No Service

Once upon a time I had literary aspirations.
I sat in class after class in college…deconstructing every freakin’ novel and short story and essay while the professor stood in front of the class with his piss-stained, tight slacks telling us what to think and how to think.

The great tragedy of literature.

Literature courses inevitably turn into rehashed bullshit concentrating on the works of renowned writers. Classes which trumpet everything that preceding literary critics have trumpeted. Next thing you know, no one has any new thoughts. New ideas and approaches are resoundingly pummeled into the academic rubbish heap.

I was in a literature class one day and one of the students chimed in with his literary opinion (based on a Marxist interpretive model of a non-economic story, forget what it was) and the prof shut him down.

My classmate was incensed.

He taunted the teacher, in front of the class. “So your bullshit is better than mine?”

I remember that.

So I wrote
and wrote
and wrote.

I did nothing but push paper during the day and write at night.
I wrote some OK stuff.
I wrote some shit.
I wrote a lot of shit, actually.
I had great ideas.

Pathetic execution.
Oh well.
If you read this blog, you understand about the pathetic execution.

So I wrote like a madman.

Submitted story after story, received rejection slip after rejection slip.
Got used to them actually.
Each rejection slip has its own personality.

Most often, magazines are so inundated with submissions they can only manage a form letter.
Fine. Some are nicer than others…depending on which Lit Dept flunky wrote them.
Once in a while they are actually hand-written.
These are great, because even though you were rejected you don’t feel that rejected.

The personal touch works wonders for the soul.
That is why the soul has taken a battering in today’s business climate.

So a few years ago, I began to write a story. During the months leading up to my divorce, actually.
About a couple.

As they drove to Santa Barbara for a weekender.
But. Problem #1. The man was married. Not to his passenger

I describe as they drive along the 101 from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara.
I felt I did a very good job of describing the troubling dynamics.

A philandering husband.
A house-breaking girl.
In my story, I attempted to capture it fullly:

They lived for love, but as time passed they discovered that love in itself was surprisingly and painfully empty. Garrett and Helen stumbled upon a lonely secret only they could understand: lies and deceit were the fuel that powered their affair. Love could not thrive in such an aimless, glib fashion, not while they lived mutually incompatible lives. There must be an end. Tragic or happy, eventually they would face that fateful finale. To exist for love only was an act of emotional treachery. Their love, defanged by uncertainty, risked becoming the victim of unromantic burdens. Initially they spoke of it haltingly, shamefully, in hushed allusions. They grew bolder and the secret plans they hatched engorged their intimacy further. What could be more romantic than two people planning their life together?

Not quite sure how that will go over in mid-America…
Not something to contemplate over the weekly mass or dinner blessing.

The cheating heart.
To what do we owe a gratitude?
Are we naturally monogamous.
Or not?
Are we built to devote.
Are we built to stray.

How are we built.

I love to stray.
Oh wait, I’m not fastened.

I love to stray, visually.

Ever driven down the street, notice that guys love to ogle?
I do.

Even if there is no reason whatsoever to think a girl will sleep with anyone, you still ogle her.

It’s great to witness that precision, the well-built nature of a nubile female.
To behold such fuckable goodness.
That is what we like.

So what is the point?
Has this been an obligatory Valentine’s Day post?
Why yes.
Of course.

Dude, let’s not lie.

It’s all bullshit.
I could sit here and laud the culture of love.

Fuck that.

We are here because our ancestors just wanted a good fuck.
Ever wondered what dogs get out of it?
I’ve always wondered if dogs get satisfaction.

Or is the act of fucking for dogs similar to sneezing for humans?

An “act.”
Cheaters unite.

7 Replies to “No Service”

  1. Not sure what to make of that. You are a very talented writer – who lives in the place where the future arrives first for better or worse. Material on your doorstep. Though I gather that you’ve had a go already.

    Well i’ve done the archives via you historical randomizer. Great stuff – but you make Notes from the Underground look like an upbeat Tony Robbins seminar.

  2. Damn – I was wondering whether you had tried your hand at literature and the Kismet Random Post Generator yields this.

    David, I’m thinking – what selling. A while back it was the miserable childhood genre kicked off by Angelas Ashes which led to my local bookstore having an entire section entitled ‘Hard Lives’.

    Now what’s hot is the grim literary crime thriller. Notably Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – part of a grim trilogy.

    You mentioned a prior blog whose inspiration was weird criminal happenings in LA. This is great source material – requiring synthesis…

    A loner hispanic guy in LA seeks to unravel a series of very grim crimes which illuminate Americas obsessions – murder and mortgages, race and realtors, fires and foreclosures, gangbangers and swlpers, East LA and Hollwood, wealth and ghetto. Also – a sinister PUA with some interesting theories. A subhuman male. Homeless people. A HBD guy (Sailer) who also has interesing theories which can assist the hero – despite the friction.

    Meanwhile on an picaresque Ivy League campus, late one foggy evening, a young hispanic woman walks across a deserted bridge over a deep gorge. She’s worried about a spate of suicides on campus – or are they suicides. She looks over her shoulder and sees a figure approaching …

    The hero and the young woman contact via blog. (Blogs, emails, IM, facebook and twitter all figure prominantly. Even chatroulette). The hero wants to leave LA – but he keeps getting dragged back in – and he has some dark secrets of his own…

    Not sure how it’s all tied together… ;)

    Think – The Girl with the XXX meets Bonfire of the Vanities meets The Secret History meets The Elementary Particles meets Vox meets The Black Dahlia.

  3. LOve teachers who tell you how much you suck at writing. I’m no writer nor aspiring one but do they have to be so harsh. Ancestors just happen to fuck and we’re the outcome.

  4. Literature courses crush a writer’s soul, or they attempt to do so, mainly because they are in large part led by failed writers.

    Fucking is the focus of VDay, isn’t it? Or did I miss something? Damn, have I been duped again?

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