Here are some pictures that I took in Atlantic Cty over the past few days.
Gelato at The Metropolitan
Borgata's Flower Atrium
Life's a urinal...
Never Trust a Naked Guy Juggling Three Cantaloupes
"Oh shit! I can't go to my therapist drunk!"
Cordelia had just stumbled back from the bathroom where she had snarfed up no less than two Bobbie-pin sized lines of coke. I added three more olives into her vodka martini, and she quickly fished them around with her fingers. Like a six-year old on Ritalin scooping out four-day old, dead goldfish from her massive aquarium tank, she splashed and splashed as tiny puddles of vodka collected on the stained mahogany bar, until she finally got a firm grasp and then yanked the helpless soused olives out with the brazen authority of a veteran dentist. With her lanky fingers drenched in top shelf vodka, she unsympathetically popped both olives deep into her gaping mouth. She sensuously and slowly licked both fingers, and almost fell off her bar stool when she caught me staring at her.
"What am I going to do? I'm drunk!" she insisted as if 'drunk' was a form of terminal cancer. Cordelia and I played this game twice a week. She'd come in and get drunk and I'd have to convince her that curing her mental health (or at least attempting the illusion of correcting her woes) was far more important that trying to see if I could draw the entire map of the United States on the back of a cocktail napkin, from memory, in less than five minutes for $50. Her therapist had an office one block from the dive bar where I leisurely worked the afternoon shift. I spent most of my time watching Dawson's Creek and Sportscenter and pouring draft beers for the regulars, that was until Cordelia came in and took over the remote.
"Seriously," she continued her slurred rambling thoughts, "I can't go see Dr. Phil while I'm all fucked up like this. And what am I going to do? Show up to my therapist's office, shitfaced and with a quarter-pound of weed in my new Kate Spade bag?"
"You could always trade him for a couple of prescriptions. Valium. I'd prefer 200mgs," I suggested. Doctors were as crooked as lawyers. They just got more respect on the streets because you have to be smarter to go to medical school than go to law school. Anyway, I never should have sold Cordelia the rest of my stash, but I needed the cash for rent. She finally gave up and tossed the remote control back to me. She sauntered out of the bar, reminiscent of a run-down cowboy who just got laid in a West Texas whorehouse, and wandered outside.
"What does she do for a living?" one of my regulars wondered.
"Cordelia?" as I strained out the front window to see her blindly crossing the street, almost getting hit by a speeding taxi.
"Yeah, what's Blondie’s job?" another guy piped up after downing his beer.
"She calls her Daddy."
"I finished your book. I laughed my ass off. Have you had a lot of fucked up relationships with women? I mean seriously? He flushes her head in a toilet? Man, you need to meet a normal chick, some sweet girl to bake you cookies."Our conversation gave me confidence to breathe life into an old project. I'm going to find a month to take off to write a new draft and make some much needed improvements. JTSMD is my next project. It's much more appealing to me than moving to Hollyweird.... right now. Unless they happen to need a writer to pen the sequel to Snakes on a Plane.
Current word count: 86KI broke a promise for myself and wrote one freelance article the other night. 1,400 words seemed effortless compared to the 8K to 9K I had been cranking out every day.
Thursday's binge: 11.7K
5 Random Things I Did on LSD (that I'll never do again)...Oh speaking about acid freaks, Ken Kesey's bus was pulled from a swamp on his Oregon farm and shall be restored. Yep, Neal Cassady used to drive the fuckin' bus. Lucky fucker.
1. Flew on an airplane.
2. Took a final exam.
3. Drove a car.
4. Went to an Atlanta Braves baseball game.
5. Toured Graceland.
Monday: 3100 wordsI've been trying to write 5K per day and I've been getting just under 7K per day on average. I used to try to sleep everyday and set my alarm and get up after 3 or 4 hours of sleep to finish working. I stopped doing that and developed a new procedure. I sleep when I'm dead tired and don't set an alarm. I wake up when I wake up and start edting and writing. No alarms. I let my body tell me when my battery is charged. After being up for 25-30 hours I finally crash for up to five hours straight, which is tough to do for me. I usually wake up about 3 hours in and can't fall back asleep. I slept six the other day, which never do. I'm getting some rest but the feeding schedule is way off.
Chapter 1: 16K
Chapter 2: 7.3K
Chapter 3: 7K
Chapter 4: 7.2K
Chapter 5: 18K
They should hear what the artist sounds like under all circumstances if they want to get a complete portrait. Everybody gets fucked up, man. Everybody gets fucked up sooner or later. You're just pretending if you don't let your music get just as liquid as you are when you're really high.Patrick Swayze: Next Big Rapper is funny on several levels. He's been using "rap rhythms as an emotional undercurrent for ballads." Discuss.
The Worst Films of 2005:
10. The Corpse Bride
9. Dukes Of Hazzard
7. A History Of Violence
6. The Fog
5. XXX 2: State of the Union
4. Aeon Flux
3. The Ringer
2. Dark Water
1. Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo