The Red Star Journals

My Official, One-On-One Interview With Jesus Christ

2009-11-23T11:27:00.007-06:00

Hello my dear minions!

I'm so sorry for being absent as of late, but I have been painting and plotting and planning. -- It's all very time consuming.

Anyhoo... I hope you're sitting down because I -- wait for it -- interviewed JESUS FREAKING CHRIST.

The Jesus!!!!

Check it out and be illuminated.

~~~

Like many descendants of the Italian-American immigration boom of the early twentieth century, I was raised exceptionally catholic. And as an exceptionally good catholic, I dutifully checked holy sacraments off my metaphysical to-do list, attended C.C.D. (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine), worked the altar for the high mass with the extended homily and even spent a good amount of time practicing my pious gesticulations in the mirror;

“Blahblahblah…(confim.)”
“Blahblahblah…(deny.)”

Grooming myself, as they say, for the priesthood. This made my family very happy which in turn, made me very happy, as I could now use my future Papal seat and the threat of excommunication to fend off the near daily atomic wedgies, choke holds and the ever hilarious, “hang-the-little-guinea-by-his-ankles-until-he-passes-out-then-take-all-his-clothes-off-and-throw-them-in-the-pool” gag from any one of a dozen greaser cousins.

You see, in the Italian heritage, having a priest in the family is much like having a friend waiting at the back door of a movie theater to sneak you in. Suddenly, you become a living golden ticket, a “get-out-of-hell-free card” and EVERYONE wants a piece of you. People start giving you things as though they were making payments on an insurance policy like; a personalized copy of the bible or a rosary carved from the remnants of the cross or a recipe for communal wafers or… myrrh.

Then one day, tragically, I turned eleven and “discovered” my penis. I’ll spare you the gruesome details save to say that I did not; in fact; ultimately decide to become a priest, much to my family’s collective dismay. No, I instead went to art school and spent much of my off time exploring the full potential of my discovery.

The women in my family remain veiled in black to this very day. True story.

So, you could imagine my surprise when, twenty five years later, one of my house plants unexpectedly burst into flame and began emitting in a thunderous, albeit hurried, somewhat nasally voice: “The following message is from the office of the Lord your GOD, please stand by…” Then, in a puff of smoke the plant went out. A moment or two went by of me checking to make sure that I was still wearing clean underwear, when the plant abruptly re-ignited and boomed:

“This is the Lord your GOD, here… How’s it going,’ kid?”

I looked into the flames, frantic for an appropriate response. “Uhh… Could be better, could be worse, your godship sir?” If a flaming ficus could nod approvingly, then this one did: hallelujah.

Then his godliness spoke: “Fine, fine. Glad to hear it. OK so, here it is: There’s been a lot going on down there that I just don’t like… wars, corruption, reality entertainment – it’s Babylon all over again. And while I’d like to step in with a flood or a meteor or something, well, it’s just not my thing anymore. Besides, I promised I’d let you guys handle things and I’m nothing if not a god of my word.” I nodded stupidly, humbled by an obscure sense of déjà vu. “But,” continued the plant, “the fact remains that SOMETHING needs to be done and quick – the End Times is still a good ways off and I simply refuse to be hurried, you follow me?”

“Yes, sir.” I said, instinctively falling to my knees for indeed, I did “Follow.”

“Therefore,” said the Lord, “it is after much consideration that I have decided to grant you and you alone, an exclusive, one-on-one interview.”

Then I answered and said, “Uhh, an interview sir?”

“Yes.” Said the Lord. “You will compose ten questions which shall then be answered with ten replies filled with the poignant, candid honesty of the Holy Spirit and then present this transcript to the world’s media elders and with I as your witness you shall say unto them; ‘the Lord GOD has spoken unto me and these are the words thus spoken!’ Or, you know, something along those lines. Feel free to ad lib.”

Again I answered the highest of highs and said; “Ad lib? Your godliness, are you suggesting that I ‘wing’ an interview with you?”

“Wing -- what? Hah! No, you won’t be interviewing me, kid. No, no, no.” Said the Lord, “The full magnitude of my actual presence in the room with you would snap your fragile human intellect like a twig. No, I’m sending you my son, instead.”

“Your son, sir?!?” I exclaimed, suddenly lightheaded, “Jesus Christ!”

“Yes, exactly.” Replied the Lord. “My boy Yahshua. His flight is just coming in; you should expect him within the hour.” And with that, my house plant again went out in a puff of smoke, leaving behind the charred, smoldering remnants of what was once a hearty and easy to maintain Ficus Religiosa.

The next half hour was a blur of preparation as I did my best to make my crappy little apartment as presentable as possible. I called a few friends; “Ok, I’m Jesus and you get to ask me one question – GO!”

I brushed my teeth.
I put on a tie.
I skimmed through the New Testament, anticipating a pop quiz and breathed deeply into a brown paper bag.

Somehow, I had been chosen to represent the entirety of humanity. Me. The guy who had once felt up Maureen Houlihan in a confessional during her brother’s christening. Was this Judgment day? Was I really going to hell like Sister Shelia once predicted?? Is there actually a hand-basket involved??? I ran to the nearest window, scanning the sky for falling brimstone when my panic was interrupted by two soft knocks at my door.

JESUS!

~~~

As I open the Door, I am greeted by a Middle Eastern man in his early thirties. He is lean, clean shaven and smells faintly of cloves. His shoulder length hair is pulled into a loose ponytail and he is casually dressed in flip-flops, an old pair of blue jeans and a tight fitting tee shirt with a graphic of a potato addressing an order of fast food fries with the inscription; “You’ve changed, man.”

Without saying a word, he sets his well-worn rucksack just inside the doorway and embraces me.

Jesus Christ: “Hey guy… thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

Me: “Y-you’re joking, right?”

After a length of time bordering on uncomfortable, Jesus pulls away, pats me on the cheek, shuffles over to my trendy, overstuffed papasan and settles in.

JC: “Sweet place you have here. Much nicer than that hostel I was staying in.”

Me: “Where were you staying in a hostel?”

JC: “Amsterdam. I just spent the last year back-packing across Europe and that’s where I ended up.”

Me: “Amsterdam? You don’t say. I’ve never… h-h-how was it?”

JC: “Relaxing. Really, really relaxing.” (he winks at me)

Me: “That’s very… ah… illuminating. Uhm, can I get you something to drink or eat – are you hungry?”

JC: “Oh no, thank you. I ate on the flight over. Some milk and honey would be nice, though…if you have it.”

I hurry to the kitchen and quickly microwave a glass of milk and grab a fistful of KFC honey packs from the fridge.

Me: “Please don’t take this the wrong way Jesus sir, but you don’t look anything like your pictures.”

JC: (shrugs) “Gotta love the renaissance, right? (grins slightly) I WISH I was that ripped. (laughs) Might explain all that fuss at the airport, though. “Randomly selected” my tuckas.”

Me: “Aw CRAP! Really?!”

JC: “It wasn’t as bad as all that... the guard was very gentle. And afterwards, he gave me a lollipop.”

Me: “Sir, on behalf of the entire human race – I am very, really and truly sorry.”

JC: “Oh, it’s OK. Honestly. I completely understand… things are a real mess right now... which is why we’re here today, having this little interview. Besides, it could’ve been a whole lot worse. (holds up his hands) ”

Me: “Yikes! Why do those look so… y’know, current?”

JC: “Ignorance leaves wounds that never heal, my brother.”

Me: “That’s what’s up!” (the lord and i fist-bump)

JC: “This is fun.” (jesus claps to himself, lightly) “So, do you have your questions ready?”

Me: “Wha?-Uh... Yeah but before we begin, I have to know: why me Jesus?”

JC: “Why you what?”

Me: “Why was I chosen for this interview?”

JC: “Ah. I drew your name out of a hat.”

Me: “I’m sorry, did you say a… a hat?”

JC: “Yes, my father is very fond of hats, especially derbies.”

Me: “Hats. GOD is fond of… hats. Seriously.”

JC: “Well, ever since the Paleolithic Period when he started going bald…”

Me: “…”

JC: “Anyway, he wrote down the name of every living man woman and child over the age of four onto little scraps of paper, put them into his hat and then I closed my eyes, reached in, picked one out and well… there you go.”

Me: “So… you’re saying we’re here today -- in my living room -- because of a sort of lottery?”

JC: “A lottery, that’s right. Its how most decisions in the universe are made, actually. Keeps things fair – are you… alright? You look kind of pale.”

Me: “You’ll have to excuse me… my mind’s kind of blown right now. Maybe we should just get started.”

JC: “I’m ready whenever you are.”

I check the counter on the tape deck I have going, tap the mic to test the levels and make the appropriate notations on my ledger.

Me: “Ahem. Check, check, check… uhm… The following is my interview with our lord and savior, the messiah and one true son of GOD. Yahshua, bother, teacher -- Jesus Christ, welcome.”

JC: “Shalom, brother and if I may? A very happy forthcoming Festivus to you as well.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

JC: “You know, ‘a Festivus for the rest of us?’ Seinfeld??”

Me: “Uhh, Seinfeld, Lord?”

JC: “Funny, funny guy…”

Me: “I-I didn’t realize you were a fan.”

JC: “Are you kidding?! The Soup Nazi? The contest?? (chuckles) Genius.”

Me: “You don’t say.”

JC: “Oh absolutely. If he had been my opening act, y’know, instead of that leper -- things might have gone much differently during my ministry.”

Me: “Wow. I am SO reminded of this joke I once heard…”

* The next few moments of the Lord and I exchanging off-color jokes involving priests and rabbis walking into various bars have been omitted for the sake of time and in the name of tact. *

JC: “Forgot the Tip! Ha! That’s Hilarious… WHOOO!”

Me: “Yes, well… thank you… anyway, let’s let that lead into my first question; which path or ‘religion,’ if you will – is the correct one?”

JC: “Well, that kind of depends on you, don’t you think?”

Me: “Not the answer I was expecting – could you expand on that?”

JC: “Sure. Religion is a subjective and uniquely individualistic experience. What works for you, may not work for someone else… and that’s totally OK. The point of a religion or any organized life philosophy for that matter, is to help keep you focused on your connection to the world around you. For many, it’s a cultural unifier, a way to feel some sense of purpose within a group. Belonging, as it were. In my experience, I’ve observed that people often find comfort in community. But then there are others who think outside the box and set out for a greater sense of oneness. Some choose to rely on their intuition while there are those who choose a more intellectual route. Ultimately, what does it matter? The point is to live your life as best as you can. And, if you can get through life learning through adversity and savoring happiness where you find it and to do so without harming others along the way – awesome.”

Me: “Having said that, do you ever think that there can be peace in the Middle East?”

