Guess Who's Famous?

This guy!

Not really, but a newspaper published an article partially about me. Pretty sweet, right? I'll transcribe the thing into here so you can all see how witty I am in person, according to a third-person report! Totally sweet.

What's in a Name

So I'm on Amazon looking up Dr. Rick Henry's books (he's a professor of mine, I feel like I should support him) and then I think "Boy, I'll look up my own name!" James Beardsley it is, with a few different results.

On the top of the list is a man named James Beardsley Hendryx, apparently a writer of ribald Alaskan adventures. Uh oh. One of these articles looks like Hendryx is a pseudonym and his real name is Beardsley... Oh, never mind, I look up a bio and he was born JBH. Whew. Close one.

Apparently the guy that founded the Beardsley Zoo was named James. But he was a cattle baron. Not exactly a writer, thank goodness.

Some jerkoff postal inspector used the name James Beardsley in fake correspondence to bust... a "free love" conclave? That's weird. I wonder if I could use that in a story. It's an amusing coincidence. With the right spin it could make something cool.

I'm not sure why I was so worried about the Hendryx thing. I am very attached to my name; it has a nice anglo-saxon ring to it that I think would look fantastic on a book cover. My own little piece of egotism. But another James Beardsley in my field could ruin me. Bad enough I've got that pervert Aubrey with his giant Lysistrata penises... He's famous enough. But another James Beardsley, writing somewhat pulpish adventure stories for children could hurt my credibility. I'd hate to have to take a pen name, though I'm awfully attached to "Seamus O'Shaugnessy." Maybe I'll use that one for racy stories or something.

Sometimes it Snows

Because my window faces out into the corner of a quadrant of dormitories I don't see snow fall. The straight down or slightly slanted descent of frozen water isn't what I see when I look out at my window in the morning. For me, snow dances. It goes up and down and spins and slows and sometimes just seems to hover. Sometimes the snow seems to decide against the ground and fly straight back up towards the clouds.

It's pretty weird. But either way, it's snowing, which is pretty awesome. Hopefully it's doing the same at home - the only thing more depressing than that sickly cold house is that sickly cold house without some snow outside.

Skiing!

Little Moments

The pain of separation is more distinct this time than it has been in the past.

Little things remind me of her. I mistake strangers for her even though I know damn well she's not here. A smile or a movement of the eyes will remind me of her and make me think of her smile and the way she moves her eyes.

I think it's because I'm worried about her. Of course, I worry about her often - not, of course, that I could do much if I were around to help her, but I could certainly do something to reduce her stress levels and fatigue. But all the same, I worry about her when she's so far away. Small things, big things, anything that happens and I'm not sure how quickly I could get down there to help her and it would tear me apart not to be able to support her in any sort of real difficulties. This is a long-distance thing at this point, though. This is the downside. Winter break can't come quickly enough (even if it is 17 pages of essay about Monsters away right). I've had more than enough of this long-distance nonsense and it's about time I get a chance to really get to know her as a lover and companion without the pressures of inclement departure. I'll finally have some room to really stretch out and explore this thing we've built for ourselves with words and distant photos. I can make myself a little more comfortable.

And then another semester? Yikes. I'm starting to see why the seniors I've known in the past were so eager to get the hell out of Potsdam.

Failure

Well, needless to say, I don't think I'll be completing NaNoWriMo this year after all. I really need that laptop I think (start excuses) so I could meet with other people and write with them instead of having to sit here and write by myself. It's a communal activity. Or maybe if I had more time or less internet or blah blah blah blah. Anyways, my own damn fault for getting so far behind and not having the strength of will to try to surmount such limitless heights of word count. I'll post the last bit I've written and let it go.

In other news... Glass House is coming along slowly but nicely. I'll write up a Scene 4 Pretty soon and revise the hell out of it, and after that I'll throw Act 1 up here to be read. Sweet.

Chapter 4 - Sometimes It's Better to Just Let Things Go

"Stan."

I'm on a beach.

"Stan."

The sand is as white as her legs and the sun hits us like a torrent of warm water. There are a few people playing in the water; all of them are attractive.

"Stan!"

Everyone at the cantina knows my name. When I walk in ten people get up to say hello and ask how I'm doing. The bartender saw me through the window and when I go up, my favorite drink is already prepared. I try to hand him a five dollar bill and he says no, Stan, it's on the house and I say to him, I know it is, this is the tip. He smiles happily and pockets the money and gives everyone else in the bar a free drink just because he's so pleased with my generosity. Today, everyone is my friend.

"Stan, wake the hell up you lazy bastard."

Yeah, so that's when I open my eyes and look at Margaret.

"Mags, I was having the nicest dream."

"You weren't dreaming, Stan. I know you weren't. You weren't even asleep. You've got half an hour to get to work and your boss just called and said if you're late again he's canning you."

I stretch my arms, as far as I can. I arch my back and groan as my vertebrae crack audibly. I'm exhausted. I'm going to catch forty winks before I get up and start the day.

"STAN! God Damn it you can't lose your job. Get the hell up!"

"Fine fine fine." My eyes still aren't open.

"Oh Jesus Christ…" I hear Margaret leave the room. I'm glad. Usually she doesn't give up this easily and I'd just as well skip today. Maybe I'll say I'm sick. Or hung over or something. There's a whole beautiful world of excuses I could use and I half-heartedly go through the list. I could say my dog ate my work. That makes me giggle. I could say my car wouldn't start, except I don't have a car. I take the bus.

Fuck!

