Paula, we missed you! So glad to see you are back in the circuit!


Paula, we missed you! So glad to see you are back in the circuit!


Writers are forced to live in extreme poverty. It might even be a cliche to mention it at this point. Sometimes writers are so poor that they can’t even afford places to live and are forced to spend all their time on public transportation to keep out of the cold. This is why there are so many people on buses reading Tolstoy and scribbling notes to themselves. These people may often be mistaken for lunatics, but they aren’t lunatics, as long as they are writing. As soon as pen touches paper, they become writers. They might be writers at other times as well because they might be doing research. Lunatics hardly ever write anything and rarely do research. They just walk around talking to themselves and to no real purpose. Whereas if a writer is talking to himself he is usually trying to compose a monologue.
Writers also tend to eat very little. What money they have, they spend on booze. In wine there is truth or so the saying goes. Many writers have drunk a great deal of wine trying to find the truth at the bottom of the bottle, but instead they have only found the tannins. Let me propose a corollary statement to the other one: In a little wine is a little truth; in much wine is only headaches.
Of course writers get hungry, but since they spend all their money on booze, they are forced to rely on the charity of their friends. Either that or they eat their boots. The great Spanish writer Miguel de Unamuno was once mistaken for a lunatic when he allowed his boots to roast in a fire with his feet inside them. As it turns out he was just cooking his dinner and forgot his feet were still inside it.
Writers are sickly and chaste. Flannery O’Connor spent all her time being sick and raising peacocks. She never had a boyfriend. Thoreau lived in the woods and kept his mother company. Writers hardly ever show up at dances or social functions. If a writer does happen to find an amorous passion brewing inside, he or she usually feels it so intensely that it turns into sickness. Otherwise writers are too sick to feel very amorous.
Sickness is a kind of gift for writers. Only a writer would treasure feeling sick, anyone else would feel miserable and bored. Most writers discover a love for illness at an early age and their poverty helps them sustain it into adulthood. I once knew a writer who had a fever for five years. He was the happiest writer that ever lived. But finally his brains turned into mush and he died.
A Letter From Brooklyn from Eric Anton Schechter-Oblomov on Vimeo.
This shit is pretty hilarious – apparently it’s based (verbatim) on a quite EFFETE email that made the forwarding rounds. The name is made up. From Nick.
My alarm rang at the ungodly hour of 9:18 a.m., and I knew that I had not set my coffee maker to brew my daily cup of Espresso Roast coffee from Greenpoint’s famed Garden health/natural foods store. Egads. It had been a late night; after closing out the alternative show space on South Second and enjoying a nightcap at a Williamsburg bar with my artsy chums (Dave from Chicago was DJing), I returned home to take in the amusing final 15 minutes of an ’80s action comedy and subsequently fall asleep with Maugham’s Cakes and Ale on my chest around 3 a.m.
So with fuzzy head I plowed forward in a plan to balance my chakras and invigorate my loins before committing to any real work. Ten o’clock yoga was uneventful and somewhat unchallenging, but just what I needed to stave off sickness and restore my frazzled mind to a state of peace. After returning I breakfasted on some organic plain yoga with locavore-friendly honey. Ahh, simple and delicious. Now noon, I dabbled in some desultory web surfing before finally committing to a shower to cleanse last night’s foul cigarette smoke from my hair. For this ritual I chose the perfect soundtrack: the B-side of Terry Riley and John Cale’s Church of Anthrax. More desultory web surfing followed (is there any other kind????), as did a light lunch of a sandwich (Tofurkey cold cuts) and a hard-boiled local, cage-free egg. By now 2:30, it was time to put my NetFlix in the mail and head to the coffee shop for a couple hours of corporate fellatio. A straw transported Iced Americano to my welcoming lips as I typed — but mainly copied & pasted — the most pedestrian copy I could bear to shape. Now 4:40p.m., it’s quitting time — I hear the blast of Fred Flintstone’s whistle a little early (thank Zeus)!
And now I’m spent. Time for a stroll down to McCarren Park, unless my attention is diverted along the way.