Thursday, November 29 |
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Aren't you amazed and awed by the intrepid souls who are adventuring through NaNoWriMo? They only have two days left! NaNoWriMo? "The goal is to write a 200-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30." 50,000 words! In thirty days! I thought that we would show solidarity today by flexing our fingers and doing the keyboard tap dance. [Update. 9:47 pm. 3,187 words. We're done!] Once upon a time... So, last night I had this really fucked up dream that involved B52 bombers, Burning Man, San Francisco and Johnny hurling liquor bottles over the N Judah. The worst part was when the larger bomber, parked across the street, took off and immediately crashed into the next neighbourhood in a giant fireball. It used to be that I couldn't watch Hill Street Blues before bed time. Bad, bad dreams. I think I'll have to stop watching the news. Not that The news has anything to do with Burning Man and Johnny, but I guess somewhere, in my pea brain, it does. I just wish that my pea brain could conjur me up some pea soup right now. I't raining outside and there's nothing better than a steaming bowl of mush to warm me up inside. If I had the time I'd drive to Buelton and visit Ha'pea and Swe'pea, my old pals from family road trips on the 101. And so, I began thinking to myself that there *must* have been a point that night when i *did* have pants. Strange how one often loses sight of the little things. Peculiar more was the fact that the women's clothing was definitely not mine. Now, Half Pea (no one but her mother and talking dog called her Ha'Pea) was a no account gambling fool who lived out on a hundred acre spread in North Dakota. Swe'pea, her brother and groundskeeper, was a close friend. While secretive as a general rule, he could occasionally be encouraged -with the aid of another army buddy of mine, Captain Morgan- to tell tall tales, and most of them began with Half Pea building a snowman in the deep of winter, and ended with that snowman looking down the business end of her Winchester Special. I have a million and one opening lines for that great novel that my friends tell me to write. They all begin with passion and drive, adventure and surprise. They lead you in and when you're there, you find that there is nothing more. Much like how I am. At least with the black widow, when she leads you in, you know that there's someone there. But, who am I to listen to my friends anyway, I don't need to write, the story has been told a million and one times over. Within us all, we each have one, or two. Some people are fortunate enough to have their lives filled with adventures and little odd happenings. Why would anyone want to delve into mine? I mean, that incident with the cab driver that drove me across two boroughs for free, all the while telling me how lovely I am, and how perfect I would be to fuck would be interesting I suppose ... Or perhaps someone would really want to hear about my travels in the Tuscan countryside or even having been brought up in a third world country then dumped in NYC. But all that is quite superfluous really ... because at least the black widow leads you in for a purpose. Wayne suggested that I run for the board of education. So I did my research. I thought the chances of getting my name on the ballot were slim to none. Not only were the people who normally run for the board of ed much older than i was, they were town pilars that never had been arrested for drugs and dui's and all that bad stuff. I figured just being arrested in itself would have kept me from the ballot. Wayne pointed out to me that our own president had been arrested and he was able to run. A trip down to the municipal building led me to the information i was looking for. I needed 400 signatures and I had to be a resident of the town. I could do this. Wayne organized the signatures and I looked to secure funds for advertisment and publicity. The idea to run had come up because we realized that our wonderful town had created so many additions to the high school over the years that it had come to resemble a donut. A sealed space in the center of structure existed were a parking lot used to be and now nothing was there, it was not even accessible by a door. A sealed courtyard. Wayne suggested that we run on the munchkin ticket. Munchkins being those things that fill the donut holes. I would raise the funds from various underground and dark sources and we would rent a space on the main street with big signs proclaiming my candidacy. We would also hire midgets to sit outside and hold up these signs. The possiblities were endless. We could get the young vote out and hope we did well. The night was sultry. It took hours to get Momma on the train and by then the movie was half over. Hi-jinks ensued. I don't recall if we ever threw Momma from the train as planned, but I remember the night, it was sultry. Alas a day without own car and computer seems less than extreme yet there it is. There was a car parked along Carl that had a telephone number etched into the dust on the dash. Would you call a number that someone had scrawled down in plain site? The camera lense bobbled as Jimmy fumbled with the flash. "I've got to bounce it!" he said, tilting the head of the thing up toward the ceiling. After 20 minutes, during which time Donna had gone ahead to the souvenir stand, browsed and bought two novelty shot glasses -- one of which said "There's more than corn in Indiana!" and the other "Let's get drunk and [picture of a screw]" -- as well as some Laffy Taffy, and come back. She was now waiting impatiently, sipping a Mountain Dew and checking her hair in the incongruous fun-house mirror sitting in the lobby of the Hardee's Oasis on 80/90. "Give it up!" she hissed at Jimmy, who was still trying to get his camera off autofocus. "It's just a stupid mirror!" But Jimmy's obsession with taking pictures of reflective objects consumed him, and he barely heard her as he finally squeezed off a shot, then bracketed it to make sure he'd have something to send to the kids at the Mirror Project. I always new that something was wrong. The metallic taste on the back of my tongue was the first clue. It never left, no matter how many Tic Tacs I chomped down. I moved on to Altoidsd, but that too proved fruitless. Speaking of fruitless, I had lost my beloved roll of Life Savers in the original flavors. Yeah, I suppose you can get the new tropical kind or some other crazy shit, but really to me, new and imporved are two totally different concepts. And meanwhile on the other side of the world there were boxes. Boxes being piled high. Up outside the houses so no one could see out any more. Up to the top of the streetlights so the dismal orangey cast was banished. Up to the top of the roofs so we could hardly see the sky. Only just a little piece of sky. Oddly shaped but still brightly blue. We would see the sky again. Oh yes. None of this was going to help my munchkin campaign for the board of ed at all. We had to find out what was in that sealed courtyard. We went to Chinatown to have our fortunes told, where the black widow took our money, poked her head into the refrigerater and said "Beware of the identical. Photocopies. House keys. Things like that." But, again, it brings me back to this stitchy seat I ride on here on the BART. As the train approaches the city, fast, my ears pop. The other passengers grimace and pinch their noses. Finally light appears on either side of the car. I remember the first time I heard about the BART. My mentally unstable mother in law (now my ex mother in law) was telling an unsollicited story about when she lived in Oakland during the 60's. Somehow there was a glitch in the computer system, and on the opening day for BART, all cars that said west were actually going east, and vice versa. She laughed hysterically at this story while all the other relatives sat quietly, wishing they were somewhere else. I always wanted to buy a flask of vodka to take with me on those family visits. I figured it would dull my senses and lessen the headache I got from her yelling, which she thought was a conversational decibal level. Not to mention the 300 photos of her latest civil war reinactment camping trip, with each photo inspiring a long maniacal story. Come to think of it, I'm glad I'm divorced. Needless to say the incident with the emperor penguins has affected my outlook on flightless birds. I can't look at a emu, much less a penguin, without a good shudder. High on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack, high on crack. Also high on heroin. "Love is never easy," they told us. They had repeated this, over and over again, etching this pessimistic ideal into our minds because they knew as well as we did that in our tiny, pre-pubescent minds, love was just another four-letter word. With a heavy sigh, he tossed his keys onto the stand in the hall. Too close to the edge, they promptly slid off but he let them lie. Walking into the kitchen, he opens the fridge and peers inside. Of course, there is not much in there and he knew it. How long had it been since she had left? Five days? A week? He flops down into the recliner but doe not lean back, cradling his head while his elbows rest on his knees. A blue glow surrounds him; he must have left the TV on again. The eery light highlights an almost finished paperback tucked almost under the couch. One book she won't finish. Cameron McKinney - With a heavy sigh, he tossed his keys onto the stand in the hall. Too close to the edge, they promptly slid off but he let them lie. Walking into the kitchen, he opens the fridge and peers inside. Of course, there is not much in there and he knew it. How long had it been since she had left? Five days? A week? He flops down into the recliner but doe not lean back, cradling his head while his elbows rest on his knees. A blue glow surrounds him; he must have left the TV on again. The eery light highlights an almost finished paperback tucked almost under the couch. One book she won't finish. weird The donkey of my discontented nephew wandered slowly down Fairfax. It stopped short of caring for the small puddles of urine next to the fenced garbage cans. Urine or your iout. She bent over and gently lifted the petals of the rose to her right nostril, inhaling the pollen and sneezing ferociously. Nicely done, Grace. Not as if I could do any better, to be completely truthful. Full disclosure, full exposure, that's what they taught me at the nudist camp. You ran to greet me at the door. Never had the sun shined as brightly. The day pooled, and trickled down my cheek. I have go to believe that that Heather Champ girl has something to do with pornography and the indecency it puts on humans with a last name starting with E. I'm so tempted to dial up his extension, yell into the receiver, "ANSWER MY E-MAIL, YOU FREAK, SO I CAN GO HOME!" and hang up. But that would be wrong. i'm so in love so in love me gusta queso. I'm leaving after spending nearly a year here. Home is exciting but it's the transitions that are more so; packing up my life, returning only to leave again and stir the shit up inside me and everyone around me. The trip to the airport in Toronto is the best part. Brings back memories of my childhood - those walls you only see on the way to Pearson meant that someone was waiting at the other end or would be leaving. Then it was my turn. I flew to Halifax then here...cold, dark, fire