My Week - Page 5


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Thread: My Week

  1. #41
    Author as a mere lad, circa 1975. Merry Christmas.

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    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  2. #42
    Have been corralled into New Year's Eve party. It's a wonderful thing to have friends who want to spend time with you, but to tell the truth, I think I would rather spend the time spend in solitary reflection. But I will go. Every year I try and catch the 'Live From Lincoln Center' symphony performance on PBS. They do it every New Year's. I suppose I'll miss it this year.

    The new year does not really hold much for me in reality, as the years seem to run together in a blur. Whatever hard times may have fallen upon me, I guess there are a lot of people out there who have it a lot worse than I do, and I seem to have this odd little core of undying optimism buried somewhere deep. Who knows? Maybe things'll be okay next year.

    Happy new year
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  3. #43
    So my friend and I were talking about professional wrestling. I like it. I think it’s quite unique as an art form. Way back in the earlier days of the previous century, traveling carnivals would go from town to down. These were not like carnivals today. These were the real deal, with barkers, freak shows, oddities, strip shows, and fights. A thuggish bruiser (The Heel) would get up in front of the fight tent and start talking smack about whatever town he was in. The crowd would become reliably annoyed by this (The heel was getting ‘heat’ from the crowd), and he would then challenge any hometown man in the crowd to face him in the ring and shut him up. A good-looking, younger man (The Babyface) would then step up to the plate for his town, promising to put the Heel in his place for the good of the community. The two men would storm into the fight tent, where the ring was set up and waiting. Of course, all the townies had to see their hometown boy (Which none of them had ever seen before) face the jerk who bad-mouthed their town. It would only cost them a small amount to enter the tent, but whatever the price, it was worth it to see the Heel get his comeuppance.


    The ‘hometown’ boy would win, of course, and the crowd would go away happy, safe in the knowledge that all was right with the world. No one ever hung around to notice that the hometown boy left town with the carnival.


    And so it went, and professional wrestling was born. I watched it a little back in the eighties, but even though back then I still saw it as an actual competition, I had my suspicions. I didn’t know that what I was watching was a ‘dramatic exhibition’.



    There are still the Heels, the Babyfaces, the managers, the colorful characters, the soap opera storylines, all tailored to ‘work’ the crowd and the viewer. I find it all very interesting.


    A few years ago, I went to a ‘Deathmatch’. These are small, traveling wrestling shows where the matches run to the extreme. They bash each other with folding chairs, put each other through tables, body slam each other on thumb tacks scattered across the canvas, bust fluorescent tubes over their heads, use barbed-wire bats or metal garbage cans on each other, and even sometimes set each other on fire. There is a lot of blood and violence. Since I was a relatively new wrestling fan at the time, I thought it would be fun to see such a spectacle. I was wrong.


    After a progression of escalating violence, match after match, I started feeling ashamed. I was watching old, broken-down wrestlers on their way down, making money the only way they could, or watching desperate amateurs spending their blood for a chance to get into the business. It was too much for me, mentally, and it made me sad. They did not have to do those things for me. I would have watched them simply wrestle, and I would have been happy to do it.


    I went outside in the dark and the cold, and I joined a few other guys who were smoking cigarettes in front of the Shriner’s Hall or local rec center or whatever it was. Soon, one of the wrestlers came outside. He was a huge bald man, covered in blood, so much so that it looked as if someone had dumped it on him. He was shirtless and bloody, bumming cigarettes off the young fans outside. It was cold, so steam was rising like smoke from the warm blood that covered the wrestler. He looked like a fading ember in the moonlight. I’ll never forget that.


    The young fans were crowding around him, strutting with adrenalin, acting like fools, congratulating the wrestler on his match, telling him how awesome they thought he was. And maybe he was awesome in some strange way. But all I could think of, all I wanted to do, was ask the bloody man if we were worth it. Were the hundred or so people at the show worth his blood? The children that rallied around him, were they worth his pain?


    I did not ask him these questions. I felt as if the questions might insult him, and I did not want to do that, considering what he’d already been through. Plus, I got the feeling that those types of questions might also anger the man, and that was something that I surely did not want to do, for he could have crushed me like an insect.


    I never went to another Deathmatch. But I still enjoy the odd pageantry, the athletic play-acting, the manly soap opera that is pro wrestling.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  4. #44
    Hey guys! Here’s my new novel idea!



    Hurricane Toga Party Finally Sees The Horsewolf



    Set on an alternate Earth where all humans evolved as dwarves, our story begins with Bizmoticron, the purple, four-armed, three-eyed space chimpanzee crashing his ship into the woods on the outskirts of Tiny Town. This sinister, cosmic ape crawls from the wreckage, bent on mayhem and murder!


    Meanwhile, as bad weather approaches (both literally and figuratively), our hero, Blastie Ferguson, is being censured by the conservative, religious dean at Tiny Town University. Blastie’s strident views on ‘Proportionalism Science’ and ‘Advanced Applied Midgetry’ are constantly getting him into hot water! Blastie rejects the notion that the legendary Horsewolf killed the evil fantasy gods for the good of Dwarfkind, and now watches over the Earth.


