Six Word Theater
Click here for last week's entry.
Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn."), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.
Feel free to "continue the story" or start your own.
Today's Entry:
Two gentlemen entered...
only one left.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Six Word Theater
Monday, July 28, 2008
The BBF interview: Writer/Director Nick Gaglia (part 1)
The BBF interview: Writer/Director Nick Gaglia (part 1) George Gallagher on BACKSTAGE with Barry Nolan He’s too human for me to hate him and yet I wanted to kill him at points in the story. and you're justified. So, that's what I discussed with Albert in terms of character.
Nick Gaglia knew he wanted to be a filmmaker since he was 11,
when he picked up a camera for the first time and wrote, directed,
and acted in his first short film. He was the youngest kid in his
theatre group and studied acting at Professional
Performing Arts School in Manhattan.
His personal life, however, started to deteriorate
when he got into drugs at age 13. Subsequently, his mother
checked him into an unregulated “tough love” drug rehab
(KIDS of North Jersey) that would change his life forever.
The rehab boasted of being the only place in the world that
could keep kids safe and sober, but what really went on
behind closed doors was quite the contrary;
corporal punishment, humiliation tactics, sleep and
food deprivation, false imprisonment, and mind control
were daily routines for Gaglia and group members.
After enduring the abuse for 2 ½ years,
Gaglia escaped the rehab and went on to study filmmaking
at Hunter College.
After honing his skills with several short films, Gaglia made his first
narrative feature, Over the GW, based on his unique experience
in rehab. GW premiered at the 2007 Slamdance Film Festival,
where it was the first “under the radar” feature in the festival’s
13-year history to get a distribution deal after its first screening.
The film went on to play theatrically in New York, Los Angeles,
Chicago, and Maryland and was received with enthusiastic praise:
“…Mr. Gaglia has produced a work that’s as much an act of emesis
as of filmmaking…the rehab drama is here to stay.”
– Jeannette Catsoulis, New York Times
“‘Over the GW” is an assured first feature by 25-year-old
writer-director Nick Gaglia.” – V.A. Musetto, New York Post
“Not to be missed” – Chicago Sun-Times
“shocking…the film accrues a learned sense of what it feels like to have
the very fibers of one’s soul placed under a magnifying glass.”
– Rob Humanick, Slant Magazine
“…emotionally potent…” – Joe Leydon, Variety
Trailer for "Over the GW"
AB: Tell me about the inspiration behind this film.
Nick Gaglia: When I was a teenager, unbeknownst to my mother,
I was admitted into an abusive cult-like drug rehab. I was on drugs
and needed help but this place wasn't helping anyone. It was actually
more traumatizing than anything else. Eventually after 2 1/2 years
of brainwashing and abuse I was able to successfully escape.
This topic of abusive 'tough-love' drug rehabs has been the
best kept secret for decades now. No film has really been done
on this topic in an honest manner before Over the GW.
You had always intended to go into filmmaking and
tell various stories, was a variation on your experience
always the obvious choice for a debut film?
Even when I was in the program I would look around and say
to myself, 'this would make for a great movie!' So I always had
it swirling around in the back of my head.
In your writing process, how did you decide what
to dramatize and what to leave out, what to heighten, etc.?
I knew there were signature aspects to the institution that
needed to be in the film. Other than that, the scenes and characters
were largely composites of real stuff in order to make the narrative work.
There was a short film version of this shot before the feature,
right?
Yes. I shot a short film on Super 16mm film based on the brutal
intake scene from the feature.
Was your decision to shoot on 24p motivated by budget
or keeping in like with the aesthetic you were interested
in for the film?
Well, after I watched the short film I felt it looked too beautiful or
too 'Hollywood.' Because it was shot on super 16 it looked
very polished which was not exactly what I was going for.
I needed a look that felt like you were watching something real
go on before your very eyes. With the s16 what you got was
the feeling as if you were looking into a world, and
not necessarily as if you were a part of that world. The look I got
with the 24p was that rugged, documentary-like, real life feeling
I was looking for.
It didn't hurt either that it cost a fraction of the price to shoot
on 24p versus s16. But if I felt that s16 was the way to go
and there were no other options, then I would've held out
'till I had the opportunity to shoot on it.
Did you always intend to shoot on such an intimate scale,
or did you intend originally to look for investors
and go ‘bigger’?
Before I shot the short I intended to shoot it on a much bigger level
and look for investors. But, as I just described I quickly realized that
there was a more efficient and effective way of telling this story.
Was your visual style in terms of camerawork/coverage
largely planned in advance or improvised?
I'm very vérité terms of the way I work. I like to see spontaneous
and real things happen before my very eyes. I encourage my actors
to improvise within the text. That way nobody knows
where they're going, not even them. That's how you get the real stuff.
I'm same way with my camera work. Let's face it, when someone's
filming a documentary they don't know what's going to happen
from moment to moment so why should I. Or why
should the actors for that matter, either.
That's the way real life is. If you want to create
a real moment you have to treat it like real life.
How far before shooting did you cast your leads?
They had amazing chemistry; every family dynamic
felt authentic; and I noticed one or two of your
family members actually appear in the film.
We found George (Gallagher) first. I learned that he was
a very talented actor and originally conceived of him for
a different role - one of the staff members. I introduced
him to to my sister, who was a producer on the project,
and she said, 'what about him for the lead.'
I said, 'no way. He's too old to play Tony.' In the original screenplay
Tony was supposed to be a 14-year-old. George could do 17 but not 14.
My sister said if he could bring the audience on an emotional journey,
then that's all that really matters. And you know what, she was right.
I revised the screenplay and tailored it to George. All the rest
of the cast fell into place from there.
How did George and Kether come aboard as producers?
The most successful actors in the world are also producers and
I think these two realize that. They cared so much about the project
that they made themselves available in every way possible.
Tell me about working with Albert (Insinnia) in shaping
his character (leader of the rehab center). He’s the antagonist in a way, unless you count the entire center/system as the antagonist; yet he’s got so many layers to him.
It's easy for an actor to take a character like Albert's and play him evil.
But, it's much scarier and more realistic if you play the character
as if you believe what you're doing is the right thing
People in real life whether they're doing the right thing or the wrong one,
they always justify in their head that what they're doing is right for them.
One of the most disturbing aspects to the treatment center
in the film, personally, was the forbidding of reading.
Was that something that really happened?
What’s the reasoning behind that??
That was 100% true. The reasoning behind that was to not have
any distraction from the outside world and only be focused on
the information that they were supplying you.
Clever brainwashing technique.
actors/producers Kether Donohue and George Gallagher
Visit the film's website at http://www.overthegw.com/.
Part II of this interview can be found here.
-Adam Barnick
Sunday, July 27, 2008
The Boxpress "NEW" Music Time Show with Brian Hughes
A musical series in which Brian delves into the current music scene. The idea: put into big, neon lights new and exciting music.
This week Brian checks out the exciting music of MGMT and COLD WAR KIDS.
"Time to Pretend" by MGMT on Later with Jools Holland
"Weekend Wars" by MGMT on The Late Late Show
MGMT by MGMT
Music video for "We Use To Vacation" by Cold War Kids
Cold War Kids performing "Hospital Beds" live in Leeds.
Interview with Cold War Kids
If you think you might want to listen to some more of my podcasts - please click below:
Dems Da Brakes (Episode 4)
Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.
Epiosde 4 "The Guy with the Wooden Eye"
Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi
Setting:
The home of Mr. B, the cat, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan
Friday, July 25, 2008
Better Living Through Absurdity
So, I've come to realize there are definitely things that can wake you up pretty quickly, even before you've had coffee. Case in point, I was driving on my way to a showing this afternoon -I was already hot and cranky and I was so tired and fighting a headache. All of a sudden a bus pulls in front of me. No, there wasn't a collision or near miss or anything -but I was hit by something...The message on the back of the bus.It read:SYPHILIS IS BACK -SPREAD THE WORD!
