Dems Da Brakes (Episode 5)

Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.

Episode 5 "Space Nerd"

Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi

Setting:
The Upper East Side of Manhattan

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The BBF Interview: Writer/Director Nick Gaglia (part II)

The BBF Interview: Writer/Director Nick Gaglia (part II)

click here for part one of this interview.

Nick Gaglia knew he wanted to be a filmmaker since he was 11,
when he picked up a camera for the first time and wrote,
directed, and acted in his first short film. He was the
youngest kid in his theatre group and studied acting
at Professional Performing Arts School in Manhattan.

His personal life, however, started to deteriorate
when he got into drugs at age 13. Subsequently, his mother
checked him into an unregulated “tough love”
drug rehab(KIDS of North Jersey) that would change
his life forever. The rehab boasted of being the only place
in the world that could keep kids safe and sober, but what
really went on behind closed doors was quite the contrary;
corporal punishment, humiliation tactics, sleep and food
deprivation, false imprisonment, and mind control were
daily routines for Gaglia and group members.

After enduring the abuse for 2 ½ years, Gaglia escaped
the rehab and went on to study filmmaking at Hunter College.
After honing his skills with several short films, Gaglia made his first
narrative feature, Over the GW, based on his unique experience
in rehab. GW premiered at the 2007 Slamdance Film Festival,
where it was the first “under the radar” feature in the festival’s
13-year history to get a distribution deal after its first screening.
The film went on to play theatrically in New York, Los Angeles,
Chicago, and Maryland and was received with enthusiastic praise.

Click HERE for part one of this interview.


AB: How did you get released? And when/how
was the program stopped?

Nick Gaglia: The program got shut down in '98 I believe, then
went underground and still took place illegally in people's houses.
I escaped one day on the GW bridge on the way to a host home.

When did you reveal to people working on this that the film
was based in truth?

Besides Kether, I never told anyone it was based on me.
I wanted the work to be about the subject and the text
and not exactly about me. After the film came out I made a decision
to make it public that it was based on me because I wanted
audiences to know that this is a real issue that's going on
and not just some movie I made up. So I think when the cast read
all the press on the film that's when they actually found out
it was based on my story.

What has been the reaction at festivals and during your
theatrical run been like, for general audiences
and survivors who have come to see it?

The film has been incredibly well received, especially by survivors.
It's really interesting though, when a general audience member
sees the film they're like, 'wow, this must be the severely dramatized
version of what went on.' And when survivors see it they're like,
'I really love the film but that's the watered down version.'
So I always laugh. I did water it down because I felt it would be too
tough to watch if I went all the way with it.
Especially for survivors, with PTSD and all.

Private screening of GW in New York;
many survivors in attendance:


Who did your music and sound design? They’re heads above

what we usually hear in low/no budget indies.

The music department was headed by John Presnell.

He was a supporter from very early on and brought on his crew

of talented musicians. Dale Chase was solely responsible for the

sound design. He's a one man army.

Was 2007 your first time at Slamdance?

How was the film received and that festival

experience overall?

2007 was my first time at Slamdance and I gotta say it was
one of the best experiences of my life! First off, when they say

you have to know someone to get into a big festival and it's

all political, that's bs when it comes to Slamdance. We submitted

a rough cut without knowing anyone on staff there

and they chose us based on the merit of our film.

After our first screening they had to stop our q & a because

it went on so long. And afterward I had a line out the door

of industry and various people wanting to speak with me.

And that's where we got approached for theatrical distribution

from Seventh Art. Afterward, I spoke with Dan Mirvish

(one of the festival founders) and he said that we were the first

'under-the-radar' narrative feature in the festival's 13-year history

to get offered a distribution deal after our very first screening.

How long did it take you to edit the film?

The editing was on-going as we shot the film. So, all in all,

it probably took about a year until we had picture lock.

That's mainly because we didn't shoot this in the traditional

way. We were very guerilla style in the sense that we shot

any free moment we had - nights, weekends, whenever,

until we finished.

Was the filmmaking process cathartic for the experience

you endured, or had you made piece with what had

happened to you before shooting? I found the film

surprisingly objective while still extremely personal.

The process was probably the most cathartic thing I've ever done.
On the 'objective' comment, I wanted to tell the story in the

least biased way possible and have the audience decide.

The details in the film were as it actually happened.

Tell us about the upcoming DVD release.

We were just picked up by Vanguard for DVD distribution.

Kether, George, and myself did a really fun commentary

together. It'll be available later on this year. And the soundtrack will

be available on iTunes this Fall.

What’s next for you as a director and/or writer?

I'm working on developing several projects right now.

One in particular is a documentary putting the teen

'tough-love' industry in context.

Please give us some words of wisdom.

All I can say is follow your passions no matter what.

That's all we have in this life.

"Over the GW" gets cited in a Congressional Hearing

on "Child Abuse and Deceptive Marketing by

Residential Programs for Teens."

-Adam Barnick

The Story Slice by Brian Hughes

The Massage 

by 

Brian Hughes

Arlen waited with a smile until the homely, Chinese masseuse ducked behind the curtain, giving him privacy to disrobe. Arlen was smiling because he didn’t care whether the woman stayed or not, he was quite comfortable will his all-together swaying in the pristine spa air. Climbing onto the massage table, he slid his naked, tightly built body underneath a white sheet and stretched his legs out as far as he could – feeling the strain of his muscles. 

The masseuse ducked her head back in and smiled:
“Okay … yes?”
“Yes, come in. I’m ready,” Arlen said, then exhaled, watching the masseuse’s feet moving to and fro from the face cutout in the bench. She placed a full-length towel over the backside of his body and began loosening his muscles by rubbing him from his feet to his calves to his ribs, on up to his shoulders and neck. After mustering up the proper chi, the masseuse unfurled the towel to just above his ass. Arlen closed his eyes as tranquil new age music emanated softly from two speakers sitting high above the room on shelves. The masseuse squeezed out massage oil into her hands then hovered her palms just below Arlen’s face in the cutout so that he might catch some aromatherapy. He liked it – a musky, tropical banana smell. Arlen liked bananas. He also liked the heat that existed between her hands and his body as she rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders. And with every tissue pressed and knot untied, he liked to imagine all the metaphoric cancers and muscle diseases and tumors being squeezed out of him. That with every session a force field of peace and goodness was taking reign over his body, a realm where no diseases could ever penetrate. It was the power of positive reinforcement and healing. Arlen couldn’t prove that it worked, but to his way of thinking, the mind was capable of so many powers as yet unknown to humans, that this was as good a technique as any in fighting the failures and frailties of the body. In his mind’s eye, he could see cancer cells wafting to the ceiling and popping like a child’s bubbles.

He groaned as the masseuse kneed a shoulder joint with her elbow. She giggled just then. Arlen thought that was cute. He wasn’t familiar with this particular gal. Her name was Mary. Yeah, right … if her name is Mary, then mine is Ming, he thought. “Ugggghhhh,” went Arlen as she giggled again. “Why are you giggling?” Mary just laughed again and said something under her breath in broken English that he couldn’t quite understand. She was a small woman, but the deep tissue massage she was dishing out, the strength and glorious force, made Arlen think that perhaps she was a goddess – the goddess “Masseuse” or something. Leaving him was the kidney failure, the arthritis, the Lou Gherig’s disease, the pancreatic cancer.

“You have nice, strong body,” Mary said.
“Thank you. I work out.”
“Yes, I can tell.” Mary laughed again as she began rubbing Arlen’s legs, moving up the thigh and skimming his ball sack. Arlen’s cock woke up. He didn’t like to get a hardon during a massage, though he was perfectly fine with it; but he liked to avoid it, so he began thinking about the company wide layoffs due in the spring, about his life insurance, about who would catch for the Yankees now that Posada was on the DL. Arlen kept the little guy at bay until she began working the other leg, continuing to giggle as she was moving up and down it. Why was she giggling so much? Can she see that I’m getting a woody? Maybe I didn’t wipe my ass well enough, he thought in a panic. No, that wasn’t it he thought – he had showered before he arrived.

“You’re so good! I’m really enjoying this.”
“Ummm, yeah … I can tell,” Mary said with a laugh.
Okay, she definitely knows I’m hard, Arlen thought. No doubt. All her giggling reminded him of one of those blooper shows where they show outtakes of an actress who keeps cracking up during a scene. It’s not very professional, he thought, but it’s making me more and more hard. She began working Arlen’s fingers.
“You married?”
“Yes I am.”
“Hum.”
“Are you married?”
“Oh no! I would love to be married, but you taken.”
“Now, now … I know you must have lots of boyfriends with those magical hands of yours.”
“No … no… I wish, but no…” Mary continued to giggle.
As she lifted his leg up and stretched it, his penis began to swish against the table, causing it to stiffen slightly. Arlen tried to continue to stay focused on the massage, not that he was getting excited - concentrating further on his body, on his immune system, on his survival.
“You have nice build. Yes.”
“You have an attractive body as well. Why haven’t you found a nice man yet?”
She let out a guffaw, slapping her hands down on Arlen’s ass in exasperation.
“I not been lucky to find white collar man like yourself.”
“You don’t want a white collar man like myself. Oh, no … I’m no good.”
“Oh, yes … like you… yes…” she giggled again as she switched legs – his hardening cock pressing against his abdomen. Arlen would moan now and again – especially as she worked his thighs and calves, the last set of squats at the gym having really tore them up pretty good.
“You’re so good my Chinese flower … so good.”
“Ummm … yes, I can tell…” said Mary with a grin.

After she walked on his back, pressing her toes deep into his spine, after she had elbowed everything into pure bliss, it was time for Mary to work the front of his torso. Arlen happily turned over – hardly shy to expose his large erection. Mary snuck a look and placed the towel over his center region. She started scrubbing his head, digging her fingernails into his scalp – it was his least liked part of the session, but there was a glutton for punishment deep inside Arleb that prevented him from telling her to stop: He just squeezed his teeth together and imagined brain cancer being rubbed out like a Brillo pad working out the grease on a stove. After a thorough massage of his feet, arms and legs, she ran her hands across his hairless, muscular chest, and moved down his torso just far enough to knick the head of his penis. Arlen was tenser now that the session was near completion than when he had entered the room.
“You know Mary, it’s tough … and, you know, I’m sorry that I’m, you know,” Arlen said gesturing to his erect shaft. She giggled once more, throwing her hands in front of her eyes in a playful motion. “And you know,” Arlen continued, “it’s a muscle and all, and it is left to just … to just be there, ya know.” He shook his head and sighed. The massage was over and Mary handed Arlen his robe. Arlen slowly put it on, making sure to give Mary one last look before she exited the room. She did look again, and smiled.

