Wednesday, August 11, 2004
There's more where that came from
It sucks when you're shitty
My fans wanted a taste / so I told them to bite me
har har
"I can do a really neat trick with a dollar bill. Let me see that one," the husband said to his wife. I only have a five dollar bill, she said. "That will work perfectly."
"Don’t look," he said. He turned away from his wife and silently contorted the bill by his hip. He presented her with a five dollar bowtie and she laughed. She put it down on her side.
The couple sat on the bench together. They looked out onto the beachfront and smiled. He leaned in and kissed her.
The rotted wood ran into their clothes and she complained of a splinter in her bottom thigh. "Let the doctor take a bit of a look," he said. Pulling out his sunglasses, he again kissed her. He moved his hand toward her skirt. "That tickles," she said. Her leg twitched and she laughed, cocking back her bright teeth. "But I think you’re getting there."
He looked up at her. She was drinking an iced tea and staring at children running in and out of the water. One small girl dipped her toes in only before her brother pushed her in. She came up from the water crying, sobbing for her mother, Mommy, mommy, I don’t know where you are, and throwing wetsand at her brother. He ran away, covering his eyes with his hands and wailing. The pink-clad sister sat back down in the shallow ocean.
"I haven’t found it yet, have I?" She nodded, still looking ahead. "Well, maybe this will help." He took her hand and kissed it, slowly moving up her arm.
"Please, it sort of hurts."
"Yeah, I can make it hurt more, sweetie."
She pulled away and put her drink on the cement. "I actually have a splinter. You were close before—" She grabbed his hand off of her back and placed it on her thigh. "It’s here." He took his sunglasses off and scratched his chin before looking up at her. "Pull it out of my thigh." She lifted up her skirt. He pulled out a small piece of wood and she picked her drink off of the ground. She thanked him and offered a taste.
"Yes, I do." She handed him the glass.
"You just want to stay here, right?" She was watching the brother and sister again.
"What do you think they’re doing?"
The sister was running with a cup of water to her brother, digging a hole and instructing her to bring more water bring more water faster bring more I hate you could you stop you’re not the one building it I’m much smarter than you because you’re a girl get water—
"If you could answer, you know," he said, "every so often, it’d be nice."
"I’m sorry. I just don’t have anything to say."
They remained silent. He looked off at the line of benches like theirs that surrounded the beach. They were empty and chipped. He sighed and laid on her stomach.
"Come on." She tapped his shoulder. "Let’s go. Get up."
The two of them held hands on the boardwalk, watching mothers suntan and stopping in beachside food stands.
"I’d love some lemonade." She wrapped herself around his arm and looked up.
"I don’t see a lemonade stand."
"It’s right in front of you."
"I still don’t see it."
"Look." She took his hand. "There."
He paused. "Yes, I see it."
"No, you don’t!" She laughed and pushed him. He put his sunglasses on and laughed. "I’m trying, honestly." They walked into a stucco-set restaurant. The door was chipped and written on in blue marker Spanish. "Read it in English!" she said.
He put his sunglasses on her head and bought her a cup of lemonade. "Sir, that will be one dollar and fourteen cents." Customers were playing video arcade games and eating french fries in their greased booths. Children ran across the room in a variety of sandals and red bathing trunks. He kissed his wife and walked out, draping her in his arms, forgetting to pay the Spanish attendant in a yellow apron. An old woman in the back of the line clutched a brown purse to her chest and watched the two of them leave without paying.
"I think we’re being called back in," his wife said.
They walked back, through the chipped door and the throng of red bottoms. The attendant held the cashier’s box open.
"Sir, you haven’t paid me." The husband cut through the long line of families and frazzled older women. He told his wife to stay in back.
The husband dug into his pocket. "I’m really sorry. This won’t happen again."
"Of course it won’t happen again. If it did, I’d report you."
"I’ll come back here," the husband said. "This isn’t necessary."
He shoved both hands farther into each side of his jeans. He called for his wife. I have nothing, she said. Nothing. "You can’t do this. You don’t have one dollar?"
"And fourteen cents." The woman clutching her purse raised her hand from the front of the line.
His wife emptied her bag on the counter. Sunscreen splattered on the attendant. "You better have my money."
Cigarettes, lighters, crinkled pictures of her husband, sand, tampons, her sunglasses. She threw her bag on the floor, getting on her knees to climb through the remains.
"I don’t understand. We had five dollars before."
"We don’t have it now, though. Don’t you remember?" She was sobbing on the floor of the restaurant. Boys stopped running and watched her writhe below them. Their mothers turned them back to their tables and milkshakes. "You made that bowtie for me. It’s gone. You took it back and put it somewhere."
The husband ran his hand through his hair. He paced in front of the counter. "Sir, I’m really sorry, we’ll find this money for you.
