NEW PROJECT WRITIN

I stand in line, waiting for a trio of hipsters (my kind, according to some) to buy their vinyl. Vinyl is a pure, physical manifestation of the music, they claim. We claim. The three bearded men, accompanied by bespectacled girlfriends, soon become none. This gives me the chance to tell the woman behind the counter to cough up a medium-sized t-shirt. She smiles caustically. I try to smile, really.

I turn around and exit through the front door. The entrance of the Grog Shop is also the entrance of a night-club called The B-side (vinyl’s everywhere, brah), and after a show, the surrounding sidewalk is almost always packed with hardcore partiers and hardcore hipsters. This mixture doesn’t usually elicit conflict, but it is still really damn easy to tell the difference between the two parties. I wade on through, pulling my keys out of my pocket even though I’m several hundred yards from my car. All the male clubbers look the same, I notice (as I have before). Clean cut and shaven, dressed in deliberately mangled blue jeans, white button-up shirts (untucked), and loafers. They talk about their workouts while sucking on cigs. Talk about girls and down their dranks. Talk to girls? Dance with girls.

“I’ma fuck him up,” says one tanned clubber to a group of taller, skinner, and paler homies. The speaker must be the alpha. His barks start the dialogue. The other dawgs follow his lead.

“Dude, I’m not gonna even try to stop you. That shit’s weak,” suggests a friend. And with that, the gate releases. OUR GREYHOUND IS ON THE RUN.

I watch as he strides towards an identical creature, dressed in clothes from the same brand. The agitated interrupts the stationary’s conversation by tossing out garbled insults. ALTRUISM IN THE NIGHT. He then punches the victim in the throat, precipitating a scuffle that ends with one man attempting (struggling, but with sobriety) to bash his twin’s head into the sidewalk. The whole ordeal (a real horrorshow, I tell ya, yell ya) lasts a couple of minutes before a group of slightly less inebriated clubbers, empowered by the anxious shrills of their girlfriends, breaks it up. I keep walking.

As I enter the parking garage and ascend the staircase to the top floor, I’m empty, and when I see my car I’m still empty. But then I see the cop near my car and I’m full of something. I mean, he’s full of shit, but I’m full of something angrier. The pig’s writing me a parking ticket, and I know for a fact that the meter only expired a few minutes ago. He tucks the pink slip of paper under the front windshield wiper, and I stay away. I don’t want conflict with a man who’s paid to break them up. That doesn’t mean I don’t want conflict, though.

Non-Fiction Project Writing

"This is magnificent,” exclaimed Patrick Calhoun. He sat crosslegged on a park bench, under a large tree of course. Too idyllic. An extensive cemetery—Lake View Cemetary—surrounded him, capitalized by the immense (understatement) stone cylinder in front of him. Inside rested the body of James A. Garfield. “I’d love nothing more than for the people of this fine city to come and experience the tremendous beauty of the landscape,” he added, huffing and puffing. Every syllable with an “oh” sound almost sent him tumbling backwards off of the bench. Everything else sounded like he didn’t say it. Calhoun’s twenty-one year old son stood in front of him, recording every word his father uttered on a notepad. “I’ve been thinking, and the more I’ve thought the better my thoughts become, you see?”

“Yes, sir.” His son nodded his head.

“Now, I’ve been thinking about this city and its people, and my meditations have lead me to an image of a vast, connected system of trains and street-cars, which could offer its passengers—even those who live three dozen miles from the city, perhaps—an indubitable and quick method of transportation. Now, my conversations with several like-minded, hardworking citizens have revealed a key social element in this particular equation: situated on the border of this fine city is a displeasing niche, a pocket of dirt-poor Italian immigrants. Those who I’ve talked to have told me to avoid placing a stop on this geographically-ideal location. However, my studies of the landscape have brought me an alternative. On the Mayfield Road, just past this cemetary, is a small intersection with Coventry Road. It’s nothing more than an insignificant dirt road, but there’s room to grow, comercially I mean.” He stood up and surveyed the area. “Yes, I feel I’ve birthed a tremendous idea.”

His son, with furrowed brow, finished his recording, looked up at his father, and closed the notebook.

Project Writing # 4

I step towards my white Volvo, pausing briefly to unhook the keys from my beltloop. I press the button on the key ring and listen for the locks to raise, and only then do I continue my march. When I’m about five yards from my car I hear a man’s voice. The speaker tries to hide his grizzled tone, but the delicacy he applies is false. I don’t trust this utterance. I don’t trust this speaker.

“Young man, you look like a generous human bein’.” I hear the snake crawling through his esophagus. “You look like you’d help an old man out.” There’s venom in those words, or am I just too soft to obey?

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you out” I say, not looking. I inch forward and he follows.

“You haven’t even heard what I want, sir.” He wants my sympathy and my respect, but I’ve also frustrated him. I see him in the window of my car. I turn around to see if he’s really there.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,” I tell him. Yeah, there he is. His face looks like a caricature of his voice. Hard leather trying too hard to feel soft. I’m neither surprised nor bothered by his bare torso. In the middle of a summer night, I often feel the urge to live shirtless, but I also realize his motivations are probably not his. “Excuse me.”

I reach for the handle on the Volvo and pull, fully expecting my visitor to understand the implication.

“You don’t understand. I just need you to help me out. I don’t need any money.” I hear the words and ignore their meaning. I crouch and enter my vehicle, positive he’s backing off. “Please, man.” There goes the delicacy. He places his hand on the frame of the car, preventing me from closing the door. I pull hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I raise my voice with each syllable. He tries to keep the car door open, pleading, but I keep pulling. I keep pulling. I don’t even know how scared I am. I don’t have time to know. I just pull until he gets the point. I pray to my god there’s some reason in his head. I pray to my god he gets the point. He backs off, apologetically. We share stares for an instant, then he turns away and runs down the ramp of the parking garage.

I sit in my car with windows closed. I start the car at some point and put it in reverse, but I keep my foot on the brake. Sitting. I press play on my ipod, pause it. Press play again, then release my foot from the brake. I back out and descend the three floors of the garage.

On the street I see two cop cars, lights flickering eternal. I see my monster in a backseat. He’d been taken. He’ll be tamed by a bigger beast, we hope. We, readers, are the bottom of the food chain.

Project Writing #4 Initial

“1: Remember”

I don’t know what it means, but on each floor of the Coventry’s parking garage, there it is. A simple white rectangle with a curious message. “1: Remember.” I don’t know what it’s trying to evoke.

I walk past the sign like I have so many times before. I don’t even consider it as I pull out my keys and unlock my white Volvo. The search for sleep haunts my head, pulling me home and into my bed.

Research Blurbs 5/25/10

In 1892, Patrick Calhoun came to the Cleveland area and developed the” Euclid Heights Allotment”, bordered by Mayfield, Coventry, and Cedar Roads to the city line…It was supposed to appeal to Cleveland's elite (by avoiding Italian immigrants living in Little Italy)

- The Coventry Village Business District, constructed between 1919 and 1922, = first fully developed commercial area in Euclid Heights…it was supported by the Heights Theatre at Coventry and Euclid Heights Boulevard.

- Before Patrick Calhoun developed the area, Coventry was little more than a dirt road.

- Coventry served it population, catering to different groups overtime. In the 1920s and 1930s, businesses included those targeting specific services including automobile, banking and dining. In the 1940s and 1950s, the business district catered to the immigrant Jewish community who frequented delicatessens and tailor shops. In the 1960s, Coventry became the home for the hippie generation. In the fall of 1967, local merchants began to cater to this population bringing this counterculture to Cleveland Heights.

- In 1919, the Heights Theatre, a 26,000 square foot, 1200 seat movie theater was one of the first commercial structures to be constructed within the Euclid Heights Allotment. The brick structure, designed by Cleveland architect Albert F. Janowitz, boasted a grand marquee marked with the beginning of what would become the first commercial district in Cleveland Heights.

