Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
'I am too much like them,' the kid-soldier thinks as he acts on his orders, brings up his M-16 and fires into the doorway. Civilians die. They die. Like his friends. He learns quick to feel as little as possible; has no idea how those unfelt moments will come back to him over the years as mental monsters, raging through his nightmares and waking him screaming in the night.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
HE STOPPED LIVING HERE TODAY
Pain came
hides behind those same old eyes
says the same old words
still surprises this gullible ass
they paint you a smile that hides
the horror of those last seconds
your religion
dies
with you
wish you really were flying away somewhere
you scream in my memories
for a few more laughs
another chance
to wear the smile of a child
then
fall
silently
into photographs
for D & M
hides behind those same old eyes
says the same old words
still surprises this gullible ass
they paint you a smile that hides
the horror of those last seconds
your religion
dies
with you
wish you really were flying away somewhere
you scream in my memories
for a few more laughs
another chance
to wear the smile of a child
then
fall
silently
into photographs
for D & M
Thursday, October 27, 2005
TRUER STORIES
Frank Soup woke up the first morning he bore the tattoo on his forehead with no idea what he was about to see written in bold red letters above his eyebrows... in the morning mirror, he blinked his red blurry eyes a few times and focused in and out on the words... then he tried to wipe them off and felt the pain of peeling tiny scabs off the words 'FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.' Reading the famous Morrison line from The End made him vomit.
"Argghhh," he yelled loud enough to make a cat at his feet go running out of the room. "A fucking tattoo... they cost... shit." He ran back into his bedroom, looked around on the floor and located his pants, pulled out the wallet and opened it up ... two bucks. Two singles where there had been his entire paycheck. He also found the reciepts from two utilities bill that he couldn't remember paying... Then he found a receipt for the tattoo and groaned again when he saw that he had tipped the guy a hundred bucks.
Indirectly, the six months that it took for him to save up for the surgery that removed his tattooo, led to his great discovery, some twenty years later, the orgasmic. The O was a combination of lasers that stimulated the same glands as sex; only all at once in an incredibly intense manner that could be prolonged indefinatly. Even after the tattoo was gone, his reputation remained worse than ever. No one seemed to forget his six months with the tattoo, and indeed, none ever would. Once he had invented the device, of course, it was a short walk to becoming the new husband of the queen of england, which led to his kingship. True story.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
"Argghhh," he yelled loud enough to make a cat at his feet go running out of the room. "A fucking tattoo... they cost... shit." He ran back into his bedroom, looked around on the floor and located his pants, pulled out the wallet and opened it up ... two bucks. Two singles where there had been his entire paycheck. He also found the reciepts from two utilities bill that he couldn't remember paying... Then he found a receipt for the tattoo and groaned again when he saw that he had tipped the guy a hundred bucks.
Indirectly, the six months that it took for him to save up for the surgery that removed his tattooo, led to his great discovery, some twenty years later, the orgasmic. The O was a combination of lasers that stimulated the same glands as sex; only all at once in an incredibly intense manner that could be prolonged indefinatly. Even after the tattoo was gone, his reputation remained worse than ever. No one seemed to forget his six months with the tattoo, and indeed, none ever would. Once he had invented the device, of course, it was a short walk to becoming the new husband of the queen of england, which led to his kingship. True story.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
the satanic santa suit
He had a messy memory of messes. Messes big and small, by governments and bosses and parents and neighbors... messes from the wind itself and quakes and eruptions. Messes from bad luck and bad decisions... and like he told a reporter from the Toledo Blade, he found his escape was to become the characters that he played on the stage. This is very much applauded in movie stars of a certain ilk, but he was a fifty seven year old convienance store clerk who was bucking a company policy on red hats and t-shirts to dress in drag for a small part in a way, way small theater company. This would have been a lot easier had he been gay, and not divorced and actually half hoping to meet a woman someday...
Though none of his customers showed any outward sign that they were judging him, the general frost on the night was apparent to him a half hour into his shift. One young white guy who looked a little gay himself was particularly nervous, made him lay the money down on the counter instead of taking the bills and change out of his hand...
Another couple in their teens burst out laughing the second they were out the door. One of them yelled something he half heard, but he was pretty sure it had to do with 'aids bait.'
He had figured the southern accent he had effected would clue people in that he was an actor, but he was wrong. During a moment of extreme anxiety that came on the crest of three cups of coffee and maybe ten cigarettes and two candy bars, he simply put a small sign out on in front of the register reading, "I'm just rehearsing for a role. Don't be alarmed."
Of course three or four customers later was a gay guy who pointed at the sign and told him, "Man, I guess you think that gay people are alarming or something, huh? That's just pathetic."
He apologized, pulled the sign down... told himself that he should have known better. And he wondered why, no matter how much he wished it were not so, he gave a shit what strangers thought of him... For the first time in over forty years of acting in this or that community production, he wished to all hell that he had just given up on his principals on this one occasion... no one had cared when he talked in character before, or even when he dressed like a hood, or whatever... his boss had shown up one night and bitched him out for being out of his uniform, but mostly the fifty year old leach ignored the night shift completly.
He felt so shitty that he almost just closed early, but that would really have meant his job, and the small commercials he occasionally did were fewer and farther between as he started pushing out gray hairs and an ever larger gut.
An hour or so before his shift ended, a guy in drag came in. The man in a dress stopped just inside the front door, put her wrists on her hips and yelled, "Oh, you are so brave!" Then he bowed to him. When the guy left, he sat back in his chair and looked around the empty store, down the white linolean rows lined with snacks, into the glass door at the frozen pizza, and felt a little better about his decision, though he knew he wouldn't do it again.
