The Friday... Johnny Hates Jazz

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Meet Miss Scarlett

Miss Scarlett (mmm*iss 'skär-l&t) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something living and working in Chicago. A graduate of Ohio's Miami University at Oxford, Miss Scarlett is JBB's resident expert on being fabulous, knitting and fruit-flavored diet pop. Frankly, my dear, she doesn't give a damn.

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Thanksgiving

Miss Scarlett Presents
An Original Piece of "Fiction"
Here are some issues with which I should be concerned: world peace, education, the homeless, women’s rights around the world, AIDS, healthcare….

Here is what actually, in my day to day life, causes me distress: carbohydrate content, auditions, callbacks or lack thereof. I’ve got to find time to do laundry, to make a grocery list and make a trip to the store, and somehow fit that in between rehearsals, performances, my day job, and perhaps a few moments cuddling my cats or spending time alone with my husband. I find it amazing that I can be so busy and so stressed and so crazy and yet at the same time somehow I feel like I’m sleepwalking. I’m running around in a haze, just trying to get by. One moment of minutiae is just preparation for the next one. For example, you know there are those days when you forget your cell phone. You walk down to your car, and realize that you have left it on the coffee table. You think, “Oh, I’ll only be gone for two hours, I don’t need it.”

One such evening, a week before Thanksgiving, I was coming home from a show in my mini-van. (Yes it’s a mini-van. I recently married into mini-van ownership. I’m cool with it. We drive it like a sports car anyway, so you know…) Anyway, I’m driving home from a show in Rogers Park and the van starts…well…um, farting. Loudly, and constantly. It was also shaking. Violently. Financially-disabling-repair-type shaking. I pulled over, my heart racing. “Okay…okay.” I tried to calm myself down. Usually with car stuff, I don’t have to worry too much. You see, I married a little grease monkey. Will has tools for the car just for fun. Like, there’s a jack that comes with the car, but he prefers to use his own. He has big yellow ramps for performing oil changes, wrench sets, an oil filter wrench, an oil filter ever so resourcefully made out of a beer bong, and several authentic BP uniforms from his former life as a gas station attendant.

I got out of the car, looked around for the damage and saw the problem: A big old stinkin’ flat tire. I knew I was going to have to wait in a particularly shady chapter of Rogers Park, but I knew we would save some cash with Will’s ability to fix cars. This was great because I had almost no money on my debit card, and maybe a ten in cash. If we’re talking cab fare, ten bucks doesn’t get you home to Logan Square from Rogers Park. Plus it was the middle of the night so most buses weren’t running. I reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone to call Will and…

Oh crap.

Sans cell phone, the only thing I could do was drive to the nearest service station, brave the cold and use the pay phone. Unfortunately, the nearest gas station was five blocks away and I was forced to fart down the street with my hands clenched at 11:45 and 12:15 shouting “I KNOW!” at any passersby who may have felt inclined to indicate to me that I might be having car trouble. After what seemed like an eternity, I pulled the van into a Shell station on Clark and Devon.

I called Will. Nothing. I called him again. Nothing. I called him ten minutes later. Nothing. I proceeded to call him approximately 57 times. Cell phone. House phone. My cell phone. Nothing.

It was 36 degrees that night and I had on red ballet flats with no socks, and not at all a large amount of change. Thankfully, it occurred to me that I still had the handy dandy little calling card that makes phone charges directly to my parents’ telephone bill. This also leads me to this next part wherein at one a.m., stranded on a street corner, I called my Mom. Crying, of course. Thinking she and my Dad could, you know, drive in from Ohio to save me from this godforsaken street corner in Rogers Park. I’ve always handled misfortune with grace and poise. Mom, too. She said: “GO SOMEWHERE SAFE! Oh my God! You’re going to be raped! Murdered! Shoved somewhere full of bacteria!”

Funny that, although I had driven past the intersection of Clark and Devon many times, mostly without thought, I had never considered it to be a particularly sinister place until that night. But looking at it from my position of varied safety at a hygienically questionable pay phone, it had swiftly taken on the characteristics of some back alley crime scene from Law and Order SVU and I suddenly had the distinct sensation that I had the potential to be a cornerstone of this week’s plot line.

