My Dream JunkYard

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I was having a conversation the other day with my mother, of all people, and we were talking about the influence of gangster rap music on impressionable youth, of all topics, and my thought on the subject was that I didn’t have a problem with gangster rap itself (even though the music tends to be quite uninventive and the rhyme something a fourth grader could come up with…okay, maybe I do have a problem with rap itself) but had an issue with it’s credibility.  For instance, Snoop Dogg rapped (and made millions of dollars) about The Life, how he was jumped into gang life and he’d shoot dudes and bang a mess of girls and drank forties and smoked all the pot he wanted, yet Snoop wasn’t a gangster, was in fact married with kids and yes he smoked some dope but he was clear-headed enough, motivated enough, to navigate the complex, difficult music industry and get paid.  So, my issue with rap music (besides the music and the lyrics) is it’s a farce, analogous to professional wrestling being a sport.

This is not a new concept, I realize.  In the 80’s the “rock star” lifestyle was romanticized as well.  Rockers used the concept of excess to draw crowds to their shows, sell tapes, and paraphernalia.

My problem with this is similar to my issue with Facebook, I guess.  All of these things allow you to see a life that you do not have, that you’ll never have, that you may have dreamed about ever since you were a kid.  How can you be happy with where you are when the alternative is thrust in your face?

Maybe some people can disappear into these worlds and seamlessly transition back into their meager existence without much heartache.  Maybe others don’t look at their lives as meager in comparison, they are fine with where they are and what they’re doing.  But this thought process is foreign to me.  By nature, I’m a striver, and I see these glorified worlds and it’s hard for me not to get sucked into the possibility, or rather possibility-lost.  People say life is limitless, but I think we place limits on our lives everyday, and as the years go by more and more chains are added to our arms and legs until eventually we’re not able to move anymore.

Last Sunday I went to an interview at The Art Institute of Chicago with probably my favorite writer Jonathan Lethem, and as I sat in the crowd amongst a thousand admirers staring up at the man who’s written seven books that have received more than their share of critical and public attention, I knew, in my guts, that I wanted to be this man, that that is where I want to be, up on a stage with an interviewer asking my questions about my work and my visions for it, on NPR with Diane Rhehm, signing books at every local Barnes and Nobles.

Reading an article in Sunday’s New York Times Magazine yesterday afternoon about “Precious”, the new movie by Lee Daniels, led to a discussion by Daniels and the interviewer about Daniel’s life.  How he lives in New York, has two kids, and has a bibliography of movies (“Monsters Ball”, “Shadowboxer”, “The Woodsman”, “Precious”) under his belt that would make any filmmaker proud.  Reading this, allowed a light to penetrate me to a place in my body where dreams had gone to die, like one of those junk lots and all the dead cars are all in rows with their innards picked apart by scavengers.

My dream junkyard.

The ill feelings culminated this morning, when I clicked through the pictures of one of my Facebook friends living a bohemian life in one of the world’s greatest cities, I couldn’t stop myself from reflecting that energy back at myself and evaluating where I am and the life I’m living and comparing that to the life I used to lay in the grass under my folk’s elm tree in the backyard and dream about, and realizing how far away I am from any life I wanted.

But we are constantly inundated with other people’s success stories, other peoples dream lives, glorified and romanticized in our music and art, which makes it pretty difficult to be happy in our own lives when they seem so mundane in comparison.

Eh, I guess I can wallow with the best of ‘em.

And keep towing expired dreams to my dream junkyard.

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Published in:  on November 12, 2009 at 5:29 pm Leave a Comment
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Thank You, Uncle Humanity

My last post was really, really, REALLY dark.  I know that.  But true to my heading, I’m a swinging kind of man (not like that, people, as in mood variation).  Sometimes, it’s interesting to drink a bottle of wine, dunk your hands in paint, and splatter a blank canvas, see what comes out.

Let me set the record straight.  I had a great weekend with a great friend of mine.  We drank excellent scotch, ate some delicious food, saw a jazz band play, and went to Butch McGuires in Chicago and made fascinating conversation.  You know, sometimes, Life can really surprise you, and that, my friends, is what makes it worth living.  The chance, the wager, that today, or tomorrow will provide an opportunity for something magical.  And I met some amazing people last night.  A specific person who touched me in a way that forced me to realize there are some amazingly good and kind and decent people out there.  That humans, for all of our failures and inadequacies, can really be good to one another.  It’s a spirited realization.  And to the woman that brought me to this, thank you.

The connections humans can make through communication and chemicals is really an extraordinary phenomenon.  I’m not a great person.  I strive to be, but I can be just as big an a-hole as any number of people out there.  But I desire to do better.  I want to be good.  I want to work at that.

And for the record, the chance encounter last evening wasn’t physical, there was no exchanging of fluids.  It simply was a riveting conversation with a beautiful person.  And it will not amount to more than that, but the memory of that hour will remain with me.  It will serve as a beacon, as a reminder, when I witness some of the depraved things one human can do to another, that there is good in the world.  That there is a reason to be thankful for life.

