New Link

I d0 not know how long this was going on, but Julia apparently has a Xanga. I've linked to it here, here, there, and here. And it's on the side-bar.

Just discovering this, and 100 other small things that transpired yesterday in a heat conducive to perspiration, adds up to making me feel like an idiot. Not just an "idiot" but an idiot (with all the connotations and intonations of Napoleon Dynamite).

Today, it's 10:15 am and it's 102 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

Happy Birthday To Me

It's my birthday and I'll do what I want to
Fuck you, it's my birthday.
A special holiday only for me,
So do what I say.

It's my party, I'll make you cry if I want to...
Or leave.
Fuck you, it's not your birthday,
So do what I say.

For 24 hours you're wishing me well,
364 days I'm in hell,
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me

Alone, on my birthday,
I'm going to Denny's 10 times today.
No tip! It's my birthday,
So do what I say.

Thanks mom you didn't have an abortion,
Or my birthday wouldn't be today.
But I guess it's my good fortune,
My birthday's today, OK.

For 24 hours you're wishing me well
364 days I'm in hell
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.

(Spank me.)

Oh well, happy birthday to me.
I can't believe you forgot my birthday.
It's my birthday and you're wrecking it.
Now it's just like any other day:
You didn't do what I say.

How could you forget my birthday?
That's really immature.
Fuck you for forgetting my birthday
You didn't do what I say.

24 hours no wishing well,
Now 365 days I'm in hell,
Oh well.
Happy birthday to me.

~The Vandals

You Can Try to Save My Soul

Though written poorly, the latest post on my sister's Live Journal brings up an interesting topic. The comments are especially worth noting because a nascent argument arises between me and my sister, the idealist. (Note: if you cannot tell from my blog heading, "Exspectamus Pessima" means "Always Expect the Worst.")

Pot-Pour-ee

I've started reading The Intuitionist because I needed a book to read, and another Burgess book might have been over-kill. Sometimes one needs to torture oneself. I thought of posting quotes to prove why I do not like the book, but I'll gather it together later when I've read more and have a better understanding of the book. See? I'm open-minded (whatever that means).

I've just finished watching Napoleon Dynamite, which is a very interesting movie. Devoid of drama, it takes a rather typical high school movie (albeit with very interesting characters) and makes it original. I don't think I've seen a movie quite like it. In a way, it was kind of like an episode of Seinfeld, except in high school, and with more bizarre characters (believe it or not). A definite must see, even if it's out of curiousity.

I also saw The 40 Year Old Virgin, but that's not really worth a comment.

And this guy was about how old I am. Death can come at any time (in case you weren't aware of that before).

I haven't done any real editing to my story yet, but it will eventually be posted on Ochius! So if you want to read it in its entirety and don't feel like searching through blog posts, then head there soon and it will be up. I just don't know how soon.

And that's all I really feel like posting.

Anything is Better Than Nothing

http://www.cnn.com/2003/SHOWBIZ/Music/10/22/obit.elliott.smith.ap/

Girls suck.

Fin

****

The two opponents had turned over their cards. The client had two jacks in his hand—a four of a kind. Only one hand could beat a four of a kind. Darius sheepishly showed his four card flush, hoping, praying, knowing that it would turn into a royal flush. The client was laughing. The client thought he had Damien beat.

"How did you get in the club anyway?"

"Yeah, you don’t belong here."

Maybe it was the incessant harping of both of the professors that brought it about. Maybe it was the ad hominems and complete lack of academic discussion. Maybe it was because they were right. Damien didn’t know. But at the concurrent moment that the card flipped over, revealing that beautiful queen of hearts, the absolute best hand in poker, the sign that he had finally won—finally triumphed over the client, Darius got up, grabbed a poker violently, and yelled, "I’ll show you Wittgenstein!"

It happened so fast. A swing at the jocular professor, which he dodged dextrously, and the point made contact with Damien’s skull. Damien did not feel a thing except warm, viscous liquid running down his cheeks and neck. He became blinded by white; his ears were ringing. He began to feel that he was falling, and even when he hit the ground, he still felt he was falling. Pretty Mary K. began crying now somewhere in the white which began to fade. Her crying went above the ringing, and made sounds discordant. He called out to pretty Mary K., a call which sounded like a gurgle to the five men (the dealer too stood in shock) who had gathered around him. Damien’s sight faded to black. The ringing stopped, but he heard not the desperate cry, "someone call an ambulance!" The last, dream-like image that passed through his mind (did Damien "see" it?) was rosy-fingered dawn exploding into fire and brimstone, and Mephistopheles, coming forth from the eruption, smiling—forever smiling—and crushing a heart-shaped locket.