Senior Project Writing #3

Our Teenage Punk stands with one foot on the curb and the other on the street. He hunches over the drain, spitting. Standing, he’s only abot five and a half feet tall, but his skinny jeans let him look taller. A single, empty Frank’s Red Hot Sauce bottle falls from his side and hits the sidewalk. Our Teenage Punk continues spitting. One look from the bottle to the kid makes the red tint of his spittle more noticeable. He’s relieving his mouth of a cayenne residue/saliva hybrid, naturally. Then we see Chipotle. Yes, Our Teenage Punk stole his beverage from Chipotle.

“You go girl,” shouts his friend. Despite his nature, he’s trying to grow a beard. Judging from the sight (vision is one of two ways through which we can gauge the legitimacy of one’s beard), the endeavor has been far from fruitful.

“Shut the fuck up,” responds Our Teenage Punk. He snickers, then spits some more. When he’s done spitting, which requires several concentrated seconds, he stands up straight, looking at his audience as he wipes his grin with a pale forearm. For the moment, he is our hero; he overcomes obstacles no one else is willing to surmount, and we don’t seem to care that said obstacles are irrelevant or that the act of overcoming them is little more than fleeting. We wanted to see someone steal a bottle from Chipotle and drink the entire thing, and Our Motherfucking Teenage Punk did just that.

He’s there every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday. He attends Cleveland Heights High School, and he’d drop out if it didn’t mean losing contact with his friends. His friends aren’t like him in any way, but there they are every weekend, slouching around, smoking cigs, skateboarding, blasting loud music and singing along. His jeans sport an unrealistic number of holes, and his t-shirts (he wears his influences on black cloth, wears them on his chest) look as though they’ve never been washed. But that’s how he bought them, right? He strides up and down Coventry, surveying the area for familiar faces. Everyone’s either a friend or an enemy, of course. Mock the former, mock the latter. That’s what Our Teenage Punks live for, mocking. Fire is motion. Is motion growth? Everyday Our Teenage Punk resists becoming defined by his boundaries, but he has become so integrated in the Local System that his blows send him backwards. Coventry owns him. He’s just far too stubborn to admit it.

When it hit the ground, the bottle didn’t break.

Senior Project Writing #2

“College is worthless. Your much better doing what you want. College is giving up the best years you’ve got.” He had an agenda, delivering the lines in a tone that sounded like they had been delivered before. “What school do you guys go to?

“Hawken.” In unison.

“I knew a kid who went there. He goes to Miami University now.” He moves several inches closer, placing his left hand on our table for support while resting his right hand on John’s shoulder. John smiles, but his eyes look uneased. “He’s wasting his life, I’m telling him. Colleges help nobody but the people who own ‘em.” At this point, Eve loses control of her laugh, letting loose an awkward gasp of sorts, which our lecturer immediately notices.

By half past two o’clock in the morning, everyone who’s over 21 in Coventry Village is likely drunk. Students from various colleges and universites (and high school students in some case) flock to the area in order to satisfy their need for alcohol, sex, and weed. Nightclubs like “The B-Side Liquor Lounge” stand responsible for most of the area’s late night traffic. This is not a rebellious youth, this is a die-hard, partying, and playful youth.

“What the hell are you laughing at? I’m dead serious. Don’t laugh at this shit.” His words are slurred and he stumbles while trying remain stationary. “Don’t be punks.”

“Thanks, but we’re trying to eat,” I tell him.

“Look at you, kid. I liked you guys, but this guy,” he says, pointing to me, “is an ass.” Eve’s chuckle popped the cork. We all laugh nervously.

With the growing influx of partiers, Coventry Village has, in the past decade, seen a rapid expansion of the number of Cleveland Heights police officers who frequent the area. Most of the locals and all of the students despise the cops, who, rather than breaking up the numerous fist fights or halting the frequent drug use, prefer to bust pedestrians for speeding/surpassing the alotted time on the parking meter. Consensus says they’re more of a problem than they could be.

I ask him to leave for a second time. Our sandwiches are delivered to the table, and we all just really want to get at ‘em, but here’s this asshole trying to censure us for pursuing higher levels of education because he likely dropped out after spending a semester or two inebriated. I say that because he’s drunk. We just want to eat our sandwiches.