Next to it was a picture of a cell phone with a text message reading "What's up? Have U gotten your test yet? I'm doing mine 2day!" or something like that.I slammed on my brakes -stared for about 5 seconds and then busted up laughing. The guy in the car next to me looked over and I pointed at the bus -he cracked up and then held up his cell phone -we just drove off laughing.Now, I'm all for getting the word out there that dangerous things such as diseases, illiteracy and poor clothing styles are running rampant and should be prevented at any cost. I understand that in doing so, advertisers assume that using one of four stock methods of advertising** they think are a sure bet with audiences, will drive the point home.
**The four stock methods are 1) Small child, usually African American or Hispanic with HUGE eyes -these ads are for anything from poverty to illiteracy to immunizations to stopping racism. Then there's 2) Asking you a question which at best is rhetorical and at worst is just offensive, i.e. "Wouldn't you like to be debt free?" -no shit -who wouldn't? or "How does it feel to know that every piece of paper you throw away is killing an acre of rainforest?" -all they need to do is add the word "asshole" afterwards and the sentiment would be perfect. Even the dating ones which say something like, "Do you want to meet attractive, intelligent singles?" Nah -I'll settle for homely and simple thanks. (You can see where I'm going with this...) Number 2 ties in closely with 3) Questions or statements designed to make you feel guilty -the ones for STD's are great...I saw one that said "Way to go...Killer" and underneath it said something about not disclosing you're HIV positive and therefore putting people at risk -which yes, of course I agree with it -but I don't know if the marketing strategy is exactly...decent? Other examples of guilt advertising -reminding you that "50 Cents a day would save this child's life" as they're holding a bowl of what you hope is rice -these ads are particularly fun when you're in a restaurant or somesuch and about to eat your nice helping of whatever (and yes, I'm a total insensitive cunt about that. I'm the one who can't read Grapes of Wrath or any other quintessential dust-bowl migrant/depression era farm novel because I get hungry. Scene after scene of dust and dry and parched and starvation -and then behold! A turnip! Rejoice and let us have soup! Take that single turnip and add it to 10 gallons of water and we have a feast. Strain it through underpants to get flavor...and while reading this I'm on the phone ordering pizza or fried chicken because dammit, I'm hungry and I'm not going to get a complex about it either -just call me Scarlett O'Hara)....and then of course, good old 4) BIG BOLD WORDS DESIGNED TO GRAB YOUR ATTENTION IN AN ANNOYING FASHION AND MAKE YOU THINK THAT SOMETHING IMPORTANT MIGHT BE BEING SAID!!!!! followed by loud color schemes, glitter, bad attempts at modern "slang" and if at all possible, an endorsement from some washed up has been sports star/musician/actor/model or whatever.
Still, I do have to thank the advertising world for giving me a good laugh.
Now, I have to go get my syphilis test -R U getting yours?
Next to it was a picture of a cell phone with a text message reading "What's up? Have U gotten your test yet? I'm doing mine 2day!" or something like that.I slammed on my brakes -stared for about 5 seconds and then busted up laughing. The guy in the car next to me looked over and I pointed at the bus -he cracked up and then held up his cell phone -we just drove off laughing.Now, I'm all for getting the word out there that dangerous things such as diseases, illiteracy and poor clothing styles are running rampant and should be prevented at any cost. I understand that in doing so, advertisers assume that using one of four stock methods of advertising** they think are a sure bet with audiences, will drive the point home.
**The four stock methods are 1) Small child, usually African American or Hispanic with HUGE eyes -these ads are for anything from poverty to illiteracy to immunizations to stopping racism. Then there's 2) Asking you a question which at best is rhetorical and at worst is just offensive, i.e. "Wouldn't you like to be debt free?" -no shit -who wouldn't? or "How does it feel to know that every piece of paper you throw away is killing an acre of rainforest?" -all they need to do is add the word "asshole" afterwards and the sentiment would be perfect. Even the dating ones which say something like, "Do you want to meet attractive, intelligent singles?" Nah -I'll settle for homely and simple thanks. (You can see where I'm going with this...) Number 2 ties in closely with 3) Questions or statements designed to make you feel guilty -the ones for STD's are great...I saw one that said "Way to go...Killer" and underneath it said something about not disclosing you're HIV positive and therefore putting people at risk -which yes, of course I agree with it -but I don't know if the marketing strategy is exactly...decent? Other examples of guilt advertising -reminding you that "50 Cents a day would save this child's life" as they're holding a bowl of what you hope is rice -these ads are particularly fun when you're in a restaurant or somesuch and about to eat your nice helping of whatever (and yes, I'm a total insensitive cunt about that. I'm the one who can't read Grapes of Wrath or any other quintessential dust-bowl migrant/depression era farm novel because I get hungry. Scene after scene of dust and dry and parched and starvation -and then behold! A turnip! Rejoice and let us have soup! Take that single turnip and add it to 10 gallons of water and we have a feast. Strain it through underpants to get flavor...and while reading this I'm on the phone ordering pizza or fried chicken because dammit, I'm hungry and I'm not going to get a complex about it either -just call me Scarlett O'Hara)....and then of course, good old 4) BIG BOLD WORDS DESIGNED TO GRAB YOUR ATTENTION IN AN ANNOYING FASHION AND MAKE YOU THINK THAT SOMETHING IMPORTANT MIGHT BE BEING SAID!!!!! followed by loud color schemes, glitter, bad attempts at modern "slang" and if at all possible, an endorsement from some washed up has been sports star/musician/actor/model or whatever.
Still, I do have to thank the advertising world for giving me a good laugh.
Now, I have to go get my syphilis test -R U getting yours?
Bedbugs XLII
Bedbugs XLII
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
She tells me the news by writing it on the back
of her hand which is now made of stitched patchwork
parchment and my jaw cracks the wood finish next
to my shoe. They promised they'd heal her but nothing
is real unless you put up 50% on deposit it seems.
I dig at the walls and leave nail bits and the best parts
of my fingerprint for history to clean up.
Another pretty lady steps up to the microphone-
both are from the 20's. Where is the light coming from?
She sings and all of us pretend she's singing to us.
Lying to ourselves is the way to fill in the parts of your story
that never came true. Multiple copies of me in the field, it's winter
but mists and light rains dance on them. They're upset too. Noises
outside our door; it's the past. I was hoping it'd be
delivered sooner. Waiting through the rest pattern and I jump
up at the prospect that I've gone back to when it all seemed
like it was going in our favor. But it's still today. The wood in
the walls is damp and decaying and rusting in the same pattern
I am. Secrets told; hear it only in my left ear, the right one is ringing
with excuses for why we didn't prosper. Knowing embrace they
paid for, the lost audience turns back as she struggles
to be heard over the violins. The drugs make it
sound beautiful. Maybe it is. This body is
getting in the way of real experience; the hallways are covered
in it.
next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-the moment has been prepared for
-man in white on the top of it
-44 years of denial
-make me wait for anything real
-exactly four years ago
-Dad's health is improving
-can't wait for you forever
-Adam
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Discarded Excerpts from My Memoir (1)
by: Melissa King
This is the first in a series of deleted excerpts from the rough draft of my memoir that I feel are too interesting to throw away. They aren’t polished pieces, but hopefully you will enjoy reading them anyway. Some names have been changed.
It was early fall of 1996. I had just moved into a two bedroom townhouse just outside of Atlanta in Marietta, GA. The town home complex was a bit shady and kept up by management only enough to be livable. I felt safe walking around during the day, but it was nothing like the palm tree surrounded one bedroom where I had lived in Orlando. This place was only $650 per month though, and since I was interning, it was the best I could do.
I still needed to find a roommate to afford it. My part-time telemarketing job wouldn’t cover all of the expenses alone. Being a Christian, some new friends of mine mentioned that some of the local churches had bulletin boards that often listed people looking for roommates, so I decided to start there.
I soon found a women in her late 20’s who was friendly and sincere. She had medium toned black skin, short black hair, and her name was Zahrah. She seemed like a nice Christian lady.
She had a steady job as an administrative assistant, while I was interning at an independent record label during the day and working part time selling a dating service to single and recently single men and women at night. Zahrah spent most of her evenings in church or at bible studies.
I quickly became convinced that Zahrah was involved in some sort of cult. She came to me fairly early on in her stay with me and asked if she could pay the rent a week late because she had an opportunity to purchase a car. She was getting rides from friends before this. I wanted to help her out, and said yes. She did end up paying me when she said she would, but that was not the last time I would be presented with a financial request. One month later she said that she wanted to give her rent money away to the church because she felt that God was asking her to have faith that he would provide. I told her that I didn’t think so and that she needed to pay me by the first. She did.
The next month she came to me again and said, “I believe God wants us both to give the rent money away. He will bless us both if we do. He is asking us to have faith in him.” I told her I didn’t believe that, and it was important to me to pay the bills. When the first of the month came, she told me that she gave the money to God. I became enraged. How could she possibly be thinking this way? She would not reason with me. I screamed at her that God wanted her to pay her bills. Our relationship quickly escalated into one of great tension. I told her she had to move out. She said that she would not. I called the police.
When the police arrived, I explained to them what was going on. They told me that verbal agreements are binding in the state of Georgia and that I could only get her out by going through the eviction process. I could not believe what was happening. She smiled and went back to her room. She believed that God was blessing her with the room for being faithful to him - apparently on my telemarketing dime.
I was only nineteen years old. The next few days passed slowly. I spent all of my money on rent and I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown for the first time in my life. Not only was I being stretched to my financial limit, but I had a person living in my home who was unwilling to pay the rent or bills because she believed that the God we both believed in was telling her not to pay - and there was nothing I could do about it. I was so angry. I spent my days at work calling government agencies trying to find out my rights.
I finally called my mom and told her I needed her, that I didn’t feel I could handle this alone. Within a few days she packed her clothes and drove the eight hours down from Ohio.
My mom is not someone anyone wants to mess with when you cross her. She is so reserved and quiet, that you wouldn’t know that she is also tough, a fighter, and fire can come out of her mouth. When she arrived, we made a plan. We stayed downstairs in the living room and when Zahrah came home from work, my mom confronted her. Zahrah didn’t give in, and said that she did not legally have to move. She went up to her room and shut the door. My mom and I then shut off the circuit breakers so that she couldn’t use the electricity. Shortly afterwards, Zahrah came down and tried to turn them back on:
“You will not use the electricity in this house unless you’re going to pay for it,” said my mom in a staccato tone.
“Oh yes I will. I have a right to that electricity,” Zahrah bullied.
My mom stepped in front of the door to the breakers forcefully and held her hand to it.
“No, you will not.”
“The devil must be influencing you.” Zahrah said with her head leaning forward and her eyes wide open.
“Excuse me?! Who are we talking about? I think you’re the one that needs to get right with God,” my mom charged.
Zahrah turned around swiftly and went back to her room.
The next day, we sat in the living room again waiting for Zahrah to come home. When she appeared, we shut off the breakers, except for in the lights in the living room. My mom and I sat and read. Well, I tried to read... but I couldn’t help but be excited by the tension in the household. When I was with my mom, I felt like the kid standing by the big kid who everyone else is afraid of.
Soon, Zahrah appeared.
She went into the kitchen.
My mom looked at me with wide eyes, as though she was saying, “Does this woman think she’s going to cross me again?”
We heard some pans clanking, and my mom got up, sturdy and strong, and walked into the kitchen to watch Zahrah. “You are not going to use that stove until you pay.”
“Yes I am. I need to eat something.”
Then my mom forcefully grabbed the pan out from Zahrah’s hand and put it on the counter behind her.
“You are possessed by the devil,” Zahrah accused.
“You’ve got some nerve telling me I’m possessed by the devil.”
Zahrah finally gave up and went back to her room.
The next day I called my leasing agent and told them what was going on. They said that Zahrah was never approved to live in the apartment because her credit was bad. They were on my side, and said that we could change the locks because technically I went out of my agreement by letting her move in without approval. I didn’t know the process and thought because they hadn’t called after she applied, that it was okay for her to live there. They said she could take it to court, but a judge would throw the case out.
So the next day we scheduled for the locks to be changed while Zahrah was at work. I went into work at the record label, and my mom cleared out Zahrah’s room and put everything on the front lawn. Later that night my mom told me that she found several melted candles with wax on the floor, and two voodoo dolls that looked like us.
That night, I came home and around the time Zahrah would be returning to find herself locked out, we shut off the lights to appear as though no one was home. She tried her keys. They didn’t work. She tried again. Then she knocked and rang the doorbell several times.
She then must’ve gone to a pay phone (we didn’t have cell phones yet) because about 10 minutes later the police arrived. They knocked on the door loudly. They walked around the house and shined their flashlights into the windows. The phone started ringing every few minutes. My mother and I were upstairs scooched down underneath the windowsill. I was scared and thrilled simultaneously. I tried to look out the window and my mom pulled me towards her. “Get down!” she said in a hard whisper. If my mom had not been there, I would have been too afraid to not respond to the police. But they never yelled “open up” or anything like that. Finally, after about 10 minutes, they drove away.
Zahrah called the leasing agent the next day. The leasing agent told her they couldn’t help her because her name wasn’t on the lease. We never heard from her again.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Six Word Theater
Six Word Theater
Click here for last week's entry.
Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.
Feel free to "continue the story" or start your own.
Today's entry:
Waking thoughts:
Have I killed again?
-Adam Barnick
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes
Show# 9: "Death before Fame": Brian looks at four recording artists who received fame posthumously.
Klaus Nomi performing "Total Eclipse"
The trailer for the documentary The Nomi Song.
Joy Division performing "Transmission."
Trailer for Control, a film by Anton Corbijn.
Here is a pictorial tribute to Nick Drake to the tune "From The Morning."
Eva Cassidy performing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" live from Blues Alley.
If you think you might want to listen to some more of my podcasts - please click below:
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Dems Da Brakes (Episode 3)
Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.
Epiosde 3 "Golden Showers"
Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi
Setting:
A bench in Theodore Roosevelt Park
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Bedbugs XLI
Bedbugs XLI
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
There's a cockroach inside my girlfriend. That's why
I'm terrified of her. I've told you this before,
haven't I? I have a mellowed color patterns
stitched into its side won't stop me from anxiety
you could drop on the enemy, it's so potent. Even the paint
scheme in here screams filth and insects. I have
"help me" tattooed on the inside of my tongue. But
few will see or hear it. Must be a couple of numbers
missing. The chat not answering the question
will keep me here. I forget the conversation! All of
our heads are melting. She misses you despite
her lies and laziness and lethargy. I undo the stitches
they put on me to keep me quiet and tell her
the same- but she left while I was getting prepared. I
take it from its roots, a sort of honesty I
think. That's a color rarely painted in this room.
Violin and piano together=watch heart break. Still
sound travels, even in here. I still can't get
the stains off the ceiling. She'll be home soon.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that. When I'm asleep..
we finally fell asleep.
Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-they promised they'd heal her
-multiple copies of me in the field
-noises outside our door
-waiting through the rest pattern
-hear it only in my left ear
-embrace they paid for
-the hallways are covered in it
-Adam
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Better Living Through Absurdity
Today’s Topic –Why Winning Friends and Influencing People Ain’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be
So, I’ve recently returned to the gym. I hate the fact that I wasn’t born with one of those metabolisms that seems like a caloric black hole, or limbs that stay well within toned or pleasantly rounded without going over into plump or heaven forbid, chubby. I hate that I don’t love downing water and vitamins and protein bars like a good healthy person is supposed to do. I LOATHE sweating –it’s horribly undignified –and because I am not one of the abovementioned types, I unfortunately HAVE to work out hard enough to sweat bullets before any damn good actually comes of it.
Must stop before seething bitterness sets in.
Anyways, so when I was realizing that now was the time to “go for the gold” or whatever, I decided I didn’t want to go to some stupid corporate gym with a contract and sign-up fee and where I could be attacked by some not-so-well-meaning athletic type with a pair of calipers (you know, FAT PINCHERS) and a disapproving frown. I didn’t want to be surrounded by pretty people and gym cruisers, I didn’t want to worry about getting my unseemly damp on one of the machines for fear I might offend one of the other ladies’ sensibilities. It’s bad enough that when you work out, your brain (and belly) are in direct competition with your body –I don’t need to feel like I’m competing against everyone else’s bodies as well. (Their brains are sadly no match for the most part.)
So –I chose a place that offered me the three things I wanted: Close by, low price, and a climbing wall.
Solution –The Broadway Armory, a former military base that was retrofitted into a place for various athletics. They have a nice basketball court, should you be so inclined (I’m not,) a gymnastics room that puts the entire place I work at to shame, and a small but well appointed workout room with treadmills, recumbent bikes, elliptical machines, various weight machines, free weights, and some medicine balls. There is also a climbing wall though it’s out right now on loan to a school. Essentially it has everything I want for the low price of $25 for three months, courtesy of Chicago
I can get behind this.
So I’ve been going and working out –and I like it. I met a couple of people the first time I was there and I see them occasionally, but for the most part, I go, do my workout, and leave. I like it that way. I know my body. I know my limits. I know that I’m never going to be a lithe water nymph with a body destined for plaster fountains and labels on the fancier kinds of cake soap. I’m okay with that. I just want to tone up and get healthy. And it’s been working.
Then I hit a snag.
It’s called “Thérèse’s misguided belief that she must be nice to people” –and believe you me, it’s a facet of my personality that I often wish I could toss into someone’s caloric black hole. Let ‘em chew on that for awhile.
So…
I’ve done my time on the bike (10 miles) and the rowing machine (20 minutes) and I’ve started on my weights workout. Now, mostly for my arms, I’m just toning because the biceps are already huge. But I wanted to work on my triceps, and to my wonderment, it turns out there’s a machine that can be used for a tricep workout –I watched another woman doing it earlier. So I go over, set the weight, and begin to go through reps. About into my third or fourth…um…pull or whatever, this guy stops me. I can tell by his gestures (and broken English) that he is trying to tell me I’m not doing it right. I smile to show I’m not offended by his interference and he shows me how to tuck my thumb in and then where to position my arms. Then he suggests 4 sets of 8 to start with. I thank him, smile and begin to get on with it. When I’m done I turn around and he launches into an explanation of how I should do squats as well. He demonstrates the free-standing squats which I tell him I can’t do because of an accident –but that I can use the machine to do them. He doesn’t seem to get this –or he’s disappointed by the fact that I got in an accident. He keeps trying to get me to try it, I keep smiling and shaking my head. Then, he says I should use the bike –I say that I do. He says I should use the bike. I say that I do –in fact, I had already done 10 miles that very day. He then says I should use the treadmill., I say I do. He says I have to use it every day –I nod politely. Then he says that I have to use it because, “Down there, you are bigger. Up here, you are fine, but down there you are bigger.” To emphasize his point, he runs his hands down me…not in a sexual sort of way –more like he was sizing up a horse…or a side of beef. I waited for him to ask to see my teeth. I fixed my smile in place, nodded and said, “Well that’s why I’m coming here. To work out.” He then begins to poke and prod my arms and my stomach telling me which machines to use, for how long each day and in what order. I begin to wonder if he has any idea how much the services of a personal trainer go for…
At this point he stops and asks me, rather brokenly, if I am embarrassed by his trying to help me. I say no, and I thank him for the advice and move to go away. He then says something like, “I like you because, you not, you no have the mean face when I talk to you. You know? Like some people here, they do not like it when you talk to them. They get the mean face. You don’t.” I smile to show I understand and he bursts into hearty laughter and embraces me, kissing my neck on both sides.
My courtesy has made me feel most common indeed.
He then asks if I am married. I smile brightly and say, ‘Why yes, for two years! Hard to believe!” and I’m kind of doing what I call the “killing time” chuckle –the one where you hope if you jolly it up for long enough and then slowly taper off, they’ll get the point and leave you alone. No such luck. He then introduces himself (I forgot his name but I do recall that he was mightily impressed that I pronounced it correctly) and I tell him a different name, and then he hugs me again and proceeds to do one of the most DISGUSTING and DISCONCERTING things I’ve ever gone through…which believe me, is saying something: Now, I’m sweating obviously, both from the workout and the fact that it’s 98 degrees in there. He begins to tenderly wipe drops of sweat off my face with his fingers –like they were tears. This is by no means endearing –it’s gross. This is sweat –refuse from my pores. This is salty, rejected by-product of exertion –it’s just plain icky. And he’s very lovingly wiping each drop as it falls –as though we were on a sidewalk while rain was falling and the drops were landing on my skin, to be brushed aside by him. Only we’re in a cramped room with weight equipment, a basketball game going on about 10 feet away, and some poor bastard on the elliptical machine looking like he doesn’t know whether or not to be profoundly disturbed and hence spurred to act in my defense -or whether to be profoundly disturbed and just concentrate on his calories per hour burned.
I try to wipe the sweat off with a towel –he once again asks if he has offended. He then says that he is newly arrived in Chicago Iraq
*sigh*
Alright, so I tell myself, “Look, don’t be a bitch to the guy whose country we essentially firebombed. He’s not doing anything too horrible –just try to get out of there quickly. And for god’s sake, stop smiling!”
Thus armed with this internal dialogue, I do a few more reps and then pretend that my cell phone went off and that I’ve got to go to work. He of course is devastated. He also wants to know when I will be back and at what time. *looks at clock* I should be there now I think.
More hugging and neck kissing ensue following by hand gripping, hand kissing and “sad face.”
I beat a hasty retreat for the solitude of my car and drive home, letting the wind dry my sweat and praying that I can unlearn this most dastardly of skills know as “Winning friends and influencing people” –or put it to good use carrying out my even more dastardly plots.
Either way.
And now that my day here is done and the temperature has cooled off, I’m headed to the even cooler recesses of the movie theater.
More next week!
Happy Birthday Pete!!
P.R.,
Brian and I are probably off by at least a day,
because we're assholes. But you might have been
relieved since you don't like publicly celebrating.
So, in our best attempts at BBF creative compromise,
we forgot AND posted something on a public listing.
Happy Birthday, hopefully not belated, to a man
ahead of his time, who never ceases to impress
or amaze us with his caring, intelligence, and general
madness(in the best possible sense, because the only ones
for us are the mad ones).
Now go unwrap your fucking shinebox.
Six Word Theater
Six Word Theater
Click here for last week's entry.