I'm all wet. Why am I all wet? It's so damn cold. There's cubes! There's an ice cube nestled in my ass crack. Margaret did this to me. Margaret. Cold hearted harlot. I'll show her. It takes more than ice water to get Stan out of bed. Jesus it's cold. I can almost hear her smirk behind me. I hear running water and feel a roll of steam on my back. Oh god. She started the shower and I can feel how warm it is from here. The cube in my crack is melting and it's so cold and the shower is so warm.

Fine.

"Alright, alright. Jesus, Margaret, that was low."

She leans over and gives me a kiss. "Yes, yes. You should get better at waking up in the morning. Really."

"Then where would you get an outlet for your sadistic creativity? You getting in the shower with me?"

"No, I already took a shower. I ate breakfast, too. There's a bagel on the counter and I left the butter and jam out for you. Your bus will be here in half an hour. I need to get to work."

"Alright, Maggie, I love you. Drive safe."

"I will."

She leaves and I smack my lips while I watch her ass on the way out. I stretch my arms again, this time to wake up instead of to give me an excuse to stay in bed. I get in the shower and the hot water wakes me up as well as anything. Some people say cold showers are better for waking you up, but they just make me… well, cold. And when I'm cold I want to go back to bed so I like my morning showers hot. I scratch my balls absent mindedly and only wash half of my body. I figure I'll get the other tomorrow. I mean, it's not like I get especially dirty anyways. I'll probably take a shower with Margaret tonight. I hope so. I like taking showers with her. She looks good naked. I'm thinking about her naked. Oh damn it. I'm all excited now. I don't have time to rub one out. This is going to be uncomfortable.

I get out of the shower and dry myself off. I don't try off my crotch; that's a bad road to go down and I've got a good idea as to the ending. I don't have time for the ending. I need to eat and get on the bus. Damn it. Maybe I'll take my lunch break early and go to the bathroom. I don't even know if I'll want to by then but I probably will. Crap.

She left the strawberry jam out. That was sweet of her. I know she likes peach, but I don't. She probably ate peach jam, put it back, and took out the strawberry. I should try to get up early tomorrow. I should set my alarm for like seven and get up then. But what am I going to do for an hour? I can barely fill half an hour.

I could do some sit ups. My belly's getting bigger. I think it is. It looks a little larger. I jiggle it a little with the hand that isn't holding the bagel. Damn stupid belly. I wish my belly looked as nice as my legs. I have sexy legs. Maybe I should get up early and do sit ups.

I'm probably not going to.

Oh shit. Someone's knocking on the door. Why is someone knocking on the door? It's way too early for that to make any sense. I'm naked. I'm naked in my kitchen and I don't want to answer the door with my junk hanging out. What can I cover myself with? Oh shit, they knocked again. Newspaper! I cover myself with the newspaper and open the door.

"Yo."

"Stan?"

It's my brother. Why is my brother here this early? He gets up later than I do usually. Maybe he's here to give me a present. "Yeah. Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Why are you naked?"

"It's my house you little prick! I'll be naked if I want to!" I hit him with the newspaper and slam the door. That was pretty funny. He knocks again.

"Stan! God damn it Stan. I need you to do something for me."

"I don't have to do anything I don't want to! Go away! I'm naked!"

"I know you're naked, you just hit me with your newspaper speedo."

I crack the door. "What do you want?"

"Can you bring something to Cassius for me? I told him I'd give him this movie but I never see him so I want you to bring it to him for me."

"Is it porn?"

"No, Stan, it's not porn."

"Why not? Cassius needs more porn. He's all backed up."

John sighs. "No, he's not backed up. He has a girlfriend. Could you just bring him this movie for me?"

I reach out and snatch the movie. I look at it. It's something called "Cannibal! The Musical". "John, this looks retarded."

"It is retarded."

"Sweet. I'm going to watch it before I give it to Cassius." I slam the door again, against his protests. He yells one last "Asshole!" and I hear him stomp down the stairs. Awesome. That was totally awesome.

I look more closely at the movie. It really does look stupid and I have no intention of watching it. I throw it in my bag and go into the bedroom to get some pants. Stupid pants.

I wish I could go to work naked but that's not really an option. I'd probably get fired. I don't want to get fired, I kind of like my job. What pants should I wear?

I'm going to wear slacks today. Damn right. Classy. I put on the pants and go outside to bring the newspaper back in. Margaret reads it when she gets home and she'd be upset if it were missing. I finish my bagel now and put on a shirt. Sweet. This is going to be an awesome day.

Chapter 3 - Pink Slipped

"Barney, what in the hell is wrong with you?"

Barney shuffled his feet against the mat on the bottom of the car. "Sylvia, I got laid off today."

They drove in silence for a few moments, the street signs flashing past, brown streaks in the windows. The building were empty, the dark windows standing out against the grey stone that characterized Driftsville's architecture. A light rain pattered against the windshield and Sylvia absently reached down and turned on the wipers.

"Why?"

"I don't know Sylvia! They just said they didn't need me anymore and gave me my papers. You think they explained in depth? They didn't explain in depth." He half-heartedly punched his door. "Bastards just fired me. Just dropped me like that. I've been making furniture for them for, what, ten years?"

"Yeah, ten years."

"For ten god damn years and they just drop me."

A few more miles passed silently, Barney fuming and staring out his window while Sylvia drove.

"Barney," said Sylvia, "Have you been drinking?"

"Of course I've been drinking. You know I've been drinking. How would you not know I've been drinking? What would you do? What would you do if they laid your sorry ass off without so much as an apology? I went and bought a twelve pack right after I got out of work."

"Where are they now?"

Barney laughed. "Where do you think? They're in my belly where they belong."

"Oh Barney…"

Sylvia turned around a corner onto a road slipping between two large warehouses. The warehouses past, trees began to whir past the vehicle as the rain made the roads slick and untrustworthy. She slowed down somewhat. Barney remained staring out the window.

After awhile she reached over and put her hand over his. He turned his hand over and gave her a hard squeeze, still not looking at her. She squeezed back and they rode the rest of the way home holding each other tight.

---

"Barney Lynch?"

"Yes sir?"

"Mister Reynolds wants to see you up in his office."

Barney took a shaped leg and put it to a table. He held a drill in the other hand and put it against an inked mark on the wood. "Can I finish this table first?"

"Yes, Mister Lynch, that's fine."

Barney pushed the drill into the wood and felt the gratifying bite of the grain around the drill bit. He squeezed the trigger lightly, and the bit turned slowly, marking a circle of white flesh where it passed. Seeing that he was properly oriented, Barney pushed harder and pulled the trigger all the way back, the outline filling in as the bit chewed further into the wood. He let go for a moment and pulled the drill back, cleaning out the hole with the unsharpened end of his pencil. He bit further into the wood again, another hole opening up under his pressure. He pulled the drill out and put it down, taking the leg off the table and removing his ear and eye protectors, laying them on the work counter. He walked towards the back of the large work room and went through a small wooden door with a glass window. This lead to a stairwell, lined with old photographs; mostly of chairs and tables, occasionally with a celebrity or politician posing with them. A few of the pictures were black and white photographs of grim looking men in dark suits. A few were newer, the men happier but the suits still dark. He reached the top of the stair and there was a hallway with a series of more small doors with glass windows. He wants to the one that said "Peter Reynolds" and knocked softly.

"Come in!"

He opened the door and saw Mister Reynolds, a slight man but pleasant, considered handsome by women of a certain age and passable by his peers.

Barney said, "You wanted to see me, Mister Reynolds?"

"Barney! Barney, please sit down."

Barney sat in the chair across the desk from Reynolds. "Why did you want to see me?"

"You might have heard that the Driftsville Furniture Manufacturing company isn't doing so well."

"Yeah. Yeah, I heard that."

"Well it's true. We're not doing so hot. And do you know why, Barney?"

"No, I don't."

"Cheap Asian knockoffs!" Reynolds stood and went to his window, looking out over the parking lot. "Cheap Asian knockoffs. They're clearly breaking our patent, clearly, but the little bastards keep churning their cardboard chairs out like clockwork. They've got three time the production potential per factory, and we've only got one factory. Sure, any kind of discerning consumer knows damn well, damn well that a Driftsville Chair should damn well be made in God damn Driftsville but your average customer? No idea." He turned from the window and planted his hands firmly on the desk, looking Barney straight in the eye, while saying "Damn it, Barney, do you understand? These little yellow bastards are making ten dollar cardboard chairs that look enough like ours to steal our business. How are we supposed to compete with that! How are we supposed to compete with that? It doesn't make any God damn sense they can make them so cheap but they do. Oh they do. And we can't stop 'em because the only agent we have to work through is their government and their government are as worm-ridden as their God damned furniture!"

"Sir? Yes, sir."

"That why I have to lay you off."

Barney's mouth fell open.

"I know," Reynolds said, "I know it's hard and the economy's not doing so hot so it's tough for you to get another job and damn it, Barney, I like you. You're a hard worker and you're not late and you make some damn fine furniture when you set your mind to it but I've looked carefully over the records and… well, you're the least crucial member of the company right now and we can't afford to keep you on."

"Sir—"

"Don't worry though! We're prepared to offer you a full severance package. We'll take care of you until you can find some other work. We'll help you out as much as you can, we just can't have you working for us anymore."

"You can take that severance package and shove it up your ass, Pete."

"What?"

"Right up your ass. I've been working here my whole life and you're kicking me out because some Chinese—"

"Taiwan actually."

"Some God damned Chinese are making cheaper table than I can? We went to school together, Peter. I pantsed you during lunch that day, remember that? And now you're telling me you're going to take care of me? Fuck you, Pete. Take the severance package and shove it up your soft, spoiled, lily-white cornhole you uppity prick."

Barney stood up quickly, knocking the chair out from underneath him, and stalked out the room, slamming the door behind him. In the back of his mind he wanted the glass to break – he desperately wanted that glass to break – but it didn't. He walked down to the floor, picked up his things, and went out the front door, straight to the supermarket to pick up a twelve-pack of beer and then went to the park and drank them all one by one, throwing the empty cans into the lake as he finished.

---

"And that's what happened," Barney said.

Sylvia put her fork down, chewed her food thoroughly, swallowed it, and patted her mouth with her napkin. "You…" She swallowed again. "You gave up your severance?"

"I know, Sylvia, I know. It was stupid. It was a bad idea. I shouldn't have yelled at him like that but I was so angry! What a ridiculous reason to fire me. I'm sorry."

"What are you going to do?"

"I guess I have to get another job."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I mean all I know how to do is make tables. I could keep making tables, but I don't have the equipment for it. I mean that kind of workshop is expensive – awfully expensive!"

"But you're good at it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I'm damn good at making table. I'm probably one of the best table makers for a damn long ways."

"If you had the tools could you make tables and sell them?"

"I'm pretty sure I could. I think I could. I could ask some of the guys I know at the plant to get me some numbers for people to sell to, right? Showrooms and things like that. Make some nice tables, nicer than they let me make at that hellhole. Yeah. But how can I get the tools for that?"

"We'll get a loan."

Barney laughed. "We can't get a loan. We ain't got any collateral and my credit rating is shot, I don't know about yours."

"We'll borrow from a friend. Damn it, Barney, we have to do something. We can't just let you fail like this. I don't want to see you fail."

"I don't want to borrow money from one of my friends."

"I know you don't. I know. We won't do that, I was being rash, but we can borrow money from someone, right? Sue works at the bank, maybe she can help us. We'll get a loan and get you what you need. We'll get you the money you need."

"Sylvia—"

"I'll call her first thing tomorrow. Now, let's go to bed. You've had a long day and we'll work on it tomorrow."

Chapter Two - Barney Lynch is Dead

The bar fell silent in a moment, the words ringing off of the dusty boards that made up the wall. An empty class touched a table and the clink of a few cubes of dirty ice filled the air that a moment ago had been busy with the noises of the late-shift workers catching a couple of beers before they went into their jobs.

Charles' arm went up to his mouth and wiped a few stray drops off of his moustache. He slowly put his half-full bottle down on the table in front of him and stood up. "How?"

"I don't know, Chuck. I just heard he died."

"It might just be a rumor, James. It might just be another stupid rumor coming out of the mid-day shift. He was probably just injured and it got exaggerated is all. It doesn't make any sense for him to die. He's been around way too long, way too long."

Jim sighed and walked up to the bar. He put his hands down wide and leaned against them, his head hanging. "I don't know. I've got a source, though. It's a source I trust. I don't think they'd lie to me and they saw it and said he was dead."

"Who's your source?"

"He doesn't want me to say."

Charles scoffed. He spit on the floor and walked up behind Jim, a few of his friends standing and coming with him. "Why the hell not? Who starts a rumor like that and won't come out in the open and say it? That's bullshit, Jim. That's bullshit."

Jim whirled around. "Look, Chuck, DFM isn't going to be happy 'bout this either way and I don't thing they'd like it known this early! I understand why he doesn't want them to know he's the one that leaked this. I wouldn't want them to know if I worked there. I wouldn't."

"'Course you wouldn't, Jim. You're a coward."

"I'd be a coward if I told you who told me. You know that."

Their eyes locked a moment. Just a moment. The men behind Charles shuffled nervously.

"I guess you would be, Jim." Charles moved forward next to Jim at the bar and his friends went back to their table. "You look jittery. Real jittery. You need a drink?"

"You know I don't drink Chuck."

"That's probably why you need one."

"I just came in here to tell you guys what I heard. You'll probably find out about it again later but you're his friends and I thought you deserved to know."

"I 'appreciate it. I really do. Take care of yourself, Jim."

Jim walked towards the bar door and opened it slowly. He turned at the last second and looked into the dimly lit room. "Guys. I don't think it'd be looked too kindly on if DFM heard I was spreadin' this around. Can we keep it between us?"

"Yes, Jim," Chuck said, "I think we can handle that."

Jim walked out. The bar remained silent with his absence except for the sound of glass against teeth. A small man looked over at Charles.

"Chuck, you think he's really dead? I mean, you know Jim better'n the rest of us. You think he's tellin' the truth?"

"Yeah, Mark. Yeah. Jim ain't never lied to me before and I don't think he'd start now. 'Course, he might have been lied to. It's been known to happen but he was deadly serious. Deadly serious. I imagine it's best to trust him in this case."

"Well, Chuck… What should we do? What do you think we should do?"

Charles straightened himself out and turned from the bar. He looked at the twenty or thirty people in the room. "How many of us knew Barns?" A few of the people in the bar murmured quiet consent. Charles said louder, "I said how many of us knew Barns?" A small chorus of "I did"s rose, and a few with additions, the occasional "I knew him at work," or "I went to church with him," or "I knew his mam."

Chuck walked to the middle of the room. "Well I reckon we ought to take a collection for his old lady and kids, right? Make 'em some kind of gift show we're here for her with her husband dead. Don't have to be big. Just whatever you've got. She'd appreciate it and I'd appreciate it." There was a touch of menace in the way he said the word "appreciate."

The room filled with a light rustle as twenty men reached for their wallets.

An old pickled egg jar was pulled out from behind the bar, rinsed out quickly, and passed around. A few men put in a couple of dollars; one less beer for them. Some put in pocket change, catching glares as the tinkle of quarters and nickels on glass echoed off of the walls. Most of them proceeded to put a twenty dollar bill in bashfully. The jar went around the room until it went to Charles, who took out a small wad of twenties and slowly counted out five of them, putting them in the jar.

"Alright guys," said Charles, "I think we oughtta be able to at least help her out with this. Just to show we're thinkin' of her."

A quiet chorus of consent started and then stopped as the door creaked open. Sylvia Lynch walked into the room. Suddenly everyone was dutifully examining their glasses and bottles. Only Charles walked up to her, still carrying the jar.

"Hey Chuck," she said, "What's that for, the little league team?"

"Sylvia, I'm so sorry."

"Why? I ain't got no kids. Don't bother me if the little league team doesn't have enough money for new bats. But I'll chuck in a couple bucks anyways; can't hurt the little bastards none. Barney here yet?"

If looks could shatter glass there wouldn't have been a clean table in the bar.

"Sylvia," said Chuck, "I'm so, so sorry."

Her smile became brittle and dangerous. "What are you talking about Chuck? I asked if Barney was here yet. His shift's up and he should be in soon, right? Speakin' of which, Mark, your shift started five minutes ago. Shouldn't you be out of here?"

Mark jumped up from his seat. "Yeah, yeah I should. Bye, Chuck. Good luck." He left the bar as quickly as he could, slamming the door behind him.

"He was sure in a hurry to get out of here, wasn't he, Chuck? You got something to tell me?"

"Sylvia…"

"Just tell me."

"Sylvia, Barney's dead."

