The Grand Conspiracy

A Start

2011-06-28T00:48:00.002-05:00

I was going to start with a tale of how I got in this mess. I have it all written out and saved over in the draft folder. It's a good Hemingwayesque romp around Paris. It has cafes, a woman in a French maid outfit, Les Halles, bets won and lost, and me back in the States buying a van,

but these 1's and 0's that I call my blog ain't that. That's the past. This isn't going to be a Hemingway. For how could it be when this current trip, journey, slow passage will be nothing but meandering and dusty. Hemingway liked his prose tidy. No, I don't see this as a tidy thing.

This is going to be a Whitman. A van, a country, a song of myself. This is the man-with-the-beard-and-the-paunch's territory. A good bloviation is needed. A ramble for a ramble. I'll leave the precision to writers of Facebook code and Iphone apps.

My posts like splashes of tar.
Parts will miss, but those that hit will stick
and stick good.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
From "Song of Myself"

I will awake with a view from Dutch eyes, and all that is passe will shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. I will once again be bold despite the fear, or maybe to spite the fear.

We will rattle-on in a van with no AC or rear shocks through this country unsure of its destiny. We will find its original energy and inhale its musky fume.

Therefore, to utterly misquote Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians by removing a t, "So i goes."

I'm blogging about my 6 week trip around the USA. This is the first of what I hope will be many posts at http://nothingmorethanwhatisaw.blogspot.com/

One month in (Part 1)

2009-02-16T13:09:00.008-06:00

I got off the 6 line at Blvd FDR and climbed the steps in to the glitter of the Champs Elysees night. The huge stores lining the street with names like Nike, fnac and Hugo Boss are filled with high-end merchandise I have no money for. This is the area for the serious shopper. A red carpet is rolled out in front of the movie theater across the street, and, since I don't meet up with Chris until 8pm, I walked over and peeked over the heads of the paparazzi to see if I recognized any movie stars bathed in camera flashes. I didn't, so I wandered down to the Arc de Triomphe to kill the remaining half hour.
The Arc is in the middle of a big round-about, and the stairs leading to the tunnel under the street are guarded by Paris's finest. I worried they may find suspicion in my big blue backpack and strapless guitar case, but they've seen tourist before and don't bother looking up from the latest La Monde. This monument to victory is much bigger than the St. Denis and St. Martin ones. I ran into these two Arches while lost the day before. They sit side by side on the road that divides the Right Bank into the haves and the haves-not-so-much. Irish pubs and Footlockers flank these over shadowed siblings in the "Arc de" family. You can actually go up into Triomphe, but like most things in Paris there is a fee. I stay on ground level and watch the eternal flame of the unknown soldier flicker. There is a story of a group of Australians who came one night and cooked their hotdogs in it, and of the Brazilian footballer who pissed in it when Brazil beat France in the World cup. I don't know about the Brazil story, but I've met enough Australians on this trip to believe that one. I smoke a cigarette in honor of the fallen and try to read the plaque dedicated France's Vietnam soldiers.
At 8:15 Chris emerges from his office door, and I recognize him from his couchsurfing.com profile. I get his name wrong twice before he reminds me it's not Charles or Steven. We head to the pub-quiz at the Scotsman via taxi. Chris is a Chinese American working as a consultant in Paris. He's young and corporate looking and seems to be enjoying his time away from the States. He also writes rap. He graciously let me crash on his couch for two nights. One night, in an exchange of underdeveloped talent, he rhymed and I played guitar.
We get to the pub and find it reserved for a private Robert Burns dinner. Damn Scots. Mike, the Welshman, comes up the Metro stairs. A multistripped scarf is wrapped twice around his neck and his unkempt light brown hair falls to his collar. He shakes Chris's hand and we're introduced. Without the Scotsman as a destination we are flummoxed and spend the next half hour deciding "what and where." Eventually we divide up my luggage and head across the Seine to the Galway Pub's open mic night.
We cross the river and marvel at Notre Dame's flying Buttress awash in light. ND disappointing me the first time I saw it. It seemed smaller than it looked in films and pictures. The branch of the Seine that flows around the Left Bank side of Ile de la Cite is narrow and non-picturesque. First of all, no one told me the damn church was on an island. The big island as it is called here in Paris. Actually its called Ile de la Cite, but who speaks French now a days. Brown and Black with boxy architecture its almost drab compared to the white and curvaceous Sacre Couer standing high on Montmartre with a beautiful view of Paris at its door.
But. And there is always a but, Notre Dame grows on me. Every time I pass it, it is taller and more ornate. Stories and gargoyles have been added by giant elves while I slept. I wait for the perfect sunny day when I will take the ND tour and walk along the edge of the bell towers. The carved figures around the doorways, the large stain glassed rose window above them and the ornate decorations already whisper in the night air.
-I have been here for 700 years. Why don't you climb? Climb the front. Grab hold of Abraham's robe. No, you dumb ass American, the other figure above the center arch. And pull yourself up. There are handholds aplenty. The gargoyles managed. They are stone. They crawled up cursing and biting until they could get no further. Why do you think they look like that? Some made it to the top others stopped halfway up and must spit rainwater for their failure. Methusala sits at the top of the southern bell tower. Her wings and head bent back. Her mouth open singing or screaming or both."
As we pack-laden pub-crawlers passed Shakespeare and Co., I ask Chris and Mike if they'd ever been in it. They both said no and asked what it was. I was aghast, and my head swiveled in large exaggerated arcs back and forth as I tried to look both them in the eyes to see if they were fucking with me. How could they not know the most famous English Language bookstore on the continent. My order of business on the Left Bank was Notre Dame then Shakespeare and Co.
Both are churches in their own right. They are across the Seine from each other. What ND is to gargantuan and Gothic, Shakespeare's is to tiny and cluttered. This most independent of independent book stores could fit into the Romanian Lesbian Lit section at Powell's. Housed in half the ground floor of an old monastery every available space is used for books. If you don't knock over some pile of books while weaving your way through customers, you might as well pack it in and head west to the Champs and break out the credit card. Most days you have to push passed other tourists lingering to read titles on the bookshelves. An old upright piano in the history section with books stacked on top of it. It is sound by random customers at least once every hour. The selection is diverse but not necessary extensive. And the coolest part of the whole thing is...wait for it...you can live there for free. You can live in the store (on the second floor-which is just as open to the public as the first.) Currently housed there is an international menagerie that includes Mike, Tom, Marlous (you might spell her name that way. Damn Dutch) and Brendan. There are more. Shakespeare's houses six or seven. For room and board you, have to work two hours a day and get your ass up when the store opens. I've thought about making a petition to stay for awhile, but compared to these 20 somethings I'm old and wealthy. When you're happy living on the money collected from the wishing well, you have me beat in the poor column. I drop by now and then just to see what's up. Usually just good conversation.
We had some of that at the Galway, but what we really experienced was Jahn...

New harvest

2008-11-03T22:02:00.002-06:00

In one
final grasp
at the fine threads
of a thick, old rope
we turned back the clock --
one more hour asleep,
one more hour
to dream
but
sixty minutes can't stop the sun
from rising
never stopped the crops
from ripening
never pushed a day away.

and this day --
oh!
this day
has been pushing for a long time
like a tender sprout
through frozen soil,
like a woman into a mother,
pushing
like Sisyphus up that mountain,
an eternity
in our lifetime.

And -- is it time now?
for turning over spent soil
to give new life
its breath
time
for that chance to see the sun
rising every day
for the first time?
has that hour come
where we
shake off our sleep,
put our dreams down
and reach out timid toes
to feel the cool floor
before standing?

is this our curtain call --
calling us
to the curtain
to make our history
a new harvest?
i would turn back the clock
two hundred years
for this day to come
before tomorrow --
i would wake from
every American Dream
to see one
actually
being born.

Ode to an Autumn Hangover

2008-08-15T14:47:00.004-05:00

There appears to be a wildebeest in my head, stampeding,
Bouncing off the walls and generally misbehaving,
It must have been there hiding in that cask of Old Peculiar -
It’s like a cow you see, but around the front its woolier.
You say you have one, too? Then surely there were two!
Squashed inside that cask of Old -

Peculiar that, wouldn’t you say?
A brace of wildebeesties hiding in a common barrel?
Can it be right in any way?
Two bovines, riled and yeasty, biding at their frothing peril?

I merely raise the question -
If I might regain your scant attention -
For I feel I must make mention
of the contradiction in scale,
Which one simply cannot fail appreciate
Is somewhat inappropriate,
Tangentially unfortunate,
And quite beyond the pail.

Dr. Samwys

Tumblr Weed Revolution

2008-08-14T15:54:00.004-05:00

It seems the recent fracas over in the Eastern Block has spilled over into our humble Writer's Block. After a bloody series of skirmishes, The Grand Conspiracy has decentralized into a confederacy of autonomous sites.

Fortunately, moves towards total independence were forestalled by a combination of apathy and laziness on behalf of all concerned.

Until a new constitution is written and a new seat of permanent government is found, a temporary governing body will reside at the present location.

Dissidents can be found at:
The People's Peopledom of Uncle Pilot.

The Free Radical Enclave of ZeeK the Destroyer

The Nefarious Pub Relic of Rev. Dr. Samwys

2008-06-29T15:53:00.001-05:00

Hot on the heels of the Tin Ceiling's riotous seven/24 vii, the Tin Ceiling continues its eighth season with an exploration into the heat of fraternal tension and the dark lands of the creative writing process with its production of True West by Pulitzer-prize winning author Sam Shepard.

True West is a comic nightmare of confrontation. Austin is an ambitious Hollywood screenwriter working on a potential million-dollar deal when an ill wind off the desert blows in his brother Lee, a hobo thief with a six-pack and a case of sibling rivalry. The conflict arises when a film producer offers Lee the chance to write a "true" western. In a role reversal as intricate as it is riveting, the brothers head toward Shepard's outrageous showdown.

Come join us for the second show of our eighth season, a highly kinetic production that will make you wonder where your toaster went, solve the age old question of typewriter vs golf club, and leave you looking twice at your sibling.

"True West" will play Friday-Sunday, July 11-13, 18-20, 25-27

3159 Cherokee, St. Louis, MO 63118.
All shows at 8pm for $10.
For more information call (314) 374-1511 or visit http://www.tinceiling.org.

