What’s a nice gun like you doing in a place like this?
A writer is often called upon to take a memory that they’d prefer to leave full of cobwebs hidden away in the memory attic and bring it back to life for retelling. I’m told its therapeutic but truthfully I fear it may be the proverbial camel breaking straw that may release my inner serial killer. Maybe that’s harsh, more the harmless psychopath that dwells locked in the caverns of my id. But for the sake of art I will lurch head first into the darker depths of my era of depression an relive this horror in words. No, not THE depression, I’m not THAT old, my depression, the confused, self medicating years of my youth spent in the absence of light. I have a somewhat sordid past to begin with so there is the possibility this is a dangerous exercise that could unleash the devils warrior that may be lurking about in the hopes of finding a portal into the mortal. Ergo (I love using that word) I put forth a disclaimer or two. First, there are no innocent people in need of protection but names were changed anyway to make them sound more badass. Second, this story may or may not be true and may or may not be based on real life experience. Either way, it could happen to you. Here then is a tale of one night when my darkness encountered the darkness of a gun barrel. The night I was held at gunpoint.
Like most big cities New York has an underground drug market. On the Lower East Side you can get it all. Pot, pills, coke, dope, pretty much any drug you want, you just needed to know where to go and how its sold. On 14th street give the two finger V sign and you’ll attract valium salesmen, down on Third Ave listen for the word “sense” and you have pot. Coke is by Tompkins Park, and heroin is in the famed alphabet city. Life had dealt me some major blows, leaving me living in a tiny room with no family connections. I had used a lot of different drugs but my depression was at an all time low, even I didn’t want to hang out with me. I found solace in drinking booze and sniffing bags of heroin to take me away. It was a very dangerous game to play, one because its an unforgiving high and if you let it get you it won’t let go, and two because to cop it you had to go into the belly of the beast of the city where not a single soul can be trusted. But when you don’t give a shit about anything, even your pathetic life, it’s a risk worth taking. So I did, I went down on occasion to cop some dope. The dealers have people they call steerers, who steer you to the sellers. It’s a labyrinth designed to protect the dealers in which you encounter three people before finding the one holding the dope. This hot July night I was gamed by a junkie who posed as a steerer.
“Hey Bro, you looking for some good dope? Mr. T, the best shit in town right around the corner.” Mr. T was legendary dope, very strong and a real prize among users. In an attempt to let him know I knew my shit I asked, “Old executive or double Dee?” This Latin dude stared at me. He has very tight curled hair parted in the middle and a pock marked worn face partially covered by a weak goatee. “Hey look Bro, you be talking to Culebro, I da man wit da plan G. You want the real deal Hollyfield Exec or you wanna get that cheap ass double dee shit from the negritos Yo? Follow the Culebro if you want the good dope son I ain’t got time to play games boy the fucking man is all over this place. Come on ahead or get the fuck out!” I made a shit decision, I followed The Culebro.
It’s not uncommon for dope to be sold in an abandoned building. No neighbors, easy exits for the dealers, and no one to tip off the cops. But this abandoned building was just that, abandoned. I followed Culebro up to the third floor, the stairwells lit by candlelight. I thought that was a good sign, that usually the habits of a smart operation. Or an operation no longer in use. As soon as we entered the hallway on the third floor Culebro pushed me up against the wall and stuck a handgun to my head. “Okay blanquito, how much you gonna die for tonight?”
I’ve often heard the phrase “shit a brick” to describe a profound fear. First let me say that if one were to shit even little pieces of broken mortar it would take a great deal of effort and concentration, both of which were in short supply. I assure you bowel movement would be amongst the last thoughts one has with a loaded pistol poised at ones forehead. Nor would my thoughts cause me to perspire bullets. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. That would have at the very least offered some entertainment. Most of went through my head was more like, “Oh fuck. Oh shit. That’s a fucking gun! What the fuck am I gonna do now. This fucker is crazy and he’s gonna shoot me.” I also entertained the thought of being a statistic in tomorrows police blotter. Unknown twenty something found dead in center of chalk line on Lower East Side. Me, reduced to a thin line of white chalk! But that was a fleeting thought, what I instinctively knew was I had to escape or die. But how to approach this escape? Beg? “Oh please man please…don’t. I have a family somewhere maybe I’ll have children someday.” No, that won’t work. Calm reasoning? “Hey look man, this is a mistake, I’m not worth it. I have no money, the gun will make noise and cops will be up here in seconds.” No, cops aren’t anywhere near this area, its one of the poorest in the city. Here gunshots and sirens are like birdcalls in the morning. No go. Bargain? “Look man, I have plenty of cash in my apartment in the village, we can take the subway over and I’ll go up and get it all for you. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.” Right! He seems like such a trusting soul. Options are limiting rapidly. Then it hit me. My bright idea.
Living in the city that never sleeps has some unwritten, unspoken rules. There is a good chance that at some point you are going to get ripped off. Mugged. Always split up your cash an always have some cash somewhere. You never want to carry a lot of cash around but you always need something. If you get mugged and have at least a little cash you chances are good it’s a druggie looking for quick cash and will take your money and flee. Roll it up in bundles to make it look like more than it I. A well rolled wad of single can look like a major score, and most times the thief doesn’t stop and count. If you have nothing you run the risk of pissing them off and turning them bat shit crazy. I had my own strategy because purchasing drugs on the street was an art. Hundreds of scammers and muggers. I place my drug purchase money in my front pocket, a small wad of singles in my left, and a roll of cash in each sock. That way if I get mugged before copping I can still cop, and if its after I can give them money and they won’t know I have drugs. But this situation was different. This dude knew I had drug money and he wanted it. He doesn’t realize I live here, he thinks I’m a B&T. B&T is slang for Bridge and Tunnel, a reference to the fact that kids come from the suburbs of Connecticut, New jersey or Long Island to come to play in the big city by driving through the tunnel or over a bridge. Easy prey. But I was no longer B&T, I had been living in the city for four years now and knew a lot of tricks. I opted for one I practiced in my mind but never in a real life situation. I sprung into action.
With my hands in the air I said, “hold on man, hold on. I have some more cash here in my sock.” I slowly reached down towards my foot and removed a wad of singles wrapped in a twenty to show him. Then I flung it up in the air using my thumb to separate the bills and it looked like bills from heaven. It was just the distraction I needed and as he greedily started grabbing for the bills he lowered his gun and I fled like the track star I could have been if I applied myself. (that’s what my Mom always told me). I didn’t stop running until I reached the village, and I absolutely learned my lesson about dope. I’ll never cop anything in that neighborhood again!
Tag: existentialism
Experienced Waitress wanted (hopefully and up and comer!)
“Is That A Rolling Pin Under Your Apron or are You Just Happy To See Me?”
My very first restaurant experience was enlightening in many ways. I was hired to ensure the sanitation of the entire establishment be maintained throughout the dining experience. I proudly bore an exalted title than made me the envy of my school. “Potwasher,” a title that’s far more demeaning than the inoccent name would imply. But fuck it man, I didn’t care. Other friends had jobs in deli’s, gas stations, or retail stores and shit. They had easier jobs, but I had something they didn’t. Easily accessible alcohol, fun loving dudes to joke around with, and HOT waitresses.
So there I was, at the suds busting helm of a sink full of soapy water smiling away at all the hotties. My raging sixteen year old hormones were smiling too. Even the older waitresses were HOT. I quickly learned of the extra advantage of apron wearing which could conceal my budding enthusiasm. Cuz the waitresses were HOT! I used the traditional three compartment sink method, wash, rinse, and cold water to cool my jets in. It wasn’t just that though, I was accepted.
