Not Found

  It's About Time I get off work and my bartender pours me a glass of good wine.  I don't have any plans for the night, and that's bad.  That means I have to go home.  It's still an hour before midnight, which means my Dad's up, which means I'm going to have to talk to him.  About my plan.  To move to NYC in four days with two boys and no job. 

I drink the wine slowly.  I even have a conversation with a yuppie about how influential Atlas Shrugged is, how I have to read that book.  He asks me what I normally read, and I say Harry Potter just mix things up a bit.  It's a silly conversation, but I'd rather be actively "enlightened" by midwestern yuppie scum than try to convince my Dad that I'm not going to be seduced by smooth operators as I waste my young life waiting tables in NYC. 

Finally I finish my wine.  And the conversation.  I drive slowly home, taking back roads, singing Elliott Smith songs to myself.  I park and scrutinize the house.  No lights on, good.  I open the big front door slowly.  Take off my shoes in the hall and listen.  No motion detected.  Maybe he's asleep.  I tip toe up the stairs and dart into my room.  And listen.  No motion detected.  I think he is asleep.  I crawl happily into bed, thinking, awsome, I can just talk to him tomorrow.

There's a heavy knock on my door.  Damn.  I open the door, and there stands and tired, grey haired man, disheveled and grumpy, but blue eyed and handsome.  "You've been avoiding me," he accuses.  "Nonsense," I grumble, reaching for my robe, knowing he's right.  We march into his smoky, dim study.  He sits in the big leather chair.  I close both doors and take the desk seat opposite him.  And it begins. 

CRIME!  He begins.  Little stature, pretty face, certain personality types, serious consequences, naivete, selfishness!

My two meager ripostes:  Crime is not unique to New York AND Miss Little-Stature-Pretty-Face is not 12 years old.  And is not going to New York to date.  And knows to carry her mace.

This goes on.  We cover:  Catholicism, dead end jobs, crime, murder, suave men, dating, marriage, rebellion, inner peace, distractions, the glamor of evil and the evil of glamor, LA, TAC, living with boys vs. living with girls, how one should treat one's family, Grandma, direction, motivation, achievments, gratitude, personal strength, vocations, Mother Theresa, travelling abroad, art, Molly Gustin, suffering, instances of my father being right when I said he was wrong, Brideshead Revisited, car wrecks, style and my mother.

What you're doing is stupid, he announces, then begs me to stay, just a few more days.  He promises to kick down some cash (which I try to refuse), then reads to me part of an essay about how distracting and unreal New York is.  Makes me promise to read the rest.  I almost refuse (I don't, as a rule, like articles about New York that are written by Californians) but one look at his blue eyes and I resolve to play nice.  I'll read that article, Dad.  I'll read it in the morning.

 
  ¶ 10:13 AM

  this is not a politiblog, dammit.

but yesterday i saw a bumper sticker for Kerry that was carefully taped on the back window of a nice car- just so it could be removed should Kerry lose, or should the owner of the car go see their Republican relatives, or they decide they like nadir better.  i thought it was fitting for kerry to be supported by people too weak to commit to a bumper sticker.

  ¶ 9:05 AM

  Intimidation:  femme fatales & deja vu

1.  In Monterey.

Peter:  Finish that drink and we'll go bowling with and Bryan and Sarah.

Me:  Oh, God, bowling.  Um, I'm really not good at bowling.

Peter (rolling eyes):  Neither am I, c'mon, let's go, it will be fun.

Me:  Oh, God, I don't know.  Bowling.  Umm, what should I wear?  Should I get drunk now or when I get there?  How long are we going to be there?  Can your sister come with us?

Peter:  It's supposed to be fun.

Of course Peter does not suck at bowling like he claimed to.  And Bryan and Sarah were local champions of some kind.  Bryan seems disappointed when he knocks over only 98% of the pins.  Peter's turn is after Bryan's.  He shoots.  He scores.  Then Sarah, with choppy black hair over one sweet eye and a body like a white ribbon, slips her long fingers into a bowling ball and tip toes up to the line.  She does the little back-and-forth, back-and-forth bounce to steady herself, reaches, and sends the ball sailing smoothly and powerfully into the center pin:  Thwack!-ackle-ackle-ick-eck!  All the pins fall before her.  She does a little Indian Princess Victory Dance with her shoulders and hips.  I am mesmerized.  Peter nudges me.  "Your turn."

It was a long night.

2.  In Kansas City.

Mark:  Finish that drink, and we'll go Chez Charlies to meet Karen and Beaux.

Me:  Oh, God, Chez Charlies.  Isn't that the place so cool it doesn't have a sign on the door?

Mark:  Yea, but it's a great bar and darts are free.  You like Beaux, remember?  You'll like darts.
Me:  Oh, God, darts.  I've never played darts. 

Mark (rolling eyes):  Come on, it's supposed to be fun.

