On SOPA, PIPA, and Blackouts

So…I find myself in a bit of a pickle. As you may or may not have heard, several websites are protesting SOPA and PIPA (more SOPA than PIPA, but both, really) by going dark for today. The most prominent among these is Wikipedia which, I am sure, has caused quite a tizzy in the school report writing age group.

I support the protest. I support the derailing of these two bills. They are, in my opinion, vague and overreaching in the worst possible way. Worse, they do not even truly address what they claim they are dedicated to. Instead, they enable the few, the powerful, to limit access to the internet. As others have pointed out, when you are a democracy adopting the approach of China to policing the internet, you have made a tremendous misstep somewhere along the way.

The problem, for me, is that the whole purpose of The January Project is a story a day all month. This is not a staid, stable site like Wikipedia for whom going dark means making a point, creating nuisance, and can do so without violating the very theme of the site. For me, however, that’s not an option.

So I am following the lead of several who are in my position—in particular web cartoonists have seemed to embrace this approach—and taking a moment to point out how this site has the potential not to exist in a post-SOPA world.

I use copyrighted material to “inspire” the works here. There is currently nothing illegal or immoral about that. But certain readings of SOPA could interpret the use of the songs that are referenced and linked here as over the line. If one group decides they do not like what I’m doing, it is problematic. You know how quick some corporations are to find copyright infringements, yes? The internet is littered with cease and desist letters about it. If, some day, an exec decides this site desires one? Poof, away the site goes. Or, at the least, disappears off search engines everywhere. Is it likely to happen here? No. That’s a pretty far reaching interpretation of the law. On the other hand, I’m sure most of us did not expect that Minnesota moms who downloaded a small amount of music for free would face fines that far and away outstripped the actual value of the digital content they had acquired.

So, no, the site, frankly, does not have the kind of traffic to warrant the attention that would bring about the scenario above. However, the potential exists. I don’t want an internet like that. I hope you do not either.

Please reach out to your congressmen and women and the President and let them know this is a bad law that should not pass. We “trusted” that NDAA would surely be stopped somewhere along the way and now it is law. Let’s not make the same mistake here.

Writer's Commentary- Capital G

On Post: Capital G

Date: January 9

Find it here

My struggle with this was not to make it a polemic political screed, which was definitely my kneejerk reaction. With all the Occupy (blank) stuff in the air and Market Call still fresh in my mind, Trent Reznor’s reported meaning of the G in this song, greed, was a tempting topic to tackle. I was worried, though, that it would be about using fictional people as a mouthpiece for my politics and that rarely goes well. I tried to be more symbolic about it, but it just was not coming together for me.

So, I ran towards. I embraced the extreme stereotypes of the conservative and liberal sides. I wrote them down and just looked at them. The idea of people spitting them at each other came from that and then it was just a matter of wrapping a story around it.

Given that most of us are closer in our politics beliefs than we realize and we still say terrible things about one another, I thought of the whole “brother pitted against brother” label that often gets mentioned in regards to the Civil War. I made that literal with significantly lower stakes and VIOLA! Capital G was born. I doubt Reznor would approve and, truth be told, I think I am guilty of some false equivalencies here, but I still like it.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 17, 2012: I Have the Touch

Letter: G

CD Number: 17

Track Number: 13

Song: “I Have the Touch” (remix) by Gabriel, Peter from Shaking the Tree

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://danceswithfat.wordpress.com/2011/05/25/taking-up-space/crowded-subway/)

There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s really not. What I do is…well, it’s not right per se, but it’s okay. It’s victimless. I don’t hurt anyone. Ever. I have rules. I draw lines. I’m not like those guys I see on TV. I’m not like those guys on the web.

It’s not to say I think it’s normal. I know it’s not. Your average John or Jane doesn’t do what I do. But that’s okay. We all have our things, you know? Maybe you’re into something I think it messed. Probably you are, actually. Like, statistically speaking. But that’s okay, too. Different thing, same deal, right? Don’t judge lest ye be judged. Yeah, I’m all about that.

I wasn’t always this okay with it. I used to fight it. A lot. Tell myself I needed to be in control, that if I just tried hard enough, everything would be fine. Then, one day without fail, I’d screw up, lose it a bit, and end up feeling just awful. Like can’t leave the house for days awful. Finally, I’d convince myself it was just a one- time thing and start all over again.

I almost got caught once. Actually, I was caught. I mean, I was almost punished once. There was screaming and yelling and I got a huge bruise on my shin from something. I was so amped up I didn’t notice until I was home.

That was scary. Terrifying.

So I made a choice. No more deluding myself. I couldn’t stop. But I could be more responsible. So that’s where I am now. I let it out just a little, here, there, everywhere all day. I am quick and quiet and no one is hurt or sad and neither I am, for once.

So, yes, what I do is different. But, please, it’s not wrong. It can’t be. Why would I want to do it so much if it was? Not wrong. Just different. No victims. No victims.

Not wrong, just different.

And I’m in control now.

I promise.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- Good Morning

On Post: Good Morning

Date: January 8

Find it here

The only really “interesting” about the process on this one was the fact that it went through several similar but still different iterations to get here. The first was just a straight forward first person prose piece. Then, I introduced the journal element and made the writer very introspective and moody, totally brooding on this without any prompting. That still wasn’t working for me, so I carried it out further and had him reaching a sort of resolution with his father wherein his father points out the experiences the guy has had, how his degree makes the job he wants to do a closer reality than just a high school diploma does and so on. I actually liked that draft, but I couldn’t get over the feeling that it was just me using the piece to “argue” against Kanye West’s dislike of college education (as presented by this and other songs) and that’s just a waste of everyone’s time. Finally I hit upon the outsider points it out, which gave the character a little less…I’ll go ahead and say, “whininess” than he did back in that first draft. So…there you go. 

And, for the record, I never had this experience; of doubting the validity or usefulness of my degree(s) just because I don’t have 100 percent retention or still feel nervous about entering the professional world, but have certainly known enough people who did to know this does happen. To me, it’s always seemed like a severe misreading of college’s purpose, which, to me is to teach you how to think, read for context, do research, construct arguments, and develop social and coping skills, not simply regurgitate facts or be completely effective and prepared immediately upon being hired post-college. The first, fact regurgitation, is kind of useless anyway (also you’ll be surprised what comes back to you when you really need it) and the second is impossible No one arrives at a job right out of college ready to work it without flaws. Hell, no one switches jobs after being in the “real world” ready to do the next one flawlessly.

All that said, I was totally picture my alum mater as the school on the hill and this bar called Stash’s, which is in the town, nowhere near the hill, as the bar of the story.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 16, 2012: America's Suitehearts

Letter: F

CD Number: 4

Track Number: 17

Song: “America’s Suitehearts” by Fall Out Boy from Folie a Deux

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://hotlines-distribution.blogspot.com/)

A loud burst of static blows out of TVs, computers and smart phones everywhere, even if they are not on. Moments later, an image comes into focus, the villainous menace Illusionia, Mistress of Deceit, done up in her androgynous outfit, is broadcasting to the world from her lair…again. This time, for real though, she has news that the world will want to hear and no one can stop machinations. For honest this time.

