Will Gottlieb's Open Salon Blog

Portrait of the Artist as a Developing Weirdo

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 18:07:05 -0400

It is with some trepidation and not a little pride that I reach into my frowsty past and haul out two poems that I believe will one day be noted as the works that defined a generation. I offer them here in chronological order of their composition.

“Declaration (The Sun)” 1996

Pizza, pizza, pizza,
Bow-wow, Bow-wow,
Look what I got.

“Modern Love” 1997

My love is
Not unlike a
Spermicidally
Lubricated
Condom with
Reservoir
End

The Care and Feeding of Editors

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 18:07:50 -0400

“The second thing we do, let’s kill all the editors.”

– William Shakespeare, deleted from Henry IV, Part I

Editors exist to make writers look good, and should be tolerated for that reason. Editors buy stories, and should be allowed to tinker with them, if ever so gently.

There are three good (justifiable) edits: (1) grammatical errors, (2) factual errors and (3) textual errors. If a thing is wrong, false or misplaced, then it should be fixed. Much is owed to editors who do, in fact, make writers look good. If an editor makes a stylistic change that is somehow more true to the writer’s voice, or does something to extend the thematic unity of something the writer has produced, then the editor should be humbly thanked.

(A really nice editor will allow the writer to do the rewrite, deadline permitting. Such editors should be cultivated and, if possible, cloned.)

On the other hand, if an editor makes a change because he or she “wouldn’t put it that way,” the writer should be permitted to chop off one of the editor’s fingers, preferably with a plastic knife. If an editor’s change introduces a grammatical, factual or textual error, the writer should be permitted to bury that knife in the editor’s throat.

In conclusion, editors make good companions, but should not be fed at the table. Also, they should be bathed at least once a week.

I Am Favored By The Universe

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 14:07:31 -0400

Here am the unique sequence of events:

Prelude: I am treated to a free lunch on Sunday at The Neat Restaurant over there in Townville, with the understanding that I will write a favorable review. Which I agree to do, on the condition that I survive the experience. Which I do, and why not? Gourmet food. One of Those Gigs. Are we ready?

Monday, 11:34 a.m. The sales person who handles The Neat Restaurant account tells me she had a bad dream in which I failed to tip the waitress on Sunday. As it happens, I failed to tip the waitress: no cash, no ATM at the marina. Alas & Goddamn.

11:35 a.m. I inform the salesvolk about this. Pandemonium ensues. Tears, recriminations, shame and blame. I shrug: no cash, no ATM, no purchase, therefore no tip. Take a joke, somebody. Go read the papers.

Intermission: Many meetings off stage, after which sales manager Bruce comes to me and says, Will, say it ain't so! I say it's so. Bruce is nonplussed.

11:45 a.m. I jet off to interview local luthier/musician Carter Ruff, and not coincidentally to blow his mind (or a tiny part of it anyway) by playing one of his guitars. I am no ordinary reporter; I have Skills.

12:15 p.m. Back at the house, check the email, realize that I have books to mail, but no money to mail them with. I see that one of the "sold" books is a gigantherus humongoid computer language book. Shit, I say, I bet I've gotta ship that sucker to Germany or something. I print out the shipping label: It's going to Germany.

12:15:05 p.m. I issue a refund to the German geek -- "No book, so sorry."

12:22 p.m. Jet off to The Neat Restaurant to leave a $5 tip.

12:41 p.m. I arrive at The Neat Restaurant. No one at that end is concerned about the tip, but the waitress gratefully accepts the $5. I jet off for home/pb&j.

12:45 p.m. The Low Fuel warning comes on. Alas & Goddamn.

12:45:01 p.m. I pass a Sagadahoc Sheriff's deputy, who is trolling for sinners along Rte. (rhymes with "out") 27. I get about 1/4 mile down the road before his lights come on and the sucker is after me, no doubt loading his riot gun as he rips down Rte. 27 in full pursuit. A&G, etc.

12:46:05 p.m. I swear. Bad words come out of my mouth like bats from a burning cave. Then I take a breath, and I say to the universe, "Universe, I'm down here doing good deeds. I'm shelling out money I don't have to tip for a meal I did not elect to eat, burning gas I can't afford to burn en route (rhymes with "boot"). Moreover, I'm going the speed limit, and all of my lights are functioning. I think. Anyway, it is broad daylight, or broader. I am not using my cell phone and I am not drunk or stoned or tired or even particularly irritable. It is another day. Give me a freaking break, okay?"

12:46:22 p.m. The Sagadahoc Sheriff's deputy cuts his lights and turns around. Hmm.

Intermission: A pleasant drive. Trees, birds, clouds, river. I sing a little bit.

1:20:03 p.m. Having slammed a pb&j at my place, I reach for the switch to shut off the computer, but then I think, But maybe Jennie has answered my email!

1:20:05 p.m. I look in my inbox there at Hotmail (rhymes with "orange"). Note from Jennie. System says it was sent at 1:20 p.m. I read the note: She adores me, too.

1:20:10 p.m. Copacetic.

See? It's all lining up. And it all means something. Yes, it does.

Michael Jackson Still Dead

Tue, 7 Jul 2009 14:07:22 -0400

There's a link on CNN.com this afternoon that reads, "iReport.com: How are you honoring MJ today?" This caught my eye, of course, and so I thought, "Well, same as always: Roll a fattie and burn it during the news." But no, it was yet another reference to Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, who is still dead after a week or so of intensive coverage. Clearly, MJ has busted a major move here. I wonder how long he can keep it up...

Because this has been his finest hour, career-wise, better than crotch-grabbing or moon-walking or any of his various other signature moves or twitches that are so beloved by so many people. Michael Jackson The Tragical Dead Guy plays ever so much better than Michael Jackson The Musician (hate to be the one to tell you, but), Michael Jackson the Child Molester, or even Michael Jackson the 50-Year-Old Child Star.

Look at it this way: The bills are going to be paid, and his name won't be taken in vain in the press for a while, apart from the occasional crackpot blogger — talk is treason? — and he doesn't have to sit through the next election cycle. There's a lot to admire here, perhaps even envy.

You don't think so? Listen, you can just bet your ass that there's a small army of spent celebrities out there, worried about paying for that next round of plastic surgery and not enjoying the prospect of smaller turnouts and fewer casting calls, mentally or perhaps physically sifting through their medicine chests, looking for something that will buy them that really big headline, once and for all...

But not right now. Timing is everything in this business, and anyone who dies amidst suspicious circumstances over the next few weeks will be tagged "unoriginal," and viewed with contempt in the media. There will be no Death Bounce for your career, sweetie. Might as well jet off to the third world, find a skinny kid to adopt, officially change your sexual preference, flash the paparazzis, whatever. Because the Death Card has been played, sugar booger. Too bad. And you weren't there to goose the zeitgeist.

So: Let us mourn the loss of A Great Man, A Seer, A Genius In His Own Time. And we will mourn him for some time to come — can't wait for those New Year's media wrap-ups — because that's what we do in this culture. Every dead crank is a Late Genius in someone's book, and Michael Jackson was a crank for the ages.

So, yeah. Another great man done gone, alas & goddamn.

Next.

Your God is Gay

Mon, 6 Jul 2009 10:07:00 -0400

This should be obvious.

Consider my immediate family: my wife (female), me (male), our son (from this union of male and female). Consider my dog: dam (female), sire (male), dog (product of the union of male and female) (female, since you asked).

Consider the animal world, the plant world. Tell me: Is there any creature in nature, high enough on the chain of being to be measured with the naked eye, that is not the product of the union of two genders, two sexes, two distinct and complementary compass points? Is it not clear that harmonious nature is something that is clearly and definitively female and male?

And you say God is a motherless male trinity, that God is a nuclear family that contains a Father, a Son, a masculine Holy Spirit, but no Mother? What planet are you from?

***

This should be obvious.

The God of Abraham, Isaac and Joseph, the creator-of-record, the muse of the pews, invested a certain amount of time in the making of animals, and was glad to have done so, called it "good." When God reportedly sent a flood to punish the Earth in the days of Noah, God saved just a handful of people — and made sure that every kind of animal was preserved, that every breed, every insect, every toad, survived. Or that's what it says in the Bible, anyway. You do believe, yes?

At the end of the book of Mark, as Jesus is being assumed into heaven, he says, “Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.” Every creature. Says right here, brother. Is The Word True? Well, of course it is.

And you say animals have no souls? You say that you can abuse nature in the name of “dominion”? You have no trouble with the statement, “God gave us the earth. We have dominion over the plants, the animals, the trees. God said, ‘Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It’s yours’ “?

***

This should be obvious.

You say God has sent death and destruction into this world because of the sins of the people — the thoughtless slip-up, the choice of lover, the moment of anger, the soul in torment, the mind broken, the wrong word spoken, the wounded heart.

Really? It seems very clear to me that the trouble all creation now endures has largely been brought into the world by people who believe that they (and only they) have a handle on religious truth.

***

I tell you what it is, boyo. I just cannot worship a God whose sense of justice is inferior to my own.

But you can worship any Jerk you please.