"cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i would never come to hate"part two: "and there is this other girl I smacked up real good"

"cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i would never come to hate"
part two: "and there is this other girl I smacked up real good"




ORIGIN OF LOVE
"when the earth was still flat and the clouds made of fire
and the mountains stretched up to the sky, sometimes higher
folks roamed the earth like big rolling kegs
they had two sets of arms
they had two sets of legs
they had two faces peering out of one giant head
so they could watch all around them as they talked while they read
and they never knew nothing of love
it was before the origin of love
origin of love
the origin of love
origin of love
well there were three sexes then
one that looked like two men glued on back to back
they were the children of the sun
and similar in shape girth were the children of the earth
they looked like two girls rolled up in one
and the children of the moon was like a fork shoved on a spoon
they were part sun part earth part daughter part son
oh the origin of love
well the gods grew quite scared of our strength and defiance
and thor said i'm gonna kill them all with my hammer
like i killed the giants
but zeus said no
you'd better let me use my lightning like scissors
like i cut the legs off the whales
dinosaurs into lizards
then he grabbed up some bolts, he let out a laugh
said i'll split them right down the middle
gonna cut them right up in half
and then storm clouds gathered above into great balls of fire
and then fire shot down from the sky in bolts
like shining blades of a knife
and it ripped right through the flesh
of the children of the sun and the moon and the earth
and some indian god sewed the wound up to a hole
turned it 'round to our bellies to remind us the price we payed
and osiris, and the gods of the nile gathered up a big storm
to blow a hurricane
to scatter us away
a flood of wind and rain, a sea of tidal waves
to wash us all away
and if we don't behave they'll cut us down again
and we'll be hopping 'round on one foot
looking through one eye
the last time i saw you we had just split in two
you was looking at me, i was looking at you
you had a way so familiar i could not recognize
cause you had blood on your face
and i had blood in my eyes
but i swear by your expression
that the pain down in your soul was the same
as the one down in mine
that's the pain
that cuts a straight line down through the heart
we call it love
we wrapped our arms around each other
tried to shove ourselves back together
we were making love, making love
it was a cold dark evening such a long time ago
when by the mighty hand of jove
it was a sad story how we became lonely two-legged creatures
the story, the origin of love
that's the origin of love
oh yeah, the origin of love
the origin of love
the origin of love"
--Hedwig and The Angry Inch

I quote the song in its entirety for good reason. I want to talk about soul mates for a bit. That sound nice? I don’t think that I believe in them, but I want to. Just like I don’t believe in a God, but I can see how a feller could get off on such a thought. And for me to believe in God He would have to come down Himself and tell me in no uncertain terms that He wants, no, needs me for a sunbeam. And I don’t mean come to me in the faces of all the little children, or the warmth on a clear blue day. But me and Him face to face.

This weekend the Lady Windham’s (that’s Emily Windham) father came for a visit. It made me happy. I have much respect for the man. I had a cigarette with him on Emily’s porch, and I’m a guy who gave up smoking. And it was menthol at that. I even got a chance to have a beer with the guy, and this is a man who never drinks. To get a picture of why I could respect a man so, is he looks similar to and acts like Hunter S. Thompson. He’s brilliant and off the wall but without the use of drugs. But we’ll not hold that against him. In fact we envy him for it. Hardly seems fair he could be so considering all the hours we’ve logged in MJQ’s bathroom snorting coke. But then that being true of ourselves we can’t really complain of time wasted, can we?

I only had lunch with the man. The elegance and intimacy of dinner was reserved for he, his daughter Emily, and….her boyfriend. I’ve known her longer, and harder.

The song up there; that’s one of mine and Emily’s songs. Our number one song is David Bowie’s “Five Years”. We’ve known each other for two. We have three left. I don’t know about her but I intend on ending this then. It just seems perfect, you know? And if you don’t know I suggest you listen to that song over and over until you do know.

