Why you can't trust writers

I'll start with the most popular reference available during the first
half of this decade and proceed to an area which virtually no one
discusses.

In the third or fourth episode of the OC, Ryan winds up working at the
local beach diner. There he meets a co-worker: some other guy from the
mean streets of LA. They connect, theoretically, because of this.
Their discussion goes something like this:
- Isn't this place really rich and fucked up
- Totally everyone's totally fake and plastic.
The one line that the guy (not Ryan) said that stuck with me was:
- There are some real people out here.
And as he said it he seemed to have a genuine look in his face. Now, I
imagine it's relatively easy for an actor to do a teenager, but still
kudos to him for his delivery.

So the story continues with him bringing Ryan and his step brother to
whatever party. And then the next time he comes to their party (in
Newport), with a couple of cronies. They trash the place, and when the
kids from Newport start fighting back, the guy pulls out a gun. A
fucking gun!! You're in NO WAY real!!

Now, I admit that we shouldn't look to the OC for what good writing
is. But the point is not expectations. The point is the moment when
the guy said, "There are some real people out here" he was completely
serious and I thought it was maybe the way people acted in real life.

I was going to expand into more reputable shows, but I think there is
no need. The point is that I've found the same thing applies even to
good shows like the Sopranos.

Let me describe, instead, the way in which I am offended by this kind
of lying. First, while I thought I was learning a bit about life and
maybe how to act when I get out there, turns out none of it is
practical knowledge. Second, it convinces me that I can't believe that
characters good writers create actually exist. I'm permanently on the
defensive-- waiting for the moment the character betrays all reality.
Call it a subtle deus ex machina.

This does however, go to reassure me of how good Ulysses really is. In
a way Leopold Bloom is more real than me or you.

Funny wikipedia

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douchebag

The ending is part is particularly nice.

A beard of bees

As many of you know, I'm now officially single. I wore a beard of bees
for that woman but it still didn't help. (The pun here is on how she
insisted that I keep my beard, back in the day).

So I'm starting fresh. It's both good and bad. I mean, was it the high
life up in Montreal? Well, it was very decent, but that's because a) I
had practiced it for 4 years and b) I had a luxury apartment which I
really couldn't afford these days. I feel the main problem right now
is that I have no one to show the results of my projects. And these
projects are:
> The Ph.D.
> Learning to speak Italian (before I learn Spanish)
> Composing music on my computer
> Reading the Power Broker
> Improving my acting/reciting skills
> Writing the poetry itself!
> Excercising

Some more avocational activities include:
> Drinking
> Watching TV (on my computer)
> Finishing San Andreas

And by the way: no one gave me a book to read based on a previous
blog. I meant it-- I want a book of philosophy that aptly deals with
the situation before me.

A life...

Fellow bloganeers,

I must question what it's like to have no life. Now let's get this
straight: for the last half year I've been delving into Nietzschean
philosophy and all the gifts that brings. But what it truly has been
accomplishing for me is precisely a way to stick to my principles
dispite a rather large population shoving me in the other direction.
All my efforts have been to declare my own independence among such a
crowd. How to live in the city without being a citytype.

And the philosophy is grand, but it no longer applies! And why? There
remains no crowd! No city! I'm in Jersey-- with no friends, nothing to
do, and especially, no human cushions bouncing me from bar to coffee
shop to park. No glaring eyes making me feel embarrassed for being
American, or having glasses, or not being drunk. No beautiful women
passing by, letting me know how beautiful my girlfriend really is.
It's all melted away.

I've said for years that there is only one place where the population
density is high enough that I can finally relax-- the island
of Manhattan. And it just goes to show: I'm as nervous as hell!

So what do I do with a life of solitude? Can you name a book to read?

--Owen.