Daniel Adler's Internet Warehouse is The Internet Warehouse

Guys, I moved. Blogger just doesn't get the respect from Google I need. When you Google search my name, you'll see that it's now at the bottom of the page, at number 9. I used to be number 6. This is one reason I'm moving to Wordpress.

Another is I want to change the format of my blog. I want you to be able to contribute and so it will now be The Internet Warehouse. Feel free to email me at danielryanadler@gmail.com if you want to submit. In the meanwhile, all of my content from Daniel Adler's Internet Warehouse is up on Wordpress at DanielRyanAdler.com. This will be better for my personal SEO and it will be more professional - cleaner and sexier. My personal site, DanielTheWriter.com is still up and running. Thanks for understanding and I'll see you soon.

Help: A Post Postmodern Dilemma

Bernini's "Apollo and Daphne"

Dear Gorgeous,

So far this has been my blog. I'm totally willing to publish anything you guys think is relevant. I mean, it is an internet warehouse after all, it's supposed to store a lot of different stuff.

Anyway I've been thinking about my book lately, the ol' Hot Love On The Wing. I've been trying to delve deep into the character of my female protagonist, Daphne. I've two main ways of approaching it:

1. Show Don't Tell: The way most good writing works. I show a scene where Daphne gets frustrated by the way menfolk don't take her seriously, even though she has good things to say, and you guys get an idea of what kind of woman she is.

2. Post Postmodernist: I point out to you that I can't truly know what Daphne is thinking, but based on the fact that I, the narrator and protagonist, have lived with and known Daphne for years, I have a good idea of what she might be thinking. While this can give you insight into the protagonist's psychology and his relationship with Daphne, it is a potential trap: I'm telling without showing.

Can you see my dilemma? If there are any ideas on how to solve this, or if any writers wanting to step up and suggest what I ought to do, please feel free.

All my love,
Daniel Adler

Eye Scream Sunday

The other night was sultry, with gray clouds rolling over the sky and a mid-August feel despite the fact that it was only April. The magnolia in the backyard rollicked in the breeze, its pink petals just beginning to bloom at the top of the tree, and I ate my spaghtetti and arrabiata tomato sauce outside, with a napkin tucked into my collar. Aakash was busy working, moving back and forth from his apartment to the backyard patio.

Aakash had neon orange cutouts that he had measured to fit over the wheels of Guillermo's truck. I sat on my stoop, eight steps high, drinking a bottle of San Pelligrino, listening to the Spanish conversations of the men who worked at the auto shop next door, as Aakash set the neon cubic structures. Guillermo came home and was kind enough to sit in the car and model. We chatted and saw an ice cream truck sing past us with its characteristic carnival jingle. I had long wondered why the trucks flocked to our street, and assumed the existence of a depot, while telling my friends that really they sold ice cream during the day, but after 8 o clock, they sold drugs. We decided to place the neon cubes over the wheels of the ice cream truck.

When we walked over, an older man walked back and forth from the truck to the shop carrying big bags, and a young girl spoke on her cell phone. We asked if we could use the truck, and then the owner appeared saying that he wasn't sure, he didn't want his truck to end up in the New York Times and not get anything for it. Aakash reassured him that it was nothing like that, and I decided to buy some ice cream to assuage the situation. 

The girl, who was about my age and would have been pretty except for an overbite that made her lisp, sold me an ice cream bar, and I eagerly ate the chocolate on vanilla. Aakash wanted us to act natural and so we started to chat.

She was ecstatic and said that we were so cool to be taking pictures of her truck, that she was so happy, that all she ever does is work, and this kind of thing is so much better. I asked her about her family's drug cartel and she said yes, they sold weed and coke, primarily, but they were willing to submit special requests.

When we said our goodbyes and thank yous and got home, we decided to look at the avant garde art pictures for which one to put on display. Out of the 127, we chose one, featured above. This one we chose over the one with me and the girl interacting – she leaning out of the window with her hands over the glass like a puppy dog hopefully waiting on my reactions, me standing, ice cream bar in hand, gesticulating widely over some forgotten aspect of conversation.

Neurosurgery Confessionals

I wrote this my freshman year of college for my writing class:

 My dad wasn't around much when I was younger because he was in his residency until he was 36. I can’t blame him  though, since he has to deal with life and death on an unparalleled basis.  This I came to understand during one of those lazy Sundays that involved running errands and making rounds.  This particular Sunday, after making rounds earlier in the day, his beeper went off again.  Usually, if we were out and about and he was called in, I would have a book ready. I often sat alone in the car, reading for hours at a time until he finished doing whatever it was he did.  I expected the same out of this call, but my father emerged from the hospital just as I was settling in for a nice hour or two of reading. He knocked on the window with a key and beckoned me to follow.


In the hospital was a 15 year old boy who was very recently involved in a gang shooting.  When we walked through all of the double doors and were deep into the heart of the hospital, we finally arrived at the right room.  The boy was lying on a bed leaning at 45 degrees, looking very close to death. He was white, his head was shaved and he was stark naked, which added a touch of realism to the situation; that body looked similar to mine, and indeed, we were the same age.  The bullet had entered the boy’s head in between the left temple and ear.  Rather than the bloody mess I was expecting, there was a tiny v-shaped cut.  The bullet was lodged in the left ventricle of the brain, causing massive hemorrhaging.  There was no exit wound.  This kid, who a few hours before had been running around, doing teenager stuff, had been shot and was most probably going to die.  My father was busy conversing with nurses about how the kid had become brain dead.  As his heart was still beating, he was alive and in a vegetative state that would not continue for many more hours.


My father summoned me onwards to a room where he said the boy’s mother was.  I knew what was coming and began to protest that I wanted no part of it.  But I knew that after having come this far, I could not turn back.  It was a ride of painful emotions that I had to weather, even if only to understand how precious my own life is.  We entered the room and sat down in a style akin to the way it’s done in movies.  The mother and the boy’s uncle were there; they knew also.  When my father began to slowly explain the situation, the mother began to sob.  Not uncontrollably, but with deep, steady, sadness.  The man to her left was stone-faced, arm around her, trying to stabilize her bobbing shoulders.  The whole time my dad was solemn, his countenance grim  -- he knew exactly how to handle the situation.   

Dealing with such heavy emotions is never easy, but the composure my father showed was amazing.  He knew the scope of the family’s tragedy. To reveal anything more than a compassionate frown would be disaster, the woman would completely lose it and who knows what might happen after that.  I felt nearly sick from feeling so close to tragedy, yet so very removed; I didn’t even know these people.  And so I just sat, silent, watching, wondering what it would be like to hear that my own son was going to die from a bullet wound to the head. 


