Tag: Inspiration

love at first sight

Some jackass was pounding on my door at 10:30 in the morning. I opened up and a man stuck out his hand.

“I’m Gay,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Gayson Peters. I’m your new neighbor across the street.”

He was wearing an orange button up with khaki cargos and socks pulled all the way up to his knees.

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “Some money?”

“No. I’m inviting you to a barbecue that I’m having this afternoon.”

“Eh, I’m hungover,” I said. “Can’t make it”

“That’s okay, I’ll be serving free alcohol. Just come over and get drunk again.”

“I’ll see you this afternoon.”

I threw on a clean pair of pants (no underwear) and flipped my shirt inside out. I grabbed a bag of pretzels so that I didn’t look like a complete asshole for not bringing anything.

When I arrived, my new neighbor handed me a plate. “No thank you, Gayson,” I said, “I’m just here for the booze.”

“Please, call me Gay.”

I got really drunk. As I was hanging out in the backyard trying not to barf, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.

“Got a light sweetheart?” she asked.

I handed her my lighter. She was about 50 something. Blond hair. Definitely had a smoker’s voice.

“Have you known Gay for long?” she asked.

“Since this morning.”

“I’m his mom.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

I walked up to the hot tub and barfed my guts out. When I finished, I walked back to her.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “So you’re Gay’s mom. What’s that like?”

“He’s an asshole,” she replied. “Got any kids?”

“Probably.”

“How old are you?”

“I dunno. Somewhere between 28 and 74.”

She took one last drag from her cigarette then flicked it away. “Well this party is pretty lame,” she said. “Why don’t you come on over to my place and have some drinks? My name’s Lucinda.”

“Sure thing, Lucinda.”

Her apartment was a converted storage unit. It was littered with old Penthouse mags, newspapers, and an endless supply of glue. She stepped out of the shower and walked into the kitchen. In fact, the shower was in the kitchen.

“Sorry that my tits are flopping out,” Lucinda said. “I have no clean towels.”

“That’s okay. I haven’t had an erection in years. Too much prescription meds and internet pornography.”

She seemed to blow a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” she said. “I can’t have sex. Vag is all dried up.”

I poured a drink and raised a toast. “To my dead ass dick!” I said.

We sat down on the couch and I began flipping through the channels.

“Sorry,” Lucinda said. “But the only thing this TV picks up is Designing Women.”

I turned my head and looked deep into her eyes. “I love Designing Women,” I said.

There was some energy between us. We shared a moment.

When Major Dad came on, I had to take a shit. “Do you need any toilet paper?” she asked.

“Nope. Never used it.”

As I blew up the toilet behind paper thin walls, I though that I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.

“I clogged the toilet,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t going nowhere.”

I sat back down on the couch. As we laughed at Gerald McRaney’s shenanigans, I reached out to hold her hand. She rested her head on my shoulder. Then she let out the most disgusting fart.

“I need to change my underwear,” she said.

It was the happiest night of my life.

THE END

charles “rowdy reggie” jackson

Charles Jackson was an author that kinda got lost in the shuffle of 20th century alcoholic writers.

His life was tragic. Naturally.

Jackson appeared to have lived a mostly closeted life. He suffered from tuberculosis, losing a lung, which led to alcohol and substance abuse. He died of apparent suicide in 1968.

Blake Bailey wrote a biography of Jackson titles Farther and Wilder: The Lost Weekends and Literary Dreams of Charles Jackson. Unlike every other book I talk about here, I might actually read that one.

The Lost Weekend is Jackson’s most famous work. Billy Wilder adapted it into a film in 1945. While the book was successful upon its release, it is now largely forgotten in the American canon.

The second chapter of the The Lost Weekend is probably the most harrowing description of being an alcoholic ever written. And while I thought the book was fantastic as a whole, I actually found Jackson’s second novel The Fall of Valor to be much more engrossing.

And unfortunately it’s been totally forgotten.

The Fall of Valor is about a man vacationing with his wife in Nantucket who suddenly becomes obsessed with a recently married Marine captain on leave from World War II. The blatant homosexual overtones were ahead of their time upon its release in 1946, but the novel is powerful in its exploration on the dissolution of relationships and masculinity.

Jackson’s style can get a little long winded at times, which bogged down The Lost Weekend at certain points. But it pays off in second novel. Jackson was an astute observer of human nature. He’s seen the dark side and knows what people are thinking even when they aren’t aware of it themselves. All of this comes together in a heartbreaking conclusion for The Fall of Valor.

Anywho, no jokes. That’s all I got.

Bye ✋

Freaky deaky Saturday iii: let’s get this over with

The unsatisfying conclusion to my worst short story

“I’m driving,” Susan said as she grabbed the keys to my Porsche (or Lamborghini, Ferrari, or whatever it is that I drive). “Wear something skimpy.”

Susan, in my body, made me wear a short skirt. No panties. (As a reminder, I am in Susan’s body)

Susan pounded a pint of whisky as she drove like a maniac. She reached over the console to feel up my skirt.

“Where did you last see this warlock?” she asked.

“It was down this dark and dingy back alley.”

So we parked in the alleyway. As I got out of the car, a homeless man came up to me. “Hey baby,” he said, “mind if I take that pooter for a spin?”

Susan pulled out a .45. “Back off buddy,” she said. “She’s with me.”

“Jesus! I was just asking about the car!” the homeless man replied. Then he went back to shitting in a piss-stained corner.

“How did you find my .45?” I asked Susan.

