Letters of unLicked Envelopes

Fwd: Stop calling me a hipster

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to explain my appearance.

Since high school, I’ve always worn the thick, black-rimmed glasses because #1 I couldn’t fall asleep in them; #2 they didn’t break as easily as thin frames; #3 they cost less; #4 without nose-pads, they put much less pressure on my nose, and were therefor more comfortable. I had real fucking reasons for choosing them, and none of them were cosmetic. But it was 2004, and the world was so much more assuming, and so much more inviting. Bush was in office, the war was raging, and mainstream society was more obviously oblivious than ever. And there I was: a nerdy guy right at the time in history when nerds became more celebrated than the phallus. I was immediately inducted into an ‘underground counter-culture’ without realizing what they were.

“People in college seem so friendly,” I thought.

Starting a new life in college felt like a breeze I had been waiting for a lifetime. Everyone around me was intellectually engaging, creative and genuinely kind. It was like everyone decided to give happiness an honest try. So I came to class in my pajamas, and wore Converse All-Stars with a suit; always trying to keep a little bit of the ‘creative me’ open and vulnerable.

The fashion gave me inspiration. I sought out thrift stores for the best sport jackets, and turned my old work vest into an accessory that complimented every band t-shirt. I cleaned up, and never left the house without looking like I was heading to a club. Good fashion gave me the confidence to speak my mind more often, and tell people what I really thought of them, politicians, celebrities, philosophy and art. Fashion is the artistic craft of clothing, and for me it was the artistic expression I needed. It made me look, and feel, exactly what I was: smart.

“You should try these,” she said as she slid the wiry frames over my ears. When I opened my eyes, I saw the world in a dusty, reddish light. It felt like I was seeing the future through an aging photograph. Every passing moment, I felt nostalgic for the last. Those were my first sepia-lens Aviators.

Back then, everyone called me and others within that counter-culture ‘indie.’ That phrase seemed to have died out a few years ago when the entire race was replaced with an obsession with mustaches. ‘Indie?’ Weren’t people calling me ‘goth’ just a few years ago because I wore black anecdotal shirts and genuinely hated everything? And right before ‘indie,’ people confused me for being a ‘scene’ kid because everyone started dying their hair as black as mine. I never self-identified as a member of any of these groups. I never chose to be in them, nor took any to heart, but somehow I was always labeled in whatever group was the current trend. Clearly, I inspiring everyone around me, as if seemingly destined for popularity.

After a few months, I took the Aviators off when I realized I was seeing nostalgia even without them. It tarnished my vision, and my clarity. Only then did I again see the true colors of the world around me and where this group has heading. ‘Hipster’ is where I drew the line. Suddenly, nerds were out and idiots were in. With the newest label, it became more fashionable to be a smug and smelly than anything else. The more greasy, hairy and ironically bad dressed, the better. “I’m too old for this shit,” I thought. I was feeling nostalgic for my time had passed, and it was time to move on.

The fashion killed it for me. While skin-tight jeans go well with any fine lady-legs, they don’t go well with the scrawny thighs, knobbly knees and long, pancaked ass of an androgynous, adolescent-looking boy. Women should be more upset by this than me. These assholes just made skin-tight everything gone bad like soured milk. It’s like everyone suddenly raided their kid sister’s jewelry box for clunky, plastic hot pink and yellow earrings and bracelets. Are these kids constantly raving? I did drugs back then, too, but I didn’t need to dress like an acid trip to feel the effects.

But why did they have to take thick, black-framed glasses? Nothing about hipsters are bookish, scholarly, or intelligent in the slightest. You see, they needed credibility, and a commonly mistaken symbol for intellect became their crutch.

While the counter-culture of my heyday still appreciated intellectualism and goals, this culture is about conforming back to preschool. Hipsterism is about getting back to the “good old days” when things like recess, nap-time, and playing pretend were all necessities of life; feeling nostalgic over nonsense. Take fixed-gear bikes for example. They suck. They’re not good for off-roading, going uphill, and the brakes are fucking dangerous when going downhill. But hipsters love them, because that was every kid’s training-wheel bike. It’s all about throwing away responsibility and logic, and embracing the imaginary. The de-evolution of man into baby.

Looking back, dazed and confused, I have no remorse for my actions and behavior back when I started college. I was young and not quite realistic yet, but still had a good head on my shoulders despite being foolishly brave. Nobody looked down on me, and most I think saw me for what I felt I was: smart, ambitious and creative. I made some great friends along the way, and the culture really helped develop who I am today.