JC: “Peace doesn’t just happen, brother. You have to work at it – learn to compromise and try to meet people half way.”

Me: “Agree to disagree?”

JC: “Something like that, yes.”

Me: “Well, so far, we seem to really suck at it. What might you suggest?”

JC: “Honestly, I don’t know anymore. Every time someone comes along talking about goodwill and love and treating people as you would want to be treated, you nail them to a tree. Or if some poor soul even suggests that you try imagining it, you gun them down in a confused rage. God help anyone who ‘has a dream.’ But if I were to really think about it, I might offer you two words; ‘Time Share.’ At this point, what can it hurt?”

Me: “I suppose there are worse ideas…”

JC: “Then instead of guns and suicide bombers, you’d have rental agreements and guys maniacally grinning at you with their crazy, larger-than-life capped teeth offering you a free getaway in exchange for a half hour of your time so that I can get stuck with one third of a condo I never use… by the way, brother, have you ever been to Colorado?”

Me: “Yes. Once, and I got altitude sickness. So when can we expect your big comeback?”

JC: “If you were me, and everywhere you went there were people sporting charms and iconography of your dead and mutilated corpse -- would you plan a comeback?”

Me: “Point taken. Moving on… there are those of us who truly feel your fathers absence in these modern times – care to comment?”

JC: “Dad? Absent?? I guess I could see that. He’s been pretty preoccupied with his current project.”

Me: “Oh?”

JC: “Opposite end of the galaxy. Humanity 4.0.”

Me: “I’m not sure I heard you right, did you say… four?”

JC: “Yeah, the first two versions never went much beyond the research and development phase.”

Me: “Seriously?”

JC: “Oh for sure. Believe me, you’re glad he got over that whole ‘tentacle’ thing… involved a lot of mucus and was ultimately pointless and kinda gross.”

Me: “Please tell me that you’re just messing with me…”

JC: (here, the lord merely shrugs.)

Me: “OK then... here’s one that a buddy of mine suggested – Do you have any super powers, like can you fly or bend steel bars with your mind?”

JC: “Whoa! That would be pretty cool… no, but how about this… clear your thoughts and visualize a playing card -- but don’t tell me what it is!”

Me: “Oh, a card trick. Alright…”

Suddenly, I am overcome by an intense coughing fit, resulting in a casino style playing card jettisoning out of my mouth and onto the floor. It’s the queen of hearts. The exact card I had pictured only a moment before.

JC: “Ta-da!”

Me: “Wow! That was amazing. (hack) Unnecessary and a little slimy but still (cough, cough) – pretty amazing.”

JC: “Keep that card, in remembrance of me.”

Me: “I… will… Uh, thank you. So… what’s heaven like?”

JC: “It’s like the happiest you’ve ever felt EVER, times a million, on a loop – all the time, always.”

Me: “Disneyland on shrooms. Got it. Let’s see… Ah… Here we go… You’ve been quoted saying; ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ Really?”

JC: “Well… See, that’s what you’d call a metaphor… I’m also not actually a lamb, in case you had any follow-up questions in that regard.”

Me: “Hey look, if I’ve offended you…”

JC: “No. Don’t be silly, I’m not offended… and I apologize if I seemed curt. It’s just that I get so tired of constantly being misquoted. People don’t take Lau Tzu or the Buddha so literally… why am I the lucky one?”

Me: “Perhaps if you were more direct? Y’know, spell out the truth in a way that would prevent corrupt religious and political leaders from preying on the rest of us by twisting your words to suit their evil needs and agendas?”

JC: “Brother, if history has taught us anything, it’s that people don’t want the truth – what they want, is confirmation of what they believe the truth to be.”

Me: “I see.”

JC: “And apparently, ‘HD’ everything.”

Me: “What makes you say that?”

JC: “You might be surprised. People pray for the weirdest things…”

Me: “Then you do hear prayers! I honestly thought that was all a bunch of – Uhm... Do you handle those directly or do you outsource to other deities?”

Here, the Lord glares at me -- apparently displeased with my off-handed remark.

Me: “Er…Ah… allow me to rephrase that... do prayers ever get answered?”

JC: “Yes, but not always and then – only to a point.”

Me: “I’m not sure I understand.”

JC: (jesus takes a breath) “It’s quite complicated and all depends on how and what you’re praying for... wait… I’ll start again. Essentially, I… I try to deal with prayer on a case-by-case basis. For example, if you were to pray for strength or clarity or wisdom, you could be assured of a prompt and positive response.”

Me: “But what if I prayed for… say… a promotion or a nicer house or increased musculature?”

JC: “There. That’s exactly my point. I’m not a genie, OK? You don’t rub on the bible or some holy relic and expect me to spontaneously appear and POOF! grant your every wish. That’s’ idiotic and quite frankly, a little racist. Besides, that’s not how prayer works. Prayer is about meditating on what is good in your life and what is not. If you want a promotion, work harder. If you want a nicer house, either re-decorate or move, man. And bigger muscles? Don’t be so lazy! Why do you think you were given free will in the first place? You’re given what you’re given and take it from there. Anyone who thinks otherwise has COMPLETELY missed the point of my teachings.”

Me: “I can see that this is real bone of contention for you…”

JC: “Please. Don’t get me started.”

Me: “Yes. Well, just so you know – this next question was my grandmother’s idea.”

JC: “Lay it on me.”

Me: “What was the deal with you and Mary Magdalene, I mean were you and her – uhm… That is, did you ever… Y’know…”

JC: “Hook up?” (shaking his head) “Thank you, Dan Brown.”

Me: “Too personal?”

JC: “A bit… there was that one retreat… (he blushes) You know what? Rather than completely derail this interview and potentially scar my credibility, I will -- how do you Americans put it? ‘plead the Fifth?’”

Me: “Fair enough.… my Gram will never let me live it down, but I totally get it. Well then… this brings us to my final question: what, in your opinion sir, is the meaning of life?”

JC: “Oh that’s easy. The meaning of life, of course, is to live it.”

At that, Jesus waves a hand over his empty glass which then abruptly fills with what appears to be a vintage port. Before downing his drink, he tips the glass in my direction:

JC: “L'chaim.”

Me: “Alright now, see -- that’s just cool.”

JC: (smirks) “I have my moments.”

Me: “Well Jesus, thank you so very much for this eye opening and somewhat unsettling interview. Hopefully, it will reach the minds of those who need it the most.”

JC: “I’ll certainly keep my fingers crossed.”

There’s a flash of light and what sounds like a hundred party balloons popping simultaneously and then he and his rucksack are gone. Just like that. On the floor, is his half-full glass of fine port and a still soggy queen of hearts casino style playing card.

***

BOUNCER: Update from the desk of the Red Star

2009-02-24T10:35:00.002-06:00

Hidee-oh, Avid Reader!!!

I was looking through the old blog here and was noticing how most of my posts are excerpts from the novel I'm working on. I can't seem to help it. Any time I sit down to write something, I instantly get re-routed into BOUNCER. I guess that's a good thing. Since picking it back up just after New Years, I've been very preoccupied with my darker half: Daemon. I've started having dreams about the characters which, unfortunately, has been dredging up some unpleasant memories from my life pre Gwen. The good news, is that the book is really progressing and that soon, I'll be able to put it behind me. I posted an excerpt way back in November of '07 that has changed quite a bit during my re-read... rather than post it anew, I decided to just repost it where it was. Follow the link to check it out! >>>My Repost <<<

By the way... Just so you know... I like getting comments. They're very helpful. (hint, hint)

Another, slightly less random excerpt from: BOUNCER (corrected)

2009-01-27T10:26:00.008-06:00

Well, It's the year of the OX, finally. This is to be my year for Art-world conquest. (insert me grinding my hands together with lightning crashing in the background, here) My one resolution is that I don't fuck it up...

The holidays, as I'm sure you can relate, were all consuming. Add to this my extended stint at the Cultural Center, Leslie's' website (almost done!) a few commissions and preparations for upcoming events (more about that later) and you have one strung out artist at large.

In the midst of this, I have been diligently chipping away at my story. I had taken the holidays off to let all my creative endeavors simmer a bit and so, when I came back to it a few weeks ago, I decided to read what I had from the start. As I came to obvious gaps and story flaws, I inserted descriptions and dialogue and created "bridges" to help keep things movin' along. To my surprise, I got on a roll and ended up blasting through a few spots where earlier, I had gotten stuck and had to skip ahead.

I'm still rolling, but am limiting myself to an hour a day of composition, so that the more pressing matters and usual bullshit responsibilities of adulthood don't get neglected.

For kicks, and because I'm kinda excited about how much more developed Bouncer is getting, I'm posting the following excerpt that introduces the principle players.

:)

...

A small voice, crunchy with sleep, comes from the knotted lump of stuffed animals and bedclothes on the other side of the futon and pulls me from the brink of memory. “Mmmmm…Coffeeeeee.”

At two years, four months and seven days, ours is the longest one night stand in history. I roll across the bed and snuggle up behind her, running my hand under the pile – searching for a thigh.

“G’morning,” I murmur, nuzzling what I assume is her cheek, “how’d you sleep?”

“Coffee,” she mumbles. I can’t help but smile a little.

“Did you want some cream in that?” This I say as my hand reaches the warm, damp familiarity of her carefully manicured patch. A hand juts out from beneath a Care Bear, swatting at the nothing above my head.

“Sta-hop,” she whines, “Go make me coffee.” Sighing and with my morning erection going slack, I remove my hand; slide out of bed and into my jeans.

“Last night,” I say as I reach the door, “I couldn’t sleep so instead, I figured out the timer on your coffee pot. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

With an audible “CLICK,” I pull the chain on the single, bare bulb that hangs just above the sink in Amanda’s guest bathroom. As the primary lease holder, she alone gets to use the master “lounge,” which is very pink, very foo-foo and very, VERY much off-limits to everyone, including me. This “boy’s room,” which is reminiscent of the public restrooms you’d find scattered throughout a subway terminal… well…. if you’ve never been in a city flat, the smaller, more basic bathroom is just that -- basic:

* Hole in the wall from slamming the door open.
* Stack of bloated, slightly damp tabloids.
* Bag of fast food napkins instead of toilet paper.
* Weird stain on the ceiling where some brain has written; “Lick Me!”
* Moldy shower stall with loose tiles and a broken door.
* Toilet with a handle that you have to jiggle and no seat.

Last year Sean, one of Amanda’s two roommates, noticed that whenever you flipped the light switch, water would quickly start to fill the overhead fixture. We all agreed that that was a bad thing so, I was volunteered to fix it. It’s amazing what some lamp cord, a little know-how and a whole lot of electrical tape can do. Granted, it’s not the most flattering light but at least a guy can see well enough not to miss, if you get what I mean.

