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12.26.2002
japhy unplugged : happy holidays all- on the t to visit jill-san! Buy war bonds.
Read more! (in beta) 12.24.2002
japhy unplugged : watching harold & maude: perfect holiday flick-want harolds fashion sense
Read more! (in beta) 12.16.2002
Hey folks-
I'm puting the Advent series on indefinite hiatus. I always said that it was just an experiment, and truth be told- it's getting out of hand and interfeering with my real life. I always intended for this site to refrain from the kind of personal maudlin bullshit that most blogs fall into and I feel that, however artful, all this poetry and the series is falling into that trap. My deepest thanks to all the people who gave me encouragement and advice throughout the series- I hope you all won't be too dissapointed. I also sincerely hope that I have not caused anyone to feel uncomfortable by writing all that I have, and if I have done so, please accept my sincerest apologies. I apologize for making you all victims of my public therapy, but on the upside, the whole thing has helped me crystalize what's really important to me and helped me move on with my life. I hope you enjoyed it and someday I will get around to finishing it. I promise.
-Japhy
Read more! (in beta) 12.11.2002
Advent: Twelfth
Note: This the twelfth part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
Welcome to New Mexico- the Land of Enchantment. The air is palpably thin and dry and as dusk settles, from the giant plains rise the Sandia's, looking like something assembled on a model railroad set. The land here looks like a rough draft of a real landscape, everything is strong lines and simplicity. The mountains are mountains and nothing else. The desert is desert and Albuquerque, our new home, spreads out from the trickling Rio Grande.
Daniel is home and he's going at quite a clip. "First, I want to take you the the Village Inn for enchiladas and sweet rolls, then Double Rainbow- my old stomping grounds. And Garduno's- you can have some real soppapillas there. We actually made it! We actually made it!"
We pull into his parent's house on Nob Hill and he runs, he literally runs into the house and grabs a hold of his mother, who smiles his smile and says "Hi, son."
For the first time since that day, Daniel is happy. This place will make him whole again. Read more! (in beta) 12.10.2002
Advent: Eleventh
Note: This the eleventh part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
The plains of Oklahoma turns to dirt in the Texas panhandle. We wake up in Oklahoma City and by noon we are in Texas. We look at the map ahead and see there is nothing between The City of That Other Bombing and our final destination: Albuquerque, New Mexico. We had planned a week to get out west and will make it in five. This would be our final approach, one last giant slog through the country- we would drive and and drive and-
"Look! A Denny's!"
Again, we are the youngest travellers by decades. Where have all the young folks gone? Ah, well- more Eggs over My Hammy for us.
On the road all is quiet. On the road all is motion. On the road Daniel and I are together. On the road the Earth turns for us. On the road we are one. On the road we sing. On the road we know now there is an end.
The soil turns dark, autumn hues, fills with rock and scrub and the sky opens up for us, blue as blue. Daniel and I are the only things to mark the space between the red rock and the blue sky. He drops one hand to my side and I hold it and he holds mine. I turn to look at him and without turning from the road, a smile grows on his face. Read more! (in beta) Please Please Forgive Me
I'm three days behind on the Advent series. I had an awful stomach virus from a slightly overripe chicken salad sandwich, so I'm just catching up. By tommorow afternoon, we should be back on track. By the way, when they arrive, they're going to be dated by the days they should have appeared, so look below. Till then, here's a proverbial bone to keep you satisfied:
Mister Secrets
Mister Secrets walked on downtown,
not knowing his heart,
but holding my hand-
and when I'd try to sleep,
he'd poke my head
with tiny matchstick fingers
and whisper mister secrets in my ear.
Mister Secrets woke me up
from all the nightmares of loveless lovers
and held me close when I tried to run away
into snowdrifts, rainclouds and nightclubs,
but Mister Secrets kept his secrets
even when he'd had me whole.
Mister Secrets, you love me too much!
I catch it in your eyes, your lips, in the letters you write,
that you write only to yourself, in your 128-bit encrypted hard drive.
Mister Secrets, I am so mean to you! Mister Secrets, your love
for me makes no sense!
Mister Secrets fell out of love
and really, I don't know why.
Maybe Mister Secret's secret
is that his love is just a lie.
Mister Secret's secret love is not
he, nor you, nor I;
Mister Secret's secret love is secrets
kept from him, from us:
goodbye.
----
Yes, I listen to too much Alanis. Don't we all? Make your own Alanis song, courtesy of the Brunching Shuttlecocks.
Read more! (in beta) 12.09.2002
Advent: Tenth
Note: This the tenth part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
In a Westin outside Oklahoma City sleep two boys, young men, really. One of them has his arms around the waist of the other and between their legs lies a small ink black dog. The standard issue hotel bedding covers them like a heavy tapestry, momentarily weighing them down in absolute stillness. Even their breathing chests can't be noticed through layers of polyfill, teflon coated blanketing.
They are practitioners of this sleep: both have at found themselves awake at night staring at the other fast asleep and carefully planned how to position his body with his. For a long time, they had it almost perfect, their sleep. One would begin the night with his head placed on the chest of the other, for this was the only cure for insomnia he had ever known and then, in half-sleep they would rearrange each other so that the boy who's head lay on the other's chest would then repay the favor by holding the other boy tight, arms wrapped fully around like a seatbelt for the wild Snap the Whip and Dodgem dreams he would have.
This is not to say that they had completely worked out a perfect system, by any means. One boy liked to hike his leg up over the other, an extension of how he had slept when he was alone and a nineteen year habit was hard to break. This drove the other boy insane, for the other boy hated to be restrained in any way at all, but the other boy also knew he snored. Loudly. Whole symphonies, in fact, long deep resonant percussive bison calls.
Early on, this had led to the other boy punching him, for that boy used to hate sleep with anyone in his bed. In fact, he could barely stand someone being in his bed for more than a moment, it required all his effort not to push the other person out of the bed, but somehow, we'll call this "somehow", "love"- somehow, this had faded over weeks and months. Now one boy would allow the other to put his leg over his chest for a minute or two and the other had taken to silently shifting the other when the goat bleating snores came on and though every time it would startle the other, he would quickly fall back asleep, often with no more than a whispered "What?", but not really needing any answer.
Since the road began, none of these conscious efforts had been needed in their sleep. They simply just did it. Had they finally gotten it right or were they just simply too exhausted to think about where hand and skin belonged in their elaborate sleep?
The puppy, as ever, slept fitfully and in the morning, did something she would never tell anyone she did- She sat for a moment and watched the two boys sleep. She sat perfectly, like she had been taught and she watched for as long as she could, fighting against her limited attention span, but when it finally took over, she jumped on them, pouncing them to life.Read more! (in beta) 12.08.2002
Advent: Ninth
Note: This the ninth part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
You know us, don't you? Our eyes are big and round, taking in everything we see with wonder. We have perfect skin. We never grow old. Our hair is perfectly groomed and never falls out of place. We're unbounded optimism and hope and we're loved by grandmothers across the country for our winsome smiles; the perfect grandchildren who will never leave home or forget birthdays or die or lose our hearts and minds in tragedy. We are the Precious Moments figurines and we live in Carthage, Missouri: home of the Precious Moments Chapel, Fountain of Angels and Precious Moments Wedding Chapel!
If Branson was weird and old, then the Precious Moments Chapel is new and shiny and like all things new and shiny, impossible to take in. Daniel parks Jizelle in the middle of the sprawling parking lot, behind us, a giant pastel pink warehouse that we later learn is The Fountain of Angels complex and in front of us, what must be the chapel itself. But, no! Once inside the sprawling lobby, we're told that this is just the Visitor's Center and gift shop, the chapel is out back, just follow your way through the gift "center", I'm corrected.
There are Precious Moments figures that celebrate Christmas. There are Precious Moments that celebrate Kwanzaa. There are Mexican, Irish, Swiss, Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, Austrailian, Hindu, German Precious Moments figures. There are Precious Moments clowns, some with tears, some without. There are Precious Moments babies and sick, dying Precious Moments figures with crutches and IV bags attached to their adorable little arms with signs that say "I wuv you". There are Precious Moments wedding dolls and Daniel and I place two of them, one blue eyed and blonde-haired, the other dark haired and brown-eyed together, in matching tux's next to each other and for us, this is truly, a Precious Moment.
I walk out into an indoor courtyard, made up to look like the Precious Moments Village and there's a show going on. A five foot tall Precious Moment doll is walking around telling us the story of how he died and there's a five foot tall Precious Moments Angel guiding him up the stairs to Heaven and I am the only person in the entire courtyard watching this. The place is completely deserted, except for me and Precious Moments Dead Baby and Precious Moments Angel, but since the sign says there's a four o'clock show, doggone it, there's a four o'clock show. I run back into the gift center and clutch Daniel for support.
Finally winding our way out back, we arrive to a long brick avenue, lined with bronze Precious Moments angels which lead up to the actual Precious Moments Chapel and our tour guide, Melanie. There's a ten minute wait to get inside and Melanie chats us up and asks us where we're from. I haven't told you this yet, puppy, but every time someone asks us this question, we suddenly get a lot of sympathy and we keep on meaning to say we're from Delaware and not Ground Zero, but we can't help it. Melanie asks us all the usual questions and then stops asking when we give her all the wrong answers. She asks us what we do and seems convinced that I must work in the theatre industry, which I suppose, is a Precious Euphemism.
She explains to us that the sculptor of the Precious Moments line, Mr. Samuel J. Butcher, who lives in Illinois (Illinois!), was driving through the Missouri countryside one day when GOD spoke to him and COMMANDED Butcher to build a chapel in HIS name in Carthage. Mr. Butcher obliged the Lord nicely and put up, what Melanie explains, "is the Sistine Chapel of the United States".