Last night, I felt the ghost of my long-deceased Uncle hovering around Butch McGuire’s, (a bar that he managed in the 70’s).  I’m the most grounded, least spirit-believing person I know, but I swear I felt my Uncle Richard watching over me, guiding me toward my enlightenment.  I wish I had the chance to meet you Uncle Richard, but since you passed before I was born, I’ve always felt I missed out on having you in my life.  But last night I felt your spirit, and I witnessed the embodiment of your big heart and your love in someone else.  I want to let you know, Uncle Richard, I felt and heard you.  And I love you.  I want to thank you, both of you, for putting this great big smile on my face.

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Published in:  on October 26, 2009 at 5:42 am Leave a Comment
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Oh Fingers, Don’t Let Me Down Now

Listen to this song before, after or during reading this post.  Or don’t.  I don’t give a crap either way.

So, I haven’t been on here in a while.  I know this because I tried to log in several times then had to have the site send me my login and password to my email address then realized that the email attached to this account is in fact my OLD email address so I had to do five tries on login and password with my OLD email address, unsuccessfully, and have the password and login sent to my OLD OLD email address, which I knew I had no clue in remembering the login for that dinosaur post.  Shockingly, I knew that login and password…the name of the girl I lost my virginity to and what she called out when she climaxed.  WICKED PEACHES.

I’m drunk…duh.  Had a brush up with Knob Creek this evening courtesy of my new favorite bartender at Rosie O’Boyles.  Check her out Tuesday nights from 3-11.  She’s gentle, gentlemen.

What the hell are we doing here?  Anyone want to gesture a guess?  Any right wing nazi accusers want to register a guess?  See, ma’am, that’s just mean.  And ironic.  A hoe chasing a hoe chasing a hoe.  FYI.  You are going to die too.  Probably painfully, like most of us.

I know, news flash.  We are all going to die.  So, my question, to Touchdown Jesus, is why are we here?  What are we doing here?  I just want to beat my own face in with a blunt instrument because I can’t wrap my brain around what is the purpose for us being here?  Is it entertainment?  Is God up there sitting on his couch with a bucket full of popcorn (extra butter, extra salt, cause God don’t have to worry ’bout no fatty acids) and a 40-Ounce of Beast (cause God ain’t got no liver) laughing his ass off, watching us fight each other (sorry, HAD to do it again, cause that lady is hellafunny) and cry and scramble around in His maze looking for a bite of cheese; knowing all the damn time…THERE AIN’T NO CHEESE.  Matrix line, anyone.  Maxtrix, please.  Neo?

My name isn’t Neo, it’s Keanu: Dialogue

Thank you, Surfer Boy.  It all makes sense now.

See, we live, we die.  It’s as simple as that.  Those of us who live longer get the wonderful experience of watching those of us we love die, which in some way will define our lives for a short time.  Because the times when we feel the most alive are when we are experiencing love and experiencing death.  The rest, in-between, is non-reactive.

So, is that the big purpose?  Are we really living to accumulate loves, then die, to most impact those we love, thus shaping and changing their lives?  Cause I can’t comprehend a more complex vision.  At some point, our entire world will die, and those of us (or them, because one would hope that the ones alive right now will not get the opportunity to experience the death of our world) around at that time will feel such a sense of euphoria, such a feeling of orgasm of death…well, the rest of us will never feel those tingles on the tips of our fingers.

That’s why we are living?  To experience death.  That’s it?  Sweet.

OMG!!!!!!!!

Eureka!!!!!!!

I figured it out!!!!!

I love Eureka moments!

And, sign me the hell up.  Oh, that’s right.  I’m already here.  Cool.  Talk about being in the right place at the right M-Fing time.  Small pleasures.

So,

kill me then, already, kill me, cause I’m tired of waiting.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  TAke me.  Taje me.  Take me.  Take me TAke me take me take me take me tamt me take me tame me tame me take me tahe me mtake me tame me take me mtame me taje me at ake me takem ektamtatemacme metamtematematem tamek mteametemat tematemtetmeam

Published in:  on September 30, 2009 at 6:05 am Comments (3)
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I Think I Broke My Wishbone

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I talk a lot about choices and decisions in my blog, mainly because I struggle a lot in both areas.  I’m an extremely analytical person, who is prone to spending long hours poring over the details of a decision, stretching out potential ramifications years into the future (if I choose to do this, then my kids will attend private school, and Jakob will get into Harvard while Melanie “Melly” will have a nervous breakdown and end up in a psych ward), which can paralyze the decision-process and leave me standing still.

In the last month a lot of decisions have been made.  I am remaining near my family and friends in Chicago, rather than returning to Arizona where I lived for the past three years.  I am postponing my next attempt to gain entrance into Iowa’s Writer’s Workshop to forage into the family business (Leagues Now Forming!).  How will these decisions affect my life?  I don’t know.  I guess I’ll keep you posted.

