So, here is part one to my teen vampire saga. I don't know how long it will be, but I have some good ideas!
read Jeffrey L. for an intro to my idea on vampires...
Part One: Black Hole Sun
Jeffrey looked down at the mess on the floor. It was brown and lumpy but smelled sweet and delicious. It didn’t run at all, it just sat there in the center of the aisle waiting for him to take care of it.
He didn’t give serious consideration to it, but he did think about the prospect of kneeling there and licking it directly off of the floor.
He dipped the mop into the bucket, then attacked the mess with as much dedication and enthusiasm as he could muster- which wasn’t much but more than one would expect.
“Apple butter.” He heard someone say. It was Lance.
Jeffrey didn’t stop or turn; he only barely managed to mutter “Yup.” Without sounding like he was slowly dying or going to vomit.
Jeffrey had found it harder and harder to muster up what he called the “small talk lie” voice that allowed him to hide his disdain for polite conversation about nothing.
“The apple smell- it’s all mixed in with the Pine Sol…” Lance began, and then trailed off. He leaned against the jellies on the shelf, and looked down the aisle.
It was late, but The Target was a 24 hour deal so even now, at 2:45 A.M. there were people about.
Jeffrey dipped the mop into the bucket, wringed out the butter, and continued to mop.
“You know” lance began, and then stopped.
“What?” Jeffrey asked.
“Nothing. Lance answered. “I was hoping that I’d have something to say. I didn’t”
The men sighed in unison.
“We need to get out of here.” Jeffrey said, wringing out the mop.
“And go where?” Lance asked. “We still got three hours left on the clock.
“I mean, for good. Get out of the Target get out of the Deep South. Get out of this dead end life. We’re better than this!” Jeffery said, and leaned next to Lance. “I mean we are, right?”
“I guess- I don’t know.” Lance said.
“I am 72 years old, I only look twenty five, and I’ve spent 20 years working third shift in retail. When did this happen? Why did this happen”
Lance didn’t say anything. He shook his head, but his head shake seemed to say “Of course you’re right, but I don’t understand why you’re upset and I don’t have an answer for you.”
“Right.” Jeffrey answered to the head shake that he took to mean “Yeah? And?”
“I’m just saying, why mess up a good thing?” Lance added.
“I’m done with it, man. It’s cool.” Jeffrey snapped.
“Why are you snapping at me?” Lance asked.
“I’m not…” Jeffrey answered, taking the time to try and make his voice sound vaguely friendly. “I just miss the sun, that’s all.”
“Yeah.” Lance said knowingly.
He looked past Jeffrey, to the end of the aisle, just in time to see her walk by.
“We’re being cruised.” He said.
Jeffrey sighed again. “Not tonight.” He said, shaking his head.
“Yup” Lance offered. “She’s been past three times since we started talking.”
“I told you this would happen. Every time there is a movie or book that romanticizes us, they teen girls come out of the woodwork.” Lance said, cupping his hand over his mouth and nose to check his breath. “How do I look?”
“Truthfully?” Jeffrey asked.
“No.” Lance answered.
“You look great” Jeffrey finally conceded.
The girl started past the aisle again, but quickly turned and made her way towards the two men.
She tried to be nonchalant, but it was made difficult by the fact that the two men never took their eyes from her.
“Hey” the girl said when she was finally close enough.
“Hey yourself” lance responded. Jeffrey only slightly nodded.”
“So, are you guys the real deal?” She asked.
“Be more specific.” Lance returned coyly.
“Like- Nightwalkers?” She asked, and started to smile.
Jeffrey rolled his eyes but Lance answered her. “Yeah. What gave us away?”
“I just knew” She started. “I’m really into you guys.”
This time, Jeffrey rolled his eyes hard enough to give himself a headache. “No you’re not.” He said.
“I am!” she started. “I’ve read books…”
“Stop.” Jeffrey said, almost whining.
“Come on, man!” Lance said, shooting Jeffrey a “Don’t cock block me on this” look. “She’s just curious.”
“Yeah, I’m curious.” She said, trying too hard to exude sex appeal.
“How old are you?” Jeffrey asked, walking over to the mop bucket.
She tugged down on the pleats of her vinyl mini skirt, and bit her lower lip as she answered. “I’m old enough.”
“Alright, fair enough. You like us? The world we inhabit?”
“Yeah.” She implied.
“What do you know about us?” Jeffrey asked, beginning to mop again.
“You’re noble and beautiful,” she began. At this point, lance was visibly on the verge of laughter.
“You’re dark, but you try to live a good life. Right? You only hunt animals because you don’t want to hurt anyone…”
“Wow.” Lance finally chuckled.
“And, you live forever. I want to be like you” She added, smiling so innocently that Jeffrey almost gave pause.
Almost.
“I’m going to do you a favor,” Jeffrey began
“I’m going to tell you exactly what we’re about and then give you the opportunity to walk away. Okay?”
She nodded.
“I’m not noble. I’m not beautiful. I’m an animal, a fucking creature of the night. I’m basically a cranky old man, with the added bonus of always- ALWAYS being hungry!” Jeffrey growled calmly.
Lance nodded.
“My friend here? Same deal. And you know what else? I have insomnia. I’m a creature of the night that can’t get to sleep!” Jeffrey continued.
“I don’t brood because I’m tortured and complicated, I brood because I’m in a rut and I want to go to sleep and have a decent bowel movement that doesn’t smell like I just had surgery!”
“And we work at Target!” Lance added.
“Thank you.” Jeffrey responded.
The girl listened, but he could tell from her face that she didn’t get it.
“I can tell from your face that you still don’t get it.” Jeffrey said.
“You want the ugly truth? If I wasn’t talking to you now, my friend lance here would have already talked you into the alley where he’d bang you against a dumpster then ripped your throat out. And they’d never find you. They would never find you.” Jeffrey finished, staring at thee girl.
All the curiosity had drained from her face and was replaced by fear. She was on the verge of tears.
Jeffrey didn’t think that he’d gone too far, but that maybe he’d punctuated the throat ripping point too harshly.
“Okay, look-” He began, but Lance interrupted
“Okay, it’s alright. It’s not that bad. Not really…” Lance said, and put his arm around the girls shoulder.
“Listen, I know how you feel.” He continued. “Forget about that mean guy. He’s just a- a mean guy” Lance said as he lead her away from the condiment aisle to her certain banging and death in the alleyway behind the Target at 3:20 A.M.
Jeffrey continued to mop. The floor was clean now, but it was better than having to clean the restrooms- which he’d eventually have to do anyway…
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
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It's like being on Facebook except not a complete waste of time!
Help your favorite cousin out- Follow me!
Thanks!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Dexter Pepper and Bookie
The adventures of Dexter Pepper in the Party Crashers saga continues here! make sure and collect them all!
Chapter Two: Run
Saccharine pulled his car into the first handicapped spot he saw, snatched out the briefcase, and headed into the Stop and Shop.
Johnny grabbed a cart, tossed the briefcase in and headed for the sweetener aisle. He began to throw every type of artificial sweetener he could find into the cart. He was getting low at home, anyway.
He bumped into a young woman as he tossed the sweetener into the cart. She turned to offer up an apology, but instead only got the type of scowl kids get when they are one comment away from the beating of their life. The woman grabbed a few boxes of cake mix and pushed her cart hurriedly from the aisle.
Outside in the parking lot, her husband nodded a bit as their baby cooed happily in the back seat. When she opened the door, he snapped to attention and cranked up the car as she put all her bags in the backseat.
She put the briefcase up front with her.
