The holy day

Excerpts from The First Year: A Pilgrim’s Notebook

I. Our harvest being gotten in, our governor declared a day of thanksgiving and sent five men on fowling that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruits of our labor. And though the governor did ask me to go with the men, seeing, as he put it, I had nothing better to do, I assured him that I was deep in pensive thought on the issue of the upcoming winter and the state of our stocks of cod and corn and waterfowl and that I always did my best thinking with my eyes closed while lying upon my stomach. The governor then shrugged and walked away and so four men did go on their expedition for fowl while I stayed in the village with the women. They four men in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week, which is fine, but I did find the reception they received a bit much and mocked it when they weren’t around. “I could have done that,” I told a few people.

II. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms with the throwing of balls and the grappling of bodies, many of the indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, and I tried to tell them that I don’t like deer, that I was fine with chicken, but they did not listen and filled my plate anyway, and so I did feed it to my dog when the indians were looking the other way.

III. We sat around the great fires with the indians for many long hours, our governor having decided that the best course of action in relation to them was one of Christian cheer and mutual respect, the better to ensure our survival during the coming winter. One indian, named Ossagua, wore a great headdress and a stern countenance at all times; I gathered he was a kind of medicine man or spiritual guide. His face was painted garishly with animal’s blood and he wore a necklace of wolves’ teeth. I would have been fascinated by him, perhaps even terrified, if he had ever gone away long enough to give me the chance. Instead, he never left my side throughout the feast. He described in great detail how he spent his days in their village from the time he woke until the time he bedded down for the evening. He sat his children in my lap. He gave me some kind of locket to wear that, as far as I could understand, consecrated our new friendship for eternity. He told me at least ten times that his favorite thing to do was fishing. Over and over again, he leapt to his feet and flopped his hand around and grunted, “Fish, fish.” “Yes,” I assured him. “You like to fish. I understand. How fascinating.”

IV. Ninety indians, fifty pilgrims, and no one thought to make brownies. I’m beginning to regret coming to this new world.

V. On the third day of solemnity, Edward Winslow declared that, before feasting, it would be meet that we all in turn name those things that we were thankful for, the better to enumerate before all, including our new indian friends, that which God had done for us and extol His glory. All assembled agreed this would be a fine and noble gesture. Many did thank the Lord for our safe passage across the ocean; others thanked him for the bounty of the harvest and the joy of religious freedom. When it got around to me, I began coughing theatrically and rose from the table while pointing at my throat, as if I were choking and off to search for water. I did wander around for five minutes thus, and by the time I returned to the feasting table, they were already five people down the line and I was quite off the hook.

A day fit for a poem

“Oh, what a glorious day!”

Oh, what a glorious day!
The sky is blue and the sun is shining
And the air is crisp and cool.
The streets are filled with life.
There is so much to be done;
You must laugh and dance and sing and run, run, run, run, run!

My God, what a perfect perfect day!
Come, let’s get out of the house
And greet the outside world.
All God’s beauty is being unfurled
For us, for us, for us!
Can’t you see, this wondrous moment is for us?

What a wonderful, splendiferous day it is!
Don’t just sit there at your desk.
Opening your window isn’t enough,
Neither is smoking a cigarette by the screen door;
This day requires more.
It demands we take a walk outside to feed our soul,
Like a smiling monk with his begging bowl.

How resplendent this day is!
No, don’t take me to the grocery store.
This day requires more.
Seriously, put down your keys,
Leave the grocery list and the paychecks.
You must not take me to the bank today.
Not today,
Not when the breeze is blowing the last memories of summer away.

Oh, most beautiful and wistful day!
I can’t believe you brought me here
On this most beautiful and wistful day,
When the air is crisp as mountain air or the sweet salt air off the ocean,
Why are we shopping for potato chips and moisturizing lotion?
My god, that man must weight 400 pounds
And still he’s buying sausages.
Seething, teeming, beastly, obese humanity! Oh God!
Criminal indifference to the majesty of this day! Oh God!
Don’t forget the bananas. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

Oh, this tragic, sad, and awful glorious day!
Five o’clock, it’s slipping quite away
Through your fingers like sands by the sea.
Have you no sense of sublimity?
What man would let a day like this go by,
When there’s not even a trace of cloud in the sky,
When the glory is almost too much for the eye,
When each person you see passing by
Is filled with love and warmth?
And yet here you are, inside.
I can’t believe this woman is paying by check.