Every muscle in her face twitched at once. "That ain't possible Chuck. I don't know who's been leadin' you on, but that ain't possible."

"Sylvia, I'm so sorry. We took up a collection. To help you out."

"Give the money back, Chuck, ain't no way Barney's dead."

"I know it's hard, I know you don't want to believe it. I've seen it before. He worked a dangerous job an' all of us here loved him like a brother. I know money can't make it any easier but it'll at least help keep you afloat until you've recovered a bit."

"Chuck, give the God damned money back to these poor men, I saw Barney on the way over here."

"What?"

She sighed and sat on one of the stools at the bar. "Yeah, I saw Barney walkin' over here from the plant. He didn't look dead to me, fit as a fiddle, but he didn't seem to be happy to see me drivin' past. I figured it'd be best to get over here before he got here and made a damn fool out of himself. Drunk if I can recognize it. Who in the hell told you that good for nothin' husband of mine was dead?"

"Jim did."

"Jim's a filthy little liar and you know it. You an' Barney grew up with the skeezy little rodent, I'd think you'd no better. Joe, give me a beer, why don't you? Seeing as how I'm a grieving widow now."

The tension in the bar broke suddenly. A few laughs were heard, and a whole lot of angry mutters, the word Jim being paired with an assortment of violent verbs. Chuck looked at Joe, the bartender, and said, "Joe, give this lady what she wants, it's on me."

"Alright, Chuck," said Joe, "Now listen, Sylvia, don't be getting' soused before you drive home, you hear?"

"No problem, Joe."

The bar quieted down to a murmur as conversation filled the air. Sylvia drank quietly and Chuck gave everyone in the room their money back.

Barney walked in looking embarrassed.

"Hey guys," he said.

A loud voice from the back called, "There's the old corpse now!" and the room filled with nervous laughter.

"What?"

"Barney Allen Lynch, what in the hell do you think you're doing looking so sour with me drivin' past?" said Sylvia, walking up to him angrily with her beer.

"Sylvia, I can explain—"

"I bet you can, you good for nothing louse. We're goin' home for it, though, no point in all the goddamn busybody gossips havin' something juicy to spread around like the plague."

The bar filled with honest laughter as Sylvia prodded Barney out the door to the car.

Half the men in the bar stood up suddenly, announcing their intention to head to work now, might as well, the fun's all over anyways. Chuck glowered at a picture on the wall and Joe collected the tabs from the men with money and noted the totals for the men without. Normally he would have been more stringent, but it was a Friday and a payday and he knew he'd get his money back as soon as the checks were cashed. Just after the bulk of the men had left, Jim walked in the door again.

"Hey guys, why the long faces?"

Chapter One - An Essay on the History of Driftsville

The town of Drifstville was founded in the early Spring of 1901. A series of vicious meteorological events had led to its unexpected birth, a surprise of the greatest magnitude for Driftsville's sister town, Otter Creek. The winter had been especially heavy, the mountains of the Adirondacks covered with a thick blanket of snow that had every old man claiming the season as the snowiest he'd ever seen, despite the fact that the snow was, in fact, lighter than it had been ten years earlier. Time dulls the memory and what was an especially cruel winter was forgotten in the sharp frost of the present. The spring, however, was truly vicious, coming fast and hot from warmer climes. The snow melted fast and the river was six months swollen, crawling up the banks with a hungry clamor. The town of Otter Creek was vacated entirely, the houses and buildings left empty. The river crawled further, as if driven by the absence of an opposing populace, and carried away several buildings constructed short-sightedly without dependable foundations. The structures were carried several miles south down the river, most getting snagged on branches and fallen trees and coming apart under the blows of the melting snow. A few, however, survived the tumultuous trip and, with the river receding as quickly as it had advanced, settled in a hitherto unpopulated valley. The owners of the deported houses went in search and found the valley surprisingly fertile and well-placed. A road passed nearby and the water had created a soil of unheard vigor. Finding the location pleasant, they planted roots in the most literal sense, building deep foundations into the bottoms of their houses. The town was named Driftsville, in honor of the event that had begun the growth.

The location being so acceptable to human life, the original settlers soon lured their families, extended as far as possible, to the area. The small town, originally a handful of houses, grew. The farms nearby grew to keep up with the increasing demand for supplies. Businesses sprouted like mushrooms after a rainstorm, a stable, a blacksmith, a general goods store. A hotel was built in 1910 to house traders coming through, on their way from Albany and other southern cities to the even more expansive Otter Creek.

The First World War, however, made an impression. A full fifty percent of Driftsville's growing male adolescent population was deployed to the brutal fields of the European theater. John Sherman died in the Battle of Bulge, son of the mayor at the time. The mayor, distraught, rode his horse to the top of nearby Chestnut Mountain and shot himself through the chest with an antique handgun. Local legend says the report can still be heard echoing through the tress if the anniversary of the occasion is quiet. The incident was Driftsville's first recorded suicide. Other deaths occurred, the local division being especially keen to man the front lines, and in the end only a handful of the town's sons returned.

A bar opened in the midst. A large number of the fathers, bereft, found solace in the bottles of cheap whiskey. The farms went to waste, the hotel became disheveled. The smithy closed and the only business doing a brisk trade was the tavern. The town looked to be going to rot and many expected it to dissolve in the near future.

