Mom, there are two letters already stamped and ready to go on my old desk in the office. can you send them off for me please ASAP as I forgot to do so myself. They are rent and final utilities that I don't want to get charged for. Love you mates.
-Eric
Friday, January 16, 2009
London Stuff, Day 3
so I don't feel bad at all now when thinking about the weather here. Although it was 52 and raining today, something pretty common to dreary london, it had to have been better than -10 degrees where you mates are. That is for certain.
managed to make it to class this morning, although only on about two hours sleep, tea and orange and lots of medication. I'm starting to feel much better, although it seems that I am either shivering all the time or sweating all the time. Because london had a vicious cold snap last week, every building in the city had the heat cranked up to full blast. the weather then returned to normal so fast that they didn't have time to reregulate so it is 52 outside and 76 inside. Shiver, sweat, shiver, sweat, you know?
I have become very left out of everything because I can't go out at night. As I write this my flatmates gather amongst the other groups of flats to pub crawl and club hop. They extend the invite, but I can't in good mind go out and get drunk while taking pills. Seriously.
There really isn't too much else to report today. Stopped in at Al-Moustafa's to buy fresh fruit for breakfast around six this morning while most of you were either climbing into bed or starting homework. The tea here is sensational, as to be expected, and I'm slowly learning which people to talk to and which ones will be mean little shits. General rule has been that men my age and white brits= bad to ask, men my age but middle eastern or south asian= treat you like kings if you're kind in return. The barman at the Victory is a great example of that.
Broke down and bought Mcdonalds today for lunch because I wanted something American. Again they dont have and dont know what Ranch is, but they gave me a container of sweet curry that I've yet to try. They also don't sell double quarter pounders with cheese because they don't appreciate you asking for that much food. I had a big mac for the first time in years.
Honestly this is boring shit about today as it was, more or less a boring day. I managed to take a nap from 2 to 7 today which has probably screwed me over on any attempt at sleeping later. Maybe I'll pop on AIM then around 3 and try to catch some of you.
Cheers and all that filthy shite.
managed to make it to class this morning, although only on about two hours sleep, tea and orange and lots of medication. I'm starting to feel much better, although it seems that I am either shivering all the time or sweating all the time. Because london had a vicious cold snap last week, every building in the city had the heat cranked up to full blast. the weather then returned to normal so fast that they didn't have time to reregulate so it is 52 outside and 76 inside. Shiver, sweat, shiver, sweat, you know?
I have become very left out of everything because I can't go out at night. As I write this my flatmates gather amongst the other groups of flats to pub crawl and club hop. They extend the invite, but I can't in good mind go out and get drunk while taking pills. Seriously.
There really isn't too much else to report today. Stopped in at Al-Moustafa's to buy fresh fruit for breakfast around six this morning while most of you were either climbing into bed or starting homework. The tea here is sensational, as to be expected, and I'm slowly learning which people to talk to and which ones will be mean little shits. General rule has been that men my age and white brits= bad to ask, men my age but middle eastern or south asian= treat you like kings if you're kind in return. The barman at the Victory is a great example of that.
Broke down and bought Mcdonalds today for lunch because I wanted something American. Again they dont have and dont know what Ranch is, but they gave me a container of sweet curry that I've yet to try. They also don't sell double quarter pounders with cheese because they don't appreciate you asking for that much food. I had a big mac for the first time in years.
Honestly this is boring shit about today as it was, more or less a boring day. I managed to take a nap from 2 to 7 today which has probably screwed me over on any attempt at sleeping later. Maybe I'll pop on AIM then around 3 and try to catch some of you.
Cheers and all that filthy shite.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Day 2 followup
As a P.S. to my last blog, I did actually get my hair cut by a Persian guy named Omid. It was a bit expensive but I'm pretty happy about it. Also, we ate at an authentic italian place called Fino's. It was pretty much the best thing ever.
London Day 2
London is growing on me, even though that is slow and uncertain, its charm is starting to show through. Its pace is constant, the people a mixture of incredibly nice to terribly angry, but almost always helpful to a young American trying to get home.
I'm sitting as I write this at a little pub called The Victory, a Thai pub where they only serve food during "normal meal times" but liquor almost constantly. The atmosphere is loose and free, with American or faux American country music playing in the background and warm leather armchairs to sit in with your pint and paper. The streets outside are flooded with people, but The Victory remains a place of quiet calm where the patrons sit by themselves with pints of Stella Artois and Harps slowly warming in large glasses. I was sitting at the bar, this notebook open, talking with the barkeep about the other pubs. I expected bias, as it is so common in the states to see one bar pulling itself up over another because of predisposed thoughts, but I didn't expect the man's honesty. He was a man of Indian decent, although his Indian accent was intermixed with that of the Brits so I assumed he'd lived in the city all his life. He was telling me that the English pubs are good places to get a beer, but unless you are a local they treat you poorly. A local meant full blood UK, WASPish sort of stuff. He told me that he'd stopped going to the other pubs because they treated him poorly, despite being a british citizen, because he didn't look like a local. I'm going to have a look for myself, but what an unexpected thing to run into on Edgeware. That street, which holds the pubs the barman was talking about, is mostly owned and operated by middle eastern men with places like Fatoush and innumerable names prefixed by Al.