Nine: For the Lost Cause

I forgot about posting the story. I was just so relieved to have the damn thing finished, that I thought there was nothing else to be done. I apologize to those who waited anxiously, wondering what was to become of our dear friend Damien. This is page nine, and page ten will finish the story tomorrow. Thanks for reading.

****
The loss of the player did not stop the discussion, which was slowly growing into a debate: Darius’s constant attempts to join the conversation were soon rewarded. The professors began to pay attention.

"I think Popper sufficiently shut down the Vienna Circle," Darius licked his lips in anticipation, "because Wittgenstein’s theories had no basis in reality, in science." He stressed the last word with the air of academia. The two professors balked. They had never heard such blasphemy.

"Popper was a megalomaniac, he just wanted to take credit for bringing down the Vienna Circle. Anyone with any background in analytical philosophy could have saw through some of the faulty theories of the Vienna Circle." This was probably the professor who told the Hume joke; he was bald, stocky, with bushy eye-brows and circular spectacles. He was something of a spectacle himself.

Damien started to lose interest in the card game, but he could not follow the discussion. Damien was also sufficiently up in chips, having just taken out the kid and having three of the players just continually blinded off. Darius would occasionally play a hand or two, but he would back out at any bet. Darius’s client would basically give the affect of listening, but he too was bored, and he was significantly down in chips. Damien thought it was time to take him out. After a few more hands, the discussion turned to the debate that had occurred on October 25, 1946.

"It’s clear that Wittgenstein won the debate. He was the better man: he walked out."

"The only reason Wittgenstein left is because he couldn’t take being proven wrong." Darius was smiling. The other professor was shaking his head.

Damien quietly asked the dealer the time. It was two thirty in the morning. At this point Damien really wanted to leave. The client was yawning, and the card game was almost ignored by the three philosophers. When the cards were dealt yet again, Damien peeked to find an ace and king of hearts. He raised $50,000. Only the client called. Damien watched for the flop intently.

"You know, you’re just like Popper, you can’t accept genius." The other professor, a smaller, skinnier man, said.

"Wittgenstein was a crock. He only wrote one real book. Everything else was junk published posthumously."

"Popper might have been a prolific writer, but he hardly had any impact on philosophy."

"He does have an impact on philosophy. Wittgenstein is only famous because it’s chic to drop his name. Hardly anyone that talks about Wittgenstein knows anything about his philosophy."
Darius was always smiling. Smiling always with teeth gritted tightly.

The flop came out as a jack of hearts, a ten of hearts, and a jack of spades. The client bet $60,000. Damien thought for a moment.

"What are your credentials, by the way?" The Hume-comedian asked.

Darius was caught off guard. He realized he was in the hand and he folded.

"I—I—I didn’t..."

"You never went to school." The other professor smiled wide.

Damien called. The turn showed a six of clubs. Damien knew he needed one card to take out the client for good. Damien also knew that any heart would give him a flush, and that might beat him.

"You have just wasted our time debating something you have no expertise in."

"Do you even know what we’re talking about?"

"Yes, I do." Darius wasn’t smiling. "I’ve read the same book. I’ve read the Tractatus. I’ve also read The Open Society."

"So? I’ve read Jane Eyre. It doesn’t mean I could deconstruct the text with Derrida."

The client went all in. It was a good move if he was bluffing. Damien saw pretty Mary K. naked on the grass and called.

"You should not get into discourses of which you are unfamiliar."

"You’ll only prove yourself to be an idiot."

Darius was flushed. Damien looked up at him and realized he had never seen him so angry. His face was distorted horribly since his mouth was so used to the upward curve. Frowning was unfamiliar and ugly. Darius was also dangerously silent.

I Forget What Eight Was For

The story is just about done. I'm going to be emailing it later tonight to Nathan, just after I finish it up and look over errors. The rest of the story will be posted on here day by day (it's ten pages, so it will be done around Wednesday), but if you want a complete copy, leave me a comment with either your email address or some method of contacting you, and I'll send it to you.

Sadly, it does not look like Nathan has finished his story. We will hopefully meet up this weekend, and he might have his story done by then. I might post something about it, if it's interesting or productive or both.

Enjoy.

