the seek therapy satellite

unedited, unfinished, but I uncare

Mon, 18 Aug 08 20:42:00 UT

this began as something somewhat different. I wanted the young 'voice' for the story (therefore I can play with tense and odd wordage and such), but the plotting was to be different...way different (was a young girl, was an entire town, and was no 'whippings' at all). but this is what came out, so Ill toss it here. then Ill think about it and the 'correct' plot and rewrite it...Im kinda hopped-up about what I got in mind, actually.

plus, theres another story (The Old Man, which is a lame title and soon to be changed) about two paragraphs shy of final first draft...I might wanna work on that as soon as I post this. that one, the one with the bad title--imho--is way too long for what it is--I need to take a sharp knife to it and condense it like it's milk (damn, thats stupid...milk? condense w/knife? hahahaha--Im an idjit).

so before I simile myself further into a metaphoric corner, here's an untitled bit of fluff for yer reading displeasure:

Mommy is finally taking us away. Hereâs why, âcause our house is haunted is why. I donât think mommyâs lying, but also I donât believe mommy, but I guess that donât matter. Whatâs a thirteen-year-old boy got to say about stuff thatâs important anyway.

If daddy was here, heâd be able to say something; mommy always listened to him. And when she didnât listen, daddy would whip her until she didâlike he used to whip me and Amy. After a whipping (or a punch in the stomachââlike Ali,â heâd say and I didnât know what that meant), and plus a lot of times an overnight stay in the shed, mommy would be all nice and stuff and be agreeable to daddy.

I didnât think he should hit Amy, though, because she was younger than me. I kind of figured she was too young to understand some things, and whippings hurt. To me, it seemed like she shouldnât have got the belt. To me, it was like her being only seven, maybe daddy should have just smacked her face like he had done me when I was that age, and hold off on the whippings until she reached like maybe ten or something.

But anyway, weâre going to live with grandma. She has a house in Bellaire, which is just the next town up the Ohio River, and she has lots of room. I wonât have to sleep with Amy anymore. And Iâll be all happy âcause she gets up to pee a lot and that wakes me up. Then Iâm sleepy at school the next day and sometimes get demerits. Before, when daddy was alive and I got a demerit, Iâd get a horrible whipping, so I tried hard to be a good kid in school. But now, mommy doesnât whip me; she doesnât even care if Iâm alive I sometimes think. âSpecially since she started talking about that ghost at our house. She never said, but I think that she thinks it was daddy. And whatâs funny, if she would ask me, I would tell her; daddy is still there.

He canât touch me now, which means no whippings, but he still yells at me. Not all the time, either, just during âthose nights.â Iâm embarrassed about it, but also helpless to stop it: the sticky stuff in my underpants that comes when Iâm sleeping. When I wake up with it in my pants, thatâs when daddy starts yelling. Heâll yell about mommy most of the time, screaming in words Iâve never heard before. But even with the funny sounding words, I know what heâs saying.

Aint that funny?

I asked Amy if she has seen daddy since he left (mommy says he âpassed,â but that sounds like maybe he just farted so I say heâs left) and she says no.

But mommy has seen daddy. Like I said, she wonât say it was him, but how else can you explain those red welts on her face? She didnât do it; she wouldnât slap herself or punch herself. I know mommy and she couldnât possibly hit herself hard enough to have broken her own front tooth this morning. She just says weâre leaving, and thatâs that.

The carâs almost packed. Mommy made me mad, too, âcause I canât take a lot of my stuffâshe just wants me to grab some clothes and stuff. I got to leave my Playstation and all my model cars, and thatâs what is making me all mad and stuff. She says we ainât coming back either. At first I started crying, but I stopped âcause I know when tears will work and when they wont. Besides, Iâm a big boy now. I can ask my cousin to drive me here tomorrow and get my important stuff.

I think mommyâs almost ready to go. I hear her and Amy outside arguing; trying to shove bags of stuff into the trunk and backseat (Youâre doing it wrong, dammit! Put that over there!â)âwhich means me and Amy has to share the front seat and that is so uncool. I hope none of my friends see me.

Daddyâs been gone for a weekâhe left (not âpassed gasâ) on a Sunday night and today is Sunday and weâre leaving and I donât like it. Iâll miss daddy. And I donât want grandma to see my wet underpants, either. I wonder if daddyâll talk in those odd words to me at her house. I hope not, itâs kind of scary even though it is daddy.

Mommy looked bad when she was here in my bedroom a little bit ago yelling at me to pack. Her face is all swollen and that missing tooth is funny-looking. Thereâs black stuff around her eyes, like from when daddy used to hit her in the eye and itâd turn all crazy purple and stuff. Both eyes this time, daddy must have been really mad today.

