Tuesday, December 17, 2013

good things take time.


It always happens this way. You get a sore throat again and you think about all the previous times your throat had been sore and you fail to remember them all. You take a slow shower without shampoo or soap or anything. You’re just standing there, looking at the water dripping down almost silently. You say to yourself, “It’s December”, but what does that even mean now that you’re saying it like that, out loud, in the midst of a soapless shower? The end-of-the-year bucket-lists, always carefully drawn, never truly accomplished, start popping up everywhere in your head and you don’t recognize half the things on them. You smile when you remember that time you jotted down, “Maybe climb Mount Fiji?”. Your own naiveté can be adorable sometimes, but most of the times is just that, naiveté. Your online banking account pales in comparison. Actually, it looks sort of humble and hungry. But who cares, the screen(s) in front of you surely don’t. They’re offering you the deals of your life, which mainly revolve around the things that you absolutely. Must. Buy. For the people who mean a lot to you. You turn your already hurting gaze away and another creeping thought comes to stir you up. You haven’t read the books you wanted to read, not even those you absolutely swore it to yourself you would. Your feet are cold, your fingers are bony from too much typing and your doctor’s appointment in a couple of days’ time makes you cringe. You think again about the virus you caught, the spiked fever and the obsessive checking of the thermometer. You’re eating too much but fuck it. You should drink more water but fuck it. You should stop watching so many Poirot re-runs and watch the Oscar nominees but fuck it. It’s been six months since you’ve cut your coffee and cigarettes intake to zero and you thought you’d be absolutely ok with it but now you get a headache just by thinking about it. You haven’t touched any though. You’re weak but you’re not that weak.

After slipping into the fluffiest socks you own and touching your belly for the gazillionth time, you go back to analyzing this year that’s coming to an end. You’re thankful you haven’t hit a new low. You’re thankful for that night full of soft lights, when everything changed without you even being aware of it. You’re thankful for those many alcohol-infused evenings, that bowl of garlic soup and that coat that wasn’t even yours, though it felt like a second skin. You have said “I love you” a whole lot this year and actually meant it. That’s comforting. There have been songs in every car you rode that have asked you to sing along and smile. Maybe even laugh. You take a minute to sit down and actually truly acknowledge that it’s December again. You’re lucky this time. The previous December had been a hard one to swallow. Still, you realize it has been a hard year. You think about all the things coming next year that are going to make it an incredible one. You’ve stumbled over something full of grace. Or was it the other way around? You’ve cried in different places, even different countries, in almost every month of the last year. But it was your cry for the crying. A year ago you thought that if you could collect all the tears you’ve shed in a big glassy jar and pour them over the balcony, yelling the whole time, yelling louder than you’ve ever yelled before, you might not have to do any of this again. But this time you actually want to do all of this again. It’s December and the air is crisp and your arms smell like baby skin. You’re tired. You’re still alive. Actually, you’re living for two now. And it’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done. Ever. 

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

firing the canon


In David Lodge’s comic novel Changing Places, a group of academics play a confessional dinner party game called “Humiliation”(on the topic of that, please someone from the States bring me Cards Against Humanity). The objective is to own up to a major gap in one’s cultural experience and the contest culminates when a young literature scholar triumphantly declares that he has never read Hamlet (gasp!). He wins the game but subsequently loses his job (that would have never happened nowadays).

My first impression of surveys of people’s “favorite books” is that the nation is invited to participate in a massive, inverted version of Lodge’s apocryphal game. It’s impossible to know how honest people are: I mean, how many of us are prepared to admit that we’d rather (imaginatively) hang out with Harry in Hogwarts than with Dedalus in Dublin (or with Lisbeth in Stockholm - *raises hand)? J.K. Rowling’s series makes the top 100 in its entirety but so too does Joyce’s modernist masterpiece (nothing yet about the Millenium trilogy, but I can wait).

