In the back room of a basement club in Chelsea, past the bouncer who mercifully let me in, through the front door and down the stairs, past the coat check and across the dancefloor and down a narrow hallway, I am standing and staring at Lil Wayne through a very thin, almost transparent curtain. There are models and reporters and bottles of liquor and champagne all around me, and smoke in the air and Lil Wayne music playing over the club’s PA. Lil Wayne is the most popular rapper in America and also my personal hero, and right now he’s standing in the encurtained VIP area of this club because he’s here to promote a new line of skateboarding clothes that he either founded or is endorsing. Lil Wayne is wearing all-white Moon Boots that go up to his knees, which he cutely tucks his pants into, and I am watching him as he raps along to a Drake song and extends his arms and dances, like when someone on the new York Jets scores a touchdown and they run around the field impersonating a plane. I am nearly in heaven.

I put my face up against the curtain, staring at Lil Wayne, waiting until the woman guarding the VIP area deigns to let me in to interview him. Lil Twist sits on a couch behind Lil Wayne, laconically drinking out of either a bottle of clear liquor or an exotic-looking brand of bottled water that I’ve never seen before. I incidentally make eye contact with Lil Twist, and he looks at me suspiciously, so I immediately look away because I don’t want him to think I’m being too lurky and have me kicked out of the club. I wish I could assure him that, although I like his raps, I’m not lurking around the VIP because he’s in it, but that might insult his pride more than it would put him at ease, and he’d have me kicked out. From now on, I’ll just try to avoid looking in Lil Twist’s direction.

Anyway, ten minutes ago when I got here, I knew that telling the woman who is guarding the VIP area that I write a semi-active Tumblr, formerly about an indie music website, probably wouldn’t be the kind of professional credential that would make her want to let me into VIP area to interview the most popular rapper in America, so one of the reporters here, who writes for a famous magazine, volunteered to let me interview Lil Wayne for that magazine. And so now I am temporarily in the unpaid employ of a magazine that would never hire me. When the VIP area guard turns away from me, I comb my hair with my hand to try to get my appearance more closely aligned with my impressive fake credential.

Now Lil Wayne is talking to a man who is probably his lawyer but who I prefer to think of as the 60-year-old, mostly bald, loose-suit-wearing newest member of the Young Money family. Lil Wayne stops rapping along to Drake and leans in to hear what this man is saying because he speaks softly. Obviously I can’t hear what they’re saying from ten feet and a curtain away, but when they’re done talking, Lil Wayne smiles and laughs. This guy is probably Lil Wayne’s new lawyer because on Tha Carter IV’s Nightmares of the Bottom, Wayne says, “If I knew I was going to jail, I would have fucked my attorney.” I think, if Lil Wayne’s new lawyer did his due diligence and listened to the new Lil Wayne album, he must know he’s on thin ice.

Now Lil Wayne has stopped talking to the lawyer and is pogoing in his all-white Moon Boots. He pogoes around the VIP area for a while until, I guess, he gets tired out. Then he drinks some water.

A man comes out from behind the VIP curtain and walks up to me and looks me over and goes, “Is it really that serious, son?” I try to understand what he means, like if it’s an existential question or I have a really serious look on my face that I didn’t realize, but I can’t, so I say, “What do you mean?” He says, “Leanin’ up against the curtain like that? Is it really that serious that you gotta do that?” I show him my Lil Wayne tattoo, my only tattoo, and he looks shocked, and then laughs, and then gives me a high-five that turns into a handshake, and says, “Aight, you aight, I got you,” and then he walks back into the VIP area. I am watching Lil Wayne as he adjusts his fitted cap, which is a whopping size 8 (to accommodate his dreads) and says “Sorry I’m Fresh” in big gold embroidered letters on the front, and “And You’re Not” on the back. A model bumps into me and I mumble an apology, and then she wanders into the VIP area.

Fifteen minutes later it looks like my chance of interviewing Lil Wayne is starting to dwindle. The woman guarding the VIP says that Lil Wayne is taking a break from doing interviews and then I realize the party ends in like twenty minutes. I wonder, “Is Lil Wayne running down the clock on this promotional appearance?” My heart sinks a little and I think about texting my Mom about this near-miss because I’ve spent a lot of plane and car rides trying to get her into Lil Wayne (she likes M.I.A. and one Young Jeezy song), but there’s no service down in this basement so I can’t.

Suddenly, a man emerges from the VIP area and whispers something to the woman guarding it. She looks at me and touches my arm and goes, “Okay, I need you,” and then looks at some reporters from Teen Vogue behind me and says, “And you and you and you,” and then she pulls us all inside the VIP area! I have passed through the pearly gates!!

Now my palms are clammy and my heart is almost racing because Lil Wayne is standing four feet from me as the reporters from Teen Vogue interview him. I turn to my left and Lil Wayne’s manager Cortez Bryant (and co-star of the documentary about Lil Wayne) is standing there, looking me over. He’s wearing small tortoiseshell glasses and we smile at each other and I go, “Hey Cortez! I’m David!” Cortez Bryant smiles and shakes my hand and asks me how I am doing, and I say, “Dude, I don’t even know how to tell you how excited I feel right now.” I want to tell him that it feels like my whole life is building to the moment when I get to interview Lil Wayne, but that seems needlessly dramatic, so I just finish by saying, “I’m pretty nervous.” He understands.

A waiter carrying a tray of pieces of tuna tartare on little toasts comes up to us and a guy standing next to Cortez says to him, “Yo, you gotta try this.” Cortez shakes his head and his friend insists and Cortez jokingly says, “This? Are you settin’ me up?” by which I think he means setting him up to be killed in a poisoned food assassination, so that maybe the other guy could usurp the throne of being Lil Wayne’s manager/confidant, or just setting Cortez up to eat something that tastes weird as a prank. But Cortez acquiesces and eats the tuna. He likes it, and he looks at me expectantly, as if to ask, “Do you want to try one of these tiny tuna steaks too?” but I shake my head. I could never eat a piece of tuna tartare on a little toast at a time like this, lest my breath smell like cat food when I talk to Lil Wayne.

The Teen Vogue reporters finish interviewing him and then it’s my turn. I turn the recorder (that the person from the magazine lent me) on and take two steps towards Lil Wayne. He reaches out and shakes my hand and introduces himself, and I can’t stop smiling, standing there looking down into the face of the greatest rapper to ever do it. His diamond grill is shimmering, he’s covered in tattoos (I wonder if he has any Lil Wayne tattoos? Like how Bukowski used to wear that shirt with a big picture of his own face on it), and his face has even more of that uniquely lizardly quality in person.

I ask, haltingly, “Are you working on Tha Carter V?” Lil Wayne starts saying something and then Cortez Bryant leans in and goes, “Only questions about [the skate clothing brand Lil Wayne is here to promote].” I nod vigorously but Lil Wayne shakes his head, and then Lil Wayne reaches up and puts his arm around me and turns us both around, so we’re not facing Cortez Bryant, and leans towards me and tells me that he’s not working Tha Carter V yet, but that he’s working on something else. Lil Wayne is in open defiance of Cortez Bryant, and on my behalf! I hope this isn’t the straw that breaks the camel’s back of their troubled relationship…

For a second I can’t remember my next question, and Lil Wayne stands there looking expectant, and then thankfully I remember it: “What will you do after rap?” Lil Wayne doesn’t even think about it: “I’m gonna focus on being the best father I can be.” That was an easy one — obviously these aren’t the questions I would personally ask, but I’m here on assignment from a prestigious magazine, so I’m trying to keep it broad.

Then Lil Wayne releases me from the fraternal shoulder hold and I am again facing Cortez Bryant, who I don’t wanna cross twice, so I ask my final, two-part question: “What skate clothes do you wear? Do you wear Supreme?” Supreme is the skate clothing brand popularized nationally by Odd Future last summer, but it was locally very popular for like 15 years before that, including when I was in college and coveted it most. Lil Wayne tells me about how he skated in the big skating bowl inside the Supreme store in LA. I think about showing him this sick polar fleece Supreme hat I have, and maybe seeing if he wants to trade his “Sorry I’m Fresh” hat for my Supreme hat, but I remember I checked my bag and my hat’s in my bag. Crud.