âGet down here, Evan,â mommy just yelled, so that means Iâm going now. Time to leave and I donât want to. I wish daddy would stop her; I wish daddy would come right now and make her stop leaving. I donât want to go to grandmaâs.

And sheesh, Iâll have to go to a new school, too. Iâll have to go to Bellaire school and I donât like those kids. They always come to town and tear-up stuff after football games.

âDaddy, please, make mommy stop!â and as soon as the words fly out of my mouth I feel that crazy wetness in my underwear.

Does that mean...?

[to be continued...possible, but not probable]

gr7

Sun, 17 Aug 08 11:46:00 UT

today I get older...funny, I think Ive said [asked] this before, but how can a person age a whole year in a single day? seems silly, were you to ask me...

heres something funny, the urban word of the day today:

August 17: gr7

A little less than gr8 (great) but still better than just good
said grr-sev-en

A:how are you?

B: gr7 you?

A: Just good

and actually, thats about how Im feeling--'almost great'. got the standard life issues, but nothing that wont pass, and feeling pretty decent healthwise in light of the fact I got pretty drunk friday night [being out of practise*, when I drink a lot nowadays I feel like a squashed turd for two or three days after] and my head's kinda clear--which is a wonderous 'thang'.

so I got some BD cards today...SDN (sex date network) sent a form letter wishing me a happy BD and reminding me that for a small fee I can look at women's profiles and "get laid tonight!" Steven King sent me a note [We at The StephenKing.com Message Board would like to wish you a happy birthday today!] that I truly believe was penned by King himself; doesnt it seem like something he'd write? [giggle]

my mom called and wished me a happy one...

Vic & her son Harley got me a way cool card about farts--it even sounds-off a cool pootish noise, I had the distinct impression I needed to wipe...

Vanesa sent me a wish that still has my head spinning...

and the day is young. hell, I might even start drinking here directly [theres an unopened fifth of jim beam in the fridge, also theres a ton of beer--just because I dont drink often is no reason to let stock deplete]...so I can be all good and lit-up if my family shows...

thinkin of lightin a fire outside, have a bit of campfire funzies....or.......maybe go to my chair and continue purusing Jeffery Deaver's book The Broken Window [great stuff, its a lincoln rhymes novel(one of several)], of which Im hooked.....or......theres chores to be done. started yesterday cleaning house. got the bedroom kinda sorta straight. but I had to do that. last week I brought home a mattress & boxspring of way good quality but had nowhere to keep them--they leaned sideways on the porch all week. I mean, the bedroom had only a small path between boxes of glasswear, books/magazines, CDs/DVDs/VCRs/and I would have no doubt theres an 8-track tape or trwo floating around in there, tools, and of course jeans that wont fit but cant be tossed away--you know those kind, right? too good, but too tight, and hey, I wont always be fat... so yeah, got that arranged and put the bedding in there. I bet the neighbors are relieved.

so lets talk bees.
roughly two weeks ago Vic came here during the day while I was working, turned on the kitchen light and the AC, and promptly got stung. she sprayed some stuff on 'em and left. then when I got here, I didnt see bee one. and we've seen nothing of bees since...until friday night. christ, they swarmed that light in there like a horror movie--a thick cloud of buzzing yellow death, planning on stinging the world into a bee supremacy a poet might say, and I sprayed and sprayed and swatted and sprayed some more and still they kept coming. this went on friday night before me and Vic left (comedy night at a bar, saw a few funny fellows, btw) and afterwards when we both were sauced. then all day saturday the battle raged. was swatting and spraying until I run outta spray...so I got the bright idea of hooking up the bug light. and TADA!!!!!! fuck those little fucking bastards, I killed damn near every one. last night I think I saw one straggler...and this morning was one (he flew into the zapper and met his maker while I cheered his death) but now the kitchen is clear of stinging insects.
I got no clue where they came from, only know that "they came." well...theyre gone, so can I get a witness?

writing, off and on. worked a few thousand words yesterday and feeling like adding. it'll be a short story, posted here I s'pose, and prolly finished within the week. all I need to do is take the idea from my head and write it...then edit, then post, then check comments cuz Im an attention junky....

ummmmm...cant think of anything else to tell ya right now.

*brit spelling

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, we're fir trees?

Sat, 9 Aug 08 17:19:00 UT

instead of addressing important issues; instead of writing overdue emails or making all-too-important phonecalls; instead of adding more words to my story-in-progress (some of you may recall when I tried writing a novel entitled "The Time After." this is that story...retold) or tending to an overgrown yard and slow plumbing or making money, I think Ill post this silly snippet from yahoo. seems inportant enough to me...you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LONDON (Reuters) - Embaressed by yor spelling? Never you mind.

