Category: Letters


A few weeks ago, a friend of mine wrote me an incredibly sweet e-mail. With her permission, I am posting it and my response here for everyone to marvel at.

Hi Joe,

I was wondering how you find time to do the million things that you seem to do, be it post to your tumblr, post to blacklaser.net, find all videos you either love or hate, write as Torgeir, review bars, record short stories, etc etc etc to the nth degree?

I’ve been toying with the idea (for a while now) of starting a site where I would maybe review some things I like, heap scorn upon things I dislike, discuss the flotsam and jetsam of life in general, perhaps while trying to be funny sometimes. I get all these ideas in my head about things I want to do, I even get as far as lighting the match, but I just can’t seem to catch myself on fire. Within a few days of thinking “I should start a blog/site!” I circle back around to thinking “When would I even find time to write up a post? Who cares what I think anyways?” (Perhaps I need to care less about people caring? It would be funny if this were the simple secret to success in blogville.) Not to mention I work 40+ hours a week, at the end of which the last thing I want to do is look at another computer. I’m even writing this from my work email, as I loathe getting online at home that much.

I guess I’m wondering how you get inspired, or what propels you forward from thought to action? I need a dose of that, so I’m asking people who seem to fit a lifetime of personal achievement into each week.

If you’re too busy to answer (ha, see what I did there?), then please take this picture as tribute. Seriously though, if you don’t have time for this or don’t have anything to divulge, you can just reply with a picture of a shrug, no hard feelings.

Thanks,

Monica

Well, Monica, you’ve asked me a number of questions that I have a lot of thoughts about. In fact, I’ve been thinking about your e-mail for some time and have put together some ideas that are a bit of a synthesis of things I’ve written here before. I am going to jump around a little bit in answer your queries, so bear with me. I will touch on everything.

First, should you start a blog. I mean, you didn’t ask me this directly, but it’s what your second paragraph is hinting at. What do I think? Of course you should…if that is something you are motivated to do. When I first started The Black Laser back in 2008 (so long ago!), I didn’t really have a good idea of what I wanted the place to be. I knew I wanted a venue to share my photos and writing and whatever in one collected place. I made this site with a vague direction (black and pink, a bunch of text, uh, maybe videos?) and then just let it evolve as my fits and fancies dictated. Did I know in 2008 that by this point I’d have posted nearly 500 music videos? Of course not. I didn’t even consider posting music videos back when I was getting the site up. Did I know that I’d have an entire section devoted to letters I’ve written to things like the 23rd St F station or Coffee or Ugg boots? Of course not. The letters were just something I thought would be fun one day so I wrote a letter. And, you know what, it has turned out to be a lot of fun for me to write those things. They don’t take a lot of energy or thought and, most importantly, they make me laugh.

That is key to this whole thing: it has to be fun. If it isn’t fun, you won’t do it. I don’t very much like getting massages (weird, I know), so I never do that. I quite like drinking beer, so I do that all the time. I also quite like writing on The Black Laser, whether I am bullshitting about some music video or cross-posting my Torgeirs or analyzing my creative path or whatever the hell I am writing about, I like it. It is enjoyable for me. My advice is, unless you’re making money on it, don’t limit yourself to a certain content type. Just post whatever you like, whatever you are motivated to create. That way you will find success. And as a side bonus, you will see your writing get better. Mine certainly has over the years I’ve been doing this. I go back and read some of my early posts and think, “Man, that could have been written better,” but so it goes. That’s life. You do enough of one thing and you’re bound to be good at it. Hopefully. At the very least, better at it.

I would also advise not to get too self-critical when starting out. It’s romantic to think that a bunch of people from all over the place are going to be coming to your site and criticizing everything, but that is just a fantasy. Especially at the beginning. The people who will be coming to read initially are people you know, Facebook friends, Twitter folks, meatspace friends, whomever. So don’t worry about it. Post what you like, put a little thought into it, and just do it. I mean, fuck it, life is too short to not do things because you’re worried about what some nameless, faceless twit on the internet thinks about it, right? It’s for you.

