I’m Jeremiah. I’m a middle-aged white man in America, so that means I’m over-represented in the media and in the workforce. I’m also a pretty good writer. You can find out a lot about me in this journal, going all the way back to 2005.
For example, my day-to-day life is normal but interesting. What I consider my best slices of life are here, though sometimes things happen that are beyond insane. Speaking of insane, I’m bipolar and have ADD, and these things are so deep a part of me that I have to spend a lot of time making sense of it. I sometimes find myself thinking about the past, and I get a little nostalgic, sometimes sad, but I think about my friends and things are (usually) okay. I’m deeply steeped in pop culture, and I have some pretty serious opinions, though you’d never know that by talking to me. As I said, I write, and I reflect on my unusual process as well as my successes and failures at it quite a bit.
Basically, I like to write little essays that aren’t, with one or two exceptions, too long, and these are hundreds of them. Stop on by, take a look around, tell me what you think.
*The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed when I can’t remember them.*
On September 11, I try to do something alive. Mostly, I go to museums or spend time with friends. Today, I take a chance on something completely different.
Arlington, Virginia is one of D.C.’s big suburbs. When I used to live in Alexandria, it was a place I found myself in regularly, sometimes for the farmer’s market on Courthouse, sometimes Ray’s the Steaks or Ray’s Hell Burger, sometimes to visit people I know. The last time I came out here was because of a temp job. Otherwise, Virginia doesn’t hold a lot of interest for me.
However, after a Turkish gentleman named Isa became fixated on my resemblance to Phillip Seymour Hoffman at the Jomeh Bazar last Friday, he invited me to his coffee truck, the Ballstonian, parked every morning at 4000 Wilson Boulevard. I live about as far away from there as I can get while still being in D.C., but I’m looking for something to do, and I decide to make the schlep.
I find his truck easily, parked near the “Jew-ish” bagel place, Call Your Mother, and it is a work of art. He occupies the sidewalk with a seventies-era vintage car from his native Turkey and Arabian-style low tables and stools.
There is a Stormtrooper, but we’ll get back to him.
Isa is really excited to see me, like, really excited. He says he has been hoping I’d show up, and he serves me chai, not the American kind, but Turkish tea, like he wants to impress me. He also offers me Turkish delight, which lives up to its name.
At ten a.m., there are three people gathered around the truck, and he introduces me to them like I’m the most interesting person they’re ever going to meet. There’s Gary, who is fairly close to my age and wants to know everything about me. He thinks I’m retired. Yousef, a Kuwaiti transplant, doesn’t know what to make of me—it’s curiosity when I tell them I used to live in Qatar, then revulsion when I tell them my wife worked for the CIA. I do not speak to Caroline. She and Yousef leave shortly after my arrival, and the remaining attention is on me.
Isa unfolds a stool for himself and me, and mine is broken before I sit down on it. The addition of my weight deforms it, but Isa pounds it out and has no problem reclining on it. Gary tells us he was on an Air Force base in California when everything happened twenty-five years ago.
I tell them where I was. They poke and prod, and I tell them everything. I don’t often get to tell the actual story anymore, and they really listen. The whole experience is cathartic. Gary and Isa settle down into a collective, “Whoa,” broken up by the arrival of Malcolm.
Malcolm doesn’t talk or emote, and he’s got this intensity to him that may be shyness, or it could be sociopathy. He sits on the far end of the tables and drinks his tea.
When the crazy woman shows up and talks to him, she is casually diverted away by Isa’s personality. She tries to talk to Gary, who says, “Nope.” This is her first time at the Balstonian, but Isa has a lot of experience with crazy people.
Isa reminds me of Shane, in that he is best friends with everyone. We’re joined by four other people he’s excited to see, Kieron, Grant, Hugo, and Cody. Hugo is a defense contractor who leans left, and he just went to conference for the “Department of War,” where he hooked up with one of two women older than twenty-five. Cody, with his neatly trimmed beard and shampoo-commercial, curly, ginger locks, simply abides. Keiran is silent for the most part but is amused by everyone. His only job is to take the piss out of Grant when necessary.
Grant. Grant is cranked up to eleven. He’s what I would call extra. Isa leans and tells me that this is now Grant’s show. He’s also incredibly charming, and he makes sure he talks to all of us equally, especially me. As a twenty-something resident of New York City, he interrogates me on what it was like to live there at the turn of the century. I explain the concept of CBGB’s, which I never thought I’d have to do, and he tells me how cool I am.
“2003 begs to differ,” I reply.
Grant is the one flashing gang signs.
He works his magic on Malcolm and finds out he cosplays. Grant even coaxes out some pictures. Malcolm’s main focus is historical costumes, and Grant keeps referring to his SS uniform. I am unable to work out whether he’s kidding or not, which becomes a genuine concern when he convinces Malcolm to show us his Stormtrooper outfit. Panicked, I ask, “What kind of Stormtrooper are we talking about here?” Hugo tells me to relax.
I hope Malcolm recognizes how awesome it is that he’s show this group of mostly strangers his passion.
Two glasses of Turkish tea makes me jittery as the afternoon approaches, and I bow out and stop first for an obscenely good sandwich at Call Your Mother. Grant tells me that I was the most educational thing to happen to him, and he just backpacked through Spain. Isa tells me the Balstonian is there every weekend, which is good information to have.
The Twin Towers have been rubble longer than they’ve stood.
Since then, I’ve watched the world move on.
Since then, I’ve tried.
Since then, I write something every year. As time goes on, each post gets less engagement. I wonder why I keep doing it, but it’s one of the most impactful days of my life, and I still don’t understand what happened.
Since then, nobody knows what to say to me.
Since then, I’ve been denied insurance coverage for mental health because 9/11-related trauma is a preexisting condition.
Since then, I’ve been told by psychologists I’m over it, let’s talk about something else.
Since then, I’d been told by a mayor that the air was a little smoky, don’t worry about it.
Since then, I’ve been told by doctors that my lung issues were entirely related to smoking and not Ground Zero.
Since then, I was estranged from a family member for nearly a decade because of something callous they said about people like me.
Since then, I was hired by a long-defunct marketing blog to memorialize the tenth anniversary in a drawing I tried to make solemn but came out kind of icky.
Since then, I’ve listened to politician after politician brag about what they were doing that morning.
Since then, I watched a president cower in an undisclosed location then step onto a mound of death with a bullhorn and a mandate.
Since then, I’ve heard people, twenty- and thirty-years younger, tell edgy jokes about it.
Since then, I’ve laughed at some of these jokes.
Since then, I’ve made some of those jokes.
Since then, I’ve noted the amount of selfie sticks and smiling faces at the 9/11 Memorial in New York.
Since then, I learned just how long I could stay drunk and high before I had to shuffle, blinking, into the real world (two weeks).
Since then, I watched memos flutter to the ground in Brooklyn, disintegrating in my hands.
Since then, I sat through a church service where hundreds of people stood up and asked for a prayer, each one progressively more cynical and defeated, without the slightest bit of hope to be found.
Since then, I’ve wondered what happened to the ash-covered yuppie who cut his time at the payphone short so others could call their loved ones, in what may have been one of the kindest acts I recall seeing in New York that day.
Since then, I’ve hunted for anything that will give my heart the jolt I felt that day, and everything, from a mugging to spectacle movies to an unexpected divorce to riding the Cyclone, fell short.
Since then, I’ve hungered for someone to talk who gets it. Those who experienced it through pictures and video, whether from thousands of miles away or in Midtown, will never understand, and I would never diminish the fear and confusion they suffered.
Since then, I feel silly because countless others saw and lost so much more.
Since then, I never want to forget.
Since then, I never want to think about it again.
Since then, I take this day off every year and try to do something alive to keep the ghosts away.
Despite being told that my hair was part of the reason I look like Phillip Seymour Hoffman, it had to be tamed. JaJo’s Barbershop is on Barrack’s Row, about a mile from my last apartment. I’ve stuck with them because it’s the best haircut in the Southeast quadrant, and everybody knows it. JaJo’s is first-come-first-served, meaning there is a lot of competition for a chair, meaning you’d better get there when it opens at nine on Saturdays.
On haircut day, my routine is to pack up my art supplies and haul them a good five-minute walk to the barber, to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, where I have a breakfast sandwich and an iced coffee—regardless of the temperature—and draw until it’s time to go. After the cut, I used to walk to the boutique dispensary, but I don’t do that anymore, so I usually just get bored and go home within an hour.
This Saturday, I emerge from the Metro and begin my coffee house, which takes me past the other three cafes between the station myself and the. After crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, I make a decision that’s going to change the trajectory of my entire day: I decide to do something different.
Instead of walking two blocks to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, I stop at the first one I see. Instead of sitting inside in a quiet corner to monitor the comings and goings of the clientele, I deposit myself on the patio. Instead of an iced coffee, I order English breakfast tea. Instead of a breakfast sandwich, I order something I need a fork to eat. Instead of wolfing the food down and opening up my sketchbook, I savor it and edit a chapter of one of my W.I.P. novels.