Fed up with his students' complete inability to spell common English correctly, a British academic has suggested it may be time to accept "variant spellings" as legitimate.

Rather than grammarians getting in a huff about "argument" being spelled "arguement" or "opportunity" as "opertunity," why not accept anything that's phonetically (fonetickly anyone?) correct as long as it can be understood?

"Instead of complaining about the state of the education system as we correct the same mistakes year after year, I've got a better idea," Ken Smith, a criminology lecturer at Bucks New University, wrote in the Times Higher Education Supplement.

"University teachers should simply accept as variant spelling those words our students most commonly misspell."

To kickstart his proposal, Smith suggested 10 common misspellings that should immediately be accepted into the pantheon of variants, including "ignor," "occured," "thier," "truely," "speach" and "twelth" (it should be "twelfth").

Then of course there are words like "misspelt" (often spelled "mispelt"), not to mention "varient," a commonly used variant of "variant."

And that doesn't even begin to delve into all the problems English people have with words that use the letters "i" and "e" together, like weird, seize, leisure, foreign and neighbor.

The rhyme "i before e except after c" may be on the lips of every schoolchild in Britain, but that doesn't mean they remember the rule by the time they get to university.

Of course, such proposals have been made in the past. The advent of text messaging turned many students into spelling neanderthals as phrases such as "wot r u doin 2nite?" became socially, if not academically, acceptable.

Despite Smith's suggestion, language mavens are unconvinced. John Simpson, the chief editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, says rules are rules and they are there for good reason.

"There are enormous advantages in having a coherent system of spelling," he told the Times newspaper.

"It makes it easier to communicate. Maybe during a learning phase there is some scope for error, but I would hope that by the time people get to university they have learnt to spell."

Yet even some of Britain's greatest wordsmiths have acknowledged it's a language with irritating quirkiness.

Playwright George Bernard Shaw was fond of pointing out that the word "ghoti" could just as well be pronounced "fish" if you followed common pronunciation: 'gh' as in "tough," 'o' as in "women" and 'ti' as in "nation."

And he was a playright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

so it occured to me for the eleventh or twelth time thier truely right--we, as a nation of conifers, ignor correct spelling, taking the opertunity to use misspelt words all too offen.

footnote 1. http://www.journalscape.com/perrymcgee/2003-12-16-23:18/ is the addy of a portion of The Time After--an old seek therapy entry where I posted chunks of the story as I went(this being chunk 3, had you been counting)--so you can have an idea of what Im trying for with this new endeavor.

Im going back to my shell where its safe and cozy---byebye all. sleep well, injoy life, and four God's sake, spell beter

this is some funny shit, I tell ya [old jokes]

Fri, 1 Aug 08 19:44:00 UT

Thu Jul 31, 9:17 AM ET

LONDON (Reuters) - The world's oldest recorded joke has been traced back to 1900 BC and suggests toilet humor was as popular with the ancients as it is today.

It is a saying of the Sumerians, who lived in what is now southern Iraq and goes: "Something which has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband's lap."

It heads the world's oldest top 10 joke list published by the University of Wolverhampton Thursday.

A 1600 BC gag about a pharaoh, said to be King Snofru, comes second -- "How do you entertain a bored pharaoh? You sail a boatload of young women dressed only in fishing nets down the Nile and urge the pharaoh to go catch a fish."

The oldest British joke dates back to the 10th Century and reveals the bawdy face of the Anglo-Saxons -- "What hangs at a man's thigh and wants to poke the hole that it's often poked before? Answer: A key."

"Jokes have varied over the years, with some taking the question and answer format while others are witty proverbs or riddles," said the report's writer Dr Paul McDonald, senior lecturer at the university.

"What they all share however, is a willingness to deal with taboos and a degree of rebellion. Modern puns, Essex girl jokes and toilet humor can all be traced back to the very earliest jokes identified in this research."

The study was commissioned by television channel Dave. The top 10 oldest jokes can be viewed at www.dave-tv.co.uk.

whats up, wabbit.........