The Scarlet Spectacle

2008-02-19T15:20:00.016-06:00

Kamoojlian Dortmand Riloblaster III stood silently on the bridge of the HSS Spectacular Scarlet admiring her work. She had achieved what had hitherto been thought impossible. Or at least, entirely improbable. To the extent that something can be entirely improbable without erring overly on the side of slightly impossible. You see, Kamoojlian Dortmand Riloblaster III had successfully destroyed the whole universe. Or at least a whole universe. Actually, one of an infinite number of universes. A fact that did poke a modest dent in Kamoojlian's sense of accomplishment, but nevertheless did no violence to the essential truth that nobody else had hitherto accomplished an accomplishment quite like this one. It was a masterstroke for universal feminism, at least among those universes that remained. A terrific monument to what could be done, if one only put her mind to it.

Kamoojlian's green eyes remained fixed on the nothingness of the expired universe before her, as the ship's internal PA began to etch the silent atmosphere of the bridge with the sculptural rhythms of Boccherini's 4th Movement of "La Notturna della Strade di Madrid". A sound choice, and one which the Spectacular Scarlet's onboard AI, Milo, had considered to be most appropriate for the occasion. Kamoojlian filled her lungs with the symphony and, as she exhaled, allowed her crimson lips to part and curl at the corners in an expression communicating the sweet decline of momentary ecstasy.

After a while, when the violas had fallen silent, Kamoojlian relieved her First Officer from duty and took the helm of the Spectacular Scarlet,steering the ship away from the interminable void. She destroyed universes, for Heaven's sake. She could drive her own bloody spaceship.

Metamporphoses

2008-02-17T20:24:00.004-06:00

For tax reasons, and a sudden need to take our work underground, we have once again changed our name. Or have we? Maybe this was who were were all along? In fact, I can't rightly remember a time when we were anything else. I'm sure that if you think about it, neither can you.

Well, anyway, things are as they are. So it goes. We are currently in the process of designing a real website, but that could take some time. For now, this will suffice.

2008 Tin Ceiling New Play Competition!

2008-02-04T12:06:00.000-06:00

The Tin Ceiling is calling all aspiring playwrights to submit their brilliant creations to the 2008 Tin Ceiling New Play Competition. Contestants can choose to enter their play into the full-length play category or the one-act play category. To be eligible, contestants must submit an entry form, complete scripts and pay a $5 entry fee by May 31, 2008. Winners will be announced in Fall 2008 and will be awarded cash prizes, plus have their plays taken to the stage by the mastermind crew and daredevil thespians of The Tin Ceiling! Visit www.tinceiling.org for more information.

Thanks!

--
The Tin Ceiling
www.tinceiling.org

Love in Idleness, No More

2008-01-20T17:32:00.000-06:00

A crypt. A dead man lies on a tomb, a dead woman embracing him. Perched on the tomb, next to the still form of the lovers, sits Auberon. He chews on his nails, a perturbed expression on his impish face, framed as it is by a spectacularly extravagant hairdo. A priest is standing by, seemingly paralyzed with sadness. He cannot see The Faerie King. After a pause, the priest signs himself and hurries from the scene, muttering. A pause, and then a pretty little Faerie Queen enters with a small entourage of sprites and a little Indian boy.

Feigning excitement, Auberon leaps off of the tomb.

AUBERON: Look! Look what I got for you, my little cosmic pickle! Two star-crossed lovers! Ta da!

Pause.

TITANIA: They're dead, sweetie.

AUBERON: And there's a very funny story about that. I'll tell it to you sometime. But enough about that, Happy Anniversary!

TITANIA: (Blankly.) What happened?

AUBERON: Well... there were these two families, you see, both alike in fair dignity... look, to cut a long story short, in a terrific feat of social engineering, me and Puck managed to get the two youngest kids of these feuding families to fall in love. Isn't that fabulous? Doesn't life suddenly feel more beautiful and worth the living just for knowing that this can happen?

TITANIA: But they're dead, sweetie.

AUBERON: Well, focus on the positive, won't you dearest. Humans are a complicated bunch, after all. I mean they love to poke, but get very weird when people talk about it. What's with that? Anyway, it's better to have loved and died than to never have loved at all. It's the triumph of love over -

TITANIA: Absurdity. Reminds me of the kittens you gave me for my 425th, last year.

AUBERON: Ah, the Siamese Persians, very rare. Especially joined at the tail like that, they don't grow on trees, you know-

TITANIA: They were dead too.

AUBERON: Well, apparently they can fall out of trees. But they made a fine pair of slippers, though, darling. You remember? You put them on and forgot they were still joined at the tail! Oh, how we laughed -

TITANIA: You're not getting my Indian boy, so I really don't know why you bother with all this.

AUBERON: This? What? No, this isn't about that! This is about love, cherry-pop. Remember that whole crazy love quadrangle in the forest? Oh, that was a winter's tale, if ever there was one.

TITANIA: It was midsummer, my love.

AUBERON: It got me thinking: hooking people up really isn't so hard is it? Why not make it a full-time thing. Spread the love?

TITANIA: Hmm... Just a bit of dope on the right eye-lids, and everybody can be as happy as an ass up to his ears in a Faerie Queen, eh?

(To her entourage.) Isn't my husband funny? Isn't he just darling? I just want to put him over my knee and give him a good spanking.

Titania's entourage breaks out into laughter.

AUBERON: You've had the boy for ages.

TITANIA: And you won't be having him at all.

Auberon feigns shock and horror.

AUBERON: No! I would not harm a hair on that boy's head!

TITANIA: That's not the end of him I'd be worrying about.

AUBERON: You heartless old harpy! (To her entourage) She's not 425, you know. Closer to 900. Showing too, pumpkin.

TITANIA: Look, sweetie, you can barely look after a pair of star-crossed lovers. What makes you think I'm going to let you look after my boy. Here, let's ask him. Boy, would you like to stay with mumsy? Or would you rather live with Mr. Dirty Old Faerie, here? I'm sure he'll let you polish his toadstool, if you asked nicely?

The boy shakes his head emphatically.

AUBERON: I just wanted to buy him some ice cream, if you must know.

Pause. Titania looks at the dead woman.

TITANIA: She's pretty. (To Auberon) I do love you, husband. More than anything. But you really are an arse. (To her entourage) Come, come, followers. It's time for dancing, I fancy. Who knows, maybe he'll change? Maybe I will? Can eternity wait that long, I wonder?

Titania exits. Auberon slump back onto the tomb.

AUBERON: I'm a failure. (To the dead couple.) No, no, really, I'm a failure. There's no need to try and be nice about it. It is the truth. I'm a failure, and once again, that bastard Puck is to blame for it.

Jumping up and marching off stage.

Puck! Puck you wiry little skunk-poker, I want a word with you!

END

One Minute Play: Rescue

2007-11-29T10:07:00.001-06:00

(LIGHTS UP)

(Two women are sitting on the floor of the stage. Toni is dressed in just a tank top and a pair of boy shorts. Melissa is fully clothed. Toni is lying with her head in Melissa's lap and is clearly agitated. Melissa strokes Toni's forehead trying to console her.)

TONI
So that's it?

MELISSA
That's it.

TONI
And you're sure the hole's deep enough?

MELISSA
(Leans over to kiss Toni on the forehead.)
It's deep enough. Relax.

TONI
I just...I just can't believe it's over.

MELISSA
Believe it. Is your suitcase ready?

TONI
I packed it last night.

MELISSA
That's my girl. (Pause.) You may need to put some pants on.

TONI
Can we just stay here a moment longer? I'm not ready to go yet.

MELISSA
Fine, but just a moment. We still need to get the can of gas from the garage.

TONI
It'll be such a pretty fire.

MELISSA
(Kissing Toni's forehead again.)
It sure will be.

(Lights Down.)

Preproduction notes of an actaaww...

2007-11-16T23:27:00.000-06:00

Humiliation ebbed much slower than the wounds healed, it seemed.

After the night had passed, and their pursuers had long since called off the pursuit and returned to the hill, it was decided. The monk would go forth and bait the bandits, while the others took up positions on either side of the ravine to lie await in ambush. It was a harebrained scheme, of course, but the alternative was return and the prospect of being laughed out on a rail by the townspeople they had sworn to protect.

The monk threw down the stunted piece of grass that he had pulled from the clenched fist of the dwarf, turned and walked away from the group. It was not yet dawn. He walked down the slope and paused at the entrance of the ravine. He slipped out a bottle of formaldehyde he had just five minutes before stolen from the unknowing cleric and took a hefty draft. The bottle disappeared between the folds of his fire-orange robes, and he slowly retraced his steps back to the foot of the hill that had served as the site of their most hasty retreat the evening before.

Read on...

Resistance is Futile, Submission Inevitable

2007-09-27T11:05:00.000-05:00

Alright, goddammit. It's time to get a handle on this mangy beast. Look it right in the eye and tell it we mean business. PBR has installed a Twitter in the side panel, upon which a regularly updated stream of submission opportunities will be posted (you can scroll up and down to find previous posts).

It is our eyes and ears to success.

Let's see if we can get some stuff published and/or produced.

Write early, write often.

Thoughts on Float (Saturday, the rest)

2007-08-19T01:15:00.000-05:00

I float on my back 100 miles from the pick-up point. The gang has deserted the man without a float. Left him to his own devises. Theresa had pity and threw in a life vest, saying, “here, sit on this,” before her canoe-inner-tube wagon train floated out of sight around a meander. No worries. He’ll be fine. He never would dance, anyway. I float alone. The trees shelter the sun, and the water cools me. Whitman would enjoy this, sing about it, dance naked with the river nymphs before slumping on the bank for a nap. His belly-o-bellies turned upward and warmed by the afternoon heat. Yalping might have been involved somewhere in there. I don’t yalp, just float along singing, “Singing in the Rain,” to those very same nymphs. They would prefer a dance, but I have no sense of rhythm out here in the wilds of Missouri. Are there wild southern Missouri beats? Do the local shepherds play the fife and dance to the eternal around a pernicious bond fire? Do they circle and pound the hard topsoil with bare feet and a phump-ta-phump-phump? Does the solstice awaken Hecate or only the beer bottle? Will I find the answers back at Tent City? Or is Tent City just another St. Louis suburb.

