Dear My Beard,

How's it going, buddy? It's been a while, huh? It's real nice to see you again on my face and I bet you're pretty glad that I'm not cutting you every few days. Must be some relief, right? I can't imagine the horror it would be to have my head cut off every few days! Jeez, color me insensitive! I promise I don't mean to be cruel.

Anyhoo, we both know that it has been a few months since you last graced the landscape of my face, and I have to say I am glad to have you back. You're an old friend and good to me.

I must admit, beard, that your return wasn't arbitrary. I didn't just up and decide, "You know what? It's time to grow my beard back." I mean, it's still August and summer and beards just don't mix. (Sorry!) I grew you back because I've noticed that there are a lot more gray hairs in you than ever before and I was curious to see what it would look like grown out.

Now, don't misinterpret this as me pining for my fading youth or fearing the passage of time and the realization of my inevitable death. No, actually, I kind of like the gray hair. It goes nicely with my otherwise very dark hair as evidenced by the white spot I've carried on my temple my entire life. What surprised me is, now that you're grown in a little, how many more gray hairs there are than I have previously suspected based on evidence gathered from days' worth of stubble. Given weeks' worth of beard, the story is a little different.

Not bad, just different.

So, just writing to say what's up, stay cool, and whatever.

Keep it real,

The Black Laser.

Dear you all,

Seriously, I am annoyed.

Regular readers of this site know of my troubles with strep throat not just this year but over most of my life. I've mentioned the issue here before. Luckily, I've not gotten sick in a few months which I associate with...uh...pretty much pure luck. Such things are a mystery to me.

Earlier this summer, the whole ordeal reached a point where taking my tonsils out made sense. We went through all the motions, remember?, of setting up a date and dealing with insurance and all sorts of crap. I originally wanted them yanked before I went to California for June, but that didn't fit into the doctor's schedule, so I went with August 13th. The astute of you out there will realize that August 13th is the coming Friday. Very soon, I know!

When I hadn't heard from the doctor's office last Thursday, I started to get worried. Why hadn't they called me? Had they forgotten? Where was I supposed to go? Did I have prescriptions to fill out? When should I be there? With these fairly important questions in mind, I called this morning. This is how it went, if you don't remember.

Me: Hi! I'm having surgery this Friday and I was just, you know, wondering where I should go and all.
Them: Oh, let me check....what was your name again?
Me: Joseph Dillingham.
Them: Oh. Uh, I need to call you back.
Me: Of course.

I do some work, drink some coffee, and then my phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Them: Hi Joseph, this is your doctor's office calling.
Me: Hi! What's up?
Them: So there's been a mix up at the hospital and the room we were trying to get for you has been taken by another doctor.
Me: And what, exactly, does that mean?
Them: It means there's no slot for you this Friday.
Me: Well, that's bullshit.
Them: Yes, I'm sorry, but the doctor doesn't get a preferred slot there and if some other doctor who does wants to come in and operate, we get bumped.
Me: That's complete and utter bullshit.
Them: The best we can do is offer you September 3rd.
Me: But I've already been put on hold for September...fuck. Ok, put me in for the 3rd and, you know what, I don't even know if I'm going to take it then, but put me down and fuck the hospital. We'll treat them like they've treated me.

It wasn't until I was off the phone—l'esprit de l'escalier strikes again!—that I realized that THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS IN THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THIS BEFORE NOW. What the fucking fuck?! Fucking hell guys. I know you're human, but if I dropped the ball like this for something my client was expecting my ass would be grass. And that's just commercials! We're talking about my throat here. God damn!

Go health care!

The reality is though that Sept 3rd is fine. It makes my finances a little more stressful than they needed to be, but I have some projects on the horizon which will hopefully turn into money. And, shit, I can cut when my throat hurts and I am recovering, so whatever. But still. I've been planning this all summer and it's drag to have the proverbial rug pulled out from under me at the eleventh hour. How many more idioms can I pack into that last sentence?

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

PS - Fuck you.

Good advice. Fits nicely with his How to Write With Style, which I posted back in the old days of The Black Laser.

It's true what he's saying, and part of why you haven't seen a word of fiction out of me in months. Where's my head been at? Real talk.

Yeah, that last one got me too, but apparently there's a poem published in The Sangamo Journal in 1838 that is attributed to Lincoln. Wild, right? Even better is that it's dark as hell which you know just sends me into a tizzy. Read it below.

