Eric R. Schwartz

March 6, 2012

On This Super Tuesday, In Chuck We Trust

I’m so glad that Chuck Norris has inserted himself into the election process again this year. Because when I compare presidential candidates to determine who will be the best fit to take on a long list of difficult domestic economic problems and restore a global confidence back in the United States of America, I first wonder: what does Chuck Norris think? I began to understand the significance of Norris’s perspective on politics about five years ago when the other men who worked in my office of employment at that time sent around ‘Chuck Norris’ emails. You know the ones I’m talking about—those delightful tidbits of knowledge that gave you a thousand different ways in which Chuck Norris was the most cunning and intelligent man to grace this planet. I soon learned that Chuck Norris was a god-like creature that the rest of us could only aspire to emulate. Take, for instance, these gems that floated around the office each day:

Chuck Norris ran the Boston Marathon backwards just to see what second place looked like.

When Alexander Bell invented the telephone he had 3 missed calls from Chuck Norris.

Once a cop pulled over Chuck Norris… the cop was lucky to leave with a warning.

Those fellas in my office must have been on to something because, all these years later, there is now a website that sells any of these delightful Chuck Norris-isms on a size-appropriate t-shirt with a picture of Chuck himself on the front. Sure the website may contain some misspellings here and there, but it is liked by over 70,000 people on Facebook. And, besides, even when a word is spelled incorrectly, Chuck Norris has already reinvented that word with its new—now proper—spelling. This is something you would have already known if you were a follower of the deity that is Carlos Ray Norris.

It became clear to me during those formative years of my professional career in an office filled with men who chuckled to one another about the greatness of Chuck Norris that if I was going to be a true man and get ahead in this world, I needed to deepen my understanding of the philosophies of this man. That way, the next time I was hanging around the water cooler, I would be able to recite the latest Chuck Norris one-liner: Did you know that Chuck Norris was once accused of sexual harassment until everyone realized that Chuck Norris couldn’t be accused of sexual harassment?

Anytime I felt like I was getting the short end of the stick at work or in my personal life, I would refer to the Book of Norris and realize that I was just being a big pussy and needed to act more like a man—more like Chuck did. That seemed to set me straight every time. The world of Chuck Norris was black and white—you could bitch about how something was unfair or you could do something about it. Chuck Norris became everything to me. And, so, when he endorsed Mike Huckabee for president in the Republican primary in 2007, I decided to volunteer for Huckabee’s campaign. What a better way to impress the upper management of Chuck Norris supporters at my office than to spend my evenings canvassing to elect the next president along with our hero? If Chuck Norris was thinking two steps ahead of the rest of us, then Mike Huckabee’s victory was surely inevitable.

The campaign looked very promising after Huckabee won the Iowa caucuses. That evening after Huckabee’s victory there, our headquarters was a buzz with excitement. I even got to see my hero standing right behind the future President of the United States as he gave his victory speech. Chuck was beaming just like the Cheshire Cat. He must have been two steps ahead of all of us—even Huckabee himself. This victory was certain to be one in a long line of many there after. The road to the White House would be paved with a long list of Chuck Norris-isms. And what would look better on a t-shirt than:

Chuck Norris knew who the next president was going to be even before the President did. Thanks, Chuck.

It was an exciting time to be student of Chuck Norris and a member of the Mike Huckabee campaign. Unfortunately, that goddamned John McCain arose from the dead and changed the course of history. It just wasn’t fair. McCain went on a victory streak that crushed all of our hopes. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Our soothsayer, Chuck Norris, had seen the future and it didn’t look like this. After a number of McCain victories, Mike Huckabee conceded defeat and ended his campaign. I sank into a deep depression. My girlfriend at that time—she said I should just join the ranks of the McCain campaign. It was an idea, sure, but I wanted to see what Chuck Norris would decide to do. After all, it as Chuck who was really my guy.

Uncle Sam got his butt whooped for pointing at Chuck Norris.

Things sure were looking dire for a while there until something amazing happened. That old war hero, John McCain—he picked a running mate of the century in Sarah Palin. The moment I heard her speak and saw her sheer tenacity, I knew she was the only woman I would trust to be a heartbeat away from the presidency. This was someone who hunted big game with a machine gun. She was a rugged chick who was—well—right out of a Chuck Norris movie. Chuck agreed. He threw his full support behind the old war hero and that tough brawd from Alaska. I lifted myself up from my despair when Sarah Palin joined that ticket and soon I was spending my nights volunteering for the John McCain campaign.

Contrary to popular belief, America is not a democracy, it is a Chucktatorship.

I loved my country and I loved Chuck Norris and I loved John McCain and I especially loved Sarah Palin. I loved all these things and so did most Americans. But, ‘most’ doesn’t always count when the opponent you are running against is black. Not even Chuck Norris could win that fight. And, so, we lost—John McCain lost the election; America lost its sense of reason; and I lost a long list of things related to my wellbeing, which began with my girlfriend. She left me after I struck her in an argument over the McCain loss. Apparently not every woman was as tough as Sarah Palin. I was also laid-off from my job after everyone in the office seemed to believe I had tarnished the spirit of Chuck Norris by introducing his human imperfections into our workplace. All seemed to be lost again.

Fortunately, my company was nice enough to grant me unemployment benefits despite my misconduct against the proper ways of bringing Chuck Norris into the workplace. In the months that followed losing my job, I began to understand better the major problems that plagued our society. This nation was spending too much money! And it was relentlessly taxing its citizens while it did so. With the help of a few unemployment extensions and my newfound political clairvoyance, I joined the ranks of an emerging populous movement called the Tea Party. And, sure enough, Chuck did too.

If at first you don’t succeed, you’re not Chuck Norris.

Four years later, a new presidential primary is upon us. And thanks to a generous extension of my unemployment benefits, I was able wait to see who Chuck Norris would endorse before I decided which campaign I would apply to work for. As soon as Chuck threw his support behind Newt Gingrich, I was onboard. Luckily for me it wasn’t long after Chuck’s endorsement when a number of Gingrich’s staff members left his campaign en masse and I was hired fulltime. Their loss for sure.

Now, as I sit here and write this on the eve of Super Tuesday, I know that the Newt Gingrich campaign has an uphill battle. I know that things are looking pretty grim. But, I still believe in our cause. I still love my country. I still believe Mr. Gingrich will win the presidency. And no one can take that away from me—not even Chuck Norris.

