBERG: My point is this. When it seems like there's nothing beautiful in life, when it seems like creation is a worthless endeavor that cannot ascribe to its noble ideals...those are the times when it's up to you to create your own beauty. Find beauty in the misery and depression. Find comedy in the tragedy. And in doing so, you'll be creating, and the cycle will continue. You said that things seem to be losing their color...well, it's up to you to breathe color back into it.

ME: To colorize it.

MR. SPIELBERG: Colorize the world like fuckin' Ted Turner.

ME: You've got a point. You really do.

MR. SPIELBERG: Of course I do. I'm Steven Motherfucking Spielberg. Now, would you like to get some frozen yogurt?

ME: I thought you'd never ask.

"THOUGHT BUBBLES"

Here are some things I've been thinking about over the previous forty-eight hours:

-I'm not sure why they named a horrible canine-disease "Parvo", because "Parvo" is either A) a great name for an adorable dog, or B) a great name for a leading brand of dog food. But no. Instead, it's an intestinal disease in dogs. Way to go, science.

-What happened to Michael Keaton?

-The other day, I dealt with a crazy client named Sharon, and this conversation between us is worth recording here:

ME: "So how've you been lately, Sharon?"
HER: "Oh, not so good"
ME: "I'm sorry to hear that. What's wrong?"
HER: "Oh, I got diagnosed with a mental disorder."
(fifteen second pause)
ME: "Oh yeah?"
HER: "Yeah, I hear voices."
ME: "What...kind of voices?"

My thought being, of course, that the kinds of imaginary voices you hear really makes a difference. You could hear a dog talking to you, like David Berkowitz, or you could hear God talking to you, like Moses. It's really all in the details.

-In terms of writing and publishing, it's now one of my goals to get a piece accepted in Cat Fancy magazine.

-The other day, I was cleaning out papers from under my bed and I found a television pilot I wrote a year and a half ago. I was clearly very intoxicated at the time, and have no memory of writing it whatsoever. The script was titled "Bernard and Quackers in Mormonville"; it was the story of a misogynistic Mormon superhero (Bernard) and his sassy, streetwise best friend, who also happens to be a duck (Quackers). Over the course of the pilot, Quackers gets into various scrapes, and is consequently bailed out by Bernard and his vague, ambiguous superpowers (which may involve steam, lead trains, and astrology, but this is never directly specified). There's also a few sub-plots that don't really go anywhere, involving Warren Jeffs and how he's really a machine, Bernard's white-hot hatred of women, and a magical, living tree. Anyway, CBS bought the show for six figures.

BIRTHDAY CARD

This is what I wrote inside of my dad's birthday card:

Dad!

Did you know that you share the same birthday as Steve Martin? I think that's pretty cool!

Love, Brian.

Here's what I wish I'd written instead:

Dad!

Did you know that you share the same birthday as Steve Martin? I think that means that you get to be a wild and crazy guy, maybe even a dirty rotten scoundrel, but it doesn't mean you get to be the jerk! It's a good thing birthday candles are cheaper by the dozen, because you're getting older, and because of this, your cake is requiring more candles, each of which represents a year of your life! Sgt. Bilko!

Love, Brian.

There's always next year, I suppose. Happy Birthday, Dad.

FOR YOU AND YOUR CREW! REPRESENTIN' THE MOTHERFUCKIN' WU

My close associate Michael has informed me of a most

excellent concert opportunity, and you need to be there:

GZA/GENIUS. Performing "Liquid Swords". Live.

At The Clubhouse in Tempe. September the 17th. Doors at 8.

Possibly "with Special Guest". (perhaps Method Man?!!).

Nebulous details can be found here.

I expect to see you there. The thought of hearing a live version of "Gold" has me all hot and bothered.

"ERA OF WASTE"

In this era of waste, everything is recycled.

The food I eat is preprocessed and prepackaged, prechewed and predigested. The air, stale, circulated weakly by fans that create the illusion of wind, but I get the feeling that the real winds are gone and they're never coming back. The air tastes and smells of oily smoke, of mechanical pollution and carbon dioxide and waste and the stale smell of other people and the sad thing is I don't even notice the smell anymore.

When we're little, we're taught that everyone is a beautiful, individual snowflake. Unique and special. The truth is, every thought I have, every thought I've ever had and will have, is also recycled. Regurgitated, like bile. It is statistically impossible to have an original thought and the statistics are rising, insurmountable, like floodwaters. When we speak to each other, it's like we're reading the same script, over and over, but no director ever yells cut; we just do take after take hoping that something will be fit to print so we can move on. But we don't.

Everything is a business. Especially things that shouldn't be businesses, like law enforcement and religion and childbirth and death.