****

And thus, on this certain night it came to pass that the final table of Hold ‘em held six people. Darius. his client, Damien, two professors, and the kid sat at the table closest to the fire place. Darius was right next to the dealer, and to Darius’s right was his client, the kid, the two professors, and then Damien. Darius was seated closest to the fire place. A fire powered by gas was going—the night had become somewhat chilly. Damien noticed that the pokers standing on their rack were useless, only vestiges of a more difficult time that had passed. The fact that they were ornamental now seemed only to mock those times when they were necessary. He let it pass. They were just pokers.

Damien switched his attention to the players at the table. Although he had played well this evening, he found that he was easily distracted by the slightest things, and on the final table it was important to focus. Damien turned to watch the kid. Anyone could take this kid out quickly, because although he was good, he lacked focus. He missed obvious things. Darius’s client was more formidable, because if he kept getting lucky, then there was nothing to be done. Damien thought about Darius’s speech about the gambler’s fallacy; he figured the client could not be lucky all the time. Damien was not sure about Darius. He had played Darius before in Hold ‘em, and Darius could get unpredictable. Damien did not seem to mind if he lost to Darius. The professors seemed easy enough to beat. They were colleagues teaching philosophy at the local university. They had mostly talked all night about different aspects of philosophy (one of whom—Damien did not know which—made the joke about Hume), cracking esoteric jokes and discussing different methods and such. This talking served as a distraction, and could be used against them. They mostly talked among themselves, not expecting anyone to understand, but Darius felt the need to interject every once in a while. The professors tended to ignore him. Darius would just smile.

After an hour of playing the final table, the professors had moved on to the great "debate" (if it could so be called) between Dr. Karl Popper and Herr Ludwig Wittgenstein. It was clear that both the professors were of a Wittgensteinian leaning, just by the tone of voice they used when referring to Popper. Apparently one of them had read a book about the debate. Damien, as well as the kid and Darius’s client, were just focusing on the cards being played, and were lost in their own thoughts. Darius, however, was listening intently to the conversation, opening his mouth partly as if to say something, but letting no breath escape. The discourse was so riveting that Darius and the professors were blindly placing blinds, folding as soon as someone bet, and not even looking at the flop, the turn, or even the river.

This distraction was infectious, and Damien found himself finally pondering the events leading up to the present moment, though probably not causally leading up to the moment. Damien thought about Mary K. and their strange encounter. He found himself wondering whether, in all this spontaneous caprice, if that wasn’t planned. Darius was so insistent, and she acted so strangely... Damien just lost the hand. Top pair had taken him. It was the kid. Damien needed to focus. But Mary K. returned momentarily in his mind’s eye, dressed in the scarf and vestments of a Queen, the locket around her neck now enlarged and ruby-colored. She was holding her scepter and laughing. He could not be subjected to this. The flop came out and it was horrible.

The kid put in $20,000 as a bet. Damien folded: he could not lose again.
"In all honesty, Popper was just jealous of the genius that was Wittgenstein."
"I beg to differ," Darius said in a demanding tone.
"I think you’re right to some extent. Why would Popper turn down a lectureship in Cambridge unless he knew he would be outshone?"
"Yes, he belonged in New Zealand, out of the way."
"That’s unduly harsh, gentlemen." Darius spoke with a smile.

The kid went all in. Damien was staring at trip aces. What was this kid thinking? The kid looked to have the other ace. Something about his smile told him so. Damien called—sure enough, the kid had the last ace, and, since they were about even in chips prior to the call, the kid was knocked out of the final table. The kid got up and shook Damien’s hand, but he looked very tired. Damien thought he almost looked relieved to be out.

More Punk Than Me

Check this out.

P.S.-Sorry, no story, but I'm working on it.

Seven: For No Tomorrow

Yeah. Here's an incomplete page seven. There most likely will not be a page eight tomorrow unless I managed to somehow pull it off. We'll see.

****

After the fire that spontaneity had instigated burned out, a new burning began on the long walk back to the casino. It was the burning of the dream, of being tossed by the queen into the depths of an embracing hell. He walked in silence next to pretty Mary K. They did not hold hands. Damien looked intently on the ground, watching the grass and dirt that had betrayed him. He felt dizzy, and hot, and charge-less. Ionized into neutrality. He could not look at her, and he knew that she would not look at him. The term that he so loathed, the feminine term that rang of purity could no longer be applied to him, a product of reproductive loss. He decided that all there was left to do was play poker.

Thus, after poking her, he played poker. After holding her, he played Hold ‘em. He saw no away around it—Darius had forwarded the buy-in of $10,000 (business was very very good he seemed to say with a wink from across the table), and he could stand to win $250,000. He played Hold ‘em often, often enough to pick up the ins and outs of the game, how to read the amateurs, when to fold.

