Here is a conversation I (Mark) just had with Anna:

It’s pretty much the best short story I could ever write.

“To all the people watching, I can never ever thank you enough for your kindness to me and I’ll think about it for the rest of my life. All I ask of you is one thing: please don’t be cynical. I hate cynicism. For the record, it’s my least favorite quality, and it doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they would get, but if you work hard and you’re kind, I’m telling you, amazing things will happen.”

-Conan O’Brien

When he says this.  Especially when his voice quivers during that first sentence.  It kills me.

Go watch the last episode here or just skip to about 31 minutes in to see the entire final sign-off.

This is where I am. Solo bike rides in 30 degree weather just for the view.

This is a monologue I wrote about what I do/did at night.  Pretty regularly.  It’s in reference to the “Middle of the Night” episode of This American Life.  It’s pretty self-involved… as most monologues should be.

Certain names have been changed.  Hope no one is offended.

The night begins with coffee.  It is a ritual that I started years ago, back in undergrad.  Back then, we hardly slept.  About one hour after dinner, when I finally worked up the strength to be productive, there was a ritual that surrounded myself and the coffee pot in my room:

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I promise.  I’m working on writing a lot more.  And on the topic that I previously proposed.  I’m actually working on both a “Bait & Switch” story and a “What We Do At Night” piece right now.  But until those are finished…

This is a very, very short character sketch I wrote a little while back:

There is a child being held by her mother at the Bedford Avenue subway stop.  She is sucking her thumb and staring staring staring at a man who is playing the violin and singing loudly.  It is the saddest song she has ever heard and it drips out like the cries that the child knows exist.  She understands that there is pain.  She has fallen and scraped knees and watched as her mother’s hand shakes while it pays bills.  She knows that this pain is in the world, but she has not learned about it yet.  The girl somehow understands.  She knows that she is staring into her future, through black locks falling in front of her eyes, past her mother’s ears, into her future.  She has been programmed to know that this is the eventual end of all things.  But she cannot fathom it yet.  All of this sorrow, somehow, is a part of the life that she knows she will be forced to breath through.  She begins to cry.  Then her mother bounces her and and whispers a frail, “Shhhh.”  For the first time, the child stops immediately.  The man finishes his song.  The train arrives.

So.  This blog was a failure.  Sorry.

I’ve gotten busy doing all sorts of things that I don’t care about, that don’t fulfill me entirely, that involve things like “paying bills” (what is that?) and “being an adult” (again, I’m not understanding these terms).

However, this has prompted me to reevaluate both my writing workflow and what I want to do.  It’s also given me a chance to look objectively at what’s been going on with the few digital sites I own and to reevaluate what should go into them, what will be most productive for me (as a writer) and what will be moderately entertaining to you.

I’m not writing regularly.  I want to.  I need structure, though.  I’d also like to move my work more towards the “creative nonfiction” path with a goal of producing one good idea, one piece, one jumping off point per week.  Many readers here know that I’m obsessed with This American Life (even my glasses resemble Ira Glass’s).  Growing up, every Saturday, my Dad would listen to public radio from 8 until 2.  In this timespan, many great shows came on (Car Talk, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, Whaddya Know) but the one I’ve always loved most was This American Life.  Who better to serve as a guide for new projects and structure than the the person (Mr. Glass) who was the reason I decided to start telling stories all those years ago.

And so, from now on, on this blog, you’ll find some sort of meditation of mine pertaining to This American Life’s weekly theme.  Whether it’s a full blown story, an idea, a character sketch, whatever, it’ll be here.  I’ll post the week’s theme, a link to the original podcast, and then my work pertaining to it.

In this way, I think the theme of the blog will remain and a title/format change doesn’t need to take place.  Still, I’m interpreting, mish mashing up, working things out, and trying to communicate them to someone, somewhere.  It’ll all get lost and smushed up and contorted into face-cringing positions along the way, but that’s the point of Destructive Interference: To see what shows up at the end of that process.

As always, if you have thoughts of any sort (or if you elect to write something of your own pertaining to this theme) please share them in the comments.  If there are full blown entries, I’ll be glad to post them to the blog, as well (and give you full credit, of course).  I especially welcome comments or ideas about this whole change immediately.

For the more pithy side of me, please do check out I’m Appalled.com.  I’ll be getting short-form angry/funny on there as much as possible.

Thanks.  See you all on the other side.

Upon arriving in BeanTown (at North Station), my traveling companion and myself walked along Summer Street across Fort Point Channel which gave a great view of the bridges on Congress Street and Seaport Boulevard, along with the Boston Children’s Museum and the giant Hood Milk Bottle.  Having no idea how pervasive the Hood Dairy Company is on the East Coast, the epically phallic monument to cow lactate had me aghast.

Upon dropping bags off at a custom framing gallery owned by my partner in travel, we headed back in to downtown Boston.  My Hipster-Sense kicked in immediately (it’s a lot like a Spidey-Sense) and I promptly found the most indie of cafés in a 6-block radius to aid my caffeine-stained brain: the Boston Common Coffee Co.

Left on my own to wander historic, downtown Boston, I made my way over to Boston Common.  I assume it’s only famous because of Anthony Clark’s stunning and cut-short sitcom by the same name.  Who cancels a new TV show that ranked 8th in yearly ratings… and who can resist the stunningly engaging Anthony Clark as a down-home Virginia outsider making his way through the big city in the Northeast?

I then made my way to the Massachusetts State House, whose sole historical significance is that of a symbol for antagonist Collin Sullivan’s ambition in Scorsese’s The Departed.

And what visit to historical Boston wouldn’t be complete without a Ben Franklin impersonator.  While he responded to my question about his syphilis ailment with much guffaw and accuracy, I, much like Dwight Schrute, am 99% sure that it was not the real Ben Franklin… 98.

Later on in my meanderings about town, I walked through most of the (expensive) Beacon Hill neighborhood – where the amount of perfectly-coiffed trees and historical homes were only outnumbered by the number of trust funders wearing Ugg boots and perfectly-bent baseball caps.

Rounding out my day on my train ride out to Wenham, MA (where I was staying in a secluded house in a forest), I partook in a cup of Bean Town’s finest coffee: Dunkin’ Donuts.  Rich, steaming, satisfyingly robust with a hint of burn, it was great to end the day with a coffee that didn’t cost three dollars while utterly lacking any sort of quality (Starbuck’s).

The rest of the weekend was spent relaxing with friends, drinks, Old Fashioneds that I prepared for my hosts, and helping a kid who was tripping on acid out of jail.  All in all, a complete success.

p.s. all photos except the milk bottle taken with my iPhone.  Apologies for the lack of quality.

Finally travelling again, boys and girls. This time I’m travelling via bus to the home of Will Hunting, illicit tea disposal, and horrendous accents (I’m vowing to annunciate my Rs every time I say “haRboR” or “my boy’s wicked smaRt).
More pics to come. For now, after a putrid departure from Chinatown, I’ll leave you urbanites with a pic of the zooming leaves from my window.

Testing out posting from my iPhone. This could get weird.

But Kermit and LCD Soundsystem raise some good points.  Gentrification, being poor for the first time, moving to a city that is somehow safe, political and police-oriented disillusionment… but oh, how we still love you.

And for more Kermit action, here’s a site made by someone with this absolutely brilliant idea: “Soon after the death of Jim Henson, Sad Kermit spiraled downward into a life of addiction, romance, and pain.  The songs and videos on this webpage shed light on Sad Kermit’s descent into his dark, hurting world.”

Sad Kermit