Lists like the 100 best books of all time have, of course, become a very familiar part of the way in which we construct our sense of shared identity. The fact that new “best ever” lists are generated annually suggests a kind of instinctive restlessness coupled with a desire to remake the personal and public self. These polls represent a risk-free playing out of the “anxiety of choice” that seems to be part of our radically unstable age. The impermanence of the so-called “timeless classics” is arguably further evidence of a lack of social coherence: a couple of years ago, Titanic and OK Computer seemed dead certs to transcend their times. Today Radiohead are those hipster dudes nobody really, thoroughly liked, and Titanic a huge moneymaker. Granted, with a cool soundtrack. But would they really want to be blessed (or cursed) with the dubious label “classic”?

Conferring permanent significance to a work of art is a problematic act. George Steiner has argued that “post-modern culture” is an oxymoronic term: culture, he maintains, is necessarily hierarchical whereas the “postmodern condition” wishes away al boundaries, divisions and pecking orders. The cultural anxiety implicit in this position is, in my view, misplaced. Culture is transient and so too are the purposes that it serves. We should be prepared to critique our heritage, in all of its literary, artistic, political and religious manifestations.

That’s why I agree with these people’s choice lists, when they are being honest. The results might upset some academic specialists, but the point is that this is not an undergraduate reading list, nor was it meant to be. I mean most of us have a sneaky suspicion that what we like to read might not be what we “should” be reading. How else would we explain the presence of a Dan Brown or Paulo Coelho novel within these lists?

No matter how instable cultural canons are, we do have to make choices and I’m happy that there is a difference between the books we nominate as personal favorites and those that we believe will make us better people by reading. This contradiction is very difficult to wrestle our way free from without imposing an impossibly restrictive and highly fictional form of ethics on our reading habits. 

Lists and rankings might be inadequate gestures towards making a fragmented culture cohere. We don’t worship or even watch television together anymore but we do like to remember together. The pursuit of collective memory need not be a seductive-destructive, honeyed nostalgia, but part of a creative quest to discern what and why we like what we like. 

Sunday, September 1, 2013

traffic and catching up on your classics


I used to hate traffic. All that obnoxious horn blowing, fist shaking, name calling and fender bumping. Then one morning, while fuming in a frozen pack of steel, it hit me: it’s a waste of time to hate traffic in Bucharest. You might as well move to an Arabic country and hate polygamists. Traffic in Bucharest is, literally, not going anywhere.

Moving out isn’t an option, though. There’s too much great stuff here: the idyllic climate, the tomatoes that taste like actual tomatoes, the cheap pretzels at every corner. So I recommend you do as I did: learn to make the best out of traffic. It’s quite easy. First, stop believing the traffic myth – that people hate traffic because it keeps them from getting places quickly.

I assure you, this is not the reason people hate traffic. Consider: when is traffic at its worst? At morning rush hour. And where is morning rush hour taking you? To work. Now, can you honestly tell me that you hate traffic because it keeps you from that pile of papers on your desk? Of course not. Why, for this reason alone, traffic is your best friend. Take this simple test: walk into work late one morning and tell your boss, „Sorry, but I got completely absorbed watching the re-run of CSI New York and lost all track of time.” Five-to-one says you get a pink slip. Now, at your new job, try this: arrive an hour behind schedule and say simply, „Sorry I’m late. Traffic.” Not only will your boss accept this excuse without a blink, I bet you’ll even get a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

The real reason people hate traffic is this: it’s a race. It’s not the 10 mph crawl that sends your blood pressure soaring. It’s the sight of that little blue Honda slipping past you into the distance. „I knew late two was the hot lane today!” you mumble. „I should have cut off that busload of kids when I had the chance!” Morning gridlock is nothing more than the grown-up version of Chutes and Ladders. And being the eternally competitive Bucharestians that we are, it drives us absolutely postal to think that someone might be maneuvering their two-ton game piece better that we are. Conversely, who among us doesn’t feel a sweet surge of satisfaction when that annoying Audi running alongside gets stuck as our lane sails ahead?

Once you accept that traffic is a game, it’s easier to stop worrying about how to win. Then you can concentrate on wringing the most from your unavoidable traffic hours. Here are a few time killers that might work:

·         Reading between the lines. Try books on tape. It’s a great way to catch up on Tolstoy, Melville – all the classics. Choosing the right audio book is vitally important. Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer might seem like an okay idea for the first few miles or so, but there’s always the risk of growing so engulfed in the story that you smack into the bumper of the car ahead. Also, don’t choose a book that is really interesting or with major hook-potential. You might end up parked somewhere, with side one over and all the traffic gone.