The two men in the front seat were both dressed in black suits. They both sported black fedoras and dark glasses. As they crept along the suburban streets, the two brothers both lit chesterfields and shared a quiet knowing as they looked into the rearview mirror at the businessman in the back seat. The businessman seemed unfazed, even calm as he rested in the back of the 1972 dodge sedan; his $30,000 suit, his solid platinum cufflinks, even his Gucci loafers soaked in blood that was only partly his own. There was a sort of child hood innocence in his smirk, one that the brothers knew all two well;
He had the childlike innocence of a bad seed, an Omen or, say, Rosemary’s baby.
The car pulled to a stop at the intersection, and almost immediately the businessman was kicking the back door open and running down the street. The eldest brother stepped on the gas and followed the bloody businessman as long as he could. The businessman also ran like a child, all lanky and free, until he jumped a row of bushes and disappeared into the night.
The youngest brother jumped out of the car and began to fire past the bushes into the dark until his gun was empty.
Dexter parted the hedges and shiftily made his way through the suburban neighborhood. This was a particularly quiet night, Dexter thought as he scouted out the homes. As he ran his fingers through his blood caked hair he thought that maybe, one day, he and Bookie might live in one of these fancy two stories with the middle class elite.
When he rounded the corner, the shock of recognition filled him as the brothers turned their attention to him. Big brother hit the gas pedal leaving the younger, and giving chase as Dexter tore ass in the same direction as the childlike Businessman. The younger continued on foot as he made out Dexter leaping over a wire fence and into some unknowing families back yard. Little brother followed, running like life itself depended on it. This guy was supposed to be dead, and he was going to kill him. He was going to stay dead this time!
The older brother circled the seemingly identical blocks and streets in the neighborhood until he was lost. He stopped at an intersection that looked vaguely familiar to him, and punched the roof of the car.
He looked left, he looked right, but there was no sign of his little brother or Dexter. Suddenly there was a bumping, then a thump. Then Dexter came running across the top of the car. After the surprise, Big Brother jumped from the car just as Younger ran past him chasing the ever-elusive Dexter. He started to unload his gun in Dexter’s direction. Younger stopped in the middle of the street, took a second gun from his coat, and opened fire also.
Big brother jumped in the car and started to pull off again, but the car wouldn’t turn over. He punched the horn again, and continued to punch the horn as Dexter disappeared into the night followed by younger- yet again.
Dexter’s lungs burned as he ran for freedom. His heels were on fire, and every nerve in his body was on the verge of exploding as he hit some sort of runners high you could only get when you were a heavy smoker forced to run for your life. Dexter was now jumping fences like hurdles as he ran for who knows where. The main hurdle, though, was escaping the two Hammer brothers and finding Bookie.
As he sprung over the last fence, he hit the wall. Not a literal wall, but the wall of exhaustion that allowed him to catch his foot atop the fence and plummet to the ground below in the third most painful experience he’d had in the last twenty-four hours. The first, of course being the gunshot, only slightly edging out the hit he’d taken form the car only two hours ago. He just lay there on the ground, the moist cold ground, as his threshold for pain was reaching its summit. Soon, the brothers would be right on top of him. He hoped they would do him the common courtesy of a bullet without a beating. Maybe these two idiots could finally get the job done right. Dexter cradled his now bloody face, and checked his mouth. Miraculously he still had his teeth. Loosing his teeth could kill his career, of course so could the Hammer brothers.
Amazingly enough, though, he didn’t care anymore.
He just lay there waiting for the inevitable. That’s when the younger brother jumped the fence. He jumped the fence and continued to run towards the other side of the yard. The he jumped the fence again. As soon as he had entered the yard, he was gone. The brother had jumped right over Dexter, missing him completely. As much of a shock as this was to Dexter, it was no real surprise. It fit right in with his special brand of luck. Because no matter how good those on the outside believed it was, he always suffered for it, be it a gunshot a fall to the hard concrete or a head on with some anonymous car. That’s when he decided to close his eyes, if not for just a moment, and try to remember where he’d gone wrong.
Dexter Pepper and Bookie. They’d gone up against the best of the best and come out on top every time. That was probably the problem. When a man gets it in his head that he can’t lose, then that man is in for a rude awakening. But what if it’s true? What if a man has it in him somehow to never lose? And to define losing, I would say to absolutely hit rock bottom, with no possible, conceivable options but to throw in the towel, surrender, or die. Rock bottom would be the end all, be all pits, no opportunity to get any lower.
This never happened to Dexter and Bookie.
There was always a silver lining, always a way out, and a place a lot worse than where they were. This was more of a curse than a blessing. Because if you get it in your head that you’re unbeatable, chances are you get sloppy in your work. If, though, you truly are unbeatable, you realize real quick that you still come up short, though not so short that you hit rock bottom, because there is no rock bottom for you, because you can’t lose, not ever entirely.
It was mixed up logic like this that gave Dexter his headaches. He rolled over and found that it was no dream. He was indeed lying in a pool of his own blood in the backyard of a suburban home. He stumbled to his feet, trying to keep his balance, and lit a cigarette. This time when he felt the back of his head, it had a sticky film on the wound. He chalked this up to the healing process and swaggered from the yard. The list now went as so…find some clothes, find some guns, find Bookie, and kill anyone who complicates the list.
Chapter Two: Run
Saccharine pulled his car into the first handicapped spot he saw, snatched out the briefcase, and headed into the Stop and Shop.
Johnny grabbed a cart, tossed the briefcase in and headed for the sweetener aisle. He began to throw every type of artificial sweetener he could find into the cart. He was getting low at home, anyway.
He bumped into a young woman as he tossed the sweetener into the cart. She turned to offer up an apology, but instead only got the type of scowl kids get when they are one comment away from the beating of their life. The woman grabbed a few boxes of cake mix and pushed her cart hurriedly from the aisle.
Outside in the parking lot, her husband nodded a bit as their baby cooed happily in the back seat. When she opened the door, he snapped to attention and cranked up the car as she put all her bags in the backseat.
She put the briefcase up front with her.
The two men in the front seat were both dressed in black suits. They both sported black fedoras and dark glasses. As they crept along the suburban streets, the two brothers both lit chesterfields and shared a quiet knowing as they looked into the rearview mirror at the businessman in the back seat. The businessman seemed unfazed, even calm as he rested in the back of the 1972 dodge sedan; his $30,000 suit, his solid platinum cufflinks, even his Gucci loafers soaked in blood that was only partly his own. There was a sort of child hood innocence in his smirk, one that the brothers knew all two well;
He had the childlike innocence of a bad seed, an Omen or, say, Rosemary’s baby.
The car pulled to a stop at the intersection, and almost immediately the businessman was kicking the back door open and running down the street. The eldest brother stepped on the gas and followed the bloody businessman as long as he could. The businessman also ran like a child, all lanky and free, until he jumped a row of bushes and disappeared into the night.
The youngest brother jumped out of the car and began to fire past the bushes into the dark until his gun was empty.
Dexter parted the hedges and shiftily made his way through the suburban neighborhood. This was a particularly quiet night, Dexter thought as he scouted out the homes. As he ran his fingers through his blood caked hair he thought that maybe, one day, he and Bookie might live in one of these fancy two stories with the middle class elite.
When he rounded the corner, the shock of recognition filled him as the brothers turned their attention to him. Big brother hit the gas pedal leaving the younger, and giving chase as Dexter tore ass in the same direction as the childlike Businessman. The younger continued on foot as he made out Dexter leaping over a wire fence and into some unknowing families back yard. Little brother followed, running like life itself depended on it. This guy was supposed to be dead, and he was going to kill him. He was going to stay dead this time!
The older brother circled the seemingly identical blocks and streets in the neighborhood until he was lost. He stopped at an intersection that looked vaguely familiar to him, and punched the roof of the car.