Wait a minute. All those guys back then are now hipsters. What the fuck am I saying? They were always idiots, and I was just randomly thrown in with them because I looked the part. I always put up their moronic commentary and delusions of grandeur just to be nice. I’m not like them. I was always intended for bigger and better things!

“Look at this fucking hipster!”

“I bought these glasses because they were cheap, you asshole!”

These fucking hipsters have got to stop. They’re making anyone with glasses look like fucking idiots.

La mer a bercé mon coeur pour la vie

A friend and I started a screenplay back in the fall of 2006. It was a dark comedy that was primarily based on our own lives together, despite the fact that we still barely knew each other. Purposely exaggerated and dramatized, it became a magnum opus of collegiate satire exploring indifference, selfishness, art, discovery, and loyalty amongst vast emptiness. We didn’t confuse ourselves with the cliche mistake of other young writers, who were already creating their overly dramatized, overly factual autobiographies. We made damn sure to break and snap these characters off from our own lives, left with just a slight hue of our personalities. It was the most fun I ever had collaborating on anything, and was the first time I felt very proud of my writing. But it never had an ending. Literally, we never figured out the final act, we just kept going until we ran out.

Perhaps because neither he, nor I, were mature enough to see the final act. We were both at the start of our careers, and shining stars to both peers and professors. We continued to collaborate together on concepts and ideas. I inspired his lyrics, while he inspired my dialogue. He would barge into my room with a fantastically over-the-top idea, and I would stack weight on top of it until gravity took hold. He did the same for me, too. I would explain an image in my head, an idea of a scene, or a character, but nothing more. Nothing more than just a few imaginary photographs, and nobody else but him could tell me go further.

“Stop holding back. What happens next?”

And that’s a truth about writers: half of it is coming up with an idea, the other half is admitting it.

We had a nasty falling out a year later, and we didn’t speak for another four years. In that time, I tried with other collaborators, but all were too focused on themselves to commit to a real character, or a real story. They either wanted to copy the themes of the writers they liked, or attempt to write stories of sophistication, despite having none for themselves. I read far too many amateur versions of Fear and Loathing, and that’s probably why I decided I would never work with anybody who honestly thought that drugs made them creative.

“Maybe you should take more,” I said.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a spy novel or a romantic comedy; if the writer hasn’t experienced the emotions of his characters, it’s completely hollow. We can only reiterate what we’ve already come to know as a truth. And my partner and I had never experienced the last feeling; the final act to the story: triumph.

Real triumph, that is. Every creative person has suffered slings and arrows of outrageous fortune: the sacrifice, the scars, lies, false hopes and goodbyes. It’s that pain, and societal repression, that motivates them toward artistic expression. But that darkness is dangerous and self mutilating. Ironic, though, that I implore others to not keep themselves within that darkness, yet I still can’t resist it as my own refuge. Because I have not admitted that despite all what lies ahead of me, I’ve triumphed over all I’ve left behind. And for a good while, I kicked some ass.

And admitting it is the other half of it.

More than five years later, I have my final act.

REAL SHIT GIRLS DON’T SAY

Want something tighter than a pussy?

I love shitting.

I could take a shit forever.

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

Come to bed, daddy.

I said ‘NO EGGWHITES!’

I wonder what my ovaries taste like.

God loves me for my tits.

Satan loves me for my dicks.

Boys are smart.

I’ve never orgasmed with you.

He fucked me so hard, I forgave my father. 

I can never find a big enough knife.

I like you guessing what I’m feeling.

I like you to guess what I’m going to do.

Where did all this blood come from?

I sewed my babies together.

It’s not my body, but it is my choice.

My baby is with the angels now.

Stop looking at me.

Stop judging me.

I don’t want attention.

I want to chew on your eyes.

I hurt others to feel alone.

I hurt others to not feel alone.

I’m sorry.

I wasn’t born this way.

Fwd: Tick… Tock…

Every day, every moment is the end of your time. You were born without it, and you’d always kill for more of it.

I strain and feel ache for my seeming inability to recruit fellow, bitchy artists to a project built with every intention of their absolute benefit. Their limited imaginations ally with their excessive procrastinations, giving treaty to inertia. I’m writing every day now. Good stuff, too. Been reading, as well. Good stuff, too. In my newly acquired inspiration, I’ve come to face the old discovery that there is no changing people, especially the ones you like the most.

I’m exhausted from trusting people.

I’m about to leave this coast, yet convincing anybody has become difficult. Nobody believes I’ll leave. Certainly shows the lack of respect I’ve achieved here. Perhaps they believe I’m in their same boat: up-creak, with only one paddle, going around in circles. But time is my compass. From knowing its face, I can tell when I’m stepping backward, or moving forward. Anger, disappointment and hate are all the motivations I need. I’m ready to shuffle off this place; this wasted use of time.