I think I might come across as a classic oversharer, but the contents of my various social media are, in fact, highly curated. I specifically do not post certain types of material on The Black Laser, my Tumblr, Facebook, or Twitter as a matter of good practice. Because I share these things with many types of people in my life (friends, family, clients, the world), I only put things on them with which I don’t mind being identified. I only mention this, because I think that’s an important thing to consider when thinking about your potential blog. Sure, yeah, you might not have many readers at the beginning, but people will find it and it would be a real drag for them to read something there about themselves that you didn’t want them to read. Classic OOPSIES moment.

Next, let’s touch on inspiration. You asked me about what inspires me to continue doing what I am doing. A number of things, in fact. Fear mostly. Anxiety. A sense that I am wasting my life away. This dread that I am throwing my future away. The desire to share. Because I like it.

But let’s back up for a moment. You commented that I am a person that seems to “fit a lifetime of personal achievement into each week,” which, while incredibly sweet and slightly shocking, is exactly the opposite of how I feel about my life. If you click the “Inspiration” or “Creativity” tags beneath this post, you will find plenty of posts where I am struggling with my lack of inspiration, with this sense that nothing is coming, this feeling that everything is a waste. I never feel like I am doing enough, creating enough, achieving enough. I always feel like I could be doing more. Enough so that if I get home and sit around and watch a movie, I genuinely start to feel guilty. Of course, I still sit around and watch movies from time to time, but I don’t really enjoy it. It’s not relaxing for me.

I was discussing your e-mail with my therapist a few weeks ago, just after you sent it. I was telling her exactly what I wrote above. She asked me why I thought that was and I couldn’t give her an answer. My ability to create and communicate with people is inherently tied into my sense of self. And why shouldn’t it be? Even this response is deeply personal as I discuss my thoughts and fears and ideals. This is a representation of who I am, and, even more, who I’d like to be. And I guess the idea of not pursuing that to its fullest is terrifying to me. She asked me what would happen, how would I feel, if I cut myself some slack and let it slip a little. I told her that in the times I have done that my brain goes crazy, I start to feel insane, and am driven back to work, even if it’s something as trivial as posting music video reviews on The Black Laser. I have to be making something all the time. She asked me if I could feel relaxed. I told her the only way I know to relax is to create things. That’s true. When I am done with this, I will feel great. Something’s been done. Something’s been made. I can chill now.

I remember, in college, I took an acting class as a prerequisite to a directing class I wanted to take. Every week we had a standing assignment to spend 20 minutes at home just relaxing. Every week I’d come in and my professor would ask me how I did and, without fail, I told her I couldn’t relax. About three quarters of the way through the semester she had me stay after class to try and help me to learn to relax. She laid me down on the floor on my back and instructed me to close my eyes. She touched my shoulders and flinched. She might have actually said, “Holy shit!” I can’t remember; it was a long time ago. But I do remember her being quite shocked at how much tension I held in my shoulders. I told her that I couldn’t relax and now did she understand how tense I was? I left the class feeling vindicated in my inability to relax, but no close to achieving the goal. Oh well. I figured it out later.

So, where does my inspiration come from? Everywhere and nowhere. Everywhere in the sense that as I wander through life doing things, I like to soak in everything around me and funnel that into whatever the hell it is I am thinking about or working on or planning. Nowhere in the sense that my own constant sense of dread propels me all the time. I honestly feel like I am throwing away my life if I am not making things on the regular. Sure, I experience a normal ebb and flow of creativity, just like anyone. And sure, I get lazy and tired and fucking distracted—wow, so distracted—just like anyone else. I know these things about myself, yet I cannot allow them to win. It is part of why I’ve always set goals, guidelines, limits, quotas, or whatever I think will motivate me to stay obligated. I’ve always liked working with other people in teams since I am incredibly motivated to put out work when I know someone else is counting on me. When it’s only me and there’s no financial reward to be seen, it’s much harder. But if I make myself accountable to myself and to my readers on The Black Laser who are following along my year’s theme, then I find it much easier to stay on track. Does that make sense?

