Dear blog,
I've been wanting to write something in you for some time now (image: tattooing the heart, X marks the spot), but I'm saving my good story, the one about the snail, for later, and I've quit writing poetry since we last met. Where does that leave us? Don't worry, dear blog, I won't turn you into a journal, not entirely, not yet. My regurgitation of daily events will at least be frilled with fine lace and white lies. Still, I regret to say that I can no longer avoid the mundane or skirt the commonplace... which brings me to the fact that, right now, my back is fucking killing me.
As far as I can tell, some phantom is digging his thumb into the right side of my spine, somewhere between my shoulder blades. The sensation spikes when I turn my head, breath, or otherwise try to function as a human being; the phantom clutches the top of my head and drives that long-nailed thumb deep into the tangle of nerves. What I've done to offend this demon, I can't say. There's an entire week of bad deeds to pick from: maybe I'm being punished for drinking chocolate milk straight from the carton, for bumming too many cigarettes, for continuing to hate my dad for reasons I can't quite place (safe to say it's not the Oedipus complex; dad left mom years ago, left her to be fucked by a rotating door of part-time dads: Jerry, Marvin, Steve; maybe that's what it is, an unsettled anger over leaving momma to the dogs). Perhaps it isn't a phantom, but a deity of some kind, the God of Productivity, come to poke me in the spine until my ass lifts from my seat and I get a job (fat chance, brash celestial being: my ass will remain forever planted!).
Whatever the entity, the pain is very real, and it's blocking better thoughts, ideas of any actual interest. I'm thinking that if I keep complaining about it, my uncle will slip me some pain medication, a little taste of sweet narcotic. Sure, my spine will be soothed, but more importantly, my brain will be all filaments and fireworks, bright lights and luminescent words. I could do some real writing. (Then again, I shouldn't be writing this in you now blog, not since I've included it on my professional resume, squeezed in at the very bottom. What will they think, my potential employers? Should I assure them that I don't have a proclivity toward pills, or would such an assurance only confirm their suspicions? I suppose it doesn't matter. I suspect that I'll kill myself before finding a job anyway.) Until then, dear blog, I hope you can survive on this meager, self-obsessive gruel.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A Letter To Jonathan Ames
This is a letter that I recently sent to Mr. Jonathan Ames, author of "The Extra Man," "The Alcoholic," and "My Less Than Secret Life." I became interested in Mr. Ames when I learned that, like myself, he's something of a neurotic mess. So, enough of that. Here goes:
Dear Mr. Ames,
I am writing this letter, in part, to convince you that I am not an insane person. Now, I understand that the evidence might seem to say otherwise; the first line of this letter, for instance, does look a bit incriminating. But what would life be like, Mr. Ames, if we trusted evidence over gut feelings? As an exercise, I'd like you to imagine that you're Ernest Hemmingway. (Are you having fun yet? If not, you should grow a thick beard, or equip a turtle-neck sweater. It might help.) Now, being Hemmingway, start the letter over until you arrive at this point. What would Hemmingway do? Bend over the letter with a magnifying glass and a pair of latex gloves, carefully extracting traces of "crazy," hints of "wack-a-doodle-doo?" Fuck no. Hemmingway would light this letter on fire and use it to light his cigar. Think about that, Mr. Ames. Just think about it.
The second purpose of this letter, and perhaps the more relevant one, is to convince you to hire me as your personal assistant. (In hindsight (which is always 20/20, but no matter looking at that, this letter has already moved forward, and if there's anything anybody knows, it's that you can't revise a letter, that letters have to keep chugging along, like a train, double parenthetical statements and all), I realize I should have included a middle step to this equation, which would have been to convince you that you actually need a personal assistant. But how would I have done that without knowing intimate details of your life? Now we're getting into espionage, weekends spent in shadowy New York alleys, and if I were caught--though you're never supposed to think about getting caught--but if I were... well, I would have lost the sanity claim right then, right? So we'll skip right over that, launch ourselves over that vast unknown to land here, at this conclusion: You need a personal assistant, Mr. Ames.) I have a number of qualities that would lend themselves to an assistantship, though for the sake of your attention span and mine, I'll skip over most of them. I won't go into detail about my computer proficiency or typing speed (although I will mention that both of them are, for lack of a more humble term, god-like). Instead, I'll focus on two or three (most likely three; we must consider form, after all) of my more interesting qualities, assuming that you've already taken me to be something like the Swiss Army Knife of personal assistants.