Inspired by the challenge Hemingway undertook to tell a story
in six words("For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”), I attempt
to polish my skills by telling a six-word story or phrase each
Wednesday.
Feel free to "continue the story"
or start your own.
Today's entry:
"We have EVERYTHING in common!"
"Goodbye."
-Adam
Saturday, July 12, 2008
The Story Slice: Colleen
This is the continuation of a story that began here:
Part 1: Maureen
by Brian Hughes
He had at once a desire to crawl through his windshield and re-enter the 1980s – only older: at an age where he could appreciate the dawn of MTV, new wave music, American moxy and prosperity. Cahil had little desire for the time he was living in, with all the superficiality, reality television, gossip rag mags selling at an all time high - with pictures of celebrities pumping gas and picking their nose, gasoline prices soaring into the stratosphere, and natural disasters across the globe killing thousands each week.
Cahil looked around at the hills, at the sunshine bouncing off of multi million dollar mansions, with sprinklers going off everywhere to keep the place from burning down: “Some people say this place is superficial,” he said to himself. “Exalt in your superficiality. I am superficial too. Let us be superficial together, shall we?” Cahil smiled, loving his shades, raising them up and down and looking at himself in the rearview – yes, he wouldn’t mind be superficial for a couple of days.
Cahil had some Depeche Mode blaring from his iPod dock. Cold cuts of American cheese, liverwurst, ham and salami were laid out on his hotel desk, displayed from their torn white paper wrappers. He made sandwiches not out of bread, but stuck everything between a couple slices of salami. With greasy fingers he typed out in a google search: “Heather Dupre naked”, “Alex Cobalt’s tits”, “Colleen McDonough nude” – and he came up with nothing. None of the three beauts appeared to have nude pictures of themselves on the World Wide Web. Why would they use their real names? It was no matter to him – he’d see them naked soon enough. He blew opportunities in the past – he wasn’t planning on fucking up this time. He had to do some more research before his interview with Brenda Burgundy, but instead opted to drop 39 dollars on a hardcore site and jerk off till he was sufficiently horny, holding off on his climax.
Colleen’s chat info was on her My Space page. He reached out …she was home:
cahilology: ive changed much since last we met
uc2004: can’t wait…
cahilology: I bought new shades today. I look bitchin in them.
uc2004: hot
cahilology: I have an interview with brenda burgundy.
uc2004: wtf! That’s so cool. That why you’re out here?
cahilology: no – you.
uc2004: awwwwww
cahilology: lets hook up – you pick the place.
uc2004: hummmm
cahilology: come on … im surrounded by the glitter and glam of hollyweird. no
friendly faces.
uc2004: poor boy
cahilology: I have a company card … come on … I need to see your pretty face.
uc2004: you know the coffee bean/tealeaf in woodland hills?
cahilology: yup
As he wound his way through the swirling roads of Topanga Canyon – destination Ventura Boulevard, he shook his head in glee at the thought of Colleen’s checkerboard Converse sneakers – and how the little white squares were colored in with pastel hues. He remembered her as a college girl who covered her sexy body with frumpy, oversized sweats. They both worked at a bookstore in Calabasas. Colleen always had a smile for everyone as she hustled coffee behind the counter of the café – her apron filthy with cookie batter and coffee stains. It almost seemed like the messier she became, the more turned on he became: the café baseball cap she had to wear, with her ponytail hanging out the back of it – something tomboyishly alluring about her. He hoped she hadn’t changed much. Fuck was he horny. He gripped the steering wheel, shook it, batted out a beat with his palms. Her Midwest accent, her small belly, her Irish cherry cheeks … always something there to remind him …
The raspy voice and Midwest accent he remembered had remained intact. She had died her hair jet-black and it fell across her face in a diagonal direction – in layers. They sat across from each other at a table – clutching their coffees – talking about general stuff – catching up. After she had gotten up for a smoke, they returned to the café and chose two lounge chairs to curl up on - more personal talk this time – relationship stuff. She had been hurt pretty badly recently. He encouraged her to divulge. Cahil had no intention of talking about his engagement, let alone Janeen. He named dropped some small time talent he had been interviewing recently – some of the bands she recognized. Colleen was impressed. He felt shallow resorting to name dropping, but he had his motives – a mission. He stared at her cute feet and her half gone polished toes. He imagined holding her feet while nailing her. His fantasies making him lose track of the conversation now and then, but more often than not he found a key word to get him back on track.
“Why didn’t you ever ask me out?” Colleen asked.
“Who the fuck knows? Well … I shouldn’t say that. I know exactly why. I was so fucked up back then. I had no confidence, no car, and very little money and for most of the time I was seeing Loraine. Remember her?”
“Oh, yeah … the French chick.”
“Yeah, yeah … what a disaster, the stuff of three novels.”
“Oh, no …”
“Yeah.” They both laughed. “I wanted out of the relationship, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t have the courage. I’m a monogamous guy and I had a lot of guilt, I wouldn’t have even thought of cheating on her. My luck, it ended when I had already left California, so …”
“And now you have this new found confidence.”
“Yes … and I think I realize what I have lost.”
She smiled.
“Interesting. So you are still single.”
He looked down at the sticky stains on the floor.
“Yup. Indeed.”
They flirted here and there, then Colleen invited him to a party her friend was throwing in Chatsworth. He followed her in his car – pulling up to Colleen at lights and making funny faces, smiling, more flirtations between cars. There was an excitement in his belly. His balls were aching – they needed a release. The party held many options. He was sure glad he was going. It had to happen tonight for Cahil still had to get in touch with Alex and goddess Heather and his time was limited.
The house was a large, one level dwelling which four of Colleen’s friends shared. All the doors were open; pot and barbecue smoke was rampant. Colleen removed Cahil’s aviator glasses from his face and put them on as they entered to an uproarious welcome. Other than one other guy who looked like Jerry Garcia, Cahil was the oldest one there. He liked that. A popular Emo band was blaring from the stereo. He hadn’t interviewed them, but lied and said he did. Colleen held onto Cahil, squeezing him around the waist as she introduced him to her friends. Colleen liked to drink – she began throwing down Jagermeister bombs to Cahil’s dismay. Cahil fake drank. He’s pretend to pour a lot of liquor in a glass, than he’s fill most of it with coke, club soda or ginger ale. “I can drink ya all under the table!” he gloated. “Someone make Cahil a Jagermesiter bomb!” said Bevin, a tan, bow-legged, big breasted dame. “Nah … keep that kids stuff away from me, I’m a writer, I only drink bourbon – hustle more bourbon over.” “How can you drink that stuff?” another friend said. That was just the response he was looking for.
The girls had a Nintendo Wii game system. “Playing the Wii when you’re stoned is awesome!” Colleen said as she took another drag. The Wii is a video game system that allows you to physically play out games with your full body, rather that hit some buttons on a video game controller in some zombie-like state, like more traditional game systems. It’s designed to get you off your fat rump and become more active in gaming, and it’s an expensive money making machine attempting to get this nations overweight children into exercising. “Who has time for video games, I don’t with all the deadlines I have. Believe me, I wish I had the time, but I’m so in demand – it’s hard.” Once again Cahil was bullshitting. He got a Wii for free off someone’s truck some time ago, and liked to play tennis and golf on it when he wasn’t able to write, or didn’t feel like jerking off. Actually, was just borrowing the sentiments of his fiancé Janeen, who couldn’t understand why a man over 30 years of age would be interested in such trite entertainment. Colleen and her friends played around on it for a while, while the two old fogies, Cahil and the Jerry Garcia look-a-like, who for some reason was called “Dr. Sergeant”, looked on.