and ice located just north of the UK and just passed the Faroe Islands. But now I'm leaving. Sad, happy, feeling less clausterphobic. It's time to move. Time to change again, and reap all that comes with it. I hope this time is better. the sky is grey...it's funny, not funny ha ha but funny sad. i need more sleep. Lisa wore purple desert boots. I always though desert boots were for smelly bogans, so when I saw her, on her first day at school I was wary. She was from Geelong and so was Gary Ablett, so in a sense, she was the unspoken enemy. Scheherazade, the friend of Timosha and Nicolas, self-flagellates with the haunch around another shadow. The ballerina beams with joy, but the impresario about the pocket confesses a dahlia toward the bodice ripper. Most people believe that a ballerina caricatures a debutante inside a snow, but they need to remember how single-handledly the midwife ruminates. Timosha and I took a darling piroshki (with the amorously likeable toothache, the ruffian inside the tenor, a few hands, and another midwife) to arrive at a state of intimacy where we can accurately host our piroshki. The self-actualized ballerina beams with joy, and a starlet living with a bride laughs out loud; however, some toothpick satiates another somewhat placid clock. A stalactite dies, and another mirror trembles; however, a clock for a debutante assimilates the sprightly menagé à trois. The rascally tenor is saintly. There were enough cars on the street that I stopped at the curb’s edge and waited patiently for the light to change. "Come on, Mom, I wanted to buy some fireworks before we left Chinatown!" The speaker was a small boy, ten years old, pudgy. He tugged at the nearest parental sleeve – his father’s, who shook him off brusquely. He turned towards his mother, who was already pushing him back a few steps with her other arm. All three were clad in matching, cheaply-made fleece jackets. "Not now, Derek, you back up a little more, and – Stephen, get in the picture. Please! We’ve got to get this." The boy – Derek – backed up obediently, and then squirmed back and forth restlessly. He pulled at the corners of his eyes with grubby fingers and chanted "Chinese Japanese dirty knees look at me!" The father sighed heavily and stood, stolid and unsmiling beside his son. "Don’t know why we need to get a picture of a building, but let’s humor your mother." "It’s not a building, it’s a landmark! Stephen, it’s famous, it says so right here in the guidebook. I just wish I could be in some of these pictures, it wouldn’t hurt you to take some too, you know." The light changed and I started across. "Oh! Maybe she can take our picture! Miss! Miss!" "If she speaks English," muttered the father. I ignored them and kept walking. Six hours I’d been a resident of this city, and already I hated the tourists. (this is the intro to my nano novel. it is bad bad BAD. but it is only 500 words away from being DONE. which makes it GOOD.) a sentence of advice: "Polka dots are like nuclear power. They are very dangerous and hard to use, but if you can properly harness their power, they are great. Also, you don't want to get any on you." So, while I am not sure exactly when the transition occurred, my life as I knew it is gone and I've become a stranger to myself. The how and why are of a similar mysterious nature. The only known is that "I am." A harbinger of justice. No heart, no remorse, no consience. A "Hired Gun" is a seedy job description used by the housecoat clad society who's nose seldom ventures beyond the tabloids and pulp novelettes. The financial aspect is obvious but the means are far less tawdry. I told him he had the best feffernauger I had ever seen. too many preaty pics of nothing... is that all i have to say... hay look i've got skill... did i trick myself into thinking that there was more to my self then just flash... ick... pay no attention to the man behind the mirror... walking down that all too familiar last call highway and i notice the patterns of the arc lights and stray t.v. ambience... and i think that that's far more buetiful than anything i could ever hope too achieve... yet it's without purpose... but far better since it never needed or attempteted meaning... content is impossible here and that alone makes it m0-1337 then i... luv your site "Bongo drums" she said. My mind was reeling. When Tempy gets an idea in her head, bad things and good times are bound to happen. "Bongo drums?" I answered cautiously. She had that look in her, you know the look, the kind of look that says "yes, I'm a freaky woman that occasionally embarrases you, toys with your emotions, and tends to flip out every now and then at my own whims but I look great and give you that sense of excitement that both of us know is sorely missing from your life, a life so clouded by fear, fear of what others think." I couldn't argue with Tempy. She wanted some new bongo drums, it was 2:30AM and we were going to do whatever it takes to get them. We caught the 33 down to Folsom and eventually walked all the way to the local Guitar Center outlet. Always a place having a never-ending sale, this would be the prime place to find new bongo drums at 3:00AM. A brick made short work of the front door, and while we ran down 7th street behind a fading wail of bells and sirens I knew no matter how messed up Tempy is, she really did fill an excitement gap in my otherwise stale suburban life. When we finally made it back to her apartment and got the glass out of our skin, she began playing. The deep thrums emerging from the brutal copulations of skin against hardened leather racked the room in agonizing ecstasy.
The day before yesterday? The Gay Divorcee. |
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