A madness metal, impervious to harmful thought or deed...

Tuesday, April 20

Idea #2

Our hero is lying in his bath, having cut one wrist but now unable to cut the other. As he slips into unconsciousness, he is visited by his ideal woman who walks him through reality and most importantly shows that he makes it. The atoms dance. The centre of the universe is the thought of the thinker.

Idea

A pale afternoon.

There’s an uncanny calm on the waters as I gripe internally about the length of this bath tub: it’s either shoulders out or knees up. Why the fuck even bother with it? It’s just a shower you can trip your way out of. For now, I’ll go with the exposed knees and wait for the water to turn cold around me.

I try to drift to sleep, but if you’ve ever tried that you’ll know it doesn’t work. End up just agitated with your own inability to do something so simple.

There’s so much to dislike--no fuck it--hate about this tiny room. The too-small tub, the pervasive stink of chemical cleaners and the litterbox, the mildewed ceiling, the used and useless. You can’t even close your eyes and think it away, it’s coming through your nose. And that interpretive jazz band fucking with your ears too. You almost miss the squealing insects.

Maybe it’s OK. Maybe this is how to wash. To cleanse. A tiny little plastic beach of ones own. Add a waterlogged cheap paperback and maybe this is it. All of it.

But doors shouldn’t open of their own accord. Especially not doors removed years earlier to “give a sense of space to the place.” But I can see it now. Opening. Probably a metaphor of some type. The door opens. The bath waters turns colder around me. And she says (of course it’s a she, I’m naked in a bath tub, you think it’s going to be a guy?) “Hey, Dimmer!”

Wednesday, April 14

Attended a wedding on Saturday night, and snapped a few pics with the ol' iPhone (knowing full well they wouldn't come out well). I kinda like this one though, it's "almost arty".


Tuesday, April 13

Crazy Horse

"Fuck you, John. Just FUCK YOU!"
The receiver is slammed down, pure anger.

The conversation that led up to this:
"John, It's almost one, where's the car?"
"The car?"
"Yeah, I'm supposed to have been picked up by now, hell I should be there."
"I didn't know nothing about a car."
"Don't bullshit me, you know and I know there's always a car."
"I'm sorry but we don't have a car. We don't have anyone..."
"Jesus-fucking-christ, I don 't believe this."
"You're at the Crossways right?"
"Yeah, you managed to book this flea-pit at least."
"Well, that's only about five blocks away, you could walk."
"Have you seen those blocks John? I'm not walking through the fucking tenderloin."
"Call a taxi."
"Why the hell should I? The car is YOUR job asshole."
"Alright, alright -- I'll call a taxi for you - OK?"
"A fucking taxi?"
"It's about all I can do.... and you're late."

Which takes us back to where we came in.

* * *

I'm not walking through that shit. Those people. God. They should just be dead. Fuck. Alright, call a taxi. More money just pissed away. There was a local rag here somewhere... there, beside the bed. Fuck that bed, I got no fucking sleep. I must look like shit. I do. I've seen me. Shit. God I hate San Francisco. Shithole. Where the fuck do they list taxis in this fucking thing? The back probably, with the whores. Flipping. There. A-A-A-Taxis. They'll do.

20 fucking minutes? To get a cab to downtown SF? Jesus. These people suck. Call me when it gets here. No, be ready on the street. No, call me. No, be on the street. No, I'm trying to avoid the street. We can't do that. Liar. You won't do it is what you mean. Maybe I should just walk. No.

* * *

Looking down and across she sees her ad. Her publicity picture from what, 20 years ago? "Come and meet..."-- such a joke. There's no meeting here. If anything, it's a funeral. Putting an end to so many fantasies. So many jerk-offs. Damn, she looked fine back then. Made so much money. So much money. Never thought one day she'd be here, Greyhounding around the country, cheap club to cheap shitty club. Cheap hotel room to cheap hotel room. Almost every day showing her disaster to a crowd of people who expected something different, something more, a fantasy life.

Come and meet...

She closes the SF Weekly, tosses it back onto the bed. Damn, her tits need a bra these day. They hang low, almost painful. But you can't show up with lingerie lines for the show: It would kill the dream. If these are dreams, how must their nightmares be? She guesses there is always someone worse off. tries hard to believe it. Looks in the mirror. Her. On the floor beside her sits the little trolley case. Good god, how long can this go on?

Three showings: 1:00pm, 6:00pm, 10pm. Like clockwork.

At least this self absorption/pity has filled fifteen minutes. Time to go to the door. Stand and wait. See how many people think you're a whore. Ha ha ha ha ha.

The afternoon girls are the worst. The nasty, the easy, the desperate. You can trace their lives with the needle marks on their arms. Isn't this all just a lie anyway? Is this the beauty men pay $20 a time to see? Another $20 to have her twist and twirl on their laps for 3 minutes? Some kind of hell all round.