He liked the game. The outcome was hard to anticipate and somehow predictable, it was individual and communal, it was easy and yet complex. He could not explain the joy he got from winning a hand when it was just dumb luck, nor could he explain the feeling of loss when someone else had dumb luck. Damien considered himself good at the game. It required more skill and know-how than betting on sports, but it was more of a gamble. Maybe Darius was right.

There were a majority of amateurs at tonight’s tournament, pretentious and pretending that they knew what they were doing. The dealer often had to tell one of the players at the table, laughing at some abstruse joke about the David Hume’s death being the birth of our nation, that he was in the big blind. The player would then put in the wrong amount of chips, and when the dealer corrected the error—"sorry, sorry. I thought we were further along in the game." Damien, annoyed at the poor affect of this player, decided to take him out as soon as possible. A spade flush dug him his grave. Damien knew that this old, rich man would not see it coming. Damien relished in his dumb luck.

Darius was a good poker player as well. He was on the conservative side, but when he had it, one could never tell. Darius was sitting next to his "client," so Damien assumed, and Darius would occasionally whisper to the man on his right and laugh. Darius’s client, a youngish man of about thirty, was not much of a poker player, but he continually got lucky, knocking out various players with straights and sets and flushes. Darius semi-bluffed on a pair of twos and took a big pot, nonchalantly showing his cards afterward to get the guy sitting next to the dealer on tilt.
"I had a pair of kings!"
"You shoulda called." Darius smiled. Darius always smiled. Even when he lost a big hand to this twenty-one year old kid (most likely a son of a member) three seats down, a set of twos falling to a full house (nines full of twos), Darius smiled. Darius doubled up when the kid did not see a four card straight on the table. Darius was like that, smiling, but vengeful.

Have You Seen Her?

I finished page six, and there looks to be a page seven for tomorrow.

****

She showed him the casino. She took him inside the plain building, and found plain art-work sparsely littered about the room. There were eight to ten rounded oblong tables, indented on one side to mark where the dealer sits, black rims encasing a green sea as smooth as velvet. There was a fireplace directly across the entrance, with fancy pokers off to the right in a golden holder. That was all that was in the casino. Damien noticed the stark contrast from the hall and the casino, and Mary explained that members had complained of too much distraction while gambling—they even had to remove the bar (it instead being replaced with a register to cash in one’s chips). One could, however, still order food and drinks from the dining hall. He nodded in a vacant agreement. The casino had a wonderful view outside of the man-made lake near the sixth hole of the golf course.

She showed him the pool area, the massage parlor, the sauna. She showed him the garden with its botanical marvels. She showed him the walk-in humidor. She showed him the stables with the faux race track, and the trails that extended into the hills of the 158 acres. She told him that some of the members would hunt those fields, killing small game. She showed him the monument to the original members and the owner of the club, a huge bronze Xerxes, fiercely holding a sword high in the air, charging at nothing but stuffed bank accounts. She showed him wealth, status, and power. She showed him a superficial life, where caprice was the order of the day. She showed him a life that he very much despised, a life that Darius very much wanted to lead. It dawned on him fuzzily that he and Darius would soon be parting ways.

The sun was about to set when pretty Mary K. said, "there’s one last place I need to show you." They left the inaccurate monument, (Xerxes fought no battles, but would rather watch the results from afar) and headed past the casino toward the golf course. Damien was more sober: his steps were sure, although he was now holding Mary K.’s hand. In the cool air he felt flushed, hot, and charged. He felt like lightning striking; he had a feeling of falling fast, faster, fastest. He was being pulled downward by a gravity that only sobriety would recognize.

They headed toward the sixth hole, onto the green, the rough, and then out of bounds. They were behind the lake, past the bushes, and came upon a tool shed.
"How do you know about this place?"
"I started here as a caddy; you discover things when you’re a caddy."
"How old are you?"
"Old enough."

They embraced. They kissed. They removed garments as if they were on fire, and they were on fire. Damien was no longer tame or shy, but alive, electric. Everything was moving—the sun setting, their hands, the bushes in the wind—everything was mercurial. They did as spontaneity mandated, and it mandated much. It ordered them to thrust, moan, rise, and fall. It commanded them to live and die. It pushed them to know each other. It coerced them into frantic motion, a silly, awkward dance stuck on repeat. And when they thought they were finished, spontaneity demanded it again.

Pretty Mary K. was more beautiful with her eyes reflecting the rising moon. She didn’t know his secret, or at least he thought she didn’t—he never knew what women knew when they knew someone. He noticed a locket in the shape of a heart around her neck, and said, without thinking:
"You’re my queen of hearts."
"You should go, it’s almost time for the tournament." She got up and began dressing.
"Okay." He followed suit.