But I am wrong. There is no need to search for the Witch God, for she comes. She comes that night. She skirts the pasture and the fire by the garage. She enters the circle of the drunken and stands behind the camp chairs and whispers, “it’s okay. Tell them.” She is the noise of the beer can opening or the whiskey gulping. With her blessing, the purging begins. The nighttime "you did what" game and confessionals are in her spirit, but they lack the dance. There is no sweat involved. It is a night at Mangia but with a witch's influence. More novelty than true catharsis. The ego is not shed just tuck away for a time.

Oh, if we would have danced. Danced across the road in a serpentine Congo-line to party with the dead. We would have truly surprised ourselves and Hecate too. "Where are they?" she would ask to our abandoned Tent City, "and where is that phump-ta-phump-phump coming from?"

Thoughts on Float (Saturday, before)

2007-08-13T13:14:00.000-05:00

Saturday
I drifted up to awareness around 6 or 7. I spent the night uncomfortably as all my Friday nights are spent when I’m on a weekend camping trip. The ground was hard and uneven compared to my mattress. The buzzes and clicks from the trees were amplified by their alienness . The sleeping bad curled around me in unfamiliar ways. Some time deep into the night I remembering wishing the sun would hurry up, but when it came, I fought against it as long as the heat in the tent and the people cooing over the horses would let me.

After filling my belly with quiche and coffee, I walked down the road to a small cemetery. The mid morning sun gave the landscape corners. Everything seemed framed and definite. Most of the tombstones where modern and held no air of a fabled, mysterious past. Those occupying the newer graves came from my grandparents generation, and I began to wonder where they lived their lives. MO 137 was sparsely populated and a fair number of the buildings that lined it where rotting and unkempt. Did people move away only to return after death? Did they spend their whole lives in houses tucked away along dirt roads and quiet solitude? I walked south toward the church and came across the fabled, mysterious past I searched for. Three white tombstones, slender and weathered stood next to the road. Their stone was crude and stained black and green. I struggled to read the simple etchings. The information was minimal. Just name, rank and army unit. There was a private from the 24th Missouri Infantry, another from the 42 Indiana and one corporal from the 36th Illinois. There were no dates on the tombstones, as if the war these men died in was too monstrous and righteous to ever be forgotten.

Thoughts on Float (Friday)

2007-08-07T23:25:00.000-05:00

They look nothing alike, but when I first saw him, Bob brought to mind pictures I've seen of Picasso on the Riviera. Bob sat on the patio totally at ease, under a straw cowboy hat and white beard. His tanned bulging belly was left exposed to the mosquitoes by an unbutton shirt. There was the air of a life led about him, and a sense of battle hung over him. He wasn’t searching for a fight any more, but if life crept up and did it’s worst, he’d rise and smite it down with the stubs of the fingers on his left had clenched in a fist. How he cropped those fingers would remain a mystery. None of us young city folk ever drank enough nerve to ask.

Jeff and I caravanned down to Licking Missouri with Jason and Kate, and after a stop in Eureka to food up, we pulled into Tent City around 11pm. It was a small squatters town erected along MO Route 137 in honor of Maria’s birthday and the lazy forward flow of life. It was a float trip. My first.

Bob and Cheryl’s place was more compound than homestead. They owned 18.4 acres. Three buildings were surrounded by a pasture for horses. Nine tents clustered on the grass between the buildings and the pasture.

The tents formed a ring. All the couple’s were in the inner circle, and those of us unmatched where left around the perimeter as easy fodder for the roaming armadillo packs, the drunk teenagers in pick-ups or, worst of all, the friendly locals. We would be attacked first, and our girlish screams would warn the others. The principles of Natural Selection were in full practice.

The buildings consisted of the main house, three cabins strung together like chigger bites and a garage emitting golden oldies long into the night. The early rock-n-roll created a facade of simpler times. I could sit in a chair, look up at the stars and imagine my urban worries disappearing. Maybe it was the brevity of the trip, but those worries never vanished completely. They just receded to a depth where they were easily ignored.

The four of us were the last to arrive Friday night, and everyone was already bright by the time we got there. Greetings where exchanged, tents erected, sleeping gear and food stored. Everyone recounted their trip down. Soon after our arrival people started popping off to bed. Sean, Theresa and I were left on the patio hanging out with Bob. I questioned Bob about his past. I learned of a auto mechanic shop up on St. Louis Ave. and Marcus. Of an area gone bad. Of constant break ins. Of the two black business owners and the Jew who would never move his convenient store despite the continuing robberies. The conversation moved to the present, and I learned the history of the spread we sat on. Built in the thirties. A old woman who refused to die until she covered the entire facade of the house with stone. The cabins Jason and Kate stayed in being used as a whore house sometime in the seventies. The garbage man across the street.

Some time around midnight Keith, Susie and Ray turned up, and I got to touched a hole in the skull of a living man. Slightly up from the spine, a section of skull had been removed from dear Keith's head. An aneurysm some years back. Not too many years back. The hole had hardened over, but it still broke the continuity of the head bones and sent a shutter through me as my hand grazed over it. It was time for bed.

the ride

2007-08-03T14:28:00.000-05:00

We raced across the river determined to shed urbania before the red sun sinking in the thick August sky dragged his last dim rays beneath the horizon.

Perched on the back of a Honda 919, I rested my hands on the slim waste of its driver like a 7th grade Cotillion partner. The wind screamed across my skin at 60 miles an hour and cooled the sweat beneath my tank top. I remembered how to breathe for the first time all day – everything brought into sharp, easy focus by the surrender of control and the potential for death. On the highway my helmeted head became part of the delicate aerodynamic balance of the machine. To turn it at that speed could break my neck, so I held the surroundings in my periphery, content to focus on what lay ahead.

We turned off towards Cahokia and Mikey signaled a passing biker with a left hand held out below the handle bar as if to say, “ride on, man.” There’s a brotherhood among bikers. And unwritten rules for their passengers: Don’t lean into the turn or against it – flow with the bike. Don’t make any sudden movements or fidget. So the song goes, “hold on loosely, but don’t let go.”

Only the road mattered – where it led, its bends and hills, how it cut through the land, the crops growing up in fields surrounding it, its summits and shifting vistas of the ancient Illinois bluffs. We were guests respecting with reverent silence and bodies in sync the speed and force of our steel-steed host.
As we roared across the hills, I escaped into the comfortable silence Mikey and I wordlessly agreed to maintain. There’s something innately sexy about a man and woman on a motorcycle in that Kelly McGinnis/Tom Cruise Top Gun sort of way - the vibrating metal, the constant body contact, the nonverbal dance with speed and danger. But this was not my first ride, and I knew the rules. I felt only tender gratitude towards my friend for getting me the fuck out of Dodge to detox from my grey cubicled, screaming toddler life.

A Ted Leo & the Pharmacists tune looped in my head. When she was little, my sister used to sing song after song as we pulled her on a Zip Sled behind my father’s motorboat. We’d see her lips moving, the sound drowned out by the engine, and know she was singing “Oh Mickey” at the top of her lungs away in her own world on top of the water. There is no solitude like that which hides within constant sound.

An hour gone we were losing the light and resigned to head back to the city. Passing the dotted lights of the refinery, the air shifted temperatures on a whim and I felt sorry for everyone else on the road sealed in their air-conditioned boxes - they passed through its moods and summer toasted scents in hum drum oblivion.

We pulled up next to my car and laughed at our helmet hair to break the spell. Like neighborhood bigwheel champions we felt the buzz of our bubbling blood and hugged goodbye sans hipster façade.

I tidied my wind-whipped mane and resumed the events of my night; sipping wine at a rooftop eatery, watching the moon rise, debating world events and cultural discrepancies. I barely felt the tingle slip from my skin like a shadow of whispering silk. But I missed it when it was gone.

Not To Reason Why

2007-08-03T10:13:00.000-05:00

Buzzcock Wilson sat in the golf cart atop the 18th tee and surveyed the moon lit valley below.

"I'm going to smack you in the head," Treebolt said to him.

"Why?"

"Cause, you have to ask why, for one, and because you're too old to be stealing golf carts from the damn Club."

"Obviously, I'm not that old."

"Yes you are. You just don't want to deal with it. I'm going home."

"Before I jump it?"

"Jump what?" Stagger said as he turned back around. The full moon reflected brightly off of Stagger Treebolt's glasses.

"The river."

They both turned their heads and looked down the hill to where Deer Creek carved a dirty jagged line through the manicured grass of Lincolnshire Country Club's West Course.

The 18th hole was only a par three, but what a par three. The tee stood high up on a hill. While across the creek, the green sat in the valley surrounded by sand traps and a very small fairway. No view in all the world caused Buzzcock's heart to race like the one from the 18th tee. Not Manchu Picchu. Not the rocky coast of Archadia National Park. Not the Northern Plains flanking Nebraska Highway 2 near Ft. Robinson. Not even the Taj Mahal. The memories intertwined with this place would be the last to submit to the fog of age, and even then, Buzz would feel them in his bones.

"It's a creek."

"What?"

"You said you wanted to jump the River."

"I do."

"It's a creek."

"Okay"

"You need a ramp."

"Are you sure."

"You got to get altitude somehow."

"I suppose you right.

Treebolt hunched down, pulled a tuft of grass and threw it into the air. Buzzcock smiled as the grass scattered behind them.

At Bat with James Amazing

2007-08-02T14:39:00.000-05:00

Drew and I are working on a collection of microfiction tentatively titled, James Amazing and His Cavalcade of Mayhem. The plan is to write 25 each. Drew, being the genius he is, already has twelve posted on his blog. I, being the slacker bitch I am, have written one. But more are coming, I swear...

It's the eighth inning with a man on first, a man on second, and no one out during game seven of the 1938 World Series when James Amazing makes his way to the plate. He gives a stretch. He swings his bat a few times. He tries not to think of walking in on his wife earlier that afternoon giving handjobs to both the milkman and the family dog. Then, he spits some chaw on the ground and enters the box.

Here's the pitch and James wishes he had gotten a haircut. Swing and a miss, strike one.

Next pitch and James wishes he would have wrung her goddamn neck until it'd popped her head clean off. Whiff. Strike two.

Pitch three and hey isn't that Mr. McGillicutty from the old market over by the dugout? No swing, ball one, and fuck, man, he looks good for his age.

