—How many hours of sleep?
—What’s the deal?
—What do you mean
—Should we talk about Haiti?
—I think anything you say about it is going to be unbelievably trite and obnoxious and noxious and uninformed and pointless and will do more harm than good.
—You’re right, but if we talk about, you know, the way certain funny words fake-seem like they have the same root as other funny words
—Give me an example of that
—Devotion and devolution
—neither of those are funny words, is devolution even a word
—it’s where Devo got their name
—I’ll be forced to wonder why we’re not talking about the urgent shit going on
—Looking at twitter on a day when a huge news tragedy like the earthquake in Haiti happens is weird because there are lotsa learned net-savvy folks who are instantly linking to ways to help and various sources of news on the disaster and so on, but then the stream of self-promotional funny garbage remains totally unaltered: my peanut butter ass genie freestyle rap video is number 36 on youtube today, check it out guys, please nominate @BenGazzara for the Shorty Awards, and so on
—Do you think all funny garbagemen should immediately stop tweeting funny garbage or start tweeting about haiti when a disaster strikes? don’t disasters strike every day?
—not on this scale
—What if the funny garbagemen
—by the way let it be said that you yourself are totally a funny garbageman
—thank you, I mean, I know that. By the way I had a dream about Caroline last night. I was at Ben’s house in the dream and had plans to hang out with Caroline and I told her to come by to pick me up and we’d leave from there not remembering in the dream about how Caroline was not allowed within 30 yards of Ben. I was lounging in Ben’s room when the doorbell or buzzer starting ringing or buzzing but somehow Caroline was really playing it, like it was a musical instrument, these crazily annoying door-buzzer licks and riffs and warbly electro-blues scales, it was kind of awesome but everyone in the dream was irritated by it. When I got downstairs she immediately turned and started walking away quickly, visibly upset. I had to jog to keep up, and then I realized the doorbell song was a sort of protest song, an expression of her anger at me for making her go to Ben’s when she was “trying” (not very hard) to “forget” him.
—I mean if there is a major disaster in the world am I supposed to not tell anyone my dream
—I think you should probably never tell anyone your dream no matter what, Henry James’s line about a dream described is a reader lost
—The two main things that penetrated my media ozone yesterday were 100,000 thought to be dead in Haiti and Jay Reatard died. Is there any way to talk or think about 100,000 Hatian people and Jay Reatard in the same “breath” without hating yourself intensely
—just as an aside I think you tend to hate yourself intensely regardless of whatever media/tragedy thought experiment you’re conducting at the moment. Also I think if you spent a little more time actually reading about what’s going on in Haiti instead of uninformedly blogging about your underslept hungover vague impressions and vague guilt about it your tune might change
—you mean my tune might change from
—yes, I think
—from a jaunty 1940s ad-jingle tune to a more somber Mozart’s Requiem tune?
—Yes. Something like that.
—We really are brothers, aren’t we brother Jared?
—Yes, brother James, we are truly brothers