I can tell you now it wasn't fair. The way I was running, I could've ran into anyone like that. It really wasn't fair. I'm not saying I didn't believe in us, but the state I was in, I could've believed in anything, in anyone. I needed a place to be, some time to think and not think. I mean, Jesus Christ, I had just been through those murders. Real fuckin' murder! And it was even worse than that because I was pretty sure I knew something, something more than they did. I still do. But there's no sense getting into all of that. It's over now and I will never know what really happened. But to be honest, for a long time, I was pretty angry about it. I couldn't understand how no one in my family tried to help me in any way. I remember visiting my father and we were playing pool and all of a sudden I slid down to floor and started crying, clearly unable to grasp what was happening. All he said was, "Yeah, it's pretty unsettling". We talked a few minutes about it and then I sucked it up and we finished out our game. Anyway, it doesn't matter, I got over it. What the hell did I expect them to do anyway? I mean, that was some pretty fucked up shit. But then all that shit that went down with Lon and his family in Oklahoma. For Christ's sakes, how much can a man endure? They had become my new family, my rock. It destroyed me, watching them go down like that. I'm pretty sure I had gone insane. But who wouldn't have? Of course, I should never have taken that acid. What the hell's wrong with me? I will never know how much that had to do with it all. And before all of that, I had taken that trip up to Canada with Alan where I finally met the spirit woman. I still think about her all the time. You should've seen that woman. You looked at her and it was as if at any moment she could simply disappear. I have never once in my life seen eyes like that. She was over six foot tall and rail thin. Her hair was thick and black and it shot out in all directions like a giant fern. Her hands were huge and heavily callused. She lived alone and chopped all her own wood. I told you she sent me things telepathically, right? I don't care if you believe me or not, it happened. While I was there, she had taken me to the place where she did it from. It was a big circle of rocks in a clearing. It took us hours to canoe there. It was very important to her that she showed it to me. She had two huge wolves as pets, full blooded wolves. They went along with us in the canoes. Those wolves loved me. She said she had never seen anything like it. That was the thing, she said, the way they had taken such a liking to me. That's how she knew. I would catch her looking at me, sizing me up. I thought it was about something else she saw in me, some sort of spirituality thing I had going. But then the whole thing got weird that night when she climbed into bed with me. Her wolves climbed in too. You should've seen it, all of us up there in that strange loft in that cabin way out in those woods in the dead of winter. She took off all her clothes and pull me over to her. But there was no way I could do it. I told her I was sorry but I just couldn't do it. She was twice my age and the whole thing was just way too strange. Then that first night back in Oklahoma at Lon's, I remember being woken up by something and scrambling to find a pen and paper. I spent a good hour or so scribbling down all these equations. Page after page of equations with all the people in my life's names and words like, "air, water, moon, sun, fire, rock," places, colors, times, equal signs, greater and less than signs, etc,. I had no idea what any of it meant. And then the next morning she called. I have no idea how she got Lon's number. I guess Alan had it or something. But she called and asked me how my writing had been the night before. "How do you know I wrote something?" I asked her. She just started laughing. It was the last time I ever spoke to her. I remember Alan saying once that I really hurt her when I responded to a letter she had written me and I told her that I had met you and we were living together. I couldn't understand that either. I mean, what did I do? Why in the world did she ever think I was interested in her in that way? But that day after she called, I got another call. It was Sally. It was the first time I had spoken to her since we split up. She said the trial had gotten postponed. We both said we were sorry about everything. And she begged me to get out of Oklahoma, that Lon was a bad influence. I agreed. We didn't say much more. But it was good to hear her voice. I've always cared for her. We said bye and that was the last time we would ever speak. Everything had just turned so evil at Lon's, I decided to borrow one of his cars and I drove out to visit my mother and my sister in Lubbock. It was the worse thing I could've done. My mother was more fucked up than ever. That first night, my sister invited me over to have some beers with some of their friends. I had just gotten dressed and I opened my mother's door and caught her in her room crying and kicking the wall over and over again with her foot. "Mom, what's the matter?" I asked her.
"Just leave me alone, Philby. You don't understand. No one understands."
"What do you mean? What do I not understand?"
"You don't understand. This is the way it is."
"This is the way WHAT is?"
"Just go! Leave me alone. No one understands."
Anyway, I guess I'm starting to realize that I have never needed much from anyone. I can find almost anyone's good points and can make due with them. I knew I had to get back to New York. It was my only chance. I remember standing in Lon's bathroom after he threw the knife at me. I stood there for a long time, looking at myself in the mirror. I think I was still high on the acid. I started singing that Dylan line: "I'm going back to New York City, I do believe I've had enough." A couple days later I WAS back and I had already booked some modeling jobs. Then the next thing I know, there you were, sitting on my lap in that restaurant. Another whirlwind had begun. A new everything. We really had a lot of fun back then, didn't we? How could we have known it would turn as ugly as it did? It was when I started getting the poems published, wasn't it? I know. You couldn't deal with it. You couldn't deal with the cost of it. My divulgence was a mirror to your facade. For it turns out you were running too. Perhaps even harder than I was. I don't blame you anymore for the things you did. Not at all. I don't blame anyone anymore for anything. That's sort of where I'm at. My new thing. Okay, I guess that's all.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL
It was my brother who showed me. We were at home alone after school. All this time it had been in the bottom shelf of my father's gun cabinet, in the very back beneath some papers and boxes, half stuffed into one of those purple Crown Royal bags. I had always taken my father's rifles and shotguns out to play around with, but there was something different about it, something more mysterious, more exciting, more evil. "It's a .357," he told me, tilting it in the light. "Don't you ever touch it! It'll blow your fucking head off!"
"Is it loaded?"
"Fuck no. He keeps the bullets somewhere in the garage."
"Can I hold it?"
"No! Don't you ever fucking touch it, you hear me?" He slid the nose back in the bag and put it back in the drawer. "I shouldn't have shown you," he said, closing the drawer. "You tell mom or dad and I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass!"
The next day after school, I was at home alone. I went over to the drawer and pulled it open. I took out the papers and boxes and looked at it. It looked bigger than I remembered. I ran over to the front window and made sure no one had driven up. I ran back, reached in, and picked it up. It was heavy. My wrist buckled over a bit with the weight. I removed the bag and stared at it. I got nervous and quickly put it back.
The following day after school, I was alone again. I opened the drawer and took it out. I wasn't as nervous. I held it with more authority. I began pointing it at things. I walked around with it. I went over the sliding glass door and pointed it at our two dogs. I pretended to shoot them, first Molly then Babe. I made the noise and pretended to feel the gun kick back. I smiled. Babe and Molly just starred back at me, wagging their tails as they whimpered through the glass. I heard something and quickly ran over and put it back.
My mother went back into the hospital with another infection. Darkness crept back into our home. My father would come home from work, miserable, and would be on the phone for hours with doctors and friends and family. I stayed with friends a lot. But whenever I found myself home alone, I would always go and get the gun out. I began to contemplate shooting myself. The thought of it made me happy, the way people would have to think of me and feel sorry for me and how sad and hopeless they would feel, standing around my grave. I figured out how to make the chamber fall out where the bullets went. I began to put it up to my temple. I stuck to the barrel into my mouth. I would imagine the blast and what it would feel like and what it would do to me. I wanted so much to pull the trigger but I never did because I remembered how my father had said it would damage a gun if you ever pulled the trigger without any ammo. I was too afraid to even cock it.
Then one day I was digging around through my father's desk, looking for his Hustler magazine. I could see the pages curled up at the back of the drawer but I couldn't quite grab it. I kept reaching but then my fingers came to a small heavy box. I grabbed it and pulled it out. It was a green box filled with bullets. On the side it said, "Remington .357". I ran over to the cabinet with the box of bullets and got the gun. I took out a bullet and opened the chamber. I let the bullet drop in and flipped it shut. I felt dizzy. My head felt like it was filled with sand. I sat on my knees, looking at the six sheets of sunlight shooting in through the panes of yellow glass on the front door. Hundreds of tiny dust particles floated around in that golden light. I thought about my mother. I could see her perfectly in my mind, the way she used to be before she had gotten sick. She was cooking dinner in the kitchen, looking at me, smiling. I brought the gun up to my temple. I held it there with my finger on the trigger. I held it there and began to cry.