After a time, and some encouragement from the young lads, Cahil and Dr. Sergeant decided to grab the controllers and play. “I’m sure I’ll be awful at this. I don’t play video games,” Dr. Sergeant said with a friendly smile. “You and I both,” replied Cahil. Boxing was first on the bill. As if the video game gods interceded, Duran Duran’s “View to A Kill” started playing on the house iPod. It was as if Popeye had been given four tons of spinach to take on Bluto. Cahil clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. There was no room for losing now. He would have to attack with a “view to a kill.” Dr. Sergeant was in big trouble. The game began and both men started flailing their fists. Cahil was younger and quicker than Dr. Sergeant. The Dr was less interested in how good he was, rather he was overwhelmingly amazed at such technology. The mood was different with Cahil as with each round of punches, he moved more intensely toward the widescreen television, punching with left crosses, upper cuts, and jab, jab, jabs. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! You’re going down! Down! Yeah!” Cahil’s voice had dropped to a low, guttural scowl. “Yeaaaaaaahhhhh! Dr. is gonna end up in the emergency room. Yeah! Get this Dr some life support! Oh, yeah!!!” The good Dr. went down in less than a minute. The bell rang and the match was over. Cahil jumped up and threw his fists stiffly into the air – throwing a quick flurry of fists at the television for good measure. “Yeah! Yeah! Who’s next to try me?”
A few of Colleen’s lady friends took the challenge and Cahil fell them with his fury of arrogant violence like an Andy Kauffman of the Wii gaming world. “Why do you have to be such a douchbag about winning?” one of Colleen’s friends said. Her name was Dorothea. She was muscular and won an MVP and state championship for her rugby team in college. “I could kick your ass without these controllers. Why don’t we step outside and see what you’re really made of.” Cahil stood aghast – staring at Colleen with his mouth open. “Would you believe this shit? What a sore loser. I’m sorry if I’m a competitor. If you can’t take a beating like a real champion, you should not play.” “I KNOW ABOUT COMPETITION! THIS is NOT competition! It’s a FUCKING VIDEO GAME!” Dorothea replied. Colleen calmed her friend down, but the tension was undeniable.
“I’ll take you down in tennis – let’s go,” said a jock friend of Bevin’s, with big muscles, no body hair, and little sneakers with no socks. His name was Brad. He arrived sometime during the Wii hysteria. Cahil hadn’t even noticed. Brad chugged down a beer and grabbed the controllers. “Sure,” said Cahil, “just don’t get all pissy when I kick your ass.” Brad’s nostrils flared as he shot Cahil a look of pure venom. “Let’s GO!” Brad howled.
Cahil, with little to no bombast whatsoever, coldly took Brad in straight sets. He placed the controller on top of the TV and gave Brad a look of cool confidence that said, “I told you so.” “Fuck you!” shot back Brad.
Colleen was dead to rights on liquor in one of the bedrooms. Everyone else had either left or were passed out. He had some wrong thoughts flying through his brain as he stared at Colleen lying vulnerable on the bed. For most, there was no decision to be made: the night was over and no sex was to be had, but Cahil just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Looking about him to see if anyone was looking, he quietly walked over to the bed where Colleen laid and slowly lifted up her shirt and bra. These were the tits he had imagined – longed for, dreamt about for years. He ran his hand across both of them, his cock rock hard. Cahil got a good feel them put them away and left the room.
Back in his rental, he tried to start the car and it wouldn’t turn over. “Fuck!” he said, as he turned the key in the ignition over and over again, only to get the sound of a death rattle. After a few minutes of expletives, he opened his phone and scrolled down to Alex’s phone number. It was real late in the AM, but she was young and beautiful. There was no doubt in his mind she would be up and available to him.
by Brian Hughes
Cahil picked up his rental at the airport. After having thrown back some pink tablets to help settle his stomach, he attached his iPod and began blaring “Eminence Front” by The Who. The drums beating out the intro combined with pulsating, belch-like bass line of bassist John Entwistle demanded Cahil put on a pair of 80s-era aviator sunglasses – large and obnoxious – which he had purchased at the airport. Sitting them firmly on his nose, he turned his head and gawked at two brunettes driving in a convertible beside him, hair trailing behind them, California skin shiny and luminescent.
He had at once a desire to crawl through his windshield and re-enter the 1980s – only older: at an age where he could appreciate the dawn of MTV, new wave music, American moxy and prosperity. Cahil had little desire for the time he was living in, with all the superficiality, reality television, gossip rag mags selling at an all time high - with pictures of celebrities pumping gas and picking their nose, gasoline prices soaring into the stratosphere, and natural disasters across the globe killing thousands each week.
Cahil looked around at the hills, at the sunshine bouncing off of multi million dollar mansions, with sprinklers going off everywhere to keep the place from burning down: “Some people say this place is superficial,” he said to himself. “Exalt in your superficiality. I am superficial too. Let us be superficial together, shall we?” Cahil smiled, loving his shades, raising them up and down and looking at himself in the rearview – yes, he wouldn’t mind be superficial for a couple of days.
Cahil had some Depeche Mode blaring from his iPod dock. Cold cuts of American cheese, liverwurst, ham and salami were laid out on his hotel desk, displayed from their torn white paper wrappers. He made sandwiches not out of bread, but stuck everything between a couple slices of salami. With greasy fingers he typed out in a google search: “Heather Dupre naked”, “Alex Cobalt’s tits”, “Colleen McDonough nude” – and he came up with nothing. None of the three beauts appeared to have nude pictures of themselves on the World Wide Web. Why would they use their real names? It was no matter to him – he’d see them naked soon enough. He blew opportunities in the past – he wasn’t planning on fucking up this time. He had to do some more research before his interview with Brenda Burgundy, but instead opted to drop 39 dollars on a hardcore site and jerk off till he was sufficiently horny, holding off on his climax.
Colleen’s chat info was on her My Space page. He reached out …she was home:
cahilology: ive changed much since last we met
uc2004: can’t wait…
cahilology: I bought new shades today. I look bitchin in them.
uc2004: hot
cahilology: I have an interview with brenda burgundy.
uc2004: wtf! That’s so cool. That why you’re out here?
cahilology: no – you.
uc2004: awwwwww
cahilology: lets hook up – you pick the place.
uc2004: hummmm
cahilology: come on … im surrounded by the glitter and glam of hollyweird. no
friendly faces.
uc2004: poor boy
cahilology: I have a company card … come on … I need to see your pretty face.
uc2004: you know the coffee bean/tealeaf in woodland hills?
cahilology: yup
As he wound his way through the swirling roads of Topanga Canyon – destination Ventura Boulevard, he shook his head in glee at the thought of Colleen’s checkerboard Converse sneakers – and how the little white squares were colored in with pastel hues. He remembered her as a college girl who covered her sexy body with frumpy, oversized sweats. They both worked at a bookstore in Calabasas. Colleen always had a smile for everyone as she hustled coffee behind the counter of the café – her apron filthy with cookie batter and coffee stains. It almost seemed like the messier she became, the more turned on he became: the café baseball cap she had to wear, with her ponytail hanging out the back of it – something tomboyishly alluring about her. He hoped she hadn’t changed much. Fuck was he horny. He gripped the steering wheel, shook it, batted out a beat with his palms. Her Midwest accent, her small belly, her Irish cherry cheeks … always something there to remind him …
The raspy voice and Midwest accent he remembered had remained intact. She had died her hair jet-black and it fell across her face in a diagonal direction – in layers. They sat across from each other at a table – clutching their coffees – talking about general stuff – catching up. After she had gotten up for a smoke, they returned to the café and chose two lounge chairs to curl up on - more personal talk this time – relationship stuff. She had been hurt pretty badly recently. He encouraged her to divulge. Cahil had no intention of talking about his engagement, let alone Janeen. He named dropped some small time talent he had been interviewing recently – some of the bands she recognized. Colleen was impressed. He felt shallow resorting to name dropping, but he had his motives – a mission. He stared at her cute feet and her half gone polished toes. He imagined holding her feet while nailing her. His fantasies making him lose track of the conversation now and then, but more often than not he found a key word to get him back on track.