And what now at the end of this lost and saddened day?
How will you answer for the beauty you missed,
Like a lover in a crowd you never raised your eyes to see?
Never to return is she.
Now that the sun is down and the air is cold,
How can you explain to me
How you let this day go by?
Another glorious day, yet you didn’t care
To marvel at the sky above or feel the wind blowing though your fantastic hair.

Epilogue:
Now the sky is dark and the moon’s aglow
And the stars are a shimmering, majestical show.
So you take off your shoes and turn on the light
And sit down at your desk to waste a glorious night.

Our hero returns

“Every Man Must Return to Where He’s From”
(A song to be sung briskly, jauntily, and with as little care as one can muster)

Every man who leaves his home to make his way in the world,
Like Steven Daedalus and other Irish fatalists,
Must inevitably at certain points,
Whether for a wedding or a funeral or some other occasion,
– Be he black, white, Indian, or Asian –
Drag his aching limbs and joints
Back to the place he’s from
And stand as a man before his sisters, Dad, and Mum.

There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.
Though – He may not care to, or may not even bear to,
And though he acts just like he did when he lived there as a boy
(Even at the age of 33,
He gives himself over to the most adolescent absurdity,
Screaming at his sister that all Americans should be in the government’s employ),
And though arguing racial politics over dinner makes his head pound like a drum,
There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.

Though his siblings induce madness, and the suburbs inspire sadness,
And his mother turns off the air conditioner despite the thermometer’s warning
– Making it that much more difficult to sleep
On a pull-out couch with a mattress that’s barely two inches deep –
And they serve him lasagna from a box at night and vanilla bagels in the morning,
And the dog barks incessantly ‘til everyone’s ears go numb -
There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.

Refrain: Tra la laaaa!  Tra la leeee! Tra la lummmmmmm!

There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.

You know it’s true, there’s nothing one can do.
(Just as Odysseus went back to Ithaca.)
Though the house was designed so that the kitchen and the den are essentially one
Making it impossible to hear the TV when the dishwasher’s being run,
Returning home should always be terrific – a
Chance to show his family the noble man that he’s become.
There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.

When he’s so mature, a boy no more
He must prove that he can face
All the thorny vicissitudes of life
And explain to his mother’s friends why he still has no wife,
And use his father’s computer without leaving any trace
Of pornography, depravity, or any other type of scum.
Yes —
There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.

La la laaaaaa. La la laaaaaaaa. La la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

There are times in a young man’s life when he must return to where he’s from.

Hey!

Noblest of all pursuits

Book I

Sing, Muse, of those great and fearless men, skilled in all ways of warfare, who traveled from far lands with legendary names like Brooklyn and East Austin, men harried for hours on end in the scorched fields of Operation: Bunker Buster and Operation: Jungle Run by youths not half their ages who carried with them automatic weapons and cranky dispositions. Sing and tell the story of those heroes bold enough to face a day of paintball in the middle of summer in central Texas, and of the pains they suffered there, where many souls were lost and sent to Hades and their bodies made carrion, feasts for the dogs and birds, and all of them were plagued by welts and bruises that they did boast much about later when they went to dinner at this charming little French restaurant that just opened on the Eastside.

Tell us how it began, oh Muse, why they so bravely put upon them the garments of war and turned on those three young men from high school who were taunting them. Which of the Gods set them to quarrel? It was Apollo, son of Zeus and Leto. For bristly-haired Paul did make burnt offerings to that God on the occasion of his wedding and did ask him, “Great Apollo, what shall I do with my friends for one last day of enjoyment before I am married and my life becomes a drudgery, an endless series of duplicated days, each no different than the last, on and on, even after death unto eternity, a walking, breathing paralysis, without feeling or beauty or art or the hint of pleasure?” And Apollo answered him, “You, grinning Paul, are the greatest of all the warriors upon the earth who do me service. As such you must take your noblest friends and go play paintball in honor of my war-like ways.”

And shortish Paul’s noblest friend, Josh Son of Joel, did overhear this and said to himself, “Oh, fuck me,” for he was convinced that the occasion of his friend’s wedding celebration would be cause for him to look upon the flesh of women without getting yelled at. And so he sacrificed four fatted calves and a loaf of bread and did plead to Apollo directly, “Great Apollo, why did you tell bristly-haired grinning Paul that I must play paintball with him on the occasion of his wedding?” And Apollo, god of the silver bow, did reply, “This you must do, for it shall bring one final day of pleasure to bristly-haired grinning shortish Paul and because it is inscribed in the heavens by my father, mighty Zeus, son of Kronos, that when a man’s friend does fall in love, that man shall be greatly inconvenienced and made to spend great deals of money and generally be made miserable.”

And so upon that day of battle, the friends of bristly-haired grinning shortish Paul, lawyer of patents, gathered and did put on their goodly greaves fitted with ankle clasps and their black helmets made for them by Minerva and generous amounts of suntan lotion and other exotic oils, and draped in their horrible masks of war and holding their paint rifles they did approach the mighty inflatable pylons of Operation: Armageddon, spurred on by the gods, and they were struck down immediately by the machine guns of the young men who had come out to face them and who had many years of practice. And the paint did rain down upon them like fire from the great heavens and caused them to cry out in pain and horror as one by one they fell in the grass and the grass did turn yellow with paint. As each one fell, they raised their arms and pleaded to the skies and the gods and the buried humanity of those horrible teenage boys, “I’m out! I’m out!” And mighty Zeus, master of the bright lightning, and beautiful nymph Calypso and Artemis of the golden distaff did cry out as well, “Let them out! Restrain your fury, oh young ones!” But the crankiness of the teenage boys was great and even after the men had begged their mercy, still they were struck with paint balls upon the head and face and also other places.

And noble Josh, Son of Joel, as he lay amidst the bodies of his fallen brothers, some who still cried out in pain, did remove his mask now covered in yellow paint, much like his shorts, which were the only ones he had, and raised his voice to the heavens: “I need new friends.”

Lexington Rosenblatt (walking the horse)

[Ed. Note: The author of this section, Josh Rosenblatt, has requested the week off to "decompress" and come up with new ways to talk about himself. In his absence we've decided to inaugurate a new feature on the Web site, UNFIT for the Vault From the Vault, in honor of the 150th anniversary of Unfit Times, which was first published as a satirical one-sheet mocking newly arrived German and Italian immigrants back in Sept. 1859. Today's edition: a "First Person" from 1862 that comes in the form of a letter Josh's great-great-great-great uncle Lexington, then a soldier in the service of Union general George B. McClellan, wrote to Melissa Lubitsch from his post in Manassas, Virginia, on the eve of the little-publicized Fifth Battle of Bull Run.]

UNFIT for a Hero’s Death

Nov. 29, 1862

My Dearest Melissa,

I believe I am Indebted to you by Way of Letter, so I take my pen in Hand to Write Once again, You having been so kind to me upon that Score, to send me Your fine Words & your Gifts of Chocolates & Locks of your flaxen Hair & Likenesses of yourself Without any Clothing on. Sometimes, in my darkest Hours, When I despair that the Brutality of this War will be too much for my Soul, I rent these Pictures of You to Others in the camp for Fifteen minutes and Earn Myself a few Pennies with which I can then buy a small Bottle of Whiskey and a Sheet of origami Paper. Then I feel better for a Time, convinced Again that I shall not fill a Coward’s Grave if I die amid this bloody Donnybrook.

The Boys here are all Brave. They charge the Rebel Artillery like they have the Lord Almighty at their back, prodding Them on, which I sincerely Believe They do. I have found the Best Thing to do on these Occasions is to take Cover behind a Tree or some old abandoned wheelbarrow or inside a Farmhouse, as they provide the best Protection from Rebel Bullets and Shells and Bayonets, and then when the Fighting has ceased I appear from behind that Tree or Wheelbarrow and tussle up my Hair and tear a Hole in my Shirt and act as If I just Killed Three Confederates with my bare Hands. As yet, no One has Expressed Skepticism.

It has been very cold and disagreeable here. Yesterday Three Cooks died from exposure while ladling Porridge. Add these to the 163 Men we lost in the Fighting Last Week, and this has been a Month of Great Hardship and Sadness for all of Us. Not safe from The Calamities of war myself, Yesterday I found a Hole in my spare pair of socks the size of a Nickel and was Unable to find a Regimental Quartermaster to replace them for nearly 30 Minutes. The merest Thought of how cold my Feet Might have Been had my first pair of Socks given way during That Half an Hour filled my Heart with longing for the Warmth and security of our Home and the Gentle camaraderie of our sons and for You, my gentle Melissa, who knows so very much about Darning my Socks.

Oh darling Melissa, if You should hear Tomorrow that I fell in battle do not think Me gone. My Spirit shall forever be with You, for my Love for You is deathless. It binds Me to You, and no War, not even one one as horrible as this, could Ever Break those Bonds. And know that, no matter what Happens Tomorrow, it is Your Face that will be Forever in my Mind’s eye, your voice that shall evermore Sing me to Rest, and the memory of your Sweetest Touch that will always be the source of my Comfort, through both the Strife of this World and the peace of the Next.

Melissa, do not mourn me dead. Just tell your friends I am and then Meet Me behind your mother’s House next Tuesday Morning, where I shall wait for you, with a fake Mustache and Beard upon my Face and Dressed in the Clothing of an elderly Blacksmith, the easier for me to slip out of this Place unnoticed. Make sure to Grab Some money from the Pocket of your Father’s trousers. Then You and I can start our New Life together. In Mexico, perhaps. Or somewhere Else Where the Army will never find Us.

Perhaps I can even take up the Guitar, As I’ve always said I wanted to Do.

With undying affection,

Lexington

p.s. Please send more of Those Pictures when you have the Chance.

TV: And now we’re going to send you out to Austin, Texas, where Chuck Lovell  is with veteran swingman and fan-favorite Josh Rosenblatt, who outdid himself today at the Hancock Park basketball court off Red River near the shopping center where Old Navy used to be. Chuck?

Chuck: Thanks, you.

Josh, great job today. Three truly excellent games. Minus those two early losses you had what has to be considered a near-perfect day on the basketball court. I’m looking at the stats here, and I’m seeing things like 3-17 shooting, including an impressive 0-6 from three-point land; I’m seeing two steals; I’m seeing only 12 turnovers; you barely twisted your ankle even once; not one single – get this! – not one single instance of your having to apologize for running into a teammate on a fast break; and, perhaps most impressive of all, 14 self-deprecating jokes to pre-emptively deflect criticism from better players disappointed in your effort. Is it safe to say you were feeling it today?

Josh: It is, Joanie. I haven’t played like that in a long time. I don’t know what came over me, honestly. Our trainer, Chad, he’s got me smoking different tobacco these days, so that might have something to do with it. I’m not really sure. You know, in basketball you have good days and you have bad days. Today was one of those good days. When I was watching Jay chase that ball down the hill in game three, after I’d passed it over his desperate, outstretched arms, I remember thinking to myself, “Most days I would have done that three, four times by now.”

Chuck: Did you consciously change your approach, or did things just click?

Josh: No, I definitely tried to change things up. For example, I decided to wear this old, torn, thin gray Army shirt because I was finding that the stained white T-shirts I was wearing before weren’t nearly see-through enough after I poured water over my head between games. I think my teammates prefer when they can see my sweaty chest through my T-shirt; it gives them a little more confidence; it lets them know, “Hey, I’m here to win.” So that was big, I think. My wet, hairy body.

Chuck: To be fair, things did get tough in that second game. Your team was down 8-3 late and only barely managed to eke out the 11-5 loss there at the end. When did you decide that it would be best to guard their fastest player when you are clearly the slowest guy out here?

Josh: Ummm, right before the game, I think. With the way I played in that first game, only allowing my man to score eight out of his team’s 11 points, I knew it was my responsibility to cover their best player and throw my hands up in exasperation as often as I could. I knew if I did that, we’d have a chance to win.

You have to remember, the team we were playing against, those guys are a good 10-12 years younger than I am. They’re also exquisitely chiseled all through their chest and stomach and arm regions, and they’re also very blond. Plus they’ve got their whole lives ahead of them. They’re filled with life and hope, whereas I’m more of an embittered player, a cranky player, a player prone to fits of existential desperation; that’s my thing. So I knew I was going to have to just go out there and play my game and not allow myself to get caught up in their sense of optimism.

Chuck: In that game, you shot a remarkable 13% from the field, causing only two balls to go bouncing over the fence and into the poison ivy grove. Did it just feel automatic out there for you?

Josh: It really did. I can’t explain it, honestly. I will say this: My attitude has been much better these days, as has my work ethic. I’m focusing more on the fundamentals – concentrating on my footwork, keeping my hands moving on defense, squaring up to the basket when I shoot my jumper – and worrying less about the fact that basketball is a meaningless waste of time, a useless distraction to keep us from confronting the essential emptiness of human life in an uncaring universe.

Chuck: Plus, you’ve been unemployed for several months now …

Josh: So I’m getting a lot more rest, exactly.  My training regimen – which involves 14 hours of sleep a day, split into two equal shifts, combined with a focus on fluid intake, mainly guava juice mixed with grain alcohol – has really increased my stamina. I feel like a man half my age. Not exactly half my age, of course; I don’t remember what 16 1/2 felt like, but you get the idea.