My father's poise allowed me to garner a further appreciation for what he does.   While for me, this experience helped me to see the thinness of life's thread and when snipped just how far the spool can unravel, for my dad it was just another day at work.

A View From Afar

This is pushing it, but hey, that's what I do.

Top Notch Care Company

I’ve got to be honest. I know some of you may think that I’m sick, that I should enjoy being mobile while I can, but seriously, enough of disclaimers: I really admire power wheelchairs. I mean manual wheelchairs are great and all, but for those folks who have difficulty with upper body strength and are in no shape to walk around, those power wheelchairs are pretty, pretty sweet.

I can just imagine it: wind blowing along my scalp, weaving in between pedestrians, maybe even cruising in the bike lane because, let’s face it, when your moving at 10 miles per hour or faster you can’t have old fogies with knee walkers and rolling walkers or young whippersnappers with backpacks getting in your way. If you want mobility, and I mean real mobility, then power wheelchairs are the only way to go.

It’s not that I don’t value my own legs; believe me, I do. It’s just that if I am ever at the point where I need a manual wheelchair, I will decline it in favor of a fast moving power wheelchair. That is my ideal way to get around when I am enjoying my golden years.


This is a pretty good example of post - postmodernism, but stick around for posts this week that will demonstrate in full what I mean by this abstruse theoretical term, and will attempt to give it a better name.

My Blog Portfolio

These are some of the other blogs that I write for. They don't involve post postmodernism or classic literature, but they are for work, and I try to make them cool. By clicking on the desired link you will find topics of interest, as well as a non-partisan perspective on national and international states of affairs.Just throw 'em in the ol' Internet Warehouse.

www.LuxuryOD.com

www.BusinessBigShots.com

www.IsraelNewsNet.com

www.DealSpice.com

www.FashionBeautyBlog.com

www.NationalHomeMover.com

New York Writers Plot

Caravaggio's "The Martyrdom of St. Matthew" (1600)

  When I lay in bed after that date, my heart was light and beating like a dog’s foot when he’s dreaming about hunting rabbits. I wanted so badly to lean in and kiss her as she opened her door, lips glistening in the faintest hint of a smile, and then with a final “bye,” she disappeared, leaving me behind, forlorn in the hallway. Seconds later, I was elated as I entered our apartment because I had done it, gone out with the girl I loved,and I knew there was only progression ahead. Or decay, but I didn’t let that thought enter my mind; my only sorrows came from impatience. 

I slept soundly and warmly and dreamed of a girl in my class at school, who wasn't bomb, though she certainly did have some sexual potency. I moved in with her, at random, and was up in Murray Hill for some reason, trying to get back to my apartment, skating of course. In the dream, Murray hill was a real hill, and there were a couple of kids playing skate up ahead. One of them did a front flip, and in awe, I went down a side street to avoid them. When I finally arrived home, I saw her - Kelsey - and she looked at me with her head cocked and said the roommates aren’t home, do you want to do it? And I said yes. So we stripped casually, but she stripped layer after layer. And I asked, I thought you wanted me? And she replied, I do. But all she did was remove another layer of longjohns, or panties, or sheer tights. 

Although I woke up slightly confused as to the meaning of the dream, I felt good about last night. My classes dragged like a loose muffler that morning. We were reading Ellison’s Invisible Man in AP English, and we had to write an essay about it, in preparation for the test in a few weeks. Mine was poor. I didn’t worry. 

At lunch I talked to Buckley, but not about his sister. The fact was I didn’t really know what to do. It weighed heavy on me, and burned, but sometimes you learn more about how you feel from not talking and keeping it inside you to fester and boil and then eventually secrete out in some kind of concoction, than you do from just letting it flow before it’s finished cooking. So we spoke of the rain, and of class, about college a bit, and the summer. Time is the school in which we learn, someone once said. Boy he wasn’t kidding. 

The afternoon was all about me holding my chin in my palm and thinking about her, my next chance with her, seeing her after school maybe, almost not wanting to see her, in order to preserve those memories of her perfection, of the ethereal memory of the night prior without any blemish or additional faux pas caused by my fawning to muck it up. But then the overwhelming passion I felt for her conversation, her smile, and that strong insatiable urge for her body…I passed another resolution. I had to kiss her to progress past the point of insipid flounder. 

When dinner came and went, I decided against going to Buckley’s, and instead, he came over to me.

“Yo man, what’s up?” he said, flouncing onto my bed. “Wanna get high?”

“Nah, not reals, I’m just thinking about how high school’s almost over, and like our whole world is about to change,” I lied.

“Yea, it’s pretty heavy stuff man.”

At that time it was like the whole world was impending, and come September it would either collapse into flames or explode into light. It was Wednesday, with that pervasive feeling that we as Americans get when over the hump, when a lilt of ennui begins to settle in for the night as we prepare for the latter half of the week and the eventual days of release. 

“Hey man, why don’t you and Dela ever hang out on the weekends?”

“I dunno. I mean she just studies. You know how she doesn’t really like to party.”

you’re so full of it Buck. she used to go out with Aron all the damn time and come back drunk and giggling at two in the morning when you had fallen asleep and I was busy putting toothpaste on your face, to get you to awake with that burning compound on your upper lip, and I would wait listening for your itching and hear sex sounds, the motion, the moans, something so foreign that I didn’t know how to regulate and balance the feelings of disgust and curiosity. “Yea, but she used to go out with Aron, didn’t she?” Just saying that bastard’s name made me cringe and shiver with jealousy at how he, disgusting wretch who just so happened to be graced with some family connection in Northern California, was able to go to an impressive school that I had no shot– and not nearly enough money – of getting into. With that reputation the knave had seized my Dela’s innocence, leaving her alone to her nunnery of books as I’m sure he worked his way through the rounds of college girls he was accustomed to fucking, while she, poor she, waited with dedication for him to return. If only I could convince her of the strength of my love for her, of my desire to be with her and become Buckley’s brother by marriage – then, only then, could I be happy. 

“Yea, I guess. Have you ever invited her out with us?”

“Hey man, what’s with you and Dela anyways?” He cocked his head and pulled back, giving me those squinty eyes. “I mean she’s my fuckin sister, man.”

