The Depressive Years|
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|Friday, June 10th, 2011|
|Thursday, February 10th, 2011|
|Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010|
|Tuesday, February 9th, 2010|
|Tuesday, August 4th, 2009|
|Wanna listen to me read?
If so, go here. If not, go to Whole Foods. Warning, kinda graphic content.
This episode features the 2009 winners of The Parlor’s second annual Emerging Writer’s Festival. The Festival was a great success this year. Great readers, great audience, followed by an equally great barbecue. We at The Parlor are excited by this year’s winners.
This year’s writers (in order of appearance) are: Sarah Terez Rosenblum, Jeanie Chung, Peter Anderson, J.D.K. Goodman, and Jessie Morrison.http://theparlorreads.com/
|Monday, August 3rd, 2009|
|Thursday, July 16th, 2009|
|Saturday, May 23rd, 2009|
|If you're in Chicago, come see me read! I you're elsewhere listen to the podcast.
...or just watch 30 Rock. It's a really funny show.
The Parlor’s 2nd Annual Emerging Writer’s Festival
Saturday, May 23, 4pm at The Green Lantern (1511 N. Milwaukee)
Emerging Writers Festival Schedule
4:00 pm Sarah Terez Rosenblum - Where She Is
4:30 pm Jeanie Chung – Cuts and Folds
5:00 pm Peter Anderson – One Son Resists
5:30 – 5:45 BREAK
5: 45 pm J.D.K. Goodman – Another Place, Another Time
6:15 pm Jessie Morrison - The Queens of the Northwest Side
The Parlor is a monthly reading series, hosted by Chicago’s Green Lantern and sponsored by Bad At Sports Podcast.
Broadcast on the web in order to reach listeners who may not have regular access to live literary events, The Parlor publishes 30 minute live readings by contemporary writers followed by a question-answer period.http://theparlorreads.com/
|Wednesday, February 4th, 2009|
|Wednesday, July 25th, 2007|
|I enjoy money
So...I blog for money now. You can search for my first column in the archives, the one up here is my second.
And I guess I'll need to tell you my name so you can fidn the column. There goes ana...ananym...no one knowing who I am...
Sarah Terez Rosenblum.
|Thursday, March 30th, 2006|
“I need a title and I need a story, but the first ten minutes are gold.”
--Overheard at the West Hollywood Starbucks
|Thursday, April 21st, 2005|
So yesterday I overhear Arnold on the phone with a Filipino nurse. He's asking her for her address.
"Bridge," He asks, "Bridge, as in bridge over troubled waters?"
Yes, Arnold, I'm sure that all foreign medical graduates are intimately acquainted with the song stylings of Paul Simon.
|Tuesday, December 21st, 2004|
|Friday, July 9th, 2004|
I was filling my water bottle with filtered water from the crouching tan machine in the kitchen when Arnold tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘It’s been a while since we’ve talked.’
‘Mmm,’ I said, noncommittally.
‘How’ve you been?’
‘So didja hear I almost got fired today?’
‘Aw, you didn’t? It was really bad I shouted at Andrea, you didn’t hear?’
‘Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have done that. I just, I’m on this medication and-for a virus, and you know how one part of your mind tells you not to do something and you’re just doing it anyway? And you can’t stop?’
I do actually, but I wasn’t going to tell Arnold that.
‘I just, I’ve been really sick and, yeah, I almost got fired. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.’
I smiled sweetly, capping my water bottle and slipping past him, ‘No, you probably shouldn’t. I hope you feel better.’ My eyes connected with Sydney’s as I passed him on my way back into the sales room. ‘Help me!” I tried to telegraph, ‘He’s a maniac.’ Sydney looked at me quizzically.
‘So, whatja do this weekend? Arnold asked, biting at my heels and yapping a bit.
‘Not much.’ I smiled. ‘Things have been uneventful lately.’ Yeah, uneventful, except for when you and Andrea stopped the whole office cold screaming at each other. Of course I’d heard what had happened. Andrea sits directly beside me, and Arnold’s cubicle is across from mine. I was on the phone at the time, and barely glanced up when the shouting started, just plugged my free ear with my left index finger and spoke louder into my headset, but Andrea’s furious cry definitely caught my attention. ‘Pay attention to what the caller is saying,’ She shrieked. “She’s already spelled her name out for you three times, and you just keep asking her to spell it again!’
‘Naw, I didn’t I-“
‘Arnold, I heard you myself.’
‘Naw see, she just wanted, I mean I wasn’t asking her to do that.’
‘Arnold, I’m listening to your call, I know what I heard.’
‘No, you don’t. I know what I’m doing.’ Arnold was on his feet now too, leaning over the top of the cubicle wall in what I would be glad to testify was a threatening manner. At that point my phone call consumed my attention, but not to such a degree that I did not notice Sydney stand, snap his fingers and whisk Arnold away. In the gully of silence that opened in their wake, 40 percent of the sales room looked at 50 percent of the sales room and tried hard not to giggle. (The other ten percent was either on the phone, making giggling a misguided action, or felt no qualms about giggling openly.)