If you can imagine this: there they are sitting at dinner in the nicest restaurant in Sioux Falls, Minerva’s. And it is a nice, classy joint. All wood finish and brass railings. Fine, fine steaks and martinis. All enclosed in a corner building that looks like it belongs in some East Coast City about the time that painting at the beginning of Cheers takes place. They’re laughing and riding on inside jokes and stories, sparking, igniting new ones. And I’m outside in the cold telling myself I’m too busy anyway what with my, now legendary, unwritten book and that next installment of my blog and all.

Emily calls me her soul mate. She calls a few people that. I call her my imaginary friend come true. But my point is a lot of people call a lot of people that; soul mate that is. Within the first six months of all my earlier relationships I’ve thought this and said this too. I’ve also done the whole “we just fit, you know?” and “man, I tell her things I don’t tell anyone else, and that was in like the first time hanging out with her!” And this leads to the whole “I don’t know. I still love her, but I’m not ‘in’ love with her, you know?” and “I feel like I can’t talk to her, we don’t communicate.” Rinse and repeat. How does the old saying go? “Insanity is doing the exact same thing over and over and expecting different results.” So where does this pin me in my love life. You fucking tell me, right? I’m resting on the faith that whoever she is she’s smarter than me and will be able to let me know in no uncertain terms that we are soul mates. In other words she’d have to perform an act of God. –That I don’t believe in.-- It’s high stakes, folks, but think of the pay off.

And it’s not jealousy jealousy that I feel for the boyfriend. I don’t feel he’s in my place. It’s just that before now Emily and I were undefined even to ourselves. That felt like magic; that no one could quantify or name the gravity between us. Everyone thought that we were in love, or brother and sister, or mother and father, and best yet, something all together new in the relationships of men and women. I never knew what we were, nor did she. Now with him I feel abruptly and violently defined. I’m the best friend. “No, her boyfriend’s at home, we’re just really good friends.” Where the fuck is the fun in that? And it’s hard to love her as freely and harder to leave her be with him. And harder still that the boyfriend is a fixture in Sioux Falls. Like a lamp post. And she’s holding on to that. In fact, one reason why her father came to town was to help them sign a lease on a house together. Me, folks, I’m a dog, a smart mutt what likes his freedom, and there is still a chain between her and I, and I pull on it always. And she is a girl who wants her cake and to eat it too, and the heart to believe it could be thus. And why shouldn’t it? I like her boyfriend. But what I don’t like is being inadvertently tethered to a lamp post. Perhaps it will come to pass that we won’t make it even the five years.

But enough of that! Fuck that! Let’s get to the part where I smacked her good; drunk and in public no doubt! Baby, we’re back in Atlanta. It’s a rainy fucking Saturday that we had planned to spend the whole day together. I even made a mix CD so we could have a soundtrack. It was Jody and Emily loosed upon the town, boy, and we meant to fuck it up proper! But so many things went wrong. First it rained. Second I was late as I was coming from Athens and hung over. Thirdly, she had started a new job and needed to go shopping for new conservative work clothes. We met at a bar near her house. She had to buy me a few drinks before she could convince me that it would be fun to go to the mall. Man alive, did she get it wrong. We go to Lenox Mall, a ritzy marble tiled mall, where none of us are welcome. And for whatever reason there were sales and clearances abound, and you know women. We were supposed to be there for only a couple of hours at the most before resuming our Saturday. It turned into four, and she wasn’t done. When she said she wanted to go to the MAC store I had finally lost my grip. I needed drink; solid and strong. And many. I went up stairs to pay lots of many for overpriced drinks. But this is Atlanta and they rob you anywhere, and you’ll thank them anyway for it in the end. After all, who’s doing who the favor? After several Jamesons, which I’m sipping as I write this, I wondered openly about the many fruits suspended in a clear liquid in a huge glass jug on the bar. The barkeep told me it was some fruity martini concoction. Eeegad, the rich even have their own version of hunch-punch! Why must they take everything? And inflate the prices? I had three. Why not? My money is just as good as the rich’s to the bartender, just as my money is just as worthless to me as it is to the rich. I couldn’t taste it. Not as drunk as I was. Not after that much Jameson. However, I declared it the most fantastic drink ever on this Earth, and immediately ran down to tell Emily. We agreed to meet in thirty minutes at a particular oaken bench. I was late, she was angry. I was drunk and promised she would soon be too, if she would just take my hand. Back we went. I bought her the drink. She informed me that it was awful. I bought her another. I needed to be certain. She confirmed the second time too.

Then on I bought her whatever her heart desired. We were beginning to have fun, finally. The day was saved! No. I remember we did get into an argument. I don’t remember over what. There’s no telling with the two of us. I slapped her. I was out of control. The people in the bar all turned to look. She became angry with me. Like an angry mother that can quiet the whole room. No man would come to defend her. It was unnecessary. You could tell that just by looking at her. A blind man could see it. She ordered me to take her home. I apologized all the way to the car. She wouldn’t speak to me. She sat down in the passenger seat and slumped with her foot pressed against the windshield. I’m a good city-driver, but I am not a graceful one. I make 90 degree lane changes in small openings and follow within inches, gas it if there is more than foot of space, and I brake only when absolutely necessary. Emily has never been comfortable with my driving. And this journey back to her apartment proved too much for her. I was slow (seemingly) to brake behind a stopped SUV, she tensed her leg. It was enough to crack my windshield with her foot. This surprised the both of us. She apologized. I said, no, don’t worry about it. I deserved it.

I took her home. And then drove back to Athens. This is an hour away and I was fretfully wasted on alcohol. I often said to friends I should do an editorial on the local news to let everyone know that if they were on these particular roads the night or day before they should really get down on their knees and thank God he had spared them, for I was on the road that day or night. And I was in a state that could easily allow me to be a useful tool of the Lord. And He spared them. That’s right, folks. Don’t hate me for me my drinkin’ and drivin’, for I am but a tool for the Lord to teach teenagers the horrors of drinking and driving, to teach you, possibly, that you took your loved one’s life for granted. And you’ll always regret that the last thing you told them, was “bring back eggs.”

Say your prayers, people. Be kind to your fellow man, for I am out there. I am God’s Wrath.

Whatever. When I got back I could not sleep. I told my room mates I had hit Emily Windham. The only reason they had not turned me away was because of how pathetic I looked. This was, after all, the second time I’d hit a woman. And a woman I loved, no doubt. I was a sad sappy sucker.

I called her the next day. She said we should just forget about it, but she made no effort to hide her utter disappointment. I hung up, felt like shit, and sat down at my computer to email somebody something. I noticed a bruise on the index finger of my left hand. There were actually four. Small ones. Two on the back and two on the palm, or inside of the finger. Memory came flooding back. And I laughed and laughed.

I called Emily back. “Do you remember what happened before I slapped you?” She said, no, and in an unsure way. I asked another question, “Do you remember biting the holy fuck out of my finger at the bar?” She didn’t say anything. It was coming back to her, as well. In arguing my left hand wondered to her face. Not an uncommon thing, we are often touchy-feely with one another. She took it in her mouth and gnashed down. I went with my right to push against her face to get my finger out of her mouth. Not thinking “face” or “my hand hitting against it”, mind you, put to quickly react and use my right for leverage to get my left hand out of a vice-grip.

Since you know how this one ends too, I’ll cap it off by saying she apologized and now wishes to repay me for my windshield.

And what I’d like to say to that future soul mate o'mine, and this is probably needless since you’re smarter than me, love, don’t fucking bite me. Just don’t. I don’t want to hurt you. So, please, unless it’s love bites on the neck, which I’m sure is this insanely cute thing between us, don’t fuck with me, cuz I don’t know what I’ll do. And in the end it’s just going to be your fault anyway. You’re too smart for this bullshit, so just leave it alone. Now let's make out.

tune in next time for "cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i'd never come to hate"
part three "wherein the narrator finally gets to the goddamn point and we can hear 'bout them titties, and we can finally get a new title"

"cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i'd never come to hate"

i had a strange night here, friends. many people i did not recognize kept calling me columbo. i was columbo and drunk last halloween. that was six months ago. last night a parrot bit the shit out of my finger at a cigar bar. i was drinking and i ate some pills, because i don't smoke cigars. i despaired last night, friends. i've tried several times to make friends with these people of sioux falls. i'm starting to feel like bill murray in "lost in translation". for the record i don't do pills anymore, i don't smoke cigarettes anymore, and i don't drink anywhere near as often as i once did. but last night. i needed a break. bettering one's self is hard tedious work, and not for those with weak constitutions. it finally got to me, so i took the night off. i also planned to write the next intallment of this blog yesterday, which i did. and we'll get to it soon enough. after i apologize for it. it went really long. i've split it up into three parts. so i guess now i'm doing a series in a series. i might as well. no one asked, or cares that i do this at all, and i'm doing this for no one. what's the difference in a quick paragraph or my life story, except for how much time i'm willing to spend in one sitting spilling my guts under that rediculous blue banner that reads that rediculous word, blogger? and spill my guts i did with this installment. i reccomend to no one that they do any of the things i have done. which should work out as no one is reading this. enjoy nonetheless.
jody
ps: this is too long, i'm going back and editing for grammar and what not. i did a once over for content. if you see mistaks just give me the benefit of the doubt. actually, always give me the benefit of the doubt.
4
"cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i'd never come to hate"
part one: dui's, redheads, god, and me in the middle


The oddest thing about being an even-keeled male and hitting a woman are the circumstances surrounding the event. For one, you never in your life imagined that one day you would be guilty of this. You're against it. For the most part you remain morally ambiguous, you're not evil you're just an oppurtunist who understands good and evil can be, for the most part, fleeting; fluxuating moral trends. But you are fully aware of right and wrong, and therefore hold yourself accountable for your actions. Emotional involvement with these actions just isn't always necassary. In fact it can retard or pervert the good and fuel the evil. But you do have principles. You do not murder anyone. You ignore starting or participating in physical fights with strangers. You never risk friends' well being or friendships. You try to keep all pain and heartache isolated to just yourself. However, due to innumerable reasons beyond your control, if you are the least bit social you will fail at this plenty of times and in disheartening consistency. Though it helps, you do not need your father to have beaten your mother, nor do you really need to consider that all your female friends have in some way been abused by a male or males in their lives, but you know like you know the sun is hot without ever touching it that you do not hit a woman. Unless, of course, they ask for it.

My first act of physical aggression towards a female was with my first girlfriend. I was fifteen, so was she. (her boyfriend before me dragged her from her parents' living room by her hair to her bed and forced her to lay there while he ate her out. this is disturbing anyway, but the fact that his actions didn't lead to pleasuring himself is disturbing and odd.) We were wrestling. She got carried away. I firmly believe she did not intend for so much pain, but nevertheless she had me in a faux pin (i out weighed her by many pounds, it was faux) and came to my face for what I thought was a kiss. Instead she bit my nose hard, very, very hard. She was unaware of the signals a lot of pain in your nose emitts, nor did she know that those signals do not go to your brain, but to a baser part of your neural system. And while your mind reels at the pain in face, for it knows you're just lying there, your arms have thrown your girlfriend clear across the living room. She was a cheerleader and breaking falls came second nature to her. She was unharmed, and since it all happened in an instant she thought we were still playing. That is until I got up with tears in my eyes and "Gawd, why'd you do that?" After that it was all hugs and kisses, and poor, poor, me.