The wind up and James remembers how she bought him that dog for his birthday. He hits, beaming the ball straight into the pitcher's glove. A quick toss to second and a hard throw to first and the inning is over.

James Amazing will probably never bat in professional baseball again. By midnight, he'll be so high on reefer and knee deep in whores that he won't really care.

Our new Poet Laureate

2007-08-02T13:19:00.000-05:00

In honor of our new P.L., the understated and twisted Mr. Charles Simic:

Eyes Fastened With Pins

How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.
-Charles Simic

Something

2007-08-02T09:43:00.000-05:00

It happened again. There off broadway. A man tamed the world.

He stood alone on the stage at Off-Broadway with the unheeding, noisy Stagladesh crowd spread out in front of him. He stood confident and straight and played a ukulele soft. Even at the front of the stage, I strained to hear the music as people talked around me. He started to sing "Something." No one paid any attention. And yet they did. The din quieted. "You're asking me will my love grow" was sung, and from behind me came the choir of Stagnighters, "I don't know. I don't know."

He didn't smile or show appreciation. It was almost as if he knew.

One Minute Play: Perspective

2007-07-20T11:58:00.001-05:00

(Lights up.)

(A rooftop overlooking South Grand in St. Louis City. It's night. Lights are arranged to appear as if you're seeing a streetscape. MAN 1 and MAN 2 are standing near a railing that looks out on the audience. MAN 1 is pointing as if showing MAN 2 various landmarks.)

MAN 1
That corner...I grew up there. When we were kids, man, we had the run of the neighborhood.

(MAN 1 looks elsewhere, pointing over the audience.)

MAN 1
That's where I got into my first fight.

(MAN 2 Nods and takes a drink of his beer. MAN 1 redirects his gaze again.)

MAN 1
My whole family lived on that block at one point. It was great...

(MAN 2 swigs his beer and gets annoyed. MAN 1 gestures over the crowd again.)

MAN 1
When I was a kid -

(MAN 2 throws his bottle over the railing and turns and grabs MAN 1 by the shirt.)

MAN 2
Do you have any stories that aren't 20 years old?

(MAN 1 looks down, separates from MAN 2 and leans against the railing.)

MAN 1
None worth repeating.

(MAN 2 puts his hand on MAN 1's shoulder)

MAN 2
Dude, that's fucking tragic.

(Enter BUNNY SUIT GUY from behind the two. BUNNY SUIT GUY walks up to the pair and stands behind them as if he's going to step from in between MAN 1 and MAN 2.)

BUNNY SUIT GUY
Excuse me.

(BUNNY SUIT GUY pushes MAN 1 gently aside. Steps to the railing. Jumps up on it, and then jumps off. Presumably six stories to the ground below.)

MAN 1
It just doesn't seem like anything interesting really happens to me these days.

(Lights Down)

One Minute Play: Therapy

2007-07-20T11:17:00.000-05:00

(Lights Up)

(A small South St. Louis bar on a Tuesday night. The bar is empty save MAN and BARTENDER. BARTENDER is busy doing bartender type shit and doesn't pay attention to MAN. MAN is obviously distracted and lost in thought. He sits at a table passing his glass of WHISKY from hand to hand. Eleanor Rigby plays on the jukebox.)

MAN
Jesus I'm depre-

(BARTENDER jumps over bar and punches MAN three times in the face.)

BARTENDER
Shut the fuck up. Be a man and drink your god damn whisky.

(MAN groggily smiles up at BARTENDER and raises his glass.)

MAN
Yes sir!

(Lights down)

The Typo Tackles a New Medium...

2007-07-18T15:47:00.000-05:00

A Beer in Guadalajara

2007-07-02T15:40:00.000-05:00

Ka-Klack so loud I blinked twice.

What the fuck was I doing in Guadalajara on a warm March Sunday night? It ain´t exactly a tourist city. In other words the gringo bars aren't running rampant, and there are only so many churches you can visit before short, round, grandma Mexicans in pews start to get monotonous. I almost went to sleep at 9 but decided I needed a drink.

Ah, how many tales told throughout life start with, "I needed a drink?"

I left Joyce on the top bunk at the hostel and searched nighttime Guadalajara for a place called La Maestranza. It supposedly had a bull fighting theme and live flamenco music on Sunday. Outside the hostel doors the streets were eerie and empty. The sodium street lights cast a yellow hue into a hazy future. I couldn't help but wonder if my quest was futile. It seemed like trying to find something of interest to do in downtown St. Louis on a Tuesday night. I walked on. Happy to be on my own.

After fifteen minutes, I gave up any hope of flamenco music. Each step was taking me farther away from my luggage, and I didn't want to end up drunk with a half-an-hour walk back to the hostel. I had just passed a lively bar and decided to go back, watch some soccer and drink a Negra Modelo.

The place was packed and I wondered where all the people came from. They weren't on the street. Maybe Guadalajara has a tunnel system I don't know about. I waited patiently at the bar, grunted something somewhat understandable and ended up with a Corona. "Better than nothing," I though. I found a table with a good view of a television and readied my vocal cords to yell "GOOOOAAAAAALLL" if the situation called for it.

It was nice. I was content. It would be a slow evening with no wild stories of Mexican hookers or drunk cabbies, but I felt good. I intently watched a corner kick on the TV and drank my beer.

Ka-Klack so loud I blind twice.

It came from my right, close. Not the table next to me, but the one after that. Except there wasn't a table. Just open floor, and a tall, skinny young woman in a black skirt and red blouse with her hands raised above her head as if she would pirouette. Ka-Klack. She stood straight with almost no movement. Ka-Klack. Her feet flashed. Up-down, up-down, almost unseen because I couldn't take my eyes off her face. Beautiful and intense, but her eyes smiled.

The guitar strummed once. Then music exploded and filled the room. The Ka-Klacks moved with the beat, and she danced . Now a smile spread across her face. I watched her and thought, "I should learn Spanish."

I didn't, but I did finally look around and notice all the stuffed bull heads on the walls. Here's to quiet Sunday nights in Guadalajara, and finding what you gave up looking for.

One Word: Threatened

2007-06-14T15:25:00.000-05:00

It's been a while, hasn't it? Let's try this again.

"Look, Larry, I know this is a hard time for you. I mean, clearly. You haven't knocked back this much whiskey since the Hypergate Crisis of '82. But, in case you weren't aware, Earth is being threatened by an intergalactic armada made up of beings that look a bit like the love children of a giant seahorse and a can of Vienna Sausages. Some of your old pals in the League and I would really appreciate you sobering up, throwing on the cape and giving us an assist, you know?"

"She's gone, Phillip."

"Yes, I know. You've, well...you've said that several times now but, Larry, the world is ending outside this bar right now."

"World's always ending, Phil. If it ain't alien seahorses, it's robo-thropes or evil geniuses or whatever. But I'll be damned if there's a reason to save it if there ain't no Pearl."

one word. so little time.

part of (the probably now defunct) One Word Thursday @ The Typo Cafe

just because

2007-06-12T08:41:00.000-05:00

A few of the members of the Typo Writer's Guild have been meeting in secret over the past couple weeks, speaking in hushed tones and making scribbles in weathered notebooks. Just a few exercises a week to keep us "doing", rather than talking of doing.

I kinda like the way this one turned out, so I figured I'd post it. Twenty-five sentences starting with the word "because" and answering a "why" question. Player One...start.

1. Because Jimmy down the street has one and if I don't get one I won't be as cool as he is and you want me to be cool, right?

2. Because the light is scattered as it enters Earth's atmosphere.

3. Because sometimes...no, make that most times, all you need is a bottle of beer, a pack of smokes, and Otis Redding.

4. Because I fucking said so.

5. Because the princess needs saving, damn it.

6. Because no one else will or wants to.

7. Because it's turning purple and it might fall off.

8. Because God fucking said so.

9. Because I once had a bad experience with a friend/lover/parent/sibling/zombie and it has tainted my way of thinking.

10. Because that sword is just sitting there in that big fucking rock and it might as well be me that pulls it out, don't you think?

11. Because shut up. That's why.

12. Because a giant moon laser will better humanity in a myriad of ways.

13. Because, in theory, it will lead you down a path of prosperity and wealth, just not any personal fulfillment which, of course, is secondary.

14. Because not hoping for the happy ending is just fucking dumb.

15. Because I want someone to look at me. so. badly.

16. Because it's all I have left of her in the whole world and I've grown to like the way it makes me ache.

17. Because God, at its base, is a humorist.

18. Because I didn't have the good sense to consider fucking your father in the back of his Buick during mass a bad thing.

19. Because he'd do the same for you.

20. Because, no matter how blissfully happy you become, there is always someone waiting in the shadows who wants to shoot you in the head.

21. Because he'll never know which one you wiped your scrotum on.

22. Because it's a damn fine beer and cheap, too.

23. Because you'll go blind if you don't stop.

24. Because that accident took away the use of his legs and you feel sorry for him.

25. Because he's a good man and he don't mean no harm.

26. Because the princess can save her damn self, thank you very much. (Yeah, I went over one. See #11.)

Anyone else care to give it a shot?

Playwrights to plagiar- be inpired by: Fin Kennedy

2007-05-17T16:02:00.000-05:00

I was blog surfing in my lunch hour when I came across this fella. He won the John Whiting Award back in '05 for his play, 'How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found'. Judging by this sample, it looks decently interesting.

Anyhoo, he wrote a nice article for The Guardian last year on writing new plays. It sorta ties in with Anthony Neilson's more recent article on a similar subject matter.

I think, in a nutshell, Kennedy is saying that we need more plays about killer communist hamsters taking over 1950's America. Maybe that's just my interpretation. I know where these guys are coming from though. I can't get Blackbird White's director to see that my renaissance pirate play would be considerably more edgy if it took place on a stolen time traveling German U-boat.

Nobody's prepared to take chances anymore.

script frenzy

2007-05-15T12:28:00.000-05:00

Look, I'm not saying we should actually do this.

After all, two of our ilk will be waist deep in the cancer of "production" on their respective shows (they're already bleeting at each other like rabid, feral goats about the ordeal). There is only 16 days until the thing actually begins too, which doesn't leave a lot of time to clear a schedule for an intense month of writing. And exactly what does a 20,000 word script make? 90 pages?