This all ties in to your question about where I find the time. I don’t. I make it. I work at least 50 hours a week, every week, often with late nights and weekends popping up and keeping me in the office. And, as an editor, my whole day is being creative. When I get home I rarely have much juice left to try and be super cool writer guy, so I just do what I can. I say, “All right, Joe, you’re going to write 500 words. At 500 words you can either stop or, if you’re feeling it, keep going.” That works nicely for me. It’s a system I’ve used for years. Do I always write 500 words? Fuck no! If I get home from the office at midnight after a fourteen and a half hour day, you can bet your sweet ass that all I’m going to do is go to the bar next door for a beer and then come home and go to sleep. But if I come home after a normal 10 hour day, I do try and do something. Do I always? Nope, but the thought is there. Sometimes you can’t force it. The weekends are often good for this. I’ll wake up, go out, eat, wander, run some errands, and then come home and produce before going back out for the night. In the end, it’s fun for me, so it’s not a hassle to make time for it. It also keeps me from feeling like a crazy person, which is always nice, you know?

To sum this whole thing up, if you want to make a blog, do it! Don’t limit yourself, and don’t make it a chore. If you have fun doing it and regularly think, “Man, it would be fun to blog about this!” then you will find yourself making time for it. And it doesn’t always have to be enormous blocks of text or things you spend a ton of time on. Lots of people have had incredible success on Tumblr just posting silly photos along a particular theme or just having curated collections of things or whatever the hell people do on Tumblr. The Black Laser was conceived as a place for me to write, so that’s what I do here. Think about what you might want to do (don’t get to specific) and just do it. I think you’ll have fun with it. And if you don’t, stop doing it. Done and done.

Thanks again for the note. I hope this was helpful.

Sincerely,

Joe Dillingham
The Space Pope
Torgeir The Black Metal Extremist
The Black Laser

Dear Having Nothing to Say,

Did you see the game last week? Yeah, it was pretty sweet, huh? The one sportsguy sure did a good job preventing the sportsguy on the opposing squad from accomplishing his goals. It was quite a performance. They certainly are competent practitioners of their sports!

I’m writing today, Having Nothing to Say, because I really have nothing to say. I’ve been trying to think of things I have opinions about, but nothing is coming to me. It’s weird, you know, because I am an opinionated crank of a human being and usually there’s plenty inside my brain to waste people’s precious time. But today—and the last few days, really—I’ve had absolutely nothing at all to say.

There was so much build-up to my 1000th post and 3rd birthday, that I feel like I exhausted my good Black Laser ideas. That is, of course, totally untrue. As long as I breathe there will be a lot of crap for me to spew out onto the interwebs, but I’ve found myself in a bit of a lull, Having Nothing to Say. It’s a little frustrating, I guess, but I’ve also been quite busy (read: there are many people in Skyrim that must die).

And, god damn, I need to get going on my Christmas track. I wrote some good lyrics this morning on the train and I think it’s going to be a very fun one. Here’s a sampling.

It’s Christmas Eve
Waiting at the club
Santa’s gonna show
That motherfucker’s up

Bringing presents
To all girls and boys
Shaking his ass
To this funky techno noise

And Mrs Claus says

Bitch! GET YOUR ASS TO THE CLUB, come on
Get your ass to the club!
No time for thinking
Get your ass to the club!

We got Rudolph in this bitch
We got elves in this bitch
We got snowmen in this bitch
We got Jesus in this bitch.

Mind that those are just rough lyrics I threw together during my trip into town on the M train this morning. Nothing set in concrete. I have no plans for Thanksgiving, so I’m sure there will be plenty of time to get to making sick techno beats and pitch shifted vocals. On that point, I have no plans for Christmas either, so maybe I’ll just spend the rest of the year making dance music alone in my house.

God, that’s depressing.

Anyway, go to hell, Having Nothing To Say, I’m damn sick of you. If you just up and died, I wouldn’t be upset. I wouldn’t miss you. Fuck, this reminds me that I need to write some Togeirs too. Man, so much to do and so few words with which to do them. And remember the William Blake Dance Party Extravaganza? That went nowhere, huh? Jeez.

Whatever, fuck this. I am sick of this letter already.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

Dearest brain,

I feel like you and I have been friends for a long time. Sure, there were the years I abused you, but I’ve always been a better friend to you than my body. I mean, that’s not to say my body has ever treated me badly, but we’ve had a strained relationship. We’ve always had a bit of a disconnect and I’ve never gone out of my way to take care of my body since I reside so wholly in my mind. Brain, you know, I know it. It’s the truth. Sorry, body, I’m trying to be better to you, but you cannot change the past. We’ll get back to you in a little bit.