Arlen and his wife, Doris, sat on large comfy chairs in the rest area, eating fruit and enjoying the ambiance of lit candles and small, manmade waterfalls. Arlen needed terribly to go home and fuck Doris – he was frustrated, chewing up pineapple – brooding on his massage.
“I’m more tense now that the massage is over than when I went in.”
“Why?”
Doris was a former Houston, Texas beauty pageant runner up. Her body was still firm, but her face was collapsing under a canopy of large blonde hair.
“Because she was touching me near my penis and she was giggling.”
“I bet you enjoyed it. There is such a double standard in this world.”
“Actually … I didn’t enjoy it.”
“If a guy had done something like that to me, you would have gotten angry at the guy and probably at me!”
“I didn’t like it, I said.”
“You should say something, that’s very unprofessional AND I think illegal.”
“Yeah, well …”
Mary the massager brought a tray of juices over to Arlen and Doris, smiling.” They gave her a dirty look. “I’m not thirsty,” Arlen said.
“Say something,” Doris said. Arlen remained mum. Mary walked away – confused.
“I knew you wouldn’t say something – just like you. You probably loved it, that’s why you won’t say anything.”
“I tell you, that is not true. It made me very uncomfortable.”
“So uncomfortable that you won’t say anything.”

After Arlen and Doris had dressed, they walked up to the front to pay for their massages. Doris began putting her shoes on. Arlen looked frustrated as he handed his credit card to the squeaky clean Asian boy manning the front desk.
“Will you be paying for both, sir?”
“Yes – and … let me tell you, I find this establishment to be very unprofessional and highly distasteful. My massager, ‘Mary’ I believe her name was, kept massaging near my private area, making me very uncomfortable. I don’t know what she was expecting, but I asked her repeatedly to stop and she wouldn’t hear it. I don’t know if she could understand English or something, but I was very put off.”
“That is terrible Sir. I can assure you, we are not one of those establishments.”
“Well, I think you had better have a talk with ‘Mary’ – or can her ass, because she can get arrested for stuff like that? If she thinks I’m a ‘John’ – she has another thing coming.”
“Please fell free to write our Manager, she is not working today, and I’m sure she will take care of the situation. I am very sorry sir; we will not charge you for your session. I am very, very sorry.”
Arlen continued on like that for another minute or two as he put on his three hundred dollar pair of shoes.
“I’m very proud of you,” Doris said, hugging Arlen around as they left.

Bedbugs XLIII

Bedbugs XLIII


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.


"I'm disappointed in you," the artificial box says, attached to
the machine pretending to be my wife. I'd turn it off but
what's the use? Another distraction is at the door; the decay
has left three holes in the floor; none of which anyone can fit through.
The moment has been prepared for. I'm giving up on you.
And this time I mean it. No matter man in white on the top of it
must be pretending to be God; well, SOMEBODY has to.. I'll
shut it out. Anything that could change us into what we should
or want to be. 44 years of denial- one day, who's going
to reach this and lay in the field, as they add color and sirens
of the aural and flesh-covered kind. I need one to lie down here.
Make me wait for anything real? Sadly someone, if not the entire
population, will. The phone in her head won't stop ringing.
I snicker at the potential punchline.
Exactly four years ago things sucked but were proclaimed 'the good
old days.' Breaking a glass, the third man carves 'this is all
a waste of time' into the wall. It oozes sap, bleeding like he can't.
Turning, smiling, two rows of teeth on top and bottom. Knowing
Dad's health is improving is a fine wish. But even if everyone gets it
together, she might not. Can't wait for you forever.


Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:


-on trial again
-four black dresses
-nobody reads this or anything else
-I volunteer to take it
-shouldn't people be here
-people shouldn't be here
-it's improving in small increments


-adam

Six Word Theater

Six Word Theater

Click here for last week's entry.

Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn."), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.

Feel free to "continue the story" or start your own.

Today's Entry:


Two gentlemen entered...
only one left.

The BBF interview: Writer/Director Nick Gaglia (part 1)

The BBF interview: Writer/Director Nick Gaglia (part 1)

Nick Gaglia knew he wanted to be a filmmaker since he was 11,
when he picked up a camera for the first time and wrote, directed,
and acted in his first short film. He was the youngest kid in his
theatre group and studied acting at Professional
Performing Arts School in Manhattan.

His personal life, however, started to deteriorate
when he got into drugs at age 13. Subsequently, his mother
checked him into an unregulated “tough love” drug rehab
(KIDS of North Jersey) that would change his life forever.
The rehab boasted of being the only place in the world that
could keep kids safe and sober, but what really went on
behind closed doors was quite the contrary;
corporal punishment, humiliation tactics, sleep and
food deprivation, false imprisonment, and mind control
were daily routines for Gaglia and group members.
After enduring the abuse for 2 ½ years,
Gaglia escaped the rehab and went on to study filmmaking
at Hunter College.