He looked left, he looked right, but there was no sign of his little brother or Dexter. Suddenly there was a bumping, then a thump. Then Dexter came running across the top of the car. After the surprise, Big Brother jumped from the car just as Younger ran past him chasing the ever-elusive Dexter. He started to unload his gun in Dexter’s direction. Younger stopped in the middle of the street, took a second gun from his coat, and opened fire also.
Big brother jumped in the car and started to pull off again, but the car wouldn’t turn over. He punched the horn again, and continued to punch the horn as Dexter disappeared into the night followed by younger- yet again.
Dexter’s lungs burned as he ran for freedom. His heels were on fire, and every nerve in his body was on the verge of exploding as he hit some sort of runners high you could only get when you were a heavy smoker forced to run for your life. Dexter was now jumping fences like hurdles as he ran for who knows where. The main hurdle, though, was escaping the two Hammer brothers and finding Bookie.
As he sprung over the last fence, he hit the wall. Not a literal wall, but the wall of exhaustion that allowed him to catch his foot atop the fence and plummet to the ground below in the third most painful experience he’d had in the last twenty-four hours. The first, of course being the gunshot, only slightly edging out the hit he’d taken form the car only two hours ago. He just lay there on the ground, the moist cold ground, as his threshold for pain was reaching its summit. Soon, the brothers would be right on top of him. He hoped they would do him the common courtesy of a bullet without a beating. Maybe these two idiots could finally get the job done right. Dexter cradled his now bloody face, and checked his mouth. Miraculously he still had his teeth. Loosing his teeth could kill his career, of course so could the Hammer brothers.
Amazingly enough, though, he didn’t care anymore.
He just lay there waiting for the inevitable. That’s when the younger brother jumped the fence. He jumped the fence and continued to run towards the other side of the yard. The he jumped the fence again. As soon as he had entered the yard, he was gone. The brother had jumped right over Dexter, missing him completely. As much of a shock as this was to Dexter, it was no real surprise. It fit right in with his special brand of luck. Because no matter how good those on the outside believed it was, he always suffered for it, be it a gunshot a fall to the hard concrete or a head on with some anonymous car. That’s when he decided to close his eyes, if not for just a moment, and try to remember where he’d gone wrong.
Dexter Pepper and Bookie. They’d gone up against the best of the best and come out on top every time. That was probably the problem. When a man gets it in his head that he can’t lose, then that man is in for a rude awakening. But what if it’s true? What if a man has it in him somehow to never lose? And to define losing, I would say to absolutely hit rock bottom, with no possible, conceivable options but to throw in the towel, surrender, or die. Rock bottom would be the end all, be all pits, no opportunity to get any lower.
This never happened to Dexter and Bookie.
There was always a silver lining, always a way out, and a place a lot worse than where they were. This was more of a curse than a blessing. Because if you get it in your head that you’re unbeatable, chances are you get sloppy in your work. If, though, you truly are unbeatable, you realize real quick that you still come up short, though not so short that you hit rock bottom, because there is no rock bottom for you, because you can’t lose, not ever entirely.
It was mixed up logic like this that gave Dexter his headaches. He rolled over and found that it was no dream. He was indeed lying in a pool of his own blood in the backyard of a suburban home. He stumbled to his feet, trying to keep his balance, and lit a cigarette. This time when he felt the back of his head, it had a sticky film on the wound. He chalked this up to the healing process and swaggered from the yard. The list now went as so…find some clothes, find some guns, find Bookie, and kill anyone who complicates the list.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Jeffrey L.
I don't like Vampires. And Vampires don't like themselves, it seems...
October 30th, 11:42 P.M.
How old are you anyway?
17!? Geez-
Okay, thank you for searching me out. I’m touched, really. I had no idea anyone even knew who I was, but that damn internet- that stuff amazes to me to no end. The stuff you can find out on there!
Listen to me, because I mean what I’m about to say and I have no reason to lie to you.
Go home and grow up.
I’m sure you’re going to tell me that your parents don’t understand you and that you don’t fit in and all of that noise.
You’re going to say that you wear black all the time because the world isn’t fair and there is no hope. Well, I’ll tell you what isn’t fair- having to put up with spoiled sissy boys like you that don’t know how good they have it, so they come around here and try to get in on my action.
What is it, huh? Daddy didn’t buy you the car you wanted?
Kids at school beat you up because you read poetry? Guess what? You deserve that beating!
You are here because you have been misinformed, but I got the news for you, kid.
I got the headline, and it reads-
“Vampires are gay- literally and figuratively!”
They don’t tell you this. It’s almost like an inside joke.
You art school kids read your Anne Frank and you think-
What? Well what did I say?
Right. You kids read your Anne Rice and you think the life is all romance, but as soon as the teeth hit your neck- POW- sausage fest!
Just like magic, you have a lifetime subscription to the International Male catalog. And you’ll need it, too, because most of us dress like Israeli night club owners!
Okay, I’m being a little dramatic, but you may as well be gay! Trust me, the sort of girl that finds this stuff sexy is not the sort of girl you want hanging around for eternity.
You already know who I’m talking about because you already met her…
That squat chick that works at the alternative bookstore that smells like Zatarain’s and always wants to do your tarot reading? Yeah, her. She’s just waiting for a guy like you to come into her window and sweep her off of feet. And when you do, you’ll never get rid of her. Trust me.
Now if that is the sort of girl that you look for, then by all means, join up! There’s really nothing wrong with that sort of girl, and if she is your main type, then you got it made. If you like black girls or hot girls or girls with self esteem, then the vampire life ain’t for you!
If I were you? I’d look into the whole werewolf angle. If you just absolutely want to give your life over to being a creature of the night, being a werewolf is the way to go. Think about it- they get to go out during day hours, they get to keep real jobs, they can still eat real food, and they get to sleep in real beds. Those guys have it made!
Once or twice a month, they turn into wolves, and run around naked and howl at the moon. Those guys are the rock stars of monsters! And you know why? Because no one romanticized their world. They kept it on the down low, and they don’t have a lot of wannabe’s ruing it for them. Werewolves are rock stars and vampires are boy bands.
It’s that simple.
Plus they get to date regular women.
Let me tell you a story.
A few years back when I first got into this whole thing, I was walking around the French quarter looking for a cutie to bite, and I wasn’t hitting on anything, so I went to one of the few bars that accept both vampires and werewolves. So, I’m sitting there having a cigarette and talking about whatever- and a few guys walk int. right away we all know that these guys aren’t undead, so we all start trying to decide who’s gonna get to feed off of them.
While we’re flipping coins, playing paper rock scissors, and hot potato- BOOM! The guys start firing. They’re hunters! They’re taking out wolves left and right. Faster than the guys can sprout fur- POW, they’re shot with silver bullets. Now, we don’t notice it right away, but eventually we realize that none of them are trying to slay vampires. A couple of us take stray bullets, but no one ever takes out a wooden stake or a piece of garlic or any holy water.
This is when we all realize it- they’re ignoring us! We’re not worth their time!
We’re just sitting their watching as the hunters take down every werewolf in the room, and no one ever takes the time to try and kill us!
Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?
Eventually, a few of us decide to attack them, and you know what they do? They cripple us and laugh!
They break a few or our legs and necks, and laugh at us as we lay there trying to heal.
Let me tell you, it was one of the most shameful nights of my life. We were just in the way- a hindrance.
We’re just practice. Young kids come looking for us on their way to becoming monster hunters.
I’ll tell you this; you won’t find that little anecdote in your gothic vampire romance novels. Tom Cruise won’t be doing a movie about how vampires are the equivalent of monster target practice!
And we can’t march in any pride parades- know why?
Because you can’t have parades at night!