Fri, 1 Aug 08 18:43:00 UT

chillin for a moment. got a reasonably sized spliff dangling from my lips, which are (my lips, I mean) glazed with bud light. the joint is glazed with thc. yummy stuff, this weed. deserves a damn gigglesnort, in fact, so later I just might do that. be like a party: Ill look at the joint's remainder (cuz I hardly ever smoke a whole number) and just gigglesnort my ass off.

yes?

sound like a plan?

good, then. glad thats settled.

seen Holley Anne Ault yesterday and she's as fucking cute as a baby can be. all bundled in a blue blankie that looked so comfy...I wanted it, actually.

seen Josh. he's growing too damn fast. at a year & half, he's almost seven inches taller than I am...(zadgurating a bit)

saw Megan and Shaun...both outta their skulls worring about this huge move they did and somehow not pulling their hair out by the roots.

help consisted of Rebecca and Dan and Dave (one was Shaun's minister, I cant remember which one was which) and of course, topping the list'o loaders, Vic.

like always, Vickey jumped in and somewhat got the party started by carrying stuff to us and saying, "wheres this go?" and they'd answer, "truck," while pointing out the door, and Vic'd say: "well take the damned thing," and we'd take the damn thing and put it in the truck outside the door only to be greeted by Vic holding something and asking again where it might go...

Im glad she helped, but she did fuck-up her back a dab. ecven in pain, she's one fine worker, ya gotta give her that...Thanks Vic :)

My boy & family're in Fordham NY about now, barring any delays.

yo Matt, you out there? I heard youre online occasionly of late. ja'ever finish The Eaters?

I aint finished jack shit, speaking of fiction. Vanesa, remember that one story I began and didnt finish? well, theres like 4 or so unfinished others to match. when I posted that last one, Butterscotch, about the snake, I lost all momentum, writing-wise. do me a favor, would ya? send me a cheery happy email prompting me to write a story; either finish one of the dead ones or start a new one. would ya do that? send me a cheerleader mail to kickstart my ass?

sunday: [see tuesday]
monday: drank coffee/worked/did sudokus/slept
tuesday: [see monday]
wednesday: workd half a day/slept til almost 5/did sudokus/slept
thurdsday: went to coulmbus--left at 7:30am and returned at 9:30pm (Nesa, do I need to convert that to metric?)

k, nuff said. byebye & til we meat again

dotdotdot

luck

Wed, 30 Jul 08 18:33:00 UT

I firmly believe in luck, but I also believe one can create their own situations and call that luck. like maybe winning some money scratching a lottery ticket is luck only because you bought the ticket at the right time...and all the circumstances were perfect--that winning ticket was there all along and enough people bought the other ones (and there wasnt that one straggler who got yours), so its called luck. or when things go bad, its "bad luck" when usually all the conditions were there before and happened to collide at that moment.

so anyway, Im having a moment of collision and aint too happy, so thats why Im quiet and not writing or much of anything...

on a brighter note, I get to see my Granddaughter tomorrow when I go to columbus to help my boy pack a uhaul and head off east to NY. he's got a good job there and has no problems pulling stakes and finding his fortune.

plus, I thought this was cool:
http://www.livescience.com/technology/destroy_earth_mp.html

Im going back to sleep...night-night

new story

Thu, 24 Jul 08 19:32:00 UT

Butterscotch

By Perry McGee

As of the middle of last month, Butterscotch measured eleven foot one and an eighth inchâat just a few days over three years of age, her length was a small percentage of what sheâd become given a chance to mature in a correctly sized (locked) environment. She was an articulated python (just like Alice Cooperâs) with a calm demeanor, a curious nature, and eyesight that could pick up movement in infraredâfar beyond the scope of humans.

Ed, Butterscotchâs owner, gleamed with pride every time heâor anyone within earshotâmentioned his slinky pet. Heâd go on for hours given the chance, talking about this, that, and the other.

Roberta wore Edâs ring and cooked Edâs meals and raised Edâs children, but she knew she was a distant second as far as any feelings of love Ed had. Those deeper intimate emotions were for Butterscotch. Sometimes Bert wondered if sheâd understand a little better if her husbandâs sensitivities lay with another woman instead of a beady-eyed serpent in a glass cage. Were Ed to indulge one of his young coworkers (or maybe the bartender at his favorite watering hole), sheâd have the ability to wrap her mind around that. But a snake?

âThatâs my baby, thatâs my babyâ said Ed Rosington, dangling a mouse near the coiled python. Butterscotch was fast, but Ed (usually) was faster; jerking the live prey away quick enough to keep fangs out of his hand. Once, she got him good, shredded his palm and tore away the first joint on his ring finger (which is why, he explained, he couldnât wear his wedding band) with a sudden and unexpected lunge. Nowadays his incomplete hand was merely an item of conversation. But at the time, boy, he was pissed; locked Butterscotch in a tiny cage in the basement for seventeen days as punishment.

That was the one incident Bert took issue against. Her contention was the snake didnât do anything wrongâstupid Ed shouldnât have played with her food like thatâlike he was doing now, too. She secretly hoped Butterscotch would strike and rip his damn fool head off, is exactly what she wished for.