“Who do you think you are, kid?” I look at John, and we silently agree to get up and go. We grab our sandwiches. Eve and Hannah catch the cue and do the same. He backs off, offended. “You’re not gonna listen to what I have to say? Respectful.” He’s still slurring and stuttering.

“I’m sorry, but we have to go.” We walk out of Dave’s Cosmic Subs and find a bench, where we sit down and eat. He’s too drunk to follow.

It’s hard to tell whether it’s the kids or the cops who are the bigger problem.

Revised Calendar

I wrote the calendar on my computer; internet is sketchy at Hawken, so I had no way of posting the calendar or any of the other items on the blog. I don't have a USB drive. Now that I'm home, here it is:

Project Writing #3: May 25

Research/Interviews: May 26-27

Project Writing #4: May 28

Finish All Interviews and Source-Based Research: May 31

Outline Due: June 4

Filling Outline, writing rough draft: June 5-8

- * These days will be spent on figuring out the structure (through outlines), organizing the research, and choosing a final, coherent structure

Rough Draft Due: June 8

Editing Rough Draft: June 9-10

Deadline for final piece: 6/11

Interview Subjects

Mrs. DeGeronimo - Complete
Mac's Backs Employees - Complete
Revord Revolution Employees
Kathy Simkoff (works at the grog shop)

First Project Writing

I decide that Pabst Blue Ribbon is 30% flannel the moment the inebriateted female on my right collides into me. It’s 8:30 PM, and this blonde (though perhaps unnaturally), 20-somethingish woman dances around in a 10 foot circle. The show hasn’t even begun, but here she is, flailing around as some mix tape the sound guy made plays over the master speakers. Wait, I know this one. Are you shitting me? That’s Pavement. She’s dancing like that to Pavement? That’s gotta be like trying to build a treehouse to The Smiths. I mean, maybe it’s just me, but lyrics like “Well focus on the quasar in the mist / the kaiser has a cyst” don’t really evoke uncontrollable gyration. Get a grip, woman. Actually, revise the last sentence. She just stole her boyfriend’s beer, emptying the contents into her unfavorable bouche.. That makes four adult beverages in the ten minutes she’s been bothering me. I’m not a betting man, but if I weren’t me, I’d say that her liver will probably murder her by the time Cursive takes the stage. That gives her two opening acts to live. Oh me. It’s not her, it’s the alcohol.

The drunken she is gone. I think she’s somewhere in the back, or maybe in the bathroom. The intoxicated tend to get pushed around pretty easily at concerts, especially ones as packed as this. Sobriety equals controlled force! The first opener was a local band. The guitarist/singer and the drummer were both pretty solid, but there were two keyboard players, one of whom was one of those skinnny, self-righteous,vegan type kids. He bobbed his head off-tempo and slapped the keys like they slept with his best friend, who, aptly enough, appeared to be the other keyboardist. I’d replace him with a bass. The Love Language showed up next. I’ve got their LP. It has a pretty lo-fi aesthetic, which translates well in small concert venues. There are seven people in the band, two women and five men. I’m not proud enough to deny trying to pick out which band members are or have been in relationships with each other. They played enthusiasically, but the rhythym guitarist kept chewing on his pick and I was afraid he’d swallow it. The drummer knew his stuff, though. He practiced. The singer sang expectedly, and ven though he had really long hair blocking his face, he positioned his microphone uncomfortably high, so every time he looked up to sing it appeared as though he were emerging from a dark forest. I think it was deliberate. It’s really packed now, and I smell mountains of PBR and flannel. If only facial hair were hollow. That’d be the perfect hipster straw. The set-up crew is tuning everything up, but no recognizible member of the band has come onto the stage hitherto. I’m in the front, a little house-left, stage-right.

That’s fucking Tim Kasher, the guy next to me explains. I know, but I don’t tell him I know. He seems to find pleasure in letting me know. Tim Kasher is Cursive’s singer/guitarist and the only permanent member in the band, and I’m surprised by how affecting his lyrics are in a live setting. We all know art is hard, especially when the artistic medium is routinely stabbed and beaten by whining men in eyeliner, but Cursive’s a welcome throwback. His is emo with the whole emotion part inherent. I’m getting punched in the kidney by some incessant asshole who want to touch Tim, but I’ve got one foot propped up on the corner of the two foot high stage, so there’s no way in hell this kid is getting near him. The crowd undulates like a single entity. Back and forth. During one of the songs, the bassist spits straight up into the air and catches the descending round in his mouth. This cat has cojones. Encore, two more. I like those songs, but I can’t find the energy to show it. I’m still up front, wading through discarded cans and spilled PBR. If you passed out and fell to the ground, you’d get drunk all over again. That won’t work, though. I’m waiting for the songs to end. Last chord…reverb and distortion and feedback. Lights go on. I’m exhausted, but I wait in line afterwards to shake Tim’s hand. I can tell by the grip and the eyelids that he’s trying to fix the art.

Project Deadlines

Deadlines:

- Final Project: Wednesday, June 2

- Rough Draft: Wednesday, May 26

- Final Outline: Monday, May, 24

- Interviews Complete: May, 21

- Project Writing #4: Wednesday, May 19

- Project Writing #3: Monday, May 17

- List of Interview Subjects: Friday, May 14

- Project Writing #2: Thursday, May 13

- Project Writing #1: Tuesday, May 11

- Project Calendar: Monday, May 10

Project Calendar

Deadline for Senior Project: June 2

- The final project (12-15 pages?) must be turned in to Mr. Breisch on or before June 2.

May 28 – June 2

- These days (Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday) are devoted wholly to putting together, editing, and organizing the final project. This implies that all research / interviews / prewritings MUST be completed by Friday.

May 24 – May 28

- Final outline is due on May 24. Also, on May 24 and 25, I will work on writing the rough draft of my piece, which is be due on Wednesday, May 26. This gives me two days (May 27 and 28) to edit the draft / finalize my research. I will also work on composing the citations/works cited during these two days.

May 22 – May 23

- These days will be spent on figuring out the structure (through outlines), organizing the research, and choosing a final, coherent structure

May 17 – May 21

- On May 17 and May 19, two separate project writings, which focus on the creative/personal element of the piece), are due respectively. During these “schooldays, I’ll be conducting research and interviews periodically. Reasearch occurs at home. All interview locations will be determined shortly. By May 21, all interviews and source-based research ought to be complete.

May 15-16

- Immersion experiences. I’ll spend time around Coventry, visiting shops, talking to locals, attending shows, dining at restaurants etc. I’ll combine this experience with those of my past, resulting in a personal collage of sorts.

May 10 – May 14

- This calendar = due on May 10. May 10 = spent writing first project writing (creative, my experiences). May 11 and 12 spent researching at Hawken, using resources acquired from local libraries. Then on Thursday, May 13, I’ll turn in another project writing, possibly incorporating my interview with employees of Mac’s Backs (occuring on Wednesday evening @ the store). On Friday, May 14, I will turn in a list of all my interview subjects, both completed and upcoming.

* I will update the blog daily, providing transcripts of interviews, my prewritings, discoveries made during research, and my own take on the project.

Long Term Goals

Project Ends on the June 2, which leaves me less than a month to finish. The long term goals of this project are to develop a substantial creative non-fiction piece by the aforementioned date. Ideally, I will finish all interviews and research (conducted concurrently) by May 21--exactly two weeks from today. As I pursue and interview various individuals, I will write creative examinations of my own experiences on Coventry. These creative pieces will be my Virgil, keeping me focused as I proceed through various levels of the project, and I will post them all on the blog. I also intend to post transcripts of the interviews, as well as various quips/quotations I discover through research.

Short Term Schedule

May 6:

Contact Mrs. DeGeronimo (mother of girlfriend...works at Tommy's)

Head down to Cleveland Heights Public Library
- Access public records, books, etc....looking for primary documents, histories, and the like

Publish Interview Transcript

May 7

Examine Documents/books/resources acquired on Thursday

Develop long term calendar for project...monthly