I hate my life more than I hate you, and I really hate you. I was doing okay before you showed up and reminded me that I was a joke.
If you really want to give up your nice simple life? Go be a werewolf. I’m telling you though; you’d be stupid to do that, too.
You watch the videos and read the books and think this life is cool, but you have no idea how sad it really is!
Okay, I’ll make you a promise: Go home, get a hair cut, and throw out all of your Harry Potter fan fiction. Then, if you go and find yourself a girlfriend and get your pipes cleaned, and you still want to be a vampire, I promise you that I’ll make it happen. I’ll even buy you your first puffy shirt.
But you won’t like it. See, right now, you’re thinking “Maybe he doesn’t love being the undead, but I’ll make it work! I’ll have lots of familiars and be the king of the night!”
Familiars? You watch too much T.V.!
Vampires don’t keep human slaves; it’s the other way around!
Most of us work the night shift at Target to make ends meet, and they pay us in Target bucks. You know what you can buy with one-thousand Target bucks? Nothing but Rubbermaid and regret!
We live off of trail mix and rat blood.
How cool is that, rich boy?
You’re starting to make me mad. I should bite you out of spite.
Go home before I pop you one.
October 30th, 11:42 P.M.
How old are you anyway?
17!? Geez-
Okay, thank you for searching me out. I’m touched, really. I had no idea anyone even knew who I was, but that damn internet- that stuff amazes to me to no end. The stuff you can find out on there!
Listen to me, because I mean what I’m about to say and I have no reason to lie to you.
Go home and grow up.
I’m sure you’re going to tell me that your parents don’t understand you and that you don’t fit in and all of that noise.
You’re going to say that you wear black all the time because the world isn’t fair and there is no hope. Well, I’ll tell you what isn’t fair- having to put up with spoiled sissy boys like you that don’t know how good they have it, so they come around here and try to get in on my action.
What is it, huh? Daddy didn’t buy you the car you wanted?
Kids at school beat you up because you read poetry? Guess what? You deserve that beating!
You are here because you have been misinformed, but I got the news for you, kid.
I got the headline, and it reads-
“Vampires are gay- literally and figuratively!”
They don’t tell you this. It’s almost like an inside joke.
You art school kids read your Anne Frank and you think-
What? Well what did I say?
Right. You kids read your Anne Rice and you think the life is all romance, but as soon as the teeth hit your neck- POW- sausage fest!
Just like magic, you have a lifetime subscription to the International Male catalog. And you’ll need it, too, because most of us dress like Israeli night club owners!
Okay, I’m being a little dramatic, but you may as well be gay! Trust me, the sort of girl that finds this stuff sexy is not the sort of girl you want hanging around for eternity.
You already know who I’m talking about because you already met her…
That squat chick that works at the alternative bookstore that smells like Zatarain’s and always wants to do your tarot reading? Yeah, her. She’s just waiting for a guy like you to come into her window and sweep her off of feet. And when you do, you’ll never get rid of her. Trust me.
Now if that is the sort of girl that you look for, then by all means, join up! There’s really nothing wrong with that sort of girl, and if she is your main type, then you got it made. If you like black girls or hot girls or girls with self esteem, then the vampire life ain’t for you!
If I were you? I’d look into the whole werewolf angle. If you just absolutely want to give your life over to being a creature of the night, being a werewolf is the way to go. Think about it- they get to go out during day hours, they get to keep real jobs, they can still eat real food, and they get to sleep in real beds. Those guys have it made!
Once or twice a month, they turn into wolves, and run around naked and howl at the moon. Those guys are the rock stars of monsters! And you know why? Because no one romanticized their world. They kept it on the down low, and they don’t have a lot of wannabe’s ruing it for them. Werewolves are rock stars and vampires are boy bands.
It’s that simple.
Plus they get to date regular women.
Let me tell you a story.
A few years back when I first got into this whole thing, I was walking around the French quarter looking for a cutie to bite, and I wasn’t hitting on anything, so I went to one of the few bars that accept both vampires and werewolves. So, I’m sitting there having a cigarette and talking about whatever- and a few guys walk int. right away we all know that these guys aren’t undead, so we all start trying to decide who’s gonna get to feed off of them.
While we’re flipping coins, playing paper rock scissors, and hot potato- BOOM! The guys start firing. They’re hunters! They’re taking out wolves left and right. Faster than the guys can sprout fur- POW, they’re shot with silver bullets. Now, we don’t notice it right away, but eventually we realize that none of them are trying to slay vampires. A couple of us take stray bullets, but no one ever takes out a wooden stake or a piece of garlic or any holy water.
This is when we all realize it- they’re ignoring us! We’re not worth their time!
We’re just sitting their watching as the hunters take down every werewolf in the room, and no one ever takes the time to try and kill us!
Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?
Eventually, a few of us decide to attack them, and you know what they do? They cripple us and laugh!
They break a few or our legs and necks, and laugh at us as we lay there trying to heal.
Let me tell you, it was one of the most shameful nights of my life. We were just in the way- a hindrance.
We’re just practice. Young kids come looking for us on their way to becoming monster hunters.
I’ll tell you this; you won’t find that little anecdote in your gothic vampire romance novels. Tom Cruise won’t be doing a movie about how vampires are the equivalent of monster target practice!
And we can’t march in any pride parades- know why?
Because you can’t have parades at night!
I hate my life more than I hate you, and I really hate you. I was doing okay before you showed up and reminded me that I was a joke.
If you really want to give up your nice simple life? Go be a werewolf. I’m telling you though; you’d be stupid to do that, too.
You watch the videos and read the books and think this life is cool, but you have no idea how sad it really is!
Okay, I’ll make you a promise: Go home, get a hair cut, and throw out all of your Harry Potter fan fiction. Then, if you go and find yourself a girlfriend and get your pipes cleaned, and you still want to be a vampire, I promise you that I’ll make it happen. I’ll even buy you your first puffy shirt.
But you won’t like it. See, right now, you’re thinking “Maybe he doesn’t love being the undead, but I’ll make it work! I’ll have lots of familiars and be the king of the night!”
Familiars? You watch too much T.V.!
Vampires don’t keep human slaves; it’s the other way around!
Most of us work the night shift at Target to make ends meet, and they pay us in Target bucks. You know what you can buy with one-thousand Target bucks? Nothing but Rubbermaid and regret!
We live off of trail mix and rat blood.
How cool is that, rich boy?
You’re starting to make me mad. I should bite you out of spite.
Go home before I pop you one.
Wendy
Ladies and gentlemen, your playlist:
De La Soul – 3 Ft. High and Rising
Eazy E – Eazy Duz It
Paula Abdul – Forever Your Girl
3rd bass – The Cactus Cee/D
Debarge – Time Will Reveal
If you go back far enough, you can determine the exact moment that led to what you are and who you became. For instance, I try to be a stand up guy now because of guilt I have from setting up a guy in the first grade.
I drew in a text book, blamed it on him, and he was a troubled student from that point on. It is possible he would’ve become a bad kid without my help but why disprove my own thesis statement?
Going back, I can pinpoint the various moments that have led to my casual distrust yet constant faith in women’s overall goodness. As I have said, you have to know women may screw you over, but you can never believe it. Once you believe it, it’s all done.
Hold on…I’m not about to start another “women are crazy” tirade. I just want to explain how I understand why Charlie Brown always thought that he might get to kick that football.