And as if Roberta Rosington had rubbed a magic lamp and received a wish from a genie, Butterscotch shot from her circular stance on the carpet, past the squealing rodent (Bert would later swear that the mouse sighed a sigh of relief) and latched onto Edâs lower face.

Missus R took in an amazing sight: a very long (and rather thick, muscular) snake with its jaws opened and Edâs face somewhere in that black vice-grip of a chompâher body slithering around his upper torso going for a kill position. It took the snake less than five seconds to assume a fatal poseâit took Ed almost two minutes to die. The cracking sounds (bones shattering) and moans and blood squirting out Edâs eyes and ears would have been unbearable had it not been for the fact this scene had been hoped for for monthsâBert was desensitized to the point of apathy, she was emotionally dulled so much she actually enjoyed watching Ed suffer.

When Butterscotch sensed all life had left Edâs body, she clamored off the inert corpse and curled around Burtâs ankles. Gently, unlike the death grip thatâd killed Ed. The snake and the widow exchanged a knowing look.

âThatâs my baby, she said.

untitled document

Sun, 20 Jul 08 00:28:00 UT

[additional stuff]: it always scares me to see a seek therapy journal entry the morning after a drunken rampage; this morning was no exception. I first saw the email alert, then tried to recall what Id been thinking (hence: posted) last night. well, its only a lyric from a song I really dig. I had 'ole B. Joel cranking pretty much all night, singing right along with him...and some of you know I dont sing too awfully well. 'specially when Im doing the 3-sheet-to-the-wind groove. Imagine, if you will, me and a very drunk Vickey hoping around the livingroom screaming butchahadda be a big shot, didncha and cath-o-lic girls start much too late, using a broomstick as a makeshift mike stand and playing air piano.

what started out as a pleasant evening @ my sister's 60th birthday party [damn she's old...and Im gonna be old next, I reckon] ended-up a blurry evening of fun...even managed to blow money I aint got on the gambling machines [I love Caveman Keno].
worked a long-ass day yesterday, took a quick powernap, then went to sis' party...and oddly enough, for as dry a family as the McGee's are (me & my brother are the only imbibers in the lot) there was several cans of beer in the cooler under the diet pepsi and beside the caffeine-free 7-up. I had a few sippy-poos after dinner (chicken, ribs, baked beans, several types of salad, and enough sweets to kill someone) then after the party was the gambling, then back here to square one, where there was a boatload of beer in the fridge. and, seeing as how Im almost a teetotaler nowadays, the effects of the beer was extreme. musta been extreme: I woke-up in the chair fully dressed as opposed to setting the matress on the floor, putting-on my sleepypants, and crashing-out my usual way.

then I slept til 10:30--which is a new world record for me; I never sleep past seven in the morning.

and even now, even with the pain medication (and fifth cup of joe and prolly twentieth ciggy), Im still a bit ragged around the edges.

although I hope not, I believe some of today's plans are nixed. was gonna dress-up the yard [early, before the heat set in], then me and a bud were to install a pocket door later today. that part--the door--will happen cuz I like money, and installing a pocket door = money. its the jungle-esque driveway that bothers me. theres shit from winter out there, wood I need to stock downstairs for this upcoming heating season, and tools and a lazyboy recliner under a tarp and a load [or two] of shingles torn off a roof this spring and other such crazy things that Im sick of looking at. but...funny how a hangover changes whats important. the driveway was top priority all week. I took a day off my regular job just for that reason. now, looking out of bloodshot eyes, processing information with a hurting brain, listening to my inner voice thats joined in a bad harmony by a slight ringing--from loud music--, I just feel that the driveway isnt all that bad right now. I believe it can wait another day or two or three.

oh well, fuck it is what I say. maybe I can sweet-talk some english girl into stopping by and cleaning it.

so anyway, heres a song for ya. hope you enjoy it......

[even more [and much later) additional stuff] forgot to make this commentable...had that shut-off lastnight for some reason...so now its back on...sheesh...what a weiner, eh?

Well we all have a face
That we hide away forever
And we take them out and
Show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel
Some are silk and some are leather
They're the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on
Well we all fall in love
But we disregard the danger
Though we share so many secrets
There are some we never tell
Why were you so surprised
That you never saw the stranger
Did you ever let your lover see
The stranger in yourself?
Don't be afraid to try again
Everone goes south
Every now and then
You've done it, why can't
Someone else?
You should know by now
You've been there yourself
Once I used to believe
I was such a great romancer
Then I came home to a woman
That I could not recognize
When I pressed her for a reason
She refused to even answer
It was then I felt the stranger
Kick me right between the eyes
Well we all fall in love
But we disregard the danger
Though we share so many secrets
There are some we never tell
Why were you so surprised
That you never saw the stranger
Did you ever let your lover see
The stranger in yourself?
Don't be afraid t try again
Everyone goes south
Every now and then
You've done it why can't
Someone else?
You should know by now
You've been there yourself
You may never understand
How the stranger is inspired
But he isn't always evil
And he isn't always wrong
Though you drown in good intentions
You will never quench the fire
You'll give in to your desire
When the stranger comes along.

