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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."
147
I had this dream this morning while watching the Saved by the Bell episode where they go to Hawaii and Jeff tricks Kelly's grandpa into losing his hotel that there should be a tumblog called "Jeff From Saved by the Bell is a Jerk and Stuff" featuring Jeff from Saved by the Bell being included in pictures of other real life and fictiony jerks. Other rules:
1. Kelly must be somewhere in the picture. Bonus points if she is a donkey or some other beast of burden.
2. Negative points for usage of AC Slater.
3. Images of Screech may only be included if they are from his sex tape or sufficiently bearded.
4. Bonus points for incorporating Elizabeth Berkeley, but only if she's included as part of a tree or a boot or a lawn chair or something.
EXAMPLE:
146
Someone was rambling to me about Coolio this morning (apparently I had time warped to 1997) and Gangsta's Paradise and it hurt my soul to discover they did not know that Coolio is a complete thief.
DEAR COOLIO: WHEN YOU COPY AN ENTIRE SONG AND ONLY CHANGE TWO WORDS, IT IS NOT SAMPLING. IT IS STEALING.
It also hurts my soul that Billboard named this crap the #69 best song of all time. Coolio added nothing to this song but changing the word Pastime to Gangsta'. Are we really giving him props for advancing the popularity of the word gangsta'? Really?
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THE FOUR MURDERERS KILLING AMERICA'S GAYBORHOODS.
Omg hyperbole much?
I link this purely because it brought the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck to my attention. Where is my soft serve, Adrian Fenty?
PS. In regards to the picture at the left, no self-respecting homosexual purveyor of frozen treats would pack so many calories onto an ice cream cone. That potato chip monstrosity represents a good eight hours at the gym and four weeks in near-suicidal self-loathing over the pound you'll gain eating it.
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I find this tie mesmerizing. I love the Escher-esque pattern and the way it somehow manages to combine every pastel without being overbearing.
Unfortunately it is $50. Sigh. Now I know what Langston Hughes meant by a dream deferred...
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Thing You Probably Could've Googled Yourself of the Day:
Blog roll of the past decade's silly New Year's Eve glasses.
I can't wait until 2010. Finally it will be Joaquin Phoenix's time to shine!
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Oh my -- this has been reuploaded! If you don't find this funny we may not be able to be friends.
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