“Buckley! I’m surprised at you! How can you be so defensive when you know that Dela is a sweet, lovely young girl. She’s intelligent, interesting, and fun. And she’s got great tits.” 

“You fucker.” He punched me on the arm as I sniggered, but little did he know I meant all of it, and was crude at the last bit only to get his goad. 

“Nah, but seriously, I mean I can talk to her about lots of stuff. Like, she’s your sister man, and I mean being related to you, no shit she’s cool.” He ruffled his feathers with modest appreciation. “It would be fun if we could all hang out sometime.”

“Yea, whatever, just remember she still dates Aron.”

“Dude, I know that,” a plan beginning to form in my desperate head, “but you know I like Dela as a friend.” He glared at that remark, not entirely sure what to make of it, but feeling my good will, decided to trust me. I mean, I am his best friend. “Why don’t you invite her to Stacie’s party on Saturday? I mean, she studies all dang day. I’m sure she wants to go out.”

“Why don’t you invite her to Stacie’s? That way you can see that she doesn’t want to come to a high school party.”

“Well maybe I will then.”

So Buckley stuck around a while longer, but realized I wasn’t being much fun, and though I love him I was glad for him to go so that I could be alone with my plan. 

Plan: 

 Stage 1: Date Dela, obtain her intellectual interest and allow her to feel comfortable enough around me so that she will think of me as a potential suitor. ACHIEVED.

Stage 2: Isolate her with the use of Buckley in a party environment. After imbibing copious amounts of alcohol, (or in her case probably a beer or two) she should feel comfortable enough to kiss me, as a friend. In the case of rejection, I will be able to use as an excuse my propensity for alcoholism genetically encumbered upon myself through my mother’s Irish heritage. Proposed Date of Completion: Imminent.

Stage 3: General feelings of sexual tension and unease when with me, (i.e. the willingness to kiss again will spark a full on make out session, during which I will hopefully be able to remove her shirt and brassiere cunningly with one hand, thereby allowing her beautiful D’s to spill out into the open air and, with nipples erect and areolas with goose bumps, they will feel the wet caresses of my tongue). Proposed date of Completion: 3-4 weeks

Stage 4: At this point, she will consider me a valid rival against her foolish long distance boyfriend, and as a result, will choose me over him. Full on coitus will ensue, and I in a showdown duel with Aron, that shmuck with an idiotic name trying to manipulate convention with only one A, will stab him in the belly, leaving him to groan and scream like Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs, with me standing over him and laughing like a mad scientist, and he begging, pleading at my ankles, grasping at my pant legs to spare him the agony, will be satisfied when I finally take my rapier and plunge it through his heart. And after that… Proposed Date of Completion: Post-Graduation, sometime during the summer.

Stage 5: Marriage, the birth of two children, one male and one female preferably because I know how it helps siblings to have one of each sex, but if anything I would have it so that the sister is older, as in my love’s case, so that she is able to see the perils of boys as a gender from her younger brother’s misdeeds and deviancy during youth, and isn’t tempted to rebel against an older brother’s domineering nature, thus resulting in her succumbing by choice to plans like these. 

It was constant burning desire, the beginnings of love, when lust took to the sideline, and just thinking about her made his stomach feel like a snow globe that can be shaken and the snow falls through the water and settles onto the microcosmic town leaving it quiet but prone to haphazard blizzards. 

Jimmy B: King of the Highway

Howdy y’all, it’s the cargo securement king, Jimmy B. I done some driving out west lately. Reckon I got some good load securement stories for y’all this week.

Now when a man is trucking 12 hours a day, Lord knows he could use a drink when he finally pulls over. I got a few favorite waterin’ holes around this great big country. I was at one way out west in Oregon with a nice frother and some famous Tad’s Chicken and Dumplins. Mighty tasty after a day on the road, when alluva sudden a pretty little mama comes a walking on in there. She recognized that there was a boy from out of town with that truck out there. Now I’d never seen her before but she sure was a perty one – real nice gams, and a tight little body, with some really great…teeth. So she takes a look at me, sizing me up, and asks me, “Hey big boy, what do you use for your truck tie downs with a load like that?”
And I said, “Why’s that darling? Lookin for a transport service? Or you just interested in rachet straps and truck tie downs?”
She replied, “Well, quite frankly, I just like to compare rachet straps from boys around the country. I’ve seen some real sturdy ones in my time.”She smiled.

Heheh. To that I tipped my hat and paid my bill. I know a woman’s trouble when I see her – load securement knowledge or no.

Skate Rounds to Brooklyn

http://www.goskateorgohome.com/blog/The best thing about New York is the bridges. BMW, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg, that's how I remembered it, from south to north. It's because they allow for interborough subway access, and we all know that public transportation is what really makes a city – that's why L.A. sucks. I'm just kiddin' L.A. I love you. ahem. But the thing about New York is that not only is a car unnecessary, it's impractical. Traffic can add 10 dollars to an uptown ride. But back to the bridges. Of course everyone's favorite is the Brooklyn bridge, since it's brick and wooden planked walkways conjure memories of Whitman's New York, when the city had a vast harbor, and Brooklyn was its own city, which, by the way, if it still were, would be the fourth largest in the United States. And the gulls fly and coast overhead, and it's always sunny and cold and blue skied and all the people who are walking across the bridge are looking back and forth trying to take it all in, holding hands underneath those gothic arches in the high towers, the American flags waving on top – it's the oldest suspension bridge in the country, the Brooklyn bridge. But it's the Williamsburg bridge that I want to write about because when Buckley and I were feeling adventurous, we'd skate over it. The ride was red and blue: the steel mesh cage of the railings of the bridge are red and you can see smeary uptown Manhattan pretty clearly through the grating. Until the river is directly beneath you're skating uphill, which is a drag. It's worth it for the ride down though because the grade is gradually steeper as you get closer to the shore and on a skateboard you can only carve back and forth, weaving so that the board doesn't get the speed wobbles and throw you off of it and you fall and reflexively fall on your palms to protect you even though they inevitably gash and and bleed and you might even have some raspberries on your knees or elbows after rolling facefirst into the pavement – no, instead you dig your heels and toes into the sides of the board because as they hang off you're allowed more lateral mobility as any boardsporter knows (the original phrase 'hang ten' comes from surfing when all ten toes are off of the board itself in order to shred the wave) and so you keep gaining speed trying to carve, but eventually you see the end of the path about three hundred meters away and a solid cement wall, and you know that if you bombed it you'd get the wobbles and even if you carved it you might be running the risk of hitting a pedestrian so you can only jump off, and send the board into the wall careening and falling supine, wheels spinning in stasis. And the adrenaline's pumping and your chest is heaving and you think man, i sure am glad i jumped off when i did because another second or two and i'd be bloodied. 