ILLUSIONIA, MISTRESS OF DECEIT

Hello people of the world! As always do not bother to change the channel or turn off your electronic devices! There is nothing you can do to stop me from speaking to you!

Well, I suppose you could unplug something or remove its batteries. Oh and laptops close, so you could just close yours. BUT!! I’d like to think you and I have built up something of a trust; a compact if you will. With that in mind, I am sure you will do the right thing and leave everything open, plugged in, and filled with batteries.

She begins to shuffle her papers, muttering to herself, getting them in order. She pauses, remembering something else.

Oh, and I have to say, I do so miss these little chats. I know it’s been awhile…3, 4 weeks or so. I just want to assure you it is nothing personal, I still like all of you. Well, not all of you.

She starts to count off people she doesn’t like in a quieter, less bombastic tone, losing track of what she’s up to.

There’s my seventh grade math teacher…do not care for her one bit. Oh, and the usual suspects, of course, the FBI, Scotland Yard, various militaries. Kid Crusher. Destiny Gal. Bog, the Swamp Avenger. Sir Crusher. Franky Franki Frankee, the Monster who Would be a Boy. Justice Bringer. Crusher the Canine.

Comes to again, realizes she’s been distracted.

Well, I suppose you get the idea. Most of you though? A-ok in my book!

She makes the ok sign with her thumb and first finger before adjusting her papers one last time, clearing her throat and starting again.

Denizens of Earth, I am here to alert you to my newest endeavor. This time, however, I promise you there is nothing you can do to stop me as I have already done it. I am, now, officially the center of the universe. Everything now revolves our planet and, specifically around the point on the planet where I am. I’m here? Everything revolves here. I’m--

She glances behind her and then pushing her chair, evidently on wheels, across the floor.

--over here? Now everything is revolving around here.

Wild, right?

She stands and bows.

And before you all get up in arms or start running around screaming about “physics” or “gravity” or whatever, I got it. Don’t worry. I’ve made sure everything’s cool. Even though everything revolves around me now, everything is still fine. I am a master of all I survey and I build a mean scientific device. I practiced on like 75 pocket universes to make sure I got it right.

To herself

The poor bastards of Universe Alpha Delta Bravo. How my device made that giant space squid I’ll never know.

Pauses, shakes her head for a moment, then refocuses.

And some of you will probably even want to thank me. Catholic Church? You can now get back to besmirching the legacy of Galileo. Flat earthers? Hey, new reason to hope that someday you’ll be right again. Because, and I can’t stress this enough, you are currently very wrong.

I am also sure I owe some of you apologies. Astronomers, for instance. Sorry there. But, hey, new challenges, right?

She paces, jumps, whispering to self

Universe moves this way. Universe moves that way. Universe goes up. Universe goes down.

Gets back to talking to the masses.

Anyhoo, that’s all. Nothing to freak out about. No implied threat. No demands for ransom or power. I promise. Just letting you all know I am an incredible villain, the universe revolves around me now, and my heroic sworn enemy Mr. Awesome and rival villain The Glittering Gent can suck it. Because me equals center of the universe.

That is all, world. Talk again soon, kay?

With a click, she’s gone.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes

On Post: Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes

Date: January 7

Find it here

Growing up, this was one of the first albums I really hooked into as “music.” In the car one day my dad had the tape (yes, tape…I’m aged, ok?) and said to me, “Listen to this, I think you’ll like it.” In fact, that first song in question was, I believe, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes. In any case, he was right and subsequently, Paul Simon became my first “favorite” artist. R.E.M. would replace him soon after but he has and will always occupy a special place in my music appreciation bones.

Anyway, this song, to me, always seemed to be the story of improbable love. She’s rich, he’s not, but they still do things like take drugs (“She makes the sign of a teaspoon”) and almost make it to dancing (“She said honey take me dancing/But they ended up as sleeping in the doorways/Of the lights and the bodegas on upper Broadway”). Obviously, as an adult I recognize things are little more complicated than they initially appeared to me.

This story, however, is sort of the dark reflection of that initial impression and it hitched on the line, “She says, ‘You’ve taken me for granted because I please you/Wearing these diamonds of the soles of my shoes.’” In the song, that’s sort of pushed back. Ultimately, they both end up wearing diamonds to combat those walking blues. But, to me, that sounded like the moment where it could all fall apart. So that’s what I made happen.

The next piece was, “Why did they end up in the doorway?” That led to, “Well, what if they aren’t sleeping, but dead?” I thought that was good but meant that my lead could not be the one “asleep.” So, I had a relationship falling apart on this end, two dead people in a doorway on the other. It kind of wrote itself at that point.

A word about the picture: apparently the story of the image is the “bride” was actually a woman who’s wedding was called off by her fiancée. She put on her dress one day anyway and somehow—no one knows how and could see no means of doing it—climbed about this doorway in one of the borough of New York City—Queens, I believe, but I could be wrong—and went to sleep. It turned out she had a history of mental illness and was not taking her medication at the time. When the ex-fiancée was located, he confessed he had broken it off because she was mentally ill and did not always take her meds.

As a nearly psychologist, that makes my blood boil. I understand that was a hard situation for him and maybe he made the right choice to protect himself. But to tell the press that? Seems like overkill to me. She doesn’t need anyone to “out” her as having a disorder. Not cool ex-fiancée, not cool.

Anyway, I knew none of that when I selected the image or I might not have. On its own, it is just a fascinating looking picture. Also, pictures of people in doorways who aren’t homeless are very hard to find. I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense, but it made getting an image for this one hard to find.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 15, 2012: Dominos

Letter: B

CD Number: 17

Track Number 3

Song: “Dominos” by Big Pink, The from A Brief History of Love

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://techproven.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/woman-computer1.jpg)

Frontier - w4m (Brunswick)

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Date: 2012-01-15, 12:06AM EST
Reply to:

Reply To This Post

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Really enjoyed talking to you last night!

You were handsome, tall, and outgoing. I was small, pretty (I hope!), and a little bit giddy on caffeine. We started talking in the lobby while they fixed the projectors. You were fascinating!

The kiss surprised me, but it was sooooooooooo nice. You tasted like cinnamon. And then when you told me you loved me? I admit, I was stunned. I’m not usually the kind of girl to move that fast. But you were so earnest, how could I not?

Anyway, in the heady rush of it all, we never exchanged numbers. So silly, right?! I can’t stand the idea of us not being together, given how powerful that night was. Tell me what you were wearing to confirm it’s you.

Can’t wait to hear from you!