"Is it loaded?"
"Fuck no. He keeps the bullets somewhere in the garage."
"Can I hold it?"
"No! Don't you ever fucking touch it, you hear me?" He slid the nose back in the bag and put it back in the drawer. "I shouldn't have shown you," he said, closing the drawer. "You tell mom or dad and I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass!"
The next day after school, I was at home alone. I went over to the drawer and pulled it open. I took out the papers and boxes and looked at it. It looked bigger than I remembered. I ran over to the front window and made sure no one had driven up. I ran back, reached in, and picked it up. It was heavy. My wrist buckled over a bit with the weight. I removed the bag and stared at it. I got nervous and quickly put it back.
The following day after school, I was alone again. I opened the drawer and took it out. I wasn't as nervous. I held it with more authority. I began pointing it at things. I walked around with it. I went over the sliding glass door and pointed it at our two dogs. I pretended to shoot them, first Molly then Babe. I made the noise and pretended to feel the gun kick back. I smiled. Babe and Molly just starred back at me, wagging their tails as they whimpered through the glass. I heard something and quickly ran over and put it back.
My mother went back into the hospital with another infection. Darkness crept back into our home. My father would come home from work, miserable, and would be on the phone for hours with doctors and friends and family. I stayed with friends a lot. But whenever I found myself home alone, I would always go and get the gun out. I began to contemplate shooting myself. The thought of it made me happy, the way people would have to think of me and feel sorry for me and how sad and hopeless they would feel, standing around my grave. I figured out how to make the chamber fall out where the bullets went. I began to put it up to my temple. I stuck to the barrel into my mouth. I would imagine the blast and what it would feel like and what it would do to me. I wanted so much to pull the trigger but I never did because I remembered how my father had said it would damage a gun if you ever pulled the trigger without any ammo. I was too afraid to even cock it.
Then one day I was digging around through my father's desk, looking for his Hustler magazine. I could see the pages curled up at the back of the drawer but I couldn't quite grab it. I kept reaching but then my fingers came to a small heavy box. I grabbed it and pulled it out. It was a green box filled with bullets. On the side it said, "Remington .357". I ran over to the cabinet with the box of bullets and got the gun. I took out a bullet and opened the chamber. I let the bullet drop in and flipped it shut. I felt dizzy. My head felt like it was filled with sand. I sat on my knees, looking at the six sheets of sunlight shooting in through the panes of yellow glass on the front door. Hundreds of tiny dust particles floated around in that golden light. I thought about my mother. I could see her perfectly in my mind, the way she used to be before she had gotten sick. She was cooking dinner in the kitchen, looking at me, smiling. I brought the gun up to my temple. I held it there with my finger on the trigger. I held it there and began to cry.
MY 2 CENTS ON THE NEWTOWN SHOOTING
I've lived and have travelled many times all over Europe and let me tell ya, their youth is just as violent, if not more, than ours. They fight like monkeys over there at the drop of a hat. My firm belief is that a lot of this stuff has to do with the overall loss and lack of culture and meaning our modern world has brought us in which troubled, abused, often mentally disturbed children grow up in only to become lost, angry, POWERLESS, adolescents who are drowning in an ever worsening void. To me it is clear that it is this emptiness, this powerlessness, this frustration, that under the right (wrong) circumstances, over time, creates such "evil". Throw in violent video games which they often play all alone for hours at a time, perhaps the only time their minds are allowed to drift into a state of creativity, and add ridicule and mockery of others, as well as a stunted state of puberty. Now toss all of this into a twisted world painted almost entirely through agenda driven media. Oh, and let's not forget that in most instances, there is also that lazy, arrogant, irresponsible layer of pharmaceutical drugs corroding their fragile circuitry. Okay, so you've got all of that... I know, why not go ahead and top the whole thing off with a big bright cherry of powerful, high tech, high capacity, easily accessible weaponry? Basically, in my eyes, technology is outpacing our wiring. Where are the great philosophers to help us through this shit? Where's the reason behind all this bullshit we've allowed to become our reality? In our most mundane day there is hardly a movement we make that isn't profitable to someone. And that is my 2 cents.
Monday, December 17, 2012
THE OK CORRAL
Whenever I hear people whining about the 2cd Amendment and the right to bear arms, the following story always comes to mind: About 35 years ago back in good old Altus, Oklahoma, my father and his best friend, Larry Meadows, were sitting side by side on the big long bench on our back porch. As usual, a couple dozen cans of Coors original were stacked in a pyramid beside them. I'm sure they were "talkin' pussy and tellin' lies" as my father always put it. At some point the discussion turned to the fact that Larry's office had just been broken into again. Larry owned a real estate company which he ran out of a small wooden house he converted into an office. It was either a Friday or a Saturday night. The sun was going down and they were out of beer. "Hey Fonzie," said Larry. He called my father "Fonzie" or "Fonzerelli" or "the Fonz" because he looked to him like Henry Winkler on Happy Days. "Fonzie," he said, "whadya say we go stake it out?"
"What do you mean?"
"Let's get our guns and stake it out."
"I don't know Meadas."
"We'll just scare 'em. They're probably just a couple of kids." My father killed the last of his beer and burped. "Let's don't and say we did," he said, placing the last can on top of the stack.
"Come on, I'll buy the beer."
Half hour later they had slipped in through the back door of Larry's office. My father decided against bringing a gun but Larry had his 20 gage filled with birdshot. They were sitting on a couple of stools in the dark when Larry leapt up with his gun. He raced to the back door and then to the front. "What the hell are you doin', Larry?" said my father.
Larry reached up, put a hand on the knob, and slowly turned it. "Larry, you're crazy, what the...." was the last thing my father got out.
Larry flung the door open and stepped out into the darkness with his shotgun high across his chest, the barrel pointing up to the sky. "HALT OR I'LL BLOW YOUR GODDAMN FUCKING ASS OFF!" are the exact words Larry said. Many guns opened fire. Larry's gun went off just as he was blown back into the doorway. My father hit the deck and began crawling over to Larry who was screaming in pain. Lights came on and the bullets and shot kept flying, tearing through the furniture and walls. My father reached Larry and pulled him by his shoulders over to the desk. Finally, the shooting stopped. "This is the police! Come out with your hands up!" My father left Larry bleeding on the floor and walked out with his hands up. It turned out someone had seen them go in and called the police, thinking they were burglars. Larry was lucky, he only got shot with a 38 in the forearm and then high up on his thigh with a 30 ot. But they charged him with attempting to kill police officers. Larry was on the city council and personally knew the Sheriff and the other officers. But every one of them lied in court and said they had turned on their headlights and identified themselves BEFORE Larry came out like that with the shotgun. It broke his heart. The story made national news. Larry was eventually acquitted partly due to my father's testimony. To me, the moral of the story is FUCK GUNS! But then without guns we wouldn't have this wonderful story now would we?
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
A NICE LITTLE NIGHTCAP WITH JIM VERMEULEN
"It's like I just want to let all this shit just spill out of me (holding his belly, shaking it) like FLUMPTHHHH and let it all just fall out onto the floor all steaming and shit. It's all gonna happen, like all this stuff, it's all gonna turn to gush and it's just gonna start falling and it's gonna hang down and it's just gonna keep falling and it's all just gonna be hanging there, all this stuff, it's gonna just be hanging there and your skin's gonna pull away from your bones and your bones are gonna protrude and everything's just gonna drop and all this stuff is gonna start oozin' out of you and then your asshole (Haha), your asshole is gonna start slippin' away (hand gesturing with one hand making an okay sign representing an asshole to help show me how he thinks it will look when a person's asshole pulls away)..."
"(Haha) I know! And all that shit's gonna turn to goo and then it's gonna harden and shit. It's all gonna be this hardened goo!"