He was letting go of a method of acting that he had believed and half expected to feel bad about it but he didn't... he was surprised to find himself relieved, even. 'I really don't have to do that to be a good actor. In fact, I am not going to be santa from the second week in November until December twenty fifth.' The change would be a real break in tradition with him, since he had taken the part time job almost fifteen years ago, and always seemed to almost magically have no parts about then.
He held his resolve right up until what would normally have been his third day in a Santa suit. He was looking through a pile of bills with one hand, sliding them over the coffee table, while with his other he held the tv remote and flipped through the rotation of seventy five cable channels for the third time in the last fifteen minutes, when he lost his inner struggle, just simply allowed himself to meld into Santa, dropped the remote and ignored the bills, walked almost robotically to his closet, reached in and found his coat, hat, pants and beard.... and he stayed in the red costume with itchy facial hair until he got home from a bar at three am christmas morning, fed his goldfish, set his alarm for work, and went to bed.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Though none of his customers showed any outward sign that they were judging him, the general frost on the night was apparent to him a half hour into his shift. One young white guy who looked a little gay himself was particularly nervous, made him lay the money down on the counter instead of taking the bills and change out of his hand...
Another couple in their teens burst out laughing the second they were out the door. One of them yelled something he half heard, but he was pretty sure it had to do with 'aids bait.'
He had figured the southern accent he had effected would clue people in that he was an actor, but he was wrong. During a moment of extreme anxiety that came on the crest of three cups of coffee and maybe ten cigarettes and two candy bars, he simply put a small sign out on in front of the register reading, "I'm just rehearsing for a role. Don't be alarmed."
Of course three or four customers later was a gay guy who pointed at the sign and told him, "Man, I guess you think that gay people are alarming or something, huh? That's just pathetic."
He apologized, pulled the sign down... told himself that he should have known better. And he wondered why, no matter how much he wished it were not so, he gave a shit what strangers thought of him... For the first time in over forty years of acting in this or that community production, he wished to all hell that he had just given up on his principals on this one occasion... no one had cared when he talked in character before, or even when he dressed like a hood, or whatever... his boss had shown up one night and bitched him out for being out of his uniform, but mostly the fifty year old leach ignored the night shift completly.
He felt so shitty that he almost just closed early, but that would really have meant his job, and the small commercials he occasionally did were fewer and farther between as he started pushing out gray hairs and an ever larger gut.
An hour or so before his shift ended, a guy in drag came in. The man in a dress stopped just inside the front door, put her wrists on her hips and yelled, "Oh, you are so brave!" Then he bowed to him. When the guy left, he sat back in his chair and looked around the empty store, down the white linolean rows lined with snacks, into the glass door at the frozen pizza, and felt a little better about his decision, though he knew he wouldn't do it again.
He was letting go of a method of acting that he had believed and half expected to feel bad about it but he didn't... he was surprised to find himself relieved, even. 'I really don't have to do that to be a good actor. In fact, I am not going to be santa from the second week in November until December twenty fifth.' The change would be a real break in tradition with him, since he had taken the part time job almost fifteen years ago, and always seemed to almost magically have no parts about then.
He held his resolve right up until what would normally have been his third day in a Santa suit. He was looking through a pile of bills with one hand, sliding them over the coffee table, while with his other he held the tv remote and flipped through the rotation of seventy five cable channels for the third time in the last fifteen minutes, when he lost his inner struggle, just simply allowed himself to meld into Santa, dropped the remote and ignored the bills, walked almost robotically to his closet, reached in and found his coat, hat, pants and beard.... and he stayed in the red costume with itchy facial hair until he got home from a bar at three am christmas morning, fed his goldfish, set his alarm for work, and went to bed.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I'VE JOINED A BILLY IDOL COVER BAND
We're called Really Idle.
We cover the music from his period between eight and ten years old, before he had any songs or anything... this way we don't have to get together and practice or perform or anything, and we still get to tell people we are in a band. We are looking for a drummer, by the way... even someone who taps on the driving wheel during songs will be okay, because there is obviously no drum in any of our non-songs (we play what we call non-songs, by the way). I hear that there is already quite a big buzz in the music industry about us. At least, uhmm... I think there will be by the time you read this, since this is I guess the first official record that our band exists.
You see, contrary to what is generally believed, I am pretty cool... right? I mean, right???? Oh, fuck you all in your right nostrils with a maggot writhing cucumber infected with pink eye and tape words!!!!
Man, I really wish I had just spent my life raising an army... what a waste of time I am... well, was... until this band thing came along. I know we will go to the top if I really believe hard enough, man. I just know it. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
We cover the music from his period between eight and ten years old, before he had any songs or anything... this way we don't have to get together and practice or perform or anything, and we still get to tell people we are in a band. We are looking for a drummer, by the way... even someone who taps on the driving wheel during songs will be okay, because there is obviously no drum in any of our non-songs (we play what we call non-songs, by the way). I hear that there is already quite a big buzz in the music industry about us. At least, uhmm... I think there will be by the time you read this, since this is I guess the first official record that our band exists.
You see, contrary to what is generally believed, I am pretty cool... right? I mean, right???? Oh, fuck you all in your right nostrils with a maggot writhing cucumber infected with pink eye and tape words!!!!
Man, I really wish I had just spent my life raising an army... what a waste of time I am... well, was... until this band thing came along. I know we will go to the top if I really believe hard enough, man. I just know it. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
to get my latest writing....
I wondered why the hell my count had shot up so much recently, and after searching my name on google, I may have found out why... my half famous buddy mentioned me on his 'professional' website. Jason Pettus. He is the one who taught me to look up my name to see who was writing about me. Pretty cool world, real ly.... anyways, he only mentioned this site, since it has an rss feed. My original site, which is where I usually write, is http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com , which is only available on computers, I believe ( or to some degree or another. I don't seem to have enough time to daydream, let alone do all the research I would need to even appear technologically sophisticated). I use this site, actually, to back up the stuff that I like more than most of what I write... even though the first review I have ever read of this blog -- Jason's -- warned people I was 'Rantyer,' than him. I barely put any rants in here compared to the other...