Chuck: I do. So how do you keep this remarkable run of play going?

Josh: Oh, you know, just one game at a time. I’ll be back out here on Sunday for the two-on-two tournament, and I figure as long as I spend the time between now and then practicing my jump-shot in my living room wearing nothing but a pair of socks and maybe watching a basketball highlight video on YouTube, something set to a hip-hop soundtrack, I should be ready.

Chuck: Okay, thanks Josh. Great game.

Josh: Thanks. Great interview.

Right this way, ladies and gentleman. Squeeze on in, if you would, so everyone can get a look. I know it’s snug in here, but it was a different time back then, smaller people, smaller doorways. Ha ha. Right, ma’am, as I said already, no cameras please. Flash photography could do damage to the many artifacts and art pieces in the house. Good, thank you. Yes, come on in. Yes, right there by the vacuum cleaner is fine.

Hello everyone, and welcome to the home of Josh Rosenblatt, As you can see, despite the many great things that were accomplished here, the house is a bit on the small side. Surprising, I know, but it does make for a brisk tour. So if you’ll kindly give me your complete attention, we should be done in about three minutes, and then we can go get those hot dogs I promised you.

If you had visited this house in Rosenblatt’s time, you probably would have been greeted here in this modest entrance hall by Rosenblatt himself, provided he had managed to pry the great door open, which was not always the case. The door’s alignment had been compromised during the home’s 2006 foundation repair, known to scholars as “The Great Restoration.” Rosenblatt was often at the mercy of the door’s whims, and depending on certain weather conditions and his relative intoxication level the door would occasionally refuse to open. Many guests told historians stories of paying social calls to Rosenblatt only to be denied entry after he was unable to open the door. In these cases, they spoke of the wild, lavish, inhuman cursing they would hear coming from inside the house, accompanied by the sound of what they assumed was Rosenblatt’s head banging against the door. Once inside the house, visitors were often surprised by the sight of Rosenblatt wearing only underpants.

Upon entering the home, you would have been offered a seat on one of the living room’s two couches, though most likely you would have chosen to sit on the southern couch, as the couch lining the eastern wall – you can see it behind the antique microphone stand and the collection of priceless Danish-modern ash-trays – was usually covered in an assortment of unusual objects, as it is now. Rosenblatt acquired these objects during his occasional trips outside of his home and sometimes even off his street. You’ll notice the several empty cardboard boxes and what appears to be a random assortment of unmatched socks and the occasional folded magazine. Rosenblatt, as you know, was a great reader of magazines and often liked to come to this couch and think about how much he’d enjoy sitting on it and reading his magazines if it weren’t always covered in socks and old cardboard boxes.

In 2006, Rosenblatt purchased from the Swedish firm Ikea this coffee table. He would often move the table on a whim, and over the years it was used as an ironing board, a stand for an antique Tahitian box fan, a chair for prominent guests, and once, at a gathering in Autumn 2007, a make-shift stage for one of Rosenblatt’s erotic scarf-dances.

The kitchen, with its elegant laminate floor, is the room that most closely resembles what it was when Rosenblatt lived there. You’ll notice that there is still ketchup in the refrigerator and a banana peel in the garbage can. The microwave still bares the burn marks from a now-famous incident in 2008 when Rosenblatt misread the instructions on a packet of frozen french fries and nearly burned the house to the ground. After the incident, Rosenblatt never used the microwave again. In fact, he never took the plate of charred french fries out of the microwave, possibly in the hope that one day future generations of visitors, like yourselves, might learn from his mistakes. Either that or he just forgot they were in there. Scholars still debate the topic.

Like most Americans of his time, Rosenblatt ate one to two meals a day, often consisting of eggs and carved meats and cheeses placed between slices of bread. In addition to being a writer, musician, editor, basketball player, and lingerie enthusiast, Rosenblatt was also an amateur nutritionist, and he delighted in the long hours he and his friends would spend in his parlor discussing the relative nutritional merits of vegetables and objects made of chocolate. He even briefly considered writing a book on the subject, which he tentatively titled Seriously, Do  You Have Any Chocolate?. The book aroused the interest of several publishers at the time, but Rosenblatt ultimately abandoned the project in order to concentrate on watching season three of The Wire on DVD for the fourth time.