Chez Charlies turns out to be my new favorite bar.  It's cozy, with black leather booths, like a speakeasy.  Black and white movies play on the TVs and the DJ is a lonely guy who seems to be going through his Grandma's kick-ass record collection of old, old jazz.  Beaux shows up with Karen: a local diva in red and black.  Beaux throws darts and seems sad even though he gets all three awfully close to the center.  Mark's turn is after Beaux's.  He shoots.  He scores.  Then Karen, with choppy black hair over one sweet eye and a mouth like red velvet sidles up to the line.  She plants her feet apart, and assumes a classic pin-up pose: her back is arched, her shapely ahem is swaying back and forth, back and forth, and one eye is closed in a wink and little fingers twirl the dart as her white teeth sink into her full bottom lip in concentration.  She throws.  Twenty points.  Again.  Bullseye.  Again.  Double bullseye.  Even the more seasoned patrons are impressed.  There's a round of applause as she skips up to the board, coyly looks over her shoulder, giggle-faced.  Does a little Indian Princess Victory Dance with her shoulders and hips.  I am mesmerized.  Mark nudges me.  "Your turn." 

It was a long night.

 

  ¶ 9:45 AM

  mike hurwitz got married.
 
really, he did, i was there.
 
california breaks my heart again and again and i keep going back for more.
  ¶ 3:27 AM

  Chevette (2)
Conversation takes place at night, downtown, with cigarettes and cold coffee.

Peter: I dunno if Chevette's going to make it. Maybe you oughta put on of those rosaries in her before I leave for Maine tomorrow. Like the one in your Volvo.

Me: I can't put a rosary in Chevette. She's a pagan car.

Peter: I could put a sticker of the world on her-

Me: Don't worry. She'll make it. When Chevette rolled off the assembly line, the only wizard working in the plant touched her and said This is the car.

Smoke curls out Chevettes windows. The homeless guy sleeping on the other side of the street moans and rolls over. Ravers pull up in a van and crawl towards a warehouse.

Peter: Woah. Just because you said that- I got this weird warm feeling in my chest. It scared me.

Me: Hmm. Well, just like when you're on too many drugs, drink some water and roll with it.

I haven't gotten any calls from the side of the road, so I am assuming Chevette (who, I hear, is in her glory after the first hour of highway driving) is having a grand old time in New England. I hope to catch up with her in NYC.  ¶ 2:17 PM

  stop quoting the Big Lebowski, dammit.

The Hudsucker Proxy is the best movie by Those Brothers.  ¶ 9:52 PM

  If you're under thirty, you better be a liberal, or you're heartless; if you're over thirty, you better be a conservative or you're brainless. Or at least that's what Winston Churchill thought.

(Side note: and the hippies said don't trust anyone over thirty. And look what happened to them.)  ¶ 12:33 PM

  Your Blogs Great But Can It Buy Me A Beer??

Peter stole a hippie magazine for me called Utne. "Utne" does not mean "steal this magazine," but it does mean "far out" in Norwegian. He knows I don't approve of stealing but he couldn't resist: this had a headline that read:

HOW BLOGGING RUINED MY LIFE.

it's an article by whitney pastorek, for the village voice. here are some unauthorized exerpts:

Blogging ruined my life because

1. No one shows up for anything anymore. There was an innocent time, about a year ago, when I thought the evite was going to be the death of polite society. But now we live in a world where it is unnecessary for people to attend any social functions whatsoever, so long as they are bloggers. For example: Let's say I occasionally perform at literary events. I invite my friends to these events, hoping for affirmation and free drinks. How heartbreaking, then, when no one arrives!! Phone calls are made: I am sad that you did not come to my event! The bloggers reply, invariably: But I linked to you on my blog! That's just the same as if I showed up in person!
It is not. It's very different.

2. No one tells me anything anymore. There was a time when my friends and I got together to chat about our lives, a time when any problem could be resolved in the warm light of camraderie and beer. And then my friends became bloggers. These days I don't even hear about the stupid stuff that's going on-- "I got a haircut" or "my apartment burned down" --because the bloggers assume I have read about it on their blogs.

3. No one has fights anymore. If there's been a falling-out with my friends, I rarely find out what I did or get a chance to fix things up. I just wake up one morning to find they are no longer linking to, say, my barely solvent literary magazine. (And then my world allegedly crumbles.)

4. No one invites me to anything anymore. Bloggers are starting to have parties to which they invite only other bloggers. Secretly and for research purposes only I attended one of these parties, a pretty progressive one, as there were four or five of the blog-free in attendance (all of whom admitted, however, to being on Friendster, which is basically a gateway drug . . .) Yet despite this initail multiculteralism, the room immediately broke down according to Blogospheric lines-- conversation centered on issues of Blogs and Blogging, and about half an hour in, all the bloggers stood up and left en masse. Those who remained- non-bloggers and the party's gracious host- were left to quietly wonder what they'd done wrong, and worry.