I'm Already Full of These Useless Stories...

Time is running out. I am running out of pages to post. This fifth one here is complete, but I have not yet completed the sixth. I may be able to get to the sixth one done by tomorrow, but I do not know about the seventh, eighth, ninth, etc. I don't even know how many pages this story will be. I have five more days left until this is due, so conceivably it could be about ten or eleven pages total. However, there is only one more scene I have to write (with some summary), so it could be shorter than that. I guess I can only try as best as I can and see how it turns out. Do not be surprised if a day goes by and I have not posted another page. I may have to keep posting pages after August first until the story is complete. I don't know. Enjoy page five.

****

Damien was confused, "I thought you were paying."
"You didn’t get her number, therefore you have to pay."
"But you said that all I had to do was ask her, and I did." His voice steadily rose, despite Mary K.’s presence. Courage uplifted while the body made low.
"Well," a moment’s hesitation this time, no drama or philosophy, "I’ll pay you back. Can you get this one for me?"

Darius had never done this before. Darius was one for his word, albeit he rarely made a promise to anyone. If he told you he would do something, he generally would do it. Like the time that Damien had placed a bet on the San Diego Chargers in some play-off game. It was obvious that they would lose, given the history of the team with the opponent (Damien could not remember the team now), but he placed the bet anyway. Darius told him, "if the Chargers win, I won’t take any cut– you get the whole enchilada." The Chargers had won by one. A field goal in the last quarter– gripping, really. Damien didn’t have to pay for lunch that day, and he got all the money due to him.

Now that he had to pay, the blurry tab looked like $250, Damien felt confused, and all the more so because his head was reeling. He had lost. Mary K.’s eyes were dancing between the two guests, but her expression was flat. He conceded. He pulled out his wallet, a plastic card, and handed it to Mary K. who in one sweeping motion took it and walked away to swipe the card.
With that, Darius smiled, got up, and left heading right. He passed Hermes and some nudes bathing, down the great hall to disappear into greatness. He did not care where his bookie was going. Mary K. returned, smiling somewhat. She was certainly old enough now. He smiled. He sighed as he signed. He asked where the bar was.

"You’ve had enough."
"Well, I have been abandoned, so I will drink with abandon."
"Cute." She smirked. "Why don’t you go home?"
"I’m here for the Hold ‘em Tournament."
"Ah. Well, my shift ends in an hour. If you want to meet me afterward, I can show you around."
Damien didn’t fully realize the situation. He nodded.
"Where?"
"Just go out the hall, exit from there," she pointed to a door at the side of the building that Damien did not notice before, "and walk around behind the building."
"Okay...okay." She left him, and he was alone.

He stumbled to the place where he thought they would meet, and found her a hundred yards off, waving and laughing. He had found the bar in the meantime, and drank with the abandon of the zealot alcoholic, drowning the dream with the hope of a delirium tremens. Every sip made him hate this place more. Every sip made his dream more clear, and the world more blurry. Every sip made him and destroyed him. Every sip was billed to Darius.

"So you found the bar." She was smiling fully now, exposing perfect teeth in a perfect mouth, made less perfect by jaundiced eyes.
"You seem happy... to be off...of work."
She giggled. How old was she?
"Let’s walk around and sober you up."

Page Four

****

"She wants you."
Damien finished the rest in a gulp, and let the oxygen and carbon dioxide escape in invisible bubbles from his head through his mouth. He felt his blood pressure drop. It would be a long lunch, much longer than any they had ever had.

They ordered their meals, and plenty of wine, even though Darius whined plenty about the Bordeaux. Mary K. would glance or glare (slightly inebriated, Damien did not know which) while she served them, and she spoke little. Courage rose swiftly as the drinks were poured downward, and Damien found himself speaking to Darius, not whispering.
"So why’d ya bring us here?"
Darius smiled.
"Poker tournament tonight."
"Hold ‘em?"
"Hold ‘em."
"What time?"
"Eight thirty."
"We’re going to stay here until then?"
"Yeah."
"What are we going to do?"
Darius paused before he answered.
"Well, I’m going to meet with a ‘client’ [Darius made scare quotes with his fingers, Damien’s pet peeve], I don’t know what you’re going to do."
Normally, being thus abandoned would have made Damien upset, but he was still mildly drunk, and accepted his fate.
"Where’s the casino?"
"There’s a map somewhere. You’ll find it. Wander. Err. Become a planet. Have an adventure."
Darius was looking at his watch now. It was a much nicer one than Damien had known him to have in the past. Things were looking up for Darius. He probably suckered some high class businessman into gambling or gamboling or gaming. Darius probably became buddy-buddy with said businessman, hence the invitation to such a grandiose country club (that verged on empire). And Darius not knowing what to do with the guest of a guest pass, as he was girl-less and knew no one that liked him enough to join him, suckered Damien into playing at the tournament. So much for spontaneity.