I'm handsome. Please don't think me vain, Mr. Ames. This is a crucial point to make up front, owing less to my self-absorption than to the human condition. I don't mean to knock ugly people too badly--I'm ugly on the inside, after all--but I think we can agree that dealing with a gnarly, pimple-hedged unibrow on a daily basis might become a bit tiresome, a bit distracting. On the flip side, a gorgeous assistant could be equally problematic. Having an assistant who is merely handsome, however, is like owning a nice lamp, or a houseplant: the presence is nice, but when it finally breaks down or dies, the owner isn't stricken by any true sense of loss. That's the kind of guarantee I can offer here, Mr. Ames. Besides, I make a terrific wing-man and an excellent accompaniment for photographs; again, I'm attractive enough to draw the eye but too plain to hold it.
I'm obsessive-compulsive. This quality lends itself more to the professional than the social. Nail-biters, skin-pickers, and paint-peelers all conduct excellent research, and are perfect for laborious projects. Perhaps it's because work, most especially busy work--is strongly mimetic of fussing over some huge, fleshy mass. You peel away small strips of information, or rip clean an entire task, like a hangnail. I'm a whittler, Mr. Ames, and I suspect that you've got an ungodly amount of whittling that needs doing. Ask yourself, would you like to continue fussing over tedious documents and dry texts, growling older with each scratch of your pen, dying in your goddamn office chair? Or, instead, would you prefer to sip on a can of freshly-delivered ice tea, having handed those tedious troubles over in a clean manila envelope? Let me do the dying for you, Mr. Ames.
I'm insane. Now, this might seem contradictory to my first statement, that I am not an insane person. Fair enough. The two do seem to clash. Still, I think that if anyone could sight the value of working with an insane person, it would be you. I hope you don't take this as an insult, and if your writing is anything to judge by, you won't. Just know that I too read books as a confirmation that I'm not too sick to function, that suicide isn't necessary, at least not just yet. And here we are, arriving now, in the third bullet, at the point in which I throw this entire scam aside and thank you, quite sincerely, for your writing. So thank you, from one insane person to another. (Now, back to the show!)
In conclusion, Mr. Ames, you most likely suffer from a seriously debilitating mental disorder if, after reading my business proposition, you choose not to hire me. Short of offering regular vehicular blowjobs (which I don't think any writer can legally afford in an assistant), I am the ideal candidate for the position. I am the Jesus Christ of personal assistants. Ask yourself: Is that something you really want to fuck with?
I look forward to your response, Mr. Ames. Thank you for reading and responding to this email; your time and consideration is more appreciated than you know. And please, please remember, when taking everything into consideration in this matter, don't be a pussy. Hemmingway sure as hell wouldn't.
Sincerely,
Robert Lamirande
Dear Mr. Ames,
I am writing this letter, in part, to convince you that I am not an insane person. Now, I understand that the evidence might seem to say otherwise; the first line of this letter, for instance, does look a bit incriminating. But what would life be like, Mr. Ames, if we trusted evidence over gut feelings? As an exercise, I'd like you to imagine that you're Ernest Hemmingway. (Are you having fun yet? If not, you should grow a thick beard, or equip a turtle-neck sweater. It might help.) Now, being Hemmingway, start the letter over until you arrive at this point. What would Hemmingway do? Bend over the letter with a magnifying glass and a pair of latex gloves, carefully extracting traces of "crazy," hints of "wack-a-doodle-doo?" Fuck no. Hemmingway would light this letter on fire and use it to light his cigar. Think about that, Mr. Ames. Just think about it.
