BILLY DREAMER

January 21, 2003

I keep slipping into this fantasy, where I’m moving my bowels furiously in some public place. It’s not a sexual fantasy – my brain doesn’t wiggle for that type of release. Instead, I think it’s a reflection of the surfeit of anxiety I bear, and my wild desire to unburden it. So, as I recede further and further into the mechanics of my own body, it seems like the most liberating thing I can do is shit myself, preferably somewhere near a historical landmark.

Do you remember that game you used to play, on long car rides? The one where you’d stick your finger outside the window and try to “jump” telephone poles, road posts, and highway signs with it. You’d just focus on the quick repetition of scenery, and imagine yourself hurtling over it in perfect time. My public defecation fantasy plays out in an almost identical manner. As I pass bodegas, libraries, walk-down basement apartments with good cover, I project myself squatting, shitting, relaxing, and even laughing. I wonder what it would be like riding between subway cars, crouched down just low enough to pique the curiosity of some, but not all, of the other commuters, fouling New York City’s insides at thundering speeds.

Today I pictured myself creeping along the subway platform, away from everyone else, toward the mouth of the tunnel. Once there, in the shadows, I was relieving myself, becoming purely physical for a moment. Then I saw myself tearing out the pages of the Russian novel I’m currently reading. Pulling each one jagged from the cloth binding, and cleaning myself with them.

In my fantasy, some of the ink slipped from the rough, stiff pages, and stained the cracks inside my fingertips and who knows where else? The whole time I was generating this fantasy, there was a parallel voice admonishing me. “This is insane. This is surely the kind of thing people on the verge of a complete breakdown think about, and the kind of thing people who have already experienced a breakdown actually do.” I thanked God for that second voice.

Yes, but after shitting and scolding myself, both voices merged and created an epilogue in my mind. I considered how funny it would be to take this Russian novel – a book more satisfying than anything I’ve written to date – and wipe my ass with it. And how funny that smeared phrases from it would mark my body for the rest of the day. And what would be the fate of my own writing? Worse?

I caught myself turning all of these dark ideas around, using my skull as a bingo cage, and I laughed. I laughed to myself, keeping it inside, preventing it from escaping in front of dozens of strangers sitting beside me on the train. Because I know that freeing my laughter would unequivocally prove my insanity.

SWAPPINGTONS

January 20, 2003

Have you heard of SWAPPINGTONS? Dig – it’s an online service with which post CDs, Books, and Movies you own but are tired of or through with, and you trade with other people.

No money is exchanged; just a sort of “credits” system on the web site. It’s a great way to move around all the plastic and paper media you’ve accrued and now regard with the sort of shame one reserves for gluttonous consumerism. SWAPPINGTONS is a great way to lighten your load, and get some new books to read, and new music to listen to. Then you can swap them out again, like a giant library.

Listing your stuff is super easy, and the site seems to be changing every single day now. (at first, you could only list cds, books, and dvds. now it seems you can also list vhs tapes and video games.) I hope more people continue to use this service so I will be able to choose from media that is more closely targeted to my demographic. Sorry, Hoobastank, or whoever you are.

And here’s the part where I grovel a bit. When you sign up, and it asks you who referred you to the service, give them my username: TREMBLE. It grants a few extra points, which would make me grateful. And then pass it along to other friends, and have them do the same for you. See? Just like Amway. And The Forum.

THE LOST TREMBLES

January 17, 2003

Oops. It seems my web host did something unspeakable that cost me to lose two very long entries for this site. If you stare at the web endlessly, you might have seen at least one of them up yesterday afternoon and evening. However, they’re gone now and I’m not sure daddy’s ever coming back.

I feel especially lousy, because I sent a puffy-chested email out to my mailing list, touting the return of “proper” writing to this site, in place of promotions about upcoming shows and meandering apologies. Now, to many, it might have seemed like a cruel grift, a sting for hits.

Maybe those entries will return. Maybe they won’t. There’s some cold comfort for you. And here’s a story:

Last night, because I’m clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I rented Undercover Brother. The video store clerk, who was highly goth, with spiked choker and white pancake makeup, inspected the tape and deadpanned, “that’s a bad movie.” I agreed, and promised I’d only be using it to punish myself for cruelties toward others. Then she informed me that I had a late fee on another rental. I almost stopped myself from asking more, and I should have. But I didn’t.

“Oh really? Which movie?”
“Triple X.”
“Oh God.”
“That’s a bad movie, too.”