Still, it's something to think about. I'm just sayin'.

Radio plays...

2007-05-11T11:32:00.000-05:00

Interesting post at the Guardian Theatre Blog this week:-

"Yet radio is a fantastic discipline for any writer in that it requires compression and the ability to evoke complete worlds through words alone..."

As my associate and nemesis would say, 'True dat'.

Partnership

2007-05-07T16:09:00.000-05:00

Spill onto the street
So I can feel my own heat
Beneath the liquor and snow

Talk, talk, talk
You say the word and I walk
Cause I’ve got no place to go

Finger my flesh
But the wounds are too fresh
For me to want them to heal

Drip blood in your hand
Offer my firm reprimand
Because you asked me to steal

You’re funny and kind
But also out of your mind -
You think it’s something I need

Slam the door to your car
Make my way back to the bar
My concrete lover takes lead

Wrap the front page around
A slice of feeling I found
And keep it warm on the grate

Under a light bulb moon
I scream, “You’re dying too soon.”
It whispers, “Tell me to wait.”

The Life and Opinions of an Accidental Gentleman: #54

2007-05-01T21:16:00.000-05:00

On the john. The karzy. The shitter. The illustrious head.

Probably the only place where a gentleman can truly be himself. I have read many of the Great Works sitting on the can, and I suspect that at the level of planning at least, many of the Great Works were probably composed there also. That's right. John was in all liklihood sitting on the john, while he fleshed out the central themes of his gospel.
Until fairly recently the French didn’t use toilets as we gentlemen know them. Instead, they hunkered down over narrow holes in the tile floors of their continental restrooms; but this is not conducive to creativity, for one is inevitably preoccupied with the task of coordinating the maneuver, and thus ill-disposed to the consideration of weightier issues. Which is why, I think, France has struggled to compete in the arena of science and invention, being forced instead to excel in lesser fields, such as philosophy and cheese.

Laying down the gauntlet

2007-04-21T16:24:00.000-05:00

Ok you writers. You've practiced enough. Now I'm laying down the gauntlet. We'll see which of you has what it takes to be a real writer.

Here's the challenge:

1. Write a 2-3 min commercial, youtube style, about 7/24.

2. Know your budget.

3. Deadline is May 1st.

Other than that, anything goes. The winner of this challenge we'll have supreme bragging rights, get his/her script filmed and edited by the great JC and will live on in infamy on youtube.

Oh and this writer extraordinaire will receive a special commemorative prize.

What are you waiting for?

One Word: Hello

2007-04-19T14:45:00.000-05:00

Daniel stood quietly at the airport window and watched the plane taxi across the Tarmac. It was twenty-three minutes late. But Daniel was a patient man. Sometimes these things took a little longer, and he was just fine with that. In his line of work, time was crucial, instrumental. Besides the blood and grit, time was the essence of his livelihood. And fleeting at that. A painstakingly crafted plan hatched in a matter of seconds, with no trophy for his troubles. So Daniel took his time. The plane came to rest at the gate. Daniel swirled his chocolate milk a couple times to catch the last few drops and swallowed it. He turned from the window and followed the stream of passengers heading toward baggage claim, elegantly matching their pace. His eyes trained on the bouncing blond hair a few steps ahead.

The parking garage was dark and cool and reeked of petroleum. Sometimes Daniel could smell it for hours afterward. It saddened him a little when the whole world smelled like that. It made it difficult to recognize beauty. Footsteps approached, the light staccato of a size 7 with three-inch heels. Not very sensible. Daniel twisted the silencer onto the end of his .45 and poised himself at the ready. There were only a few seconds left, and Daniel took the most pride and care in the final moments. Now was the time when his labors bore fruit, and he picked it carefully. There wasn't a second to lose.

She came into view, heading straight for the pale blue Nissan Ultima. She was walking fast.

Wait for it.

She began fumbling through her purse. Daniel heard the jingle of carkeys.

Wait for it.

She opened the car door slightly, then stopped.

Wait for it.

She looked around.

Wait.

"Hello?"

Time.

23 Minutes

2007-04-17T09:11:00.000-05:00

(A corridor at CIA headquarters, Langley, VA.

A rotund old man is shambling down the corridor towards us as fast as he can. Which is not very fast. He is breathing heavily. Half way down the corridor he slides to a stop and darts into the Gentleman's restroom. About thirty-five seconds pass. Back at the end of the corridor we see two smartly dressed men in dark shades appear around the corner and start to march towards us. The restroom door swings open and the old man bursts into view. He glances back at the approaching men.)

BOB JEFFRIES: Ah, shit.

(He resumes panting down the corridor towards us, trying to zip his fly on the move. Over his shoulder one of the men speaks into an ear-mounted microphone.

BOB JEFFRIES: Goddamn prostate! C'mon you old fart, move like you got your hips replaced!

(The old man passes us and disappears out of frame. The screen splits and reveals a clock, that with a dramatic "kerklunk" turns to 1:02PM.)

Honest and True

2007-04-12T20:58:00.000-05:00

(re-posted by lukewarm demand...)

Elsie sat on the front porch steps, staring emptily out at the stillness of the afternoon. The day’s heat had reached its peak and sent her fine brown hair spiraling in slick patterns across her pink cheeks and forehead. Her arms cradled her swollen belly, pulling the thin cotton skirt of her dress above her knees. Her hands moved in slow, soothing circles. In the distance, a bird pledged its love to anyone who was willing.

Marian cursed the porch door as it creaked open. She looked over at Elsie, then out at the street, then down at her feet. She took a deep breath before speaking.

“Awful hot out, ain’t it?”

“S’pose so,” Elsie moved her hands to a frayed bit of hem in her skirt and picked at it.

“It’s, uh… well, they say it’s gonna rain tonight.”

“That so.”

“Mm,” Marian wavered at the door for a moment. She was terrible at these kinds of things. But her instincts pushed her onto the porch and over to Elsie. She stood looking down at the young creature, so small and forlorn on the steps. Something moved in Marian’s heart and she reached down to smooth some plastered curls away from Elsie’s temple. She couldn’t help but notice how old and manly her hands looked against Elsie’s shiny hair. Sighing, she sat down, gingerly lifting the folded flag next to Elsie and looking for a suitable place to set it. Finding none, she held it awkwardly in her lap. She nudged Elsie with her shoulder, “What you thinkin’ about, girl?”

Elsie blinked a couple of times and swallowed hard before whispering, “I’m thinkin’ of if I should cry or not.”

Marian was taken aback and sputtered, “You – well – what’s to wonder?”

Looking down at her belly, Elsie replied softly, “I don’t want to cause my baby any pain.” She rocked back and forth slightly. “I know my baby feels what I feel and… if I let myself hurt, I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. And… I don’t – I just don’t want my baby to come into the world knowing that kind of pain. That’s not right for a little baby, just brand new to everything.”

“They’ll learn about pain soon enough,” Marian tersely remarked, and instantly cursed herself for saying so. “Not that – well, what I mean is you can’t always protect ‘em from them kinds of things.”

“I know not forever,” Elsie said, gazing at the thirsty lawn. “But, like, right now I can. While he’s in me, I can keep him safe.” Her eyes flickered and saddened. “But….” She fell silent and kept rocking.

“But what?”

“But then I got to thinking – if I hold in my feelings in… am I teaching my baby how to do that? Am I teaching him to hold everything in and not feel a thing? And then… I don’t know what’s worse…. Being in pain, or not knowing how to feel?”

Marian was impressed with the girl’s insight, but lost for any sweet-sounding philosophical answers, “Well that’s a lot to think about, hon.” She stared down at the flag, all crisp corners and bold colors. She thought about Luke. She thought about pain. “I guess – you just have to be brave.”

“But I ain’t brave!” Cried Elsie, her lip shaking. “I’m scared and I’m lost! I can’t figure nothing out without – “ She cut herself off and bit her lip fiercely.

Marian put her arm around Elise and kissed the side of her head. She could feel the girl trembling to control her emotions and struggled to steel her own. “Elsie, being brave is… is just doing what you know is… honest and… true. No matter what. Right?”

Elsie nodded, and leaned into Marian’s soft arm. She was breathing hard through her nose and had her mouth clamped shut.

“So, girl,” Marian held Elsie tightly, and the damp fabric of their dresses clung together. “What do you know to be honest and true?”

Tears began to pour down Elsie’s cheeks and the soft prickling sensation of grief spread through her chest and arms like a hard summer rain. She clenched her teeth, “It hurts.” The moment the words were released, Elsie let her mouth fall open and long, chest-deep sobs permeated the complacent stillness.

Marian held onto Elsie and cried along. Cried for everything she knew, and for all the unanswered questions she was left with. She wept for the son who had left them behind, and for the grandson who had not yet arrived. Marian lamented all of these dualities and that not even sixty-three years of wisdom could show her how to overcome such well-trodden tribulations of this life. All she could do was hope that the future held promise. She put her hand on Elsie’s belly. It felt like a little world beneath her fingers.

Elsie put her hand over Marian’s. “So, what do you think?” Her sobs ebbed into sniffles.

“I don’t know,” Marian wiped at her eyes with her free hand. “How do you feel now?”

Elsie nodded and sighed shakily, “I feel… better, I guess.”

“Well, then. There you go,” Marian replied, and patted Elsie’s belly softly.

Elsie tilted her head, her lips curved slightly, “Yeah. S’pose so.”

One Word: Hello

2007-04-12T16:11:00.000-05:00

Tonight, Steven's decided, is the muthafuckin' night.

He will NOT freak out. He will not begin to melt when he sees her wild mess of Cherry Kool-Aid hair. He will not quiver at the sight of her strawberry yogurt colored lips. He will not care that she is talking to someone cooler than he is and turn around.

Instead, he will put on his favorite X-men shirt. He will wear the belt with the Nintendo controller belt buckle. He will wear the red Chuck Taylors he only wears on special occasions. He will step the hell up to her this time.

He will say "hello".

One Word: Center

2007-04-06T08:55:00.000-05:00

...which segues into how she's really excited about this next show she's doing and how she hopes the rehearsal schedule won't interfere with the class on traditional Irish dance she's going to take and hey did you know her comedy troupe is doing a special show on Thursday and are you going to go this time because you really should because it's going to be so much fun and they got a really great write-up in the local alternative paper and...