These changes are small but invigorating.
Early September is still summer, and it does get hot in the afternoons. Mornings this month, however, have been gorgeous. JaJo’s is a shorter walk, so I hover just a little while longer, watching Eastern Market set up as early birds meander into my cafe or the one next door (incredibly, they both do great business). It’s here I see my first natural ginger. She won’t be the last
When I get to JaJo’s, I’m directed to one chair of nine, this one belonging to Michael. Within ten minutes, they’re all full, with a long line. Jajo’s is a Vietnamese business, and all barbers (but one) share that nationality. My barber, an older guy, speaks only hairdresser, which is great because I’m not one for hairdressing small talk. Michael tackles my mop with professional efficiency, following with my favorite part, the hot towel and shoulder massage. This time, however, Michael has an electronic device that is as aggressive as it is exhilarating. He even applies it to the top of my head, and I literally start to slide out of the chair. After a focused hair-dry, he exposes me to my perfect new do, which is as good as it’s going to look for the next six weeks.
My other errand of the day is the art store, but it doesn’t open until eleven. It’s currently nine thirty. My plan is to walk ten blocks to the Roost, to kill time with a slice of New York-style pizza some light doodling. However, I always go there. Things are different today. Unable to justify lunch until eleven, I end up at the 7th Street Hill Cafe anyway. This time I don’t order an iced coffee. I order a pineapple-mango smoothie. I don’t sit on my usual couch, but at a table outside, with the perfect view of the busiest traffic path in Eastern Market.
Eastern Market is a celebration of food, artistry, and secondhand merchandise. It stretches from the cafe from this morning to the cafe where I sit, branching off at key intersections. I’m able to see most shoppers come and go, and it’s hard to focus on my art. Among the crowd are four additional gingers, which seems like a lot. Maybe they’re planning something.
When it’s time for lunch, I can sit down at the Mexican-El Salvadorian place next door, or I can see what the vendors down South Carolina Avenue have to offer. My options are wide open, and the safe bet is an empanadaa with a lemonade. Not today. Today I’m going to try jerk-chicken tacos with pineapple-orange-ginger juice. I’ve never had jerk chicken before. I’ve never had flavor like this before. I enjoy it with a gorgeous mural over my shoulder.
Aside from JaJo’s, I like to come down here for Eastern Market, but I always cruise through it at top speed. This time I stick my head in a lot of stalls stalls, from microgreens to delicate, wooden hummingbird sculptures. There are five painters and two photographers, as well as a scarf store, two potters, endless jewelry, vintage clothing, framed stamps, vinyl albums, and candles.
I stop at a secondhand clothier and see they’re selling soccer jerseys. I loved them in my thirties, but I stopped fitting into my collection when I hit my forties. Today was the day. After stuffing that into my backpack, I think, “What the hell, I’ll get a candle.”
Down the way, after I pass another ginger, a man is selling books, all from one publisher. This doesn’t look like a book crowd. When I stop and discuss it with him, he tells me his secret: selling books at a fair that doesn’t typically go for books is a real moneymaker. I praise his cover artists, which turns into a conversation about racism in the arts. This is a very uncomfortable topic, not because I don’t know how easy white men have it, but because acknowledging that sounds like I’m bragging, which I am not. I ask him for a help picking out a novel for my friend’s kid, and he recommends a really weird one. I think they’ll like it.
Returning to my neighborhood, I take the long way home to poke my head into the cafe that recently opened up a healthy stroll from my apartment. I pick a different iced tea refresher than normal and sit at a table outside to finish a project. Someone in an apartment above my head brutally beats a rug with a broom, causing me to flee, but I had finished my refresher, so I only had to shake the rug dandruff out of my new hair.
When I arrive home and sit on my bed to remove my shoes, Oscar joins me, which he’s never done before. I’m about to watch a movie until I go to sleep, but he shows up near my head to get pets for several minutes straight. I guess someone else is having a different kind of day.
It’s been a rocky few months for me. About six weeks ago, my office caught fire, and we’ve been working from home ever since. Not walking 30-35 minutes to the Metro, then to the office, has been taking its toll on me, and I’ll go days without leaving my building. Last month, while I waited for maintenance to fix my faucet, and I didn’t leave my 434-square-foot apartment for four days. All this has left me hyperfocused on Oscar’s opinion of me, and it became clear he doesn’t like me. Shortly afterward, I looked in the mirror, and I realized I’m really, really fat. The Thursday before last, I woke up so depressed I called in sick.