Inside there are paintings of Precious Moments saints and Precious Moments Beatitudes and- okay, there's a lot of Precious Moments Bible shit, all loving rendered in pseudo-Disney style. The altar piece is filled with thousands of Precious Moments babies, all floating up in heaven, surrounded by Jesus- who, is not, unfortunately, done in the Precious Moments style. Melanie turns to us and says, "Every single one of these figures is based on a real baby who has died. People write in from all over the country asking Mr. Butcher to paint their child on this wall and he does his best, personalizing every one."
Behind the chapel, there is a smaller chapel, dedicated to Samuel Butcher's dead son. The main piece of this altar is the son's childhood bedroom, filled with weeping family members, but above, Butcher's son is in heaven, playing basketball.
We flee out the back and run into a woman, sobbing uncontrollably, and really, we have no place to go. She looks up at us and says, "Life's too short to be with someone who doesn't love you back." Her eyes are surrounded by life vest-sized bags. My face burns and all I can say is "I'm sorry."
I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.
Read more! (in beta) Want to read old stuff?
Blogger sucks. Okay, I like it 90% of the time, but currently, the archive link doesn't work. So- to read archived material, go here. Also, if you'd like to email me, I'm at japhy@hotmail.com. Hopefully, I'll get these things (as well as the commenting features) back up this week. Take care all.
Read more! (in beta) 12.07.2002
Advent: Eighth
Note: This the eighth part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
We take a hard left at Springfield, Missouri and head down the Ozark trail to Branson. Night has fallen hard and for miles Daniel and I have only the twin ellipses of the headlights to entertain us. You have fallen fast asleep on my lap and are having puppy dreams. The buzz of the asphalt occasionally changes as we pass through areas of roadwork and then returns to steady white noise. Then they start to talk to us: Andy Williams tells us he's singing with Glen Campbell, Billy Ray Cyrus is all teeth as he invites us to The Americana Theatre, Loretta Lynn and the Lennon Brothers, Elvis Presley and his Superstars, The Jesus Christ Ensemble, they're all calling to us from the road and they're all heartily welcoming us to Branson, where Vegas and Nashville meet!
We pull off at the massive interchange and promptly take a right, passing the Passion Pavillion and down a winding road that becomes more winding, more narrow and finally turns to dirt. Daniel pulls the car to a halt and gives me exactly thirty seconds to figure out how I got us there. We turn around and head back the way we came and eventually come upon a small lakeside cabin labeled "Visitor's Center". We wake you up gently and by the time I open the door, you're insane again, jumping wildly and panting like I'm dangling a double quarter pounder with cheese over your head, which I'm not, so you need to cut it out. We jaunt over to the cabin, which is lined inside with wall to wall brochures and happens to be the home of a small Scottish Terrier, which you immediately start barking at, damning it to multiple lifetimes of eternal torment and embarrassing Daniel and I to no end. I scoop you up and hold you back from your murderous urges. Daniel goes up to the visitor's desk and asks the heavily bearded, trucker hat wearing receptionist, just exactly where Branson is.
"You need to take a left. You're at the top of Branson and your just going back and forth. Go down. And please get your dog out of here. She's scaring Biff."
Five minutes later, Branson is laid out for us like a neon honky-tonk jewel. We're trapped in gridlock for the first time since we left Manhattan and we're assaulted by fourty foot tall giant bouffants and freon arrows pointing us to hundreds of football field sized parking lots. "It says here", pointing to my Branson is Music Country! guide, "that Branson has more theatre seats than all the theatre's in New York combined."
"This is so weird."
Twenty minutes and a half mile later, we find a Motel 8 with a vacancy sign on and we pull in and do the doggie subterfuge trick to sneak you in to the room. We're exhausted. "Can you believe this morning we were in Terra Haute, Indiana?" Daniel asks me, sprawled out on the plaid patterned king size bed. I join him and let every muscle in my body go limp. "But we're in Branson! What the hell are we doing in Branson?" Daniel starts repeating the name over and over again like a mantra, expanding it first to three syllables, then six, then finally expanding it into one long hiss, that gets you, puppy all excited, much like say, a cloud in the sky or a dust mite, excites you. You start pouncing on us, jumping up on the bed and nailing us each in our stomachs and then flying under the bed, where you wait all of a nanosecond to do it ALL OVER AGAIN.
"Oooooooh! I'm gonna getchyu puppy!"
"We're gonna getchyu!"
And we're off. Daniel leaps down on the floor and you scurry wildly under the bed and out the other side where I chase you back up on the bed and bark at you and I almost catch you, but your too fast. Back you go under the bed, but Matthew's still there so you do a one-eighty and head back out the other side, but just then I stick my head down from the bed and grin at you.
"Hi Puppy!"
You flip out and start darting madly back and forth under the bed and then out of the bed again where you tear across the carpet and back under the bed and now, we've finally got you cornered and what do you do, you big wimp you, but flip over on your belly and start to cry. We pull you out from under the bed, pick you up and rubbing your belly, tell you just what a very good dog you are.
We're starving so we head back to Jizelle to hit up a McDonalds. It's 10:30 now and the roads are deserted. We have the entire town to ourselves, it seems. "This place is so weird", Daniel repeats for the sixth time in two hours. We get into the McDonalds and they are closing up for the evening, just a few stragglers left, in fact. After scooting by three or four aluminum walkers, we're suddenly very aware that we are the youngest people in this McDonalds by a good fifty years. It begins to all make sense. Loretta Williams, empty roads by 10:30, gift shops ornamented with a thousand windchimes; we're in Old People's Paradise. Sure, there's a small group of high schooler's chowing down on fries, but they sit listlessly, eyes glazed over from stolen bottles of their grandparents medication, but clearly, we are not Branson's demographic. Noticing that applesauce is served on the menu, Daniel turns to me and says, "This is so cool."Read more! (in beta) 12.06.2002
Advent: Seventh
Note: This the seventh part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
Morning comes to Terra Haute and you have left a mess on Ohio. We ran out of newspapers for you to pee on back in Pennsylvania and since then we have been using the previous days state map for papers. I crumple up the Buckeye State and toss it into our standard issue knee-high plastic trash can and Daniel and I smuggle you out of yet another dingy Motel 8.
"Does Terra Haute mean "the end of the land"?", I ask Daniel, knowing full well that he doesn't know the answer either. The land of Lincoln is dull, drab brown, filled with pathetic trees, pathetic towns and the occasional muck swamp. Every day our mileage has been increasing and fueled up on IHOP pancakes and sausage, we blaze through the state in record time and when St.Louis appears on the horizon, we shout for joy and light a cigarette in celebration. The Gateway to the West looms larger and larger and then finally, at long last the mighty mighty Mississippi is lapping at our feet, a rich brown Lethe that we recklessly dip our heads in to drink deep of the silt, of the earth, the land.
Toweling off, we find a parking garage near the Arch and after a quick break of walking you, where you damn a few tourists and a policewoman's horse, we descend into the museum below the Arch and from it, rise up, rise up on a ratcheted space-pod designed at the height of Fifties optimism to the top of Saarien's slender stainless steel, impossible tribute to running into the unknown. From the top we can see stupid-fucking Illinois to one side and great grand unknown Missouri on the other. From the top I can see Daniel leaning onto the carpeted portholes to look out and I can't quite figure out why this non-action makes me love him all the more.
Back on Earth, we unsuccessfully try to get into a riverboat casino and then wander through St. Louis' painfully self-conscious historic district. We're heading back to the car when I announce to Daniel that I'm hungry.
"You can wait right? We need to get back on the road."
"No. I'm hungry now."
"Well, I'm not."
"So, what? You want me to starve?"
"Puppy's in the car."
"Yeah, and she'll stay there till we get back. You know how I get when I don't eat."
"Fine."
The historic district, true to form, has nothing to offer the weary travel for repast except for high-end sit down restaurants. I try to reassure Daniel that there's some place to eat just around the corner and he's now walking far in front of me and I have to run up to catch him.
"What the hell's your problem?"
"Just looking for a place for you to fucking eat, that's all."
I hate him for the next ten minutes it takes to finally find a Subway and then hate him for five minutes after that when he orders a huge meal for himself as well.
Travelling South into Missouri, the land grows greener, and the Ozarks begin to bulge up from the soft plains of the East. The Missouri Department of Transportation seems to be run by a cartel of demolition experts as the road continually blasts its way through any mountain that dares tread its path. Billboard after billboard for Meramec Caverns ("Home of Jesse James' Hideout!") assault us every half mile or so and eventually we relent, pulling off the highway and down an increasingly rustic road to the fabled caverns.
The caverns themselves are situated in a quiet glen filled with RV's and bisected by a merrily chirping brook. Jutting out the side of the mountain, the Visitors Center is a dull, weather-worn brown, but surprisingly well maintained, the sign of a high quality attraction. The parking lot is nearly deserted however. Daniel decides to stay in the car, while I scout the place out.
The Visitors Center, which appears to be the size of a small cabin on the outside, expands into a huge vaulted ceiling of rock inside. Carnival games, stuffed animal claw-grabbers and penny presses nestle in among neon-hued stalactites and when I get to the tour desk, I'm told we just missed the last tour of the day by five minutes.