"Oooh, hardened goo (Haha)!"
"It's like you just want to get it over with, right?"
"Yeah (haha)!
"Dude, I totally understand that. Like fuck it, it's gonna happen anyway."
"Exactly! Hey, you want anymore of this?"
"Sure."
Monday, December 10, 2012
AN ENVISIONING OF DOUG (MY BROTHER) AND I AT THE BAR IF HE MAKES IT HERE NEXT WEEKEND LIKE HE SAYS AND I AM ABLE TO TAKE OFF WORK
"Dude, I can't believe you wrote that shit in a poem! Mom never tried to cut off one of her titties."
"Yeah she did!"
"No she didn't. I'm telling you. I don't know where you got that from."
"Hmmm, really? I coulda sworn she did. Let's call her when we get home."
"(Haha) Alright."
"Man, everything's just so fuckin' fucked up. I don't know. I mean, how the hell does anyone do this shit anymore? I can't fucking do anything. Really, I can't believe things work as well as they do. Look at these fucking idiots over there by the jukebox. Watch, I guarantee you it's going to be something like Radiohead or Tool or some shit."
"I thought you liked Radiohead?"
"No, I do, sort of, but I would never like play that shit in here."
"Dude, that bartender's pregnant."
"Yeah."
"Man, that's fuckin' sad."
"Yeah, I guess. I don't know, everything's sad..."
"So you're just done modeling?"
"Yeah, it looks that way."
"But you could go back if you wanted?"
"Probably, but it would be a fuckin' feat... Hey, remember when I had that big ring around my penis?"
"(Haha) Yeah. What the fuck WAS that?"
"I don't know. Dad didn't even take me to the doctor."
"No, he called Dr. Holman. He said it was something common."
"Have you ever heard of anything like that?"
"(Haha) No."
"Yeah, you guys just stood there, looking at me in the tub. You pointed at my penis and you went: "Is it always that small?"
"(Haha) I DID?"
"Yeah, and then Dad laughed too. Dude, I was like 7 or 8 years old. Mom was like dying in some hospital somewhere."
"She wasn't dying."
"Yeah she was! That's when she had that infection. They were gonna cut off her leg."
"No, dude, that happened later. She was just depressed then."
"Really?"
"Yeah. (Haha) But that is some funny fuckin' shit. It looked like you had a donut stuck around your penis."
"I know (Haha). Hey, you know, I Googled rectal slough the other day. Isn't that what Dad said it was called when he shat his asshole out."
"(Haha) I don't know. Man, I can't believe that fucker shat his asshole out!"
"I KNOW! But there's no term, rectal slough."
"There isn't?"
"No."
"(Haha) Didn't he drive himself to the emergency room?"
"(Haha) Yeah."
"(Haha) Oh, man, fuck."
"Dude, look at these fuckin' people in here. I mean, what the fuck, man? I got this new problem these days."
"What?"
"It's like whenever I'm talking to someone, I just start thinking about all these things. Like say I'm talking to some dude I know at the grocery store or something, just normal shit, ya know. I'll start envisioning him jacking off or wiping his ass you know, bringing it up and smelling it..."
"(Haha) What? You're fucked up!"
"No, man, it's like fucking debilitating. I mean I literally can't be around people without constantly trying to envision what their dicks and pussies look like. I mean you gotta like talk to people about all this fuckin' bullshit but then we're all so fucked up. I mean people piss on each other and lick each other's assholes and shit. Women drink cum and then they kiss their children. Think about what men do when they're left alone. They get on some porn site and they whimper and moan. They finger their own assholes and jack off into the sink or into a dirty sock they found on the floor. I mean people must cry like little fucking babies when they're left alone. We're not fit for this world. But then everyone holds down these stupid fucking jobs and they pay their mortgage and file their goddamn taxes and shit. You gotta go the dentist and get your eyes checked and shit. Like I had to go reregister the fucking car the other day. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ. You gotta go stand in line with all these goddamn creatures. It's a fuckin' hell on earth. I just don't get it. You'd think people would lose it more. You'd think people would be blowin' their goddamn heads off left and right. I don't get it. We should be stepping over bodies every time we walk down the fucking street."
"(Haha) Fuck, dude."
"I mean it, man."
"(Haha) I know you do! That's what's so fucking funny!"
"Do you think I'm that far off? People think I'm fuckin' crazy. I mean they just dismiss me like that."
"No, I don't. It IS that fucked up. It's just that you say it."
"Oh, fuck."
"What?"
"It's Dylan. Those fuckers played Dylan."
"Oh yeah."
"Yeah she did!"
"No she didn't. I'm telling you. I don't know where you got that from."
"Hmmm, really? I coulda sworn she did. Let's call her when we get home."
"(Haha) Alright."
"Man, everything's just so fuckin' fucked up. I don't know. I mean, how the hell does anyone do this shit anymore? I can't fucking do anything. Really, I can't believe things work as well as they do. Look at these fucking idiots over there by the jukebox. Watch, I guarantee you it's going to be something like Radiohead or Tool or some shit."
"I thought you liked Radiohead?"
"No, I do, sort of, but I would never like play that shit in here."
"Dude, that bartender's pregnant."
"Yeah."
"Man, that's fuckin' sad."
"Yeah, I guess. I don't know, everything's sad..."
"So you're just done modeling?"
"Yeah, it looks that way."
"But you could go back if you wanted?"
"Probably, but it would be a fuckin' feat... Hey, remember when I had that big ring around my penis?"
"(Haha) Yeah. What the fuck WAS that?"
"I don't know. Dad didn't even take me to the doctor."
"No, he called Dr. Holman. He said it was something common."
"Have you ever heard of anything like that?"
"(Haha) No."
"Yeah, you guys just stood there, looking at me in the tub. You pointed at my penis and you went: "Is it always that small?"
"(Haha) I DID?"
"Yeah, and then Dad laughed too. Dude, I was like 7 or 8 years old. Mom was like dying in some hospital somewhere."
"She wasn't dying."
"Yeah she was! That's when she had that infection. They were gonna cut off her leg."
"No, dude, that happened later. She was just depressed then."
"Really?"
"Yeah. (Haha) But that is some funny fuckin' shit. It looked like you had a donut stuck around your penis."
"I know (Haha). Hey, you know, I Googled rectal slough the other day. Isn't that what Dad said it was called when he shat his asshole out."
"(Haha) I don't know. Man, I can't believe that fucker shat his asshole out!"
"I KNOW! But there's no term, rectal slough."
"There isn't?"
"No."
"(Haha) Didn't he drive himself to the emergency room?"
"(Haha) Yeah."
"(Haha) Oh, man, fuck."
"Dude, look at these fuckin' people in here. I mean, what the fuck, man? I got this new problem these days."
"What?"
"It's like whenever I'm talking to someone, I just start thinking about all these things. Like say I'm talking to some dude I know at the grocery store or something, just normal shit, ya know. I'll start envisioning him jacking off or wiping his ass you know, bringing it up and smelling it..."
"(Haha) What? You're fucked up!"
"No, man, it's like fucking debilitating. I mean I literally can't be around people without constantly trying to envision what their dicks and pussies look like. I mean you gotta like talk to people about all this fuckin' bullshit but then we're all so fucked up. I mean people piss on each other and lick each other's assholes and shit. Women drink cum and then they kiss their children. Think about what men do when they're left alone. They get on some porn site and they whimper and moan. They finger their own assholes and jack off into the sink or into a dirty sock they found on the floor. I mean people must cry like little fucking babies when they're left alone. We're not fit for this world. But then everyone holds down these stupid fucking jobs and they pay their mortgage and file their goddamn taxes and shit. You gotta go the dentist and get your eyes checked and shit. Like I had to go reregister the fucking car the other day. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ. You gotta go stand in line with all these goddamn creatures. It's a fuckin' hell on earth. I just don't get it. You'd think people would lose it more. You'd think people would be blowin' their goddamn heads off left and right. I don't get it. We should be stepping over bodies every time we walk down the fucking street."