·         Location: Brunswick

·         it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 4815162342

RE: Frontier - w4m (Brunswick)

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Date: 2012-01-15, 9:18AM EST
Reply to:

Reply To This Post

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Wow! So nice of you to reach out to me. Pretty sure I’m the guy you were looking for. I was wearing a salmon shirt, jeans, and a sport coat, you had on a cream colored top and black pants right?

Anyway, your note was very sweet. I too enjoyed the kiss and the conversation. We really did hit it off, didn’t we? It was perfect. To me anyway.

So let’s leave well enough alone, shall we? We’ll always have the Frontier and that’s all we need. Let’s not spoil this with going on too long.

·         Location: Brunswick

·         it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 3141592653

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary- Everybody's Fool

On Post: Everybody’s Fool

Date: January 6

Find it here

I write terrible poetry. I really, really do. So for this, I decided to run towards that reality; to embrace it. The result, I think, it is pretty dead on bad adolescent poetry.

It is not, admittedly, a particularly creative interpretation of the inspiration material. It is, essentially, just a slightly less harsh take on it. In the song, Amy of Evanescence is clearly just straight angry at the man she is singing about/ mooning over. In the poem, our POV person’s angry front breaks down far more easily into the “Only I can love you right. Please love me.”

But yeah, if you are a bad poet, embrace it, and make it work for you.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 14, 2012: Set Fire to the Third Bar

Letter: S

CD Number: 10

Track Number 30

Song: “Set Fire to the Third Bar” by Snow Patrol from Eyes Open

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://blogs.menshealth.com/mh-feminist/files/2011/02/danceclub.jpg)

The plan was simple. They’d start out with their respective friends and meet up somewhere in the middle. What could go wrong?

Apparently, quite a bit.

First there was the subway malfunction that left Roger and his friends stuck in a car for 35 minutes. Then it was back up the street level for a ride with a cabbie who insisted, yes, he knew exactly where The Olive was. Fifty-five minutes later, they demanded he admit defeat and got out.

By that point, Cheryl had long since left and the next rendezvous locale was set. The plan was back on!

Except it turns out that, oddly enough, there are two…three actually…places in town called Bar. Roger choose the two wrong ones first before getting it right. About 15 minutes too late.

After that it was Pyre which was evacuated due to, you guessed it, a trashcan fire. Roger and Cheryl could not find each other in the chaos that ensued. Fred’s was not allowing any more guys in. The Rockopolis was not allowing any more ladies. Bruised Hearts was so full that even though Cheryl and Roger were there at the same time, they had no chance at actually meeting up.

Finally, it was Rascals. Last chance of the evening.  Alas, it was closed down a week earlier due to health code violations.

“That’s it, guys. It’s over,” Roger announced.

“Come on, man,” Stu began. “We can still—”

“Nope. I know when the universe has beaten me. This is that time. Doug, call us that car service you are always on about. I’m just going to lie here on this…what is this?

“Divider?” Stu suggested.

“Literally, yes. But I think they call ones like that, with greenery and stuff…I think they call them islands,” Paul rebutted.

“Good. Fine. Island it is. I will lie here on this island and wait for our chariot to arrive and pray…just pray that this night is but a dream.”

Doug offered, “We could pinch you…”

“Go,” Roger waved him off, “Call, minion. Call and get us wheels to take us away from this hellish place.”

Roger crumbled on the ground without pride. He was spent. All he wanted to do was spend a half-hour, an hour, talking to Cheryl. Reconnect with her. Do something to make a deeper impression. He had only just reconnected with her. Eight years after high school, they ended up in the same city at the same time. He convinced himself it was kismet, a sign that there seven weeks of casual dating that summer between high school and college was no accident. It was just a prologue. But now? Now he knew, he was never going to be with the woman of his dreams. After a night like tonight, it was best to accept one’s defeat and start the search for second best.

Nearby, Doug related the full story of the night to the car company in excruciating detail. Roger grimaced. He should have had Stu call. Stu understood economy of language. Doug…Doug could not physically answer a yes/no question, it was like some odd kind of birth defect. You ask him if he wants pizza or burgers for dinner and he tells you not just what he wants, but why, when the last time was he had each food item, and where the best place he ever ate each item was. He was verbose.

Roger dozed in and out waiting for the car to arrive. In his haze, he vaguely recognized that someone had lowered themselves onto the grass next to him.

“You know, this is a pretty dumb place to grab a nap. All this place has going for it is…well, there is actually very little litter considering. So, there’s that,” a feminine voice teased.

Roger rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was a chatty driver.

“Look,” he started, shaking the tendrils of slumber away from him, “I’ve had a really rotten night. There was this woman who I’ve wan—Cheryl?”

And sure enough it was.

“Doug called me first, told me the whole thing. I’m impressed, Mr. Cormier, I’ll tell you that. I can’t remember the last time a guy stalked the city for a little time with me. But I interrupted. What were you saying about that woman?”

“Umm…not important, really. Just talking. Trying to…umm….ah…get a lonely heart’s discount?” he haltingly tried to evade the query lest he suffer further embarrassment.

“Suuuuuuuuuuuure,” she said, smiling widely at him now, “I tell you what, Roger. Any man who did what you did tonight deserves to sleep in something a little more comfortable than a dirty divider.

“Island…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, anyone who suffered as you did, for my affections no less, should have a comfy bed for the night. And I have it on good authority that mine is one of the more comfortable. It even has a duvet.”

“Very fancy.”

“Indeed. So what do you say? Let me put you up for the night?”

“Well…I suppose I could agree to that.”

She smiled again, that broad, bright thing, and took his hand. The night began to look up.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 13, 2012: A Feeling of Thoughtful Sadness

Letter: B

CD Number: 30

Track Number: 25

Song: “A Feeling of Thoughtful Sadness” by Burley, Dustin from Melancholy

Visit his Youtube Page Here

 

(Picture taken from http://www.tollfreenumbers.com/blogs/backorders-2/begging-and-pleading.html)

SON, an early adolescent, is begging his MOTHER to allow him to attend some social scene. She has told him no on multiple occasions and the boy has grown desperate.

MOM

You’ve made it VERY clear that you want to go, but I’m afraid the answer is still no.

SON (searching desperately for a response)

But…but…but…

MOM begins to walk away, SON perks up just before she leaves room with an idea.

SON

Well, I did my homework.

MOM

Good. That’s your responsibility, so it’s good that you are following through on it.

SON

I mean, I did ALL my homework. All of it. So I have nothing to do the rest of the weekend. So you don’t have to worry about me going to this thing and not having my Math to hand in on Monday.

MOM

That’s great son! It sounds like someone is going to have plenty of time to help his father clean the gutters tomorrow afternoon then.

SON (shaking his head in disgust)

The gutters?! Really? Do I have to?

MOM again begins to leave the room and he stops her.

