Stella's Birth

Another passage from Hot Love on the Wing, describing Stella's birth:

In the humid July heat of 1956, Tessie's hormone swollen face flushed pink with pain. She called my eldest aunt, who kept the other five children at bay and led my grandmother down the five flights of their Morningside Heights apartment building. A 12 year old has trouble hailing a cab while balancing a belabored Irishwoman. Amid the traffic and the busted-pouring fire hydrants, a mustachioed Italian man driving a Wonder bread truck – a bread that my mother and her siblings longed for while growing up instead of the 3 for $1 wheat bread loaves from the A&P that Leo bought and which they despised as a sign of their inability to assimilate – slowed to a stop and worriedly said, “Ya mutha? She gonna have a baby?”  Maureen led her wobbling mother into the truck and she and the mustachioed man zoomed away to an uptown hospital that no longer exists.

These Irish born children had no idea at the time, but when Tessa was birthing them with a midwife in a cabin in Mayo, there were no drugs to induce the process. The only thing utilized was a nice warm stout to ease the flow of breast milk after the stress and pain of parturition. When my narrowback mother (so called because she never had to experience the pear shaped disfiguration of working the potato fields) was born as the first in the United States, they gave her mother scopolamine. This drug in high doses causes extreme euphoria, much like an opiate. In a transdermal patch the average dosage is .4 mg and can often cause memory impairments. It is no surprise that it was used to ease the pain of my grandmother when her fourth child was brought into this world.
   

When they whirled Tessie into the obstetrician's office, she felt precipitously like there was a dramatic difference with this one; oh yes, a definite firestarter, a real hellacious one. Without going in to the unsavory details of childbirthing, I will say only that my mother immediately began a route on which she would stay for the rest of her life – one of howling and rubicund fury mediated only by her feminine capacity to love and shelter.     

Two months later, my mother was in her pram enjoying the late summer sun just outside of Van Cortland Park in the Bronx (funny how THE Bronx is the only borough with an article in front of it; in a way that makes it less particular, as if there could be another one somewhere). Suddenly, a Wonder bread truck slowed to a stop, and a mustachioed man yelled, “Ey, so wuzzita boy or girl?”

-Daniel Adler

Stella, the Mother Cat

A tad of a chapter from Hot Love on the Wing:

 Stella’s routine was such that by eight or nine o clock she had those wide red Sauvignon splotches across her cheeks that showed, similar to the rareness of a steak, that she was not ready to be tried. At that point, the children avoided her having learned from years of verbal abuse. If they did have to ask a question, they were greeted with a strabismic glance and the kind of bobble headed shake that meant she was thinking of how to respond, and that it was not going to be a real answer, but an attempt at witty repartee – if she were in a good mood. In joviality she assumed any conversation was an attempt to test her, and her inability to cogitate resulted in one of her favorite aggressive lines. If she were stressed or broken down, the kids ran away, because like playing with broken glass, sooner or later you're bound to bleed, and you should really just avoid it altogether, or if you’re responsible, clean it up instead.


On more than one occasion Gabriel came home from Buckley's and, hungry for a snack, searched the refrigerator for food. The only noises she ever made were from the cracking of her joints as she walked and the light jingle of her gold bracelets, which she never took off. They consisted of  1. Tiffany bracelet with a quarter sized golden heart that she had received when she graduated nursing school, 2. a charm bracelet, (again, she was a fervent believer in superstition) 3. a thin gold bangle, 4. a twenty four karat chain, and 5. a white gold elliptical link bracelet.

All of this jewelry together gilded about four inches of her wrist. It made the sound of a bell on a cat's collar, jangling with every movement, and my mother was the mother cat. They say that if you can take care of a cat,  you can take care of a woman - they're so different from dogs, the way they sense negative energy and back away. They also say that cats have to feel comfortable with space, and that's why when they do, they go around rubbing their cheeks on everything, which is where their pheromones are, so that it kind of becomes their property through their scent. Yes, to live with a cat can teach you a lot, and if you don't like cats, it's probably because you've never lived with one (or you're allergic, and for people with allergies, I'm sorry).


Madam's Organ and the Fat Rasta Chick

Last night Matthew and I went to a popular party district in D.C., Adams Morgan. We arrived early, around nine, and surveyed the strip for the right joint. I had always seen Madam's Organ when I was younger, envious of those old enough to enjoy the nightlife, and so we did an about face at the end of the road and walked back to see what all the fuss is about.

Inside was a host of taxydermied  animals: bears, falcons,  boars, a marlin, upside down deer,  even a lion's head with raging paws. Matthew and I discussed life's travails for an hour until the blues band came on the stage. The  soprano/baritone saxophonist and electric guitarist killed it. At one point, maybe after "Roadhouse Blues," just two beers deep, I stood before them, eyes closed, taking the moment. When I opened them again, there was  an open circle of about a foot around me. I  would have had less room if I had been maniacally dancing. 

They had quarter pie slices at Alberto's, which were "well seasoned" according to the myopic, double-chinned, red natty dreaded chick whose face I apprehended from about five inches away to ask whether the pizza was good. And Matthew wanted to go to  Pizza Mart across the street...Ha!  When we sat down to eat, Matthew asked her  "a serious question:" "Which do you prefer, relationships or financial success?" And she answered that with the way her parents treated her because of her hair and her friends still there for her no matter what, and her mother still supporting her, and her husband and her baby, obviously relationships. She didn't invite us to smoke a blunt.

When she went next door to the Rasta club, and we walked to the empanada joint with the kick-ass hot sauce, we marinated on her and her answer.
 Tourisitically,
Daniel Adler

Arcimboldo, Chester Dale and Post Postmodernism

 Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1527-93) was  a painter at the court of  Ferdinand I  in Vienna , and later for Maximilan  II and Rudolf II when  the Hapsburg court moved to Prague due to religious reasons.  His work is easily recognizable for its use of fruits, vegetables and flower depicting human faces. Scientifically correct, these paintings were likely in vogue at the time, and do not represent a crazed artist's work.

Currently Washington D.C. has the first ever Arcimboldo exhbit in the U.S. at the National Gallery, one of my favorite museums.

We drove past the White House, where Obama was nursing his stitches. The exhibit was great. My favorite was "Water" (right).

You can see the crab that makes the breast, the ray that is a cheek, and my favorite, the baby seal that comprises the forehead (so cute). These depictions were definitive of the era's concern with natural wonders, or wunderkammer.

There was also an exhibit of all the works acquired by stock broker Chester Dale. At the end of a large collections of Picassos, Matisses, Renoirs, Monets, Manets, and tons more was a portrait of the man done by Dali.

Isn't this weird? It really struck me as one of those portraits definitive of an epoch. Look at what Dale's wearing, that black poodle. This is a 20th century painting. Makes me think of how people in post postmodernism will remember last century.

The Best Gravy Recipe

Among the contenders for best Thanksgiving side are stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce. I can limit it to these three because of their importance to the rest of the meal. White meat, when cooked with the entire turkey is often dry. It is best to break off the legs of the turkey and allow them to cook for longer than the breast. The white meat is made supremely dank with cranberry sauce or gravy. Gravy doesn't need starch; you can just spatula the turkey gravy recipe from drippings back and forth in the pan until it gels. If you don't have the twenty or so minutes, add some flour at the end. The necessity for gravy with mashed potatoes, and  the way it increases the savoriness of my turkey and stuffing, it is, I must conclude, the most important Thanksgiving side.

I don't know about you, but I don't dig it when my cranberry sauce gets all up in my mashed potatoes. The Thanksgiving mush, as little Matthew says, is a good thing for him, but I like keeping my turkey away from my mash. De gustibus, I suppose.

I understand the importance of a fine gravy - a weak one has ruined many a Thanksgiving - but my personal favorite is stuffing. Stuffing is only had at Thanksgiving, at least in my family. A dry stuffing can only sometimes be saved with a dank gravy. You can mix it with any of the other sides, such as sweet potatoes, and chances are it will taste better. It is one of the most versatile dishes, and because I only see it once a year, it's my favorite.

Daniel Adler's View on Verb Subject Agreement

I take issue with writers who have trouble keeping their subjects parallel with their verbs. Granted I do it too sometimes when I'm sloppy, but there are more specific problems I'd like to address. For example, I know it’s common practice these days to say “that band are playing tonight.” How about when referring to people we keep it plural, but when referring to the singular nature of “the band,” we go singular?