Here. Take all my money and try to forgive me. I actually wanted her to reach back in my records, way back to a time when I rented respectable titles from sections other than NEW RELEASES. But that was a long time ago, and the trail leading to those titles was bloody and stupid. It would mean re-visiting Bride of Chucky and The First $20 Million is the Hardest and Blood Work even Jason X. It could potentially blind the poor clerk before she ever had a chance to see Charade or Beijing Bicycle, so it wasn’t really worth it. I felt ashamed and crazy, stupid and speechless all at once. (hey – i think i just rented Speechless a few weeks ago.) I was completely disarmed by her observation, and the judgement that surely followed it.

When I stepped outside, I finally thought of what I could say in response. “Well, I’m so sorry I didn’t rent Interview with a Vampire, Dracula-face!” Of course, it was too late to go back in there and say any of this – I was several blocks away by now – but that didn’t stop me from running back in there and saying it anyway, completely out of breath. I wiped the cold-weather snot from my nose with the Undercover Brother box, twirled on my heel, and made a cool exit. And it would have been even cooler had I not knocked over a large display of cellular phones on my way out.

DEAR LANDMARK FORUM

January 14, 2003

Lately, I’ve been discovering a surprising number of my acquaintances have participated in The Landmark Forum. By “surprising number” I mean, of course, two. But even two seems like a big number, considering the first I’d heard of this program was approximately four months ago.

I don’t really know how to describe the program, but I suppose it’s like one of those self-actualization seminars. If you watched Six Feet Under religiously, as I did – instead of “working on yourself”, of course – you might remember the seminar Mrs. Fisher attended halfway through last season. That was perhaps a slightly loopier version of The Forum, but I’m sure both the real and fictional seminars leave the same fuzzy taste in the mouths of cynics. In fact, that taste might be familiar to some of you. If you roll it around on your tongue for a bit you’ll find it tastes almost exactly like bullshit.

To be fair, I can’t say for certain The Forum is bullshit because I’ve never really investigated it, and right now I don’t have a better plan for self-actualization. It’s not like my rigorous program of existential crises alternating with bourbon and Snickers binges is getting me any closer to “Illuminlightenment!™” or whatever The Forum promises. I can say that it confuses me a bit, though. I’ve noticed several unusual things that come up in people’s discussion of this program. First, no one seems to have had a bad time. It’s like hypnotism – if you’re suggestive enough at that moment, you’ll believe in it. Fine. I would hope it would result in a good time. I have no interest in knocking down people who are actually benefitting from their particular belief system. But here’s the funny thing…

Whenever you ask friends how the program helped them, the answer is never really satisfying. No one has ever told me The Forum helped them save a puppy or buy a Camaro. The victories are always smaller, weirder. Like, “I finally started a blog!” or “Just three weeks after The Forum I was honored as ‘The World’s Greatest Grandma’ with a commemorative nightshirt.”

The Forum also seems to lack the advertising punch and celebrity weight of Scientology. On two separate occasions, I learned of a friend’s involvement with The Forum because they let it slip that they had begun hanging out with a really low-rung celebrity. In one instance it was the nerdy character from Saved by the Bell, but it wasn’t Screech. It was the other nerdy character – the one who only appeared in cut scenes by the lockers. Another time, I had a friend tell me she’d just went to a party with The Unknown Comic, The Real Roxanne, and the guy who provides the voice for Charlie Tuna. This inevitably led to a discussion about The Forum, and made me both curious and skeptical. And let’s not forget deliciously horny!! (wink!)

As long as it doesn’t cross legal or ethical lines, I try to fully support my friends’ decisions. But I can’t help being somewhat taken aback when someone confesses to completing The Forum. I usually read a sense of bottled-up excitement (with perhaps a shade of guilt, too) coming from them when the news comes out, and I cannot help but react with both shock and embarrassment. It’s like being friends with someone for ten years and suddenly discovering he or she is “swings”. Or, even worse, it’s like suddenly discovering a friend “swing-dances”. From that moment forward, you’re going to see him slightly differently and you’re always going to wonder, in the back of your mind, “is this person trying to get me to join him? Do I have to buy a zoot suit now?”

