So, I've not been able to write for a while, fiction at least. For the zine (which is fucking out and stapled and beautiful) I've written a couple things which we still need to workshop. One is an essay on the beauty of karaoke and the other is a conversation with Chuck Palahniuk which I'm fairly pleased with.
At the moment I'm sitting in my room staring at the houndstooth fabric on my wall, drinking a delicious Oberon and smoking some American Spirits and I am writing some fiction and it feels good and it's vaguely therapeutic. So until I finish this story here is a little piece of it. By the by, the name is directly influenced by Biz Markie
A Girl Named Blah Blah Blah
When did I start smoking? When the fucking dreams wouldn’t stop. When Morpheus decided I was the perfect target for his rage.
The dreams were, of course, about a girl, Blah Blah Blah. I had a much better name picked out for her but, you know what, I really don’t feel like she deserves it now so I’m going with Blah Blah Blah. It was a good name too. A sweet name. It fit with how I saw her at the time but looking back, she deserves a worse name. A name that really says something about her character, her personality. Something that conveys to you, the reader, my true emotions or feelings or whatever I feel toward this girl. I figure Blah Blah Blah is a very nondescript moniker apt to riding some happy median between blind devotion and shear detest.
This girl left me hard. She tricked me into liking her, something I usually try to do to girls successfully or otherwise. It could have been my own fault, I can’t really say. A couple weeks before I’d met her I’d just gotten out of a four year relationship with a girl that saw me as husband material for some reason. I was out in the open and not looking for much but I found Blah Blah Blah by chance. We were both at a show for a local band in which we had mutual friends. I came alone and she did as well and at some point I found myself outside with Blah Blah Blah just talking about, well, nothing in general. We were going through drinks and discussions and everything else. We got to the topic of where we went to high school. I told her I went to St. Charles for a couple years. She then proceeded to ask if someone jumped out of there or something. Didn’t someone try to kill themselves there? Yes, in fact, that was me. I was that kid, am that kid. She was in shock and a little embarrassed. I thought it was hilarious. I mean, I didn’t succeed so it’s kind of funny that she mentioned it, right? I don’t know, funny to me.
Whatever game I was or was not spitting, it worked. At the end of the show she hinted at lamenting her night being over so I offered we go to the Dube to end the evening right. She agreed and I was doing well. After my fried mac and cheese balls were finished I took her back to her car, got a hug and her number, and was on top of the world.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Roger - Another Short
A brief story I wrote for a reading. The essential story of how one might get arrested.
Brenda and Eddie liked to argue. Just about as much as they liked to fuck afterwards. This was the particular joy for Brenda. The arguing that is, not the sex. Brenda hadn’t enjoyed sex since the surgery. The surgery also made her completely unable to deal with what she saw as bullshit. That made things particularly difficult with Eddie, as he lived his life fueled by talking his way out of things and conforming whenever it seemed beneficial. This did not fit well with Brenda.
They were arguing about how Eddie told his boss he would be “happy” to come in on Sunday. Then they argued about Brenda being boring, specifically her inability to get enjoyment out of anything. Brenda blamed Eddie for that.
Eddie learned at the beginning of there relationship that it was best to pull the car over when they argued. His best weapon against Brenda was his ability to look her in the eye for longer than she was comfortable with (which since the surgery was anytime at all). Brenda’s defense was simple, change the subject as much as possible. If they got on one subject he would win. She knew that.
Brenda talked about Eddie’s ex-girlfriends, his drunk friends, his drinking, his cooking, his bad writing, how he won’t sleep at her place, how he doesn’t “get” her, and especially how he (with no explanation) refused to read her poetry. Eddie was starting to get tired and the whiskey was hitting him pretty hard, but he knew he had to make some retort.
The police cruiser pulled behind Eddie’s car before they put the lights on, blinding the passengers. Brenda felt an immediate guilt for starting the argument.
“Can you talk yourself out of it?” she asked Eddie. His head hung low and a smile of complete acceptance washed over his face. He ended the argument the same way he always did.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I never fuck you right or make enough bread I know.”