Most people who are “Quirky” out on the fringe of society at age 16 get made fun of a lot. That or run off to the circus or carnival to blend in with other “freaks” But not this young lad, I headed straight for the restaurant life. Working at a restaurant was a religious experience for me. I was like holy shit man, there’s people here even weirder than me. A good restaurant is filled with artists. Struggling actors, singers, comediennes, and writers. That was mostly in the front of the house but I was back of the house. Apparently they don’t get along in many establishments. I can understand the old fuckers in the back of the house but the young chefs? Don’t they see how HOT the wait staff is? Some of the staff were gay, but if guy on guy sex was up my alley I would have bent over backwards for those hunky servers. Dressed just as revealingly as the female counterparts the gay waiters were HOT too. Some so hot I may have considered switching sides from time to time, but the sea of sizzling sexy waitresses was way too plentiful. And HOT.
I loved the way the older waitresses flirted with me and I think I looked good in crimson red when they made me blush and laughed about it. The unflattering white cook shirt really complimented my reddened face. I didn’t care because I was in a kitchen and I could handle the heat and my perseverance paid off one particular evening. It was a tediously slow Monday night and the manager decided to let Kat, the thirty something head waitress close the restaurant. Kat was a divorced women with long blond hair in a shag cut that made her look younger. Deep blue eyes were highlighted by thick mascara and her eye shadow bore an even deeper shade of blue. I used to wonder if she was a model when she was younger, but I was a pup myself and somewhat naïve. She had the perfect face for a young boy to fantasize about, wearing more make up than she needed and pouting oversized lips painted gleaming hot red. Fantastic legs with bulging muscles even in her ankles. I spent many a break following those legs around the kitchen dreaming while trying not to get caught looking.
The chef and cooks broke down and left even before then, so it was just me and Kat in the restaurant. Kat was one of the women who loved to flirt with me to get me mumbling and flustered and goddamn was she good at it!. This Monday night she walked into the kitchen with her skirt higher than usual and asked me if I wanted a drink. I replied indeed I would and she told me to come on out to the bar and She’ll “give it to me.” I watched as she left the kitchen not able to take my eyes off her legs. Had to check the apron to make sure it didn’t reveal my own tightened muscle that had formed below. All clear so out to the bar.
Kat was behind the bar with her back to me. She turned around and caught me staring at her ass and smiled, “See something you like Hon?” I smiled weakly and thought to myself “Oh yea, I see something I really like.” As if she read my mind she grabbed two rocks glasses and walked over to me. “How bout this Hon?” She handed me one of the glasses. I drank half of it straight down in one fast gulp. “Easy Hon, you don’t want to go too fast.“ There was a throaty tease to her voice, but more obvious was the tease as she gently rubbed that muscle I was talking about. The blood shot up to my face so hard and so fast I thought someone hit me. With her other hand she reached up and unbuttoned three of the buttons of her blouse revealing three quarters of her smooth breasts barely covered with a thin flower print bra. She had my undivided attention. My apron muscle stood at attention as well. I pulled the apron string and let it drop to the floor. I launched a near attack on her breasts but she grabbed my hands, “Easy Tiger, no need to rush.” She skillfully undid my shirt and pulled it off an began sucking on my nipples, “This is how you do it Honey, nice and easy.”
The adrenalin that shot through my body was electric shock therapy. I never even thought women sucked on guys nipples but I was a fast learner. I returned the sensual gesture and paid total attention to her breasts, lovingly applying my tongue on her nipples. I could tell she liked it because she was making soft moaning noises of approval. I was so focused I barely even noticed that she had undone my pants. I pounded down whatever was left in the rocks glass for a little bravado. It went down easy yet burned all the way. I struggled out of my pants an underpants and Kat led me to the lounge and laid me on a cushioned bench. She remove her stockings and panties but not her dress. She just hiked it up an straddled me. Her skilled hand directed my heat seeking misle inside her and pumped away furiously. It felt so unbelievably good my inner self was ablaze and transcending rapidly. My entire circulatory system sang, danced, then gathered in my penis and threatened to make it explode violently. Kat slowed her pace as she moved up and down with artful slow rhythm and now it was me making sounds. I moaned and groaned and claimed my allegiance to god over and over as Kat just kept moaning simply “Yes, yes, Yes, oh yea.” Suddenly she got very loud and screamed “Oh god, here it is, I‘m coming, I‘m coming!” and then a AHHHhhhhh, that began really loud and got softer and slower by the second. Hearing her orgasm brought me to the breaking point. I exclaimed loudly “I think I’m gonna come,” but the warning was too late as I exploded my hormonal syrup, every last drop of it deep into her. The two of us lay there panting and moaning and panting some more. Like needles and pins blood pumped through my face and I fell in love for the very first time that very second!
Of course it wasn’t real love, Kat had zero interest in love especially with me, but I could feel it. I knew I was in love. We had sex a few more times after that night, mostly in her apartment. Kat never once made it feel awkward at work, I never bragged to anyone so no one knew what we did. One day something came up and she had to go back home to Kansas. I would never see her again, but neither would I ever forget her.
Kat schooled me in so many things, but nothing so expertly as pleasure, both how to please and how to be pleased. To this day looking at a waitress makes me horny and reminds me of my carnal adventures with Kat. I know she never loved me, that I merely served a purpose for her for a while but that’s okay. I would fall in and out love a hundred times more and have plenty of sexual adventures. Kat did way more for me than I ever could for her and she may be the true reason I fell in love with restaurants to begin with. I’ve had a great career as a chef and have my share of excurions so intense they would make Kitchen Confidential seem lame. I’ve been loved and been in love. But nothing will ever compare to the love I got from Kat the waitress. Thanks Kat, wherever you are!
Yes, I Read A Clockwork Orange in My School Daze
Lesson in Civility
I enjoyed to writing but it came as a surprise to most that I also loved to read. Many of the teachers believed that I didn’t read because they knew my “type”. That meant worthless lazy potheads who don’t have enough ambition to read. They took me for a non caring loser who didn’t give a shit about education. Most of the time I just thought ‘fuck them’ cuz they‘ll always think their better than us.. I had just finished reading a complex and unbelievably outrageous book called “A Clockwork Orange” in which the characters had their own slang language making it a more difficult read than most. I walked into Mr. Refester’s class prepared to debate the attributes in this fine book that was to be the focus of the days lesson. Refester, or Reefer as we called him, always tried to trip me up. For what ever reason this fucker really had it in for me. It was no surprise that he directed many questions to me in an attempt to mess me up but I had the proper answers. That pissed him off so with his stupid smirk he asked me what happened to the main character in jail. The character, Alex, had killed a fellow inmate and gotten deeper in trouble. When I relayed this info to Reefer he shot me a distain filled glare and revealed his stern teacher voice. “That never happened in the book JT that only happened in the movie. This proves you didn’t read the book, you only watched the movie. Try reading next time instead of taking the easy way out like always. You get a zero for the day.” I was angry beyond belief. I had not even seen the movie and I loved the book so much I read it twice. Well I let him know this in no uncertain terms but he didn’t hear a word I said. Instead he went into a tirade of what happens to lazy marijuana smoking kids who try to fool their teachers. There is no doubt in my mind my face went from crimson to purple with anger. Periwinkle purple if I remember my crayola’s correctly. Tired from working last night, still slightly buzzed from second period, and angry as castrated hornet I flipped. Sick and tired of being unfairly judged I stood up to better state my case and looked around the room at my peers to see who might lend me support. Anyone who read the book would know I wasn’t lying and that was what happened in the book. Every last one of them turned their heads, looked down at their desks, or just smiled in approval at the injustice being thrust upon your friend and narrator. So all alone I stood on my oddy knocky infuriated and decided to stand my ground. After offering my own version of the account and pleading my case, Reefer just stared at me and said ‘Sit down Mr. Hilltop. Maybe you didn’t hear me. You get a zero for the day.” That was the final drinking tube that crushed the dromedary’s back. I eyed the door, thought about my options and what would be the smart thing to do. I knew the right thing was to sit down, regroup and go find a copy of the book to prove my credibility. The right thing has never been my forte. With that in mind I mumbled “Fuck you” just loud enough for everyone to hear as the silence blanketed the room. I then thought what the fuck, might as well give a parting blow to the asshole spineless peers in my class as well. I walked towards the door as Mr. Reefer kept yelling at me to get back in my seat and sit down, but the ship had already started sailing and was probably gonna sink anyway. I wanted to leave no doubt that I had read the book so as I opened the door I turned to my classmates and using the books slang in my most silky golass I creeched, “You bunch of vonny grazzy devotchkas and chellovecks. Nary a one of you had the yarbles to open your silent rots and speak their golass on behalf of yours truly. I’ll not slooshy another slovo. You can all kiss my sharries. My appy-polly loggies to the young devotchkas but enough of this chepooka. Seems I will always be on my oddy knocky in this excuse of a classroom. Bog save you all my droogies” As I slammed the door for effect I started to regret my actions already but I knew it proved I was in the right and now the whole class would have no doubt, unless of coursse they didn’t read the book and didn’t understand the language I used. I was right right right but still in deep shit. I was scared but also hot and needed to talk to someone, so I went straight to the cafeteria to find just one of my droogies, er friends.
