Tuesday, August 25, 2009


My Heart is on Fire

The hand hovered over the candle. The flame warmed my hand. I could see the wax slowly melt. I wondered if my fingers could get any closer to the flame. I touched the flame with my forefinger. It didn't burn... at first. When it finally started to hurt, the heat really setting in, I pulled back on my seduction. My finger felt warm.

The Confusion

"Who are you, I mean really, who the fuck are you," she said.

"What are you talking about, we've been together forever, how do you not know who I am," he replied. He attempted to keep his tone even but there was a strain.

"How could you forget, today was important," she replied. Her voice dipped and soared with emotion.

"I didn't forget, didn't you get my present," he said.

"Present, what present. As if things could make up for your lack of presence."

The Wharf

The seals slid on the floating rafts. They barked. They slipped off. Their bodies were wet with the water. The drops of water rolled off their oil skinny. The rafts tilted as the seals moved around.

The Song

Her voice hit a high note. It was the same octave as her conversational voice. When she sang her voice was richer, as if she was drawing on a hidden well of treasure. She looked into the crowd, searching for eye contact. The song went on. She moved about the small stage the center of my attention.

The Warm Breeze

His skin tingled. He could feel the blood slowly trickle out. It ran a stream down on to his hands. He moved his fingers, slowly, the only way he could. He looked up. The sky was dark purple, the sun was setting, or was it rising. The orange rays of the sun shot through the sky.

Don't walk away

The street was empty. A small soda can rolled down the edge of the sidewalk pushed by its own momentum, seemingly autonomous. It got caught on a gutter drain. It stuck between the drain and the sidewalk. It was only after months of rain that the first sign of rust showed on its aluminum.

The Face in the Glass

He'd always wondered what it would feel like to murder. The desire struck him at odd times, on the toilet, during coitus, riding the subway, on his commute. Never at a specific individual but always the desire to kill, to render obsolete. He stared at the man across from him and reached out for his neck.

Age of Consent

I hated it when I couldn't get the car to start. I always worried that it wouldn't start after I had brought my date somewhere. I spent so much time worry about being inconvenient to my date that I never got around to asking that many girls out. I should have though. I should have brought the damn car to a mechanic, or fucking learned some mechanical skills myself.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The reporter

I wanted to drink myself to death. I wanted to let my liver fail while in an alcoholic stupor. I wanted my kidneys to fail while processing the shit beer, bourbon, and wine coolers I abused them with. The latter I was not only flagellating my liver with but my sense of self. I was after all a man's man, an ex athlete and a sportswriter for a major magazine.

Of course the magazine had been going down like the titanic for some time. Who reads these days? No one. Luckily my writing was quippy enough to garnish a point and click spot on the home page, usually under the swimsuit model's groin. A lucky spot all the other hacks at the rag would say.

I'd relocated to Vegas. The city of sin. Now the city of economic recession. The city that was every other city but more. The lights still burned on the strip but powered by what? The staff of all the hotels, casinos, and resorts were all being chopped up like garlic at Gilroy's annual festival. Somehow though the show still went on. The spectacle still turned itself over and over even if its structure was more fragile, and more masqueraded.

I'd been moved out to Vegas to cover all the major shows. The magazine didn't want to have to fly to pay better writers to Vegas. They settled on me because I was; single, willing to relocate, and a mediocre writer able to churn out the dribel they wanted. If there's anything I'm good at its dribbling. So much so that when I sleep I sometimes drool. Mainly when I sleep on my left side and am under the influence of the drink.

I got a small apartment for five hundred dollars on the north side of the strip. Far enough away from the strip proper to be slummy, south enough of old Vegas to be well, slummy. The good thing was that it wasn't far from the bus stop where I could take an air conditioned bus to whatever air conditioned house of cards I wanted. The air conditioning was important as my, well lets face it slummy apartment, wasn't air conditioned. The blazing desert heat parched my tongue forcing me to drink more, and drinking more made me even more dehydrated, the poor, poor, plight of the alcoholic. I'm sure you've heard it before. Who hasn't read that repetitive fuck Bukowski, the boring Miller, the overstated Hemingway?

My first assignment was at the Palms. It was a new casino off the strip, a late bloomer. It vibed sexy, young, modern, and ridiculously stupid. I did a piece on an MMA show there. Young cornfed fucktards fought each other for thousands of dollars as orange skinned retards from southern california cheered on. It was an exercise in not asking for the wrath of God.

After the show I went upstairs. Having a media pass does have its advantages, mainly in the access to the clubs, thus to the plastic tits in the background of these shows. I'd been looking for some silicone when I saw her standing on the balcony. She dressed really classy. Pearl beads strung around her swan like with matching earrings. She looked like Jackie O but who the fuck looks like that these days. Who the fuck remembers who Jackie O was!? I stood by the railing and said a few things, I can't really remember what. If I could remember those sort of things, you know the first things you say when you meet someone maybe I'd be a better writer but I can't. Fuck it.