Yeah, that used to be a problem.

As I stand in front of the mirror picking crust out of my eyes, it dawns on me that in my enthusiasm to get laid, I have somehow managed to yet again forget my usual overnight grab-bag of man-sentials:

* Soap.
* Razor.
* After shave.
* Tooth brush.
* Deodorant.
* Clean briefs.

Fuck. Usually, there’s a strangled tube of some kind of eco friendly hippie toothpaste stuck behind the taps but not today. Double fuck. So much for that. Maybe Amanda has some gum or something.

With a heavy sigh, I dunk my shaved head under the faucet, close my eyes and run the hot water because after all, a good rinse is better than nothing. I take my time, letting the cool porcelain cradle me as the soothing static hiss of unfiltered city water – tan, metallic and gritty with decomposition, rushes past my ears and down the yawning nexus of the drain.

Standing, dripping and squinty eyed, I blindly turn to my left and feel for the bag of recycled fast food napkins that I know is sitting on top of the cracked and duct-taped toilet tank, when I become aware of the low, pulsing throb of an impending headache. It radiates from somewhere between my left ear and eye plowing across my forehead like a derailing locomotive. Instinctively, I swipe at my nose like its running and notice the shining, red skid mark of blood going across the back of my hand when abruptly, the floor pitches and I have to grab hold of the sink to keep from falling.

Crap.

All at once there’s a faraway voice, like a million people chanting in harmonious union: “Da-ay moh-on...” An unseen mob of paparazzi start snapping my picture, shrieking, and I’m dazzled by blinding white oblivion that hisses in my ears like a torn speaker. And louder and louder, closer and closer, the crowd keeps chanting: “Daemon, Daemon, Daemon.” Until they’re on top of me, crashing into me, smothering me with a smell like stale circus peanuts and lemonade that flips my stomach over the way an elevator will when it drops you a little too soon, a little too fast and then; nothing.

Nothing that is, except for a light, gentle breeze.

It’s crisp, cool and faintly salty upon my face, the ground: plush. I curl my toes in and out as I again gaze across a field of luxuriously succulent, impossibly green grass that stretches forever in every direction and out across the low-slung, sweeping hills in the distance. The sun, nearly set, shatters the sky into fragments of fiery, kaleidoscopic stained glass fractals of sweet, angelic rapture.

In the middle of this meditative serenity and directly ahead, is a very random woman. Her skin is winter cream, her hair the midnight sky. She’s wearing what appears to be a kimono, but its paleness matches her skin so, it’s difficult to tell.

Hello Daemon.

She opens her arms wide and smiles at me. For some reason, I’m terrified. I want to turn and run but don’t. From somewhere far away, like an echo of an echo, I can hear Amanda’s voice, frightened and angry, calling out to me; “Daemon!” The woman’s smile falters.

I want to answer but can’t.

Daemon, (her voice is warm and soothing in my head) let go.

But I can’t. I tell her; No, I’m not ready. Then I wonder, is my voice in her head?

She tangles her fingers into a delicate knot that hangs at her pelvis. The light should be radiating from behind her – outlining her with an ethereal glow but it doesn’t. There should be a long shadow connecting us but oddly, there isn’t.

With the morose, patient calm of endlessness she says; It’s not for you to decide.

At this point, everything starts to blur. From behind me, way in the distance, someone is screaming into a tin can: “OMIGOD!” and “Holy shit!” and “Is he dead?!” as a pair of gray smudges close in and grab at me. Lift me. Pull me.

“For God’s sake be careful!” I hear, as my meditative serenity dissolves into a milky, white haze. It flashes bright in time to my heartbeat like a strobe, each time sending a spray of broken glass and needles into the back of my eyes. And now I’m standing. Or not; it’s hard to tell, I think. “Baby?” says a smudge, “It’s Amanda. Can you hear me?! Ah-ma-an-daaaahhhh…”

I can almost make out the shape of the woman in the kimono standing in… the shower? I point. Why are you here?!? I hear myself yelling: “LEAMELONE!!!”

“Goddamnit, snap out of it!” I’m slapped. Hard. And then just like that, I’m back in the bathroom with damp magazines, roommates, a hole in the wall and Amanda -- frantically searching my face for clarity or brain damage or whatever.

“Ow.” I say.

~~~

We’ve been standing here for a while now. She’s holding me tight to her, sobbing. I’d put my arms around her but she’s got them pinned to my sides so instead, I bend low, lean in and rest my head on the generous swell of her breasts. I tell her it’s OK. I’m OK. I’m sorry I scared you. Shh, shh -- that sort of thing but really, it’s me I’m trying to soothe.

She feels so good with her firm, plump body pressed into me... Her shabby robe, rumpled and off kilter, exposing her shoulders… She has this tattoo of a flaming ankh that fills the spot between her collar bone and the top of her cleavage. Most nights, I rest my head there and listen to her heart as she drifts to sleep, leaving me in the dark, alone with my thoughts. I start rocking slightly, gently, side to side; coaxing her chestnut hair free of its loose bun and releasing this scent of warm, spicy cinnamon and autumn leaves that lingers just under the faded, chemical stench of her trendy perfume. It smells so good and her compassion is so sincere that for a moment, I forget myself and tell her; “I love you.” It just slips out, like a sigh.

BIG mistake.

Before I know what’s happening, she rears back and punches me for all she’s worth right in the gut, which immediately doubles me over in a surprised cough.

“You FUCKER!” She shrieks. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!!!” She shoves me back then, spinning on her heel, jerking open the door (cracking that hole a little bit wider) and storms down the hall to her bedroom, making all the pictures on the wall shake and go crooked.

BAM! She slams the door and then opens it again while I’m still searching the floor for my breath; “And clean up that blood!” BAM! Again goes the door.

Yes dear, thank you dear. No, no please don’t fuss – I’m fine. Really, I got this you crazy fucking emotional retard you.

Taking a couple of deep breaths and using the napkins that are still clenched in my fist, I wipe up the small spatter of blood that I’m currently standing in, shut the door for privacy and then turn to face the mirror, giving myself the once-over.

“Damn.”

Reflected back at me isn’t me, it’s a cheap, dollar store Halloween mask of me. From my nosebleed, I’ve got this nasty blood moustache and the taste of dirty old pennies in my mouth. Amazingly, this makes me want a glass of chocolate milk. Shaking the thought away, I again dunk my head under the faucet for a fresh rinse.

This is your third seizure in a week, kiddo.

“Shuddup,” I tell myself.

Just as I start cleaning up, there’s a quick double rap at the door that pulls me back into the moment; “People live here y’know.”

That would be Christian, Amanda’s other roommate. We’ve never gotten along. Christian is one of those granola crunching, spazoid militant vegan assholes that picket local restaurants and fast food joints once a month screaming; ”Animal rights” and “Murder” as they wave disturbing pamphlets under your nose and throw buckets of red paint at little old, fur-clad ladies.

I get it. I do. The pollution thing isn’t being handled right, farmland isn’t being rotated often enough and we should at the least try to treat our animals with more benevolence but c’mon -- it’s not like cows walk up to you and say; “I moo, therefore I am.” Besides, if these people really wanted to make a difference, they’d surrender their cell phones, take themselves off the grid and go till wide expanses of land with charcoal.

I said this to the swishy little fuck the day we met, which was just after he nailed my steak dinner to a makeshift cross and hung it over the stove and just before I crammed one of those frigging pamphlets of his down his throat.

If not for Sean jumping in when he did, we might have put each other in the hospital. Christian’s wispy, brightly colored and kinda fem but he’s fast and hard, spends a lot of time in the gym and knows how to throw a punch.

Later, with Christian out and about in “Christianland” doing whatever the hell he does when he’s not flopped out on the couch stoned stupid, Sean and I hit up the corner taqueria and split a burrito the size of a small dog. We talked about everything from tits to politics, had a few laughs at Christian’s expense and came up with a much more creative way for me to get back at him for crucifying my steak.

There’s another quick double rap that I promptly ignore; “Hello?! Asshole?!”

I check my eyes, unsure of what I expect to find. They’re clear, focused, kinda grey -- pupils the same size. I fake a smile. Both sides go up, same as always. I run a twist of napkin up each nostril to clear away clots of blood when I catch my right hand trembling a little. Just your nerves kiddo, don’t sweat it. When I stand-up straight again, I see that someone has drawn a cartoon goatee on the mirror. Sean. Has to be. At five nine, he’s a good ten inches shorter than me which puts his doodle around the base of my neck. I squat down a bit, fitting a snarl between the rough marker lines and chuckle, despite myself.

I’ve always liked Sean. He’s good people. He’s that creepy loner, the standard issue rebel guy we’ve all known at some point in our lives: black boots, black jeans, black oversized coat, faux-hawk; cheap sunglasses. The only thing that ever seems to change is the pithy slogan scrawled across his shirt proclaiming his anti-conformity or what particular a-tonal screamer band is currently bleeding out of his taped up headphones. The fact that he flunked out of art school after his first semester and is now one of the top tattooists in the city just makes him all the more heroic.

What sets the guy apart, aside from being completely covered in ink from the neck down, is his Zen-like take on the world, making him pretty much cool with everybody; everybody that is, except for Christian who unfortunately, seems to have a thing for scrawny straight guys and apparently can’t take “no” for an answer.

So anyway… later that night, after the whole “passion of the steak” thing and just after Christian got home; I showed up with a bottle of Bacardi 151 and called for a truce. It wasn’t a hard sell. Christian pounded back shot after shot of what we now call “Blackout Juice” while Sean, Amanda and I did shots of what was actually bottled water. After about an hour and a half, we got him so blinding drunk, that he passed out in the hallway naked, thinking he’d found his bedroom. The next day, Christian awoke not just to the worst hangover of his life but also to find that we’d used a big, black permanent marker to section off his whole body like a butcher’s cutting chart and had him hog-tied on the kitchen counter.

Since then, Sean has been able to leave his door unlocked at night and as for Christian and I well, these days, we mostly stay out of each other’s way.

There’s yet another double rap at the door: “Hey, if you’re done having your little drama, I need to take a shit.”

As I throw open the door and push past him I say; “You don’t take a shit, Chrissy, you leave it.”

...

Paradigm

2008-10-29T19:07:00.004-05:00

This is another entry taken from my private journal. I was recalling a conversation with a friend who, not too long ago, engaged me in a talk on objectification which segued into artistic philosophy; my favorite topic. Later that night I jotted down a few notes with the intent on revisiting these ideas, became distracted by my easel and subsequently forgot all about it.

Recently, I came across said notes which sparked the following line of thought:

~~~

I am confounded, daily, by the ebb and flow of tangible practicality and the ether of possibility. There is a nagging sense of being lost; adrift in numeric calculations, historical palindromes and the crudely rendered abominations of humanity that incessantly clang about in my peripheral thinking, humming. There is a tether of will and determination anchored just behind my eyes that holds fast my concept of reality. This is how I hide: how I can foolishly plow through my seemingly non-sequential days without screaming.

Is this Zen?

When I paint, this tether unspools, releasing me into the smothering embrace of creative methodology. Christians, Jews, Muslims, even Atheists, filling their emptiness with self validating subjugation, are sadly off point. This is god. This is what life is.

In the name of the line, the pigment; the wholly mad muse, I am born again: baptized in tangent thinking and mediums and subjectivity. As awareness in this rebirth deepens, it becomes increasingly difficult to perpetuate the falseness of a linear existence. Instead, my attention is diverted to the unseen and the unheard which, in turn, leaves me vulnerable and bare; a conduit of unfiltered perception.

Socially, it is believed that one should not objectify another. Obviously, I agree that no one should be treated like an inanimate object however, as an artist; objectification is a vital skill to be mastered. Without it, it is impossible to correctly manifest an honest artistic interpretation.

Everywhere I look, everything I see, comes with a detailed schematic outlining the every day. I am constantly aware of Vanishing Points, geometric patterns and the color of light. When I meet someone, I do not see a person called “John” or “Mary;” I see planes and angles, calligraphic lines and subtle variations in hue that represent “John” or “Mary.” When I’m working, this is a useful tic. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can turn on or off. Making eye contact can therefore be problematic, especially when I am horribly and vividly aware of so many origins and insertions and joints and tendons and movements and processes…

If I had to draw a summation of my life’s work thus far, I’d have to say it’s been an illustrated depiction of a troubled mind stumbling about in the dark: desperate for light.

In light there is art and in art I trust.

Be My Minion!

2008-10-08T09:13:00.003-05:00

Hi!

I was passing some time while waiting for the art supply store to open and decided to take a geek break with the old blog here...

Seems you can now "follow" a blog... Hmmm. kinda like having a friends list on Myspace or Facebook or whatever. Neat. Apparently, this nifty new thingy lets readers publicly subscribe to your blog (so you know who's reading) and adds a Reading List to your Blogger Dashboard so readers can stay updated with the blogs they follow. I just started "following" certain blogs by certain friends (ahem) and as I said a moment ago: neat.

The idea here is to encourage folks to tune into your blog more than once because, and I quote: "Readers often visit a blog and enjoy it but fail to return." This is, I think, a great way to build an audience ESPECIALLY for those looking to be published... Check your Dashboard for the 411, yo.

(hint, hint, wink, wink, nudge, nudge -- say-no-more)

More Tasty BOUNCER News And Excerpt :

2008-10-05T11:47:00.003-05:00

Dear avid reader,

This years' novel challenge is shaping up to be quite the exciting venture!

I've been working on my story with a different, more organic approach lately and I find it all very freeing. I had this outline, you see. It roughed out the beginning, middle and more importantly, the end. (The end, was actually my starting point.) From there I worked in reverse logic to determine the beginning. Well... A few days ago, I said "Fuck it," put that shit away and decided to just let my main character tell the story to me in his own words, his own way, instead of me browbeating him with mine.

I don't know if you quite get what I mean, but I think you might.

The most exhilarating part of this revelation, is that It's the precise polar opposite to how I approach my easel... When I first thought up this tale, it was part of a healing process. A way of putting some of my past behind me so that I could focus on the road ahead. Now, by paying less attention to my outline and setting myself on auto pilot, I finally feel like I can do that. Also, the story has suddenly taken a life of its own.

Funny, that.

The following is a random excerpt from earlier this week. Enjoy.

~~~

Sundays, just after communion and with Dad indiscriminately tonguing the consecrated host off the roof of his mouth: Mom frantically blessing herself every time he did, we would quickly and quietly sneak out the side door and pile into the Pontiac for our weekly outing. Depending on whom you asked, the outing was either Dad showing off whatever he had recently done to the car or Mom on the prowl for a garage sale. That was her thing: “Suburban archeology.” Even more so than her garden, “crap hunting,” as Dad called it, was her passion. Not just any crap though. It had to be uniquely grotesque:

* Hand-painted, “His and Her” gypsy luck dolls stuffed with monopoly money.
* Giant spoon and or fork illustrated with a scene from the bible.
* The Mona Lisa, painstakingly replicated through macaroni.

Mom’s treasures were so hideously garish, that they crossed a line into what Dad dubbed as; “Craptacular.” Personally, I was just glad for any excuse to get out of church early. Saint Mary of the Immaculate Stigmata sported what was then the most coveted crucifix in the entire church diocese. It was donated by a cardinal who was the youngest brother of the Widow Sinelli, our pastors’ mother and local midwife. The life sized wood carving that hung as the focal point above the altar, was horribly realistic, historically accurate and no matter where I sat, the pained glare of Jesus’ beady, passionate eyes locked with mine.

His apparent resentment was unnerving to say the least.

So, when Mom started shrieking; “Oh my GOD!” and “Stop the car!!” all the while punching Dad in the shoulder, I knew something terrifically awful was just moments away.

“Hey! Jesus Fucking Christ, woman, what the hell?!” Dad was hunching his shoulders, laughing and pressing himself up against the driver’s side window in a sad attempt at avoiding Moms enthusiasm.

“Stop the friggin’ car you dufus!!!” Mom was nearly hysterical with manic glee. By the time Dad slammed on the brakes, sending me flying face first into the back of his seat, Mom was half-way across the Colangelo’s lawn towards this weeks Holy Grail. Dad shook his head, smiling.

“Well, go on boy,” He said, gesturing in the direction of his wife, “go help your mother.” This, when asked, is how I spent my summers: cruising the neighborhood in Dad’s project car and me making up stories about whatever odd thing Mom had cradled in her lap at the time.

For me, the stories were the best part of our outings. I liked cars because Dad liked cars. I liked weird junk because Mom did but making up stories… that was my thing, since always, and I fucking loved it. But I never really took it seriously until the day Mom found her lamp. Her awful, awful lamp. As I came upon what could have easily been mistaken for a swap meet, I could see Mom carefully scrutinizing the terrible object of her desire:

The lamp.

It was a poor recreation of Michelangelo’s “La Pieta” cast in gold-plated, bronze miniature. Shimmery strands of micro filament rained down from beneath the metallic, yellow and fringed baroque shade in lazy diagonals that carried endless droplets of heated oil from under the shade’s armature, to the lamp’s base where, if you listened carefully, you could hear the subtle BZZZ of a tiny pump embedded deep within the crestfallen Madonna that moved the oil back up through a small tube, concealed by the bronze rod that housed the wiring that ultimately made this monstrosity possible. It was so perfectly vile, so unbelievably piteous, that it bordered on epic. So epic in fact, that Mom practically hurled herself out of a moving car to get to it.

“It’s GORGEOUS!” Tears welled in Moms eyes. “How much?” A diminutive, ancient man with only six fingers and a thumb hobbled up beside her.

“Eeesah magnifico, si?” His accent was thick and syrupy. “For you,” he said, with a wave of his hand, “sixteen-ah fifty.” Mom stiffened, ready to haggle.

“Per questa parte di merda?! Sei Pazzo!” She spat at the mans feet. “Five dollars.” Realizing that this could take a while, I decided to see what else this old man was unloading.

* Box of moldy Playboys from twenty years ago.
* One of the first ever telephones.
* Incomplete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica.
* Broken recliner.
* Stack of Mario Lanza albums.
* Rack of suits in various stages of disrepair.

Basically, the Colangelos owned a whole lot of nothing. I looked back towards where the lamp was and saw Mom and the old man trading obscenities and making rude gestures at each other, when I suddenly noticed a lopsided folding table wedged between a bookcase and a couple of rusty ten speeds. On this folding table sat a typewriter. It was inky black with chrome trim and hand painted gold letters on the keys. The noonday sun slipped across its high gloss surface with showroom sheen before balancing gingerly on the return lever. I walked casually towards it, faking interest in the occasional music box or snow globe or lawn jockey… all the while diverting as much attention from myself and the typewriter as possible. My heart raced faster as I got closer. A single sheet of fresh paper was rolled through the carriage: “1942 Royal typewriter. Like new! Make offer.” I was pretty sure that the two bucks in my pocket wouldn’t be enough so, I just stared at it, memorizing every line, every glistening curve, completely unaware that Mom was calling after me.

“Hey Kiddo, I -- Wow, look what you found!” I turned to her, mouth agape and then back to the typewriter and then back to Mom, unable to speak. A look I had never seen before whisked across her face, splitting her lips into an almost Cheshire grin as she reached into her purse, pulled out a twenty, turned back to old man Colangelo and with aplomb, stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Throw in this typewriter and you have a deal.” The Old man wrenched up his face and glared at her a moment before offering her a quick nod.

“Okay.”

~~~

BOUNCER News

2008-09-30T08:37:00.002-05:00

Minions,

Last year, I decided that I wasn't stressed out or busy enough so, I began writing a novel. You may have seen some excerpts posted here. Anyhow, my lovely and brilliant wife has rounded up the usual suspects and begun the countdown to Gwen's Novel Writing Challenge 2: Revenge of the syntax.

There are seven this time. Lucky seven. All waiting with itchy fingers and sweaty palms for midnight to strike.

I have read over my book -- such as it is -- made some notes and am planning to pick up where I left off with the hopes that I can finish up by Halloween.

I can then celebrate by trick or treating and gorging on tiny chocolates and candy corn.

:)

Act of Contrition

2008-09-20T11:52:00.006-05:00

Bless me, friends, for I have sinned.
It's been six months since my last blog posting...
~~~
I marvel, from time to time, at the irony of contemporary living. A year ago, I made a few friends via a small online community founded by my wife, Gwen, for creative purposes. A sort of digital retreat for like minded right-brainers. Since then, these new friendships have grown into something precious even though we still, in actuality, have yet to meet.

It is due to the encouragement of these new friends then, that I am making the bold move of posting something really real. I write often since always. Mostly, it's in my private journal that I keep hidden from everything and everybody, leaving this blog for more edited content and my other (at Myspace) for more "art oriented newslettery things" or the occasional punk-guy rant. Until last year and excluding "filler and fluff," I never put anything I had written "out there."

The "real stuff" I write for me, so I won't forget anything worth remembering.

Thing is, I mostly write when I'm troubled. My happy times are spent painting and lounging about in my pajamas with my wife; celebrating each other.

A few weeks ago, I caught myself being hypocritical. I can often be heard preaching the need for artists to be honest with their work. That is, don't hold back. Do it because it's in you and needs to be done, etc, etc. It then hit me that, while I am excessively honest with my visual art, I have not been forthcoming with my writing. At least, not publicly. That makes me, for the lack of a better term, "radio friendly."

We can't have that now can we?

SO. The following is taken from my personal journal corrected, but unedited.