"(Haha) Fuck, dude."
"I mean it, man."
"(Haha) I know you do! That's what's so fucking funny!"
"Do you think I'm that far off? People think I'm fuckin' crazy. I mean they just dismiss me like that."
"No, I don't. It IS that fucked up. It's just that you say it."
"Oh, fuck."
"What?"
"It's Dylan. Those fuckers played Dylan."
"Oh yeah."
Saturday, December 8, 2012
HOW 'BOUT TACOS?
"Look, man, I've been right where you're at. You know, you can do one of two things. Either surrender to it completely, finally, you know, all that crossroads shit, or you can do what I did and just say fuck it, and turn your back on it and everything else. But you have to take some sort of stand against it."
"Against what, existence?"
"Yeah. I mean look around you. Can you name one person that you are in any way envious of?"
"No, not at all."
"Exactly. That's really where it begins. And yet you yourself are a fuckin miserable wreck. I mean you're fucking worthless. How long do you think you can go on like this? But here's the fucking shit of it, man. It only gets worse. I'm serious, all those anxieties you have, you think they're crippling you now? Wait until you really take a stand. Trust me, man, I know. The truth is, all the evil you could ever imagine is alive and well inside of all of us. It moves around like the weather. I really don't like to call it evil but there's really no other word. Look, you know all of this shit. Under the right circumstances, anything is possible, right? It really doesn't take much of an imagination to conceive of your own mother murdering you."
"Yeah, no."
"But your deal is you like to write. It brings you something. I never really had that. You know, I liked to paint, and I used to make a good living off my paintings, but I could easily live without it. You'd think it would be such a simple thing. You just like to sit and be left alone so you can see what happens. But it's not that easy, is it? To write, to really fuckin' write, man, I don't know. I don't know if it's ever really worth it."
"Yeah, ya know, it's funny, I meet all sorts of writers around here. I read some of their shit and I don't know, I just couldn't imagine anything worse for them to be doing. It's just, it's, I don't know... And some of them are really pretty good but it's like, it just couldn't be more pointless. They're like little moths fluttering around the light."
"Yeah, well, it's a new time, it's a new world. It happens every so often but I don't think it's ever happened like this, not at this level. All those things that used to work, they'll never come close to ever working again. It's over for almost everything, for nearly everyone. Who knows what it's going to be now? But it's gonna have to be something, some sort of energy's gonna have to move in. And never have we had so little to go on. It's hysterical, really, I mean, watching all these people still trying, still thinking what they're doing has a chance. Especially around here, right? But, you know, either way, it's gonna have to be a total surrender. Either way you're gonna have to be braver than you've ever been. There's no gettin' around it, you're gonna have to jump off the bridge. I really think you can do it, brother. I think you might be the one. It's pretty cool to see. It's like the Gods have been grooming you for it all this time. But then I think, you know, you're just too nice of a guy."
"Yeah, I don't know, man... Hey, so where do you wanna go? What about the Thai place?"
"I ate there yesterday."
"The Hop?"
"Yeah, I don't know, I don't really wanna drink."
"How 'bout tacos?"
"Against what, existence?"
"Yeah. I mean look around you. Can you name one person that you are in any way envious of?"
"No, not at all."
"Exactly. That's really where it begins. And yet you yourself are a fuckin miserable wreck. I mean you're fucking worthless. How long do you think you can go on like this? But here's the fucking shit of it, man. It only gets worse. I'm serious, all those anxieties you have, you think they're crippling you now? Wait until you really take a stand. Trust me, man, I know. The truth is, all the evil you could ever imagine is alive and well inside of all of us. It moves around like the weather. I really don't like to call it evil but there's really no other word. Look, you know all of this shit. Under the right circumstances, anything is possible, right? It really doesn't take much of an imagination to conceive of your own mother murdering you."
"Yeah, no."
"But your deal is you like to write. It brings you something. I never really had that. You know, I liked to paint, and I used to make a good living off my paintings, but I could easily live without it. You'd think it would be such a simple thing. You just like to sit and be left alone so you can see what happens. But it's not that easy, is it? To write, to really fuckin' write, man, I don't know. I don't know if it's ever really worth it."
"Yeah, ya know, it's funny, I meet all sorts of writers around here. I read some of their shit and I don't know, I just couldn't imagine anything worse for them to be doing. It's just, it's, I don't know... And some of them are really pretty good but it's like, it just couldn't be more pointless. They're like little moths fluttering around the light."
"Yeah, well, it's a new time, it's a new world. It happens every so often but I don't think it's ever happened like this, not at this level. All those things that used to work, they'll never come close to ever working again. It's over for almost everything, for nearly everyone. Who knows what it's going to be now? But it's gonna have to be something, some sort of energy's gonna have to move in. And never have we had so little to go on. It's hysterical, really, I mean, watching all these people still trying, still thinking what they're doing has a chance. Especially around here, right? But, you know, either way, it's gonna have to be a total surrender. Either way you're gonna have to be braver than you've ever been. There's no gettin' around it, you're gonna have to jump off the bridge. I really think you can do it, brother. I think you might be the one. It's pretty cool to see. It's like the Gods have been grooming you for it all this time. But then I think, you know, you're just too nice of a guy."
"Yeah, I don't know, man... Hey, so where do you wanna go? What about the Thai place?"
"I ate there yesterday."
"The Hop?"
"Yeah, I don't know, I don't really wanna drink."
"How 'bout tacos?"
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
PAINTING THE NURSERY
"You think it needs another coat?"
"I think it looks good. But what about those white parts over there?"
"No, I was just gonna leave it like that. Hey, when we get on that new insurance, I think I need to talk to somebody."
"We already are."
"No, I mean just me. Now that I'm sober, I'm getting these equations again in my head. Like time and energy. They're sort of like graphs or charts. Like Oklahoma is a graph, like a line on a page."
"You're sober but you got high last night?"
"No, I'm serious."
"Hmmm, don't you think those beams would look amazing painted white?"
"I'm not painting the beams! I'll paint the brick but I'm not painting those beams!"
"Maybe this should be our room? I can't believe I didn't think of that. Don't you think it should be our room?"
"It's too small, the bed would barely fit."
"Really?"
"Hey, if you found a video tape of your parents fucking, wouldn't you watch it?"
"I'm not talking to you anymore."
"I mean, from way back in the day, like maybe 20 or 30 years ago. You wouldn't watch it? Come on, you'd watch it."
"Don't talk to me."
Friday, November 30, 2012
2 DUDES AND THE CHEF AT THE BAR
CHEF:"Cornhole, dude! You throw the little beanbag through the hole."
DUDE 1: "Oh, yeah yeah yeah."
DUDE 2: "Dude, you're from Oklahoma. Isn't that like chess for you guys?"
DUDE 1: "Oh, man, we would just have Mom get on her hands and knees, naked, and try to get it in her butthole."
CHEF: "Um, okay."
DUDE 2: "Hmmm. Good one, bro."
DUDE 1: "Shit (haha). I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just fuckin' bombin' left and right today... So, hey, where's this bar again?"
DUDE 2: "Chicago, bro."
CHEF: "Yeah, it's right there on Fulton Street."
DUDE 1: "Do they even make much money there?"
CHEF: "Are you kidding? They're probably the best bartenders in the world. Each bartender works their own drink station. They break up all the drinks so each station's designated to certain cocktails. Everything's right there within reach. They don't have to take a step. They have something like 40 different kinds of ice. They're basically chefs really."
DUDE 2: "Molly was in Chicago last weekend. I told her to go but she said there was like a 3 hour wait. She said the line went like all the way down the block."
CHEF: "Hey, I'd wait it that line."
DUDE 1: "How much are the drinks?"
CHEF: "They start around $15. So $15 to say, $40."
DUDE 2: "Hey, what was that bar in Japan you posted yesterday? I looked at the time and it was like over 5 minutes or something."
DUDE 1: "Oh yeah. That just was for 2 drinks!"
