Dear New York Publishing World

Please take the advice that all of your past young and brilliant interns have given you: get your own fucking spin (um, and CONCEPT) on a cover. Recycling is cool. But not in glossy print. On a cover.

Think of something new.

Please mmmkay thanx.

Best,
Atherton Bartelby

Also, really, Christina? Marie Claire? Christina why can’t you…?!?!

Filed under: Design, Film, Music , celebrities, humor, office love, publishing

Coming Back For More

I have spent more than enough time in mourning.

I have spent more than enough time mourning a terminated professional position; mourning a terminated friendship (for the second time); mourning a terminated living space. I have spent more than enough time mourning all three when, in fact, I thought that they were all three headed along rather healthy and happy avenues. I have spent more than enough time mourning January 01, 2007; mourning April 01, 2007; mourning October 01, 2007. I have spent more than enough time writing about what has occurred in my past (mere memories), and about what may occur in my future (mere dreams), rather than about what is occurring right now, in the present moment. I have spent more than enough time focusing on the past, and worrying about an uncertain future, rather than attending to decisions that need to be made right now.

I have wasted more words over the past few years merely wishing, at the beginning of each year (2005, 2006, 2007), that each would be better than the last (when each was only worse), instead of being proactive and making concrete decisions that would ensure that each year would be better than the last (rather than simply constructing passive phrases demanding that such would be so).

This year, I am starting early.

This year, I am ensuring, rather than demanding.

And I am emerging from the mourning time.

And I am coming back for more.

Filed under: Writing , defining moments, needful reminders, what would jackie do

Solitaire

“You taste like peppermint.”

I had just jumped into my date’s sensible Toyota sedan after my shift in the Chicago Tribune’s advertising department. This was our first date, and first kiss, but I already knew via numerous late night telephone conversations that he was not keen on smokers, so I had indulged liberally in my Altoids tin and bottle of Moschino cologne before dashing down to Michigan Avenue to meet him.

“Well,” I replied, pulling away from his enthralling lips and smiling flirtatiously, “I didn’t want my smoke to bother you.”

He laughed, steered his Toyota away from the curb, and took my hand in his.

These were the blissful days of my youth. I had just completed my freshman year at a fabulous college, I was enjoying my job at a fabulous company when I was back home on breaks, and wallowing in my mother’s fabulous condo in Evanston, the first suburb north of Chicago, while hanging out with old friends in the evenings. But, as usual, something was missing. So, after growing increasingly bored with the men I had met that summer on the Chicago club circuit, I had placed a personal advertisement in the Chicago Reader.

And met Avery.

He was not my usual young, creative, art / music scene, dark haired summer fling. He was nearly thirty, more blond than me, geeky in the sexy way that I still like, and a financial analyst for a brokerage firm whose arch rival firm I would eventually work for, years later, in sunny Downtown Honolulu. But our nightly telephone conversations that lasted several hours, and the laughter and connections that we seemed to share, inspired me to accept his offer of a first date, despite the facts that even then I despised dating and that he was not my usual “type.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, looking sideways at me sheepishly, “but I thought that instead of doing one of the expensive restaurants downtown we could use this coupon I have for a place up in Evanston, and then go sit on the beach afterward.”

Normally I would have rolled my eyes at the mention of a coupon on a first date and demanded to be let out of the car while I could still grab a scotch at The Drake before continuing up Lake Shore Drive to what was certain to be a lousy cheap date. However, I already knew that he possessed the notoriously frugal habits of any CPA, and the Evanston restaurant in question was actually one of my favorites, so I simply said, “Dinner and wine and the beach? Sounds fabulous!”

He smiled, reassured, and squeezed my hand, as we sped up Lake Shore Drive under the setting sun.

We talked about everything during dinner; literally every subject, no matter how impressive or embarrassing, came under discussion. The mortifying gymnastics accident I had experienced during P.E. with my best friend / first boyfriend. His admission that he was president of the Chicago chapter of the Laura Branigan fan club. Mutual tales of the loss of virginity, and first years in college. And laughter. And glances. And caresses.

By the time the restaurant kicked us out because we had been there so long that it was actually closing, and we finally made it to the beach, I was giddy with pleasure, and showed him as much, under the full moon, on the otherwise uncomfortable large sand grains that are the shores of Lake Michigan. He liked kissing. A lot. And he liked nipple action. A lot. And he seemed to really want my mouth on him, until my lips and tongue finally made their way down his chest, when he gasped and said, “No,” grabbing my head with both hands and pulling me back up to his mouth.