‘I cannot believe him.’ Andrea exhaled loudly and touched her fingertips to her temples. ‘He is this far from being fired.’
Between Arnold and the Bathroom Vandal, the shit is going down around here, or rather, it isn’t really, and on purpose. For the last three months, basically since I was hired, someone has been overflowing the toilets in the women’s bathroom. The bathroom has three stalls (and the mirror has two faces), which is far too few for an office containing 70 women. We make do though, except of course, when someone has taken it upon herself to fold over sheets and sheets of paper toilet seat covers and stuff them into two of the toilets. This happens at least once a day, sometimes twice. My theory is that the perpetrator is obsessive compulsive; she can’t help what she’s doing. Andrea, however, is certain that it is a malicious act against Cohen. Today when I wandered off for my first bathroom break of the day (Approximately five minutes after arriving, thank you very much), the door and both mirrors each bore a bold-faced notice which read: ‘Attention to the person DESTROYING the bathroom: Several people have spotted you vandalizing the bathroom. What you are doing is not only illegal, it is inconsiderate. Please stop immediately or action will be taken against you. You have been warned.’
Andrea. I thought. Definitely Andrea. Back in the salesroom, everyone was talking about the bathroom vandal.
‘I didn’t know what to do after I put the signs up,’ Andrea said, ‘because everyone looked all surprised when they saw them so I thought maybe I should look that way too so they wouldn’t think I was the vandal.’
‘I actually feel like I’m the vandal.’ I confessed, ‘I mean, I know I’m not, but what if somehow I am, like I’m sleep walking…well, I don’t sleep here, but maybe I’m in some sort of trance and I don’t remember doing it.’
‘Whoever it I has a lot of anger toward Cohen,’ said Charles.
‘Who doesn’t have anger towards Cohen?’ Kanika put in.
‘Arnold certainly does,’ said Saba, ‘Or he will when Andrea fires his ass.’ Andrea tried to look reproachful. She didn’t succeed. ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ Andrea said, ‘No one ever has defied me like that.’
Not even your mother, I wanted to say, thinking of the fraught phone conversations I am always witnessing. Of course I didn’t say that. I kept quiet, which is exactly what Arnold needs to learn how to do. And fast, before someone flushes him down the toilet.
|Tuesday, July 6th, 2004|
|Quotes of the day and books...
‘Nothing in life-nothing even in Shakespeare adequately prepares you for the experience of opening a can of Whiskas with Bits O’ Beef for your closest friend who’s been dead for 2 years.”
-Peter S Beagle, ‘A Dance for Emilia”
‘The finest act of seeing is necessarily the act of NOT seeing something else.”
"This sense of doom is an old one, very old, and so familiar that it seems more an aggravated deja vu than a legitimate feeling.'
- 'Making God,' Stephan Petrucha
Reading: A Dance for Emilia by Peter S Beagle, Making God by Stephan Petrucha
|Monday, June 28th, 2004|
|Quote of the day and Reading
'The knowledge of death is reflexive and conceptual, and animals are spared it. They live and they disappear with the same thoughtlessness: a fewminutes of fear, a few seconds of anguish, and it is over. But to live a whole lifetime with the fate of death haunting one's dreams and even the most sun-filled days-that's soemthing else.'
|Thursday, June 24th, 2004|
|Quote of the Day
"Was it always this way: What attracted you most to someone was the trait that disapeared first?" -Alice Hoffman, "The Probable Future."
|Wednesday, June 23rd, 2004|
No matter how many times I repeat it in my head; Bethesda. Bethesda. Bethesda, when I try to say it out loud, I mispronounce it.
Sometimes the only things that keep me going are free samples.
Often, when I see a guy attempting to drag a woman into a dark alley,I have the impulse to go up to him and say, ‘Excuse me sir, is this little lady bothering you?’
Reading: Secret Window, Secret Garden, and The Library Policeman, both by Steven King (seriously, stop judging me, I've never read him before really..., same alice hoffman book...
|Monday, June 21st, 2004|
|Quote of the day etc.
"You didn't offend me. It's just that in the last 10 hours or so I've had to cope with a pressure leak over the Pacific Ocean, finding out that my ex-wife died in a stupid apartment fire in Boston, and that the United States has been cancelled. I'm feeling a little zonked."