“Hey Patrick, whats up bro?” Patrick was a cool bud who seemed to be friends with everyone, jocks, hitters, greasers, hippies and even the brainiacs. But today he was alone at the table which was cool by me, I needed to calm down anyway. “Hey whats happening JT? You skip class man?” “Yea bro, something like that. Fucking just had a fight with Reefer and walked out of his class.” “Oh man that sucks. What a douche that fuckhead is. Come on over after school and I’ll sneak out the bamboo pipe.” Fucking A Patrick, you’re the fucking best. I know I’m gonna get in a shitload for this. I think I told him to fuck himself in front of the whole class.” At first Patrick looked at me with deer in headlight stare. I saw his eyes soften up and begin to cave in on the sides and he began his loud guffaw of a laugh he had become famous for. “Ah ha ha oh my gawd JT, you said it out loud? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” We both laughed for about five minutes and as soon as I composed my self I said “I don’t think Reefer thought it was funny. Anyway whadda ya gonna do? Fuck him.” “You may get in trouble JT, but it one helluva great story to have. We can talk about it later. C’mon over after school, I got some black hash that’s preamo.” “Thanks bro, we can always count on our friends. No one else, but always our friends.” No sooner had I said that when one of the school principals pets came up to me and said “Justin, Mr. Winston wants to see you.” “Yea, that sounds about right. Catch ya later Patrick. Right after school?” “No problem JT, I’ll be waiting.” Time to pay the piper, whatever the fuck that meant!
You Say You Want A Revelation, We All Want To End The World
The last one picked is the one no one wants on the team. Revelations was the last one picked for the Bible and I have to wonder why. Too fat, too slow, or too uncoordinated? Maybe it jut flat out sucks!? Of course there’s only one way to find out. Investigation. So here it comes the Christian Search Investigators. The CSI-Bible to find the DNA and other forensic tidbits. Maybe even trace elements like epithelia’s, fingerprints, or secret documents to uncover the truth behind the end of all things. Except gods inner circle of course.
The main players in this tale of apocalyptic reckoning are somewhat questionable. Written by John of pathological, it includes the four headless horsemen of Sleepy Hollow, the Liar of Judah, angels, trumpeters, the beast, a dragon, a false prophet, an arched angel, and of course no bible story would be complete without a whore, this one straight outta Babylon.
The book of revelations is somewhat difficult to tell because its told in some unusual circumstances. The story was revealed to this dude John, who was locked up in prison in Pathos. He was a prolific writer who had already had a number of stories published in the New Testament. A few under the epistle category, and a gospel song called Psalm 43 (The P has the right to remain silent). Many religious scholars say it was actually 3 different Johns but if I get into bible discrepancies I’ll never get to this story. The truth is that John had a visitor in jail.. (looked alarming similar to Mary Magdalene though she denied it. Three times.) This visitor had placed a very powerful tab or two of LSD (legal at that time) in her mouth and transferred it to Johns mouth in a disgusting public display of spit swapping. A face sucking, tongue tango, snog toggle, French kiss whose true purpose was to exchange the hallucinogenic treat. When John got back to his cell, and after his bulge subsided (Really don’t drop the soap now!!) he was visited and told a story by god. I had a similar reverse episode once, after ingesting a chemical mind tickler I learned that god took some acid and saw me! Another day.
So during his intense peeking (I think that’s what people on acid trips call it when the trip hit’s a crescendo. I think!), that was when god suddenly said to John, “Dude, you wanna hear about the future of mankind?” Stupid question, of course he did. He was tripping after all. So this story was how John best remembered the telling some 18 hours after the acid wore off. That’s some powerful shit there! This is the book of Reservations. Reverberation. Revolution. ….Sorry, The Book of Revelations!
Here it is in his very own paraphrased words as he told it to me one day back in the late 60’s:
“So Mary and I kissed and I could feel two tabs of something on her tongue. Yea I know she said it wasn’t her but she just didn’t want to end up on the front page of the Abraham Inquirer. An let me tell you the J-man was one lucky Jew she was one helluva kisser. Anyway She tells me to swallow, something you don’t normally wanna hear in prison, so I swallows the tab. Then she tells me I just took two tabs of Blue Cheer acid. Man I was stoked. I smiled all the way back to my cell knowing what was coming. I got to my cell and laid down on my stone cot. After about a half hour I hear this voice. I sit up an look around but there ain’t no one there. So I lays back down when the voice comes back, this time calling me by name. So I shout who’s that, who’s there? And the voice says ‘Its me John, God.’ Now I’m thinking it must be the acid kickin’ in right? I mean the voice was like soft and almost girly. Not the powerful deep voice you’d think God would have but he insists. ‘Really John, its me God’ Then he steps out from the shadows and sure enough it is God. Amazing how much Jesus looked like him. Spittin’ image. What else could I do? I sez, whats up God?”
“He walks through the bars, I mean right through, like they wasn’t even there. Then he sez, ‘John, I want to tell you a story. I want you to write it down and make sure everyone reads it.’ I sez to him, you mean like a bestseller or something? To which he replies, ‘yea, something like that. But first try and get the story into the bible, because this is the story of the beginning and the end.’ Now I’m really thinking the acid is kicking in but I sez yea sure and he continues”
“When I first created everything I had seven arch angels to watch over heaven and protect it. Six of these arches were cool, but one arch angel was just a real pain in the ass. Has to do everything his way and wouldn’t follow directions. Finally one day I caught him in bed with Gabriel’s teenage daughter and that was the last straw. I tossed his ass out and straight down to earth along with one third of the questionable residents of heaven. He went down to earth with them and they formed a gang calling themselves the Crypts. He goes to the garden of Eden and begins recruiting humans for his gang. So I had Gabriel, a very trusted angel form a gang up here because I knew there would someday be a major showdown. He formed the Bloods of my blood, after my sons prophecy. We call them the Bloods for short, and it created a rivalry that would be the mother of all rivalries. Good vs. Evil, Bloods vs. Crypts. One day we would have our gang lords get together for an epic showdown. This showdown will be called The Rapture.”
“Now I’m still tripping but I know this shit is real so I keep scraping away on my stones getting down his words so I could one day write the book for him.Being an ancient journalist of course I had questions, so I asks him to explain to me how this Rapture thing is gonna go down. Then something happens that may sound like a fairy tale or a hallucination. He floats up to the ceiling an sez come on up John it will be easier if I show you”
Now I’m flipping ya know? I’m like how the fuck am I supposed to get up there, but before I even thought about a strategy I was lifted off my feet and floating right next to him. Honest to god, from Gods mouth to my ear he whispers, ‘Watch this. These guys can really stir it up’ A light went on and I swear to you it looked like a giant flat screen TV in HD. The images seemed so real. There was a stage with seven muicians. Al Hirt,Loius Armstrong,Wynton Marsalas, Miles Davis,Chuck Mangione,Maynard Fererson, and Dizzy Gillespie. Not just ordinary musicians each stood with a trumpet in their hands. The seven Trumpeters. They jammed for about an hour and that’s when the real show started!”