.........................................cool, eh?

help please....

Thu, 17 Jul 08 19:58:00 UT

heres what happens.

Im like all typing away on a story using my patent-pending hunt and peck method, looking at the keys as I do so, and when I finally peer up at the screen, it's rolled/scrolled backwards to earlier in the document...like sometimes one page and sometimes more...it just started doing this, too...and in two different documents. kinda frustrating, to tell you the truth. pisses me off to even further the truth along to the next level.

so what in blue blazes can I do? Im just a simple farmgirl with no money and my nose is too big (and too full of stiff boogers) to attract a husband; I have icky cheese dangling from my lower orifices cuz I'm allergic to water--I break-out with hives, boils, warts, blisters, lesions, pimples (including those pesky blackheads), and various other indescribable epidermal traumas--aint bathed since I was two cuz'a that; my three cows died from a vicodin overdose (they, in a daring and well-organized heist, stole my mom's script, snuck to wal-mark and got it filled, then hid under the bridge smoking cigs and snorting pills, ...stupid cows); and I lost all my spare change in a bull market.

so I ask again, what in blue blazes can I do?

help please...tell me how to make my word program stop asting like an unruly teenager.

I HAD A BABY!!!!!!!

Sat, 12 Jul 08 20:12:00 UT

my boy Shaun and his lovely wife Megan added another child to their ranks--a girl, 6lb 14oz, goes by the name Holly Anne [Im guessing on the spelling, they may have spelled it differently]

now Joshua has a little playmate...

and speaking of Josh, he'd been asked what his sister's name should be last week, and he offered up this suggestion: choo choo.

well, that name didnt go over too good.

so anyway, I got the news here a few minutes ago and'm passing it along to ya's to do with as ya's please...

gonna eat pizza and watch The Last Winter with Vic now...

writing update.

Tue, 8 Jul 08 19:52:00 UT

the crazy rock & roll story Im working on has reached almost 1,700 words and Im happy...cuz most of those 1,700 words are not too bad. natch, theres some editing to do when Im done, as well as a few changes in the beginning (to match the middle...lol), but Im hoping to be done with the first draft by the weekend...maybe. damn work is taking up all my time...fucking 10 hour days suck--cept for the money part :)

here's a dab of the story, raw and unedited, but enough to give ya a glimpse into what it is:

Brian hadnât slept, had in fact partied with Paul and a bevy of sexy groupies until the wee hours of the morning. Heâd been following Paul when he watched in horror the rented car hit the bank building. There was nothing he could do at that momentâhe had an ounce of coke in the car and enough whiskey in his system to kill a normal person, so heâd driven away from the scene of the accident and went back to his motel room. There he sat for six hours, snorting more coke and drinking more Jack Daniels working up the nerve to address the band on this situation, not realizing he was the only one to know the identity of the crash victim.

also, my son's daughter is overdue...they're gonna induce if she aint born by monday.

also, my online girlfriend is a real gem...I dig the fuck outta her even knowing Ill prolly never meet her...oh well, such is life. cant have your kate and edith too...

also, been drinking the hell out of unsweetened icedtea and lovin it...dunno why, but sugar ruins the taste...just gimme a slice or two of lemon and get out of my face so I can drink.

also, this weekend I had a great musical voyage... satellite radio, DMX or DML or whatever the hell it is, was playing at the one job I did...and I dug the fuck outta it...they played so much cool shit--no commercials too...and I got to hear my fave band Crack the Sky...Lost in America (runnin in circles like we're dreamin, dreamin...) plus so much cool stuff...was a true ear candy weekend

also, Im fucking tired...gonna shower cuz my ass & armpits stink, then read a dab'o Dashiell Hammett and drift off to sa-la-la-land, whereever that may be...

also..................................................

Tesla’s Legacy (a 1000+ word story)

Thu, 3 Jul 08 21:01:00 UT

weeeellllllll now...seems I 'writ' a tale--first thing Ive penned in a few years; first thing worth mentioning, anyway. I had a blast writing it, hope you enjoy reading it...comments welcome but not mandatory

Teslaâs Legacy
By Perry McGee

Nikola Tesla devised a machine capable of transmitting electricity without wires. Vast amounts of quasi-unpredictable electrical energy coursing through the air with the pull of a trigger. In essence, he had invented a death ray. Several failed tests (the Tunguska episode was the first large-scale mistake) prompted the soon-to-be-bankrupt man to scrap the project; he wasnât interested in letting an evil empire gain world domination with the aid of his machine. The timing was wrong, he surmised, for the world to have free reign of a device that could eradicate thousands of acres of land (and the people, animals, and houses therein) with only the depression of a single trigger, no matter what the monetary gain might be.