Almost everyone who I deal with on a regular basis would have been considered a minority in the states and they are some of the nicest and most helpful people I've met in London. We are treated coldly more often by white brits than we are by anyone else, something I've yet to understand. Maybe its because farmers beat them from the new world with bubble gum rifles and then demanded that they be friends with us. Its sort of like stealing someone's girlfriend and then demanding that the ex-boy still hang out. Whatever. I make an effort to be kind to them and they can sod right off if they choose to.
Our leaders of this program have a strange idea of what it means to come here I think. They seem to think that people who leave and return from places on their own (see "me") are not doing as they are supposed to. Part of the enjoyment I get from this city is exploring it on my own and at my age I think I'm allowed to do so. I've only almost been hit by motorcycles and busses on a few occasions, so I think I'm on par for holding my own. I guess when parents put their children under the care of professors it is obvious why said professors would be anxious about people like me. I like to explore things without worrying that the people I'm with are going to piss and moan about one thing or another. As sick as I've been recently, it is best I avoid them anyway.
My final point of learning about this city for now came when we went to West Minster College in order to register for classes and meet our main professor. By the way, I think I'm in heaven because I only have class two days out of seven. Every monday and tuesday I have class and then from wednesday to sunday I'm free. How bad ass is that?
What I learned at the college, though, is that the brit men my age that I've met so far are assholes. Asking them anything is like asking them if you can sleep with their mother and they answer just as short and angrily as you'd expect from such questions. The pair we met today looked as though they'd had a rough brush taken to their faces and when we asked them about the West Minster symbol they got angry and defensive. Tossers the lot of them, but then again they think the same of us. They stare at our women as we walk buy and glower at the three of us men as we follow suit. I'm not snogging them you filthy cheesewanks. Christ.
Anyway, I think this has gone on far too long. I'll post as I can, the 1000 minutes of internet is starting to put stress into my heart, but with as great as The Victory Pub is with atmosphere and discounts, I'm thinking that I'll spend less time inside of the apartment and more where I can get tea and beer for cheap.
I'm sitting as I write this at a little pub called The Victory, a Thai pub where they only serve food during "normal meal times" but liquor almost constantly. The atmosphere is loose and free, with American or faux American country music playing in the background and warm leather armchairs to sit in with your pint and paper. The streets outside are flooded with people, but The Victory remains a place of quiet calm where the patrons sit by themselves with pints of Stella Artois and Harps slowly warming in large glasses. I was sitting at the bar, this notebook open, talking with the barkeep about the other pubs. I expected bias, as it is so common in the states to see one bar pulling itself up over another because of predisposed thoughts, but I didn't expect the man's honesty. He was a man of Indian decent, although his Indian accent was intermixed with that of the Brits so I assumed he'd lived in the city all his life. He was telling me that the English pubs are good places to get a beer, but unless you are a local they treat you poorly. A local meant full blood UK, WASPish sort of stuff. He told me that he'd stopped going to the other pubs because they treated him poorly, despite being a british citizen, because he didn't look like a local. I'm going to have a look for myself, but what an unexpected thing to run into on Edgeware. That street, which holds the pubs the barman was talking about, is mostly owned and operated by middle eastern men with places like Fatoush and innumerable names prefixed by Al.
Almost everyone who I deal with on a regular basis would have been considered a minority in the states and they are some of the nicest and most helpful people I've met in London. We are treated coldly more often by white brits than we are by anyone else, something I've yet to understand. Maybe its because farmers beat them from the new world with bubble gum rifles and then demanded that they be friends with us. Its sort of like stealing someone's girlfriend and then demanding that the ex-boy still hang out. Whatever. I make an effort to be kind to them and they can sod right off if they choose to.
Our leaders of this program have a strange idea of what it means to come here I think. They seem to think that people who leave and return from places on their own (see "me") are not doing as they are supposed to. Part of the enjoyment I get from this city is exploring it on my own and at my age I think I'm allowed to do so. I've only almost been hit by motorcycles and busses on a few occasions, so I think I'm on par for holding my own. I guess when parents put their children under the care of professors it is obvious why said professors would be anxious about people like me. I like to explore things without worrying that the people I'm with are going to piss and moan about one thing or another. As sick as I've been recently, it is best I avoid them anyway.
My final point of learning about this city for now came when we went to West Minster College in order to register for classes and meet our main professor. By the way, I think I'm in heaven because I only have class two days out of seven. Every monday and tuesday I have class and then from wednesday to sunday I'm free. How bad ass is that?
What I learned at the college, though, is that the brit men my age that I've met so far are assholes. Asking them anything is like asking them if you can sleep with their mother and they answer just as short and angrily as you'd expect from such questions. The pair we met today looked as though they'd had a rough brush taken to their faces and when we asked them about the West Minster symbol they got angry and defensive. Tossers the lot of them, but then again they think the same of us. They stare at our women as we walk buy and glower at the three of us men as we follow suit. I'm not snogging them you filthy cheesewanks. Christ.
Anyway, I think this has gone on far too long. I'll post as I can, the 1000 minutes of internet is starting to put stress into my heart, but with as great as The Victory Pub is with atmosphere and discounts, I'm thinking that I'll spend less time inside of the apartment and more where I can get tea and beer for cheap.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
So, I went to London.