MOMENT ONE: FIRST GRADE
In the first grade I had a crush on Kim. Honestly, I don’t even know what I thought a crush was or where it would lead to, but I had one. In my love sick state I felt it was best to try and convey my feelings to the lovely brown skinned angel, so I did what any kid in my situation would do- I dictated a love letter to my mother. In the letter, I mentioned that I loved Kim, to which my mother asked if I knew what that meant. I can’t recall what my answer was then, but if given the chance to answer her now, I’d state that it was a one in a series of unnatural emotions like hate and jealousy, brought on by the renegade eating of a magic apple thousands of years ago. I would then assure her that all this being the case, I was still full of love, and had much of it to give. I was a bit of a sissy as a kid. I wept openly to the secret of NIMH on many nonconsecutive occasions. Maybe it was the Paul Williams love theme…
So, I took the neatly printed love letter from my mother, and took it with me to Mrs. Mills’ first grade class. After a few hours of building up the nerve, I gave her all my feelings on paper. Immediately after, she responded by emitting a loud, pronounced “Ewww!” and telling the teacher on me. Ah, amour.
MOMENT TWO: SIXTH GRADE
The sixth grade was a formative time for me. The Beastie Boys, Boogie Down Productions, and the 2 live crew challenged me musically. Three Amigos! And little Shop of Horrors kept me busy at the Movies. And a little girl named
Stephanie taught me about the cruel pettiness of the prepubescent North American female human. I’d had a crush on Stephanie since the third grade, and I figured that it was time that I did something about it. But what should I do? I’d need a classic method, one that conveyed style and grace as I confessed my intentions. I needed to give her the “Do you like me” letter. To those of you unfamiliar with this staple of young romance, I’ll explain. The execution I simple: You print the words “Do you like me” on a small note, followed by the choices Yes, No, and Maybe along with small check boxes. You want a Yes, but a Maybe will do. A Maybe means there is hope. A No can be painful, but at least you know where you stand. So, I passed Stephanie the note, and she took her time and read it. Then she began to write. This was a good sign. It was definitely a better sign than a loud “Ewww!” She passed the note back to me and watched as I slowly opened it. Inside, she had not checked No. But she hadn’t checked Yes or even Maybe. No, What Stephanie had done was added a larger NO! check box, then checked it. She found this to be hilarious. I hope her life is great.
MOMENT THREE: WENDY
I didn’t have a crush on Wendy at all. As a matter of fact, I can’t even be sure her name was actually Wendy. I doubt she’s made any great strides or advancements since I knew her. I would imagine that she is just another faceless, average mulatto woman in her early thirties, living the lower middle class life. But she made a mark on me. Wendy drew in my figurative text book. It was the eighth grade dance and it was Swanky to say the least. We all filed into the elementary school lunch room for a dinner of old-school square Board of Education pizza and corn. Even at that young age, I felt cheated. After our delicious meal, we were herded into the gym where the real action took place. By action, I meant repeatedly getting up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, then being turned down. There was a Soul Train line that I totally rocked, and a rap battle that was booed because one M.C. recycled lyrics from an earlier battle. Eventually, through process of elimination, I decided to ask Wendy to dance. I watched her from across the gym, waiting for my chance. She was surrounded by all her female cronies, most of which had already turned me down. I waited for my chance, but it never came. As I stood there as professional wallflower, Wendy approached me! I couldn’t believe it. She came over and asked me to dance. “Yeah!” I said happily, and followed her to the center of the floor. Finally, I was going to get a dance. That feeling of really wanting to do something, but not wanting to ruin the moment settled in the pit of my stomach. The invigorating yet terrifying feeling of anticipation that curses the typical wallflower was beginning to fall over me. I didn’t get a chance to work through any of these feelings. As soon as we reached the center of the floor, she turned to me and said “I change my mind” then returned to her cackling crew. I was the victim of yet another woman’s practical joke. The punch line was trying to figure out what to do after I took the seemingly mile long walk back to the wall as the girls all laughed.
Eventually, the dance came to an end and we all made our way outside to our parent’s cars. My ma came for me.
“How was it?” she asked.
“No one would dance with me” I answered, on the verge of tears.
COMMICAL/SARCASTIC FINAL THOUGHT
Sorry, not this time.
I’m gonna go watch NIMH
De La Soul – 3 Ft. High and Rising
Eazy E – Eazy Duz It
Paula Abdul – Forever Your Girl
3rd bass – The Cactus Cee/D
Debarge – Time Will Reveal
If you go back far enough, you can determine the exact moment that led to what you are and who you became. For instance, I try to be a stand up guy now because of guilt I have from setting up a guy in the first grade.
I drew in a text book, blamed it on him, and he was a troubled student from that point on. It is possible he would’ve become a bad kid without my help but why disprove my own thesis statement?
Going back, I can pinpoint the various moments that have led to my casual distrust yet constant faith in women’s overall goodness. As I have said, you have to know women may screw you over, but you can never believe it. Once you believe it, it’s all done.
Hold on…I’m not about to start another “women are crazy” tirade. I just want to explain how I understand why Charlie Brown always thought that he might get to kick that football.
MOMENT ONE: FIRST GRADE
In the first grade I had a crush on Kim. Honestly, I don’t even know what I thought a crush was or where it would lead to, but I had one. In my love sick state I felt it was best to try and convey my feelings to the lovely brown skinned angel, so I did what any kid in my situation would do- I dictated a love letter to my mother. In the letter, I mentioned that I loved Kim, to which my mother asked if I knew what that meant. I can’t recall what my answer was then, but if given the chance to answer her now, I’d state that it was a one in a series of unnatural emotions like hate and jealousy, brought on by the renegade eating of a magic apple thousands of years ago. I would then assure her that all this being the case, I was still full of love, and had much of it to give. I was a bit of a sissy as a kid. I wept openly to the secret of NIMH on many nonconsecutive occasions. Maybe it was the Paul Williams love theme…
So, I took the neatly printed love letter from my mother, and took it with me to Mrs. Mills’ first grade class. After a few hours of building up the nerve, I gave her all my feelings on paper. Immediately after, she responded by emitting a loud, pronounced “Ewww!” and telling the teacher on me. Ah, amour.
MOMENT TWO: SIXTH GRADE
The sixth grade was a formative time for me. The Beastie Boys, Boogie Down Productions, and the 2 live crew challenged me musically. Three Amigos! And little Shop of Horrors kept me busy at the Movies. And a little girl named
Stephanie taught me about the cruel pettiness of the prepubescent North American female human. I’d had a crush on Stephanie since the third grade, and I figured that it was time that I did something about it. But what should I do? I’d need a classic method, one that conveyed style and grace as I confessed my intentions. I needed to give her the “Do you like me” letter. To those of you unfamiliar with this staple of young romance, I’ll explain. The execution I simple: You print the words “Do you like me” on a small note, followed by the choices Yes, No, and Maybe along with small check boxes. You want a Yes, but a Maybe will do. A Maybe means there is hope. A No can be painful, but at least you know where you stand. So, I passed Stephanie the note, and she took her time and read it. Then she began to write. This was a good sign. It was definitely a better sign than a loud “Ewww!” She passed the note back to me and watched as I slowly opened it. Inside, she had not checked No. But she hadn’t checked Yes or even Maybe. No, What Stephanie had done was added a larger NO! check box, then checked it. She found this to be hilarious. I hope her life is great.