In Williamsburg there is more grafitti and fewer people. People who are living in New York not because they have the money to afford the luxury of Manhattan or were passed down a rent-controlled apartment out of luck, but because they work in Manhattan and commute, or are artists and enjoy the quiet or whose parents immigrated here last generation and haven't moved because it's home, are the kinds that live in Williamsburg. We skate southeast down a varicolored street with houses that look like matchstick boxes painted the colors of those Valentine's Day hearts that have romantic phrases like 'Be Mine,' and have paint chipping gates and there is a school: a P.S. 89 and a stark playground and basketball court with yellow lines on it and Hasidic Jews everywhere and the men with their hats and their long coats and glasses walk down the street conversing learnedly with their payos shaking back and forth and young pretty wives with their heads covered with handkerchiefs picking their newborn babies in their strollers up as they ascend the steps of these matchbox houses backwards cautiously looking to see that baby doesn't fall out and isn't disturbed by the jump and settle, jump and settle of each step, and I wave and some of them look at me while I wave and their faces have distrust on them and they don't wave back. But I don't hold it against them because Buckley and I are having a day. 

We skate to Flatbush avenue and underneath the Brooklyn Queens Expressway and feel the ages of the crack and the drugs and the danger and the cleaning and the renovation and the new paint and the beginning of gentrification and friendliness, even though it's grounded in curiosity. And we skate, with one leg boardfixed and the other one swinging back and forth on top of the black pavement making small claps as we push and are pulled by the city forward and back. And the brownstones off of Clinton Avenue are surrounded by large elms and the properties are noticeably older and richer and I think of the New York royalty that owned these pads a hundred years ago and how this was farmland and of how young our country is and how money is aristocracy and sometimes the ability to rise also means the ability to fall whereas in England or India at least you're set for life, you don't have to worry about status because it's handed to you and maybe that's good but no, it's not good because it's not American. And we skate along Fulton, past the liquidation furniture stores and the cell phones outlets and sneaker shops and banks and the people and the buses hissing and squeaking as they rise and sink along the curbs to make their stops. And then we're in downtown Brooklyn with black lampposts like the kind that are only around old Washington Square and the mottled black pigeons fly off into the cerulean sky and scatter among the court house, the large legal areas of justice and propriety and flagstoned streets and people walking everywhere and there's seed in the street and there could be a circus around the block with P.T. Barnum saying “Come see the greatest show in the world” and marching his twenty one elephants across the Brooklyn Bridge to ensure people that the flying rumor about the stability of the bridge – or lack thereof – was just that, a rumor and that this is New York City and Brooklyn where we are strong and impressive and acts of virility are commonplace. 

Then when we're back where we started, we're tired and sweaty. We eat some thin crusty cheesestringy pizza and fold it in half and let the grease drip out of the crust side – or not –and drink our Cokes to wash it down and back out we go and see the precipitous towers loom ahead and the hundreds of pedestrians. We sling our boards  under our arms and look at each other and laugh and walk along the bridge,  with everyone else – until midway. We ride the grade down, cutting and weaving and we're back in downtown Manhattan, where we live although the beginnings of the financial district are so different from the ends of the east village that it's like we're still in another borough and we to avoid the traffic, we skate uptown along the water in the the board lanes.

What is a Kunstleroman?

I feel like an explanation is due. For those of you who never studied English literature in college, or who might have forgotten, a kunstleroman is the coming of age story of an artist (see "Kunstler-Hustle" below). This is much like a bildungsroman, which is an ordinary coming of age story.  Kunstleroman comes from the German word ‘kunstler’ which means artist, and the French ‘roman’ for novel. It is an artist’s novel, and it is what I am writing when I’m not at work blogging hard away about winch straps and Judaica and discount medical insurance.

Some of the more famous kunstleromans are Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, D.H. Lawerence’s Sons and Lovers and David Copperfield by Dickens. I’m reading Goethe’s right now, which is called “Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship. Goethe is a boss:

So that's where all of this German is coming from. For those of you who are further interested in Goethe (1749-1832), I recommend Faust or The Sorrows of Young Werther. The latter is a love story about a young man who, sorry to spoil it, commits suicide because of unrequited love. This novella was so popular in its day that, because Werther wore yellow stockings, hundreds of Romantic Parisians committed suicide in like fashion, yellow stockings.

Anyway, stay tuned for what’s to come. I figure that since I’m blogging all the time, I might as well blog about any questions y'all have. Hope you enjoy the New York Writers stories; comments and critiques are always appreciated.

Kunstler-Hustle

Our first date obviated all of the values and familial histories that are typically expostulated when two people are getting to know each other. Instead, we spent an awkward amount of time looking into each other's eyes, or at least I did, which when she noticed, she tried to ignore and averted hers usually behind me, as if there were someone entering the coffee shop whom was worth paying attention to, rather than the cabal of bored young hip people entering in corduroys and designer jeans. This was enough to unsettle me into asking her stupid questions about school and her future; I tried to sideline any possibility of talking about Aron, her ex-boyfriend.

Oh! The light bounces off the floor onto the brown wall and looks like the light in movie theatre aisles! How quaint! It is actually, if you could see it, you'd think it were. And it plays down the wall as the sun moves incrementally west so that the shadows shrink and shift and the box of light on the table crosses over the back of my head and torso and I feel like a cat. I want her to stroke my collar, and pet the sides of my face, and I want to circle eight through her legs, and meow at her, with a glance pleading and questioning. 

During moments like these, I forget about any possible meaning that our being together in a coffee shop might resonate and we actually have fun, just being in each other's company, buzzing from the organic free trade coffee we're drinking. 

She was reticent, but personable, and I tried to make her laugh as often as I could, in between those bouts of staring over which I had no control. These sometimes pitiful attempts faltered, and soon enough we fell into an interesting conversation.

“I don't know,” she said, “I just feel like modern art can be hung in a museum for no particular reason, that it's mostly a matter of chance and of how you know the curator.”

“Mmm, I disagree,” politely. “I think that extempore composition sometimes justifies certain museum worthy pieces. Pollock, for example. Why was he so popular? Well, granted he happened to come at the right time, like all the great ones, but he also did it the best. His form of abstract expressionism was the purest, it conveyed the rawest emotion, and I think that's easy to see. The reason he's museum worthy is because other people see it too.”