“But I want to,” I said, after he had kissed me, tugging at the zipper of his jeans with both hands.

“No,” he said again, taking my hands in his and kissing each of them. “I really, really like you,” he tried to explain, “but I…just can’t. I should take you home.”

And that is exactly what he did: drive me, like a gentleman, back to my mother’s condo several blocks away, and kiss me one final time before I exited his sensible sedan. “I’ll call you,” he said, his wine breath sweet on my face. “All right,” I replied, hurt and confused. And I left.

He did call me, though. We talked several more times before I returned to my New York life of school, work, and other men. I remained hurt and confused for awhile, but as I was young and as other things and people began to occupy my mind, I did not stay that way for long.

Although I never really did forget him, or the visceral connection I thought we had shared.

Several years later, I was back at the Chicago Tribune, again on a break from college, this time working the death notice detail in the classified advertising department during weekend shifts. It was a bit depressing, but the funeral directors had grown to love my speed and accuracy, so they always requested me on the weekends.

I had just returned from retrieving lunch for myself and my weekend colleagues from the Star of Siam just down the street, and had just finished squirting a lemon wedge onto my pad thai and laughing with a colleague about my recent Betsey Johnson acquisitions when a call came through on my headset.

“Tribune Classifieds. This is Atherton,” I chirped.

“Hey Atherton. Death Notice,” the deep voice of one of my favorite funeral directors intoned in his usual clipped fashion.

“Go,” I said, trying to hide the fact that I needed to swallow a mouthful of pad thai.

“Alm, Avery,” he began, “33, of Chicago.” The funeral director continued to read as quickly as he usually read with me, but I had to stop him, because I had stopped typing in the middle of “Avery,” and was floundering.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted him. “Can you start again? I’m really sorry. Our system is slow today for some reason.”

He began again, and I was thankfully able to focus, mindlessly typing and recording information, yet reliving memories from years before of this person, now dead, about whom I was writing.

The funeral director concluded, as usual, with his standard and very specific contact information, and I gave him the line count, cost, and confirmation number.

“Sir?” I inquired, already choking on my tears.

“Yes, Atherton?” he replied, obviously wanting to be finished with the call.

“What was the cause of death?” I asked.

“The family doesn’t want that in the notice, Atherton,” the funeral director said.

“Oh, no, I know, but I knew this man,” I said, “several years ago.”

“Oh,” the funeral director replied, suddenly softening his voice. He hesitated a few moments before answering me. “Complications due to AIDS,” he finally announced.

I thanked him, put my phone on unavailable, and, ignoring the inquiries of my colleagues as I walked away from my desk, told my shift supervisor that I needed a long break, and why. And proceeded immediately downstairs, under Michigan Avenue, and across it, to our favorite bar, the Billy Goat Tavern, to chain smoke three cigarettes and swallow three fingers of scotch before returning to my desk.

I still think of him, occasionally.

When I eat pasta with pesto sauce and pine nuts.

When Laura Branigan herself died.

And on certain nights, like tonight, when I am remembering all of the seemingly deep connections I have had with men, and Laura Branigan’s “Solitaire” suddenly begins playing on my iTunes.

Filed under: Writing , chicago, death, emotional landscapes, memories

Holiday Cleaning

There really is no better feeling than that feeling one experiences when one gets the proverbial house cleaning hair up one’s ass at the start of each new season. The process allows time for reflections and decisions, results in an immaculate living space, and prompts the discarding of objects (and connections to said objects) that one no longer requires.

Of course, the process also involves (if you are me) several protracted emo hours spent going through one’s things and revisiting memories that have attached themselves to them. (These emo hours are even more emo at the beginning of the Holiday Season. If you are me, obviously.)

I did that this weekend.

Now, the kitchen and the first floor bathroom are flawless, as are the hardwood floor of my second floor bedroom…and bathroom, which is ready to receive any willing gentleman caller who would require its facilities after an evening of marathon hot butt sex on my aforementioned immaculately clean hardwood bedroom floor, should he, in fact, actually exist.

(I suspect that he does not, actually.)