After honing his skills with several short films, Gaglia made his first
narrative feature, Over the GW, based on his unique experience
in rehab. GW premiered at the 2007 Slamdance Film Festival,
where it was the first “under the radar” feature in the festival’s
13-year history to get a distribution deal after its first screening.
The film went on to play theatrically in New York, Los Angeles,
Chicago, and Maryland and was received with enthusiastic praise:

“…Mr. Gaglia has produced a work that’s as much an act of emesis
as of filmmaking…the rehab drama is here to stay.”
– Jeannette Catsoulis, New York Times

“‘Over the GW” is an assured first feature by 25-year-old
writer-director Nick Gaglia.” – V.A. Musetto, New York Post

“Not to be missed” – Chicago Sun-Times

“shocking…the film accrues a learned sense of what it feels like to have
the very fibers of one’s soul placed under a magnifying glass.”
– Rob Humanick, Slant Magazine

“…emotionally potent…” – Joe Leydon, Variety

Trailer for "Over the GW"



AB: Tell me about the inspiration behind this film.

Nick Gaglia: When I was a teenager, unbeknownst to my mother,
I was admitted into an abusive cult-like drug rehab. I was on drugs
and needed help but this place wasn't helping anyone. It was actually
more traumatizing than anything else. Eventually after 2 1/2 years
of brainwashing and abuse I was able to successfully escape.

This topic of abusive 'tough-love' drug rehabs has been the
best kept secret for decades now. No film has really been done
on this topic in an honest manner before Over the GW.

You had always intended to go into filmmaking and
tell various stories, was a variation on your experience
always the obvious choice for a debut film?

Even when I was in the program I would look around and say
to myself, 'this would make for a great movie!' So I always had
it swirling around in the back of my head.

In your writing process, how did you decide what
to dramatize and what to leave out, what to heighten, etc.?

I knew there were signature aspects to the institution that
needed to be in the film. Other than that, the scenes and characters
were largely composites of real stuff in order to make the narrative work.

There was a short film version of this shot before the feature,
right?

Yes. I shot a short film on Super 16mm film based on the brutal
intake scene from the feature.

Was your decision to shoot on 24p motivated by budget
or keeping in like with the aesthetic you were interested
in for the film?

Well, after I watched the short film I felt it looked too beautiful or
too 'Hollywood.' Because it was shot on super 16 it looked
very polished which was not exactly what I was going for.
I needed a look that felt like you were watching something real
go on before your very eyes. With the s16 what you got was
the feeling as if you were looking into a world, and
not necessarily as if you were a part of that world. The look I got
with the 24p was that rugged, documentary-like, real life feeling
I was looking for.

It didn't hurt either that it cost a fraction of the price to shoot
on 24p versus s16. But if I felt that s16 was the way to go
and there were no other options, then I would've held out
'till I had the opportunity to shoot on it.

Did you always intend to shoot on such an intimate scale,
or did you intend originally to look for investors
and go ‘bigger’?

Before I shot the short I intended to shoot it on a much bigger level
and look for investors. But, as I just described I quickly realized that
there was a more efficient and effective way of telling this story.

Was your visual style in terms of camerawork/coverage
largely planned in advance or improvised?

I'm very vérité terms of the way I work. I like to see spontaneous
and real things happen before my very eyes. I encourage my actors
to improvise within the text. That way nobody knows
where they're going, not even them. That's how you get the real stuff.
I'm same way with my camera work. Let's face it, when someone's
filming a documentary they don't know what's going to happen
from moment to moment so why should I. Or why
should the actors for that matter, either.
That's the way real life is. If you want to create
a real moment you have to treat it like real life.

How far before shooting did you cast your leads?
They had amazing chemistry; every family dynamic
felt authentic; and I noticed one or two of your
family members actually appear in the film.

We found George (Gallagher) first. I learned that he was
a very talented actor and originally conceived of him for
a different role - one of the staff members. I introduced
him to to my sister, who was a producer on the project,
and she said, 'what about him for the lead.'

I said, 'no way. He's too old to play Tony.' In the original screenplay
Tony was supposed to be a 14-year-old. George could do 17 but not 14.

My sister said if he could bring the audience on an emotional journey,
then that's all that really matters. And you know what, she was right.
I revised the screenplay and tailored it to George. All the rest
of the cast fell into place from there.

George Gallagher on BACKSTAGE with Barry Nolan


How did George and Kether come aboard as producers?

The most successful actors in the world are also producers and
I think these two realize that. They cared so much about the project
that they made themselves available in every way possible.

Tell me about working with Albert (Insinnia) in shaping
his character (leader of the rehab center). He’s the antagonist in a way, unless you count the entire center/system as the antagonist; yet he’s got so many layers to him.

He’s too human for me to hate him and yet I wanted

to kill him at points in the story.

It's easy for an actor to take a character like Albert's and play him evil.
But, it's much scarier and more realistic if you play the character
as if you believe what you're doing is the right thing

and you're justified. So, that's what I discussed with Albert

in terms of character.

People in real life whether they're doing the right thing or the wrong one,
they always justify in their head that what they're doing is right for them.

One of the most disturbing aspects to the treatment center
in the film, personally, was the forbidding of reading.
Was that something that really happened?
What’s the reasoning behind that??

That was 100% true. The reasoning behind that was to not have
any distraction from the outside world and only be focused on
the information that they were supplying you.
Clever brainwashing technique.