"Excuse me," he shouted. "If anyone has one dollar and eighty-two cents, I’d be most grateful." Her walked down the line. Each mother hid her handbag behind her flowing skirt. Each scrawny teenage boy waiting for milkshakes nodded silently, mouths agape. It’s my mom’s money. She’s on the beach right now.
He yelled at the attendant. "I’ll come back later. Is there anything you can take of mine until I come back with three dollars? We don’t even want that lemonade. It tastes like shit."
"I need this money. The customers want their lemonade. Please find my money. I don’t have time for this."
My fans wanted a taste / so I told them to bite me
har har
"I can do a really neat trick with a dollar bill. Let me see that one," the husband said to his wife. I only have a five dollar bill, she said. "That will work perfectly."
"Don’t look," he said. He turned away from his wife and silently contorted the bill by his hip. He presented her with a five dollar bowtie and she laughed. She put it down on her side.
The couple sat on the bench together. They looked out onto the beachfront and smiled. He leaned in and kissed her.
The rotted wood ran into their clothes and she complained of a splinter in her bottom thigh. "Let the doctor take a bit of a look," he said. Pulling out his sunglasses, he again kissed her. He moved his hand toward her skirt. "That tickles," she said. Her leg twitched and she laughed, cocking back her bright teeth. "But I think you’re getting there."
He looked up at her. She was drinking an iced tea and staring at children running in and out of the water. One small girl dipped her toes in only before her brother pushed her in. She came up from the water crying, sobbing for her mother, Mommy, mommy, I don’t know where you are, and throwing wetsand at her brother. He ran away, covering his eyes with his hands and wailing. The pink-clad sister sat back down in the shallow ocean.
"I haven’t found it yet, have I?" She nodded, still looking ahead. "Well, maybe this will help." He took her hand and kissed it, slowly moving up her arm.
"Please, it sort of hurts."
"Yeah, I can make it hurt more, sweetie."
She pulled away and put her drink on the cement. "I actually have a splinter. You were close before—" She grabbed his hand off of her back and placed it on her thigh. "It’s here." He took his sunglasses off and scratched his chin before looking up at her. "Pull it out of my thigh." She lifted up her skirt. He pulled out a small piece of wood and she picked her drink off of the ground. She thanked him and offered a taste.
"Yes, I do." She handed him the glass.
"You just want to stay here, right?" She was watching the brother and sister again.
"What do you think they’re doing?"
The sister was running with a cup of water to her brother, digging a hole and instructing her to bring more water bring more water faster bring more I hate you could you stop you’re not the one building it I’m much smarter than you because you’re a girl get water—
"If you could answer, you know," he said, "every so often, it’d be nice."
"I’m sorry. I just don’t have anything to say."
They remained silent. He looked off at the line of benches like theirs that surrounded the beach. They were empty and chipped. He sighed and laid on her stomach.
"Come on." She tapped his shoulder. "Let’s go. Get up."
The two of them held hands on the boardwalk, watching mothers suntan and stopping in beachside food stands.
"I’d love some lemonade." She wrapped herself around his arm and looked up.
"I don’t see a lemonade stand."
"It’s right in front of you."
"I still don’t see it."
"Look." She took his hand. "There."
He paused. "Yes, I see it."
"No, you don’t!" She laughed and pushed him. He put his sunglasses on and laughed. "I’m trying, honestly." They walked into a stucco-set restaurant. The door was chipped and written on in blue marker Spanish. "Read it in English!" she said.
He put his sunglasses on her head and bought her a cup of lemonade. "Sir, that will be one dollar and fourteen cents." Customers were playing video arcade games and eating french fries in their greased booths. Children ran across the room in a variety of sandals and red bathing trunks. He kissed his wife and walked out, draping her in his arms, forgetting to pay the Spanish attendant in a yellow apron. An old woman in the back of the line clutched a brown purse to her chest and watched the two of them leave without paying.
"I think we’re being called back in," his wife said.
They walked back, through the chipped door and the throng of red bottoms. The attendant held the cashier’s box open.
"Sir, you haven’t paid me." The husband cut through the long line of families and frazzled older women. He told his wife to stay in back.
The husband dug into his pocket. "I’m really sorry. This won’t happen again."
"Of course it won’t happen again. If it did, I’d report you."
"I’ll come back here," the husband said. "This isn’t necessary."
He shoved both hands farther into each side of his jeans. He called for his wife. I have nothing, she said. Nothing. "You can’t do this. You don’t have one dollar?"
"And fourteen cents." The woman clutching her purse raised her hand from the front of the line.
His wife emptied her bag on the counter. Sunscreen splattered on the attendant. "You better have my money."
Cigarettes, lighters, crinkled pictures of her husband, sand, tampons, her sunglasses. She threw her bag on the floor, getting on her knees to climb through the remains.