I’m even ready to do it, alone. I’m sick of inviting others to play in my sandbox; sick of people accessing my tools to build their own dynasties of dirt before collapsing on it in a satisfied heap. I’m done helping people. For now. Just sit back and watch for a while, so I may first show what could have been had you pulled your own bloated carcass off the beach. I feel a solo comin’ on.

They took the measures from your second symphony.

Rewritten by machines to make the trilogy.

and now I comprehend the problems you foresee.

Oh, Oh

Time to make my move.

Los Angeles - part 2

I dreamt about punching out my boss. My eyes begin to open, but I’m still blinded. It’s four o’clock in the fucking morning, man. I’m still on East-Coast time, and apparently so is my brain. I think of all the nasty, terrible, shitty, mean, humiliating, very fucking bitch-ass rude things I’d say to him. The question isn’t how far I would cut into his heart, but which direction I would twist it in. It’s so dark in here. I pour hazelnut creamer into day-old coffee, and take to the veranda for a smoke.

Another thing about LA. Everyone is secretly miserable. Some friends out there I’ve known for a decade or more, and despite their happiness to see me and others, I can see their pain. They’ve all reiterated the same problem: “It’s lonely out here. I never see my friends. The friends I do see, they’re all fake.” I  easily relate because I’ve gone through the same feeling on and off since I was a toddler, though every instance requires the same solution: initiative. Not necessarily to create friends, but initiative in life. The dedicated push to achieve against all odds. Failure is required to succeed, and every failure pushes me further to reinvent, redefine and correct all past mistakes. Part of me thinks I got this far just on a desire to prove others wrong. Arrogance can be a super-power if you know how to wield it. Once people see that initiative, that flame within you, they’ll follow you if simply for warmth.

Love is bad for your breath.

We saw a half dozen comedy shows, went to the Comikaze convention, drank for four straight days and nothing had impressed me more than the top of Mulholland Dr. It had rained earlier that day, a rare event in a desert, and the smog was freshly cleared out. The city before me, I looked beyond to see the ocean. Behind me lay purple mountains with pearly white snow caps, framed by rocky hills that appeared as an oil painting. Our LA friends said they had never seen it so clear, so beautiful like this. This was truly a majestic occasion. I strolled down the hill, and dug my hand in the earth to find a rock. Something to remind myself of the one moment the heavens opened up to show me all that I could experience.

It looks like a horse apple.

I tell my friends it’s important to isolate and recognize why you are unhappy. For me, it’s the boring stretch of nothingness between now and when I was maniacally happy. Lost time. It’s that distance between myself and my friends that cripples my soul, demotivates me from even indulging in fun or creativity. To think, I’ve had more social interaction with gas station attendants than those who truly were my family: full of jokes, fun, music, cigarettes, sex, shots, wisdom and an unnatural love for life. Flaking the soft sediment off the mountain rock, I recall the importance of convincing yourself that the world’s still outside, no matter where you think you are now.

“You know, we haven’t hung out with them since the last time you were here.” At each meal, everyone was jubilant in their chance to hang out with old friends and socialize, despite living only a block away from each other. Apparently, everybody needed an excuse to see their friends since becoming adults.

And this is reason #5 for starting our sketch comedy group and reason #1,758,251 for moving to Los Angeles. 

Los Angeles - part 1

Floorboards screamed as we trespassed into the building. “Vould you lick a toor? Lemme gits the kays.” The property manager quickly ducked under the door frame, clattering around the miscellaneous clutter, in search for the keys, though the clatter sounded panicked enough to be searching for a knife. After we exchanged skeptic glances, we casually meandered out, as if we were lost children without a language.

“What’s next?” she said tiredly, having been exhausted from nearly three straight days of apartment searching. “Sit, cig and shit.” I still felt I was standing upside-down, ten feet underwater, being spun around in circles. Vertigo. These old, wooden buildings have been so warped by the earth ripping apart its dried, chapped lips from underneath the foundation. The slight slant on unstable ground, on a high altitude is disorienting to my sensitive vestibular system. Standing on the 8th floor, I felt like I had just slammed 20 shots of vodka. Dizzy, nauseated, unable to maintain a single thought, I felt like I was about to blackout. I clung to the door frame, saving myself from falling out of the ceiling, until we reached the agreement that the bathroom was not big enough for six.

LA was a trip. Though, in many ways, a good trip.