A ROOM OF ONE’S OWN

January 13, 2003

I recently joined a writer’s space in Brooklyn. My previous writer’s space – the Starbucks near my apartment – cost $3.84 per diem and came with a latte and hours upon hours of free laura nyro music. The space I used before that – my own apartment – became psychologically impossible many months ago because of the calming effect of cats and the disorienting effect of EVERYTHING I OWN WITHIN REACH. That included the television, stereo, fig newtons, Tekken 4, pornography, and a giant cardboard box filled with grown-up clothes, eyeglasses and meerschaum pipes for games of dress-up.

The new space seems OK. For now, my arrangement is part-time, which means I have access from 6pm – 6am on weekdays (sadly, my prime writing hours are 10pm – 4am) and full-time on weekends. It coincides nicely with my cellular phone service plan. I think I’ll use the space, providing it’s quiet, but I already have a few reservations.

The space has somewhat low ceilings. That’s not terrible in itself, but combined with the work areas – staid, fabric-walled cubicles with artificial cherry wood and gold trim – it sort of approximates a second office. Will other writers wile away hours playing minesweeper on their computers? Will I wind up hitting on the cleaning lady? Will they let me hang my ‘successories’ poster up in my cube? (i just had my “SUBTLE CONDESCENSION” poster dry-mounted.)

I’m also a little concerned about some of the hidden costs. On top of the quarterly fee, there was a $50 administrative initiation fee (for xeroxes?), a $20 refundable key deposit, $5 monthly locker charge, $18 bully tax, $30 first-person bildungsroman fee, $200 protagonist – just – laid – off – from – big – dot-com – company – and – is – now – selling – all – his – cool – tech – gadgets – on – ebay – and – write – his – first – novel fee, and a $450,000 rape poetry surcharge. I guess they know their business better than I do, though.

(WHITE) AMERICA HAS A NEW HERO

January 10, 2003

Be on the lookout for a new comedy concert film named The Blue Collar Comedy Tour, coming like an entertainment tornado to blow away the trailer park of your mind. From the looks of the trailer, this film doubles as some kind of white person’s reparations for the success of The Original Kings of Comedy. (or perhaps The Queens of Comedy or The Original Latin Kings of Comedy or maybe, just maybe, The Original Laotian Kings of Comedy.) It’s basically the same structure – 4 touring comics, one host, live concert mixed with panel-style “riffing”, material about how different it was to grow up poor – and nearly the same name. The only difference I could see was when they cut to the audience reactions. Instead of a vast sea of highly macked-out black women and men from the American South, it’s just a large Klan rally. But the Klansmen are having just as much fun. You can’t actually see them laughing but you can kind of tell they are by the way their hoods shake. (bam! zip! pow!)

The concert is headlined by Jeff “you know you’re a redneck” Foxworthy, and ordinarily that would be all you’d need to know. However, I feel it’s important to highlight a new face in the world of unapologetically-white-guy comedy: Larry The Cable Guy. That’s his name! Just ask him! And be sure to check out his self-written bio! In which he adds exclamation points to the end of nearly every line! Ensuring us all that it is some hootin’ hollerin’ hilariosity!!!! It’s as if Larry is saying, “hoo-dog! I myself cannot even believe the crazy things coming out of my mouth! I’m all serious for a second and then – what? – here comes something straight outta left field!” Each one of his jokes has a lethal punch not unlike the last panel of a Bazooka Joe comic strip.

As you read his bio, it becomes increasingly libertarian and, therefore, increasingly fascinating. Larry gets his steel toe booted foot in the door with a quick barrage of alcoholic mother jokes, then slowly shifts his tone from Mr. “Laugh A Minute” to Mr. “I Got Some Opinions, Too, Y’all, and This Here Interweb Is a Right Fine Place to Air Them”. Check out this excellent trick in disarming the reader before dropping a conservative bomb: “I believe all the telletubbies is queer, not just the purple one! I believe in the right to bear arms! Not only against scumbag criminals, but also against a tyrannical government!” Larry is one-part Hee-Haw, two-parts NASCAR, four-parts Militia Separatist Movement, and forty-parts PRECIOUS!

I think Larry has built himself a fine niche. He really does call himself “Larry the Cable Guy” at every possible juncture, and I’m sure that’s how he presented himself to club owners and prospective talent management. The easy nail he uses to hang himself on is similar to the way many Chitlin Belt comics call themselves things like “The Wildcat” or “Doo Doo Brown” or “Stricklee Funnin”, and produce headshots reflecting their “wild” or “doo doo” nature. Larry’s headshot is S-M-A-R-T. It shows him wearing the requisite baseball cap, Ted Nugent t-shirt and, in case you are a casting agent who doesn’t quite understand what Larry the Cable Guy is All About, he was also kind enough to wrap some cables around his neck in a style suggesting Early Hysterical. Larry ain’t some stinking plumber or landscaper. He’s straight-up cable guy and don’t you forget it. Something tells me Larry has already made an appearance on Reba in an episode where the cable goes out just before a big Travis Tritt pay-per-view event. And something else tells me he’ll be making another appearance very soon…in your heart! Now go GIT-R-DONE, whatever that means.