Part of what helps keep my subject-verb agreements straight is proofreading. I’m not going to go on and on about the merits of re-reading what you’ve written, because as every writer knows, it’s almost more important to edit than to write, but I will suggest that some of you writers read the Times’ After Deadline column, which I find to be a nice take on good and bad journalism. It’s fascinating how bad some of the writing is, not to sound pretentious and say that I'm better than most of the journalists on the staff, but you’d think that as a writer for the New York Times, you’d know to say “a couple of hundred.”

-Humbly,
Daniel Adler

Postmodernism Began in 1968

Today we’re going to talk about what came before post postmodernism: postmodernism. Postmodernism began around 1968, due to shifting values in the United States and in Europe. A generation had settled down to have children since WWII, and the Baby Boomers were coming of age. Vietnam and the ascension of America as the pre-eminent global power brought to the zeitgeist a self-concerned, slightly ironic viewpoint. The power of corporations became recognized and the idea that power corrupts absolutely was reinforced after Watergate, perhaps the height of the historical movement.

In literature, we can examine postmodernism in the works of Thomas Pynchon, William Gaddis, Samuel Beckett, Kurt Vonnegut, and David Foster Wallace, all of whom experiment with notions of assortment and conglomeration in terms of plot, content, and character. In the visual arts, Warhol’s “Marilyn” is the best known example. Postmodern art works on the premise that it can be reproduced with variation to evoke emotion – even when those emotions are base, as in the case of the pervasive ennui,  shock, and irony  we find in many postmodern works.

I’ve written that we’re emerging from the throes of postmodernism today, and that very soon we can expect to see the beginnings of a new movement. Perhaps it will be in 2011, when the seventh billion person is born. Perhaps it will be in 2012, before the putative end of the world. Or perhaps it could take another ten years or more. Although with all that’s changed recently, I doubt it will take that long.

English in Post Postmodernism

English is changing in post postmodernism. I have speculated that internet keywords are the way people are trending into speech. Dropping (or adding) the apostrophe to plural nouns will become increasingly frequent. Prepositional usage will become less relevant. And of course we will start to adapt new foreign words into our language. My new friend Sushrut used the word “Kalyug” when we were discussing what it means to live in our era. It approximately means “century.”

The reason English is the one global language is that it borrows words from other languages and bastardizes them to make them its own. German attempts to retain the original pronunciation. “Department,” for example, they pronounce, “de-par-mon,” and of course, sound rather silly (when unpracticed) moving from their guttural throat clenching pronunciation, to the light mellifluous French pronunciation.

I can’t wait to start using Indian and Chinese words (the latter will probably take more time due to the difficulties of transliteration). Look for more Spanish pronunciation and less use of English’s more difficult tenses, i.e. simple past substituted for the pluperfect. Not to say that this will happen overnight, or even over the next fifty years, but eventually, colloquial English speakers will get weird looks, as we do today when we casually use the subjunctive.
Foresightedly,
Daniel Adler

Winter in Post Postmodernism

Can you feel the winter? It’s approaching and everyone knows it. I’m a big believer in the idea our lives are governed by the seasons. After all, it was the determining factor in how our ancestors lived and farmed. That’s why we feel like we have so much to do during the spring, during the sowing, and right now, before it gets really cold, everyone gets a little crazy preparing for the holidays (the reap). Black Friday, for example, is a circuitous proof of this point.

I’m actually kind of afraid of winter this year. I dread January’s bleak nights. The cold wind will be bitter on the industrial truck route I take to work before I start to sweat. But in the darkness of the evenings, and my reluctance to leave my apartment, I will write prodigiously.

But I’m also excited and somewhat anxious about 2011, that weird odd year when we become more comfortable in this decade and get a little closer to the end of the world. Don’t expect any major breakthroughs next year; I bet it will be a year of expectation. Scoff, do you? The cultural unconscious is a powerful thing.

Propitiously,
Daniel Adler

Ode to Work

Recently I’ve been thinking about work. Not just work, but reconciling public opinion and the drive to get ahead in the rat race with my own intuition and creative drive. And I’ve realized that they don’t have to be necessarily reconciled. All it takes is work.

If you are a young writer who wants to get published, you may be thinking about how to direct your efforts to appeal to said publisher. Or on the other hand, you may think about how you don’t care if you’re going to be published – you want to create art for art’s sake.