“You may be right,” said Dela, “but that movement in its entirety spawned the kind of art that I'm talking about. I mean what about Jasper Johns. Like why is he so great. I could have painted an all white dartboard.” 

“But you didn't. Can't the man just follow his natural desire? I mean white dartboards hadn't been painted before. And that's why he's so esteemed.”

“Natural desire? What do you mean? Don't you see that the true artist in the end will be esteemed naturally? I mean that's why so much modern art is silly; all these modern artists achieved fame while they were living.”

“All I mean is that Johns' early method – for example the American flag painting – which you can't tell if you aren't looking at it up close, was dripped in encaustic over scrapped collages, like newspaper. So the technique, the painstaking process that this called for, was where the emotion was channelled.”

“I don't know, I think we'll really know which of these modern painters are great in the future. I think that a lot can happen to an artist before he dies. That's why the best only become really famous after they're dead. Like Van Gogh.”

“Van Gogh was great while he was living, but he was loco. No one paid attention. He ran with Toulouse-Latrec and Emile Bernard. I think the great ones are destined from the beginning, and sometimes they know it.”

“Life is so uncertain. There's no way to tell what is going to happen by the end.” At this, she looked to the ground and began to furrow her delicate brow in the same way a child does, just so that there is hardly any crease. “It's all about what happens between birth and death that determines genius. Van Gogh was just that much more liable to go crazy, because he was so great." 

  “So you think that you can be great while alive, but that greatness can  only be realized by the masses after death.”

“Yes.”

“So in Van Gogh's case, his genius corrupted him, it ruined his life, only to preserve his future deification?”

“No, I think that his later life corrupted him. I think that he was born with a certain amount of genius and that from early childhood on, it grew and changed and eventually he couldn't relate to anyone, barely even his artistic friends, because it was so deformed and no one understood it. But those first impressions of his youth, coupled with his natural ability, those are what solidified his character. I mean let's say little Vincent grew up in an environment that was cold and sterile. Clearly, it would have influenced him later in life to be an anxious, overwhelmed man. It couldn't overshadow his genius entirely, but it caused him to be the kind of genius he was.”

“He did grow up that way, meanwhile, he was rigorously trained as an artist during his  adolesence.”

“Right, because it was apparent even from an early age. But let's say that he had never had the opportunuity to practice his passion; his whole life could have turned out differently. He could have become an artist later in life, and never killed himself, he could have maybe never become a painter at all. Who knows, he could have been a writer!” 

“Hahaha.      Yea, God bless his parents for sending him to The Hague.”

“But it was more than that. He probably was astounded with color, saw the glow around the animals and the fields as a boy and it left its mark on him. The difficult parts of his childhood probably stuck with him more than anything else. That was probably what he had to wrestle with daily as an adult, because he would try to separate it from his character, when deep down he knew he couldn't, wouldn't be able to, because that would only harm his art. Even though keeping it inside, and the struggle to hide it, hurt his social life and eventually his entire life. Because you can't be really great and be alone. No one can. You wind up growing crazy, or growing bad.”

It's not difficult to imagine how stimulating I found this girl, both intellectually and physically. We had finished our coffee and were rotating the base of the empty coffee cups in fidgets around the table.  Hunched with our elbows on our thighs, we looked directly into each other's eyes. She glanced at her watch and said it was time to go; we both have early class in the morning. Rising slowly and stretching slightly, we walked out, into the warm May night time. 

Ausgesprochen

As graduation approached, I had made enough small attempts to feel comfortable enough to ask Dela out. The glances between us were what alerted me to her possible acceptance. Originally they were friendly; they became inquiring as she began to view me as her equal, and then challenging as though we were bound to fight. When flirtation and coquettry escalated to the point where physical contact of the obligatory sort occurred, i.e. a touch upon the upper arm, brushing of elbows, I knew I had the balls to intimate an intimate setting, a rendezvous. It was one occasion in particular that justified this notion. When Mrs. Buckley walked in on us discussing the progressive nature of Bacon's self-portraits, I, animatedly and conscious of the pleasures of speaking well, in the course of a gesticulation, brushed the top of the hand of Dela, which was resting on the top of her chair. 

The hand was swiftly withdrawn – and I felt just as suddenly that it was my duty to ensure that the hand was not withdrawn when I touched it. The idea of an obligation to fulfill, if not a need not to succumb to inferiority, diminished instantly any traces of my pleasure felt by speaking passionately to two women whom I admired and respected. 

The next day when I entered the Buckley residence, Dela was reading a story to Little Buckley, who was of an indeterminate sex, had a scraggly bowlcut, usually wore overalls and didn't even have a name – even Mr. and Mrs. Buckley called it Little. It was Shel Silverstein, “Lafcadio The Singing Lion,” a story I was familiar with from my own childhood. Sensing an in, I sat and listened to Dela finish the chapter to the child. Little Buckley's presence allowed me to think less of Dela herself and more about my preoccupation with the task at hand. When Little ran away after his older sister's dismissal, and pleasantries languished, I could feel my face begin to flush. do i have nothing to say when it finally comes time to act? what a fool i've been to think that this cute older girl would kowtow to me – but after learning from similar situations, young Gabriel did not falter; he was too suspicious of the result not to be aware of his own state. I sat and listened to myself speak while fuming on the inside about my pusillanimity and insistence towards action. Beethoven: Symphony #1 in C, Op. 21- 1. Adagio Molto, Allegro Con Brio.

“Would you like to get some coffee? Buckley's doing homework.”

She looked up at me, those sapphiric eyes aglow, broad lightly tanned forehead partially covered by oblique velvet threads, her two perfect lips, the color of ripe strawberries, began to part showing those teeth, blocks, the building blocks of love, like they had been painted white, and she smiled. “Sure.”