~~~

Wednesday.

I have been floating in and out of a nasty depression for nearly a year and not knowing exactly why or how to get past it is really frustrating the hell out of me. It’s the longest low I can recall, even since the dark times of my 20’s. It’s bad. I keep getting tripped up by intrusive thinking. I think about what it’d be like to let myself drown in the tub or to overdose on pain medication or what throwing myself under a speeding truck might feel like; a mouthful of coppery blood, dislocation, Cadaver Expasim. The big question realized. It’s more existential musing than an actual plan for suicide.

This is when, in the past, I’d cut myself; small gashes on my thighs, my arms – my chest.

The need to cut is difficult to explain, like the need to drink or the need to fix or the need to cum; the sudden flood of adrenaline, the hot rush of survival, the purity of release. For a few moments you live in a sense of aching oneness, of absolute calm. In those few moments, there’s only right now.

Right now, I’m cut.
Right now, there’s blood.
Right now, I’m alive.

If you accept that psychology is actually a science and not just a dull reflection of carnival fortune telling, then I am what convention refers to as a “High Functioning, Rapid Cycling Bipolar.” Whatever.

Fuck convention.

As an artist, I am at peace with my mental hiccups and consider myself in good company:

Vangough.
Poe.
Cobain.

An unrestful mind, a conflicted temperament; it’s the price of clarity.

So now, over the years and through considerable effort, I have become – for better or worse – self aware. This roughly translates to me being able to recognize when I’m spiraling up or crashing down, whether it’s due to some outside circumstance or if it’s merely chemical and then, how to deal with it. Yet despite my best attempts at optimism, positive influences and outlets – even self-analytical reasoning – I still get down. I can’t help it. I’m upset and can’t quite put my finger on why. This doesn’t, however, mean I need to be drugged.

Been there.
Done that.
Moved on.

And, this isn’t to say that I haven’t gotten caught up in the occasional quick fix. Call it a lapse in judgment, but really, truly, medication just isn’t an option for me; I learned that the hard way. Pills are an easy convenience that society uses to sweep us under the carpet. Detachment is the new American way, after all. I mean, why learn how to cope and take hold of your own life when you can just shut down and let someone else do it for you? Whether we’re talking about Lamictal or Heroin, Lithium or Bourbon, Zoloft or Marijuana, all it really is, is a numbing agent, an escape. It doesn’t actually help you; it just pacifies you so that those around you can stop feeling bad about themselves.

Frankly, I’m better than that so, I box. I push myself to the breaking point, fighting through the hurt until I’m high with exhaustion. Perhaps, it’s the manifestation of internalized conflict looking for closure or maybe it’s a baser, alpha need to hit something. The means don’t concern me, only the ends. The ends of course, being a coping mechanism that allows me to reset; to keep from going numb and at the least, I’m not cutting anymore.

I realize that this line of thinking can make people very uncomfortable. I’m OK with that. Maybe they worry and want to help in some way. Maybe they’ve been there. I couldn’t say. Maybe they really do want to help or maybe -- they’re just afraid of this level of honesty.

…

Random excerpt from: BOUNCER

2008-03-26T09:28:00.005-05:00

Bouncer - 2:6:1-7

After my usual shit, shower and shave, I’m spinning through the Lustral’s over-sized revolving doors towards my neighborhoods last remaining refuge;

The “Brainwash.”

If you’ve ever flipped through a National Geographic or perused the Discovery Channel or – at least – been to high school, then you know; the ability to survive hinges on the ability to adapt.

This also holds true in the business world.

In defiant reaction to the past decade’s flailing economy, the city has begun to evolve by breaking out into a pandemic of creatively trendy, multi-purpose business establishments. It’s not a used book store anymore; it’s an art gallery with an espresso machine and a toaster that just happens to sell used books or, perhaps, it’s an ethnic “fusion” restaurant and bar with a cabaret license and an open mic. In this case however, the Brainwash is a laundromat cleverly disguised as an Internet cafe with a bi-weekly poetry night. Upon entering, you might notice the pseudo-iconic, religious candles lining the windows or that the ceiling is edged with terrifically cheesy red, star-shaped twinkle lights’. Every available wall of this kitch Shangri-La has been brightly indoctrinated with framed collages of old Maytag pin-up propaganda. All the tables and chairs, which look as though they were rescued from the city dump, are very purposely mismatched, reconditioned and then arraigned into careful disarray. If you close your eyes -- and this is my favorite part -- you might hear a lone saxophone preaching in time to the HUM-SH-SH of thirty plus washers or maybe even a few words from the gospel according to Miles Davis weaving in and around the FOOM-CHIK-FOOM of a double load dryer or, like now, the moody wisdom of a local cellist stuffed into a corner, weeping a quiet hallelujah.

It's brilliant, it’s convenient, and it reeks pleasantly of fabric softener and coffee.

As I cross the brushed aluminum threshold of the Brainwash, it’s all I can do just to keep myself from genuflecting.

Lucky In Love

2008-02-14T13:22:00.005-06:00

Ah, Valentine’s Day… The big let-down:

“It’s so commercial!”
“It’s sexist!!”
“Happy couples make me sick!!!”

Fuck you all.

I do not share your cynicism of Valentine’s Day...

I've always loved it, stupid red hearts and all. Maybe it’s just me that the retail gods cater to – don’t know, don’t care. What I do know is that I can’t seem to get enough of the mushy sentimentality, cherry cordials and random “humpings.” Call me a “hopeless romantic” if you like, I take it as a compliment.

Sure, if you’re alone – in whatever capacity and for whatever reason – VD can be about as fun as slamming your wobbly bits in a drawer over and over and over and over again.

I get that. I’ve been there. I understand disappointment. Trust me – I’ve sifted through enough idiotic, self absorbed, shallow, over-grown, pseudo intellectual, “why doesn’t the world revolve around me” women than I’m comfortable admitting. So much so, that just before meeting my perfect somebody, I had come to the conclusion that anything I could get from a woman I could just as easily get from a bottle of hand cream.

Yeah, that's right -- fuck you Candace Bushnell -- a good woman is just as hard to find.

(Oops! There I go ranting again...)

So. My advice? Don’t set yourself up for failure by “expecting” anything from your (insert comfortable euphemism here) – That’s as stupid as it is selfish and you will – more than likely – be disappointed. Set the bar a little lower and let yourself be pleasantly surprised. After all, Valentine’s Day is just supposed to be an excuse to take things up a notch.

Nothing more.

(please keep your corporate conspiracy theories to yourself)

Go out there and kick some ass… have fun. Be silly. If you're single -- take this as an opportunity to do something completely stupid and spontaneous because the bottom line kiddies, is this: the whole “Romance thing” goes both ways. That is, what you get out of a relationship is directly proportionate to what you put into it.

Always and without exception.

Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day!!!

I know, I Know...

2008-02-13T19:34:00.001-06:00

Sorry that I've been so lax in my blogging... I've got a BIG "two-man show" coming up in a few weeks and until yesterday -- had no $$$ to buy the ever-so-important supplies that I need to produce my work.

(Yikes!)

So for the time being, I'll be locked away in my studio alternately painting, building and crumpling myself into a corner -- weeping.

ARGH.

2008-01-14T14:52:00.001-06:00

So. I've been hearing from some of you; "Hey, how's that novel of yours coming along?"

"Is it done yet?"
"Is it done yet?"
"Is it done yet?"

NO. It is not. I seem to have a bad case of Imagination Constipation. That is, I have writer's block. I must. I sit at the computer everyday for about an hour and stare hopelessly at that goddamned blinking cursor wishing something would happen.

Monkeys flying out of my butt.
Spontaneous combustion.
Anything.

But nothing does so, I just read over what I have written.

Again and again and again and again and again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again and again...

The Squirrels

2008-01-06T15:23:00.000-06:00

Excerpt taken from my field journal:

December 30th, Day 100. 27 degrees Fahrenheit.

Personal commentary:
Midwestern squirrels, who – I've decided – are all named Buddy and Loretta, are a completely different breed than their wussy and malnourished, chain smoking city cousins. If you've visited NYC or SFO then you know the type: skinny, kinda nervous, fucked up tail… to me they always look a little like they just got their asses handed to them by a gang of mutant pigeons or something…

(shudder)

Observations:
At any rate, the ones here in the North-Eastern corner of Chicago, look very much like they've spent some time in the gym doing Pilate's or perhaps; spinning. Every morning at approximately sun-up, they congregate atop the dumpster in the alley behind my apartment complex, drinking coffee, joking and talking smack about the neighbors as they peruse electrical schematics of the city…

To be sure, they've unionized.

Sometimes, as I'm hiding in the bushes, I see them running wire up to the power lines or coaxial cable along the ground to certain trees or even siphoning gas from nearby SUVs.

As much as I'd like to, I dare not approach them.

Last week, (Day 96) soon after I got settled into my usual observation point, I watched – rather stupefied, as a local kid, wrapped comically in a red and grey argyle scarf, burst out of seemingly nowhere and – armed to the teeth with tightly packed snowballs – proceeded to launch an obviously well planned (if not completely unprovoked) ground-to-air-strike against the squirrel community during one of their morning meetings when, sadly, they are at their most vulnerable.

With grim fascination, I looked on in horror as Buddy – who had just opened his thermos for what was to be his first cup of coffee for the day -- took two slushballs to the chest and one to the head. Loretta, with no regard for her own safety, ran to him, crushing his limp body to her snow-splattered bosom, screaming; "Squeak squeaker squeak squeak!" again and again; "Squeak squeaker squeak squeak!!" as a barrage of snow and ice exploded around her.

The rest of the squirrels – unsure of what had just happened – ran for cover as the local kid who, by the way, never once appeared to break stride, ducked down another alley where he immediately vanished behind what was later determined to be a disemboweled, late model Chevy.

Now, days later, just as Loretta finishes scattering Buddy's ashes at the foot of the dumpster, a large, balding squirrel – Buddy – approaches and is handing her a neatly folded, red and grey argyle scarf.

As I say; Fascinating.

Perhaps justice was served and perhaps it wasn't. I do not judge, only observe. For me, day 96 shall forever be the day I witnessed my first run-by snowballing and while I hope it's my last, I can see now that this is the beginning of something much, much larger...

Bouncer Excerpt #3

2007-11-19T12:39:00.002-06:00

Hey there fiction fans!

I am reposting this section (Today is: 02/24/09) because -- as mentioned -- after taking a break from my story in order to generate some much needed income, I had to re-read what I had in order to get back into it and therefore be able to pick up where I left off. In doing so, I inserted a few "missing" scenes here and there and inadvertently re wrote the following section. I know, "you're not supposed to revise or edit as you go" BUT what can I say...

The following scene happens just moments after the main character gets word that he's terminal...

As always, I welcome constructive critiques as they help me to develop my writing...

...

I set myself on auto pilot and begin shouldering my way into the dense throng of late morning foot traffic. It’s a short five block walk back to my room at the Lustral Arms but right now, it feels like miles. People fast forward around me, eyes down, wires spilling out of their ears; actively avoiding one another.

Ridiculous.

They seem blissfully unaware of their spot in the grand funeral procession, insanely scurrying towards uncertain ends and deadlines. I hate them. For their ignorance, for their indefinite lifespan, for “living their blind lives in blindness;” I hate every mother-fucking last one of them.

Get home kiddo; you need some down time... maybe do a little writing.

Home. Once you’re out on your own, what exactly is home? If it’s where you’re from, then I haven’t been home in years. If it’s where your heart is, then it’s probably in a gutter somewhere, forgotten but if it’s just a place to keep your stuff, a place to crash or run away to, then home -- is the Lustral.

In the nineteen thirties, forties and fifties, the Lustral Arms was this fancy, art deco residence hotel centrally located in what was once the heart of the city’s theater district. Its bone white, steel and neon futurist façade stood against the twilight like a cultural beacon, drawing swarms of Tony award winning beauty and talent to the plush confines of its silver, glass and black checkered interior. In its heyday, it was THE place to see and be seen.

Not so much anymore.

Over the years, as corrupt land developers lapped at the city’s sweet spots and as fickle scenesters either became distracted or died off, rents got increased, general interest waned and my part of town inevitably gave way to the higher profit margin of gentlemen’s clubs, adult emporiums and first-run, all nude reviews. This, along with years of poorly managed city politics, is what initially stripped the Lustral of its former glory leaving it faded, warped and in its own way; brooding. Now, everywhere you go it’s triple “X” this and girl on girl that. Boldly colored flyers of bulging Speedos and tasseled women with freakish, veiny, beach-ball tits drift aimlessly on the wind like autumn leaves. They cling to every post, every boarded up window and clog every storm drain, every sewer grate. No matter where you turn, you are continuously assaulted by the clitter-clatter of rent-a-girls and their high clicking, platformed stiletto heels.

With the Lustral eating up the horizon and only three more blocks to go, I round the corner of eighth, pick up my pace and start up Main when suddenly, I’m going against the flow of traffic. Fabulous. “Against the flow.” It could be the title of my memoirs, if I had the time to write them. Step aside folks -- dead man walking here.

“Stop it,” I say aloud.

As I get ever closer to my mailing address, I cross the imaginary line that separates the downtown area from what is now the red light district and watch with grim fascination as the reach of gentrification tapers off, exposing the city’s diseased underbelly. Is it really any wonder that the Lustral has since become the hot sheet epicenter of the local city skin trade? If you were to take a cursory glance through the registrar, you might notice that these days, the Lustral only caters to a very small, very exclusive list of clientele:

* Mr. and Mrs. John Doe.
* The smiths.
* Miller and Miller.

For the first time “guest,” the Lustral offers the in and out rate of thirty dollars an hour. For a buck twenty five, a seasoned pro with a solid client base can rent a room by the week. For four bills paid in cash advance, the top two floors of the Lustral’s six are set aside for month-to-month residents like; part time dealers, full time club kids and guys like me who, for whatever reason, choose to live in anonymity.

Small fists begin to knock at my temples. I reach into my pocket and pull out my prescription. Eight hundred milligrams. Contains codeine. Take with food. Heavy duty – no shit.

“Jesus.”

I pop the lid and shake a couple out into my mouth, chewing them unpleasantly. “Ping-pong ball… Corpus Callosum”… I just can’t wrap my mind around it. Except for these headaches and the occasional fish-flop on the floor, I feel fine. Well, maybe not fine per se, but not like I’m gonna kick off either.

Just… normal.

The light changes from green to yellow to red as I reach an intersection, the little man replaced by a flashing hand.

* Stop.
* No passage.
* Halt.

I cross anyway. A cab screeches around me, blaring its horn; yelling something demeaning. I flip it off without slowing or turning or even really caring.

Dr. Howard’s gotta be talking out of his ass. I can’t be dying. I haven’t even made the Time's best sellers list yet.

About half a block up, I see a suit blast out of one of those cookie cutter corporate cafés, turn and start heading straight for me, briefcase in one hand, a fresh cigarette and a cup of coffee in the other. He’s got a phone pinned to his ear with his shoulder and is barking about some meeting and who was going to get fucked by whom, totally oblivious to anything, including the very large, angry man closing the distance directly in front of him.

In moments like this, Common Courtesy says:

* Swerve right.
* Say; “excuse me” as you walk pass.
* Avoid incident.

Today, Common Courtesy can politely suck my dick. I square my shoulders, lower my head and brace for impact. Seconds later, the suit crashes into me full force like a bird into a glass sliding door sending him sprawling backward, arms pin wheeling in an explosion of proposals and latte. I stoop down, grab a sheet of paper – something with a pie chart on it and wipe his drink off my steel toes. The suits mouth is opening and shutting, stupefied. I crumple the page and toss it at his gaping mouth as I step over him.“Watch where you’re going, pinstripe.”

...

Bouncer: Cover to Cover

2007-11-16T12:06:00.000-06:00

You might be looking at this wondering;
"Damn! Did he get his book published already!?!"

No, no I didn't. Someday, maybe -- but not just yet.
(I still have to finish writing it first!)

What you are looking at, is the product of my insomnia. I have been reacquainting myself with the publishing world in hopes of bringing in some supplemental income while I get myself rooted in my new surroundings. So, what you see here is basically practice. I do like how it came out however, so I think I will probobly end up using it as the E-cover of the E-book that I will eventually E-produce.

Bouncer Excerpt #2 (expanded repost)

2007-11-04T07:33:00.001-06:00

Like so many times before, I find myself walking up the rickety flight of stairs that lead to what used to be the attic in our old house. It’s dark and I can’t see anything except for the light that creeps out from under the door at the top. Way, way at the top.

Clackclackclickityclackclack

All of my movements are slow and deliberate as I reach for the doorknob. I can hear my breathing, my heart – laboring under the strain.

Clackclackclickityclackclack

There’s a rusty, rattle-CLINK as the door creaks open. Across from me, is a large, circular window – the front of the house -- through which I can see a field of luxuriously succulent, impossibly green grass that stretches forever in every direction and out across the low-slung, sweeping hills in the distance.

Clackclackclickityclackclack

There are boxes neatly stacked in regimented groups throughout the room. In the shadows, they become threatening and gigantic like the city during a blackout. The light from the window casts a bright spot on the floor in which a young boy sits cross-legged in a pool of his own shadow.

Clackclackclickityclackclack-TING!

He is hunched over a black, antique typewriter, furiously pounding at its keys. What are you writing? I have to find out so, I move towards him, decades of dust swirling like a heavy mist around my feet. It’s when he turns to look up at me, his eyes dark and punched out, that I realize it isn’t his shadow he’s sitting in but blood. It runs like a torrent from gashes on either side of his throat. His face has the waxy, sunk in paleness of a science lab cadaver and it only takes me a second to realize that the kid -- is me.

His voice is dry and raspy but clear and accusatory; “It should have been you.” With that, the wall behind him erupts into flame and that’s when I wake up screaming into my pillow.

Every goddamned time.

Before I let myself do anything else, I reach under the mattress, fish out my second oldest journal, flip open the cover and enter a new hash mark to my tally. Four rows times five columns make twenty groups of five or, a hundred times I’ve watched my childhood burst into flames.

Awesome.

There are times like this, as I lie shuddering between my crumby old comforter and the two large futons that serve as my bed, when I wonder if I’m actually capable of having other dreams. I’m sure I must, but for the life of me I can’t seem to think of a single one and this mess… just keeps lingering on like a nagging, persistent cough.

Well, at least I finally managed to get some sleep, right?

As shaken and disoriented as I am, the cacophony of squealing brakes, rattling sound systems and cursing, angry pedestrians wafting up through the only window of my rink-a-dink, twelve foot by twelve foot fortress of solitude tells me three important things:

* It’s about four o’clock.
* Rush hour is just beginning.
* It’s time for me to get my ass in gear and start the day.

…

C’mon Kiddo, you can do this: beat the odds, survive… you’ve done it before. I’m standing in front of the full length mirror that the previous tenant had thoughtfully left nailed to the wall for me, running my fingers over and around the raised, perforated bite marks that rest just above my shoulders on either side of my neck, remembering.

Thanks to that stupid dog, every time the weather changes or turns suddenly cold, the scars flare up, turn red and itch. And itch and itch and itch and itch and itch and itch until I think I might snap and then, out of spite, they go ahead and itch some more.

Goddamned bastard came out of fucking nowhere.

Two big steps and I’m back on the other side of the room, rolling up the blinds to reveal my spectacular view of the neighboring brick wall. It’s so close that if I were to reach my hand out, I could touch it.

Luckily, (insert a double thumbs up from the doctor here) Adolph had just barely missed tearing through the major arteries that go up and down either side of my sternocleidomastoid or jugular or throat and clamped instead, through the trapezius and onto my spine.

“Mio piccolo miracolo,” Mom had said.

Ha. Some miracle. I meander back across the room and past the bookcase, which is actually just a long row of recycled, double-stacked milk crates carefully crammed with every book I’ve ever read – to the small utility sink, hot plate and mini fridge that the building super jokingly refers to as an “efficiency kitchen.”

(Insert me choking on my own laughter here)

If you and I were sitting in a café somewhere nursing our emasculating coffee drinks and, while waggling your finger at my pair of connect-the-dots, you asked me about the attack, all I’d be able to do is parrot back the police report and try not to be annoyed by your pity, because the thing is: I don’t remember it.

And that would be true… but not entirely.

What I wouldn’t tell you and what I’ve never told anyone before, happened in the ambulance on my way to the emergency room while one paramedic pounded on my chest and the other one forced air into my lungs…

I was hardly conscious.

Everything felt detached as though I were a voyeur in my own life. Mom, who was still wearing her gardening gloves and big floppy hat, was sitting next to me, weeping and praying hysterically. Next to her, towards the back and completely out of place, stood a very pale woman in an even paler dress with her fingers tangled into a delicate knot that hung at her pelvis.

