Reflections of a Time Traveller

I guess I’m looking for something inspirational… maybe the beginning. 

Well, maybe not the beginning in a sense of time and space, but the beginning in terms of simplicity. 

I suppose some things are the same. Sleeping, you look exactly as I remember. You still teeter on the edge of wakefulness to speak the same slumber-laden gibberish that you did years ago. The words are different, but the tone is the same, sprinkled with that familiar tired exasperation and endearing confusion. Your eyelids remain lazily shut—darkened theater curtains selfishly obstructing intense treasures—and your head doesn’t move as you spit your quiet nonsense into the cold room; an unknowing experimentation of syntax and language pulsing with a meaning that’s as beautiful as it is elusive. 

You’re exhausted from picking through years of my scattered thoughts and harping on my desire to forget, to have new associations for different continents. Minutes ago, your prying eyes were hungry as Pavlov’s dogs, but now you’re worn out from playfully suggesting that it should all be about longing; tired from trying to rewrite my story in terms of you. 

Right now, you’re dreaming about being the ubiquitous context.

I can feel the room getting smaller, shrinking to nothing more than two bodies on a mattress. The walls crumble without a sound and the floor silently dissipates like a thin fog. We’re floating through a wormhole, careening through a past that we’ve been trying to recreate for twenty-four hours. We’re flirting with smooth mosaics and innovative architecture in Barcelona. We’re sweating in London subways, hoping to see Guy Fawkes fireworks. We’re chasing away each other’s phobias, ascending to the apex of Christianity. And we’re falling apart in the moonlit gardens of New Jersey. 

Without warning, you level the colonies of lint on the bedsheets with a dream-provoked spasm and I shuffle the same sheets that refuse to let you go. The cells of your skin are invincible and their microscopic grafting refuses to let me forget the way you looked spitting excess chocolate chips onto the soft grass of national parks; the way my sweatshirts hung from your slender frame; the way your feet never really let the tide escape. 

If the remnants of you melt into the remnants of my dreams, then I can be sure these memories are worth less than the synapses they’re printed on.

Outside the sky explodes with dawn’s fluorescent watercolors. It reminds me of sitting in your backyard, seeing the lights and desperation of Atlantic City as electric sunrises we named after each other. It’s amazing how only months later the insanity of inner eyelids carried me towards images of alarm clocks splattered with brain fragments, where I could watch my mind melt seamlessly into time, controlling it with electric impulses, empowered by just the right cocktail of drugs. The neon numbers would absorb my memories like luminous sponges while my skull’s indentation flowered with crimson petals. 

And so this sense of complication becomes almost filthy. It’s distracting in the way a slight but consistent click from some appliance can keep you awake in a silent room; the way a small fly on a large television screen can command your attention in a way that seems so extreme. In the context of stillness, you become more attuned to any distractions. And in the face of possible perfection, the flaws become exaggerated and all-too apparent.

I guess you can never really go back in time, as marketable an escape as that may be. We’re designed to be linear, pressing forward for better or worse. We’re all about momentum; gazes plastered to what’s in front of us. This is why we don’t have eyes in the back of our heads… we can never truly move backwards.  

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2008 LegalZoom.com

More Tuneage

Some more jammage for anyone interested. This one takes a little while to get going, but once we settle into a groove, it rocks pretty hard. And we have settled on a band name...

eartoear

Now we just need a singer!

And yes, I do have some more creative writing in the works, but I'm also offering my thoughts on a novel my sister has written (clearly we know who the more focused and motivated of the two Soviero children is), so that has been a priority since she is planning on submitting the piece for a writing competition.

But I plan on having some more creative ish up by mid-week, if not sooner.

For now, click on the blog title to hear some music.

Some Music for My Friends

Some of you may know that I am playing in a currently unnamed band that is seeking a singer. Yes, we have about seven songs and lyrics to go with those songs... just no singer. If anybody knows someone that can sing and is looking for a band, let me know.