Enter prohibition. The bar was closed, and the men, without their easy liquor, found themselves with large amounts of free time to dedicate to other pursuits. Some turned back to farming, tilling their forgotten fields and bringing life back to the valley. Others discovered the joy of trapping, capturing and skinning the lush fauna for sale to other industries. Many, however, found the hobby that would bring more wealth to the town than every other trade combined; Moonshining. Stills were constructed throughout the valley. The smoke was visible only from very close, with cunning devices invented to prevent detection from the nearby road. The results were shipped to Speakeasys in distant cities, the term "Driftsville Special" achieving a certain notoriety among the more discerning of the patrons. The town, recognizing the benefit of both contraband trade and the healthy effects of local brews being too lucrative to drink, covered the machinations of its citizens to the best of its ability. Several shiners were still caught, most notably Steven "Bucktooth" McCullan, a man in possession of a total of thirty eight stills through the mountain range. However, the bulk of the operators evaded detection and continued to peddle their wares to their thirsty neighbors.

With so much local income being made from alcohol, the onset of the Great Depression did little to hurt the local economy. None of the town's money was heavily invested in banks and the farms were largely dependant on a local market. If anything, the large number of people willing to spend their few dollars on drowning their sorrows made the most important businesses even wealthier. In 1933, with the end of prohibition, several of the most prominent moonshiners crossed the line of legality into opening up full-blown breweries and distilleries. Several remain, at least in name, most notably "Bucktooth" Beer, the brainchild of the released Steven McCullan, and Chestnut Mountain Whiskey, a business started by Cassius Shaughnessy. Chestnut Mountain Whiskey is noted today for the distinctive flavor created by the maple distilling barrels. As the businesses were entirely operator-owned and financed, the town continued to do a brisk trade in intoxication. The only noticeable effect of Roosevelt's New Deal was the hiring of several Drifstville laborers for the construction of the Otter Creek Dam.

When Nazi Germany invaded Poland, many of the inhabitants of Drifstville were staunchly against movement into yet another World War. Many had lost friends, sons, and brothers in the first World War and the idea of repeating those losses left a bitter taste in many mouths. Even with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Driftsville remained opposed. The draft made no distinction between those who wanted to fight and those who didn't, however. Again the youth of Driftsville was called into service and again over fifty percent of the young men went to war. The older men, remembering the events of the Great War, found religion, and a church, at first small, but growing progressively larger as the fighting continued, was founded, letting Driftsville Christians have somewhere closer to worship instead of traveling all the way to Otter Creek Methodist, a few miles away. Drifstville Baptist was founded by a young preacher named Oscar Williams, a transplant from Boston, used to larger crowds which gave him a booming voice when he found his momentum. His voice was one of the greatest strengths of the church and several families from Otter Creek began to travel on Sunday mornings to listen to his sermons. The bar took a mild hit in revenue but the overall effects were minimal.

The war ended with far fewer casualties than the first had. A large number of the returning men had skills far more marketable than what they had been taught by their fathers. Driftsville again lost half of their sons, but this time to jobs in Albany and Boston. Families, expecting a homecoming of men ready to labor again in the fields, were shocked by the development. However, they found the new alternative superior to the previous, as the sons went on to get high-paying jobs, college educations, and a certain amount of power in the world, with sizable portions of each paycheck going back home to the family. The sons started families of their own, the infamous Baby Boom, and found significant pleasure in visiting their old homes with these new children. Drifstville suddenly found itself attracting tourism. The fifties and sixties were a boom time for Driftsville, and the old hotel suddenly found itself with competition. Several new businesses started up to supporting the burgeoning industry and new families moved in to work in these businesses. The desire for at least a little bit of home in their new lives created increasing business for the local breweries and distilleries, and a plant was opened to manufacture Driftsville lounge chairs, a distinct piece of furniture combining comfort and affordability. Nearby Otter Creek tried to cash in, but a series of vicious lawsuits led to the design being the intellectual property solely of the Driftsville Furniture Manufacturing Company.

In the sixties a small college opened in Driftsville and some of the families that had moved out in the past found it appealing to send their sons and daughters to the school. Driftsville University was small at first, but soon made itself known as one of the premiere technology education schools in the country, largely for its close relationship with the local businesses. Students trickled in from across the country. While protests were held against the Vietnam War, Driftsville U. found itself in the unique position of sharing the picket lines with the town's populace at large. The town still felt the sting of the First and Second World Wars and the idea of becoming mired once again in a cross-oceanic war was repellent enough to drive even some of the police officers to the streets. The town grew still and soon its parent, Otter Creek, was consumed by the city limits. Otter Creek had felt World War Two far more harshly than Driftsville had and its economy had suffered for it.

Nothing of importance happened in the eighties.

The early nineties brought even more growth to the town, with the absorption of Driftsville University into the State University of New York system. However, the buyout of several businesses in town by larger corporations elsewhere, and the closing of the furniture plant, led to a sudden recession. Many families found themselves without jobs. The bars began to once again do a brisk trade. The tourists stopped coming in such large numbers, and the breaking of the Otter Creek Dam in the spring of 1997 led to a sudden flash flood that damaged large amounts of property. The dam was rebuilt, but Driftsville has yet to recover completely.

Now Driftsville finds itself once again growing. New businesses are opening and some have rediscovered the pristine landscape under the shadow of Chestnut Mountain. The unemployment rates remain high, but are decreasing yearly. The town revenue is increasing to counter the unemployment rates. Driftsville is set for a new Renaissance and, with luck, it will be realized.

-Charles Sherman Jr.

Teacher's Comments: Some historical inaccuracies mar an otherwise good paper. Ignoring the 80's doesn't get you any extra credit, either.

Revise.

B-

RHPS

I have really nice legs.
The show was absolutely fantastic. I was going to put up a few pictures, but Jess Amir's makeup job was so horrendous that I don't know if I even want to... Okay, just one.

Things I'm Enjoying

StumbleUpon

If, like me, you ever find yourself saying "boy I wish I had an interesting website to look at right now," this is a pretty beefy tool. Just click on a button and - bam! - new random website. Sometimes crappy. Sometimes not.