The Professional Blogger

Today was my first day ever having a full time job. It was a morning where the sun shines through the tree branches streaking the ground with shadow and the wind whips at your face and the sweat on your neck cools as soon as it pores. But I took my time and tried to assess my distances, Eastern Parkway okay that's about halfway, Linden okay pretty close, hmm I'll take a left here and...sweaty and red cheeked I arrived at the office.
My office is being built - it should be ready next week - so I'm working in one of the four offices Ajax Union already has. Joe Apfelbaum, my boss, of portly presence with a yamalke and a large pointy beard, introduced me around. We read blogs for half an hour and then waited till 11 o'clock to start learning about writing articles. Articles are five hundred words in length.  I can't remember what my first article was about but --now I do-- it was poster printing, then when I was done I e-mailed it to Roy Holler - who is our kind of supervisor. He sits at the end of the table after Sarah and is really nice and gave me positive feedback. Daniel great job. This is exactly what we need. Your next project is copiers. Your keywords are copy machines, copy machine leasing.  Keywords are what we have to include at least once or twice in the article so that when people type those same keyword phrases into search engines, our clients are up at the top of the list. So I did a lil' research on copiers and bada bing. The third article was about ambulatory surgeries, a more difficult one.  But I took my time, and asked Roy if I had any questions. After that it was about five o' clock and Roy took off and gave me two blogs of two hundred words each about orthodontics and tips to be a classic hostess, respectively, and then I clocked out electronically, of course, after seven hours and thirty nine minutes.
 I was expecting it to be dark, and it was - the sky was that shade of horizonal indigo that courses into jet black above your head, that oscurarado shade during mid-winter when people are heading home and they know the worst is past because last month at this time it would have been all ivory. I mobbed up Bedford, weaving in between cars by Brooklyn College, timing the crossing of intersections so that I won't have to stop and wait, getting maybe a little bit cocky on the bike, heading down Flushing past that huge hospital that looks like a chemical plant, and across Broadway with my red sweatband and my dress shoes and my strong legs with my toe plied (avec accent) which is great because I've really been needing the work on my calves.
And I got in the door and lined up the bike in the hallway and walked into my room and felt a little sad, like when you're not sure what to do, and you know that there's routine setting in, and it's just the beginning of a new one that could be pretty good, but the end of an old already good one. And I sat down and had a chat with Jesse and then after blogging all day, I did as New York writers do, opened my computer and found myself naturally drawn to my blog.

They Can Touch The Heart Only By Bruising It

You might be wondering what Dela was thinking about when she saw me. She knew Buckley and I were great friends, and that my family didn't have the kind of money her ex-boyfriend had, that any kind of interaction with me besides a purely friendly one would never behoove her because though her family didn't have money either, she had the breeding that allows one to move up in the world  - she was exceptionally beautiful for a girl of just more than middle height, with eyes that shone like sapphires, almost purple, and which glistened as you moved around her, her swanlike neck cocked deep in concentration as she studied differential equations; she was a math major, a very intelligent girl. Dela saw me as a young man of simple means; she never saw me without thinking to herself: poor guy, how can he manage? He works hard at that market, his mom is crazy, dad's never there, and he has to take care of his sister. Gradually she came to feel pity instead of shock at all of the things I lacked.

Dela was one of those city girls you might take for a fool for the first two weeks of your acquaintance. She had no experience of life and made no attempt at small talk. Since she was gifted with a delicate and lofty soul, her instinct for happiness which is natural to all living creatures, provided that she paid attention to the behavior of the gross creatures amid whom fortune had thrust her.

 She would not have ventured to say a harsh word to anyone and the most trivial cough from Little Buckley could send her running to nurture and care. A burst of crude laughter and a shrug of the shoulders was all she ever received from her Stanford boyfriend whenever she attempted to open her heart about matters not including academia and politics. His variety of humor, especially where regarding feelings and sentiments, twisted the knife in Dela's heart, ultimately causing her regret, but not an open disavowal of a wounded relationship. Too proud to discuss matters of this sort, she approached her one friend, a Jackie Franzinnini, with the attitutude that all men are the same - coarseness and brutal indifference to everything that was not money, study or women; a blind hatred that went against feminine interests; these qualities seemed to her as natural to the male sex as wearing suits and ties.

Hence the success of Gabriel. When he entered the room, little Dela's brow just containing the slightest hint of a furrow as she waded through her homework, lightened, as if she sensed the passing of a cloud over the sun, only to reveal ample light and warmth. She found that he was worth listening to, even when talk concerned the most ordinary and wretched subjects: on one occasion, there was a cat that was seen run over on First Street, and eavesdropping with ears and sidelong glances, she noticed that the fine arches over Gabriel's eyes contracted and loosened in sympathy. Gradually, it seemed to her that the nobility of spirit which she had hoped for in her boyfriend was indeed apparent in this friend of her younger brother's, two years her junior.

On reality television, this relationship would blossom after two or three dates, giving forth to a drama-sparked breakdown between the love of either Stanford ex, or the newcomer Gabriel, resulting in personal astonishment on the part of more than one member of the triangle d'amour, and possibly, hopefully, even violence. Television would outline the roles for them to play, as if they were simply stereotypes, or imitators of love. Yet because Gabriel and Dela happened to be intellectuals, at least to have had the capability to reason and understand the conventions imposed upon them by societal standards of heartbreak and courtship, and because they were city children, used to things happening quickly, and therefore all the more apprehensive about the speed of events taking form to which they were unaccustomed, they slowed their behavior, and acted all the more naturally.

When Gabriel attempted to speak to Dela in more than inchoate stutters and nods, he had to gather his courage every time he opened the Buckley's door, because after years of being friendly, he not only text messaged Buckley to plan and alert him to his imminent arrival, but told him not to bother getting up from masturbating to open the door for him, he could just as easily enter himself, in hopes of seeing beautiful Dela sitting at table working slavishly in her three inch thick volumes, quietly scribbling and that soft brow just beginning to squirm in thought – just the notion of this neighborly beauty in proximity made his palms sweat and his heart patter. On a Thursday evening, after dinner, when parents are watching television or reading, or doing whatever it is elderly people do in those soft and quiet post prandial moments, there she was, lucubrating at the table. Surprised, he seemed not to want to distract her but carefully and curiously made his way over to Dela, who sensing his presence hovering closer and closer and not drifting towards Buckley's corner, was preparing herself for more than just the customary hello and broad smile she was so used to affecting for him.

“Hey, whatcha working on?”

Sigh. “Just some Diff E.Q.”

“Cool.” Three seconds of silence. “I'm taking some calculus right now, but it looks like algebra compared to this stuff. Is that a triple integral?”

“Ya.”

“What's it mean?”

“Well, you know how the integral is used to find the area under a curve?

“Ya.”

“Well, the triple integral is used to find the area of a three dimensional object, like a box.”

“Cool.” I hover and bob my head in appreciation.