From the small window on the northern kitchen wall (which Rosenblatt cracked himself by hand in the spring of 2008) we get a gorgeous view of the homes’ quarter-acre lot, complete with Rosenblatt’s cherished brown grass and one of the finest concrete slabs in all of East Austin. Over the protests of friends and family members, Rosenblatt – an avid gardener and horticulturist – decided to keep the natural integrity of his property intact throughout his stay here, rarely mowing the yard and never planting any flora that wasn’t there when he first moved in. Shaking off criticism that he was wasting a beautiful yard that was so full of potential and could have served as a charming meeting place for guests on cool fall evenings, Rosenblatt was resolute in his belief that what grew naturally in his yard was the will of the almighty and so to alter the landscape would have been an implicit declaration that somehow God wasn’t perfect in every way. A man of faith and simple modesty, Rosenblatt never would have presumed such a thing and so left his yard the way it was, even going so far – you will see back there by the east fence – as to leave untouched stray pieces of newspaper that had flown into the yard and the crack pipe left behind by a local prostitute before the Great Gate Reconstruction of 2006.

This way, please.

Rosenblatt’s bedroom is a testament to the owner’s love of minimalism in interior design. Bare walls were a fashionable decorative motif at the beginning of the 21st century, as was a bunched-up terrycloth bathrobe splattered in blue paint and thrown in the corner. Another popular motif was the vague color line separating the blue walls from the white ceiling. At first glance this may look like little more than a shoddy paint job, but in fact this style of decoration was quite common at the time and was intended to remind female visitors of a frieze in the Temple of Fortuna Virilis in Rome – which on one occasion it actually did, causing Rosenblatt to immediately declare his love for the woman and ask for her hand in marriage. This declaration and request were rescinded approximately 43 minutes later, according to historians.

The library, at the time famous for its 23rd-edition copies of both What Makes Makes Sammy Run and The Moon and Sixpence (in whose margins can still be read some of Rosenblatt’s greatest literary observations, including “How true,” “Remember to re-read this page,” and “I wonder if they serve donuts here”), can be seen here near the head of the bed, under Rosenblatt’s collection of rare clock radios and paper scraps. In honor of his hero, Thomas Jefferson, Rosenblatt often declared his intention to donate his collection of 34 volumes to the Library of Congress, but with the recession of late 2008 nearly decimating the household income, he was forced to sell most of his most prized volumes to a local collector, who was kind enough to give him 65 dollars and a ticket to a jazz concert taking place in the store later that evening, a concert Rosenblatt forgot about upon arriving at the liquor store 13 minutes later.

Finally we come to Rosenblatt’s office, where most of his greatest pieces were written. The desk stands exactly as it did when Rosenblatt last worked there. Those are his actual cigarette butts; that is his actual stack of half-finished Daily Jumbles; those are his actual salt and pepper shakers (historians have yet to figure out how or why they ended up in his office); and that is the very window he was gazing out of when he came up with the idea for Mumbly the Lawn Chair, the cartoon creation for which he is still, to this the day, most famous.

Writing was the great joy of Rosenblatt’s life, and the meaning and delight he found there, I believe, can serve as an inspiration for us all. In 2009, in an e-mail he sent to a friend on the occasion of the three-month anniversary of Unfit Times (by which point he had written 432 pieces for the Web site), Rosenblatt wrote, “If I have to write another sentence I’m going to shoot myself in the head.”

Would that we could all be so fulfilled.

This way for the hot dogs, ladies and gentlemen.

August Strindberg: Inspiration, Tormentor, Swede

Notes From These Pajamas: The Diary of a Freelance Writer Pt. II

Dear Diary,

Woke up at 12:45 in the afternoon this morning in the midst of an existential collapse, convinced my life had swung dangerously off-course and into the realm of the completely insignificant: bereft of purpose, empty of value, of no use to anyone, a meaningless study in narcissism and solipsistic infantilism. Also, there are no eggs in my refrigerator. Which means I’ll be eating another in a series of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast. Terrible, inhuman, malicious, cruel fates!

I’ve decided that the only way to move past this deep sense of ennui sprinkled with light terror is to change the approach I’ve been taking to my work. For too long I’ve depended on short pieces – film reviews, artist profiles, political satires, lawn-mower instruction manuals – to get me by, figuring the best way to keep myself and, more importantly, the two publications that occasionally employ me  (The T____ O____, B__’s Life) interested was to constantly shake things up so no one would get bored. But now I’m bored of not being bored all the time, and I’ve decided the best way to establish myself as a writer of substance worthy of a paycheck that will keep me in the socks I like is to focus on one large project: a book, perhaps, or a movie script. Perhaps even a play. I’ve always wanted to re-imagine August Strindberg’s The Dance of Death as a sex farce.

