The number of times I edited The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One is absurd! All because of auto-correct. Makes me and my characters appear illiterate.
In the case of any unusual wording for future posts, blame damned auto-correct. I kindly request that you please reach out to me (if you’re in my physical presence) or send a polite email to eric@ericsazer.com to inform me of this unusual error. It’ll be fixed in a heartbeat.
Happy days or nights or something in between!
Yuri weighed 1,000 pounds. The man ate all day and night. Never slept. Only snoozed for minutes at a time. The poor man had so many bags under his eyes, one could store artillery inside them.
Clothing Yuri was impossible. The only thing that fit him was a 20 foot sail that his muscly brother, Anton, stole off a boat. The owner of the sailboat filed a report with the police. Surveillance cameras showed Anton lugging the sail into his car and then driving off. Police picked Anton up and threw him into a musty, dimly lit room.
“Ya sold it?” the detective interrogated.
“Of course, I did. Needed the money.”
“And who’d you sell it to?”
“Can’t remember. It was night. Everything I do is at night.”
“Right.” The detective scribbled notes in his legal pad. “Man or woman?”
“Androgynous.”
“Androgynous?”
“Seriously, I couldn’t tell.”
Anton was imprisoned for a year where, for the most part, he paced his cell worrying about his brother’s wellbeing. How in the fuck will Yuri eat? The man had to roll himself to the bathroom and then piss in a sideways facing commode. Their younger sister was around but she was too busy getting fucked at nightclubs. Selfish bitch.
The year in prison was hard on Anton. Inmates knocked him around, busting his lip open a few times. The prison guards dribbled scalding oatmeal on his back. He only made one friend in the prison but that person hung himself in the tenth month of Anton’s sentence.
Once released, Anton hitched a ride back to Yuri’s. He didn’t go up right away. Instead, he paid a visit to a deli. Ordered two turkey sandwiches. Ate one on a park bench. The other was for his brother.
Anton banged on his brother’s door.
“Yuri,” he hollered.
Some nimble being hopped on the hardwood floor and yanked the door open. It was a tanned brunette wearing what looked like a homemade bikini.
“I’m Ursula,” she grinned.
“Ursula, hi. Is my brother here?”
“Oh my gosh,” she climbed his chest and wrapped her thin arms around him. “You’re Anton. Welcome home. Come in.” Ursula lowered herself to the ground and grabbed his hand. “Your brother will be thrilled to see you. He’s in the shower right now.”
“The shower,” his eyebrows furrowed. “How’d you get him in there?”
“You silly,” she slapped him in the gut. “He got himself in there.”
“Wow, that’s unusual…”
“Is it?” She smirked. “How do you get in the shower?”
“Touché.” My god, Anton thought, what a lovely girl. How in hell did she wind up in my brother’s apartment?
“What you got there?” She pointed at the turkey sandwich.
“Oh, it’s for my brother.”
“Only for your brother? Not for me too?”
“Well,” Anton stammered. “I guess you two can share it.”
“May I smell it?” She grabbed the turkey sandwich out his hand and then knocked him to the ground.
Anton went in and out of consciousness.
Paper rustled in his ear.
Then loud grunts.
Snorts.
Blood trickled down his head.
Turkey debris sprayed everywhere.
Deep sighs.
“Let me get you a blanket,” she growled.
Sudden warmth.
A fit man wrapped in a towel hovered over Anton.
“Why hello there, Anton,” the fit man said.
That was the last Anton saw until later that night.
It’s 3:50 pm on Monday. I’d rather do anything else than write this blog post. Such as Netflix. God, that sounds wonderful. Lounge on my bed. Rest my head on a pillow. Space out to Ryan Phillipe kicking ass so he can reunite with his wife and daughter in Shooter.
The better, more mature part of me prevented myself from going down that avenue. Mostly due to the fact that I set a goal to walk at least 5,000 steps a day. Each week the step count will increase by 1,000. Today, I’ve only walked 1,341 steps. That’s no good. I got to get out there. Get to 5,000 or more. Please, God, let that happen before the weather worsens.
It’s amazing how far I’d go to not update my blog. So far today, I’ve used two methods of distraction. One, laundry. Two, disassembled the kitchen sink pipes to scrape the moldy gelatinous grime from within. The latter was a must as the water would not go down.
Now I’m parked on a bench outside the Mudd Puddle Coffee Roasters in New Paltz. There’s a slight breeze. Feels like a tornado could be around the corner.
Wow, I’m scrambling for words. I so baldy want to entertain you. I want your praise. I want you to walk away feeling inspired and take action. Yet the words feel flat.
When I work on the novel, it isn’t like this. The characters suck me into their ridiculous lives. I chuckle like a madman as I record their fictional mishaps and fortunes onto the page. There’s a gorgeous confidence when in novel writing mode. Also, I’m not publishing the novel until the whole damned thing is done.
This blog scares the daylights out of me. I tell myself the blog needs to convert the reader into a client. “Oh hire me! Hire me. Hire this half-wit! Hire this nonsense machine who writes children’s books for adults. Hire the fool who can fantasize his way through a job interview but in reality boasts in an off-putting insane manner.”
I admit, that last paragraph was fun to write. It forced me to be real. Maybe there’s greater intimacy between you (the reader) and me. If not, that’s okay. You’ll live. I’ll live. I’ll continue to show up at this blog terrified as shit.
Now, for the love of God (you must think I’m religious mentioning God’s name twice. I’m not. Just spiritual), I must take a walk. Perhaps you do too. Whatever you do with your time, I implore that you make it your best. I’ll be back when I’m back (which will hopefully be next week if I can work up the courage).
That’s right ladies and gentlemen! Get your own personal face right here. Tired of what the mirror says about you? Are those pesky neighbor kids point laughing at your ugly nose and buck teeth? Well right here where I am, I trade you your pock-marked face for something that will soothe strangers. Your phone will be ringing off the hook with requests for dates. It’ll be like Beatlemania all over again except you’ll be the only star running through alleyways and dressing like a hobo. When you’re ready to give up your soul (oops, did I say that)…your grossness for a new personal face, shout me out. Hashtag the fuck out of me #bitchwantnewface #uglymugnomore #doublechindestroyer #asswipingoldface #newpersonalfacedoc
While riding the Metro-North into Manhattan in late December, I was reading The Science of Getting Rich by Wallace Wattles. I marched through Grand Central and continued downtown on Madison Avenue where I pictured piles of checks handed to me. “Pay to the order of Eric Sazer, Three hundred sixty-five thousand and two-hundred twenty-one dollars”, “Pay to the order of Mister Eric Sazer for the amount of Eighty-eight thousand, nine-hundred and fifty three dollars,” “Dear Eric, Please deposit this check written out to you, Eric Sazer, for the full amount of four-hundred and two thousand, seven-hundred and sixteen dollars. Enjoy it”. Block after block my mere thoughts alone were putting me into the billionaire bracket.
Anyone who knows me personally will attest to the fact that if greed rides though my bones, it does so on extremely low dosages. This desire to be wealthy rides more on the coattails of helping the world while doing the things I love rather than getting sloppy rich, lazy and unconscious. I could write an entire essay or blog post on how I’d use money to positively change the world around me (note to self).
By the time I hit East Thirty-third Street, I had enough funds to purchase Murray Hill. The glow within was so enormous I just couldn’t contain myself. I looked over at a younger man on his cell phone. We exchanged glances and then he asked if I needed any help. Shoving my wad of etheric billions into an unknown abyss, I shrugged. The younger man rushed off the phone with his mother and asked me who I am. I tell him my name and that I’m a writer. Coincidentally, he’s a marketer seeking a writer for a specific project. The nature of this project wasn’t revealed until days later: Ghostwriting the lyrics to a hit song for a fourteen-year-old girl with a golden voice.
Despite my limited experience in songwriting I agreed to the assignment. Why? Spoiler alert—the main character in my novel becomes a lyricist. The excitement working on this ghostwriting project ebbed (due to my insecurities as a lyricist) but mostly flowed (come on, who wouldn’t want to be wealthy after writing a hit song that makes millions happy?). On Thursday, January 28th, my excitement for this assignment came to a screeching halt when the young marketer asked for two first draft verses due on a meeting tentatively set for Sunday afternoon. Terror is what killed the excitement. “Four days isn’t enough time,” I told myself. “I really need to sit with this and let the words seep out naturally.” Oh the lies! The deception!
Later that day, I get on a call with a wonderful woman who used to work in the music industry. When I shared with her this project along with my terrors (which by then had spiraled out of control. “I’m no songwriter! Who am I fooling?), she did what any being would do…she acted as my mirror. At the end of the call, I was 98% sure that I’d have to abandon the ghostwriting project. Then a small voice in my head said, “Eric, stranger things have happened. Who cares that you don’t have years of experience writing songs? What about the novel? How is the main character going to be a lyricist if you don’t know how to write lyrics yourself?”