"I don’t understand. We had five dollars before."
"We don’t have it now, though. Don’t you remember?" She was sobbing on the floor of the restaurant. Boys stopped running and watched her writhe below them. Their mothers turned them back to their tables and milkshakes. "You made that bowtie for me. It’s gone. You took it back and put it somewhere."
The husband ran his hand through his hair. He paced in front of the counter. "Sir, I’m really sorry, we’ll find this money for you.
"Excuse me," he shouted. "If anyone has one dollar and eighty-two cents, I’d be most grateful." Her walked down the line. Each mother hid her handbag behind her flowing skirt. Each scrawny teenage boy waiting for milkshakes nodded silently, mouths agape. It’s my mom’s money. She’s on the beach right now.
He yelled at the attendant. "I’ll come back later. Is there anything you can take of mine until I come back with three dollars? We don’t even want that lemonade. It tastes like shit."
"I need this money. The customers want their lemonade. Please find my money. I don’t have time for this."
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Policy of truth
We sat on the balcony during the orientation. He asked me about music I liked and we shot the shit for a while. I discovered he played bass guitar. "So you're in a band, then," I said. He told me about the dazzling variety of Long Island bands that he was in. His eyes widened.
"My friend and I, you know, we actually built a guitar." No shit. "Yeah, we just were really bored a week ago, so we bought the stuff and it took us a while, but we made it. And here's the best part. We wrote 'soul power' on it, just like Tom Morello of Audioslave. How awesome is that." I wish I knew how to do shit like that.
We sat on the balcony during the orientation. He asked me about music I liked and we shot the shit for a while. I discovered he played bass guitar. "So you're in a band, then," I said. He told me about the dazzling variety of Long Island bands that he was in. His eyes widened.
"My friend and I, you know, we actually built a guitar." No shit. "Yeah, we just were really bored a week ago, so we bought the stuff and it took us a while, but we made it. And here's the best part. We wrote 'soul power' on it, just like Tom Morello of Audioslave. How awesome is that." I wish I knew how to do shit like that.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
That last one wasn't so good, which is a shame, because I'm better than all of you.
I really want the merits of trusting the narrator in that last chapter to be discussed by smokers in hushed tones.
I really want the merits of trusting the narrator in that last chapter to be discussed by smokers in hushed tones.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
One week later, I ran into Blonde at the bus stop. As I rode my bike past, I was hoping he wouldn't notice me: he was reading the Times and his headphones covered each side of his bulbous head. Thinning hair and his awful dance music pressed out from under each ear.
I watched him as I came closer. He suddenly looked up as if he'd heard something startling, still fiercely crinkling the corner of his half-folded Science Times. He saw me and threw off his headphones immediately.
"Hey! Hey! Sam, buddy! Here!" He ran towards me with a stiff arm, almost begging me to stop. I obliged.
"I haven't seen you in a few days, man." He was out of breath. "So what are you listening to these days? Doing any writing?" He was in his Tuesday business wear, I in my bike shorts, and we were standing in the middle of sidewalk traffic. I looked down at the ground.
"I was just reading this utterly fantastic thing here-- did you know that by the year two thousand and forty-seven, New Orleans will be completely--"
"Yeah. My dad told me that this morning."
Blonde's mouth hung agape. He looked up and squinted at the sky. He was still panting, though slowly and pronounced as though he had some sort of mission.
"You really aren't fooling me. That 'looking-at-the-sky' shit," I said.
"What are you talking about ... " He was still looking up, now shielding his eyes with his newspaper.
"You're not looking at anything. It's kind of pathetic, the whole 'play to the teenager, then once he's on top, act hard and make it seem like I'm thinking about things above him' business." I really could have said that. "I haven't written anything, no."
Blonde was old enough to be my father. He put up with so much of my "teenaged venom," as he called it, because he let me.
"Yeah, look, Sam." He put his hand on my shoulder. "I've got to go. My bus is here." He pushed his glasses back up. "You have a good day, yeah?"
The bus pulled away. I picked his Science Times off the ground and biked back home.
One week later, I ran into Blonde at the bus stop. As I rode my bike past, I was hoping he wouldn't notice me: he was reading the Times and his headphones covered each side of his bulbous head. Thinning hair and his awful dance music pressed out from under each ear.
I watched him as I came closer. He suddenly looked up as if he'd heard something startling, still fiercely crinkling the corner of his half-folded Science Times. He saw me and threw off his headphones immediately.
"Hey! Hey! Sam, buddy! Here!" He ran towards me with a stiff arm, almost begging me to stop. I obliged.
"I haven't seen you in a few days, man." He was out of breath. "So what are you listening to these days? Doing any writing?" He was in his Tuesday business wear, I in my bike shorts, and we were standing in the middle of sidewalk traffic. I looked down at the ground.