Okay… maybe only Chuck Norris.

Eric R. Schwartz

9:56pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8GatxHbVPp4
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February 9, 2012

This Joke’s On Who?

It may not be news to most of you that Nickelback is an insufferably shitty band that possesses probably the least amount of musical talent it takes to become a mainstream success. It may also not be news that, in the January issue of the Rolling Stone, Black Keys drummer, Patrick Carney, acknowledged Nickelback accordingly saying that people “…became OK with the idea that the biggest rock band in the world is going to be shit.” What you may not have caught is that this aggressively shitty band actually thanked the Black Keys for their comments through Twitter, writing: Thanks to the drummer in the Black Keys calling us the Biggest Band in the World in Rolling Stone. He he. It was as if Nickelback, reveling in their own shittiness, had figured all along that such an opinion would make its way into the collective consciousness sooner or later. And what were we to make of their salutatory He-he? Was this offensively shitty band actually throwing it in our faces that the last thing on their mind when they decided to become musicians was to accomplish anything that could even remotely be considered ‘rock-and-roll?’ Maybe what Nickelback was saying was that they hadn’t realized it would take everyone this long to finally be let in on the joke that is their musical career. Or maybe they were just being polite Canadians. All I know is that this seemed like a very appropriate way to begin 2012—a year where I have somehow managed to watch two Republican presidential debates. And, as I stared into my TV and saw hundreds of Americans in North Carolina stand up and cheer for Newt Gingrich on Martin Luther King Day, all I could think about was what it must feel like to be at a Nickelback concert. But maybe this was the sort of joke that was on everyone who, like Patrick Carney, actually gave a shit.

Eric R. Schwartz

6:47pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8GatxG9fhhV
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(Notes: 2)

February 1, 2012

My Occupy

I’ve come to the conclusion that Americans will make anything seem complicated as long as that means putting off solving a problem. Affordable healthcare? Come on—that’s just too complicated at this stage in the game. Tax code reform? Yikes—that’s a rabbit hole we’d rather not venture down. Global warming? Please—that is a dilemma simply too massive for this generation. No matter where you look, Americans are consistently overwhelmed and typically uninspired to do anything about anything. This mentality is never more apparent than during those anxious hours around dinnertime each night when most of us choose to complicate the process of making a home-cooked meal. And, why not? Since we can’t be bothered with fixing anything else that is unfortunate about our apathetic society, why should we add one more to that list? It’s much easier just to call it an evening and order up some Domino’s. Right?

Well, I may not hold the solutions to healthcare equality or tax reform or Wall Street bonuses or government spending, but I’d like to think that My Occupy began this fall in my kitchen. It was there where I noticed that—with some recent practice—I had greatly improved my ability to cook. I also realized that I stopped thinking about the problems our government was incapable of solving when I was cutting up onions or measuring out sugar. Who knew that the best cure for seeing Herman Cain or Rick Perry actually taken seriously would be nothing more than a tall glass of white wine and a good recipe for pumpkin risotto? The anxiety that I held towards all of this senseless bullshit I couldn’t control in this country seemed to dissipate when I was the sole person in charge of my evening’s destiny. During each cooking experience, I ran the risk of blowing a recipe or mistiming a dish, but at least those were mistakes I could own and learn from. This frame of mind was one that our politicians seem unwilling to adopt, as they continue to propose the same failed schemes to solve the same persistent problems. I’m not sure how many tax cut extensions for the richest people in this country it will take before any Republican is willing to admit that it hasn’t worked to stimulate the economy.

One evening during My Occupy, as I gathered up some ingredients on my cutting board, I decided that I would align myself with the small percentage of working Americans who also made the effort to cook their own meals when dinnertime rolled around each night. I decided to call this movement Occupy My Kitchen and I would spend every evening toiling along side all the other supporters of my cause. As it turned out, the most unflinching proponents of Occupy My Kitchen were the well-made inanimate tools of this trade—the stainless steel pots and pans that stood by me on those humid autumn nights in my kitchen as sauces simmered and water boiled; the newly purchased Chinese-made Santoku knife with its comforting, yet firm, handle that breezed through onions and carrots alike; and the multi-colored mixing bowls that always had a bright inviting face even on those occasions when I didn’t know how much flour I should put inside of them. Occupy My Kitchen came alive with the anticipation of how wonderful the next prepared morsel of fuck you would taste in the face of that other percentage of Americans who chose to microwave or, even worse, order their dinners on a nightly basis.

Occupy My Kitchen may have begun as a vague effort to cook all of my meals at home, but it began to take on a more specific shape. Within Occupy My Kitchen, it was a cleansing experience to know exactly what I was putting into my body. Sure, Occupy My Kitchen lacked the sexiness and drama of its Wall Street counterparts that had arisen in New York City and Boston (where I live), but that didn’t make it any less of a movement in its own right. Although I tended to agree with the general political purpose of the Wall Street protesters, My Occupy was against the idea of spending an afternoon asking a hippy at Eastern Mountain Sports about the effectiveness of different brands of tents, My Occupy offered an alternative to standing outside through a steady Boston rain, and, most importantly, My Occupy welcomed every asshole, like myself, who was annoyed at the thought of his or her otherwise productive day being interrupted by a larger group of assholes positioned in a highly populated area. Occupy My Kitchen didn’t take up public space, but it still possessed its own bold and unflinching agenda. My Occupy took a stand against added preservatives and artificial flavors nationwide. My Occupy flew directly in the face of not only corporate fast food chains, but also any self-respecting individual that could not make a simple marinara sauce. My Occupy was rooted in the firm belief that any man or woman who found it cute that the only recipe he or she knew how to make was for iced cubes and grilled cheese should neither be eligible to vote nor able to adopt children. And My Occupy was also the only Occupy that produced a tangible result at the end of each day in the way of a delicious and well thought-out meal.

