Jake Parkinson

Today I am 25. I am a quarter-of-a-century old. At my age, F. Scott Fitzgerald had published "This Side of Paradise" two years prior. I've barely managed to get a few poorly-written articles on the now-discarded pages of a few SLC-based rags. (Think I could have crammed a few more meaningless-but-slightly-annoying modifiers in that sentence?) There is little evidence that things will change by the time I hit the monumental and eye-opening two six. People say 40's the stinker, but to me turning 26 without publishing a masterpiece is monumental a sign that you’re a loser as getting a swirlee on the first day of junior high. Maybe I should just stick my head in the shitter now, plunge it in there deep and see what my brown mop catches on it's way in, around and out. It's all about the journey after all, isn't it?
Speaking of journeys, last night I put together a list of the 25 people who have had the greatest influence on my life to date. I made the list and invented a project to complete before this date next year. I want to write an essay, story, poem or dance choreography that defines my experiences with these 25 fabulous people. I will post them on this site and send a printed version to those who made the list. I'm sure the list will change before I finish it so I don't want to post it right now.
Once again, Happy Birthday to me.

Posted by jake at 04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So I wrote a story for City Weekly on Terry Tempest Williams. It wasn't brilliant. It wasn't going to win me, or the paper, a Pulitzer. Catalyst editor Greta deJong called it "nice." I agree in the "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" definition of the term.
This week City Weekly published a letter from Skola Pomodi mocking my writing ability, more specifically the perceived lack of ability. Jake Parkinson "took a compelling story about one of the most interesting and controversial figures in Utah today and managed to make it fall flat on its face." The letter continues: "If you want a free lesson (and thank God it was free!) in how not to write an article, read Jake Parkinson."
When I first read Pomodi's comments I felt sick. It sucks to get ripped in a public forum. Then I realized the hack had reverted to a terrible cliche to explain his (or her) point that I can't write.
Maybe I can't, but I hope Skola Pomodi falls flat on his assface.

Posted by jake at 11:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I first read Paul Auster in High School. At the time Auster published a collection of autobiographical essays in a book called "Hand to Mouth." It was the story of his life. How he had become a writer. It was just the kind of handbook I was looking for. I was 16 or close to it, I was certain I was going to be a writer. If not a writer than an upholsterer, either way I was going to change the world.
Auster's book gave me a means to justify my irrational actions and thoughts. It also made me think it is OK for a writer to stand on the societal water tower and piss all over the place. I missed the elemental emptiness the pee shivers leave you with when your standing in the empty blue sky. Auster wrote the misery in there, but I was too young to absorb it all. I saw the flash but not the burn.
In "Mr. Vertigo" he proves, once again, that he knows how to put together a story. This story is about a kid (Walter) who is in a way kidnapped and tortured until he learns how fly. Walt is a semi-willing participant because he wants to do something great. If he learns how to fly the Euro-trash kidnapper and Walt will get black-rapper rich. Of course the book is set in a time when blacks were still slaves, but that’s not as important as a good metaphor. It is an adventure novel, a travel narrative and one hell of a strange tale. The best part of the books is that Auster never tells the reader how Walter learned, or is taught, how to fly. Since I haven't learned the secret I can't tell you anything more than what I learned about flying in high school. I know for a fact it has something to do with a handful of pain medication, a Dr. Pepper, two half-eaten cucumbers and fairy dust.

Posted by jake at 03:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote these stories in the last two or three years of his life. They were cracked out on Saturday and Sunday afternoons to pay for his daughter's college education. Fitzgerald spent Monday through Friday writing shit for Hollywood. It was shit because that is the way Hollywood has always wanted it.
The Pat Hobby Stories are short, maybe 3,000 words each. And they are published in book form in the same order they orginally appeared in the men's journal. Fitzgerald put them in order. He put the best up front and the crap in the back. Knowing this made the book difficult to finish. I read them in one sitting and I just kept thinking "Fitzgerald was right. They are getting progressively less interesting."
The stories are about a washed-up screenwriter and his adventures in Hollywood. Pat Hobby is a loveable idiot who can't seem to get it together enough to write another script. He spends his days at the studios looking for a break. Turns out Pat Hobby, not unlike Fitzgerald, used up his mojo in his youth. Pat Hobby was the industry's genius until the first "talkies" were made. Orson Welles has nothing on Hobby, except a lot more money, booty and all-around-I-want-to-be-seen-with-that-hot-shot prestige.

Posted by jake at 02:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)