So, brain, why are you thwarting every attempt I’ve made the last three days to do any work? HMMmmmmmm?? You allow me just brief glimpses of focus, 2, maybe 4 minutes tops. Why not just let me focus on the shit I need to do? What the hell is up with you?

I’ve noticed a pattern with you, brain. I’ve noticed that when I am hungover or tired or feeling shitty, you have a much easier time letting me get down to work. What’s that about? Must I constantly be hungover/tired/sick to accomplish anything? Must I wait until the middle of the night to have creative revelations and be focused enough to actually make them real? Why cannot I not just feel ok and awake and healthy and not have you bothering me all the time by thinking of 80 million things all at once.

For example, today, in my effort to reacquaint myself with my body, I’m well rested, not hungover in the slightest (surprising since I had a birthday dinner last night for a good friend, nor any drop to drink), and I’ve eaten. EATEN! I never eat! All remarkable things considering the state of Joe the last few years. But I can’t do anything for longer than a minute before I get distracted and look away. This stupid letter has taken me hours of writing a sentence, fucking off for a while, pacing the office, watching some dailies, trimming my selects, stretching on the skate ramp, digging through the pantry for snacks, and then sitting back down and writing another sentence.

Brain! I’ve got work to do! This Safeway turkey thing won’t cut itself! I just need like 2 hours from you. Come on, you can do it. I can crank out something in 2 hours. I know you know exactly where we need to go with it; let’s just bang it out and be done. Why fight me? Why fight me all the time?! Is this what ADD feels like? If it does, I feel sorry for people who are afflicted with this. Fuck, it’s not like this is new for me. Maybe I’m all attention-deficit too. Who knows. I’m not a doctor, brain, though I do know how to remove sutures. That’s all right.

Wait! Back to the matter at hand! Brain! Focus! Help! There’s nothing out there that cannot wait! Just shut up for a minute and let’s pay our work attention so we can go back to being a flighty, distracted pair again. Please? Please? PLEASE?

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

PS – Body, sorry, told you I’d get back to you. Yes, I am scared about the possibility of 100 pullups, 200 pushups, and 300 squats for time tomorrow. Yes, I know, the squats not so scary, and neither are the pullups (assisted, of course), but 200 pushups. Holy shit, I know. Maybe we go tonight instead and do 1200 meters, 30 deadlifts with weight, and 63 pullups? Decisions! Should we do both?

Ugg Boots,

You’ll notice, Ugg Boots, that I did not use the word “dear” to begin this letter. I don’t want you to hold the mistaken assumption that I have anything but the greatest contempt for you. But I don’t believe that even conveys how utterly I hate you. I possess nothing but the sincerest enmity, the most profound disdain, the most resounding loathing for you. You inflict ruin on the feet and ankles of women everywhere, women gullible enough to believe that how they appear to other people is less important than that their little toesies are warm and cuddly. You are emblematic of the laziness that is ruining humanity. For every silly woman wearing you with tucked in sweatpants and a sweatshirt or North Face fleece (the gray and black one, you know the one I am talking about) I want to kick a defenseless puppy. I shed a tear for the future of the human race every time I see a pink pair attempting to navigate the filthy Manhattan snowbanks. I want to choke someone until I see the light drain out of their eyes every time I see a mother/daughter pair dressed similarly, wearing Uggs, and holding shopping bags.

You are the ruin of The United States of America.

As a Californian, I never experienced a real winter until I moved to the North East. The worst we had it, Ugg Boots, was 40 degree days, perhaps a frost over night. But it never snowed. Never sustained sub-freezing temperatures. Never had to worry that the wind chill was going to make it feel like temperatures below 0°F (-18°C). Yet people would flip their living shit about the “cold” and how “freezing” it was. And that’s when you came out, Ugg Boots, on the feet every silly, stupid college girl going to class in her pajamas. It would be 60°F (16°C) and girls would be out with fleeces and Uggs and I would want to stab them.

Even here in New York, you’ll start seeing your hideous visage as early as September once nature delicately hints that perhaps maybe it might just not be warm enough to wear flip flops anymore. Then I must endure you until May when the sweat on a person’s brow suggests that perhaps maybe it might just be too warm to continue wearing vile, wool-lined skin tubes your feet.