SON

Fine. Fine! I’ll clean the gutters. And if I do that then can I go to—

MOM

No. But I just know your dad will be thrilled for the assistance.

SON

There must be something I can—

MOM

There honestly is not. This is not an attempt to blackmail you into doing extra chores or to follow through on the stuff you should be doing anyway. Your Dad and I talked about it and decided you cannot go. So, please, stop asking.

SON (dejected, mumbling to self)

You know, you are literally killing me.

MOM

I think you mean figuratively, dear, and either way, I think we both know you are overreacting.

SON

I do not mean figuratively. I know what both words mean. I meant literally! And no I am not overreacting. You are killing me. You are like…like…the bird flu of my social life right now.

MOM

Well, that does sound rough. But even if it were true, you still won’t die from it.

SON

Says you.

MOM (rolling her eyes)

Fine. Explain to me exactly how I am killing you.

SON

Fine, Mom, fine. Number 1, by killing my social life, you are ensuring a lifetime of isolation, loneliness, and certainly no romantic prospects. Men who don’t marry live shorter lives. People will depression on average die earlier than those who are “average.” And that does not even take into account the possibility of dying from an accident because no one cares enough to check in on me!

MOM

Wouldn’t you say that’s a little melodramatic?

SON (ignores her, pressing on)

Number 2, by not allowing me to interact with same age peers, I am not being exposed to the bacteria and microbes that they might be.

MOM

That hardly seems like a problem to--

SON (interrupting)

Ahh, but it is. Without exposure, my immune system will not continue to evolve and improve. Then, one day, I catch one of these viruses I could be exposed to tomorrow. But I am too old to properly fight it off and am not immune due to prior exposure. BOOM! Dead! Like that!

MOM (distracted)

Uh…huh. I… see.

SON (noticing he does not have her attention)

Mom! We are talking about the life of your only son and…and you can’t give me a little more attention.

MOM

Oh, son, of course I can. You’ve just given me so much to think about it.

SON

Really? ‘Cause I have a little with

Begins to count it.

SON

…one, two, three, four, six, eight…12 more reasons.

MOM (waiving him off as she leaves the room)

Oh, no need. You’ve opened my eyes. Now I just need some time to give it all a little thought.

SON (confused but excited that he might have won)

Oh…of course. Take your time.

MOM pops her hand back into the room a moment later.

MOM

So, I’ve thought about it

SON (excited)

And?

MOM

The answer is still no. Now go clean the bathroom.

MOM leaves SON alone. He begins to pull out rags to clean the bathroom with, being sulky and occasionally kicking or punching things as they get in his wage.

SON (raising volume of his voice so she can hear him even though she’s left the room)

Can’t believe my own Mom is going to murder me!

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Once in a Lifetime

On Post: Once in a Lifetime

Date: January 4

Find it here

Generally speaking, I do like to write in second person. Despite “including” the reader as the lead, I find it pretty distancing. Like, I know I am not going up the stairs to the spooky house, I am reading a story. By telling me otherwise, you force me to consider the lie of it. It’s a lot easier to hook someone and make them accept suspension of reality when you don’t inform them they are right in the middle of the action when they can easily see they are sitting on their couch.

It is admittedly just my own personal take on it, but there it is.

Yes, despite this, I went ahead and wrote this in second person. So the question is why?

Well, the first answer is pretty obvious and not all that sexy and it is that I had not written in second person yet and the whole point of this endeavor is to try and challenge myself. Also, over 31 days, you want to switch things up via style, genre, etc and doing something not in first or third is a way to do that.

The second is that it mirrors the presentation of the song. The Heads—as all their real friends call them—are singing to YOU and making the story talk to YOU just made sense to me in light of that.

One email I got did ask me where the “you” in question is coming back from and, truth be told, I don’t entirely know. I do know it is either war or prison, but I could never settle on which one it should be and, to be honest, liked that ambiguity. I thought if I didn’t know, it would not nudge the piece one way or another. For at least one reader, it worked.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 12, 2012- Jane Fonda (Reader's Choice)

Letter: T

READER’S CHOICE

Song: “Jane Fonda” by Mickey Avalon

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://updates.mainetoday.com/blogs/single-slice/the-whirligig-of-time)

I throw open the front door from the apartment building and nearly go tumbling down the stairs. Which would have been perfect.

Instead, I right myself, slip on the other heel, and awkwardly clamber my way down to the sidewalk. My shirt is still unbuttoned, my skirt is backwards. I do not give a damn. I just know I can not be in that man’s apartment, in that man’s bed one second longer.

That man, Brad, is shouting to me from his stoop as I turn the corner. I did not even pause to hear what he had to say. Maybe someday I’ll be in the mood to hear him but that day is not today. I descend below ground to the Metro and pray he does not follow me. The Silver Spring train arrives a moment later and I slide through the doors. When the train begins to ease into the darkness, I finally can breathe a sigh or two of relief. Time to put miles of train between myself and that freak.

I want to be clear here, I am not a prude. I’ve had…experiences. I’ve explored my boundaries and found I enjoyed things I never expected I would. But that does not mean I am up for every odd sexual desire you have. And you certainly don’t get to spring it on me on date four without any preamble.

I mean, of all the sick, weird things. And again, I’ve done plenty. I’ve been tied up. I’ve tied up someone. Two someones, actually. I’ve gone into bars and flirted with other people so my boyfriend could watch me and get all jealous aroused because it. I’ve worn costumes. I’ve done it in public. I am the kind of woman who is a lady in the street and a freak in the sack, I cannot stress this enough.

But this…ugh. My stomach just turns thinking out it.

And I liked Brad. A lot. We were having such a good time. But now I’m on the train racing home to scrub this gross off with my loofah.

I know, I know. I’m being too vague. It’s just so…fresh right now, you know.

(Sigh)

Ok. So he and I were kissing and I asked him if, maybe, he’d like to show me his bedroom and he almost literally jumped at the change. I was thinking that we were both in for one fuuuuuuuuuuuun night.

I got cocky though. We both did, I guess. I started to tease him. Asked him to tell me something sexy, tell me something he’d like to do with me that no one else ever let him do. He was hesitant at first, but I convinced him. That’s when he handed me the leotard and scrunchy socks.

“Be my Jane,” he said, eyes hopeful.

I was stunned, confused. “Jane?” I wondered aloud.

He clarified, voice making it clear how incredulous he was that I didn’t just know, “Jane Fonda.”

And I tried, I did. I tried to be his Jane Fonda. But some things are too sick, too awful to even try. When he put in that exercise tape in the world’s oldest VCR, I just had to run.

I will be your Little Bo Peep, your naughty babysitter, your tough but tender postwoman, but I will never be your Jane Fonda.

That’s just gross.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Lemon

On Post: Lemon

Date: January 2

Find it here

First of all, sorry about flip-flopping the posts, running the commentary on January 3^rd’s piece before January 2^nd’s. Bad form on my part. Doesn’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things, but it annoys my sense of order.