And love. Love is the worst. It doesn't exist, it's something They invented to sell Hallmark cards and divorces. What you think of as love is the equivalent of running a mile or eating a bar of chocolate or shooting up: a flood of endorphins (reuptake inhibited) with increased bloodflow to boot. Everything you think about love is fake: nothing more than a recited advertisement, a jingle, a poem they made you memorize in high school, a line from a movie you saw that reminded you of your own life.

And that's what we do, isn't it? We project. We're the star of the show. The main character. The lead singer. Every song is sung about us, like we're the last muse left. Every movie reminds us of our own meaningful story, but honestly, the story isn't about us at all. I'm just an extra, just a background character with two seconds of screen time and no lines, and so are you.

SKETCHBOOK HELL: "SMILE"

GIRLS I'VE KNOWN, PART 3: "HAND-DRAWN HEARTS AND PAPER PLANES"

This started all the way back at La Crescenta Apartments, located in the seedy multi-ethnic neighborhood of Lemon and Terrace, a neighborhood where two rival gangs (The Cholos and The Baby Whales) regularly tagged the dumpsters and block walls and telephone poles in order to be noticed. I lived alone in a poorly designed one-bedroom and routinely tried to communicate with my Mandarin upstairs-neighbors regarding the leaking pipes. Failure of communication was definitely a recurring theme, and this story is a prime example.

I was coming home from somewhere. It was late at night and I was alone and riding my bicycle, and upon arriving home, I found a mouse on my doorstep. Sitting there. Waiting. The mouse was handmade with ears made out of felt and drawn-on whiskers, and it's little silver body was hollow and empty but decorated inside with a hand-drawn heart.

Hidden beneath the mouse was a plastic shell. The kind you get for a quarter from those vending machines, the kind with sticky hands and cheap toys inside. I sat down on my doorstep and pulled the shell open, and inside was a silver ring with a red plastic stone. Costume jewelry. But wrapped around the ring was a long, thin strip of paper that read, "MARRY ME MARRY ME MARRY ME" over and over.

I kept it.

A few weeks later, she stopped by my work. I knew she was the deliverer of the mouse, no question about it. You know how whenever there's a crime in Gotham City that involves duality, the number two, or coins, everyone just knows it's the work of Two-Face? Well, that's how it was. A handmade mouse and a costume ring? Basically, her calling card.

At that point, girls did not notice me. Period. End of story. That's all she wrote. My apparent invisibility to the opposite sex was like gravity: one of those forces that seemed to govern everyday life, inescapable, keeping my feet stuck firmly to the ground. But then the mouse arrived, and some sort of ceiling broke and I was floating, floating, never coming down again.

But I digress. As I was saying, she stopped by my work, and she casually brought up the ring in conversation. "Oh, you mean this?" I said, and pulled it out of my pocket. I'd been holding onto it like some kind of charm; something to be taken out when no one was around, to be looked at and puzzled over and amused by.

Much later on, after the fact, when this ring conversation was discussed again, she said, "Brian, I never ever ever get embarrassed, but that ring thing...it embarrassed me."

When I showed her the ring, she got very quiet and very red and her embarrassment was palpable, contagious, and I caught it. Conversation died on the vine. She quickly left. I felt like an idiot for weeks, months, years. End of Act One.

Act Two began a year or so later. We randomly ran into each other on campus. I don't remember what we talked about, normal things, run-of-the-mill things, and ring-related topics were wisely avoided. All of the meaningful things seemed to exist in the spaces between the words, the pauses between the sentences. All of the meaningful things went unsaid.

We wandered. Eventually, we ended up at the top floor of Life Sciences tower, which I'm told is the tallest building on campus. We stood on the observation deck, leaning over the railing and looking down on people passing below.

And then we started making paper airplanes. I tore pages out of my notebook, passed some to her, kept some for myself. She made thin knives of planes, planes that cut and stabbed through the air and shot like missiles. I delicately folded designs remembered from childhood, planes with weighted noses and flaps and fins, capable of twisting and turning and looping through the air. Gliding forever if you threw them right.

We stood on the balcony and a rain of origami aircraft fell. Aimed at students, at buildings, at trees and landmarks picked because of their impressive distance. Eventually a marker appeared, and we were drawing designs on the planes: curling flames, dragon scales, unblinking eyes. And without thinking, I wrote something on one of the sheets of paper.

"MARRY ME. MARRY ME. MARRY ME."

I looked at it for a few moments while the ink dried. Smiling wistfully, nostalgically, the way you smile when you're thinking of a memory that isn't really yours or doesn't really belong to you, when you're thinking of a happy ending you saw in a movie or read in a book, something that seems to belong to you, but doesn't.

Instead of giving the paper to her, instead of quickly filling in the empty pauses with all the things I wished I'd said, I quickly folded the paper into a plane and threw it.

I watched it glide through the air. It caught an updraft, a rising air current, and it sailed and sailed for what seemed like forever, like it would just keep rising until it was floating with the moon and the stars. But everything falls.