Back outside, I tell Daniel. He turns to me and says, "Well, next time we're in Meramec, Missouri, we'll go. Okay boy-o?" We drive back up to the highway, but decide to stop at a convenience store that looks like its last customer came circa 1971. Inside, in addition to the usual assortment of Twinkies and Doral Lights is row upon row of cardboard tubes, plastic straws reconfigured into stars or cones, red cylinders connected by tightly wound green cords and wrapped in cheap acetate and every single one of them filled with countless varieties of luminescent gunpowder, ready for the Fourth of July, or better yet, today. Daniel and I pick up packages of smoke bombs and paper bees glued over in wax paper, fuses sticking out of their ass. We grab firecrackers, sparklers and roman candles.
We make it down the road a whole five miles before we pull off to an abandoned parking lot and set off the smoke bombs, which produce such heavy gray smoke that we momentarily lose each other, Jizelle and inside her, you, yipping wildly at the end of the world outside your window. I release the bees and spirt forward in the air for a few seconds before falling to the ground and popping with a crack and a jubilee burst. The smell of sulfur is intoxicating and so specific that even when we've finished, leaving behind nothing but burnt paper and wire and a few black smudges on the faded asphalt, it lingered there as we drove westward, mingling with the musky smell of the late summer grass.
Read more! (in beta) 12.05.2002
Advent: Sixth
Note: This the sixth part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
Things are changing now. My words get lost against the roaring wind, syllables and syntax tumbles out the window, on to Route 40 and then into the Indiana night, where they will lose their accent and become nightly news anchors for a Major Television Network. Daniel’s eyes stay fixed to the road as bucket loads of non-sequiturs and brilliant mixed metaphors about Us, the World and the great grand beauty of the Road, escape like Hansel and Gretel from my New England witch’s mouth and I’m casting a great spell on myself, transfiguring me into me! Me! Me of the country! Me of the great heartland! Proud American! Patriot on the Frontier!
Indianapolis rises from the fields and up on her highways we ride round, circumnavigating another completely unremarkable city node, its gravity propelling us faster past its orbit and into the night, west to Terra Haute. Against the blazing wind you’ve curled up into a ball, a warm lump nestled between my arm and my chest and carefully tented under my jacket. I hadn’t noticed how cold it had become. I power slide the window up and Jizelle is silent.
“I need to eat.”
We live the hardest when we know things are going. Last moments are so much more gripping when we know that they are the last moments and all the moments are last moments.
Pulling into a truck stop outside of Indianapolis, Daniel refuels Jizelle as I take you for a little walk over to a grassy island surrounded by parking lot. You bark madly at a car that passes by, then ignore another one. Daniel calls from the station. "She's damning them!"
"Yup! Natalia's X-factor is the ability to damn people!"
Bark! Bark!
In the car we pull up to a White Castle and you bark at a happy midwestern couple in matching sweatshirts. "Oooh- good choice Natalia!", giggles Daniel. "They are soo damned!", I reply. We prop you up against the window and point you in the direction of various people walking by and true to your nature, you ignore some and start yipping at others. Bark! Bark! "What if she barks at us? Are we damned then?", I ask.
"She would never bark at us, would you baby?"
Nope. Instead you just start biting our hands wildly, feeding off our manic energy.
Ah, love.Read more! (in beta) 12.04.2002
Advent: Fifth
Note: This the fifth part of a twenty-four part series running through December 24th. To read the previous installments in a convenient form, go here.
"You know I will always love you, don't you?"
"Um- yes Daniel."
"You're my favorite person in the world."
"Don't do this."
"Okay, fine."
Welcome to the Living Bible Museum. Watch the great moments of the Bible come to life! Here in Mansfield, Ohio, in a suburban tract home development, little old ladies have been buying derelict Madame Tussaud figures and transforming them into Sodom and Gemmorah, the Resurrection and the Garden of Eden. Daniel and I are ushered into The Life of Jesus by Ms. Mary Winthrop, who's curly black perm forms a righteous football helmet around her head. Ms. Winthrop carefully explains to us, the youngest members of our tour group by decades, that this must be conducted in silence, and please, no flash photography.
Walking down the darkened corridor, we stop at giant rectangular cutouts in the wall where Mary presses a small white button. The portal lights up and there's Jesus- surrounded by Cinderella, Pocahantas and what looks like the cast of Up With People. Nothing moves, but the voice of Jesus (who sounds a little bit like the gift shop manager) tells us he loves all of His creation, which apparently also includes fictional characters, a comfort to us all. We follow His life in diorama after diorama, watching Him preach, get whipped (bloodstains on the wall and all), die, rise again into the clouds of heaven, which are made up of gossamer hair and finally we stand before the Final Judgement.
Jesus, sits at a giant throne, facing us head on. To his left is heaven, which looks exactly like Mansfield, Ohio, only everyone is wearing white robes. To his right is the burning pits of Hell, where a business woman, complete with attache case, writhes in eternal agony for the sin of leaving the house for employment. After this vision, we are whisked into a small chapel, lit by a fluorescent cross and asked to sit a moment, "to reflect on the things we just saw." Mary blocks the exit door with her stout frame and we wait. A moment passes as Daniel and I do our best to look moved. All at once, the chapel is filled with a synth pop version of "The Lord is Our Redeemer".. Daniel grabs onto my leg and gives me a "If you laugh right now they will dip us in wax and put us on display for eternity" look and put my hands over my mouth, look down and furiously start thinking about the unfunniest thing I know, Mother Theresa, to keep it in. Finally, Mary releases us from our enforced meditations and it's over.
As we browse through the gift shop, snatching up postcards, Mary comes up to us. "How did you like it?", she asks. We spill over with compliments, saying we found the entire thing to be fascinating and expressing our sorrow that we couldn't see the other tours. "It's not often we get young people here, where are you from?" We tell her, "New York" and in a flash her cup truly runneth over. "You poor boys!", she says with total empathy, "Would you like a behind the scenes tour?" and before we can refuse, she has brought us back through the chapel and down a incomplete section of corridor. She turns on a worklight.
"When this will be done, it will be the Upper Room. See that cardinal in the window. The man who builds the sets for us had a dream, and God spoke to him and told him to put that cardinal there. He also said He wanted the room to be painted brown. Isn't it just amazing what you can do with proper lighting?"
Read more! (in beta) 12.03.2002
Live Like Slim Shady!
Yes, Japhyjunket continues while the whole "Advent" short story thing goes on, but honestly folks, I have papers to put together and babies to kill and there is only so much writing I can do in a day. However, here is a bone for those people who prefer their Japhyjunket sunny-side up:
You can buy Eminem's childhood house on ebay! Appraised at $100,000, it is currently going for a little over 11 million. This is a really ugly house and couldn't even be converted into a halfway decent memorabilia museum, but if you're an incredibly rich jetsetter and want to experience the white trash aesthetic in a big way, this here might just be your deal.
Read more! (in beta) 12.02.2002
Advent: Third
Note: This is the third part of a 24 part series celebrating Advent. Parts One and Two are below, in reverse chronological order.
Somewhere in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, amid the cider stands and Amish pretzel huts, we travel. The air is filled with the sweet smells of summer vegetation that should have died with the end of the season, but the heat and the rain have kept them alive and thriving long past harvest. Unruly corn fields are littered with fallen ears repolinating the soil and the sun beats down, warming the Earth, warming us. Jizelle's windows are rolled down and as we race through this land, recharting the Manifest Destiny of our great-grandfathers grandfather, we talk about New Mexico and the road ahead of us. Our plan is to visit the great temples of America, the religious roadside attractions built by white-suited evangelists and knitting society church ladies, but here in the secular East, we concentrate on the road which swerves ever so slightly like an absent-minded dancer.
We've put you in the kennel for the time being. You were frankly, irritating us with your continuing attempts to jump out my window. While I admire your convictions of invincibility, I'm pretty certain you'd think that jumping out was a lot less cool once you hit the pavement, the rushing pavement, black river.
Daniel turns to me grinning. "It's so beautiful out here. Everything's so green! You forget about trees and plant and things in New York." I lean back in to my seat and watch him watch the road. "You're right. And it's so fractal. I mean, in New York everything is straight lines and corners and architecture, but I miss the complexity of tree branches and the the way a forest is the same as a leaf-" "You're such a dork, you know that!, Daniel says. "I know. I'm like The Celestine Prophecy, only gayer."
"You know what I can't wait for?"
"What?"
"My mom's cooking."
That's right puppy, you're going to live with grandma. I go back to focusing on the road. The best thing about the road is that conversations can cease for hours of silence and resume as if nothing has happened. "If only the stationary world could work like that!", I think to myself, but of course that would never work. Adam Ant comes on the radio. Our song! The towers are still there and it's summer in the Village and we're walking down 7th Avenue in tank tops as early evening settles in and gets comfortable. Off their aluminum skin, pinks and reds and roses and blues ripple like a Rococo sky caught in a skyscraper frame and I turn to Daniel and say, "This is heaven". Oh, how I love highway meditations! How I love being next to Daniel. How I love this pack of cigarettes and everything will be fine! We are beginning a great adventure! Grand gestures will sweep us away to a bright New Mexican future, because we are together! We will beat the dangers of the tragedy of hubris! We're superheroes and rockstars and above all, young and talented and ferocious tigers of the concrete jungle!
"Huzzah!", bursts out of my mouth.
"What?"
"Everything."
"Huzzah!"
The road has been steadily climbing now for miles, but in such a way that you had no idea you were going any higher. Fields, though rolling now, spread out on both sides of us and then, the road swerves madly, up around a corner, then to its reverse and then a huge yellow sign with a giant black arrow points to the right and we turn sharply yet again. We're at the top of a mountain, the edges slipping perilously down in front of us. The fields behind us part of a massive plateau that we now descend at full tilt, Daniel whooping madly!
"Slow Down!"
"It's like a rollercoaster!"
The pitch drops like a rock as the road clings to the side of the mountain and Daniel's going eighty and the wind whips and he's laughing all the way down and there's not a car in sight so he floors the gas and every single thing in the car, you and I included, goes crashing into the right side of Jizelle and I'm whooping it up too and we fall and fall down the mountainside and everything grows closer and nearer and the fractals zoom in, infinitely complex, and I hope the ground never levels out ever again.Read more! (in beta) It was only a matter of time. If only I had thought of it first. Yes, I KNOW I don't go to NYU anymore, but once a trendy Felicity wannabe superstar- always a...
Anyrate- Take the quiz!
What Kind of NYU Student Are You?
Read more! (in beta) 12.01.2002
Advent: Second
Note: This is the second part of a twenty-four part short story to celebrate Advent. The first part is below.
Your whole life fits into a Grand Caravan, Natalia. Not just your life, but mine too. And Daniel's as well. We've packed clothes, books (most importantly, The New Roadside America), a candy red igloo cooler that fits perfectly between the front seats, a dozen rolls of film, both 35mm and medium format, so Daniel can make use of his Hasselblatt and notebooks for me to write in, although I'll barely use them. Keeping with an almost compulsive tendency for anthropomorphism, the Grand Caravan is named Jizelle. Daniel bought an American flag from one of the vendors on 52nd Street and we taped it to the antenna. It now flutters in the wind as we enter Allentown, PA like a jingoistic moth trying to escape. On the radio, turned up as loud as possible, Pepper Mashay is singing to us- telling us, for the four-hundred and eighty-second time this year to "Dive Into the Pool."
"How ya'll feelin' tonight?", cries out the FM.
"GREAT!", we yell back.
"Ya'll feelin' good?"
"We told you already, bitch!" I turn to Daniel.
"Didn't we just tell her?"
"We told her good, gurl. She must be busssss-ted."
Daniel occasionally channels a large black woman, you see, but Pepper isn't listening.
"I've got a little proposal to make to each and every one of you here tonight"
" You stop singing this god damn song?"
"I think it's time... that we all... go dive in the pool..."
"No! It's cold in there!"
"Ya'll wanna go dive in the pool?"
"Leave us alone you dirty scary diva fag hag wench!" (That's me talking, obviously)
"I know ya'll wanna go dive in the pool!"
Daniel gives the radio his hand. "Uh-Uhhhhh. She did NOT just ask us to dive into her nasty-ass pool after we already TOLD her."
"Daniel. The wheel."
There's a curve ahead neither of us see. Daniel bare-knuckles the wheel and Jizelle starts fishtailing and improbably, tilting. Everything slows down for a moment. I can see the van and I can see us and little diagrams come spitting out of my head filled with trajectories and angles of incidence and probable impact scenarios and just as I put the last decimal in place I realize we're not going to crash.
The graying asphalt continues on in undulating curves as we stare rigidly ahead.
"So I wanna see each and every one of you, dive in the pool... with me, tonight..."
Okay, so I burst out laughing, hard, strong manly peals of laughter and this gets you puppy, all excited and you jump up onto the dashboard, but I snag you and pull you into my lap where you squirm and start biting my hand.
Normally, this would be the start of a huge argument that would last for hours, but Daniel and I are on road-time, travelling the country in out aluminum lunar orbiter and there's really just not enough room to fit in any arguments.
"Hey kiddo, let's pull in for the night."
"You know it was complety Pepper's fault."
"Damn right."
Oooh, look! A barn!
"That bitch."
We pull into Gettysburg, Pennsylvania for the night. Sneaking you into the Motel 8 is a blast. Daniel goes and distracts the concierge while I quickly rush by with you in the little doggie tote bag we got for you at Neiman Marcus. We drop you off upstairs and go wander through the bloody little town, which this late at night, is entirely devoid of tourists. My childhood was littered with visits to Gettysburg and the place brings back memories that I want to share with Daniel. I grab a Phillie Blunt from the A&P and while we share puffs I tell him about Boy Scout Camp and how the other counselors and I would sneak back to a cabin called "The Pink Palace" and smoke cigars while telling crappy stories about our nonexistent love lives. The air is so pleasantly cool and the highway floodlights seem so comforting, casting down perfect halos every fifty yards or so.
Back in bed, you snuggle between Daniel and I, but as usual, eventually wind up curled in a ball nested in Daniel's belly. Zonk- we're out.
In the morning, I am repeating a childhood's worth of tour guide spiels to Daniel as we traverse Seminary Ridge, which nowadays looks something like a landfill for tombstones and monuments. Daniel's taking pictures and playing with you, bouncing across the fields where Pickett's men fell and throwing withered dry grass at you, which you jump up to bite at. We have no real use for places of the dead right now, so a little sacrilegious fun is in order. The whole thing looks like a postcard.
From Amazon.com:
 Read more! (in beta) 11.30.2002
Advent: First
An Introduction: Beginning today and running through the 24th of December I will be performing a little performative experiment; namely a short story serialized through the season of Advent. Think of it as the online equivalent of a cardboard advent calendar, with a new treat behind it each day. Now, I know many of the people who read my blog know me personally, so I'd like to point out now that this is a work of fiction. It is based, like all literature, on things that have happened in my life, but don't believe a word of it as gospel. Also, though I have the general outline of the story mapped out, I will, for the most part, be writing it each day- so bear with me. Included with each day will be a photo from my real life road trip that is the inspiration for this story. I chose Advent as the framework for this story because I have an interest in writing about the anticipation of arrival, of prophets and portents and of doors being flung open. I hope you enjoy.
The first time I had ever been to New Mexico was in an dorm-style apartment on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan. Daniel had taken the leftover turkey from Thanksgiving dinner and rolled it into two soft Fresco tortillas glazed with mayonnaise. That was the night I asked him to go out with me. I’m not saying I dated him for the tortillas his mother would air mail to him every month or so from Albuquerque, but the soft baked flesh of el tortilla became something shared between us like an edible pet name. Breakfast was eggs and potatoes wrapped in tortilla, with sweet cheese, fatty bacon or chorizo added for flavor. Staying up all night, Daniel would throw a couple of tortillas right onto the range. When I did it, I would leave a big spiral brand across the whole thing that, combined with melted butter, tasted like what I hoped sagebrush would taste like. In bed, I would tell him that his flesh tasted just like tortilla and then I’d lick him in a way he only pretended to hate. From family recipes he had made enchiladas, sopapillas and rejenos; always presenting them to me in pans lined with aluminum foil. Too young and too greedy to savor these gestures, I would scarf down the food while making little suggestions on how he could improve next time. It wasn’t until long after he had stopped making these dinners that I had realized what I had done.
Daniel and I had this deal, a pact, really, though like all important pacts, it was unspoken, at least by Daniel. I talked about it constantly. We’re one of those relationships, the type where we strive to be polar opposites, to be all the things the other person is not. It’s a pretty tricky dance and most of the time I felt like he was simply caring for me. I envisioned myself as this great, somewhat broken, stroke of brilliance and Daniel was my padding, wrapping me up in a giant down comforter from the world. I even bought him a down comforter for Valentine’s Day, part of an inside joke I’m not going to let you in on now. We named her Downy. Often, we would use Downy to express our feelings; rather Daniel would. Grabbing the giant expanse of soft whiteness around him he'd look like a young emperor intoxicated with the power of the throne. “Downy wants you to come to bed now. She misses you.”
Then we got the dog that succinctly replaced Downy. You are going to be the dog for this journey. Your name is Natalia, you’re a Miniature Pinscher and you like to chew on things and dance on your hind legs. You’re our child, our baby or as James put it, “The really obvious last ditch effort to save your failing relationship.” Actually, he said, sardonic as ever, “Oh yes, a dog. Perfect. That will solve all your relationship problems. That poor animal is going to be so fucked up.”
I’m afraid he may wind up right. It’s very likely you’re going to wind up fucked up, but from your vantage point, my poor darling symbol, my little orphan stepchild, you’ll get to see all. Watch us carefully, learn deep things, but remember you adore us completely; we’re your meal ticket and when I abandon you at the end, please try to forgive me.
You meet James for the first time on September 11th. He comes up to our castle in the sky on 43rd Street and looked out the window at our beautiful view, paid care of my amazingly overpaid job at a major cable network, in blank horror. A perfect view of downtown Manhattan replaced by Vesuvius erupting, Vesuvius smoking. From behind our double glazed windows on the twenty-ninth floor it looks just like it does on TV.
A week later we are all on TV. Daniel’s volunteered us to be interviewed by a German television news crew for a piece about people leaving Manhattan in the wake of the attacks. I don’t know how major American news outlets do these things, but the Germans are rather underwhelming. There are only two of them, for starters: a tweedy newscaster without a trace of Prussian clip to his speech and a Camera Guy who looks like what you expect a Camera Guy to look like. I agreed to this because I knew they’d need counterpoint. I didn’t want the Germans to think we are running away from the city, that we’re cowards. Against the window I explain how my cable network succinctly fired me and it’s a matter of economics, not fear. Germans like Marx, right? I just know they are going to do a story about scared Americans fleeing all Godzilla-like. I am certain I’m the only one who can prevent the German public from believing this is a reality. They interview Daniel first and I have to restrain you from biting Camera Guy’s head off. You are far more work than a dog your size should be. Eventually we retreat to the bathroom and we play the paw game.
In case you’ve forgotten (how could you!) the Paw Game is where I keep patting your front paws until you freak out and start biting me like crazy. You love it. Once done with Daniel, it’s my turn to talk and Daniel’s time to paw.