Good? Good.

The difficulty with “Lemon” is that it pulls for two approaches at once. The song, taken as a whole, is a weird, weird thing. The song is almost entirely sung in Bono’s falsetto and the backing music is bizarre and distorted. If you watch the video, as I did, to get a better hold of the song, things just got odder.

On the other hand, the lyrics themselves, stripped of all that artifice are actually fairly straightforward. The sunglassed one says they are specifically concerned with a man trying to capture a memory using technology. In the writing, however, they are general enough that they seem to be about the idea, in general of capturing the fleeting things in our lives, be they emotions or memories, in a way that lets us look back on them and share them with others.

So to honor both of those disparate halves, I tried to both the lyrics to the forefront and makes the details a little weird. Hence, the abstract diorama as a token of undying love.

Unfortunately, it feels pretty inert on the page. The only line that seems to have any juice behind it at all, for me, is when the girlfriend literally defines what a diorama is to her friend’s query of “What is it?” Otherwise, it is an okay idea undone but blah execution. Hopefully you felt differently, but sadly, that’s how it felt to me.

Interesting side note that did not occur to me until I had already posted Lemon. A friend of mine from college dated a guy for a time who would make dioramas. I believe he did gift them to her, but it might have been something they did together as, like, a bonding craft project. Either way, though, it just shows you that your brain is storing random bits of stuff all the time and that stuff will influence you and leak out in all kinds of ways.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 11, 2012: World Waits for You

Letter: S
CD Number: 14
Track Number 12

Song: “World Waits for You” by Son Volt from Okemah and the Riot of Melody

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/money/news/article-1622790/Taxman-can-make-dawn-raid-on-your-home.html)

When Glen and his friends first saw the ad in their local newspaper, they laughed. It was written in slang by someone obviously unfamiliar with the jargon. By the time it said, “keep it real” the fourth time, they were all laughing so hard it was difficult to keep reading through the tears.

A year and a half later, staring down the end of his unemployment checks with no discernible opportunities on the horizon, the ad stopped looked silly to Glen. It looked like hope. So he called. An older man who identified himself as Mr. Perez answered on the other end, politely informed Glen that the position remained open, and said he’d prefer to discuss the position and answer any questions face-to-face.

Three days later, Glen pulled up to the address Mr. Perez gave him. It was a grey saltbox with dark blue shutters. The lawn looked pristine. At the end of the driveway, a white wooden sign blew gently back and forth. The lettering informed curious passerbys that “Breaking the News, Inc.” was run out of this property.

Before Glen could even knock, Mr. Perez was pulling the door open. The older, elderly really, man looked like a taller, blacker Hans Moleman who had his DNA spliced with a turtle. Despite his obvious agedness, he walked with perfect posture at a decent clip into what Glen imagined had been a family room long ago and was now a conference room, complete with smart board, long oak table, and a beautiful buffet already prepped with a pitcher of water and a bowl of fresh fruit. Glen accepted the offer of a glass of water and a bunch of grapes and took a seat when offered.

Mr. Perez began to speak in a clear, sonorous voice, first apologizing for the ad. Evidently, the present of Breaking the News had a nephew who gave his uncle a collection of current words and phrases to punch up the ad and the president has applied them a bit recklessly. He then praised Glen for still taking a chance on it and started to advocate for the company’s credentials, explaining how long he had been with them, how they had locations in every state in the United States and at least one country on every continent. He described benefit structures, signing bonuses, and shockingly generous number of vacation and sick days even for new hires. It all sounded great but by the end of the 20 minute presentation Glen remained unclear on what exactly we do.

“Ahh,” Mr. Perez replied, nodding and smiling as though Glen had asked for the meaning of life and Mr. Perez just happened to know it. “We tell people the bad news.”

“Like, ‘You have cancer?’”

“No, Glen, that’s a medical condition we prefer to leave to medical professionals. We’d be great at the initial reveal, but the follow-up questions…we’re not prepared for that sort of thing.”

“So…what then?”

“Lots of things: ‘That girl will never love you.’ ‘Your father will never forgive you for not taking over the family business.’ ‘You are officially too old to realize insert life goal here.’ If people are realizing some of the harsh realities of life, we are there.”

“Really? But I’ve never heard of your company…”

“We strive for discretion. We’re not here to be famous, we’re here to perform an important duty.”

“How do people even know to ask you for your services? Why…why would they hire you?”

“They wouldn’t Glen. We don’t work for ‘them.’ We are not saesmen or advertisers or marketing gurus. We have no ‘product.’ We simply go where we should. If it’s benign bad news, we are there.”

“Every time?”

“Absolutely.”

“How come I’ve never seen you then? I’ve had my fair share of bad news and we’ve never spoken.”

“Actually, that’s not true. Remember Philomena? From seventh grade?”

“Sure. Sat next to me in homeroom and math. I thought she was beautiful for the longest time.”

“And what happened?”

“I woke up one morning and realized she’d never be interested in me. So I decided to give it up and look for a crush who’d be as interested in me as I was in them”

“Almost right. You did not just realize. We told you.”

“…I have no memory of that.”

“That’s because we are that good.”

“No, no,” Glen began to laugh, “You’re just screwing with me. What’s the real deal?”

“Trust me, Glen, this is the realest of deals,” Mr. Perez insisted. “Do me a favor and think about that morning that you decided you would crush on other girls. Close your eyes if you’d like.”

Glen played along, thinking that even though he’d still not have a job, he’d have a great story for his friends.

“Now really remember that day. What do you see when you think back to that morning? Concentrate.”

“I’m…I’m alone in my room. I have this yearbook thing with Philomena’s picture in it and I take it out and stared at it. My heart feels so big and so sore at the same time. I put the book away and then…wait…what the hell!”

Glen’s eyes popped open and he stumbled back in his chair.

“There was someone in my damn room!” he shouted, blanching, “This guy…Spanish maybe. Short. Wearing a tweed suit. He just…my God…he’s the one that told me. How is that—”

Mr. Perez waved him off, “I can’t speak to the actual mechanics. It just is. If everyone did what you just did, took the time to really remember when they felt disappointment, let go of dream, had negative epiphanies, they'd remember we were there. But who'd ever want to do that?”

“So,” Glen shook and his voice vibrated as he spoke, “so, you guys walk around telling everyone about how their hopes and dream will never work out and everyone hears you, believes it, and just forgets you were ever there?”

“Well…yes and no. The human mind is an impressive thing so sometimes people hear the message but refuse to accept it and spend their lives chasing things we’ve already told them won’t happen. Others just plain can’t hear us no matter how hard we try. And others still see us and never forget seeing us. That’s usually an awkward situation.”

“Wow…wow,” Glen said with a heavy sigh.