She smiled at me. Hello little one.

The paramedic who had been punching me in the heart yelled something to someone, somewhere but I couldn’t make any of it out over the din of the sirens and the alarms and then something pinched my hand and everything started to blur and fade and then; nothing.

Nothing that is, except for a light, gentle breeze.

Pouring myself a tumbler of orange juice, I can’t help but marvel at the supreme power of simple cause and effect. More than anything else, this is what keeps me up at night.

The glider.

It seems so innocuous that this cheap, piece-of-shit, balsawood glider could be the harbinger of such misery. Sometimes I’ll ask myself; “What if I hadn’t gone after it? Would things have turned out differently or would the glider have merely shown up again as something else?” This, I’ve decided, is exactly the line of questioning you should never ask yourself: “What if?”

WHAT IF Dad – in a fit of patriarchal rage hadn’t left the emergency room that night, sped home, gotten his service pistol from his old footlocker, stormed into the neighbors’ yard and B-BOOM: put Adolph down?

WHAT IF our neighbor hadn’t gotten drunk the following night and out of some sort of child-like revenge, set fire to the new seats that Dad had gotten for the Pontiac and had stashed on the rear porch?

WHAT IF the propane tanks hadn’t been there, would the fire still have gotten out of control so quickly as to totally engulf the house? Would our good neighbor have thought twice if he’d known that Mom and Dad were trapped upstairs, passed out on their bed after waiting all night to hear back from the hospital about me? As far as I’m concerned, “What if” is a question better left unanswered...

...

If My Creative Writing Teacher Could Only See Me Now...

2007-10-25T13:00:00.001-05:00

For those who are curious, I am WAY behind in my word count.

In retrospect, with so many things demanding my attention such as, three new art shows, networking opportunities and seeking out some supplemental income, this may not have been the best month for me to do this "challenge."

(insert a smirk and a shrug here)

While it's true that I will most likely not finish the book in the next six days, I am going to continue at my current pace until I do. (I'll worry about revisions later)

So far, this has been a terrific growing experience for me and I must say; I'm very pleased with what I've written... I think it's fairly solid and may actually be publishable one day...

Letter To My Mother

2007-10-11T18:35:00.000-05:00

Today, I did the hardest thing I've ever had to do: I took control of my life and put an end to a lifetime of emotional and psychological abuse. The following is the letter I sent to my mother. It is my first attempt at communication since January of this year.

I’ve been putting off writing this letter mostly because I was too angry to write it. Today, I felt clear-headed enough to do this...

The reason you haven’t heard from me and why I have dropped off the map is because of you. When you ask yourself why is this happening and whose to blame – you are.

This is all your fault.

Last Christmas, while you were driving the New York family nuts, the west coast clan did something we never did before: we talked.

And talked and talked and talked.

It was as though I was meeting my family for the first time and I have to say; it was easily the best holiday I’ve ever had.

Since my short stint in New York, I have been confronting all the members of my family about EVERYTHING you ever told me about them over the years. Imagine my rage as I have learned that none of it is true. Why you selfishly kept everyone away from me my whole life… Told me lies about them so I wouldn’t want to know them and stay away… I’ll never know and frankly, I could care less.

All I do know is that I wasted a good 25 years of my life being angry about things that don’t exist. I hated myself because I believed that everyone else hated me and I couldn’t understand why.

The intense isolation. The depression. The suicide attempts.

All of these things – based on lies that you told me -- Lies that I believed because I trusted you. Why would I NOT believe my own mother? At this point, I’m left with no choice but to disregard everything you’ve ever said.

What’s wrong with you?! How could you do this to your own son? Are you really that selfish?? That controlling and manipulative???

(at least now, I am getting a second chance at the life I’ve always hoped for)

I’ve learned that this is nothing new… Yes, I heard what you said to the Florida family about me. I worked so hard to clean that shit hole you live in, give it a fresh coat of paint and make it something bright and cheerful and pleasant again… for what? So you can bad mouth me behind my back?? Insult my wife and her family??? Fuck you.

I might consider a reconciliation if you:

1. Seek psychological counseling and
2. Tell the entire family that you are a liar and apologize to them.

AFTER you’ve done this and under the supervision of your therapist I will consider seeing and speaking to you again. This last condition is mostly because I don’t want to be alone in the same room with you, as you’re bad for my mental health, but also because I won’t believe you if you tell me that you’re getting help.

Sleep in the bed you’ve made.

In Art I Trust

2007-10-07T09:53:00.000-05:00

As I draw a close to this: the first week of this beautifully insane experiment, I am reminded of how emotionally, psychologically and physically taxing the creative process can be.

The terror.
The bubbling insecurities and self doubt.
The figurative self-flagellation.

I won't let this stop me. If this was easy, I wouldn't care and I'd never do it. Take my uncle: without even trying, he's this sickeningly talented artist but It comes so easy, that he's never taken it anywhere. It just doesn't matter to him. On the other hand, it's taken me something like twenty one years of continuous suffrage -- pushing myself beyond my limits -- to get where I'm at right now. The crazy part is, as far as I'm concerned and after all my efforts to this point -- I STILL feel like it's not enough.

It will never be enough, that's why I keep doing it -- trying to outdo myself with every brush stroke, every layout. I know that as an artist, I have to let go and give in to the madness.

That's the point.

Bouncer Excerpt

2007-10-05T07:54:00.001-05:00

Just as I was about to sign out, I read my little "mission statemnet" at the top and realized that I have been mostly posting a blow-by-blow account of my novels progress.

This has inspired me to be brave and post the following excerpt but first, as it is out of context, allow me a chance to set it up.

Bouncer, to be very, VERY brief, is the story of Daemon Castellucci in the last few months of his life. Before the following scene, the main character has suffered a nasty seizure at his girlfriends apartment, has a "vision" of death (taken from the asian legend of the "waiting woman"). and is now with his doctor getting looked at. Please keep in mind that this is from a first draft and is therefore a bit rough...

“Say ahhhhhh…”

I’ve been putting off seeing Dr. Howard, who is the only Neuro-Oncologist accessible through the free clinic, for the last couple of months. “Does this hurt?” He says this as he flashes a pen light into my eye; first the left, then the right.

It hurts like hell doc, thanks for asking.
“No.”

It’s been six months since my migraines turned out, instead, to be a malignant tumor planted so deep into my left temple that it makes any kind of surgery pretty much out of the question.

“Uh-huh, that’s why you flinched, right? “ He raises my arm and presses into my pit; first the left, then the right.

Radiation therapy might help but given the size and location of the tumor, I run the risk of potential brain damage. Nobody wants that.

“I flinched,” I say, “because that’s what people do when you try to blind them.”

Radio surgery, which is the newest thing, bumps my chances for survival up to seventy, maybe eighty percent. Of course, not having any kind of insurance makes this all a frustratingly moot point, if not unreasonably expensive.

“I see.” He presses his thumbs into either side of my throat, just under my jaw line; first the left, then the right.

To add insult to injury, when I did try to get insurance, I was denied because of my “pre-existing condition.” I fought it as best I could saying how I only just found out and I work for myself and how this sucked and how my death would be on their heads…

And blah,
Blah,
Blah.

In the end, I was deemed “uninsurable” and not being able to pay for my treatment out of pocket or having the means to move to a country with socialized medicine, I did what any guy like me might do, given this situation – I went to the nearest biker bar and picked a fight with the biggest cum-stain I could find.

“Is there any tenderness when I Press here or… here?” He digs his cold, dry fingers into the side of my crotch; first the left, then the right.

“If I say yes,” straining a grin, “will you stop poking me?”

“Mr. Castellucci,” he says wearily, “If you’re not going to be honest with me, how am I supposed to help you?” I stand; buckle my pants and go to grab my shirt off of the blood pressure machine in the corner when I see her -- skin like winter cream, hair the midnight sky, kimono -- the woman.

Oh shit. She smiles at me. Talk about deja vue.

“Mr. Castellucci?” Shaking off the vision, I turn back to Dr. Howard.

“Huh?” I look at him quizzically. C’mon kiddo – focus.

Getting back on track, I reply; “You can’t help me, isn’t that right?” He shifts his feet, clears his throat and then tells his shoes;

“Well, maybe if we had caught it a little sooner.”

(Insert a long, uncomfortable silence here)

In his white lab coat and small, round spectacles, Dr. Howard, who -- I notice -- looks much the way “Colonel Sanders” would have looked if he didn’t have that stupid beard, breaks the tension by asking; “If I’m of no help to you, then why waste my time?” Obviously a little irritated, He motions to the door, “I have a whole room full of sick people out there desperate for my help. Why are you here?”

That's a good goddamned question, Doc.
“Fuck! I don’t know…” I throw up my hands and plop back down on the exam table, half dressed. “Gotta start somewhere, I guess.” Mindlessly, I rub at the indented scar where the pathologist drilled into my head.

These days, they use a giant, cartoon needle to get a sample of a tumor to do a biopsy. It’s less intrusive than your typical miniature circular saw of once upon a time.

“You could try taking the medication I keep prescribing you.” This he says as he reaches for his prescription pad.

I shake my head as I pull my shirt back on. “No. No pills. Besides, I told you,” still rubbing my head; “They fuck me up and I can’t write. It’s like waking up one day to find that you’re suddenly illiterate.” This is true. In the beginning, I was on an impressive cocktail of steroids, which are meant to slow down the growth of the tumor and prevent the brain from swelling and anti-convulsants, which are supposed to control the seizures that until recently, I wasn’t having. Unfortunately, and this was a real deal breaker for me, the two together shut off that intangible and often times difficult to define “something” from which stories and the occasional bit of witty commentary are born… it’s a side effect that somehow never made the label:

WARNING! Possible side effects may include but are not limited to; High blood pressure, water retention and/or rapid weight gain, high cholesterol, disorientation, conjunctivitis, bloody stool, hemophilia, swelling of the hands and feet, vomit that looks like coffee grounds, tremors, ADD, hepatitis, malaise, sexual dysfunction, rash, urinary tract infection, flatulence, lupus, sinus infection and in rare cases – death.

So much for natural selection.

“Seriously,“ I continue, “Why even fucking bother!?”

Using the rehearsed ease of a man who has had to say this more than once, Dr. Howard takes a slow, deep breath, leans back against the small hand-sink, folds his arms and -- looking over the top of his glasses at me -- says simply; “They help.”

Condescending son-of-a-fucking-bitch! “By making me a bedridden ZOMBIE?! How does that help?” I jump down off off the exam table with a satisfying THUMP and start pacing around the room, gesturing wildly; “Will taking my PRECIOUS medication make it GO AWAY or DISSOLVE it or…or… keep it from fucking killing me, you smug PRICK?!?”