Also, said process almost always results in an emo hard cider drinking session with one’s fabulous roommate, during which one is prone to pontificate at length about close friends who have died, obsess about a certain Honolulu IP address that continues to present itself daily on one’s blog SiteMeter, and ask, choking with tears, before harassing said fabulous roommate with an oral reading from Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, “I found my bag of Bartholomew and Atherton memorabilia in my closet while I was cleaning and wondered if I should just throw it all out without looking through it.” (Thank you Mr. Run-On Sentence!) And hearing her say, “Get rid of it. Chuck it down the chute.”

(And not being able to do it, even though one knows that it is most likely the healthy thing to do.)

So, one focuses instead on the holiday tasks at hand: cleaning around aforementioned bag of memories to achieve a way wicked clean living space; volunteering as a photographer for the Special Olympics Hawaii’s Holiday Classic; attending benefits for the Gregory House’s World AIDS Day observance and Hawaii Fi-Do’s function to celebrate service dogs; preparing for ARTafterDARK’s annual Starlight Ball, Circo di Notte; and, of course, attempting to seduce Cillian Murphy into being my lover.

(Obviously, it is all about cleanliness, philanthropy, and Cillian Murphy this Holiday Season, for Atherton Bartelby.)

Speaking of the Holiday Season, I just updated my new Amazon WishList. Now if you know me well you know that I: A) never expect presents, since I, in fact, rarely give them; and B) when I do give them, they are perfectly chosen but it takes me forever and a year to actually make it to an actual post office to send them to you. But I thought I would provide a link to my WishList anyway, and also ask that you (if you feel so inclined) send me a link to yours, if you have one (with the proviso, of course, that you may be receiving a gift, due to my current employment status, not for Christmas, but, say, Chinese New Year? February? Does that work?). Send your link to athertonbartelby AT gmail DOT com if you’d like.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to continue cleaning, cuddle with a Basenji puppy, and attend to some writing.

I also need to throw a bag full of memories down the trash chute.

(In the spirit of Holiday Cleaning, of course.)

Filed under: Uncategorized , emotional landscapes, ghost town, linkage, memories, philanthropy, pimpage, red carpet situations

You Went Away

A fabulous blogging friend of mine (one who apparently knows my heart rather well) collaborated with me this week on a writing project regarding secrets that we could not tell. I’m only returning here to post it for private posterity, and so that other friends, if need be, might read the words that my friend added and take them to heart.

It’s a needful reminder, if you will.

+ + +

Logan just got fired. Perhaps you already know this.

Also — and this is related, trust me — he can’t talk about the fact that he gave Michael a second chance and got fucked over again and now he’s back where he started from, which’s no-confidence, no-anything, left simply with the bad aftertaste of getting fucked. In the heat of the fucking moment, he consciously paraphrased Samantha Jones: “Fuck me over once, shame on you, fuck me over twice, shame on me.” If Micheal came back Logan knows he’d give him a third chance which makes him even more miserable because he already knows how horrible it’d be.

[What's my secret? This is a real place: that place where you know you're going to get fucked but you do it anyway. It's not that you want to get fucked again, it's that we all believe, somewhere, whether we admit it or not, that we don't really think we'll get fucked again, and the reason we think this is totally innocent and logical -- because it hasn't happened yet, that's just like, the definition of "how time works," and therefore -- like all things that haven't happened yet -- absolutely everything remains possible. Certainly if people surprise us by being more horrible than we expected (see #12), it is possible that people can also surprise us by being more wonderful than we expected? Yes?]

This is how getting fucked by Michael is related to getting fucked by his job and to fucking in general: the Senior vice president of Logan’s firm wanted to fuck Michael and so he fucked Logan over because Logan was in his fuckin’ way. Logan’s friendship/relationship/whatever it was made the Senior VP peg Logan as the enemy and get Logan fired because he could no longer get to Michael.

Micheal is safe in a corporate position, making thousands more fucking dollars than Logan did, being treated to $700 corporate dinners and never [Logan thinks] once fucking thinking about Logan, who is emotionally eviscerated.

But he’ll be fine. You know, like that Phoenix & the ashes thing. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, whatever fucks you makes you stronger, karma’s a fucking bitch, the two colleagues that helped get Logan fired can eat their expensive dinners and Logan can sit on top of every fucking bad thing that happened in 2007 and figure out how to return in strength and brilliance, because, ultimately, he’s gotta prove to you [Michael] and to everyone [everyone] that they are wrong.

And I think he can. Sidenote: is 2007 over yet, for Chrissake?

Filed under: Blogging, Writing , a-list, defining moments, emotional landscapes, needful reminders, office love