Monkey Boy
Al Can't Hang was on another bender this weekend and he took Monkey Boy with him.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Keepin' Up with Smarty Jones
A quick glance at the wall calendar told me, "Hey dipshit, it's May already!"
"Wow, so soon?", I wondered, Where did the first quarter of the year go? I guess I was so bogged down in trying to improve my poker game and chasing down dreams and I spent too much time worrying about my latest screenplay that I forgot life goes on without my approval or disapproval. On the brink of insanity, the world spun furthur out of control this weekened. It was a bloody Sunday in Iraq with more soldiers dying and more US citizens reported missing. With the slew of celebrity trials and Friends ending and Donald Trump getting engaged, the gossip rags have been distracting the lot of us for the better. It's an awful world out there, so buy a Happy meal and a Hummer and spend $11 on some mindless Hollyweird piece of shit movie and you'll forgot all about the radical fundamentalists that want to see our imperialist blood spilled all over my newly paved streets.
Alas, I am well rested... after a brief weekeend getaway... and I'm ready to get a lot of work done the next few weeks, before I wander off again to follow The Dead and Phish on their summer tours.
Sure, on Saturday, it was wet and the weather was crappy in Kentucky, but don't tell that to Smarty Jones. He won the 130th Kentucky Derby, and as it's been the trend, as I did not win any of my wagers. It was a rough Saturday for sure. My horse Tapit didn't finish in the money. But at least we have more proof that God hates the Red Sox, and that He is... indeed... a Yankees fan. Mighty Boston, led by the Passion of Johnny Damon (as one drunken Red Sox fan from Las Vegas dubbed him while I watched the Yankees-Red Sox game from a few weekends ago at the sports book), were swept by the sizzling Texas "ARod-less" Rangers... and of course, the Yankees are hot, winning six straight. But itsn't there more to life than horse racing and baseball?
Of course there is... more gambling. Despite my self-imposed break from poker (anything to quell my losing streak), I managed to jump on Party Poker and play a few hands. Actually, I watched my brother attempt to win a seat in a satellite for the World Series of Poker... in addition to playing a few No Limit ring games. Of course, what's a weekend on Party Poker without getting recognized by a fan of the Tao of Poker? It's common now, and I'm used to having fans from all over the world watch me play and root me on, and say witty things in the chat after I take down a huge pot. And in a rare appearance, I got to sit and play with the infamous Poker Penguin all the way from New Zealand! It was an honor to sit at his table and I brought him bad luck. Sorry, Penguin. But he saw me school a few fish on a few hands, especially when I took down a huge pot with pocket aces... and everyone at the table thought I was playing.... the Hammer!
Ah, there's the TriBeCa film festival in NYC and I have tickets to a few screenings, that which Haley and I will take part in over the next few days. Speaking of which, I decided that I was going to work on two screenplay ideas this summer... the poker script, which Alex from Prom on Mars sugested I write... and another Untitled adventure... something that I seriously have been kicking around for two years... a modern day adaptation of Shakespeare's King Lear... set in L.A. or in NYC.
And then there's the pages and pages of a sample scripts of my infamous Subway Stories... that Haley and friends of hers from acting class want to shoot pretty soon. Those meetings start out serious and end up with one actor getting irked and the rest of us getting drunk and making fun of the disgruntled actor. Maybe one day this Spring I'll finally shoot a few scenes and I'll get to show off my chops as a director.
And of course, I'm ready to write my best novel to date. As soon as I sit down to write it... the next novel project will be... (it has to be)... my masterpiece. Without sounding too cocky, but I'm going to pen a classic sometime at the end of this summer. And I have three serious ideas for novels. Whch one will be given the distinction of my "finest work to date"? Stay tuned. More to come...
A quick glance at the wall calendar told me, "Hey dipshit, it's May already!"
"Wow, so soon?", I wondered, Where did the first quarter of the year go? I guess I was so bogged down in trying to improve my poker game and chasing down dreams and I spent too much time worrying about my latest screenplay that I forgot life goes on without my approval or disapproval. On the brink of insanity, the world spun furthur out of control this weekened. It was a bloody Sunday in Iraq with more soldiers dying and more US citizens reported missing. With the slew of celebrity trials and Friends ending and Donald Trump getting engaged, the gossip rags have been distracting the lot of us for the better. It's an awful world out there, so buy a Happy meal and a Hummer and spend $11 on some mindless Hollyweird piece of shit movie and you'll forgot all about the radical fundamentalists that want to see our imperialist blood spilled all over my newly paved streets.