That segues nicely into another gripe of mine. Winter boots need not be ugly, shapeless masses of material slipped onto the foot. They can be stylish, too. They can accentuate a figure, the can add height, they can be designed. But you, horrid defiler, you are not. You make women—even women who might have lovely, slender ankles—appear as if they have wooden pylons for ankles. The only thing I find more unflattering than you, Ugg Boots, is track marks.

Look, I’ll admit something to you, something that pains me to no end. I once purchased a pair of you for an ex. I know, I know. The self-loathing will never cease. It was our first Christmas and she had moved to New York not long before. I got her a pair of the black ones and she wore them for years until it became painfully and slushily obvious that you were not up to the job of keeping her feet dry as well as warm against the New York winter.

In summation, you can go to hell along with wedges, sweatpants with words on the ass, Ed Hardy clothes, and Tap Out. A winter without you would be the most pleasant summer of my life.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

Dear Frank,

First, let me just say thank you. You’re the best landlord I’ve ever had.

Now, let’s jump backwards a little bit. For 5 years I lived in an apartment at 310 S 3rd St. It was a fine enough apartment and I was basically happy with it. I lived there with my former girlfriend and life was mostly good. I liked the neighborhood (except on Puerto Rico/Dominican Republic days when it was constant Reggaeton until dawn—yuck) enough and everything was close and accessible and easy.

But as soon as we had problems with the apartment, we ran into roadblocks. Since my girlfriend was generally less employed than I was during that time, it often fell on her shoulders to make calls and see that repairs were taken care of. Unfortunately for us, she was a woman and good luck getting our old landlords to listen to a woman for anything. Even when we spoke to women, nothing ever happened. Repairs went untended to and things fell into our laps. A prime example, when we first moved in the apartment was newly renovated, which was nice but it also meant that we had no stove or refrigerator for like 2 weeks. Pretty annoying. And when they finally did drop them off, that was all they did. I had to figure out how to connect the stove to the gas, purchase a tube and thread goop from the hardware store, and do it myself. I imagine that this isn’t up to code, but call me crazy.

At some point in our tenure in that apartment, our bathroom ceiling started dripping. It was a pain, and we called about it. No response. As the months of dripping went on and the damage it was causing to the bathroom ceiling became evident, we started calling on the regular. No response. So we wrote letters. No response. I spoke to the super. No follow-up. The drywall of the ceiling became wetter and wetter and moldier and stained and fucked up, but they didn’t care enough to send someone over to fix it.

The final straw with them came the day I lost my job in June 2009. It was an overcast day and I had to go to the office to turn in my ID and keys and sign some paper for our corporate overlords agreeing to the shitty severance package I was getting and that I wouldn’t sue them. Spirits were high. Jesse, who I worked with at the time, picked up a bunch of beers and headed back to my house to mourn the loss our of employment. We arrived home just in time for the bathroom ceiling to explode into a great torrent of water that spread all over the floor of the kitchen and into the living room. I called my old landlords furious, yelling and cursing that this problem had gone on a year and now, on the day I got laid off, I have my ceiling exploding water all over the place. I yelled. A lot. The woman on the phone was afraid and they actually sent someone right away. It still took them weeks to fix the now gaping hole in the ceiling.

I was glad to move out of there.

When I moved into your building, Frank, I was prepared to have the same sort of shitty landlord/tenant relationship I had always experienced while living in New York. They are, generally, a bunch of assholes. Luckily, you are not.

On the wall of the kitchen of my then-new apartment there was a mirror, which is cool and everything, except that I intended to put a kitchen island against that wall and the top of the mirror only reached my collarbone. I suppose the previous tenant was much shorter than I am. I very carefully attempted to remove the mirror from the wall, but when you’d painted the place the wet paint had dripped behind the mirror and glued it to the drywall. I used a knife to remove the mirror, like a surgeon, but I was unable to take it down without damaging the wall. And then there was a giant unpainted rectangle mirror ghost. Oops!

I went to Richie, the amazing super intendant, and told him what happened. I offered to fix it myself if he could provide me with the tools, since it was totally my fault. He told me it was no problem and that you’d take care of it. The next day before I returned fro work, the wall was patched and painted.