I may have to take up Swedish again.

So in that spirit, some other ideas (Nagot andra aning):

Books

Pass Me the Eraser: The Life and Work of Ira Gershwin – Unlike most biographies of the great lyricist, I will concentrate on his early work, before he and his brother had become legends. In addition to relaying anecdotes of Gershwin’s early struggles with publishers, performers, and the anti-Semitic citizens of Hackettstown, New Jersey, the book will include extensive explications of many of the writer’s earliest, lesser-known, lyrics, including: “You ate all the ham / You drank all the jam / You left out the milk / But you look great in silk / Don’t you / Darling” (I Love You Despite it All, 1919)

The Grinding: An allegory of existential horror about a tortured man, Cassius Lotorsky, who moves into an old house in the woods and is tormented nightly by a horrible grinding sound coming from his kitchen. Consumed with guilt over having murdered his family, Lotorsky is convinced the grinding is the sound of impending divine retribution and so never bothers to check if he turned off the garbage disposal.

Movies

Gated – The residents of two gated suburban communities become so terrified by the outside world that they declare war on each other in a fit of mass paranoia. A metaphor for the excesses of the Bush Administration and the tenuous nature of American democracy in times of war, the film will feature a kung-fu fight in one of the communities’ spacious, state-of-the-art laundry rooms.

Notes From These Pajamas – Adapted from my published diaries, the story of a youngish writer struggling through days of poverty and artistic paralysis and nights of love, wine, and song. The question the film will dare to ask: Which is more horrible?

(No doubt the film’s triumphant moment will be the scene in which the youngish writer first gets the idea to write a movie about a youngish writer writing a movie about a youngish writer and then starts calling around trying to convince someone else to write it for him.)

Musical

How Many Ways Can They Find to Say “No”? – The story of wide-eyed, optimistic, good-natured, handsome, mysterious youngish man coming to terms with the harsh realities of life as a freelance writer, where every day is a parade of rejection. The show climaxes with a thrilling reprise of the title song during which a 300-person chorus, a menagerie of endangered animals, and Sarah Bernhardt dance a tarantella in a thunderous extravaganza of self-pity … and the world promptly forgets Giuseppi Verdi ever existed.

]]> http://www.unfittimes.com/2009/08/13/unfit-for-work-real-or-otherwise/feed/ 3 http://www.unfittimes.com/2009/08/04/unfit-for-the-east-coast-the-journals-of-a-yankee-transplant-2/ http://www.unfittimes.com/2009/08/04/unfit-for-the-east-coast-the-journals-of-a-yankee-transplant-2/#comments Tue, 04 Aug 2009 18:24:57 +0000 Mike Kanin http://www.unfittimes.com/?p=898

Kanin Wonders If the Screenwriter Would Care to Script His Life

Having firmly established myself as a carpetbagging neo-southerner, have begun solidifying my claims. These include one (1) mid-century modernish house and homestead on the small-but-just-right acreage typically afforded by (to?) my peers. Thanks to the generous and upgrading former occupiers of said space, can now brag about chainsaw ownership. This is even more exciting than I’d hoped. Have begun lobbying for shotgun and gun rack with little success. Maybe when the rocking chairs come.

Have yet to receive government support for said home purchase. Secure in the fact that this will eventually come, have commenced with the stimulating. Have purchased one (1) roof vent, one (1) french drain, two (2) cans of paint, painting supplies, one (1) replacement vegetable sprayer hose, and one (1) pair of shiny mahogany-colored cowboy boots. Have listed the last under future professional expenses and feel doubly patriotic for my foresight and participation in the affairs of the Internal Revenue Service.

Have begun craving episodes of the Sorkin-penned half of The West Wing television series. Convinced that these make me smarter, better able to write, and also more beautiful. Wondering if Sorkin hires himself out to write private lives. Hoping that he does and will work for peanuts (or baby powder/baking soda disguised as cocaine). Either way, confident in fact that things would be better (or at least more witty) if only Sorkin could write my life. Wishing that I had audience that might appreciate the wit in the last statement.