The meal was finished in silence, with Darius glancing at his watch more and more frequently. Damien had lost interest in whatever it was that he had ordered (or had ordered for him) and focused primarily on the wine. He found himself staring uncontrollably at pretty Mary K. whenever she stopped by to retrieve dirty dishes or refill the wine. It might have been the torpor of the stupor, but he could not turn away. She either did not notice or did not mind. His reactions became sluggish. He began to think that he had had too much. Darius looked slightly different through blurred eyes. Movements seemed faster, time seemed slower. Hermes was mercurial, the maidens seemed unseemly. Like Darius, Damien was all smiles. He could not help but smile, and his mind did not mind this situation.

Mary K. brought the bill, hesitated between the two, and, following a nod from Darius, handed Damien the bill.

Just Starting to Make It My Obssession

I have finished "A Dead Man in Deptford." I don't know what to read next. I have about two more books from Burgess that I could read, but I think I need to read someone other than Burgess before I start on those--I think that would balance things out. I could read the new Harry Potter... Any suggestions?

This is page three.

****

"Take you for instance," again pausing, this time for dramatic effect, "What do you do for a living? You’re a gambler!" He spoke too loud. Far too loud. Damien looked to see if any one was looking. Darius edged close to him from across the table, nearly upsetting an empty wine glass.
"You, sir, take advantage of both aspects of life, merely by your existence. You accept the gamble of life, as it were, by gambling. And in gambling, you are making a gambol of life. Do you understand?" Darius’s near whisper somehow did not comfort him.
"Yes." He whispered, feeling sheepish and somewhat troubled by this conversation.
"So, why don’t you ask what’s-her-name for her number?"
"I don’t know." Weren’t they supposed to order now?
"If you ask her for her number, I’ll pay for lunch."
"Okay, I’ll ask her."

Damien figured that would end this awkward debacle of a conversation, and he would get rejected and prove to Darius, once and for all, that this matter should never be spoke of again. He also figured that they would not see the maitre d’ until the end of the meal, on their way out possibly, though he held a suspicion that this would be something more than a meal; that this was no ordinary lunch where he and his bookie would go about their lives afterward. He did not understand the whole "day pass" situation, and the thought of not knowing a key detail, and not having a good idea about the outcome left him uncomfortable. Why the Club Persai?

Lost in thought, he wondered why they still had not ordered yet. Darius was blabbing on, something about philosophical puzzles and Wittgenstein–Darius began to scoff, and Damien began to sweat. What was taking so long? The obligation of asking the maitre d’ was bearing down on him, and he could not bear it. He could only play with menu for so long, the linen tablecloth having lost his attention. He thought about his dream, his nightmare. Darius looked like one of the devils glad in his despair. He felt like he was falling again. The sweat was poring in copious amounts now; he wondered if anyone noticed. Darius did not. Darius never noticed anything. He was trying not to retch, despite how wretched he felt. The queen, the near omnipresent queen, forever pervading his thoughts, flashed behind shut eyelids, and when he opened them...

"I’m sorry for the wait, gentlemen." There was ice in her voice. She was not sorry at all.
"We are a little short-handed today, and we just noticed that your section of the restaurant has not been served yet. I will be your waitress this afternoon. My name is Mary."
Pretty Mary K. She seemed older, and it seemed like ages when he first saw her. He felt he already knew her, and that she already knew him, and they already hated each other from previous experience. He couldn’t ask. But Darius would not let it go. He knew that Darius would not let it go. They ordered wine first: a Bordeaux for Darius, and Pinot Grigio for Damien. Damien would need a lot of wine. When Mary K. left, Darius said, "You didn’t ask for her number."
"I was taken off guard."
"I won’t pay for the meal if you don’t ask her number."
"By when?"
"The next time we see her." Darius was intent. It may have been the first time Damien had not seen Darius smile. Hesitantly, he responded.
"Okay. Okay."
She came presently with the wine, and he asked. It was a fumbling, stumbling, mumbling request, followed by much wine. A half glass in a gulp. She responded by walking away. Darius was smiling villainously.

