- Plutarch
5.05.2009
Quote of the Day
All men, whilst they are awake, are in one common world: but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.
5.04.2009
4.30.2009
Quote of the Day
I was in the Virgin Islands once. I met a girl. We ate lobster, drank Piña Coladas. At sunset we made love like sea otters. That was a pretty good day. Why couldn't I get that day over and over and over?
- Phil Connors (Bill Murray), Groundhog Day
1.22.2009
Chapter One, Rough Draft
Figured I'd post some rough draft work of the novel I'm working on.
hapter I
If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.
- Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow
It's 4 A.M., and the only sound to be heard is an infernal retching emanating from the room next door, in this seedy, rundown Tennessee motel. The natives are restless tonight, all liquored up and spun out on whatever cheap crank they can get their semen-encrusted hands on. Not an incredibly complicated feat considering the enormous amount of "cooks" in the area – street chemists with hard-ons for cold, hard cash and a predilection for fourteen year old girls. In this god-forsaken hellhole, depravity is king.
Winston was never one for waxing poetic, but this modern-day Gomorrah seemed to be a catalyst for all the pent-up emotions that were plaguing his mind that evening.
"The more things change," he thought "the more they stay the same." Three years in this pus-bucket of a city seemed like an eternity to him – far more than any mere human should ever have to handle. Exile had never been such a downer. Politics had not been friendly to Winston - he had tried his hand at running for senator, based out of his hometown of Bayonne, and oh lord did the skeletons come out of his closet.
It seems that Winston's opponent, a Mr. Alphonse Wilson (Big Al, to his friends, and to his hookers) did not take well to a young realist trying to remove him from his position of power. They say that absolute power corrupts absolutely - and this man was the epitome of the old maxim. You could see the filth of his aura exuding out of every pore of his bulbous face like heat lines on the horizon in the middle of a New York City heat wave. Prostitution rings, gun running, nepotism galore – you name it, Big Al did it to get to the top. And Winston was about to dethrone him.
Five ex-lover's, a misplaced video from college and a long forgotten blog entry later, Winston was a fucking pariah. He could still vividly recall the front-page article in the Star Ledger – in short, he went from being Bayonne's golden boy to a sex-crazed, disease addled, drug-abusing monster. Ironic, considering the fact that this wonderful blurb described Mr. Wilson to a T – and, of course, the madman was involved in every illicit activity under the sun. But this was all speculation, lacking "proper" documentation. Alphonse had his detractors, but they had a tendency to disappear and never be heard from again. If someone did have dirt on the Senator, they were too scared to come forward with it.
Now the article in question went on in great detail about Winston's personal life – or at least the life he used to lead. Yes, there'd been the orgies. Yes, there'd been the four-day benders on Peruvian white and of course, there was that dreadful run in with gonorrhea – but this was all in the past, where Winston preferred to keep it. After struggling for several years in university, he finally got his act together. He wasn't about to give up the pussy, but it was becoming increasingly clear that coming home at seven o'clock in the morning with those cute (hopefully) eighteen year old girls with an eightball in his pocket was not going to further his career, let alone his lifespan.
By the time Winston had woken up to grab the paper that fateful morning, his numbers in the polls had plummeted in such an epic way that it would put even Black Tuesday to shame. Within a week, there was a sex tape making its rounds on the web depicting some very interesting sexual maneuvers involving an apricot, a catalytic converter and a tire iron. After that, friends and family alike seemed so distant around Winston that he came to the realization that he had to get the fuck out of dodge until the media barrage died down – for his sake, and for theirs.
Winston stepped outside. It was a crisp November night. The sky was a surreal mix of a velvet black shroud, pocked with a million points of shining, white, ethereal light. This was nothing like the sky back home, at least in Bayonne. As the bitter air, thick with the smell of human excrement and the saccharine-sweet aroma of some ass-backwards hillbilly "chasing the white dragon" hit his nostrils, Winston became sick to his stomach.
"Three years in this shithole!", Winston managed to muster out between dry heaves, "Three fucking years!"
The tears were heavy in his Hudson green eyes when he heard soft footsteps slowly approaching him. "Probably some fucking crackhead", he thought, but the steps sounded too elegant, not the broken gait of a tweaker coming to rob his ass blind to get another hit. Still, when he felt the diminutive hand reach out and touch his shoulder, he spun around like a whirling dervish and damned near knocked the unfortunate interloper to the ground.
Winston made eye contact with his unknown sympathizer and was nearly floored. One look into this complete strangers eyes and he was completely lost, genuinely and utterly speechless.
Winston had been with his fare share of women, as most of the United States was intimately aware of. Blessed with good genes, a scathing wit and a searing intellect, it was understandably easy to see why. But even with the plethora of women he had been with, this woman, this flaxen haired goddess, was different. Eyes so blue that at first glance he felt like he was merely wading in an ocean, but that if he stared any longer into the abyss, he ran the risk of drowning in its infinite expanse.
Seconds later, when the self-administered dose of Pentobarbital kicked in, Winston was bathed in an all encompassing nothingness, set adrift in the sea of his unconciousness.
hapter I
If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.
- Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow
It's 4 A.M., and the only sound to be heard is an infernal retching emanating from the room next door, in this seedy, rundown Tennessee motel. The natives are restless tonight, all liquored up and spun out on whatever cheap crank they can get their semen-encrusted hands on. Not an incredibly complicated feat considering the enormous amount of "cooks" in the area – street chemists with hard-ons for cold, hard cash and a predilection for fourteen year old girls. In this god-forsaken hellhole, depravity is king.
Winston was never one for waxing poetic, but this modern-day Gomorrah seemed to be a catalyst for all the pent-up emotions that were plaguing his mind that evening.
"The more things change," he thought "the more they stay the same." Three years in this pus-bucket of a city seemed like an eternity to him – far more than any mere human should ever have to handle. Exile had never been such a downer. Politics had not been friendly to Winston - he had tried his hand at running for senator, based out of his hometown of Bayonne, and oh lord did the skeletons come out of his closet.
It seems that Winston's opponent, a Mr. Alphonse Wilson (Big Al, to his friends, and to his hookers) did not take well to a young realist trying to remove him from his position of power. They say that absolute power corrupts absolutely - and this man was the epitome of the old maxim. You could see the filth of his aura exuding out of every pore of his bulbous face like heat lines on the horizon in the middle of a New York City heat wave. Prostitution rings, gun running, nepotism galore – you name it, Big Al did it to get to the top. And Winston was about to dethrone him.
Five ex-lover's, a misplaced video from college and a long forgotten blog entry later, Winston was a fucking pariah. He could still vividly recall the front-page article in the Star Ledger – in short, he went from being Bayonne's golden boy to a sex-crazed, disease addled, drug-abusing monster. Ironic, considering the fact that this wonderful blurb described Mr. Wilson to a T – and, of course, the madman was involved in every illicit activity under the sun. But this was all speculation, lacking "proper" documentation. Alphonse had his detractors, but they had a tendency to disappear and never be heard from again. If someone did have dirt on the Senator, they were too scared to come forward with it.
Now the article in question went on in great detail about Winston's personal life – or at least the life he used to lead. Yes, there'd been the orgies. Yes, there'd been the four-day benders on Peruvian white and of course, there was that dreadful run in with gonorrhea – but this was all in the past, where Winston preferred to keep it. After struggling for several years in university, he finally got his act together. He wasn't about to give up the pussy, but it was becoming increasingly clear that coming home at seven o'clock in the morning with those cute (hopefully) eighteen year old girls with an eightball in his pocket was not going to further his career, let alone his lifespan.
By the time Winston had woken up to grab the paper that fateful morning, his numbers in the polls had plummeted in such an epic way that it would put even Black Tuesday to shame. Within a week, there was a sex tape making its rounds on the web depicting some very interesting sexual maneuvers involving an apricot, a catalytic converter and a tire iron. After that, friends and family alike seemed so distant around Winston that he came to the realization that he had to get the fuck out of dodge until the media barrage died down – for his sake, and for theirs.
Winston stepped outside. It was a crisp November night. The sky was a surreal mix of a velvet black shroud, pocked with a million points of shining, white, ethereal light. This was nothing like the sky back home, at least in Bayonne. As the bitter air, thick with the smell of human excrement and the saccharine-sweet aroma of some ass-backwards hillbilly "chasing the white dragon" hit his nostrils, Winston became sick to his stomach.
"Three years in this shithole!", Winston managed to muster out between dry heaves, "Three fucking years!"
The tears were heavy in his Hudson green eyes when he heard soft footsteps slowly approaching him. "Probably some fucking crackhead", he thought, but the steps sounded too elegant, not the broken gait of a tweaker coming to rob his ass blind to get another hit. Still, when he felt the diminutive hand reach out and touch his shoulder, he spun around like a whirling dervish and damned near knocked the unfortunate interloper to the ground.
Winston made eye contact with his unknown sympathizer and was nearly floored. One look into this complete strangers eyes and he was completely lost, genuinely and utterly speechless.
Winston had been with his fare share of women, as most of the United States was intimately aware of. Blessed with good genes, a scathing wit and a searing intellect, it was understandably easy to see why. But even with the plethora of women he had been with, this woman, this flaxen haired goddess, was different. Eyes so blue that at first glance he felt like he was merely wading in an ocean, but that if he stared any longer into the abyss, he ran the risk of drowning in its infinite expanse.
Seconds later, when the self-administered dose of Pentobarbital kicked in, Winston was bathed in an all encompassing nothingness, set adrift in the sea of his unconciousness.
Quote of the Day
The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.
- Frank Herbert, Dune
- Frank Herbert, Dune
1.21.2009
Back to the Future
Well, after a five month hiatus, I've decided to reactivate this blog. Tomorrow morning. After I actually get some sleep.
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