This unnamed project of ours likes to jam at our practices. We also like to record these jams using a Zoom H2 digital reorder (another shameless promotion: I work for the company that acts as the United States distributor for all Zoom gear). The jams aren't all gold, but some of them are pretty tasty (at least in our opinion). So I've decided to host links to some of these more "tasty jams." Just click the title of the blog post and check out the file on my box (haha) account.

This music is purely improv--and may or may not be marijuana influenced--but if you're looking for some new tunes to check out, it's worth a listen. Enjoy!

A review of Mogwai at Terminal 5 on 9/18/08...

Gizmo’s All Grown Up!!

It’s sort of like a lullaby for the apocalypse: you can sense that the world is ending, but you have an unwavering feeling of contentment and serenity, like no other soundtrack could possibly summon such feelings of comfort for such a beautifully grim finale. 

That’s probably the best description I can provide of the feeling that accompanies seeing a live Mogwai show. There are moments of such clean, simplistic beauty followed by moments of cacophonous, dirty peril; an intense and nearly surgical latticework of the gorgeous and tranquil intertwined with the harsh and jarring. It’s sort of like being on a ship fluctuating between tumultuous seas and lake-like waters. In fact the name Mogwai (an allusion to the somewhat unstable creatures of the Gremlins films) should conjure up images of adorable furry critters that, when handled incorrectly or irresponsibly, can turn into ugly, nightmarish demons with a menacing taste for blood. This appears to me as a rather purposeful and accurate association. 

I understand that Mogwai is not a band for everybody. I’ve had my hits and misses regarding attempts to turn others on to what I consider an intensely original and musically turbulent band. But one thing I’ve found: those that do fall into the Mogwai trap fall hard. There’s a powerful affection that bases itself in true Mogwai fans. With extreme resistance to general classifications like “boring,” “depressing” and “background music,” Mogwai fans embrace the minimalism and distinct lack of vocals, recognizing that this is a band that offers a musical experience, not just a collection of sing-along songs. 

Perhaps the true appeal of a band like Mogwai is the interpretive aspect. Such volatile and varying music can call to mind any number of common themes that typical lyrics would address: political upheaval, relational turmoil, social isolation, general discontent and of course, passionate nostalgia. It’s really up to the listener to decide what the song is about. And that’s only if they decide they want it to be about something more than the music. 

As with most bands, the live experience for Mogwai is quite different than that of listening to their studio albums. However, with Mogwai, this divergence is quite extreme. It’s really astonishing to see a band assert such an incredible aura with such an unenergetic stage presence. This is not to say the band is boring to watch. But they are not jumping around. They are not appealing to their fans with exaggerated gestures and a lot of between-song crowd interaction. In fact, all members stay relatively stationary and offer few words to the audience over the course of the show. 

But their musical presence more than makes up for any lack of stage energy. The music itself exudes all the power and vivacity you would want or expect from a live show. Picture it actually attacking your senses with a strategic assault, often lulling you into a false sense of serenity before striking you with something heavy, loud and explosive when you least expect it. It’s almost as if the band understands that any kind of an overstated stage presence would divert too much attention from what the audience should be concentrating on: the musical experience. Taking this into consideration, one might think Mogwai’s comparatively modest energy is a conscious choice; a decision to keep your attention focused on what it should be focused on.   

I had only seen Mogwai once before this most recent show at Terminal 5, and that single previous experience simultaneously blew me away and made me crave more. I was so impressed with their May 2006 show at Webster Hall that I made a pledge to myself to make sure I saw them next time they came to the New York area. Unfortunately this highly anticipated visit took two and a half years. Fast-forward to September of 2008 and we have a new album and a very different set list. 