P.S. Larry the Cable Guy is not gay. I’m just saying.

PENSACOLA, FLORIDA’S #1 JEW WRITER

January 8, 2003

OK. So, a journalist from the nationally respected Pensacola News Journal got in touch with me a couple of months ago because she was interested in writing something about tremble for an “add to favorites” column – some ongoing weblinky feature that runs in the paper each week. She was a charmer and we exchanged several emails. Most of hers were of the “I’m so sorry, but they still haven’t printed it yet” variety and I played it so cool that I actually forgot about it altogether. I suppose at some point I decided the Florida Gulf simply wasn’t ready for a certain literary hurricane named “Levin” and I’d have to wait for The Celebration, Florida Daily Mandate to scoop the Pensacola News Journal on the tremble story.

Well, today a friend who happens to be heavily invested in my mental well-being did the favor of searching for my name on Google (i hope they get lots of hits from that mention; they deserve it.) and aggregating any online mentions of me in a long email. Not sure why she did it, but it was funny because I hadn’t read about half the entries prior to receiving the email. (though i experienced a burst of nostalgia over a real friendship with a real person that started with a silly, and certainly embarrassing, web page from a million years ago. sorry, mars.) It was a nice surprise, and I’m sure I would have seen all of these entries if only I were a smidge more self-absorbed. (add that to new year’s resolutions, beneath “finally use that old gas mask!”)

One discovery from today’s email was that, lo and behold, the PNJ came through after all! (you knew i’d get back to that, right?) I will include the link but it was sort of hard for me to find it on the page, crowded as it was with late-breaking Pensacola news. I thought about quoting it here, too, but even copying the bit to my clipboard felt far too onanistic and I had to purge it. So allow me to just say it was nice. If only the other gulf states were this kind. (texas, are you listening?)

According to the Pensacola tourism board web site, “Pensacola offers the best of all worlds to visitors. From history and shopping to sports, nature and attractions, there’s something for everyone.” Well, Pensacola tourism board web site, maybe it’s time you added another world to that list – perhaps a world called “long-winded online journal entries soaked with dirty swears, mean swipes at easy targets, and cranky insight?” Yes, Pensacola – you are truly a city where thousands live the way millions wish they lived. And you will always live in my heart. Thanks, PNJ, and thanks Elizabeth Trever Buchinger!

WILL GIVE AWARD FOR FOOD

January 5, 2003

Are the Webbys broke now? I think web sites are great fun, although I’ve never felt especially indebted to the Webbys for their garish presentation of awards for web sites and their creators. In my experience, most web developers and authors are more compelling on paper, and no amount of manufactured fanfare or c-list celebrity presenters are going to change the fact that you’re forcing a live audience to listen to a speech by the personality behind “recipedatabase.com”.

In an act that could be read as either marketing savvy or complete disdain for their nominees, the Webbys made an interesting switch a couple of years ago – they created a strict rule limiting awards recipients to an acceptance speech no longer than five words. That means more time for drag queens!

This year I noticed the Webbys require a $85 entry fee (now $95, as the deadline gets closer) to nominate personal and non-profit sites, and $100 (now $150) for other site categories. Compare this fee, and the five words you get to say to an audience who, in this sagging economy in a country on the verge of war, now tends to look at the web as a disgusting example of recent excesses, to the award itself. A petrified slinky, its total retail value couldn’t possibly exceed $15. This means nominees are funding the ceremony, and the honored web sites are basically paying for the privilege of receiving their awards. Well, Tiffany Schlain finally got her wish: the Webbys are officially exactly like the Oscars™.

NERDS BE WARNED

January 4, 2003

I realize things are going really well for nerds lately. Several years ago, various mainstream media channels heralded the “Rise of the Geek”, and graced their covers with various computer nerds-a-leaping, costumed with all the naturalism and subtlety of an extra from Saved by the Bell. Nerds were everywhere you looked, except at cool parties or underneath attractive women because, let’s face it: unless those headlines read “Rise of the Multi-Billionaire Geek,” the only velvet ropes you had any hopes of getting past with those steel-frame glasses, tennis shoes and trench coat were at Club Bizarro Universe. It was false advertising, but no hard feelings.