“So do you think this is a job for you?” Mr. Perez asked, holding out a thin folder emblazoned with company logo and ‘company handbook’ in gold letters.

__________________________________

Three years later, Glen stands on the curb in front of the Feltons’ summer home. Moments from now, Tom, the youngest son, will race out the door, skateboard in hand. Glen will take him aside and quickly explain to young Tommy that there is no amount of practicing that will ever get him on the X-Games and his future lie more with selling insurance. Tom will trade his skateboard to a friend later that day and will already have forgotten why he suddenly felt there was no chance he’d ever be good enough to make it worth sticking with.

Then, it will be across town for a two-fer. First, Glen has to let Vern Dorsell that he should probably come to terms with the fact that his wife is not, ever, going to do the “weird stuff” in bed. No matter how many times he makes puppy dog eyes at her or washes the dishes. Then, he will inform Charlene Dorsell that her husband is never going to get better about covering his disappointment about their sex life and just appreciate what he’s getting.

Glen always feels a little funny about telling people bad news, but, hey, he figures, “it’s a living” and, in this economy, who can afford to turn down a job?

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Sleep to Dream

On Post: Sleep to Dream 
Date: January 3

Find it here


Sometimes the order of these things can mess me up. In this case, since I had done a dream related piece only two days earlier ( Wake Up Bomb) I did not want to replicate that. If I had drawn this song a couple of weeks later, I probably would have done it as a companion piece to that first entry from the perspective of one of the Reverii; a piece that revealed how not good it was to be one of the people fueling the city with your dreams. Alas, the randomness of this is part of the “fun” and certainly challenge of it so I had to suck it up and let that idea go. I just didn’t feel it was right to go back to that well so quickly…nothing against the rules about it but it was not really in the spirit of things.

So instead I focused on the obvious breakup aspect of Apple’s song. In her piece, she is sort of playing both sides of what we have happening here. She is almost arguing with herself, presenting herself lyrically as calm, cool, and collected while simultaneously taking on an angry tone that makes it clear she is anything but. The piece has that angry scream aspect embodied by the devastated Ginny and the “hey calm down, it’s over but you don’t have to be so reactive” lyrics personified by Cassandra.

Because it was Fiona Apple arguing with herself, I wanted to make it a same sex relationship. It was not until afterwards that I thought about the stereotypes regarding gay and lesbian relationships involving overly emotional outbursts. I think/hope that Cassie obvious detachment is enough to balance out Ginny’s explosiveness, but I am not sure. That might just be my privilege talking there. In any case, I did think about it post, did not intend it to promote such stereotypes, and ultimately decided that my intent was not to do that, I do not believe these stereotypes, and that I presented the other side of that same sex dyad as different enough as to make it clear that Ginny’s outburst was not “typical” or “normal” for lesbians in the world of the story.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 10, 2012: Woodburning

Letter: T 

CD Number: 26

Track Number 15

Song: “Woodburning” by Toad the Wet Sprocket from Dulcinea

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.flickr.com/photos/theilr/2391887736/)

WALLACE lays on a bed in a sparsely decorated room. He’s bouncing a tennis ball off the far wall, catching it, and repeating the process. He drops his head back over the footboard looking out towards the audience.

WALLACE

Sooooooooo bored. So. Damn. Bored.

Rolls off bed to standing position on floor, begins pacing a little and throwing the ball between his hands. He misses during one back and forth and the ball bounces across the floor and under the bed.

Damn it!

He quickly crawls under the bed and grabs the wall. When he comes back out he stays on the floor, sitting up against the side of the bed.

Yes, that was a bit of an extreme response. I know that. I’m working on it in therapy.

He bounces his head backwards against the bed a few times.

It’s just…I really fucking hate my first night in a new group home. They always sound and smell a little strange and I can’t sleep and…it just sucks. In a week, won’t bother me at all. Won’t even notice. But now, tonight…nothing feels right

Starts throwing the ball again, this time at a different wall.

I aged out of the last place. No room for a 16 year old, apparently. I don’t know if that’s true or they just said it because they were worried about me offending with this 12 year old they had moving in, but…whatever. I wouldn’t have done anything, but…I guess I wouldn’t trust me either.

See, the messed up

Pauses, corrects himself.

The FUCKED UP thing about your older cousin messing around with when you are just 4 is that you start to think it’s okay…it’s normal. So, when DYFS finally catches us and sends you packing because your mom was always too stoned to stop it, you think that’s just the way it is. You know your cousin liked you, seemed like a cool guy, so you figure, hey, this guy’s cool, why wouldn’t we take our clothes and rub on each other.

Stops for a moment, breathes out hard, clearly uncomfortable and embarrassed.

That’s what my therapist says anyway. Wants me to know it is no excuse, it’s still not okay, but that I should know that that kind of early childhood trauma literally changes the way your mind works.

Which is great I guess. I have a reason for doing the stuff I’ve done,

but the stuff I’ve done is still really shitty and I am still the one that did it. It’s like being told that this dude’s can take control of your body at random points, make you do some heinous shit to kids, and even though it wasn’t your fault, it’s still totally your fault.

Whips the ball at the wall much harder. It bounces around, ends up in the corner farthest away. He waves it off like he’s done with it.

The thing that really pisses me off is I was doing well at the last place. I got along with the staff. I hadn’t been hospitalized in almost a year.

Man, I even did my chores on time basically every day. Not Saturday because that’s just dumb. I gotta sleep!

But, yeah, I was like the model con. If it was prison, I’d get time off for good behavior. Instead they send me here, completely fucking up my rhythm.

And now that I’m 16, I cannot afford to do anything stupid or I’ll catch a charge. So I ask you, would you send a kid with a history of being abused and abusing others who is finally showing signs of developing skills and addressing behavior issues away? In what world does that make any damn sense? It’s like they already wrote me off, you know?

He stands back up and paces some more, making air quotes.

‘Well, Wallace is a lost cause anyway. He’s going to go to jail regardless of what we do so who cares if he does it from this group home or another one.’

He flops back down on his bed and shakes for a moment, hands over his face as if silently sobbing.

The thing is, I really don’t blame them. If I was them and I was looking at my file…hell, I wouldn’t have taken me in the first place. And you know what? That would’ve been fine. I get that. But to take me in, to treat me nice, to help me? And then… AND THEN, to push me out?

He shakes his head, stands, and turns off the light.

That’s what’s fucked up.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

Writer's Commentary: Wake Up Bomb

On Post: Wake Up Bomb

Date: January 1

Find it here

This story was birthed from two disparate parts. The first was the title. What exactly would a Wake Up Bomb do? What would it accomplish? What’s the advantage of a bomb that wakes people up? The only thing I could come up with was the idea that people’s dreams had power, which then became literal, and that one group was trying to mine that power and another was trying to interfere with that. So it was already clear there were going to be sci-fi overtones. 