Interesting that he did this, because I too am sick of my ranting. I have tried to be open to letting the blog become whatever the hell was on my mind that day, to be intellectually and emotionally honest, and of course I discovered this was boring as hell. I mean, I trained to be a writer because there really is more to it than just sitting down and letting some magical muse work through me . . . Jack K.'s On The Road is the great myth in this area (sorry to burst your coffee buzz, but it just so happens that Jack edited the hell out of that manuscript).
So, if the rants have bothered you -- as they have me, than let me just say that I am moving into a different area with my blog lately. I have stopped trying to use this thing to biographically explain myself or convince people of my view or vent my spleen about the daily news. I decided that this was just the wrong way to go, that I was preaching to the choir and driving away the sinners (so to speak... I mean, only sinners are interesting to me, because I have had enough self rightous assholes invade my space for one lifetime and let me warn all you asshoples that I am usually armed -- so keep your stories about HOW I SHOULD live and all your various creeds to your own sick, pus seeping selves).
Rants. I sure do like giving rants... they make me feel like I have meaning, though I know better... anyways... just wanted to come in here and write this shit about the other site...
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Interesting that he did this, because I too am sick of my ranting. I have tried to be open to letting the blog become whatever the hell was on my mind that day, to be intellectually and emotionally honest, and of course I discovered this was boring as hell. I mean, I trained to be a writer because there really is more to it than just sitting down and letting some magical muse work through me . . . Jack K.'s On The Road is the great myth in this area (sorry to burst your coffee buzz, but it just so happens that Jack edited the hell out of that manuscript).
So, if the rants have bothered you -- as they have me, than let me just say that I am moving into a different area with my blog lately. I have stopped trying to use this thing to biographically explain myself or convince people of my view or vent my spleen about the daily news. I decided that this was just the wrong way to go, that I was preaching to the choir and driving away the sinners (so to speak... I mean, only sinners are interesting to me, because I have had enough self rightous assholes invade my space for one lifetime and let me warn all you asshoples that I am usually armed -- so keep your stories about HOW I SHOULD live and all your various creeds to your own sick, pus seeping selves).
Rants. I sure do like giving rants... they make me feel like I have meaning, though I know better... anyways... just wanted to come in here and write this shit about the other site...
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Friday, October 21, 2005
RUBY IS CARRYING AROUND A DEAD RACCOON
She carries the small corpse everywhere. Occasionally she takes it by the neck and violently shakes it back and forth, in a spine snapping motion that throughout the noble huskies evolution has killed countless other critters -- who despite their own fuzzy faces and big innocent eyes, look to the smiling huskies like nothing but a little fun and lunch. Yes, the dog is a killer after all. I have still had no success getting her to kill. I am still learning how to command her to kill in a few of the more obscure Innuit dialects, but I suspect that even if I figure out the right command, the wily husky might just not be in the mood -- and she will do nothing without the proper mood, to the point that no matter how many times I drag her away from the piles of piss on the bushes we pass on our walks, she still stops and fights at the next pile of piss (of course, with the less indulgent, decidedly more ready to scream and strike M., Ruby always acts all obedient, then when we are out alone she tests me at every turn, and since it embarrasses the hell out of me to yell at a dog like some psycho, I indulge the hell out of her. I mean, this is a dog, okay,
they practically own the terms loyalty, care, and unconditional love. I respect them as superior beings. Only idiots and psychos don't (and I am neither, as long as I can keep the thin, chemical line that I walk within certain accepted boundaries... And while this may appear an ideal to some in my life, I assure you that most days pass with me well within my own perimeters, which include a buzz but discludes anything that gets me too wasted to work; I guess I should say pot and my milder than ever non narcotic pain meds are about all I can handle at my age, a time now when death is all around me and I want less to do with it than ever. I think crack, benzos, heroin, pills in general and anything you snort is just crazy now. I don't even want mushrooms or acid again.... Because the side effects really are just too painful, and the high not nearly amusing enough to make up for the post psychedelic depressions that I know so well... Not that I shouldn't make clear that long ago, when life was young and I was in high school, I felt differently... Stupid, ignorant shit that I was, I am very surprised that this body last long enough to produce me, the more sedate, intellectual wanderer).
Dog!!! I was just about to hit the punch line on the dead raccoon when I digressed all to hell here into something I had been thinking it was probably time to write in here again, since I watched the HBO's Methodonia, a documentary on addicts on methadone, and I don't want my small time Hunter S Thompsoning to be taken wrong. Now, then... Let us go back to a husky, her face an almost shining bright white, eyes the clear, clear blue of an arctic sky over a snowy tundra, shaking the hell out of a small raccoon corpse. The raccoon let out a few sounds at first. Squeaks and kind of a clicking. It still will, if you pick it up and squeeze the head just right, or the tail area, where the little guy has two machines that make noises designed to drive puppies a little crazed. Whoever came up with this dog toy was well aware of the dark side of the canine. This little raccoon may look and cute and fuzzy, but we are talking the heart of darkness here!!! The killer all ancient and allegedly dissolved, lurking just behind the hypnotic eyes of a femme fatale. Damn, I wish I would tap into this and get her to at least pretend to kick ass around hoody, wino looking men.
