Tag Archives: Eric Nolan

You know what can really make you feel old?

When your high school friends start to sound like your parents.

“Hey!  You kids!  GET OFF MY LONGWOOD.”

Publication Notice: Dead Snakes features “hens staring upward.”

Well, here is some nice news today — the good folks over at Dead Snakes have published my latest poem, “hens staring upward.”  (I know that its whimsical sounding title suggests another one of my joke poems, but this is definitely a darker piece, and does contain some disturbing imagery.)

Here’s the link:

“hens staring upward,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Thanks to Editor Stephen Jarrell Williams for graciously allowing me to share my voice once again over at Dead Snakes!

“Those were the dark days of America’s infancy.”

Following up on yesterday’s blog post about Nathan Hale for July 4th —  I actually wrote briefly about Hale and New York’s revolutionary history in “The Dogs Don’t Bark In Brooklyn Any More.”  It was background information about Brooklyn’s Prospect Park; the novel’s story, of course, takes place in a fictional future.

I actually made up the “local legend” about Hale’s ghost brooding around the arch.  I have no doubt that the park has its share of ghost stories, but this one was only a bit of poetic license on my part:

“[Prospect Park] is a haunted place. Many men have died in the vicinity of its gently rolling hills, though the occasion of their passing predates the park’s mid-nineteenth century creation. The area around Prospect Park is the site of the Revolutionary War’s first and largest major battle, fought in the waning summer of 1776, not two months after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. 

“The fledgling United States fielded its first official army there, with heartbreaking results. The Battle of Brooklyn was a disaster for America, whose sons were outnumbered two-to-one by 22,000 English and Hessian soldiers. George Washington, flush with his victory at Boston, found his forces routed. He barely escaped to Manhattan in a desperate, stealthy evacuation of more than 9,000 troops. On the morning of August 30, he and his retreating men were met along the Brooklyn hills with a miraculous surprise – a dense morning fog that concealed their perilous exit. To Washington and his war-weary comrades, it must have seemed like nothing short of divine intervention. 

“Those were the dark days of America’s infancy – Nathan Hale would not long after be captured on a mission of espionage in Manhattan, disguised as a Dutch schoolteacher, and would be hanged, after his immortal lament that he had but a single life to give for his country. The defeat in Brooklyn also cleared the way for the Crown’s capture of all of New York City. The Great Fire of 1776 would ravage Manhattan. And the city would remain in England’s hands until the end of the war. 

“Ironically, the park’s principal monument is devoted to another war entirely – one in which America turned upon itself. This is the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Arch, a massive structure dedicated to the Union Army during the Civil War. If there is an afterlife, then perhaps it might break Washington’s heart – and Hale’s – to see the Arch as it stands today, a memorial to Americans killing Americans. Indeed, a local legend holds that Hale’s ghost occasions the site of the Arch and hangs his gaze upon it, glum with the knowledge of a nation divided and torn.”

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“You’re a Broken Phonograph,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Let’s try this again … after wrestling with formatting issues, I have somewhat better presented my first entry into the 5-Day Poetry Challenge:

“You’re a Broken Phonograph,” by Eric Robert Nolan

You’re baggage.

You’re a scratched penny on a gravel street.

Your memory is a cheap souvenir from an ill-advised journey that is wished forgotten. You were purchased drunk on a mercilessly hot noon at a roadside stand. The vendor resembled Browning’s “hoary cripple” — all eager eyes and veiled laughter. His smile is frequented by gold teeth — intermittent shining sentries on a rampart grin. His front pockets are stuffed with bills, like twin plump denim ticks; their fangs are dollars’ corners. Your overpriced bauble shines at midday, but every additional dusk renders it lower into dulling shades of deep sepia. The paint flakes off — it falls to the windowsill now like the dead wings of moths. The wise advise its removal; the paint is toxic.

Your image is the aged face of a staid statesman on a stamp, an unremembered lawmaker.

You’re a broken phonograph.

You’re a photo of a burned out building.

Your presence is a preening blackbird at the lawn.

You’re quick to open your legs, but slow to close your mouth.

You’re easy sex, but difficult company.

You’re a cheap date, but a costly acquaintance.

No matter where and when another man will lie beside you, you’re alone.

Your future is all awkward mornings, sunsets that are calls to arms, disenchanted midnights, men misunderstood,

“friends of friends,” “friends” instead of lovers, men recommended, men paid for,

their loins emptied first, their hearts emptied after, both by your mouth,

men slipping out, at sunrise, stealthily before you wake, like cats smelling better breakfast elsewhere.

(c)  Eric Robert Nolan 2015

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Photo credit:  “Musee Baud,” 2015, by Rama, via Wikimedia Commons

I’m thinking of renaming this website …

“Smoke a Little Poetry and Get Haiku.”

Whaddya think, Sirs?

Weird world — I was at “The Following’s” latest filming location.

Have any of you guys seen last week’s episode of “The Following?”  Maybe not, because I suspect I am the only one watching this cool show.  (I’ve read that it is “on the bubble,” and Cracked.com has practically campaigned for its cancellation.)

Anyway, if you’ve seen it, Ryan Hardy and co. track a serial killer to a palatial “home” in “Purchase, NY.”

I was there.  I worked there for a night.  That “home” is actually a period mansion that is rented out for high-brow catered events.  (I’ve forgotten its name.)  It’s in Nassau County, not Purchase.  When I was working for a hospital in NY as a grant writer in my 20’s, office staff also doubled as volunteers for fundraising events; we held a big one right there.  Ryan Hardy goes stalking through the same cobblestone driveway where I took my cigarette breaks.  Six degrees of Kevin Bacon indeed.