"I was just reading this utterly fantastic thing here-- did you know that by the year two thousand and forty-seven, New Orleans will be completely--"
"Yeah. My dad told me that this morning."
Blonde's mouth hung agape. He looked up and squinted at the sky. He was still panting, though slowly and pronounced as though he had some sort of mission.
"You really aren't fooling me. That 'looking-at-the-sky' shit," I said.
"What are you talking about ... " He was still looking up, now shielding his eyes with his newspaper.
"You're not looking at anything. It's kind of pathetic, the whole 'play to the teenager, then once he's on top, act hard and make it seem like I'm thinking about things above him' business." I really could have said that. "I haven't written anything, no."
Blonde was old enough to be my father. He put up with so much of my "teenaged venom," as he called it, because he let me.
"Yeah, look, Sam." He put his hand on my shoulder. "I've got to go. My bus is here." He pushed his glasses back up. "You have a good day, yeah?"
The bus pulled away. I picked his Science Times off the ground and biked back home.
Monday, May 31, 2004
South side, south side, we gon set this party all right
I slept in my basement for the last time on Friday. We talked about colleges and Neil Young.
I slept in my basement for the last time on Friday. We talked about colleges and Neil Young.
Sunday, May 09, 2004
Slanted & Enchanted
Sometimes real men don't know. And as much as they'll pledge their authenticity to you, it's hard to know to accept that they're wrong: it's simply disorienting to find your fallen heroes clinging to desperation.
"You could be great," Blonde said.
I sort of looked at him and laughed. I felt sorry for him, having invested so much in me and he was still lost as ever. He cupped my chin and pushed me up, eye-to-eye. "You insolent wreck," he said. "You're just teenaged, after all." It was rather unfortunate to later find out he still lived with his parents and sent girls nude pictures over the internet.
"I'm more grounded than you'll ever be," I said. "I have sex every night and ... well, with a girl. Don't treat me like a kid." I spat in his face.
He rolled his eyes, slowly dragging his fingers over the spit. Rubbing it in his hand, he wiped it back on my face. "So do I."
I went back home that night and found a message from Blonde on my answering machine. "Hey there," he said. After a long sigh and some disingenuous stuttering, he broke down. "I just don't want to see you mess up." He only got out "you really ought to take care" before his call suddenly ended.
I called him the next day and asked him if he knew I had Caller ID. "Yeah, what do you think, I'm stupid?" He had called fourteen times last night before I'd gotten home.
Blonde, Br 312-491-0020 x 14
"Well, no, I just think that you ought to slow down a bit." He was biting his nails and hanging on every word I said. "You know?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah, absolutely."
I sighed. He sighed. "You're thirty-four years old. I don't get it."
"Yeah," he said. "I don't see what there is to get. You need to think about others," and I walked out of the room.
Sometimes real men don't know. And as much as they'll pledge their authenticity to you, it's hard to know to accept that they're wrong: it's simply disorienting to find your fallen heroes clinging to desperation.
"You could be great," Blonde said.
I sort of looked at him and laughed. I felt sorry for him, having invested so much in me and he was still lost as ever. He cupped my chin and pushed me up, eye-to-eye. "You insolent wreck," he said. "You're just teenaged, after all." It was rather unfortunate to later find out he still lived with his parents and sent girls nude pictures over the internet.
"I'm more grounded than you'll ever be," I said. "I have sex every night and ... well, with a girl. Don't treat me like a kid." I spat in his face.
He rolled his eyes, slowly dragging his fingers over the spit. Rubbing it in his hand, he wiped it back on my face. "So do I."
I went back home that night and found a message from Blonde on my answering machine. "Hey there," he said. After a long sigh and some disingenuous stuttering, he broke down. "I just don't want to see you mess up." He only got out "you really ought to take care" before his call suddenly ended.
I called him the next day and asked him if he knew I had Caller ID. "Yeah, what do you think, I'm stupid?" He had called fourteen times last night before I'd gotten home.
Blonde, Br 312-491-0020 x 14
"Well, no, I just think that you ought to slow down a bit." He was biting his nails and hanging on every word I said. "You know?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah, absolutely."
I sighed. He sighed. "You're thirty-four years old. I don't get it."
"Yeah," he said. "I don't see what there is to get. You need to think about others," and I walked out of the room.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Brown University 2004 Pre-College Summer Program: Creative Writing
Jet - "Cold Hard Bitch"
If there was a music video for this song, I’d be the old codger standing up front with my arms crossed and eventually doused in a pitcherful of beer by nubile, scantily-clan tan coeds.
Jet - "Cold Hard Bitch"
If there was a music video for this song, I’d be the old codger standing up front with my arms crossed and eventually doused in a pitcherful of beer by nubile, scantily-clan tan coeds.