Then I am out of questions! And almost out of time, according to how Cortez Bryant is looking at me. Light glints off of Lil Wayne’s eyebrow ring, and he looks at me and smiles as a Lil Wayne song plays over the club’s PA. I put the recorder down and look at Lil Wayne and say, “I also just wanted to tell you that you really inspire me,” and Lil Wayne smiles, and then I show Lil Wayne my Lil Wayne tattoo, and his eyes widen and he starts grinning and then starts laughing. He reaches out his hand and starts shaking my hand, which I suspect concludes our interview, but then he pulls me in for a hug and hugs me for maybe five seconds, which doesn’t sound like that long but, to put it in perspective, light travels 931,411 miles in five seconds.

He releases me from the hug and I go, “I’m Jewish, so if my Dad knew I had this tattoo, he would kill me!” Lil Wayne laughs again and then says these magical words:

“Yo, we gotta hang out! Why don’t you give my secretary your phone number?”

I nod and Lil Wayne beckons a woman in her mid-twenties, who stands up from the couch she was on, near Lil Twist, and comes over to us and Lil Wayne tells her to put my name and phone number into a Blackberry Bold 9900 that’s maybe Lil Wayne’s phone, which she does.

And then Lil Wayne and I shake hands and say goodbye, and he starts doing another interview as I float through the VIP section, out of the curtains, and over to the bar, where I find K, get myself a glass of champagne and sit down with her on a leather bench in the back of this basement club. I tell her that Lil Wayne asked me for my phone number, and it was like being knighted, finding $20 in the wash, and momentarily reaching that ecstatic peace that monks reach when they meditate for a really long time, all in one.

We reflect on the likelihood of Lil Wayne actually calling me to hang out, and we agree that it’s likelier than The Notorious B.I.G. calling me to hang out, for sure, but probably not by much. I think I am okay with this because, as they say, “It’s an honor just to be nominated (to be an acquaintance of Lil Wayne, possibly as a circuitous way for him to end an interview).” Half an hour later we leave the club and I float down the street in Chelsea, really happy to be in New York for, I guess, and not to end it on too mellow a note, maybe the first time in a long time.

Sent via Blackberry

Update 1/27/12: Still no call, patiently waiting by the phone.

I’m putting out a zine! It’s called The World’s First Perfect Zine, costs $12, and was printed in a run of 500 copies. The contributors are as follows:

Dylan Baldi is the sole songwriter and recording member in the band Cloud Nothings.

Rostam Batmanglij is a musician and songwriter in the bands Vampire Weekend and Discovery.

Pete Berkman is the lead songwriter in the band Anamanaguchi.

Joe Coscarelli is an assistant editor at New York Magazine’s Daily Intel blog.

Lena Dunham is a filmmaker.

jj is a Swedish pop group.

Tao Lin is a novelist.

Ryan O’Connell is an editor at Thought Catalog.

Maureen O’Connor is a staff writer at Gawker.

Choire Sicha is the editor of The Awl.

Himanshu Suri is a rapper in the band Das Racist.

Bucky Turco is the editor of Animal New York.

Victor Vazquez is a rapper in the band Das Racist.

Mike Vilensky is a staff writer at The Wall Street Journal.

Jenna Wortham is a staff writer at The New York Times.

You can order it online here. It’s now sold out. If you ordered a zine and you still haven’t received it, email theworldsfirstperfectzine@gmail.com. If you live in/visit New York, you can still get a copy at Strand Bookstore, but they have one a handful of copies, so I’d call ahead to see if they have any left.

Tumblr threw a release party for the zine, with an open bar (god bless them), on November 16th from 7:00 to 9:00 at Other Music in Manhattan.

The zine also has a small, private, password-protected Tumblr of supplemental content (photos, interviews, stories) which you can get the password to by ordering the zine online (I’ll email it to you), emailing theworldsfirstperfectzine@gmail.com if you bought it in person, or finding the answer to this riddle, which is the password:

What is the first name of the girlfriend of the director in the only 9-minute official music video (presently unavailable in the United States due to copyright issues) by the band whose original guitarist’s older brother was previously in a band whose two other members went on to form a band whose most recent album’s first single prominently features a sample from a song by a now-defunct band whose percussionist is named John Braddock, nicknamed “Dutch”?

Okay, that’s it, see you later!

Read about the zine, maybe buy a copy, come party.

Das Racist put out their second mixtape about a year ago and Ian Cohen, a combination entertainment lawyer/Pitchfork reviewer, gave it an 8.7, the second-highest Pitchfork score any mixtape has gotten. Three days later I interviewed Hima (one of the rappers in Das Racist) and suggested to him that Ian Cohen’s review indicated he completely missed the idea that Das Racist is a project about race at its core, highlighting jokes and references instead of teasing those out to get to the idea that their music is concerned with being brown, and Hima agreed with me. I also noted that Cohen’s review attributed one of Hima’s lines to Victor, the other rapper, which was an unfortunate error to make in the review of a Das Racist mixtape with a song that makes fun of people who can’t tell the two rappers apart, which prompted Hima to talk about how his flow (“in your ear”) is really obviously different from Victor’s (“laid back”).

So on the afternoon my interview piece went up, five days after the review came out, I thought about how Ian Cohen gave Hima an 8.7 and then Hima turned around and publicly affirmed a suggestion that Ian Cohen didn’t understand Das Racist, but obviously it’s not an artist’s job to keep their critics pacified or politely return favors. A few hours later, Ian Cohen read my piece and sent me a one sentence email, ummm, letting me know how he felt about it.

Then he did something that I think only ex-girlfriends have ever done to me before: block me on Gmail chat (Cohen contends, via email, “I went invisible”). And then last week, the Das Racist debut album came out and Ian Cohen gave it a 6.3.

Hima said, “[The Relax review] didn’t mention me rappin like I gave a fuck. Or any of the Indian stuff.” Later Hima added, regarding Ian Cohen, “He wack.”

I can imagine Ian Cohen stakes some self-worth on his position at Pitchfork (as anyone in a position of power does), and takes pride in being a Pitchfork writer who’s given big records to review, and the best evidence I have of that is when he said to me at the Pitchfork Festival, the first time we met, “If I get bit by a bug and die at Pitchfork Festival, that’d be a pretty okay way to die.” So having his critical acumen impugned by some random kid from the internet in tandem with the artist whose career he just gave a huge boost to was probably not what he was expecting to come out of that 8.7.  Artists want critics to like them (obviously) and critics want artists to like them back (maybe even more?), and they wind up at the same parties a lot, so you can imagine there’s some mutual admiration in the air. I guess here Ian Cohen felt some unexpectedly unrequited admiration — in the Relax review he says he found their mixtapes “pretty fucking intimidating to encounter as a critic.”

I remember thinking about being in sort of a Human Centipede iteration of that as I stood outside a Das Racist afterparty during the Pitchfork Festival with Ian Cohen, trying to get him to talk to me, like 9 months after I wrote that thing about him and he “went invisible.” He wasn’t very friendly but he opened up a little more the next day when he said the aforementioned “get bit by a bug and die” thing. I knew how he felt — there I was, totally nerding out because I was talking to Ian Cohen, a guy whose reviews were often pretty fucking intimidating to encounter as a reviews reviewer!

I also remember writing a really complimentary 2,000+ word email to the band Real Estate last spring asking if I could come on tour with them and write a book about it, and I kept thinking, like, “What an irresistible idea — why wouldn’t people want a book written about them? Even if it’s a bad book, that’s still a cool thing to have.” One day I went to Market Hotel to talk to one of the members of the band about it and he said that they were still thinking about it, but if they did decide to let me do it, I would have to do a share of equipment-moving and van-driving, which sounded like they were about to approve my request, but then a few days later they emailed me and said they didn’t think it would be a good idea. I was crushed and didn’t tell anyone except Charlie who said, like, “Why would dudes who have to spend all their time together for months in a stinking van and probably fight all the time want you to come write about how they fucking hate each other?” This seemed valid (the member I talked to that day is no longer in the band, for instance) but my internal monologue kept saying it was because my writing is bad and they hate me and don’t respect me. I haven’t been able to listen to Real Estate since then. People who write about music are sensitive. If I wrote for Pitchfork, I would probably stick their next record with a 6.3 too.

