THE DARK RECESSES OF OUR MINDS-

Rich Ferguson, because it’s your birthday and because you just make being a Bond Girl so insanely cool, we’ve run a little contest in your honor: Who Makes the Best Bond Girl?

As you will see, several of the TNB guys have slipped into something a little more comfortable in your honor. So, quiet your inner Wai Lin, have a martini and leave your briefcase tear gas canister and testosterone at the door.

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WOODLAND, NORTHERN CA -

I moved back to California around two months ago. What brought me back home after fifteen years? Well, a few things. Personal things. Some things not so personal. In the end, I was feeling a bit tapped out in Vegas. The bones weren’t tumbling like they used to and I was almost at the point where I didn’t give a shit either way.

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MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA-

I’d been warned about Los Angeles. They (the same ‘they’ in ‘That’s what they say’) warned me that it’s a city where people smile at your face and stab you in the back; that the whole town only exists to exploit people of youth, beauty, and talent; that everyone there is obsessed with making money, making their cut, and then getting out of Dodge as fast as their new Lexus can carry them.

People characterised the city as soulless, shallow, and desperate for a quick buck.

Why people thought they should warn me, I’m not really sure. Because it sounded like I’d fit right in.

But seriously - LA, man. Now that’s a fun town. (more…)

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA-

I stopped into Los Angeles recently; I wanted to get a new guitar strap and there was also this minor literary thing that I figured I could go to while I was there. It was a good trip, and one that I will cheerfully blog about at some length. There are some stories that must be told, and moments that I fear will haunt me forever unless I sobbingly confess them to the internet at large. Like the point over dinner when I suddenly realised that the twinkle in Brad Listi’s eye wasn’t pleasantly welcoming bonhomie at all, but rather a deep and unforgiving madness (the two look remarkably similar).  Or the time I first heard Greg Olear’s voice, and I knew in my bones that terror had a new favourite uncle. Even now, I can’t close my eyes without seeing Rachel Pollon laugh and laugh and tie Ben Loory to a railroad track (the story of how he survived is one of incredible heroism, skull-shattering evil, and one man’s surprisingly aerodynamic straw hat).

But these are things that will have to wait until my next post, as I have other things to say first. (more…)

LAS VEGAS, NV -

I moved back to Vegas from Charlotte over a year ago. The reasons? Too many. But one of them was that my mom (my grandmother actually) was battling cancer and I wanted to be by her side. I spent many sad nights on the east coast thinking about what she was going through. It hurt like nothing I ever felt before. I felt like a horrible son.

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LAS VEGAS, NV-

I called Brad Listi from some sleepy little suburb in Sacramento. We chatted. I think I strong-armed the poor fellow and told him that I wanted to read at TNB’s first L.A reading. He’s too kind. Dear and charming.

I got the gig.

So, L.A.  I had to go. Haven’t seen my birth city in years. Memories of crowded streets and concrete buildings tumbled through my head. 

I gassed up and hit I-15.

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LAS VEGAS -

So, the plane touched down. I sat in between some dude that had a little too much of Vegas and some chick with large pretty brown eyes.

He smelled like he was broke.

She smelled good.

I like girls that smell good. (more…)

BROOKLYN, NY -

I remember the day I got the email from Brad:

“Dear Kimberly, Thanks for writing, but we’re about to undergo a major website revision and we’re not accepting any new writers at the current time. Cheers, TNB”

Figures.

Getting published is an odds game, right? Collect 100 “No”s for every “Yes.”

At least The New Yorker had the decency to lie to me with their boilerplate, “Despite its evident literary merit, we regret to inform you…”

TNB cut to the chase.

No bullshit.

“No thanks.”

Fuck TNB.

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LAS VEGAS - NV

I jog around five days a week.

I have two routes.

One route is my neighborhood and it consists of a giant square through a few neighborhoods that are infested with chihuahuas, faded houses, and small apartments.

The other is Sunset Park. A large park loaded with baseball fields, volleyball and basketball courts, etc, and a jogging/walking trail that weaves around a lake. One lap, one mile. Two laps, two miles. You get the idea.

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BROOKLYN, NY -

Whenever I do something utterly stupid, my standby retort used to be: “I’m not your average dumb blonde, I’m above average.”

Blonde jokes have been as much a part of my upbringing as bad (read: fabulous) 80’s music, sunblock and weight issues.

A blonde and a redhead went to the bar after work for a drink, and sat on stools watching the 6 o’clock news. A man was shown threatening to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge, and the blonde bet the redhead $50 that he wouldn’t jump. Sure enough, he jumped, so the blonde gave the redhead $50. However, as friends, the two went back and forth about it; the redhead just couldn’t take the blonde’s money. Finally, the redhead confessed: “Listen, I have to tell you that I saw this on the 5 o’clock news, so I can’t take your money.”