Who knew what dubious characters lurked in the shadows. I was petrified. A girl walked past me yammering away on her cell phone and in my hysteria I considered hissing at her and scratching at the air like a threatened raccoon. I shot a glance at the van and realized then that this was no ordinary flat. My tire must have been slashed and the culprit was probably underneath the van, hanging onto pipes or tubes or whatever the hell is under cars in the hopes that he could slash my ankles.

The most ridiculous part is that Clark and Devon is extremely well-lit, the gas station had many customers, and no one in particular seemed to notice me. But late at night in a neighborhood far from my tree-lined friendly hamlet of Logan Square, my eyes weren’t seeing a typical corner in Chicago. No! They were seeing New York City pre-Guliani. Gotham before Batman. Smoky Mountains National Park after I read that book about bear attacks.

My mom had managed to regain some composure and talked me down from my madness. “Call a cab, leave the van and go get Will! I don’t see what else there is you can do!”

“What about the money?” I moaned.

“See if a cab will take credit cards. Now go find out if you can leave the van there.”

I walked into the gas station to ask if I could park the van for a bit. The man informed me that leaving the van was out of the question.

“Well, is there someone you can call? Do you have a number?”

“This time of night? They will charge you lots of money.”

“Yes, I know. But apparently I can’t leave it here.”

This same sort of exchange occurred when I asked to have it towed.

“Where will you tow it?”

“I don’t know, sir! But you won’t let me leave it here.”

“Ah, that is true,” I had the distinct feeling he knew where he would tow it if I were to leave the vehicle unattended in the parking lot.

I headed back outside with tears rolling down my face in frustration. Ashamed at my helplessness, I walked back to the van, snuffling and mentally kicking myself…and Will. I grabbed the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and started to search for information on how to change the damn tire. I should know this! It seems so simple! I am intelligent. I have skills. I read The Bad Girl’s Guide to the Open Road. I have an education from a great university.

The gas station attendant caught my attention. A man had pulled into the parking lot on a rickety bicycle looking, as my Mom would say, “Rode hard and put away wet.” The attendant told me that this man would fix the tire.

In any other situation, when approached by someone like the man on the bike, I would have at the very least quickly crossed to the other side of the street. At three a.m. in the morning, yes, I am that girl. Am I proud that I become that girl? No, but that’s what I’ve been taught and that’s what my gut tells me to do. That night I was desperate and desperation introduced me to Larry.

I’m pretty sure Larry was homeless. He was unshaven. He wore glasses that had seen better days, glasses that reflected eyes that most likely hadn’t. His faded black ratty puffer coat was from one of the Gaea bins, and his jeans were caked in dust and dirt, a symptom of constantly biking around a big wintry city. He had a pizza box strapped to the back of his bike as a kind of trunk. He dismounted and walked over to me, asking where my car was. I pointed to the van. He walked over to inspect the tire.

“Yep, you got a flat alright. But don’t worry; I used to fix these all the time! You got a spare?”

“Oh, I’m sure we do,” I offered secretly hoping that the spare was not curled up on the couch spooning with my most likely fast-asleep husband.

We walked to the back of the van and I opened the hatch. It was a mess back there. Blankets, gas cans (if only), some hamster shavings, and two old bags of clothing destined for the Gaea bins. They were in the way and I was supremely embarrassed. I shoved them aside and patted the carpeted flooring of the van. “This,” I said triumphantly, “is where I assume the spare is located.”

“I don’t see one.”

I smiled sheepishly. Larry squatted down on one knee and looked at the undercarriage. “Your spare is down here,”

I fought the urge to ask him if the renegade convict I had assumed was lurking under the chassis was also visible.

He stood back up, “You got a jack?”

I responded with a series of sobs and handed him the owner’s manual because it was clear I had run out of answers. Larry took the manual from me and asked if I would mind if he had a cigarette. I told him of course I didn’t and secretly wanted one too. After locating the jack, he squatted down by the tire and began to work.

“Where were you when it happened? Right here?”

I relayed the sordid tale and brought him up to speed, hoping I wouldn’t be chastised for driving on the flat as much as I had. What caught Larry’s ear was where I had been earlier that evening.

“You’re an actor? Like onstage?”

