Illinoir

Another cheap shot of a photo a day topic. Someone I find attractive? I think you’re all attractive, you beautiful people, but I don’t have a photo that all of you are in. . So. Here is Myrna Loy, who I, like millions of men before me, fell in love with upon viewing The Thin Man. While writing Illinoir I was consuming as much noir literature and film as I could, and I don’t think anything topped Thin Man. As a husband and wife detective team, Nick and Nora are unsurpassed. And in portraying a strong, independent woman who was also a dedicated wife, a great detective and an amazing drinker, Myrna Loy. Well. Yeah. Dudes formed “Men Must Marry Myrna” clubs. That’s flippin incredible.

The word count is 47,532 which means that finishing is nearly inevitable. My revelation of the other day hasn’t really carried through as much as I wanted it to, and right now I’m doing more story mining, going back and padding out other sections of this thing because I don’t have much action that can carry forward. With that in mind, I present this second to last excerpt of Nanowrimo 2010:

“Say, you went to college, right?”

“Yeah, I went to the College of North Jersey.”

“And what did you get your degree in?”

“I got an Associate’s Degree in Photojournalism.”

“Photojournalism? Really? That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun.”

“And what are you doing with that degree?”

“Well, I’m…. I’m taking pictures of housewares.”

“Right. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Microbiology. And a Master’s in Applied Macroeconomoneuroplastology. And what am I doing with those?”

“Taking pictures of housewares.”

“Exactly. Nobody’s living up to their potential. And who’s to say if that even is potential? Is there even anything that I could be doing with a Master’s in Macroeconomoneuroplastology? I just got it so I wouldn‘t have to join the real world for another couple years.”

“What is Macroeconomoneuroplastology anyway?” Therese asked.

“It’s the study of the impact of ‘take a penny leave a penny’ trays in gas stations and convenience stores.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. I totally was. “It’s a very specialized field. But, really, what good could that possibly do for anyone? Nothing. For nobody. I tells you.”

“That’s a pretty negative view too, Arthur,” Therese said.

“Again, I tell you, it’s not a bad thing. It’s great to accept that we are going to go nowhere and do nothing with our lives, because that frees us up to do what is possible. What is realistic. There’s no way I’m going to get a position on the Weekly Macroeconomoneuroplastology Review, the most respected Macroeconomoneuroplastology-related publication in the Western Hemisphere. I don’t want to teach Macroeconomoneuroplastology and 7-11 doesn’t exactly hire unknown Macroeconomoneuroplastologists off the street.”

“Why did you get your Master’s in it?”

“Macroeconomoneuroplastology has always been my passion. Even though I knew there was no future in it, I’ve always felt like those penny trays were calling to me, like they were leading me to the promised land, leading me to a better tomorrow.”

“That’s amazing,” Therese said. “That’s how I feel about photojournalism.”

“But it’s not, Therese,” I said. “It’s not calling me, or leading me anywhere. And there is no promised land, there is no better tomorrow. There’s only now and slightly later from now. And slightly later from then.”

“And what comes after that?”

“More of the same. Or something different. Who can say? And who really cares? All that we know is that it all ends. Eventually.”

“What did this have to do with what we were talking about?”

“Mardi Gras?” I asked.

“No, Fat Tuesday.”

“Oh. Right,” I said, and I experienced that first incredible eye-rolling urge. Paul would later tell me about the time he first felt it — five minutes after meeting Therese, she had commented on Paul’s dreadlocks and asked him if he knew Bob Marley. Not if he knew Bob Marley’s music, mind you, but if he actually knew  Bob Marley. Because of his dreadlocks. Paul’s eyes had nearly rolled out of his head. I think I should get some credit for having lasted more than a week.