Brenda and Eddie liked to argue. Just about as much as they liked to fuck afterwards. This was the particular joy for Brenda. The arguing that is, not the sex. Brenda hadn’t enjoyed sex since the surgery. The surgery also made her completely unable to deal with what she saw as bullshit. That made things particularly difficult with Eddie, as he lived his life fueled by talking his way out of things and conforming whenever it seemed beneficial. This did not fit well with Brenda.
They were arguing about how Eddie told his boss he would be “happy” to come in on Sunday. Then they argued about Brenda being boring, specifically her inability to get enjoyment out of anything. Brenda blamed Eddie for that.
Eddie learned at the beginning of there relationship that it was best to pull the car over when they argued. His best weapon against Brenda was his ability to look her in the eye for longer than she was comfortable with (which since the surgery was anytime at all). Brenda’s defense was simple, change the subject as much as possible. If they got on one subject he would win. She knew that.
Brenda talked about Eddie’s ex-girlfriends, his drunk friends, his drinking, his cooking, his bad writing, how he won’t sleep at her place, how he doesn’t “get” her, and especially how he (with no explanation) refused to read her poetry. Eddie was starting to get tired and the whiskey was hitting him pretty hard, but he knew he had to make some retort.
The police cruiser pulled behind Eddie’s car before they put the lights on, blinding the passengers. Brenda felt an immediate guilt for starting the argument.
“Can you talk yourself out of it?” she asked Eddie. His head hung low and a smile of complete acceptance washed over his face. He ended the argument the same way he always did.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I never fuck you right or make enough bread I know.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Roger - Judgement
I never liked the subways here. Not like the ones back home. Not, home, per se. But back in my city. Maybe that’s what the problem is: I’m all too aware this isn’t my city. But he took my city away from me. With one shot in the night that thug took it all from me. But he didn’t realize what he was triggering. Now I had to take it away from all of them.
The stairs between the subway underground and the street can tell you a lot about a city. In my city they make sure those steps sparkle. Here, it is complete rubbish, covered in newspapers, food, and excrement. But when a town is run by the mob and the rich with there fancy limousines and their drivers, so no one ever sees the piss sliding down the stairs from the drunk at the top. It’ll be the first thing I do when I take this place over. Well, second thing. Right after I kill Bruce.
Across the street from the opera house an old woman drops to the ground with her bag of groceries. No one stops to help. I don’t understand people anymore; they won’t eve protect themselves. Surrounded by all this poverty and gunshots and funerals and they still haven’t realized that if everyone would just help each other out a bit, things would be better. But what am I saying? Humans just aren’t capable. They can’t do anything with out forcing them to do it. I know that. After years of trying to run the League, I know they just aren’t capable of making decisions. So I will make them for them. I don’t have to worry about their warped sense of self preservation. Because I’m not one of them. “Ticket please! You need as ticket mister!” the teller yells at me as I walk in the opera. A group of ushers approach with those stupid covered flashlights. They wave them around after I disappear to the balcony, like their muted lights would ever show anything but an aisle and seat number. Bruce’s problem is he’s the easiest person in the world to find when he’s not on the job. You just have to find the swankiest event and town and find the most garish balcony seats and the most attractive girl and sure enough, he’s there. An old man sings on the stage in German about his father. The music is beautiful. I’ll let them keep that afterwards. Music, that is. They don’t screw that up.
“Alfred! If you could remain with the young lady and escort her home when the opera is finished it would be much appreciated.” He says something assuring in the woman’s ear and any complaint she could possibly have melts away. He’s nothing but cheap tricks, on the job and with people. Not like me. He is not like me.
We exit the back of the opera house and I can’t help but wonder if that still bothers him. If paranoia ever sits in. I know I’ll never feel right in an alley again after what that man did to Lois. I can’t hear Bruce anymore. All I see when I look at him is the only man who stands in my way. The only man who could ever take me down. The only man who could bring about my demise. Yes, this is the best place to do it, in the same alley his parents died. “I’m sorry about Lois,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Clark he calls me.
