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Paul and Kathy (updated and revised) [Oct. 25th, 2006|08:36 pm] Part two located below (previous post) --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “I’m leaving,” said Kathy. Her moist eyes reflected his stoic expression. “Okay.” was Paul's only reply. “Did you hear me?” “Yes.” They were across the room from each other. Kathy in the doorway, and Paul in his worn lazyboy recliner. It would've broken his heart to see the longing on her face. An expression that said, "Please stop me." An expression he would've understood, if he had only looked her in the eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” “Yes.” “Do you know why?” No response. “Good-bye.” “Good-bye.” As she carried her suitcase down the wooden flight of steps, he could hear her boot-heels tapping slowly on the familiar staircase. He could hear the door open, then a pause, and then slam shut. He lifted his gaze to the framed space where she had just been standing. It had been twenty-four years. No. Twenty-six. The last two were . . . well . . . forgettable to say the least. His eyes turned back to his leather-bound Tolstoy as his thoughts turned elsewhere. Her scent would remain in the house forever; her perfume, her cooking, the smell of vanilla coffee at the other-worldly hour of 6 a.m. He would secretly take pleasure in her aromas as she would complain about his cigarettes. She never knew he smelled her hair for twenty-six years, every hug, every kiss, every time they passed in the hall, every time they made love. She never knew it drove him wild when she wore boots. She never knew he listened while she slept. She never knew he always went to bed first so he could watch her undress. He never told her. He never told her a lot of things. A lot of things she never found out. A lot of things she did. There were a lot things he didn’t know either. He never knew she was seduced by his baritone timbre, not by his fumbling words. He never knew she watched him read. He never knew her favorite movie, or song, or book, or shoe-size. He never knew she could sing. Really sing. He never really knew her voice. He never knew she hated his cigarettes but loved his cigars. They knew everything about each other when they started dating. They knew each others' schedules, each others' moods, each others' wardrobes. He knew which were her favorite pair of jeans, and she his collar size. With a single glance, he knew when she was bored at a party, and she could glean from his walk when he had had half a drink too many. He did know she was leaving. He did understand what she was saying. He did know why. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Hey." He had finally worked up the confidence to sit down at the small table next to Kathy. Paul was at the end of a frustrating evening. He had asked half-a-dozen girls to dance, and a dozen more if he could buy them a drink. But he was eyeing Kathy all night. If she didn't reciprocate, that was it. He was leaving, and he was not coming back to this bar. “Hey”. She had been watching him flirt all night with anything that moved, and was begginning to wonder when he was going to get the nerve to introduce himself. “I’m Paul.” “I’m Kathy.” And so in that little college bar on the corner of Main and 7th, Paul and Kathy, who were to become the Letchels, met. He talked her ear off, and she drank him under the table. It was dark, loud, crowded, and sweaty, but neither noticed nor cared. He was an English lit. major but really wanted to be a musician. She was a psych. major but really wanted to screw a musician. Neither did drugs, but neither admitted it for fear of seeming square. The courtship began slowly. She had just ended a relationship with her high-school-sweetheart, Brian. He played outside-linebacker, which was impressive. But he never made the starting line-up, which was not. Brian didn’t get a scholarship, eliminating the option of college, and Kathy couldn’t stand the thought of staying in Monroe, Ohio, working part-time at Brian's father’s hardware store the rest of her life, so she broke his heart. Paul was already in love with Huxley and Dylan, was digging the college lifestyle, and thought marriage was something for parents and Republicans. But that night in the bar, everything either of them ever wanted or needed to know about the other was revealed. She loved listening to him talk. He barely even had to say anything. His voice was deep and resonant, and when he argued, his face turned red. He loved to read. He was smart and funny and thoughtful and had a barrel-chested laugh that could be heard from the next county. She was pretty but not beautiful. Striking and elegant while at the same time approachable. When she listened she stared into his eyes, and she laughed with her whole face; her eyes lit up, her forehead arched, even her ears seemed unable to contain the joy. He had never noticed the way a woman smelled before, but he noticed the way she smelled. They talked and joked and danced. And kissed. Eventually they met each other’s friends and families. Everyone thought it was cute the way they barely said anything but never seemed to lack communication. Their conversations were short but poignant. Their touches subtle but significant. Their thoughts private, but yet somehow, they understood the others' meaning. One night eighteen months after that night in the bar, following a Beat-poet/folk-singer/interpretive-dance/singer-songwriter/comedian amateur night, they were both so high on life and laughter they decided to tie the knot. They would move to the East Coast. Paul could get a job at a newspaper, and Kathy could volunteer. Although neither parental nor Republican, it just felt right. link post comment

Paul and Kathy Part 2 [Oct. 25th, 2006|08:35 pm] Paul settled in quickly to married life, as did Kathy. He got a job in a newspaper starting where everybody starts out of college, the obits section. It was an opportunity to learn the business as well as keep his pen in practice. Kathy's plans didn't pan out as quickly. She went to a couple neighborhood volunteer organizations but found she was the youngest by at least twenty years at each meeting she went to. The rooms were filled with country club madams and rich retired mothers. And so in the early days of their marriage, Paul left for work and Kathy stayed home, playing the housewife role. Paul enjoyed work. He enjoyed waking up everyday and going to the office. He enjoyed bringing home a paycheck. He enjoyed the comradery with the others at the office. He enjoyed flirting with secretaries and joking with editors. It was different than college, but he enjoyed feeling like an adult. He could picture life as a reporter. The Daily Hampshire Gazette offices were located in Northampton, Massachusetts. One of the larger buildings on Conz Street, the offices were located down the hall on the right of the second floor. Through the frosted glass door sat the receptionist, separated from the rest of the office with cubicle partitions. Connie was the filter for the rest of the office. The first line of defense. It was amazing how many people came in thinking that suspecting their neighbors of being drug dealers because they played loud music until one in the morning qualified as "news." Once one ran out of options at the police department, quite often the next place they came was the Gazette. People figured if they couldn't get their neighbors arrested, why not embarrass them. It was Connie's job to weed these people out, and she was adept at it. Her slight frame, puppy-dog brown eyes, and broad smile belied the fact that she could be as menacing as a brick wall. Once she decided you weren't getting past her, there was no other option but to turn back. "Good morning, Connie." "Good morning, Mr. Letchel." "Please, how many times have I asked you to call me 'Paul'?" "Good morning, Paul." Their ritual morning flirtation was mostly harmless. They were about the same age, and being peers automatically made them friends due to the fact that most of the office was filled with the grizzled veteran type that newspapers are renowned for. Paul found Connie beautiful. She had dark eyes, dark hair (that was highlighted in tasteful dark red), and a dark sense of humor. She was the only African-American in the office, which to Paul made her seem exotic. He was sure it was hard for her, but she made up for the feeling of isolation with her self-confidence. Were she a man, she would've been a blowhard, a jerk; but at 5'1" and 110 lbs., she made it work for her. The "bullpen" was nothing like one saw in the movies, with lots of shouting and shaking of fistfuls of typing paper. Mostly there was a lot of reading and hushed telephone conversations. The reporters who weren't out of the office fleshing out a lead or tracking down an interview or having a three hour two martini lunch were in quiet contemplation reviewing their notes or one of the many drafts for the morning edition. It was the early eighties and the women's movement of the seventies had resulted in several female reporters on staff. But the remnants of the several decades previous were evident in all the secretaries being long-legged, curvaceous blondes. The editors' offices were along the wall. With bay windows and solid wood doors, they seemed practically impenetrable to most of the staff. Inside were elderly men literally cutting and pasting the various articles and submissions together so that the morning commuters might be informed in a timely manner. Paul's desk was near the back, cluttered and disorganized. His various clippings and biographical sketches covered the small surface, and his phone was almost completely hidden with notes and rough drafts. Paul rarely used his phone; the families were never eager to talk with a reporter, and the deceased were similarly tight-lipped. As an obituary writer, his best friend was the funeral home director. His daily pilgrimage resulted in a ten to fifteen minute meeting to glean whatever information he could from Mr. Coughlin. Other than local celebrities and corporate big-wigs, Paul's day was spent preparing "advance copy" for old or infirmed national celebrities. His research generally included nothing more than looking through old newspaper clippings from his and other papers for the highlights of the entertainer's or politician's career. On rare occasions, a prepared obituary for a celebrity that recuperated was already prepared and only needed to be updated. It was tedious, and often depressing work, but Paul both loved and exceeded in the business. His writing had already been noticed by the few who read it word for word. His sentences were short, his prose vivid, and his style sensitive. After only six months Mr. Hamlin promised Paul that he would be promoted quickly, probably to the police blotter within six months, and maybe covering the county fair within a year. link 1 comment|post comment

I'm sad now . . . [Oct. 14th, 2006|07:41 pm] So that girl I was talking about a couple posts ago . . . I've asked her out a couple times. She always says, "I'd like to, but I can't this week." Actually, she speaks Spanish, so she says, "Me gustaria, pero no puedo en esta semana." It's been six weeks. Now when she walks by my store, she walks on the other side of the street and doesn't even look at me. :( I'm sad. link post comment

Boat For Sale [Oct. 6th, 2006|04:47 pm] Some may consider the following tale extraordinary. I do not. For me, this is typical as the sun rising, or the moon shining. It is a story of my particularly unique talent as a salesman. I have worked in this capacity in various jobs. As a telemarketer, as a music agent, even as owner of my own pool maintenance business selling service contracts to various clients, but never before has my gift been as clearly illustrated as in this incident. I was sailing with two crew-members from the northern coast of Haiti to Tampa. With a short stop in Cuba for cigars and rum. The journey was to take exactly ten days. The weather was agreeable, and the sailing smooth, the crew amiable and the ship reliable. I was more than optimistic for a pleasant voyage. However, about six days in, off the southern coast of Florida, we spotted a floating object in the gulf. Slowing down to take a better look, and to see if the object might be salvageable (or sell-able), we learned that it was not an object at all, but a man. Upon closer inspection, he looked to be about forty-five years in age, with speckled grey/brown hair, blue eyes, slightly overweight, and of average height (though it was difficult to tell with all but his neck, head, and arms under water). After somewhat formal introductions, we learned his name was Isaac. Isaac had been sailing solo across the Gulf of Mexico. The first eighteen or so hours had gone so swimmingly that he decided to have a drink, and then another. As the sun lowered itself below the horizon, Isaac began to feel that a quick dip in the water would refresh his senses for the night ahead. Unfortunately, in his inebriated state he forgot to take the sails in, to drop anchor, or to make any other preparations for leaving the boat without captain or navigator. He forgot everything, except to strip down and jump in. Consequently, within a few minutes he realized his boat had continued the journey without him. Inquiring of the man in order to learn more revealed that he had been wading in his current situation for about fourteen hours. And further questioning told us that he was rather wealthy and would gladly offer any kind of reward for his safe rescue and return to land. It was at this point an idea began to creep slowly into my head. I had liquidated everything I owned in order to purchase the current vessel on which I was standing. And I did not have a penny to my name to start a life with when I arrived in Florida. The opportunity that presented itself was to sell my boat to this man, and he could give me passage on his newly acquired asset. When we arrived, he would be able to pay cash, and we would each go our separate ways. After I explained my proposition to Isaac, he pondered the situation, agreed it made sense, but thought the price was a little high. He also wondered why I would be so eager to liquidate such a fine craft so soon after purchase when I could easily live in its cabin upon arriving at my destination. After illuminating these rather sound points, he made me a counter-offer. I thought over his argument, but decided that never again would I have such an advantage over a buyer, nor would I have the chance to make such a resounding profit. I explained that if his worry was whether or not the boat was seaworthy, it clearly was, and that my decision to sell had nothing to do with the craft and more to do with my current financial position, and his current needs. After much deliberation I elected to stay with my original price. He once again mulled over my points, but refused to make a decision. He agreed that it was not a question of sea-worthiness, but said my mention of the subject rather made him doubt my claims of its reliability. As he was talking, his head began to dip under the water for moments at a time. He was clearly tiring, as these moments began to come closer and closer together. However, he refused to agree to any price higher than ninety percent of my original. Believing firmly this was a bluff; I refused, and with much agitation agreed to lower the price five percent in order to save the man from his own negotiations. Nevertheless, he held relentlessly both to the surface of the water, and to his discount of ten percent. As a final tactic, I informed Isaac that I intended to sail away if he did not agree to the price at five percent below the original. He flatly declined, and said then that I should sail away, and he would be fine on his own. I ordered the crew to return to our original path, and as we left Isaac struggling to remain afloat, I wondered aloud if I shouldn't return and see if we could make a deal at seven-and-a-half. link 2 comments|post comment

[Sep. 28th, 2006|03:41 pm] The Review for Mr. Paul I had an experience the other day which was so strong, so powerful, so life-changing that I simply must relate it to you exactly is it happened, without syntax or ommission. I should say however, that it was really an experience of empathy, and did not directly affect me in any manner. I was sitting in my kitchen around eight in the morning on a Sunday, contentedly frustrated with the weekly crossword. I could see a slight drizzle through the window over the sink, but it was nothing to make me fear the second-coming of Noah or his remarkable boat. A boat, I imagine, that helped to hurry the process of inventing room de-odorizers. But I degress. I was working out the clue to number nine down, "Author who disspelled rumor quite convincingly" (five letters, ends with "N"), when a knock came at my front door. I folded the paper, took one sip of my Columbian roast instant coffee, and went to see who could be molesting me at such a time. Opening the door, I was filled momentarily with a rush of terror. Standing there was the largest, darkest man I had ever seen. Fortunately, before I succumbed to a heart attack and died right there at the poor man's feet, I realized it was my neighbor Mr. Paul. Everyone called him Mr. Paul due to the fact he stood at six foot six, weighed well-nigh three hundred pounds, and could lift a semi-truck clear over his head. His neighbors called him Mr. Paul. The police chief, the mayor, the union cheif, the Italian waste disposal manager that lived in the mansion down the street, and his mother; EVERYONE called him Mr. Paul, owing as much to his size as to the fact that nobody had the courage to ask Mr. Paul his first name. We had become friends due to the fact that Mr. Paul learned that I was a writer, and having aspirations himself, asked for my advice on a number of occasions. I obliged, not wanting to become a pre-dinner snack for this mass of a man. Today Mr. Paul was standing on my doorstep in the rain, almost in tears. I tried to ascertain in the gentlest of manners what was the matter. At which point he held up the newspaper (the same edition which I had just been crosswording) and pointed to a certain article. He then invited himself into my front sitting-area and flopped down onto the couch. Curiosity overwhelmed me, and I took a good look at the periodical which had just been thrust three inches deep into my chest. I immediately saw what had brought this big man to pieces. Below the fold, on page F-28, was the following article: Short Story Review: "The Madame and The Madman" by Mister Paul by Chris Harper Apparently, without my knowledge or warning, Mr. Paul had submitted his first finished prose to the local paper for review, which now follows word for word . . . Many times in my career I have read fiction that has struck me. Short stories that have moved me to tears as well as joy. Novels that have lifted my mood and enlightened my life. Narratives that have not only made me appreciate the author and theme, but also helped to place value on the importance of what I do. Yes, very many times in my career I have read fiction that has struck me. This is the first story that has ever made me want to strike it back. To put it bluntly, this reviewer has never in his life read, heard of, heard about, theorized, or dreamed of a fiction so badly composed, written or thought-through. It was only with excutiating pain that I toiled to the conclusion of this laborious tale. I am now aged sixty-and-five years and not one day in my life needed glasses for reading, driving, or any other acitivity. But reading this story caused my poor eyes such trauma that the next day I was forced to go out and buy a pair of reading glasses just so that I could read the prescription bottles in the cabinet and avoid taking my wife's post-menopausal estrogen pills. "The Madame and The Madman" is so poorly constructed, a story so unskillfully told that pains must be taken not only to criticize the excruciating language which is used, but also to propose the author of this story is such a fool that he thought submitting his work to this paper might in some way cause anything but depression and suicidal tendencies. I am filled with fear that anyone who could write so badly would have the intelligence to lick a stamp and an envelope, much less write the correct address on the front and stick it in the post. Put in a favorable context, Mister Paul might be the literary equivolent of Pauly Shore. A crass example of the worst in the field in order to entertain the lowest common denominator of a public that craves mediocrity. But Mister Paul lacks the creativity or originality of even Pauly. Mister Paul is a child trapped in a man's body, and rumor has it certain proportions of his anatomy even at a mature age have remained child-like. His story is similarly immature. Quite impossible to read, his point-of-view jumps back and forth from third to first person, his timeline is not linear, but jumps back and forth, he uses two phrases back and forth over and over again, his characters are not well-developed nor his setting well-described. The language is simple, plain, and profane. And finally, his mystery killer confesses in the first paragraph (it was the Madman as it turns out). I beg the public NOT to read this story. Mister Paul may very well have released a plague on the American public. If people were to start to think that this is what writers write, such an avalanche of unreadable dribble might be released among the masses that literature would be set back for generations, and might never recover. When I finished reading I closed my eyes and took a moment to prepare myself. Very, very slowly I lifted my head and made eye contact with the imposing Mr. Paul. My gaze moved from his legs to his torso to his chin. Finally with one last triumph of bravery over cowardess, I expressed my sympathy with one longing look. At this point Mr. Paul curled into a ball on my couch, put his head in my lap, and began to sob. link post comment

[Sep. 24th, 2006|06:58 pm] Sure, I'm HOT. But it's a dry heat . . . Like a moth to a flame, baby! link post comment

I will buy me a new life [Sep. 7th, 2006|10:53 pm] So I'm trying to take the eye surgery as an opportunity to start a new life. More risks, trying to go after things a little bit more. So far I'm doing okay, but not as good as I like. Went on rollercoasters (good job) Played paintball (good job) Asked a girl out (a real girl, she said she's Christian and she doesn't drink or dance. I suppose that also means no S-E-X. So we'll see how THAT goes.) Read a Hemingway book of short stories (good job) Writing a little, but still not as much as I'd like (okay job) Eating a little better, probably have lost some of the bloat weight (okay job) Not excercising yet (bad job) Not practicing piano yet (bad job) link post comment

I'm home! [Aug. 26th, 2006|08:33 am] Let's see . . . highlights from the trip: IKEA with the Eppley's and Jen Coffee shop Scooter-driving Meeting Dill and Papucs (Pa-pooch, I found out, I was saying Pa-pooks in my head) Meeting Zoey (I call her ZoZo) Cedar Point (I went on very many rollercoasters and did NOT act like a little girl) Pool, Ping-pong and mini-golf McDonalds and Ben & Jerry's Giant tvs everywhere I look Getting addicted to House and Grey's Anatomy I drove the Rob's car (very exciting) Asking a blind guy for directions Little Miss Sunshine Seeing James and Jenelle and John and Jim Probably a bunch of stuff I forgot . . . Much appreciation to everybody for their hospititality! Good to see everyone, good to be home. Scott: out. link post comment

[Jul. 30th, 2006|12:33 pm] Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaerin what oredr the ltteers in a word are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng istaht first and last ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be atoatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. This is bcuseaewe do not raed ervey lteter by itslef but the word as a wlohe. link 1 comment|post comment

[Jun. 8th, 2006|08:12 pm] Anybody know how many points two Dominicans on a motorbike is? I'm thinking 15-20. (Everybody's okay.) link 1 comment|post comment

Congratulations Chris and Hajnal!!! [May. 29th, 2006|07:11 pm] Hope your family already knows . . . And now in honor of the occasion: Top 5 OTHER PEOPLE Eppley could be engaged to . . . 5. J-Lo 4. Britney Spears (K-Fed Jr.?) 3. Jake Gyllenhaal 2. The chick from that band he likes so much. You know . . . the one with the hair, and the face, and that smile. You know who I'm talking about . . . what's her name . . . And the number one OTHER PERSON Eppley could be engaged to . . . 1. My grandma link post comment

[May. 20th, 2006|06:41 pm] My name is Scott and I am funky. link post comment

[May. 19th, 2006|06:35 pm] So I understand the pressures placed upon women (and especially girls) by the mainstream publications and media. To be thin, to be beautiful, to have perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect teeth, etc. I understand that's it an impossible "ideal" for most. But here's the thing: I think it's harder for men. A lot of the same publications that advertise using women also advertise using men. These men have the same perfect bodies. Thin, muscular, smiling. And the underwear models . . . God help me I *hate* the underwear models. But unlike the female models, nobody looks at these men and says, "I bet he had his pecks done." or "Those lips are so fake." or "He only gets that way by starving himself." No male model is accused of being anorexic or bolemic. Whereas society not only places impossible female ideals in front of us, a large portion of society consciously says these ideals are impossible. But with men it's a different standard. Granted, women are not (or in general are not) as superficial as men, paying less attention to form and more attention to substance. But in many places this is still not true. Open any magazine, turn on any drama series, watch any movie, go to any college club, and the girls who look like models are with the guys who look like models. "She's too thin! I bet she eats like a rabbit!" "He's so hot. I bet he works out all the time." link post comment

I'm sick :( [May. 17th, 2006|06:08 pm] I have the amoebas. Grossness. link post comment

[May. 14th, 2006|05:37 pm] If I was a turtle or a fish, I'd be a fish. link 1 comment|post comment

[Feb. 14th, 2006|10:23 am] The waiting room was typical sterile comfort. Short carpet in soothing blue, dim light, magazines on the table in the fan presentation (“Sports Illustrated”, “Cosmo”, “Men’s Living”, and “Vogue”), not a cushion out of place on the couch, and light rock on the radio. This was John’s third session, and his last, he decided. “Hi, John. Come on in.” John lumbered into the office. Monday mornings were always the hardest. His Sundays were basically filled with beer, chips, and naps. He could get used to sleeping fourteen hours a day, he thought. But then again, that much escapism could provide a good reason for coming here every Monday. He’d have to stop. “I’d like to explore you’re feelings since your brother’s accident a little more, John. Can you tell me how you’ve been feeling?” ‘Accident’ was the nice way of saying it. After a night of partying with John, his brother decided to drive home drunk. John was too out of it to take his keys away. The next day at noon when John awoke and realized his brother had not been home, he called the police. They found his car wrapped around a tree on Route 19; there weren’t even any skid marks. He must have either fallen asleep or passed out. “Well, I’ve stopped drinking. I wish sometimes I could, but I know it’s better that I don’t. I’m sleeping a lot. That probably isn’t too good, but I get so tired sometimes. I close my eyes and wake up two hours later.” “That’s pretty normal, John. We can help that if you want. But with your substance abuse issues, I think it’s better we not put you on medication unless it’s absolutely necessary.” “Yeah, I understand that. This weekend was extra-hard. We packed up his stuff on Saturday. I never realized how much he did. There were stories I never knew he wrote. He was a hell of a writer. All kinds of other shit, too. Trophies from high school, albums, his clothes; I couldn’t believe how many shoes he had. It was . . . weird.” John didn’t say how much he still thought about his brother. How much he still felt his presence. He still heard his voice sometimes, still went to his room to try out a new song he wrote for him, still saw his lean frame walking the halls of their parents’ home. It felt like a practical-joke. That at any moment he would jump out from behind the curtains. He missed the familiar things most of all. The understanding looks and private jokes the two brothers shared. “And how did that make you feel?” “It felt, you know, sad. It was freaky seeing his room empty. When we were cleaning up, I found his car keys under his chair by his computer.” John had forgotten they used his keys to get to the party. His brother couldn’t find his own and John got a lift home. It was a grim reminder. There were so many things we could have done to stop it. He could’ve driven, he could’ve taken the keys away, he could’ve been the designated driver, he could’ve convinced him to stay, he should’ve kept him from driving home. “I’m thinking of writing a song about him. It’ll be called Light Speed. He always moved so fast, you know? He was always doing something, going somewhere, seeing someone. I tagged along sometimes, but his energy was enigmatic. I don’t know where it came from.” “John . . . He was a drug addict.” “I know. But still . . .” It was always a game for him. A game he was sure he would win. Everything was a competition. Who he was competing against, John hadn’t a clue. The last few months, John got the feeling his brother was racing against something, or someone. He felt that even before his death. He was up for days at a time: writing, driving, getting high, fucking, and doing it all over again. John tried the lifestyle, but found it contradictory to his nature. A 300 lb. bass-player wasn’t made for the fast-life or high-times. But the competitive spirit existed even since school. He was always the smarter, the better-looking, the more athletic, the more popular, the more risky. John always played it safe and got by. But near the end, John wasn’t as sure his brother wasn’t running against something, as much as away from it. “John, I want you to know this wasn’t your fault.” “What the fuck do you mean it wasn’t my fault?!?! I could’ve done so many things. I could’ve taken his keys away!” “These were his decisions. His decision to drink, his decision to drive. His decision to live the way he did.” John regretted that night every moment of the day. What he wouldn’t give to have his brother back. What he wouldn’t give to have been able to save him. To be able to fix it, through some magic or miracle. Now he was alone, and scared. “I’m just so afraid. What do I do now? Huh? Give me that answer.” “You have to continue with your life, John. You have to find your own personality, your own identity. You should work on your music. Provide some fruit to your labor. I think it’s a good idea to write a song about your brother. You have to admit your feelings. Your parents love you, John. So do your friends. Let them. You’ve admitted some feelings today, John: fear, sadness. But you’re angry, and you need to face that. I’m sorry, but our time’s up.” “I just miss him, you know?” “I know.” As John descended in the elevator from the first floor to the lobby, he thought about what the doctor said. It was hard to admit that he was angry. He was angry at his brother. He was angry for living the way he did, and for dying the way he did. He was angry he never said good-bye. He was angry he didn’t stop him. He was angry he couldn’t save him. He was angry he wasn’t in the car with him, or instead of him. But he didn’t know which was worse, missing his brother or wishing instead it was him that died that night. link post comment

Blues Traveler - Pretty Angry [Feb. 14th, 2006|10:22 am] I'm giving this a shot. I guess I'd call it an "arrangement". Like arrangement for big-band or orchestra. Except this would be an arrangement for short-story. "I wish I drank tequila I wish I stayed up late But lately when the Sandman comes You know I just can't wait No, lately I can't wait "And we packed up all your boxes It's all been hauled away I never stare at walls so bare 'Cause something always stays Yeah something of you stays "And I wanna shout from my guitar Come out, come out wherever you are The joke is over, open your eyes A heart like yours, it never dies And I found your keys behind your chair I still can see you sitting there This isn't funny; don't fool around You let me go... you let me down "And I guess I'm still pretty angry And I don't want to be I don't know which was the bigger waste of time Missing you or wishing, instead, it was me "I wish I walked on water Pulling rabbits from my sleeve Guessing cards and saving everyone I wish I still believed Oh I wish that I believed "That I could also channel voices That I've endured the burning blade That I could make some of your choices I wish I weren't afraid Of those choices that you've made "Like I could give you what you need So ollie ollie oxen free The game is up and I give in So show yourself so that you can win Come claim your prize and I don't care I still can see you standing there How could you leave, how could you lie? You cut me off in mid-reply "Run all your races And be what you're gonna be And let some of us love you And set thy anger free "And I guess I'm still pretty angry And I don't want to be I don't know which was the bigger waste of time Missing you or wishing instead it was me "The will to win, the urge to race I still can see it on your face Thought I'd keep up but only crashed I wasn't built to move that fast Thought I could match you stride for stride But I was on the other side And holding onto the safety rail With knuckles white, complexion pale A cloud of dust and you were gone Thought I would catch you later on I limped behind, your race was won But were you racing or on the run? How you enjoyed, you loved to drive And I'm destroyed... 'cause I'm alive "Run all your races And be what you're gonna be And let some of us love you And set thy anger free "Control my contradictions And allow that my labors thrive And grant me please the answer I don't know why I'm still... "In the beginning there was you and me I would have brushed my world aside Rather than say goodbye I would have brushed my world aside I don't know why I'm still... "And I guess I'm still pretty angry And I don't want to be I don't know which was the bigger waste of time Missing you or wishing, instead, it was me "And I guess I'm still pretty angry And I don't want to be I don't know which was the bigger waste of time Missing you..." link post comment

Old ER episodes [Feb. 13th, 2006|01:20 pm] Man were those some bad-asses on the old ER episodes. Benton and Ross and Greene and Carol. That used to be a great show. link post comment

[Feb. 12th, 2006|07:30 pm] A movie made me cry today. I believe it was the first time I've ever cried over a movie. "Rory O'shea Was Here". (aka Inside I'm Dancing) Yikes . . . - Scott link post comment

November 3rd, 1972 [Feb. 9th, 2006|08:16 pm] “Hey”. “Hey”. “I’m Jack.” “I’m Alice.” And so in that little college bar on the corner of Main and 7th, Jack and Alice, who were to become the Gemels, met. He talked her ear off, and she drunk him under the table. It was dark, loud, crowded, and sweaty, but neither noticed nor cared. He was an English lit. major but really wanted to be a musician. She was a psych. major but really wanted to screw a musician. Neither did drugs, but neither admitted it for fear of seeming square. The courtship began slowly. She had just ended a relationship with her high-school-sweetheart. He played outside-linebacker, which was impressive. But never made the starting line-up, which was not. He didn’t get a scholarship, eliminating the option of college. Alice couldn’t stand the thought of staying in Nashville, Indiana working at her father-in-law’s hardware store the rest of her life, so she broke his heart. Jack was already in love with Huxley and Dylan, was digging the college lifestyle, and thought marriage was something for parents and Republicans. But that night in the bar, everything either of them wanted or needed to know about the other was revealed. She loved listening to him talk. He barely even had to say anything. His voice was deep and resonant, and when he argued, his eyes danced. He loved to read. He was smart and funny and thoughtful and had a barrel-chested laugh that could be heard from the next county. She was pretty but not striking. When she listened she stared into his eyes, and she smiled with her whole face; her eyes lit up, her forehead arched, even her ears seemed unable to contain her joy. He had never noticed the way a woman smelled before, but he noticed every time she changed her shampoo or reapplied perfume. They talked and joked and danced. And kissed. Eventually they met each other’s friends and families. Everyone thought it cute they barely said anything but never seemed to lack communication. Their conversations were short but poignant. Their touches soft but significant. Their thoughts private, but yet, somehow understood. One night eighteen months after that night in the bar, following a Beat-poet/folk-singer/interpretive-dance/singer-songwriter/comedian amateur night, they were both so high on life and laughter they decided to tie the knot. They would move to the East Coast. Jack could get a job at a newspaper, and Alice could volunteer. Although neither parental nor Republican, it just felt right. link 3 comments|post comment

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