CHEF: "Oh that's nothing. Some drinks at the Avery take them like 8 to 10 minutes to make. But, you know, you've gotta like that sort of thing. You don't go in there to hang out with your friends. And the bartenders don't even take your orders."
DUDE 1: "What, they just get a ticket?"
CHEF: "Yeah, they won't even talk to you. They can't."
DUDE 2: "Hey, I get it. I can appreciate the molecular side of things."
CHEF: "Yeah, I like the science behind it. I like to break things down that way. It forces you to learn the reasons why you're doing something. Most cooks have no idea. They were just taught to do something a certain way but they don't really know why."
DUDE 1: "Yeah, I don't see how they make much money there. Hey, what if you went in there drunk and like ordered a Jager Bomb or something (haha)?"
CHEF: "No, they won't even make a cosmo. I don't even think they have beer. Just what's on the cocktail menu. They don't allow any substitutions."
DUDE 1: "Yeah, but that would be pretty fuckin' funny though (haha), you walk in there all drunk and shit, you know..."
CHEF: "I heard they're hiring."
DUDE 1: "Shit."
CHEF: "Hey, listen, I gotta go. I still gotta get all my orders in."
DUDE 2: "Yeah, you go, get those orders in."
CHEF: "Okay, see you, gentlemen."
DUDE 1: "See ya, brother."
DUDE 2: "Take it easy... So dude, where did you see this picture again?"
DUDE 1: "Oh, man. You don't wanna see it. No one should see it. But all you gotta do is Google headless girl in Syria. It's fucking horrific. She's in this little dress with white stalkings. It must've happened on a day of worship or something. It's weird. There's not much blood on her dress. Just a few little drops here and there."
DUDE 2: "So what, it's like a can of beans up there."
DUDE 1: "Oh, man, it's like an open jar of jelly or something. But you gotta look at her hands. These perfect little hands. She's probably only like 3 or 4 years old. Her father's holding her up. I can hardly talk about it without crying. I don't know, it's almost beautiful, ya know. I can't stop looking at it. I've been looking at it almost every day."
DUDE 2: "What's the expression on her father's face? Like is he like?..."
DUDE 1: "Dude, it's just... I don't know, man. I looked at it again just before I left the house."
DUDE 2: "Why do you do that to yourself?"
DUDE 2: "I don't know."
DUDE 1: "Oh, yeah yeah yeah."
DUDE 2: "Dude, you're from Oklahoma. Isn't that like chess for you guys?"
DUDE 1: "Oh, man, we would just have Mom get on her hands and knees, naked, and try to get it in her butthole."
CHEF: "Um, okay."
DUDE 2: "Hmmm. Good one, bro."
DUDE 1: "Shit (haha). I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just fuckin' bombin' left and right today... So, hey, where's this bar again?"
DUDE 2: "Chicago, bro."
CHEF: "Yeah, it's right there on Fulton Street."
DUDE 1: "Do they even make much money there?"
CHEF: "Are you kidding? They're probably the best bartenders in the world. Each bartender works their own drink station. They break up all the drinks so each station's designated to certain cocktails. Everything's right there within reach. They don't have to take a step. They have something like 40 different kinds of ice. They're basically chefs really."
DUDE 2: "Molly was in Chicago last weekend. I told her to go but she said there was like a 3 hour wait. She said the line went like all the way down the block."
CHEF: "Hey, I'd wait it that line."
DUDE 1: "How much are the drinks?"
CHEF: "They start around $15. So $15 to say, $40."
DUDE 2: "Hey, what was that bar in Japan you posted yesterday? I looked at the time and it was like over 5 minutes or something."
DUDE 1: "Oh yeah. That just was for 2 drinks!"
CHEF: "Oh that's nothing. Some drinks at the Avery take them like 8 to 10 minutes to make. But, you know, you've gotta like that sort of thing. You don't go in there to hang out with your friends. And the bartenders don't even take your orders."
DUDE 1: "What, they just get a ticket?"
CHEF: "Yeah, they won't even talk to you. They can't."
DUDE 2: "Hey, I get it. I can appreciate the molecular side of things."
CHEF: "Yeah, I like the science behind it. I like to break things down that way. It forces you to learn the reasons why you're doing something. Most cooks have no idea. They were just taught to do something a certain way but they don't really know why."
DUDE 1: "Yeah, I don't see how they make much money there. Hey, what if you went in there drunk and like ordered a Jager Bomb or something (haha)?"
CHEF: "No, they won't even make a cosmo. I don't even think they have beer. Just what's on the cocktail menu. They don't allow any substitutions."
DUDE 1: "Yeah, but that would be pretty fuckin' funny though (haha), you walk in there all drunk and shit, you know..."
CHEF: "I heard they're hiring."
DUDE 1: "Shit."
CHEF: "Hey, listen, I gotta go. I still gotta get all my orders in."
DUDE 2: "Yeah, you go, get those orders in."
CHEF: "Okay, see you, gentlemen."
DUDE 1: "See ya, brother."
DUDE 2: "Take it easy... So dude, where did you see this picture again?"
DUDE 1: "Oh, man. You don't wanna see it. No one should see it. But all you gotta do is Google headless girl in Syria. It's fucking horrific. She's in this little dress with white stalkings. It must've happened on a day of worship or something. It's weird. There's not much blood on her dress. Just a few little drops here and there."
DUDE 2: "So what, it's like a can of beans up there."
DUDE 1: "Oh, man, it's like an open jar of jelly or something. But you gotta look at her hands. These perfect little hands. She's probably only like 3 or 4 years old. Her father's holding her up. I can hardly talk about it without crying. I don't know, it's almost beautiful, ya know. I can't stop looking at it. I've been looking at it almost every day."
DUDE 2: "What's the expression on her father's face? Like is he like?..."
DUDE 1: "Dude, it's just... I don't know, man. I looked at it again just before I left the house."
DUDE 2: "Why do you do that to yourself?"
DUDE 2: "I don't know."
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The Pilot
A well groomed airline pilot (Captain, distinguished looking, late 50s, thick mustache) in a stall in the bathroom. His black rolling suitcase is on the floor beside him, his hat resting upon it. He is leaning against the wall with a hand up over his brow, wincing in anguish.
CAPTION: "I'm just so goddamn fuckin' fucked up!"
CAPTION: "I'm just so goddamn fuckin' fucked up!"
UPS MAN
A UPS man (rather handsome, mid 40s, sandy blonde hair, fit, wiry, muscly forearms) driving his big brown truck through an L.A. neighborhood. He's speeding around a corner, shifting gears, leaning into the turn with a half smoked cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
CAPTION: "Yeah, ya know, I just couldn't take it anymore. Remember in Jaws where they keep shooting the shark with those barrels? That's exactly what it felt like. Here I was trying to dive down deep and they just kept harpooning me with these goddamn barrels. Trying to raise a family, ya know, trying to do the right thing while you're trying to be a writer... It's pretty much impossible. I guess I just wasn't enough of a shark. Anyway, I was pretty lucky to get this job. I don't even think about writing anymore."
CAPTION: "Yeah, ya know, I just couldn't take it anymore. Remember in Jaws where they keep shooting the shark with those barrels? That's exactly what it felt like. Here I was trying to dive down deep and they just kept harpooning me with these goddamn barrels. Trying to raise a family, ya know, trying to do the right thing while you're trying to be a writer... It's pretty much impossible. I guess I just wasn't enough of a shark. Anyway, I was pretty lucky to get this job. I don't even think about writing anymore."
Monday, November 26, 2012
OLD BEARDED MAN
An old bearded man in loose, matching, soft fiber cotton shirt and pants walking leisurely through a well maintained garden or park. Lots of healthy birds and squirrels, puffy white clouds in an otherwise perfect blue sky. He's wearing sandals and walks with his hands clasped behind his back, a gentle modern monk fully embracing the golden years of his life.