But I’m not writing this to suggest that what I wrote or what Hima said caused Ian Cohen to give Das Racist a retributive 6.3, because his compellingly-argued review tells you pretty much all you’d need to know about why he gave it a 6.3 (although inexplicably still no mention of race), and also, from the cumulative eight minutes I spent talking to him and looking through his eyes into his soul at the Pitchfork Festival, I really believe Ian Cohen is a decent, professional guy who would try his best to set aside personal issues he’s had with a band before reviewing their record. And I don’t owe Ian Cohen anything or have any reason to vouch for him if I didn’t think he was worth vouching for, and I’d be eager to tell you if I thought he was dense (not the same as being sometimes careless) or dishonest, and if you listened to Relax and then read his review and thought it was dead on, well, I can’t imagine you’re alone.

But reviewing records numerically isn’t science, so there is some ineffable stuff that contributes to the difference between a 7.3 and a 6.3, or an 8.3 and a 6.3. A record can’t stick a triple lutz, land in a pool in total synchronicity with its partner, conduct an aerial maneuver off a balance beam, or do any of the other stuff that really throws the utility of the ten point rating scale into relief, so the numbers come out of pretty much thin air and sometimes consensus. There’s a lot of personal stuff going on behind the scenes of record reviews and I hope that’s illustrated with an [ultimately hopefully invalid but useful] Ian Cohen-based example.

And next time you listen to a record and really like it, and then the review comes out and it’s a 6.3 and you’re second-guessing yourself, just imagine that the difference between that and an 7.5 is that the reviewer was watching one of the band’s videos with his girlfriend who is better looking than him and he’s insecure about it, and his girlfriend sees the lead singer playing guitar onscreen and she absentmindedly says, “He’s really hot.” Imagine the reviewer sees the drummer across the room at a birthday party, and they’ve spoken a few times before, so the reviewer waves at the drummer who is looking right at him, but the drummer doesn’t wave back because he doesn’t see the reviewer because he’s not wearing his glasses, and then the reviewer doesn’t try to initiate further contact because he thinks he’s been rejected. Maybe it’s not even a conscious thing, but, like, these are the kinds of things that color our impressions of people we don’t know very well. Kurt Vonnegut said, “Life is nothing but high school… You get into real life and that turns out to be high school again.”

Who would know the difference between the origins of the 6.3 and the 7.5, and all the undisclosed personal stuff going through the mind of a critic? The only valid opinion on a record is your own, you know, listen to your heart. Obviously! Or, alternately, if you’re forming an opinion on Relax and are genuinely unsure about it so you’re wondering about what other people think, here’s Hima: “I’d give it an 8.9.” :).

Sent from my BlackBerry

Update, on Twitter:

This might be your first time reading this blog, so you should know that some posts on PRR are better than others, and I think you might like the blog better if you started with one of my favorite posts. Here are a few posts I’m proud of:

Being Obese

Telling Barack Obama About Pitchfork, or the Official Version

Himanshu of Das Racist

A Pitchfork Writer Mailing Me This

Chillwave as an Economic Phenomenon

What Ryan Schreiber Thinks of This Blog

On Sunday afternoon, the last day of the Pitchfork Music Festival, it is 94 degrees outside and me and Jim DeRogatis are sitting on a bench, under a tree, in the dugout of a baseball field behind one of the main festival stages and talking about Jim DeRogatis’ highly coveted and super rare Pitchfork Music Festival ELITE VIP badge. I just took this picture of Jim DeRogatis wearing his ELITE VIP badge and you can see the baseball field’s backstop in the background with a small mountain of orange Gatorades wrapped in plastic behind it:

So at the Pitchfork Music Festival there are a few kinds of passes that people are wearing in the VIP area: performers wear Artist badges, the crew wears Crew badges, festival organizers wear All Access badges, and regular VIPs (including Pitchfork staffers) wear VIP badges. And then three people that I’ve seen here are wearing pink ELITE VIP badges that are new this year and you can see someone wearing one from 50 feet away because they’re so bright. Jim DeRogatis is wearing one because [there’s a compelling argument that] Jim DeRogatis is the most famous rock critic alive.

Like when he was a senior in high school he interviewed maybe the most famous rock critic ever, Lester Bangs, and then Lester Bangs died almost immediately after that, and if this strikes you as a torch-passing moment in the vein of Bob Dylan kneeling at Woody Guthrie’s deathbed, or Charles Bukowski kneeling at John Fante’s deathbed, I guess Jim DeRogatis is lucky to have such strong legend-casting wind in his sails. It makes me think, like, if Jim DeRogatis happens to shuffle off this mortal coil while we’re sitting here on this bench right now, maybe he’ll be passing me a torch. That would be so sad but cool.

Jim DeRogatis takes a sip of that Gatorade he’s holding in the picture and tells me about another thing that happened to Jim DeRogatis to make him a famous rock critic, which is that he was working at Rolling Stone in 1994 and he gave a Hootie & The Blowfish record a bad review, and then Jann Wenner, the founder and publisher of Rolling Stone, pulled the review, and then Jim DeRogatis did an interview with the New York Observer where he talked about Jann Wenner pulling the review, and then Jann Wenner fired him for public insubordination, and Jim DeRogatis talked even more about it, which honestly seems like a pretty punk thing to do.

As Jim DeRogatis is telling me the story of talking to The Observer about Jann Wenner, I feel a yawn coming on, but not because I’m bored with the story, but because I didn’t sleep much last night, so I turn my head away from him and clamp my jaw down to conceal and minimize the yawn, which is a little rude in itself but less rude than yawning in someone’s face, and then I turn back to him and my eyes water a little from the yawn but I don’t think he notices because he is really into his story.

He continues talking and says, “When I was at Rolling Stone, there was a sign up in the office that said ‘[giving a record] three and a half stars means never having to say you’re sorry.’” Jim DeRogatis says he sometimes tells Ryan Schreiber he’s the Jann Wenner of the 21st century and Ryan doesn’t like it.

I tell him that I don’t think Pitchfork has a “7.0 means never having to say you’re sorry” sign up at the office and he shrugs, and then he takes a ziplock bag out of his shoulder bag, takes a dry washcloth out of that, towels his face off, puts the washcloth back in the ziplock bag, and puts the ziplock bag back into his shoulder bag. This level of meticulous preparation is not so punk.

Anyway, a picture of Jim DeRogatis wearing an ELITE VIP badge at the Pitchfork Music Festival is complicated because Jim DeRogatis hates Pitchfork, constantly writes openly derisive things about it on his blog, and has been promoting a protest against Odd Future (re: their lyrics about raping women and hating gay people) at this festival for months. Odd Future goes on in an hour and that’s when the protest roughly starts and I think it will be the highlight of Jim DeRogatis’ weekend. I’m trying to sort out my feelings about it. But despite the protest and always writing nasty stuff about Pitchfork, Jim DeRogatis gets the ELITE VIP pass because he’s still Jim DeRogatis, I guess like how if you are married and you don’t like your wife’s parents, you still have to keep inviting them to Thanksgiving.

Before Pitchfork came to prominence, Jim DeRogatis was maybe the most famous living rock critic (as I mentioned before), and then Pitchfork sprung up in Chicago, Jim DeRogatis’ hometown, and didn’t include him. And now 30,000,000 people read Pitchfork every month and Jim DeRogatis blogs for a local radio station’s website, and Jim DeRogatis is still maybe the most famous living rock critic but that doesn’t mean what it used to, and so I can understand why he hates Pitchfork.

