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.