“Why didn’t you ever ask me out?” Colleen asked.
“Who the fuck knows? Well … I shouldn’t say that. I know exactly why. I was so fucked up back then. I had no confidence, no car, and very little money and for most of the time I was seeing Loraine. Remember her?”
“Oh, yeah … the French chick.”
“Yeah, yeah … what a disaster, the stuff of three novels.”
“Oh, no …”
“Yeah.” They both laughed. “I wanted out of the relationship, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t have the courage. I’m a monogamous guy and I had a lot of guilt, I wouldn’t have even thought of cheating on her. My luck, it ended when I had already left California, so …”
“And now you have this new found confidence.”
“Yes … and I think I realize what I have lost.”
She smiled.
“Interesting. So you are still single.”
He looked down at the sticky stains on the floor.
“Yup. Indeed.”
They flirted here and there, then Colleen invited him to a party her friend was throwing in Chatsworth. He followed her in his car – pulling up to Colleen at lights and making funny faces, smiling, more flirtations between cars. There was an excitement in his belly. His balls were aching – they needed a release. The party held many options. He was sure glad he was going. It had to happen tonight for Cahil still had to get in touch with Alex and goddess Heather and his time was limited.
The house was a large, one level dwelling which four of Colleen’s friends shared. All the doors were open; pot and barbecue smoke was rampant. Colleen removed Cahil’s aviator glasses from his face and put them on as they entered to an uproarious welcome. Other than one other guy who looked like Jerry Garcia, Cahil was the oldest one there. He liked that. A popular Emo band was blaring from the stereo. He hadn’t interviewed them, but lied and said he did. Colleen held onto Cahil, squeezing him around the waist as she introduced him to her friends. Colleen liked to drink – she began throwing down Jagermeister bombs to Cahil’s dismay. Cahil fake drank. He’s pretend to pour a lot of liquor in a glass, than he’s fill most of it with coke, club soda or ginger ale. “I can drink ya all under the table!” he gloated. “Someone make Cahil a Jagermesiter bomb!” said Bevin, a tan, bow-legged, big breasted dame. “Nah … keep that kids stuff away from me, I’m a writer, I only drink bourbon – hustle more bourbon over.” “How can you drink that stuff?” another friend said. That was just the response he was looking for.
The girls had a Nintendo Wii game system. “Playing the Wii when you’re stoned is awesome!” Colleen said as she took another drag. The Wii is a video game system that allows you to physically play out games with your full body, rather that hit some buttons on a video game controller in some zombie-like state, like more traditional game systems. It’s designed to get you off your fat rump and become more active in gaming, and it’s an expensive money making machine attempting to get this nations overweight children into exercising. “Who has time for video games, I don’t with all the deadlines I have. Believe me, I wish I had the time, but I’m so in demand – it’s hard.” Once again Cahil was bullshitting. He got a Wii for free off someone’s truck some time ago, and liked to play tennis and golf on it when he wasn’t able to write, or didn’t feel like jerking off. Actually, was just borrowing the sentiments of his fiancé Janeen, who couldn’t understand why a man over 30 years of age would be interested in such trite entertainment. Colleen and her friends played around on it for a while, while the two old fogies, Cahil and the Jerry Garcia look-a-like, who for some reason was called “Dr. Sergeant”, looked on.
After a time, and some encouragement from the young lads, Cahil and Dr. Sergeant decided to grab the controllers and play. “I’m sure I’ll be awful at this. I don’t play video games,” Dr. Sergeant said with a friendly smile. “You and I both,” replied Cahil. Boxing was first on the bill. As if the video game gods interceded, Duran Duran’s “View to A Kill” started playing on the house iPod. It was as if Popeye had been given four tons of spinach to take on Bluto. Cahil clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. There was no room for losing now. He would have to attack with a “view to a kill.” Dr. Sergeant was in big trouble. The game began and both men started flailing their fists. Cahil was younger and quicker than Dr. Sergeant. The Dr was less interested in how good he was, rather he was overwhelmingly amazed at such technology. The mood was different with Cahil as with each round of punches, he moved more intensely toward the widescreen television, punching with left crosses, upper cuts, and jab, jab, jabs. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! You’re going down! Down! Yeah!” Cahil’s voice had dropped to a low, guttural scowl. “Yeaaaaaaahhhhh! Dr. is gonna end up in the emergency room. Yeah! Get this Dr some life support! Oh, yeah!!!” The good Dr. went down in less than a minute. The bell rang and the match was over. Cahil jumped up and threw his fists stiffly into the air – throwing a quick flurry of fists at the television for good measure. “Yeah! Yeah! Who’s next to try me?”
A few of Colleen’s lady friends took the challenge and Cahil fell them with his fury of arrogant violence like an Andy Kauffman of the Wii gaming world. “Why do you have to be such a douchbag about winning?” one of Colleen’s friends said. Her name was Dorothea. She was muscular and won an MVP and state championship for her rugby team in college. “I could kick your ass without these controllers. Why don’t we step outside and see what you’re really made of.” Cahil stood aghast – staring at Colleen with his mouth open. “Would you believe this shit? What a sore loser. I’m sorry if I’m a competitor. If you can’t take a beating like a real champion, you should not play.” “I KNOW ABOUT COMPETITION! THIS is NOT competition! It’s a FUCKING VIDEO GAME!” Dorothea replied. Colleen calmed her friend down, but the tension was undeniable.
“I’ll take you down in tennis – let’s go,” said a jock friend of Bevin’s, with big muscles, no body hair, and little sneakers with no socks. His name was Brad. He arrived sometime during the Wii hysteria. Cahil hadn’t even noticed. Brad chugged down a beer and grabbed the controllers. “Sure,” said Cahil, “just don’t get all pissy when I kick your ass.” Brad’s nostrils flared as he shot Cahil a look of pure venom. “Let’s GO!” Brad howled.
Cahil, with little to no bombast whatsoever, coldly took Brad in straight sets. He placed the controller on top of the TV and gave Brad a look of cool confidence that said, “I told you so.” “Fuck you!” shot back Brad.
Colleen was dead to rights on liquor in one of the bedrooms. Everyone else had either left or were passed out. He had some wrong thoughts flying through his brain as he stared at Colleen lying vulnerable on the bed. For most, there was no decision to be made: the night was over and no sex was to be had, but Cahil just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Looking about him to see if anyone was looking, he quietly walked over to the bed where Colleen laid and slowly lifted up her shirt and bra. These were the tits he had imagined – longed for, dreamt about for years. He ran his hand across both of them, his cock rock hard. Cahil got a good feel them put them away and left the room.
Back in his rental, he tried to start the car and it wouldn’t turn over. “Fuck!” he said, as he turned the key in the ignition over and over again, only to get the sound of a death rattle. After a few minutes of expletives, he opened his phone and scrolled down to Alex’s phone number. It was real late in the AM, but she was young and beautiful. There was no doubt in his mind she would be up and available to him.
Two by Brian Hughes
Beauty:
as in being chauffeured
down the west side highway
finally
as newlyweds.
Beauty:
like a fortunately composed piece of
music which
silhouettes moving celluloid.
Beauty:
this cigar,
this present moment which
finds these words being
written in spite of myself.
Beauty:
the luminous glow of
flames from the eyes of
an arsonist.
