Tag Archives: Writing

Kielbasa

May 18, 2022 By in Essays, Essays & Stories, Non-fiction Tags: , , ,

Lately it hasn’t felt very spring-like. Not on the street where I live anyway, on Manhattan Ave, in Brooklyn, a stone’s throw from Greenpoint Ave. and the Greenpoint G train stop. There’s no stones on the street to prove my point so you have to take it as an article of faith. The weather has been raw, and windy, not nasty, not exactly winter coat weather but not exactly spring jacket weather either. Sort of in between, so no matter how you dress you are wrong. 

I only live on this street during the week, Monday through Friday. Every Friday evening I leave my job at Steiner Studios at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and slog home to Western Massachusetts through heavy traffic. My feet don’t personally do the slogging, since I’m driving a rented minivan, but the traffic is always heavy and I’m always tired and I never seem to make it home before 10:30 or 11:00. 

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The Wondrous Star

April 17, 2022 By in Essays, Essays & Stories, Non-fiction Tags: , , , , ,

I have a new therapist, his name is Bleep. This is really neither here nor there, except he is the reason I have lately been in touch with the ten-year-old me — with some spillover to the nine and eleven and twelve-year-old me’s. Prior to being in touch with the ten-year-old me,  it was suggested that I keep a journal of negative thoughts. I’m no dummy. This is a classic therapist’s parlor trick, one cleverly deployed when they see that your time is almost up. “You might try keeping a journal of negative thoughts, and then, challenge those negative thoughts.” I always nod and agree to do this but like am I really going to whip out my journal every time a stinkbug lands in my coffee cup, which happens a lot more than I’d care to admit, our house being infested with them?   Plus I think Bleep doesn’t really like my insurance plan. I don’t think it pays him enough, so I don’t want to push him too far with negativity. Maybe that’s why he suggested we till the more fertile fields of my youth, plow up the past, find out just when all this trouble began.

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Imposter Syndrome

April 16, 2022 By in Non-fiction Tags: , , , ,

Like many creative people, I suffer from Imposter Syndrome. At least, I hope many other creative people suffer from this, because I would really hate to be alone here. In fact, I can think of many creative people who don’t suffer from Imposter Syndrome who should suffer from Imposter Syndrome, because they are in fact genuine imposters. I’ve met quite a few in my racket. My racket, my line of work, is show biz of the Hollywood slash TV variety. I have worked as a set dresser, an art director, a prop master, a leadman, a screenwriter, and set decorator. The higher up the food chain, the more I feel like an imposter. 

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The Story of the Legend of Our Syrup

December 8, 2018 By in Fiction, Satire Tags: , , ,

The iconic moose shaped bottle you are holding in your hands contains the finest maple syrup in North America — perhaps even South America. When you taste it (you’ll have to run the bottle under hot water and maybe smack the top against the counter. If that fails, use pliers) you are tasting the pure essence of the Northeast Kingdom, a cold and misty land of maple covered mountains, clear flowing spring water, and St. Johnsbury. 

In 1793, Jebidebah Flintlock, a famous veteran of the Revolutionary War, was tracking a moose deep into the forest. It was near the end of a terribly cold and harsh winter. Like, really cold. No global warming yet. Jeb had settled on this frontier to raise a family. With 87 mouths to feed, he desperately needed to kill this moose. But Jeb had a problem. He had only one good eye. Legend has it, the other eye was damaged in a tavern scuffle with a young lawyer from Yale. Oh wait — he had another problem. He also had only one musket ball left. And his feet were cold. So that’s two more, and three because his hands, they must have been freezing as well. No L.L. Bean then, although Jeb might have known Lucius Bean, who owned a gumshoe farm over yonder hills.  Nevertheless, sighting his quarry, he raised his musket and fired. His shot struck the moose right between the antlers, richocheted off, and grazed a nearby maple tree. Thrifty Yankee that he was, he inspected the tree to reclaim his musket ball, discovering the clear sweet sap flowing out like Ambrosia. And in that moment, Jebedebah’s Lost Moose Maple Syrup was born. Also, recycling. 

Correspondence

November 24, 2018 By in Fiction, Satire Tags: , , , , ,

My Dearest Hollingsworth,

What can I say? Congratulations old fellow on a capstone to a brilliant career. A thousand apologies for missing your publication party last month at the Faculty Club. Helen had a dreadfully aching molar that night that needed attending to, thus we found ourselves scrambling for a dentist at the last minute, the dismal results which of course were preordained by virtue of our location in a small Amish hamlet named Curdsburg, Pennsylvania. The Amish it seems have no urgent care clinics as they rely on folk remedies and the power of prayer. In the end a kindly doctor was found and the offending molar was plucked as if by a magician. As there were no ATM’s nearby, it took a bit of searching to locate a farmer willing to barter one of Helen’s almost finished Faroe Island cable knit sweaters for the several dozen eggs needed to pay his fee. By then we realized we would never make your party. I look forward to reading your book, and I do hope you will forgive me for being a Kindle unlimited subscriber. I know we authors make a lot of noise about that demon empire still a penny is a penny you know. My best to William as always.

Yours,

Applethorp

Dear Applethorp,

It’s a shame you missed the party. Your absence was never noticed, if that makes you feel any better. Bill decorated in a Great Gatsby theme— the Baz Luhrman version — and even managed to twist Leo’s arm into making a surprise appearance. I hardly see Bill this summer as he spends most of his time running parties for A-listers in the Hamptons, styling photo shoots for Conde Nast, and surfing off Montauk. Anyway, the book is a great success, no thanks to your review, by the way. Of course we have not always seen eye to eye but really, “the Artful Codger?” Harsh. I’m okay with a little shade but why throw the entire forest? Continue reading →

Special Offer

November 24, 2018 By in Fiction, Satire Tags: , , , ,

Dear Exalted One,

How does that sound? Think you could get used to it? Well, we hope you are sitting down in your best leather club chair, sipping some rare 18 year old Yamakakaka Coffee Whiskey, because we here at International House of Banking have exciting news for you. Your impeccable credit score, buying habits, and frequent flyer mileage balance immediately qualifies you for an instant upgrade to Triple Diamond Premium Platinum Elite Titanium Status. This newest offering from IHB replaces the previous Triple Deluxe Elite Platinum Five Diamond Excellence Card, so you may cut that card in half.  Oh snap, you can’t — it’s constructed of a patented blend of carbon fiber, Kevlar and Tyvek, just like this offering card, which is why you sprained your wrist trying to tear this unbelievable offer in half before you even opened it. Continue reading →

Gotham

November 9, 2018 By in Essays, Non-fiction Tags: , , , , , , ,

     It is sometime between coffee and lunch when I nearly cut my left index finger off with the molten edge of the cutting wheel. Standing there, on the gallery of the Gotham City Police precinct set, I peer into the dark hole in my work glove and for a moment my legs nearly give out as I see nothing but crimson and feel nothing but pain. My impatient task master, Hoaung – introduced to me as Juan and who I assumed was a Latino until a closer observation of his stocky features moved the pin to a different part of the globe entirely – is waiting for me to continue, as if losing the tip of a finger is no reason to delay production. I steady myself against the metal railing we are welding. My co-worker Gary, a little too eager to show Hoaung he is not intimidated by metalwork, urges me to see the medic. Continue reading →