“I am not Clark anymore.”
The stairs between the subway underground and the street can tell you a lot about a city. In my city they make sure those steps sparkle. Here, it is complete rubbish, covered in newspapers, food, and excrement. But when a town is run by the mob and the rich with there fancy limousines and their drivers, so no one ever sees the piss sliding down the stairs from the drunk at the top. It’ll be the first thing I do when I take this place over. Well, second thing. Right after I kill Bruce.
Across the street from the opera house an old woman drops to the ground with her bag of groceries. No one stops to help. I don’t understand people anymore; they won’t eve protect themselves. Surrounded by all this poverty and gunshots and funerals and they still haven’t realized that if everyone would just help each other out a bit, things would be better. But what am I saying? Humans just aren’t capable. They can’t do anything with out forcing them to do it. I know that. After years of trying to run the League, I know they just aren’t capable of making decisions. So I will make them for them. I don’t have to worry about their warped sense of self preservation. Because I’m not one of them. “Ticket please! You need as ticket mister!” the teller yells at me as I walk in the opera. A group of ushers approach with those stupid covered flashlights. They wave them around after I disappear to the balcony, like their muted lights would ever show anything but an aisle and seat number. Bruce’s problem is he’s the easiest person in the world to find when he’s not on the job. You just have to find the swankiest event and town and find the most garish balcony seats and the most attractive girl and sure enough, he’s there. An old man sings on the stage in German about his father. The music is beautiful. I’ll let them keep that afterwards. Music, that is. They don’t screw that up.
“Alfred! If you could remain with the young lady and escort her home when the opera is finished it would be much appreciated.” He says something assuring in the woman’s ear and any complaint she could possibly have melts away. He’s nothing but cheap tricks, on the job and with people. Not like me. He is not like me.
We exit the back of the opera house and I can’t help but wonder if that still bothers him. If paranoia ever sits in. I know I’ll never feel right in an alley again after what that man did to Lois. I can’t hear Bruce anymore. All I see when I look at him is the only man who stands in my way. The only man who could ever take me down. The only man who could bring about my demise. Yes, this is the best place to do it, in the same alley his parents died. “I’m sorry about Lois,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Clark he calls me.
“I am not Clark anymore.”
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Roger: Are you playing your love game?
Did you miss us? We have completed and are publishing a zine entitle "Death by Dragonry: Issue 1." We will be distributing it around the city and I'll try and we are working with a few people to try and get it on the interwebs. Speaking of which, did you know that graphic artists are the least reliable people on the planet? It took us forever to find someone to actually sit down and put everything together for us. blech!
Anyway, we are all really proud of it. Tyler (T), Mark (you haven't met him yet), and I (Badger) worked very hard on it and are super excited for you to see it. I will post the locales at which it is being distributed when we actually figure that out. Hit us up at deathbydragonry@gmail.com if you want one. ENJOY OR DIE!!!!!
Anyway, we are all really proud of it. Tyler (T), Mark (you haven't met him yet), and I (Badger) worked very hard on it and are super excited for you to see it. I will post the locales at which it is being distributed when we actually figure that out. Hit us up at deathbydragonry@gmail.com if you want one. ENJOY OR DIE!!!!!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tyler: Do Work
So I just saw a commercial for Ohio tourism. It showed a bunch of people going around to our 'landmarks' like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a, uh, baseball game, and, you know... Old Man's Cave. Right, so we don't have much tourism wise but that's cool. The sad part was the slogan which basically went, 'Ohio! More fun than you can spend in one day! Stay the weekend!" That's right, Ohio is super duper fucking fun but only for 2.5 days. F that N I say.
So check this out. Here's an article entitled 'A Conversation With Ladies 80's' It is exactly what the title implies. Get down.
A Conversation with Ladies 80’s
Death By Dragonry: Good morning, Ladies 80’s. Thanks for meeting so early.
Ladies 80’s: Oh sure. It’s no problem, honey. You’re cute; you can just call me Lady.
DBD: I…don’t think I can do that. Are you drunk?
L8: Drunk? No. But am I sober? Also no.
DBD: It’s 10:30 in the morning…
L8: It’s 5:00 somewhere, baby.
DBD: It’s not. If you don’t mind, what are you high on?
L8: Life!
DBD: …
L8: Also, I did a line in the bathroom.
DBD: That sounds about right. So, you look a lot different than I thought you would.
L8: What were you expecting, sweetness?
DBD: Well, I mean, I’ve heard stories about you. A couple years ago everyone loved you. You were a good dancer. You had cool friends. What happened? You look kind of like…
L8: Like a 37 year old divorcee with two kids, teased hair, and leopard print spandex pants.
DBD: Actually, yeah. That’s pretty accurate. So what happened?
L8: I used to be on top of this town, you know, just like how I don’t like to be in bed! Ha!
DBD: Wow.
L8: Yeah, I was great. Then a bunch of sleazy guys found out about me and realized I was just a $4 buffet of girls looking to have a little fun, if you know what I mean.
DBD: Please stop winking at me.
L8: Then, somehow, a ton of wannabe cougars waltzed through my doors and scared off most of the attractive girls.
DBD: They certainly did.
L8: Now all I’ve got are fake desperate housewives trying to hold on to the last bit of their youth and all the guys desperate enough to sleep with them which is a pretty broad sweep of gross men. Oh, also fat girls. I’ve got fatties in abundance.
DBD: Indeed you do.
L8: So, yeah, balls to the wall. What are you going to do?
DBD: I think you used that wrong.
L8: Yep.
DBD: So what do you do now?
L8: I’m just gonna keep doing what I do.
DBD: Creeping out 20-somethings?
L8: Exactly. What are you doing later anyway. My kids are with their dads for the weekend.
DBD: Oh… things. I’ve got things. Right, so, I’m going to get going. It was real… interesting meeting you.
L8: All right, whatever floats your pickle. Go ahead and call my pager if you’re not doing anything later.
So check this out. Here's an article entitled 'A Conversation With Ladies 80's' It is exactly what the title implies. Get down.
A Conversation with Ladies 80’s
Death By Dragonry: Good morning, Ladies 80’s. Thanks for meeting so early.
Ladies 80’s: Oh sure. It’s no problem, honey. You’re cute; you can just call me Lady.
DBD: I…don’t think I can do that. Are you drunk?
L8: Drunk? No. But am I sober? Also no.
DBD: It’s 10:30 in the morning…
L8: It’s 5:00 somewhere, baby.
DBD: It’s not. If you don’t mind, what are you high on?
L8: Life!
DBD: …
L8: Also, I did a line in the bathroom.
DBD: That sounds about right. So, you look a lot different than I thought you would.
L8: What were you expecting, sweetness?
DBD: Well, I mean, I’ve heard stories about you. A couple years ago everyone loved you. You were a good dancer. You had cool friends. What happened? You look kind of like…
L8: Like a 37 year old divorcee with two kids, teased hair, and leopard print spandex pants.
DBD: Actually, yeah. That’s pretty accurate. So what happened?
L8: I used to be on top of this town, you know, just like how I don’t like to be in bed! Ha!
DBD: Wow.
L8: Yeah, I was great. Then a bunch of sleazy guys found out about me and realized I was just a $4 buffet of girls looking to have a little fun, if you know what I mean.
DBD: Please stop winking at me.
L8: Then, somehow, a ton of wannabe cougars waltzed through my doors and scared off most of the attractive girls.
DBD: They certainly did.
L8: Now all I’ve got are fake desperate housewives trying to hold on to the last bit of their youth and all the guys desperate enough to sleep with them which is a pretty broad sweep of gross men. Oh, also fat girls. I’ve got fatties in abundance.
DBD: Indeed you do.
L8: So, yeah, balls to the wall. What are you going to do?
DBD: I think you used that wrong.
L8: Yep.