The newscaster is very friendly, but I’m somewhat upset there isn’t any mottled canvas for me to sit in front of and I’m certain there will be no soft haze around my face as I talk. A week ago I worked for Barbara Walters and now this! We’re shooting mock-footage of us packing up.
“Just throw some clothes into the suitcase.”
Fine, I’ll be Human Interest fodder. I pull out the “Osama Bin Laden- Wanted Dead, Not Alive” t-shirt I bought and making sure the camera gets a good view of it, add it to the pile of clothes in my suitcase that I am only packing for TV.
“That’s perfect! Can you do that again? Camera Guy, get a few takes of that!”
We all ride the elevator down to our lobby. Every time I step into the lobby, I’m amazed. Built at the height of Eighties excess, it’s austere and gaudy at the same time. Blonde wood pillars intersect and emerge from walls for no reason. I’m not amazed at the architecture so much as the fact that I inhabit it. At twenty-two, I am so much ahead of the game. This lobby was built to make me feel great.
The doorman and the concierge both watch the Germans and us with bemused disinterest. We’re now filming Daniel, his sandy brown hair spiked up by the wind, with a single suitcase, heading out the doors to get a taxi. I wonder how this is going to play. We were pretty clear that we are leaving for New Mexico in the interview. Will the Germans back in Düsseldorf think we pack really light and traverse the continent in cabs? I sure hope so, because Germany, if you’re reading this, that’s how we do things in America.
The actual night of our leaving came a few days later. Our last meal was at the Times Square McDonalds, which, just for thematic unity has, has as its dining area centerpiece, scale models of all of Manhattan’s great buildings, the Twin Towers included. James ate with us and I was feeling a little more than despondent. Somehow, James had decided that this was a good idea, Daniel and I leaving New York and that just made it worse. So rushed and so worried and so soberly drunk on the unknown, Daniel, Downy, you and I passed out on the Aerobed not moments after getting back. Surrounded by air and feathers, fur and flesh I did not once think of the dawn.
Read more! (in beta) 11.29.2002
Happy Birthday Jacques Barzun!
Born in France in 1907, Jacques Barzun is one of our civilization's last true gentlemanly scholars. He has been a champion of broad liberal education and his teaching methods and writings have influenced the way Western Civilization has been taught for more than fifty years. For years a fixture at Columbia University, Barzun fought against academic pedantry and demanded of his students and colleagues clarity and honesty in their work and created one of the most useful writing guides ever written, Simple and Direct, which has become a must-have for any writer.
Author of over sixty books, including classics like Race: A Study in Modern Superstition (1937), Darwin, Marx, Wagner (1941), Romanticism and the Modern Ego (1945), The Teacher in America (1945), The House of Intellect (1959), Classic, Romantic, and Modern (1961), Science: The Glorious Entertainment (1964), The American University (1968), Berlioz and the Romantic Century (3d ed. 1969), The Use and Abuse of Art (1974), and Begin Here: The Forgotten Conditions of Teaching and Learning (1991).
His latest work, From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Years of Western Cultural Life, 1500 to the Present, has become an instant classic and possibly the only 800+ page history book to become a bestseller.
He is, in short- one of The Greats. His works are not only informative and illuminating, but witty and a joy to read. He fights against boredom and his works have become indispensable for anyone seeking to know about their world.
Today Mssr. Barzun turns 95. Those wishing to wish him a Happy Birthday may do so here.
Read more! (in beta) japhy unplugged :@ celtics game with the old man. Basketball is better with beer
Read more! (in beta) japhy unplugged : mexican in cambridge. Im in cambridge. Not in cambridge together. Feels weird.
Read more! (in beta) 11.28.2002
Buy Japhy!
Hurrah! It's the busiest shopping day of the year and I'm getting in on the act! Check out my store where I'm hawking some things based on my digital photography work. Save yourself from the mall crowds and buy a Japhy product for every member of your family!
Read more! (in beta) 11.27.2002
A Thanksgiving Grace
Dear Heavenly Father/Lord/Osiris Master of the Underworld
We are gathered here today
loudmouth uncles and cuckolded wives
(Sorry Bernice!)
ratty children who we adore when they're at day care
and bitter brooding teens who are probably stoned off their right now
Alcoholics all
to celebrate this union of blood ('cept for Danny- the bastard boy)
in hopes that none will be shed before the pies are brought out.
We ask you most divine Creator
to look down on this gathering
and not smote a certain someone who shall remain nameless for
not paying back the loan I gave him. Five Years Ago.
and also we ask
that you find it in your Will
to show us the way to drive home with a blood alcohol level that is off the scale
for as a wise man once said,
"He who stays the night with the relatives is doomed to hear a years worth of gossip over Bloody Mary's come morning"
We ask for this and for Margot to stop taking those damn pictures when I'm talking
in your name
Till we do this again next year.
Amen
Now- I do this all in jest. Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday and my family is uber-cool. Rockstars all of them. And not to appear like a total misanthrope:
Things I am Thankful For
(the short list)
- My Mom and my Dad. Our relationship has never been better and they have become a real source of strength for me.
-The opportunity to return to school.
-My friends: especially Jill, Chris, Kevin, Ray, Jar Jar and of course, The Mexican.
-My brother. Like buttah he is. Only in a non-greasy, non-dairy way.
-The people who make Silk, the soymilk. I can enjoy something that approximates the taste of milk now without experiencing intestinal pain.
-My girlfriend, Ms. Janet Jackson.
-I'm even thankful for Andy Hicks, who has been such a good sport.
-My blogger friends, who encourage me to write and inspire me to write better.
-My laundry lady. She's always so happy when I bring my laundry to be washed.
-Nina Simone for singing "Oooh Child...Things are Gonna Get Easier"
-New York City for building me up and tearing me down and building me up again. It's refreshing and maddening all at once.
-The Oompah Loompah's- for bringing me joy as a child and for their endless jihad against bratty children
-My Nana, who really is something else. We're just not sure entirely what that is.
-And of course, you Faithful Reader. More than you'll ever know.
Read more! (in beta) japhy unplugged : in a cab to laguardia cabbie is charging me 50 and thats after i talked him down and called him a theif!
Read more! (in beta) Always good for a little fun, here's the Color Quiz to shed light on the inner depths of your soul through pretty blocks of orange and blue.
And for those interested in the inner depths of my soul- here are Japhy's results:
Your Existing Situation
Sensitive; needs esthetic surroundings, or an equally sensitive and understanding partner with whom to share a warm intimacy.
Your Stress Sources
Has an unsatisfied need to ally himself with others whose standards are as high as his own, and to stand out from the herd. This desire for preeminence isolates him and inhibits his readiness to give himself freely. While he wants to surrender and let himself go, he regards this as a weakness which must be resisted. This self-restraint, he feels, will lift him above the rank and file and ensure recognition as a unique and distinctive personality.
Your Restrained Characteristics
The situation is preventing him from establishing himself, but he feels he must make the best of things as they are.
Wants to broaden his fields of activity and insists that his hopes and ideas are realistic. Distressed by the fear that he may be prevented from doing what he wants; needs both peaceful conditions and quiet reassurance to restore his confidence.
Your Desired Objective
Feels the situation is hopeless. Strongly resists things which he finds disagreeable. Tries to shield himself from anything which might irritate him or make him feel more depressed.
Your Actual Problem
The need for esteem--for the chance to play some outstanding part and make a name for himself--has become imperative. He reacts by insisting on being the center of attention, and refuses to play an impersonal or minor role.
I'm sure you are as shocked as I am. Neat, right? Just saved me $100 dollar trip to the therapist!
Read more! (in beta) 11.26.2002
I am Love's Bitch
God-awful Byron-esque poetry for this- what has been for those I draw close to me, a season of heartbreak.
Are you thinking about me right now?
Are you planning never to speak to me again?
In the morning, do you notice the absence of my body by your side?
How staccato does your pulse get when you think of that night when we rode the elevators of the Marriott and saw the world descend and rise again beneath our feet?
Do you even remember that time? And by remembrance I don't mean facts but spirit- for memory is stronger than
history.
Are you awake now, as I am, afraid to dream of what we once were?
Do you still keep a secret hope in some box in your unknowable heart that is crying out for "us"?
It would have been our millionth year anniversary almost today,
and still I do not know you-
but still you draw me to know.
I have in this foul season of tedious days been rubbing at my calluses
to reveal the raw pink tenderloin skin underneath,
all so that I might feel your touch.
Read more! (in beta) A Japhy epigram:
Love: It will add life to your years
and bags to your eyes
For a season of fallen tears
is short payment for a lifetime-lasting moments' suprise.
Read more! (in beta) 11.25.2002
Let's Get Racy!
The Race Card's Back- In the Wake of Political Correctness, A New Dialogue Emerges...yo!
The most honest and engaging debate about race in America is being waged not on the floor of the Senate or at a Harvard colloquium, but at Blackpeopleloveus.com. The site, claiming to be the creation of two lily white WASPS named Johnny and Sally opens up boldly proclaiming, "Black People Love Us!" Highlights include quotes from Sally and Johnny's Black friends ("Sally's always saying: "You go girl!" while "raising the roof" to mainstream hip-hop tracks at cheesy bars. That's fun! I relate to that.") and photos of Sally and Johnny clearly losing a game of Hangman where their Black friends have given them the clue, "R _ C I S M". However, the satirical nature of the site is not what makes it so enthralling. It's the comments people who visit the site have made that make this site such a success:
"If I saw you people on the street, I'd run you over with my truck"
"I imagine this site began from the idea of a mixed-race group of individuals. If it is not, I hope its creators, who pose the pro/antagonists as white people, recognize the implications of doing so, and do not seek to reinforce racial hierarchies of language and debate inherent in our social and academic worlds."