Beauty:
the spine line down to
your ass.
Beauty:
the grain of sand planet
Floating in darkness;
you and I
loving each other inside it.
Beauty:
what couldn’t save the
20-year old model from
taking her plunge to
the Water Street pavement
below.
This one is dedicated to her,
but most of all-
to my wonderful wife;
And to all the horrors and joys of the world-
and the beauty
that lies
comfortably
between
them.
*******************************************
For these reasons, we will make you
The welcoming lights of your city
your town-
your home-
after having been away for some time.
The lovers that will
lie in wait
for you
as you exit the shower
The poetry and miracle of
Improbable moments
In sports, in music,
In the genes of us all.
The humbling concept that
we all suffer and experience joy
together
on this grand sphere floating in the dark.
The enormous self-satisfaction
of a job well done, and
that others may
benefit from that work.
The scrumptious, palate-exploding
foods others will
cook for you,
or perhaps will happily cook for yourself.
The smell and feel of a
really important book, and
the words that will
inform and reverberate in your subconscious.
The heartache of love departed and
the rapture of that
unexplainable connection
when finding that someone
you will spend the rest of your days with.
And yes …
the child you will create with that someone,
whom you both will show off proudly to friends and family, and
Perhaps create a glorious poem about.
For these reasons and
so many more too mysterious and
numerous to mention -
will we
make
u.
Dems Da Brakes (Episode 2)
Minimalist situation comedy/radio play.
Epiosde 2 "1200-1500 words"
Cast:
Samantha: Melissa King
George: Peter Rinaldi
Setting:
A stoop on the Upper West Side of Manhattan
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bedbugs XL
Bedbugs XL
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
Don't expect any sympathy. None from any smile or expression.
Riding up the blue rock was interesting. Is there comfortable with
nobody here? Snaps to make sure it's working.
Back on the page, victims lined up
for the chance to declare how it's never
their fault. Why don't you just vent? The roundtable's
attendants have everything here as I
grin at my reflection dance the disease as
time flies; there should be a better way to do this.
Three men in lab coats agree. I remember ranting
underneath and not letting it show. Special?
Taking shots of mountain fog is healthier. The
endeavor presented here is dying. How to fix?
Fairly weak but deeply felt.
Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-mellowed color patterns stitched into its side
-must be a couple of numbers missing
-not answering the question will keep me here
-she misses you
-take it from its roots
-sound travels, even in here
-finally fell asleep
-Adam
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Better Living Through Absurdity
This Week’s Topic: Soothing Savage Beasts
Driving around
But you throw Hank in and suddenly all bets are off. The altar has been desecrated and the well tainted. Imagine if you will, a car pulling up in rush hour traffic. The strains of what sounds like a Negro spiritual are drifting out the window, something about Satan and how he will lead you astray. Then suddenly, an evil, demented laugh cuts through the song and in rush a banjo, guitar and fiddle to liven things up. You glance over and see a young, white female, manicured nails, nice makeup, hair done etc –and she’s tapping her fingers and smiling and singing along with lyrics like these:
“Well my worn-out boots are taking me downtown
and I'm looking for trouble and I wanna get loud.
Serve me up a drink and I'll shoot it right down
and I'll jump up on the bar and holler "One more round!"
I'm going straight to hell
Ain't nothing slowin' me down
I'm going straight to hell
so you just better get me one more round!
Well back in the day with my uncle Jed,
he kept a lot of moonshine out in the shed.
He taught me how to drink - how to be real proud
of my hillbilly ways and my outlaw style.
I'm going straight to hell
Ain't nothing slowin' me down
I'm going straight to hell
so you just better get me one more round!”
You begin to get rather nervous. What are these strange instruments? Where’s the synth or the poppy drum beat or the re-mastered beats from 1970? Where are the empowered female vocals or the soulful sensitive man-wimp croonings? Hell, where’s the bass fueled screaming thrash metal or even the accordion-driven Mexican music that so many favor? What the hell is this hillbilly shit?
Then a new song starts –this one with lyrics that openly discuss taking drugs and being so high you have no idea what’s going on. There’s no metaphor here. Nothing is covered up with symbolism. There’s no misdirection. Plain and simple –this is a guy who likes to get stoned, drunk and wasted. While driving a truck down a muddy dirt road.
“Well, I've been awake for eight days straight:
Well, it must've been them pills I took.
I been twitchin' an' turnin' an' seein' visions:
It must've been them pills I took.
Well, I don't know what they were an' I don't know where I got 'em,
But they sure did make me feel good.
They kept my heart from feelin' blue,
An' kept my thoughts away from you.
Well, there's blood on the carpet an' holes in the walls:
Well, it must've been them pills I took.
Yeah, the mirrors are all busted an' someone's cryin':
It must've been them pills I took.”
I love it. No, screw that. I FUCKING love it. What can I say?! It just puts a big ol’ grin on this city gal’s face. Sure, I don’t have the freckles or the hat, I don’t have the daisy dukes or the checked shirt. I don’t have the drug or alcohol addiction and I’ve never had the inclination to screw anybody’s wife before od’ing on cocaine –but that doesn’t mean I don’t FEEL it. That doesn’t mean I don’t have the desire to throw caution to the wind and get in a bar fight, go home with a stranger, have sex, get high, go driving to another bar outside of town only to get kicked out after start another fight and going home with another stranger. I want it too Hank –I really do! I want to be that gal who’s 5’10 that you want to take down a road of sin –pick me pick me!!! I want to sit and drown my sorrows with the likes of David Allen Coe, Johnny Cash, George Jones, Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings. I want to do some finger-pickin’ and washboardin’ and hog tyin’ and and and and…
Well you get the point.
I learned a long time ago that folks are darned uncomfortable with music that doesn’t seem to fit –and so as a result, I take a great deal of pleasure in forcing them to be exposed to it. For example, when I used to go through the Grapevine pass in CA, and traffic would get slow and you’d just be there, on a hill, surrounded by other hills, other cars, it’s usually hot and you start to get cranky. So I get out my tape of Swiss Yodeling music –and proceed to play it very loudly. Because of the hills, the music kind of echoes around you –and much to my great joy and amusement, I can see people sticking their heads out of the windows, looking upwards, staring at each other in complete befuddlement, looking at the car next to them to see if perhaps it has been commandeered by a troupe of dirndl and lederhosen-wearing freaks who are just so damned happy to be stuck on the Grapevine that they’re gonna sing about it. When one is in a very ultra-hip neighborhood like a couple we have here in Chicago, blasting Paul Robeson or Harry Belafonte tends to make the skinny-jeans wearing, faux-hawked sporting, tattooed, pierced and complete with ringer-tee that has an Atari logo on it populace, hang back further in the shadowed doorways, smoking their cloves and imitation Gauloises and muttering about Foucault or Derrida or what’s on sale at UO (that’s Urban Outfitters for the rest of you cretins) or talking about what band is going to be playing at the Empty Bottle or Double Door. If you drive down a really wealthy neighborhood or through the Loop and you’re playing opera –well, it isn’t the music they have a problem with so much as it is WHO is playing it –and if indeed, you aren’t doing the music some sort of disservice by playing it in your Oldsmobile rather than a Bentley or Aston-Martin or the good old family Rolls.
Bottom line –I play what I damn well please. Maybe I’m not a alcoholic outlaw, maybe I don’t want to smoke morphine, maybe I’m not on the lam with a gun –but dammit, I’m a rebel too –just like Hank.
Now, where the hell is my homemade tattoo gun, crack pipe and copy of Jugs?
*I had to look up some of the latest names in top 40 hits -sorry if these are dated -I'm not really up on the hippest and hottest.
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