The invention was very simple and relatively inexpensive in design. Using an odd combination of AC and DC currents passing through ceramic conductors, tin circuits, and three rough ground lenses, powered by a tiny rechargeable capacitor, shaped somewhat like a modern day Uzi, the device reminded one of a Tommy Gun of 1940âs gangster heritage. At first Tesla marveled at the unique toy (as he so often referred to it) as a weapon of peace, but knew in his heart the world would no doubt end in a global massacre if it fell into the wrong hands. On a moderately warm winter night in 1934 after accidentally causing an earthquake in Bihar, India, (the death toll reached well over ten thousand, plummeting Tesla into chronic depression and pushing him to a life-long Opium binge) he destroyed the only two existing prototypes and burned all of the paperwork: schematics and any evidence he had saved so far were incinerated in a pot-bellied stove. Nine years later he died broke, stoned, and still depressed.

No scientist since could re-develop the gun (dubbed the Doomsday Machine during the mid-fifties), and not from any lack of diligence, either. Many tried, all failed. Some came close, applying immense and intense mathematical formulas and using state-of-the-art computer programming, but, the doomsday machine could not be duplicated. One fellow from a pretty shire in England managed to blow-up nineteen city blocks with errant electricity, but whether or not he did it wirelessly is still unknown; he died in the explosion and took his experiments and knowledge with him.

What every person attempting this feat failed to understand was this: Tesla had used mostly common items and low-tech formulas to accomplish the magic of wireless electrical transportation. He had no wealthy countryâs government backing his every financial whim, he wasnât as smart as most of his colleagues, and he was very prone to accidents. Teslaâs legacy was borne of odd luck and seemingly bad decisions.

He was a lot like me. My name is Chris Donaldson Smith and through a succession of stupid mistakes, upended failures, and insanely lackadaisical motivation, I, while trying to improve my stereo system, found a way to send electric current through the air much like Flash Gordon zapping Ming the Merciless in an old black and white movie.

My college background helped in the crucial final stages, but in retrospect I believe my strange luck and love of loud music was the deciding factor in why I became the man to duplicate Teslaâs doomsday machine.

I didnât share my discovery with anyone. I couldnât, I mean, if Tesla was worried about a governmental superpower having this device and destroying the world a hundred years ago, then I was scared shitless thinking about the same scenario now. What if, say Iraq, had this machine, or worse yet, what if sixty years ago Hitler had wielded it? What would have happened to the structure of humanity?

I swore to myself Id use this to better the world around me subtly; to keep it secret and not make a gazillion dollars by selling it to the black market (to some bearded guy in a trench coat handing me money-laden suitcases in a tunnel) or N.A.S.A. (different guy, same tunnel) or anyone. Sure, I could be rich beyond my wildest dreams, but what use would hundred dollar bills be with nowhere to spend them?

I refined the machine into how the history books (special history books that not many peopleâve seen, by the way) described Teslaâs: a machine-gun looking thing that could sink Canada into the subterranean aqua filter in less time than it takes to cook a pound of their own bacon.

I used it wisely. I didnât need the electric companyâs power because the machineâs output was a million-fold of its consumption; I could recharge enough capacitors with one internally circulated blast to last longer that Iâll ever live, so all my stereo equipment played on my power. I could lift heavy objects and place them wherever I wanted (lifting was done on the lowest possible setting, anything higher than point oh-oh-one-six on the dial instantly vaporized the intended target), and I could feel the gunâs power drawing away my will like Frodoâs ring at Mount Doom, but I wouldnât admit it to myself.

Yes, the futureâs so bright I gotta wear shades.

Well, it was until that bitch Ronda fucked me over, left me because she said I was too damned busy playing in my basement. Playing? She thinks Iâm playing? Fucking bitchâll see what playing is.

Thereâs only several hundred thousand people left on earth now, and she isnât one of them. I had to blast them all trying to end her bullshit. I never cared for money, but jealousy? ...now thatâs a motivational driver if ever there was one. Iâm sorry Mexico (and Serbia and France and the Antarctic and etc, etc, etc), but just because Tesla knew of the Doomsday Machineâs bad aim on such a potent setting, how was I?

I guess now, looking through shattered glass panes, standing in the only structure on earth with lights and a working microwave, watching the nuclear winter cover the broken landscape in a carpet of killing white, thinking back on all of my great intentions, all I can say is: aint love a bitch.