    Outside, Blastie’s girlfriend, Betty Mongo is waiting for him. They head for his Frat, Whamma Slamma Gamma. Blastie’s best friend and rival for Betty’s affection, Dirk Gherkin, is preparing to throw a massive Toga Party at the frat house to celebrate the Dwarfball team’s big victory over State.


    So the Toga Party rages on into the night at the isolated Frat house. A hurricane blows outside, but not even inclement weather can dampen the party atmosphere. But then, Bizmoticron attacks! What follows is an ‘Assault on Precinct 13’ type siege adventure, with the dwarves bravely protecting the house, dying by the scores in their little togas, ripped to shreds by the angry space ape. Blastie uses his science genius to concoct several chemical weapons and explosive devices to keep the monster at bay.


    Bizmoticron sees Betty and becomes enamored by her ‘beauty’. He grabs her and climbs to the uppermost spires of the Victorian Frat house, fighting the howling, gale force winds. The few dwarves left alive (Trying not to blow away as they gather on the lawn) can only shake their chubby fists in crushing impotence at the chimp as he manhandles poor Betty on the roof. Blastie runs into the house, and Dirk calls him a ‘dwarfing coward’. Dirk tries to climb to the roof to save Betty, but Bizmoticron throws a piece of aluminum gutter at the would-be hero and knocks the little fellow out!


    But Blastie is no coward! He bursts from an upstairs window wearing a prototype jet pack of his own design, armed with a burlap bag full of canned goods. Blastie hovers around Bizmoticron, circling him in the driving wind and rain, pelting him with cans of peas and beans. Finally, Blastie scores a direct hit on the astro-chimp’s skull with a can of creamed corn. The monster topples off the roof, dizzy, dropping Betty. Blastie swoops in and catches her, and Bizmoticron falls and breaks his neck. Just then, the hurricane blows itself out and Blastie kisses Betty.


    As the dwarves stand over the corpse of the strange monster, they hear a howling. On a nearby hill stands the Horsewolf, with the body of a horse and the flaming head of a wolf. The Horsewolf nods at the dwarves and howls again, a jet of flame bursting from his fanged mouth. He disappears in a wisp of smoke. Blastie realizes that the Horsewolf is real, but it doesn’t matter because the Horsewolf didn’t help them beat the space ape. Blastie beat Bizmoticron with science and corn. The Horsewolf just showed up at the end and pretended to have something to do with it.



    Here’s the first little bit:



    The fire-drenched spaceship exploded into the atmosphere of the Earth doing, like mach 5 or something. In the cockpit, Bizmoticron, the psycho, purple, four-armed, three-eyed space chimpanzee was having some kind of rollicking tard-spasm, jerking the unresponding control systems, screaming at his cosmic TV screens that showed only static, and convulsing like a nutzoid on speed. He tried every trick in the book to take care of business to no avail and his sprits fell like an ice-leaf on one of the frozen trees on lonely, little Pluto. He had just enough time, with one last screech, to fling a handful of angry feces at the malfunctioning and smoking guidance panels before his ship crashed in some woods like an atom bomb but not as powerful. The smoking wreckage laid like a carcass in the night.



    No critique needed. Because I already know it’s awesome. Just thought I’d post it so everybody can share in the wonder. When the gravy train of inspiration is on the tracks, everybody rides!
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  5. #45
    Been eating sushi lately from Kroger (which is a supermarket chain for those who don’t know), and it’s some of the best sushi I’ve ever had. It seems kind of white-trashy, buying sushi from a grocery store, but I highly recommend it.


    The sushi meal I had this last week was one of only two actual meals I had. Things have been a little tough at the old homestead, and I found myself having to choose between food and cigarettes. I chose smokes.


    Not long ago, my friend Doug and I were at a restaurant. Sitting not far from us was a family. They were definite ‘Holy Roller’ types, looking almost two steps removed for being Amish or Mennonite. They had three pinhead children. You don’t see those very often, pinheads I mean, unless you read Zippy the Pinhead or watch Todd Browning’s Freaks. They disturbed me, and I found it hard to enjoy my meal.


    I realized that the couple obviously had one pinhead child, two pinhead children, and because they were moronic, they thought it was a good idea to spin the wheel and try again. Perhaps when the third pinhead was born, they finally decided that God was trying to tell them something. I’m sure that the couple love their pinheads and see them as God’s special snowflake gifts, but they think that because they are crazy and stupid. And just because they saddled themselves with three pinheads does not mean that they should parade them all about for everyone to see, especially not at a restaurant where I’m trying to eat.


    Human oddities and retards of all kinds have always creeped me out. Don’t get me wrong. I would not want anything to happen to these poor souls, and they should be well taken care of, but I just find them unsettling. They remind me of chimps. You can have a chimp as a pet and everything is fine, maybe for years, but one wrong move…and you get your face ripped off. I’ve heard stories from people who have worked with them that many retards are hyper-sexual and predisposed to rape and violence. A special education teacher at a school I used to work at was once cornered and sexually assaulted by the kids in her class. She was nearly raped, and one of the kids twisted one of her nipples off. The teacher didn’t teach any more after that. That’s not the kind of stuff you read in the brochure for the Special Olympics, I’ll tell you that.