Alas, I am well rested... after a brief weekeend getaway... and I'm ready to get a lot of work done the next few weeks, before I wander off again to follow The Dead and Phish on their summer tours.
Sure, on Saturday, it was wet and the weather was crappy in Kentucky, but don't tell that to Smarty Jones. He won the 130th Kentucky Derby, and as it's been the trend, as I did not win any of my wagers. It was a rough Saturday for sure. My horse Tapit didn't finish in the money. But at least we have more proof that God hates the Red Sox, and that He is... indeed... a Yankees fan. Mighty Boston, led by the Passion of Johnny Damon (as one drunken Red Sox fan from Las Vegas dubbed him while I watched the Yankees-Red Sox game from a few weekends ago at the sports book), were swept by the sizzling Texas "ARod-less" Rangers... and of course, the Yankees are hot, winning six straight. But itsn't there more to life than horse racing and baseball?
Of course there is... more gambling. Despite my self-imposed break from poker (anything to quell my losing streak), I managed to jump on Party Poker and play a few hands. Actually, I watched my brother attempt to win a seat in a satellite for the World Series of Poker... in addition to playing a few No Limit ring games. Of course, what's a weekend on Party Poker without getting recognized by a fan of the Tao of Poker? It's common now, and I'm used to having fans from all over the world watch me play and root me on, and say witty things in the chat after I take down a huge pot. And in a rare appearance, I got to sit and play with the infamous Poker Penguin all the way from New Zealand! It was an honor to sit at his table and I brought him bad luck. Sorry, Penguin. But he saw me school a few fish on a few hands, especially when I took down a huge pot with pocket aces... and everyone at the table thought I was playing.... the Hammer!
Ah, there's the TriBeCa film festival in NYC and I have tickets to a few screenings, that which Haley and I will take part in over the next few days. Speaking of which, I decided that I was going to work on two screenplay ideas this summer... the poker script, which Alex from Prom on Mars sugested I write... and another Untitled adventure... something that I seriously have been kicking around for two years... a modern day adaptation of Shakespeare's King Lear... set in L.A. or in NYC.
And then there's the pages and pages of a sample scripts of my infamous Subway Stories... that Haley and friends of hers from acting class want to shoot pretty soon. Those meetings start out serious and end up with one actor getting irked and the rest of us getting drunk and making fun of the disgruntled actor. Maybe one day this Spring I'll finally shoot a few scenes and I'll get to show off my chops as a director.
And of course, I'm ready to write my best novel to date. As soon as I sit down to write it... the next novel project will be... (it has to be)... my masterpiece. Without sounding too cocky, but I'm going to pen a classic sometime at the end of this summer. And I have three serious ideas for novels. Whch one will be given the distinction of my "finest work to date"? Stay tuned. More to come...
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Mirth
Why is that the dismal clouds hang over me for eternity it seems? Why does it seem to be? Is that the quintessence of my nobility? I am not alone in standing at the mouth of a river, watching a mourning widow overwhelmed with sorrow and unmanly grief, my fortified heart shielded by her angelic apprehension. Sharing in her misery, the calamity looked us all in the eye. Those were moments when I found myself lost, my thoughts and weary emotions carelessly side stepped through an unweeded garden, where pricks of razor sharp thorns splattered trails onto my raw flesh, and the frailty of my defenses were exposed with the perfect droppings of my foul blood as my destiny cried out to me.
"My time is almost gone. I must render up the last serious statement I can utter," the spirit of my forefathers confided in me, although I was forbidden to share our conversation with anyone, but it stuck with me like two spears from the hands of a revengeful warrior. My humbled philosophy crumbled at the foot of our bustling society, trampled underfoot, like a piece of scrap paper stuck to the newly shined shoe of a Lower Manhattan businessman.
The beautified movements of her walk allowed butterflies to flutter inside my intestines. The long strides and the galloping bounce of her soothing hair lulled me out of the danger of inert fear when she walked in the maginficent sun in between high rises apartment buildings, where doormen with reserved voices wore pristine white gloves and starched pea-green uniforms and flashed false smiles. Drunk on her scent and intoxicated by the early morning air, I visited her face too roughly. She snickered and scratched my arm. Normally, I was opposed to the deceptive frailty of thy woman and I would hold my breath with the same stubbornness that I hold my silence. My actions lent significant burden to my mad outlook. True madness? Not anger, but a true wave of pity and insanity fueled me and I wondered what was the cause of my defect. My inner emotions often clouded morality and civility, were sometimes the substance that thrust me towards perfection and nirvana. My lunacy was my demise. My crafty madness was my key to opening the dozens of locked doors ahead of me.