MOMENT THREE: WENDY
I didn’t have a crush on Wendy at all. As a matter of fact, I can’t even be sure her name was actually Wendy. I doubt she’s made any great strides or advancements since I knew her. I would imagine that she is just another faceless, average mulatto woman in her early thirties, living the lower middle class life. But she made a mark on me. Wendy drew in my figurative text book. It was the eighth grade dance and it was Swanky to say the least. We all filed into the elementary school lunch room for a dinner of old-school square Board of Education pizza and corn. Even at that young age, I felt cheated. After our delicious meal, we were herded into the gym where the real action took place. By action, I meant repeatedly getting up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, then being turned down. There was a Soul Train line that I totally rocked, and a rap battle that was booed because one M.C. recycled lyrics from an earlier battle. Eventually, through process of elimination, I decided to ask Wendy to dance. I watched her from across the gym, waiting for my chance. She was surrounded by all her female cronies, most of which had already turned me down. I waited for my chance, but it never came. As I stood there as professional wallflower, Wendy approached me! I couldn’t believe it. She came over and asked me to dance. “Yeah!” I said happily, and followed her to the center of the floor. Finally, I was going to get a dance. That feeling of really wanting to do something, but not wanting to ruin the moment settled in the pit of my stomach. The invigorating yet terrifying feeling of anticipation that curses the typical wallflower was beginning to fall over me. I didn’t get a chance to work through any of these feelings. As soon as we reached the center of the floor, she turned to me and said “I change my mind” then returned to her cackling crew. I was the victim of yet another woman’s practical joke. The punch line was trying to figure out what to do after I took the seemingly mile long walk back to the wall as the girls all laughed.
Eventually, the dance came to an end and we all made our way outside to our parent’s cars. My ma came for me.
“How was it?” she asked.
“No one would dance with me” I answered, on the verge of tears.
COMMICAL/SARCASTIC FINAL THOUGHT
Sorry, not this time.
I’m gonna go watch NIMH
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Fall Risk
This one speaks for itself...
In case of concern, know that this is from May 2008! I'm Fine now...
My original goal was to talk to you about how maddening and idiotic I find Facebook. I know that I’ve already talked about Myspace in the past, but apparently Facebook is better- in the way that vomiting in public is better than diarrhea in public, I guess.
But then I had a stroke.
As I sat there on the couch on my day off, watching the People’s Court for the same reason you probably watch it- sexy plaintiffs- my left hand began to tingle.
This was followed by a bit of a headache, and a slight inability to move the left side of my body.
I won’t try and convince you that I’m some sort of courageous hero by telling you that I was not afraid.
But, I was never truly afraid.
As you’ll find throughout this tale, I can be somewhat idiotic when it comes to my own well being. I hope that this revelation doesn’t cause you to reclaim your concern and pity. I appreciate it. But I can be stubborn and outright stupid- hence my 3rd stroke.
You see, I’d had these same symptoms two weeks earlier.
The first stroke came after a particularly successful Saturday morning house cleaning. When I felt the tingle coming on, I thought to myself “Damn it! I’m having a stroke! I don’t have any coverage, and I can’t afford an Ambulance!” I promptly took two aspirin, hid any visible porn, and lay down next to the phone- just in case.
Soon after, the feeling went away. I was left a bit weak, but I felt okay. I chalked it up to- whatever, and walked to the nearby grocery store for granola.
Later in the day, it happened again, but it didn’t last as long, so I let it go.
That following Monday at work, I mentioned it to a few people. They didn’t seem too concerned, so I took this as a cue that it was nothing and moved on. Thank God for that external validation that allowed me to ignore two strokes!
So, here we are again at the day of the “big” one. Wednesday morning, People’s Court, and then the tingling began. Only this time, it never went away. Now a smart man would have immediately called for help, but I did what I’ve always done in time of great strife and crisis- I tried to sleep it off. I spent the whole of Wednesday trying to sleep off a stroke.
Again, I must ask that you agree that I have exhibited stupidity, but don’t hold it against me. I am in dire need of someone to take care of me, ladies!
The next morning I hopped (READ: wobbled and crawled) out of bed, called my mother to tell her I’d had a stroke, limped down the 130 stairs in my apartment, and made my way to the emergency room… by public bus!
I’m either really awesome or really retarded.
Hold your votes until the end.
With the help of the earth’s rotation and a few calm breezes, I was able to swing my nearly dead left leg the three blocks from the bus stop to the emergency room.
Once there, the care immediately kicked into high gear. They strapped me to a fat guy wheelchair, and started taking my blood pressure, taking my blood, and taking pictures of my brain, arteries, and heart.
Soon, the calls and text messages began. I found it really amusing that people would try to call a stroke victim and expect him to answer texts, but I was glad that people cared enough to try.
My Ma and my Old Man arrived soon and sat briefly. The Old Man was tired and still a bit sick- he’d been in the same hospital only a few weeks earlier. I felt really bad that they had to see me this way, especially since I probably could have avoided this through clean living and positive thinking. But who am I, Captain Fantasy? Life has a way of sucking, and sometimes that suck materializes as a busted blood vessel in your brain.
Eventually, I was in my own room, forced to lie nearly flat in bed and connected to an I.V.
So far, everyone at the hospital had been so nice and considerate to me that my mind began to drift into Devil’s Advocate mode. What was their game? What was their angle? What did they have to gain by keeping me alive?
I cannot begin to tell you why these thoughts were occurring to me. That is, besides stupidity.
My blood pressure was extremely high. When I arrived at the ER, it was in walking dead territory. Eventually, it came down, but it remained really high for the duration of my stay at the hospital.
Some guests arrived and were happy to see that I was not a vegetable. I got flowers.
The nurse attached a bracelet to my wrist that labeled me a “Fall Risk”. This meant that I wasn’t supposed to get to the restroom or anything else without help. For the sake of argument, let’s say that I played along.
The results of the tests started to come back, and were showing that my (3rd) stroke was minor… really minor. They couldn’t find any hint of damage or any clue that I couldn’t avoid all of this in the future.
I spent the first night trying to be comfortable in the hospital bed and watching Adult Swim. The Boondocks always pleases.
The next day brought more tests, more calls from well wishers, and I was finally allowed to sit up and walk around a bit.
You think that it would be awesome to lay down all day and watch TV, but it gets boring really quickly. Luckily I only had to do it for two days.
So, here we are. I have to take lots of medicine to keep my blood pressure down; I have to avoid fried foods, and sweets. It took a stroke to finally get me to the hospital and take care of myself. It probably won’t take as extreme a measure in the future. I should regain all of my proper movement over time, without any sort of therapy.
As for my mental well being, well-
I have to learn to stop sweating the small stuff, as the book says. Yes, things suck. Yes, I’ll continue to write about them for your amusement and unfaltering loyalty, but I will no longer brood, or mope, or fume.
I promise that I will not use my mind to kill myself, like a Scanner.
I was given a harsh lesson that could have been a lot harsher, and I am going to take steps not to repeat it. For my efforts, I have to sit home and watch television for two straight weeks. Damn.
And how is it going? Well, this morning I realized that my useless ex-roommate had scratched the Odorama card from my collector’s edition copy of Polyester.
Normally, I’d have blown a gasket and put him on my things to do list, but that was Pre-stroke J’Mza.
The new J’Mza realizes that J’Mza and his health and his art need to be at the top of that list.
As far as the Roommate, well, these things are best served cold, right?
In case of concern, know that this is from May 2008! I'm Fine now...
My original goal was to talk to you about how maddening and idiotic I find Facebook. I know that I’ve already talked about Myspace in the past, but apparently Facebook is better- in the way that vomiting in public is better than diarrhea in public, I guess.
But then I had a stroke.
As I sat there on the couch on my day off, watching the People’s Court for the same reason you probably watch it- sexy plaintiffs- my left hand began to tingle.
This was followed by a bit of a headache, and a slight inability to move the left side of my body.
I won’t try and convince you that I’m some sort of courageous hero by telling you that I was not afraid.
But, I was never truly afraid.
As you’ll find throughout this tale, I can be somewhat idiotic when it comes to my own well being. I hope that this revelation doesn’t cause you to reclaim your concern and pity. I appreciate it. But I can be stubborn and outright stupid- hence my 3rd stroke.
You see, I’d had these same symptoms two weeks earlier.
