There is no inspiration, only caffeine.
I guarantee you this: Wherever you find a new creation, you'll find torn packets of sweetener and tiny red straws lying somewhere nearby.
I've been brutally seduced into entering a Starbucks by an evil diva who craves nothing less than complete control, total obedience, and yellow highlighters.
She stares off into the Courier New landscape of a 70 page printout on the physiology of the brain and with her attention directed into a deep Sans Serif abyss, I am free to write ... for the moment.
We've taken seats facing the window, a towering glass monolith which climbs to the ceiling, the height and breadth of which magnifies our ultimate insignificance in this corporate haven of stimulant-hustling greed.
Starbucks' schizophrenic identity conflict is most clearly identified in the coffee cup I hold in my hand. It reads:
"You simply can't make someone love you if they don't. You must choose someone who already loves you. If you choose someone who does not love you, this is the sort of love you must want."
- Israel Horovitz (Playwright)
Wow, that's a pretty deep thought, if somewhat incomplete. My eyes tilt to the tiny lettering beneath.
"This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Starbucks"
In a post 911 world, all art requires a disclaimer.
Fine. Here's another: "The following post might not add up to anything."
I'm currently trying to write a piece about last Friday night, but it's difficult. Something is lacking.
"You can't have a story without an inciting incident, you just can't."
I paused briefly and having nothing more earth shattering to introspect upon, clicked the plastic switch on my voice recorder and ran to catch up with D and KCG who had been keeping pace, fighting against the harsh bite of city winds.
Among the tangled nerve endings in my brain, something had short circuited; I sensed that this night was going to be of a manic flavor. I was ready for anything, thirsting for a three act, feature-length experience. Craving incitement. The plan was to head over to Sals, but I was secretly hoping that unforeseen events would change the direction of our novel in progress.
An
inciting incident is the thing which knocks the main characters off their course and sends them spiralling into unexplored dark matter. The inciting incident can be a conversation, car accident, maybe an environmental catastrophe. I scanned the streets hungrily for passersby and swerving vehicles. I really wasn't asking for much.
An hour passed, we had reached Sals, and still no sign of a meteorological disaster. I tried to take matters into my own hands and jumped around on the empty club floor. Well, it was almost empty, no matter where you go there's always that one guy experiencing a synaptic electrical typhoon, dancing wildly all by himself. Sometimes I wonder if he's just really shy and thinks that this is a good way to get to talk to girls. But he's always looking down and has his eyes closed, so he'll be dancing by himself at the end of the night too.
I wasn't in the mood for his Zen dance therapy. Tango dancing was much more in line with my unusual chemical condition. I'm still not exactly sure how that happened, but if you ask any girl to tango dance, my bet is she won't say no... Unless she doesn't want to touch you, in which case you probably shouldn't attempt to put the rose in her mouth. Just give up man.
I really wish I could build this story up to a brilliant climax, where the main character struggles with a vicious antagonistic force while fighting off the symptoms of an internal serotonin imbalance and ends up changed forever, but all that really happened was D and KCG hooked up with some chicks, and some dude told me, "Yo! You look like that guy... Mark Wahlberg." That's it. No inciting incident, no climax, no resolution.
What a disappointment.
I guess I'll leave you with this inspiring message: Fuck having a good time, they're overrated, short sighted, and if you have enough of them, the memories all just start to blur together into a giant blob of brain matter, completely indistinguishable from each other.
I want unique experiences, not more getting-drunk-and-having-fun weekly bullshit. Someone help me out here. I'd really like to be drugged and wake up to find myself naked in Mexico for once. That would really be refreshing.
This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Fiftyone:Fiftyone.- Seg
PostScript:
You know what. From the right angle, I do kinda look like Mark Wahlberg...
I have to go work out now.
New weekly at Fluid every Monday featuring jazzy, soulful grooves, deep house and more. Om records representative Andy Caldwell from Los Angeles will be gracing the decks tonite. From his bio:
