Be Beating Still My Heart
Thursday October seventeenth
I had a good streak of three pages until I became venomously depressed. I don't want to exert the effort to figure out why. Couldn't it just be a chemical reaction brought on by the chilling of the new season? October, I think, has always been a trouble to my psyche. It goes back thousands of years, I'll wager. I'm at the Tony Roma's here at Universal Citywalk. I drank one bourbon. The barmaid asked me if I was ready for another. I said I wanted to chew the ice of the first one first. I might have gone to a movie, but I preferred to have a bourbon. The President is here somewhere in Universal City. I asked the barmaid if she knew where. She said, "Down there, in the park," and pointed out the door.
What is there? The shiver from bourbon verges on orgasm. Maybe I'll order a baked potato. There are writers in my class who are better than I am. The one at campus is more academic and less hip than this one here at Universal, like the distinction between literary and popular fiction, maybe. I feel nearly competent at the hip class, at the academic class somewhat inadequate. We'll see.
Ordered that potato. Here it is. Shredded cheddar cheese, bacon, sour cream, butter, chives, be still beating my heart. I'll be back in a few minutes.
So, guess what? Braves and Cards Game Seven--Who's going to the Series?
I'm still hungry. Chicken wings for 4our bucks? Muffhugger. I wrote an A to Z story that turned out to be about a family that was an odd amalgam of conservative American and Fundamentalist Islamic values that was putting Grandma to death because Grandpa had violated her. I leave that violation to the audience's imagination. It's
This place is crawling with state troopers because the President is around.
I wish my A to Z story wasn't so terrible. The violation-- oh, let's leave it off the menu.
Roberge is gonna think I'm a homo.
I'm fascinated by the "F" word.
-I'm a godam weakass can't last twenty minutes without a beer before class.
-Guy down the bar argues the Alomar-spitting-in-the-face-of-the-umpire incident.
-Woe is me.
I had a good streak of three pages until I became venomously depressed. I don't want to exert the effort to figure out why. Couldn't it just be a chemical reaction brought on by the chilling of the new season? October, I think, has always been a trouble to my psyche. It goes back thousands of years, I'll wager. I'm at the Tony Roma's here at Universal Citywalk. I drank one bourbon. The barmaid asked me if I was ready for another. I said I wanted to chew the ice of the first one first. I might have gone to a movie, but I preferred to have a bourbon. The President is here somewhere in Universal City. I asked the barmaid if she knew where. She said, "Down there, in the park," and pointed out the door.
What is there? The shiver from bourbon verges on orgasm. Maybe I'll order a baked potato. There are writers in my class who are better than I am. The one at campus is more academic and less hip than this one here at Universal, like the distinction between literary and popular fiction, maybe. I feel nearly competent at the hip class, at the academic class somewhat inadequate. We'll see.
Ordered that potato. Here it is. Shredded cheddar cheese, bacon, sour cream, butter, chives, be still beating my heart. I'll be back in a few minutes.
So, guess what? Braves and Cards Game Seven--Who's going to the Series?
I'm still hungry. Chicken wings for 4our bucks? Muffhugger. I wrote an A to Z story that turned out to be about a family that was an odd amalgam of conservative American and Fundamentalist Islamic values that was putting Grandma to death because Grandpa had violated her. I leave that violation to the audience's imagination. It's
This place is crawling with state troopers because the President is around.
I wish my A to Z story wasn't so terrible. The violation-- oh, let's leave it off the menu.
Roberge is gonna think I'm a homo.
I'm fascinated by the "F" word.
-I'm a godam weakass can't last twenty minutes without a beer before class.
-Guy down the bar argues the Alomar-spitting-in-the-face-of-the-umpire incident.
-Woe is me.
posted by johnz at 10:45 PM
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