REAL TALK interview with director Nick Gaglia,
actors/producers Kether Donohue and George Gallagher



Visit the film's website at http://www.overthegw.com/.

Part II of this interview can be found here.

-Adam Barnick

The Boxpress "NEW" Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

A musical series in which Brian delves into the current music scene. The idea: put into big, neon lights new and exciting music.

This week Brian checks out the exciting music of MGMT and COLD WAR KIDS.

Play Podcast

"Time to Pretend" by MGMT on Later with Jools Holland

"Weekend Wars" by MGMT on The Late Late Show

MGMT by MGMT

Music video for "We Use To Vacation" by Cold War Kids

Cold War Kids performing "Hospital Beds" live in Leeds.

Interview with Cold War Kids

If you think you might want to listen to some more of my podcasts - please click below:

Show #1: Variations on the classic song "Fly Me To The Moon."

Show #2: "Perfect: Part 1"

Show#3: "Perfect: Part 2"

Show#4: "Last Songs by 5 Great Artists"

Show#5: "Perfect: Part 3"

Show#6: "The Story Songs"

Show#7: "Bob Dylan: Part 1"

Show#8: "Perfect: Part 4"

"New" #1: King Khan and The Shrines/ O'Death

"New" #2: Dr. Dog / Caribou

"New" #3: Ed Harcourt

Show#9: "Death Before Fame"

Dems Da Brakes (Episode 4)

Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.

Epiosde 4 "The Guy with the Wooden Eye"

Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi

Setting:
The home of Mr. B, the cat, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan

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Better Living Through Absurdity

So, I've come to realize there are definitely things that can wake you up pretty quickly, even before you've had coffee. Case in point, I was driving on my way to a showing this afternoon -I was already hot and cranky and I was so tired and fighting a headache. All of a sudden a bus pulls in front of me. No, there wasn't a collision or near miss or anything -but I was hit by something...

The message on the back of the bus.

It read:

SYPHILIS IS BACK -SPREAD THE WORD!

Next to it was a picture of a cell phone with a text message reading "What's up? Have U gotten your test yet? I'm doing mine 2day!" or something like that.

I slammed on my brakes -stared for about 5 seconds and then busted up laughing. The guy in the car next to me looked over and I pointed at the bus -he cracked up and then held up his cell phone -we just drove off laughing.

Now, I'm all for getting the word out there that dangerous things such as diseases, illiteracy and poor clothing styles are running rampant and should be prevented at any cost. I understand that advertisers assume using one of 4 stock methods of advertising is a sure bet with audiences.

(The four stock methods are 1) Small child, usually African American or Hispanic with HUGE eyes -these ads are for anything from poverty to illiteracy to immunizations to stopping racism. Then there's 2) Asking you a question which at best is rhetorical and at worst is just offensive i.e. "Wouldn't you like to be debt free?" -no shit -who wouldn't? or "How does it feel to know that every piece of paper you throw away is killing an acre of rainforest?" -all they need to do is add the word "asshole" afterwards and the sentiment would be perfect. Even the dating ones which say something like, "Do you want to meet attractive, intelligent singles?" Nah -I'll settle for homely and simple thanks. (You can see where I'm going with this...) Number 2 ties in closely with 3) Questions or statements designed to make you feel guilty -the ones for STD's are great...I saw one that said "Way to go...Killer" and underneath it said something about not disclosing you're HIV positive and therefore putting people at risk -which yes, of course I agree with it -but I don't know if the marketing strategy is exactly...decent? Other examples of guilt advertising -reminding you that "50 Cents a day would save this child's life" as they're holding a bowl of what you hope is rice -these ads are particularly fun when you're in a restaurant or somesuch and about to eat your nice helping of whatever (and yes, I'm a total insensitive cunt about that. I'm the one who can't read Grapes of Wrath or any other quintessential dust-bowl migrant/depression era farm novel because I get hungry. Scene after scene of dust and dry and parched and starvation -and then behold! A turnip! Rejoice and let us have soup! Take that single turnip and add it to 10 gallons of water and we have a feast. Strain it through underpants to get flavor...and while reading this I'm on the phone ordering pizza or fried chicken because dammit, I'm hungry and I'm not going to get a complex about it either -just call me Scarlett O'Hara)....and then of course, good old 4) BIG BOLD WORDS DESIGNED TO GRAB YOUR ATTENTION IN AN ANNOYING FASHION AND MAKE YOU THINK THAT SOMETHING IMPORTANT MIGHT BE BEING SAID!!!!! followed by loud color schemes, glitter, bad attempts at modern "slang" and if at all possible, an endorsement from some washed up has been sports star/musician/actor/model or whatever.)

Still, I do have to thank the advertising world for giving me a good laugh.

Now, I have to go get my syphilis test -R U getting yours?

Bedbugs XLII

Bedbugs XLII


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.