Like Better

Click on photos! Computer tells you about yourself! Fun. Kind of. Mindless, but hey, that's how it works.

Songbird

Like iTunes, but more capabilities. Still can't figure how to randomise, though...

Things My Mother Sent Me For My Birthday

My mother always sends me the strangest packages for my birthday so this year it's being documented.

Some strange wobble-headed thingy. It has a metal staple stuck in its nose. I believe this is my mother's commentary on how much she dislikes my own nose piercing.







A package of salted peanuts. I'm not upset about this. Peanuts are, in fact, absolutely and ridiculously delicious.






Those thingies where you scratch off black stuff and there's rainbow colors underneath.

A birthday card with a nice greeting inside and a plea for more phone calls.

Cookies! In a nice tupperware container. I already ate some and they're delicious.

A festive bag.

A change thingie without about two dollars in quarters inside. Since there are no arcades nearby...

I'll consider a contribution to the tattoo fund!

Thanks, mom, I love ya!

What does it mean...

When you have a dream that's a movie starring Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt?

I think it means I have to write a play.

That Damn Marijuana.

Happy Birthday to Me

A few days late, but still...

Last night I had my first legal drink. A double jack on the rocks. With Dr. Maurice Kenny, goblessim. A man that has had such a deep influence on my writing commemorated with that sort of landmark?

Appropriate.

Glass House

The current project I'm working on for playwriting is a long, experimental piece which is, on a plot level, about a relationship that's on the rocks. Of course, it's deeply metaphorical and, like any writing piece, the majority of the characters are operating on pretenses that mirror my own faults and whatnot. I have an interesting direction to take the plot, I think, and it won't require reworking much more of the current play than the final scene, which is faulted anyways.

I realised, while working on it, that the plot is basically a prediction about where I'll be in a few years. This made me think about turning it into a full three-act play. As it stands the idea is:

Glass House: Summer 2008, following the rocky relationship of Stan and Margaret and their interactions with the people they surround themselves with.

Cold House: Winter 2005-2006, a difficult winter break for Stan, following his conflicts with his family, who he's living with, and the difficulty of his deep-seated apathy.

Burning House: 1983-2003, chronicalling the failure of Stan's parents' marriage, from the destruction of their first house to the drawn-out divorce.

Being at Home

Late-ish Thursday night, my brothers and Joel showed up to pick me up. We grabbed my bag and left; I don't think anyone knew I was going, but that's okay. The drive home was suprisingly entertaining - I always expect car rides with my brothers to be somewhat worse than they are. As we're driving south, it gets progressively colder until we get home, where the windows might as well be frosted. If it had been precipitating, I'm sure it would have been snow.

So we go inside and - suprise! surprise! - it's just as cold in there as it is everywhere else in the Adirondacks. I called Kaye and she came over while my brothers and father are getting ready for bed. We were huddling under a blanket trying not to be cold.

She went home after a while and I went to bed. I didn't have blankets or sheets so I had to go onto the porch and grab a sleeping bag. Of course I grab Sara D.'s, which for some reason has a pair of underwear in it, but at that point I was too tired and cold to do anything but put the underwear elsewhere and go to bed trying to ignore that fact that the window next to me had a broken pane of glass covered by nothing but a cardboard box

The next day I got up and, again, was freezing cold. It frosted outside. So I started a fire, which was unfortunately too hot, but that was fine with me at the time. Kaye came over again between classes and I made her breakfast and then she left and then I watched movies for the rest of the day and that was Friday.

So on Saturday we were going to go hang out with Jane. Kaye came around, we went and picked up Christina, and then got fantastically lost trying to find I90. We looped around the next major city and came around and found it. Eventually. We got to the apple orchard and found out, to my surprise, that we weren't just apple picking. There was an apple festival going on. My hopes immediately soared - kettle corn? It turned out there wasn't any. Awful thing. Any event that includes the words "Festival," "Fair," "Carnival," or such should have a place that you can buy huge amounts of kettle corn. It should be a law.

Goin' Home

I'm going home tonight, woot woot. Should be a fun trip - going to see Jane, Kaye, Sara D., hopefully Ryan, definately Sara G., maybe even Spencer, the little bastard. Phone number there's 1(518)251-2047 if anyone wants to get in touch.

That is all.

A Collection of Utter Nonsense: UNEXPECTED EVENT!

A Collection of Utter Nonsense: UNEXPECTED EVENT!

This is hideously disturbing to me. I don't know who fabricated this utter lie but I assure anyone who cares that my foreskin is as intact as the day I was born! I remain all man! Anyone who says anything to the contrary is a filthy, worthless liar and should burn in hell.

CDs to Review (September 29)

CDs I've had for over a month:

Various - Alberta: Wild Roses Northern Lights
Various - Classic Canadian Songs from Smithsonian Folkways

New CDs:

Gran Bel Fisher - Full Moon Cigarette
Painted Saints - Company Town
Moses Mayfield - The Inside
Bright Light Fever - The Evening Owl
Justin Beckler - Oh! My Troubled Mind
Dragonfly - Blind

As soon as I review them I'll tell you which are worth listening to.

Harry Nilsson (September 28)

This is very important.

VERY important.

If you don't have any Harry Nilsson music on your computer, please for the love of god go download some right now. I'd say buy his albums but goodness, he's dead, he can't get your money now anyways and that's the only reason to buy a record.

Specifically "Pandemonium Shadow Show" and "Aerial Ballet" are worth looking into, though you'd have a hard time finding a bad Nilsson album.