DBD: So what do you do now?
L8: I’m just gonna keep doing what I do.
DBD: Creeping out 20-somethings?
L8: Exactly. What are you doing later anyway. My kids are with their dads for the weekend.
DBD: Oh… things. I’ve got things. Right, so, I’m going to get going. It was real… interesting meeting you.
L8: All right, whatever floats your pickle. Go ahead and call my pager if you’re not doing anything later.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Tyler: Back The Fuck Off Me
Check this shit out. Josh Rea (Is Gea) drew this logo thing. Be jealous.
Alright, so (really I doubt anyone has noticed) I haven't posted a story, a real live story here in a while but, look, I got my reasons. Mostly, the reason I haven't finished a story is because I've been writing more than I am currently able to finish. I'm on chapter 11 of me and Roger's book. I've got two other concept book I've started and come back to here and there. I've got a collection of short stories I hope to make into an actual collection of short stories. There's maybe three finished but at least ten started. Beyond fiction writing, I'm doing more consistent writing for CMH which is a little cool. Also, the Death By Dragonry zine just needs more material if we're going to do more than one issue. I may not be considered the greatest writer but goddamn if I'm not a prolific fucker. Maybe someday I'll finish something.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Tyler: Write Write Write
Couple things here then a paragraph from a story.
Firstly, the Death By Dragonry zine is very close to completion and, actually this just crossed my mind. I have no idea what we're going to do with it once it's done. I mean, I imagine we'll put it places, it's obviously free, I have no idea where. I have no idea about any kind of distribution. 100% clueless. Wonderful.
Moving on, CMH just contacted me and wants me to do more things which is weird because about a week ago they wanted me to do just about nothing. Don't quite know how I feel about it. Hmm.
Ok, so, this is a short story (I mean, real short though. The entire thing is under 400 words) mostly about my ineptitude with women but more specifically how it takes me mere seconds to fall for a girl. Sadly, this part is completely true and still relatively painful to think about. I'm just going to post a portion of it though in hopes that I can actually get something published someday. Huzzah.
I’ve always had a problem with falling in love with girls. Any girl. Often for little reason at all. For two years in high school, as a scared young man desperate for some kind of female attention, I feigned an undying love for Oasis because some girl liked them. I cannot even say for sure that she had any interest in me whatsoever but I was almost positive that if I talked to her about the drunken fucking brothers Gallagher long enough she would eventually fall head over heels for me. It didn’t work out, which is one thing, but now there is a girl, name withheld, currently residing in the Greater Columbus Area that actually thinks ‘Wonderwall’ is my favorite, all-time, number one song. Just to know that she’s out there is embarrassing as shit.
Firstly, the Death By Dragonry zine is very close to completion and, actually this just crossed my mind. I have no idea what we're going to do with it once it's done. I mean, I imagine we'll put it places, it's obviously free, I have no idea where. I have no idea about any kind of distribution. 100% clueless. Wonderful.
Moving on, CMH just contacted me and wants me to do more things which is weird because about a week ago they wanted me to do just about nothing. Don't quite know how I feel about it. Hmm.
Ok, so, this is a short story (I mean, real short though. The entire thing is under 400 words) mostly about my ineptitude with women but more specifically how it takes me mere seconds to fall for a girl. Sadly, this part is completely true and still relatively painful to think about. I'm just going to post a portion of it though in hopes that I can actually get something published someday. Huzzah.
I’ve always had a problem with falling in love with girls. Any girl. Often for little reason at all. For two years in high school, as a scared young man desperate for some kind of female attention, I feigned an undying love for Oasis because some girl liked them. I cannot even say for sure that she had any interest in me whatsoever but I was almost positive that if I talked to her about the drunken fucking brothers Gallagher long enough she would eventually fall head over heels for me. It didn’t work out, which is one thing, but now there is a girl, name withheld, currently residing in the Greater Columbus Area that actually thinks ‘Wonderwall’ is my favorite, all-time, number one song. Just to know that she’s out there is embarrassing as shit.
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