And so now I am thinking that Jim DeRogatis’ position on Odd Future, a group that Pitchfork reps harder than they rep almost anyone else, is an outgrowth of hating Pitchfork, but then he says, pretty tenderly, “There will be people here (watching Odd Future) who’ve had experiences with sexual violence…” which is tragic and true and a valid reason for not wanting Odd Future to be here, but it’s hard to not think that maybe Jim DeRogatis is manipulating groups that fight violence against women and gays to mobilize against Odd Future (and delegitimize the Pitchfork Festival) because he really just hates Pitchfork for stealing his primacy as a rock critic. Jim DeRogatis seems like a complicated guy so there’s probably some of both motivations at work here.

Jim DeRogatis points to the three holes (featuring little plates with forks and knives on them) on his ELITE VIP badge that entitle him to three free meals at the Festival, and points out how they’re not punched out, and says, “I’m not here to eat their food,” which means he doesn’t endorse this festival.

And then he says, “And I don’t feel like a VIP,” which means that people here aren’t being sufficiently reverent of Jim DeRogatis, and then he looks over at Chris Kaskie, the president of Pitchfork, who is sitting on the opposite dugout’s bench about 100 feet from us, and he points at Chris Kaskie and says, “That’s Chris Kaskie, the president [of Pitchfork].” Jim DeRogatis thinks for a second. “He’s the money guy.” It’s hard to capture what he’s saying with those words, and I don’t want to twist what he’s saying, but, like, if you swap in, “That’s Chris Kaskie, he’s the ART PURITY CONTAMINATOR,” what he means comes through even clearer.

A few minutes later, Chris Kaskie walks past us and Jim DeRogatis tells me that Chris Kaskie has walked past him “seventeen times” and “hasn’t even said hi.” Now the band Yuck is playing, whose festival set Jim DeRogatis will later post a lightly positive review of on his blog even though we spend their whole set on this bench behind the stage, and Jim DeRogatis is chainsmoking Dunhill Internationals, like my Dad used to smoke in the Army, and showing me his tattoos. Here is the top of his Creem Magazine (the magazine that Lester Bangs was the editor of) tattoo and some of my grubby little fingers:

The last tattoo Jim DeRogatis shows me, and the first thing he reveals that endears him to me I think, but I don’t take a picture of it because I feel like I reached my socially appropriate limit at two pictures (maybe one? maybe zero actually…), is something that looks like a lampshade on his calf, and he tells me that it’s the symbol for the Vorticism movement, an early-20th century school of philosophy that dictated, according to Jim DeRogatis, “you should live your whole life with the vigor of a teenager.”

And then it dawns on me that Jim DeRogatis’ objection to Pitchfork is based on something deeper than the fact that they’ve almost put him out of business: it’s that he’s committed to thinking about music, and acting, like a 17-year-old, with his heart on his sleeve complaining about his boss to a newspaper, bitching to me about not feeling like a VIP, writing a book about his teenage hero, and generally being an insolent, self-contradictory, spoiled, histrionic, bratty guy.

And if Pitchfork was a guy he would be almost the opposite of that guy, or he would have at least grown out of being anything like that guy. There are no more 0.0s, the writing is professional and well-mannered and sometimes quasi-academic and almost never voicey. Pitchfork grew up and is now engaged in a kind of disembodied, endless taxonomy of pop music, which is astute sometimes and interesting to read when it’s on point, and useful and thoughtful, but you’d be hard-pressed to find people who would describe the writing as passionate. You read it and sometimes learn a lot, and find out about a ton of great music, but it’s really far from Lester Bangs sitting on the floor in his messy living room and raving about records he loves on a typewriter. Pitchfork writing is serious about pop music and Jim DeRogatis is passionate about it, and obviously those overlap sometimes but they come from different places.

And now there are 30 million people reading Pitchfork and roughly 0 million people reading Jim DeRogatis, and his philosophy about writing and thinking about music is currently music writing’s historical loser, and somewhere out there in the crowd right now is music writing’s current historical winner, Nitsuh Abebe, maybe taking notes on his phone, maybe problematizing some arguments, and likely on his way to composing a piece that will make you think, like, “Fuck! That’s so smart.” It won’t metaphorically take you somewhere new, or get you really excited about a record or music, but that’s not what it’s aspiring to do.

Jim DeRogatis tells me, “My biggest problem with Pitchfork is their desire to be monolithic,” and I tell him I don’t think Pitchfork set out to dominate music like it does, and maybe the burden of responsibility in cultural stewardship that’s on Pitchfork can kind of be a drag for a writer/publication who wants to let loose on a record they hate but can’t because 600 mean words can ruin a band’s career. With great power comes lame responsibility. And Pitchfork didn’t like dupe everyone into reading it: it’s just great at what it does, and people who read about music elected it champion by a vote of 30 million to however many people read every other music reviews site combined, which has to be paltry, and so now the overwrought, hyper-emotive music guy, Rob Gordon, is in cultural remission, and his level-headed and mature cousin is the music criticism establishment.

Then Jim DeRogatis tells me that he grew up in New Jersey, and his “brother is a fat racist trucker,” and if it he hadn’t read Lester Bangs in high school and listened to the Velvet Underground and the Rolling Stones and The Clash, he would have wound up like that too. I think about telling him about feeling almost the same way about Lester Bangs in high school, although I don’t know if fat racist trucker was exactly the path he steered me off of; I could tell Jim DeRogatis about wanting to write like Lester Bangs, about the Lester Bangs anthology that comes from bathroom to bathroom with me every time I move dorms and then apartments, etc. If there are kids who Pitchfork is inspiring to forsake their trucking dreams to write about music, I can’t imagine they are kids like me and Jim DeRogatis, which could bode well for the future of music writing depending on your taste.

But I don’t really know what the point of telling Jim DeRogatis how I feel about Lester Bangs would be, so I thank him for talking to me and shake his hand and get up and walk around the festival looking for Jacob. I can’t find him, and then ten minutes later Odd Future comes on, and I wander around trying to find the protest but I can’t because I don’t think it materialized. The lowlight of Jim DeRogatis’ afternoon. Then I think about how Lester Bangs and maybe Jim DeRogatis are closer to being my writing’s forefathers than Pitchfork is, which makes me another kid in their lineage of music writing historical losers and Rob Gordons. A few days ago I told Kat how I felt about Lester Bangs and she said, “I didn’t know you wanted to be a music critic,” and I told her that in the way every music critic is a failed musician, every music criticism critic is a failed music critic.

And then I spot Jacob, and he’s watching Odd Future, and I ask how it is and he says it’s fine, and then we walk over to a booth where Trident is giving away free fruit-flavored oxygen through tubes that you stick up your nose, which we’re expecting to be mildly consciousness-altering (like how in Fight Club, Ed Norton describes how those oxygen masks drop down in front of you on airplanes to calm you down while the plane is crashing) but then they turn out not to do anything. If Lester Bangs was here he would remark on how even the drugs here, which don’t work, are sponsored by a multibillion dollar corporation, and then maybe something about how it really is hard to stay punk as you get older, and consequently how it is undeniably better for your legacy to pass on a torch and then die young.

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Pitchfork founder Ryan Schreiber wearing Pitchfork Music Festival all access badge and Lil Wayne Tee

Nine days ago, Sarah emails me and says that a website that she is professionally affiliated with, called Mogulite, is having a launch party tonight and asks if I wouldn’t mind making a playlist of music to play at the party and I say, “Yeah sure,” and then I make an On-the-Go playlist on my iPod at work and then after work I go to Whole Foods Tribeca to kill time and then I walk over to the place where the party is. The address she gives me is 153 Franklin Street in Tribeca and I’ve never been there before or heard of the bar/club/space that’s at that address, so I am curious about it.