It’s seeing Dr. Howard suddenly wide-eyed and quailing in the corner that ultimately defuses me, just as a nurse and two big orderlies spontaneously appear at the door. Beyond them, I can see Dr. Howard’s room full of desperate patients whispering among themselves and grabbing hold of their screaming, choleric children who are all craning their necks for a better view of the condemned.

Damnit. At what point in my life did I become Frankenstein’s monster?

For what has to be a full, lingering minute, no one says or does anything. It’s as if some little kid ran through the room yelling; “RED LIGHT!” And now, frozen by my seemingly irrational outburst, I look at the nurse who looks at the doctor who looks at the orderlies who both look at me: the big, scary, hulking guy pitching a fit in exam room number two.

Nice. Way to play it cool, Assface.

I'm so pissed off, I can feel my heart beating in my eyes so, I shut them, take a breath and wait for some else to say something.

When I open my eyes, Dr. Howard has sent the nurse and her goons away, shut the door and is rolling a small, metal stool towards me. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down.” I take the seat and start to violently grind into my eyes with my palms, not because they hurt or because I’m tired but because I can feel myself tearing up.

Dr. Howard grabs a chair and in one slick motion, flips it around, sits, rests his arms on the back and looks up into my face. “How are the headaches?”

I can’t look him in the eye, I might lose it. “Bad.”

He nods. “Any seizures?”

“Three this week.” I say. “Last one was earlier this morning.” He nods again.

“Are these the first?” My turn to nod.

“Uh-huh," he says; "You working tonight?” I nod again. Thursday through Sunday nights, I bounce at the city’s hottest spot: The Club Toronado. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s home to the city’s original “Mashup Master:” Dj Muthahumper or “Humpyomama” or whatever the hell his name is. I’ve had the same schedule now for almost five years: eight pm to four am and if I say you don’t get in --

You don’t get in.

"Any hallucinations or blackouts?” Out of the corner of my eye I can see the woman in the kimono wearing a stethoscope and rooting around in Dr. Howard’s supply cabinet for who-knows-what.

“That kinda depends on what you’d consider a hallucination,” I say. This, for some reason, makes him smile.

“Y’know,” he begins, “I was honestly surprised to see you just stroll on in here like you did today.”

There’s that uncomfortable silence again.

This time, I break the tension; “So -- what happens now?”

Dr. Howard pulls his prescription pad out of his pocket, scribbles something on it, rips it free and pushes it into my hand. “Before you say anything, this just for heavy duty ibuprofen. If you take it to the downstairs pharmacy – there’s no charge. It’ll help with your headaches so, by all means, take as much as you need as often as you need it.” He pauses like he’s flipping a mental coin then, continuing; “I don’t know about you, Mr. Castellucci but I’m sick of this game. Here’s what’s happening now: you have a rare and untreatable, advancing, grade two Astrocytoma roughly the size of a ping-pong ball invading your Corpus Callosum. How you’re not already dead is nothing short of a miracle.” He pauses for effect. “What you need to do, if you haven’t already, is get your effects in order. Today.”

He scribbles something else on his pad, tears it loose and hands it to me. “This is my personal number, if you need anything – even if it’s just to talk, you call me, day or night, OK?”

I mutter something like a thank you.

Seconds tick away like gunshots, ringing in my ears and catching in my throat. Fuck. I hold still, like a giant clenched fist and stare at Dr. Howard’s phone number, completely dumbstruck. Then, more to myself, I say; “There’s nothing I can do to stop this, is there?”

Dr. Howard stands, pats his hand on my shoulder and almost whispers; “I’m sorry Daemon, no.” And then following whatever internal stage direction he’s got going on, he crosses the room to the door, opens it and just before leaving calls back;

“Take as much time as you need.”

In a sick, Shakespearian sorta way, that’s almost funny.

Almost.

Got Something To Say?

2007-10-05T07:42:00.000-05:00

It was brought to my attention that the comment thing wasn't working right. I have now fixed it.

As Day Five Begins

2007-10-05T07:08:00.001-05:00

Current word count: 6,100

Yesterday, I hit a bit of a wall. I know what I want to have happen next, but am unsure of how to get my character from where he was, to where he needs to be. So, I instead wrote about a thousand words that'll be later inserted into the story at (some point) as an excerpt taken from one of his journals. Hopefully, by today's end, I'll have been able to get him to his next destination and myself back on track.

Notes On Day Three

2007-10-04T07:22:00.001-05:00

Well, here it is: day four of my ambitious novel writing adventure!

Day three went well, though I came in about 300 words shy of my goal. I'm not worried, however, as the story seems to be taking shape and has now begun to develop it's own momentum. As silly as the writing kit may seem, it is teaching me how to get around creative blocks that -- in the past -- would stop me cold. In my painting life, this is a valuable skill to master.

Still not sure if I should post a sample or not but I'm warming up to the idea.

As Day Two Ends and Day Three Begins

2007-10-03T07:24:00.001-05:00

Current word count: 4,456

Yeesh.

That's what I'd say if you asked me about yesterday; yeesh.

Maybe I would also throw a blanket over my head -- y'know, for effect.

It was rough. I stared at my screen for a good two hours not sure where the story wanted to go. My outline and notes just sat on the desk, totally useless. I started and stopped six times before I was able to assemble a complete thought. After a good shower and a quick walk around the block, I was finally able to turn out a couple pages of compelling, half-way decent dialogue just before flopping onto the floor and crawling into a fetal position.

I came in a little short of my days goal but considering I came in ahead the day before, I feel like it balances out. Also, I decided to test out a theory that Gwen had read to me from a book called "Writing From The Body;" Instead of waiting until I got to a stopping point, I cut off my character in mid thought with the hope that I'll be able to finish the thought today and then continue on without getting all jammed up.

Yeah, today will be better.

Bouncer: Day Two

2007-10-02T08:19:00.000-05:00

I opened my book with a quote:

“You can’t always get what you want but if you try sometimes, you might find you’ll get what you need.” –The Rolling Stones

This is the underlying theme of the narrative I have chosen to write.

So far, it has been quite the endeavor. I love geeking out and doing research... In this case, I have been reading up on brain tumors, seeing as this is the primary obstacle that my main character has to face. I feel it necessary, as I want his actions and motives to jive with real-life symptoms… Also, this is going to give me a chance to use some of the Humanistic insight I’ve picked up from my treks into World Religion, Philosophy and Theology. In a way, I’m writing a sort of modern parable though, in no way, is this a "Religious" book. How's that for vague?

That said, I think I'm ready to begin my next day.

Yay Me!!!

2007-10-01T14:00:00.001-05:00

Current and total word count: 3,200

Ok, my first day has been amazingly successful! I just read through what I did and it doesn't suck!! I At least, I don't think so... I don't know if I'm gonna post an excerpt yet... I'll give it more thought and get back to you...

Bouncer: Day One

2007-10-01T09:48:00.001-05:00

I am writing a novel.

Last Christmas, I bought my wife, Gwen – who is an aspiring author – a quirky novel writing “kit” as a way to help her get through a nasty creative block. It challenges you to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. The long and short of it is: she started and completed a novel in January. I was so proud! A couple of months ago, she got inspired to write another one… This time, she assembled a group of six writers (including myself), writing six very different novels throughout the 31 days of October. At 50,000 words each, that makes a grand total of 300,000 words. Yikes!

I’ve labeled this event as: Gwen’s Novel Writing Challenge.

For those interested, I will be posting my progress here. Daily word count, total word count and perhaps a short excerpt of my project though, to be honest, I’m sure of that just yet.

As I've never actually finished any writing project before in my life -- unless you count a couple of high school film parodies or the usual blog rant... I am, needless to say, more than a little nervous.

Somehow, I always manage to get distracted by bright colors.

Throughout college, I thought my dream was to become a Graphic Novelist but things change as we grow… This means that over the years, what I have ended up with is some really bad poetry, an ever growing collection of "scenes" and -- as is often the case -- a bunch of brilliantly entertaining to-do lists. So, here I am at the starting blocks… fingers at the home keys… holy shit.

A Begining

2007-09-23T07:13:00.000-05:00

The following is an excerpt taken from a story I hope to one day complete:

~~~ I Once read somewhere that “We are the imagination of ourselves...” – I’ve forgotten where – it could have been on a t-shirt, in a fortune cookie or in one of those shitty zines you find in shitty coffee shops… doesn’t matter. The point is, I never imagined my life turning out like this: wound up and twisted the wrong way.

Each of us starts out the same: a pure, shapeless lump of potential. I hate that word – “potential”. To me, it’s synonymous with “failure”. It means; "not good enough" or at best, “half assed”. Teachers tell parents that their kid has “potential” like it’s divine intervention. This wretched term translates to the parental ear as: “Your kid might discover a cure for cancer,” or “Your kid may become president,” or whatever their shortcomings and dis-proportioned expectations might be.

It seems that in many cases, these people only become parents to distract themselves from the sad truth of their own un-developed “potential.”

Sadly, when a teacher tells them that their kid has “potential”, all they’re really saying is that your kid’s not a retard – be happy…

My own family experience was no less frustrating. For my parents, having a child was an act of reconciliation… a way of vicariously reliving their own lives with a sharpened sense of hindsight – lucky me, I was their collaborated effort. Growing up, I envisioned carefully laid blueprints showing what on me was to go where and how.

“No, Dear,” My mother would say to my father, “That’s his arm.” I could see my father drinking gallons of milk and doubling up on iron and protein supplements months before clumsily coming too soon into my mother’s frustrated womb.

This is a night I often curse.

In my opinion, just because you can have children, doesn't mean you should. It often baffles me on how much bureaucratic bullshit you have to sift through just to obtain a driver’s license… Prospective parents, I think, should have to take a test.

“Sorry folks, you got 48 out of 100 points – 90 is passing.” BAM! Down comes the huge rubber stamp – ‘F’ in bright red neon. “Better luck next time.” This, of course, would send my father into a frenzy of male posturing.

“This is an outrage! Blah, blah, blah…” I can almost see him pounding on the table for punctuation as my mother calmly shoos him away. She always plays the good cop.

“Can’t you bend the rules this one time?” She’d have those blueprints out at this point, drawing the clerk in closer, making eye contact and slightly licking her perfectly lined lips; “We’ve been working on this for quite some time.” The clerk, no doubt, is watching his line zigzag out the front door.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he says severely, “No children for you.” He motions to a nearby security guard; “In fact, I’m sending this officer home with you to collect any plants or animals you may have. Good day.”

Ah, but only in a perfect world would such a scene transpire. As it happens, I was born into this world a healthy, unassuming, eight pound lump of –“potential...”