Then there was the line about looking good “in metallic sick wraparound blackout tease.” With the sci-fi bend already kicking around my head, I started thinking uniforms and that made me think of Judge Dredd and thus, cops. Or, in the world of the story, “Officers of the Crop.”

So, if I am honest, we had a story with elements of Monsters, Inc, Judge Dredd, and any number of pieces of dystopian future pop culture. If I was going to convert this to a full length tale, I’d have a lot of originality to interject into this or a lot to explain. But as a short piece done quickly, I’m okay with that.

What I didn’t love was creating future slang. It always reads awkward to me: “Shock this,” “Frak that,” and so on. It can eventually became part of the tapestry of the world and thus far less awkward. In a short piece though, it feels really blatant. The alternative, of course, is to put it all in modern language and damn the consequences. I sort of cheated here in that the exposition is mostly modern language while the slang largely only shows in dialogue.

On this front, the nice thing about the song was I could mine it for some of the slang. Thus, you see phrases like “dropped transmission” be utilized as patois. My only regret was that I was unable to work “T-Rex moves” into the proceedings. I hope to someday overcome this disappointment.

My explanation not ring true? Do you have questions that this piece left unanswered? Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. And, as always, spread the word.

January 9, 2012: Capital G

Letter: NCD Number: 13
Track Number: 7

Song: “Capital G” by Nine Inch Nails from Year Zero

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.nashvillebyline.com/)

Two men meet in a bar. They do this every year. They share a father in common. Half brothers in the parlance. And the discussion is always the same.

“Still a fascist who believes that government has no place in society except to ensure that only rich white people get to do what they want?”

“Well, rich people in general, but, yeah, basically.”

“And that the government should not raise taxes to pay for things like Medicare or Welfare, but they should regulate who can marry who and what a woman can do with her body?”

“That’s about the size and shape of it. Yup. Are you still weak willed, unwilling to see how people take advantage of the system at the cost of society productive members?”

“Sounds accurate.”

“And you continue to be so naïve that you can’t see the government stifles creativity, ingenuity, and the will to achieve.”

“Oh, you know it.”

“So you wanna buy a bottle and go get polluted at dad’s grave?”

“Can we bring overpriced chicken nachos?”

“Just try and stop us.”

And so they went. For booze, nachos, and reminiscing. And no talk of politics.

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 8, 2012: Good Morning

Letter: W

CD Number: 24

Track Number 1

Song: “Good Morning” by West, Kanye from Graduation

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://mnprairieroots.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/copy-of-swmn-027.jpg)

From the Journal of Guy Trevholm

May 17^th

I have just the ranks of the Bachelored. I walked across the stage, snagged my diploma, and *poof* I am a college graduate.

And, I admit, I’m a little freaked.

It’s all the fault of this townie we ran into last night. And it’s all our fault that he said anything to us in the first place.

Chazz was drunk (surprise!) and in the mood for some attention (double surprise!) so he hopped up on the table and announced we were graduating tomorrow and drinks were on us. Most of the bar whooped and hollered congratulations but this one guy in the corner did not even acknowledge The Chazz Show.

That was bad enough. But then, he turned down the free drink. Chazz saw it, of course. He always is aware of any potential slight, no matter the size. And being Chazz, he couldn’t just ignore it. He started by mocking the guy from our side of the room, doing dumb impressions just loud enough to be heard. The guy just ignored it.

Now Chazz was pissed and he started to call him names, real loud-like. Just awful things. The rest of us were giggly at first, I admit, but we quickly stopped when we saw just how much Chazz was not in a joking mood. But still, the guy did not respond, did not even glance at us.

Chazz could not take this and stormed across the room. He grabbed the townie’s half filled beer and poured it all over the guy’s shoes, sneering something like, “You don’t want the drink I sent you, you don’t get to drink this one either.”

The bar went silent. The townie stood, shook off his boots, and calmly deliberately decked Chazz. Bam! Right in the jaw. Chazz fell like his legs had just disappeared. The townie dragged our in shock idiot friend back to our table and whispered in a gravelly voice, “You all think you’re special, flashing your money, bragging ‘bout your pieces of paper. But that’s your parents folks and that diploma…it’s just a piece of paper. I’ve seen all you entitled kids come and go and one thing’s always the same. You don’t learn anything up there on the hill save how to get drunk, how to get diseases from sex, and how to get jobs that don’t benefit anyone but yourselves. Thing is, the party don’t last forever. And I think I hear the end coming.”

We stood there stunned, too surprised to speak. He left and we hoisted up Chazz and followed suit a safe amount of time later. We laughed about it on the way home, called him a hick, jealous, stuff like that.

If I’m honest though, and if my friends are, I’m worried he’s right. I can’t change a tire or my oil, the only thing I know how to do around the house is pre-heat an oven and plunge a toilet. I’ve never paid rent or car insurance. College didn’t teach me any of that stuff.

What the hell am I going to do now?

Reach out and touch me at tim.g.stevens@gmail.com or @ungajje on the Twitter. Let me know what you love and what you hate. And please, do spread the word.

January 7, 2012: Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes

Letter: S

CD Number: 18

Track Number: 5

Song: “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” by Simon, Paul from Graceland

Listen to it here

(Picture taken from http://www.fayeandco.com/2007/07/the-brownstone-bride/)

AARON, a young man of maybe 25 sits across a table from FRED and STAN, two men in their mid-40’s or so. AARON is dressed in an improbably shiny suit, the top three buttons on his shirt undone, his hair perfectly coiffed. FRED and STAN wear schlubby business casual attire and look tired. They drink coffee while AARON intermittently plays with and drinks from a plastic water bottle.

AARON

…and that was the day I realized that what I wanted to do would never be within my reach. So—

STAN (bordering on exasperated)

Again, Aaron, I promise you, this level of detail is not necessary.

AARON

You said you wanted my story, right? Well, this is it. This is my story. Now do you want it or not?

FRED (patting STAN on the shoulder in a way both comforting and making it clear he needed to shut up)

Of course we do. If you think we need to do this, then please, tell us.

AARON (sighing)

Fine. Ok. I don’t want to be a…burden on anyone or anything. A bother, you know?

STAN (feigning contrition)

Oh, no. No bother. Of course not. Please continue. I apologize for my rudeness. I think I must be coming down with a head cold. Sinuses are giving me a headache. I am very interested in your story.

AARON (if he picks up on STAN’s sarcasm, he certainly does not acknowledge it.)

So, like I said, I let the dream die. No money to be made in stilt artistry, you know? It’s an injustice, but there it was. The problem was, and I’m being honest here, that I didn’t have any other real skills. No useful college degree. No connections. I was out of luck.

STAN rolls his eyes and FRED kicks him under the table for it.

FRED (seeking to distract AARON from Stan’s annoyance)

But apparently not, because here you are.