She smiles, shakes her head slowly, I'm in, yes. “Nah, it's kinda tedious.” God those, teeth, they're perfect rectangles, I would live in those teeth, make them my windows, and look out of them, how are they so white... She recognizes my silence and fawning appreciation, but isn't sure whether it's over her breasts or her knowledge of integrals in cylindrical coordinates. I pause, embarassed, not sure what to do.

“Well, guess I'm gonna see what ol' Buckley's doing.”

“K. You have fun, be safe.”

Be safe? Be safe? Like what are we going to be doing? And who does she think she is telling me what to do? She's not my mom. I mean, sure she's a bit older, but come on. It's not like I wouldn't listen to her, though. And we should be safe. Safety comes first. She's so caring, loving, always looking out for us... “Sup Buck.”

Field Day

  But let's go a fishing to the pond.

We'll have fun whatever we bring along,

No need to distrust the meaning of the song,

All that's needed is a lending of the hand.

We'll basket and luncheon by the shoreside

Making sure everyone is satisfied.

And the sun will beat true and clear and blue

Sky above us illumines me and you.

And the water splashes and the fish laugh

As they jump alive into our palms.

We'll roast them then, and eat our fill

In luxury; we'll have not worried minds,

Because life was good to us today,

Another blessed one to say the least,

These days shouldn't be so hard to come by.

-New York Writers Inc.

What is this about? Radiators and Stan.

There's something to be said for confidence. It is innate and it is reckless, it spreads and fosters risk and reward. There's no real way to be forcibly confident. You have to practice it. This I found out when I was sixteen after my first real sexual encounter. These are the things we remember, vrai? No, I'll save you that one for another rainy Sunday. I don't think, I drink, like my mother. She imbued me with this predisposition in the womb. Part of me always thought it would be fun to be a raging alcoholic, to have the disease. You can blame things on it, you can be drunk, and who knows what kind of crazy lifestyle comes with those two things. And talk about creative! Can't you see me just thwapping away on the old typewriter smoking cigarettes drinking Jameson neat in gulps? I can. Anyways, where was I – confidence. Just have to put it on, like a suit. It takes time, some preparation, some fixing of the collar, but when you're ready you feel it. I'm thinking that I can watch the whiskey visibly melt the ice in my glass, slowly bobbing in minisucule modulations barely visible. There are two radiators in my room that otherwise I would not bother describing because they are boring. But with my buddy, oL' Jamie over here, I'm going to do it. Yes, I'm going to give you an idea of how integral these radiators are to my well being and the character of my room. Here goes: These radiators are about two and a half feet high, and are painted in white paint that looks very old, like it was painted at least before 1970. They have little legs maybe three inches high that make them look like pygmy radiators that could start waddling forward at any moment. When they release heat that is necessary for my comfort, they hiss slightly like a tea kettle before it's really ready. Too many slits to count, maybe fifteen, line white panels of metal releasing heat and are dark because of dust or maybe just because they are close together and I am looking at them from an oblique angle; I would be four o clock if they were the center of the face. On one side of the radiator is what looks like a small, oblong bell but could also be a CO2 cartridge attached to it. On each end of each radiator are six slits (in two groups of three, a top and a bottom) and on top of the top middle heat releasing slit is what could be a compass, painted white, to direct the little men inside of the radiator where and how much heat to release. Oh, there's one below the bottom middle too! I hadn't even noticed that one, probably because it is better painted and just above it and below the top one are screws also painted white, they must get hot, must be some kind of special radiator screws perhaps. And on the other side of the radiator is a valve that can be opened or closed to release the amount of heat. There are two radiators directly underneath my two windows and are bordered by thin white painted wooden frames that are actually in-frames that are framed by the wainscoting of the window which is not at all perpendicular but reaches straight to the floor, making the north wall of my room, look like it has two eyes with two lower eyelashed lids, which are the radiators. It is very symmetrical, my wall, and the two skateboards in between the windows, up against the wall are like a nose, a black nose on a white face.

Well, that was successful, I think. If I wanted to write a very self- conscious kunstleroman, then this would be a part of where the young artist is attempting to write about things that aren't very interesting, to try to make them interesting in an objective way that is really just his subjective point of view. While drinking, that is. Because drinking is supposed to bring forth creativity, right? I can't wait to be an alcoholic! That would be a good idea, to write a novel like that. I think that that level of self-consciousness would be good for literature, for everyone, because too many of us are too unself-conscious. Is that a good thing? Isn't it nice to be unself-conscious? Yes. It is. But, artistic Daniel rejoinders, doesn't a lack of self-consciousness lead to ignorance? to complacency? Yes. It does. So being able to control self-consciousness in writing, like we do in real life, when we are experienced and older and can contribute positively to social interactions, to moderate it and mediate it, how would we do this in writing, artist? Well, by jumping back as the writer! I poured a lot of Jamie. He's gonna be my ol' pal, but I won't have to get a drink till much later, when I'm out at the bar, and when I do, it'll be beer, because I may still be tipsy from hangin with Jamie. Boo, that's no fun. O beer. Hey beer. How ya doin. Ya. That's cool. Or maybe it'll be a fun beer! Like a seven dollar ale, from a microbrewery. Hey ale, you're so hoppy and flavorful tonite! I'm glad you made it!

“Thanks, man. It's good to see you too. It's been a while.”

“Ya well, times have been tough, you know?”

“Sure, it's a recession. But it's good of you to drop by.”

“I had too dude. Bud Heavy was with Coors Lite, and they were talking about going to some cockfest out in the woods man.”

“Dude, you made the right choice. I mean there are some beautiful girls here tonight!”

“O hey Alex. Ale, this is Alex, she's my girlfriend.”

“Hi Alex, I'm Ale.”

“It's nice to meet you, Ale.”

“It's a pleasure, Alex.”

Alex places her hand beneath my elbow and wraps it around my bicep.

“So what were you guy's up to tonight?

“Well, we were at this lame bar in the east village; it was loud and the music was dece," I tell Ale. “What were you doing tonight?”

“We were just hangin' out at Sam Adams', shootin the – hey man! It's Stan the Janitor!”