·         Tote cuisine. Eating in the car is underrated. I’m not talking about wolfing down an Egg McMuffin while balancing an orange juice and a double soy latte on your knees. With Bucharest’s glacial traffic, there’s plenty of time to enjoy a four-star dining experience behind the wheel. If you find yourself on your way back to the office from a noontime appointment, don’t let your stomach churn at being stuck in such gridlock. Enjoy your well-deserved five-course lunch. Commence with a lovely consommé, taking care not to let the bowl tip. Move on to the salad, which will be so savory you won’t even mind when an overzealous stab of the brakes sends a chunk of goat cheese tumbling down the air vent. Then comes the garlic and rosemary chicken, which will be a tad difficult to slice, but overall just delicious. All this time, you’ll hardly even notice the traffic. In fact, after a leisurely dessert and coffee, you’ll almost find yourself irritated when things begin to speed up. You’ll be at the office in no time, ready to take a nap.

·         Wait lifting. Your car is a great place to work out. If you don’t believe me, go to the beach sometime and notice all the people with „clutch calf” – a highly enlarged left leg muscle that develops from years of using a manual transmission in Bucharest. A good hour of gridlock can be nearly as healthful as a personal-training session at the gym. You can practice deep breathing exercises. Bring along some hand weights and tilt your power-reclining seat, and you can perform a full bench-press routine (if you have a sunroof, you can even do squats). And the cockpit of an automobile is perhaps the only place where one can use a ThighMaster without fear of being seen. (Bonus: In case of a serious accident, a ThighMaster doubles as a highly effective Jaws of Life.)

·         Tranquility base. Finally, try this: Turn off the radio. Unplug the cell phone. Roll up the windows and click on the air-conditioning. Hear that? It’s the sound of yourself thinking – something we who live in this perpetually frenetic city don’t get to hear often enough. 

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

cave și întoarcerea la minimalism


Ca modus operandi, te aștepți la două lucruri de la un album Nick Cave: fie un perfect personalizat hedonism gălăgios și sîngeros, unde nebunia muzicală hardcore, morbiditatea excesivă și poezia perversă a versului  își au rolul lor atent calculat, fie o lirică baladescă mult mai cuminte, deși la fel de conceptuală și pretențioasă în execuție. Push the Sky Away nu se încadrează în niciuna. La o primă ascultare, ești tentat să-l acuzi că și-a întors parcă un pic prea mult obrazul către muzica amorfă de ambient și atmosferă, de o simplitate aproape embrionică. Desigur, genul acesta de ”diluare” muzicală la care Cave simte nevoia de a se deda ca să mai omoare timpul între orgiile sale frenetice nu e nouă. Bob Dylan (în perioada lui ”creștină”) și Leonard Cohen (circa I’m your man), luînd împreună o supradoză de amfetamine într-un bordel sordid, în timp ce trec din mînă paralizată în mînă paralizată o copie terfelită după John Donne. Cam asta era atmosfera.

Dacă ai însă răbdare să mai asculți albumul o dată, îți dai seama că piesele n-au nici melancolia forțată a baladelor de altădată și nu-s nici iremediabil scufundate într-o atmosferă de artă serioasă, intelectuală, care merită consumată ca sunet de background și atît. Nu-i nici măcar o combinație între cele două. Primul album compus fără Mick Harvey, membru fondator the Bad Seeds, îi găsește pe Cave, Warren Ellis, Marty Casey și Jim Sclavunos explorînd o gamă nouă și mult mai largă de sunete și texturi, lucru pe care nu l-au mai făcut pînă acum. Dacă pînă nu demult chitara coșmarescă a lui Harvey avea rolul principal, în Push the Sky Away dăm de sunete tîrșîite de vioară, flaut și pian, de o grație care, tocmai pentru că-i sublimată, dă pieselor un cu totul alt gen de autoritate.