Page Two (I Wrote It By Mistake)

Two notes before I post page two. First, I bought "Figure 8." Second, I have about five pages done. Comments welcome, as always.

****

While waiting for the maitre d’, He whispered to Darius:
"How’d you manage to get us into this place?"
"Don’t you worry about that dear friend," Darius said boisterously, "I have connections, and business is good. Business is very good."
The volume of Darius’s voice attracted the maitre d’, an attractive girl who looked no older than sixteen. Her name tag read, "Mary K." Darius winked and nudged him, and smiled. He smiled and smiled. From behind blue eyes she asked, "Your day passes gentlemen?"
"Day pass–"
"Right here." Darius stepped forward and produced two cards, followed by a driver’s license. Mary K. looked them over and cooly said, "You didn’t register your guest."
"I did, I called in an hour ago."
"I need to see his identification." Darius looked at him.
Baffled, shocked, and somewhat ashamed, he pulled out his wallet and clumsily handed his license over to the girl.
"Damien... Aleksey?" Her brow furrowed, making her seem angry at the name.
"Yes," was all he could mutter.
"Let me check the records." She stepped away, down the hall to disappear in the greatness.
"A day pass? Why are we eating here?" Damien was still whispering, as if he didn’t deserve to speak.
"You check out the fox? You should get her number." Darius was smiling and looking down the hall to see if he could see her.
This comment cut the conversation. He could not stand when Darius would suggest that he call, talk to, or stare at women. Damien would not admit it, but he was still a virgin. The term itself was so feminine, he felt emasculated just thinking of it. It was a pure term, and yet it was something that left him ashamed. He remembered the smile on the queen of hearts’ face. He remembered the fall. Suddenly pretty Mary K. appeared.
"Yeah, he checks out. This way, gentlemen."

"Life," Darius paused for philosophical import, "is but a gamble, a gambol."
They were sitting at their table, waiting. They had not yet ordered. There were two glasses before him, a salad plate, an excess of forks and knives and spoons. There was a fine linen table cloth that Damien could not help but play with, and he was distracted because Darius was affected. Darius was always affected when he played philosopher, always discoursing gambling, its honors, its virtues. One lunch he spoke of probability. He called upon Karl Popper’s theory that probability is a propensity in nature, that it exists, and Darius concluded that one should accept it. He spoke of the gambler’s fallacy at another meeting, and Hume’s treatment of induction on yet another. Damien knew that he didn’t really know what Darius was talking about when he was thus affected, but nodded and agreed. Damien liked it better when Darius would talk about scores, or politics, or religion. Damien continued playing with the tablecloth while Darius continued, oblivious to Damien’s obliviousness.
"One must understand this, and take advantage of both aspects of life. The gambling, and the gamboling." Darius was pleased with his pun, so he would iterate it ad infinitum.
"I guess." One of the glasses shuddered from the movement of the tablecloth

Page One, Page One...

This is the first page of the story that I am writing that will be due on 1 August 2005. I don't have a title yet. I have three pages so far, but I won't post all of it at once, as that might make the entry too long. I will try to post a page every day until the story's end for those of you who have nothing better to do than check my blog every day. Let me know what you think of it.

****

He woke up gasping, reaching, retching. He was soaked in sweat (piss?), a vinegar-like film that made him smell and slip. He slid in his own sheets, the dream still real in the fuzz of new dawn. In his dream, He is about to fall down a rabbit-hole; he is clutching the dirt, twigs, and grass for dear life, for below was the City of Dis, ready to consume him in flames that torturously burned the heretics, the pagans, the atheists. In his dream, he ends up slipping down because the queen of hearts (an apparition most apparent) sentences and sends him there, much to the glee of Beelzebub and Mephistopheles. He falls into the burning light, and awakens.

This dream occurred and recurred, a current current in the streams of sleep. He would usually wake up relieved, glad the near-real was denied by the real, and go about his daily business. But he felt off this morning, still hot, the dream a little more fresh than usual. He could not efface the smug smile on the queen of hearts’ face, still vivid in a mind capable of producing and reproducing images; the fall itself; and the intense heat just before wakening. They were all uncannily real. A cold shower would help.

His daily business was not truly a business, other than it kept himself busy. He would wake up at dawn, sweating from his dream, and, in a dream-like stupor, smoke a cigarette for breakfast. After a shower, he would check the scores in the paper, or on television, of all the teams in various sports on which he had placed bets. He would call his bookie. He met is bookie daily for lunch at a sports bar, or a grille, or a fast food chain—whichever place that spontaneity mandated. His bookie would pay for lunch or have him pay for lunch, and they would discuss politics, religion, philosophy—whatever spontaneity mandated. At the dinner hour, he would head towards the nearest casino at the reservation and play Texas Hold ‘em into the early hours of the next day. He would go home, drunk, tired—whichever his spontaneous body mandated—and would sleep, perchance to dream a different dream. He never dreamt a different dream.