Later I would find out her name, Holly, Ms. Golightly.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Ms. Golightly

The club was packed. The punters bodies moving both to the musical beat and to the flow of the bodies around them. The latest Black Eye Peas song "You gotta get that boom boom pow" blared in the club.

Holly was stuck between a large white man in a shirt almost as pale as skin and a short squat man whose over sized shirt was smaller than his portly belly. She squealed aloud as she was smooshed between the two bodies. Her shoulders caved in and she wondered for the millionth time why exactly she was out at the club. She shoved the short fat man out of her way and attempted to b-line it to the bar. She waited for a half an hour to get a watered down drink all the while cursing the masculine sex for not doing their duty of procuring her a drink free of charge.

She sipped her watered down rum and coke while the bodies on the dance floor continued to flow with the top 40 hits.

"What are you drinking," a young man asked. He leaned into her, his breath smelled like alcohol.

Holly leaned away from his liquor induced halitosis. "Rum and coke," she replied with a roll of her eyes. The young man rubbed his hands together and then smoothed them down his shirt.

"Want to go out on the dance floor... baby," the last word he uttered slowly and quietly. His eyes rolled over her paving onto her an image that was not her.

"My boyfriend is right over there," Holly pointed with her index figure to a broad shouldered man not far away. Holly's "boyfriend" had her back turned away from the two of them.

"Well don't worry about it I won't tell him," the young man slurred.

"I said no."

"Bitch," the young man said. He walked away. Holly sighed with relief as he made more distance between them. She downed the rest of her drink and ordered another. Ten minutes later she was again sipping on rum and coke but she had moved to a nearby window. The club was at the top floor of a casino, whose name she forgot, in las vegas. From the window she could see the entire strip laid out before her. The landscape glowed with neon light. Las Vegas had become even more glamorous since the recession, the more depressed the economy had become the louder the lights of Las Vegas had seemed.

"Quite a majestic view, its too bad that it will soon be picturesque ruins," a voice next to her said.

"All things fade, sans diamonds and pearls," she replied to the voice. She continued to look forward. Her strapless dress was thin, the club warm, but the view had chilled her. Goose bumps covered her skin.

"So you imagine yourself some a lady of class," the voice said with a wry tone.

"I am a woman of the modern age," Holly replied indignantly. Holly had achieved the American dream and had pulled herself up by the boot straps, or to be more accurate by the high heels. Her feminine charm had led her to a comfortable but boring existence. Her days were routine in that they were always subject to her whims. Her passions had seem to played themselves out though and her whims were less free and more repetitive.

"This modern age where everything that was once lived has now moved away into representation, now what does that mean for a woman such as yourself," the voice replied coyly. The response angered Holly and she turned to address the man's voice, but there was no one there. She shuddered and looked back at the city and its glowing lights.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

500 days of Summer

Joseph Gordon Levitt is my age. A young man of the modern world. I saw him growing up on "Third Rock from the Sun," a mediocre television comedy series and would see him from time to time on the screen; "The Angel," and "Ten Things I hate about You."

In the last few years I really gained an appreciation for him and the roles he's been in. Specifically in the modern noir "The Brick." Levitt plays a stoic teenager at an unnamed high school. A young love of his dies and he takes it upon himself with help from dialogue inspired by Dashiell Hammett to solve the murder. The film is shot in black and white and is beautiful to look at.

Levitt also got my attention for his role in "Mysterious Skin," in which he plays a young male gay and prostitute. The film by one of my favorite directors Gregg Arakai of "Doom Generation," and the "Living End" fame helps guide us through a story of two young men dealing with sexual abuse.

I'd been reading reviews of (500) days of Summer and they looked decent. Being bored I took it upon myself to go out to the movies. I enjoy going to the cinema. Ever since I worked at the Delmar and then later at the movie theatre in Las Vegas I've become a regular spectator of Hollywood's creations. I realize that most of the movies will lead to disappointment, we get up from our seats to realize that we no longer have a home to go to, that the film provides a temporary escape. Nevertheless there can be nuggets of what it means to be human even in the most awful of spectacles.

I went to the ten thirty show of 500 days. The film is non linear, which is to its credit. It is a simple story. Young man meets young girl. Young man is smitten, young girl is ambivalent. They break up. Young man tries to reconcile the relationship to no avail. The story is immensely aided by Levitt's acting, he plays the male lead along with a sound track full of post-punk glories such as The Smiths. Perhaps one of my favorite scenes was when Levitt initially meets the girl in an elevator while listening to the Smiths. He also wears the same Joy Division shirt that I have which made me identify with him even more... I am prone to fickleness. Along with the soundtrack and acting is that the film is spliced up, here we see day 456, Levitt is depressed, the relationship wracked by the rocky shores of life, then we jump to the day 31 in which they have their first date. The film was also helped by the cinematography which was done well.

I think if I was to view this movie again I would probably see it with some girl that I was dating, after the movie I would shag her.