Note: This tale takes place in the Autumn of 2014, several years before planet Earth was invaded and ultimately destroyed by Nazi Dolphins during the events of Shark Horse Part 23: Shark To The Great Beyond.
I met Álvaro Gutiérrez in jail. For four hours, he was my best friend.
My name is Larry Glenfiddich, and I had spent over a year littering the streets of America with an ever-lengthening trail of golden, fuzzy corpses; and I had no intention of slowing down. At least not till I’d bathed in the blood of every goddamn hamster, ferret, weasel, rat, stoat and fucking vole on this whole foregone planet. By God’s saggy tits, I would not relent until I had pissed blood on the shattered carcass of their wicked master, Jon Hammster himself.
That was the plan, anyway. Ending up in jail wasn’t part of it, although retrospectively, I shouldn’t have been so surprised about that. I was in Las Vegas when Jon Hammster murdered my family. Before that happened, I’d thought despair was losing a big hand; getting rejected by a gorgeous bird; getting stuck in traffic. But when my entire home city was casually swept off the map by a fucking domesticated rodent, it felt like my soul had been ripped out through my dick with a burning, barbed hook; that was true despair. When I heard the news that Stoke-On-Trent had burned… that my daughter Lily – who had only moments before been a smiling, laughing, beautiful human being, full of hopes and dreams and fears – was now only so much irradiated dust sweeping across the English countryside giving sheep farmers cancer…
I mean it’s not a foreword or introduction – even though it is (more or less). It’s only not a foreword/intro since, if you’re anything like me, you’ll skip those. At least, you’ll skip them at first, but then read them once you’re invested, or after you finish the book, or if your professor tells you to – now that’s ambitious, me thinking a professor is telling you to read this.
This is chapter 1 because this is my invitation for you to begin my story, but it’s not my chapter 1. I’m not sure what chapter I’m on in my life. If I was going by years… but that’s just it, isn’t it? I’m not going by years, but chapters, what I consider eras (epochs?) – perhaps that’s where Dickens struggled. This is an invitation to my story; for you to begin my story. And make no mistake, I am writing this for you – to you? To you. To say it’s for you would be presumptuous; me thinking that this book will help you. Truthfully, I don’t know that it will. It is to you because you’re the one I can confide in. Continue reading
As far as this post goes: I don’t want to challenge you in any way. Consider it a mental break. Partly because I can’t think of anything that will go beyond a few sentences but more significantly to create a literal conceit concerning life.
Aside from all the work that goes on, people forget to actually stop; to actually rest and recover. Continue reading
Big Fish is the musical adaptation of the 2003 film, Big Fish, which was based on the 1998 novel, Big Fish, by Daniel Wallace – all of which seems like a vague modernization of Homer’s The Odyssey.
I mean the play begins with a young Will (Nic Garcia) reading The Iliad and the father, Edward Bloom (Chris Janssen) tells his son that those stories have already been told – hence why he’s telling the sequel. Then, Bloom (Sr.) recounts stories of mermaids (Odyssey’s sirens), a giant named Karl (or a Cyclops), a small town where he was unable to leave until it was flooded (i.e. Calypso’s island where Odysseus was a prisoner and Poseidon – god of sea – would kill him if he tried to leave).
Of course, I say “modernization” because, whereas Odysseus’ myths were totally acceptable for his son and wife when he got back (almost a decade later), it doesn’t sit well with a child today who feels the stories were a way to cover up for being an irresponsible dad.
Couch facing downstage, shabby coffee table with glass on top, typewriter on the center of it; two remote controls nearby. Armchair stage left. Door further stage left. Stairs upstage with two doors (leading to the individual rooms).
WESLEY (26). He’s wearing baggy clothes. A green plaid shirt, some jeans and brown moccasins; worn.
Wes sits on the couch, glass of water to the right of him, stack of blank pages to the left. He slides a paper into the typewriter and preps himself by making hand gestures, stretching his arms out, letting the shirt sag. Cracks his knuckles, tilts his head left and right, shakes head a few times and makes faces – all warmup exercises you can think of.
The door opens with such force that it slams open against the wall. KURT (29) enters in a suit and tie. Beer bottle in one hand, brief case in another.
WES. (rises off couch) Damnit, Kurt!
KURT. (sips beer and leans in looking downstage) You watching porn or something?
WES. No, no.
KURT. Letting your imagination get some exercise?
WES. No, well-yes, I- if you must know- I have decided that it’s time I put my skills and talents to good use. I am going to write a novel. Continue reading