I’ve already noticed some not-so-subtle changes in the short term.  For one thing, I’ve discovered what my writing friends with kids and Big Boy Jobs meant when they said, “I don’t have time to write.”  I never understood that until this morning when I woke up at my usual time of six A.M. and felt, well, EXHAUSTED, to say the least.  After spending all day yesterday with friends and family, and being at the bowling center until midnight, I woke up at my usual time of writing vigor…bone-tired.  

This concerns me.  Productivity had always been one of my strengths (I don’t consider myself a writing prodigy, but dammit, I’ll outwork the competition) I’d have days where I’d churn out twenty pages.  I’d go weeks without missing one day of writing.  My goals were 2,000 words a day, and most days, almost always, I’d reach that goal.  But today…today my goal is to write even one page.  I’m trying to focus my mind and I forget where I’m at on my new novel, or which short story I’ve been trying to finish.  This is uncharted territory for me.

And my biggest fear this morning as I sip my coffee and write this blog and listen to my dad telling my dog Roger that it’s okay to bark at dogs walking by on the street outside our house but it’s not okay to bark at passing cars is that the decisions I’ve made in the last month will break my wishbone.  Which is to say, the decisions I’ve made to help my family and allow me to achieve some of the other goals I have in my life (marriage, house, kids–I think Melly will turn out just fine) will ultimately kill all the writing wishes I’ve incubated since fifth grade.  I still feel like I’ve made the “right” decision, and maybe this is a bit of buyer’s remorse which will dissipate once I fall into step with my new routine and find nooks and crannies in time to get my writing done everyday, but as always, with everything I do, and everything I am, the fear is present.

But maybe, for me, that’s how it will always be.

Yet, look here, I’ve managed 527 words and it’s not yet ten o’clock.  Maybe my wishbone is intact after-all.

Published in:  on September 7, 2009 at 2:26 pm Comments (1)
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A Wonderful Monday Morning…Pre-Coffee Even

So, it’s Monday morning again, either the first day of the week or the second (depending on how you categorize that crazy anomaly Sunday), and I’ve spent the morning since six AM sitting on my parent’s veranda watching my two sisters and my mother gather around the coffee maker, each watching each drip of the black liquid drop into the pot, gripping empty coffee mugs with white fingers, greeting my yell, “Is the coffee ready yet?” with menacing stares and mutterings (the ability of humans to verbalize pre-coffee evidently stunted).  All I can think about is how I have nowhere to go.  And I’m in such a great mood, pre-coffee, this morning, this Monday morning, this wonderful Monday morning.

Now, I’m not going to disparage the only ladies in my life.  Truth be told I found their pre-coffee ritual analogous to three dope fiends waiting in the hallway for their dealer the OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!!!!!  But, I can remember the days where an extra large Dunkin Donuts coffee (cream and sugar), and maybe a Red Bull, was not enough to enamor my body to a Monday Work Day.  I remember the days when I’d spend Sunday’s half-comatose on the couch in front of the TV eying the clock progress, dreading the point when I knew I had to go to sleep, and the next second my alarm would roust me for my Monday morning.  Monday’s would seem to last for a month, Tuesday’s were a little better, Wednesday’s I was halfway home, Thursday’s were spent tamping anticipation, and Friday’s (if I didn’t have to work Saturday mornings) were an eight hour build up to a five o’clock orgasm.  The air on Saturday morning tasted as good as a fine aged cheese.

I know my mother and my sisters love their jobs.  I know that when I worked full-time for someone else, I did not.  I remember hating ever single second of my first three careers.  And for those of you who know me, and as an indoctrination to the world of me for those who do not, I am unable to hide my emotions.  What you see is what you get.  So, I can’t help but take solace in that I’m awake at six AM on Monday morning and as I am typing this blog I feel happy to be alive.  I’m sitting on my veranda: watching a garbage truck tipping over a dumpster across the street, a school bus zoom passed with kids hanging out the windows, ladies file by the house on morning walks of dogs and selves, listening to NPR, smelling the crisp, damp morning air; and I’ve realized that finally, after years and years of wandering the desert of the uncertain, I have found a watering hole that suits me.

Now, is my bank account suffering, oh hell yeah.  But, I’ve found discovering what I love to do is more important than money.  In these tough economic times, when you hear about people losing their jobs and unable to find new ones, you can be bogged down with the plentiful amount of sad stories: of families losing houses, losing hope in marriages, declaring bankruptcy, people forced onto the streets, etc.  This morning I read a story in The New York Times, which may have prompted my mood, about a family who has lost a lot but discovered a lot about themselves, and this article inspired me to appreciate things in my life I do have, and people in my life I do love, which includes the three ladies huddled around the coffee maker.

In this moment, I’m happy.  Out of life, I think that’s really all we can ask.

But of course, happiness is fleeting.