5. The New World Order: In Order Of Fabulosity:

1. Bloggers who live in Williamsburg and work at Conde Nast/are in a band.
2. Bloggers who live in Williamsburg and know someone who works at Conde Nast/dates someone in a band.
3. Bloggers who live elsewhere in Brooklyn but can get to Williamsburg easily, ideally by bicycle.
4. Bloggers in general (residents of other parts of the country are fine, so long as those parts are Chicago, LA, Seattle or Manhattan.)
5. Non-bloggers who work at Conde Nast/are in a band.
6. Non-bloggers who went to highschool with someone who runs a top-tier blog.
7. Non-bloggers who live in Queens and operate barely solvent literary magazines, the literary magazine being, as we all know, the blog of 2000, the old black, SO OVER, etc.

I have to post comments so people know I care about their lives/band/Conde Nast. I must google my own name in search of What People Really Think About Me. This is a dark enterprise. What if I find pictures of me, obviously taken by a cellphone when i wasn't looking? Remember: It's not paranoia if they really are blogging about you. Listen! My name is Whitney Pastorek, and I do not have a blog. I am not on Friendster, I do not live in Williamsburg, and I do not think Death Cab for Cutie is a particularly great band. But I exist! I am a good person, a good friend, and my thoughts and opinions have wieght and merit. The bloggers do not control me- they only control each other. People! If you find yourself on the lower levels of the Blog Caste System, join with me in saying NO! NO to letting them diminish our self worth! Turn your faces to the sun! Stand and fight!

  ¶ 9:46 AM

  Just Trust Me On This One.

I want you to see this documentary about pet cemetaries. wait- give me a chance.

Gates of Heaven. Documentary, 1978. Directed by Errol Morris.

When I put it on my list of the 10 greatest films ever made, I was not joking; this 85 minute film about pet cemetaries has given me more to think about over the past 20 years than most other films I've seen. -- Roger Ebert.

This documentary at first makes you laugh out loud- earnest Californians talking about how much they love their pets: "Surely at the Gates of Heaven," one says, "a compassionate God is not going to say well, you're walking on two legs - you can go in. You're walking on four legs - we can't take you." Pet Lovers band together to make a pet cemetary against their greatest enemy, a factory that "recycles" animals. The factory's bitter spokesperson says, "People get very emotional. When Big Bertha from the zoo dies, or Joe the Bear, we have to claim we don't have that animal or people will get upset."

The plot thickens when the cemetary has to be moved (animals dug out of graves and relocated, tearful pet owners, drama . . .) to another location and run by a family. The two brothers in the family are almost too funny to be true: the younger is a sensitive poet with a feathery mustache who plays electric guitar to the dead pets (in his superfly 70s pants and indian american jewelry) and the other is an Achiever surrounded by trophies who wants to be Just Like Dad.

One pet owner, an aging bombshell, makes Aristotles argument for the soul, perhaps unwittingly: "There was my pet. And now it's not moving. Where's the thing that made it move? It must be something."

The unique thing about this movie is this: every time you are about to burst out laughing and say, Lord what fools these mortals be, the ugly, stupid people being interviewed say something profound like that to make you stop and turn and think, Wow, that woman came up with Aristotles argument for the soul all on her own? Hmmm . . .
Whatever this documentary is about, it's more than pet cemetaries. It could easily also be a documentary of Very Bad Fashion since it was made in the 70s. I IMPLORE you. Check it out. From a VIDEO STORE for you theatre phobes, so you can drink and smoke as you watch.

You can see the real place at www.bubbling-well.com.
Google Gates of Heaven for more rave reviews.


  ¶ 11:57 AM

  everyone:

stop reading this and go see Spiderman 2.

especially you, Peter Fry.  ¶ 1:50 PM

  Chevette

"You have to see this car," Peter tells me. "This is it. This is the car."

A 1979 Chevette. $650. Bone exterior, toad-green interior. Little musical note on the knob that switches the AM-only radio.

Peters mouth twists with longing. "You don't understand what this car's doing to me," he says. He clutches his heart. "I must have it."

It didn't take me long to see the merits of the car. It's an underdog car, an emo-band car. It tops out at sixty miles an hour. "How much do you need?" I ask. No use beating around the bush. "About two hundred bucks," he admits.

I cough it up. We buy the car from it's second-ever owner, an aging, well kempt hippy named Michael who invites us to his art opening next Friday. We pay in cash, and Michael lifts an eyebrow. "Rob a bank?" he asks. "Funny you should mention that-" I start, but Peter shushes me.

He's scared to take the dreamcicle of a car home. "Even when I was in highschool and had that Geo metro, my Dad would always say, 'AT LEAST IT'S NOT A CHEVETTE.' and at fourth of july parties, when someones car wouldn't run, my tough brother would say things like, 'DAMN THAT CARS ALMOST AS BAD AS A CHEVETTE.' then all the flannel clad blue boys would chuckle and shake their heads as if to say 'NOTHING NOTHING COULD BE AS BAD AS A CHEVETTE.' They're supposed to fall apart, like, as you drive them."

"So you'd almost rather tell them you're gay than come home in the Chevette," I said. "Pretty much," he replied.

It was the best terrible idea I ever had. July first is such a good day to have bought a new car. In one month exactly, I will be in New York City.  ¶ 12:28 PM