Although I was incredibly impressed with the recent Terminal 5 show, it didn’t quite have the same effect for me as the previous Webster Hall show. I attribute this largely to the heavy concentration of new material in the Terminal 5 set. At the Webster Hall show of 2006 there were only one or two songs played that I was not familiar with. And although I was fortunate enough to have a friend provide me with an advance copy of the new studio release “The Hawk is Howling” prior to the most recent show, I only had a few days to listen to it before attending the concert. 

With that being said, a large chunk of the Terminal 5 set was unfamiliar to me. Although it is always nice to be surprised with something new, I counted about six new songs out of a fourteen-song set. And I certainly understand a band’s desire to play their new material on a tour that is supporting their new album, but it was a little unexpected to hear so many new songs from an album that wasn’t scheduled to be released until 4 or 5 days after the show. In this sense it was personally disappointing to not hear some of my Mogwai favorites like “Auto Rock,” “Acid Food,” “Christmas Steps,” “Kids Will Be Skeletons,” “Glasgow Megasnake” and my personal favorite, “Travel is Dangerous.” It was great to hear “Helicon 1,” “Mogwai Fear Satan,” “Like Herod” and “Hunted by a Freak,” but I suppose I was a little bitter about being denied my true favorites. 

The lack of an encore was also a little disappointing. Not only was there no encore, but there was no announcement or warning that we were listening to the last song. I will concede that their closing track “Batcat” off the new album is one of the best songs they could possibly close with, especially the way it was performed live with “Like Herod” running directly and almost seamlessly into it. But for me it’s always a little unsatisfactory to be unaware of a set’s finale. On top of that, “Batcat” finished at around 10:50 p.m., so frequent concert-goers like myself would expect an 11:00 curfew for the club, thus allowing another ten minutes of music. Even as the house lights came on, there was the dwindling hope that a somewhat eccentric band was just playing a little practical joke, allowing the lesser fans to leave while the die-hards waited with baited breath for a somewhat delayed encore. But as the techs began to feverishly break down the stage setup, it became apparent that the show was over. 

Although this may sound like a slightly negative review, it isn’t. Even with my rather trivial “complaints” (for lack of a better word), the show was incredible. It just seems impossible not to compare the only two live Mogwai experiences I have under my belt. And in that sense, the 2006 show takes the cake. But it should also be understood that the 2006 show at Webster Hall was probably in my top five concert-going experiences (joining the ranks with more well-known bands such as Tool, Radiohead and Counting Crows). It would have been nearly impossible for Mogwai to surpass that show (at least in my eyes), but they did provide a more-than-adequate follow-up, leaving me with a nearly insatiable desire to see them again. Unfortunately, if history is any indication, it will probably be about another two and a half years before my live Mogwai withdrawal is assuaged.  

Rush Hour

Okay, so I truly believe that commuting with traffic on Long Island on a daily basis is one of the most consistently frustrating things a person can do in his or her life. I think anyone who is familiar with this situation will either agree or at least empathize. The following little piece of work was somewhat Cathartic for me and I hope others can relate. -JMS

 

I’ve had this feeling before, but today it moves beyond a sense of paranoia and into the realm of frightening reality; this car in front of me is conspiring to make me late. This driver is making a conscious effort to fuck me over. 

This morning the architect of my frustration is Mr. Benz. He may be angry because I’ve been riding his ass for the past five or six miles, but if he were competent enough to drive the speed limit he wouldn’t have my aggravated eyes in his rearview mirror. If he can read lips he’s undoubtedly seeing all the awful things I’m saying about his wife and his family (who I know nothing about and may not even exist), but that’s just fine. He needs to understand that driving at this speed simply is not acceptable. 

And look at his piece of shit Benz anyway. This guy is definitely not better than me. I mean c’mon, a fucking 2005 C230 Kompressor? Are you serious? You can find that shit for fifteen grand. This guy obviously walked into some dealership and was just like: “Hey, what’s the cheapest Benz you’ve got? I want the status symbol, but I can’t afford a nice one. No, I wouldn’t rather pay a few bucks more for a high-end pre-owned Japanese car because that doesn’t give me the attention and envy that I clearly do not deserve. I’ll take my budget Benz and my false sense of self-importance and call it a day.” 