I hauled myself out of bed and did things I ordinarily don’t do, like eat lunch at a restaurant. Observing Oscar for a few days without anthropomorphizing him, I realized his personality is just aloof. Living with a lap cat for twenty years spoiled me. He shows affection with proximity, and I’m going to have get used to that.
I’ve been a lot better since then, counting the days to the Jomeh Bazar, which I last went to in May. The Bazar is located in a plaza surrounded by art studios, some of which were open. Nearly all the vendors are Middle Eastern, which makes sense because it was founded by an Iranian protest artist.
My first stop was Turkish coffee. If you’ve never had a Turkish coffee, it is slow-brewed and served in a cup the size of a double-shot glass. After drinking one, you need to throw back a Red Bull to take the edge off. The Discworld analog, Klatchian coffee, makes you knurd, which is so sober, you need to drink in order to avoid collapsing under the weight of brutal clarity. Terry Pratchett wasn’t exaggerating.
The vendor is the Ballstonian, and man who serves me is Isa. Before I can even order, he exclaims, “You know who you look like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!” He turns to his daughter, who looks college age, and asks her, “Don’t you think he looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffmann?”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know who that is.” Her body says she endures him, but also adores him.
“You don’t know who that is?”
After discussing Hoffmann’s oeuvre, he sells me some baklava and sends me to a bench. I enjoy one of my favorite desserts, which is exceptional, and I enjoy the packet of moist towelettes his daughter had handed me.
While I’m covered in honey, wishing I had taken two towelettes, Mina, the adorable protest artist I have a massive crush on, wanders by on the way to her studio, and she recognizes me! I want to impress her, but I have no idea what to say. My heartbeat sounds like a monkey on Turkish coffee freestyling with a bongo, and there’s no way she doesn’t hear it.
Luckily, Isa swoops in, hands me my cup of liquid electricity, and says to her, “You know who he looks like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!”
Her eyes go wide. “He does!”
They take turns describing all of my Hoffmanesque qualities while I take a jolt from my coffee and fight back a blush. I tell them I used to get Kiefer Sutherland when I was younger. Isa laughs and says, “With two margaritas in a dark room, you know who he is? Kenneth Branagh!”
Mina says, “I’m jumbling all these faces into my artist’s mind!”
The spotlight goes away shortly after, and I pull out my sketchbook. According to Isa, Labor Day weekend is always slow, but there are still great people to see. I do rough, life-drawing sketches to solidify their appearances in my memory and get up to explore.
My next stop is Bicycle Trash, which is hosting a “Sewing Machine Petting Zoo,” where they display seven vintage sewing machines from the forties and fifties, which still work and are used in their classes. My next stop is T. Mofid Art, where I buy some unusually sized prints as presents. Following this, I stop at a vendor whose name I’ve forgotten, which reclaims thrift store clothes and dyes them with real plants. My new T-shirt, which I will fit into when I lose some weight, is indigo.
After enjoying a Persian cookie recommended by Mina, I draw some more and sit down for a tarot reading. I don’t believe in anything supernatural, but I have a rule: I will pay for a tarot reading whenever I see one. At the Renaissance Faire in Colorado, I went to two readers. One was terrible, but the other was uncanny. Uncanny enough that I’d believe she was real if I didn’t know better.
This guy is not great. Every interpretation of every card is way off. (“Have younger women been coming to you to steal some kind of information, something you’ve been guarding carefully?” “No.” “Do you have any information you’re keeping secret?” “No.” “You may not know you have this information. Watch for younger women.”) Unlike the bad reading in Colorado, he is fun to talk to, and I kind of admire the way he twists himself into pretzels trying to fit his square peg into my round hole. (“Your office caught fire? I told you! It’s the Tower card!”) He also tells me I should put a little more effort into my appearance.
The last vendor I see is Anahita Herbal Medleys, which sells medicinal syrups. I pick one that helps with immunity and focus, as well as one that inspires creativity and vivid dreams.
On my way home, I stop back at the Ballstonian because I want to try their cardamom iced tea. Isa tells me all about his coffee truck and how he set up tables on the sidewalk every day at 4000 Wilson Boulevard in Arlington. He unlocks his phone to show me a picture of his vintage Turkish truck, and the first image that comes up is my late doppelganger, Phillip. Isa thinks he would have made a great Joker. “Heath Ledger was really good. He’s dead too, but Phillip Seymour Hoffman would have been amazing.”
I make my exit, chased away by mosquitos, and return to Oscar. He yells at me for attention, but walks away when I try to pet him. After I go to sleep, he curls up next to my head. When I wake up at my usual time, he has long ago abandoned the bed because he doesn’t want me getting the wrong idea. He’s not Newcastle, but we’ve almost got each other figured out.
Act One: I try to keep myself out of internet fights, but, this morning, before work, feeling high off of finishing a chapter two months in the making, I found a post on Threads that pissed me off. Against my better judgement, I responded, using both barrels of snark.
Act Two: It was satire.
Act Three: Everyone thinks my post was satire, and the OP joked with me, and I got a ton of likes.
This weekend, I had the pleasure of cat-sitting for Henry. During the five years Nicole and I lived together, we shared cats. Ever since I rescued him from the mean streets of Doha, Henry has been such a willful and energetic creature, wound tighter a White House press conference. Nicole fell in love with him instantly, and they’ve had a codependent relationship ever since.
True love or not, Nicole had things to do, and she often needed him mellow, you know, like a normal cat. She leash-trained him and took him for spins around the neighborhood. Eager to give her time to study, I often plugged into a podcast and let him guide me on long walks. He was always excited and curious, as a cat should be, and witnessing it never got old.
If you’ve been following me, you know that my attempts to duplicate this Zen with Oscar have resulted in terrifying disasters, including throwing myself into four lanes of traffic or diving into bamboo topiary. The opportunity to go walking with Henry, two old buds just chillin’, was too cool to pass up. Saturday morning, I hooked him up to his new harness, the one he couldn’t slip out of, and away we went.
Taking a cat on a walk is an exercise in patience. If you’re used to dogs, you know that they like to stop and sniff. Cats like to sniff, eat some grass, sniff some more, trot over to the next patch, lie down, and dart away. You have to be ready for every eventuality, so there is no relaxing or zoning out. This time, he did this in front of an elementary school, where a children’s birthday party was going on, and Henry wasn’t visible from their angle.
I’m going on a list.
Suddenly, he moved with purpose across the street. I saw what caught his eye. It was another cat. I let him lead me to it because he was curious, and the yodeling sounds he made were pretty funny. It’s not like they were going to get into a fight. They were a safe distance away from each other, and I had the leash wrapped firmly around my arm.
The other cat was not on a leash.
I dove into the melee and yanked Henry away, holding him either until he calmed down or he tore my arms to shreds. He opted for the latter.
Naturally, I dropped the little fuzzsaw, and he immediately slipped out of his harness. If he got away in this neighborhood, I was either never going to find him again, or he was losing an eye to the other cat. I sprinted across the street and literally tackled him, screaming, at the top of my lungs, “Fuck!”
Right in front of the party.
The kids weren’t interested. Green Lantern and Daredevil say the F-word these days, so they’d heard it all before. The parents, on the other hand, stopped sipping their wine in plastic cups and glared at me. I’m definitely on a list.
I was going to hang onto Henry, whatever happened. The look on his face was crazed, unlike anything I’d seen before. I knew he would go back to normal (i.e. begging me for treats) if I could get him home, but I couldn’t carry him. Incredibly, I got him back into the harness, which he should stay in. It shouldn’t be a problem anymore because the other cat was—
On the opposite side of the sidewalk, pointing his fingers at us, then at his own eyes, and back at us.
I needed to get Henry back to Nicole’s place before I bled out, but I couldn’t drag him. What I did was pick him up by his armpits and sprint half a block until my out-of-shape lungs stopped working. The other cat was still there, yelling parting threats.
I made it another half-block, and another. Back on Nicole’s street, I put him down on the sidewalk, and he loped home. Still skittish, he calmed down when I gave him one of those puree packets, until he plopped down and went to sleep. Just another day for Henry. The memories of that ordeal chill me to this very day.
I rarely watch movies all the way through anymore. Even the most compelling movie I’ve seen in a long time, Backrooms, was started in the evening and finished up with breakfast. The same goes for one of my favorite action movies, Accident Man, which couldn’t hold my attention for more than an hour. Therefore, I enjoyed my breakfastduring the last stretch of the film, which included Ray Park and Michael Jai White, two of the best fighters in cinema, fighting Scott Adkins, possible the best fighter in cinema, and it was glorious.
Next, I checked Facebook for the extended conversation on divorce I started there, and some glowing reviews of some of my art, and maybe see if Jason Pargins had a new reel up. (Hint: he always has a new reel up.) What I found were stills of something I knew from a glance would be an AI fight scene. I’ve seen a few of these, and they’re easy to spot.
I watched it to see what it looked like. My low-fi action flick was superior, and I don’t just say that because I’m a Luddite, which I proud to be with my iPhone 17 and my Tahoe 6.5.2. (Look up the Luddites sometime. They weren’t anti-technology, they were anti-capitalist.) There are several reasons for my assessment:
These the images are too crisp, even in low lighting. A digital camera with 1,000,000 quantum pixels (or whatever) couldn’t fit that much detail into a small space.
The motion is too smooth and too fast, without any of the wobbling and hesitation even the most graceful ballerina in the world can’t hide. They use bullet-time effects that are over in a second, instead of letting us savor the shot like in The (first and one and only) Matrix.
Speaking of The Matrix, the subway station from the climactic fight was grimy, covered in litter and dust. It looked like a real, neglected subway station, unlike the metros in AI videos. Clutter and dirt is what differentiates the original Star Wars movies from their pre- and sequels.
The “camera” is always moving. Think about one the swordfights in Highlander. Russell Mulcahy was a music videos filmed them epically, with long, slow tracking shots. It enabled you to see the poetry of it all.
When I watched this fight in a (bunker? hallway?), the hits were hard, and the camera shook with each one, yet they didn’t feel solid. This morning, I watched Scott Adkins, who has legs like jackhammers, kick Amy Johnston through a door. It was staged, but you could register everything, from the physical acting, to the choreography, to the sound effects, to the direction. It actually look like it hurt.
Cinematics from video games look better than this, even without the dive into the uncanny valley because humans are animating them, not machines that take orders from prompts.
It’s an old adage that, in real life, put a small man up against a big one, the big one wins. In the movies, it’s the opposite. At least the bros get this right. All the AI sequences I’ve seen feature a small woman beating up some guys. But here’s the deal: there’s no tension. You know from the minute you see her cocky, generated smirk that she was going to win without breaking an electronic sweat. She throws thugs around, and no one gets a shot in. I saw one in a (pristine) subway where a girl in a school uniform threw these thugs around like they were children. Who cares? Who wants to see an unstoppable killing machine (except maybe John Wick—more on that in a minute.)?
What made Indiana Jones so great was that he triumphed, despite getting the shit kicked out of him every time he put his fists up. Keanu Reeves in The Matrix was defeated in that subway fight (something the sequels forgot). Keanu Reeves in John Wick is weary and bloody after killing two hundred people, and he always looked like he was about to fall over by the time he killed number eighty-seven.
Also, who are these girls? Who are the thugs she’s beating up? Why is she in that (bunker? hallway?) She seems to be escaping from something, but you can’t tell from her face or body language or her physical state what it is.
You can argue that it’s hard to get context from a thirty-second action scene, but let’s look at some of the fights in these other movies I’m referencing. You can argue that I’ve seen these movies a bajillion times and know what they’re about, but you can always read this stuff, even if you don’t realize it.
Neo fights Agent Smith he has something to prove. Indiana Jones fights desperately, like he’s cornered. John Wick is hunting or running away. Kyle Reese throws himself into the path of the Terminator because he’s protecting someone with his life. Mike Fallon (from Accident Man) is furious. The killer (from The Killer) is dead inside. Sean Archer and Castor Troy (from Face/Off) really fucking hate each other. No words are needed from any of them.
This little sprite in this AI reel is nothing. No emotion, no motivation, just pure martial arts. The graphics will get more natural. The jerkiness will make way for more natural moves. The backgrounds will have more detail. But, as long as these same illiterate tech lovers continue to make them, they will never have soul.
AI, which is less popular than ICE, is being pushed on us. In some places it has its uses. In some places, it doesn’t. I refuse to use AIs to write emails because I’m dealing with human beings, and it’s a sign of respect that they get to talk to one. Entertainment will get around their union contracts and use AI in TV and movies, but people don’t want that. They also want human beings (for the most part). Writers I know, artists I know, musicians and filmmakers I know, let’s give it to them.
I’m sitting here in the Brookland Arts Walk and Farmer’s Market in the summer heat. Crying and trying not to fall into disgusting sobs.
I had a rough night, and I overate some pizza, which was supposed to make me feel better, but made me sick because I’m fifty.
As my ex-wife always said, sleep is the great reset button. The next morning, I finished the movie I couldn’t finish last night, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and petting Oscar.
It was a rough start, but I rode the Metro a stop to Brookland. I spent the early morning in a coffee shop, eating second breakfast and sipping a London Fog, watching to-go coffees passed out to neighbors in various stages of wakefulness.
I’m in the business of people-watching. And doodling them. I came to the Arts Walk to show my cool picture to Mina, the cool printmaker, and pick up a couple of things to tide me over for the weekend.
I found a bench to settle down with my pupusa (a doughy pancake stuffed, in my case, with spinach, cheese, and chicken) and pineapple smoothie while a blues performer played.