Amazing! I had never in my adult life experienced such rapid turn-around on a repair in my apartment. I expected the damage to mar my wall forever. I was glad to be wrong.

But it doesn’t end there.

One day I was here at work and I got a phone call from Jesse (same one) around 4:30, 5 o’clock. He told me he had good news and bad news. I told him to give me the bad news first.

“Your doorknob fell off.”

“What?”

“Your doorknob fell off. You can still get into and out the apartment, though.”

“What’s the good news?”

“I cleaned your apartment. I got on the phone with my mom and instead of just sitting around, I cleaned. For an hour and a half.”

“Ah, uh, cool. Let me call my landlord.”

So I called and left a vou voicemail and by the time I got home from work around 9, the doorknob was back on. And, thanks to Jesse, I had a sparklingly clean apartment. Awesome!

And then there was the time I got home around 2:30 in the morning and you had locked me out of my place and you can all the way from Queens to let me in and then we discovered that I had not been given a necessary key when I moved in. And then I had a copy of the key on my counter the next day. Amazing!

Most recently, I noticed that my microwave kept losing power because I kept having to reset the clock. Then I noticed that my fridge was also losing power, which was a drag since it meant that a whole lot of food in my fridge spoiled, but that’s no one’s fault. It’s a good thing I rarely have food in my fridge. I called and left a voicemail the next morning at work saying that I think the outlet was bad, even though the breaker is not switching off. When I got home, I saw that you’d run an extension cord from the fridge to another outlet in the kitchen. Smart. And though this is all starting to sound repetitive, the next morning at 9:30 while I am getting ready for work you show up with an electrician. Who does that? Awesome. That evening, the outlet was fixed.

So, basically, what I am saying Frank is that you are awesome. I appreciate how readily you take care of problems around the building. You respond right away and you treat every issue as if it were important, even if they are relatively minor. And then not raising my rent this year? Never ever has that happened before.

Wow. I am never moving out.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

Dear Men Who Wear Their Cell Phones On Their Belts,

What the fuck are you, fucking Batman? What your pockets aren’t good enough to hold you phone? You need to proudly display the shitty old Nokia you got for free when you signed your 2-year Boost Mobile contract? Is it some sort of status symbol for you that you can own—and display—an item that 900 million other people also own?

I don’t understand at all. I’ve known people who have worn their phones on their belt, but only while they were working. I guess that is sort of acceptable, but I still think the phone should just go in their pocket. Put it in your pocket, guy.

But, you ask, what about those poor unfortunate souls who don’t have pockets? Wait. People are wearing pants without pockets but are still wearing enough of a belt that the can hang their phone? Do you see the essential problem with this? Let me recommend a solid three-step course of action for you if find yourself mired in this existential quandary.

  1. Buy pants that have pockets.
  2. Put those pants on.
  3. Put your cell phone in your pocket.

Three easy steps to success! Do you know what else it will do, MWWTCPOTB? It will help you look like less of an ASSHOLE.

For example, look at this:

This dude looks like an asshole! Why does he need a cell phone on his belt, let alone MANY cell phones!? Can you enlighten me, MWWTCPOTB? No, I didn’t think you could.

Get some pockets, jerk.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

Dear Infinite Jest,

Well, I’ve finally finished you. It’s been, what, like 8 months? When I started you, you looked like this:

But you were so big and cumbersome that it took me months and months to make it through even a few hundred pages of your massive, dense, nearly-1000 page (without endnotes) bulk. Luckily, bitching about how you hurt my hand on the subway inspired a random Kindle from my mom for Christmas. She offered at the time to buy you again for the Kindle, but I retorted that I already owned you, so why buy another copy? I’ll just finish the paper copy and use the Kindle for other books.

Well that dream didn’t last very long. You were so large that I couldn’t really hold you with one hand on the train, much less flip back and forth from text to endnotes without much difficulty. Lucky were the times I got a seat so I could spread you across my lap and actually read without worrying about letting go of the pole and being tossed on the invariably rough subway ride to or from work. I gave in. I spent the 9.99 on Amazon and bought the Kindle version. When I finished you, you looked like this:

Nevermind the text on the image.

A few weeks ago, after a brunch mandate to stitch & bitch with Jesse (MACHO AS HELL), we found ourselves in the back yard of TBD in my beloved Greenpoint drinking beers and having a sans-women hang out time. It was really nice. As such, we got around to talking about you. But before we get into the whole post of this letter, let me restate something I mentioned in reference to Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth.