I mean this is the kind of car real rich people laugh at. I wonder if he knows what a fucking joke he is. The car’s not even in good condition. The bumper’s all scratched up for Christ’s sake. This guy really could not be a bigger fucking tool.   

Oh, unbelievable! He cost me another light! This wannabe rich asshole is really giving me the screw-job. I can see the red of the traffic light reflecting off his bald, bulbous dome. If he had been driving just a little faster, we would have sailed right under that yellow light with no problem at all. 

He’s looking in the rearview mirror now. He’s trying to hide it. He’s trying to be subtle. But I can see him throwing glances back at me. Alright you cocksucker, I’ll give you something to look at. Bang! Double middle fingers! That’s right asshole, just one says ‘fuck you’ but two says ‘fuck you and everyone you hold dear, you self-satisfied piece of shit.’ 

He’s pretending not to see me. He’s aware that he’s in control. This fucking single-lane road with no passing is totally making this guy’s morning. And I’m giving him exactly what he wants: an exasperated response. He knows he’s negatively affecting my morning. It’s a shame I don’t have a shotgun in the car. I probably wouldn’t splatter his bald head all over the dash (as tempting as that may be), but I’d shoot out his tires. Under ideal circumstances he’d swerve into a tree or oncoming traffic and something or someone else would finish the job for me. 

Sometimes I wish I had a rocket launcher on my car. Imagine that: a Camry barreling down the street with a rocket launcher mounted to the side. People would smash into each other just to get the fuck out of my way. I probably wouldn’t even have to use it. At least not on a regular basis. 

Okay, green light shithead. Move it or lose it. Oh, he is clearly fucking with me now. He’s going 30 in a 45! He doesn’t even care about the line of pissed-off drivers behind me. He’s got his sights set on making my commute miserable and the others are just collateral damage, casualties of war. It’s really incredible how petty and inconsiderate some people can be. 

That’s it. I’m done with this guy. Solid double yellow line or not, I’m cutting around this dipshit. I refuse to allow him to start my day off on such an unpleasant note. That’s right asshole, watch me fly by your fake yuppie coupe while you… 

Oh you’ve got to be kidding. Is this loser really on his cell phone? He’s not even using a hands-free set. He’s just got that fucking phone plastered right up against his ear. He’s taking a big steaming shit all over rush hour just so he can have whatever meaningless conversation with whatever equally meaningless person is on the other end of that undoubtedly meaningless call! 

I hope he gets into a fiery wreck. I hope his wife has to identify his grotesquely charred body. I hope his kids find out their selfish father spent their minimal college funds on his shitty budget Benz. He is the epitome of what is wrong with society and anyone who thinks otherwise needs to have their perspectives rearranged ASAP. 

I pull in front of him and watch for his reaction in my rearview mirror. It takes him a moment to realize I’ve worked my way from back to front—he’s obviously very engrossed in his phone call—but when comprehension sets in his face contorts from obliviousness to outrage and he’s laying on his horn. 

Ha! Now that’s satisfaction! He’s still laying on his horn as he speeds up and I’m still smiling. I put up my right hand and wave amicably back to my new nemesis as I watch his reaction in my mirror. Oh, he is pissed. Even from a fair distance in front of him I can see a bold vein in his bald head pulse with extreme aggravation. He’s still speeding up, but I can see the cell phone slip from his ear and fall below my field of vision. He tries to grab it and winds up jerking the wheel with his opposite hand. The car wrenches suddenly to the shoulder, skids on a sizeable patch of sand and careens into a large tree on the edge of some shopping center’s parking lot. 

Disbelief places a firm hand on my shoulder, but the smile doesn’t leave my face. In fact it broadens. I take my eyes away from the rearview mirror just in time to see a minivan pull boldly and irresponsibly from a side road right in front of me. I slam on my breaks hard and skid for at least ten feet before stopping just short of the van’s bumper. I lay on the horn and once again offer the driver in front of me a double salute with my two most emphatic and representative fingers. I glare with scorching hatred through the van’s tinted rear window at my new faceless nemesis. 

…Fucking Long Island drivers.   

 

Captain Dickface

I wanna punch this tour guide in the face. 

I really wanna punch this tour guide in the face. 

This smug, sarcastic, douche bag, toolbox asshole needs to stop touching her.

I’m trying to be calm. I really don’t want to be that American, but he’s had his eyes on her since day one and it’s really starting to get old. And look, she fucking loves it! Smiling, batting her eyes. She’s encouraging him! She just absolutely needs that little extra bit of attention. It’s disgusting. 

I don’t even see how she could find him attractive. He’s skinny, arrogant, condescending and he’s fucking French. I mean he’s probably gay. His name is Tristin for God’s sake. Fucking Tristin! 

“Babe, can you take my bag up to the room? I’m going to help Tristin grab some groceries. He knows the owners of the hotel so they’re going to let him use the kitchen to cook dinner for the whole group.”

Oh I’m gonna puke. She can’t be fucking serious. “Um… you want some help with that?” 

“I think we should be able to handle it all.”

Oh he isn’t actually talking to me. Who does this asshole think he is? My girlfriend was asking me a question, I am responding to said question. The two of us are having a conversation. There is no reason for this guy to open his fucking mouth. 

“He’s right babe. We’ll be fine. You can head up to the room and grab a shower. We’ll be right back.” 

I mean what can I possibly say? Does this actually warrant making a scene? Grabbing her by the arm or saying ‘can I talk to you dear’ in that awful, stern, foreboding way? Everyone knows what that means. Shit, they’re waiting for a response. 

I shrug. “Fine.” I turn around and start heading for the hotel. I guess that wasn’t terrible. The shrug was key. She knows I’m not happy. She knows we’ll have a little dialogue when she gets back. I mean come on; this is completely inappropriate girlfriend behavior. We didn’t come to Italy to flirt with and fuck other people. We came here to flirt with and fuck each other.

And how do we manage to get stuck with a French tour guide in Italy anyway? It boggles the mind. I should really complain to this travel company. I’m pretty sure I’d be less upset if he was actually Italian. At least we’d be in his country. He’d probably feel a sense of entitlement or free reign. But Tristin’s as much a foreigner in this country as we are. He gets no claim to my girlfriend. We don’t owe him anything for visiting his land cause we’re not in his fucking land!

I hope his dinner sucks. I hope everyone hates it. Ole Tristin would sure look like a big-time failure asshole. Nice gesture, poor follow-through; now go eat a bag of dicks while I fuck my girlfriend you pretentious, boy-touching prick. 

Oh who am I kidding? I’m sure it will be delicious. The pairing of the wine to the dish will be perfect. Everyone will swoon over it and devour until there’s nothing left. She’ll be utterly impressed and tell me I need to learn how to cook like that. And I’ll smile and chew his awesome food and feel totally inferior in every possible way. Tristin: 1; Lazy Boyfriend: 0. Fuck. 

I walk through the perfectly air conditioned hotel lobby, my sandals lightly clicking against the marble floor. Things are pretty quiet, with most of the hotel guests undoubtedly out enjoying the picturesque weather. Both the elevator and the hallway to my room are completely empty. Opening the door to my room, I realize the maid must have turned the air conditioning up, because it’s even cooler in here. It feels sort of calming. To me, few things are more pacifying than a cool hotel room on a warm day. 

I pull my bag out of the sizeable closet located by the door. I take the small box from the outer compartment and open it. It’s a little more beautiful every time I sneak a peak. It almost seems like it’s becoming more difficult to part with.

This was going to be the night. I would have found an absolutely beautiful restaurant—sparing no expense. We would eat an exceptional meal and during desert I would take out the box and open it right under her eyes. She would start to cry as she nods with flattering enthusiasm and we would toast a glass of fine champagne to our future. 

Instead she’s off pining over Captain Dickface, laughing at his jokes, marveling over his stories, complaining about her ever-so pedestrian, run-of-the-mill boyfriend. They share a laugh at my expense as they rummage to find the perfect seasonings for his brilliant sauce. Unreal. 

Clearly this is not an appropriate evening for such an important proposition. Oh well… I suppose there’s always tomorrow night.

Any Girl, Any Guy

Any Girl, Any Guy

She looks at me with fuck in her eyes; a pulsing flicker of uninhibited desire that’s tough to miss, even at our level of intoxication. It’s got all the shock of a cattle prod, but with the opposite effect.

She puts her hand on my arm as she throws her head back and laughs. She continues to smile as she orders another drink, stirring it briskly before sensing my understanding. Like some telepathic blowjob, we both know where eventuality will lead us: two bodies twisting on a bed or a couch or a kitchen floor; two walking clichés begging to make something of this night. 

She finishes her drink before I finish mine, like it’s some assertion of dominance. She leaves a single ice cube in her mouth, clicking it around with her tongue between her teeth, finally crushing it and swallowing. Some psychologist would tell you this is symbolic, but you can read into anything if you give your eyes enough time to adjust. 

She knows I’m in her pocket now. She can see me guessing at her intentions, hoping for the worst. She encourages me to finish my drink so she can show me her new apartment. I’m picturing it already: a respectable studio in Williamsburg that screams Ikea and reeks of Yankee Candle. The estrogenic qualities are inescapable, with the exception of the one obligatory corner devoted to her favorite sports team—undoubtedly the Yankees in this case—which is really just an obvious sign of feeble attempts at male bonding. Or maybe daddy issues. Either way, I sincerely doubt she’s watched an entire game this season. 

I gulp the rest of my drink down and we make a quiet exit to her car, which is parked right out front. She is clearly too drunk to drive, but assures me her place is just a few minutes away. This proves to be true as we pull up in front of some unremarkable Brooklyn apartment building a short time later. She kills the engine and leans over drunkenly to stick her tongue in my mouth. Apparently we have abandoned subtlety and seduction. The kiss says it all: we’re going to fuck like sloppy drunk idiots and there will be no breakfast in the morning. There might not even be a morning. 

I reciprocate the kiss. My vodka-soaked tongue wrestles her gin-soaked tongue. It’s not passion, it’s desperation, but it’ll do for now. 

After no more than a minute or two, we’re leaving the car and quickly ascending the building’s steps. We don’t talk until we’re inside the stairwell, making our way up to her apartment. She grabs my hand with a surprising degree of affection and says “second floor.”

She leads me up to her apartment, telling me how her landlord is a family friend, so rent is cheap. As she opens her door, I can already smell the candles: something like vanilla, but milder. Pulling me in and quickly closing the door, she throws her arms around my neck and pulls my face to hers. This kiss is slightly more connected, but we still manage to spill drunken slobber beyond the outskirts of each other’s lips.

She pulls away abruptly and sort of skips over to the small kitchen table. I take this quick moment to observe that I was dead-on regarding my expectations for her apartment. My only mistake being the solitary corner dedicated to the Mets, not the Yankees. I’m mildly disenchanted until I hear her call my attention to the kitchen table. 

And oh how the unexpected can be so pleasant sometimes!

She’s got blow! Something slightly short of an eight ball by the look of it. She even makes some all-too-familiar crack about the eight ball’s all-knowing abilities. I laugh like I haven’t heard that play on words on at least seven or eight separate occasions; each person delivering the line thinking they were witty or original. 