I am taking Ruby with me to the halloweed party just so we can make her up a toy that looks like road kill, which she can chomp on all night. She likes fake blood, as has been established in earlier video tapings about the neighborhood where I used her, making her pretend to attack anyone passing me on the streets who showed all the usual signs of being terrorified of dogs; I really have to figure out how to get some streaming footage of that in here, but all of that will have to wait until all the reward posters and the newspaper articles die down.... I mean, the cops and the guardian angels will forget about these incidences soon enough... it was all demonized after that woman got all scared and wimpy and ran in front of a bus. I mean, she is luck to be alive, but all she can do on the news is talk about 'finding that bastard.' I feel really kind of sorry for the guy who did this, and was surprised, as was M., to hear they have a dog that at least sounds similar to ours.
Anyways, if you have been wondering where I have been... Well, I have been meaning to bring this up.... I mean, this isn't easy for me. I have loved this blog and all. I mean, we went some places, did some things... But, before that... There was, u, cable TV. Okay, cable TV. Then came the dark, dark day when through some fluke the bill was nearly four hundred dollars and the decision was made to let the TV watching go for awhile.... Yea, sure, there have been lots of painting, a years worth of comedy and literary readings and more readers than in years or maybe even ever before, but... Well, we got cable again, and....
So, you know, I'll stop in once in awhile. I mean, you get so you've seen all the movies for that month pretty quick when you do nothing else. And there are only about four to six hours a day that I actually have to watch my shows. I mean, during that time I should be taking advantage of music channels and painting, since it does still pay me money, which these words, however charming and expensively came by, refuse to do... YOU FUCKING BASTARDS AND YOUR WORLD!!!! Uhm, well... So, you know, I got the cable remote in my hand and there is some stuff I want to... Well, to be honest, I just want to flip around awhile, get my bearings back... So, have a good life.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
they practically own the terms loyalty, care, and unconditional love. I respect them as superior beings. Only idiots and psychos don't (and I am neither, as long as I can keep the thin, chemical line that I walk within certain accepted boundaries... And while this may appear an ideal to some in my life, I assure you that most days pass with me well within my own perimeters, which include a buzz but discludes anything that gets me too wasted to work; I guess I should say pot and my milder than ever non narcotic pain meds are about all I can handle at my age, a time now when death is all around me and I want less to do with it than ever. I think crack, benzos, heroin, pills in general and anything you snort is just crazy now. I don't even want mushrooms or acid again.... Because the side effects really are just too painful, and the high not nearly amusing enough to make up for the post psychedelic depressions that I know so well... Not that I shouldn't make clear that long ago, when life was young and I was in high school, I felt differently... Stupid, ignorant shit that I was, I am very surprised that this body last long enough to produce me, the more sedate, intellectual wanderer).
Dog!!! I was just about to hit the punch line on the dead raccoon when I digressed all to hell here into something I had been thinking it was probably time to write in here again, since I watched the HBO's Methodonia, a documentary on addicts on methadone, and I don't want my small time Hunter S Thompsoning to be taken wrong. Now, then... Let us go back to a husky, her face an almost shining bright white, eyes the clear, clear blue of an arctic sky over a snowy tundra, shaking the hell out of a small raccoon corpse. The raccoon let out a few sounds at first. Squeaks and kind of a clicking. It still will, if you pick it up and squeeze the head just right, or the tail area, where the little guy has two machines that make noises designed to drive puppies a little crazed. Whoever came up with this dog toy was well aware of the dark side of the canine. This little raccoon may look and cute and fuzzy, but we are talking the heart of darkness here!!! The killer all ancient and allegedly dissolved, lurking just behind the hypnotic eyes of a femme fatale. Damn, I wish I would tap into this and get her to at least pretend to kick ass around hoody, wino looking men.
I am taking Ruby with me to the halloweed party just so we can make her up a toy that looks like road kill, which she can chomp on all night. She likes fake blood, as has been established in earlier video tapings about the neighborhood where I used her, making her pretend to attack anyone passing me on the streets who showed all the usual signs of being terrorified of dogs; I really have to figure out how to get some streaming footage of that in here, but all of that will have to wait until all the reward posters and the newspaper articles die down.... I mean, the cops and the guardian angels will forget about these incidences soon enough... it was all demonized after that woman got all scared and wimpy and ran in front of a bus. I mean, she is luck to be alive, but all she can do on the news is talk about 'finding that bastard.' I feel really kind of sorry for the guy who did this, and was surprised, as was M., to hear they have a dog that at least sounds similar to ours.
Anyways, if you have been wondering where I have been... Well, I have been meaning to bring this up.... I mean, this isn't easy for me. I have loved this blog and all. I mean, we went some places, did some things... But, before that... There was, u, cable TV. Okay, cable TV. Then came the dark, dark day when through some fluke the bill was nearly four hundred dollars and the decision was made to let the TV watching go for awhile.... Yea, sure, there have been lots of painting, a years worth of comedy and literary readings and more readers than in years or maybe even ever before, but... Well, we got cable again, and....
So, you know, I'll stop in once in awhile. I mean, you get so you've seen all the movies for that month pretty quick when you do nothing else. And there are only about four to six hours a day that I actually have to watch my shows. I mean, during that time I should be taking advantage of music channels and painting, since it does still pay me money, which these words, however charming and expensively came by, refuse to do... YOU FUCKING BASTARDS AND YOUR WORLD!!!! Uhm, well... So, you know, I got the cable remote in my hand and there is some stuff I want to... Well, to be honest, I just want to flip around awhile, get my bearings back... So, have a good life.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
THE TELLING SCENT OF URINE.
A Tale of Dog Walking In The Big City...