So, check back with me on Tuesday…

Published in:  on August 24, 2009 at 1:16 pm Leave a Comment
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RATS OF DIM: An Interview with Self-Deprecating “Author” and Professional “Contortionist” MJ Greenwald [Part 1 of 3]

Yes, welcome.  My name is, of course, Michael Greenwald, and last Tuesday, I sat down in a ratty, cramped, cluttered, window-less, decaying-feet-smelling office at 606 Michigan Avenue in Chicago with the relatively unknown author, MJ Greenwald, for an interview.  While he drank bourbon at ten o’clock in the morning (“beer before ten is my rule”), I asked him questions about his interests, writing projects, his professional contortionist career, and anything else that came to mind.  What follows is an unedited discussion with the self-professed Biggest Writer in America.

(This interview is divided in 3 parts.  This is Part 1)

 

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The often-times eremitic author with his philanthropist friend, Sean Lindy.

 

Michael [clears throat]: Question one.  I have to admit it, I’m really nervous.

MJ: Don’t be, man.  It’s not like I’m Stephen King.  No one will read this.

Michael: That’s true.  I see you brought a bottle of Kentucky bourbon.  Any favorite kind?

MJ [picks up bottle of bourbon and pours a couple fingers into a glass and gives it to Michael]:  Try it.

Michael: Oh, I shouldn’t.  I’m working.

MJ [points to the stack of legal pads on his desk]:  Hell, so am I.  Come on.

Michael [takes sip of bourbon]:  Wow!  This is great!  What is it?

MJ:  Hell, if I know.  On the way to the office this morning, I saw some homeless guy passed out at on a bus stop bench and I lifted it off him.  

Michael:  That doesn’t sound right.

MJ:  I’m a writer, you think I can afford my own bottle?

Michael: I don’t know if I should laugh or tear you a knew one.

MJ:  If I had a penny every time I heard that.

Michael:  What?  You could buy your own bottle of bourbon.

MJ:  And get the homeless population of Chicago sufficiently snookered all winter.

Michael:  At this point, I’d just like to let the readers know out there that the opinions expressed by MJ Greenwald are not those of Viacom Corporation or any of it’s subsidiaries.  Okay, lets start this interview.  I’ll kick it off by asking, does this interview format seem odd to you?

MJ: Hmmm.  Maybe a little.  I know my agent tried to talk me out of doing this, but I’ve never been one to listen to my handlers. My philosophy for most things in life is to get drunk and see what happens.

Michael: You have handlers?

MJ:  Oh, yeah.  A whole slew: Charmaine Blake is my publicist; Tammy Hunt is my manager; T. Sticky Fingers, formally employed by Snoop Dogg, is my blunt roller; Trixie and Gretchen are my lady-candy; oh, and Ari Gold is my agent.

Michael:  Wow.  I don’t have any handlers.  How does one get a handler?

MJ [grins]

Michael:  A professional handler, I mean.

MJ [grins wider]

Michael:  MJ, knock it off.  How does one get an agent? 

MJ: Just go to whorepresents.com.  There’s a search engine where you can find an agent, publicist, or manager to fit your needs.  I highly recommend Gold as an agent.  He’s been with me since I started writing cotton-candy detective shorts in Miss Hurley’s fifth grade English class.

Michael [writing whorepresents.com on the back of an envelope]  Hey, isn’t Ari Gold a fictionalized agent on HBO’s Entourage?

MJ:  Best agent I’ve ever had.

Michael [sees something scurry out from behind a stack of books and zip under his chair.]  What the hell?

MJ:  Rat.

Michael:  I noticed.

MJ:  They won’t bother you unless you offend their sensibilities.

Michael:  Rats have sensibilities?

MJ:  Oh, sure.  All animals do.  Just because they can’t articulate them in human-speak doesn’t mean they don’t have them.  Like that rat.  His name is Boris.  And he’s cool, unless you mess with that pile of Russian lit there. [points to a stack of twenty thick hardcovers].  I had a cleaning lady at one time and she moved the Russian books to the shelves [points to shelving behind him, which is empty except for two headless Barbie dolls and a bag of Doritos].  Next time she came to clean, Boris bite her.  She got all mad at me, too.  Like it was my fault.  Boris is his own rat, you know.

Michael:  So, you’re the self-professed Biggest Writer in America, what does that mean exactly?

MJ:  Anyone can be the BEST writer in America.  I’m vying to be the BIGGEST writer in America.  I eat McDonald’s four time a day and Taco Bell twice.  I am on an all-fat diet.  See these cups here.  [points to random Styrofoam cups on his desks].  One hundred percent lard.  Good with bourbon.  [holds out a cup to Michael]

Michael:  Oh, I’m good.  Thanks.  Well, this interview has been sufficiently derailed.

MJ:  Has it?  Or has it just moved onto another rail, a better rail?

Michael:  Like the third rail.  God, I SUCK at this.  I’m gonna get fired.

MJ:  Just relax, man.  Take another sip of bourbon and lets see where this goes.

Michael [gulps down the glass of bourbon]:  Okay.  Lets get serious for a moment.  What are you reading right now?

MJ:  So, I’m working on Ron Carlson’s Five Skies, forgiving him completely for not letting me into UC Irvine’s MFA program; Audrey Niffenegger’s Time Traveler’s Wife; just finished James Lee Burke’s new novel Rain Gods, which, from a usually master craftsman, disappointed me; I always have a James Sallis book in the queue, currently I’m rereading Drive for like the hundredth time; uh, I’m in and out of The Bible, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star by Jenna Jameson; Twelve Greeks and Romans Who Changed the World is my non-fiction selection; Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth; Coyote Blue by my old friend Chris Moore; Dexter In the Dark, which spawned that great TV show Dexter; The Crossing, by Cormac, he’s another one that I always have a book on hand when I feel well; and when I feel like crap I read a James Patterson novel, right now I have The Quickie next to my bed; and I always have a Nicholas Sparks book on-hand in case I need to get in the mood to blow my brains out… lets see…that might be it.

Michael:  Wow.  That’s quite an impressive list.

MJ:  I’m an ADD-reader.

Michael:  What are you listening to?

MJ:  At the moment?  The voices in my head.  No, really.  I am obsessed with Pandora.  Let me check.  The last station I played was The Jayhawks.  Love them.  Then Pandora played Son Volt.  I listened the crap out of “Trace” and “Wide Swing Tremolo”.

Michael:  Those are albums, right?

MJ:  Really?  You have to ask that?

Michael:  I’m just clarifying for the zero people who will read this.

MJ:  Listen.  If anyone out there doesn’t know that “Trace” and “Wide Swing Tremolo” are Son Volt albums, they can kiss my pretentious–

Michael:  Whoah!  MJ, this is wordpress.  A kid-friendly blog host.

MJ:  Well then, F*&% them too!

Michael [clears throat]:  I remind the non-readers that the opinions expressed and language used by the author and contortionist MJ Greenwald are not those of Viacom Corporation or wordpress or any of it’s subsidiaries.  Speaking of being bendy, you’re a professional contortionist, right?

MJ [laughs]:  Only in the bedroom, son.

Michael:  Oh.  Lets–

MJ:  I’m glad you brought that up, I love talking about my voracious sex life.  It all started when I was six–

Michael:  Um.

MJ:  –and living in Scottsdale, Arizona and had this neighbor, she was seven, always loved the older ladies, but we were on my front lawn–

Michael:  Yeah.  Gonna have to stop you there, buddy.

MJ:  Awwww!

[Look for Part II of Michael Greenwald's interview with author MJ Greenwald next week!]

Published in:  on August 7, 2009 at 1:17 pm Leave a Comment
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RATS OF DIM: An Interview with Self-Deprecating “Author” and Professional “Contortionist” MJ Greenwald [Part 2 of 3]

Well, Michael Greenwald’s interview with infamed writer MJ Greenwald was so interesting and long–more long than interesting–we had to divide it up into three parts.  Here’s part II…

Michael:  So, what are you working on?

MJ:  People care about that?

Michael:  Probably not, but what the hell, I’m doing the questioning.  Pour me a little more of that bourbon, would you pally?

MJ [pours bourbon in own glass and tops off Michael's glass]:  Lets see.  I’m touching up the second draft of my first novel called Haply I May Remember after that Christina Rossetti poem “Song”.

Michael:  I think we have a video of that, right?

MJ:  I believe.

Michael:  Did you need to set it up?

MJ:  Um.  It’s a poem.  By Christina Rossetti.

Michael:  All right then.  I feel more enlightened than I did a second ago.

MJ:  Are you sassing me, dude?  

Michael [shakes head]: No.

MJ:  I shared my bourbon with you, man!

Michael:  Which you stole off a homeless guy at a bus stop.

MJ:  Hey, there’s currency in cunning.  I didn’t pay for it monetarily, but I sure expended energy.  And let me tell you, energy is priceless.  Once you’re out of energy, you can’t go to the store and buy more, can you?

Michael [under his breath]:  I should have listened to mom and gone to law school.  [Out Loud]  Let’s just watch the video.

Michael:  Pretty intense.

MJ [chugs from the bottle of bourbon, wipes lips]:  Riveting.

Michael:  So, how does the novel incapsulate this poem?

MJ:  It doesn’t.  I just wanted the novel to have literary-cred and the best way to do that is steal a line from a famous poem.

Michael:  Oh.  Well, what’s the novel about?

MJ:  It’s a hybrid between a traditional family drama and a ghost story.  A family experiences a terrible tragedy which causes the surviving three members to go a bit nuts, in different ways, overwhelmed by their grief and loss.  Mix in the fact that the person who died is literally haunting each family member and you’ve got a powder keg and a match.

Michael:  Sounds a lot like Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.

MJ:  Except it doesn’t suck like Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.

Michael:  I loved that book!

MJ:  You would.  Listen.  My novel is a realistic depiction of the state of frangibility of the American family in the 90’s and the rise of individualism, kids raising kids without supervision, and adults overwhelmed with the burdens of the American capitalistic machine and the ramifications of the whole damn familial mess.

Michael:  Ah.  That explains it.

MJ:  Then don’t read it.   

Michael:  No, really, it sounds interesting.

MJ [takes a long swig of bourbon]:  It’s not.

Michael:  So, when is the publishing date?

MJ:  As soon as Ari Gold gets off his fat behind and sells the rights.

Michael:  Working on anything else?

MJ:  A short story collection, called “Celebratory Gunfire”, which will feature eight to ten of my short stories.

Michael:  Highlights?

MJ:  In my life?  No.  In the collection.  Well, I don’t loath a story called “One Good Story” about a fat, alcoholic writer and his demanding, b*&$ wife and what happens when the writer’s characters decide to rebel against their hack creator.  I also re-read a story a wrote a long time ago called “Weight” and didn’t, after finishing it, want to Cobain myself.  That story is about a teenager about to enter the world of MMA fighting but first he needs to deal with his mother’s abusive boyfriend because his daddy’s dead.

Michael:  I’ve read that one.

MJ:  Of course you have, idiot, you’re me.

Michael:  It reminds me of a Chuck Palahniuk story.

MJ [yawns]:  That’s what everyone says.

[Look for Part III of Michael Greenwald's interview with infamed writer MJ Greenwald next week.]

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RATS OF DIM: An Interview with Self-Deprecating “Author” and Professional “Contortionist” MJ Greenwald [Part 3 of 3]

And finally, long awaited I’m sure.  Here’s the third and FINAL part.  Swear on Jenna Jameson’s belly-button.

 

Michael:  Okay, lets try writing contemporaries you most admire?

MJ:  This might sound silly, but my first love was Franklin W. Dixon.

Michael:  Silly how?

MJ:  Hey, I’m talking here!  You are the worlds worst interviewer.

Michael:  I never professed to be good at this.  I’m not an interviewer, I’m a writer.

MJ:  Don’t quit your day job.

Michael:  I don’t have a day job.

MJ:  Girlfriend?

Michael:  Nope.

MJ:  Prospects?

Michael:  No.

MJ:  Dream?

Michael:  To be a professional writer like Stephen King.

MJ [laughs hysterically]:  Credible dream?

Michael:  Dude!

MJ:  I’m just saying, you have to have some talent to be Stephen King?

Michael:  Really?  Does he know that?

MJ:  Touche.  But if you don’t have talent, you have to have a cool name.  Stephen King.  See, there’s a ring to it.  Do you have a cool pen-name?

Michael:  James Cheyenne

MJ:  What the hell’s that?

Michael:  Isn’t it your middle name and the street you grew up on?

MJ:  If you want to be a porn star!

Michael:  Oh.  What’s the difference?

MJ:  I see your point.  Writers and porn stars are both constantly getting you-know-what…see, I stopped myself.  Aren’t you proud?

Michael:  You’re growing in front of our eyes.

MJ [looks at his lap]:  Am not.

Michael:  Oh, my God.

MJ:  Seriously, though, what do you have to live for?

Michael:  Hope?

MJ [laughs]:  Yeah, Obama had a vat of hope–hope on tap–and look where it got him?

Michael:  The Presidency?

MJ:  Exactly.  [chuckles]  Sucker.

Michael:  So, you’re saying you wouldn’t want to be President?

MJ:  First of all, I’m too stupid to be President, which is why I became a writer.  Of course, that brings up the point of why George W. Bush didn’t choose a writing career.  I mean, he had all the elements: rich daddy, alcoholic, failure at everything, low IQ, zero motivation.  He had five-tool writer potential.  But I digress.  Let me slide this discussion into a baseball analogy: do you want to be the pitcher on the mound getting rocked by steroid-infused batters; or the fan in the bleachers with his shirt off, gut showing, a letter painted on his flabby chest, wasted, screaming at the top of his lungs that the pitcher “SUCKS!!!”

Michael:  The pitcher.

MJ:  And that’s why you’re a dumb-a*&.  You about ready to borrow my “From Here to Infirmary” CD and Nights in Rodanthe novel?

Michael:  Shut up.  Can we get back to the interview?

MJ:  I guess.  But I’m about as bored as the zero people who will read this at this point.

Michael:  Wow, you’re kind of an prick.

MJ:  Whoah!  Look whose catching on!

Michael:  So, as the last question, I’m curious to know why you agreed to do this interview.

MJ:  Two things in this word I like doing besides sex.  Drinking and hearing myself talk.  But really, if Stephen King can interview himself, so can I.

Michael:  Anything you’d like to add?

MJ:  Yeah.  Eat more acid and burn more Coldplay albums.