“Roughly.”

He told me how he dabbled in stand-up comedy, how he went to open mic nights at a local club and even shared a few of his jokes. He talked about how scary it is to get up on a stage, "But then you get those first few laughs," he said and shook his head.

"It's like a drug, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is."

Larry told me how his love of performing stand-up had sobered him up from both drugs and alcohol although he seemed ashamed of the cigarettes. I stood over him as he worked, not because I didn’t trust him. I just felt useless. He looked up at me, “You can sit in the car, if you want.”
“Hmmm? Oh no no. I’m sorry, I’ll just…I’ll try to call my husband again. I’m actually starting to worry about him.” I wandered over to the pay phone and put my hand on the receiver. As I was about to dial, I stopped and turned to Larry.

"Can I write you a check?"

"Sweetie, I wouldn't have anywhere to cash it."

It was right about then I received my yearly holiday reality check. On a typical day, I get irritated with the Blue Line for always being late. I mean, make a goddamn announcement, you know? Give me an idea….something! I get mad at Giada on Iron Chef for being such a sore loser to Rachel Ray. I grouch at Will for buying me full-fat yogurt instead of fat-free.

When all was said and done I handed him the ten from my pocket. "You know. If you had told me you didn't have any money, I still would have done it. You know why?" He pointed skyward. "He takes care of me."

It was very humbling. I had met truly a happy man. A man I had been trained to avoid. No one ever told me that someday I might need him. All I could think was how I could have spared a little more cash. I felt ashamed about shouting about my lack of money. I shook his hand and said goodbye and wished him Happy Holidays. I cried all the way home.

When I finally crawled up the stairs into our apartment, I must have looked like hell warmed over.

Will met me at the door. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

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Gather Ye Paints

By 1st Degree Birns

Whore Paint

The Rhyme Assassin

Typical Resident of Dunfermline, Scotland

High Five

Oldfish

The Accountant & His Giant Pecker

The Evil Turnip

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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And Now... A Break From Our Regular Programming

People, Friends, Lovers, and Foes.
After the grueling excitingments of The Official 1st Annual Superspectacular Jack Black's Body's Birthday celebration, my trusty editors and I are wored out. So we're taking a week off to give ourselves a rest and to give you time to catch up on your JBB reading.

I'll be taking my hot wife and kid to the sunny shores of someplace while Trusty Editors Croftie and Oline feverishly clean up the party residues at JBB World HQ.

We'll be back next week with treasures aplenty, so stay tuned!
XOxOXXXOxoXOxoxXOxxo,
Jables

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The Friday... ABC

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The Way We Were

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Meet Smithy

Smithy (Ssss-mith-ee!) is a post-collegiate pre-professional twenty-something writer living and working in Texas. A student at the University of Texas at Arlington, she is JBB’s resident wordsmith. Smithy is one of the masterminds behind StandingAroundNaked.com. She is not spam.

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Standing Around Naked

Smithy Takes
To the Window

I walk to the window and open the curtains. I stand in front of the glass as I take off my shirt. The neighbors stop. They stare. My breath fogs the window in front of my face, blurring the outside world. I jauntily wave to my neighbors while I yank off my pants.

It's not a sexy act. It's matter-of-fact. I am removing every article of clothing while a crowd gathers outside my window to gawk.

This is what it's like to write in public. To write is to be naked.

Writing isn't just the telling of a story. It's an exposure to your very core. When you write, you translate your most complex thoughts into simple, black-and-white words for the world to read and judge. Where was Stephen King's mind when he wrote It? What did his mother think? His neighbors? Were they creeped out whenever he entered the room?

When Orwell wrote 1984, did his friends chuckle that he was a little too paranoid? Did they whisper about him when he walked away?

I say— let them laugh. Let everyone who passes by the exhibitionist at the window point and say, "God, she looks fat."

At least they're looking.

Whether they are good, bad, or mediocre, writers have an incredible gift. They have, at their fingertips, the ability to create entire worlds built upon the thoughts and ideals that they hold most sacred. They can act out their passions, rage against the unjust, ride on horseback against untold numbers of enemies, and return home unscathed.

Some say that fiction doesn't reflect the author— that characters can behave any way they choose and their actions have nothing to do with the person who created them.

But it's impossible to make any character speak words that didn't come from the recesses of your own brain. Whether those words were pulled from a memory or a thought, they are part of you. And you stuck them out there without regard for anyone's feelings.

You stood. Naked.

Your mind was just as exposed as your body ever could be.

With this in mind, some friends and I created StandingAroundNaked.com, a site specifically for writers.

There, you can point, laugh, and jeer at the writers who bravely expose themselves. Or, if you're a writer, you can find a window and stand at it. You can close your eyes if you like, or wear a blindfold that shields you from the neighbors’ stares.

For the next few weeks, the site will be under construction, but we'll be taking submissions. If you submit early, you'll be the first posted and the first to be stared at. It's a terrifying thrill.

One story is already up. It's called "Eleven" and it's my nakedness. I'm tired of closeting myself away and filling journals with work no one will read. I'm ready. I'm at the window.

See you there.

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Eating Jesus

Osutein-Sensei & the Body of Christ
We here at Jack Black's Body are admittedly a bit too enamored with Jables' corporeal visage.

But let's be fair— our little obsession is nothing compared to the worldwide fixation with the body of that other righteous revolutionary. The one whose first name starts with "J" and whose last name starts with a letter between "A" and "D." That’s right, I’m talking about Jesus.

For those of you not in the know, Jesus was a Palestinian Jew who was born, coincidentally enough, exactly 2,007 years ago. Jesus’ mother was a virgin and his father was a carpenter from the sticks. He was born in a barn. When he was about thirty years old, Jesus quit his dad's furniture business and started stickin' it to the Man 24/7. In Jesus’ time, the Pharisees were “the Man.” They were the Pat Robertsons of their day, only with beards and shiny robes.

Jesus nearly incited a revolution when he went around saying stuff like "God loves everyone," "give to charity," and "please don't throw rocks at hookers." This did not sit well with the Man, so the Pharisees turned him over to the Romans (those dudes from Gladiator) who, because they apparently loved ironic deaths, nailed the former carpenter to a couple of two-by-fours.

It’s been a while since the Pharisees ruled the mount. These days, Jesus is pretty popular. The world's two billion Christians worship him as the Son of God, while another billion Muslims venerate him as one of the most important Prophets. Everyone else regards him as a holy man or a visionary moral philosopher.

Really—except for angsty white high school students reading Beyond Good and Evil for the second time—pretty much the only thing everyone around the world can agree on is that yeah, that Jesus guy was pretty rockin'.

Despite Jesus’ obvious power to bring on the rock, he remains controversial. Or rather, his remains remain controversial. One of the biggest splits between Muslims and Christians isn't Jesus’ moral teachings—they all agree on that. It's whether or not he died on the cross. Christians say yes, he died for our sins. Muslims say no, he ascended into heaven and an imposter died on the cross.

The conflict is even more extreme between the factions of Christianity. Major wars have been fought over what percentage of Jesus was divine and what percentage was human. For more than a thousand years, Europe and the Middle East were torn asunder by armies running back and forth, killing each other over theological gimmicks.

The fact that Jesus was pretty firmly against killing people seemed lost on those shedding blood in his name.

No one cared about Jesus’ ideas. It was his Body they cared about—what it was made of, what it did, where to find part of it. Religious folk from cathedrals all over Europe hunted for relics to attract pilgrims and sell postcards. One cathedral in Italy even claimed to have found the foreskin of Jesus. Ew.

Of course, even today the strange obsession with Jesus’ Body continues. Christians are so into it that they’ve made a ritual out of it. They eat bread that symbolizes his body and drink wine that represents his blood.

Catholics and Protestants have spent the better part of five hundred years arguing about whether the bread is just Jesus’ Symbolic Body (Protestants) or Jesus’ Transubstantiated Body (Catholics). Either way, what's not to love about a religion that makes cannibalism and vampirism central to its practice?

That's not the only controversy surrounding Jesus’ Body, of course. The DaVinci Code and the upcoming James Cameron documentary about the alleged discovery of the Christ Family Tomb in Jerusalem have sparked debate over whether or not Jesus got hitched and pumped out a couple of holy ankle biters.

Let's hope not.