The gorgeous husky, with her perfect markings and apparently smiling white face with sky blue eyes, makes about 30 % of the people we pass smile. The neighborhood is about populate enough that you may or may not walk a couple blocks without meeting anyone. So, saying hello to everyone isn't a problem, like downtown, where people are passing by in mass, and where only a psycho would try to say hello to everyone (for the sake of the honesty that this blog might as well have, if it is to have any meaning at all, I might as well write that yes, I did get drunk and try this, but it was out of love, man... ). Today, I was out with her and we passed this corner where someone was just gardening the hell out of their little patch of earth. Flowers color co-ordinated, stunning... Ruby happily pulls me over to the flowers and shoves her nose into a yellow rose glistening with large, glittering drops of morning dew. A hot youngster all in black with a red baseball cap passes by and laughs, tells me, "I can't believe that dog loves smelling flowers so much. That is so cool."
Naturally smooth dude that I am, I unconsciously caught myself having the impulse to flirt with the girl. After a split second of reflection, I allowed myself the digression, merely for the benefit of the young child's ego, of course, because and let me just state this once more in writing, I will never break the sanctity of my commitment to the woman who pays the bills... That doesn't sound right. I'll have to remember to rewrite this before I put it on the blog, change it to something about my lovely M. Or something.
Anyways, back to my chance encounter with this model level hotster this morning on the street corner, beside the flowers. Once I was in seductive mode, nothing could have stopped me from being charming I suppose. She had just commented on how the dog loved smelling flowers, so I decided to respond, in a confident and somewhat scholarly voice, telling the creamy lass, "No, she is not actually smelling the flowers. Indeed, she is after the wondrously rich scent of urine."
I was about to add how much Ruby could decipher from the scent of urine, but the girl must have been really, really dum or something because she looked at me like I had said something rude, or weird or something, and then just walked off...
That's all.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
The gorgeous husky, with her perfect markings and apparently smiling white face with sky blue eyes, makes about 30 % of the people we pass smile. The neighborhood is about populate enough that you may or may not walk a couple blocks without meeting anyone. So, saying hello to everyone isn't a problem, like downtown, where people are passing by in mass, and where only a psycho would try to say hello to everyone (for the sake of the honesty that this blog might as well have, if it is to have any meaning at all, I might as well write that yes, I did get drunk and try this, but it was out of love, man... ). Today, I was out with her and we passed this corner where someone was just gardening the hell out of their little patch of earth. Flowers color co-ordinated, stunning... Ruby happily pulls me over to the flowers and shoves her nose into a yellow rose glistening with large, glittering drops of morning dew. A hot youngster all in black with a red baseball cap passes by and laughs, tells me, "I can't believe that dog loves smelling flowers so much. That is so cool."
Naturally smooth dude that I am, I unconsciously caught myself having the impulse to flirt with the girl. After a split second of reflection, I allowed myself the digression, merely for the benefit of the young child's ego, of course, because and let me just state this once more in writing, I will never break the sanctity of my commitment to the woman who pays the bills... That doesn't sound right. I'll have to remember to rewrite this before I put it on the blog, change it to something about my lovely M. Or something.
Anyways, back to my chance encounter with this model level hotster this morning on the street corner, beside the flowers. Once I was in seductive mode, nothing could have stopped me from being charming I suppose. She had just commented on how the dog loved smelling flowers, so I decided to respond, in a confident and somewhat scholarly voice, telling the creamy lass, "No, she is not actually smelling the flowers. Indeed, she is after the wondrously rich scent of urine."
I was about to add how much Ruby could decipher from the scent of urine, but the girl must have been really, really dum or something because she looked at me like I had said something rude, or weird or something, and then just walked off...
That's all.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
.The Elves Attic Live Shows Have Been resurrected. PRAISE DOG!!!!
The Elves Attic Live show has been resurrected. PRAISE DOG!!!!
The cafe where I was holding a literary reading, where I basically read a lot of comedy which got everyone laughing, and a lot of other talented people did their things, closed down and we stopped having our show for awhile.
I miss the scene. One women read chapters from her on going novel about her life with a severely ill child. Another read poems. There was some music. An acapello Doors song that was astoundingly good -- from a drunken lawyer who is one of my most loyal fans and is very cool.
The new show is going to be a little different. I started the old show as a sort of traditional reading but I welcomed any kind of act, where I featured one person or a band, then we took a break and opened up the stage to anything. I always tried to have like twenty minutes worth of material just in case no one showed up, but that never happened.
The new show will emphasize my reading the comedy stories of Johnny Pain. I will go back to the beginning of him in this blog, and read all of his entries. This will all be taped and made available on DVD's... I have all the software to edit the DVD's, so I hopefully those two years of film school taught me something and I can make fun out of the footage. This stuff does make people laugh.
I am not saying this to brag... I am kind of surprised by it. I really was much more into writing serious prose, but then when I started the live show at the same time I started this blog, the comedy got such a good reaction that it kind of took over. I have the drunken georgie boy bush, too... And massah jackoffyhourson. It should be a cool scene. I am kind of the only punkish guy there. If Punk is how my comedy should be defined? I have called the writing different titles in the flyers I passed out all over the neighborhood. I will just make up some temporary definition for the new posters, too, I suppose.
The comedy is serious as hell, I should add, because I am a serious guy... Not morbid or anything, just sort of... Serious.
Ah, the new show . . .
I am going to have bands, a great hip hop guy, Talib, who writes some searing, powerful poetry. The woman I mentioned earlier, who is writing a novel... She may have finished it, but I don't think so? Oh, a lot of people. We will be advertising in the paper in the huge city of Chicago so all kinds of people will show up. Like last time, some will come back and become regulars, etc...
I treat everyone really nicely at these shows, and welcome everyone and kind of make the audience laugh at my little asides between performers. We try to be poet friendly, that was the concept. Because here in Chicago, the Poetry slams began, and they often involve berating the poets and throwing them off stage. I have been in many of them at the place where they started, the green mill. They are mean to the bad poets or anyone who goes on too long. I went on too long once and they started snapping their fingers.,.. But Mark Smith, the host, was into the poem and shushed them. I thought that was very cool. That guy recites poetry at the shows and he is powerful. This goes on every Sunday here in the windy city. I read there when I was thinking I was going to be a poet.
