Showing posts with label supplication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label supplication. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Phoctober the one hundred sixth

We're a week away from getting our new President, the one we ordered back in November from the catalog. This will be the seventh peaceful transfer of power in my lifetime, as I was born in the vaporous remnants of the Nixon administration, around the time Butterfield admitted before Congress that tapes were made of conversations within the Oval Office.

Good times.

And if there is one thing our nation took away as a lesson from all that, it was never to re-elect a seemingly shifty Republican who has clearly misled the American people.

*****

What's that? Not a political blog?
Quite right. I apologize.

*****

What's that? Not really a blog at all anymore, since the word perpetrator who once filled these pages with his thought(s) disappeared under mysterious circumstances quite some time ago?
A bit wordy, but I can see your point. Again, I apologize.

*****

While we're on disappearances, did you know that the US government built a Liberty Ship in 1942 and christened her the SS Amelia Earhart? Seems a little strange to me to name a sea vessel after someone lost and presumed dead at sea, but I was not consulted.

I am almost never consulted.

*****

When last we saw one another, Phoctober was in full flush. For abandoning my post in the middle of a communal project, I truly do apologize.

I recently had occasion to look through my discarded photography and try to find some beauty in the shots that were total misfires for one reason or another. I found a few that worked in the same sort of way that some abstract art does: they just sort of appealed to my eye. I'll close this post with a few of those.





Thursday, April 19, 2007

Toothpaste, time management, and trying something new

Junior was talking with Loudmouth at the counter as I approached to purchase my cigarettes. Loudmouth was telling Junior that hip-hop was dead, and that he should rely on Bon Jovi and Warrant to serve as the music for a gathering Junior seemed to be planning. Loudmouth beamed at me as he said this, delighted at his joke.

"I'm more of a Kiss fan," Junior said.

"What'd they ever do?" Loudmouth asked, before fake-headbanging and singing the chorus to "School's Out."

"That's Alice Cooper," I said, jabbing my finger upwards in what has become how I order cigarettes from Loudmouth, who is never not talking. I then held up six fingers and he pulled down six packs of cigarettes. If I wait for a chance to speak, I can be stuck there for hours.

"Alice Cooper," Junior said, somewhat wistfully. He entended his fist to me. I know from previous encounters that I am to extend my fist to come into contact with his. Awkward as this gesture may be, it is infinitely preferrable to the "high-five."

Junior listed some Kiss songs as Loudmouth rang me up. I offered "Beth," but was told that didn't count because it was a ballad.

"Man, I loved Kiss," Junior said. "I used to put toothpaste in my mouth and..." A customer cut him off with a question, leaving Loudmouth and I to speculate as to what exactly he used to do with toothpaste in his mouth.

"...and rinse," said Loudmouth, grinning.

"I certainly hope that's what he was going to say. I wonder if he still puts toothpaste in his mouth," I said.

Junior dispatched the questioning customer and resumed his tale, pantomiming brushing his teeth this time.

"I used to put toothpaste in my mouth and then go out into the other room and go 'ahhhhh.'" With the last word, he pantomimed playing a guitar, rolling his head and working his tongue around outside his mouth. The "ahhhhh" does not do the sound justice. I can find no combination of letters that would do the job.

"I couldn't, you know, use real blood," he explained.

"Take care, um, music fans," I called out as I made my exit.

*****

Craig came by to jump-start my car this evening. My recent vandals had left the dome light on, and I had failed to notice, depleting my battery. When I tried to start it yesterday, it made no attempt to roar to life, and I nervously popped the hood to see if someone had come by and stolen my battery.

We stood outside the vehicle as it idled, giving the battery a chance to charge. I glanced in through the window and noticed that it's really dirty in there right now. It looked cleaner before the stereo gang pulled extra trash from under the seats in what I imagine was the search for the stereo's faceplate.

"I really have to clean out my car," I said.

"Yeah," he said dryly. "But how will you find the time."

So already my lack of Dayworking has opened me up to all new areas of ridicule. Fantastic.