Wondering if Hollywood is really all that hard. Have decided to write screenplay. Will populate feature-length effort with dark, brilliant, funny, Sorkin-ish characters full of wit and humility. Will make twenty-something policy wonks cry at my genius. Will gain coveted place in the hearts of said wonks. Will fail miserably in Hollywood and find that this is the key to greater success. Will write autobiography and watch as it’s turned into the feature I’d been trying to write all along. Will revel in own brilliance.

Have promised to not engage in too many like public tangents. Have decided that Hollywood is for starlets and characters from hair metal videos. Have decided to turn thoughts inward; maybe attend some neighborhood meetings. Have decided that neighborhood meetings are the key to launching a Sorkin-worthy political …

Nevermind. Have come back to earth. Wondering how long it will last.

Will head to San Fransisco in the morning for partner’s brother’s wedding. Will wear new cowboy boots, brag of stimulating patriotism. May continue to do part for economic recovery. Check that: Will continue to do part for economic recovery. Looking forward to doing part for economic recovery. Wondering how contribution to economy will fit on airplane. Thinking of bringing special bag to hold contribution to economy. Wondering if American Airlines will wave charges associated with bringing my contribution to the economy home.

The Board of Directors

To Our Stockholders:

2009 has proven to be a harder year than we, the Board of Directors of Josh Rosenblatt Enterprises, anticipated. The financial model governing the economy of the United States for the last 233 years – that goods and services can be purchased using money and that money can be earned through employment – has proven more resilient than the Board previously speculated. Though our “Kindness of Strangers” Plan did experience some early successes, mainly in the Liquor and Tobacco sectors, overall it has proven financially untenable in a 21st-century global economy. After long deliberation, the Board of Directors has decided to forgo its business model for 2010 -  “Charm for Food; Sing for Mortgage Payments” – and liquidate all assets of Josh Rosenblatt Enterprises on December 31, 2009. On that date Josh Rosenblatt will be dissolved, his assets [one (1) jar peanut butter, one (1) jar jelly, one (1) bag chips, one (1) pair jeans, one (1) mattress (firm), one (1) pillow (soft), four (4) bottles contact solution (open), one (1) bar soap (Irish Spring)] sold and his body donated to Science. Though Science has entered several Cease and Desist motions in Austin Municipal Courts against Josh Rosenblatt Enterprises claiming it is not interested in the body of Josh Rosenblatt, the Board of Directors has initiated a plan, approved by the Securities Exchange Commission, to leave the body at Science’s backdoor, ring Science’s doorbell, and run.

Our stated business strategy for fiscal year 2009 (as defined in our 2008 report “Writing for Free”) proved to be the biggest impediment to the continued success of Josh Rosenblatt. The year started off badly, with the dissolution of the company’s contract with weekly newspaper The  A____ C_____. Despite market speculation that no Corporation, regardless of size, could possibly survive off the revenue from such a contract, Josh Rosenblatt Enterprises thrived for three years, increasing corporate assets (white T-shirts, box fans, yellow legal notepads, etc.) while lowering expenditures (through our successful “Three Meal Cereal” Program) and cultivating emerging markets, including a relationship with bi-weekly liberal magazine The T___ O___, the annual revenue from which paid for nearly six months of toothpaste.

But attempts at expanding profitability through the cultivation of new income sources proved difficult. Initial market optimism after the dissolution of contracts with weekly newspaper The A___ C____ waned following repeated rejections by several noted media outlets – including S___.com, S___.com, and The N__ Yorker – of Company overtures to create original written content in return for monetary compensation or acknowledgment of a job well done. Despite Board hopes, the combination of discouraging U.S. macro-economic indicators, the growth of the global recession, the collapse of the subprime mortgage market, the decrease in market interest in written media, and the insistence by Josh Rosenblatt Enterprises to conclude each story submitted to above-stated publications with the phrase “Deal With That” served to decrease, rather than increase, market interest and decelerate key operating metrics, revenue streams, growth operating margins synergy expanding profitability cash flow aggregate cost-effectiveness. Market-wise.

Obviously everyone here at Josh Rosenblatt Enterprises is disheartened by this turn of events. We assure you that every possible alternative to dissolution was explored, from corporate sponsorship and product placement backward integration models to market extension merger strategies and private dancing. The conclusion we came to is that initial projections were simply incorrect and there is actually no interest in Josh Rosenblatt.

The enclosed check for $2.37 represents the return on your original $35,000 investment, plus a stockholder dividend, plus the last $2.37 in our bank account.

Please don’t call us with queries. We have no phone.