The first time I actually hit a woman was only a couple of years ago, just before I moved to New Orleans. The cute little redheaded girl I wrote about earlier, the one who wired me money to come back home to Georgia, to her (supposedly); it was she I hit (she at one point before she met me had been slipped roofies by an aquaintance, who then had his way with her. later he told her that he heard saying no, but understood her vibes to be saying yes.) Not only did I hit her, i back-handed her. We were drunk adn rowdy, and come from the best redneck bar ever, MudCats. Emotions were high because on the way home we were wasted and swerving, endangering our lives and the lives of everyone on the road. We got pulled over by two police cars. We should've been fucked, and we deserved to be. We always drove not just drunk but obliterated. Despite the fact that I could not hold a thought in my head, let alone speak it, I got out of the well earned DUI with a bobby-pin and a clove cigarette. I was the drunken union of Hunter Thompson and McGyver made carnate. After that the redhead and I had religion. We were holy, and untouchable. Arriving home with such highs, and still quite drunk,we got into some light wrestling. It has all the makings of turning into good rough sex, and I believe that was our intention, but something wouldn't let it make the transition. We just got rougher and meaner. We were fighting, not with punches or kicks, nor was there a word spoken, but we were rough-housing with malice and cruelty. I felt uncomfortable, but I couldn't stop and nor would she. I wanted to win. Then when I locked her in a real pin I somehow wound up with my head near her face. She bit the fuck out of my ear. Again signals were sent as my brain processed all the pain. When its intensity let up I saw the redhead was no longer beneath me on the bed. She was rising from the floor at the footboard, stunned. With everything over my body relayed its memory to my brain. In one motion I jerked my ear from her gnashing teeth, which hurt like a motherfucker, brought myself to my knees and back-handed the shit out of her and tossed her off the bed.

Of course I did not mean for this. Of course I would've conceded the little wrestling match had I saw this coming. I felt fucking terrible. I saw the enevitable accusations, and me confirming them. I saw the loss of respect from my friends followed by the loss of my friends. The cute little redheaded girl collected herself. She turned to me, "You just fucking hit me."

I couldn't face her. I said I'm sorry a couple of times very flatly. Not from apathy, obviously, but from shock. I was overwhelmed. I left the room. Not to run away or hide, but despite my desire to cowar I moved to a room more neutral, the spare bedroom-a room where I didn't hit anyone, and slumped on the bed. I didn't need her to judge me. I could do that on my own, nor would I discount her judgement either. I did, however, desire a sentencing from her. And no sentence would have been unfair. There are mistakes you can not walk away from. You know the difference between right and wrong. You hold yourself accountable for you actions. She came into the room. I stopped crying. I felt like I shouldn't get to, you know? She was cloaked in a blanket from my bed. She pushed me onto the bed, laid on me wrapping us into the blanket. It was hugs and kisses and poor, poor me.

The redhead and me had many problems, but our love for or our understanding of one another was not one of them. Just when you thought love wasn't enough to make a relationship work... it actually isn't, because after I got back, the day after I got back from New Orleans, she did something dispicable and I turned my back on her and didn't speak to her for a year. That said...
I'm grateful as a writer, or that part of me that seeks to understand as much human experience as I can, to every woman and whatever God. An unspoken principle between the cute little redhead and myself was that bodies were junk; everything was made to break. We ran on entropy, we chose to destroy and breakdown rather than be slave to time or human fallacy. We built us, we broke us. I was such an idiot back then, I'm so glad for it now.

Our lives, how we build them, are a mandala. You create them to your satisfaction, and whim, then admire them, and finally wipe them away. And begin again. Accidents along the way, miracles, mistakes, good fortune or fate: I know the difference seperating them all, but I can not for the life of me see it.

The avoided DUI showed me that if there is a God, He sure does love a fool. The redhead, and many others have taught me that a woman can do the same. The redhead and I are now great friends, the eleven hundred miles between us helps, despite even worse events, accidents, mistakes, and miracles. If you decide to call it fate, call it wreckless fate.

I do not mean to come aawy from this as: I hit a girl and it was OK. It wasn't OK. I was not let off the hook or otherwise overlooked. I was forgiven. And only in that way do I consider myself lucky. This, though unlike (and just like), the DUI was one of many instances in my life where I had the oppurtunity to experience one of the many facets of life. Some are good and some are evil, this one being very dark and awful, and I got walk away from it, not exactly with impunity, but without life destroying consequences that are often attached and often deserved. We'll call it mercy.

And as I move and stumble through this life and the streets of sioux falls where I'm attacked by birds and applauded as Columbo by strangers (think being famous in japan) and with idiot hands build my current mandala and try in my way to piece all this together to decide where I invest my love and faith, which I find the more unwieldy of the two, and not just where these these two things lie-whether it be with some God, or woman, or whatever and it all in general and even with myelf, not only whether love or faith exists in me, but how much do I reserve, and how much do I give, and to whom or what...?

