Starting Bid: $16.99
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Black Low-Top Chuck Taylors (Pre-Nike Era!!!!). Heavily Used. Hole in Rubber Sole of Right Shoe approx. 3/5 inch in Diameter. (Hole Has Been Filled With Wad of Paper Napkins Taken From A Churros Stand at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk). Color Faded. One (1) Eyelet missing metal ring. Size 11½.
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Denouncing all manner of helotry, I bought a bus ticket from Santa Cruz to Seattle, arriving the week before the WTO conference and locating, amidst the impending rioters, a half-dozen online acquaintances, not quite socialists but something closer, perhaps, to secular nihilists, rich kids, products of divorce, real MENSA types with chips on their shoulders, who by their mid-20s had been bailed out of jails all over the country by lawyers retained by their parents; kids who had grown up on the Upper West Side and gone to St. George’s or Andover, and had formed a small tribe of like-minded individuals hellbent on vandalism (I had learned all this through repeated excursions to the Santa Cruz Public Library, a place sympathetic to ideologies like mine, an institution that has resisted wholly the sensational hegemony of the Patriot Act, that would rather read Orwell than live it, a place that fully endorsed the idea of someone who had been sleeping on the beach for a week, unshowered, sitting down and using a computer to exchange messages with a group planning violence, as long as the violence spoke out against larger violence, which the violence in Seattle really meant to), and with the vapors of tear gas roiling about us, providing a berserk sort of vestment, I, along with this crew of a half-dozen, removed a public trash can from its foundation, rocked and then ripped the can free from where it was bolted to the concrete, and while I cannot take credit for actually launching said can through the plate glass storefront of NikeTown, I most certainly did enter the spacious, high-ceilinged shop and wrecked everything I could before an agent of law forcibly detained me; which is to say these very shoes, made by a company subsequently bought out by Nike, destroyed a multitude of shelves, boxes, clothing racks and other props within the previously mentioned establishment. It remains a sad thing for me to see the uneducated hipster masses still wearing these shoes obliviously, wholly unaware that they are supporting a corporate monster. As I had no rich parents to bail me out of jail, I watched my beleaguered cohorts exit the King County holding cell we had shared for the past seventy-two hours, each vowing that they would make sure that their legal representation found a way to afford me a similar freedom. These promises turned out to be empty, and I in turn was held for nearly a month before my day in court, wherein a female judge wore the same terse frown for a full twenty minutes before assigning me a very heavy fine, which I haven’t paid a cent of.
Starting Bid: $8.99
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Lot of Mets Paraphernalia, Years 2003–08. Ten Pennants, Three T-Shirts, Two “Bobbleheads” (Piazza and Martinez). Keychain. Inflatable Bat.
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And there were more travels, too, trips worn like coats, heavy journeys, all by bus; things that now seem at once fictive and real, not lived but experienced, as I stalled, balked and temporized, trying hard to never commit, to never settle. In Denton, Texas, there was a fistfight during the Fry Street Fair. In Tulsa, I had an affair with a topless dancer, her husband a tornado chaser and retired seismologist. We were discovered after an F4 didn’t pan out, the man walking in while we kissed in the kitchen and subsequently weeping, screaming I was doom’s chattel, the paw of Satan himself. There was a year spent in Cleveland, running bags at a fancy hotel. But with time these jumps summed to nothing, their purpose epicene, if possessing form at all. That is, I (sort of) went home. My father, with whom I had been in touch intermittently, had moved to Long Island City, his pension and part-time math tutoring just enough. I arrived on his doorstep windblown, eight people at once. Time had taken; his hair had turned white. We sat in twin recliners in his small living room. I’m ready to stick around now, I told him. I’ve dreamed that, that you said that, my father said back.
