Archive for October, 2009

Let the writing begin…

October 21, 2009

So, I started writing a bunch of stuff again. Thoughts for Farmingdale The Real Long Island flood my mind, as well as thoughts for stories, and screenplays. The time to put them down on computer screen are upon me, and I have to get to work on that. As soon as this God-Forsaken Spider bite diminishes. Holy fuck, I have had this spider bite for what seems like an eternity and finally it seems to be going away. According to a friend this is a normal spider bite and if it is I’m never leaving the house again. The shit that came out of this wound I will likely never forget, because it was a mixture of puss, blood, and overall fear that seeped out of the half-dollar sized swollen bite on my arm.

Regardless, I’m reading too, hell, I’m reading whatever I can get my hands on. Rolling Stone, the new Dan Brown The Lost Symbol, I’m reading The Informers again, also picked up the new Huston book My Dead Body and also reading People Die by Kevin Wignall again. I need all the prose I can get and what can I say, I like weird books. I started writing a blog a few nights ago, with the idea that I would post an excerpt of something I was writing up here, but I’m not going to do that just yet, because the shit I write is just too weird for anyone who doesn’t know me personally to read. Then again, what better way to get to know someone than to read their ridiculous writing.

Few things to know: my scribbles in no way shape or form represent who I am, the characters are a voice sure, but they’re just wacky-ass self-centered people who no regard for anyone else. They’re also based in the 80’s (most of the time), because that is a decade I surely love (except for the music;) and I personally dig wayfarers (sunglasses). Some of the stories are really out there, but they’re out there for a reason. People do drugs, they fuck, and they listen to 80’s rock & roll, at least they did.

Here’s an excerpt from the story Run Canyon:

There was always a sort-of hurried attitude to Cassidy. He was, you could say, a stickler for the dramatic in the sense that everything in his life had to have a cinematic undertone.  Maybe it was because everyone he knew and loved in his life had died, or maybe it was because he was just bat-shit crazy insane.

Cassidy calls and tells me he’s getting head from a prostitute on Melrose. He says, her name is Crystal and she’s a Virgo. He says, maybe she’s pregnant, she doesn’t know quite yet. I sigh, I light a cigarette and take a long drag picturing Cassidy getting head in the front seat of his Mazzerati and shooting a load on his gearshift. Then I wonder if the prostitute will swallow. I also wonder how much he’s paying her, but I don’t ask any of these questions. I instead accept a lunch date for two-thirty at Spago, and hang up the phone.

I’m jogging through the Canyon when my Walkman batteries die halfway through the new Pretenders album, so I turn around and go home. Katie is waiting by the pool with a copy of the Los Angeles Times. She has been crying and doing coke and quite possibly she’s had sex with someone. I drop my walkman on the table in between the chaise lounges and sit down opposite her, running my hand through my hair. I think maybe I need a haircut.

She holds the paper out to me, and there’s a review for her new movie Summer Kill in which she stars opposite this really popular Russian movie star, who learned English just for this movie. The reviews are not good, and Katie has good reason to cry, but that’s what you get for having a Russian in an American movie. I explain to her that the Russian wasn’t a good idea and she begins openly weeping about what a failure she is. I flip the paper over to sports and look at how the Dodgers are doing. Not well in fact, fifth place.

I set the paper down next to me and lean back on the chaise lounge and Katie sniffles and quiets down and then asks me in a whisper if I have any coke.

In my room, on the third floor, Katie and I are in the bathroom snorting coke off the bathroom counter. I open up the medicine cabinet and pull out a bottle of Advil and pop the top off of it. Instead of Advil being in the bottle, there are numerous pills with the letter “v” on them. The “v” is for Valium, which will bring me from an ecstatic level to a level where fucking Katie on the bathroom floor isn’t entirely out of the question.

I am a rock star, I am a rock star. I keep saying this while I’m inside of Katie, thrusting forward, my right hand clutching the bathtub for leverage, my left hand clamped to her side. I am a rock star.