The first stroke came after a particularly successful Saturday morning house cleaning. When I felt the tingle coming on, I thought to myself “Damn it! I’m having a stroke! I don’t have any coverage, and I can’t afford an Ambulance!” I promptly took two aspirin, hid any visible porn, and lay down next to the phone- just in case.
Soon after, the feeling went away. I was left a bit weak, but I felt okay. I chalked it up to- whatever, and walked to the nearby grocery store for granola.
Later in the day, it happened again, but it didn’t last as long, so I let it go.
That following Monday at work, I mentioned it to a few people. They didn’t seem too concerned, so I took this as a cue that it was nothing and moved on. Thank God for that external validation that allowed me to ignore two strokes!
So, here we are again at the day of the “big” one. Wednesday morning, People’s Court, and then the tingling began. Only this time, it never went away. Now a smart man would have immediately called for help, but I did what I’ve always done in time of great strife and crisis- I tried to sleep it off. I spent the whole of Wednesday trying to sleep off a stroke.
Again, I must ask that you agree that I have exhibited stupidity, but don’t hold it against me. I am in dire need of someone to take care of me, ladies!
The next morning I hopped (READ: wobbled and crawled) out of bed, called my mother to tell her I’d had a stroke, limped down the 130 stairs in my apartment, and made my way to the emergency room… by public bus!
I’m either really awesome or really retarded.
Hold your votes until the end.
With the help of the earth’s rotation and a few calm breezes, I was able to swing my nearly dead left leg the three blocks from the bus stop to the emergency room.
Once there, the care immediately kicked into high gear. They strapped me to a fat guy wheelchair, and started taking my blood pressure, taking my blood, and taking pictures of my brain, arteries, and heart.
Soon, the calls and text messages began. I found it really amusing that people would try to call a stroke victim and expect him to answer texts, but I was glad that people cared enough to try.
My Ma and my Old Man arrived soon and sat briefly. The Old Man was tired and still a bit sick- he’d been in the same hospital only a few weeks earlier. I felt really bad that they had to see me this way, especially since I probably could have avoided this through clean living and positive thinking. But who am I, Captain Fantasy? Life has a way of sucking, and sometimes that suck materializes as a busted blood vessel in your brain.
Eventually, I was in my own room, forced to lie nearly flat in bed and connected to an I.V.
So far, everyone at the hospital had been so nice and considerate to me that my mind began to drift into Devil’s Advocate mode. What was their game? What was their angle? What did they have to gain by keeping me alive?
I cannot begin to tell you why these thoughts were occurring to me. That is, besides stupidity.
My blood pressure was extremely high. When I arrived at the ER, it was in walking dead territory. Eventually, it came down, but it remained really high for the duration of my stay at the hospital.
Some guests arrived and were happy to see that I was not a vegetable. I got flowers.
The nurse attached a bracelet to my wrist that labeled me a “Fall Risk”. This meant that I wasn’t supposed to get to the restroom or anything else without help. For the sake of argument, let’s say that I played along.
The results of the tests started to come back, and were showing that my (3rd) stroke was minor… really minor. They couldn’t find any hint of damage or any clue that I couldn’t avoid all of this in the future.
I spent the first night trying to be comfortable in the hospital bed and watching Adult Swim. The Boondocks always pleases.
The next day brought more tests, more calls from well wishers, and I was finally allowed to sit up and walk around a bit.
You think that it would be awesome to lay down all day and watch TV, but it gets boring really quickly. Luckily I only had to do it for two days.
So, here we are. I have to take lots of medicine to keep my blood pressure down; I have to avoid fried foods, and sweets. It took a stroke to finally get me to the hospital and take care of myself. It probably won’t take as extreme a measure in the future. I should regain all of my proper movement over time, without any sort of therapy.
As for my mental well being, well-
I have to learn to stop sweating the small stuff, as the book says. Yes, things suck. Yes, I’ll continue to write about them for your amusement and unfaltering loyalty, but I will no longer brood, or mope, or fume.
I promise that I will not use my mind to kill myself, like a Scanner.
I was given a harsh lesson that could have been a lot harsher, and I am going to take steps not to repeat it. For my efforts, I have to sit home and watch television for two straight weeks. Damn.
And how is it going? Well, this morning I realized that my useless ex-roommate had scratched the Odorama card from my collector’s edition copy of Polyester.
Normally, I’d have blown a gasket and put him on my things to do list, but that was Pre-stroke J’Mza.
The new J’Mza realizes that J’Mza and his health and his art need to be at the top of that list.
As far as the Roommate, well, these things are best served cold, right?
Lounge Act bonus scenes!
So, a few years back I decided to write a movie. Then, I made that movie.
during the filming, it was clear to me that the people that provided the money were
1) not writers
2) not visionaries
3) were trying to ease my creativity out of the project any way they could
4) trying to get a job for every stoner pal they had and
5) complete asses.
I struggled with the ruining of my first full length project for quite some time, but ultimately decided to not be angry anymore. every filmmaker worth his or her salt has a horror story, and now i have mine (plus, I got to read the screenplay that the people that ruined my movie were working on next...P.U.!!)
Still, I had to have final say over the characters in this thing, so i decided to kill them off. it was "death Therapy" as Bob Wiley would put it.
So, here we are- it's a little dark, but perhaps it helps to look at it as black comedy- tounge in cheek. I know I laughed a lot while writing it!
And if yyou're interested in seeing the film, it is available online somewhere- but don't buy it! It's not the right edit and they cut me out of making any money on that as well!
In most happy or “Hollywood endings”, if we were to add one more scene or page, we’d find that things weren’t so happy. No one actually gets to have “happily ever after!” the adult human mind shouldn’t even be able to process that concept!
So, It’s liquidation time. I’m tying up loose ends out in the boondocks of the J’Meliverse. Sadly, this means a lot of fictional characters you may or may not have heard of will have to die.
So, I start this experiment by taking out the main characters of my first feature “film”, Lounge Act. While no one actually got an according to Webster’s happy ending in the film, the more I think about these people I created the more I realize they shouldn’t be allowed to continue the sad sorry lives I gave them and think that they’re having a good time. So I’m taking them down a peg.
I would imagine that some psychiatrist somewhere has a theory about a writer that hates his own characters to this extent.
I don’t care. Let’s do some undignified deaths!
1.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving.
Ringo rolled of out of bed and slipped into the bathroom to gobble down the handful of colorful pills he’d stolen the night before in a daze of tequila and cough syrup fueled excitement.
He stood there, staring into the mirror through bloodshot eyes at his fried blonde hair. He was only a few years shy of 30 years old, but his youth was already shot. He knew better than to look too long at his reflection in the mirror- he didn’t want to see what he thought others saw when they looked at him.
Ringo could hear last night’s conquest rustling in the other room, preparing for the walk of shame. He’d become quite accustomed to hiding in the bathroom until his rough trade left in the mornings.
He’d even taken to hiding beer in the toilets tank.
First there was the rustling, then quiet. This was when it would set in that Ringo wouldn’t be emerging from the bathroom until they were gone. There were 20 minutes of getting dressed, and then the slam of the front door.
It all happened like clockwork.
After the slam, Ringo finished the beer and returned to the bedroom get dressed. The room smelled of sweat and shame and other things to rude to mention. The fair-haired party boy he’d brought home hadn’t asked for protection, so Ringo didn’t use any. Tonight he’d go out to the dark and loud places and do it all again. He’d take the drugs, wave the glow sticks, and stalk the boys that weren’t smart enough to know that he was using them.
He blogged the lyrics to an old Cure song for no particular reason, vomited, and retook the pills he sifted from his own sick.
A few miles away, his mother made a pumpkin pie and waited for a call that would never come…
2.