Michael [stands up, knees buckle, and topples over]

MJ:  Whoah!  Careful there, little buddy.  Bourbon packs a punch.

Homeless Guy bursts through office door.  Greenwald’s secretary follows holding his nose.

Secretary:  I’m sorry, Mr. Greenwald.  I tried to stop him.

Homeless Guy:  You snumofsnit stello me bosdourn!

Michael [trying to stand up]:  What did he say?

MJ [rushing over and helping Michael up]:  I don’t know, but we better book.  Come on!

Arm-in-arm, MJ and MICHAEL run out of the room.

HG [raising his fist]:  Thatzzzz rigty!  Yo bed rum, bizzzzh!

Secretary:  Excuse me, sir.  You can’t be in here.

HG [looks bleery-eyed at secretary):  Wasn't that that hack writer, MJ Greenwald?

Secretary:  Yeah.

HG:  He's a terrible writer.

Secretary[shrugs]:  Eh, pays the bills.  Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but you smell awful, man.

HG:  I know.  But that guy stole my bottle of bourbon.  The booze masks the B.O.

Secretary [points to bourbon]:  Well, there’s your bottle. 

HG [picks up bottle and puts it to his mouth and takes a long pull, spilling much of the bourbon down his cheeks and the front of his tattered jacket]

Secretary:  Oh, that’s much better.  I love bourbon.

HG:  Want a sip?

Secretary [takes bottle]:  Thanks.

HG:  Who was MJ talking to?

Secretary:  Himself.

HG [shakes his head]:  And society says I’m crazy.

Secretary [laughs]:  You’re funny.

HG:  You’re cute.  Want to make-out?

Secretary:  Thought you’d never ask.

Published in:  on at 4:22 am Comments (2)

Book Discussion: The Time Traveler’s Wife and Where the Red Fern Grows: Two Books, Tons of Tears

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The only book that made me cry (repeatedly) had been Wilson Rawls’s Where the Red Fern Grows.  I still remember finishing the book for the first time sitting in the throne in my “reading tree” at my folk’s house in Chicago, then climbing down (still have no idea how I didn’t fall right out of the tree I was sobbing so hard) and coming into the house where my mother was sitting on the couch.  My mother, matching my level of hysteria, asked, “Baby!  Where are you hurt?”, but I just climbed into her lap and curled up and bawled.  ”My heart,” I remember telling my mother through sobs.  ”You finished that book, didn’t you?  I told you it was sad,” my mother said, then wrapped one arm around me while checking my arms and legs for bruises or bee stings, evidently not convinced I hadn’t hurt myself somewhere.

That was two days ago.  

No, not really.  I was seven years old.  The second time I read the book at our summer house in Arizona, I also cried, and also climbed down from the mailbox I’d been perched on top of (something about heights and reading, I don’t know) and went into the house and climbed into my mother’s lap sobbing.  ”Baby!  Where are you hurt?” My mother asked. 

I re-read Where the Red Fern Grows last year.  I was alone in our summer house in Arizona.  I finished in bed and tears spit down my cheeks.  The script on the last twenty pages of that book are blurry with my tears.  I wonder if my son will be able to make it out.

I can’t remember a book that affected me as much as Wilson Rawls’s epic about a poor boy in the Ozark mountains and his two Redbone Coonhound hunting dogs, Lil’ Anne and Old Dan.  That is, until I read The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. 

200px-TimeTravellersWife

It was summer in Arizona and I was at work at Outback Steakhouse.  Business, as customary in the summertime, had been slow.  I had been voraciously addicted to the book since I started it, and I reached the last ten pages while sitting in the Take Away room at work.  Suddenly, my eyes felt funny and before I knew it these wet drops were rolling down my cheeks.  I’m not a crier.  You can ask anyone who knows me.  So, when Angelina, the Take Away girl, returned to her room and witnessed me bawling, her eyes widened and she asked, “Where are you hurt?”

To set the record straight, I did not curl myself up into Angelina’s lap and bawl (swear to God, Angelina’s boyfriend).  I stole outside and quickly composed myself and returned to pretending to give a shit about my tables (oops!).

I can’t say why Where the Red Fern Grows makes me cry every time I read it and I don’t know why The Time Traveler’s Wife brings the waterworks.  There’s just something in there, something about the love between Billy and his two hunting dogs, something about the love that Clare and Henry share, something about the hope within all of us that we’ll find that depth of love, and something about the fear we all share that love like that can only be found in fiction and in the movies.

Speaking of movies the film version of The Time Traveler’s Wife, starring one of my favorite actors Rachel McAdams as Clare and an exceptionally cast Eric Bana as Henry, comes out August 14th and I am equal parts expectant and terrified.  Expectant, because it’s sure to be an excellent movie; Ms. Niffenegger having created a novel that’s breadth, width and depth is so rich the only difficulty for the screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin (writer of one of my favorite movies, My Life) is how to not write a ten hour flick.  Terrified, because sobbing in the middle of a packed movie theater should do well to strip me of my Man-Card (I’ve had The Cranberries “Zombie” in my head every morning for two weeks now, and I was listening to Tori Amos on Pandora yesterday).  My only solace is I doubt when the lights come up there will be a dry eye in the house.