These past two days, the voices of terror played a grueling match of Ping-Pong against the voices of encouragement. Late this morning the match finally came to an end when I shared my concerns with the music producer on this project. He urged me to ignore those voices of terror. “What’s the worst that will happen,” he argued. “You write a bad song? So what?” The music producer insisted that I give this more than a month’s shot. “If after three months and your lyrics are less then desirable, than we can revisit you moving on.” How wonderful it to see the voices of terror vanish into silence.
I’m no fool. The voice of terror has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. Everything can be honky dory one minute only for seconds later paralysis kicks in. It happens to the best of us. The outcome of this song is unknown. I could write killer lyrics but the girl with the golden voice may not know how deliver it. Another outcome—all the world agrees that the lyrics are God awful but something about the beat, the girl’s voice and a tiny quarter of one verse gets everyone off their seats, dancing, singing along, raising vibrations, ending wars…ooh the possibilities puts a chill down my spine.
So, reader, who do you listen to? Do you play it safe? Do you not get up on that stage during karaoke because you might be so damned good (note to self)? Are you the type to sit in the back row hiding under your winter coat during an interactive theatrical piece (note to self once again)? When finished writing your blog, do you push the ‘delete’ button (if there is one) instead of ‘publish’, reader? Please comment below.
I will leave you with the song that got me dancing at the end of my last blog post. Until next time!
Those readers who have been with me from the very beginning know that I titled this blog Descent Into A Creative Mind. That was all fine and dandy at first as tapping into my creativity did feeling like a spelunking expedition. There was a ton of bullshit to wade through, such as, “What’s this nonsense I’ve tapped out on the page?” or “Does anybody give a crap about what I have written here?” or “Is it descent or descend?” These types of questions went on and on. Underneath all this bullshit (heck let’s just call a spade a spade here. It was my shit. I’m not a bull. I’m a human after all…I think), I finally found myself (Eureka!) along with the subject of my new novel entitled The Admired. The only spoilers you’ll get about this novel is that it’s a satire on obsession and er…it’s slightly autobiographical, emphasis on the word slightly. The rest you’ll have to read when the book comes out (I’m 46,000 or so words into the writing of this novel. That’s about 1/3 of the way through).
I made a decision to give this blog a new look and a retitling. (Those of you who clicked the hyperlink—Welcome back! Where the hell did you think I was going to send you? I was in the middle of a sentence for crying out loud!). Joyously together we can call this blog The Ascent To Our Creative Minds. The intention of this facelift is to inspire, inform, enlighten, ignite passion under our tushies and pull together a community of brilliant souls. Yes, that means you! If any of this interests you, please read on.
When talking about ascension this isn’t some New Age hodgepodge. It’s real folks. I’ve discovered the roots of agelessness and unconditional love. How, you may ask: The expression of creativity. This is the inner child at play. You might say, “Well, I’m too old. I’ll never change” or “How’s this gonna help? I need to make money. Playing is for kids.” Bullshit alert! I mean human shit alert! Whatever-species-you-are-shit alert! I don’t care if you’re two or two thousand years old, all of us have an inner child. There’s tons of literature out there to prove this. Comment below with your doubts and I’ll be pleased to send you a handful of links. Should you still be sitting there bemoaning, “This jerk with this inner child nonsense”, let me ask you, don’t you want to laugh and feel the joys you once had as a child? Heck, I know I do. If you don’t, I’m not judging here but it would absolutely perplex me if you were to respond, “Eric, I actually hate laughing. Nothing beats a good ol’ serious boring day. While the sun rises, I yell at my loved ones. Cut people off on the road. Fire everyone at work. Sue my clients. Heck, they smelled like piss anyway. Then come home. Why eat a delicious dinner when you can munch on a nice microwaved paper towel. At 7:30 PM on the dot I lock myself in a frigid broom closet. Ain’t no mattress there! Why lay down when you can stand up? God gave us two feet for a reason. After some leaning against the icy wall, I do it all over again the next day.” Well, friend, I don’t even know what to say to that one.
Now, since we are all living here on planet Earth, money does need to be made in some capacity. However, why not go about it while having some fun? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not talking about something kinky here, although that is not out of the scope of possibilities. There have been worse ways riches have been accrued. What I was getting at is a technique some of the greatest entrepreneurs use called brainstorming. The root of this is creativity.
I’ll go more in detail on all of these topics and more in future posts. In the meantime, regardless of your age, sexuality, economic status, connection with spirit, enjoyment of sleeping in a frigid broom closet, I really hope to learn more about you. Together let’s break through our limitations and soar through our most elevated selves. I suggest after reading this, you put some wild music on and get your dancing feet going. That’s what my plan is once I push the “Publish” button.