Jackass 2 (September 28)

Alright, so I watched it... legally, of course. Some people are really offended by this stuff, but I propose that Jackass is the exact same kind of entertainment as Mythbusters, only more accurate because they don't use dummies! Or myths. But still, gluing pubic hair all over someone's face is worth something.

Facebook (September 27)

Pretty much everyone, I'm sure, has noticed the recent changes in facebook; the newsfeed, the refined privacy settings, the addition of notes, the opening of the network to people outside of academia. Some people are very pissed off about this; some people are cool with it; some people just don't care.

The important thing to do in this situation is to examine the original purpose of Facebook and then examine each of the recent changes from that point of view.

"When I made Facebook two years ago my goal was to help people understand what was going on in their world a little better. I wanted to create an environment where people could share whatever information they wanted, but also have control over whom they shared that information with. I think a lot of the success we've seen is because of these basic principles." - Mark Zuckerburg (http://blog.facebook.com/blog.php?post=2208562130)

His stated purpose is to help people understand what is going on in the world. Unless you're very, very closed to things like family, old friends, graduated friends, or the outside world as a whole, "the world" consists of more than the colleges that have been added to the Facebook network. Examine the recent changes individually:

A) Notes - Allow a person to explain the otherwise inexplicable changes that they've made to their profiles. Sure, my cousin went from "In a Relationship" to "It's Complicated" to "Single" to "It's Complicated" again. If he wanted to let me or the other people watching his tumultuous love life know exactly why that happened, he would be able to if he put a note up. (Kerrigan, put a note up! You're confusin' me here, bud.)

B) Newsfeed - It ain't for stalking. It doesn't give you any information you didn't have access to before. It just makes it a little more convenient to get access to that information - if anything less stalkerish, since you don't have to go through your friends profiles seeking minute differences when they're listed as having made recent changes! And, thanks to

C) New Privacy Settings - you don't have to worry about information you don't want getting splashed all over Facebook being displayed. You can decide exactly what information you want to share, and with who, which is especially important now that

D) Facebook is Open to Everyone - After all, you don't want your parents looking at those pictures of you doing bong rips at the naked frat party you went to last weekend, do you? And you might not want your significant other seeing those flirtatious wall posts you're throwing around like confetti. Or employers seeing that your first listed interest is "Beer Funnels (Antique)".

Basically, it seems to me that Facebook is progressing is a logical manner where prior changes acknowledge the problems of forthcoming ones. Facebook is doing its perceived job, which is to provide a classier, more refined networking tool than MySpace or the various other middle-school clogged websites on the internet. Just because it "creeps you out" doesn't mean it's a bad feature.

CDs I Reviewed Today (September 24)

All from Putumayo:

Folk Playground
Blues Around the World
Acoustic Africa
Music From the Winelands

Blues Around the World was by far the best, but Winelands is good too.

Angels in America Part 2: Perestroika (September 22)

I just got out of the play. It was... okay. The characters were good. The plot was interesting and wonderfully irreverant. But it seemed to lack a certain element of truth. I've always visualised the tearing away of curtains to be painful and violent act, and Angels in America lacked a certain brutality that I've come to associate with any kind of destruction of the ego. I want theatre to change me. I want it to reveal new depths to the world around me. The power of it is in the momentary nature, the fact that what's happening on that stage is completely singular. Nowhere else is the same thing happening, and it can't happen exactly the same way ever again. There's a lot of potential there to really blow people away, and I don't think Angels did that. Not every play can.

So, basically, it was acceptable but not sublime.

Imperial Orgy (September 20)

The Imperial Orgy

A really interesting website. I've only just begun the cobra level of it, but it kind of demands input and really there's no reason not to go through it.

I found one part especially interesting, namely a section that described exactly the reason that I stopped using marijuana. I wasn't aware that other people had the same problem. This is probably what made me keep going and start taking it seriously.

Camilia (September 20)

Right now I'm taking a break from writing a greek-style drama, complete with chorus and high language and long monologues, based on the law going into effect too soon that requires a passport to cross the Canadian border. I'll note here that I originally proposed it as a joke, sort of a "wouldn't it be ridiculous" suggestion, but the small group I'm working with loved the idea so now, instead of presenting our issue in a straight and boring way we're going to put on a play. This is probably the ideal situation in this case.

I'm finding writing it particularly enjoyable since it's not serious. I can play with the language a little bit in a way I wouldn't want to in a more serious drama. I'm sure I'll end up posting it to my deviantART site so if you want to read it, it will be there.

Little Miss Sunshine (September 19)

Probably the best comedy I've seen this year. Seriously. Any movie that includes cocaine usage, gay porn, and body smuggling in conjunction with a seven year old can't be bad. Not in my book.

Masks (September 19)

Today, almost every class I was in was talking about masks. Small groups communication was talking about masks in terms of different group roles; monsters was talking about masks in terms of whether or not playing a role that's not yourself is inherrantly monstrous; and of course, Theatre History was about Greek theatre and that's just masks all over the place.

It's a good thing I believe in coincidence, otherwise I might think someone was trying to tell me something.

The Difficulty of Communication

I have tried, on several occasions, to establish a public journal for the dual purposes of communicating with people I don't necessarily talk to as often as I ought and in order to better arrange my thoughts on a daily basis. Unfortunately, nearly every time, the exercise disintegrates into either pointed in jokes towards a specific person or, more often, an update schedule that resembles bimonthly more than journalistic.

So, I'm going to try again. Hopefully this time people will actually know what's going on with me.

Today I did very little. This may be a pattern.

I did see Dr. Henry read from his new book, though, and it was pretty amazing. The book is listed below. If you have any interest in the contemporary novella it's worth checking out.