The New York Transit Authority is always looking for a few good men, and I got a job as a Customer Service Rep at Grand Central, the pay rate 25 per. I’m still here, sitting while so many move. My father and I have season bleacher seats at Shea, the Metties, each year, breaking our hearts. The ramp to Grand Central’s lower concourse possesses improbable acoustical properties; in those rare moments when things are slow a single person will descend its length and, passing under the archway, the sound of their footfalls will dance up to the ceiling, and it’s all I can do to keep myself seated, to not rise from my faux leather desk chair and scream at them take me with you, I will pay any amount. Is there a trick to this that I’m missing? Some clue, unfound? At the ballpark are beef franks, soft pretzels, hot mustard. My commute in from Queens is easy, off-hours. But I can’t quite convince myself to buy in completely, and my dad, from a fall, now has a fake hip, and the bills are like virus, dormant then outbreak, and I can’t house this stuff because I can’t keep it near me, can’t see it each day and know more stuff is out there, while I wait here, an anchor, the son now returned, as epics are written and objects constructed and buses, at nighttime, rush over blacktops, always going somewhere better, somewhere else.
Starting Bid: $9.99
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Original Copy of Toast from the Banks–Skyzwack Wedding Reception, Orange County Country Club, July 16th, 2006. Paper is Slightly Yellowed (Time) and has Large Merlot Stain in right bottom corner. Legibility of text remains unaffected.
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I should state here that it wasn’t just me that was against the Banks–Skyzwack union, but rather that the group of friends that I had known from my time in the Midwest found this merger so unsavory that many of them actually boycotted the event, and that in accepting my role of Best Man there were two starkly different demographics pressuring me with their agendas, the first of these being the aforementioned friends, and the second The Bride and Groom. While I did and do admit to a predilection for spirits, the latter party’s selfishly exaggerated concern in regard to this issue translated ultimately to me being forced to sleep at the foot of Kyla Skyzwack’s childhood bed, The Bride and Groom inches away, snoring in tandem on the spring-coiled Serta twin so as to keep sober the night before their big day. But let me back up: Tyler Banks, once punk rock dishwasher, was now a porn mogul, having landed in Chatsworth at just the right time to be a part of smut’s jump into cyberspace. Everything wrong with America is dreamed up first in LA.
Tyler found me through my place of employment, my name listed on some page of the MTA’s website. I tell myself I flew west out of loyalty, though I know it has much more to do with a dysfunctional lusting after things long passed. Arriving at John Wayne, I found my former friend and his bride in baggage claim, tanned and dead inside. The subsequent days only brought proof of this claim, the wedding party dining at a Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood, where Kyla, an employ of Tyler’s Tens (in addition to a multitude of other pay sites), flashed her enormous fake breasts to a group of Japanese tourists, who in turn held up their end of this tasteless cliché by taking copious amounts of pictures with their digital cameras. Tyler’s own parents sat smiling, Midwestern and horrified. Kyla’s family was Armenian and devoid of moral pretense, caring less about what their daughter did than making sure she in no way could be viewed as lumpen: that the millions would keep coming, never mind the source. The last straw was the procurement, by Tyler, of an entourage of mid-tier adult stars, from which I could pick as many or as few as I wanted to have my way with. This wretched attempt at gift occurred in a private lounge in a West Hollywood nightclub, Tyler producing a key to a suite at a nearby hotel. I chose a single female, had the taxi drop her off a block away, and went to the room alone, where I wrote the below speech in full:
A toast then, while we can, while youth graces us, while our faces shine, while our hair is coiffed in a manner that inspires true envy, while our fingern
ails possess no chips, nothing hanging, while our organs are determined and hearty, while our good teeth remain intact in their gums, need not root canals, need not extraction, need not to be worked on while we sit in a chair that has been reclined mechanically, trying to think of something better to think about, the birds lighting past the window, the dental saw whirring; while we wake without tingling in one of our limbs, before our blouses and cap toes and cuts of our jeans plunge inevitably toward obsolescence, prior to the consideration of vitamin supplements, prior to repeat excursions to outlet wholesalers because the thatched Javan magazine rack is backordered; while there’s a tap in our toes, a cut to our jib, while vibrancy still speckles the iris, while beds go unmade and floors function as hampers and we know all the songs on the radio, and our skin is not squamous from the aging of cells, and we do not lurch down the hallways of rest homes, before ducks in neat rows and the long gloam of August, before the cold front, the squall line, the wind shift, a lifting of glasses, a jubilant hoisting, because we have made it this far mainly intact, because no act has crushed us to palsied, because it’s 6:32 on a June night in Tustin and the back room of this hall is ours for the full of the evening, and for a short time we will not be hurtled toward loss, toward our own peculiar miseries, will sit here with wine and not age and not die for we possess immortal capacity, something better than hope, because hope is for the weak, is for the needy, is for middle-aged dads six months past divorce, is for the octogenarian who prays before bedtime that her SSI checks will outlast her, will not expire before she does, these people need hope, that gold, hollow thing, and we, while here, while dining, need nothing—need only for our drinks to be freshened up, need only to have the food keep coming.