She tells me the news by writing it on the back
of her hand which is now made of stitched patchwork
parchment and my jaw cracks the wood finish next
to my shoe. They promised they'd heal her but nothing
is real unless you put up 50% on deposit it seems.
I dig at the walls and leave nail bits and the best parts
of my fingerprint for history to clean up.
Another pretty lady steps up to the microphone-
both are from the 20's. Where is the light coming from?
She sings and all of us pretend she's singing to us.
Lying to ourselves is the way to fill in the parts of your story
that never came true. Multiple copies of me in the field, it's winter
but mists and light rains dance on them. They're upset too. Noises
outside our door; it's the past. I was hoping it'd be
delivered sooner. Waiting through the rest pattern and I jump
up at the prospect that I've gone back to when it all seemed
like it was going in our favor. But it's still today. The wood in
the walls is damp and decaying and rusting in the same pattern
I am. Secrets told; hear it only in my left ear, the right one is ringing
with excuses for why we didn't prosper. Knowing embrace they
paid for, the lost audience turns back as she struggles
to be heard over the violins. The drugs make it
sound beautiful. Maybe it is. This body is
getting in the way of real experience; the hallways are covered
in it.



next week's seven phrases/groups of words:


-the moment has been prepared for
-man in white on the top of it
-44 years of denial
-make me wait for anything real
-exactly four years ago
-Dad's health is improving
-can't wait for you forever



-Adam

Discarded Excerpts from My Memoir (1)

by: Melissa King

This is the first in a series of deleted excerpts from the rough draft of my memoir that I feel are too interesting to throw away. They aren’t polished pieces, but hopefully you will enjoy reading them anyway. Some names have been changed.

It was early fall of 1996. I had just moved into a two bedroom townhouse just outside of Atlanta in Marietta, GA. The town home complex was a bit shady and kept up by management only enough to be livable. I felt safe walking around during the day, but it was nothing like the palm tree surrounded one bedroom where I had lived in Orlando. This place was only $650 per month though, and since I was interning, it was the best I could do.

I still needed to find a roommate to afford it. My part-time telemarketing job wouldn’t cover all of the expenses alone. Being a Christian, some new friends of mine mentioned that some of the local churches had bulletin boards that often listed people looking for roommates, so I decided to start there.

I soon found a women in her late 20’s who was friendly and sincere. She had medium toned black skin, short black hair, and her name was Zahrah. She seemed like a nice Christian lady.

She had a steady job as an administrative assistant, while I was interning at an independent record label during the day and working part time selling a dating service to single and recently single men and women at night. Zahrah spent most of her evenings in church or at bible studies.

I quickly became convinced that Zahrah was involved in some sort of cult. She came to me fairly early on in her stay with me and asked if she could pay the rent a week late because she had an opportunity to purchase a car. She was getting rides from friends before this. I wanted to help her out, and said yes. She did end up paying me when she said she would, but that was not the last time I would be presented with a financial request. One month later she said that she wanted to give her rent money away to the church because she felt that God was asking her to have faith that he would provide. I told her that I didn’t think so and that she needed to pay me by the first. She did.

The next month she came to me again and said, “I believe God wants us both to give the rent money away. He will bless us both if we do. He is asking us to have faith in him.” I told her I didn’t believe that, and it was important to me to pay the bills. When the first of the month came, she told me that she gave the money to God. I became enraged. How could she possibly be thinking this way? She would not reason with me. I screamed at her that God wanted her to pay her bills. Our relationship quickly escalated into one of great tension. I told her she had to move out. She said that she would not. I called the police.

When the police arrived, I explained to them what was going on. They told me that verbal agreements are binding in the state of Georgia and that I could only get her out by going through the eviction process. I could not believe what was happening. She smiled and went back to her room. She believed that God was blessing her with the room for being faithful to him - apparently on my telemarketing dime.

I was only nineteen years old. The next few days passed slowly. I spent all of my money on rent and I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown for the first time in my life. Not only was I being stretched to my financial limit, but I had a person living in my home who was unwilling to pay the rent or bills because she believed that the God we both believed in was telling her not to pay - and there was nothing I could do about it. I was so angry. I spent my days at work calling government agencies trying to find out my rights.

I finally called my mom and told her I needed her, that I didn’t feel I could handle this alone. Within a few days she packed her clothes and drove the eight hours down from Ohio.

My mom is not someone anyone wants to mess with when you cross her. She is so reserved and quiet, that you wouldn’t know that she is also tough, a fighter, and fire can come out of her mouth. When she arrived, we made a plan. We stayed downstairs in the living room and when Zahrah came home from work, my mom confronted her. Zahrah didn’t give in, and said that she did not legally have to move. She went up to her room and shut the door. My mom and I then shut off the circuit breakers so that she couldn’t use the electricity. Shortly afterwards, Zahrah came down and tried to turn them back on:

“You will not use the electricity in this house unless you’re going to pay for it,” said my mom in a staccato tone.

“Oh yes I will. I have a right to that electricity,” Zahrah bullied.

My mom stepped in front of the door to the breakers forcefully and held her hand to it.
“No, you will not.”

“The devil must be influencing you.” Zahrah said with her head leaning forward and her eyes wide open.

“Excuse me?! Who are we talking about? I think you’re the one that needs to get right with God,” my mom charged.

Zahrah turned around swiftly and went back to her room.

The next day, we sat in the living room again waiting for Zahrah to come home. When she appeared, we shut off the breakers, except for in the lights in the living room. My mom and I sat and read. Well, I tried to read... but I couldn’t help but be excited by the tension in the household. When I was with my mom, I felt like the kid standing by the big kid who everyone else is afraid of.