As the Occupy protests were broken apart in New York and up here in Boston and across the country, their protesters moved on to other locations I have heard—to commercial shipping ports across the country and to individual family homes being foreclosed upon. The Occupy movement lives on, for now, in smaller protests throughout the country as certain groups and organizers take up the cry of exposing the social inequality that exists in this country. Occupy My Kitchen has remained where it began—in my kitchen—as it continues to expose its own injustices of flavor packets and pre-made cookie dough sold in supermarkets across this nation. In the springtime, My Occupy will expand its horizons to embark upon the study of local foraging methods. So, when all those less evolved people are shoving hamburgers into their faces on a Saturday afternoon, I will be strengthening my ability to identify the edible plants that populate New England. I will be perfecting a dandelion soup or refining a pine needle tea. In fact, Occupy My Kitchen is going to get so real that I’m not even going to eat the food I cook. I’m just going to prepare it and give it to all the fat people in my neighborhood that I think should be eating it. Then, I’m going to start occupying their kitchens until they agree that my food tastes better than what they’ve been shoving into their faces and that we’d all live better if we cut out the corporate middleman and learned to forage and grow and cook on our own. Shouldn’t that be the real mission behind My Occupy?

But, perhaps Occupy My Kitchen is getting too complicated. Maybe it’s better off if I just cook for my friends every once in a while and put off this whole silly protest thing. It’s not like I’m going to be able to change anything anyways, right? Americans aren’t good with change. We don’t do well with it. So, I might as well call this whole thing off for now, stay inside my apartment tonight, and order up some Dominoes. What do you say? Problem solved. Right?

Or, there’s always a Super PAC…

Eric R. Schwartz

6:47pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8GatxFkeffx
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(Notes: 22)

Filed under: Occupy Wall Street cooking dinner kitchen fast food reform taxes

January 10, 2012

Behold: My Oscar Season Review (With No Spoilers and No Goddamn Nonsense)

I thought I’d start off this New Year (a holiday I have for many years deeply despised) with something different from this blog. I came to the realization that since I spend a good portion of my free time watching and analyzing movies (many of which I end up wishing I had those two hours of my life back) that it might be a good idea to impart some of my thoughts on the art form. Full disclosure: I spend most of this said ‘free time’ with a former art school film major and also hold the vain belief that I could write a better screenplay than ninety-five percent of those that are eventually made into movies. Some people may take this opportunity to deem me an elitist. I simply believe that I like what I like and have good reason. Now, I guess it’s time for you to be the judge of that. So, here it goes…

In case you are looking to get a head start on this year’s Oscar watch, Brad Pitt is rumored to be an early favorite to win for his performance in The Tree of Life where he plays a stern patriarch of a middleclass male-dominated household during the 1950’s. Similar to Sandra Bullock’s Oscar grab last year, some people are apparently claiming that it’s just Brad’s time. In other words, he’s put in his due and deserves to finally win one. Hollywood prides itself on such illogical reasoning, as was the case when Ms. Bullock won by playing her typical good-hearted American woman role in The Blind Side—an insufferably shitty movie I couldn’t stand to watch ten minutes of, let alone justify an Oscar-worthy performance. Don’t get me wrong—I do not save this kind of bitterness for all Oscar nominations in order to uphold some half-baked indie or cult film bravado. To tell you the truth, I believe that I have had a love affair with Mr. Pitt since A River Runs Through It, a movie I much appreciated as a boy.And I think that he executes this role with his usual consummate professionalism. But, what I do have a problem with is the goddamned movie itself, which also has Best Picture talk surrounding it this year—an Oscar bid that I assure you will only encourage the wrong kind of people in this country.

If you are one of those bold and unwavering souls who put all of this year’s Best Picture nominees into your Netflix queue regardless of what you have heard, I can respect that. But, I’ll have to advise that you consider taking to the drink if you watch this film or at least have a likeminded bold and unwavering companion at your side. The movie spans two-plus hours and is filled with such long and baffling moments of obscurity that you will either want to jump out of your skin or turn to your neighbor to find out what the fuck he or she is making of this cinematic mess. My partner for this one, the aforementioned film major and constant movie companion, always leaves her thoughts until the end. I may be the writer of household, but I admit that I couldn’t have put together a better one-line analysis myself:

It was very cerebral with a high degree of pomposity throughout.

I fashion myself somewhat of a cultured fuck. So, I can do cerebral. I can do philosophical or metaphysical, abstract or odd. I actually prefer a writer or director that can tell a story outside the realm of the conscious mind or create a narrative that plays with our sense of reality. I thought I Heart Huckabees was an unfairly criticized film that was actually an effective existential perspective on a post 9/11 world. I felt that Synecdoche, New York was never given the proper chance to become the beloved Charlie Kaufman film that it should have been. I don’t need for a filmmaker’s intensions to be typed up and overnighted to my apartment for my personal analysis. But, what I do need is for a movie’s purpose to work as a whole and The Tree of Life’s does not.

I have always been put off by an artist who says of his/her art: that’s up to the audience to decide. The audience can only be as smart as you’ll let them be. Otherwise, you risk putting yourself in the same company as that asshole poet who writes stream of conscious horseshit and tries to pass it off as high art. I assure you that you’ll agree with me wholeheartedly during every one of The Tree of Life’s tedious scenes (and there are many) when you are reaching for that drink I advised to have waiting at your side. Regardless of if you are sober or straight, I will admit that the film is visually stimulating. And perhaps you should consider gathering a group of friends to watch the flick with the sound lowered as you guess how the director set up each breathtaking shot. That game might be reason enough to actually see this movie. But, in the end, it’s not enough to proclaim it as a powerful or even strong film.

In The Tree of Life, Brad Pitt does fulfill his character justly. Does he deserve to win an Oscar? Probably not. But, then again, most people that win Oscars don’t deserve them. To me, the breakout role in the film comes from a computer-generated dinosaur that appears somewhere near the midway point. That’s right, folks—a fucking dinosaur. (I told you that you’d agree with me wholeheartedly). Believe it or not, though, this is the best scene in the movie and it expresses far more about humanity than anything else created on screen between the movie’s actual actors. And thus is the ultimate problem with The Tree of Life—it wants to be everything as it aims to make you ponder the most complex questions of our lives, yet it gives you no frame of reference in which to do so. The characters that we are introduced to are not deeply unique. So, the movie’s higher philosophical purpose does not have a chance to resonate on the profound plain that it so desperately wishes to.

So, when this Oscar season rolls around and someone asks if you’ve seen The Tree of Life, don’t be tricked if they ask what you thought of it. Be honest. And if they imply that you must be shallow if you didn’t like it, you can go ahead and let them know that they are a pompous asshole. It might be the most satisfying thing you do in this early New Year. If you’re a critical prick like myself, maybe that’s reason enough to see this movie. Just make sure to remember what I said about that dinosaur. I think he’s going to be a big star one day.

Eric R. Schwartz

6:16pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8GatxEaCHmm
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(Notes: 1)

Filed under: The Tree of Life Brad Pitt Sandra Bullack A River Runs Through It I Heart Huckabees Synecdoche New York movies Oscars

November 8, 2011

The President Has His Concerns

The President has his concerns about many things, but, mostly, about the will of his people and the state of his country.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the current mood of his congress and whether it possesses the ability to accurately interpret the will of his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about how his nation’s children are raised, educated, and prepared to become the voices of the future for it is their voices that shall shape the path of his nation.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his cabinet members who have, of late, proven to be quite unhelpful with resolving the President’s concerns and very ineffective in communicating the will of his people to the congress.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that his people have been unable to recognize his true vision for the nation and the idea that a more prosperous country can only be achieved if its people are unified in mind and spirit.

The President has his concerns about many things, but, mostly, about the nature of race relations among his people in the aftermath of an arrest this week, which may have occurred without the proper due process on behalf of a local law enforcement deputy.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the state of the national media and whether it truly reflects the issues that are most concerning to his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for one of his dogs that unexpectedly bit the leg of a reporter who was standing outside of the President’s home today.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about which team he should support in the sporting contest this evening and whether he’ll be able to hurl his first pitch for a strike while in front of a stadium filled with his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about what his wife will be wearing to bed in the evening and whether it will stimulate him enough to take his mind off of his concerns.

The President has his concerns about many things, but, mostly, about the eggs in his breakfast, which, yesterday, were made to be more hard-boiled than soft-boiled and did not allow for the proper toast dipping.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his cook, who has botched the eggs again this morning, and whether or not that’s an offence that warrants termination.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he should even be eating eggs in the first place—given his blood pressure—and for the simple fact that, although he could eat anything in the world, he still prefers a good hamburger and some carefully cooked soft-boiled eggs.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he’ll get an opportunity to have sex with his wife before he leaves for his trip to Beijing, which is scheduled one week from today.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, whether or not he’ll have a car waiting for him at the Beijing airport when he arrives and if the kitchen at his hotel will be able to make him his usual soft-boiled eggs for breakfast.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, whether that trip to China may have caused permanent damage to his intestinal tract because he has experienced extreme abdominal pain for an entire week since his return.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, as to whether his abdominal pains are the cause of a serious health issue or if he has only developed a minor case of colitis, which can be cured by prescribing a light steroid.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his doctor who seems to be giving him the incorrect advice about his intestinal troubles, insisting that the abdominal pains are psychosomatic and the direct result of his stress level, which has greatly increased as the President’s concerns have remained, well, concerning.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the second opinion he received from a well-respected gastroenterologist who suggested that his intestinal pain is related to his steady diet of soft-boiled eggs.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, with regards to the fact that his recent illness has forced him to abstain from having intercourse with his wife for the past month and for the notion that she has seemed increasingly uninterested in him both sexually and emotionally.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the peculiar behavior of his wife who has been cold and apathetic of late in addition to the fact that her schedule as the President’s wife has drawn her away from spending time with the President to discuss the state of his concerns.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, on this day, that his wife has asked him for a divorce and that he will need to explain this to his two daughters who have not been told of the difficulties between the President and their mother.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his children and two dogs since his wife has said that she plans to take all of them with her in the divorce.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that his abdominal pains have not resolved themselves since his trip to Beijing.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his healthcare coverage, which has declined recently as a result of his unpopularity with his people and his family and now requires a sizable deductible.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about covering the cost of his health insurance deductible so that he can receive experimental treatment for his undiagnosed intestinal pain, which has grown into a chronically debilitating ailment.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, whether he will be able to see his kids again following the divorce, which looks like it will not only be messy, but, also, a long process with deep-seated resentment from the both sides involved.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that he may need to give up eggs if he is to receive an experimental treatment that could alleviate his chronic gastrointestinal problems, which may or may not have been caused by ingesting a bad piece of fish during his travels to China.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about finding a chef that will cook him an extravagant array of soft-boiled egg dishes so that he may devour every kind of soft-boiled egg imaginable before he has to give up eggs for his experimental gastrointestinal treatment.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he chose the right chef to cook him his last egg-filled meals before entering this experimental gastrointestinal treatment, since the menu that was presented to the President appeared to be, well, quite frankly, uninspired.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his bowel movements, which, over the last week of eating only meals with eggs in them, have become very frequent and somewhat discolored, but that could also be the result of his intestinal problem or for the fact that his chef lacked the proper variation in the egg-filled menu before the President’s admittance into an experimental intestinal treatment program.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about whether he will be evicted from his home while he undergoes treatment for his intestinal problem, which will keep him on bed rest for a number of weeks and unable to do his job or pay rent during this period.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that the experimental treatment he chose to undergo is a sham and that his doctor lured him away from his home only so that the President would be unable to carry out his job and, eventually, become evicted while lost his sense of duty to his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that his health insurance company may have been in cahoots with the doctor that recommended this experimental treatment and that this was all part of a larger conspiracy to remove him from his office while he received the treatment.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that he has not seen his daughters in months and that the pain in his abdomen is so bad that he cannot focus on the emptiness of missing them.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that this experimental treatment is making his illness worse than it was before he came here.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the best method of escaping this treatment facility so that he can get back to his daughters and back to eating soft-boiled eggs for breakfast and back to addressing the issues that are most concerning to his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the nature of his will and testament since he has determined that he will not be able to escape this treatment facility.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the medical practices of the doctors at this treatment facility who seemed to have lured him here under the guise of getting well when all they are trying to do is keep him from his job so he is unable to carry out the will of his people.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about his belongings in the event of his death since he was told that he cannot leave them to his daughters in his will and testament because they are already the property of his people and, as such, must be equally enjoyed by all.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the treatment method carried out by the doctors of this facility, which has left his mind sluggish and unable to devise a plan for his escape.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the state of his morning breakfast at this treatment facility, which does include eggs for a reason that he has forgotten.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, that he can’t remember how he got into this treatment facility in the first place and what it is that these doctors are actually treating.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for the fact that he would be unable to recall his own name if it weren’t for the kind people who allow him to stay at this hospital until he recovers from a horrible accident they have told him about, which he also cannot recall.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the breakfast in this hospital because, although the people are very caring about the fact that he is unable to recall anything from his past, they are unwilling to serve him eggs in the morning, which (although he cannot recollect anything from his past) surely must have been something he enjoyed.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, about the will of his appetite to press on in this unfamiliar hospital that makes all its breakfasts without eggs and all its employees unwilling to tell him why they cannot cook him eggs in the morning.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for the fact that, although he was able to convince the staff at this hospital to serve him eggs for breakfast, they are only able to make the eggs either extremely runny or hard-boiled with no consistency in between.

The President has his concerns, but, mostly, for the notion that each morning when the doctors here wake him up and ask him about what his concerns are, he is unable to remember and can only recall that there is something strange about the eggs in his breakfast that caused his appetitive to diminish, but, then again, he may have never enjoyed breakfast in the first place or eggs, for that matter, if it weren’t for the people here and, so, the President feels confident in saying that, sitting in this room filled with these wonderful doctors, he no longer has any immediate concerns and only possesses the purest thoughts about his future as a man who survived his own death and will rise again, someday, to become someone who is important to the people of this country—maybe even the President of this fair nation—because he knows what it is like to be absolutely no one at all.

Eric R. Schwartz

1:58pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8GatxBgF55F
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Filed under: The President

September 9, 2011

Two Too Many Cats

Living with a member of the opposite sex for a year of my life now, I have been forced to confront many of my darkest fears, which recently included maintaining close quarters with—yet another—cat. This whole goddamned cat thing started long before those brutal months of commitment anxiety that I experienced leading up to our eventual move in together. You see, a very large part of my apprehension about sharing space with another human being had to do with the fact that I would also be doing so with her ten-pound male feline who was prone to knocking over full glasses of water, jumping onto kitchen counters, and shedding massive amounts of fur. I’d like to clear up any possible misconceptions about my personality by making it clear that I am not an animal hater. I do not tease those unfortunate creatures inside of cages at pet stores; zoos make me very uncomfortable; and I’ve even developed an aversion to killing spiders. I also cannot recall many periods in my life when I did not live with at least one beast.

The cat of my childhood preceded my birth. She was a typical lazy longhaired feline that tended to keep to herself other than when she joined me on the sofa for an occasional nap that broke up her day of napping in other places. Throughout college, I would return home to various installments of dogs that my mother seemed to inherit or keep on a trial basis. The pug who was called Samantha was the most memorable of these animals, but she developed a brain tumor that may or may not have resulted from my stepbrother repeatedly blowing pot smoke in her face (it depends on who in the family you ask). When I moved to Boston after school, I lived in a large house with four to five interchanging roommates and animals, which included two cats and the most well-behaved black lab I’ve ever met—his singular flaw being an affinity for eating garbage. But, after those strange and formative years of my life, I moved into the animal-free environment of a studio apartment where my only companion was the beer that sat beside me while I watched the Friday night Yankees game after a long week of work.

One of the greatest advantages of living in a studio apartment is that no one visits you. That’s because no one wants to be stuck sitting on your sofa that is located directly next to your bed as you offer them some more stale Tortilla chips that you found in the back of your cupboard before they arrived. My years in that studio apartment were an exploration in entertaining no one but myself and what I discovered was exactly what I had suspected: I am my own best friend. Me and I—we—had some wonderful nights together. We watched the first black president deliver his campaign victory speech. We saw the Yankees win their twenty-seventh World Series. We reread and, finally, understood the genius of Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden.” We even unexpectedly caught a glimpse of the girl across the way getting out of the shower. Me and I—we—did it all in that studio apartment. And we would have kept it that way if it weren’t for the tempered reason of a female—my girl friend—who, knowing that I tend to postpone life-altering decisions, gave me six months to consider moving in with her and her frequently misbehaved cat. Like many men before me who have been painted into such a corner of impending commitment, I realized that what I was given was an ultimatum—either ante up or leave the table.

After some significant soul-searching or (as I shall admit) self-centered readjusting, I was finally able to commit to this female and her goddamned cat. What that meant, of course, was that I had agreed to spend more time with her and this retched animal and less time with my best friend—myself. I maintain that it was the most selfless act I have carried out to this point in my life. And, since I don’t believe my organs are fit for donation and I don’t plan to make enough money for large charity endowments, this was selflessness that may not be matched for decades, or even a lifetime (should I avoid the ultimate selfless act of procreation, which is certain character suicide for a man so enamored with his own company as I am).

Needless to say after that last paragraph, the first weeks of our cohabitation were tense. I was victorious in the battle over whose microwave was better, but lost my ability to watch the New York Yankees on my large television for every at-bat of their 162-game season. I won the ability to keep my writer’s desk (a purchase of a man well-informed on the practicality of cheap, yet, well-constructed furniture), but lost the luxury of hanging my heroes on every wall (a pedigree that ranged from the pious Donald Arthur Mattingly to the crass Howard Allan Stern). In these small triumphs and defeats, I learned the essence of compromise and, in the middle of it all, remained this overly affectionate and mildly retarded cat. He shit. He shed. He scratched. He meowed. And he shed some more. But, somehow, I learned to live with these annoying qualities. Above all, he was a fiercely loyal guardian who eventually learned that, within the extra space of a two-bedroom apartment, cats and humans could stay out of each other’s hair (or fur, as it were). I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there were times when I would search out this feline from one of his hiding places if I felt I needed some company. And, so, things were good for a while—a year, in fact—until the phone rang one day and another cat needed a place to live.

I guess if I had given this story a proper beginning (some of my past writing teachers have mentioned that I display an unwillingness to jump into the heart of the action), it would have been five years prior when the same female I agreed to cohabitate with was greeted by a stray kitten who walked out from the fire escape under a drenching rain into her apartment. This cat eventually was called Jack. Jack became the feline who was the source of my anxiety before I reluctantly agreed to move in with him and his owner—my eventual girl friend—that fateful year ago. In hind site, though, the real trouble arrived later on that evening when the rain stopped and her roommate heard the shrieks of a second kitten out on the fire escape. This time, it was a female. She was not as keen about coming into the apartment as the male, but was eventually rescued by an able-bodied musician who, staying at the shared apartment for the eve, saved the pathetic wretch from sheer death. This lucky female kitten was eventually called Olive. Olive was the source of the distressed phone call that we received all these years later. And, as it was explained to us, Olive needed a place to live (again).

You see, after the female that I currently cohabitate with and her roommate found these kittens (thanks in part to that musician who helped in the rescue), they eventually decided to move out of their cramped apartment. The strayed brother and sister, Jack and Olive, were split up. Jack made his home in the studio apartment of the gale I now call girlfriend and Olive with the roommate’s mother who lived an hour west and had been collecting quite a litter of cats herself. That was until this recent phone call with its tale of a life-threatening asthma attack and a dreaded possibility to any cat-lover—an animal shelter. As it were, Olive needed a home once again and the female that I live with was more than happy to oblige. The discussion between her and I was brief. Despite not being a fan of taking care of animals, I am not one myself. The cat needed a goddamned place to stay and who was I to deny her clemency from a sheltered existence? Thus, Olive was reunited with her brother under the compromise that she would eventually find a permanent home with someone without respiratory problems.

Was it a compromise, though, or a case of naïveté? And were my selfless acts of decency becoming far too frequent? After I agreed to this arrangement, my sleep was restless—plagued by nightmares of a kitty halfway house growing within my apartment. Ailing and homeless cats with faces of abandonment and bladders filled with fear surrounded me from all angles. They made homes in my bookshelves and closet drawers. They played in front of my television while I tried to catch an inning of the ballgame. They jumped on the counter while I attempted to prepare dinner. There were cats in the bathroom watching me take care of business and wondering if there was a chance tuna fish might come out of my ass. My dreams were filled with cats, cats, cats! So, I had to make this foster care situation a quick affair or else I was doomed for sure.

Then, a funny thing happened. This new cat, the one called Olive, began to take a liking to me. Don’t ask me how or why her affection grew. Perhaps she saw it as her best chance at finding a permanent home. But, instead of charming the cat lover, she must have decided her best strategy was to pursue the heart of the skeptic. Olive kept her distance from me at first, as she got a sense for her surroundings and her long lost brother, Jack. After a while, though, she would stare at me from afar and then meow as if indicating I should not forget that she was there. But when I would approach her for a quick pet, she shied away from my touch and preferred to rub herself around my legs. I respected that. As the weeks passed and we tried to pawn Olive off on friends and family, she spent most of her time—when she wasn’t hiding somewhere in our apartment—within a ten-foot radius of me. But, again, if I tried to go in for a pet, she would shuffle away, as if to say: I prefer my space. I respected that. And, so, Olive stayed.

As I look back on the past year of my life, those solitary Friday evenings spent in my studio apartment with the ball game on my television are distant, blissful memories. I’m now trapped within the reality of commitment compromises and the affectionate purrs for food, water, and companionship. I still don’t prefer to live with all these goddamned living things, to tell you the truth. But, had I stayed in my animal-less studio, without the toils of negotiation, I would have been a king of four-hundred square feet who calls out to his loyal subjects—his TV, his record player, and his full-sized bed—only to receive nothing in return and learn nothing of himself. Now, I find myself a man ruled by two too many cats who has learned many things this past year of his life, but only knows one for sure: that two is where I draw the line.

I’m serious this time. It really is.

Eric R. Schwartz

Jack Olive

7:58pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8Gatx9Kr2gz
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(Notes: 5)

Filed under: cats

August 9, 2011

The Unapologies of a Yankees Fan Living in Boston

I don’t know the exact moment when I inexplicably fell in love with the New York Yankees. I have a vague recollection of being about six years old at a family friend’s house. There was a ball game on the television that I was pulled towards and couldn’t take my eyes off—the beautiful green grass and the players with their bright white, pinstriped uniforms. It was the most spectacular thing I’d laid my eyes on up to that point in my life. But who knows if that moment actually happened. My father didn’t like the Yankees before I began my obsession. The Cleveland Indians and the Toronto Blue Jays were the major league baseball teams closest to where I lived in upstate New York. Dad rooted for the Orioles because our local minor league club was the farm team for Baltimore. All I can tell you for sure is that my love affair came on quickly and with a ferociousness that has never left.

This loyalty followed me when I went to college in Worcester, Massachusetts where I learned exactly what loyalty really meant. Massachusetts, of course, is home to the Boston Red Sox, whose fans, in addition to holding a deep passion for their team, possess another quality: hatred. I had no idea how serious Red Sox fans were until I was in the belly of the great beast on my first trip to Fenway Park and a man sitting three rows back offered to relieve himself within the dome of my New York Yankees hat. His comment seemed undeserved since I was watching the Sox play the Devil Rays, even more so when he upped the ante a minute later from the old number one to the more disgusting and certainly more disturbing number two. I have since decided to be less heroic about my fan allegiance in Fenway Park. Now, I prefer to observe such contests mixed in with the Boston crowd as if I were Indiana Jones disguised in a Nazi uniform at a book burning ceremony. I’m not trying to compare Red Sox fans to Nazis, of course, or say that they burn books. Sox fans are certainly not similar to Nazis. Except for the fact that they would burn books if it meant that the Sox could win the Series.

It’s not their passion that surprised me when I moved to Massachusetts eleven years ago. I could relate to being a fan of a team that always let you down. My Yankee fandom began in the mid-eighties when the club was a mere shadow of its former prolific self. What surprised me about Sox fans was the pure hatred and resentment they held towards the team that I so deeply cared about. Perhaps because I grew up in upstate New York where allegiances to baseball teams lacked a regional identification, I was sheltered from this kind of blind loyalty, and, what I deemed, illogical hatred for the opponent. Yet, once I was immersed within this insanity, I eventually decided to match the passion of these quick-tongued and sharp-eyed New Englanders by becoming the Boston equivalent of a Yankees fan. I questioned every pitching move that the Yankees manager made. I analyzed every base-running blunder, every misplayed ball that may have resulted from a lack of effort. I took every loss by my New York Yankees very seriously—especially those against the Red Sox. My transformation was only intensified by the fact that I would often be surrounded by one hundred Red Sox fans when my team fell short with a heartbreaker in the ninth or when they didn’t even show up to play from the very first pitch. It was an attitude fueled by hate and it burned on like that for years until I realized that I was just feeding the animal exactly what it wanted.