As I naively try to grasp these simple concepts for myself I am able to be showered with hugs and kisses, to breath the free air, to not be locked up in a cage, because those of whom, all of them, regardless of if I believe in all of them or not, that I mentioned above have simply and unasked for already and easily gave me their love and faith. I have never gotten away with anything. And when I take all this for granted, as I am oft to do, it is because these good, good beings let me.

And trust me when I say this will eventually connect to the girl with the cute face and the gorgeous tits that I came to hate.

tune in next week for:
"cute face, gorgeous titties: two things I thought I would never come to hate"
part 2: "and there is this other girl I smacked up real good.

"the ragin' cajun, and the sorry southerner"

I grew up in Cumming, GA a suburb of Atlanta. After high school I moved in with this beautiful artist from North Carolina. After, I think, three years of being together I properly and pretty methodically fucked it up for myself. Se la vi. Then I moved to Atlanta. It was something I had always wanted to do, which stems from my father. He came to me on the reservation in Cherokee, NC. I was fifteen. I hadn't seen him since I was too young to remember. All I knew was that he was Indian, and that he'd abused my mama. He woke me up and asked if I knew who he was. I didn't. He told me. I jumped down and (i was on the top bunk of my cousin's bunk beds) hugged him. I didn't know what else to do. I was terrified of him. I was uncomfortable around him. I didn't want him to go away. I wanted him to reveal something to me. I wanted him to turn me into something. Into anything but some awkward, confused half-breed. I drove around with him and his leather clad, chain-smoking white woman. We played basketball at the campgrounds with my Indian cousins. He told me many things, like that he was going to move near by and we'd see more of each other. If I wanted I could live with him in the Summer. I told him lies. Lies about my childhood, and how cool it was, how happy it was. We have that in common. I lie well. We also have great hair and intense eyes. We also read a lot. We also have problems settling down. (i have brothers and sisters I've never met. none of us have the same mothers. at that meeting i was the youngest of his offspring. i don't know if that has changed) One of the things he told me, after asking what I want to do after high school and after I told him I might like to live in Atlanta (me and my mother both share a love and admiration and comprehensive knowledge of Martin Luther King, Jr. ["do not follow in the footsteps of the masters, instead seek what they sought"]), was "Why do you want to that? I lived in Atlanta. It's nothing but a bunch of niggers and spics." He left the next day with the all around leathery white woman, and promised me a return. He gave me a choker and a medicine stick. He makes these things out of real, sacred material. He sells them to white tourists. I lost the gifts over time. I cherished and worshipped them. I have not seen him since. After high school, after the beautiful artist I moved to Atlanta.

For the next few years I made friends with many niggers, spics, and throw in some faggots, skater kids, graffiti artists, chinks, dykes, kieks--freaks. Good people. My people. I was a health nut for a while. A drunk, pill poppin, coke snortin, pussy gettin', book learnin'--name it, name it, name it--for a longer while. There was a stolen car, there were guns... There was a lot of fun and good proper trouble had. Add in a couple of nice, yet, still failed relationships.

Then the bug came. I needed a change. I love Atlanta, honest I do, but only when I'm not there or if a friend is in town and has never been to the ATL. I needed new adventures in strange lands. I went to New Orleans to become a better writer. Obviously I failed. There was no work to sustain myself, and the night life, well, it's New Orleans. The night didn't just call to you it showed up at your front door with drinks, pills, dirty rice, and powders. And a jazz band that only played "When the Saints Come Marching In", each time better than the last. But in the end you have to pay the price and tip the band.

I was broke. A cute little redheaded girl I knew from Atlanta wired me some money. I packed my things and left New Orleans with my tail between my legs, and my heart hung heavy with failure. And in turn I left with more baggage in tow than I had come with.