To prepare for the movie, I’ve bought (I gifted the original copy, tears and all, to a dear friend) another copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife and am currently on page 181.  I haven’t used my tear ducts in a while, but I don’t doubt they still work, because as I get closer and closer to the end I feel a little wiggling at the corner of my eyes, as though they are stretching, getting ready for the brain signal to start the eye sprinklers.

Mommy, are you ready?

“Baby!  Where do you hurt?”

My heart, Mommy.  My heart.

Published in:  on August 2, 2009 at 2:50 pm Leave a Comment
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VIOLATED! The Erin Andrew’s Story

 

erin-andrews-espy-red-carpet

For those of you who are either:

A) A Straight Woman

B) A Gay Man

C) or Trapped Under Your Fallen Refrigerator

Maybe you haven’t heard, but Erin Andrews can be seen performing mini-squats in front of a hotel-room mirror while curling her hair.  Oh, yeah. and she’s naked (I refuse to attach this link here.  If you haven’t seen it, good for you.  If you have, I hope a virus is not eating your computer).  This, OF COURSE, is information, which I have gleaned from other sick bastards who have seen this disgraceful video.  I have respected the sanctity of the poor woman and not taken a look  (hear that, baby; the only woman I want to see doing mini-squats in the nude is you).

Okay, Mr. Carlin.  Call me out, why don’t you!

Truthfully, I tried to obtain the video but was denied.

This morning, I turned on the radio (WSCR-Chicago, The Score) and was informed a new development in the Erin Andrews saga.

Erin Andrews 911 Tape

Golly.  I feel HORRIBLE for this woman.  

So, I listen to the audio clip, then call my brother just to make sure he hadn’t traded in his van for a Rav-4 with handicap plates (he hadn’t, but claimed he’d been trying to slip a five dollar bill to the guard at Erin Andrew’s gated community when the Rav-4 zoomed from behind him and zipped past the distracted guard), and a came to a major breakthrough.

I’m going to buy a camera and a Rav-4 and stalk the paparazzi.

I mean, really.  Why can’t they leave this woman alone?  I know why they can’t, of course, and it’s money, and a lot of Americans buy copies of US Weekly and People Magazine in the check-out lines at Dominick’s and watch the TMZ show on TV (I mean, really, the show costs like fifty cents an episode to make and people enjoy WATCHING these slimy bastards during a company meeting) so we are really the guilty party.  It’s our fault.  If issues of US Weekly didn’t fly off the turnstiles then these professional stalkers would pack up their telescopic lenses and return to their mother’s basement.

So, my solution intrigues me.  Paparazzi for the paparazzi.  Might be interesting.  I’m going to sit in a Rav-4 outside their houses and munch on  Funyuns and down cans of 180px-Mountain_Dew_logo.svg with my telescopic lensed camera on the seat next to me, waiting until paparazzi dude steps outside to play ball with his kids, or sneak around the back to snap pictures of his wife sunbathing topless in the backyard.  

(I might be taking a leap of faith assuming these idiots are married; or even if they are married, that I have a lens that is WIDE ENOUGH to capture the nude form of their wives).

I’ll follow them around when they go to the store for continence, when they pick their kids up from day-care, when they go to the new Harry Potter movie with their wife, when they visit their mother at the hospice.  I’ll knock on their doors at four in the morning and ask for comment every time they come out of their house.  I’ll snap pictures of them when they drag their garbage to the street on Garbage Day and post photos of them clipping their bushes with their ass crack hanging out of their pants on the Internet.  

See how they like it.

The second part of the plane is a boycott of all magazines that carry paparazzi pictures.  I’ve never bought one of those rags, but many people do, and I don’t understand why.  Do people view these celebrities as PEOPLE?  Or are they a commodity?  I think some celebs try to do things to get the paparazzi to focus on them in order to publicize their projects (albums, books, movies, whatever), so maybe some blame needs to be directed their.  You get what you sow.  But Erin Andrews never asked for this.  Erin Andrews was VIOLATED by someone through her peep-hole.  Erin Andrews is a victim.  And this really disgusts me.

It’s sad that there’s a market for this trash out there.  It’s such a blemish on the face of our society that people can be paid millions of dollars to stalk people and violate their privacy, make them prisoners in their own homes.

I feel so bad for Erin Andrews.  She’s a person people!  A human being!  She just wants to do her job and make some money.  She never placed herself in the spot-light and asked to be exploited by these vultures.

This reflects on all of us.  This must stop.

Ideas?

Thanks for reading.

MJ

Published in:  on July 30, 2009 at 5:17 pm Leave a Comment
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