The Suicide's Soliloquy

Here, where the lonely hooting owl
Sends forth his midnight moans,
Fierce wolves shall o’er my carcase growl,
Or buzzards pick my bones.

No fellow-man shall learn my fate,
Or where my ashes lie;
Unless by beasts drawn round their bait,
Or by the ravens’ cry.

Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through,
Though I in hell should rue it!

Hell! What is hell to one like me
Who pleasures never know;
By friends consigned to misery,
By hope deserted too?

To ease me of this power to think,
That through my bosom raves,
I’ll headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow in its waves.

Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.

Yes! I’m prepared, through endless night,
To take that fiery berth!
Think not with tales of hell to fright
Me, who am damn’d on earth!

Sweet steel! come forth from your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!

I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart,
My last—my only friend!

Neat! So metal.

Dear coffee industry,

See this?

This is a small cup of coffee. Do you notice anything about that last sentence? You don't? I'll clue you in: it's entirely in English. I didn't have to use a single fakey-Italian or fakey-French word to describe it. And wasn't it wonderful? I know, it really was.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind using foreign language words to order in two specific cases. The first is when it's the actual name of what I want. When I want to order and espresso, calling it a "quick coffee" would be just as stupid as calling a small a "grande". The words espresso or americano or cappuccino all refer to something specific and are not used as some bullshit affectation to make the coffee look smarter.

The second situation is when I am in a place where they do not speak English. It makes so much sense, right? If I'm in a bodega in the Bronx, I'm going to ask for a coffee. (Note: guys, no, I don't want 8 sugars in my coffee. None please. I know you think that's the strangest thing you've ever heard, but the correct amount of sugars is ZERO.) If I'm in Mexico City, I'm going to ask for un cafe. It's just reasonable. I don't want to have to go pick up some Starbucks and be forced to utter the words "venti half-caf non-whip chai mochaccino latte." I just made that up. But I bet they'd actually try and make that for you.

I guess, coffee industry, you're playing into my loathing of being forced to use silly fucking names to order from a place. I don't want to order the cleverly named smoothie from wherever. I don't want to order the alliterative sandwich from some other place. And I sure as hell don't want to use fake as shit, affected foreign languages to tell you I want a fucking small coffee. And, no, I don't care if if takes 8 hours to make a single cup of drip coffee on your ridiculous Japanese contraptions that drip 12 drips an hour. What a waste of time.

And so to my humble French press, I say, I love you. Thanks for taking the bullshit out of coffee drinking. I don't even need electricity to make you work, just boiling water and 4 minutes.

Get your shit straight coffee industry.

Curmudgeonly yours,

The Black Laser.

PS - If you see my orange and gray messenger bag around, will you let me know? Thanks.

PPS - You're still a dick.

PPPS - Unless you return my bag. Then I promise a whole year of ordering stupidly named coffee drinks.

Recently I finished The Wizard, the second part of Gene Wolfe's Wizard Knight. I enjoyed it, even if reading it on the train made me feel like I was reading The Dungeonmaster's Guide or something similarly dorktastic. Wolfe's writing is strange and dense. Making sense of the story is like a puzzle, with details casually dropped and hinted at throughout. There's a genuine sense of satisfaction when you recall a tidbit that gets paid off 300 pages later.

My current novel is Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth, a novel my mom recommended to me last summer. Apparently Follett makes most of his living as writer on techno-spy thriller kinds of books, a genre with which my mother is definitely enamored. I have never read one of his books before, and, honestly, I probably won't. I'm a hundred pages into this one and I just don't like it, even though I'm whipping through it. His writing is flavorless to me, mechanical. He tells too much and explains too much. As in films or theatre, I want characters to be mysteries we as audience member or reader need to unwrap. I am always fond of the unreliable narrator in books since it provides me with another level of something to work out in the novel. I'm not just trying to decipher the plot, but also the true nature of the protagonist. That is enticing.

But Follett leaves little of his characters's motivations to the imagination. Rather, he spells them out for us like an elementary school teacher explaining long division to a third grader. It's like a popcorn movie where every last beat is obvious, clear from the outset, where vagueness is alien. You don't have to think to understand what's happening; you're being told. It's the clear opposite of Samuel Delany's Dhalgren, a novel I struggled with a bit last year for all its deliberate lack of clarity.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the novel will develop into some tightly plotted, brilliantly executed mesh of interwoven plotlines and characters over the next 880 pages. It certainly has the space for it. But maybe it won't. I'm not exactly ready to give up on it yet, but if it doesn't turn around real fast, it's entering the discard pile.