She never asks you how your day went. She barely stops to eat her salad.

one word. so little time.

One Word: Center

2007-04-05T09:10:00.000-05:00

Trade.

Stocks rise... and fall.

Business as usual, with some flight delays.

"They make their concrete out of sand.

Ours is made of rubber."

One Word, so little time...

Beatles in the Tardis

2007-03-30T10:24:00.000-05:00

Mothers of Reinvention

2007-03-30T09:58:00.000-05:00

Alright, so after many long nights hidden away in my dark underground laboratory - hammering brass and smelting iron, uttering incantations, worshiping Tesla &c, &c - I have succeeded in temporarily reanimating the spirit of the Typo Cafe within the ethereal realms of the geekosphere. I haven't quite succeeded in reanimating the coffee of the Typo Cafe, but all in good time.

The new URL is

www.typo-cafe.blogspot.com

However, this is a temporary fix. POTP has suggested setting up our own domain, and I agree. If POTP can convince me that even the village idiot from Idiot Village can understand WordPress and use it to make a nice, purty blog, there's a good chance this site will go through a more extensive overhaul.

One Word: Leaf

2007-03-29T16:43:00.000-05:00

Something was not right. Detective inspector Wilson Jefferies crouched down beside the cold, stiff body and took a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Using it to shield his thumb and forefinger, he gently pried open the dead man's jaw. The rigor mortis had subsided sufficiently to render the task less than strenuous. From the cavity between the dead man's pale, bloodless lips, Jefferies withdrew a dry, crumpled brown leaf. A small layer of fog swirled around his feet as he abruptly stood and moved out of the darkness of the alley into the light of the cobbled street on Lafayette. There, he inspected the leaf in the lamp light, turning it this way and then the other. Finally, he brought it close to his nose and delicately sniffed it.

Ceylonese. Rare in the largely Afro-colonial population of St. Lewis. Chinese tea was generally preferred. Only the white colonials on the east side drank black tea, even if they tended to prefer drinking it white; with a splash of cream.

A junior constable stood by, fidgeting with the cuffs of his uniform.

"It's happened again, hasn't it, sir?" He said.

Jefferies remained silent. Introspective. It boded ill enough that two wealthy white aristocrats had been found, brutally murdered, miles from their east side mansions. That their bodies had been found in the same middle class black neighbourhood, his neighbourhood, on the west side of the river was very likely a precursor to wider-reaching and potentially catastrophic consequences. Now a third body lay in the nearby alley with its heart, spleen and kidneys expertly removed, just like the others. If that wasn't enough to bring the scandal to a dramatic head, the fact that the dead man was none other than Henry Shaw would certainly facilitate the issue.

They would want retribution, and Jefferies and his fellow officers would not be allowed to disappoint them.

One Word: Leaf

2007-03-29T14:16:00.000-05:00

When Jacob's mother tells him about the day she decided she wanted to marry Jacob's father, she recounts a painfully romantic tale involving a picnic in autumn, a warm blanket, a sunset, and a large red oak leaf that fell and sat perfectly on his head as he proposed. She always sighs when she ends that story.

When Jacob's father tells him about the day he decided he wanted to marry Jacob's mother, he turns down the volume on the television and says, "See this?" He raises one eyebrow and points to the tiny scar above it. "Your grandfather did that to me when he found out your mom was pregnant. Whooped my ass sideways, then told me if I didn't buy a ring the next day he'd be back to do it again. Three days and three beatings later, I proposed. Now, go get dad a beer."

one word. so little time.

Image is everything... time for rehab?

2007-03-29T10:50:00.000-05:00

So the reason that this blog looks the way it does, and has the name that it has, is because I started it that way. However, now that we have a hardy bunch of regulars, I think it's fair to submit the issue of 'the look' and 'the name' to democratic discussion. Oh, and we need to change our mission statement, which is completely out of touch with what this blog has since become.

So, here are the four main questions up for consideration:

1. What is the collective image we'd like to represent us?
2. Is this image compatible with the current blog provider?
3. Should we rustle together some funds and upgrade our blog account (either at Blogger or another provider such as typepad?)

My 2 cents:
I have images of Courier fonts and type writers. Stark white, dead-tree background. Classic styles. The name, I'm inclined to think, should probably have something to do with 'typos'.

The Holy Text Beginneth Here...

2007-03-29T08:41:00.000-05:00

'And two, duration: many plays are far too long. All writers should be made to visit the venue where their play is to be performed and sit in the seats with a stopwatch. When your arse and spine start to sing, check the watch. That's your running time. Exceed it at your peril.
From Anthony Neilson's column linked to by POTP in the last post.

I think you could extend this rule to include directors. Especially directors intent on producing uncut versions of Hamlet etc. Two hours is all that Burbage and the Boys had, and that's all anyone should really need.

I think, when you boil Neilson's column down to its fundamental message, it is basically the following: "Hamster Attack must be finished."

Either way, POTP is hereby promoted to the esteemed rank of Linkfinder General. He has demonstrated ninja linkage skills.

linkblogging 3: this time, it's personal

2007-03-28T11:20:00.000-05:00

Damn it. Every other blogging platform has an extension for Firefox that I can use to open a sidebar or something and still see what I'm writing about. Blogger, on the other hand, is a blend of 45% Frustration and 65% Stupid and won't interface with anything but the fucking Google Toolbar, which I refuse to download because it doesn't do what I need it to and FIREFOX ALREADY COMES WITH A GOOGLE SEARCHBAR (why has no one at Google been told this?).

Alright. Rant over. Time for linking.

- First off, I think we should all congratulate our boy ZK for getting his play chosen for Short & Sweet 2007 - Singapore. He's got a bit of a blog post about it over at the newly named A Six Pack of Zima and A Van. Nice job. Dick.

For those who want to get in on the glory of adding "International Playwright" to their letterhead, the call for entries for the Short & Sweet in Melbourne, Australia begins in April. All you need to know is right here, so get your ten minute plays ready.

- Original Works Publishing gives you the skinny on submissions to their company on their MySpace blog. A few weeks ago, they put out a call for one act plays, so it may be worth looking into.

- A breif reminder that the early deadline for the "Machine of Death" anthology is Saturday, March 31st. You do have until the end of April to submit, but they do recommend you send them a manuscript as soon as possible.

- Ficlets is a site for stories that are, at maximum, only 1,024 characters long. You can write whatever you want, then leave that story for someone else to build on, or choose to add on to someone else's piece. It's even got a page for daily inspirations (though not the kind I am fond of). The nicest thing about the site is that everything you post is copy written under a Creative Commons license, meaning you own the work you post. The site makes you sign up for an AIM account if you want to participate.

- Need some tips on writing well? How about some from George Orwell? Not enough? Try Kurt Vonnegut.

- A couple years ago, Warren Ellis' THE ENGINE forum started a thread on comic scripting. Several examples from professionals such as Andy Diggle, Brian Wood, and Mr. Ellis, as well as talk on the differences between writers' styles. As a bonus, here's Warren Ellis' script for FELL #1.

- Since there are more than a few of us interested in audio drama, here are a couple sites of nothing but scripts from the golden age of radio. Generic Radio Workshop and Simply Scripts has you covered.

- In closing, Anthony Neilson has a message for all us playwrights: Stop being so fucking boring. Some very good points in there. Favorite passage:

So tell your story as you wish - but for God's sake, if it plays best as a linear narrative, don't tart it up for the sake of feeling innovative. There's no shame in a good story, well told. Contrary to the popular maxim, do think about your audience. Ask yourself if your non-theatre-going friends or relatives would at least get the gist of it. If they wouldn't, your work is not yet done. (That said, never compromise on the grounds of what they may be offended by. Truth is not always comfortable but a dishonest play is usually dull.)

Your mileage, of course, may vary.

The Life and Random Opinions of an Accidental Gentleman: Entry #24

2007-03-26T17:25:00.000-05:00

There's a picture of me somewhere, taken when I was young; probably no more than eleven years old or so. I believe I was on holiday with my family on the coast of northeastern Spain. Anyway, I thought of this while I was watching Sophia Coppola's Virgin Suicides with my wife the other day. It is a picture that shows best of all what could well have been my undoing - quite literally - as a boy. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I bore a quite striking resemblance to the actress, Kirsten Dunst. That's right. Hard though it may be to digest the fact that I - strapping example of the male form that I am - once looked like a girl, it is nevertheless the truth.

I suppose I should thank providence that I neither attended a boy's public school, nor spent any time in a juvenile detention centre. My dignity might have been endangered otherwise.

Thankfully, the similarities between myself and the lovely Kirsten have waned considerably with age and cup-size. Any feminine qualities that remain, perhaps in the form of my red lips, are more-or-less completely eclipsed - quite literally - by the fact that I have a head shaped like a large, malformed asteroid and a haircut reminiscent of the sort of fellow you see tackling the police at an international football match between England and Germany.

I believe I can, with some assuredness, rest easy in the knowledge that I am no longer in danger of attracting the unwelcome advances of gentlemen with questionable motives.

This is not THE picture, but a similar one of the author as a young man.

One word: Headstand (a St. Pat's Day tribute)

2007-03-16T10:59:00.000-05:00

The world inverted before his eyes at a sickening pace. As his skull hit the ground, he couldn’t help but chuckle sardonically under his breath, “Welcome back to Belfast, Liam.”

But then the pain began. A ski-masked fatty whose stinking bollocks were now dangling precariously behind a worn pair of Levi’s above his head placed one steel-toed boot on either of Liam’s earlobes and slammed his head further into the alley pavement. Blood began to trickle hot down the sides of his face as he tried in vain to kick his ankles free from the fists that clamped them tight to the brick wall behind him.

“My fuckin’ ears!” Liam yelped.

“Watch your mouth, you miserable cunt,” hissed a voice from just outside Liam’s upturned view.

Amazing, he thought. Ten years gone across an ocean and two hours after I step on the shit-steaming Irish soil, she’s tracked me down.

He had to admire it.

“What about ye, Katie? Brilliant fucking welcoming committee you’ve brought with you. Is he wanting my ears to hang on his bb-gun?”

“Just makin’ sure you’re listening, love,” she sneered. “In the old days, I’d have had bullets through both your knees and no talking about it.”