"that $hit was hilarious, if people don't get it, fcuk em! sincerely, a big fat black chik who enjoys surfing and skydiving"
"Everyone is laughing at the site. I know it is a joke, but there are actually some people out there who don't believe that it is. Please confirm that it is for me so that I can tell these people!"
Blackpeopleloveus.com goes beyond the SNL parodies and Chris Rock jabs to create a snapshot of how race is perceived in America today. Political correctness has been exposed for what it always was, a whitewashing of racism and stereotypes that served only to assuage white guilt, and in its place a new conversation has begun, often heated, never correct, but involving all colors and views.
It's okay to talk about race again.
Recently released from the now defunct hip-hop magazine, Ego Trip's Big Book of Racism, is an in-your-face tour guide through the many ghetto's and mansions that make up American race culture. Catch a showdown between The Beatles White Album and Prince's Black Rain. Find out who is more Latina, Cameron Diaz or Christina Aguilera, based on such criteria as "size of booty" and "likelihood she'll whip out some crazy nasty Spanish sh-t on you". Ego Trip seems primed to offend, but the effect is actually disarming. In one section there is a proclamation of "Things We Can and Not Forgive White People For". It forgives, "Enslaving our people for centuries while denying us the right to even have our own names" while not forgiving "SUV's". The Big Book of Racism packs just about everything- and everyone into its pages.
Perhaps if we can laugh at ourselves, it finally means we can recognize ourselves as well.
* special thanks goes to Jimmy Dunlop for pointing out the site to me
From Amazon.com:
Read more! (in beta) 11.24.2002
The Show Does Go On!
The Westford Academy Drama Club Seniors of the Class of 1997 as South Park characters. Created by yours truly with a little help from The South Park Character Creator. Can you guess which one is Japhy?
Should you happen to be in the Westford Massachusettes area today, this is the final day for you to catch the current Westford Academy Drama Club's production of Godspell. I, unfortunately, can not make it and unfortunately won't be able to write a review of what will surely be a stirring production. Here are some pictures of the students rehearsing the play. I do not know any of them, but like me, I'm sure if you've ever been in any high school drama club, you will recognize them. Scrolling throught the photos you will know at a glance the Pretty-Young-Thing-Who-Is-Sensitive-But-Knows-She-Has-Talent, the Guy-on-a-Sports-Team-But-Is-Acting-In-A-Musical-Because-He's-Dating-The-Pretty-Young-Thing, the Big-Girl-And-I-Mean-Big-Girl-Who-Is-So-Happy-To-Be-Singing-Her-Heart-Out and of course The-Gay-Boy-Who-All-The-Girls-Love.
I always liked drama club. It was fun and awfully moody and I suppose that's what it is supposed to be. It's not real theatre training at all, but it is real life training; not only teaching you to be part of a team in a different way then Varsity Football ever could, but also preparing you for the incredible ups and downs that inevitably come when you're the kind of person who likes to sing The Little Mermaid's 'A Part of That World' with their friends while dressing up in silly costumes.
So- here's to you good ole' Westford Academy Players: Break a leg!Read more! (in beta) 11.22.2002
japhy unplugged : in a cab going to 1984 saw punch drunk love still hate adam sandler
Read more! (in beta) 11.20.2002
Fun aside: You all know how much I loathe and detest the incouragable Andy Hicks.
(Recent IM conversation- paraphrased from memory)
Andy: Whatchya doin'?
Japhy: Drinking soymilk.
Andy: Decided to go vegan?
Japhy: Nope. Lactose intolerant.
Andy: Well, I guess that's the trendy thing to do in the Big City.
Japhy: Be lactose intolerant?
Andy: Yup.
(pause)
Andy: I'm licorice intolerant.
Well, I'm biased. Here's an account by a former bandmate of Andy about the rise and fall of their indie heart-rock band Soma. It presents a softer side to Andy, which I am unable to provide, him being my former high school rival and all. If you don't give two cents about my rivalry with Andy (which I understand), you still may want to read the article, if only to get a sense of how grandiloquent garage band musicians can get about their work. The Beatles never had it as bad.
Read more! (in beta) AWWW NUTS!
I was on the subway this morning and saw the cover of the Daily News. There was Michael Jackson holding his baby over a metal hotel railing, above him, in giant white type, was the headline: "WACKO!" I laughed out loud, as I often do when presented with a metro New York paper and went back to reading my subway book of the week, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, by Michael Chabon. Walking to class I remembered how, when I was a little kid, I would love it when at Thanksgiving, my older cousin would pick me up and throw me in the air, sometimes narrowly missing the ceiling fan. My brother and I would beg him to do toss us around or swing us in a circle, while he spun around in place. Up I would go like a discus ready for flight and the terror I'd be let go and sail out the window was half the fun.
So, I kind of got what Michael was doing. It was either that or he was reinacting that scene from Roots, still upset that Levar Burton beat him out for the part of Kunta Kinte. Unfortunately, Michael being Michael, a little harmless kid tossing isn't going to go over too lightly. The story has made the front pages of many major newspapers and you know what that means-
As I write this, Jay Leno's crack comedy writing staff is coming up with some snappy one liners, Letterman is perfecting his 'Top 10 Things Michael Jackson's Son is Going to Blame His Dad For When He Grows Up' (#6: Hiding my face till I was 16 so people wouldn't know I am blacker than you) and Jackson's people (ie: Liz Taylor) are setting up the Very Special Baraba Walters Interview with Michael (CLIP: Michael dangles baby over railing. CUT TO: The Interview. Michael is bathed in soft gauzy light. Barbara: It must be so hard sometimes. Michael: I love my son. I really do.)
Yes- Michael is weird. Whether riding down Madison Ave with Al Sharpton in tow acusing Sony of being racist or accepting an MTV Artist of the Millenium Award that didn't really exist, Michael never fails to do the socially inept thing. It's as if he's replaced the microphone in front of his mouth with his foot. Still, I expect more from our Schlock Media journalists. Michael is just too easy a target. Here are my suggestions for new holders of the AMERICA'S FAVORITE WHIPPING BOY/GIRL post.
1. Mayor Mike Bloomberg
Pros: Public figure. Can never live up to predecessor. Rich. Eccentric. Rides the Subway. Hates Smokers
Cons: Not in the media much. Republican (those guys could stab Daschle to pieces on the Senate Floor and the Democrats STILL wouldn't go and vote them out of office) Folksy charm exuded by asking to be called 'Mike'. Old White Dude.
Sample Headline: MIKE HIKE! Healthnut Wackjob Mayor proposes banning cars in NYC. Invests 5 mil in new campaign to "Make them walk to work!"
2.Jerry Springer
Pros: Is already associated with scum. Has political ambitions. Prospect of Jerry being a guest on 'Jerry'.
Cons: Unlikely to top his guests depravity. Gets 5 minutes at the end of every episode to justify himself. Old White Dude.
Sample Headline: JERRY'S CHERRIES!: Springer caught in love nest menage-a-trois with 500 pound "diaper lady", Klu Klux Klan Grand Wizard and Steve, the Security Guy!
3.Macy Gray
Pros: Says thing like, "I oppose abortion like a sexy halter top on a funky mushroom groove and I'd like to punch Mariah Carey!". Is Black (see Michael). Is a woman (see Winona). Will have new album out soon. Her hair.
Cons: Macy Who?
Sample Headline: MACY EATS CHILDREN ALIVE AND WEARS THEIR ENTRAILS AS LOVE BEADS!
4.Prince Michael Jackson II
Pros: Only nine months old, still has lifetime of youthful indiscretion, scandal and the pain of living in his father's shadow to look forward to. Like all Jacksons, covers his face with a funny veil while in public. Interchangeable with older brother Prince Michael I. Public thirst for biracial eccentric multi-billionaires to make fun of will never be satiated.
Cons: None in the conceivable universe.
Sample Headline: WACKO! Part Deux!
Read more! (in beta) 11.19.2002
Well- I got MOST everything fixed, but Blogspot is still doing some weird things. If we all pretend that the Archive button looks normal and works, everything should be 5 by 5 again in no time. The Powers That Be have yet to explain why this is happening, but hopefully there will be a soloution soon.
Till then- access the Archives here.
Read more! (in beta) Everything's Coming Up Iambic Pentameter!
Why Poetry is The Next Big Thing (again)
Walk past the Longacre Theatre on 48th Street these days and you're more likely to hear freestyle hip-hop poetry than you are chirpy ballads sung by smiling chorus boys and girls. With the Broadway arrival of Russell Simmons Def Poetry Jam, based on the popular HBO television specials of the same name, the hip-hop inspired world of poetry slams has finally grown up. While slams, which have been a mainstay of institutions like the Nuyorican for years and is established enough a form to have its own national association, Russell Simmons' Broadway effort looks to expand that audience beyond the downtown scene.
And he's not alone.
Today, Ruth Lily, the last surving heir of the Eli Lily fortune, bequeathed $100 million to Poetry Magazine, turning an institution that's run its ofice out of a library that donates the space into the single largest poetry institution in the world. Amusingly, Ms. Lily has submitted many poems to the magazine,all of which were rejected. What this means for the poetry world-at-large is as of yet, unknown, but what is certain is that for the perennially poor form, this isn't winning the lottery; this is winning the stock market- four years ago, that is.
Americans everywhere seem to be taking a renewed interest in all things poetic. Poet Laureate, Billy Collins seemed to strike a national chord when he presented his poem to the World Trade Center earlier this year and it seems increasingly that the country is turning to the poetic form to gain some solace and insight into the new world we've been presented with. In the words of poet Lucille Clifton, "Poetry is a matter of life, not just a matter of language."