AARON

Right. Well, I was so sad and overwhelmed that I said, “Fuck it,” put on my only suit, and went downtown looking for some party to sneak in. I found one at this hotel penthouse, just followed some well dressed people up the elevator there and no one questioned me. I was well on my way to getting right tanked when this woman came up to me. She was obviously older but I was drinking and feeling sorry for myself so I just went for it. The next morning she let me know that she knew a lot of people who would ‘enjoy’ a guy like me and that there was money to be made.

STAN

And thus, FINALLY, a gigolo was born?

AARON

I’d like to say I hemmed and hawed about it, but…yeah, that’s about all there was to it. I was desperate and the idea of making money for having sex with rich women did not sound so bad to me. So that’s what I did for years. Three-ish years. Then, I met Ms. Ranks.

FRED

That would be Julie Ranks, age 46?

AARON (annoyed with the interruption casts a withering glance at FRED)

You know it is.

FRED

Sure. Yes. Sorry.

AARON

She was different. For one thing, she was beautiful. Startlingly so. Many of my clients were attractive but they usually had…help. A tuck here or there, perhaps an injection or dozen. But Jul—Ms. Ranks was all-natural. And she had a way about her…like she floated where the rest of us were walking around. But the best thing, the craziest thing, were these shoes she had. They had diamonds on the bottoms…real diamonds. That’s how insanely rich she is. Or her deceased husband was. She WALKED on diamonds. It was awful. And ostentatious. And wildly sexy to me. She admitted they were weird, but insisted that it was impossible to feel bad when you wore the shoes.

Anyway, she sought me out and after a few ‘sessions’ she asked me if I want to give up the gigolo lifestyle and move in with her. I could do whatever I wanted, I would not have to worry about bills for anything, and we’d be an exclusive couple. I was infatuated with her, the first client I ever fell for. And so...so I said yes. Even without the “do whatever you want, my finances are your finances” bit, I would’ve gone for it.

STAN

This was when?

AARON

Last year. Eleven months ago yesterday.

FRED

Sounds like a dream come true.

AARON

It was. It really was. I was 25, the city, for the first time, was really mine for the taking, and I was re-embracing my stilt artistry dreams. I had an amazing woman for a girlfriend. And she seemed to be falling in love with me too. The only problem was…

He stops, breathes heavily, and places his head on his fists for a moment.

FRED

Take as long as you need.

AARON

I…I don’t want to run her down her. She was a wonderful person in many, many ways. But…she liked drugs. Cocaine in particular. She loved it, I guess I’d say if I was being honest.  And it scared me.

STAN

Is that when you tried to force her into rehab.

AARON

Yeah. It was silly. I see that now. She is a grown woman. She’s rich beyond anything I could’ve imagined before I met her. I was just her boyfriend. Not her husband or a family member. I had no standing.

The people though, the people who said it was a ploy. An attempt to gain access to her cash? They’re wrong. And idiots. If she went to rehab, I’d be moving back to my apartment. I had no claim on that stuff.

My try obviously failed but she seemed to forgive me. At first. Then I got more and more aware that she was being colder to me that usual. The sex got…rougher. Weirder. She’d make demands that I…I honored but was uncomfortable with. But I was still too dumb to really see it.

Then, one night we were getting ready to go out. She had put on those shoes and I was thrilled. Diamond shoes always meant fun. As I was heading to the bathroom to freshen up and change, she offered me a bump. I was stunned. Did she forget how I felt about her using? Did she really think I’d say yes? I was angry, so maybe I was little short with her when I said no. I don’t know. I didn’t feel like it at the time, but…maybe.

AARON grows silent for a moment as if revisiting the memory for an answer.

Whatever the reason, be it how I said no or built up anger, she got pissed. She growled at me, ‘Oh, I forgot. My whore doesn’t use drugs. My whore is too ‘pure’ for that.’ She sent on like that for awhile. Kept calling me a whore. It was…horrible. And scary. I’d never seen her like that. So…ugly, I guess. So entitled. So cruel.

The weird thing was…I still went out with her that night. And we still had fun. I… I don’t know what I was doing. Or thinking. I didn’t want to let go of the fairy tale, I guess. Anyway, I woke up in the middle of the night that night and she was not in bed with me. And then I noticed none of the furniture, except the bed, was there. She had drugged me and paid a team of movers to move the whole apartment out around me while I was asleep. All she left me was my suitcase with some clothes, 70 dollars, and a note that said, ‘You take me for granted.’ Rather than talk it out or break up with me to my face, she broke the lease on the place and took off.

STAN

You must have been so angry.

AARON

Honestly, I should’ve been. But I wasn’t. Not then. I just felt lousy. Guilty. Maybe I had taken her for granted. I spent weeks trying to get her back. Until…

He trails off and begins to squeeze the empty water bottle hard.

FRED

Until when? Go on.

AARON

A body of mine works for one of the theatres and he called to tell me some last minute cancellations had left balcony seats open and if I could down to the theatre, I could see a show for free. I hadn’t seen a show since I was on my own again, so I was excited. And the show was good. I was enjoying myself, starting to feel more like myself. And then…then I saw them.

Across the mezzanine during intermission, there was Jules and…some guy. Kid, really. He was younger than me, I’m pretty sure. More than 20 years younger apparently was not quite enough for her. All my sadness became anger. My guilt became a profound sense of being wronged. My plans to make amends morphed into plans to exact revenge.

I started to follow them around. To learn their patterns. To figure out what their lives were like. And my anger only grew. But still I did nothing. I was so mad, but I couldn’t bring myself to be more than a mopey stalker.

Until tonight. Tonight…I saw them. They were heading to La Playa…the club. That was…it was Jules and I’s favorite place. OUR place. And she was bringing him there. I could hear it all in my head. ‘Taking me dancing, baby.’ Or doll. Or stud. Or honey. Or hunk. One of her pet names. And then she’d say, ‘Ooo, and I’ll wear the shoes.’ And he’d know what she talking about, exactly what she was talking about. And he’d be thrilled. And she’d be thrilled. And neither would ever think about me…about the betrayal.

AARON sneered unconsciously. His handsome but bland visage twisted into readable disgust.

So, I caught them, in an alley. It was kind of bright, but all the markets were closed. No one was around to see me. I took care of him first and oh how she screamed. But she was too scared to run. Too scared.

And then it was her turn. I was quick. You understand. I still love her. I needed to end her, but I didn’t want to hurt her. She just…I couldn’t let her be alive in this world anymore.

I laid them both in the doorway. Together. Peaceful. Sleeping-like. It just…felt right. A decent thing.

FRED

We understand. You had no choice.

AARON (tired, slumping in relief)

I really didn’t. I…I really didn’t.

He looked up, glassy-eyed but oddly hopeful.

Will you…will you arrest me now?

STAN

I’m afraid we have to, son.

AARON

Good…that’s good. Don’t…can’t be out there anymore. No…no reason.

 

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