The blonde replied: “Well, so did I, but I didn’t think he would jump again!”

But, for whatever reason, when I tell people I’m flaky, or dumb, I usually get brushed off with a “Pshaw!” “Pbbbbt!” or “Getouttahere!” even though I know, deep in my heart, the truth to be otherwise.

And so, to present my case to you naysayers: I offer Exhibit 9,272 of my extreme Bimbosity:

How I Totally Fucked Up TNBingo.

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LAS VEGAS, NV - 

Dude, I’ve Seen Your Balls

I called an old high school buddy to give him my new phone number. It was a business call. In and out. I wasn’t in the talking mood.  

His wife answered the phone. Tammy’s a good woman. Thoughtful. Funny. Pretty good pool player. I met her for the first time last year and we got ripped on margaritas.  (more…)

LAS VEGAS, NV -

I’ve been working for what seems and feels like a thousand years. My first job was picking up my dogs’ (a black labrador retriever, a pit bull, and a chihuahua) crap. I was in 7th grade and my father gave me five bucks a week for my services.

There I’d be, with a shovel in hand, scooping up three sizes of dog shit. It was dreadful. I hated it. It was then I realized that having to work, the necessity of holding a job, was an ugly part of the human experience.

Over the years, I’ve worked in construction, retail, the restaurant industry, as a teacher, as a guitar instructor, a community organizer. I’ve been around. Unfortunately.

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LOS ANGELES-

Just read some pretty interesting stuff on “comment culture,” which has become an area of interest over the past few years. A new mutation in the human fabric.

Naturally I’m fascinated by the comment boards on this site. I’m also fascinated by comment boards in general, and the people who populate them, and I wonder how they work, and why.

With respect to The Nervous Breakdown and its boards, I often find myself asking: What is it? And how did it happen? And what is its value? And who is it that’s drawn here? And why? And what might this weird beast become?

And things like that.

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BROOKLYN, NY—

So it’s three weeks out from our first TNB: Live! Reading Series and it’s only just occurred to me; after the venue has been booked, after the readers have been wrangled, after the equipment has been acquired and Facebook invites have gone a-flying and the audience participation games have been planned, that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

What was I thinking???

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LAS VEGAS, NV - 

Because of a weird set of circumstances, I’ve acquired a cat. Or he’s acquired me. Either way, I’m the one who looks after him. I’m the one who gives him crunchies. I pour the water. I take care of his shitter.

His name is Chaz. He’s an orange tabby. Beautiful, cub-like face. Smallish. I think he’s around eleven years old. He’s a very affectionate cat. Likes to sleep on my chest. His eyes are always low. He always looks stoned.

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LAS VEGAS, NV -

The night before I left for Sacramento, I was up until 5am partying with my aunt and my cousin who hails from the soft beaches of Orange County. Both of them are dear creatures. It wasn’t meant to be a party. In fact, there wasn’t a party in sight. They were having a couple of drinks, watching a movie.

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LOS ANGELES-

Seeing as everyone’s out of work these days or teetering on the brink of unemployment, I figure it might be appropriate and maybe even therapeutic to tell some tales about hellish jobs to try to soften the blow (or heighten the sense of masochistic nostalgia).

Probably a good time to sit down around the campfire and share some memorable horror stories, many of which defy belief and couldn’t be conjured by even the most fertile creative minds.

For example: I had lunch with a friend a couple of weeks ago, and he was telling me about one of his old jobs. The office he worked at was populated with exceptionally insane individuals, particularly at the executive level.

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LAS VEGAS, NV -

I was going through some boxes the other day and came across some pictures my father gave me a few years ago. Old pictures. Me as a kid. Me in Yosemite. Me dressed as a pirate for Halloween. Me and my friend Eddie (my folks called him “Cholo Ed”) standing in front of my father’s car looking as tough as we could.  

Creased pants. Black winos. Vatos in training. 

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PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Today’s story comes from the “Things that could only happen to me” file. Previous entries in this popular series include:

• I’m 16 years old, it’s summer in Orlando, and I’m working the register at a retail store. A heavyset female customer pays for her items by unbuttoning her blouse, reaching into her bra, and producing a large, sweaty wad of cash.

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LOS ANGELES-

The other day a friend and I decided that in order to be a writer in the modern age—or maybe any age—you essentially have to adopt the attitude of a merciless cyborg assassin. You have to approach the work and the ancillary business aspects of the work with the cold, emotionless, and utterly relentless persistence of a Skynet T-800, created by Cyberdine Systems.

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