The whole time she’s talking, my eyes don’t move from the pile of white powder sitting on a dinner plate. She continues to talk as she uses a razor to break a chunk off a sizeable rock. She breaks it up expertly into six lines. She takes a small straw off the plate and makes quick work of two of the lines. Yes, she knows her way around the devil’s dandruff. 

She lures me over to her with the straw, pulling it away as I go to reach for it and using my own momentum to intercept my face with hers. This is all very cute, but she’s the one with the coke already lighting up her synapses like a pinball machine, and I’m the one whose buzz is wearing off. Nonetheless, I play her game and kiss her aggressively. Maybe the harder I kiss her the quicker she’ll give up the straw. At least that’s the assumption I’m operating under. 

She finally pulls her face away with a knowing smile. She leans over and does a third line. I mean what kind of fucking hostess is she? Does she think I enjoy standing here with half a hard-on watching her treat herself to some of my favorite poison? Un-fucking-believable! 

After another quick makeout session, she hands me the straw. Without any hesitation or even a “thank you” I’m putting the drug up my nose… and wow! This girl has some good fucking blow! No wonder she’s so goddamn chipper.  

She kicks her shoes wildly into the corner then picks up the plate of coke. I’m feeling pretty blasted now, pleasantly high, not tweaking, and I’m affectionate. I grab her from behind--careful not to offer enough turbulence to make problems for the plate--and start kissing her neck. I taste the blow dripping down the back of my throat along with the taste of her sweet perfume. I hadn’t smelled it earlier in the evening. The scent had faded, but the perfume clung stubbornly to her skin. The combination of flavors isn’t all-together enjoyable, but not unpleasant either.

I back off and give her room to walk. She makes her way across the living area and to her bed. She puts the plate down on her nightstand and scoops a little bump up with one of her manicured nails. She puts it under my nose and I give a quick sniff. Ah, the pleasures of selflessness! She then rewards herself with one and shortly after, we’re getting to it. She mentions something about a joint, but I’m already pulling her blouse over her head then moving south to the button of her skin-tight jeans. I kiss just below her naval and quickly pull her pants off. Cute thong: plain black, but complimentary and sexy. Thank God it matches her bra. It shows both class and coordination. 

We’re on the bed in no time, slobbering, penetrating, licking, sucking, kissing, moaning. The sex is selfish, on both accounts. Pleasuring the other is purely inadvertent. But we both cum and the night is fairly young. There’s a plate of good blow and apparently pot somewhere.  She offers me a drink and I accept. I figure I’ll wait until she returns to take out the weed, that way I don’t have to go rummaging through her drawers. I don’t have the patience and sometimes people keep their stash in a pretty tucked-away place. 

She returns with two drinks, handing one to me. I take a few large gulps and put the glass on the nightstand next to the plate of coke. She does the same then makes her way over to the dresser. She’s still naked and I realize what an incredible body she has: petite and curvy. Her ass is round and tone and her tits jiggle slightly as she opens the top drawer and removes a small jewelry box. She takes out a cigarette-sized joint and lights up, taking three hits and then passing it to me. Her exhaled smoke lingers long enough to meet mine. The pot tastes good, nothing exceptional, but certainly better than average. 

She scoops up another bump of blow, puts it up her nose then lies down on the bed next to me. I hand her the joint. I’m thinking now’s as good a time as any, but the pot’s stronger than I thought and I’m starting to feel mellowed. I picture rolling her on her back and kissing her gently for a few minutes. Her eyes are closed so she doesn’t notice as I quietly grasp a pillow and move it over her face. It takes realization a moment to set in, then she struggles, but I’m straddling her now, applying almost all my weight to the pillow, each end of the pillow grasped tightly and pressed to the bedsheets. It doesn’t take long for the struggle to weaken and eventually cease. I can see all this in my mind’s eye, but the weed has really done a number on me. Fucking pot! I tell myself over and over to never get stoned before the big moment, but I never listen. 