When I get there I see that it’s a big house and Sarah meets me outside and explains that it’s a $14,000,000 townhouse that’s currently on the market, and that apparently it’s a popular thing right now for people/companies to throw fancy parties in luxurious houses that are on the market so wealthy people can come to the houses and see how awesome the parties inside those houses are and then buy the houses. And although he wasn’t at this particular party, Dominque Strauss-Kahn, disgraced former head of the IMF and currently the most famous alleged rapist in the world, moved into 153 Franklin Street (yesterday?) to serve out his house arrest. Also, before I forget, salute to the real estate agent who devised this cool new scheme to lure wealthy people into expensive unoccupied houses. I wonder if it is the same guy behind East Williamsburg and Crospect Heights, and, if so, if he is regarded as like the Muhammad Ali of New York real estate.

So I get there and Sarah explains the house party to me and then we walk inside the house and immediately there is a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling gray panels that we walk through to get to the living room. Sarah explains that you can push on the panels and new rooms will reveal themselves because there is secret stuff behind the panels. I push on one panel and there’s a bathroom behind it, and another panel conceals a big bedroom, and another reveals a coat closet where I hang my hoodie and backpack. Then we walk past all the panels and reach the living room, where there are people from a wine website pouring glasses of wine, and people who sell liquor (I think on the internet?) standing by, waiting for guests to arrive to pour them some liquor.

There are a bunch of girls who look very fancy and also some men who look fancy and in their late 20s and 30s, and I think about whether the playlist I made will be appropriate for a party of fancy young strivers because it’s not that different than the playlist I would make for a party of destitute young slackers but I wasn’t sure about what kind of party this would be before I got here. I wish Sarah had told me it was a $14,000,000 townhouse because I would have added some $14,000,000 music instead of all the $575/month + utilities music that’s currently on there, Beach Fossils for example.

Sarah introduces me to The Broker, the man charged with selling this mansion in this economy, and he seems really frazzled and nervous about the party because if anything happens to the house during the party, he will be held responsible. He sits on a couch, sweating a little bit, and his eyes are darting between the six people who are having wine, and then he explains that the floors here “are limestone, so they’re very porous, and if someone spills red wine on the floor…” He trails off and shakes his head and looks down, but I think he would have finished, “… then the floor is fucked and I’m fucked by extension.”

I tell him I’m sort of the DJ and he asks for my iPod and takes it and plugs it into a dock embedded in the wall, and then turns on the TV hanging on the wall across the room and scrolls through my iPod playlists on the TV with the TV remote. Some of the other people here, most of whom are still setting up for the party, look over at my iPod playlists which is so embarrassing because the things you name your iPod playlists are very personal and aren’t meant to be displayed in front of a crowd of people you’ve never met. Like sometimes I DJ under the name Big League Jew, like that chewing gum, so that’s right on the TV and 5 fancy girls are looking at it.

If you are an active playlist maker who isn’t a literal playlist titleist (like “Workout 2,” “Dance Party 8”), look through your playlists right now. What would people think of you if they saw them, right? Would they think you haven’t gotten over any of your exes and you are annoying and sentimental? It’s hard to say exactly what they would think, but you still wouldn’t want to show them.

So I grab the remote out of The Broker’s hands and scroll down to the On-the-Go playlist and put on the first song but no sound comes out of the speakers. The Broker fiddles with some settings on the TV but can’t get the sound to work, he curses softly, and then we unplug and replug the iPod in the dock and it still doesn’t work, then he changes some more settings on the speakers, and then he gives up and puts on one of the music channels on the TV, which plays out of the speakers, and shrugs and gives me my iPod back.

A Coldplay song plays and my dream of remotely DJing a party in a $14,000,000 house has been deferred. If you are reading this right now, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, and you have figured out how to configure the iPod dock-TV-speaker system nexus, you should shoot the real estate broker an email about how to do it because he is going to have to show that house again after you leave. Sorry if that sounds callous/ominous/fatalistic.

So guests start arriving and I get some wine and sit on the couch, waiting for someone else I know to come and drinking my wine because Sarah is busy greeting people at the door. The Broker sits next to me on the couch and frantically monitors the guests as they arrive and get drinks. He asks someone working at the party if there will be food served and the person says they’re won’t be food, and then he says, quietly and disgustedly, “That’s stupid,” because people who don’t eat get drunk faster and spill more wine. I think this real estate broker is cracking under the pressure and I want to tell him everything will be okay but it’s not my place, and we don’t know each other very well, and I am exemplary of things going wrong.

I see former MSNBC anchor and current media mogul Dan Abrams standing in the corner of the living room drinking a glass of wine and thinking. He is here because he owns Mogulite (and a bunch of other websites, most of which end in “ite”) and I go back over to Sarah and tell her my iPod didn’t work with the house sound system but the broker is gonna handle the music, and she shrugs, and then she introduces me to Dan Abrams (because he is her boss), and Sarah goes back to her post as me and Dan Abrams take a brief tour of the ground floor and basement of the townhouse. I notice that a lot of the interior design stuff here seems tacky but I’m not like an interior design critic so what do I know? Here is a picture of a 2-foot-long porcelain carousel pony covered in multicolored rhinestones that sits on a table in a hallway upstairs:

We go down to the basement, which has another bar where people are dispensing wine, and Dan Abrams becomes involved in a conversation with one of the sommeliers because Dan Abrams is sort of a wine connaisseur. I notice that he is wearing a lot of makeup and I later ask Sarah about it and she says it’s because he has to go be on TV in like an hour and people on TV are always wearing makeup. I wander around the basement and admire the screening room, which has fat plush chairs and a very deep carpet, and I also admire the art on the walls.

One of the pieces of art is a portrait of Scarface, in rhinestones, on a black velour background:

I hope you can make it out, it’s the scene where he’s sitting in the big chair. Another piece of art is a picture of the cast of Goodfellas, also done in rhinestones on black velour:

Very intricate. Then Nic Rad comes downstairs and points out a picture of Marilyn Monroe holding down her skirt over a subway grate that’s also in rhinestones on velour but I didn’t get a picture of it. Nic Rad is an artist and I ask him how much these pieces of art cost and he laughs and thinks for a while and then goes, “It really depends — $800? $8,000? It’s honestly hard to say.”

So Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the Jew who may have just temporarily dislodged Benjamin Netanyahu to become the #1 worst contributor to the public image of Jews worldwide, is on house-arrest in a $14,000,000 house with pretty big rhinestone-on-velour pictures of Scarface and Goodfellas inside it. There is some deeper meaning to be extracted from this I think, but I don’t know how to phrase it.

Then we go outside with some kids who are smoking cigarettes, and we are all standing 15 feet away from the entrance to the townhouse on the sidewalk, and the door of the townhouse is open and The Broker rushes out of the townhouse in a huff and tells the kids smoking that they need to back away from the entrance to the townhouse because smoke is getting inside. Everyone stifles a laugh because it’s unlikely that he could even smell the smoke, he probably saw kids smoking through the window, and we are too far from the entrance for the smoke to make a difference inside the house (maybe you could smell a hint of it in the foyer?), but I think we collectively feel sort of bad for him because he is dealing with a lot of shit right now so we back away.

Then we go back inside the house and party, and now I am thinking about what Dominique Strauss-Kahn is doing inside it, like maybe calling a handyman to fix the broken lock on the sliding bathroom door in the basement so people don’t walk in on him while he uses the bathroom? But probably he’s attending to bigger issues and fielding the broken lock problem out to his wife? Who knows though, people do weird things when they’re under a lot of pressure.

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Last week I go to a meeting with a Producer who read the movie I wrote, currently scheduled to shoot in August/September, and wants to talk about writing another one. I don’t know what the meeting is going to be like, or what’s expected of me at it, and on my walk from work to the meeting I try to gather all of my script ideas in case he asks me to present them. He tells me to meet him at a restaurant in SoHo, Cafe Gitane, and I get to the block that the restaurant is on twenty minutes early but I don’t want him to see me getting there really early (he has an earlier meeting at the same restaurant so I know he’s already there) and risk communicating that this meeting, which is likely a speck on his calendar, is the highlight of my week professionally, so I go into a supermarket and browse until I am casually seven minutes late.