While Jesus would doubtless be the perfect father, I imagine being his kid would kinda suck. Everyone would expect you to be perfect and Christmas would just be your dad's birthday, among other traumas ("Pack your bags, kids, we're going to Grandpa's house." "NOOO!! I DON'T WANNA DIE!!!")

Outside of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic World, this controversy seems a little silly. A number of my Japanese friends saw The DaVinci Code. (Reason: the Japanese love two things above all else: mullets and Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks with a mullet? Nirvana.) After the movie, they all said to me, "It was interesting, but I'm confused. Why does it matter if Jesus had a kid or not?"

I tried to explain the historical and theological reasons, the Christian distrust of sex and Jesus’ supposed divine perfection... but ultimately I agree with them.

Why did it matter what Jesus did with his Body? Weren't Jesus’ teachings the big draw? Y'know, love God, love your neighbor, turn the other cheek, don't judge, wash your feet.

I feel like we're missing the point. Remember, Jesus wanted us to stop throwing rocks at hookers, not throwing rocks at each other over whether or not Jesus married a hooker.

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Bodies

Photographs By Joosy!

Dara

Arthur

Brian

Faith

Tribal

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Mailbag

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Official Jack Black's Body 1st Annual Superspectacular Totally Rocking Birthday Extravaganza!

On March 16th, Jack Black's Body is officially over the (very very small and humble) hill. That's right, folks! We've survived one full year of post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something literariness. In celebration, we're going all out with seven days of spectacular excitingments for Body Birthday Week. Stay tuned!

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The Friday... Sparkles

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The Blue Room

A Mini-drama
by
Trusty Editor Croftie

Photograph by
The Germanatrix






CHARACTERS
Mr. Smith a man in his late fifties
Joe a man in his late twenties

Scene 1

MR. SMITH is standing at the urinal. The door opens. JOE ENTERS. The men are preoccupied and do not see each other. JOE looks up, sees MR. SMITH, and turns to leave.

MR. SMITH
(Looks up)
Joe! How long have you been here?

JOE
I was just leaving.

MR. SMITH
I meant here at the company. Six years now?

JOE goes to the furthest urinal away from MR. SMITH. He unzips.

JOE
Five, actually. Only five.

MR. SMITH
I was just thinking—I don’t tell you often enough that I appreciate you.

JOE
Thank you.
(Zips up without using the urinal)

MR. SMITH
(Advances toward JOE)
I’d like to show you my appreciation.

JOE
Could it wait until later?

MR. SMITH
I want to speak to you now. Where it’s private.
(Pause)
I had to let Jim go today.

JOE
I thought he quit.

MR. SMITH
No. I let him go… Did he tell you why?

JOE
No.

MR.SMITH
Good. You’re not supposed to talk to someone who’s been fired, anyway. We sent him straight home and we’ll ship his things to him later. Security reasons.

JOE
I know.

MR.SMITH
Look Joe, I need a good man to fill Jim’s position. And you’re the first man I saw this morning.
(Laughs)
That was a joke.

JOE
(Laughs nervously)

MR. SMITH
Don’t take everything so seriously. Except your job. You should always take your job seriously. I want to make you senior director.

JOE
Oh… thank you. I appreciate the offer. But I should discuss this with Sarah.

MR. SMITH
What’s to discuss? You’ll have an office. Wouldn’t you like an office?

JOE
I’m really not sure.

MR. SMITH
Since when does a man have to discuss his career with his girlfriend?

JOE
She’s my fiancée.

MR. SMITH
So?

JOE
It’s just that… I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be in Chicago. We’re getting married next month and we’re planning to move to the East Coast.

MR. SMITH
I see.

JOE
I’m sorry.

MR. SMITH
I’m disappointed in you, Joe. I should let you go right now.

JOE
Look, I need to start doing what I want to do. I need to start writing…

MR. SMITH
That’s not much of a career.

JOE
I’m almost thirty. When am I ever going to get to do what I want to do?

MR. SMITH
Life isn’t about getting what you want. Marriage is definitely not about getting what you want. I’m sure Sarah would agree.

JOE
She’s supportive.

MR. SMITH
Her father’s a lawyer. When you’re a writer, will he be proud to call you “son”?