Soon, Zahrah appeared.

She went into the kitchen.

My mom looked at me with wide eyes, as though she was saying, “Does this woman think she’s going to cross me again?”

We heard some pans clanking, and my mom got up, sturdy and strong, and walked into the kitchen to watch Zahrah. “You are not going to use that stove until you pay.”
“Yes I am. I need to eat something.”

Then my mom forcefully grabbed the pan out from Zahrah’s hand and put it on the counter behind her.

“You are possessed by the devil,” Zahrah accused.

“You’ve got some nerve telling me I’m possessed by the devil.”

Zahrah finally gave up and went back to her room.

The next day I called my leasing agent and told them what was going on. They said that Zahrah was never approved to live in the apartment because her credit was bad. They were on my side, and said that we could change the locks because technically I went out of my agreement by letting her move in without approval. I didn’t know the process and thought because they hadn’t called after she applied, that it was okay for her to live there. They said she could take it to court, but a judge would throw the case out.

So the next day we scheduled for the locks to be changed while Zahrah was at work. I went into work at the record label, and my mom cleared out Zahrah’s room and put everything on the front lawn. Later that night my mom told me that she found several melted candles with wax on the floor, and two voodoo dolls that looked like us.

That night, I came home and around the time Zahrah would be returning to find herself locked out, we shut off the lights to appear as though no one was home. She tried her keys. They didn’t work. She tried again. Then she knocked and rang the doorbell several times.

She then must’ve gone to a pay phone (we didn’t have cell phones yet) because about 10 minutes later the police arrived. They knocked on the door loudly. They walked around the house and shined their flashlights into the windows. The phone started ringing every few minutes. My mother and I were upstairs scooched down underneath the windowsill. I was scared and thrilled simultaneously. I tried to look out the window and my mom pulled me towards her. “Get down!” she said in a hard whisper. If my mom had not been there, I would have been too afraid to not respond to the police. But they never yelled “open up” or anything like that. Finally, after about 10 minutes, they drove away.

Zahrah called the leasing agent the next day. The leasing agent told her they couldn’t help her because her name wasn’t on the lease. We never heard from her again.

Six Word Theater

Six Word Theater


Click here for last week's entry.

Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.

Feel free to "continue the story" or start your own.

Today's entry:


Waking thoughts:
Have I killed again?



-Adam Barnick

The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

Show# 9: "Death before Fame": Brian looks at four recording artists who received fame posthumously.

Play Show# 9

Klaus Nomi performing "Total Eclipse"

The trailer for the documentary The Nomi Song.

Joy Division performing "Transmission."

Trailer for Control, a film by Anton Corbijn.

Here is a pictorial tribute to Nick Drake to the tune "From The Morning."

Eva Cassidy performing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" live from Blues Alley.

If you think you might want to listen to some more of my podcasts - please click below:

Show #1: Variations on the classic song "Fly Me To The Moon."

Show #2: "Perfect: Part 1"

Show#3: "Perfect: Part 2"

Show#4: "Last Songs by 5 Great Artists"

Show#5: "Perfect: Part 3"

Show#6: "The Story Songs"

Show#7: "Bob Dylan: Part 1"

Show#8: "Perfect: Part 4"

"New" #1: King Khan and The Shrines/ O'Death

"New" #2: Dr. Dog / Caribou

"New" #3: Ed Harcourt

Dems Da Brakes (Episode 3)

Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.

Epiosde 3 "Golden Showers"

Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi

Setting:
A bench in Theodore Roosevelt Park

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Bedbugs XLI

Bedbugs XLI


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.



There's a cockroach inside my girlfriend. That's why
I'm terrified of her. I've told you this before,
haven't I? I have a mellowed color patterns
stitched into its side won't stop me from anxiety
you could drop on the enemy, it's so potent. Even the paint
scheme in here screams filth and insects. I have
"help me" tattooed on the inside of my tongue. But
few will see or hear it. Must be a couple of numbers
missing. The chat not answering the question
will keep me here. I forget the conversation! All of
our heads are melting. She misses you despite
her lies and laziness and lethargy. I undo the stitches
they put on me to keep me quiet and tell her
the same- but she left while I was getting prepared. I
take it from its roots, a sort of honesty I
think. That's a color rarely painted in this room.
Violin and piano together=watch heart break. Still
sound travels, even in here. I still can't get
the stains off the ceiling. She'll be home soon.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that. When I'm asleep..
we finally fell asleep.



Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:



-they promised they'd heal her
-multiple copies of me in the field
-noises outside our door
-waiting through the rest pattern
-hear it only in my left ear
-embrace they paid for
-the hallways are covered in it


-Adam

Better Living Through Absurdity

Today’s Topic –Why Winning Friends and Influencing People Ain’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be

So, I’ve recently returned to the gym. I hate the fact that I wasn’t born with one of those metabolisms that seems like a caloric black hole, or limbs that stay well within toned or pleasantly rounded without going over into plump or heaven forbid, chubby. I hate that I don’t love downing water and vitamins and protein bars like a good healthy person is supposed to do. I LOATHE sweating –it’s horribly undignified –and because I am not one of the abovementioned types, I unfortunately HAVE to work out hard enough to sweat bullets before any damn good actually comes of it.

Must stop before seething bitterness sets in.