*****

I did something new today, Blogreader. I took something I had written and submitted it. In this case, it was an entry for the "Endless Hour" flash fiction contest over at Clarity of Night. Based on the picture at left, contestants are to compose an entry of no more than 250 words. Since I sponsor such a contest myself (May 1st, if your calendar remains unmarked) I thought it might be a good idea to give it a whirl.

I wrote my entry in something like 20 minutes, but then spent quite a long time whittling it down to the proper length, and trying to make the story cohesive and complete within the insane word limit. I wrote it yesterday, and was quite pleased with the result, but on rereading it today, I was far less enamored with it. I did one final combing of the text and then submitted it anyway. I'm not figuring on winning a prize, and the other people I let take a peek all seemed to like it. I thought if I held off, I might talk myself out of the whole thing.

The point is, though, that I have never before submitted fiction anywhere. So the Clarity of Night contest is pretty much my virgin attempt to enchant strangers with things I have made up. Without luring them to my blog and having them read it here, that is.

I encourage any of you who think it might be interesting or fun to have a try yourselves.

It's weird, but now that it's out there, I feel even less sure of it than I did before submitting it. I wrote the story that the picture conjured in my mind, but I cannot help but feel that I should have written something funny instead. I am far more self-conscious about my writing when it contains no attempts at humor.

I'll probably post my entry here within a day or two. For now, though, you can pop on over to Clarity of Night if you have an interest in reading it. I'm entry number three (unlike the GBA(s)FC, there's no condition of anonymity, so I'm allowed to tell you that, or to post the story here if I so choose).

Let me know if you have a crack at it yourself. I'm very curious what other people will come up with. The two entries already posted are both quite different from mine and from each other, so I'm hopeful that there will be a lot of different viewpoints represented.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Violentine's Day

These are the lyrics to Elvis Costello's "Wave a White Flag," which was written, recorded, and apparently discarded in the days before he had a record contract. While I hope no one thinks I find domestic violence (or any other kind, really) an amusing topic, there's something about the give and take here that is almost sweet.

Plus she seems to have the upper hand. What with the pistol and all. The recording of this that I have is an acoustic one, and the melody and feel are reminiscent of 20s and 30s pop music, which may be why this song amuses me.

Take off your shoes, hang up your wings
Stack up the chairs, roll up the rug
Savor the things that sobriety brings
Drain in the last from a jug

But when I hit the bottle, there's no tellin' what I'll do
'Cause something deep inside me wants to turn you black and blue
I can't resist you, I can't wait
To twist your loving arms 'til you capitulate

Beat me in the kitchen, and I'll beat you in the hall
There's nothing I love better than a free for all
To take your pretty neck and see which way it bends
But when it is all over we will still be friends

Wave a white flag, put away the pistol
Too many people just can't get kissed
But if there's nothin' I can do to make amends, baby
Hope you don't murder me

Oh, was it all right, or was it okay
I'll make it all up to you someday
Oh, but you didn't have to laugh that way
Oh, no, you didn't have to laugh that way

Wave a white flag, put away the pistol
Too many people just can't get kissed
But if there's nothin' I can do to make amends, baby
Hope you don't murder me
Gee, baby, hope you don't murder me

Happy Valentine's Day, Blogreader. Hope you don't murder me!

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Humbley Begya

My friend Humbley Begya wanted me to ask those of you who have web sites and blogs if you'd be willing to help me publicize the Moon Topples Great Big Awesome (Short) Fiction Contest, which starts in less than 36 hours. I told Humbley that I wasn't sure how you'd react. He suggested I beg you, in a fashion both unobtrusive and polite.

So, even if you're not planning an entry, I'd be ever so grateful if you could help me spread the word by informing your readers, friends or coworkers and urging them to enter.

As a reminder, the contest is live starting at the stroke of February in Chicago (6 am in London). Most of the rules are here. You can tell them about the prizes, or the thrill of entering contests, or how my contests are well known as a launching pad to the world of legitimate publishing (this last one is untrue). Or you can tell them whatever you like.

Thanks in advance for your help with this.

UPDATE: Obviously it is not necessary to have a website or a blog in order to help spread the word. It's just hard to format a link for verbal communication.