Well, even if you couldn’t sincerely thank Bill Gates and that Asian guy from Yahoo!, the same cannot be said for Peter Jackson. You see, his outstandingly deft handling of JRR Tolkien’s Nerd-tastic trilogy has legitimized all of your bookish fantasies and vindicated decades of unsubstantiated physical abuse at the hands and feet of Jocks™ worldwide. The tables have turned, and Lord of the Rings upset them.

Everyone loves the fantasy that Jackson – and, by extension, Tolkien (the original he-man woman-hater) – has wrought. Suddenly, your insight into elvin lore is a much-desired commodity. Jocks are bringing their own nerd sherpas to the movies, and hanging on their every thin-lipped utterance. “Give us safe passage through Middle Earth,” their eyes beg, and you comply more than willingly. You’re pointing out mistakes in the subtitles for scenes spoken in Elven, an act which would ordinarily elicit a swift and severe beating, but now caresses “oohs” and “ahhhs” and sweet eyelash fluttering from your tormentors. Maybe they even throw a beefy arm around your shoulder and chuckle along when you make a joke about the generous size of Gandalf’s staff, and take no notice when your skepticism and newfound cavalier spirit cause you to mutter, “Auta miqula orqu*” underneath your breath. Yes, the world seems to be tilting according to your whims but believe me now: BE CAREFUL.

Don’t push it too hard. Remember that Tolkien’s rich, female-free universe of dragons and dwarves and homocidal trees has been your province for many, many years, but is virgin territory to the rest of us. Take it slowly. Learn to hold your tongue. Leave your cape and cardboard scabbard at home a little while longer – at least until the reviews are in for the next chapter in the trilogy. Perhaps you can show people your armband tattoo of the Ring’s unforgettable inscription, but don’t share your Hobbit fan fiction just yet. Choose your battles, or you will upset this wonderful but delicate victory. Don’t start wearing ear points. Don’t refer to your cubicle as “the shire”, except in private emails to your closest and most trusted friends. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but please trust me. I’m just trying to protect you.

You’ve got a year left, maybe even more. Just hold your breath and pray the critics don’t smite The Return of the King next year, or you’ll have to retreat back to Middle Earth (i.e. your mom’s basement apartment) for another three thousand gleems, or whatever you nerds call years.

(*if you were able to recognize this phrase and/or translate it, it’s already too late for you. sacrifice yourself with silence for the sake of the rest of the nerd race, please.)

SINGLE BEST YEAR

January 3, 2003

Making and ordering a list makes things nice. This year being so great for music that a “best of 2002” list was so easy it actually became difficult. No single album by an artist knocked me out completely, but many artists made knockout singles. (see what i just did with language??? why hasn’t entertainment weekly scooped me up into its loving arms yet?) Here’s a list, of my favorite ones from last year, in order of my memory’s ability to recall them:

  1. “The Boy Looked at Johnny,” The Libertines
  2. “Stay Don’t Go,” Spoon
  3. “Ivanka,” Imperial Teen
  4. “Work It,” Missy Elliott
  5. “Dig a Hole,” The Rogers Sisters
  6. “Rock You,” The Roots
  7. “Roland,” Interpol (notable mention: “PDA”, “Obstacle 1”)
  8. “The Leanover,” Life Without Buildings
  9. “Lose Yourself,” Eminem
  10. “Oh Goddamnit,” Hot Hot Heat
  11. “Oh!,” Sleater-Kinney
  12. “Hate to Say I Told You,” The Hives
  13. “One Sailor Was Waving,” Ballboy
  14. “Hot in Herre,” Nelly (notable mention: “Air Force Ones”)
  15. “Die Another Day,” Madonna (shut up!)
  16. “One with the Freaks,” The Notwist
  17. “Lost Cause,” Beck
  18. “Huffer,” The Breeders
  19. “Promising Light,” Iron & Wine
  20. “Hey Ma,” Cam’ron
  21. “You Know You’re Right,” Nirvana (can’t help myself)

Phew! Now, after reading everyone else’s TOP 10 lists from the year, I wonder if I’m required to buy Solomon Burke’s comeback album. It’s a funny thing when an album becomes the aesthetic intersection between Mojo Magazine and the “Music We Love” rack at Starbucks Coffee.

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