I walk up to the restaurant and the Producer is sitting at a round table outside with an Executive at the agency that represents me and a dramatically tall and thin early-middle-aged woman wearing a very fashionable and expensive-looking white smock. The Producer greets me and says, “David! I completely forgot we were meeting! It’s lucky I’m still here.” Then he introduces me to the people sitting at the table and then I sit down and wait until I am spoken to to speak. The Producer pours me some wine. This is a more informal meeting than I expected. I have an itchy bug bite on my neck but I don’t want to sit here openly scratching it in front of these people.

The Producer and the Agency Executive talk about the new Terrence Malick movie Tree of Life, which the Agency Executive personally helped raise financing for, and the Producer says Tree of Life was so bad that it made him go back and reevaluate other Terrence Malick movies and wonder if he really liked them in the first place. I am surprised he is saying this in front of a guy who helped make Tree of Life but I guess they are close enough friends and the movie has garnered enough acclaim so that he can reveal how he really feels about it. I tell him that what he’s saying about reevaluating Terrence Malick reminds me of the Pitchfork review for the second Concretes record that talks about how it’s so bad it made the writer reevaluate whether he liked them in the first place.

Then the Producer looks down at his phone and responds to a text that I can see out of the corner of my eye is from Alejandro Gonzalez Innaritu, and the Agency Executive turns towards me and asks me if I’m gay, and I tell him I’m not, and then he asks me how old I am, and I tell him 22, and then he says I am a fucking baby and he smiles and takes a gulp of wine and gets up and goes to the bathroom. I check my phone and there are no messages so I write a text to Angelica so it looks like I also have texts or emails to respond to.

Then the Producer asks me to tell him about a script I am working on or a script idea I have. I think for a second and decide I want to tell him about an idea for a script about internet defamation, and I warn him that perhaps it is too zeitgeisty in which case I have other ideas that I can present, and he says, “Don’t say zeitgeisty, it makes people think you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I nod and then tell him about my idea. It is about a pudgy and uncomfortable high school boy who dresses up as The Joker for Halloween and someone takes a picture of him and puts it on Facebook and then somehow a massively popular anonymous blogger finds it and posts it on his blog and mocks the boy in the picture. The blog makes fun of “entry-level alts,” kids who are trying to act/look hip but haven’t figured out how to do it yet, and the post about the boy becomes a viral sensation and all the kids at his high school find out about it and taunt him about it and the boy’s already-bleak life becomes unbearable, so he does a lot of deep-digging research on the anonymous blogger and finds his real name and four pictures of him.

The boy also finds out the city and neighborhood where the blogger lives and then the boy decides to go to that city to find the blogger and confront him and tell him that writing mean things about innocent people on the internet can have disastrous real-life consequences.

Then I say, “Is this retarded? I can stop if it’s retarded and give you another idea.” The producer shakes his head and says, “Keep going.”

So the boy goes to Chicago and tries to track down the anonymous blogger, but he can’t find him and he’s about to give up, but then he finally does find him and tries to confront him but the blogger is so duplicitously slick and clever and disarmingly warm and complimentary towards the boy (and the boy is so impressionable and eager for acceptance) that the blogger wins the boy over, and the blogger realizes that he likes the boy too, and that the boy reminds him of himself. They spend an afternoon together before the boy flies home and they bond. Soon the blogger and the boy are emailing each other and then the blogger enlists the boy as his intern to help run his site remotely, and the boy winds up aiding exactly the thing he tried to tell the anonymous blogger to stop doing.

Eventually the boy has to post something virulently defamatory about another hapless entry-level alt and it spurs him to realize that the acceptance/approbation of an anonymous blogger isn’t worth the cost. And then so one night when he knows the anonymous blogger has gone to sleep, the boy deletes all of the entries on the blog and posts photos of the blogger and embarrassing email exchanges between himself and the blogger, including emails where the blogger crassly details sexual conquests and makes off-color ethnic/racial jokes, and then he changes the site’s administrative password, thereby exacting revenge on the blogger and coming of age sort of.

The producer smiles and says that story arc reminds him of Star Wars (crossing over to the Dark Side I guess? I’m not really familiar with Star Wars), and I think I must look concerned about my story fitting so neatly into a mold that he recognized it in 45 seconds, and then the producer says that there are really only a handful of story arcs and every good story fits into one of those, and then he says my outline is really the bare bones of a movie and he wants to see and read more. Then he gives me his contact information and leaves for dinner.

But then so anyway, yesterday I get a Google Alert that leads me to a story about the script for a movie about Pitchfork, written by the Duplass Brothers, who made The Puffy Chair, Humpday, and Cyrus and some other other movies. This is how the movie is summarized:

“Titled ‘Pitchfork,’ it’s a dramatic thriller about the middle-aged mother of an indie rocker who, after her son is killed in a car accident, seeks vengeance on an online blogger who had peddled snark about her son (on the music site Pitchfork, hence one of the title’s entendres). Things take a turn, though, when she finds out the snarker is just a teenager.”

So I forward the link to the Producer and write about how this seems like a unfortunate double coincidence for me because the story arcs in my movie idea and the Pitchfork movie seem really similar, and also I write a blog that used to be about Pitchfork. He writes back and says I will have to change my idea or come up with a new idea, and then I realize the whole thing reminds me of something someone told me outside a party one night: a man who is friendly with my agent, a middle-aged Wall Street-type guy, comes up to me and says, “You write movies, right?” I shrug and say, “I wrote one movie, why?” He says, “I got a movie idea — you wanna hear it?” I say, “Sure!”

He tells me about his movie idea, which is a family movie called First Dog: At the beginning, as credits play, the new President gets inaugurated, and then as the Presidential motorcade drives away from the inauguration, a dog runs out into the middle of the road and the President’s driver accidentally hits the dog. The dog is a mangy, smelly, stray dog, but since news cameras are all around and the President doesn’t want to appear insensitive, he gets out of the car and picks up the dog and is forced to adopt it.

So the austere, stoic President and the homeless free-spirited stray dog don’t get along, and the dog always tries to lick the President’s face and the President always tries to muzzle the dog, but the President’s wife and daughters love the dog and the White House staff likes it too. The White House Chef gives the dog big steaks, the gardener plays frisbee with it, and foreign dignitaries bring their own ethnic dogs to the White House during summits (a French poodle, one of those hypoallergenic Chinese dogs) and the First Dog falls in love with one of them. If the story needs a modern bent, it can be a gay romance. If it needs a postmodern bent, make it a gay romance that no character ever mentions or treats as out of the ordinary but is obvious because both of the dogs involved are male.

So the press loves the dog adoption story, and it softens the President’s image as hyper-rational but emotionally disconnected, but some time passes and the President’s wife and daughters realize that the President doesn’t like the dog and they accuse the President of not liking the dog because it’s ugly. They can’t see that the dog treats the President differently when they’re alone together, you know, the dog is just too playful and slobbery for the stern and germophobic President. In one scene, the dog eats the President’s legislation. In another, the First Dog jumps up into bed as the President and the First Lady are kissing before they go to sleep (family movie) and the First Lady marvels over how cute the dog is until the President loses his urge to kiss.

Soon the President decides he has had enough of the dog and hatches a plan to give him up for adoption and replace him with an identical-looking dog that appears friendlier and better-behaved but is actually sinister. The replacement dog is owned by a shady dog-trafficker with a mysterious Russian accent.

So right before the exchange is slated to go down, in the nick of time, the First Dog saves the President’s life, maybe by sniffing a bomb near the President or knocking a plate of poisoned food off the table. The plot to kill the President was hatched by the owner of the First Dog’s sinister replacement dog, by the way, the dog-trafficker, probably a nefarious ex-KGB agent. If the villain needs a modern bent, he can be a Chinese communist. If he needs a timeless bent, he can be an evil megalomaniac. And then at the end, the President and the First Dog come to a mutual understanding and they bond over steaks (one cooked, one raw to celebrate their differences and their similarities simultaneously) and then the end credits roll.