“As the story unfolded God narrated over it. The stage floated up to the corner of the screen and the image of earth came up below it. Al Hirt stepped forward and God whipered, ‘the first trumpet’. Al blew a fast riff and out of his trumpet spewed balls of hail and fire down onto the earth. In an instant there was a split screen and on the right I could see cities getting bombarded with hail and burning meteors. Devestation was everywhere. Then Satchmo came out and blew towards earth, and every volcano on earth erupted simultaneously filling the oceans with ash so thick it looked like a sea of mud.’ second trumpet.’ Next it was Wynton and he blew into all the rivers of the earth turning all the water everywhere bitter. ‘third, and here comes number 4’, Miles come out and blows toward the southern hemisphere and freezes it entirely. I was freaking. On the split screen people everywhere running in circles, slipping on ice, not having a clue what was happening. Then Chuck and Maynard come out together and blow sulpher and marijuana smoke all over earth, getting the humans high and making it stink like shit. Finally Dizzy comes out and starts blowing opium, making not only him, but every human dizzy. Even Miss Lizzie!”
“Well now I’m thinking what was the point, everyone gonna die, but its like the big guy can read my mind. ‘You’re wondering why right?’ I shakes my head and he sez ‘I needed to piss off Satan and the Crypts.Get ready because now is when the real fun begins. Now The Bloods of my blood and the Crypts are gonna wage an all out war back in the little town of Armegedeon. For this I am switching to Imax, cuz this shit is way sick.’ My eyes are already bugging out and now it Technicolor. Brilliant images on the screen of an area that looked like Mordor. Maybe the only place on earth not frozen or scorched. This was where they was gonna wage the final battle of all time. I pinched myself to see if it was real.” John was getting antsy and says wait, I forgot to tell you about the Seven Trained Seals. I need to tell you about that before I go on.” At this point John looked a little uneasy so he requested a ten minute break and diaapeared. (TBC)
Prisoner Of Love
During the insidious adventures of JT he learns some hard truths about himself
Prisoner Of Love
That inevitable moment arrived, and we both knew it was coming. Time for JT to leave and move on to the next adventure. This time I wasn’t really sure if I wanted new a new adventure. More unsettling was I wasn’t sure how I felt about Jo. Could it be love? Maybe. Not the traditional type of love but a strange and alluring love that grabs hold while your not paying attention. A love who‘s destiny it was to fail. One that started as a time bomb of sexual tensions that made good on its promise to fulfill both our intense needs and then must fizzle out. That was all it was supposed to be, two lovers sharing the comfort of each other for just a short time. But the sexual volcano erupted and the lava it released was strong and unfamiliar. Is it emotional feelings? Not good! Not good at all!
We agreed from the start that before her boyfriend got back home we would go our separate ways and we were okay with that. No attachments, no bullshit, not strings. At the time it seemed like a good idea but I never considered that emotions might figure into the equation. I mean sex without commitment should be a young mans dream. And the sex was good, god damn was it good. Reckless abandon. She put the music on real loud to drown out our very loud sexually motivated squeals and promises . I can’t even remember half the shit I said but the half I do remember all involved me pleading gods name louder than I ever did before. So often and so loud you woulda thought I was a devout follower.
The fact that no strings were attached was what made it so intriguing. It wasn’t supposed to happen but I was pretty sure I did love Jo. I reasoned I was just not in love with her. At least I didn’t think I was. She understood me the way Tina had, we intertwined emotionally the way Carrie and I had, yet I knew from the start she was unattainable. Maybe that was it, maybe just wanting something I know I can’t have is whats driving these feelings?! One thing I was certain of is Josie and I were really good together, even our conversations were deep. But it was time to discard the emotions and say good by. Who knew it would be so difficult. We laid naked in bed in a satiated silence after what was presumably our final high energy fling. Anyway we went at it as if it were our last time either of us would ever make love again. So much determination and passion we were motionless for over an hour before she spoke.
“JT Sweetie, I sweer I ain’t never gonna firget you baby. But y’all know Jake is coming back tomorrah and you bess be long gone for then.” She placed her head on my chest using her soft curls as a pillow. She tenderly reached around my shoulder to lightly scratch the back of my neck. “Why does it have to end Jo? Why can’t you come up north with me?” She moved her hand to my lips, “Shush now Justin, y’all know that caint happen. Things is way differnt down here baby. Things is expected of a gurl down here. My Mama won’t never furgive me an my Papa, well Papa ain‘t one to anger up none.…Ya don’t wanna be puttin no bee in yer bonnet with Papa, Honey J. I juss caint do that, my future got be with Jake. Thats the way its spose to go. I got to think about the future.” I placed my arms around her and planted her head firmly between my neck and chin to caress her with my cheek. “It doesn’t have to go like that. You are in charge of your future. You make your choices. There ain’t no reason you can’t leave here. Hell baby child even if its not with me why get married to someone you don’t love? Trust me, that shit don’t end well at all, I been there and it sucks.” I could feel a tear on her cheek. She sat up, “JT, that’s not how life is here in Conway South Carolina. I gotta answer to Jesus. I know y’all don unerstand that but it means a lot here Baby Boy. A girls folks expeck her to marry the man they wants fur her to marry, have chillen and raise them to fear the lord. Womens don’t get to do no choosin’ round here. A girls past can foller her around an make her life horrible if ya goes against thangs. My past is determining my future, and my past is with Jake. So now my future got to be that way too, Sugarpie. Don’t matter none what I wants.” I looked at her incredulously. “That’s not true Jo it matters very much what you want. Its your life pretty girl. Your past only determines who you were. Its what lead you to your present but it sure ain‘t who you are now. You can’t live in the past Babydoll that’s over. Your past is gone, you own your future.” I gently kissed her on the temple. “Listen to your heart Jo, what’s your heart saying? The heart knows because the heart lives in the present and begs you for a future. A future that you want, not what god or Jesus or your mom and dad want, but what Josie wants! You’re not defined by your past and you can rewrite your future Sweet Thing. Listen to your heart. I think I hear it whispering my name.” She smiled a half smile that told a hundred stories. The story of the past two weeks, the story of a girl and a boy sharing the most perfect moment in time. It hinted at what could be while at the same time mercilessly reminded her of her fate. It told of deep stories of sadness and defeat, told by a lonely girl who believes she has no control over her own life. Stories of things gone by and things to come, but not the story of the now, the right here. No stories of a happy ever after with me or of endless possibilities. A smile that is fighting the sadness underneath, a profound smile with eyes that confirmed the feeling of hopelessness. “Weeze all defined by our pasts JT, ain’t none of us can rewrite the future no matter how much we want to. The heart only lives in the present because its afraid of breaking. Like mine is this here right this second. I dint never spect this to be so hard baby. I aint even sure how it happened, but we had us two weeks of bliss and I ain‘t sorry bout a second of it. But it got an endin sugar, I‘m sorry but as much as it hurts me this song is ending. Every song ends. I sure done wannit to stop neither but that’s my life honeypie. Things happen for a reason an we juss gotta figger out what the reason fur us was.”