-Steven King, 'The Langoliers'
Reading: The Langoliers by Steven King (don't judge me), 'The probable Future,' By Alice Hoffman
|Sunday, June 20th, 2004|
*It’s gotten to the point where when you see someone wandering around talking to themselves, you don’t know whether they’re homeless, or just on a cell phone with an ear piece. It’s especially hard to tell in L.A. where the population is fairly equally divided between homeless people and wealthy people, not that you really need to be wealthy in order to own a cell phone anymore. Lily Tomlin (or possibly Jane Wagner) once said that all of the homeless people walking around New York talking to themselves should be paired up so at least they can appear to be having conversations. I would update that statement to say that all the homeless people walking around Los Angeles talking to themselves should be issued cell phones with head sets to the same end.*
Down Town Los Angeles is deserted on Sunday mornings. You wouldn’t think the down town area of such a big city would clear out so completely just because it’s the weekend, but it does. Taking the highway to work to put in some overtime hours, I feel like I’m slipping down a giant water slide; the highway too, is that smooth and empty. The outdoor plaza at 7th and Figueroa, bustling and colorful during the week looks practically post-apocalyptic today. Somehow, though, while the sidewalks are devoid of people, the streets are still packed with cars. Apparently, even after the rapture, parking in Los Angeles will still be at a premium. As I walk from my parking garage to work I automatically check the little nook behind the Christian Science Study center for my favorite homeless guy. In Los Angeles, homeless people are like coffee shops, you need to pick and choose, because there will always be another one on the next corner. I wonder if they realize this. I have been snarled at by so many homeless people whom I imagine assume I’m some sort of selfish billionaire, delighting in refusing to share my wealth. This drives me crazy because at least 40% of the time, I have just donated some change to another blanket rapped individual clutching a cart or a cup or sometimes an animal. I mean, don’t they know how much competition they have? If they want to hoard all of the hand-outs, they should move to Iowa! Maybe I should give equally to every person I see. Maybe I should create a spread sheet in excel so that I can remember to whom I gave what and how much on what day. But the truth is, there are some people that I just don't want to give money to, while others cause me to reach for my wallet every time I see them. I bet it’s that way for everyone.
I was walking through down town Chicago with a family friend, Terry, when I was 17, and we were stopped my two homeless people, one after the other. The first one was a woman who looked both desperate and resigned. She called out, ‘Sir, please, I don’t have anything to eat, could you spare some change?’(I think homeless people are the only ones left who say ‘spare,’ by the way. It’s like they learned how to beg by reading Oliver Twist.) I expected Terry to hand her a couple of coins, I would have if I’d had any money , but he just brushed past her shaking his head. ‘Everyone’s trying to con you.’ He said to me, ‘remember that.’ Half a block later a short man in a ski hat reeled toward us.’ Hey man, he said, I’m collecting money. My brother, he’s crippled see, and we’re putting together this carnival for limbless children. Would you like to contribute?’ The man’s story sounded implausible to me, so I kept walking, expecting Terry to do the same, but he had stopped and was handing the man a five dollar bill. He shrugged as he caught up with me, ‘Everyone has their weak spot’ he said,’ I’m a sucker for children.’
Apparently I’m a sucker for girls who look like Kurt Cobain, old hunch-backed, tattooed men, and women with leashed cats.
I’ve only seen the Cobain girl once. She told me she liked my bag, and asked where I’d gotten it. I told her it was from an Army /Navy store, because it looks like it is. I was ashamed to tell her I’d gotten it at Urban Outfitters. She nodded and smiled, leaning her head back against the brick building behind her. ‘Cool,’ she said, squinting at me as if into the sun. I handed her a dollar bill and briefly fantasized about taking her home with me, but then the light changed and I crossed the street.
The old guy with the tattoos isn’t hanging out behind the study center today, and I wonder if he’s taken Sunday off just like most everyone else. I also wonder what exactly he was BEFORE. He obviously had money at some point because his arms are covered from shoulder to wrist in vivid tattoos. Blue or black tattoos are expensive enough , but the multi-colored variety run at least $100 a pop. I’ve seen him pushing the cat woman’s cart, their heads bent in towards each other in conversation, so I know they’re friends. Maybe they’re even lovers. There’s an intimacy between them, but I don’t know if that comes from having sex, or just from sharing a shopping cart. Last week I asked if he was married to the woman with the cat. ‘Who, Gert?’ he rasped, ‘yeah. man, Gert’s cool. She’s my buddy.’ Next time maybe I’ll ask him how she keeps her cat so well-trained. Today, as I reach my building, I see a man in a ripped up yellow tee shirt heading towards me. He’s bracing his arms on his cart, and nodding his head to undetectable music. As he gets closer, I can read the words on his shirt. ‘Will work for beer,’ it says. Now, I’m thinking that, as a homeless person, wearing a shirt like that is not your best bet. I mean, it’s nice to have a sense of humor and all, but who’s going to give money to someone who’s all but smacked you in the face and told you that alcohol put him on the street and if you kindly give him some of your hard-earned money, he’s just going to go out and buy some more? As coffee shops go, this guy is a Dunkin’ Donuts. I mean, he’s doing the equivalent of wearing ripped up jeans and a Marylyn Manson T shirt to a board meeting. This guy clearly does not take his job seriously. I want to explain to him about the inappropriate nature of his workplace attire. I mean, maybe he’s new, just doesn’t know any better. I see a promising vocation for myself on the horizon: Career Consultant/Fashion Advisor for homeless people. Something tells me that’s not a job with a 6 figure salary, but it just might beat answering the phone.