Wow, I’m fucked up, and not in a good way. The room is starting to spin and I’m starting to feel plastered to the bedsheets. She’s still talking and smiling, telling some story about the dealer she gets all her drugs from who is “just the best.” I try to keep up appearances. I don’t want her to know what a wreck I am. This is bad. So fucking bad. 

I shift my head (which feels like it weighs a ton) to look at the drink on the nightstand. Fucking bitch! Oh this fucking bitch! How could I have been so wrong about this one? How did intuition escape me in such a detrimental way? I can’t even speak now. The words fall from my mouth like weighted marbles.

Hearing my mumbling she stops her story mid-sentence and looks over to me. She’s smiling ear to ear, looking at me with a sense of triumphant pride. Oh this fucking cunt! How did this sly bitch get me? I think she better fucking kill me; she just better fucking kill me or I’ll mail her goddamn tits to her fucking father! 

The room starts to get dark around her. I’m completely incapacitated. She won’t kill me while I’m passed out. She’ll use the time to tie me up and wait until I come to. She’ll want me awake. What’s the point of killing someone in their sleep? 

She’s still smiling. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I’m starting to think I might love this bitch. I mean it’s tough not to be impressed. I wonder if she knows what I am, but I figure she has no idea. Coincidence can be a strong ally or a powerful enemy. Her face begins to darken and this beautiful fucking bitch-angel-demon leans down and kisses me on the forehead. She pushes my hair back and does it one more time before I lose total consciousness. As I fade away I realize I was right about one thing: there will be no morning.

 

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2008 LegalZoom.com 

Pathetic the Fall: An Introduction

Oh how easily we fall away from our own convictions. 

I tell myself it's about motivation; I tell myself I'm not like all the other hacks out there. The truth is I just want attention. I want people to hear what I have to say. I want to be recognized, but at least I understand my own delusions of grandeur.

So why did I do it? Why did I stoop so low as to use a blog for my creative outlet? I say it's a matter of motivation: I am stuck in a sticky situation that combines a very busy schedule with a feeling of overwhelming laziness. I like to think that if I have an audience (yes all three of you), it might motivate me to create on a more regular basis. 

These intentions are very grand and I have a tendency to not live up to my own expectations. But I'm pathetic. I want you to love me. I want you to read my work and say "Fuck, this kid is talented!" 

This probably won't happen, but I may just be able to delude myself into believing I have an audience that gives a shit and waits anxiously for my next posting. This is all very sad, but at least I'm being honest.

So what can you expect from me? Ideally a little of everything. I have diverse interests: I love creative writing, music, movies and I am a New York sports fanatic (Let's go Yankees, Giants and Rangers!). You'll definitely find some creative writing up here. But you're also likely to find reviews of movies and music. I also have intentions to use this blog as an outlet for the rage that tends to accompany being a New York sports fan.

Yes, the operative word being "intentions." I have a lot of them and I would like to post new material on a regular basis, but I am a busy guy. I work a full-time job, I have a band and I have a fairly active social life that consumes most of my weekends. That's right... believe I'm important! Believe I'm popular! PLEEEAAAASSSEE!! I need you to.

So with that said, I hope you all enjoy what I've got to say. And if not... well ... go fuck yourself. If you hate it, that's your right as a human. And you can feel free to let me know your feelings. I can take a hit as well as anybody. If you think I suck or just want to tell me I'm an asshole, I welcome your destructive criticism.

And, to all you thieving hack jerk-offs, the material on this blog is COPYRIGHTED! All pieces of writing on this blog have either been published already or copyrighted. Yes, it is completely egotistical to think that someone would steal some of my work, but the internet is a very shady place and I never underestimate the dirtbags that prowl its seedy underbelly. So fuck you assholes (you know who you are) for your worst intentions. You're a plague!

In all seriousness, I appreciate any feedback I can get. If you want to get in touch with me on any kind of personal level, my email address is jims1080@hotmail.com. Feel free to drop me a line. I crave your attention!

Cheers and regards.