JOE
Hey, hold on a minute.

MR. SMITH
(Puts his arm around JOE’S shoulders. A fatherly gesture.)
I don’t think you’ve thought this through. Are you sure you want to be tied down right now?

JOE
I’ve got to get back to my desk.
(Turns to leave)

MR. SMITH
That’s right. Turn your back. Just like you did to Ben.

JOE
He left me!

MR. SMITH
Are you too good for us? Is that it? I’ll tell you something—this company was good enough for Ben.

JOE
I’m not like my father.

MR. SMITH
You’re right. Your father was a good man. He paid for that fancy college you went to. And he sent you with our money. Now you’re too good for us? You owe me.

JOE
I don’t owe you anything. And you don’t know anything about my father.

MR. SMITH
Give me one good reason, Joe—just one reason you’re too good for this company.

JOE
I hate it. There. My father hated this place, and I hate it, too. I hate coming to work every morning. I hate swiping my card at the back door and walking down that gray hallway. I hate staring at the computer. I hate the people who work here. I hate sitting in my cubicle with nothing to do for nine hours until it’s time to go home. And I hate how bad I feel when I finally leave at the end of the day. And I hate going home because I know I’ll just have to come back tomorrow. I hate it. I can’t stay here. My father stuck it out until he died. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted five years.

MR. SMITH
Well.
(Pause)
Congratulations on your wedding. I’ll box up your things and have them sent to you in the morning.

MR. SMITH EXITS. JOE stands quietly for a long pause. Then he smiles and begins to leap about in absolute joy.

FADE OUT

Scene 2

SARAH is sitting at the kitchen table with the phone book. She’s taking notes on a legal pad.

JOE ENTERS, in the process of removing his tie. Dumps his coat over a chair.


JOE
(Kisses SARAH on the cheek)
I’ve got news. Great news. Actually, it might not be great news right now, but it will be.

SARAH
Hang up your coat.

JOE
I will.

SARAH
No you won’t. I always have to hang up your coat for you.

JOE
If I hang up my coat, can I tell you my news?
(Pause)
I’ll hang it up.
(Starts to leave the room)

SARAH
I’ll do it later. I want to show you something.

JOE
Can it wait? I wanted to talk to you.

SARAH
No.

JOE goes to SARAH and sits beside her. SARAH pushes the legal pad toward him.

SARAH
I’ve made a list of realtors.

JOE
I thought we discussed this.

SARAH
Will you ever be ready?

JOE
That’s not fair.

SARAH
Married people buy houses.

JOE
We’re not married yet. Let’s do that first.

SARAH
It took you long enough to ask me. I can’t wait six years for everything.

JOE
What if I get a job in Boston?

SARAH
I like Chicago. And you have a job here.

JOE
It’s not a good job.

SARAH
I found a house on Lincoln. It has two bedrooms.

JOE
We don’t need two bedrooms. What’s wrong with this apartment?

SARAH
It’s too small. We need a second bedroom.

JOE
No one ever visits.

SARAH
They will soon.

JOE
No one will visit newlyweds. They’d be too uncomfortable. Would you want visitors?

SARAH
I think I would. I’d like the room to be a light blue. Maybe I’ll paint clouds on the ceiling so that when you wake up you’ll think you’ve become a bird.

JOE
We can paint here, if you want.

SARAH
Remember the bedroom I showed you in that country homes magazine? The furniture was white and the trim was white and the walls were blue. Everything looked clean and simple.

JOE
What’s this all about?

SARAH
It had a window that overlooked the mountains and the room was so light. I don’t like windows that face brick walls. Like our bedroom window. The house I found on Lincoln is next to a park.

JOE
SARAH, we just can’t afford to buy a house right now. You know that.

SARAH
My father would help us. Maybe as a wedding present.

JOE
I can’t accept that kind of gift. We need to do this on our own.

SARAH
We can’t! We can’t do any of it on our own.

JOE
Not right now, maybe. But we will.

SARAH
When? Not now. Not when we’re still renting this same apartment and working entry-level jobs and eating frozen dinners. You can’t even hang up your clothes.

JOE
Is that really what you think of me?

SARAH
I need you to hang up your clothes.

