Let me fill you in on a little secret: we here at Belletristica Internationale do not fuck around. Our ostensibly slack lifestyle is in fact machine-like in intensity, and is fueled by coffee that is rumored to be delivered via one of those beer can-type helmets you see people wearing in the crowds of football games. We will not confirm that rumor, but nor will we deny it. There is nothing which may not be true here at B-ristica, except for the conjecture that we may have had sex last night---which is definitely not true. Has not, in fact, been true this side of ‘06.

What is unglaringly true, however, is that in the last four days, we have loaded thousands of songs onto our device. We have loaded and loaded. Would probably even go so far as to say we would fight to the death if someone tried to take it away from us. Would scrap like a wildcat. So do not even try. And besides, one would probably be filled with massive chagrin after an effort like that (if one were even to be successful). The superiority of our musical predilections is totally unrivaled. So towering, in fact, is our superiority in generally everything here at the B-ristica blogspot that we can hardly make eye contact with the average American. The iPod is now brimming with the greatest sub-cultural cornicopia even conceivable, and we are proud.



As further evidence of our awesomeness, we would also like to note that one Kristi Gustafson of the Times Union has contacted us for quotability in a feature article about 20 somethings. She has come to the right source, we have assured her. We are evocative of a Bartletts’. So quotable, in fact, that we have suggested being paid in burlap bags full or cash, or alternately by plugging the B-ristica blogspot in her article (or even, as a last resort, an endless supply of vegan dip). The reply, it could be said, was less than receptive. We shall see in the coming days how she doubts her decision to alienate us. We shall see.

Life Force

Chickadee little infant family walking through the superstore tonight. "That’s kind of nice," I tell Kari-Ann. "In order to have a family, I think you have to entertain the possibility of hope," I continue, "and I think that’s a beautiful thing." Kari asks me if I’m ever going to have kids. I don’t think so, I tell her.

It’s kind of weird, but I feel absolutely no urge to perpetuate life. I feel many urges, but that is not one of them. Some guy on television last night explaining the life force to me. "You have beat out millions of sperm to get here," he says, "and so you mine as well celebrate that victory." I think about all this as I’m standing outside today, the mud-encrusted grit of the ground and snow turning my hair into icy tendrils. "Life force," I think facetiously. He’s right, though. It’s just some arbitrary propulsion on the pinball machine which has lead me to this specific spot, at this point in time. I explain this same epiphany to AL in the Taco Bell parking lot last week. "I was getting coffee in a MacDonald’s resturant the other day," I told him, "and I was completely horrified by the life form inside. And it’s just so random that I’m here, on this side of the counter, when I could have just as easily been standing on the other side, serving you coffee" (a probability which is actually not too far off, given my recent employment situation or the startling lack thereof). But it’s true that people have their sense of social equality all mixed up.

I hope a little bit for the family I see tonight. The little girl with the bulbous eyes, and her brother. That they entertain the "life force". And I hope a little bit, I think, for me, too.

Greetings from Albany, New York

Lunchtime in North Albany. The unseemly section of Broadway by the Miss Albany Diner. I have to drop something off at the Arnoff Building and have no recollection of where this place is, suddenly remembering, Oh, yeah: that’s the building with "Nipper", the RCA dog on top. Circling around, looking in the sky for the majestic dog, trying not to hit pedestrians crossing the street. Actually, though, that’s a pretty safe bet. There’s no one around. This part of town is totally sketchy. Some remnant of a William Kennedy novel, with all of the lifeblood sucked out of it. One in a succession of decaying teeth within the overarching framework of a mouth full of rot (sorry, William Kennedy; I know that probably eats you up, dude. You and me, both).