I know the answer. It comes from deep in the smithy of the artist’s soul. All you have to do is listen to yourself and understand how much more work you have ahead of you. What you’ve done so far is the tip of the iceberg. Underneath, your unconscious, intuition, and drive to duty must be revealed. And the only way to do that is to work. Ravenously, savagely hard. You are a shitty writer, I tell myself. The hundreds of hours you spent working on your novel so far have been a preface to the work on it you have yet to do. I now understand why many writers in the past have burned entire manuscripts.

So please, just shut up and keep working.
Entreatingly,
Daniel Adler

The Hipster's Diminishing Cultural Capital

A review of the new book “Whiter Shades of Pale” has me lamenting the continuous barrage of self definition and satirical placement white people love. The author of “Stuff White People Like” may have a point in mocking his fellow whitey, but in a way, isn’t he perpetuating the system? White people love to feel guilty about being white. An essay in the New York Times discussing “the hipster,” examines how this has occurred.

De gustibus non est disputandum, or, concerning matters of taste there is no dispute. The hipster and the modern white person show that there is. Elevation of one and suppression of another is what being human is about, but what if, instead of feeling a sense of superiority or political correctness, we could simply observe and appreciate the average lower-class and the aging middle class hipster, in the same non-disparaging way?
  
We know that there are levels of quality in everything, but to justify our knowledge of quality over others is the mark of Bourdieu’s “cultural capital.” We want to prove to ourselves that we deserve what we have because of what we know, and that those below us economically must know less. In fact, they know about different things, or perhaps have learned the same things in a different way. True artists  should be able to appreciate all kinds of people and ideas without condescending or pretending, or even feeling layers of guilt for political incorrectness. That should replace the ironical self-consciousness of postmodernism.

The Power of the Metaphor

Ah, the power of the metaphor. I love metaphors – they are so much less fickle than similes, which require a prefatory ‘like’ or ‘as’. And the inherent symbolic comparison strike the reader as much more powerful.

Giambattista Vico believed that each era of humanity has a linguistic equivalent. The divine age, associated with the Ancient world, was when man found himself in nature and used metaphor to explain natural occurrences, the lightning bolt of Zeus for example. The heroic age of feudalism  was one of metonymy, which were supported by figures in charge, like the baron and king, representative of their estate and the serfs over whom they ruled. And finally the democratic age is one of irony – the barbarism of reflection eventually leading back into the poetic age of the divine, a.k.a. post postmodernism.

Yes, I’d like to believe that the age of irony is at a close and that we will soon return to a simpler Golden Age, when words were more symbolic than literal. But listen to me blabbing on about metaphor. Here's a good one: my girlfriend is mad at me and said that my words were like spears piercing into her flesh. Makes me sound like a killer, right?
-Pondering,
Daniel Adler

The Universal vs. The Cliche

Last night we watched some experimental music at Brooklyn Fire Proof East, and began discussing what makes the cliche a universal. The former is boring, the number one no-no in writing, the latter, genius. But where's the line drawn?

I find that when listening to music for example, when I'm expecting a rhyme that doesn't occur, like "keeps lingering on" with "love that's strong" instead of "waiting for so long," there is a glimpse at the universal.

In short, the cliche satisfies our expectations, or as David Foster Wallace would say, "massages our egos" while the universal gets at the same ideas by disappointing them, pleasurably, or in the case of films like "Blue Velvet," unpleasurably.

But you aren't satisfied with that.

A lot of it comes down to phrasing. In writing, even word order can make a big difference. But original comparisons, like instead of being shot by cupid's arrow, being stung by the sting ray of love, can help us to achieve a universal emotion in unique terms.

Have any other ideas? Let me know.

Inquiringly,
Daniel Adler

Can We Call Brooklyn Its Own City Again?

Brooklyn has recently been drawing literary agents and basketball teams to its friendly confines. The Nets won’t be called the New York Nets, they’re going to be the Brooklyn Nets. Last night I met a biker from Denver on my way home and welcomed him, telling him that this is the best city in the world (I meant Brooklyn, nothing against Manhattan). That said, is it fair to treat Brooklyn as its own city?