A couple of people had caught my attention, so I finished third breakfast and broke out my sketchbook. That’s when the musician broke out James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” It was the third time he sang, “And I always thought I’d see you again,” that it hit me violently.
Here I go, twenty minutes later, and here come the sobs. I tipped the singer twenty bucks on Venmo for, “Making me cry.”
I have so much to tell you, Shane. I have so much to show you. But you’re not here anymore.
I haven’t danced around other people since I was mocked for doing so. Prior to that, I didn’t really think much about it, especially when it came to the dances of the high-school variety. Rather than even try to find a date, I spent all my time crying that I couldn’t find a date. There were a few exceptions.
There was only one person I wanted to take to senior Prom. She wasn’t one of my crushes (who I was “in love” with), but rather a friend I had gotten very close to. I don’t know why I never fell for her. She was beautiful, she had a sexy voice and accent, and she was fascinated by me. We had a spot where we retreated twice a week and were completely open with each other. I would have shown her the time of her life, but she was taken.
Instead of finding someone just good enough, I spent Prom night with Shane, at a pizza parlor, playing Samurai Showdown 2 for hours. I have sincerely never regretted this.
I have been to zero proms and one Spring Fling that took place in an alternate universe where everything was made of fun. We occupied our own corner of the floor and danced with a tenacity that’s difficult to describe. We found out that the DJ wouldn’t play “Tequila,” because it promoted alcohol, but had no problem with spinning “Insane in the Membrane.”
I have been to three Homecomings. One went so horribly wrong, I was grounded for two weeks, and my dad hit me. (To be clear, my dad never hit me. He raged, but he never laid a hand on me, except that once, and I deserved it.)
The other was years after I graduated. This was almost as much fun as Spring Fling. My date and I were friends who barely knew each other. We just clicked. We weren’t romantic, just flirty. I was popular because I was the only male on the dance floor. While the boys mocked me, their girlfriends surrounded me. There were some slow dances, both with my date and her friends.
It’s the third one that really sticks with me. As usual, I was too timid to ask anyone to the dance, so I wasn’t planning to go. Boone (as Severa was known back then), was in love with this one girl. She really wanted to go with him, but her cousin was in town. He volunteered me.
I was expecting her to lack at least one of the following: Looks, brains, or sense of humor. Yes, I was shallow, but if a beautiful woman bored me, I’d wander off without looking back. We drove out of town to pick them up, and his date answered the door. She was attractive—she wasn’t stunning, but I could easily get used to that smile. She invited us in, and Boone was ambushed with flashes. The thing about Boone was that he hated to be photographed, even if it was her date’s family, and he was trying to make a good impression.
Patiently, I waited for her good-enough cousin to show up. What I wasn’t expecting was an ethereal being. Her dress was Lavender, and her sandy-blonde hair was swept up, leaving a few strands to dangle precisely. Her eyes were a striking glacier blue, her nose was delicate, her skin glowed, and she was smiling at me, like she hit the jackpot. She held an elbow out, and I didn’t get it, so she took mine and led me on a night of pure magic.
Who was this woman? Because she was a woman. She was eighteen, and we were only sixteen. Unlike most girls, she paid more attention to me than Boone, though she was a pro at playing the whole pack. We danced like the floor was electrified, except when it was slow, when I held onto her waist and couldn’t believe what was happening to me.
There are two moments that endure the fog of thirty-five years. The first was a slow dance to “Lady in Red” by Chris DeBurgh, which was the kind of moment I’d hoped for since I started noticing girls.
The second was pure art. The four of us were taking a much-needed break. When my date turned out to be a Dave Barry fan, I promised her I’d find the postcard I’d received from him, which I never left home without. (It read, “Dear Jeremiah, You are clearly a deranged person. This is a good thing. Dave.”)
While we were chatting, she swept up a handful of glitter into her white-gloved hand and blew it on her cousin. It was a perfect moment. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life, and it has since only been topped once.
When the dance was over, we laughed some more at Kristy’s until my curfew assaulted us. I couldn’t get her out of my head or her address out of him, Whenever I asked, he got really cagey about it. It turned out he was actually in love with my date the whole time, so he was cock-blocking me.
This guy, who loved Nirvana, Ministry, and Megadeth, bought Chris DeBurgh’s album and listened to that one song over and over again, picturing the glitter and her cranberry lips catching the light bouncing off the disco ball. In the wisdom that comes with age, I have come to realize this was the best thing that could have happened. I never got the chance to ruin everything.