Honestly, I'm still hearing jet engines and getting over my ears being completely plugged for a few hours after landing.
The city is nothing like I expected. Too hot inside of the flats, strangely luke warm outside, and the people have a strange way about themselves that I had never expected. I saw, as we took a bus to our flats, an early 90's television thrown into the grass next to a Porsche Carerra. There were multi million dollar homes with two or three cars parked in their gated drives right next to broken ethnic shops and run down flats.
Maybe I should start at the beginning.
I left from indy on a small little plane that took us ahead of schedule to chicago. ahead by an hour. this meant that we had four hours to sit in the terminal and do nothing but wait. I hate flying to begin with, but to put me on a plane, fill me with adrenaline and then make me wait for four hours is brutal. Not to mention that I started running a fever halfway through the first flight and, sitting here now, have the flu like hard core. This flu set in in full force as I waited to board the 777 that would take us to London, and by the time we were taxiing off the runway, I was hardly more than a hungry man shaking and blowing his nose every thirty seconds. It sucked.
Lots of Dayquil and a handful of sleep later, I found myself trying hard not to throw up as we made our way through heathrow airport, stopping every couple of minutes for stragglers, for people who forgot things, for people who just had to go to the bathroom, for security checks, for baggage checks, for customs and passport checks. There were checks made to check that I had, officially, been checked. And then it was time to get on the bus.
We took a bus from heathrow to our flat, an hour long trip in total, and were escorted into apartments that had no conscious thought of maybe being too warm. Every one of the six furnace wall things was blasting on full, despite the warmish weather outside, and after waiting with 22 other people in the living room of one of these saunas while people forced paperwork and nonsense about drugs upon us, we were finally allowed to go back to our own boiling flats, adjust the heat, take a shower for the first time in what seemed like days and prepare for more exciting festivities that have yet to take place tonight.
As sick as I've been feeling I'm not sure of the coherency that this post has, but it is the best I can do with what I've got. I'll try to put something up tomorrow that makes a bit more sense, something not run wild with fever and medication.
Honestly, I'm still hearing jet engines and getting over my ears being completely plugged for a few hours after landing.
The city is nothing like I expected. Too hot inside of the flats, strangely luke warm outside, and the people have a strange way about themselves that I had never expected. I saw, as we took a bus to our flats, an early 90's television thrown into the grass next to a Porsche Carerra. There were multi million dollar homes with two or three cars parked in their gated drives right next to broken ethnic shops and run down flats.
Maybe I should start at the beginning.
I left from indy on a small little plane that took us ahead of schedule to chicago. ahead by an hour. this meant that we had four hours to sit in the terminal and do nothing but wait. I hate flying to begin with, but to put me on a plane, fill me with adrenaline and then make me wait for four hours is brutal. Not to mention that I started running a fever halfway through the first flight and, sitting here now, have the flu like hard core. This flu set in in full force as I waited to board the 777 that would take us to London, and by the time we were taxiing off the runway, I was hardly more than a hungry man shaking and blowing his nose every thirty seconds. It sucked.
Lots of Dayquil and a handful of sleep later, I found myself trying hard not to throw up as we made our way through heathrow airport, stopping every couple of minutes for stragglers, for people who forgot things, for people who just had to go to the bathroom, for security checks, for baggage checks, for customs and passport checks. There were checks made to check that I had, officially, been checked. And then it was time to get on the bus.
We took a bus from heathrow to our flat, an hour long trip in total, and were escorted into apartments that had no conscious thought of maybe being too warm. Every one of the six furnace wall things was blasting on full, despite the warmish weather outside, and after waiting with 22 other people in the living room of one of these saunas while people forced paperwork and nonsense about drugs upon us, we were finally allowed to go back to our own boiling flats, adjust the heat, take a shower for the first time in what seemed like days and prepare for more exciting festivities that have yet to take place tonight.
As sick as I've been feeling I'm not sure of the coherency that this post has, but it is the best I can do with what I've got. I'll try to put something up tomorrow that makes a bit more sense, something not run wild with fever and medication.
Monday, January 12, 2009
London Town
I will be leaving tomorrow for foggy london town, something I've only dreamt of for the last six or so years. In leaving I'm converting this page into a sort of day to day account of the things that I experience while across the pond. Pictures will be posted here but I may have to link any videos I take from somewhere else. I don't think that I've ever been so nervous at any other point in my life, but I'm sure it will be fine. I hope so anyway. Jesus help me, mates.
Friday, August 29, 2008
I Suppose
With the closing of the night class for me I've freed up a shitload of time for myself and now I sit with idle hands again. Hopefully the Chaucer will take that from me but who knows?
I've uninstalled wow from my computer and canceled my accounts. I'm pretty sure I should have marked the occasion with some sort of fanfare or festival but, instead, I simply did the deeds and let them simmer in the pan while I forgot about them. I just wish I had friends down here who played the 360 so that maybe we could still talk. Ryan does every so often but it's one of those things that if you are not playing wow, you wont see a couple people anymore. Here is to videogames and the lesson of using them to, potentially, burn bridges.