But if you go to N'awlins stay for more than two weeks, but don't go anywhere near Bourbon St during Mardi Gras. Unless you're a yuppie, frat boy, or an ugly chick it's just not worth it.
Back in GA I got a job bartending at Loco's Deli and Pub. It is a lame place, an unhappy place, but I made a lot of money. Which is exactly how much it took for me to wear their gay-ass t-shirts with a drunken moose logo on it. It's GA! Why a moose? Why a drunk, or retarded which is what it actually looked like, moose? I made enough to pay the redhead back and move to Athens with some very old and good friends of mine. Fun was had, and it was there that I decided to write the novel that I came here, to Sioux Falls, to complete.

A quick side note (as if all this weren't some big side note): It was also in this time I met Emily Windham, the only friend I shall name outright as she'll come up again and again. And for all practical reasoning I should be in love with her (not that I'm not[not that i am]), married with babies that would grow up to be awesome and strong and smart and have big eyes, perfect skin and curly hair. All my friends say this and I agree. But though I am a practical man I am not the most conventional.

In Athens I realized that I'm not getting any younger. I've spent years as an all-talk wannabe writer. Enough is enough. If it can be said that I let Emily get away it's because I knew (know) that I was (am) not worth it (of value, source of pride) for any girl, any woman outside of a casual relationship. This probably is one of the most mature understandings defining my adult life. And because of this realization there is another woman I let get away. Or rather I walked away from, rather I drove away from to come here. Remember at the end of any little stage you go through it eventually comes time to pay the price. And there's always that band to tip. More on Athens later.

tune in next time for "cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i would never come to hate"

AND I'M ALREADY BESIDE THE POINT

"But all this-the mysterious, the far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all-made no impression on the young man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination."
- jack london
"to build a fire"

I'm not a Jack London fan. Least ways I'm not a "Call of the Wild" fan. Bored me to tears. The quote is ripped off of someone who ripped it off. Aside from middle school curriculum the only other Jack London experience I've had was on the long road home from Savannah, GA where me and my life long friend Ian got drunk as monkeys and ran across rooftops like The Tick, and made beautiful women that look like Uma Thurman mad at us. On the road home we refused to acknowledge how late in the day it was and the many hours and miles we had still yet to endure. We talked lightly and listened to NPR. There was a story being read by some actor. It was a short story, by London, about a captain who believed luck always favored the side against him. In sunny clear skies and calm waters he muttered curses to all, and became hornery in hopes that "the forces" would take notice of how unhappy this weather makes him and further spite him with it. Conversely when storms closed in and threatened the very lives of all on board, even the captain, he would laugh and regail at such fine, fine weather; here to parch your thirst and give you reprieve from the sun's heat.
London summed up this character as a man with strong belief in his God, but was a devil worshipper at heart and did not realize it.
None of this matters. The only part of this blog that has anything to do with the mission of this blog is the quote up top. It made me think of me this winter past and how not too productive I've been. I'm still working on the same short story and still getting ready to begin the novel I set out to write. I did fine at the end of summer and through out fall about when I first landed here, but then winter set in and you would think that being isolated in one room would leave much time and focus for writing. Of course you would think that. It's easy to blame the weather, though. That's what made me think of London's story and Savannah. That's the only connection. In fact if I gave much regard to blogs and blogging at all I'd cut the whole fucking thing out. But I am a lazy man.
Having brought that long stretch of nothing betwixt Savannah and Atlanta up I have to say that that drive reminds me of the drive here, to Sioux Falls. Flat, slightly rolling. Nothing for as far as the eye can see, like being in the middle of the ocean. It's this vast calm sea of dirt, grass, and cornfield or wheatfield. And it is tranquill if you don't talk about home. And it's beautiful as long as you don't describe it, or as long as I don't describe it.
But...I'm not there yet in this blog o'mine. I haven't made it to the land locked port-town of Sioux Falls yet.
Looking at the first entry I can tell you I got it all wrong. I mis-spoke. I mistook these people or at least a few of them. But that's later too. That was after the winter when I shook off the devil's grip. I came to Sioux Falls, South Dakota September Seventh. On my birthday. I'm not even one years old here, yet. Don't listen to me.
But this is getting too long for one entry. Tune in next time for "the ragin' cajun, and the sorry southerner".