“Eyyy! (Like the Fonz.) Stan is the janitor. He wears loose grey trousers, beige boots, a green t-shirt, and a kind of vest that only covers his belly and protects it from hernias; it has shoulder straps and looks like a marsupial pouch. He can be seen pushing a garbage can on wheels, running through the hallways of my brain, cleaning up all of the refuse that accumulates over the course of the day as well as Coles Gym, where I work, and his tools, which shake on his belt are: a yellow flashlight, gloves attached to a carabeener attached to his belt loop, a radio and a silver chain which runs across his left leg and keeps his wallet in place. He is of about middle height and is from Brooklyn, an doan fuhgedid. Stan's demeanor is blithe, proven by a cachinnation that follows after about half of everything he says. He's loud and gruff but he's really a sweeheart – he gets off on the Chewbacca groan he affects so well. He is balding on top and when he's had a long day the stray hairs of his sinciput become unruly and dishevelled, rising like his pate had been rubbed with a balloon an though his ears look as though they've been pinched and pulled, are about half an inch wide, almost elfin, and have cropped black tufts of fur in the areas most visible, he is still a not unattractive. His eyebrows are thick and black, and his eyes are large, brown and unintelligent, though not dull. His nose is aquiline, but broad and somewhat cucurbitaceous. Like his hair, his beard is gray, but jet black high around his cheeks, a remnant of his youth, and runs eagerly down his neck into the clumps of chest hair spilling loosely from his collar. He swears freely and casually and talks to himself when no one listens.

“Eyyy!” Stan's gait has a bit of the waddle about it and he greets me and Ale with a dap, takes Alex's hand like a gentleman, with his unoccupied hand behind his back and a farther torso lean forward. Removing the square lid from the garbage can, he whips open a bag and asks me, “Ya know wha tha new word is fuh tha new yea? Neudral.” Stan turns back around bends his torso slightly forward and pauses, holding up his index finger. “Neudral. Ya know why? Cuz errybody roun heah eitha likes ya uh they doan. Thas why.” Wieldy, he throws the full bag of garbage on top of his overflowing wheeled trashcan. He finishes balancing it and stands in front of me while I have sitten down in a chair and turns to me as he says, “Ya god tha? Neudral – right uh wrong?

We agree.

“Cuz errybody iz alwayz lookin fa whaz right.” He roars gauchely. We laugh too.

“Fuckn doo many people doinza wrong.” Again, we weakly follow his laughter.

“Yezzaday I wuz on da zubway. An dis piece a shit comes up and dozen even lukka me. Putziz stuff down nexta me, duznt say scuze me uh nuthin. So I lookz at im, I zayz, Scuze me, ow bou a lil commun curtezy? E lookz a me, takez iz stuff an zitz zumwheya elze. Fuckin pizza shit. Do many peoplez, dey ain't got no curtezy. Looka me, Ima uman bein, I doan cayuh wha ya do, just ave da commun curtezy ta lookame. Right uh wrong?”

“Right.”

Stan turns back to the teetering garbage can and begins to push it down the hall toward the secret janitor's lounge. As he walks past us he says as he daps me goodbye, (don't tell Ale, and Alex, it was her first time meeting Stan, so...but I'm his favorite) “Ahright, you be good. Eyyahaha.” Stan knew it was safe to speak like this to us, to tell us his how he was feeling, what was on his mind. He seemed not to care what people thought, but only of their thinking about him. And honestly, isn't the only thing worse than being thought poorly of is to not be thought of at all – does anything else really matter in life?

Cyber-Spatial Points of Reference

I am indebted to Guillermo Creus for this project. When Jameson defined postmodernism he wrote, “The political form of postmodernism, if there ever is any will have as its vocation the invention and projection of a global cognitive mapping, on a social as well as a political scale” (54). Obviously, this is the internet, whose social mapping manifestations are evident in sites like facebook and myspace, and whose political manifestations are evident through the election of the current American president. This poem delimits my spatial coordinates over the past six months in a post postmodern manner:

If you don't weed your garden, you'll have a garden full of weeds.

Being taken to the river; eppin' around equals lone star.

Partying in austin! I'm a man.

Thanks y'all for the b-day wishes.

Back from campin'; le rouge et le noir.

“Away” for the weekend, infinite jest.

Just don't know what to do with myself, bada bing bada, using skaterade: god we're ep.

New York city: my gorilla is my butler.

Papapa; crabcakes n golf on the island is exceptional.

Ay, in the very temple of Delight.

There's no better reward for a job well done than a savory lamb gyro.

Come to Dtox on 2nd and 2nd tonite for free drinks!!!

Bossin' latin is a great white shark.

Yanks world series champs.

Grubbin is going to Longuyland.

Smells a rat(tail).

Dreams are disasters when drugs are your master.

Errybody love bacon.

Hearken, and hammer day and night.

Hovercraftin drinkin salsa.

If crazy was money, I'd be a millionare.

Cure for hickups: 9 sips of water.

American pie: if all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work.

Fried turkey, dos equis, and jose. Getting blacked in manhat w midlug. I'm artfucking montrose.

If I were a sea creature, a narwhal I'd be.

PDX infiltrates NYC in the a.m. This week is the culmination of my educational career.

Gotta love longjohns. You don't have to be jewish to eat chinese food on christmas eve.

Riding a coda deck and taking an infinite jest tour into boston and the heart of Qubecois rebellion: ol' Montreal.

Spaghetti with epsauce.

Finite jest.

Excitation!!

It's gonna be wild and I'm gonna be crazy.

New York Writers Inc.

The Hep-Cat Manifesto

Now that the new year is well under way, it is time for the world to understand the meaning of "hep." As this decade progresses, our movement will blossom. Join and see.
Below is the hipster. Everything is only for the image. He is holding a trusty trust fund check from his parents, wears beat-up old Vans. He skates; or at least pretends to. He lives in Brooklyn with a bunch of other bandmates, and they make music that no one buys and play at shows that no one attends except neighborhood deadheads. His bed is his favorite place; he is exclusive, and is resentful of everyone he doesn't know. He slouches continually, is always aware despite his appearance of insouciance, and is extremely rude. He is promiscuous and close with his friends. He has a lot of money, an ambiguous job, and secretly likes chick flicks. Also, he is obsessed with macaroni and cheese and video games.

We are the hep-cats and we're bringing the small town to the big city. We are inclusive, kind, congenial; we smile when we make eye contact, and nod -- it's not the half smile of yes I'm noticing your existence and trying to be polite about it, but a real smile of, gorgeous day to be alive idn't it? We aren't bored and listless with our trust fund money, if we have trust fund money we're grateful for it and keep our family close for it. We don't make you a present of our opinions in a priggish, too-cool fashion; we discuss and debate, we read poetry and literature, drink espresso in one shot and if we're in the mood to sip, order macchiatos. We value substance over style, but we keep it fresh too; to describe our fashion would be only to limit and stereotype it, let's just say we dig on plaid. This is the era of the hep-cats.