I used to sleep in late on rainy afternoons, where the swift winds whipped raindrops onto the slick windows where I observed the world before me. My prison, my window. My world, my mind. All worlds are prisons, all minds are behind bars, and my soul sits on a damp prison floor, with narrow walls and infinite time to allow my bad dreams to haunt me. My conceit burnt my fingers. My motives dried up friendships. My wistful passion opposed many a man, without riches and wickless candles, those false entities dressed like middles class soldiers. Yet, I spilled out my thoughts on her gaudy apparel to anyone within earshot. Her aloof kiss distracted my melancholy for several months, while I wrapped up all of her wicked presents and hid them underneath my dirty socks. Her long letters on purple stationary were not enough to end the heartache, although her truthful and affectionate words tickled me with memories of touching moments. Alas, in due time I abused the beauty of our orchard, the one that we grew together and watched it flourish high up on a hill before I shuffled off into the dusk of another out of joint evening, returning eons later, like a prodigal son, nearly extinct to everyone except her, who silently prayed for me, the coward, out of respect. It was noble to suffer as a youngster, now it grinds my head to the pavement. My dignity no longer mattered to me, and I have let those moments slip away like a fading tourist attraction that no traveler ever returns to ever again. She spoke to me without a tongue, and I answered her without moving my lips or blinking my eyes. My enterprises were poisoned and the thick hue of my aura made little children fall asleep at first sight. My unhatched habits, once years away from forming into monkeys on my back, slowly sprouted among the urine of the fish mongers. My sins have cloned themsleves and I saw reminders everywhere.
The beauty of the world cannot make me answer questions about the Disease... about the resolution about the pleasing shape that it forms for some, and the dreadful messages it stirs up for others. All I wanted to do was to catch a fleeting glimpse at the conscience of our King, and somehow, someway, my message made her turn her head and walk away with the breaths of Hell pulling her away from me.
"What a piece of work," I muttered rubbing the sand out of my eyes.
Why is that the dismal clouds hang over me for eternity it seems? Why does it seem to be? Is that the quintessence of my nobility? I am not alone in standing at the mouth of a river, watching a mourning widow overwhelmed with sorrow and unmanly grief, my fortified heart shielded by her angelic apprehension. Sharing in her misery, the calamity looked us all in the eye. Those were moments when I found myself lost, my thoughts and weary emotions carelessly side stepped through an unweeded garden, where pricks of razor sharp thorns splattered trails onto my raw flesh, and the frailty of my defenses were exposed with the perfect droppings of my foul blood as my destiny cried out to me.
"My time is almost gone. I must render up the last serious statement I can utter," the spirit of my forefathers confided in me, although I was forbidden to share our conversation with anyone, but it stuck with me like two spears from the hands of a revengeful warrior. My humbled philosophy crumbled at the foot of our bustling society, trampled underfoot, like a piece of scrap paper stuck to the newly shined shoe of a Lower Manhattan businessman.
The beautified movements of her walk allowed butterflies to flutter inside my intestines. The long strides and the galloping bounce of her soothing hair lulled me out of the danger of inert fear when she walked in the maginficent sun in between high rises apartment buildings, where doormen with reserved voices wore pristine white gloves and starched pea-green uniforms and flashed false smiles. Drunk on her scent and intoxicated by the early morning air, I visited her face too roughly. She snickered and scratched my arm. Normally, I was opposed to the deceptive frailty of thy woman and I would hold my breath with the same stubbornness that I hold my silence. My actions lent significant burden to my mad outlook. True madness? Not anger, but a true wave of pity and insanity fueled me and I wondered what was the cause of my defect. My inner emotions often clouded morality and civility, were sometimes the substance that thrust me towards perfection and nirvana. My lunacy was my demise. My crafty madness was my key to opening the dozens of locked doors ahead of me.
I used to sleep in late on rainy afternoons, where the swift winds whipped raindrops onto the slick windows where I observed the world before me. My prison, my window. My world, my mind. All worlds are prisons, all minds are behind bars, and my soul sits on a damp prison floor, with narrow walls and infinite time to allow my bad dreams to haunt me. My conceit burnt my fingers. My motives dried up friendships. My wistful passion opposed many a man, without riches and wickless candles, those false entities dressed like middles class soldiers. Yet, I spilled out my thoughts on her gaudy apparel to anyone within earshot. Her aloof kiss distracted my melancholy for several months, while I wrapped up all of her wicked presents and hid them underneath my dirty socks. Her long letters on purple stationary were not enough to end the heartache, although her truthful and affectionate words tickled me with memories of touching moments. Alas, in due time I abused the beauty of our orchard, the one that we grew together and watched it flourish high up on a hill before I shuffled off into the dusk of another out of joint evening, returning eons later, like a prodigal son, nearly extinct to everyone except her, who silently prayed for me, the coward, out of respect. It was noble to suffer as a youngster, now it grinds my head to the pavement. My dignity no longer mattered to me, and I have let those moments slip away like a fading tourist attraction that no traveler ever returns to ever again. She spoke to me without a tongue, and I answered her without moving my lips or blinking my eyes. My enterprises were poisoned and the thick hue of my aura made little children fall asleep at first sight. My unhatched habits, once years away from forming into monkeys on my back, slowly sprouted among the urine of the fish mongers. My sins have cloned themsleves and I saw reminders everywhere.
The beauty of the world cannot make me answer questions about the Disease... about the resolution about the pleasing shape that it forms for some, and the dreadful messages it stirs up for others. All I wanted to do was to catch a fleeting glimpse at the conscience of our King, and somehow, someway, my message made her turn her head and walk away with the breaths of Hell pulling her away from me.
"What a piece of work," I muttered rubbing the sand out of my eyes.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Repent What Is Past
In a sun drenched stroll through the blooming gardens, pondering the nearing fatality of an old man's life, I was amazed at the tame discourses I managed to bundle together, otherwise known as the Disease. My work was a cancer that infected this brave new world, places that made nightwatchmen at cemeteries yawn at the first twinkle of sunlight. My thoughts have infected thousands and yet I sat slumped upon a stool, warmed up for decades and decades before me with other cursed dreams and hands dipped in blood, now clutching poorly cleaned glasses of scotch by unambitious bartenders, with head nods instead of real answers. I stood up showing her how tall I was, daring her to show her grace while she unknowingly spurred my natural senses. And she playfully whispered, words and sounds that branded the heart. My pranks and her grace were not enough to make me fear a hallway full of stranded ghosts, wandering from this world to the next with little wisdom and aimlessly like the recklessness of a 17 year-old skipping algebra class to go smoke cheap weed behind the supermarket.
Mesmerized by her entrance, and sensibly in grief, a weepy Ophelia showered the stage with flowers... "Rosemary for remembrances... Pansies for thoughts... and Herb of Grace of Sundays."
My thoughts had arrived at withered ends. No more to contemplate. Wretched farewells were not my way of expressing good fortune to my departing friends. At your age, love humbles judgments. To live under the wet blanket of a distasteful family, one is unable to forget. Visitations during holidays bewilder and anger me. Fighting souls and dysfunctional alcoholics doomily look upon each other, incestuously glancing into mirrors from time to time, and checking their pulses to insure the madness will not continue.
"Repent what is past," that's what Hamlet uttered to his hysterical Mother before he disappeared into the misty night. Will the heavens welcome me into their open arms when it's my time to be judged? Will all my sins add up to an afterlife of banality and powerless remote controls. A beast no more? Anyone with Godlike reason and spited scruples could honor my struggles, but condemn the remainder of my means and strength and will, all of which obliterated by gross examples of my misfortune. My vows are unanswerable. My slanderous words have been misinterpreted and thrust out into the airwaves, hijacked without mercy by fanatical snail-eating zealots.
In a sun drenched stroll through the blooming gardens, pondering the nearing fatality of an old man's life, I was amazed at the tame discourses I managed to bundle together, otherwise known as the Disease. My work was a cancer that infected this brave new world, places that made nightwatchmen at cemeteries yawn at the first twinkle of sunlight. My thoughts have infected thousands and yet I sat slumped upon a stool, warmed up for decades and decades before me with other cursed dreams and hands dipped in blood, now clutching poorly cleaned glasses of scotch by unambitious bartenders, with head nods instead of real answers. I stood up showing her how tall I was, daring her to show her grace while she unknowingly spurred my natural senses. And she playfully whispered, words and sounds that branded the heart. My pranks and her grace were not enough to make me fear a hallway full of stranded ghosts, wandering from this world to the next with little wisdom and aimlessly like the recklessness of a 17 year-old skipping algebra class to go smoke cheap weed behind the supermarket.