Asta fără să mai punem la socoteală narativul impecabil, care atinge noi și teribil de fertile înălțimi discursive.  Bine, Nick Cave le-a avut întotdeauna mai degrabă cu vorbele, decît cu notele. El însuși o recunoștea. ”Mi-e mult mai ușor să scriu versuri, să scriu în general. Ca muzician, m-am simțit întotdeauna un impostor. Multă vreme m-am învinovățit că nu abordez piesele din punct de vedere muzical, ci mai degrabă narativ. Cred că asta face ca the Bad Seeds să fie iremediabil irelevantă în peisajul muzical contemporan. Dar nu contează,  ăsta e șarmul nostru primar.” Diferența e că, dacă pînă acum piesele sale ”împrumutau” teme din Dostoievski, WH Auden, Shakespeare și Flannery O’Connor, aici te lovești de aluzii la google, Wikipedia [”Wikipedia is heaven/When you don’t want to remember”] și Hannah Montana. Îmbrățișînd atît hiperrealitatea personală, cît și pe cea contemporană, Push the Sky Away este în același timp și cel mai tradițional, dar și cel mai modern album Nick Cave. Pentru prima dată rămîi cu impresia aproape palpabilă că ți se vorbește mai mult despre Cave-omul, decît despre Cave-personajul – slăbănogul cu păr vopsit și față lungă, gol pușcă și priapic, călărind un babuin, după cum l-a reinterpretat Krent Able în celebra ilustrație Dr. Cave.  

Și ți se vorbește cursiv, fiecare piesă fiind un episod ce-și are bine poziționat locul într-un album al cărui schelet seamănă bine de tot cu un scenariu. După două coloane sonore excepționale, realizate împreună cu Warren Ellis (pentru The Proposition și The Road), și un sequel pentru The Gladiator (al cărui sinopsis sună a nebunie frumoasă: în viața de apoi, Maximus se încurcă cu zeii romani, se reîncarnează, apără creștinii, se reunește cu fiul său, cîștigă viață eternă și apare în cel de-al doilea război mondial pe post de șofer de tanc; lui Crowe și lui Ridley Scott le-a plăcut, dar studioul nu s-a omorît după el), nu-i de mirare că se întîmplă asta. ”Îl știu de cînd eram amîndoi puști”, spune Warren Ellis. ”Eu îl ajutam cu muzica, el mă ajuta cu filmele. Eu iubesc muzica și m-am implicat în chestia asta de-a lungul întregii mele cariere, iar Nick adoră filmele. El se uită la mai multe filme decît mine, iar eu ascult mai multă muzică decît el. E o legătură ciudată, dar funcționăm.”

Îmi plăcea de Cave și înainte, pentru că avea curajul să se ia la trîntă cu chestii grele și chestia asta mă făcea să-l apropii oarecum de Johnny Cash. Singurul minus era tendința de a supraîncărca fiecare vers, atît muzical, cît și verbal, problemă pe care Johnny Cash nu a avut-o niciodată. Push the Sky Away face exact asta, mai dă jos din greutățile mai mult sau mai puțin artificiale, adăugînd în același timp un pic mai multă lumină, ceva mai mult loc de respirație. Spunea într-un interviu că ar trebui să scrii la persoana a treia ca să poți să vorbești despre ceea ce simți fără să simți. Cred că asta face diferența, faptul că-și asumă intimitatea persoanei întîi și-și descrie murdăria și alienarea curat, asumat [I’m transforming/I’m vibrating/I am an embryo eating dark oxygen/I’m glowing/I’m flying/Look at me now].

Dacă ar trebui să folosesc mult prea uzitata paralelă cu albumul care-i copilul artistului, lucru pe care l-a făcut și Cave, asemănînd Push the Sky Away cu ”bebelușul fantomă care bîntuie noaptea prin incubatoare”, eu aș spune că ce se întîmplă aici seamănă teribil de mult cu scenariul din The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Ăsta mic s-a născut bătrîn, anchilozat, ridat și lamentat, dar, cumva, innocent și pur, oricît de contraintuitivă ar părea alăturarea asta de termeni cînd te referi la un album Nick Cave. Să-ți alegi copilul preferat e o alegere imposibilă, dar Push the Sky Away este frățiorul slab și bolnav al familiei, pe care nu te poți abține să nu-l iubești. 

Friday, June 7, 2013

nostalgia creeps.


Un prieten îți spune că-ți ia șapte ani să digeri o gumă de mestecat. O înghiți rânjind. Începi să te gândești la alte lucruri despre care se spune că se adăpostesc în corpul tău. Îți vin în minte semințele de pepene verde. Mama ta ți-a spus când te-ai copt pentru obsesia pepenilor - probabil pe la șapte sau opt ani - că semințele alea mici, negre și alunecoase se strâng grămadă în stomac și poți să mori dintr-un munte de ele.

Odată, când erai în clasa a șaptea, Tudor ți-a înjunghiat palma deschisă larg cu un stilou cu peniță subțire, din care tot curgea cerneală. În bucățica de piele moale și ridată dintre arătător și degetul mare. Ai un pistrui micuț și albastru până în ziua de azi. Când te-ai întors acasă la sfârșitul celui de-al doilea an de facultate, v-ați văzut într-un bar plin-ochi de fum. Erați amândoi beți, râdeați de punctul ăla mic și bleu. Tu nu râdeai sincer. Punctul ăla de cerneală e gluma ta de rezervă. ”Uite, am și eu tatuaj. E lumea, dar văzută de foarte departe”, le spui prietenilor tăi tatuați.

Începi să-ți dai seama că-ți place să aduni lucruri. Bonuri, cana de cafea a unui fost iubit, scrisori, eșarfa unei prietene pe care intenționat ai uitat să i-o mai returnezi. Curând, începi să strângi lucruri care nu au fost niciodată ale tale. Găsești o piuliță în praful de pe trotuar, o bagi în portofel. Găsești monezi pe podelele caselor prietenilor tăi, te gândești că nu înseamnă furt. Monezile sunt ale tuturor, dacă-s pe jos, îți spui.

Curând, prietenii tăi pleacă, unii din țară, alții doar din viața ta. Rămâi cu câteva vestigii palmate - o idee mai mult decât nimic. Bonurile de la benzinărie nu te lasă să împarți o sticlă de vin roșu cu ei. Cana de cafea nu te-ajută să-i spui ce-ai mai visat. Scrisorile împovărează biroul ca un labirint de tăieturi inutile de ziar - nimic uman la mijloc. Eșarfa nu se îmbată cu tine și nu-ți spune că oamenii sunt puzzle-uri cu piese lipsă, nici măcar vitale, dar tot lipsă se spune că sunt. Piulița, monezile nu te duc înapoi în acel martie sau acel aprilie.

Sunt doar lucruri. Nu fac parte din tine. Nu-s urechile, ochii, limba, coatele tale. Sunt lucruri pe care poți să le pierzi, pe care poți să le scapi din mână, de care poți să uiți. Când te muți, le cari cu tine în geantă, în cutii sau în portofel. Ai vrea să fie ca semințele de pepene verde, sau ca guma de mestecat, astfel încât chiar și-atunci când ești gol, singur, în pat, ele să fie cu tine, în tine, grămezi.

După câteva săptămâni verifici explicația amicului tău și descoperi că toată faza cu guma care are nevoie de șapte ani ca să se digere e neadevărată. Îți dai seama că singura persoană care-i cu tine tot timpul, oriunde-ai merge, e băiatul din clasa a șaptea. El n-o să iasă niciodată la spălat. Te gândești să-i dai un stilou mamei tale, arătându-i umărul. Cât de tare poți tu, o să-i zici.

Friday, May 24, 2013

reset your passwords.



The world is a beautiful place

                                            to be born into

if you don't mind happiness

                                not always being so very much fun

       if you don't mind a touch of hell

                                          now and then

               just when everything is fine

                                    because even in heaven

                             they don't sing

                                            all the time



           The world is a beautiful place

                                              to be born into

       if you don't mind some people dying

                                                     all the time

                    or maybe only starving

                                               some of the time

               which isn't half so bad


                                            if it isn't you



Oh the world is a beautiful place

                                       to be born into

         if you don't much mind

                                  a few dead minds

              in the higher places

                                    or a bomb or two

                  now and then

                                    in your upturned faces

   or such other improprieties
              
                   as our Name Brand society

                        is prey to

                                 with its men of distinction

        and its men of extinction

                                      and its priests

               and other patrolmen

                                      and its various segregations
    and congressional investigations

                                           and other constipations

                 that our fool flesh

                                      is heir to




    Yes the world is the best place of all

                                        for a lot of such things as

        making the fun scene

                                      and making the love scene

 and making the sad scene

             and singing low songs and having inspirations

        and walking around

                               looking at everything

                                         and smelling flowers

        and goosing statues

                             and even thinking

                                            and kissing people and

             making babies and wearing pants

                                               and waving hats and

                                        dancing

                    and going swimming in rivers

                                on picnics

                                        in the middle of the summer

               and just generally

                                      'living it up'



  Yes

     but then right in the middle of it

                                         comes the smiling

                          mortician


"The world is a beautiful place" - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

pe scurt.



Never use adjectives
unless you’re trying to describe something
and you don’t want to do it the hard way.

Never use the word “forever.”
It reminds people they’re going to die
and the last thing you need is people distracted
by their mortality during your poem.

Write what you know
unless you’re a fool, in which case
look to the internet, and write about something there.

Avoid vowels
and their angry sister
the letter Y.

Avoid cliché.
On the other hand…

Learn the difference between
epigraphs,
epigrams and
episiotomies.

Use as few words as possible.
In fact, hand out blank sheets of paper
and tell people it’s your finest work.

If you ever use the phrase “darkness in my soul”
be prepared for me to come to your house
and kill you.

If you’re going to write in form, do it right.
For example, as I understand it, a haiku
is eight hundred words written while
sitting on a cheesecake.

Line breaks are important,
but use them carefully. Once you’ve broken a line
its parents will never forgive you.

Finally, go to poetry workshops.
Sometimes they serve food and
you can’t write poetry if you’re dead
because you forgot to eat.

Rick Lupert, “Rules for Poetry”

(like this six word story by Margaret Atwood: “Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”)

(photo credit: Egon Schiele, “Two sleeping girls”, 1911)

Monday, January 28, 2013

there is no word.



There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers

—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin

plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.

There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you

as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street

chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,

a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,

a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth

what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;

how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—

how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the

misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.

Tony Hoagland

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

easy.



But how it really went down was:

“Sidney Korshak, please.”
“Yeah?”
“I need your help.”
“There’s an actor I want for the lead in The Godfather.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t get him.”
“Yeah?”
“If I lose him, Coppola’s gonna have my ass.”
“Yeah?”
“Forty-eight hours ago he signed for the lead in a picture at Metro—The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight.”
“Yeah?”
“I called Aubrey, asked if he could accomodate me, move his dates around.”
“Yeah?”
“He told me to fuck off.”
“Yeah?”
“Is there anything you can do about it?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“The actor…what’s his name?”
“Pacino…Al Pacino.”
“Who?”
“Al Pacino.”
“Hold it will ya? Let me get a pencil. Spell it.”
“Capital A, little l—that’s his first name. Capitol P, little a, c-i-n-0.”
“Who the fuck is he?”
“Don’t rub it in will ya, Sidney. That’s who the motherfucker wants.”
“Where are ya”
“At the New York office.”
“Stay there.” 
Twenty minutes later my secretary buzzed. “Mr. Aubrey’s on the phone, Mr. Evans.”
“Jim?”
“You no-good motherfucker, cocksucker. I’ll get you for this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know fuckin’ well what I’m talking about.”
“Honestly, I don’t.”
The Cobra cut me off. “The midget’s yours; you got him.” Hanging up he horn on my ear.
Immediately I called Korshack.
“Yeah?”
“Sidney, it’s Bobby.”
“Yeah?”
“Aubrey just called.”
“Yeah?”
“Pacino—I got him. What happened?”
“I called Kerkorian.”
Kirk Kerkorian at the time was the sole owner of MGM. He never involved himself  with the day-to-day running of the studio, a provision written in cement when Aubrey took the presidency. Kerkorian was totally involved in building his Las Vegas empire. The MGM Grand was near completion, but he was going through a financial crunch as construction costs were considerably over budget.
“I told him Bobby needs some actor for The Godfather, that his schmuck Aubrey wouldn’t let you have him. He tells me—get this, Bobby—’Sidney, I’d do anything for you, you know that, but my deal with Aubrey is he’s got total control. It’s Aubrey’s call, I’ve got to say no in it.”
The operator interrupted. “Mr. Wasserman’s on the phone, Mr. Korshak, says it’s urgent.”
‘I’ll call him back in ten.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, I asked him if he wanted to finish building his hotel.”
“Yeah?” 
“He didn’t answer, but he asked who the actor was. I told him. He never hear of the schmuck either. He got a pencil, asked me to spell it—’Capital A, punk l, capital P, punk a, c-i-n-o.’ Then he says, ‘Who the fuck is he?’ ‘How the fuck do I know. All I know, Bobby wants him.”
“That was it?”
“That was it!”
His other phone rang. He didn’t even say goodbye.
That’s the inside, inside story of what eventually became—mind you, against my better judgment—possibly the greatest “sense of discovery” casting in cinema history.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

music is only in the piano when it is played.



Starting a new book is a risk, just like falling in love. You have to commit to it. You open the pages knowing a little bit about it maybe, from the back or from a blurb on the front. But who knows, right? Those bits and pieces aren’t always right. Sometimes people advertise themselves as one thing and then when you get deep into it you realize that they’re something completely different. Either there was some good marketing attached to a terrible book, or the story was only explained in a superficial way and once you reach the middle of the book, you realize there’s so much more to this book than anyone could have ever told you.

You start off slow. The story is beginning to unfold. You’re unsure. It’s a big commitment lugging this tome around. Maybe this book won’t be that great but you’ll feel guilty about putting it down. Maybe it’ll be so awful you’ll keep hate-reading or just set it down immediately and never pick it up again. Or maybe you’ll come back to it some night, drunk or lonely — needing something to fill the time, but it won’t be any better than it was when you first started reading it.

Maybe you’re worn out. You’ve read tons of books before. Some were just light weights on a Kindle or Nook, no big deal really. Others were Infinite Jest-style burdens. Heavy on your back or in your purse. Weighing you down all the time. Maybe you’ve taken some time off from reading because the last few books you read just weren’t worth it. Do they even write new, great works of literature anymore? Maybe that time you fell in love with a book before will just never happen for you again. Maybe it’s a once in a lifetime feeling and you’re never gonna find it again.

Or something exciting could happen. Maybe this will become your new favorite book. That’s always a possibility, right? That’s the beauty of risk. The reward could actually be worth it. You invest your time and your brain power in the words and what you get back is empathy and a new understanding and pure wonder. How could someone possibly know you like this? Some stranger, some author, some character. It’s like they’re seeing inside your soul. This book existed inside some book store, on a shelf, maybe handled by other people and really it was just waiting for you pick it up and crack the spine. It was waiting to speak to you. To say, “You are not alone.”

You just want more of the story. You want to keep reading, maybe everything this author’s ever written. You wish it would never end. The closer it gets to the smaller side of the pages, the slower you read, wanting to savor it all. This book is now one of your favorites forever. You will always wish you could go back to never having read it and pick it up fresh again, but also you know you’re better for having it this close, inside you, covering your heart and mind.

Once you get in deep enough, you know you could never put this book down.

Gaby Dunn.

(Starting a new year is a bit like that too. You basically know how things are going to unfold. I mean, it’s a new year, but you’re still the same you. But are you really? I’ve always thought the greatest most meaningful changes happen without you even realizing it. You go on with your life thinking you know who you are, you’ve got the past as your teacher, but one day a terrible moment of lucidity comes, and I mean that in the best of ways, and you suddenly realize you don’t like plamplemousse anymore, or you’re done with Murakami, or some other more important stuff. It doesn’t happen in the first day of the year of course, maybe it takes a couple of months or even another year altogether. But it’s there. The seed has been planted and you’re not the same. You don’t know it. And perhaps that’s really the beauty of it all.)