“Aye, Uncle Gerry’s* been wheelin’ and dealin’ for all you peace loving bastards, eh? Great to see you, Katie, but if we’re gonna continue this wee chat, could you tell yer man there to fuck off?”

Fatty objected by bringing his big boot down again on Liam’s left ear. He could hear the flesh ripping further from his jaw and the sound forced his dinner to make a surprise appearance at Katie’s feet.

“Och, poor Liam’s lost his stomach for the auld turf,” she laughed. “Break his jaw, Tommy.”

“Jesus God, Katie! Hang on! I know my going left bad blood with you, but is it not all water under the bridge by now? I’ve got kids now, for Chrissake.”

She laughed and turned her face toward the street. The light from a passing lorry reflected her stark defiance against the pitch black alley. Just before his consciousness surrendered its grip, he saw that her cheeks were wet and flushed.

“Aye, Liam,” she said, her dead eyes holding his gaze to the last. “That you do.”

Liam’s full weight slumped into his shoulders as Tommy stepped off of his half-severed ears.

For a moment she looked at him lying there, peacefully bleeding into the piss and spit now mingled with his own vomit.

Almost enough, she thought.

“Are you deaf, Tommy? Break his fucking jaw. I want the bastard wired shut when he meets his son tomorrow.”

(*Gerry Adams – long time political leader of Sinn Fein and the public face of the I.R.A. credited with their recent disarmament.)

The Meat Grinder

2007-03-09T20:18:00.000-06:00

I confess to having a fairly romantic view of what it means to be a professonal fiction writer. When I think of writing for a living, I think of cigarettes, whisky, advance checks with lots of zeros, and hot goth girls in loose fitting shirts leaning over my shoulder to swoon over the words on my laptop's screen.

Brian Keene is a self-described midlist horror novelist whose books The Rising and City of the Dead are pretty entertaining novels that take a unique approach to the zombie genre. I had the pleasure of meeting him at a science fiction convention in Springfield, Missouri last month where he was a guest of honor and a panelist in a discussion on fiction writing. He gave a lot of great advice completely disillusioned me. The advice he gives can be found in his writing blog, World Domination 101.

Whether you like his books or not, there're some interesting tidbits in the blog about how to make writing your day job. In this blog post, Keene points out that if you are going to write for a living, you'd better learn the difference between art and "paying the fucking bills on time."

Notice that he never denies that there are cigarettes, whisky, and tons of hot goth groupies waiting for us all...

Polly

2007-03-07T16:26:00.000-06:00

And the drums a go a-rat-tat-tat-tat, a-rat-tat-tat-tat, a-rat-tat-tat-tat.
-Oh, Polly, me dear. So sorry; so sorry. I must be goin away.
-What will I name him?
-Name him Patrick.
-Patrick is no name.
-Name him Daniel. The lions nev’r touch em?
-What have this baby fear of lions for?
At this, the gentleman soldier couldn’t help but smirk and grab his pants off the sentry box floor. –Fare thee well me dear, I must be goin away.
-Tell me your name.
-I must be goin away.
-Why don’t you marry me?
-Oh, Polly, me dear…
-What?
-Sweet, Polly. When they come a-courtin, just say you’re a country lass.
-Marry me.
-I can’t, you see. For a wife I have already, and of children I have three.
And the drums a go a-rat-tat-tat-tat, a-rat-tat-tat-tat, a-rat-tat-tat-tat.
-Me parents will be angry.

Sixth months later, poor Polly had herself a little militia boy. Her parents were mighty angry. -How could you let him drill you up in the sentry box?
-His uniform promised the world.
-What’s the matter with here?
-Here can only be here - will always be here.
-It’s good here.
-It’s not the world.
-What will his name be?
And the drums a go a-rat-tat-tat-tat, a-rat-tat-tat-tat, a-rat-tat-tat-tat.

This is stolen from a Pogues song or inspired by a Pogues song. It depends on how you see things. They played in Chicago on Monday night. Bless all those who made the journey up.

linkblogging 2: electric boogaloo

2007-03-01T12:17:00.000-06:00

- The New York Times has an awesome article on writers who have turned to reading, recording, and podcasting their stories to find an audience. The piece includes a handful of mp3s for review, as well as a link to Podiobooks, which has a pretty interesting little blog.

A few others to check out:

Escape Pod - a weekly sci-fi short story podcast
PsuedoPod - their sister site for horror
Bloodlines - an new series from BBC7's 7th Dimension (you can listen to Susanna Clarke's story "The Dweller in High Places" here).
Five Minute Memoir
Cory Doctorow's stories @ craphound.com

- Mediabistro's Colman Andrews provides a few tips for freelance writers trying to make a good first impression.

- An anthology of short stories called "Machine of Death" is looking for submissions for their upcoming publication. The early deadline is March 31st, but submissions will be taken until the end of April.

- River Styx is throwing its first annual Schlafly Beer MicroFiction contest this Monday, March 5th at the Schlafly Tap Room from 7 - 10 pm. The event includes a reading from their annual MicroFiction contest, as well as music from The Bearded Babies. Attendees can also write and enter their own 25 words or less short stories for the chance to win a free six-pack of beer. Admission is $5.

- Jonathan Lethem presents The Promiscuous Materials Project. In short, the author is offering up the rights to some of his works for adaptation as films and plays for the low, low price of a dollar.

Night Swing (2)

2007-02-26T13:37:00.000-06:00

Maybe it was the fact he was flat on his back. Maybe it was his wine-sticky beard. Maybe it was the dandelion seed armada that so perfectly balanced across the “like” of simile with dirigible-sperm squadron. Whatever the reason, Buzzcock laid in the high grass and reminisced about his late night bandstand fuck of Jillian Moorehouse in the very same closed park back in 1972.

The night of his father’s wake found Buzz drunk and disorderly down at Eddie’s Route 1 Saloon and Billiards. He stumbled out into the cool June predawn air and onto the gravel parking lot with a busted lip, a bloody nose, and Sam Moorehouse’s wife.

Buzzcock licked wine from his beard and battled the fog of spirits and time for a memory of Jillian’s face. Spirits and time won, and he only remembered the weight of her when she straddled him on the bandstand’s wooden floor and her red scuffed chubby knees peaking out from under her yellow sundress as they walked across the footbridge back to her car.

“Sure you don’t need a ride anywhere?”
“I’ll be fine. You going to manage?”
“I’m not the one who has to manage. That’s Sam’s problem.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah.”

No face, but perfect recall 34 years later of their last words as Buzz gently closed the car door.

“Go figure,” Buzz thought.

24 minutes

2007-02-23T09:47:00.000-06:00

A conference room at Langley CIA headquarters. Our hero, who looks exactly like Jack Bauer would look like if he had spent forty-five years of his life working in a basement office eating Krispy Kremes, drinking Maxwell House instant coffee and smoking forty Reds a day, sits opposite a panel of five men in suits. They don't look happy. One fidgets with a large Masonic ring on his right hand index finger. the following dialogue is spoken fast and punchy. Like an episode of Gilmore Girls on crystal meth. The episode should be exactly one minute long.

BOB JEFFRIES: Yep. That's about the size of it.

(Pause.)

SUIT #1: So... Area 51? No aliens?

BOB: Apart from a coupla Mexicans working the canteen without work permits... no, frankly.

SUIT #3: Elvis isn't working undercover for us?

BOB: Nope.

SUIT #4: We know where Jimmy Hoffa is?

BOB: Nobody knows where Jimmy Hoffa is.

SUIT #2: Wait a minute. Are you saying we didn't shoot Kennedy?
(To SUIT #1)
I mean, we shot Kennedy right?

BOB: Nope. We shot the man who shot him; in order to silence the one man who knew that we didn't shoot the president. I wasn't happy about it, but lets face it we had to make it look like we did it. Otherwise, we'd be the agency that let some survivalist freak blow holes in our own president.

SUIT #2: But Oswald couldn't have fired those shots-

BOB: He didn't. Some crazy guy did from that goddamn grassy knoll. The man was a loon. It was embarrassing. But nobody saw him... except that poor patsy who was watching the motorcade from the book repository. Like I say, I'm not proud of it.

SUIT #3: But this... this makes no sense.

BOB: That means I'm doing my job.

MASONIC RING GUY: But why would we want people to think we killed our own president?

BOB: Same reason we wanted the world to know that we tried to off Castro by planting a bomb in his cigar.

SUIT #2: We did try to assassinate him? Well, thank God for that, I was starting to think-

BOB: No, we didn't try to assassinate him. If we'd have wanted to do that we would have dropped napalm on his beach hut. We wanted him and his friends to think that the CIA was desperate. That we were crazy. And that we were -

SUIT #4: But the Bay of Pigs-

BOB: ... completely incompetent.

MRG: But... but... that makes no sense.

BOB: Listen. Nobody fears a rational guy, even if he's carrying a big gun. Because he's rational. Get it? It's not about what you know, gentleman. It's not even about who you know. It's about what everyone thinks you know and what everyone thinks you're prepared to do. That's where the power is. I've spent my whole life making sure our enemy thinks we know a lot of stuff we don't know, and thinks we're crazy enough to use it.

(Pause.)

I'm real sorry about the Skull and Bones thing, Mr. Carpenter.

SUIT #2: Why the hell would you invent a secret society anyway?

BOB: Mystery. Suspense. Uncertainty... Fear. A secret society's key to survival is to foster the impression in its lower initiates that there is some higher knowledge to be sought at the top of the pyramid. Essentially there is. The higher initiates know that there isn't any knowledge to be had at all. But that knowledge alone gives them considerable power.

SUIT #1: A self-fulfilling prophecy.

BOB: Yea. That too. Worked a treat on the Russians. They still think we have a bunch of Jedis working in our PsiOps department. Of course, now you know there is no Psi Ops department. Sorry about that, Mr. Wright. But it was important that you didn't know. That you believed in... well, that stuff about the goats.

SUIT #3: (To SUIT #1) You really had Special Forces trying to kill goats with... with mind bullets?

SUIT #1: I don't believe this is happening.

SUIT #2: How do we know this isn't disinformation? That you're lying to us right now!

BOB: Because there would be no purpose in it. No angle. No reason for me to lie. Whereas everything I have divulged to you in this meeting has a motive. Whaen you look closely enough to see it.