Now I think the poetry was merely good training in how to write power sentences, etc...
I guess this is another one of those entries where I am kind of stepping away from being Johnny Pain and being Scott Ridgway. Scott Ridgway is indeed as pathetic as Johnny Pain, but he is not nearly as funny and interesting. The reason I have not been writing is that I am painting -- and getting some fine results; this new apartment has a sunroom that is my office/studio. It is great. But I promise to come back and be funny again soon.
You know, it's funny... Today went amazingly well for me. I saved like a hundred bucks on something, giving us a bit of extra money, an d then I found out we could do the show at this new cafe, and I spent hours walking the dog and got dragged into lake mich... Did more decorating on the new apartment, hanging pictures and paintings. Today we had cable installed. A big package we are getting cheap for a special. I actually saved some money that I thought I had to spend on that one too. Anyways, the point is that when things really suck I am funny, but when I am all happy and stoned and all, I just want to paint and watch TV and... Just this boring dribble... There is none of the anger.... Righteous indignation... None of the 'my sense of justice is wronged... No one I want to fight... Etc...
I loved today, when a lot of cool things fell into place, and I finished a great (for me) painting ( and have three more I am getting going, and another that is almost done). I keep saying I will get more drawings and the new paintings in here. Saturday I may actually do so... The drawings are very intricate, and will become large paintings... I mean huge... You will see what I mean when you see them. The problem is that I just moved, and cannot find the cord to attach the phone to the damn computer, so I have to go to a friend's' with a similar camera and... A hassle.
Well, on this day of peace, where I walked around the neighborhood all day doing various little chores, the dog at my side, cheerily saying hello to everyone I met, I am blathering.... People usually smile and say hi back. It is something M. And I do as part of our revolution -- we say hello to everyone we pass... Well, at least out in the neighborhoods. Downtown is a different matter, of course. But I walk past people mostly in the park across the street, or on the beach, but also on the streets. I once said hello to this guy as I left to walk the dog, and when I came back he was still there. He told me that he was locked out and having this shitty day and was feeling like hell, but when I said hello to him, he kind of just felt better... Interesting. Some people ignore me. Real cute girls sometimes think I am hitting on them and ignore me. I understand. I hate being seen as prey, too.
Sorry to be so fucking boring. Don't worry, my life will suck again at any second, certainly before the end of the weekend some crises will come up... Dog only knows...
So, hey, did you know that looking at bright colors sets off chemicals in your brain that make you happy? This is why I started painting in the first place, and part of why people get so addicted to doing it. I recommend painting very highly. Just read some books and play around, you will probably be surprised by how good you are. People are always making decisions about colors and stuff with clothes, etc.. So they unconsciously already have a lot of the training that goes into making a pleasing composition with the colors...
Enough of this fucking prattle. Have a good night. No guarantees on tomorrow though... None at all...
The cafe where I was holding a literary reading, where I basically read a lot of comedy which got everyone laughing, and a lot of other talented people did their things, closed down and we stopped having our show for awhile.
I miss the scene. One women read chapters from her on going novel about her life with a severely ill child. Another read poems. There was some music. An acapello Doors song that was astoundingly good -- from a drunken lawyer who is one of my most loyal fans and is very cool.
The new show is going to be a little different. I started the old show as a sort of traditional reading but I welcomed any kind of act, where I featured one person or a band, then we took a break and opened up the stage to anything. I always tried to have like twenty minutes worth of material just in case no one showed up, but that never happened.
The new show will emphasize my reading the comedy stories of Johnny Pain. I will go back to the beginning of him in this blog, and read all of his entries. This will all be taped and made available on DVD's... I have all the software to edit the DVD's, so I hopefully those two years of film school taught me something and I can make fun out of the footage. This stuff does make people laugh.
I am not saying this to brag... I am kind of surprised by it. I really was much more into writing serious prose, but then when I started the live show at the same time I started this blog, the comedy got such a good reaction that it kind of took over. I have the drunken georgie boy bush, too... And massah jackoffyhourson. It should be a cool scene. I am kind of the only punkish guy there. If Punk is how my comedy should be defined? I have called the writing different titles in the flyers I passed out all over the neighborhood. I will just make up some temporary definition for the new posters, too, I suppose.
The comedy is serious as hell, I should add, because I am a serious guy... Not morbid or anything, just sort of... Serious.
Ah, the new show . . .
I am going to have bands, a great hip hop guy, Talib, who writes some searing, powerful poetry. The woman I mentioned earlier, who is writing a novel... She may have finished it, but I don't think so? Oh, a lot of people. We will be advertising in the paper in the huge city of Chicago so all kinds of people will show up. Like last time, some will come back and become regulars, etc...
I treat everyone really nicely at these shows, and welcome everyone and kind of make the audience laugh at my little asides between performers. We try to be poet friendly, that was the concept. Because here in Chicago, the Poetry slams began, and they often involve berating the poets and throwing them off stage. I have been in many of them at the place where they started, the green mill. They are mean to the bad poets or anyone who goes on too long. I went on too long once and they started snapping their fingers.,.. But Mark Smith, the host, was into the poem and shushed them. I thought that was very cool. That guy recites poetry at the shows and he is powerful. This goes on every Sunday here in the windy city. I read there when I was thinking I was going to be a poet.
Now I think the poetry was merely good training in how to write power sentences, etc...
I guess this is another one of those entries where I am kind of stepping away from being Johnny Pain and being Scott Ridgway. Scott Ridgway is indeed as pathetic as Johnny Pain, but he is not nearly as funny and interesting. The reason I have not been writing is that I am painting -- and getting some fine results; this new apartment has a sunroom that is my office/studio. It is great. But I promise to come back and be funny again soon.
You know, it's funny... Today went amazingly well for me. I saved like a hundred bucks on something, giving us a bit of extra money, an d then I found out we could do the show at this new cafe, and I spent hours walking the dog and got dragged into lake mich... Did more decorating on the new apartment, hanging pictures and paintings. Today we had cable installed. A big package we are getting cheap for a special. I actually saved some money that I thought I had to spend on that one too. Anyways, the point is that when things really suck I am funny, but when I am all happy and stoned and all, I just want to paint and watch TV and... Just this boring dribble... There is none of the anger.... Righteous indignation... None of the 'my sense of justice is wronged... No one I want to fight... Etc...
I loved today, when a lot of cool things fell into place, and I finished a great (for me) painting ( and have three more I am getting going, and another that is almost done). I keep saying I will get more drawings and the new paintings in here. Saturday I may actually do so... The drawings are very intricate, and will become large paintings... I mean huge... You will see what I mean when you see them. The problem is that I just moved, and cannot find the cord to attach the phone to the damn computer, so I have to go to a friend's' with a similar camera and... A hassle.
Well, on this day of peace, where I walked around the neighborhood all day doing various little chores, the dog at my side, cheerily saying hello to everyone I met, I am blathering.... People usually smile and say hi back. It is something M. And I do as part of our revolution -- we say hello to everyone we pass... Well, at least out in the neighborhoods. Downtown is a different matter, of course. But I walk past people mostly in the park across the street, or on the beach, but also on the streets. I once said hello to this guy as I left to walk the dog, and when I came back he was still there. He told me that he was locked out and having this shitty day and was feeling like hell, but when I said hello to him, he kind of just felt better... Interesting. Some people ignore me. Real cute girls sometimes think I am hitting on them and ignore me. I understand. I hate being seen as prey, too.
Sorry to be so fucking boring. Don't worry, my life will suck again at any second, certainly before the end of the weekend some crises will come up... Dog only knows...
So, hey, did you know that looking at bright colors sets off chemicals in your brain that make you happy? This is why I started painting in the first place, and part of why people get so addicted to doing it. I recommend painting very highly. Just read some books and play around, you will probably be surprised by how good you are. People are always making decisions about colors and stuff with clothes, etc.. So they unconsciously already have a lot of the training that goes into making a pleasing composition with the colors...
Enough of this fucking prattle. Have a good night. No guarantees on tomorrow though... None at all...
Thursday, October 13, 2005
HOW TO DATE, MARRY, GET SHOT, STABBED..
Not that I am anyone your parents would want you listening to, but this is me preaching none the less. This is the secret of life, okay? Here is what you do: Find another inmate in the asylum who has a form of madness you can live with.
In my thirties, this changed a bit to only sleep with women you will marry. As soon as I learned this trick , another quickly followed: which is putting up with living with someone who is basically insane and gets to yell at me all she wants and I can not, in any way, smack the shit out of her. When I went looking for M. , I told myself that I would only date women I could marry; luck and a very specific ad in an alternative newspaper, helped, too.
I do love her in better and worse, and she loves me the same way. That is a damn fine feeling, having a woman at your back (as long she isn't stabbing you, which will happen, because they are nuts and you just have to deal with this like an intern at a psycho ward--- it helps to always tell them they are right, over and over).
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
In my thirties, this changed a bit to only sleep with women you will marry. As soon as I learned this trick , another quickly followed: which is putting up with living with someone who is basically insane and gets to yell at me all she wants and I can not, in any way, smack the shit out of her. When I went looking for M. , I told myself that I would only date women I could marry; luck and a very specific ad in an alternative newspaper, helped, too.
I do love her in better and worse, and she loves me the same way. That is a damn fine feeling, having a woman at your back (as long she isn't stabbing you, which will happen, because they are nuts and you just have to deal with this like an intern at a psycho ward--- it helps to always tell them they are right, over and over).
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
i AM SO FUCKING PATHETIC
What the hell am I doing sitting around thinking about sodomizing various rodents and plants? Like most people, I often ask myself this question. And like most others as well, too, I know there are no easy answers as to why sodomy, rodents, and squash are just so damned funny to me. I'll tell ya though, confidentially speaking, I fear that down this road is no Hemingway like adulation, nor even a Grisham who weathers the literary storm of the critics as he merrily laughs all the way to the bank. . . no, no... this just makes me weirder than before. The older I get the more creepy it will be. I'll get busted for hanging out in pet stores playing pocket pool in front of an aisle prominently advertised as the hamster hutch. I'll claim the young girl clerks excited me, and the cops will play along to keep the conversation from even going near what I like to think of as 'the exotic scent of man rodent love.'
I guess this is about as close as I can get to expressing my fucked up moods lately. I feel adrift, like an astronaut on a permanent space walk with only a slight, tenous rope keeping me from spinning off into the cold, distant stars. The rope would of course be made of hemp. I worked all day writing a stupid comedy story for in here, than on a drawing which is easily another one of the best I have done (I recently had a big break through in drawing and took my shading to a whole nother level; not that this means I suck any less over all).
I truly feel like a failure most of the time. This is a sign of sanity, I suppose, as much as anything else... or as close as I am likely to get to one.
Oh, go put it in a sock with some vasoline and have your way with yourself. Then die in the act, so from this day forward all will scoff and chortle at the mention of your disgraced name. Or buy a hat?
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I guess this is about as close as I can get to expressing my fucked up moods lately. I feel adrift, like an astronaut on a permanent space walk with only a slight, tenous rope keeping me from spinning off into the cold, distant stars. The rope would of course be made of hemp. I worked all day writing a stupid comedy story for in here, than on a drawing which is easily another one of the best I have done (I recently had a big break through in drawing and took my shading to a whole nother level; not that this means I suck any less over all).