I feel like The Onion wrote this article just for me. I think this passage will illustrate what I'm mean.

Although the Department of Evil has not yet announced the exact timetable for the death of all, it recommends citizens make their peace with doomed relatives and spouses immediately, as the hour of their ending draws ever nigh and will be upon them as soon as the necessary funding has been authorized by the House Appropriations Committee.

"This budget approval is merely a pitiful, niggling formality, for soon we'll be free to swarm across the land draining the life-pus out of all you quivering mortal worms," Reynolds said. "Doubt us not: Come the wintertide, you all shall die, and die you will. Sorry, I meant 'must.' Die you must!"

Really though, you should just head on over to The Onion and read the damn article. Then come back and tell me what you think. It's easily the funniest thing I've read on The Onion all day.

Dear mugginess,

You can suck my dick. I mean that. No, that's wrong because it sounds like I want you to suck my dick. I don't. Let's start over, shall we?

Mugginess, you can suck on the boil-covered, blood-stained cock of a slaughtered horse. Better?

There's nothing I like less than waking up multiple times a night sticky and sweating. It completely fucks up my sleep and then I get real dumb and real pissed. Regular old heat is fine, but this heavy air, moisture everywhere crap drives me god damned bonkers. Bonkers!

Last night I won out, though, mugginess. I have been avoiding turning on the air conditioner because it's still May and I've never been fond of heavy electrical bills. But you know what's more important than the difference between a 35 dollar and 60 dollar electrical bill? Being able to sleep. Cost/Benefit. ConEd can have the stupid 25 dollars if it means I am telling you to sit on one and spin. I managed my first good night of sleep in nearly a week since Nature decided it was time to crank the thermostat. Oh how I long for the days of Winter and easy sleeping!

So, you vile son of a bitch, I will endure the next months of your torture. You will not win. And then when Autumn rolls around again and I can safely say that you are behind me, I will laugh and dance and sing and you will be history. History! No more will I sweat as soon as I get out of the shower! No more will I have to wash my face when I arrive at the office! No more will my breathing be labored and heavy as you irritate my asthma!

And though I long for days spent relaxing in the park, enjoying the sunshine and its myriad benefits, all this heinous humidity can go straight to hell. Or the South. Whichever. Just stay the hell away from me.

Sincerely and with tremendous enmity,

The Black Laser.

Here I am on the tail end of some major life changes and I feel like something is missing. I'm settled in my new apartment, my finances have leveled out after the move, I've been working regularly, and playing a lot. The transition into this new phase is basically over and I'm starting to feel a little antsy about it. Not antsy about the transition, but antsy about what's next. That familiar tightness in the chest is back, that feeling that I'm not doing enough, that I'm not creating enough, that I'm wasting such valuable time as I'll never have again. Hedonism has become dull, a chore, a worn out play-thing destined for the bottom of the toy chest. All the playing is a nice distraction from life when I'm stressed and stupid and trying to avoid my feelings (as I've been doing since the beginning of February), but when I'm not really avoiding anything all the hedonism does is inspire feelings of guilt and shame. Loss? I don't know. Maybe that's too strong a word. It makes me feel bad and dumb.

After cranking out the piece for Hunter earlier this year and my subsequent rejection, there has been this tiny little whisper in my brain chanting its disheartening mantra of "Fuck it," which is a terrible attitude to seeping through your subconscious. Astute Black Laserites will notice that I've posted nary a single photo all year. It's May. You'll also notice that I've not posted any other writing besides the Hunter piece. And that I've made ZERO progress on the three music videos I've assigned myself for this year. Pathetic. This year's theme is flailing around, begging for attention, and I can't seem to muster it. What is my deal? I'm trading my work time for play time as a way to rebound, but it's not having the affect it should. Quite the opposite, I think.

With this warm weather anxiety firmly gripping my chest, I've been thinking of a few simple ways to change things up, to put my brain into a different place. Let's explore, shall we?

• Buy a bicycle - I really want one. I think it would be nice to have one to ride around on in the summer time. On the other hand, it's been 15 years since I've ridden a bicycle regularly and riding one around NY scares me more than a little. It's something I need to overcome.
• Lose a little weight - Nothing drastic. Just a little. I could stand a little definition. It will help me feel better, no doubt. I don't really know how to do this, but maybe the bike will help.
• Read more - This is another weird thing. I think I've read maybe 2 or 3 books this year? Again, it's May. That is a surprisingly low number for me. I like reading a lot. It makes my brain function better and helps me write.
• Work less - I've been working nonstop since October and I'm ready not to work for a little. I can afford it. Thankfully, most of June and parts of July and August I'll not be working. Super.
• Pick up the guitar again - It's been a million years since I owned and played a guitar regularly. I'd like to get one again and flex that part of my brain so long dormant.