Joey only ever really wanted two things in life: to be a lounge singer and to find true love. Sadly, he had no idea how to go about either of these dreams and his misguided attempts would lead to him being found naked and dead in a cemetery- In an apparent murder suicide with his best friend Ringo. But that was for tomorrow. Today, he had come as close to happiness as he ever had, and ever would-
Today he rose from bed and told himself that he was turning it all around. He’d had his heart broken by the only woman that had ever come close to loving him back, and he had lost the only job that he’d ever loved. But it felt good. It felt like he was getting a fresh start. The sun was brighter, somehow. Joey decided to take a swim, and found that Jennifer was already in the pool. He usually avoided her, but this morning was different. He jumped into the pool, swam to her, and kissed her. To Joey, it just felt like the thing to do. For Jennifer, it was all she’d ever wanted. They floated there and kissed in the pool on this sunny and unusually warm November morning. For the rest of the day they made love and barely spoke. He was happy, finally, unaware that this was his last day.
He was unaware that his best friend was in love with him.
Today was a new day, the greatest day, you could say- seeing as he’d turn up draped naked and deceased in a cemetery in 12 hours time.
3
Tick-Tock cowered behind the counter of the five and dime and tried to maintain her glamour as she bled allover the blue and white tile floor. She had the cop’s off duty piece that she’d managed to steal thirty minutes before, but only two rounds left. He white blouse was completely crimson now. She held the place where she’d been shot in the gut and tried to forget that and the cries of the girl across the aisle were beginning to annoy her a great deal.
She yelled at the girl to shut up, but couldn’t make eye contact. She did, though, look into the dead eyes of the girl’s mother. The girl cried and held the woman’s lifeless body close to her own.
Tock could hear back up arriving outside. She thought about how much she’d like to shoot her way out of the store. She wished she could apologize to her sons, Cam and Flinch, for giving them up to the system to be raised in foster care. She regretted not having a complete sex change-
for some reason, being shot had given her quite an unladylike erection.
She’d decided that one round would be for the girl across the aisle, and she’d put the last one in her own brain. She couldn’t go back to prison- she looked too good, but as long as she had the equipment, she be going to a men’s facility. And even if she did manage to fight them all off, there was no promise that they would let her continue the hormone therapy. At the end, it was a question of vanity.
It never occurred to her to leave the girl and just take her own life- Not for one second.
during the filming, it was clear to me that the people that provided the money were
1) not writers
2) not visionaries
3) were trying to ease my creativity out of the project any way they could
4) trying to get a job for every stoner pal they had and
5) complete asses.
I struggled with the ruining of my first full length project for quite some time, but ultimately decided to not be angry anymore. every filmmaker worth his or her salt has a horror story, and now i have mine (plus, I got to read the screenplay that the people that ruined my movie were working on next...P.U.!!)
Still, I had to have final say over the characters in this thing, so i decided to kill them off. it was "death Therapy" as Bob Wiley would put it.
So, here we are- it's a little dark, but perhaps it helps to look at it as black comedy- tounge in cheek. I know I laughed a lot while writing it!
And if yyou're interested in seeing the film, it is available online somewhere- but don't buy it! It's not the right edit and they cut me out of making any money on that as well!
In most happy or “Hollywood endings”, if we were to add one more scene or page, we’d find that things weren’t so happy. No one actually gets to have “happily ever after!” the adult human mind shouldn’t even be able to process that concept!
So, It’s liquidation time. I’m tying up loose ends out in the boondocks of the J’Meliverse. Sadly, this means a lot of fictional characters you may or may not have heard of will have to die.
So, I start this experiment by taking out the main characters of my first feature “film”, Lounge Act. While no one actually got an according to Webster’s happy ending in the film, the more I think about these people I created the more I realize they shouldn’t be allowed to continue the sad sorry lives I gave them and think that they’re having a good time. So I’m taking them down a peg.
I would imagine that some psychiatrist somewhere has a theory about a writer that hates his own characters to this extent.
I don’t care. Let’s do some undignified deaths!
1.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving.
Ringo rolled of out of bed and slipped into the bathroom to gobble down the handful of colorful pills he’d stolen the night before in a daze of tequila and cough syrup fueled excitement.
He stood there, staring into the mirror through bloodshot eyes at his fried blonde hair. He was only a few years shy of 30 years old, but his youth was already shot. He knew better than to look too long at his reflection in the mirror- he didn’t want to see what he thought others saw when they looked at him.
Ringo could hear last night’s conquest rustling in the other room, preparing for the walk of shame. He’d become quite accustomed to hiding in the bathroom until his rough trade left in the mornings.
He’d even taken to hiding beer in the toilets tank.
First there was the rustling, then quiet. This was when it would set in that Ringo wouldn’t be emerging from the bathroom until they were gone. There were 20 minutes of getting dressed, and then the slam of the front door.
It all happened like clockwork.
After the slam, Ringo finished the beer and returned to the bedroom get dressed. The room smelled of sweat and shame and other things to rude to mention. The fair-haired party boy he’d brought home hadn’t asked for protection, so Ringo didn’t use any. Tonight he’d go out to the dark and loud places and do it all again. He’d take the drugs, wave the glow sticks, and stalk the boys that weren’t smart enough to know that he was using them.
He blogged the lyrics to an old Cure song for no particular reason, vomited, and retook the pills he sifted from his own sick.
A few miles away, his mother made a pumpkin pie and waited for a call that would never come…
2.
Joey only ever really wanted two things in life: to be a lounge singer and to find true love. Sadly, he had no idea how to go about either of these dreams and his misguided attempts would lead to him being found naked and dead in a cemetery- In an apparent murder suicide with his best friend Ringo. But that was for tomorrow. Today, he had come as close to happiness as he ever had, and ever would-
Today he rose from bed and told himself that he was turning it all around. He’d had his heart broken by the only woman that had ever come close to loving him back, and he had lost the only job that he’d ever loved. But it felt good. It felt like he was getting a fresh start. The sun was brighter, somehow. Joey decided to take a swim, and found that Jennifer was already in the pool. He usually avoided her, but this morning was different. He jumped into the pool, swam to her, and kissed her. To Joey, it just felt like the thing to do. For Jennifer, it was all she’d ever wanted. They floated there and kissed in the pool on this sunny and unusually warm November morning. For the rest of the day they made love and barely spoke. He was happy, finally, unaware that this was his last day.
He was unaware that his best friend was in love with him.
Today was a new day, the greatest day, you could say- seeing as he’d turn up draped naked and deceased in a cemetery in 12 hours time.
3
Tick-Tock cowered behind the counter of the five and dime and tried to maintain her glamour as she bled allover the blue and white tile floor. She had the cop’s off duty piece that she’d managed to steal thirty minutes before, but only two rounds left. He white blouse was completely crimson now. She held the place where she’d been shot in the gut and tried to forget that and the cries of the girl across the aisle were beginning to annoy her a great deal.
She yelled at the girl to shut up, but couldn’t make eye contact. She did, though, look into the dead eyes of the girl’s mother. The girl cried and held the woman’s lifeless body close to her own.
Tock could hear back up arriving outside. She thought about how much she’d like to shoot her way out of the store. She wished she could apologize to her sons, Cam and Flinch, for giving them up to the system to be raised in foster care. She regretted not having a complete sex change-
for some reason, being shot had given her quite an unladylike erection.
She’d decided that one round would be for the girl across the aisle, and she’d put the last one in her own brain. She couldn’t go back to prison- she looked too good, but as long as she had the equipment, she be going to a men’s facility. And even if she did manage to fight them all off, there was no promise that they would let her continue the hormone therapy. At the end, it was a question of vanity.
It never occurred to her to leave the girl and just take her own life- Not for one second.
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