Read more! (in beta) 11.18.2002
Japhyjunket is in diapers!
I've been a-writin' and researching web stuff for the past couple hours. There are so many great blogs out there, from classics like derek m powazek's: 7 images, which fits with my desire to have my blog be a content-site available to a mass audience, to the bare bones, but highly focused satirical blog antics of The New York City Anti-Hipster Forum. Then there's the Bradlands (apparantley, Missouri), which combines some pretty decent freelance writing with lots of entertaining personal anecdotes. What's a blogger to do? I promise not to geek out on all of you and talk about the finer points of RSS, SOAP and java classes, but suffice it to say, big things are afoot.
And here's what I've been listening to while planning the future of Japhjunket:
Stevie Wonder - Love's In Need Of Love Today
The Vines - miss jackson
Duncan Sheik - Sad Stephen's Song
Beck - Already Dead
Peter Gabriel - The Barry Williams show (single edit)
Beatles - Hey Jude
Adam Pascal and Mandy Moore - Suddenly Seymour
lang, k.d. - The consequences of falling
Patsy Cline - Walkin' After Midnight
Craig Armstrong - Wake Up In New York
Maria Bethania e Gal Costa - Sonho Meu
Bikini Kill - Feels Blind
Elvis Presley - Don't
Beatles - Something
Sinéad O'Connor - I Am Stretched on Your Grave
(brought to you by a crappy WinAmp plug-in that requires a real web host to work correctly)
Read more! (in beta) Comment like it's 2001 kids! Yup, Japhyjunket is trying out the ye olde commenting feature. Comment away.
Read more! (in beta) 11.17.2002
Good news: Following in the footsteps of many other bloggers, I will once again have my own domain name soon. This also means that my site will once again include photos, writing and other warm fuzzies.
Read more! (in beta) The Talk of the Town: Fiammi
*apologies to the New Yorker and Lillian Ross for cribbing their style.
We stood in the kitchen parlor, at this point frosted with leftover snacks and empty wine bottles talking to our friends Betsy and Daryl, who were discussing the finer points of Pennsylvanian pickle-dropping rituals. Daryl, who has only been in the city for a few months after growing sick of reporting for Small Town U.S.A. Weekly showed genuine interest in the crowds overall view on Manhattan living.
"You see, at first New York makes you feel more you then you've ever felt before and it draws out all the emotions and passions you've always you wanted to reveal. Then it stabs those passions and emotions into tiny tiny pieces."
"And don't forget about how it makes you fall in love with unavailable people! Like professers! Or bald people!"
Daryl, for his part, just sipped contentedly on his as-of-yet-unamed drink invention, a combination of gin and cherry 7-Up. We're suprised to see someone grabbing at our belt and pulling us away from the conversation. Turns out, it's Fiona, one half of the lovely duo that's hosting tonight's fête. "That's a great belt you've got there, but some of the rivets are missing!", she says. Too much in the spirit of things to be embarrased by our Bohemian squalor we explain that the belt is not in fact ours, but stolen from one of our old roomates. It's at this point we realize that we may not be really talking to Fiona at all, that we have no idea who we're talking to, but they're saying something nice about us and point out how some of the guests have stolen the cheesey rotating party lamp and brought it into the bedroom to manufacture a homemade dance party. The current playlist seems to involve lots of New Order and the dance style can only be described as "enthusiastic jumping in place".
Jen pulled us aside, sporting a very fetching hat and we chatted for a while on a zebra striped bean bag chair.
Earlier in the evening we are accosted by another friend of ours, Kevin, who bravely fought the monsoon-like rain outside to come to Fiammi, dressed in an upbeat pastel floral print to fight off the dreariness outside. He has brought with him a small object of curiosity for our entertainment; a copy of Teen People Magazine with an article about a gay blind-date involving a former mutual acquaintance of many of the guests named Will. "You see here, he describes himself not only as friendly and having a good sense of humour, but he calls himself charming as well!", one of us notes. Betsy turns to another guest and says, "Didn't you used to be in love with Will?" "God, no!", the guest exclaims, going on to say, "We played Nintendo 64 Games and then he sort of dissapeared. After he came out, he came up to me and tweaked my nipple once at a Mexican resteraunt, but that was it!" Later, the guest was heard admonishing Betsy, "I'm here with a friend who didn't know that I'm gay!" Kevin interuppted and said, gesturing expansively, "I don't know- your friend didn't look like he was deaf, dumb AND blind", before pouring another glass of wine for the only slightly perturbed guest.
We were introduced to Laura briefly, whose blog is filled with interesting things.
Someone asked what a blog was and most of us admirably stifled the laughter, though Daryl insists that his site is an 'online journal'.
As the night drew towards a close, we found ourselves in the coat room bidding people good-bye with host Sammi, who was still in disbelief that her co-host had left her own party to go to another party. It was generally agreed that the party had been a success in that everyone left unsure of whether they would get home or not and that no EMT's were needed. Betsy came in and we made plans to visit Boston to see the sights in the near future and we all reveled in the minor celebrity we had achieved through our blogs.
Read more! (in beta) 11.15.2002
TV with Something at Stake
In praise of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"
I will never forgive my friend Kevin for turning me on to stake-in-the-heart drama "Buffy: The Vampire Slayer". If you haven't already been introduced to the many pleasures of Buffy, it may be too late, as this season may very well be its last, and is almost certainly the final departure for lead actress, Sarah Michelle Gellar. I'm going to assume some familiarity with the show, since recapping the last six seasons would involve far too many vampires, coming-of-age parables (insecure nerd becomes witch becomes lesbian becomes self-righteous authority abuser becomes drug addict becomes unsteady rehab victim and in the wake of her girlfriend being shot, becomes all-powerful force of vengance that rips the skin off her girlfriend's murderer and then tries to end the world so nobody will ever have to feel pain again) to recount here. Suffice it to say that after a year of watching the show, I've finally come around to seeing that Buffy is the best show on television. Ever.
The episode that finally pushed me over the edge was this week's "Conversations with Dead People". Buffy spent most of last season trying to find a reason to live again after having been pulled out of heaven by her well-meaning friends (affectionately reffered to by fans as 'The Scooby Gang'..'cuz ya know- they fight monsters and stuff). In fact, for Buffy, her friends and family have always been the thing to keep her grounded, for better or worse. Last year, around this time, a demon came to town that made everyone burst out into songs that revelead their secrets (The Emmy nominated "Once More, With Feeling). Buffy only defeated the demon with the help of her frends, but in the aftermath of so many secrets revealed, the seeds were sown for each of them to wind up alone. This week, we finally see that they are, literally. Each of our major characters spend the entire episode alone, conversing with the dead (Spike, a vampire and already dead, seems to be chatting with a still living woman at a bar- at least that's what we can guess, because we don't hear this conversation, and Spike has a soul now, and there's a good possibility that the Spike we see is not Spike at all. Do you see this much ambiguity on The West Wing? Alyson Janney eat your heart out. Or let Spike do it for you. Oops. I just gave out a spoiler!)
In any event- each of the dead people the characters talk to reveals the source of the character's isolation: Oft-neglected lil' sis' Dawn appears to fight off a demon to speak with her deceased Mother (who died, not by demon or vamp, but brain cancer- in the jaw-on-the-floor powerful episode 'The Body'), Willow (the lesbian witch I mentioned earlier) speaks through a recently dead guest star to her now dead girlfriend (the reason we don't see the girlfriend herself is becuase the actress playing her wanted more money, however it is explained away as, "You can't see her. You killed. You don't get to see her. That's just the way things are.") and Buffy, well- she gets her head examined by one of her former classmates-turned psych student-turned member of the demonic vampire undead.
While I know this may seem oh-so-very-post-modern to the casual viewer, it is in fact, the opposite. "Buffy" does what all great drama aspires to do, tell stories of universal importance in a highly specific and unique way. "Buffy's" original premise- that high school really is hell, has matured with its major characters, who are all now in their twenties. The moral universe of Buffy is a murky one at best, with characters constantly choosing the wrong path, inadvertantely hurting each other (Buffy's friends bring her back from the dead- thinking she was in hell, but in fact, they ripped her out of heaven) and above all, trying to find a reason to live life with joy when life is lived among the monsters and the dead.
For more anaylsis and critique of all things Buffy, check out Slayage, the Online International Journal of Buffy Studies.
Read more! (in beta) 11.13.2002
Run for Your Lives!
Run, run- it's awful! I'm without a floppy disk and am using my blog to save poetry. Yes, poetry I've written. Best to run screaming from the house right now. I'm no longer going to apologize for being an iconsistent blogger. I've been busy writing the past few weeks and while I do hope to eventually post it for y'all, I'm not ready to just yet. But here- have some poetry. It'll probably taste like burning.
In five nights of
Broken-morning taxi rides
I’ve found
Six crackle-drum maraca
Water bottles
Seven denim-bound thighs
Drunkenly heaving themselves
Upon themselves in stupor’d
Tectonic motions
(one pair, my own, fallen half-asleep, I did not fully feel)
When they uncover my body
I hope they find every bunion, mark, freckle and zit
Covered over in harlot-arched red wax marks.
*phew*. All done. Don't have an eyewash fountain nearby? Wash the pain out by reading some poetry by a real poet, my dear professer Richard Loranger, who is entirely unaware just what a bad influence on me he is. (inciting me to write poetry, that is- naughty naughty reader). See him (along with Bob Homan and Christopher Grosso) next Thursday (Nov. 21) at St. Joseph's College Council for the Arts (245 Clinton Ave., Brooklyn, NY) as part of Poetry Unleashed: Bob Holman* Live. It's free and it's at 7pm. More info available at www.sjcny.edu or 718/783.0374
Read more! (in beta) 11.09.2002
It seems that Far From Heaven is only out in New York right now, so all you readers outside the city will either have to schlep into the city to see it or wait till the national release next week. I would reccomend the schlepping to New York. This is by far the best film of the year and certainly one of the best films I've seen in a long time.
