The Naked Cowboy in his native environment.
His technique is unstoppable.
My sister says that the sensation of him grabbing her ass may never leave.
Main Building (Unit) – Fruiting Body
Basic Unit – Epsilon
So I’m in New York, and it’s fantastic. This place really doesn’t sleep. Honestly, no, it doesn’t. And if you try to sleep, it will piss on you and begin doing some kind of extraordinary street maintenance outside your window. Then it will plant some 10kW Sodium Lamps outside your room and shit on your dog. There are some things that are so stunning about it. Mostly, it’s the decay. The city is failing so beautifully. The new buildings, the polished growth? Meh, it’s OK, I guess. But I have never been to a city that is so good at falling to pieces. The crumble of the sidewalk, the abandoned building, the stripped car, this is the New York flora and fauna. Instead of a lengthy natural cravasse, you have a warehouse that was, by all visual assessment, built out of one foot squares of glass and untreated steel, and then allowed to age at the bottom of the Atlantic for thirty years, before being dredged up to sit up proud. Where a fox or deer might leap out across your path somewhere else, a man of completely indistinct heritage, perhaps a Chinese Indian, atop a bicycle purchased at K-Mart for $40 sometime in 1982 and allowed to fester under a pile of animal droppings. A beautiful place, in it’s horrible ugliness.
I will figure out stock market investing if it frickin kills me.
I’m a smart guy, and I can do it. And it has the potential to provide the life I want for myself.
On to less boring stuff – I love Steven Barnes books. I really do. But the man is mad, mad, mad for racism. He sees it everywhere, which I suppose he has a right to, but seriously, man, whoa. I found his blog and I thought “Hey, I like John Scalzi’s blog and his books, maybe I’ll find a whole bunch of authors I’ve enjoyed and be able to see the world through their eyes.”
Whoa, wrong. He’s a nut. I mean I suspected, when I found his homepage and located The Five Minute Miracle, but never this level of crazy.
I have, however, found the RSS feed for “How Not To Ruin Your Life” by Ben Stein on Yahoo! Finance, which is a breath of fresh air. The man simply makes sense of what is, for the great many, a total babble of insanity. We’ll see if the Rich Dad/Poor Dad guy or Jim Kramer (whose TV show I enjoy immensely) on The Street are as enjoyable to read.
I started today with all the glorious expectations that one makes of a Tuesday. Wine, women, song, celebration of all things, in all ways. I can’t tell you how many Tuesdays I’ve had that were pure bliss.
The reason for that is that Tuesday, on the whole, sucks. You recover from how bad Monday was and just hope that the work you put off until Wednesday doesn’t span into Thursday, which means you’ll have to do something daft like work on Friday too. Tuesday is a good day to take a long breakfast break, or go shopping during the morning hours when you think nobody is likely to notice that you’re missing. It is not, as a rule, the right day for office politics or hardware failure. Those things are reserved for Wednesdays when everyone is finally ready to do some real work or Mondays, where you’re going to be screwed from the get go anyhow.
I got a double helping of both. I’ve now been in the office 20 hours straight, and I’m not exactly “feeling the Umpqua” on this whole thing anymore. It could be because the last time I ate anything substatial was 15 hours ago and the vending machine mysteriously stopped running at midnight. It could be the fact that I was about to give up and call in for a ride home, but my cellphone is mysteriously cancelled because the payment is past due. Not sure what the deal is there, but I called and threw a wad of money at it because I NEEDS MY CELLPHONE. I probably use my phone less than anyone else I know, but not having it is like the equivalent of losing a body part. An important one, like a foot or an eye, not a gimme like a ring finger or a nipple.
And the politics. Oh, lordy. The Game has been running rampant. Must be the season for it. Pre-spring outbursts. Something related to mating season and pre-positioning yourself for the rut. I have no idea.
I’m so tired.
Ambien zombies drive miles to urinate for an audience. Adolescent jackasses fake hate crimes to hide an accident from congregations.
The snow, falling gently, is beautiful.
In the dream, she choke fucked me with her veiny cock, while my father rambled about peace of mind. The house was subtly different than it was in real life, and I’m almost sure that the vagina wasn’t mine. I certainly didn’t feel anything other than the mild sensation of dislocated reality. Back to the old Emerson TV on top of the hope chest, no special additions, no central AC. Just the hum and clack of the mis-tensioned swamp cooler, and the pop of the engorged head as it came out of my mouth.
“Go ahead,” she cooed “take it all.”
The sky couldn’t decide how to treat us today, it first rained then snowed, then hailed and rained again, then as if to prove that man has no dominion over nature, the sun shone down minutes later.
He was concerned about how much noise was going to cost him in the end. He seemed to suggest that somehow the overstuffed pillow he held was the key, an answer. I just gestured that he was crazy, and she seemed to understand. He got up off the end of the couch and waved the pillow vaguely at the two of us; what a fun trio we made. The madman, the cocksucker, and the woman with the penis. Father, son, stranger.
I rarely speak in my dreams, but when I do it is of violence and anger. I did not speak at all this night, and it was a blessing.
The bus driver didn’t know the route. That was unnecessarily distressing. Who in their right mind would have both the north and south bound busses pick up at the same stop?
The whole of the dream leading up to my throat rape, I was worried that she would stop liking me, and I’m not sure why that is. The premise of the dream was that she called to essentially set up a time to come fuck, so I don’t know where the worry came from. Even in fantasy, I can’t escape my unhealthy relationship with familiarity, with relationship itself.
I took the key home with me. Somebody will be upset, no doubt.
I walked in the easy cool of the day from the heart of an industrial area to a utility pole infested with stinkbugs. I thought vaguely of making it to the porn shop, but I figured I ought to go ahead and let the dogs outside.
In the dream, I had actually overslept. I dreamed that I fell asleep, and that she never came over, but I edited it. My subconscious decided that for whatever reason, it was better for me to have her penis in my mouth, than live with the idea that I alienated her.
In reality, she and I are strangers, I neither know whether she has a penis, nor have any real romantic ties to her. My father is less crazy than in the dream, and the hot, cramped house on Toledo Street is thousands of miles away. The only real thing is me.
I woke up scared that she was going to break up with me. And alone.