It was a fun night.  There was a special room that was restricted — VIP access only, I guess.  Only donors and board members were supposed be in the semi-private parlor.  I wandered in quite accidentally, and people just reacted as though I were an (extremely young) donor.  So I just pulled a Frank Abagnale, Jr. and ran with it.  Someone handed me a brandy and a nice cigar, and I just reclined on an immensely comfortable brown leather chair.  (When in Rome.)  It was weird seeing other employees and administrators being gently kept behind the velvet ropes.  I kept smiling and raising a glass to them as they passed.  One vice president was visibly confused at my inclusion there.

So the moral of the story is that if you adopt false pretenses, you get a fancy cigar.  Or something.  I dunno.

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Publication Notice: “The Minotaur” to appear in Aphelion Magazine.

I got some very nice news today — Iain Muir at Aphelion Magazine told me that the online publication would feature “The Minotaur” in its April issue.  I wrote this poem as a tribute to W. H. Auden.

Aphelion is a terrific webzine of science fiction and fantasy, with features, stories and poetry.  It’s pure fun, and it’s 100 percent free.  Check it out here:

http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/index.html

When my poem appears in April, I’ll post a link.

Thanks, Aphelion!

I have a friend who really likes black cats …

… and whenever she talks about it, it reminds me of my own black cat of many years ago in New York.  His name was Jefferson.  Named for Thomas, not George.

Another friend tells me he was a “Russian Blue.”  (Because Russians are colorblind.)

You can tell these are old photos because the note on the door reminds you, “Lost!  Tonight!”  (There is also a campaign sign for my nearly successful Supreme Court run in the early 2000’s.)

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My review of “Captain America: Winter Soldier” (2014)

[THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FILM.]  Okay, now — this was actually a pretty good movie; I’d give it an 8 out of 10.

And that says a lot coming from me — I gave only a lukewarm response to “Captain America: The First Avenger,” because I thought that film was an overly safe family film that had no depth or suspense, and some awkward fight scenes.  I’ve also opined that Captain America is one of the flatter characters on The Avengers’ lineup.  And he’s got a simplistic character concept, even by comic book standards (super-soldier serum, anyone?).

But “Winter Soldier” does improve greatly on some various weaknesses of the origin story.  The action scenes (my favorite is the highway fight) are very, very good, with well choreographed brawls and suspenseful shootouts that aren’t too hard for the viewer to follow.  And the space opera-level climax will definitely give action junkies their money’s worth.

Chris Evans actually is a really good actor, in my estimation.  He seems to do a far better job here than in the other Marvel films, and the script gives Cap a depth that lets Evans show a nice range.  (And dammit if he doesn’t look the part.)  He’s a charismatic lead that lets you more easily buy into the character.  And … Robert Redford in a comic book movie?!  That’s something I never saw coming.  But what a great actor.

My quibbles?  There were a couple.  (BEWARE – SPOILERS AHEAD.)

1)  Cap meets his best friend and (literal) wingman, the superhero Falcon, on a chance encounter after a run around Washington’s Mall?  DEUS EX EXERCISE.

2)  Winter Soldier is nice and intimidating with his bandit-like costume and metal (vibranium?) arm, and it’s a little unnerving when Captain America’s ostensible equal comes crashing into the scene.  But when his mask comes off and he utters one of his few lines of dialogue, he looks and sounds like a slightly dull, soft spoken, 16-year-old boy.  He’s utterly nonthreatening.

3)  I’ve always been hard to please when it comes to conspiracy storylines.  The larger the conspiracy, the less plausible — I refuse to believe that huge numbers of people can keep a secret so big.  S.H.I.E.L.D. is an utterly incompetent spy agency if it allowed Hydra to flourish as it did within its upper echelons.  Besides, Hydra is made up of weirdo fanatics — nuts like that would have a hard time blending in to a mainstream community.

4)  S.H.I.E.L.D. was more fun when it was made up only of good guys.  I never watched the TV show, but I rooted for them in the films.  It was America’s everyman response to a world of super-beings, and it was sort of the committed underdog.

5)  Again, we are never quite sure what Cap’s powers are.  He can withstand 15-story falls with no major injury, but apparently isn’t bulletproof.

6)  Why on Earth does nobody call  The Avengers for help?

But don’t let those minor irks prevent you from checking out this movie.  It’s pretty decent.

Comic Book Nerd Trivia — Winter Soldier looks a heck of a lot like an anti-hero named “Nomad” in the mid-1990’s.  He teamed up with Daredevil when he went to Las Vegas in the “Dead Man’s Hand” storyline.  It’s probably the same character; I am just too lazy to look it up right now.

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I taught Benedict Cumberbatch everything he knows.

Well … maybe not, as I am not even certain he’d been born yet when I was in college.  But I did a fine job of channeling Christopher Plummer.  I was into Sherlock Holmes about 20 years before it was cool.

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I believe all that coolness rubbed off from a double-dose of Nate.  Pictured here are Nate “The Amazing Nate” Leslie and Nate “The Great Nate” Wade.  Nate L. is now a critically acclaimed author and a professor at Northern Virginia Community College.  Nate W. is now a public defender in Pima County, Arizona.

In place of hair, I wore a Tribble from the original “Star Trek” series, as was popular at the time.

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No one can forget the time when Carroll O’Connor (aka Archie Bunker) stopped by to prepare barbecue for us …

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Finally, no Mary Washington College post would be complete without a shot of the legendary Len Ornstein (far left).

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Or the mythic James A. Cordone.

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