Anyways, so when I was realizing that now was the time to “go for the gold” or whatever, I decided I didn’t want to go to some stupid corporate gym with a contract and sign-up fee and where I could be attacked by some not-so-well-meaning athletic type with a pair of calipers (you know, FAT PINCHERS) and a disapproving frown. I didn’t want to be surrounded by pretty people and gym cruisers, I didn’t want to worry about getting my unseemly damp on one of the machines for fear I might offend one of the other ladies’ sensibilities. It’s bad enough that when you work out, your brain (and belly) are in direct competition with your body –I don’t need to feel like I’m competing against everyone else’s bodies as well. (Their brains are sadly no match for the most part.)

So –I chose a place that offered me the three things I wanted: Close by, low price, and a climbing wall.

Solution –The Broadway Armory, a former military base that was retrofitted into a place for various athletics. They have a nice basketball court, should you be so inclined (I’m not,) a gymnastics room that puts this entire place I work at to shame, and a small but well appointed workout room with treadmills, recumbent bikes, elliptical machines, various weight machines, free weights and some medicine balls. There is also a climbing wall though it’s out right now on loan to a school. Essentially it has everything I want for the low price of $25 for three months, courtesy of Chicago’s Park District. It’s not a meat market and it’s not swanky and you do sweat –in fact, they provide a bottle of cleaner and a roll of paper towels for you to wipe the machines off afterwards –they ASSUME you’re going to actually WORK OUT –ergo, you will SWEAT –and if you do, there’s no shame in it, just clean it when you’re done.

I can get behind this.

So I’ve been going and working out –and I like it. I met a couple of people the first time I was there and I see them occasionally, but for the most part, I go, do my workout, and leave. I like it that way. I know my body. I know my limits. I know that I’m never going to be a lithe water nymph with a body destined for plaster fountains and labels on the fancier kinds of cake soap. I’m okay with that. I just want to tone up and get healthy. And it’s been working.

Then I hit a snag.

It’s called “Thérèse’s misguided belief that she must be nice to people” –and believe you me, it’s a facet of my personality that I often wish I could toss into someone’s caloric black hole. Let ‘em chew on that for awhile.

So…

I’ve done my time on the bike (10 miles) and the rowing machine (20 minutes) and I’ve started on my weights workout. Now, mostly for my arms, I’m just toning because the biceps are already huge. But I wanted to work on my triceps, and to my wonderment, it turns out there’s a machine that can be used for a tricep workout –I watched another woman doing it earlier. So I go over, set the weight, and begin to go through reps. About into my third or fourth…um…pull or whatever, this guy stops me. I can tell by his gestures (and broken English) that he is trying to tell me I’m not doing it right. I smile to show I’m not offended by his interference and he shows me how to tuck my thumb in and then where to position my arms. Then he suggests 4 sets of 8 to start with. I thank him, smile and begin to get on with it. When I’m done I turn around and he launches into an explanation of how I should do squats as well. He demonstrates the free-standing squats which I tell him I can’t do because of an accident –but that I can use the machine to do them. He doesn’t seem to get this –or he’s disappointed by the fact that I got in an accident. He keeps trying to get me to try it, I keep smiling and shaking my head. Then, he says I should use the bike –I say that I do. He says I should use the bike. I say that I do –in fact, I had already done 10 miles that very day. He then says I should use the treadmill., I say I do. He says I have to use it every day –I nod politely. Then he says that I have to use it because, “Down there, you are bigger. Up here, you are fine, but down there you are bigger.” To emphasize his point, he runs his hands down me…not in a sexual sort of way –more like he was sizing up a horse…or a side of beef. I waited for him to ask to see my teeth. I fixed my smile in place, nodded and said, “Well that’s why I’m coming here. To work out.” He then begins to poke and prod my arms and my stomach telling me which machines to use, for how long each day and in what order. I begin to wonder if he has any idea how much the services of a personal trainer go for…

At this point he stops and asks me, rather brokenly, if I am embarrassed by his trying to help me. I say no, and I thank him for the advice and move to go away. He then says something like, “I like you because, you not, you no have the mean face when I talk to you. You know? Like some people here, they do not like it when you talk to them. They get the mean face. You don’t.” I smile to show I understand and he bursts into hearty laughter and embraces me, kissing my neck on both sides.

My courtesy has made me feel most common indeed.

He then asks if I am married. I smile brightly and say, ‘Why yes, for two years! Hard to believe!” and I’m kind of doing what I call the “killing time” chuckle –the one where you hope if you jolly it up for long enough and then slowly taper off, they’ll get the point and leave you alone. No such luck. He then introduces himself (I forgot his name but I do recall that he was mightily impressed that I pronounced it correctly) and I tell him a different name, and then he hugs me again and proceeds to do one of the most DISGUSTING and DISCONCERTING things I’ve ever gone through…which believe me, is saying something: Now, I’m sweating obviously, both from the workout and the fact that it’s 98 degrees in there. He begins to tenderly wipe drops of sweat off my face with his fingers –like they were tears. This is by no means endearing –it’s gross. This is sweat –refuse from my pores. This is salty, rejected by-product of exertion –it’s just plain icky. And he’s very lovingly wiping each drop as it falls –as though we were on a sidewalk while rain was falling and the drops