The man who tells me his idea finishes and looks at me expectantly and says, “It’s a great idea right?” I think, like, on one hand it sounds comically formulaic but I think about it for a second, and, like, aren’t all non-animated family movies comically formulaic? There are probably 500(,000?) movies about very stern men coming to mutual understandings with free-spirited dogs, women, and their sons and daughters. So I tell him I suspect it is a great idea for a family movie, although I haven’t seen a family movie since like 1993. The man says, “You should write it! I’m never gonna write it and it’s a good idea, just sitting there.” He sounds regretful for a second.

And he’s right, and it makes me think about how a workable idea isn’t actually anything until you execute it, it’s just something floating in some ether and having an idea and not executing it is like not having any idea at all (or worse), and thinking about what that guy said about his own idea makes me more motivated to follow through on the ideas I have so other people don’t coincidentally follow through them first and then I have to come up with new ones. I would try to write First Dog but I don’t think I’d be able to hit the right pitch on the dialogue and characterization: no dastardly bloggers, no marginalized teenagers/twentysomethings, and also I’ve never had a pet.

But since I’ve already written about it extensively here, if you want to try to write First Dog, and I am confident that you could do it because screenwriting isn’t exactly neurosurgery when you’ve got an A+ idea like First Dog to work from, give it a shot. Email me a draft when you’re done and we can talk about some next steps! I am serious. :)

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Hi! Joe and I wrote the story that’s on the cover of the Village Voice today and you can read it online here, but I really recommend picking it up from one of the red Village Voice boxes on a street corner because the paper is free and reading a newspaper is a pleasure. The story is about selling drugs on Craigslist, mostly heroin, and mostly through the eyes of “Kai”, a very sweet, well-educated, clever and enterprising heroin dealer/addict. This is his ad, but it will probably be taken down because the story came out and he said he is going to lay low for a long time and focus on other hustles, including credit card scams. He told us that those are very popular among heroin addicts, but he hasn’t tried one yet:

I learned that, on Craigslist, LE stands for law enforcement. I also learned that this is what a sharps disposal container and a bag of needles, small cotton balls, purified water, bottle caps called “cookers”, a huge rubber band, alcohol swabs, and Band-Aids courtesy of one of New York City’s public needle exchanges looks like:

On a bench in Morningside Park, about an hour and a half after I’d met “Kai” and he had said some emotional and vulnerable stuff about himself, amongst some jokes and a pretty matter-of-fact assessment of his life, I took the above picture to bring back to our editors to prove that I was actually talking to a real heroin addict and not just someone who was pulling my leg. He wouldn’t let me take a picture of his track marks but he showed them to me. And then I was out of questions for the story so I asked him what motivated him to tell me so much about the really illegal thing he does.

Kai said his life is very bleak and lonely, and he intimated that he didn’t really have anyone else to talk to about it, and it reminded me of a quote used in a great Vanity Fair piece about going around the world looking for opium: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” I’m sorry to use a corny quote, but I think that just means that being honest about yourself, with yourself and other people, will make you more okay with who you are, and consequently you’ll feel better, and “Kai” didn’t really have people to do that with besides Joe and I.

And then Kai explained to me he used heroin intravenously, which my parents didn’t appreciate. I went home for dinner one night and my Dad said, “Don’t become involved with the underworld,” and my Mom said, “You’re not going to be spending any time with this guy after this article comes out, right?”

But so anyway, to prepare heroin, as “Kai” explained, what you do is dump bags of powder heroin (each bag costs ten dollars, ten bags is a “bundle”, a bundle fits in a needle, and “Kai” does two needles per day with five bags in each) into the “cooker” (the bottle cap) and pour some of the purified water into the cooker. Heroin is water-soluble so it dissolves in the water. Then you soak the cotton ball in the heroin water and draw the heroin through the cotton ball, which acts as a filter, and into the needle. Then you tie your arm, find a vein, and inject it.

If you accidentally inject some of the cotton into your vein, you get “cotton fever,” which is a powerful fever that lasts about an hour. I didn’t know what the process was before he told me.

Kai told Joe and I a lot about being a heroin addict in New York, including some of the best places to shoot heroin in the city, like Starbucks bathrooms, which I guess was obvious. He laughed a lot when he told us a story about shooting up in the bathroom at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle. He said, “So I’m in there, doing my thing, and I hear, in the next stall, the distinct sound of heroin bags being ripped open; I know the sound — you’ve got to snap the tape off, then rip it.

“And I hear this distinct sound and I was like, ‘That’s heroin! He’s gotta be doing heroin.’ And I look down, and lo and behold, it’s my friend! I noticed his shoes. I’m like, ‘Is that you? What are you doing here?!” And he’s like, ‘Dude, I just scored!’”

“Kai” told us that sometimes he prepares his syringe in advance, before leaving the stash house where he buys the heroin. He said, “I can have it all prepped, go into the bathroom and be done in 30 seconds flat. I go in, I tie off, I hit it, come out.” He says there’s nothing worse then when someone is knocking on the bathroom door because you’ve been in there for too long. “If i’m in [a public bathroom] and there’s a line, I can’t do that. People start knocking! “Hey! What are you doing in there!’ I can’t work under pressure like that!”

This is what Kai’s cigarettes looked like. When i asked him about them, he said they are a blend of Parliament Light Menthols that is currently being focus group tested and the way he got them is, “When you deal heroin, you get connections like this. I have cartons and cartons in my apartment…”

One night when Joe and I were reporting the story, I invited Kai to come to the Tumblr Reads reading I was doing because I thought he would get a kick out of it because he said that he hadn’t been to a social event in months or maybe years because the pursuit of heroin is all-consuming. I also thought that if he saw me read a story at a reading, it would further reassure him I wasn’t an undercover cop.

He looked a little nervous when I met him outside the reading and we rehearsed what we would say if anyone asked either of us who he was. His name would be Jeff and he would know me through reading this blog and emailing me. I gave him a mix CD with a lot of Mountain Goats songs on it, including Damn These Vampires which is the lead track on the new record and I think it’s about heroin addiction.

Then we went into the reading and we talked to people for a while. He sat down with Elizabeth while I got a drink and she showed him pictures of her kitten, including this one where it looks like she’s nesting these Cadbury eggs:

After the reading, Joe and I took “Kai” to Five Guys and he shot up in the bathroom for ten minutes and came back to the table and ate peanuts and a cheeseburger and giggled a lot and struggled to keep his eyes open. I think he had fun, and we did too. He told us about what the rave scene in New York in the ’90s was like, and also about some exotic drugs. He half-joked, “Ecstasy and Special K — that’s like peanut butter and jelly to me, man: great!”

We split up after dinner and I wished him a nonspecific “Good luck!” Then I walked downtown to go meet Elizabeth and listened to the Hold Steady song where Craig Finn sings about The Mountain Goats, and I tried to beam “Kai” positive vibes. Anyway, enjoy the story.

Hi! I wanted to tell you that the movie script is almost done and I think you’ll like it because it’s full of sex, drugs, indie music, violence and cool bikes.

Here’s a picture of me in 1997 that my Mom just scanned and emailed me, and she said, “You should put this on your webpage!”

I am at a gala to benefit children who were affected by Chernobyl, the unintentional nuclear explosion in the USSR in 1986, and Jesse Eisenberg walked into the cocktail ballroom and he was swarmed by girls with braces who wanted to take pictures with him. One of them knocked my phone onto the ground in a rush to get closer to Jesse Eisenberg and I had to get on my hands and knees to grab it from in between someone’s feet which was sort of humiliating.

And then I stood back up, and between me and Jesse Eisenberg there was a woman who looked and sounded like one of the moms from my town, talking to Jesse Eisenberg with this suburban mom accent that’s like a Brooklyn accent but delivered in chirps, and she looks at Jesse Eisenberg and pulls a teenage girl out of the pack of girls that’s swarming him and says, “This is my daughter!” She starts talking about her daughter and the girl is standing there looking nervous.