We embraced deep in thought for a few minutes. This feeling was so foreign to me. Fuck man, am I starting to grow up? I’m not sure why but I still wasn’t ready to let this all just slip away, “Jo baby listen” I sat up and took her hands in mine. We stared into each others soul with piercing compassion. Our eyes embraced. “The past doesn’t matter Josie Rae. You done things in the past and I done things in the past but that’s history, not destiny. Maybe its our destiny to look beyond our pasts and think about a future. I never really thought that things happen for a reason, like fate or anything. I always believed everything was random and just happened. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe shits not just random. All the things that happened to me were so we could meet. That’s why I took a trip with people I knew I had no business being with. That’s why I got busted and stuck in jail. To meet you. I learned a lot about myself doing my time in prison. Maybe I was in prison to straighten my head and to get ready for you and me.” Now her smile was thoughtful, she was fully aware she was in complete control of everything. One of the things I love about her. (did I say love?) “Sweetie, you wasn’t in no prison. You was in jail Baby Boy. You spent time incarcerated in a southern jail, and maybe you sure enough did do some growin there, but it was just a jail, not a prison. People like you an me we carry our prisons on our backs. It sure nuff don’t seem right but thets how it is fur our kind. We dream but we ain’t never in control of our dreams, not really. Way I figger it weeze born wit the prison on our backs, you an me. We likely carry’em tar graves. And we been out of prison for four glorious week, maybe the best four weeks of my life. Leastwise the happiest. That’s what I got hon, an that’s gun be my most precious memory. I sure hope its yers too, cuz it shore was like heaven. For four weeks Justin you let me out of prison and I will always be thankful for that. But I got to take my prison back tomorrow, and I recon youse gonna fine yersff a prison you can live with too. Leastwise I recon you will. Lets juss firget all bout this now an just be happy with each other one last time. Lets make love once more afore you leave.”
I had no argument left, she was right. I did carry a prison on my back, I always had. Besides, over time she would get tired or bored of me, or worse, something bad would happen to her. No one stays with JT. Not for long anyway. That was my prison, a life that’s a plague of death and abandonment. Like I always seem to do I get hung up on the people that leave my life, Joe, James, Ken, Bill, June, an even my mom. I put them aside and thought about the past four weeks and I gave her the most passionate kiss I was capable of. Then we made love. We made love for over an hour, not with reckless abandon this time, but with calculated tenderness. When we finished we wrapped our arms around each other and never spoke another word. We both fell asleep and when I woke up it was six o’clock. I quietly got out of bed and kissed Josie Rae Sessions on the cheek and whispered, “I don’t care what you say pretty girl, I love you.” I could swear she smiled but whether he did or not, the only fair thing for me to do for her was to exit quietly. At that moment I knew I did in fact love her and that’s why I have to go. That’s how much a really love her, my staying would only hurt her. I let my heart break so she could go where she truly believed he belonged. It wasn’t right, it totally sucked but thats the kind of shit you do for real love. Sacrifice. Love comes with consequences and you gamble on some pain. I learned how much love really can hurt, how my love for one woman was so strong I broke my own heart to allow her to follow hers. Right or wrong, that wasn’t for me to choose. I had my life to focus on now. I washed up, got dressed and left. I left with exactly what I had arrived with four weeks ago. My wallet, my clothes, and the prison on my back.
Dead To Writes
Beginning With My End In Mind.
I’m writing a eulogy for someone. It’s a person I know inside out, that’s been there for me through thick and thin. Someone I’ve known my entire life. Me. After all, I was there when I traveled down that birth canal without a paddle, I was there when the doc smacked my ass, and I’ve been with me ever since. Obviously I’m not dead yet, but I’ve been to too many funerals and heard too many eulogies to know that without my assistance in memorializing me it would lack the humor, conviviality, and sarcasm my last formal spoken memory should encompass. I don’t want my wife or my kids to struggle over what I would want said so I’m taking out the guesswork.
When I say I’m writing it sounds like I recently started it but the truth is its been a project now for a few years. I keep putting it on the back burner and tell myself “No worries, you have plenty of time.” Hope I’m right because I love writing and I’m not ready to stop. I still have way to many things to say. Ergo I write. I’ve got tons of other projects in the works. I’ve done quite a lot of writing over the years. I wrote poems, most of which suck, a song or two, also sucky, as well as a number of short stories. I’d like to write a few more before my best used by date. I’ve been working on a novel on and off that so far has taken up more than three years of my life. But fuck it at least I’ve settled on the title. Of course nothing is certain except taxes and de…….Nevermind! It’s the third title actually but I really like this one. And as of now only two or five chapters have been re-writes and I am relatively certain of its direction.. So between being the foremost authority on me combined with my love of writing, it only makes sense that I should write my own eulogy. In fact, I highly recommend it everyone but get started soon because its not as easy as it seems.
The first problem a writer encounters during their own eulogy is that dreaded re-write. Nothing is ever perfect. First I just change a word, then I change a sentence, and before I know it I’ve said fuck it and erased the whole thing just to start over. I have my strong finish, and my cheery opening, and know most of what I want to include so I just need to settle on the finality. As I was writing it I struggled with what my format should be.
After a number of musings and a fair amount of wine I finally settled on a basic format. The first paragraph should be about what I don’t want. I don’t want anyone to mention god in any way shape or form. I respect others faiths but I’m the dead one here so I call no mentioning god. Check that, god can be mentioned if its like “Oh my fuckin god he was a pisser“, or “god damn he was funny” or “oh god don’t stop, oh god yes,yes,yes” anything along those lines is permissible. Maybe the last one should be in the privacy of your own whereever. Also I don’t want anyone to say to my family that I’m with god now. If I’m wrong about the whole heaven and hell thing I’ll be taking the elevator to the basement anyway. That doesn’t mean you should tell them “It’s okay, he’s with Lucifer now” either. And by all means stay away from the clichés. “I’m sorry for your loss” sounds like something Mr. and Mrs. Hallmark says to their grieving loved ones. Just share memories and remember the good times. I’m not really going anywhere I just made it to the next level.
Also, I don’t want anyone reciting religious scriptures or saying prayer over me, especially a stranger. You want to pray do that shit on your own in silence. And pray for yourself not for me, I don’t want any prayers. I’m an existentialist, we don’t pray we think. So meditate, its my funeral and I’ll have it the way I want. Seriously guys it’s the most important day of my death so cut me some slack. Here’s what I want everyone to do. Laugh, tell jokes and funny stories, get drunk, sneak out and smoke a joint, do whatever you need to do to make it fun. Thats what I want, a fun funeral like Chuckles the clown got. I want people to say “Damn I wish he was alive so he could die again. What a great time I had. This was the best funeral I’ve ever been to.” That shit would please me to no end. Maybe even make a dead man smile. And please don’t worry about making me blush I have no circulation.
The next stipulation was to honor me as my life was. I ask for a mug of beer. The good shit too, not that crap beer flavored water, but a good craft brew. It’s not like you need to buy it for me ever again. Next to that a shot of vodka, preferably Grey Goose. Leave them at a table as if I were sitting there and then have a party. My son will toast me adios ghost by downing the vodka at the end of the night. No sense in wasting good vodka!
The final stipulation was choosing a good play list. I may be dead but that’s no reason I should be subjected to crap music. No disco, no opera, no hymns. Good music, party music, maybe a tribute to the different decades. Ones with a good beat that you can dance to. I made a list of all my favorite tunes and even chose a few lines of lyrics to highlight that meant something to me. I don’t want my dead spirit to rest in peace I want it to Rock In Peace!
As far as what’s done to my remains, here’s where it gets a bit dodgy. Realistically whoever gets left behind should choose what to do with the physical remains cuz they’ll be dealing with them, I’m moving on sans remains. If it were up to me I actually have two choices. One to be put into a compost somewhere so I can continue to enrich the earth. A sort of true eternity, always contributing life back somewhere. But as I understand it that’s complicated. The second wish is that whatever is left, be it bone or ash, be buried under a dance floor at a popular club. How cool would it be to have thousands of people dancing on my grave?