Oakland and San Franscisco, Baltimore and DC, Brooklyn and New York –can we put the last pair in this group? Until 1898 Brooklyn was its own city. The Economist calls it Manhattan’s Left Bank, but for the past decade Brooklyn has regained its status as a city worth living in. The development of North Brooklyn especially has added to this, as Williamsburg has taken Manhattan’s Lower East Side and East Village spillover, and reclaimed the young artists and creatives as their own.

Part of this is due to the increased safety of the city – downtown Manhattan is no longer “rough;” unless you live in deep Bushwick, you don’t have to worry about walking home late at night. So I’m advocating Brooklyn not just as a sister city, but as it's own city. Manhattanites have to really just how uncool it would be if it didn't have the creative center of the universe a mile away. After all, with almost 2.5 million people, Brooklyn would be the sixth largest city in the country on its own. That’s pretty cool.

 Excitedly,
Daniel Adler

Sonnet for the Fields

The sonnet is the truest form of poetry known to man, and it's not going anywhere in post postmodernism.

In the cold winter of our heart’s content

It was easy to forget rosy spring.

Green eyed jealousy’s missiles were not sent

Before a storm came under love’s warm wing.

To  think the vinous juice of love runs dry

Because clouds cluster over fertile plains

Is to forget casks in winter’s supply,

And deny fallow fields will sprout again.

Autumn’s glow brings fears of colder winters:

And old men study grey skies on porches,

Speculating over the harvest’s yield;

Study, focus, fail to see small splinters

And as you gallop your hobbyhorses

Horizonal sun breaks onto the field.

I’m not the first man to be a damn fool

Ruminating on the future is cruel.

-Daniel Adler

The Sylvia Plath Effect

Stuck inside my head with the thinking about the future blues again. Ohh, you’ve written this before - too many artists have succumbed that way. You need to back out of your own mind again. Think about Shakespeare, think about whatever it is you have to to take your mind off of what it is your thinking about. Then get back to me.

Write it down. Get it all out of your mind. Free the stuff bubbling within you. Talk to your best friend. An outside perspective will help you keep reality and illusion separate.

List of famous artists that couldn’t stop thinking and succumbed to the Sylvia Plath effect:
Ernest Hemingway
David Foster Wallace
Syvia Plath
Vincent Van Gogh
Ashile Gorky
Frida Kahlo
Mark Rothko

Not that I’m in any way close to killing myself. It’s just that if you don’t take a step back, outside of your own head every once in a while, either your personal life suffers, or your art suffers. Sometimes both, but usually the conflation between the two suggests you put more eggs into one basket. Deep breaths. Relief.

New York City: 21st Century Cultural Center of the World

I recently let my good friend Gio Serrano read a bit of my book. He gave me meaningful feedback about the form that it will take, which I will get to eventually, and we did the bohemian thing at Swallow Cafe all Saturday afternoon. What I immedately understood was that I needed to omit, or at least rewrite my description of New York. "Cliche," he said, "What makes it your New York? The reader knows all about Broadway and the Statue of Liberty."

I just read this essay about what makes New York the cultural center of the world. In part, it is its outward-lookingness. New Yorkers are constantly aware not of what is going on in the other parts of the United States -lord knows we’re the center of it all anyway - but the rest of the world. That very notion is manifest in  the hundreds of enclaves of immigrants we retain. And in the same way Paris retained its status as world capital for perhaps a hundred years after the beginning of its decline, it's apparent that New York will do the same for its ability to attract people not as a great place to live, but as a great place to do what you want.

New Yorkers live in New York because of the options, they want to be part of something bigger. And it is a big city with tons of culture, restaurants, and bars. You can have whatever you want in New York, right next door to what you would never want. In that sense, New York is the most international city in the world.

Any ideas on how to treat this notion in my book?

Hapax Legomenon, David Byrne, and Hemingway's Love

Hapax legomenon. I learned this phrase the other day. It is an instance of a word occurring once in a language, the work of an author, or a single text. It’s a very pretentious phrase but one that has great import for writers. This fact has been motivating me to keep writing: 44% of Melville’s words in Moby Dick are hapax legomena. That means that almost half of the seven hundred pages contain words  that sonofabitch never used again in the book. I guess that's what happens when you are a scribner for eight hours a day; you write one of the best books of all time. I'm scribing six hours a day, maybe mine will be half as good.