“It was already in my jacket pocket,” she replied. “What are you, some kind of psycho?”

The warlock was on the other side of the dumpster. He was schooling some kids on a game of knucklebones.

“Scram kids,” Susan said.

“Fuck off old man,” one of them replied. “Don’t make me cut you open!”

Susan once again pulled out the .45 and fired a round into the air. One of the kids pulled a straight razor and held it to my throat.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” the kid said.

“Yes,” Susan replied. She then lowered the pistol and fired a shot between his eyes.

As the kid’s body fell to the ground, the others ran off. Susan grabbed me by the arm and held me close.

“Did that turn you on?” she asked.

It did. But I said nothing.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” the warlock asked. “That kid owed me $20.”

“Put us back into our own bodies,” Susan said.

“What? Are you high?” he replied.

“You’re the warlock that cursed me yesterday when I hit you with my car,” I said. “Now I’m in her body and she’s in mine!”

“Warlock? Sweetheart, I’m just a dirty homeless man that lives behind a dumpster and grifts kids out of money.”

Susan and I look at each other. “Then why didn’t you take the money when I offered it to you?” I asked.

“I dunno. I was probably high on MDMA or something. I get hit by cars all the time!”

Susan began pounding the whiskey again. “Welp, this was a waste of time,” she said. “Oh well, let’s go.”

“What are we gonna do about this dead body?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” the “warlock” said. “People die back here all the time. It’ll be fine.”

We got back in the car. The two of us sat in silence for a moment. “I guess we’re stuck in these bodies for the rest of our lives,” Susan said.

“I guess so.”

“Wanna go back to my place and fuck?”

“Sure,” I said. “But what’s with that gimp?”

THE END 🤷‍♂️

breathing is underrated 2

Now I do have to breathe like everyone else

But I walk around with a mask and oxygen tank.

I don’t breathe the same fart-tinged air that you all do. That’s disgusting.

But there ain’t nothing that a deep breath can’t fix.

Pissed off in traffic? Take a deep breath.

Standing at the ATM when someone puts a .22 to your back? Breathing can fix that.

Got an itchy trigger finger in Home Depot and want to take your frustrations at the world out on yourself or others? Just breathe.

Everything will be alright.

If things get REALLY bad, just shut the garage door, turn on the car, then sit back and relax 😀

So calm down, chill, be cool 😎

ac/dc

It’s never a good idea to drop acid around Halloween. But definitely make an exception for Highway To Hell (1991)

Is it funny?

Not really.

But then again, I’ve never laughed before.

Yet where Highway to Hell lacks in being funny, it makes up for in imagination. It’s certainly a more enjoyable journey through hell than say What Dreams May Come. (Hellraiser II slams as well)

Honestly, I don’t remember the plot. Something to do with Kristi Swanson getting kidnapped by a cop from hell and her boyfriend attempts a rescue. Ben and Jerry Stiller make an appearance. So do Lita Ford’s boobs.

But what makes this movie stand out (other than Lita Ford’s boobs) is it’s eclectic mix of genres and lack of fucks given.

The special effects are mostly shit, but who cares? Obviously they were trying and they get an easy A for effort.

Kids forget, but there was a time when people actually tried to make memorable films. Even when they are clearly taking the piss out of you it’s a more engaging experience than most Oscar bate that’s trotted year after year nowadays.

Hell, modern schlock sucks too. Just a bunch of dorks behind a computer throwing “special effects” on the screen like that’s supposed to be impressive. They don’t care anymore. As long as it makes $11 trillion at the box office, everything’s fine.

So shout out to Highway to Hell (and to Lita Ford’s boobs)

another underrated experience: walking

“What are you going to say now James? That you’ve never walked a step in your life?”

That is correct.

But I get the appeal.

And I’m not talking about “hiking” or “speed walking”. That’s some white people bullshit.

I’m talking about walking in a straight line on a flat plane. It’s great: putting one foot in front of the other, just wondering aimlessly because you’ve got nowhere to go because you’re unemployed and your kids won’t talk to you.

Nothing beats it.

Except for black tar heroin.

lawrence! merry christmas 😀

Damn it! I wish someone hadn’t stolen my copy of Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.

It’s my favorite holiday movie!

Seriously though, it’s probably my favorite POW film. The first time you watch it, it’s kinda underwhelming. Certainly not the kind of thing you’d expect from the director of In the Realm of the Senses.

But it’s actually one of the rare films that get better the more you watch it.

David Bowie plays a British soldier, Jack Celliers, who is taken captive by the Japanese during WWII. The camp commander, played by Japanese musician Ryuichi Sakamoto, becomes obsessed with him. Bowie and Sakamoto, not known for their acting, actually carry the film quite well.

Meanwhile, Tom Conti’s Col. Lawrence and Takeshi Kitano’s Sgt. Hara have a contentious yet mutually admirable relationship.

The emotional highlight of the film is when Lawrence and Celliers get locked up and scheduled for execution. The two confide in each other some of their regrets. We’re shown flashbacks of Celliers high class upbringing and his relationship with his younger brother. Lucky for them, it’s Christmas. Sgt. Hara gets drunk and grants the two of them a reprieve.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence,” Hara says.

At the conclusion of the film, the shoe’s on the other foot. Hara is a POW yet Lawrence is unable to prevent his execution.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence is unusual for a war film in that rather than focusing on death and carnage, it explores human relationships, understanding, love, and regret.

I just wish whoever borrowed my copy would return it 😢

That would make my fuckin Christmas!