By far the writing of the eulogy is what was the most difficult. I had to write it with humor, candor, and a degree of sensitivity. As much as I’m writing it for myself, my family will hear it as well so its probably not the best time to let out any secrets. But it will give me an opportunity to let everyone know I don’t regret dying, I had a wonderful life. Hard as it may be I’d prefer people be happy for me. It’s the loved ones left back on earth that need consoling, not me. I’m the lucky one, I’ve gone to those proverbial greener pastures.
I believe I am about three quarters done with it but as some of you may know once I get started I sometimes become long winded. Sometimes I just go on an on and on about this and that until….never mind. I’ll just say its close to being done. I’m trying to so as much of the event planning as possible. I‘m a really good cook and I wish I could do the cooking but that would be way too creepy. The party is almost there. I’ll tell you one thing having almost completed the written segment of my passing has been quite liberating. I feel like once I finish this eulogy I’ll be ready to move on, to go wherever it is I go, to say good by sweet world. In fact I know I’ll be ready to take the next step. Bring on the closure! ………..Then again, maybe I’ll put it on the back burner just a little longer………….PEACE
The Copperfield Christ
Forward
Lucifer, Beelzebub, The Antichrist, Fallen Angel, Prince of Darkness, Ozzie Osborne, whatever name he goes by he is the devilish serpent in charge of all things evil. Satan is one bad ass Samuel Jackson. He’s the Mothah of all fuckahs and he will strike down upon thee with GREAT vengeance. Essentially Satan is the dark angel of everything fun. Wait! I mean evil, yea that’s it, evil! Satan wants us doing nothing but eating forbidden fruits all day and night. But not God! Oh no, God is good God is great. He’s our lord god in heaven. Blessed are the meek, the lord is my shepherd I shall not want. This is the sort of crap I was taught as a kid anyway, before I uncovered Godgate, The great god Swindle. It’s a scandal of biblical proportions making Noah’s soggy story more like a three hour tour ending up on an uncharted dessert isle. The truth took some serious feather ruffling and that don’t fly with me. It started before the birth of Jesus and continued until the truth became so blurry they should give Claritin instead of wafers at communion. How did I get there?
Like most kids I was raised to believe unconditionally and to never question authority. Besides questioning why was unfulfilling and always ended up in the same old cul e sac. “Because I said so!” Please that’s the best you got? WTF? There isn’t a Vulcan worth their pointed ears that could find a nano sliver of logic in this ridiculous answer! Fascinating! Seriously, it has no empirical value and is tediously rhetoric. It’s an answer that defied challenge for one reason. I was unable to respond it because “that’s just the way it is and I could like it or lump it.” It‘s the law! I grew up I learned a lot about laws. How to bend, break, twist, and get around them. I also learned that not obeying laws can have consequences. Bad consequences, like incarceration or fines. Then one day I heard someone mistakenly say, “Laws are made to be broken.” Epiphany.
I wondered why laws were created in the first place? Laws of the people and for the people to keep the “authorities” in control. Laws were made after someone did something authorities didn’t like. Yea,yea, I hear you, laws are the framework of a civilized society, to protect people from those who may take advantage of others and shit. But who is making those laws and more disconcerting who is making sure the laws are being followed by the ones who made them? Laws by nature are bathed in hypocrisy. It’s illegal to steal from another human being, but its okay for some humans to steal gestating babies from chickens. Stealing eggs and selling them is okay. A stretch I agree, but fundamentally we allow some humans to make money stealing from animals, capturing them and raising them for anything from shoes to coats to dinner or to lab experiments. That however is a different fight. My focus today are laws.
There’s a mysterious group of humans known only to us as “They.” They say it may rain, they say you only live once, they say you can’t take it with you, they care about you, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot. “They” are in charge, and “They” make the laws. They make them because we don’t know how to live life fairly. They decide what the proper punishment should be for our crimes. They do this for our own good. They sound so…..parental!
I was born with a rebel spirit and I had a problem with authority from the start. When Mom told me alcohol was bad I started drinking, when she told me marijuana would lead to heroin I smoked pot, when she told me masturbating would make me go blind I…….. lets just say I have first hand experience in the art of self autoeroticism and I still have 20/20 vision. Rebel spirit caused me to question everything. EVERYTHING! Mom forced me to attend Sunday School, and one day I was cutting out with a friend to smoke cigarettes behind some trees. We got to talking about all the fun we were missing out on and it came around to old Lucifer. Why is Satan portrayed as evil and horrible if he insists we do things that make us feel good? Satan encourages sex and god forbids it if his conditions are not met. Unmarried sex is forbidden. Sex between members of the same sex is forbidden. Why would God make sex feel so fucking good and then forbid us to do it how we like? Not having sex can make horny teen boys unpredictable and stress them out making them violent. What’s the point of dangling a carrot (phallic symbol alert) in front of the horses mouth? Why make it a sin to do things that feel so good. The big guy talked to Moses disguised as a burning bush (another symbol alert). Then he laid down some laws. A few were more common sense than laws like don’t steal or kill people, but others a tad vague. I’m not allowed to covet my neighbors wife. I didn’t even know what covet meant, I had to look it up. If he doesn’t want us desiring why does he make us all so damn sexually attractive? He made flowers with their organs hanging all out in the open and has us staring at their gonads saying, “Oh how pretty” and even sticking our noses right into their floral sex canals to breath in the sweet aroma of desire. We can covet the hell out of flowers, but don’t gat caught looking at your neighbors cleavage, that’s a sin!. My favorite law is no worshipping images. Oh, like the cross? Statues, busts, paintings, rosaries, all sorts of ways to pay homage via an image. Today there isn’t a Christian alive that doesn’t worship some company logo! (No coincidence the leading iLogo is Apple) So I’m not buying into these laws, or “commandments” that are being force-fed to us through religion. That’s why I started the investigation in the first place. Unfair laws.
I don’t mean to take his name in vain but God damn they made a lot of laws back in the century! And God has us jumping through hoops still today. He makes us pray, assemble in buildings on the day of his choice, and makes us get all dressed up just to listen to how bad we are. Then he makes us give money to the dude that just read us the riot acts. He makes us sit on wooden benches til our asses have cheek bruises plus we gotta kneel down before him. First he makes us pray, then he makes us look like fools by singing songs we really don’t like or fully understand. “Ave Maria!”, “He walks with me and he talks with me“, “Nearer my god to thee“, “The rugged cross“, all such repetitive songs. Who wrote these hymns the Dr. Seuss of Christianity? “Onward Christian soldiers“….Hey! Wait a minute, whaddaya mean soldiers? Is god indoctrinating us to fight a crusading war? Or maybe, just maybe it’s a ploy by god to make us look like jerks sinning silly songs sans karaoke. Maybe god’s pranking us with all those laws! Otherwise why would we follow him and obey all his rules without raising a question. Because he said so?! Oh I get it, god is a Mom!
I can’t except not asking questions. Questions are the main reason I began this investigation in the first place. I wanted to find out who God was and who Satan was, and how the Bible came to be the defining word on humanity. My investigation took me back to the fourth century and I uncovered secrets that have been kept for thousands of years. Are we worshipping the right entity or was there a major switcheroo and ultimate coupe de gras? One thing is for sure, the struggle for power today has deep roots that go way back. You’ve heard the stories “They” want you to hear, now hear the stories that have been buried, and the people that were killed just for talking the truth in caverns, taverns, and campfires throughout the Middle East. Read carefully and choose what you believe wisely. The truth may not set you free it just may scare the Hell out of you!. Or into you.
Writing The Great American Cupcake
Butcher, Baker, Story Maker
I am a chef by profession, a baker by accident, and perusing my original passion by choice. Before its too late. That means writing, using words to formulate artistic expression from the rambling thoughts that burn within this cranium. Or hippocampus or whichever part of the brain deals with the mysterious and unexplainable mental explosions.