Aside from that noise I'll try to write something specifically for the blog next time. I've been working on a theory for my story structure and I have no idea how to really make it work. On paper it sounds amazing, but in practice? Whatever.
I've uninstalled wow from my computer and canceled my accounts. I'm pretty sure I should have marked the occasion with some sort of fanfare or festival but, instead, I simply did the deeds and let them simmer in the pan while I forgot about them. I just wish I had friends down here who played the 360 so that maybe we could still talk. Ryan does every so often but it's one of those things that if you are not playing wow, you wont see a couple people anymore. Here is to videogames and the lesson of using them to, potentially, burn bridges.
Aside from that noise I'll try to write something specifically for the blog next time. I've been working on a theory for my story structure and I have no idea how to really make it work. On paper it sounds amazing, but in practice? Whatever.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Fucked
Well, it seems that my hope for being graduated this year is impossible now. The DAPR thing that tells me my credit and ability seems to change drastically all the time, this time its telling me that I'm 46 credits away from graduation, meaning that I'd have to take 23 credit hours a semester in order to achieve victory. Hard not to get a little down about that now I guess.Potentially I could take 14 credit hours this summer and have graduated by the start of next year, I was just sort of looking forward to being done on time with the other kids I guess.
Oh well, right?
*EDIT*
Seems that on top of all these things I've also got to drop my 407 class because I'm taking the prereq for it. while that makes sense now it really sucks. I know I can handle the course work, I'm just apparently not skilled enough to have fun with the big boys.
Oh well, right?
*EDIT*
Seems that on top of all these things I've also got to drop my 407 class because I'm taking the prereq for it. while that makes sense now it really sucks. I know I can handle the course work, I'm just apparently not skilled enough to have fun with the big boys.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Must Be Morning
I'm not entirely certain I'm going to be able to keep this, the chaucer tales, two fiction classes, a 400 level research class and working at the pit, up for very long. Even by my standards I feel like I'm stretching it a little thin. Maybe I should just quit my job? Or maybe school? BOTH!@?
have been listening to the new staind cd and relishing it for the most part. songs like "the corner" and "the way I am" are a change from the other cd's that shows how staind is progressing, but those progressive songs are rather few. for the most part the cd seems to have a lot of similarly sounding songs as well as songs that either start like songs from past cd's or are so identical to them that it is hard to tell. even with that in mind, I've found the cd incredibly enjoyable to listen to and I've listened to it a lot since getting it.
the new slipknot came out yesterday, and although I'm not as impressed with it as I was when subliminal came out, I've only had one listen through which is not really enough to make a decision on it. I'm going to give it the once over a few more times tonight when I get back from my night class. cory has always had a way of winning me over with his music, as has the entire band, so I'm going to give them my best try.
have been listening to the new staind cd and relishing it for the most part. songs like "the corner" and "the way I am" are a change from the other cd's that shows how staind is progressing, but those progressive songs are rather few. for the most part the cd seems to have a lot of similarly sounding songs as well as songs that either start like songs from past cd's or are so identical to them that it is hard to tell. even with that in mind, I've found the cd incredibly enjoyable to listen to and I've listened to it a lot since getting it.
the new slipknot came out yesterday, and although I'm not as impressed with it as I was when subliminal came out, I've only had one listen through which is not really enough to make a decision on it. I'm going to give it the once over a few more times tonight when I get back from my night class. cory has always had a way of winning me over with his music, as has the entire band, so I'm going to give them my best try.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Snippet
Kate shielded her eyes from the noon sun and pressed her nose to the big picture window at Maddy's. It was cool and refreshing against her face, breaking her skin out into goose bumps and taking some of the edge off of the oppressive summer heat in the city.
She admired the women inside the store, watching them talk with each other and laugh. They seemed so happy to be standing around folding clothes, making minimum wage and dealing with the snobbish types who came in to buy winter apparel at full price in summer. Kate wondered what it would be like to make all of her money standing around with other women, instead of on her back with other men. Thinking like that, however, would mean going back to school or simply getting away from Marcus and Karl. She cringed instinctively, wrinkling her nose against the glass and furrowing her eyebrows at the thought of having to leave the busy east coast for the slowly paced west.
Kate pictured herself gagging on all the farms and fields, choking on church and the ever present push to steer clear of damnation. She could stand to stay a trick for a little while longer, she thought, as long as it meant not going back to church this Sunday. Or any Sunday.
She waved goodbye to the women inside, who didn't notice, and started walking again to the little section of street where she kept a corner office.
She admired the women inside the store, watching them talk with each other and laugh. They seemed so happy to be standing around folding clothes, making minimum wage and dealing with the snobbish types who came in to buy winter apparel at full price in summer. Kate wondered what it would be like to make all of her money standing around with other women, instead of on her back with other men. Thinking like that, however, would mean going back to school or simply getting away from Marcus and Karl. She cringed instinctively, wrinkling her nose against the glass and furrowing her eyebrows at the thought of having to leave the busy east coast for the slowly paced west.
Kate pictured herself gagging on all the farms and fields, choking on church and the ever present push to steer clear of damnation. She could stand to stay a trick for a little while longer, she thought, as long as it meant not going back to church this Sunday. Or any Sunday.