The movie, as you may know, takes its cue from 50's melodramas, but transcends them in ways unimaginable. Gloriously shot and brilliantly acted all around, Todd Haynes has created a film that stirs both the heart and mind. Julianne Moore's picture perfect housewife, who is forced to find a way to keep her spirit and warm humanity alive when everything she has built her life on falls apart is one of the most fascinating, endearing and passionate performances seen on the silver screen. Dennis Quaid, who plays Moore's husband is a knockout as a man completely lost to himself-- and who's understandable need to discover his identity destroys those around him, despite his raging desire not to.
This is a movie that slyly suggests that a world in which we supress our desires is a world more richly lived. There are so many wonderful moments in this film. It's soul beats like a heart trapped in a steel shell, bruising itself with every life-giving beat. Ironic self-awareness may have died in the past year or so, Far From Heaven nails the coffin shut and frees us all once again to feel, to love, to live.
Read more! (in beta) 11.08.2002
Go see Far From Heaven today. Just do it. I love Todd Haynes. I love Douglas Sirk (and I'll beat you if you laugh at me for it) I also love Julianne Moore. I will love this film and you will too. I'm so excited!
Read more! (in beta) 11.06.2002
When I blog, I get wet.
Yee haw all, I's back! I know I dissapreared for far longer than I said I would, but there's good reasons! Honest! First, as I said- I moved. I will tell you all about my amazing neighborhood in the coming weeks. Moving is rough. Apparantley, next to dying, it's the most stressful thing you can do. So says The Mexican. Then, I got sick. Oh, I don't get sick often, but when I do- look out! I cry, I whimper and never do I just get sick in one way. No- every last part of my body wants in on it. As soon as the cough dissapears, I get laryngitis! When I can talk again it's because I now have a fever. So it goes.
Also, as some of you may have observed, it was Halloween. Which, for New Yorkers, is what Christmas is to everyone else. I was a Victorian Ocultist this year. I was then a drunk, smoking heavily Victorian Ocultist. Then I was just plain sick again.
And oh yeah- been looking for a job and going to school at The Most Beautiful Campus in America.
Which all goes why to explain, I haven't written- and I don't have anything to put up right now. Soon, I promise- I will fill you with tales of hot wet nasty bunnyhops up by the Old Lake, but all things come to those who wait. As an alternative, I reccomend www.daryllang.com Daryl's site is one of the best designed personal sites I have ever seen. It's clear concise and puts this site to shame.*
Daryl was part of my tiny elementery school gang back in Maryland. He now lives in Brooklyn and writes for Martha Stewart. He claims it's a good thing. Tommorow, we meet up for dinner. I'm looking forward to awkwardly catching up on the past decade or so! He writes really well and manages to avoid the pitfalls that blogging tempt lesser writers into. I won't name names, but you know who you are.
I'll be blogging again soon- I have my cable modem up at the new pad!
As an aside of sorts, a lot of you are artists of some irk or aspire to be (though I take issue with that, since nobody "hires" you to be an artist) and lately I've been getting to the place where I suddenly realize how I am just beginning. Up until now, I've been frustrated with a lack of instant fame or berating myself for not working enough, essentially caught up in the business of being an artist. Now, I'm twenty-three, and finally am at the point where I am no longer being someone else's artist, but being my own and I'm shocked by what an infant I am.
For instance, in my Sexy Victorian Poetry-Superstars Class (yes, that's what shows up on the transcript) we're reading Tenneyson's "In Memoriam A.H.H.", which is this really long poem about the loss of Tenneyson's close friend. He writes about memory and anniversarry's and the sorrow of no longer being sorrowful about his friend's death. I, as faithful japhyjunket readers know, recently took a stab at the elegaic poem and I've just re-read it having read Tenneyson and am invigorated. How is it that Tenneyson is able to more powerfully speak to the nature of loss and mourning about a man who, to me has been dead for two-hundred years, then I was able to speak of the fresh-hewn memory of those who I saw fall from the World Trade Center little more than a year ago? Makes me want to be a better writer.
Not sure whether I have a point or not- other than, do not judge yourself for today. Judge yourself by the ages.
PS- Apologies for the totally misleading title. It's amazing, no? Unfortunately, I really don't get wet when I blog. I do, however, get wet, but I'll leave it to you to figure out when.
*- As I've noted previously, japhyjunket is, and has always intended to be, an interim website. For those interested in such things- there will be a new website, it's being worked on now and yes, there will be dancing girls.
Read more! (in beta) 10.21.2002
Gone Fishing
Note: Japhyjunket will remain closed through this week. Partly because I have just moved into new digs and am surrounded by IKEA that demands assembling. Also, I am rethinking japhyjunket a bit and trying to decide on a more focused direction for it to take. I'd like to thank Mr. P. and Mr. B. for all their help this weekend. Moving, according to Mr. B.'s sources is, next to death, the most stressfull thing a person can endure. Thanks to these fine lads, my move was quite a bit less stressful. Expect a housewarming party soon!
Read more! (in beta) 10.16.2002
Did I mention what a terrible blogger I am?
Alright folks, I have a ton of stuff to post, BUT, I'm in the process of moving. I just got the keys yesterday and will be busy busy busy through the next week or so. Until then, no bloggie. I promise I will make it up to you with a fantastic road-trip adventure story, due on the blog before Haloween, but until then, here's a little snackie to tide you over. Yes, that's right! It's The Japhy Quiz!
Till then: Gone Fishing.
Read more! (in beta) 10.02.2002
I am a terrible blogger.
After this past weekend's fantastic Murakami-Fest, I've had multiple opportunities to plug the fantastic blogs of the people I met, but did I? Nooooo. Why? Because I am a terrible blogger. I shall make up for it now.
Three Blogs of note:
Daniel-San: Daniel is at Harvard, so we know he's smart. He also has Jay Rubin, Murakami translator as a professer. If you think synthesizing ancient Japanese literature and modern day blogging is cool, you'll love Daniel's site. It's also pretty damn cool if you like hit Fox show 24, as well.
Betsy-San: Betsy is great. First off, she has a great name. We all agree that Betsy is a great name, right? Her blog's signature feature is a review of New York's tea houses. Betsy is geeky about tea the way 14 year old boys are geeky about Dragonball Z. Besty needs to invite me out to tea again soon.
Jen-San: You know Jen as "The-Girl-Who's-Name-I-Forget-But-Reminds-Me-of-An-Old-Friend-Named-Celena". Her blog is the most blog like of the three here, actuaklly detailing the day by day stuff she does. Fortunately for you, her life is mui interesting. She goes to screenings, she likes Beck, Alan Cumming and goes to lectures by The Nation correspondents. She is also just completely amazed by green tea. Don't believe me? Look at the Murakami pictures below.
Read more! (in beta) 9.30.2002
China Loves Japhy!
As many of you already know, China has recently upped it's net censoring measures, blocking Chinese citizens from thousands of sites across the net. Not only is it the dissident website critical of China's regime that's being blocked, major sites like Google and AltaVista are persona non grata if you try to access them from inside the Red giant.
None of this matters, however- since it appears that Japhyjunket is in the clear. Perhaps the censors love my hard-hitting theatre reviews or have laughed at one of my charming roman-a-clef's about my family, perhaps it's because they know the Chinese people have come to depend on me to provide them their daily (mostly) dose of Japhyness. Whatever it is, it's definitely not because only like, three people read this blog, and I am honored that the Chinese government has found my blog worthy.
To celebrate this glorious turn of events, I've composed some brief words:
Jiang Zemin
when will your people be free?
What Dynasty are you waiting for
to teach you that
shooting your people
arresting the Falun Gong
is no way to Enlightenment?
If you'd like to see if your site is being blocked by China, click here.
Read more! (in beta) Haruki's Wild New York Adventure
This past Saturday it happened. Haruki Murikami, author of The Wind up Bird Chronicle and Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World was due to arrive at the Union Square Barnes & Noble, to sign copies of his new book, After the Quake. It was there we met. Betsy and I were both NYU Dramatic Writing ex-pats. We bonded over blogging and web design and of course, Haruki. Say his name. Haaaaaruuuki. So very pretty. Like Betsy's ears.
We were joined by Sammy, The-Girl-Who's-Name-I-Forget-But-Reminds-Me-of-An-Old-Friend-Named-Celena, and Daniel, who had taken a bus from Harvard just for this occasion.
Haruki signed and signed so fast that the security gaurds, who had kept telling us we would not get our books signed looked upset. Haruki's female companions kept things moving, stamping each book with an original stamp of some design. But we were not to be satisfied.
We grabbed Haruki (he's quite small) and told him that he was coming with us for tea. He protested! We told him we would take him drinking afterwards and he relented. We stole the Trendy German-Made Cutesy Promo Car parked out front and made our way to a tea house where we stole all the teapots and the cute punky Japanese waitress who tried to serve us.
They're in the closet now: Haruki, looking sad, the waitress and the the tea.
Haruki occasionally asks for spaghetti or he'll turn to the waitress and compliment her ears.
Soon we will have tea. Soon we will.
 
btw- I'd just like to point out, that it's been almost 9 months since Japhyjunket came into this world and this is the FIRST time a picture of Yours Truly has appeared. I am so not vain. But I do look cute, no? :-)Read more! (in beta)
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