MRG: I think that will be all, Mr. Jeffries. This debriefing is over. Your retirement papers will be signed and sent to you for confirmation. Thank you.

BOB: What'll hapen to the Disinformation Unit?

MRG: Unit, Mr. Jeffries? What unit?

SUIT #1: You're the only person in that office, and you're... retiring. We have no plans to replace you.

(Without a word, Bob leaves the room. Outside the door he looks vexed.)

BOB: Damn it, Bob. You're too damn good. Even the agency believes all the trash you've been pedaling from that basement office. Trouble is, Bob, you're the only one left alive who knows it's trash. You, and your damn filing cabinet. Damnit, Bob, always with the speaking what you're thinking thing. That's how you got landed with this rotten desk job in the first place, you dumb fool.

(A brief pause. And then Bob starts running down the hall like a bat out of hell. There's a gratuitous split screen thingy, and the image of a clock turning to 1:00PM. Theres a deep 'ker-klunk' sound as the number changes to 1.01PM)

One Word: Solo (II)

2007-02-23T02:16:00.000-06:00

The word is solo
Yet again, or perhaps still
I'm not really sure

Night Swing

2007-02-22T20:40:00.000-06:00

"Park closes at 10pm," read the Crete Park District sign.

"Swings never close," Buzzcock said to himself as he made his way up the hill to the tire-rubber swings that never close. The night summer air felt light and crisp as if the supply of communion wafers up at St. Joe's had been dissolved upon the unseen breath of a mischievous Puck. "I brought the wine," Buzzcock shouted in case the fairy was hiding under the footbridge across the dry creek. "I'll gladly share," Buzz lowed with less confidence before the hill grew steeper, and more concentration was needed to avoid a tumble backwards.

Upon summiting the dangerous prairie-hill and reaching the top, Buzz tumbled backwards. His arms shot and flailed over his head. The hand holding the Chardonnay bottle spun its contents through the night in a red lasso. His head landed in a patch of germinating dandelions. A puff of white exploded upward. The disgorged wine fell across his gray beard as white seeds drifted about. They spun downward in the moonlight like lazy dive bombing achene-Zeros.

Buzz sighed. "They'll never write songs about me," he said.
(to be continued)

One Word: Solo

2007-02-16T14:39:00.000-06:00

2007-01-18T11:19:00.000-06:00

He looked down at the small lump of mud and thought he could make a delicious meal. He molded it into the shape of a small disc, with extra details taken on the the decorative toppings. A small twig. A bit of a green leaves for color.

As he took a bite of his masterpiece he realized...no matter what you make it look like, a mud pie is still not more than just dirt and water.

Alas, his stomach turned over and he ran to his mother crying.

dropping ill Vogon beats

2007-01-17T14:04:00.000-06:00

Awaking, I did find myself bound tightly
In the audacious
And excrement-stained bed sheets of
Apocalyptic woe and
Urethra clogging failure,
A complication of a
Diarretic slice of sorrow pie
That did squeegee the colon
Of my
Tearless being
To a squeek,
And, alas,
Did have not one drop
Of the soul scorching bleach
Or truth and
(excuse me I have to inhale just now but will finish
momentarily)

-BREATH-

Justice
To cleanse myself with

Horatio.

Vogon's Corner - Lavishly Unexpectant (a poem)

2007-01-17T09:38:00.000-06:00

Buggered.
I die.
Alas.

...

!

Vogon's corner

2007-01-17T02:58:00.000-06:00

I got all you bitches beat...try this for bad:

I know a girl with eyes like the sea
Peering into their depths sometimes frightens me.
Is it my reflection I see there?
Or the promise of my destruction laid bare?
When the storm rages and they are lit by fire,
My head swims and my heart gyres.
This is too much to occlude...
Or is insanity clouding any verisimilitude?
Questions, questions, questions, surround me in this
abyss.
I know not but this-
When her eyes align with her smile so sweet
Lightning strikes and my heart skips a beat

In the Vogonocity of Things

2007-01-16T21:55:00.000-06:00

Oh glorious sphincter
Beautious in design
Workings of which prove
Higher power works behind
The mental prowess of
Man

Stinky Smelly Slimy Poo
Grips and holds like epoxy gel
To Esoteric Things
Mothers cry about at weddings
Of joyful bleating sheep
Who have no sphincters
Of their own

Sing Sphincter!
Sing Sphincter!
Cry! Cry!

Sing Sphincter!
Sing Sphincter!
Coo! Coo!

Warriors! Attack the Sphincter!

Bleed Sphincter!
Bleed Sphincter!
Die! Die!

The Sphincter sits and wonders.

Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz's Corner

2007-01-15T18:22:00.000-06:00

There's a corner of The Mermaid Tavern that fairly reeks of urine, stale tobacco and wasted dreams. It's exactly the right place for a poetry bash, I feel.

There are no rules, except that the worse the better. A CAUTION label should be appended to entries, however.

Candidly You Understand
Death, it really would appear,
Your aim is far from fair,
In taking one you cut down two,
Grazed another by width’s hair.
Please answer to your recklessness,
That last to take the fall,
Did she duck a shade too late,
Or was she just too tall?
As meek and lowly mortals,
We can but ask, 'But why?',
Throw our questions at the air,
And wait for no reply.
So thus in kind I waste a breath,
Turn up my eyes and dare suggest,

- Not so arrogant as to tell –

That you take your scythe to a field afar,
For this one's mowed quite well.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

For more information on Vogon poetry, go here

One Word: Scent

2007-01-12T10:30:00.000-06:00

"Better late than stinking, 'swat I always say." Bernard scratched his left armpit as if to emphasise this nugget of wisdom, which may as well have been ripped from the lost pages of an ancient Taoist text given the sense of gravity with which he delivered it.

Patricia's cerebellum struggled to override the numerous reflexive orders that had been dispatched from the motor cortex in response to a stream of desperate sensory messages originating from somewhere in her olfactory bulb. The messages were something along the lines of, "We canna take it, Capt'n! We're breaking up!". Those orders were now charging towards her spinal cord with the intent of commanding the necessary body muscles to begin immediate evasive manoeuvres. Whatever it took to reposition her body as far away from the offending odour as possible. Bernard was wearing enough cheap Walgreens musk to strip the entire atmosphere of its ozone layer. Or at the very least strip a few layers from the lining of Patricia's nasal cavity.

Patricia forced a smile, and tried not to breath. Deep in the folds of her brain Patricia's hippocampus fired out a few angry pulses before descending into a silent and prolonged period of inactivity; or a sulk, for want of a better word. A particularly acerbic retort was directed towards the cerebral cortex. If it was possible to translate this particular signal into something resembling modern English, it would have said something like,

'I told you. Online dating sucks. You ignored me. Again. You can take your evolutionary pedigree and shove it. If you wanna talk to me in the future, you can ask hypothalamus to pass the message on. Asshole."

one word. so little time.

One Word: Cent

2007-01-11T16:46:00.000-06:00

Fifty Cent sat back in his chair. He'd drawn the blinds in his living room and made sure that none of the paparazzi outside could see into his den. He pulled the gat from his back pocket, dropped the magazine from it and cleared the chamber. Having set the gun on table, he picked up the remote to his stereo and turned off the latest Snoop album. The carriage on the cd player whirred as it landed on the smooth sounds of Wynton Marsailles. Fifty smiled, took a drink of the 18 year old single malt scotch in his hand and opened up his copy of A Brief History of Time.

It was hard being a pimp 24/7. Sometimes he just had to be himself.

One word: Cent

2007-01-11T15:34:00.000-06:00

i have one, it fails to multiply. i've left her in a comfortable spots with some potential mates who have been shined up with ketchup and prepared for the mating ritual. still nothing. she stands obstinate and solo. i may spend her soon just to spite her.

One Word: Cent

2007-01-11T15:11:00.000-06:00

1: "Look, sir! I think the dogs are picking up the cent!"
2: "Scent.
1: "Yeah. Yeah, that's what I said."
2: "You didn't. You dropped the S."
1: "What? I said 'cent'."
2: "See, there. You did it again."
1: "You're kidding, right?"
2: "Here, say it with me."
1: "I won't."
2: "Come on. It's fun with phonetics time and that's an order. SSSSSScent."
1: "Ccccccc..."
2: "NO, damn it! You're...you're still missing the S!"

one word. so little time.

short & sweet

2007-01-05T15:08:00.000-06:00

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Writers' Guild, though I know the Reverend Peabody assails us on all fronts to produce Good Works for Nefarious Plans, I thought I might mention this for those who'd like a crack at it.

Short & Sweet is a 10 minute play festival that originated in Sydney, Australia and has been running for six years. Recently, they've expanded over to Singapore and, as it happens, are now accepting entries for their next run.

I think I'm going to submit "Truer" to the thing. In fact, I think we should all submit something to this little party for a few reasons:

Ten minutes isn't that big a deal and you have until February 28th to submit. Even if you spend the next month working on something, you'd have it done in time. Hell, some of us already have plays we can submit (I'm looking at you, ZK).
Getting your Work out there. Yes, I know we have a venue for original work, but I think it would be beneficial for those of us that want to concentrate on play writing to show our Work to other outfits and see how it flies.
Submission for submissions' sake. The act of sending the Work out to possibly be shredded or rejected is probably one of the hardest things to get over. The more you do it, the easier it will get. I imagine. I hope.
And dude, if they did pick your play, how cool would it be to say you've had your Work done in Singapore?

(Lights up.)

(The back wall of the South City Diner. Smoking section. The seat next to the middle booth. You know the one.)

(Jack and Murray are sitting across from each other. They're each picking at a plate of food. They sit quietly. The couple in the booth behind them are staring at each other. Murray catches the man's eye. He licks his lips and points at the man.)

Man
Hmmph.

(Woman looks up and thinks man is staring at her. She's a little embarassed.)

Woman
What?

(Murray jumps up on his seat and grabs his crotch. Man keeps looking for a moment, then answers. The woman.)

Man
Nothing.

(Woman looks down again, blushing. Man continues to stare at Murray's gyrating pelvis. Woman looks up again to meet his eyes.)

Woman
So, I guess this is it, then?

(Man says nothing. He takes her other hand in his. He nods his head, then stands on his seat, walks across the table. Steps over Woman and Jack, and takes Murray in his arms.)

(Lights down.)