CAPTION: "In all my years living on this planet, I have cultivated only two talents. First of all, from say around my mid twenties on, upon first sight of a woman, I can predict with absolute certainty not only what her pussy looks like but what she herself looks and sounds like if and when she becomes angry. I'm sure you could imagine the value of this. Then I also have this incredible ability to sniff out a fraudulent moment. But then over time I've come to realize that it's really not all that helpful as there are always too many unknowable factors to consider when it comes to people. You just never know what's working upon them at any given time. Yeah, when it's all said and done, I'd say people are simply animals. If you can accept this, there's really nothing more to it."
CAPTION: "In all my years living on this planet, I have cultivated only two talents. First of all, from say around my mid twenties on, upon first sight of a woman, I can predict with absolute certainty not only what her pussy looks like but what she herself looks and sounds like if and when she becomes angry. I'm sure you could imagine the value of this. Then I also have this incredible ability to sniff out a fraudulent moment. But then over time I've come to realize that it's really not all that helpful as there are always too many unknowable factors to consider when it comes to people. You just never know what's working upon them at any given time. Yeah, when it's all said and done, I'd say people are simply animals. If you can accept this, there's really nothing more to it."
Saturday, November 24, 2012
HIPSTER DUDES
Two sets of full on hipster dudes, late 20s/early 30s, all 4 men equally ridiculous and obvious in their carefully considered attempts to define themselves through grooming and attire. We are on a sidewalk at dusk in Brooklyn. Two of the men (Set One) are standing outside the door of a dive bar, rolling cigarettes, while the other set (Set Two) has just walked by them, deeply engrossed in conversation.
SET TWO (Either man): "Exactly, dude! It's just like religion. There's no place for truth in anything unless there's discussion and argument,... dissent!"
SET ONE (Either man): "I fuckin' hate hipsters."
SET TWO (Either man): "Exactly, dude! It's just like religion. There's no place for truth in anything unless there's discussion and argument,... dissent!"
SET ONE (Either man): "I fuckin' hate hipsters."
Monday, November 19, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
AN EXAMPLE OF ONE OF THE COUNTLESS CARTOONS I WOULD BE SUBMITTING TO PLAYBOY OR PENTHOUSE OR MAYBE HUSTLER IF ONLY MY PARENTS WOULD'VE CARED ENOUGH TO ENCOURAGE MY DRAWING AND I WASN'T SO AFRAID OF HOW MY WIFE WOULD REACT IF SHE FOUND OUT I WAS SPENDING MY TIME CREATING CARTOONS TO SUBMIT TO PLAYBOY OR PENTHOUSE OR HUSTLER EVEN IF MY PARENTS HAD ENCOURAGED MY DRAWING:
1. Frumpy, middled aged man jerking off naked on his back (underwear pulled down around his ankles), sideways across the bed as his wife squats (standing beside the bed) her big white pimply ass down upon his face. The man's face is completely buried in her butt. She's picking at a fingernail, bored and disgusted. Her purse and keys are on the floor beside her and her skirt is simply pulled down to her knees. She still has her jacket and scarf on as she is clearly doing this out of some sort of last minute manipulation or pity.
CAPTION (Woman): Hurry up, Frank! I'm meeting Nancy and Kelly for coffee!
CAPTION (Woman): Hurry up, Frank! I'm meeting Nancy and Kelly for coffee!
Friday, November 16, 2012
PETER
The day of the funeral Peter was still nowhere to be found. It was cold and the ground was wet from the heavy rain the night before. Every person from both sides of the family were there. And so many friends from so many chapters of their lives. Peter's brother had flown in from Iraq. He stood clenching his jaw in his Army fatigues and beret behind Peter's wife, Sue, who sat hunched over, rocking, holding her pregnant belly. It was a strange low moan which she made, the same sound she had made when she went into labor with her boy. Her mother put her arm around her and took Sue's hand. Sue slumped into her mother and her mother kissed the top of her head through her veil and rested her cheek upon it, squinting hard against the pain. Sue's father looked over and saw their two white hands clasped together upon Sue's lap. "How could they ever let go?" he thought. He had been sitting erect and motionless, his eyes darting here and there toward any movement, a falling leaf, a squirrel, a bird, anything. The preacher was tall and thin, an Irishman with watery eyes and dry, painful looking skin. He reached up with his long crooked fingers and brushed a few strands of hair across his bald head. He then bit his lip as he stepped forward with his bible beside the small black casket. It was Peter's mother who saw him first. "Petie!" she yelled. Everyone's head turned in unison. Peter's mother shot out of her chair and ran towards her son down the hill through the graves. The preacher clutched the bible to his chest, looking on. Peter was still shirtless and barefoot just as he was when he had heard the news. His skin was bright red and his feet were caked with mud. He was still dragging his little boy's bike behind him, like a hunter with a kill through the cold wet leaves. He stopped when his mother reached him but he gave no response to her embrace. She reached up and grabbed his face. "Look at me!" she said, "Peter, look at me!" He closed his eyes and turned his head as he pushed her away. He put a foot out in front of him and then another one and he continued on. His mother staggered behind him, weeping with a hand cupped over her mouth. "Peter," said Peter's father. "God!" said someone else. Peter approached the coffin. He stopped, his cold body swaying to some sort of rhythm working inside him. The bike finally fell from his hand. Tears streamed down his soldier bother's face. "Peter," said the preacher. Peter stared at the coffin, breathing, shivering, wobbling upon his feet. His breathing got heavier, his hairy chest rising and falling, his flabby belly quivering. "Peter please!" cried Sue, "please!" Peter's father and Sue's father both moved in towards him. "Son," said Sue's father as he reached for Peter's shoulder. Peter turned his head and looked at them. "Peter," said his father.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
TWO 40 SOMETHING YEAR OLD MARRIED DUDES WITH KIDS AT A BAR, WAITING FOR A YOUNGER SINGLE DUDE TO SHOW UP BEFORE THEY GO TO ANOTHER BAR
"HAHA! Dude, that is some funny fuckin' shit right there!"
"Hey, man, you know, that's like one of the biggest reasons why I knew I could trust my wife. She was like the only chick who was ever totally honest about my penis size."
"Dude, your girl's a fuckin' riot, man! Suzy fuckin' loves her!"
"Thanks, man... Yeah, it's pretty cool how they've started hanging out."
"Yeah, man. It's hard up here... Dude, there was this chick I used to fuck back in college who used to call my dick the 'bulldozer'."
"Haha. What?"
"I mean, it was like so fucking stupid. Like, you know, I'm just an average guy with an average sized penis. And it's like she even knew I knew some of the other guys who had fucked her. I had this friend, Rick, from high school; I knew for sure he had fucked her. And Rick was like this fuckin' six foot four, two hundred and thirty pound fuckin' monster. We wrestled together. He was like heavyweight state champion and shit."
"You wrestled? Dude, I wrestled too! 157. I mean, this was Connecticut not Iowa."
"Yeah, you almost had to wrestle where I was from. God, I hated that fuckin' shit."
"Oh, man, me too."
"I mean like I fucking HATED it! Anyway, I mean, like no joke, this dude's dick was like... I don't know, like I swear to God it was like as big around as this glass."
"Haha. Damn... Hey, where is this fuckin' asshole anyway? It's like almost 9:00. Like he invites us out and then..."
"Yeah, I don't know about him anymore. It's like he never fucking listens to anything I say. It's always about him and all his acting bullshit. I mean, dude, I used to do commercials. Like I'm still signed with Innovative... At least I think I am. But I mean that's how we bought our fucking house and shit!"
"Yeah, I know, man, but he's just young, you know. I mean, I'm sure we were both fuckin' douche-bags too at that age."
"Yeah, I don't know. I guess he can be pretty fuckin' funny sometimes, I'll give him that. I wish him well, you know, but..."
"Hey, man, don't you ever wish you could go back in time like, you know, like be sort of like a ghost or something you know, like be able to watch your wife the way she was before you guys even met and like listen to her talk to her girlfriends and interact with dudes and shit?"
"Fuck that shit, I'd want to watch her get pounded by like each and every one of her fucking boyfriends! I mean, just to see what that looks like, you know. Fuck man, I think about that shit all the time."