She waved goodbye to the women inside, who didn't notice, and started walking again to the little section of street where she kept a corner office.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Anew
So everything has sort of been upside down for me recently. I've not had any time for this place as some of my brothers pointed out and I make no apologies for it. You know why.
Things just have not been going well recently, not that I need to explain the what and wherefors. Keighdee and I have agreed to some sort of armistice, drawing lines down the week and creating days we do and don't. It is all my fault and so I take the blame for it, but at the same time I need this to sort out my own shit. I just hope she takes the time to do the same, something I believe she is doing but refuse to make myself responsible for.
I've been thinking about asking a travel agent about a trip to english shores this spring. I should have a couple thousand if I save properly and it would be nice to take a puddle jumper out there and see what is what. I'll just have to get over the plan ride I guess, and the probability of going it alone.
will put something down here for the enjoyment of all tomorrow. Now that all the business is done I think it is time I moved on to pleasure.
Things just have not been going well recently, not that I need to explain the what and wherefors. Keighdee and I have agreed to some sort of armistice, drawing lines down the week and creating days we do and don't. It is all my fault and so I take the blame for it, but at the same time I need this to sort out my own shit. I just hope she takes the time to do the same, something I believe she is doing but refuse to make myself responsible for.
I've been thinking about asking a travel agent about a trip to english shores this spring. I should have a couple thousand if I save properly and it would be nice to take a puddle jumper out there and see what is what. I'll just have to get over the plan ride I guess, and the probability of going it alone.
will put something down here for the enjoyment of all tomorrow. Now that all the business is done I think it is time I moved on to pleasure.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
And Such
I managed to get my computer cleaned out finally. I still cannot change my background which, honestly, was the least of my concerns, but the .exe files that kept fucking with everything are deleted and taken care of.
I'm not sure I'm going to continue with this blog thing anymore. I don't see the point outside of a moment of free writing before I work on other things. I will do the Chaucer thing still whenever Chris gets it set up, but as for all of this I just don't see the point. That is by no means my final say in the matter, but its a heads up moment anyway.
I'm not sure I'm going to continue with this blog thing anymore. I don't see the point outside of a moment of free writing before I work on other things. I will do the Chaucer thing still whenever Chris gets it set up, but as for all of this I just don't see the point. That is by no means my final say in the matter, but its a heads up moment anyway.
Monday, August 4, 2008
To Make It Short
My computer is basically fucked. After downloading what I thought was an update for my computer everything sort of went to hell. My background was changed, my computer running programs that wouldn't shut down, and eventually blue screening as I ran anti virus scans. Luckily I managed to get my flash drive out and secure some of the things I've been working really hard on, but everything else is now garbage to be lost when I reformat. If I reformat. I may just throw the goddamn thing into my attic and buy a typewriter instead. I still have my laptop to make these little posts with, and the only thing I'd be losing is the ability to play games on the computer. Something I need not lament anyway. Another amazing start to my day I must say.
I suppose we'll have to see what goes with all of that. It would really suck if I have to revert to my laptop because that screws keighdee over a bit. She's been using it for the last couple months because her computer is a bigger ass stain than mine has become. Whatever. We'll figure this out.
*Edit*
Originally I'd refused to write any more posts until Aaron and the others had posted a bit, but then I realized that all of them have been busy with concerts/promotions/travel and the very real date that they are moving back to school on so I'm going to retract that assertion, grudgingly.
I suppose we'll have to see what goes with all of that. It would really suck if I have to revert to my laptop because that screws keighdee over a bit. She's been using it for the last couple months because her computer is a bigger ass stain than mine has become. Whatever. We'll figure this out.
*Edit*
Originally I'd refused to write any more posts until Aaron and the others had posted a bit, but then I realized that all of them have been busy with concerts/promotions/travel and the very real date that they are moving back to school on so I'm going to retract that assertion, grudgingly.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
An Unused Bit
Sitting in the Daison Lounge of the newly renovated Sanatine Center for the Arts, I’ve come to realize that my life is really less of a walking autobiography and more of a historical fiction piece written by smooth talking Lit students. I picture the person who wrote the things I’ve done as a hunched young man with a face dashed by pimples and marred by the rejections of a hundred or more women. He leans, each day that he wakes up in time to do so, over an old style typewriter and logs the hours that make up my life like someone might pay him for them and then drinks himself back to lonely sleep. With gnarled hands he lashes at the keys, gently saying to himself that it will all be ok, that tomorrow is the brightest its ever been, that he might get laid at any time some time. He is the phantom writing my opera, the shadow in my life who, lonely member in hand, writes about my incredible sexual escapades as though it were film noir.
I like this young man very much.
Sitting in the lounge, staring at the lime green walls where brass light fixtures had been lazily tacked up next to modern art finger paintings, I started to really believe that maybe all of this was a dream I lived. I wondered if tomorrow I would wake up in a mental institution from a thirty year coma famished and insatiable. Maybe Sanatine's Golden Son was little more than a garbage collector who got hit in the head by a stray recepticle and now hallucinates a grandiose lifestyle of women and invention. If it hadn't been for June's softness that morning, the real warmth of her sleeping flesh, I might not have simply laughed that thought away. I need a drink.