I wake up and it’s dark outside, Katie is gone, and I’m lying naked in a puddle of urine. Jesus Christ, I fucking pissed the bed again. I realize that I need to stop taking valium after doing coke, because I almost always piss the bed after I black out.

-jd

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Stupid Heat.

October 13, 2009

It was a Monday just like any other one, I got up around one-thirty (despite the sleeping pill at 12am) and sat in front of the computer reading shit and drinking iced tea like it’s going out of style. I am currently unemployed and I’m pretty cool with that. It gives me time to work on the stories I’m currently writing, and the screenplays I’m currently polishing and gives me to time to catch up on all the TV shows that clutter my DVR/TiVO (I will refer to my DVR as a TiVO even though I don’t have a TiVO anymore just because it sounds cooler). Anyway, I let the dogs out and let them back in, give them a treat, pour myself some iced tea and head back downstairs to the dungeon. I work on a new screenplay I’m writing lets call it Red Dawn-meets-Die Hard, and get hungry so I drive to McDonald’s and grab food and head back home where I park my ass on the couch and watch a TiVO’d episode of One Tree Hill. Yes, I know, but I’ll tell you what, it’s too late to stop watching now.

I’ve become so addicted to this silly show that I can’t stop watching, did Nate cheat, or didn’t he cheat? Who knows or cares? It’s all about the prime time soapy show that continues to baffle me. Even without the lure of the big star Chad Michael Murray or the chick who cries every fucking episode Hilarie Burton I still watch and pray that it’s almost done with. I finish off the episode and there’s still no proof that Nate cheated (I know, right?). I figure after that, I have to reinstate my manhood, so I do a little more writing on a story I’m calling California Dreaming and drop down to watch a movie called Stan Helsing …no reviews here, but let me just tell you that I love Diora Baird, but this movie made suicide seem like the only option. I sat through this shit fest only after viewing the stupid Cartoon All-Stars to the Rescue from like twenty years ago (upon inspecting it was 19 years ago and some months). They were rescuing a confused boy from drugs. The Marijuana to be exact, and the only thing I learned from this movie is that if you smoke pot, a pot cloud follows you and sounds like George C Scott. I also learned that the guy who voiced Michelangelo in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon actually did the voice of the Tick in The Tick. Very cool.

After the Stan Helsing debacle, I head upstairs for the Monday Night Football game between the New York Jets and the Miami Dolphins, Dan-O and the Lez are in attendance, my dad is a half hour out, but comes just in time to see a Braylon Edwards TD. Just to get it out there, I’m a die-hard and I mean die-hard Jets fan. Living in Pennsylvania I don’t get too many of the games, but when I do, I’m screaming like a mother-fucking lunatic (I remember watching them end the Titans win streak last year and screaming so loud I had no voice afterward). Therefore this game, I was screaming like a lunatic watching a newly acquired Braylon Edwards finally arrive and then watch the Jets lose a close game to a Dolphin’s team that really deserved to win. I wish they would’ve won, but I’m so used to failure out of them, that it doesn’t really phase me anymore. Needless to say, a good amount of beers were consumed, so I’m pretty drunk when all is said and done and safely maneuver my way back downstairs and lay down in bed and watch How I met your Mother and The Big Bang Theory off the TiVO and pass out.

About two hours later, I wake up sweating my ass off with a ridiculous case of dry mouth and go upstairs drink twelve glasses of water and down three advils. I take a piss and head back downstairs and get back in bed and fall asleep for about two hours before waking up again sweating my ass off. Instead of turning down the head, I try to find the coldest place in the house (which happens to be the living room in the winter, or the third floor) and lay down on the couch and try to catch some z’s, but the z’s aren’t coming because I’m still molting. I get up, take a piss and go back downstairs where I pop on the Owl City album to give it another listen while writing a bit more. I take a break, watch the Toy Story 3 trailer which looks absolutely hilarious (at least Buzz in Spanish) and then I decide that five thirty isn’t a bad time to wake up.