Because we had been promised that the food would keep coming, were assured by a bevy of antediluvians (whom we did or did not cast our votes for), that the shelves would be full, that the taps would run clean, that there would be unending smorgasbord, as this country, while we were still glints in the eye, still tears in the condom, had chosen McDonald’s, not McGovern, had fueled oiled and lubed the corporate machine, had cared more about product than service, and so then new odes: to the plasma tv, to the next batch of modified food additives, to pay sites devoted to horny young teens and updated daily; to bugs in the code and thus data corruption, to Diebold’s firm grasp on Ohio, to the image, long passed, of Saddam in beret, grasping the hilt of a saber, gauging the weight of the gold-handled sword per a series of terse chopping motions—Saddam is testing a weapon—to a long list of lies that we’ll be left to explain to our children and then to our grand-children, should we not die on the roads, in the air, from disease—to tunnel-vision, because as long as we can keep both eyes on the road, we do not need to look at the landscape, and as long as there’s gas and asphalt and rubber trees, we can keep driving without destination, a word we know not what to do with, a word and idea, we’re really pretty sure, that somebody else was supposed to take care of, while we leased SUVs and ate maki rolls and attained thorough knowledge of Wall Street’s big gainers, and since we know nothing, since the directions were lost, since all manner of order was tossed out the window, as we enter this century grasping at straws and pointing with fingers, I urge, while you can, listen less and see more, before what lies ahead turns to dots in the rearview, before life is a marker long passed and well gone—steal these candlesticks, fill your coat up with forks, and hurry along into the night; do not let this world catch up with you, ever, and if it does knock, do not let it in.
Speech was read once in its entirety. A second reading was halted by the disc jockey, a for-hire guy by the name of Lenny Tarveck who, as it turns out, was also from Buffalo, and grew up not all that far from me.
Starting Bid: $1
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29
Discarded Notions
Matthew Williamson
THE UNDERGROUND MANSION.
In a nutshell: This big, crazy mansion—totally underground.
Master plan: Purchase 1) camping gear, 2) inexpensive plot of land, 3) shovel, 4) seeds and bulbs, 5) materials for homebuilding. Plant seeds and bulbs on property. Pitch tent. Camp on property during construction of mansion, subsisting on fruit and vegetable harvest. Dig hole. When hole is mansion-sized, begin building mansion from bottom up. When mansion is complete, pack up camping gear, move into mansion, reside there indefinitely. Continue to subsist on fruit and vegetable harvest.
Why discarded: 1) Money: Because of unemployment, lacked funds to purchase land and homebuilding materials. 2) The Proficiency Deficit: No experience in carpentry, masonry, plumbing, wiring, etc. 3) Building Code: Code forbade construction of underground mansions.
Days entertained before abandonment: 6.
THE TRUTH PARTY.
In a nutshell: A political party, okay, but one that tells the truth, and is in favor of total freedom from government intrusion into the private affairs of its citizens, and is all about fostering a nationwide brotherhood and a community based on community (vs. corrupt capitalism).
Master plan: Photocopy and distribute leaflets addressing key social issues/problems of community concern & answering questions like: What is the Truth Party?, Why should I join the Truth Party?, and How can I join the Truth Party? Organize community meetings. Nominate self for, win local office. Use local office as bully pulpit, spreading truth, generating interest in national Truth Party. Run for, win national office. (Pres.?) End government intrusion into private affairs of citizens, foster brotherhood, replace capitalism with system of sharing based on common values. Revise building code to permit construction of underground mansions.
Why discarded: 1) Money: Because of unemployment, lacked funds to photocopy leaflets. 2) Corrupt Corporate-Controlled Media: Media controlled by corrupt corporate interests, hostile to political party based on truth and sharing. 3) The Lemming Factor: Public unreceptive to new ideas (esp. when presented via leaflet), unable to act collectively in own self-interest (see Corrupt Corporate-Controlled Media, above).
Days entertained before abandonment: 277.
THE CHRISTFUXX.
In a nutshell: Musically/politically /philosophically/aesthetically revolutionary punk/rap/worldbeat combo.
Master plan: Place classified ad in Chronicle listing influences, inviting gifted, adventurous, politically conscious instrumentalists to audition for multi-ethnic septet. Hold auditions. Form above-described septet (w/self as frontman). Perform unique hybrid of punk, rap, worldbeat, drawing on various cultures past and present, blending music of Ignored Instruments and Forgotten Instruments w/bass, guitar, drums. Build following. Sign major-label record deal. Subvert dominant paradigm from within culture. Tour Europe, Asia.
Why discarded: 1) Money: Because of unemployment, lacked funds to purchase classified ad. 2) The Proficiency Deficit: Unable to play any instrument; voice described as nasal, unappealing (also: easily winded due to decades of heavy tobacco/cannabis consumption); poor sense of rhythm, pitch. 3) The Credibility Gap: Skilled multi-ethnic multi-instrumentalists unlikely to join/finance project spearheaded by easily-winded non-instrumentalist w/unappealing, nasal voice.
Days entertained before abandonment: 1,843 (non-consecutive).
THE TRAVELS OF NICHOLAS O’GRADY.
In a nutshell: Mammoth Novel of Ideas following travels/adventures of titular thinker/lover/poet (loosely modeled on self) in dystopian near-future. Opening epigram: “Not all who wander are lost.”
Master plan: Boldly envision dystopian near-future in which corrupt corporate-controlled world government routinely intrudes into citizens’ private affairs. (Workers replaced/governed by robots, etc.) Transmit bold vision to pages of epic novel (jointly dedicated to H. P. Lovecraft, Allen Ginsberg, Janis Joplin). Self-publish (in English, Icelandic). Tour the country, giving readings to eclectic audiences, interviewing w/local print/radio journalists. When novel has become worldwide cult phenomenon, sell rights to major publishing house for many millions of dollars. Lecture at universitie
s/participate in elite symposia. Accept prestigious/lucrative fellowship(s), move to Iceland, begin work on The Further Travels of Nicholas O’Grady.
Why discarded: 1) Money: Because of unemployment, lacked funds to self-publish. 2) The Proficiency Deficit: Monolingual; unable to translate epic work into Icelandic. 3) The Lemming Factor: Public unreceptive to new ideas (esp. when presented via sci-fi picaresque). 4) Corrupt Corporate-Controlled Media: Enticing array of entertainment options inhibited concentration, prolonging tedious work of transmitting bold vision to printed page.
Days entertained before abandonment: 2,372 (non-consecutive).
ELFA GUDMUNDSDOTTIR.
In a nutshell: Gorgeous, artistic, unapologetically intellectual, Icelandic on-again-off-again girlfriend of ex-best-friend (Brock Taylor). Soulmate?
Master plan: After Brock is discovered in flagrante delicto w/Elfa’s 17-y/o cousin Sigrun, lure Elfa into retaliatory sex. During post-coital embrace, talk expansively/poetically of life, love, art. Confide grand dreams of underground mansion, grassroots political movement, genre-busting multi-ethnic combo, Novel of Ideas, gainful employment. In weeks/months/years following Elfa’s tearful reconciliation w/Brock, liaise w/Elfa in secret whenever possible. Gradually woo away from Brock. Wed.
Fakes: An Anthology of Pseudo-Interviews, Faux-Lectures, Quasi-Letters, Found Texts, and Other Fraudulent Artifacts Page 21