Virtual Flaneurism

Yesterday evening I stumbled upon a short story by actor James Franco published in Esquire magazine. Some of you might know that I like to think of myself as a fiction writer of sorts, and actually applied to M.F.A. Fiction programs two years ago. Imagine my chagrin/nonplussed-ness/effort in getting my vomit-covered bedspread to the cleaners when I discovered not only this story, but that Mr. Franco is currently pursuing an MFA at Columbia. See attached picture for his academic dedication at said program.

Reading the story, I was initially confused. I thought it was perhaps about blue-color Latino workers in the US – mainly because a supporting character referred to the narrator as “Manuel”. Paragraphs later I was informed this was incorrect – the character’s name was not Manuel but Michael. This misnaming did not get woven into the plot. I have to conclude that James Franco either lacks a backspace button or is too computer-incompetent to know how to erase. This would also go a long way to explain how the story got its “plot”.

Another hint at the theme of the piece was the repeated instances of characters calling one another “Homes” – like the house, not the detective. I take this to mean that Franco’s story is set in a 1994 episode of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I invite you to find a deeper implication.

Let me be frank (or perhaps let me be franco): this story is painfully regular college writing class gumbo. Late teens writing for fiction courses typically submit work meeting these requirements:

1. It must clearly be a scene from their everyday life. For example, New York city writers must write about living in Chinatown and watching their neighbors from the rooftop and have existential weed-smoking experiences.

2. There must be long, ephemeral stream-of-consciousness paragraphs about what the narrator/protagonist is thinking. Typically these will be whiny and reflect a discontent with life as we know it. Also, use lots of adjectives. (PS. Thank you J.D. Salinger. You effectively ruined contemporary literature. I would've hidden myself away, too.)

3. There must be a lack of a coherent and complete plot line. The shorter the time span the piece covers, the better. The New Yorker is contractually obligated to publish any piece that takes place over a period of time shorter than fifteen seconds. Less than five, and you get a book deal with Harper Collins. Additionally, the more obscure the author is to any actual happenings, the better. Show, don’t tell. And by show, we mean show your familiarity with clichés and catchphrases! Who let the dogs out? You. You. You.

Am I bitter that Franco is published in Esquire and has a book deal? Certainly. Would I be as bitter if his writing showed an ounce of skill? I’d like to think no. And when it comes to my own writing, should you be wondering, it is very likely that I will say that I will show it to you and then never do so. Not because I’m embarrassed, but rather because I’m lazy. Then again, maybe it's because I AM NO JAMES FRANCO.

Two of my “favorite” parts of the story:

1. Joe and I sit and stare at the wall of the building. The building is beige, but the shadows make it shadow-color.

Joe smokes. His window is all the way down, and he breathes his smoke out the black gaping gap.

2. I wish I was Mexican, or Hebrew, I mean Jewish, I mean Israeli, or Mexican Jewish, or Mexican Jewish gay, because it can be so boring being you sometimes, and if you were the most special thing like that, it could be really great, but maybe some people say the same thing about you, and you want to tell those people: "No, you're stupid, it's no fun being me."