The woman in the red dress lurched beneath me and I reached for the gun beneath my pillow. There were three shots in the chamber, just like the woman in red.
I like this young man very much.
Sitting in the lounge, staring at the lime green walls where brass light fixtures had been lazily tacked up next to modern art finger paintings, I started to really believe that maybe all of this was a dream I lived. I wondered if tomorrow I would wake up in a mental institution from a thirty year coma famished and insatiable. Maybe Sanatine's Golden Son was little more than a garbage collector who got hit in the head by a stray recepticle and now hallucinates a grandiose lifestyle of women and invention. If it hadn't been for June's softness that morning, the real warmth of her sleeping flesh, I might not have simply laughed that thought away. I need a drink.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Superbly Villainous
I wonder if it is appropriate to be daunted prematurely by the class list and itemized section of books I’m supposed to buy before they have even been discussed. I received two emails from my professors this morning with those things and, much to my distress, the old competitive rage erupted within me and I felt threatened on all borders like a polish president in the thirties. I wanted to mobilize immediately to stave off these foreign entities, to erect huge seawalls and anti-tank batteries on hilltops. I fought hard against doing this, trying my damnedest to remember that this is not a pissing contest but rather, a chance to receive help in my craft as well as help others in theirs. The Air Force, however, remains on high alert until further notice.
I suppose these lamentations are unnecessary and misguided, but if I cannot put them here where can I put them? And don’t say straight up my ass you cheeky bastards.
Also, as a P.S., I have not a fucking clue where this came from. As with all the things I’ve posted, it was written in one sitting while I drank coffee and listened to Sinch. Disclaimer over.
The seismic way in which my father walked through the house reminded me of a shelling in pictures of World War II. His feet arched over fallen toys, foot stools and wildly thrown legs, over discarded clothes and plastic soldiers whose bodies were broken in the hellish sandbox wars of the Back Yard, only to come crashing down in a land of toy trucks where the people would rather stay glued to their fake plastic seats than run for the safety of Batman’s cave nearby. Foolish.
Only the plush toys, much larger than their metal or plastic counterparts, survived such onslaughts mostly unscathed, something I blame on their incredible resilience. Only a truly superhuman entity could be crushed under fifty times their own weight and snap back into their original shape, their guts still intact, their eyes still light and genuinely alive in glossy black perma-wonder. Little do they know that I’m plotting to test their ability to regenerate, sharpening my scissors just a little each day to snip at the plushy fabric flesh.
“There can be only one,” I whisper to them amidst the scrape-scrape of the scissors against the stone, “I may not have been born with your immense survivability, but I know where you are weak. Tell me your secrets and I will leave some of your fibrous white blood behind to nourish what is left.”
I suppose these lamentations are unnecessary and misguided, but if I cannot put them here where can I put them? And don’t say straight up my ass you cheeky bastards.
Also, as a P.S., I have not a fucking clue where this came from. As with all the things I’ve posted, it was written in one sitting while I drank coffee and listened to Sinch. Disclaimer over.
The seismic way in which my father walked through the house reminded me of a shelling in pictures of World War II. His feet arched over fallen toys, foot stools and wildly thrown legs, over discarded clothes and plastic soldiers whose bodies were broken in the hellish sandbox wars of the Back Yard, only to come crashing down in a land of toy trucks where the people would rather stay glued to their fake plastic seats than run for the safety of Batman’s cave nearby. Foolish.
Only the plush toys, much larger than their metal or plastic counterparts, survived such onslaughts mostly unscathed, something I blame on their incredible resilience. Only a truly superhuman entity could be crushed under fifty times their own weight and snap back into their original shape, their guts still intact, their eyes still light and genuinely alive in glossy black perma-wonder. Little do they know that I’m plotting to test their ability to regenerate, sharpening my scissors just a little each day to snip at the plushy fabric flesh.
“There can be only one,” I whisper to them amidst the scrape-scrape of the scissors against the stone, “I may not have been born with your immense survivability, but I know where you are weak. Tell me your secrets and I will leave some of your fibrous white blood behind to nourish what is left.”
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
I Thought I Had Nothing To Write About Today
The wide Olivetti typewriter clicked smoothly as James' fingers depressed the black keys. At first it was only a chore, but it had quickly become a devil's plod through eighteen hundred pages of research material on snuff films and cocaine nightmares. He'd greased his eyes with horrid pictures and graphic depictions written by what he could only assume were real monsters existing among us. He figured that the ones who collected this tribute for human immorality must be slouched individuals with shaggy locks and over sized, tusk-like, incisors. James did his best not to picture that slathering gape and what it must have consumed in order to write that which he was forced to review for the magazine, the way it must have split open in two thick bloody petals to laugh while it all went down, and decided it was best to just keep his head below deck and well into writing. Three hours into the march across hell a phone call shook him mid sentence about being shaft deep into a postmortem geriatric.
"Thank God," He said into the receiver, "I mean hello?"
"Donny?" said a woman's voice on the other side. An anchor was thrown overboard in James' chest and landed squarely in his stomach.
"No you have a wrong number," he managed, trying hard not to sound weak.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Thanks though,"
James leapt, "But maybe I could help you find him?"