I’ve been going a little bit crazy lately, just a tad. I think I’m going to start wearing oversized suits more, for one, and living deeper in my brain, for another, with only David Byrne to help me stop making sense.

I finished For Whom the Bell Tolls the other night. It moved me to tears. Some books you know you’re going to love as soon as you start reading them and you don’t want them to end. Some books are good, and get better in your memory when you’ve finished them. Some books are a drag and you want to be done with them already. This book I knew I was going to love, found myself wishing it was over at times, and then at the end felt it to be justifiably his masterpiece. It made me better understand the importance of loving life.

Yours forever and always,
Daniel Adler

Food in Daniel Adler's Kustlerroman

  It's incredible how food can show love and reveal a person’s character. “Oh you don't eat meat?” We probably won't be good friends. It's nothing personal against vegetarians or vegans, but it's a major difference in paradigm. How when we have canines made for ripping into meat can you shun it as if it's unnatural? I'm sure you have a good answer. But better yet, how can we enjoy a meal together when you are eating a meal without the weight, the chutzpah of mine?  Give me a meat-eating, spicy food loving girl any day of the week. She's adventurous, likes a bit of pain, and knows about tolerance.

Being lactose intolerant or having celiac disease I could probably forgive, but I'd still look at you a little funny. When people are picky though, that's when I know that we can't be friends. Once I went out with a girl who said she didn't like eggs. You don't like eggs? Then how are you going to make them for me in the morning?  After our first date I walked her home, and knew that this would never materialize, even though I stayed with her for more than two months. I should have listened to my gut. Always listen to your gut.

Personally I'm not a fan of celery. But recently it's been growing on me. In dips or soups, you know. I'll eat anything because I'm adventurous and I like different flavors, consistencies, textures. People bond over food, and rightly so. What else can you ingest and release? Drinks, check. Smoke, check. That's it.

Daniel Adler's Blog is Too Pretentious

 Recently people have been calling Daniel Adler's blog pretentious, which I, and I’m sure you too, dear reader, have trouble believing. This vastly overused word needs some clarification.

It has two primary definitions. The first is: making claim to distinction or importance, esp. undeservedly. I know that I know nothing. I am not published. I am a fledgling artist working on a book, like millions of other people out there. I am especially unimportant. So although I hope to be great one day, a hope that is necessary for any writer to rise from the muck, I try to keep my blog free of the tone of pretension. I’m sorry if it sometimes seeps through.

The second definition is: having or creating a deceptive outer appearance of great worth; ostentatious. This blog layout is relatively simple. It is worth only what you take from it. Comments about how I use an RSS feed to generate traffic from facebook to my blog, and my linking to my website as pretentious are not worthy, because those are simply good SEO practices and do not stem from an ulterior motive of ostentation. An internet presence is important if I want to be read, especially by more than just an online audience, no offense. It is not pretension.

In any case, my friends, any feeback is good feedback, so please, keep it coming. Btw, the meta-ness of this blog, and my usage of the word meta, is kind of pretentious.

Horseshoe Staches And Childhood Laundromat Intimacies

I shaved myself a horseshoe mustache. It differs from a fu manchu mustache in that the latter has shaved sides so that the lip hairs hang wispily down, whereas mine grows along the sides of the mouth as well. That part of the mustache is the "pipes." It is excellent and I proudly wore it to the Bushwick Mega Laundromat. Sometimes I forget that it is on my face and I am surprised at the looks I get from people and then I remember, that’s right, they think I’m an asshole.

Which is why I was so surprised when last night, I had a moment with a little girl. I noticed her noticing me, and glanced up from reading. She quickly looked away and I went back to reading. Back down, little girl. I’m a mean mother with a horseshoe mustache. Then to my surprise, the little one crawled onto the seat next to me and there she sat, nervous and scared. Yes, that’s right. But I'm really a nice guy underneath the stache and she knew that; she scampered away after a few moments.

When I moved my laundry to the dryer, she came up to me in her little black pea coat with her ponytail rising from the top of her head, and what did she do, but offer me candy. Dumdum, Tootsie Rolls or Grape Trident. “Thank you,” I exclaimed, “that is so nice of you!” I said fingering a couple of pieces of gum as I tried to take one. “You can have more than one, it’s okay,” she said insouciantly. “That’s very kind, but I’ll just have one. Thanks.” And Daniel Adler never saw her again.