Let’s write one another from our own beds. We can spill our hearts out on the pages. Go till we run out of ink or when our fingers cramp up. Then toss the letters out the window with the hopes it will arrive somewhere safe.
The next morning, grounds people will pick up our sad letters. Press it to their chests. Feel bolder than a skyscraper. The grounds people will then lead humanity into a true heart-based culture.
All it takes is one pen and as many pages you’re willing to donate. Go ahead folks. Scribble from your heart.
At Swanson’s, we not only install an X-Ray vision chip into your eye. We guarantee it will work. Take it to your favorite swim park. Share with your shady father the contents of his locked “mysterious” cabinet. You’ll impress people of all races, religions, ages and criminal backgrounds. Swanson’s…wow your eyes before you die.
You were never here but somehow I miss you. It would be easy to just flick you on or off as I lie here, my head pushed deep into the down pillow. Without you I have to get up and shuffle to the light switch six or seven paces from the bed.
Strange how passion drains out the body. I scream in agony for it to stop. People tell me it’s normal to walk about like a zombie, feel nothing, want only to pay bills or have a superficial chuckle with a stranger otherwise known as my brother or cousin or best friend. Then as this passion has found itself deeply embedded outside of my consciousness, the simple act of walking six or seven paces to turn on or off a light becomes a burden. Can’t death just take over. Better yet, please end this nightmare ruled by apathy. Allow me to awaken with lamps all about that are ignited by my mere excitement. This is what I long for.
While out in California, I had attempted to collaborate on a piece that I had entitled “Naked Inn”. Nothing ever came of it. Perhaps the awful title turned my collaborator off. Devoid of any further rambling, here is the piece in its raw form —
When Grandmother retired from the Inn, she demanded I keep it a Christian establishment. This baffled me as she considered herself a Buddhist. In her earlier years, should anyone make mention of Christ or any of His followers, she’d wince, insisting the conversation be changed. The repetition of her retiring wishes that the Inn remain a Christian establishment led me to believe that perhaps this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Could she be stricken with madness? Events later in her life pointed to early onset of Alzheimer’s. She, however, in this moment, couldn’t be clearer.
One key to the Inn dangling in one hand, a finger on the other hand shaking inches from my nose, Grandmother howled, “Keeping it a Christian establishment means you keep it clean, Edgar! It means you follow the rules. When people check in, you get their payment right away. If they got no cash, show them the door! You hear me?” Before I could answer, she kissed my cheek, shoving the Inn’s keys in my jeans pocket.
As the Inn’s new keeper, business proved rather slow. The phone would ring, the callers surprised to hear a young man’s voice on the other end. Some feared Grandmother had died. I had assured them the woman was sunbathing, winking at cashiers, licking ice cream cones and enjoying every moment of retirement. Regardless, the Inn remained vacant for several weeks—just the creaking floors and me.
The first guests to arrive were two naked twenty-something year olds, one male, the other female. They were naked in clothing, money, vehicle, identification and knowledge of how they got like this. The boy suggested that had they arrived six seconds later, they could have died. How? They didn’t know. Despite their skin being opposite tones, they could have been twins.
“I don’t know what I can do for you two,” I warned. “You got’s no money.”
“You can keep us safe,” insisted the girl.
“Just put us in your worst room and forget about us,” suggested the boy.
“Worst room?” That made me laugh. “All the rooms here are great. Majestic, my grandmother would call it. Plus, how the hell can I forget about you two? You’re my first guests as the innkeeper.”
“Don’t you got a closet in the cellar,” asked the girl.
“You two are nuts. Listen, I promised my Buddhist grandmother I’d keep this a Christian establishment…”
“How does that work?”
“Not sure but I’ll tell you something…”
“What,” they both sung.
“I’ll give you a room.”
“One?”
“That’s right. One! If it were my grandmother, she’d tell you to get lost, you understand?”
“We understand,” they echoed.
“Good.”
They followed me up three flights to a room with two queen beds. They both crawled into a bed each, staring at me like a long lost uncle. I offered them clothing but they said not to worry, they’d figure it out in the morning. Their eyes closed, quickly followed by intense snores.
In the morning the room was immaculate. The sheets smelled fresh, not a single trace of nakedness anywhere (other than my naked confusion). I hollered a bunch of names but realized moments later they never gave me their names. Clearly it was time to sit at the front desk and scratch my head.