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.


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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.
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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.

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...










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