I first got into cooking as a way to make money. I was 16 and already a rebel spirit who didn’t fully understand that knowledge was power. It wasn’t easy knowing everything but it was a chore I took on gleefully, making sure everyone knew how clever I was using my biting sarcasm. I had a decent job in a restaurant and knew I could do it all on my own and had no need extended education. Besides, I needed beer money, weed money, money to entertain lady friends, and money to save for a better ride. A beat up VW was cool for smoking pot with the guys but not much of a chick magnet. With only my beetle to cruise for love with I had to rely on my unyielding charm in order to get laid. Fate introduced me to a free-spirited hippie chick and then began its legendary twisting. Hence life snuck up on me and I found myself with a pregnant girlfriend. Ever the idealist I did the honorable thing and got married. We gave it our best go but it meant trading in my dream of writing the worlds hippest novel to a attending cooking school so I could raise a family. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about today, that’s just a situation that took me off the course of chasing what I wanted, to become a writer. Missed opportunities but WTF.
I’m still cooking for a living. I did do some butchering, I worked at a number of high end New York City Restaurants, and food became my focus and my passion. The years pealed by and I became better and better at cooking, and more and more knowledgeable about food. It sidelined my passions until now. So this tiny segment of the writing world is where I am, and as small as my audience is they are faithful and encouraging. I was fortunate to have trained under a French chef who was young, passionate about food, and very cutting edge. He taught me technique, dexterity, and how to convert my pent up creative energy into food. He showed me that cooking can be more than just a job, it can be a creative outlet. That’s when I realized that writing is not so different that cooking. They both involve all the senses, as a chef I need you to enjoy the smells, textures, and tastes, and I need to make you see the beauty in my presentations and hear the sounds of what eating good food brings forth. Proper cooking is performance art. A writer needs to make you feel the same things without any props, with only words. We can’t use color, texture, aroma, taste or sound, we have to make the reader sense them, believe that they are right there.
That when I thought about this experiment. To describe the parallels between writing and cooking as it relates to science and art. Since cupcakes are what have become my marked territory these days, I’m writing the great American cupcake.
The first thing I do is conceive the composition of my cupcake. What the main flavor, where will I start it and how will I get to the end. So I don’t know what my finished product will be, but I know where to start. Once begun the cupcake will write itself. So I gather the basic elements of the story and place them all in a mixing bowl. Once in the bowl they blend together and begin to take shape. I have the basic start, the batter. Chapter 1.
Now I know what the cupcake will be about and its time to fill in the events. I need to follow some structure so the batter is symmetrical and forms in a manner consistent with the rest of the finished cupcake. If I baked the ingredients before mixing, the storyline of the cupcake wouldn’t make sense. It needs to have integrity. I choose what size pan and fill the batter in. Now its time to place it in the oven and let things begin baking. But at what temperature? That decision creates the first conflict the cupcake faces as the true story takes shape.
After the conflicts have percolated enough and resolutions have been achieved the cupcake comes out of the oven. I have my base and I set up the standards to follow. The look, smell, and taste of the story will remain consistent from here but I must add some more flavor and juicy situations, and of course some more conflicts. My brain has been working overtime, so now I need to decompress a bit. I let the story cool and I get drunk. Not because I want to, but because my art is so important to me I need to suffer. Hangover, here I come.
A good three bottles of wine and restless sleep has worked wonders for my cupcake bakers block. Idea’s course through my head while I’m in the shower. Why always in the shower?? I get my best ideas when I’m wet, naked, and without paper or pen nearby. My wife merely shakes her head as I run dripping wet from the shower to the desk to try and commit the recipe to paper. She suggests a small tape recorder but my problem is I’m old school, and my creativity runs through my fingers. Besides, I hate the sound of my own voice, it makes me sound so dorky.
At any rate the pounding of hot water on my body shook loose a new cupcake plot twist. A pomegranate and plum custard filling! A cupcake love triangle, which always interests the reader! So be it, the very second I arrive at the bakery I take out my keyboard and begin to prepare the tasty custard, with its silky rich texture. Once it becomes cool enough I inject all that drama into the center of the story. Now the cupcake continues to write itself and takes shape. But this is the tedious part, filling in all the cracks. Maybe I should go back and rewrite part of the cupcake, I sense that something about it just isn’t perfect. I struggle with the cupcake for days and finally decide to keep going to the end when I will edit the whole thing.
Now for the icing on the cake. (that wasn’t an analogy, its time to ice the cupcake) I won’t say the icing is the most important part of the story, but it has to have a powerful statement, and have the consumer understand how the entire cupcake came to this point. It needs to leave a lasting impression. Maybe even set it up for a cupcake sequel.
The finish has to have everything. The look, the feel, the taste, and a sense of continuity leaving the one eating it with a sense of closure. After ingesting the tastes the reader has vested so much personal time in its impotents to reward them with a strong finish, the story should leave a good taste in the readers mouth and hopefully such a good taste they will think about the baker next trip to the bookstore.
I guess what I’m really saying here is directed to the young written (or typed) word expressionists here. Never quit, never give up. If you have to take on a job to live do it, but continue to write in your spare time. All your work is worthy, don’t toss any away. Even when you get pissed at what you wrote and in a fit of self deprecation decree your work unworthy don’t. Put it aside, pour a vodka, light a joint, meditate, so whatever calms you down and chill. Rest the brain waves for a while. I have a few notebooks of written emotion that have been discarded and sent to a senseless death. Keep writing, keep dreaming, keep believing. A cupcake will go stale but a great idea will last forever if you put it into words…..PEACE
Boston We Love You
I am not much of a sports fan. I was as a kid, but the lack of sportsmanship and fair sense of the players compounded by the all out anger and hatred of many fans has all but ruined any enjoyment I received from watching. That said however, I was very happy to see that in baseball, New York and Boston were able to bury the hatchet, at least for a little while out of respect to the horrible disaster thrust on such a magnificent city. The rivalry between these two city’s is monumental.
I’m a proud New Yorker at heart but a Red Sox fan when I had an interest in the game. I have a blue hat with the big red B on top and I take my life in my hands when I wear it around town. Yankee fans you see are beyond obsessed, the Yankees are a religion around here. Like the holy crusaders of the 11th, 12th, and 13th century fans prepare for battle when spotting an enemy donning Red Sox clothing of any type. It was on one such occasion that my quick thinking saved me from a sever beating by a flock of Jocks. Or is it a litter of hitters, a pack of whackers, a pride of the Yankees , or a herd of such a thing. No matter, to me it felt like a murder of crows!
“Hey girlie, why you got that shit hat over you’re long hair? I can’t tell which smell worse, you ar that hat.” It must be the hat, even a hippie can’t be as smelly as a Red Sox”. “Hey lookie here guys, we got us a stinking Sox fan here looking to get his ass kicked. Or her ass!” “Take that stinking hat off that smelly head and get rid of it.” Well that was the intelligent quips anyway, the dumb ass jock ones aren’t worth remembering. Needless to say I was a bit uncomfortable. This group of roid ramming baseball enthusiasts put the fanatic in the word fan and were willing to share with me the talents they were bred for. Tearing apart dissenters limb from limb. Just for the heinous crime of wearing a Boston Red Sox hat. Well let me tell you, I ain’t no wuss an I ain’t about to let these athletic hoodlums kick the shit out of me! Not this boy!
So as soon as their Yankee Inquisition ended and I was convicted of blasphemy in the 3rd degree, I leaped into action. The best defense is a good offense. In my boldest and most frightening voice I said, “Wait! What are you talking about Red Sox. The guy at the store told me this was a Brooklyn Dodgers hat. See the giant B here?? That stands for Brooklyn. I’m a Brooklyn boy an this is a tribute to my Daddies favorite team.” They began discussing the possibility of the truthfulness of my statements and in the confusion I headed for the hills as fast a this skinny track star could run, hair blowing in the wind. I still have that old hat, and I wear it from time to time just to piss off my Yankee fan friends, but I changed the purported meaning of the big B…I tell them it stands for either Badass or Bullshitter, depending on my mood. …………..Love to all the people of Boston, and all effected by the tragedy. Here in New York we are no strangers to tragedy and your resolve has made us all proud…PEACE
The Seven Deadly Dwarfs
The Sins Of The Son Are The Sins That Go Farther
Sins! Oh sweet Mama are we all guilty of sins. I even remember the righteous Jimmy Swaggart crying “I have sinned” although I suspect the tears were because he was caught. Who among us has not sinned? Personally I will cop to multiple sinning that may borer on serial or pathologic qualification. The degree of sins I have committed has allegedly assured me a special place in hell. Allegedly!! By that I mean if there is a hell and if so then it also contains special places. When I think about it, which honestly isn’t often, hell couldn’t be as bad as those sanctimonious truth babblers would have me believe. I mean shit, when I die they tell me I have a choice of only two places, heaven or hell. That’s all the options I get. In heaven I get to sit by the throne of the almighty. No TV, no music, (except some mind numbing harp strumming by Angels), no board games, nothing! Jut sit by the throne with a bunch of goody-goods twittling thumbs. Can’t even think about the fun shit like sex and….well sex. In that case heaven is a place to go to get bored to insanity. Not this boy, I plan to fly over the cuckoo’s nest. Or if Hell is where they say it is then under it. Put me on that elevator straight to hell. Let me live out my days being naked, roasting marshmallows, and sinning like the devil with a shitload of other sinners. A place where sex, drugs, and rock and roll are not only encouraged, but required. Daily entertainment!
So what makes a sin a sin anyway? Who decided what was okay and what was not? How in the hell did someone come up with The Seven Deadly sins? I know what you think, I’m about to start bashing the cross waving holier than thou Christians again, but nope. Uh uh, not this time. This time I point the finger at The Brothers Grimm. In 1812 they took these fire and brimstone causing seven sins to a new level. Whats worse their partner in perpetuation Walt Disney himself injected subliminally into the mainstream. Yup, today I blame this shit on Snow White.
Seven dwarfs and seven deadly sins! Coincidence? Hardly! Each one of those diminutive diamond mining denizens represent a sin. And the true tales are full of drugs and parties and enough sex to make the entire population of munchkins giggle with delight. Not convinced yet? Well then allow me to break this shit down!
Wrath. The sin of rage and uncontrollable anger. Why so angry? Well Plick was cut off. One fateful day in the diamond mine he attempted to steal some diamonds by swallowing them. He was caught, and the others had a group meeting an agreed that this dwarf was banned from alcohol, weed and coke for six months. Even the lady dwarfs denied him sex. Not only that, he still had to shit out the diamonds without any painkillers. You’d be Grumpy too!
Sloth. The sin of laziness. If that’s true I am one major sinning son of a bitch sinner because I have a masters degree in procrastination. But back to the dwarfs. In the bed next to Grumpy slept Perzlebaum. Perzlebaum was very clever and the first to realize that he had access to Grumpy’s banned stash. Purzle drank so much whisky and puffed up so much weed he passed out. Fuckin’ Perzle slept for three days straight and it caused permanent dammage to his orbital muscles. With his constantly drooping eyes, he earned the name Sleepy.
Lust. The sin of intense desire. Packe was also somewhat of an opportunistic party hound and noticed the lady dwarfs shunning his buddy. Packe woke up each day with that male teenage bane, morning wood. At firt he took matters into his own hand, but then the idea came. Grumpys ladies will be lonely. Oh he satisfied his normal urges at night in the dwarf bars, but now after 4AM he also prowled the lonely of the night that had once been busy with Grumpy. He engaged in sexual trysts on a scale of many a mans fantasy, sometimes having as many as four ladies a night. He even started experimenting with trans gender dwarfs He became an orgasm addict. Poor Packe fucked himself silly. Literally! He fucked his own brains out. He is still off balance and to this day still known as Dopey.
Envy.The sin of jealousy. Now comes Huckepack. He was once considered somewhat of a dwarf ladies man, a playa amongst playa’s. But he noticed how easily Dopey was getting laid and it bothered him. Huckepack wanted a piece of the action and not just the plain looking ones, he wanted to go after the super hot little juicy fruits. When he finally did score the dwarfette of his dreams he was stoked. No, not stroked you pervert, stoked! Once in the bedroom he was over excited, and he stripped immediately. He had not taken into account that he had just returned from swimming. Uh huh, shrinkage! Juicy fruits eyes went directly to his compromised dwarf hood. One look at his shrunken treasure and his naked conquest let out an emasculating giggle. She then said to him “Who are you expecting to please with that tiny thing?” Embarrased and angry Huckepack looked at her horrified sreaming “ME BITCH!” But it was not a save. She hit him below the belt and his confidence was rocked to all hell. He grabbed his clothes and ran out in tears of shame. He never worked up the nerve (Thats not a euphanism) to talk to her or any other women ever again. He was labeled Bahsful.
Pride. The sin of self indulgance. Many consider this to be the worst, holding ones own esteem so much higher than everyone else’s. My oldest brother is like that, always better than the ret of us. I’m sure he’s somewhere looking down on us all right now. He’s not dead, he’s just a condescending ass. But this is the story of Rumplebold. This young dwarf was quite enterprising. His biggest problem was he believed he deserved the best of everything. He was entitles to everything that the dwarfs had and then some. With the others using up all of Grumpy’s weed and whisky it was Rumplebold who deserved the most expensive part of the stash. At least he thought he did so he confiscated the entire cache of Grumpy’s cocaine and went to town. Rumple did lines of coke everywhere he went and all day and night. He was wired to the max. He tried to hide it from the others, but it was impossible. Dude was sneezing white power from his nose regularly. There was so much blow up his nostrils he couldn’t stop sneezing. Yup, Sneezy.
Gluttony. The sin of over-consumption. Ah yea, too much of everything, no moderation what so ever. This has to be Puck. Puck may have been the cleverest of all seven. Puck knew just what he wanted. Everything! And lots of it. What made him clever was knowing how to take what he desired without raising awareness. He was slick and had an ample supply of whisky, weed, and women. His big problem was munchies. He was the one who did the weekly food shopping and always went right after puffing a fatty. The others never even knew that he bought and stashed boxes of ring dings,ho-ho’s and double stuffed oreo’s. Ate himself silly. He became fat and jolly. Oh yea, he was one happy Puck. Always smiling, always laughing, always…..Happy.
Greed. The sin of material pursuit. This brings us around to our last dwarf, Naseweis. Ole Nasy was greedy from the start. He wanted flat screens, and smartphones, designer clothes, expensive jewelry, and a Bentley to take into LA to shop at Rodeo Drive. He had a hunger for living in the material world and wanted a material girl. Maybe even shag Madonna. But how could he afford all these things? An idea struck him. He went online and bought a fake doctorate from WebMD and began selling scripts to the other six. It’s rumored he even sold a script for Propranol to the wicked witch. No matter, he recognized the weaknesses in all of us and exploited it as a doctor. Even though it was fake it worked, and they all go to “Doc” when they want vial of feel good.
So that’s it. That’s why I blame these fictional characters for creating the seven deadly sins. I’m calling them out. Who knows, maybe it will even start a whole new religion. Or at least a sect. The Seventh Sin Adventists or something. We can be known as Dwarfies. We will pray for illicit happenings, sing about sinful exploits, and even approve same sect marriage. Maybe I’ll even get my own compound out of the deal. We’ll lock ourselves in and commit every sin possible. You can come and join if you want, all sinners no saints! Just remember, I am a shameless sinner, so if I do offer you some Kool Aid, make sure it’s the electric kind. Have a nice trip……PEACE
Terrapin - The Journey 