I’ve learned to scale back those emotions. Although, I admit, the reactions of a baseball fan are difficult to control. Like an addiction, I suppose I could separate myself from baseball altogether in order to eliminate my more antagonistic qualities. But that’s like saying I could move to Montana and live off the land as a self-sufficient human being. I could probably do something like that, but would it make me all that better of a person? Is it that wrong to watch an inning of baseball in the comfort of my own home and say fuck when something goes wrong or stand up from my chair when a ball is hit deep as if standing will improve my angle on its flight? My girlfriend certainly has a ready answer to those questions. I’m just not sure that I do. However noble or inexplicably insane it is to deem oneself too unaffected to pay attention to such nonsense or base one’s entire personal happiness upon the outcome of a baseball season, I hope that I continue to find myself somewhere in the middle. And now, with the new technologies of the Internet and smart phone, I can spend the rest of my life arguing and rejoicing with the nonjudgmental devices that give me my precious Yankees games even as I live among the enemy. Yes, it seems I am as unapologetic about being a Yankees fan settled here in Boston, Massachusetts—with no one to celebrate victories or commiserate losses with—as these Red Sox fans are about their brutal hatred for the team I so genuinely love.

But, somehow, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Eric R. Schwartz

6:17pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8Gatx86xV8S
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(Notes: 4)

Filed under: Yankees Red Sox New York upstate Boston Fenway fan baseball

July 21, 2011

The Following Correspondence was Sent to the Director of the Creative Writing MFA Program at Boston University (May 9th, 2011). Any Similarities to Actual People Should be Googled.

L.E.,

In the course of the last week since we met, I’ve decided that I will not only dedicate my life to writing, but I’ve embarked upon a daily exercise of drilling screws into my arm to increase my intake of pain and suffering. Hammering nails was a bit too unsteady and Christ-like. I’ve found that the extra surface area on screws really allows them to dig into the muscle and maximizes my experience of self-torture. This is peanuts, of course, compared to the life that lies ahead of me as I work to become a writer for pay. Now, I know what you’re thinking—surely these fresh wounds need to be bandaged at some point. I’ll eventually have to visit a hospital that will be filled with trained professionals capable of identifying a self-cutter that should be admitted into their psychiatric ward. Luckily, in this age of the internet, I was able to find a website for local self-mutilators. As it turns out, I met a woman living here in Somerville—just a stone’s throw from my apartment—who is not only a cutter, but also a former nurse. She’s been tending to the lacerations for the last few days and, I think, taken a liking to me. Her name is Sara. She has lovely teeth and a terrific ass. The scars only make me enjoy her personality more. She quit nursing to become a writer, too, and started the cutting after she didn’t get into the MFA Program in Iowa—that’s the good one, as you know. Gosh, aren’t we all just trying to become artists these days?

Well, anyways, Sara appears to have the hots for me. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had sex with someone other than my girlfriend. Oh—remember how I had mentioned to you when we met that I had a girlfriend who I once told that, if you are a true writer, you never get writer’s block? That was true. But she left me when I beat her up after, following our meeting, I came home with an awful case of writer’s block. First time in my life. You disagreed with me that writer’s block does exist and I think you must have put it in my head. I mean if it affects you—the director of Boston University’s MFA Program in Creative Writing—then I guess it must happen to everyone. At any rate, it exists and now I’m single. But I’m figuring this thing with Sara is going to work out. It sure seems like fate. First, I meet with you and you impress upon me that becoming a writer is a long and difficult road and that, if my heart’s not in it all the way, maybe I shouldn’t be wasting your time. Then, I walk home in shame and get my first case of writer’s block, which leads to the beating of my—now former—girlfriend. After that, I get the idea about the screws in my arm. And, now, look at me: I’ve been saved. I’m now on the proper path to becoming a writer. Sure there are MFA programs and literary agents and online self-publishing services, but what I really needed was some good old fashioned self-torture. I should mention here that it occurred to me that starving myself could be an option as well—I think Hemingway ate pigeons from the park for a while—but I concluded that I like food too much and the screws certainly cause enough pain. Plus, I think I needed to see blood. You know? There’s an instant sense of gratification that comes with it.

It’s funny how things like this work themselves out. Just a week ago, I was having an existential crisis that you were kind enough to enhance existentially. Now, I’m well on my way to a successful writing career. Those poor schmucks sitting in high school creative writing classes scribbling into notebooks that think they can skate by on their talent really have one coming. They don’t realize the suffering that’s required in this business. Sara knows about it. Now, thanks to you, I know it too. I think I might head over to her place right now. Her form of cutting is different than mine. She prefers quick slashes. We’ve never actually mutilated ourselves together, but that might really add to this experience. I think it could give me some real perspective that will increase the intensity of my writing. Plus, I really wouldn’t mind fucking a girl other than my former girlfriend. It’s been so long, L.E., I can just taste it—her mouth, her skin, our blood. It gets the heart racing and I know it’ll inspire some real art. Not the kind of bullshit I was writing before our meeting.

Was it Bukowski that said writing is the human experience turned against itself? Maybe it was Faulkner. I’m not sure. All I know is that you’ve really put me back on track here. You truly are the King of the Jews. That’s such a proud title. I wish I could have thought to name a book something like that. I was formally under the impression that Jews writing holocaust fiction was a waste of time and a bit exploitive to the circumstances of your birth. But I guess having grown up with a father who wrote Casablanca back in the day when Jews couldn’t write about being Jewish, I see where you were coming from. That sure is a good film. Was it your father or your uncle who wrote the line: here’s looking at you kid? What about: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship? Classic stuff. I guess it doesn’t matter now, though. What matters is this: I know what I need to do to become a writer. It involves screws and blood and a bandage girl named Sara who I have the possibility of fornicating with in a few hours. It all might depend on whether I pass out from the pain or ecstasy of it all. King of the Jews for sure, L.E.

Here’s looking at you,

E.S.

10:09am | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8Gatx7L_OKo
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(Notes: 7)

Filed under: MFA Boston University Hemingway Bukowski Creative Writing Casablanca

June 29, 2011

‘The Goal’

I grew up in a hockey rink. My Dad was a high school hockey coach. There are pictures of me wrapped in team-colored afghans in cold, dark rinks by the shores of Lake Ontario in Rochester, New York. I was passed in the stands from the players’ parents to the other coaches’ wives and back again. When I was older, Dad surprised me with gifts of broken hockey sticks that he and I would repair and cut down to size in the shed next to our house. If the split was in the stick’s blade, we would glue and tape the blade, and, then, put it into the vise for a day. If the break occurred closer to the handle, we would simply cut the shaft of the stick so that it stood an inch above my chin—the extra length to account for when I would wear skates. Inside our house, I used coffee table coasters as hockey pucks; their chipped edges drove my mother crazy. On our couch, Dad and I would have hockey fights, pulling our winter sweaters over our heads and wrestling about. Always on the tips of our tongues were the amazingly simple but undeniably exciting words: He shoots; he scores!

At that time, in the National Hockey League, a phenom named Gretzky was King. He played for the Edmonton Oilers, tucked his sweater into the right side of his pants, and wore the intriguing number ninety-nine. I remember sitting next to my father and watching the Oilers win the Stanley Cup. I can still recall that warn down ice on my old box of a television and the moment when they handed the Cup over to number ninety-nine. Back then, the networks left the cameras rolling for the whole celebration—everyone on the team got a chance to hold the famous trophy live on TV. How could you not fall in love with that blond-haired kid from Ontario, who grew up just over the lake from where we lived? Dad couldn’t resist either. He fell as hard as I did for the Gretz.

Before the Great One, though, there were the players that my father grew up with. When I asked Dad who his Wayne Gretzky was, he always gave me the same answer: Bobby Orr. Dad told me the famous story of Orr’s goal in 1970 when he was tripped after scoring the game winner for the Boston Bruins in the Stanley Cup Finals and, still in flight, managed to raise his stick in celebration. Dad showed me the picture that he bought in Boston soon after he scored that legendary goal. The photograph was even better than the story: Orr horizontal to the ice, his stick held straight up, and the fans behind him who’d also left their feet. It almost didn’t look real. In that black-and-white still Orr wasn’t a professional hockey player—he was a kid who didn’t know how to skate. It was poetry. The photograph couldn’t have captured the joy of scoring a goal more perfectly—a moment when men turn to boys and celebrations can’t wait for safe landings.

When I got older, I never played organized hockey. I can’t tell you the exact reason why—whether it was the pressure of being the coach’s son or having spent too much time inside hockey rinks. I can tell you that I often cited not playing hockey as my only major regret in life. Now that I’m older, I recognize that it was better to have escaped adolescence with all my teeth, which happen to be one of my few genetic successes. Still, there was always a part of me that wished I could tie on a pair of skates, head out for some pond hockey, and actually stop on both sides of my skates.

Other than watching an occasional period of a nationally televised hockey game or that Kings-Canadians Stanley Cup Finals where Gretzky once again appeared, hockey faded into the background like a lot of my childhood obsessions. This only intensified in my teens after my father passed away, I left for college, and there were no more reasons to set foot inside a hockey rink. And, yet, the one possession I took from home that made it through every one of my moves since—from dorm rooms to triple-deckers to studio apartments—was that old picture of Bobby Orr and ‘The Goal.’ On the back, Dad wrote: Bobby Orr’s goal won the Stanley Cup, Boston Garden May 10^th, 1970. Bobby Orr and the Bruins would win one more championship a couple years later, but never again with their famous bushy-haired defenseman, or any of the stars who followed him.

That was before I found myself in a bar on the night of Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Playoffs with the Boston Bruins up three goals over the heavily favored Vancouver Canucks. There was just over a minute left and the Canucks pulled their goalie in a desperate attempt to get back in the game or, at least, prevent an embarrassing shutout. With the puck back in their own zone, the Canucks looked sloppy, like they had all evening, baffled by the Bruins defense. A pass went up ice and off a Canuck skate only to skip towards a ready Bruin who passed quickly to Brad Marchand—their 5-foot nine-inch, 23-year-old center—who shot the puck into the open goal and scored the empty netter that finally silenced the Canucks. When I walked home after the Bruins hoisted the Cup again, I could hear the celebration coming from Boston off in the distance. Fans were on the streets, no doubt, outside bars that lined the old Boston Garden and in Faneuil Hall where Dad had bought his copy of ‘The Goal’ on his visit to the city. Among the shouts, I’m sure there were bearded men—aging Bobby Orr fans—who couldn’t hold back the tears. I scaled the hill towards my Somerville apartment and, in the humidity of June, I was suddenly back in the hockey coaches’ office after a game the boys weren’t supposed to win. The old hockey coach was sitting across from me and he was biting back a smile that was just like the one I carried home.

6:05pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8Gatx6aiiYt
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(Notes: 6)

Filed under: hockey Boston Bruins The Goal Bobby Orr Wayne Gretzsky Somerville

June 9, 2011

America’s Morning Cigarette

Apparently I’ve planned my morning run during the time when America smokes its first cigarette. Being unemployed I start each day, which I know will be filled with professional rejection, by sidestepping the smokers lighting up in the early summer sun. Lighting and lighting. Sucking and blowing. Biting and hanging. Pulling and fucking. America still loves its morning cigarette. I suppose this country needs its routines, habits, and quick-fixes. There is comfort in the pre-packaged bliss of knowing exactly what you’re going to get. If I did not have such an aversion to the smell, I suppose I could see their side of the story. There is reliability in life’s little pleasures that we don’t always get from its greater ones—careers, loves, dreams. I can appreciate the point of all this lighting—a bum in his usual spot starting up a cigarette to settle his nerves before a day of convincing people he’s worth the spare buck, or this middle-aged fella blowing smoke over his shoulder on which he carries an executive’s bag (he appears Zen-like in his possible reflection on corporate preponderance). So, yes, I recognize the social unity in the smokers that I pass during my morning runs. I almost feel unpatriotic in my smoke-free unemployment, which allows me to exercise at this specific hour. I should have known that the country is reassured of its sustainability when it sees a mother jogging behind her children in a red two-tyke stroller, but not a guy like me wearing the same pit-stained t-shirt each morning to avoid putting more change into the laundry machine. Perhaps I should take up smoking as a way to overcome all of this recent rejection. But, somehow, I can still see an America that will grow tired of this constant lighting and decide to die of the things that are considered less patriotic—like a broken heart.