J. Beaman - The Magazine

I sent an email and a copy of my resume (200kb pdf) to a local design company here in the city in response to an ad for a writer. The email I sent was carefree and smart-alecky and was not truly intended to garner a response. But (I am writing about it on here) they did…Respond. I meet with them tomorrow at 11:00 am.

I really don’t know what the fuck they do. Their description of themselves is either intentionally vague or so esoteric that only people in the ‘design’ industry know what they’re talking about.

From their website

[Our] team has worked in product development and marketing at high-tech companies, including Netscape and Apple. We’ve been in the trenches, running large websites, so we understand the constraints and product development challenges faced by our clients. We work to help them bring great things — computer and web applications; websites, handheld devices; kiosks; consumer electronics — to market.

I write about sex and food and rock and roll and bad behavior; I don’t really know about ‘product development challenges’ but I do know about Czech brothels and cocaine and smoking cigarettes in the alley with the cooks.

I bet that’s translatable. I’ll let you know.

I went on a date with a girl yesterday and it was vapid. It was so bad and she wants to hang out with me again. What’s wrong with this girl? Is it possible that I could be so utterly bored and she could have actually enjoyed herself?

She recommended a movie to me about performance art hippies from the sixties and seventies San Francisco. Ack!

Matthew laughs at me occasionally and reminds me I once said, “I don’t do unrequited love.” It’s true. If I don’t like you I hope you would have the self respect to just walk away.

That would probably make me like you.

I knew that all I needed to do was sleep on it. I woke up this morning dreaming of place settings and proper busing techniques and felt confident. Work was a dream tonight (only one bad moment) and I did well and I think it will all work out ok.

Plus, I have income. Money in my pocket.

I was actually afraid that I might not be able to do it. I’m relieved.

I don’t have anything interesting to say.

Work was a kicked my goddamned ass tonight. I feel like I’m so out of my element here. I feel like a fraud and because I feel like I’m failing I want to say, “Fuck those people and their wine and their osso buco and their perfect smiles and their silverware placement.”

Jesus Christ.

I’m angry and frustrated and overreacting. They think I’m doing fine and it was only my third day and every day it will get better and better and everyday I will continue to write run-on sentences strung together by lame conjunctions.

IZZE is my new favorite thing. Kind of an expensive addiction but I’ve had worse. I bought four of them after work and plan on drinking them all. Medicate with IZZE.

Those of you who pray, pray. And those of you who call, call.

I’ll probably feel better in the morning. I usually do.

Last night it was time to meet the friends. “The girls and I are going to get some drinks at the 500 club. You should come and meet them.” Easy enough. I’m smart enough and funny enough and charming enough; it should be just fine.

I arrive at the bar and it’s obvious what it once was–a low bottom alcoholic dump. But, as is the case with bars and restaurants and neighborhoods all over the country, it is filled with beautiful people. And because I like alcoholic dumps and beautiful people equally (and the bar was warm and laid out well and not too crowded) I felt comfortable right away.

L. and her college friend N. are at the bar and I sit with them. It’s awkward but gets easier as the minutes pass. “Cran and soda.” I order and like the bartender immediately. Maria arrives a moment later; she’s pretty and smiley and flips her hair around nervously. They all laugh easily and I like being with them.

Maria says to me, “You look like…” and I think she’s going to say something like, “like the guy who killed my parents” or something equally awful. But she says, “You look like a guy I went to high school with.”

I make a face.

“No, he was a really nice guy.” She actually emphasized really nice. “His name was J.J. Hoffine.”

My sister calls me J.J. sometimes and when the bill collectors call they ask for Jerry Hoffine but I think it’s been ten years since anyone called me J.J. Hoffine.

I didn’t know who she was at first. She said her name, “Maria _________.” It is one of those names that feels nice to say. Say the first name and say the last name. Always say them together. (She asked me not to put her last name in here.) But as we talked I began to remember. “I wore a black trenchcoat all the time.” Oh yes. I remember. She wore all black all the time and her hair hung in her face and she had trouble looking you in the eye, glancing to the ground and looking up again. Almost like she was checking to see if you were still there. I always liked her.

Maria looks good. She tilts her head back a little when she laughs and moves her hands around gently when she talks and she was wearing a colorful top (I actually wear more black than her now) and clearly loves her friends and seems to enjoy her life (as much as any of us do). I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. It was weird.

There’s no dark past in Calaveras County for me. No dead best friends or suicide attempts. None of the things that make up great Newbury Medal winning children’s novels. But it was a sad place and my grandparents are sad and my cousins are sad and my aunts and uncles are sad and Maria was sad. She is like redemption for Calaveras County. Whatever that means. Redemption. L. and N. want to go there and visit but I think that Maria doesn’t really want them to. And they may have theories about why. But it’s not because it’s small or because it’s provincial or embarrassing but because it holds too many sad memories. L. and N. would go there and laugh and be silly and sweet and it would all just seem inappropriate. Like they were laughing and being silly at a funeral. Maybe I’m wrong about Maria but I think she’s redeemed; she’s saved; born again. I won’t ask her to go back there.

Keeping Score

Here’s the problem with the blog.

1. I’ll write here and sometimes it’ll be good.
2. I’ll meet pretty girls and I’ll want to tell them about the blog so they can see how smart and clever and witty I am.
3. I’ll then be dating one of said pretty girls but I won’t be able to write about her (or the other pretty girls, if there are any).

It’s a tough situation. Hold your tears. I’ll be fine.

One solution is to have two blogs. A secret “all about girls” blog and a public regular blog. But I don’t think I have the energy for that. So, true to my form, I am going to write about whatever the I want on here–to hell with what the pretty girls think.

A Prelude to Hot Sex (a blog post about girls):

M. is a smart, hot, hipster I met on the internet (I think you’re supposed to capitalize internet. I’m not sure how I feel about that.) Nerve.com. She’s a good writer and fun to talk to and has tattoos and isn’t traditionally pretty and reads all the time and, basically, a dream girl. She is like me. Which, incidentally, is exactly what I’ve been looking for my whole life. A girl like me. But (here we go) when we hung out it was about as flaccid as a Nebraska frat boy in the Castro on a Friday night. Bummer.

L. is a smart, hot, girl I met on the internet. Nerve.com. She’s not a hipster. She’s not a writer and she’s full of crazy energy and she’s excessively gorgeous (you know, one of those pretty girls - the one’s who pitied you in high school). She goes to the gym and she runs. She is, exactly, not like me. But (here we fucking go) she rocks my goddamned world. The sexual energy between the two of us is almost like nothing I’ve experienced. The goddamned, fall off the fucking bed, star-seeing like an anvil landed on your head, crazy-assed “I don’t give a fuck, just get yourself into the fucking bed right now before I lose my already dodgy mind” kind of hot. And the clothes haven’t even come off yet. And, jesus, I don’t know about long lasting relationships and I barely know this girl (read: our relationship is likely doomed to fail, like all the others and I’m ok with that–hopeful yet realistic) but I feel like I’ve been missing the fucking boat on women my whole life.

Some of this comes from watching Alice and Magaly who are magically different from one another but are in some sweet fucking love. It is enviable.

More later, I promise.