I truly feel like a failure most of the time. This is a sign of sanity, I suppose, as much as anything else... or as close as I am likely to get to one.
Oh, go put it in a sock with some vasoline and have your way with yourself. Then die in the act, so from this day forward all will scoff and chortle at the mention of your disgraced name. Or buy a hat?
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
NEVER TRY TO BE YOUR OWN LAWYER WHEN YOU ARE FIGHTING VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY, DON'T DO IT.
VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY, DON'T DO IT.
I held up the small, dark green squash for the jury to see. For the past three hours they had heard some pretty revolting (to some) testimony about me, and now was my turn to launch a brilliant defense and bring them back into my fold. "Some see only a vegetable here. Me, I see ... Well, nothing erotic, like most people would". For some reason, this made one of the jury women kind of scow?
"Now, Me," I continued, "I have no use for this squash. None. Especially at this temperature. Room temp. or better is the general rule when boffing a veg, as I have heard from others. But me? No, I merely see food. It is them, those who oppress me, who are actually guilty here. They have this need to sex up cute young vegetables and . . . "
The judge interrupted at this point, telling me, "Johnny, stop rubbing yourself with the squash or I am going to have the bailiff take it out back and smash it." That judge, he was one mean bastard.
I really tried to stop rubbing that vegetable on my crotch, but it was just... A very difficult time to stop, and when I explained this to the judge, he yelled, "Mr. Pain, you have now lost the right to bring any more vegetables into this court. Now, or forever. Bailiff, take that squash from this sick bastard."
I wanted to be all non chalant about handing over the squash, because I didn't care, really, what happened to a squash -- let alone one that was much colder than room temperature. Even then, I am afraid as I started to hand over the squash, I accidentally let loose with a kind of cry of pain, or something. To be honest, though in a purely platonic way, I had grown close to that plucky little squash. Any one would have. That one was special. I guess then there was some chasing around in the courtroom. Someone was held down and forced to give up a true friend. And all during this, the judge was all, "Hit that bastard!! Knock him into next week!!" So I finally just turned that little queen over to the bailiff. . . . And I haven't seen her since.
Once everything settled down, I continued my defense with, "Some vegetables really want it." Looking the various jury members in their eyes as I spoke, I added, "We've all seen the come hither look of a summer squash, once in awhile, from time to time."
The prosecutor objected, and that damn judge goes, "Sustained!! You even go there, Pain, and I will jail you for contempt of court. Which I just may do anyways. Just for damn hell of it. I despise you that much."
"Okay," I went on, "Let's all try to remember -- as if any could forget, that glorious, glorious day that comes after thanksgiving and well before christmas, when the halloween pumpkins are all thrown out... who hasn't marveled at how the alley ways are transformed into almost surreally erotic walks of delight."
Then the judge just wouldn't let me talk anymore. I don't think that was legal, but he says it was, along with hitting me with that little hammer of his. I really think it prejudiced my case when he had the jury hold me down so he could hit me with his little judicial club. Anyways, the sentencing comes next week... or not.
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I held up the small, dark green squash for the jury to see. For the past three hours they had heard some pretty revolting (to some) testimony about me, and now was my turn to launch a brilliant defense and bring them back into my fold. "Some see only a vegetable here. Me, I see ... Well, nothing erotic, like most people would". For some reason, this made one of the jury women kind of scow?
"Now, Me," I continued, "I have no use for this squash. None. Especially at this temperature. Room temp. or better is the general rule when boffing a veg, as I have heard from others. But me? No, I merely see food. It is them, those who oppress me, who are actually guilty here. They have this need to sex up cute young vegetables and . . . "
The judge interrupted at this point, telling me, "Johnny, stop rubbing yourself with the squash or I am going to have the bailiff take it out back and smash it." That judge, he was one mean bastard.
I really tried to stop rubbing that vegetable on my crotch, but it was just... A very difficult time to stop, and when I explained this to the judge, he yelled, "Mr. Pain, you have now lost the right to bring any more vegetables into this court. Now, or forever. Bailiff, take that squash from this sick bastard."
I wanted to be all non chalant about handing over the squash, because I didn't care, really, what happened to a squash -- let alone one that was much colder than room temperature. Even then, I am afraid as I started to hand over the squash, I accidentally let loose with a kind of cry of pain, or something. To be honest, though in a purely platonic way, I had grown close to that plucky little squash. Any one would have. That one was special. I guess then there was some chasing around in the courtroom. Someone was held down and forced to give up a true friend. And all during this, the judge was all, "Hit that bastard!! Knock him into next week!!" So I finally just turned that little queen over to the bailiff. . . . And I haven't seen her since.
Once everything settled down, I continued my defense with, "Some vegetables really want it." Looking the various jury members in their eyes as I spoke, I added, "We've all seen the come hither look of a summer squash, once in awhile, from time to time."
The prosecutor objected, and that damn judge goes, "Sustained!! You even go there, Pain, and I will jail you for contempt of court. Which I just may do anyways. Just for damn hell of it. I despise you that much."
"Okay," I went on, "Let's all try to remember -- as if any could forget, that glorious, glorious day that comes after thanksgiving and well before christmas, when the halloween pumpkins are all thrown out... who hasn't marveled at how the alley ways are transformed into almost surreally erotic walks of delight."
Then the judge just wouldn't let me talk anymore. I don't think that was legal, but he says it was, along with hitting me with that little hammer of his. I really think it prejudiced my case when he had the jury hold me down so he could hit me with his little judicial club. Anyways, the sentencing comes next week... or not.
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
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