All in all, not an insurmountable list. With any measure of diligence I should be able to accomplish these things and they will open the flood gates of my brain so that I might be able to get some damned work done when I'm not working. What is this crazy work compulsion I feel about? Weird. Anyway, I'd like to work more.

And lest this come off as some whiny bitch and moan session (it's not intended to be), here's something I find inspirational.

Speaking of books, I recently stumbled upon (without the help of StumbleUpon) the work of a British artist named Philip Smith who works exclusively in the bindings of books. As you know, a book is really just a stack of loosely connected papers until someone or some machine comes along and binds them all together. Usually a books binding is utilitarian at best, and shoddy at worst. Hard bound books are nice, if expensive, and then you have your mass market paperbacks which fall apart after 5 years because of cheap paper and cheaper glue.

Then you have artists like Mr. Smith here who not only return the craft of bookbinding to the highly-skilled artisanal place it held for centuries but add a surprising new dimension to it.

Here are a few favorites of mine from his site. See if you can guess which book each of these is. I promise there's nothing esoteric here; these books can be found anywhere. Except maybe on Mars. For now.

Cool, right? I would LOVE to have one of these in my house on display. Talk about amazing art that would fit right in with my weirdo collection of things I like.

Head on over to the site to see if your guesses were correct. They're all in the galleries.

If you're anything like me, and chances are you aren't, then you have a huge stack of books on your shelves waiting for you to stay home more often and actually read them. I feel a little like a bad parent, but what are you going to do? However, having a back log of books doesn't prevent me from wanting to acquire more books that I might eventually at some point in the future get around to reading. I mean, books are beautiful objects in their own right, and what's the harm? It's better to spend the 12.95 or whatever on a book than to spend it on cocaine. It wouldn't be very MUCH cocaine, but the point still holds.

Once you've finished reading my pile of free, wildly captivating fiction, you might find yourself in need of something else to read while patiently waiting for me to update this site. Where might you find suggestions?

How about a surprisingly poorly written list of famous author's favorite books?

Did you know that JCO's favorite book is Crime And Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky? Or that David Foster Wallace picked C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters? Or that Michael Chabon, who I adore, picked Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges? Lots of surprises! Lots of new, fun books to read. The list even features Peter Cary of not-letting-me-into-Hunter fame. What was his favorite book? Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert.

My only disappointment in this list—besides its ham-fisted writing style—is that my favorite author of all time, Cormac McCarthy, was not represented. I wonder what his favorite book is? Mr. McCarthy, if you read this, leave us a comment. Thanks!

Here it is. For you to enjoy.

Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;
Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
A singular development of cat communications
That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,
It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display
Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

Bonus points if you can name the source without Google. Mikey, I'm looking at you.

This is the second of two poetry jokes I am posting right now.

Urban Dictionary has 58 definitions for the term "dipset". The one I am inclined to take into consideration for this posting is as follows:

dipset

The diplomats, also known as dipset, are a Harlem new york based group who previously signed to Rockefeller records but now are signed to their own label diplomat records. The group was founded by rappers Cameron and Jim Jones. The diplomats first became popular following Cameron's reemergence in 2002.

Usage: "Dipset...yup...yeh, yeh, yeh"

With that placed firmly in the forefront of our brains, today I happened across Dipset Haiku, a humorous collection of haikus in what I can only assume to be Cam'ron and the remainder of the Dipset's style.

Here are a few gems.

3G'd Up

The Great Recession

Rehab

Yellow Bellies

But get yourself o'er to the site and read the rest. Perfect for a boring day at the office. I'm also a real big fan of their color palette.

This is the first of two poetry jokes I am about to post.

Princeton professor and Pulitzer Prize-winner Paul Muldoon critiques my favorite pop starlet of the moment, Kesha. In my opinion, he accurately describes the majesty of Kesha's work, the wonderful way she uses word meaning in novel ways to express fresh ideas, and her obvious homage to Yeats.

I feel inspired by her work to create and to continue to create in the face of people not being able to understand the true depths of your work.