I rarely look at people on the bus, fearing I’ll become paralyzed with the urban guilt. But nothing is like it seems here. Everybody is good-looking out here, but not at all in a genetic sense. Whether it be cosmetics, fashion or surgery, these inhabitants do well with very little. Even the mediocre pity-fuck is a Prom Queen out there. But it’s all illusion. Most are still very ugly after a morning shower. Being out there for a day, I became obsessed with restocking my wardrobe with the latest in fashion. After the second day, I realized the 2nd latest in fashion was more affordable, and scheduled a thrift day.

But we still hadn’t found an apartment.

Sitting in a Koreatown coffee shop, I started feeling better. For the record, ten minutes of vertigo cost me three hours of intense nausea. The sun was trying to beat rush hour, already halfway home by five o’clock. Between jet-lag and Daylight’s Saving Time, this next apartment was sure to be my last for the night. Stepping into the Du Barry, I thought I had waltzed into 1989. Marble, black ‘n white, checkerboard tile waiting room with jailhouse striped drapes, crammed with every random art-deco furnishing, including a white baby-grand piano. The manager must have been a freshman when I was a senior in high school, still clinging onto the scenester/goth fashion of a black laced miniskirt, knee-high combat boots and blue crap in her hair; a fellow artist. The entire apartment was concrete, with a raised ceiling that gave a stone room echo to every footstep. The view looked toward Hollywood and the hills, and everything seemed perfect. We could tell that this was the place, even after seeing The Langham’s old 1930s monstrous, gold decor that recalled the glamor within the King Kong auditorium. The Du Barry was the urban decay of Manhattan, and its beauty seemed inspired from every movie about artists living within the heart of the city; an abandoned fortress infested intrigue, horror, hope and story.

And no vertigo. We found our niche.

Re: Pathos

Why invite your graduates to come back to study when they want to work? This is the chance to put them to work.

Why is this not being done in this city? Because there are already so many benefits of continuing to live in this city that are never taken advantage of, because those most committed to the very idea of creation left as soon as they could. To challenge themselves, cross the first threshold and bear their teeth at the statistically impossible machine that lies before them. Once the wishing well has dried up, it’s time to move onto productivity. There is nothing left here for the ambitious. The graduates that deserve your utmost praise, and attention, are out there losing every day to the game. The game is that of hoping. Hoping to make the right connection that will advance them further, or hoping for a handout. But it’s not happening, and we are allowing our art to become more commercialized, more kitsch, and redundant. We need to bring our fellow alumni back to the fold, and back to establishing a cooperative capable of producing art and creation.

The game is a pay to play, no different than any casino game. You pay forward with an internship, with little to no return, on the promise you will learn and grow here. But if college didn’t prepare them enough, than it’s the institution’s responsibility to safeguard their students into falling into the game. The game is rigged, you see, and the few who succeed must resort to something radical. Because we earned our degrees under the college of arts and humanities, and not the school of incorporated. The institution is allowing this to happen by encouraging their graduates to take any opportunity, and not necessarily the best ones. This is the charter of the alumni association, to protect our fellow grads from disillusion. Our degrees recognize our achievements, but only in the promise of using our achievements for good. But how can we achieve good if without the continued support of our institution that has bestowed this mission in the first place? This is the radical opportunity for many to participate in, and for all to enjoy the spoils of ambitions made possible.

If we wanted money, we would have chosen other degrees. We were accepted into our college, and into our degree tracks with the open hand of guidance and fellowship. It is now, in our time of need, that we ask the college of arts and humanities for the grant to continue the goodness and achievement that you once asked us to commit.

Bad News, Big Money

I’ve been waiting for every excuse not to pick up the phone. Been busying myself with drinks, cigs, drinks and movies. Anything to not have to face this. Not now. Now, when I hardly have a moment’s rest to myself, and for ever minute I discover more horrifying news, I must spend a whole day nauseated by it. I don’t have time for it, I say. None to spare.

Pursuing grant money. I didn’t realize all my connections until I had told them of my master plan. We might be able to get something, which is better than nothing, though doubtfully more than adequate. Still, up until a few weeks ago, we were willing to do it all for free. The luxury of financial security, however, is hard for me to severe from now. These grants could turn this feeble design into a heavy competitor on the market. No point in doing something without the chance to do it right. Right? But my life is disappearing from me. Deciding what business form I should take with this is becoming difficult. In my mind, I’ve become immersed, intoxicated, with the idea of creating again. I no longer want to be the businessman that got me this far, but the artist who laid flat on his back. Maybe I’m just tired, but I’ve also realized that I have hardly socialized with other artists in years. Unless you count actors. But I often enough forget to count them as people at all.

I need to pick up the phone now, even if it makes me sick to do so. Fuck, shit.