"Oh man, me too! I mean, what is that shit? What the hell's wrong with us?"
"I don't know, man, but I'm like all hung up on all sorts of shit like that. Like my mother's friends, you know, from back when I was a kid. Oh, man, there was this one friend of my mother's, this chick she worked with. She was SO FUCKING HOT! Reba, or wait, maybe it was Reva? Anyway, oh man, she was like, uh, she was like this fucking smokin' hot like Latino-ish fuckin'... FUCK, MAN! I mean, she had these big fuckin' heavy fuckin' titties and this great big ass! Awe, man, women were like, I don't know, they were just fuckin' WOMEN back then, you know? There's just something about it. I don't know, I just, you know, it's like it was all just so fuckin' MMM!"
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. Things were just, I don't know. Things are different now. Maybe it's just us, you know, gettin' older?"
"I don't know. I see beautiful woman all the time in the city, but something's just different, something's missing."
"Maybe it's just internet porn? You know, like maybe we've just seen too much shit? Maybe we're all just too desensitized?"
"Yeah, that's probably true."
"Hey, have you seen the new Frontline, the one about like the disparity of wealth and shit?"
"No, I haven't. Is it good?"
"Oh, man, it's fucking awesome. It's called Park Avenue... something. A lot of it's about this one building on Park Avenue where all these billionaires live. It's supposedly like the highest concentration of personal wealth in America."
"I'll check it out. Hey, what are you guys doing for thanksgiving?"
"Uh, we're driving down to her folks."
"How long is that drive, like four or five hours?"
"No, man, it's like seven or eight."
"That sucks."
"Yeah. What about you guys?"
"Looks like we're just staying here."
"Dude, that's awesome!"
"I know... Hey, where do you want to go, the Hop? This place fuckin' sucks."
"The Hop closes at like nine or some shit."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, I think on weekdays they do. I was thinking we would go the Roundhouse. That Phil dude's usually working."
"Hey, what's up with that guy?"
"He's cool."
"Did he really used to be a model?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"I don't get it, like what's he doin'?"
"I guess he's a writer."
"What does he write?"
"I don't know."
"You want another beer? Oh, wait, here he is. Haha, look at that fucker."
"Hey, brother!"
"Hey, man."
"How you guys doin'?"
"Hey, man, you know, that's like one of the biggest reasons why I knew I could trust my wife. She was like the only chick who was ever totally honest about my penis size."
"Dude, your girl's a fuckin' riot, man! Suzy fuckin' loves her!"
"Thanks, man... Yeah, it's pretty cool how they've started hanging out."
"Yeah, man. It's hard up here... Dude, there was this chick I used to fuck back in college who used to call my dick the 'bulldozer'."
"Haha. What?"
"I mean, it was like so fucking stupid. Like, you know, I'm just an average guy with an average sized penis. And it's like she even knew I knew some of the other guys who had fucked her. I had this friend, Rick, from high school; I knew for sure he had fucked her. And Rick was like this fuckin' six foot four, two hundred and thirty pound fuckin' monster. We wrestled together. He was like heavyweight state champion and shit."
"You wrestled? Dude, I wrestled too! 157. I mean, this was Connecticut not Iowa."
"Yeah, you almost had to wrestle where I was from. God, I hated that fuckin' shit."
"Oh, man, me too."
"I mean like I fucking HATED it! Anyway, I mean, like no joke, this dude's dick was like... I don't know, like I swear to God it was like as big around as this glass."
"Haha. Damn... Hey, where is this fuckin' asshole anyway? It's like almost 9:00. Like he invites us out and then..."
"Yeah, I don't know about him anymore. It's like he never fucking listens to anything I say. It's always about him and all his acting bullshit. I mean, dude, I used to do commercials. Like I'm still signed with Innovative... At least I think I am. But I mean that's how we bought our fucking house and shit!"
"Yeah, I know, man, but he's just young, you know. I mean, I'm sure we were both fuckin' douche-bags too at that age."
"Yeah, I don't know. I guess he can be pretty fuckin' funny sometimes, I'll give him that. I wish him well, you know, but..."
"Hey, man, don't you ever wish you could go back in time like, you know, like be sort of like a ghost or something you know, like be able to watch your wife the way she was before you guys even met and like listen to her talk to her girlfriends and interact with dudes and shit?"
"Fuck that shit, I'd want to watch her get pounded by like each and every one of her fucking boyfriends! I mean, just to see what that looks like, you know. Fuck man, I think about that shit all the time."
"Oh man, me too! I mean, what is that shit? What the hell's wrong with us?"
"I don't know, man, but I'm like all hung up on all sorts of shit like that. Like my mother's friends, you know, from back when I was a kid. Oh, man, there was this one friend of my mother's, this chick she worked with. She was SO FUCKING HOT! Reba, or wait, maybe it was Reva? Anyway, oh man, she was like, uh, she was like this fucking smokin' hot like Latino-ish fuckin'... FUCK, MAN! I mean, she had these big fuckin' heavy fuckin' titties and this great big ass! Awe, man, women were like, I don't know, they were just fuckin' WOMEN back then, you know? There's just something about it. I don't know, I just, you know, it's like it was all just so fuckin' MMM!"
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. Things were just, I don't know. Things are different now. Maybe it's just us, you know, gettin' older?"
"I don't know. I see beautiful woman all the time in the city, but something's just different, something's missing."
"Maybe it's just internet porn? You know, like maybe we've just seen too much shit? Maybe we're all just too desensitized?"
"Yeah, that's probably true."
"Hey, have you seen the new Frontline, the one about like the disparity of wealth and shit?"
"No, I haven't. Is it good?"
"Oh, man, it's fucking awesome. It's called Park Avenue... something. A lot of it's about this one building on Park Avenue where all these billionaires live. It's supposedly like the highest concentration of personal wealth in America."
"I'll check it out. Hey, what are you guys doing for thanksgiving?"
"Uh, we're driving down to her folks."
"How long is that drive, like four or five hours?"
"No, man, it's like seven or eight."
"That sucks."
"Yeah. What about you guys?"
"Looks like we're just staying here."
"Dude, that's awesome!"
"I know... Hey, where do you want to go, the Hop? This place fuckin' sucks."
"The Hop closes at like nine or some shit."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, I think on weekdays they do. I was thinking we would go the Roundhouse. That Phil dude's usually working."
"Hey, what's up with that guy?"
"He's cool."
"Did he really used to be a model?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"I don't get it, like what's he doin'?"
"I guess he's a writer."
"What does he write?"
"I don't know."
"You want another beer? Oh, wait, here he is. Haha, look at that fucker."
"Hey, brother!"
"Hey, man."
"How you guys doin'?"
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
FREDDIE FUNKLE
For as long as he could remember, whenever the mood would strike, Freddie Funkle had always found it both comforting and exhilarating to sing the same song to himself in the mirror after showering. Freddie would wipe the fog away and swoon as he serenaded the absurd image of his naked self staring back. It was an old Diana Ross song which went: "Do you know where you're going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Do you know? Do you know?" He would go on for some time, singing those same words over and over again. There were certainly more words to the song but Freddie did not know them nor did he care, for the words he sang were all that were needed to bring him back to his childhood when his older brother would follow him around the house, teasing him with the song. But for some reason, the singing of this song was absolutely intolerable to Freddie's wife who would actually become angry. "You sound like a fag!" she would say. Freddie once tried to explain to her that it was his bother's voice not Diana's which he was trying to replicate, but other than that, he was unable to explain or defend his desire to sing it any further. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until the two of them happened upon an infomercial late one night which was selling a collection of CDs called Songs Of The 70s that his wife believed that it was really an actual Diana Ross song and not just another thing he had simply made up. You see, he and his wife had a few failings with what they found humorous. For instance, his wife simply stared at him at the dinner table after hearing his recent idea for a comic strip called The Adventures Of Eunice The Eunuch. "You don't think that's funny?" he asked.
"No," she said, "I don't."