And Jesse Eisenberg looks over at me and I’m smiling because this whole thing is a little surreal, like this woman is trying to set Jesse Eisenberg up with her daughter at this gala for children affected by an unintentional nuclear explosion, and then he starts smiling too because he knows what I’m smiling about and I guess if you are in an uncomfortable situation and there’s nobody around to agree about how weird it is than you just suffer through it, but if there’s someone else there who gets it than you can smile about it. One time last year I was at the beach and a bird crapped on my hair, and if Joe and Beau and Justin weren’t there, I just would have had bird crap on my hair and it might have ruined my afternoon, but because they were there, we laughed about it and that was that.

Anyway, so then a few minutes later, Jesse Eisenberg’s handlers clear a path for him to go take a picture with the DJ and I catch him near the DJ booth. I go up to him and say, “So have you listened to My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy yet?” I feel like I should do some coverage of that record given the subject of this blog.

And he smiles at me, but then looks nervous and says he hasn’t listened to it yet.

I say, “Well, do you like Kanye West?” He thinks about the question and goes, “Wait, why are you asking me this?” and I go, “I write a Tumblr about music,” and he thinks about this and wrings his hands, which is something I do a lot, and if he was just some other kid who was here reporting on a celebrity gala, and not a movie star, I might have made conversation with him comparing nervous habits, but he is a movie star in a rush so I refrain, and then he says something to indicate that he doesn’t want to tell me if he likes Kanye West, and then he says, with unexpected gravity, “I’m not… I’m not a voice in the music industry.”

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In a club in Midtown at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show after-party, Gerard Butler is talking to a middle-aged woman and leaning against the bar. I wait until they’re done speaking and then I go up to him and say,

“Hi! I write a blog about music. May I ask you a question?” He says, “Yes.”

I ask, “Who is your favorite rapper?”

He goes, “Why do you ask me about rap?” He speaks in a thick accent that’s reminiscent of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or Rainier Wolfcastle from The Simpsons).

And I say, “Because rappers rap about you!” and I smile.

He looks both curious and agitated and says, “What do they say?”

I go, “Well, Lil Wayne said, ‘I go hard like the boy from 300.’” Gerard Butler plays the protagonist in 300.

Gerard Butler looks more agitated and then says, “Then he’s my favorite rapper,” and then he walks out onto the dance floor.

About three months ago, at my friend Leon’s reading, I read a story about something I did one summer, and then a few days later I got an email from a man who works at a movie production company. His e-mail said that he was at the reading and he thought there might be a movie to be made out of the story that I read, and he asked me if I could e-mail him the story and also if I would like to meet with him and we could talk about it. I said, “Sure!” but I doubted that anything would come of it because movie studios must go through like hundreds of ideas that never make it past a few emails or one meeting.

I googled his production company to see if it was legitimate and it looked like it was, and then later that week Angelica and I went to the movies and one of the opening credits at this pretty big movie we were seeing was a credit for his production company, and then i was pretty positive it was legitimate. And then we had the meeting and I sort of verbally expanded the story and told the man from the studio about some characters and events that were peripherally involved in my story but that I didn’t get to write into the story that I read out loud at the reading, because then it would have been like 30 many pages of unnecessary details. He told me some ideas he had about how it would get made and I sat there mostly in disbelief that he was talking seriously about doing this.

And he asked me if I potentially wanted to write the screenplay for the potential movie and I said yes, and he said they would eventually probably have to bring in another screenwriter for me to write the screenplay with because it is hard to pitch a project to investors if it’s written by a 22-year-old with no screenwriting experience and no related education or qualifications, and I said that would be okay.

Then he said, “So would you have any interest in being in it?” And I was like, “What, as like an extra?” And he said, “No, as yourself,” and I thought about it and said, “Yeah, I guess so? I’ve never acted except in like Guys and Dolls at summer camp, like when i was 15,” and he thought about that for a second and I said, “But, like, I can’t think of anyone else who would be better suited to play me, you know? I would just talk and act like I always do if that would work…” He nodded and then we talked about some other stuff and I thought about that Shins line where James Mercer says, “…And a movie so crass and awkwardly cast that even I could be the star”.

And then for about two months, nothing happened. I thought the project had gotten shot down and that was the end of it and I was disappointed but I hadn’t really gotten my hopes up so I wasn’t totally crushed and I thought about this quote on a fortune cookie that I got one time that said, like, when one door closes another door opens, and i just waited around for another door to open.

And then one day I got an e-mail and it said, like, “Hey David, we moved offices and have been having a hectic few months, but i think it’s time to move on to the next step with this — you should think about who you might want to direct it and i will talk to some screenwriters.” And I emailed back said I wasn’t really familiar with that many directors who would do something like this because I mostly watch horror movies and am not familiar with that many directors. The man from the production company said that he would look into it.

And then a week later he emailed me and said he sent the story to a screenwriter who was interested in working on it, and then we had a meeting with the screenwriter and talked about it and he started working on an outline, and then the man from the studio said he had also talked to a director who was into the idea but he had another project coming up so it might not be feasible for him to work on it.

A few days after he emailed me about the screenwriter, the screenwriter sent me a reworked version of the events in my story. Two of the characters were combined to be one character, the order of events was a little different, the ending was a little different. It was bizarre to read someone else’s fictionalized version of my life — imagine what it would be like if you wrote something about all the things that have happened to you so far today and sent it to me and I sent you back a version where I wrote that you ate something different for breakfast and the three coworkers you ate lunch with were actually just one person and then instead of walking to work and listening to music on headphones, you actually took the bus to work and had a heated phone call while you were on the bus! Wouldn’t that be weird to read that? But I was okay with it in the service of a better or more filmic story.

And then one night I met the man from the studio and the director and his partner, and I told the director my expanded version of the story and he said he was interested, but he had another project in the works so it might be hard for him to do it, but he would be glad to help push it along or help in any way he could that wasn’t, like, actually directing it. I liked him and I was sorry that he didn’t want to direct it or couldn’t direct it.

But then last night I had another meeting with that same director. He has been in touch with the screenwriter and since we talked he has gotten progressively more excited about turning this story into a movie, and now he’s so into it that he decided he wants to direct it and has pushed his other project back and wants me to start writing the screenplay, and he doesn’t think the other screenwriter will be necessary because he will help write it, and we have to get the wheels in motion here because he wants to shoot it this summer. He also said that if a known actor were to express interest in playing me, he would probably go with that actor over me, and I said, “Okay, I understand.”

So later this week the production company is optioning the story and I am also signing away my “life rights” for the period during which the story takes place, meaning that someone else will legally own my memories and experiences! It’s crazy that someone else can own your life rights. Well, just for one summer. And i have thought about how to deal with writing a screenplay and also writing a blog and remembered what someone older than me who is a professional writer once told me: the reason he hasn’t written a book yet is that he has so much other writing to do that it wouldn’t be feasible to write a book as long as he has so much other writing to do, and I figure it will be like impossible to write this blog in the way that I would like to write it when I am also writing a screenplay, so I won’t be writing in this blog as much until after I learn how to write a screenplay and then write a screenplay. This isn’t the last post on this blog but maybe it will be a while until the next one.

Part of the reason for that choice is, like, i would like someday to possibly make any money off writing, and writing a screenplay is a way for me to do that I think. I have said no to the people who have asked me to put ads on this blog, people who wanted me to take it off Tumblr and then put ads on it, other people who have emailed me with other ways to monetize this blog’s traffic, and when I sold tote bags I didn’t make a dime off those. When I have written on other websites I didn’t make any money off that. I write this blog because it is something I like to do, and a lot of the people who inspired me to start writing it would be disappointed in me if they opened my website and an advertisement that told you to buy some trendy clothes or something popped up, but sometimes when I am at the dinner table and I am arguing about my future with my parents, my Mom reminds my Dad that his son writes a moderately popular website about music and stuff, and he says, “What does this mean if there is no money?” I can only be a disappointment to my parents for so long before it becomes onerous to go home and talk about why I haven’t applied to law school yet. I hope you understand.

So anyway, I didn’t want to just disappear without explaining where I went, and maybe this whole thing will fall through and I’ll be back really soon. Who knows?