I buzz EASSE at the Arnoff and am greeted with someone talking back at me in a shrill hiss that sounds a lot like a Jimmy Hendrix guitar solo. "What?" I say. "I can’t hear you." They buzz me in. There’s no directory and so I just wander around the hallway. Irish American Historical Society? What’s that? I think, simultaneously walking right into the office. Two pasty-looking women want to know what I am doing in there. "Uh, do you know where EASSE is?" I ask them. "Well, there are only two floors, and since there is nothing else on this floor, I would suggest it’s on the second floor," I am told in the didactic voice you use to talk to small children." OK. Well the elevator seems to go all the way up, and since Nipper the dog resides way up above, what of those other floors? I decide not to push it. I am clearly a disturbance in the very important affairs of whatever it is these two women do at their desks all day. I have no proper business in here. Decide not to ask anymore questions. "Thanks, though," I tell them. Penny greets me in the hall. "Are you Penny?" I say. Yes. Here you go. This is for you.

Back out into the world. A nice day for once. Back up Broadway and over to S. Pearl, bustling with action this time of day. Throngs of state employees are hustling around on a thirty minute lunch break. JC is probably at work right now, serving these same people martinis. That sucks. No constraints and just driving around, rolling down the window for effect. A good hair day for once, I reflect, looking in the mirror. The stars have aligned in our favor. Up State to Eagle and past the Egg, shooting over to Madison by the State Museum. Hey, look: there’s Kristen, our ex-coworker on one of her lunchtime power walks. I park illegally by the museum and say what’s up. "Hey, Kristen! What’s going on?" I gesticulate from the curb. She has no idea who I am from the distance, probably thinks I’m one of the vagrants who resides in the concourse, totally misinterpreting my good-hair day. "Hey, Ry!" she greets me, finally recognizing. "How are you?" She has to get back to work, though, and so she’ll see me around. OK. See you later.

Back in the car. I’m listening to a cd copy of SY Dirty at full volume. Good sunny-day weather music. Not too many Lee songs on here, I reflect. That’s cool. Some people like them. It’s a matter of preference, I think. Something more deeply encoded in your DNA. My pen pal, for instance, she’s a Lee-song person, from what I could gather. Hey, Joni: put it all behind you. That’s a good one. Gets stuck up in your cranium, doesn’t come out for a while. I listen some more as I continue up Madison, driving by the college. Perfect little student archetypes crossing the street there. Flip-flops in winter, I muse. Doesn’t seem like very functional footwear. Oh, well. Albany is looking ugly as ever today. Hey, Joni: put it all behind you, I think to no one in particular.

From HQ

It is a banner day here at B-ristica Internationale: surely there must be some mistake, some glitch in the numbers which has caused the "profile views" section to jump into the seventies. No matter, we are breaking out the champagne anyway, throwing a veritable party, to invoke the song. Because, realize: that is not even the official tally of who has visited or demonstrated some interest, which is way higher. Amazing.

In any case, as promised, we here at B-ristica Internationale will settle for bringing you no less than the absolute best–or worst, as the case may be. It was a mundane weekend. The most mundane of mundane weekends, really. That’s the way we kick it, sometimes. You hang out with people who have colds, you get sick. That’s how it goes. And besides, was I not looking out the window this morning and thinking profound thoughts. A contemplative look, you might imagine. Stroking my chin. This is life, I said to myself. It is comprised of these moments, drizzle coming down. Sure, you go to a party once in a while, work it out. But really, those are just things you tell people about later, which is totally different from actual living. Never mind, though. Forget I just said that. I see you giving me weird looks, B.; yeah, I’m looking at you. I never should have taken that philosophy class in college. One book into the semester and years of indoctrination and social training are thrown out the window.

Getting a little heavy there. Sorry. The rest of the weekend was spent in the gluttonous fashion of putting as many albums onto the Ipod as humanly possible in a day. Something akin to the chubby kid in a Ponderosa Steakhouse, with no parental supervision and full-on access to the salad bar. That pretty much typifies my relationship with music. Yeah, I’ll probably never listen to this Dinosaur Jr. import I just found under the bed, but fuck it because there’s pretty much room there for whatever. The attendants come over and I have ice-cream all over my face. "What?" I yell from behind the headphones. "I can’t hear you." That’s pretty much apropos, though, because remember: we are having a party.