"But it's not really supposed to be funny, I mean, not like you're thinking. That's sort of the whole point! I mean, that's what's funny. Nothing happens to him. He eats, he poops, he goes to bed. He fills his car up with gas. He goes to work. He doesn't even realize he hates his work. His expression never changes. You do one of him just going to the post office. That's it, that's all that happens. It's like Seinfeld. You love Seinfeld! Only really, I mean nothing at all happens. You never even use an adjective ever! But really, it wouldn't even be about him, it would be about the world, the world that just sort of goes on around him which he's just totally oblivious to. Come on, you don't think that's funny?" His wife just went back to feeding their little boy who was being a little asshole about the pizza they had just sat down to eat, the very pizza he had said he wanted. "But it's too spicy!" screamed the boy.
"Sweetheart," said his wife, "it's not spicy, I promise. It's pizza, you eat it all the time!"
"I DON'T WANT IT!" cried his boy, kicking his highchair, "I DON'T LIKE THAT PIZZA! IT'S TOO SPICY!"
"Stop that!" Freddie chimed in. "It's NOT spicy! You're the one that wanted pizza!"
The boy covered his face and began to sob. "Okay, okay," said his wife. "That's not helping." At that moment, Freddie felt a wave of anxiety come over him. He was in his 40s now. He missed his brother and he missed himself, a self which more and more seemed only willing to surface on such seemingly insignificant occasions. Like when he sang the song or when he came up with the idea of Eunice The Eunuch. He knew it was a great idea, but he also knew he would never do anything with it. He felt hopeless, old and hopeless. He took a deep breath, folded the tip of his piece of pizza over, and bit into it. His boy was right, it WAS spicy, much more spicy than usual.
"No," she said, "I don't."
"But it's not really supposed to be funny, I mean, not like you're thinking. That's sort of the whole point! I mean, that's what's funny. Nothing happens to him. He eats, he poops, he goes to bed. He fills his car up with gas. He goes to work. He doesn't even realize he hates his work. His expression never changes. You do one of him just going to the post office. That's it, that's all that happens. It's like Seinfeld. You love Seinfeld! Only really, I mean nothing at all happens. You never even use an adjective ever! But really, it wouldn't even be about him, it would be about the world, the world that just sort of goes on around him which he's just totally oblivious to. Come on, you don't think that's funny?" His wife just went back to feeding their little boy who was being a little asshole about the pizza they had just sat down to eat, the very pizza he had said he wanted. "But it's too spicy!" screamed the boy.
"Sweetheart," said his wife, "it's not spicy, I promise. It's pizza, you eat it all the time!"
"I DON'T WANT IT!" cried his boy, kicking his highchair, "I DON'T LIKE THAT PIZZA! IT'S TOO SPICY!"
"Stop that!" Freddie chimed in. "It's NOT spicy! You're the one that wanted pizza!"
The boy covered his face and began to sob. "Okay, okay," said his wife. "That's not helping." At that moment, Freddie felt a wave of anxiety come over him. He was in his 40s now. He missed his brother and he missed himself, a self which more and more seemed only willing to surface on such seemingly insignificant occasions. Like when he sang the song or when he came up with the idea of Eunice The Eunuch. He knew it was a great idea, but he also knew he would never do anything with it. He felt hopeless, old and hopeless. He took a deep breath, folded the tip of his piece of pizza over, and bit into it. His boy was right, it WAS spicy, much more spicy than usual.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Notes Of Ideas Of Pieces Of Sculpture I Would Love To Try To Make If I Live Long Enough And Am Somehow Able To Retire And Have The Time And The Space To Make Such Things:
#1. Hyper real, life sized, hairy, dead obese man (350 to 400 lb range) in perfect fetal position upon a concrete floor. We do not see his face, only the back of his head (curly, greasy, greying black hair), as it is tucked into his flabby arms. The poor fuck had shit himself at death (shit spray ring smeared around his gaping ass about the size of say, a standard sized frisbee, and a rat sized turd with tail to boot slipping out from his hard, swollen ring). The man is pasty white or blue or purple or black or reddish in places depending upon information gathered of such things from the internet (perhaps try to talk to some FX movie guru? shit, man, you know people!). The piece should be displayed in the center of an enclosed space. Lighting is key. Maybe either a dusty old pendant lamp or one lone 40 or 60 watt bulb (clear one where you can see the filament) buzzing from above at viewers eye level (again, talk to Jim Vermeulen or someone). The piece is called NED.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Sunday Brew
It was around 1:30 in the afternoon and I still hadn't shit. Sarah and Henry were out getting groceries. I had just finished watching a pig get slaughtered on Youtube. It was somewhere in the Philippines, a sow. They had her on her back while they tied her legs together. She seemed to trust the men. Or perhaps she had simply given in to her fate? She had two rows of pink sharp nipples and she seemed to be looking over at the pile of coals which were burning hot not 6 feet away. Over the men's voices, children could be heard laughing in the background. One of the men knelt down with a knife while the other men held her tight. He made the cut and the blood poured out. He tossed the knife and brought a plastic bucket up to the slit on her neck to collect the flowing juice. Her legs trembled and her body heaved but she didn't make a sound. After that, I got up and poured myself another cup of coffee. I had worked till 4:00 a.m. the night before. 41 years old and I was back working at a bar. All the glory gone as if it never happened. A line from one of Henry's books came to mind, "Un-slumping yourself is not easily done." That Dr. Seuss! The furnace kicked on as I sat back down on the couch. Another winter looming. I went on Facebook. Many people were posting about some dude who was about to jump out of a balloon at the edge of space. If he didn't die, he would be the first parachutist to break the sound barrier. I wished him well but I was simply not interested. I then saw a picture of an old friend and his pretty wife who were on vacation somewhere. My friend looked far too old, as old as my father. His hair was grey and his beard was grey and his eyes looked tired and empty. He was many years younger than me and very successful. I thought about that poor pig again. I saw her face, I looked into her dying eyes. Then, finally, my bowels began to unlock. I closed the computer and got up to take my shit.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
The End Of It
I awaken to sunlight
and that sweet little
voice downstairs
laughing about a "fauwt"
I lie there thinking how
it always unfolds
the people of this world
and what they do with it
I suppose I'm just tired
tired of the same ingredients
those same damn ingredients
being boiled down to a paste
I rise up and put my feet down
another day lit like a fuse
another me at the end of it
and that sweet little
voice downstairs
laughing about a "fauwt"
I lie there thinking how
it always unfolds
the people of this world
and what they do with it
I suppose I'm just tired
tired of the same ingredients
those same damn ingredients
being boiled down to a paste
I rise up and put my feet down
another day lit like a fuse
another me at the end of it
Skeet Giddens on getting his new cell phone stolen on 911:
"Awe, man, it was fucking horrible! I finally succumbed and bought the damn thing the day before. I was at a bar on 3rd Ave, drinking beer and watching the parade of zombies stagger up the street. I mean, you've seen the footage, all those people covered from head to toe in all that white shit. The smell was fucking hideous. That's what people forget to talk about. Never on earth has there been such a smell. Anyone who lived through it will be smelling that shit till the day they die. Anyway, all I know is I had it on the bar and then it was gone. Still to this day, I can't stop thinking about it. You never forget shit like that. I mean, who the fuck would do such a thing?"
Skeet Giddens, 9/11/12
"Shit, man, are you fucking kidding me? It's the pretense, right? I mean, I can hardly look at anyone anymore without giggling. The obviousness is incredible. Holograms flickering. To say they fail to see the full spectrum is like saying the line fails to be a circle. Hey, ya know, I still feel for them. I really do. But no more than I feel for anything else really. It's a total lack of imagination. That's what humanity is and that's what makes it so potent. Everything existing in spite of something else, in spite of everything else. The modern man has about the efficiency of a hundred elephants. And what do we even get out of this shit anymore? Another Clint Eastwood movie? Another Olympics? Another goddamn Superbowl? It's the anniversary of 911 again. Oh, shit, really? No thanks. I'll feel what I feel when I feel it." Skeet Giddens, 9/11/12
Thursday, September 6, 2012
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