As a result, I lived like Cinderella for a night. Instead of being an awkward, rude, self-absorbed little twerp, I was charming, good-looking, and a great dancer. I danced with the princess at the ball, but the clock struck midnight. Our carriage turned into a beaten-up pickup. I was just a nerd in his speech-and-debate suit, and my princess walked away forever. No shoe made of a weird material was going to bring her back.
Through the month of April, I’ve been (asexually) smitten with an Iranian artist named Mina. She has a studio in the Brookland Arts Walk, a small plaza dedicated to bougie creativity. Every Saturday morning, weather permitting, the artists open their studios to the public, where they sell art and merch. Add in the food vendors and farmers who spring up, it really is the best way to spend a weekend morning, especially in the spring.
I’d been several times, but I’d never been to Kucheh Studios before last month, when I popped in and was stunned by the stark beauty of the woodcuts.
I was mesmerized by this woodcut, but I didn’t pick it up because I wasn’t ready to drop that price on a print. After thinking about it for two weeks, I went back and discovered that I was completely wrong about the price. It was twice as much as I thought it was. It’s worth it.
The first time I met Mina, she explained the protest symbolism in her work while I listened eagerly. Over the next week, I had to tell everybody about this experience. It was invigorating. The second time I stopped by, she invited me to a bazar she was sponsoring Friday evening. There would be food, music, and art.
Arts Walk is a Metro stop away, but there is a bike/running trail that leads from my station to Brookland. I’ve wanted to walk this path since I first saw it from the train, but it seemed daunting. A mile is okay—my station is about a mile away, and I walk that at least five days a week—but two seems like way too much. Friday, though … Friday was perfect, peak spring. The path I strolled along ran parallel to my train, so I’d seen the scenery already. However, I wasn’t blowing by this time, and I could appreciate the aggressive vegetation, industrial buildings, and graffiti from a fresh angle.
I was there before I knew it. The first thing I noticed was that it wasn’t a very big event. There were a half-dozen vendors, and not much of a crowd. However, it was only five p.m., and nobody else keeps my work hours.
Arriving early meant I got extra time with everyone. It started with Turkish coffee. This was because I was reading the menu on a table, and I was pounced upon by the most adorable teenage girl. While she made my drink, I tried to make conversation, but everything I said was more awkward than the last.
The thing about Turkish coffee is that makes Red Bull look like chamomile tea. Each cup comes with a warning label. I sat on a bench and sipped it, watching people drift through from the adjacent Metro station, until I could get rid of the cup.
My feet insisted on moving, and I found myself at a baklava table manned by the cheeriest woman I’d seen in some time. I thought there was only one kind of baklava, and it was baklava-flavored, but nothing could be further from the truth. she described each item on the menu like she was a sommelier. I chatted with her and her shockingly handsome husband about bazar culture, something I’ve missed from Doha. I left with four orange-cardamom baklavas. They are delicious.
My next stop was the guy with red bottles all over his little table. I sauntered in and listened to his pitch to the young lady before me. He sold herbal remedies in concentrated tea form, and he was passionate about it. Once he snagged me, he offered us both samples and explained which herbs, flowers, berries, and fungi combined to treat mild pain, depression, brain fog, and a number of other ailments. I asked if he had something for focus, and he had the perfect ginseng blend. He even took the time to tell me what ginseng is. He also said the word psychotropic, but that was probably nothing to worry about. He gave me some black tea on the house, and I sat down to listen to the taste of what colors smell like.
On previous art walks, I sat on a bench or a curb and doodled a bit. The energy is great, and there is always at least one striking person. That in mind, I brought a sketchbook with me and drew the guy with the potions.
I was there long enough, but I had to make two more stops before I would take the train home like the lazy American I am.
I found Mina sitting at a table in front of her studio, carving a small tile. She had a very enthusiastic hello for me, which made me special. I took a woodcutting class two years ago, so I was familiar with the tools, but that was about it. I didn’t tell her because My woodcut was not very good.
She explained the material, the process, and more symbolism, while I listened to her, entranced, asking any question that might keep her talking. Eventually, people she knew stopped by, and I slipped away.
I was almost finished, but I wouldn’t avoid the siren song of my favorite cuisine, Lebanese. This booth specialized in man’oushe, a cheesy, heavily seasoned flatbread. Working with a Palestinian restaurant, they created new flavors specifically for the Kucheh bazar. I had the shawarma chicken and will recommend it to anyone who asks.
I had enough caffeine that I could vibrate through solid objects, but I went home anyway. I crashed about two hours later, well past my bedtime, but at least I slept. It was worth it.
Jeremiah Murphy 