There was a bit of a pause on the other end and James was suddenly aware that he was clutching the end of his desk hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He really didn't want to have to go back to work, and talking to a stranger, to anyone, was better than reading another hundred pages on penile skull insertion.
"Um, I think I'll be ok for now, thank you though."
"That's cool but we have two Dons here in the office you know, is that who you were looking for or maybe just Don is a nick name? Don Schafer or Don Williams, maybe? I could go look for them really quick," James said, making another pass. He knew he was the only one in the office, it was Sunday, but her voice was a light at night and he was running for it.
"Oh, um, neither of those but thanks for the help, I'm sure I'll find him, ok thanks, take care now, ok?"
The phone clicked off before James could have another go and he dropped the receiver onto the cradle, trying hard to keep his eyes away from the photos he'd been studying before the call. There were little pinups of rotting sheep, sepia tones of knife wielding men in black executioners masks, spreadeagled women leering out from the glossy paper drenched in fetish fishnets with latex cocks strapped to their foreheads. Looking at them earlier he'd been suspicious that somehow he'd turn fifty and they would come back to him in vivid detail. He'd be in the middle of pleasuring his wife when suddenly everything he was would go limp, an ulcer would form in his bowel and he would start the convulsions he'd somehow avoided when he was twenty. From then on, he decided, staring down at a particularly gruesome depiction of a man enjoying a cow drawn in red, black and peach crayon, he would cry every time he saw himself naked and would only get hard if he was wearing something one hundred percent wool.
He shakily found his fingers over the wide Olivetti and started again, trying hard to picture the food this article would buy instead of the trips to a counselor that he was steadily buying stock in.
"Thank God," He said into the receiver, "I mean hello?"
"Donny?" said a woman's voice on the other side. An anchor was thrown overboard in James' chest and landed squarely in his stomach.
"No you have a wrong number," he managed, trying hard not to sound weak.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Thanks though,"
James leapt, "But maybe I could help you find him?"
There was a bit of a pause on the other end and James was suddenly aware that he was clutching the end of his desk hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He really didn't want to have to go back to work, and talking to a stranger, to anyone, was better than reading another hundred pages on penile skull insertion.
"Um, I think I'll be ok for now, thank you though."
"That's cool but we have two Dons here in the office you know, is that who you were looking for or maybe just Don is a nick name? Don Schafer or Don Williams, maybe? I could go look for them really quick," James said, making another pass. He knew he was the only one in the office, it was Sunday, but her voice was a light at night and he was running for it.
"Oh, um, neither of those but thanks for the help, I'm sure I'll find him, ok thanks, take care now, ok?"
The phone clicked off before James could have another go and he dropped the receiver onto the cradle, trying hard to keep his eyes away from the photos he'd been studying before the call. There were little pinups of rotting sheep, sepia tones of knife wielding men in black executioners masks, spreadeagled women leering out from the glossy paper drenched in fetish fishnets with latex cocks strapped to their foreheads. Looking at them earlier he'd been suspicious that somehow he'd turn fifty and they would come back to him in vivid detail. He'd be in the middle of pleasuring his wife when suddenly everything he was would go limp, an ulcer would form in his bowel and he would start the convulsions he'd somehow avoided when he was twenty. From then on, he decided, staring down at a particularly gruesome depiction of a man enjoying a cow drawn in red, black and peach crayon, he would cry every time he saw himself naked and would only get hard if he was wearing something one hundred percent wool.
He shakily found his fingers over the wide Olivetti and started again, trying hard to picture the food this article would buy instead of the trips to a counselor that he was steadily buying stock in.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Snippet Part Two
The party was elegant. A gathering of some note with men in hats and tails, women in long flowing gowns like they had plucked the fabric from the ocean or the windy trees. Black waiters in white tuxedos busied themselves with fluted glasses filled with an amber liquid and gathered dishes from silk draped tables where conversation was being made. It reminded me of the get-togethers my father used to hold in our house before he died. Maybe it was his memory that caused me to want to shoot the prissy thing that I'd brought on my arm in front of them all. Or maybe it was just that I thought shooting might get me to the cash bar faster. Drop a few suits and maybe I wouldn't even have to pay my tab at the end of the night.
I realized a moment later that I'd left my gun back in the hotel and would probably need that to do any shooting. Penny, the slim little thing I'd rented to come with me to this affair, seemed anxious to mingle with the higher socialites and I couldn't bring myself to tell her I wanted to go get something I'd forgotten back in the room. We found a table near the bar where two rich lushes were talking politics with a fat diamond drenched woman in a blue gown. Cinderella let herself go, it seemed.
I realized a moment later that I'd left my gun back in the hotel and would probably need that to do any shooting. Penny, the slim little thing I'd rented to come with me to this affair, seemed anxious to mingle with the higher socialites and I couldn't bring myself to tell her I wanted to go get something I'd forgotten back in the room. We found a table near the bar where two rich lushes were talking politics with a fat diamond drenched woman in a blue gown. Cinderella let herself go, it seemed.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Another Bottle Brings Another Day
Another thursday has come and gone mates, although I write this from amongst the goings on of that night, and I hope it was pleasant for all of you. Although I made it an early night, I thoroughly enjoyed myself and I am happy to have been able to introduce a new drink to your repetoir. It is seldom I get to introduce new things to old salts, and it pleased me greatly.
When I was a boy, not more than fifteen, my brothers told me that if I continued to drink I was going to die. They said that if I didn't stop now the Lord God was going to take one of his famous ass kickings from out of his huge bag of ass kickings and hand one down to me. That my liver would give out and I would see the devil himself at the bottom of a bourbon glass before he took me to the place where souls are forgotten. I suppose the fact that I've outlived them all sort of put the cork in their asses didn't it?
Maybe I can make fun of them when I finally escape this walking corpse and die. If that was possible.
In all honesty I've outlived everyone I know. My wife and children, their children and the children that came after them. I've watched great-great grandchildren grow old in my front yard just to die of cancer in the hospital sixty years later. Every one of them calls me uncle, calls me cousin, never knowing that I'm really just a relic. Cousins and Uncles have a purpose, they can be capable of giving a shit about you. A relic just sits there and molds. A relic just acts as a reminder that there was a time before you existed and now no longer does. Its history. I'm history. Jesus.
I suppose I can't be bitter about living as long as I have. I've known a lot of men who have gone kicking and screaming to the gates of God. Men who have spit up blood on their wives while they are consumed from the inside out by age or plague or whatever the fuck kills people these days. I've seen men begging to be spared, sputtering at the hospital bed or the side of the road that it isn't their time. It couldn't possibly be them that has to go right now. But it always is their time, never mine. Maybe some day I'll go sputtering into hell, but I'd have to find something that can stop me first.
When I was a boy, not more than fifteen, my brothers told me that if I continued to drink I was going to die. They said that if I didn't stop now the Lord God was going to take one of his famous ass kickings from out of his huge bag of ass kickings and hand one down to me. That my liver would give out and I would see the devil himself at the bottom of a bourbon glass before he took me to the place where souls are forgotten. I suppose the fact that I've outlived them all sort of put the cork in their asses didn't it?
Maybe I can make fun of them when I finally escape this walking corpse and die. If that was possible.
In all honesty I've outlived everyone I know. My wife and children, their children and the children that came after them. I've watched great-great grandchildren grow old in my front yard just to die of cancer in the hospital sixty years later. Every one of them calls me uncle, calls me cousin, never knowing that I'm really just a relic. Cousins and Uncles have a purpose, they can be capable of giving a shit about you. A relic just sits there and molds. A relic just acts as a reminder that there was a time before you existed and now no longer does. Its history. I'm history. Jesus.
I suppose I can't be bitter about living as long as I have. I've known a lot of men who have gone kicking and screaming to the gates of God. Men who have spit up blood on their wives while they are consumed from the inside out by age or plague or whatever the fuck kills people these days. I've seen men begging to be spared, sputtering at the hospital bed or the side of the road that it isn't their time. It couldn't possibly be them that has to go right now. But it always is their time, never mine. Maybe some day I'll go sputtering into hell, but I'd have to find something that can stop me first.
Cthulu Cthomes
Atop some floating wreckage,
A sailor came ashore.
He bought himself a tankard
And a burly surly whore.
In one gulp he downed the lager
And did likewise to the lass.
Told the waitress not to bother
And shot fire from his ass.
We watched as with one wooden leg,
He hopped upon the bar,
And beer flew from his ragged beard
As he yarred a mighty yar.
All you little bastards, said he,
with voice made thick with drink,
Are little shabby tarts and
land-loving cunts I think.
But if you'd like to change,
And clean the sand from out your slit,
I can give your life a purpose,
And a soul to go with it.
Just sign upon the dotted line,
Make sure your mark is neat and clear,
Kiss your wife and child back at home,
And leave your will and test right here.
This thursday we be leaving,
To drink on foreign shores.
To pluck the finest foreign skirts
From the finest foreign whores.
And if ye have the stomache
To see the voyage till its through,
Bounty can be yours,
From captain Cthulu.
A sailor came ashore.
He bought himself a tankard
And a burly surly whore.
In one gulp he downed the lager
And did likewise to the lass.
Told the waitress not to bother
And shot fire from his ass.
We watched as with one wooden leg,
He hopped upon the bar,
And beer flew from his ragged beard
As he yarred a mighty yar.
All you little bastards, said he,
with voice made thick with drink,
Are little shabby tarts and
land-loving cunts I think.
But if you'd like to change,
And clean the sand from out your slit,
I can give your life a purpose,
And a soul to go with it.
Just sign upon the dotted line,
Make sure your mark is neat and clear,
Kiss your wife and child back at home,
And leave your will and test right here.
This thursday we be leaving,
To drink on foreign shores.
To pluck the finest foreign skirts
From the finest foreign whores.
And if ye have the stomache
To see the voyage till its through,
Bounty can be yours,
From captain Cthulu.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Snippet For Posterity
"Do you believe in Angels?" Marly asked, her impish little face looking up at me with eyes that rose like twin brown moons over the peaks of her cheeks.
"Not really," I told her, trying to sound even, "the ones I've met really weren't worth believing in."
"Not really," I told her, trying to sound even, "the ones I've met really weren't worth believing in."
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