"So, the Club Persai?" He almost forgot that he was on the phone with Darius, discussing lunch plans.
"I guess. Have I eaten there before?"
"No, I thought we’d go someplace different. I feel like being spontaneous."
"Okay. We’ll go then."
"Great. Get dressed up, this place is high class, and you’re payin’!"
Bewildered, he checked the scores for the Red Sox game; they had lost, which meant he had lost.
So, two hours later, donned in a black coat, white shoes, and a black hat, he met Darius in the parking lot outside the Club Persai. Darius was all smiles, all the time. He never lost, no matter who won. He would take a hefty cut from winnings, and he would take all from losings. Darius fixed his tie, patted him on the back, and then led him inside.

The Club Persai was a large, grand hall, filled with fine tables, fine china, fine people. There were intricate, baroque paintings of maidens in pools or rivers or oceans all over the walls; there was a bronze statue of Hermes or Mercury with his shield and his shoes with their wings, and he stood still, posing for an infinite minute. The Club Persai was a country club that looked over a vast country of one hundred and fifty eight acres. It had a golf course. It had a casino. He was impressed with the place, unlike any place he had ever been to, and yet very familiar.

Before and After

Here are the pictures, as promised.

Before


After


Before


After


Before


After


Just an After

Clogging

Should I even link to this?

Doe-Rae-Mi

Beware leechers of wireless networks!

On another note...

I saw something that made me angry. It was a Toyota Prius with the following bumper sticker:

Tax the Rich
SUV=WMD

Aside from the non-sequitur, and the obvious problem with equating two abbreviations, it just seemed superfluous to have a bumper sticker such as this on a Prius. By driving a Toyota Prius, you are already making a statement about your political philosophy: who would want to drive an expensive, hideous, and powerless car other than those who really want to stick it to their SUV driving peers? And why would someone want to "Tax the Rich" when he spent an inordinate amount of money on his Prius? It boggles my mind.

On yet another note....

Here's the first draft of Mike's logo for the graphics/clothing company he wants to start; he wants to call it "Stellas."



I wanted to add something about language and pronunciation, but it's late. So all you get are my three notes, which, if turned into chords and sped up, might become a horrible punk song.

Creatively Non-Creative

I have not been very good--or creative--these past couple of days. Maybe the past couple of weeks. My posts evince this. Fortunately, one of my good friends sent me something via email that will serve as a post.

"I believe in adventure. I believe in backpacks instead of rolling bags despite the bruised hips and shoulders. I belive in hostels and internet cafes run by German-Indian men with bad b.o. I believe that one can live off of salami, cheese and bread and drink only water for weeks on end. I believe in the kindness of the Irish, the hospitality of the Swiss, the French, the Canadian, the Dutch, the Belgian, the English and the German. I believe in beautiful European children. I believe in falling in love over and over again with the world around me. I believe in spending long train rides with my MP3 player watching the world go by or sleeping on someone's shoulder whom I met three days earlier. I believe in stuffy noses, headaches, sore backs, tired feet, cuts, mystery bruises, sprained ankles and blisters. But I also believe that those things are nothing that a hot shower and a nap can't fix. I believe in Guinness, rosti, chocolate, waffles, crepes, anything with Nutella, coffee and bread for breakfast, and ice cream. I believe in love at first sight and kissing under the Eiffel Tower like a 1960's French movie. I believe in meeting someone and changing your plans for them. I believe that 5 weeks on your own can make you realize that everything you thought you wanted is not at all what you want. I believe in wearing the same outfit for three days in a row and the same jeans for three weeks. I believe in giant bags of Haribo gummy bears. I belive in being strong, independent, outgoing, kind, brave and lovely. I believe in deciphering strange keyboards. I believe in mountains, beaches, cities, museums, cafes, bars, clubs, pubs and parks. Ultimately, I believe in the right to travel on your own and the courage to do it. "
-Berlin, 2005
Meredith Sherwin
International Nomad

And if that doesn't get your mo-jo going, then I guess some of the links I added might.

The pact, however, is still in tact. So, by my word, I must produce something creative, complete, and good by 1 August 2005. And, as far as I know, pictures will still be coming soon, maybe within the next week or so.