Memories from the Fourth Grade

God Bless the Mind of Crispin Glover.

The Death of Reiner Fitzdale

When my house was broken into and my laptop was stolen, I lost the novel that I have been working on for the last year or so.

I am not saying that it is a tragic loss to the literary community, nor did I assume that it would ever see the light of day, but I did hope to hit that period for the final time and know that I just finished a piece of fiction completely on my own. This novel was my second attempt at writing something concrete. The first was a piece of shit novel that I envisioned as a coming-of-age story that would touch the hearts of my generation; publishing companies around the world would drop their jaws and battle over who would release the next Catcher in the Rye.

This one was different. I decided to create this novel just for the pleasure of creation. The same way I can sit myself on the couch with my guitar and just play for the sake of playing, I did the same with my laptop. I crafted the main character, Reiner Fitzdale, as I typed. He was never in my head, rather he appeared one day during a stream of flailing keystrokes and echoing keypad clicks.

I would write forty pages - the first chapter - over and over again. Rarely would I save it. I would always start from the beginning - the first word. Sometimes I following Washington Irving and unfolded the scene through vivid imagery. Other times I would start with direct characterization ala Herman Melville - but always it was never kept. The last first chapter was the best one yet. This one started with the parallelism of winter to Vermonters and the coming of old age - the breakers on the shoreline of Lake Champlain and the front locks on our doors, and it devolved into a case study of Reiner Fitzdale, the protagonist.

In each version, it was Reiner Fitzdale. The character that now plagues my mind. He begs for me to create him. Define him and to mold him.

With the laptop gone and that first chapter gone with it, I have the opportunity to start again. I can craft the words the way you restart Super Mario when you accidentally fall into a pit in World 1-1: not deep enough into the game to sacrifice the loss and early enough to not feel sorry for yourself about it.

Toothpaste For Dinner is My New Favorite Website

toothpastefordinner.com

I Hate to Say It, But This Shit is Catchy.

glumbert - Jesus Is My Friend

Battling Jazz Musicians

Wynton Marsalis and Wycliffe Gordon, two of America's finest jazz musicians, recently found themselves renting hotel rooms on the same floor in New Orleans... they battled for supremacy against each other in this street "duel."

This may be one of the coolest things I have seen in a long time.

Happy 100th Post to Me!

To celebrate, I googled my last name and got this as the top pick:

The Dark Knight Has Nothing on This...

Miko Hughes and My Wedding Scared the Shit Out of Me.

The wedding has ended. The honeymoon is over and I am preparing to go back to work as an educator. I am grateful to all of my family, but mostly of my friends who took the time out of their lives and the money out of their bank accounts to make the trip. We teachers get paid shit, so to spend a cool $500 on a friend's wedding in Vermont was greatly appreciated.

I will spare you the details, I won't show you the wedding pics or the honeymoon photos, but I will tell you this: I was scared shitless.

During the entire wedding planning process I maintained my cool. When Chelsea was losing her mind with the details I stayed aloof and detached from all and any strain or stress on my life. On the week of the wedding, when Chelsea was on the border of turning into Bride-zilla, I hit a Buddhist Zen-like center point, where nothing could hurt me. It was like I had gathered all of my positive energies and plopped them right into my guts.

But, on the morning of my wedding, I couldn't stop shaking. Three hours before the ceremony I passed out and slept for 2 hours. I woke up and started pacing the room, rubbing my hands and sweating. Rose told me that roles reverse on the day of the wedding; the groom loses it while the bride calms down (which Chelsea was). I, though, drank four glasses of champagne and had five swigs of whiskey from Ben's hidden flask and felt nothing before stepping up to the mic. The ceremony went without a hitch and I continued drinking through the reception and never felt the least bit drunk. The fear eventually subsided.

Total alcohol consumed: Six glasses of champagne (toasts), five swigs of whiskey, nine Magic Hat Beers, three glasses of red wine, a full bottle of red wine that I drank straight out of while dancing to Thriller with Raja, and whatever amount of gin Dave poured down my throat while Stephen and Wes held me down out in the woods.

Still went to bed sober (had a long talk with Blair at 3am outside when I couldn't sleep) and woke up at 6am with no hangover.

But I was scared shitless. And couldn't stop thinking about Miko Hughes.

That is because the only other thing that has scared me that much, at least when my life wasn't in danger, was Miko Hughes. Hughes was a child actor who grew up in front of the camera lens; a product of America's obfuscated and denied NAMBLA-appreciation. Miko was a cute kid and landed a ton of roles. But the one that got me was when he played Gage in Pet Semetary. In the film, Gage gets hit by a truck, his weeping father buries him in the Pet Semetary even though Herman Munster told him not to, and he was resurrected as Evil-Gage hell bent on killing eveything.



I saw this movie when I was a kid and, even though the movie is not necessarily scary, it was Miko who fucked me up. Miko Hughes could (and I bet still can and my "please-dance-for-me-monkey"-side and wishes he would email me a pic) turn his cute, cuddly chipmunk-face into a twisted and disgusting grimace of pure hate and evil. I remember having to turn off the movie because I just couldn't handle him. The only other time that that has happened was during two other films: Lynch's Eraserhead and Cube.



What fucking motivation does a four-year old tap into to make that face? While carrying a syringe? What did the director say to him? What the fuck? Those ideas just scared the piss out of me for some reason.

I have never seen Ricky Schroeder or an Olsen twin twist their faces into the image of a demon -- that makes Miko the greatest child actor of all time.

Plus, he hid in a boiler and killed Freddy Krueger in "New Nightmare."

Another thing that scares me about Miko is this, which was made by a crazed fan I assume:



So, congrats Miko Hughes. You are now completely attached to my wedding day in memory and spirit. Stay clear of the psycho fans and enjoy your day. Invite me to your wedding and we are even.

Send me a pic.

"Boy Oh Boy"