JOE
I will, if it bothers you that much.

SARAH
It’s not just the clothes.

JOE
What? What is it, then?

SARAH
I need you to look at that house with me.

JOE
I’ll look, if it’s that important to you. But we’ll just look.

SARAH
It is important.
(Pause)
And will you help me paint the room blue?

JOE
Sarah…

SARAH
Guests like blue. It’s calming. And a calming room is good for babies, I’ve heard.

JOE
No one will visit us. And we don’t know anyone who has a baby.

SARAH
Our baby can sleep there.

JOE
We have a while to think about that.

SARAH
No, we don’t.

JOE
(Pause)
Do you mean… Is that what the second room is for?

SARAH
(Pause)
Do you think the baby will like blue?

JOE
Oh God. Why didn’t you tell me?
(Long pause)
I have to go back to the office.

SARAH
Now?

JOE
Immediately. I’ve got to. I’m sorry. I have to fix this.

SARAH
Joe…

JOE
I’ve got to go.
(Kisses SARAH on the forehead)
I’ll be back.

SARAH
It’s a nice house, Joe.

JOE
We’ll look at it this weekend.

FADE OUT

CURTAIN

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Review: Black Sun

Oline Steps into the Circus

Upon its initial publication in 1976, Geoffrey Wolff’s Black Sun: The Brief Transit and Violent Eclipse of Harry Crosby was dismissed by The New York Times as “a three ring circus of scandal and anti-social behavior.” Perhaps the Times was right—but what a show!

The nephew of the bazillionaire J.P. Morgan, the eccentric poet Harry Crosby scandalized Boston society by marrying a divorcee and fleeing to Paris to establish the renegade Black Sun Press. He flirted with Romanticism, Decadence, and Surrealism only to settle for narcotic experimentation and sun worship, most vividly manifested in wretched verse: “The Sun! The Sun! / a fish in the aquarium of sky.”

A “minor” poet, Crosby ran with the “major” literary figures of 1920s Paris. He drank with Hemingway and Cummings, published Joyce and Lawrence, pissed off Wharton, and was eulogized by Eliot and Pound. He was the quintessential dabbler—manically tarting his writing up in every available literary voice and style. According to Wolff, “during five working years Harry duplicated a century of complicated aesthetic traditions.”

And what better way to conclude such an earnest, unimaginative career than with a bang? In December 1929, the thirty-one year old married Crosby was found shot dead—his toenails lacquered red and his feet tattooed—alongside the corpse of his married girlfriend and with a letter from another woman in his front pocket. Contemporaries considered Crosby’s murder/suicide his best poem. Wolff considers it his final literary experiment.

Wolff’s background in fiction and his narrative approach to biography lend Black Sun the feel of a splendidly executed novel, which is appropriate given the performative nature of Crosby’s life. Though Wolff is clearly fascinated by Crosby, he knows his subject is nutters and he’s astute enough to capitalize upon that as Crosby’s greatest charm. It is a wise decision, and Wolff’s snide jokes and witty asides strut memorably alongside Crosby’s maverick conformity and appalling verse.

Though the 2003 edition of Black Sun features no textual changes, Wolff includes an intriguing new afterward. Responding to the question “Why [write about] Crosby,” he explains his interest in this man who was so often reduced to a footnote by the scholars of the 20s. Wolff rejects Crosby’s reputation as a Lost Generation archetype and finds him interesting simply because “What Crosby said he’d do he did, exactly.” He was “not merely some posturing dandy of the boulevards. He acted everything out—everything; there was no lag for him between thought and experiment.” Crosby’s shoddy, suicidal poetry made his intentions quite clear.

Harry Crosby is not an important literary figure. He was, after all, only famous by association and his own poetry never developed beyond the subject matter of adolescent angst. But, as Wolff admits and Black Sun proves, there is “something about [the poem’s] very badness”-- something about Crosby’s very badness– that is haunting: “Like Icarus, of whom [Crosby] wrote, he flew toward the sun till it melted his wings of wax [ . . . ] unlike Icarus, however, he was forewarned.”

Geoffrey Wolff, Black Sun: The Brief Transit and Violent Eclipse of Harry Crosby. New York Review: NY, 2003.

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