Mesmerized by her entrance, and sensibly in grief, a weepy Ophelia showered the stage with flowers... "Rosemary for remembrances... Pansies for thoughts... and Herb of Grace of Sundays."
My thoughts had arrived at withered ends. No more to contemplate. Wretched farewells were not my way of expressing good fortune to my departing friends. At your age, love humbles judgments. To live under the wet blanket of a distasteful family, one is unable to forget. Visitations during holidays bewilder and anger me. Fighting souls and dysfunctional alcoholics doomily look upon each other, incestuously glancing into mirrors from time to time, and checking their pulses to insure the madness will not continue.
"Repent what is past," that's what Hamlet uttered to his hysterical Mother before he disappeared into the misty night. Will the heavens welcome me into their open arms when it's my time to be judged? Will all my sins add up to an afterlife of banality and powerless remote controls. A beast no more? Anyone with Godlike reason and spited scruples could honor my struggles, but condemn the remainder of my means and strength and will, all of which obliterated by gross examples of my misfortune. My vows are unanswerable. My slanderous words have been misinterpreted and thrust out into the airwaves, hijacked without mercy by fanatical snail-eating zealots.
Truckin' April 2004 (Vol. 3, Issue 4)
Thanks for returning to my literary blog-zine. This sensational issue features seven new stories, and three of them are from yours truly; a Miami story, a Vegas story, and something special I wrote for someone special. My favorite Norwegian blogger Sigge, shared a witty tale about my clone. Hilarious. Paris Wispy returns with a sultry tale called Ward. All the way from New Zealand, Richard Bulkeley is back with another excellent read. And lastly, Jessica E. Lapidus concludes the second part to her intense story: rancor. So sit back, relax, and enjoy. Thanks for coming back, McG1. Pleasure Consultants by Tenzin McGrupp
I fumbled inside my pocket and found the lighter I had bought off of a hairy armpitted hippie chick at setbreak during the Phish concert the night before. Casually, I lit her cigarette, an American Spirit. She seductively glanced at me, the flame illuminated between her green eyes... More
2. Ward by Paris Wispy
A few people are scattered around the cave, gazing at us in wonder. I scarcely notice them. The pool we are in is reflecting the light and prisms of blue are streaking across the walls and ceiling. I am fascinated by this vantage and laugh, delighted by the scene and the excitement in getting here... More
3. My First Adventure with LP by Sigge S. Amdal
The Smithsonian Institution's Research Department had conducted a study going where they needed volunteers for cloning. This was way back when Pauly's writing days had just begun, and short of cash as he was, he agreed to add more Pauliness to this already crazy world... More
4. Roadside Assistance by Tenzin McGrupp
During a drunken conversation at the end of a soused bar, at the end of a serious binge, in between swigs of Stella Artois, she wanted to know what it felt like to watch the wandering afternoon rain fall on top of the tarred roofs of brownstones in Brooklyn... More
5. The Kindness of Strangers by Richard Bulkeley
A dishevelled young man yelled a greeting at me from the other side of the street. He wore a ragged grey coat that looked like he had looted it from a German soldier on the retreat from Moscow... More
6. rancor. (Part II) by Jessica E. Lapidus
Ilka’s parents were unhappy, but how could they begrudge their wheelchair-bound daughter her one wish? ...More
7. Maggie's Flight... Another Miami Story by Tenzin McGrupp
It's always interesting when you are out of your tits stoned and are semi-interrogated by law enforcement figures. Those were the same night stick wielding yahoos who had been beating up protestors weeks before... More
Pieces of Pauly
Back by popular demand... what were some of the things I ate in the last 5 days?
Back by popular demand... what were some of the things I ate in the last 5 days?
An entire sleeve of Oreo cookies, an Everything Bagel with extra butter, 2 slices of pizza, a Wendy's Frosty, two hot dogs from Gray's Papaya, cheese ravioli with spicy marinara sauce, several slices of marble loaf pound cake, a bacon cheeseburger deluxe with fries at the Riverdale diner, a chicken parmigania sandwich, two tuna salad sandwiches on potato rolls with extra onions, a bowl of chili with extra cheese, a monterey jack cheese quesadilla with jalopenos, a salami and american cheese sandwich on Italian bread, French Toast with bacon and a slice of cheesecake at the Manhattan Diner, a chicken breast sandwich, and several glasses of iced tea and lemonade...
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