Think Iâll go downstairs and cook a few hotdogs and watch DVDs.

word count part 2

Wed, 2 Jul 08 05:52:00 UT

okay, color me blind. was messin with a short (have wrote at least something every night for four nights in a row...Im excited) and looked at the page count on the bottom left........and happened to notice the little box next to it that at that time said: words 655
so I typed another word and then it said 656
so I typed another word and then it said 657
so I typed...well, you get the point. I guess I had wordcount all along.

I riffed a crazy short lastnight about Tesla and crazy emotions--a short one-nighter that Ill edit down (is over 800 words and needs a bit of lovin) and prolly try to do something with it, even if it'd be just posting it here and letting mi'lady Dfaz read it.

funny how hard it is to get started, but once inside the storm its a great place to be.

word count

Sun, 29 Jun 08 10:16:00 UT

one, two, three, four...ummmmm five, I think, and Im almost positive six and eight come soon....

anyone know where I might find an addition to my word programme (thats the brit spelling for some of the listening audience) that shows word count?
I had it before and what a handy dandy little thingie it was.

so if anyone can help me, Id sure be all thankful and stuff.

HeavyGlow is closing their doors. thats really some distressing news. I havent talked much to the owner recently, but from what I pieced together it isnt a choice she wanted to make. I do feel bad for her, though...HeavyGlow, at one time, was like one of her children and there was a lot of sweat and toil involved in making those pages we all take for granted. to shut the door must really be hard.

maybe there'll be a HG2 in the future, eh?

writing about a rock band involved in a murder. got almost 4 pages and not one instance of supernatural happenings or any monsters in closets--am I sure thats me writing? it all started last night with a few words that sparked an idea...I think I mentioned the Shroud of Turin, and then thought of touring (like what a band does) then thought of what happens if a band would...well, aint giving it away yet. when I started lastnight I wondered if it was just a one time thing...just something to do for a saturday evening while the jim beam flowed, the joint's smoke clouded the air, and the sniffles were loud...but all night I laid in bed thinking about this, and upon arizing (brit stuff again) I wanted to add some stuff...I would really dig it if I could keep going--I miss writing, but dont have the drive (backbone?) to finish a story. wish me luck ya'all

Vanesa, see how much cab fare would be...lmao. or maybe, could you do like james bond and hang off the landing gear? I mean, whats a transatlantic [transpacific?] flight take? youre in good shape (great shape from the pics Ive seen)(really great shape)(hot, in fact)(really fucking hot) so you could prolly make it to solid land before getting too tired. I could set-up a pile of mattresses to soften your landing...and hey, while youre laying there...on a mattress...your hair wind-blown...[explicit sex scene deleted--including the part about saMOANing]

so anyway...where do I look for a word-count thingie?

I hope everyone reading this has a great sunday...and to those that dont read it--I hope your heart stops and you die and no one finds you for two weeks and youre all bloated and smelly and your will gets tied-up in court so your whole family suffers and then a fucking groundhog digs up your remains and ...welllllll...sorry bout that. Im okay now................

questionnaire thingie

Mon, 23 Jun 08 16:11:00 UT

1. Name five books you think you should read that you haven't read yet.

the Bible; the entire body of John Grisham's work; the President's secret book; Merlin's book of alchemy; Stop Being Depressed For Dummies

2. Five people can come to dinner, any five people, living or dead. Who do you invite and why?

Vanesa Mulu [seated next to me] cuz Im madly in love with her; Steven King cuz he's demented; someone who watched and knows about the building of the Sphinx; my dad cuz I didnt really say goodbye correctly; myself so I could see what and how other people see.

3. Who were five influential people in your life so far, and why?

The same people I'd eat with,with the addition of Alice Cooper

4. List five of your favorite movie or TV quotes, with attribution, if possible.

"I look like Scott," or "Roadblock, I guess," from Starman with Jeff Bridges---just the way he said his lines throughout the entire flick blew me away.
"Meathead!" from All in the Family. come on now, who didnt like Archie Bunker? [you young pups wouldnt know of what Im referring to, btw]
"Im comin' for you, Murdock," said by Rambo in First Blood. was a powerful line in a powerful movie.
""You son of a bitch," said Hawkeye to a superior officer in an episode of M*A*S*H*, prolly themost dramitic moment in all of TV for me
"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!" John McClain in Die Hard. need I say more?

5. Name five foods you would like to have at the same meal in order to be truly satisfied.

stupid question....the same meal?! well....a salad; meatloaf; mashed taters; corn; hot fudge sundae.....still,a stupid question.

oh, pay no nevermind to the part about me being in love with Dfaz...its a secret, aint that right my sweet princess?