* * *

"Where the fuck were you, show was o.."
"I was waiting on the fucking car you never got for me, shit-for-brains. If you don't like it, I can turn around now."
"No, just get out there as soon as you can."
"Soon as I see my money."
"Later."
"Yeah? Fuck later. No car, next no cash. You pay or I don't do anything but leave."
"Fuck, you know we don't get cash till the afternoon crowd..."
"Yeah, and I know you got enough float. If you want me up, you best lay down the bucks."
"Christ."

* * *

Every club has it's own layout, probably as most of them are older buildings redone to accommodate strippers, johns, lap-dances, toilets. Crazy Horse is a one room deal (ex-cinema house). One big stage. The old seats still in place. New lighting for the slim stage. It's OK, there's no need to rehearse. No floor marks to hit. These guys just want to see tits and cunt. They probably won't even notice that you're so much older now, except maybe in the tits. They could see it in your face, but they don't look there. The cheap PA yells: "Ladies" (hah!) "and Gentlemen, for your pleasure, the star of tonight's show, main vixen in" (they say some names of some videos I don't remember) "Pretty Thang!"

And the shoes hurt. The breasts hurt. The thought hurts.

But it's ok. Big lights. big thrills. Look out beyond to the faces in the front rows: the fans. Some seem keen. Keen to have their hopes, ideals smashed. A 40-year-old body fucked and re-fucked is not an 18 year old body "new". A moment of guilt. A false bill of goods. But fuck it. They could work it out. They know where we are. They still seem eager. Maybe the six inch heels and little black dress are covering more than body, maybe age, everything the shadows can't hide?

Further back though, the daytime girls are working for their money. Out there. those guys are not here for you, just for anything female. For a touch. For a cunt. For someone to tell them how big their dicks are, how good they smell, how handsome they are. They almost don't look at you. And that's fine as well. The less eyes...

They play the wrong music. Those fucks. But does it matter?

* * *

I'd made plans to see her. She was my favourite. My #1 star. I'd time off work. I had to drive from Sunnyvale to SF. I was going to be there for the 1 and the 6, maybe the 10 (that would be hard, needed a good reason for the wife) -- I had $1,000 extra above entry, to get a dance and maybe a hand job, maybe a blow job? I didn't know how these things worked. Traffic was bad. I parked in the expensive lot behind the Fillmore to get to the 1:00 show, but it was 1:15 and I assumed I'd missed it—fuck.

Walk in, pay money, walk in further, everyone looks lost.

I walk to the front. Not the real front. But like three, four rows back. So I won't be recognized. Looking out, the front row is full. Mainly Asian guys, I have no idea why. Behind me, the lap girls are grinding and pleasing. Two of them walk up to me, ask if I want a dance. No. I'm here for the show. I'm here for my dream girl. Sit back in the busted up cheap seat and wait.

* * *

I feel myself taking deep breaths as I walk out. Shake to the music I had not picked. It really doesn't matter. I want to get this over, but I know I have to play it out. Fifteen minutes, minimum. I hit the centre of the stage and start to "dance". Spin spin spin. Let the dress ride up. Spin spin spin. Fuck this is hard to do in six inch heels. Fuck let's just take the dress off.

The bra and the panties stay in place for now.In another five minutes, they'll start to leave lines, so they have to come off before then. But let's try to play this up. Jiggle the old wobble tits before the audience. God, if they only knew. Alright. Back to them. Classic. Take off the bra. The tits surge downwards. Fuck. I'm too old for this. I pull them up with my hands and I turn around.

* * *

She comes out stage left. Little black dress, big high heels. Something is wrong. The smile is fake. It's not the same big smile she gave when Lance did AtM with her in "Fresh Carpet". She's almost breaking out. Bring it in girl, bring it in. She tosses off the dress. Black bra, black panties. For a moment she regains a little glory, but her eyes, her eyes... I should not have sat so close. I look around for a lap girl to distract me, but they won't come this far into the light.

For a moment, I want to leave, but I paid a lot to get here. For a moment, I want her to exit stage left or right. I don't want to be one of those front row panting guys. Should I go now?

* * *

So we've got two sets of chairs: left and right. I take off the bra, the panties. I go stage left. I sit. I suck my own nipple (sadly easy), and spread my cunt open for them. Spread and close, spread and close. Some asshole takes pictures, the bouncers smack him against the wall, smash his camera and eject him. I go to the other side, kneel, and give them a spread from behind view. I almost finger my asshole, they like that. God they like this. A near corpse sticking it's boney finger in it's own ass. This is what they've come to see.

* * *

I leave and the sunlight is so strong, so powerful, such a different word. "Why did I ever even..." I think to myself for a moment. But it passes as I walk back towards the parking structure.

* * *
The next day, a new Greyhound schedule. Outathere.

Gone.

"Fuck"

I had an edit/story pulled from www.fatjerry.com as it started with the word "Fuck". I was kinda amazed and amused by this. How offensive is "Fuck" these days?

Anyway, the post above ("Crazy Horse") is now available for your reading pleasure.

"Cunt"

"Cunt" seems like the one verboten word here in the US. I'm confused (but also interested) as to why. I mean, we throw around "Prick", "Dick", and so forth with reckless abandon. What, exactly, makes "Cunt" so different?

[investigation to follow]