I like to work for a book. I really dislike having everything handed to me in tidy pockets of exposition. Nothing pulls me out of a book more than when someone within the first 30 pages stops to explain what they mean but this or that term that the author has created and feels some need to explain directly rather than letting us figure it out like rational, literate adults. I want vagueness and mystery and hints and intentional misdirection. I want to use my brain to participate in unraveling the text. I don’t think that’s so much. In fact, it is the one characteristic that differentiates books into the “enjoyed” pile and “would recommend to someone” pile. Sure, I enjoy books that are quick and hand me things, but only in the way you enjoy popcorn movies filled to the brim with explosions and tits and car chases. They’re little pieces of mental vacation. Think summer blockbuster versus art house.

Infinite Jest, you clearly fit into the “would recommend to someone” category for me. There’s nothing easy about your nearly-1000 pages and I enjoyed the task of deciphering you. You are a specific work of mad genius that I could never ever create. I enjoyed you immensely for all your rambling and wandering and temporal shifts and insane characters and plotless plot and asides and footnotes and nonsense and magical realism. It is clear to me that you are an intensely personal work by someone who was a tragic loss.

And then the other day on the subway I finished you. And all I have to say is fuck you, Infinite Jest. Fuck you with a knife and die. I’m all right with vague endings and I have never minded leaving questions unanswered at the end of a book, but this was too much. I felt like we’d stopped 100 pages before the book should have actually ended. In a flashback nonetheless. Total bullshit.

So, fuck you for making me feel like I didn’t get it. And fuck you for making me want to read you again so I pick up all the clues I missed the first time through. Fuck you. I love you. I haven’t been left wanting more so badly by an ending since I finished Neal Stephenson’s Anathem (which I thought I discussed here, but cannot find record of).

Fuck you, I love, and oh my god I am so sorry.

Love,

The Black Laser.

Dearest Gravy,

Have I told you recently how much I love you? I would hate to think that you are walking through this world with no conception of how deeply I feel for you. You are the meat juice light of my life and I have yet to encounter a meal which could not be made better by your presence. For example, while eating chicken & waffles this morning with Tita Sue, I was delivered the requisite fried chicken and waffles but you were strangely absent. My heart nearly broke there this morning at Pies & Thighs as I consider you in combination with maple syrup to be an essential element of a satisfying chicken & waffles experience.

Fortunately, I know how to bring you into my life directly. After roasting my delightful little chicken in my cast iron skillet with a rub of salt, white pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, and black pepper, I was left with what people affectionately refer to as “drippings,” i.e., the cooked off fat and love. Sensible (read: stupid) people would just dispose of this wonderful collected juice, but those of us who understand the value of fat and cooked on bits of chicken know the best thing to do: make gravy. A bit of chicken stock and a smidge of flour and whisking the burnt on bits of wonder over heat results in life’s most magnificent liquid.

While sitting at my kitchen table enjoying my dinner, the glass of you sat next to my plate and I considered taking a great big swig of it directly, but I reconsidered for two reasons. First, I would have felt very bad about myself on an emotional, if not physical, level. There’s something slightly disheartening about drinking a glass of reduced fat and chicken bits. As a sauce, I love you; as a beverage I am not so sure. Second, I would have been left with no leftover gravy to enjoy as I consume the remainder of the chicken over the next week. If there is any leftover when the chicken is gone, I will dump it into the soup I intend to make with the carcass. Waste not, want not, gravy. That’s what I always (never) say.

Growing up in an essentially gravy-less childhood was a hardship, gravy. You are gravy, so you can never understand what it’s like to grow up without you. Imagine, for my sake, what your Thanksgiving turkey would be like without the luscious brown magic you provide. Imagine, if you will, what roast beef would be like if you never kissed it with your salty grace. Imagine, for the love of God and all that is holy, what my sausage smoothie would have been like if you were not there to provide such savory redemption from the depths of bland banality. Gravy, I love you. Thank you for being so versatile and easy to prepare. You are my life.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

PS – I am not referring to your poor relations that come in a can. They will need to stay outside. Thanks for understanding that we just can’t allow their kind in here.