    This doesn’t really have anything to do with anything, but it popped into my head. Has anyone ever seen a sexy retard? Like a truly, smoking hot retard, male or female? I’m talking one that’s natural born, not a normal person that was dropped as a baby or kicked in the head by a mule. I don’t think I ever have seen one. Humph.


    The endlessness of outer space has really been bothering me lately. Our planet hangs in our solar system. Our solar system hangs in our galaxy. Our galaxy hangs in the universe. What is the universe hanging in? I’ve never been able to find an answer that has satisfied, and it half drives me mad sometimes. If anyone has any suggestions for reading material along these lines, please let me know.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  6. #46
    What? You mean you didn't find "sissy" from Todd brownings freaks smokin hot sexy like the rest of us?
    "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.”

  7. #47
    Ha! Guess she just wasn't my type.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  8. #48
    Happy New Year to all our Chinese friends out there, especially those born in the year of the snake.

    Played a game called Rory's Story Cubes last night. It was like Boggle, but instead of letters on the sides of the dice, there were simple pictures. You roll the dice and use as many of the pictures as you can to fashion a story on the spot. It was fun! I recommend it to writers as an interesting exercise.

    You know, I detested the debate forum when it existed, but now I kind of miss it. It seems to me, in certain circles, that there is a kind of tension on these boards. I may be crazy, but perhaps the debate forum existed as some kind of flypaper to catch all the chest-pounding, strutting, argumentative buffoonery that certain posters thrive upon, keeping that crap from infecting other parts of the site. I've noticed an upswing in nastiness since the debate forum was removed. We might need that bug-light, that buzzing temptation, to lure indignant self-righteousness and competition away from more civilized areas of the forum. It's just my opinion, of course. I, for one, am more than willing to admit that I am wrong
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  9. #49
    One of the dogs, Jojo, died on Sunday. She vomited blood for several hours and then she laid down and died peacefully. I delivered the corpse to the vet yesterday for cremation. I say 'One of the dogs' because she was not my dog. She belonged to one of the people I share the house with. I don't care for dogs, cats, or any other pets, but I don't hate them. I treat them like children, like innocents, and I'm always nice to them. I just don't have that thing inside to be able to tolerate pets. That being said, Jojo was a good dog, as far as dogs go, and it was good that she did not suffer. I can't stand to see animals suffer, I just don't want any.

    Have been rather sick for the last two weeks. Anything I eat seems to make me ill. I've countered with a semi-fast that I started yesterday. Though hungry, I'm feeling better already. I've fasted several times in my life. One time, I ate nothing for a month. It always seems to free my mind, somehow, seems to make me just a little sharper. I become physically weak and very tired, but my brain catches fire. Starve yourself for a few days, see what I mean.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  10. #50
    We feed and care for stray cats on our front porch. Have done this for years. The other morning, I found one of the cats dead on the porch, stiff as a board. His name (Or the name we gave him) was Wilson. Something had come up and killed him in the night, more than likely a dog. We'd given Wilson a little house in which to live, to protect him against the cold. I believe that the house contributed to his demise. When the dog came rooting around for food, Wilson had no place to go, pinned in his house. When he tried to escape, the dog must have grabbed him and shook, breaking the cat's neck. It was a revolting development. I think the house, and the care we gave Wilson was a complete good act. So I tried not to feel too much to blame for providing the little house that helped kill him. I went out in the snow and buried Wilson in the cold, hard ground.

    I've been very tired from starving myself, so digging a four-foot deep hole was not easy. My heart beat too fast for half an hour.

    The super-restrictive diet has made me, though very weak, feel more healthy mentally and physically.

    I went off the diet yesterday and went with Doug to a restaurant called 'Bravo'. It's an Italian place. I had a modest meal of Italian Wedding Soup and Spaghetti and Meatballs. It was pretty good, but the place was kind of fancy for me, and I felt too old and unkempt to be there.

    Doug and I watched, for some odd reason, the 1960 television version of Peter Pan with Mary Martin. It was pretty good, and I was completely hot for the girl who played Tiger Lily, Sondra Lee. Then I realized that she was tiny and looked really young. I had to jump online to find out how old she was during the production. Turns out she was 30 at the time. She just looked young, and happened to be tiny. I'm not a letch! Whew! A man has to be careful about those sorts of things.

    Have been 'In between engagements', so I've been looking for a job. I've worked a lot of hard-ass manual labor jobs in the last many years, but I'm getting too old to work outside in the heat and the cold. I need a nice retail job.

    I've been working on a writing project over the last eight months or so. It's a collection of short stories. I keep getting distracted by writing other things, so I'm going to try not to do that any more. I think that since this project is my 'desired project', it's taken on an importance in my mind, and well it should. But an unintended side effect to that importance is a fear that, when completed, my project won't be any good, and I'll have wasted my time. Maybe that's why I have taken every opportunity to write little one-off stories and poems all the time. I'm pessimistically trying to delay my inevitable failure and the rejection of something I think is fun and pretty good. I just need to have a little more faith in myself, I think.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

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