The second purpose of this letter, and perhaps the more relevant one, is to convince you to hire me as your personal assistant. (In hindsight (which is always 20/20, but no matter looking at that, this letter has already moved forward, and if there's anything anybody knows, it's that you can't revise a letter, that letters have to keep chugging along, like a train, double parenthetical statements and all), I realize I should have included a middle step to this equation, which would have been to convince you that you actually need a personal assistant. But how would I have done that without knowing intimate details of your life? Now we're getting into espionage, weekends spent in shadowy New York alleys, and if I were caught--though you're never supposed to think about getting caught--but if I were... well, I would have lost the sanity claim right then, right? So we'll skip right over that, launch ourselves over that vast unknown to land here, at this conclusion: You need a personal assistant, Mr. Ames.) I have a number of qualities that would lend themselves to an assistantship, though for the sake of your attention span and mine, I'll skip over most of them. I won't go into detail about my computer proficiency or typing speed (although I will mention that both of them are, for lack of a more humble term, god-like). Instead, I'll focus on two or three (most likely three; we must consider form, after all) of my more interesting qualities, assuming that you've already taken me to be something like the Swiss Army Knife of personal assistants.
I'm handsome. Please don't think me vain, Mr. Ames. This is a crucial point to make up front, owing less to my self-absorption than to the human condition. I don't mean to knock ugly people too badly--I'm ugly on the inside, after all--but I think we can agree that dealing with a gnarly, pimple-hedged unibrow on a daily basis might become a bit tiresome, a bit distracting. On the flip side, a gorgeous assistant could be equally problematic. Having an assistant who is merely handsome, however, is like owning a nice lamp, or a houseplant: the presence is nice, but when it finally breaks down or dies, the owner isn't stricken by any true sense of loss. That's the kind of guarantee I can offer here, Mr. Ames. Besides, I make a terrific wing-man and an excellent accompaniment for photographs; again, I'm attractive enough to draw the eye but too plain to hold it.
I'm obsessive-compulsive. This quality lends itself more to the professional than the social. Nail-biters, skin-pickers, and paint-peelers all conduct excellent research, and are perfect for laborious projects. Perhaps it's because work, most especially busy work--is strongly mimetic of fussing over some huge, fleshy mass. You peel away small strips of information, or rip clean an entire task, like a hangnail. I'm a whittler, Mr. Ames, and I suspect that you've got an ungodly amount of whittling that needs doing. Ask yourself, would you like to continue fussing over tedious documents and dry texts, growling older with each scratch of your pen, dying in your goddamn office chair? Or, instead, would you prefer to sip on a can of freshly-delivered ice tea, having handed those tedious troubles over in a clean manila envelope? Let me do the dying for you, Mr. Ames.
I'm insane. Now, this might seem contradictory to my first statement, that I am not an insane person. Fair enough. The two do seem to clash. Still, I think that if anyone could sight the value of working with an insane person, it would be you. I hope you don't take this as an insult, and if your writing is anything to judge by, you won't. Just know that I too read books as a confirmation that I'm not too sick to function, that suicide isn't necessary, at least not just yet. And here we are, arriving now, in the third bullet, at the point in which I throw this entire scam aside and thank you, quite sincerely, for your writing. So thank you, from one insane person to another. (Now, back to the show!)
In conclusion, Mr. Ames, you most likely suffer from a seriously debilitating mental disorder if, after reading my business proposition, you choose not to hire me. Short of offering regular vehicular blowjobs (which I don't think any writer can legally afford in an assistant), I am the ideal candidate for the position. I am the Jesus Christ of personal assistants. Ask yourself: Is that something you really want to fuck with?
I look forward to your response, Mr. Ames. Thank you for reading and responding to this email; your time and consideration is more appreciated than you know. And please, please remember, when taking everything into consideration in this matter, don't be a pussy. Hemmingway sure as hell wouldn't.
Sincerely,
Robert Lamirande
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