Interlude: Time

     Time is a funny thing. We exert so much damned effort to understand something we just never can. It’s just too abstract… too unknowable. We carry watches and cell phones and constantly check the hour, hoping we’re not running late. Every member of the human race with even the slightest ties to the modern world blindly obeys the axiom of the calendar… mapping and plotting out the days and weeks and months ahead. Despite the fact that the future is never guaranteed.

     We can’t understand because time isn’t a thing: it is not an item we can hold in our hands, trying to memorize its contours and characteristics. No, time is just a stream of sensations we hear and feel and speak and taste and touch… then try to categorize and file in chronological order. But in the end, we always fail.

     The only true way to experience time is through the emotions that follow each moment and memory: the electric awareness of a lover’s touch, the quiet joy of a day spent at the beach, the stabbing misery of losing those we love. Even the most innocuous and insignificant moments in our timeline resonate with sensations. After all, boredom is an experience itself… albeit an uneventful one.

     Think of seasons. And I don’t just mean the literal positioning of the planet in relation to our parent star. No… I mean seasons in our lives. The periods we live through, ever taking for granted all the little nuanced details in the day to day. So many of these moments hold palpable, almost ominous sensations around them like a tattered quilt. I think back to my last spring home before leaving: the noxiously sweet aroma of sap and pollen heavy in the May breezes, the entomological sounds droning in the trees, the last glimmer of sunlight over a frequented lake as the sun crashed into the horizon. Or watching a woman I loved walk down an airport terminal, her dainty shoulders struggling under the weight of an oversized shoulder bag, bound for a new place and ending a period of time in both of our lives.

     I think back to moments like these and I am overwhelmed. I can feel the wind on my face, the heartache in my chest, and I can remember every other detail… except for the time. I can’t recall time standing to the side, tapping its foot and giving me an irritated, impatient look. I only have those moments.

     Maybe that’s why some people write. It’s quite possibly an excuse for my foray into this madness. Writing acts as a way to remember all of the times without the emotional baggage. Most of the times at least. But I know that I spend so much effort trying to remember in order to put it to page later. I watch the staccato images of my life passing by and I remember the feelings. Walking with my parents on a sunny day by the Pacific; hockey games watched in poorly lit bars with comrades and crazies; lying awake in the early morning, watching a beautiful girl sleeping; my little cousin sprouting higher and higher as each year passes; the lines in my face growing deeper and deeper. Most of all, I remember the little things; I leave time at the door.

...But Somewhere in the Middle, It Gets Royally Fucked...

…”Well you’ve certainly topped yourself this time, Lou.” I took a swig from a bottle of cheap Mexican beer and scratched my head. We were sitting atop red velour bar stools, our backs against an exposed water pipe, and were facing a makeshift stage. Mediocre floodlights were pointed towards the platform, falling upon an oversized green kiddie pool. Which was filled with jello… and a scantily clad ‘Catwoman’ tearing the bikini top off a busty ‘Invisible Woman.’ A bearded, heavily tattooed ex-roadie in referee pinstripes and a black ski cap with the words ‘FUCK YOU’ sewn on the front hovered above the two women… a silver whistle dangling from his mouth. A crudely made banner fluttered overhead… constantly disturbed by the building’s ventilation: Marvel v. DC was stenciled on the façade.

 “What can I say,” he grumbled as he surveyed the room for a waitress. Facing futility, he took a generous pull from his beer; a few drops of beer spilled onto his black, tattered Van Halen t-shirt. “I enjoy the unusual places. You meet the most interesting people.

            “Most interesting… or most chemically imbalanced. And, judging from this crowd, quite possibly on parole.”

            “C’est merde,” Louie protested, swatting the air in my direction as if I had become some virulent insect from the nightmares of Hernan Cortes. “First off, if they’re on parole… obviously someone believed them to be rehabilitated, no?”

“Why not?”

“Exactement.” Louie downed the rest of his beer and put the bottle on the ground. “And, let us not forget, ami… you aren’t the most stable individual in the world either!”

“Isn’t this the pot calling the kettle black,” I asked, an amused smirk plastered on my face. And, most certainly, annoying the hell out of Louie.

“What,” he cried out loudly, gesticulating towards himself. “Me? I will have you know I am the perfect example of a well grounded individual.”

“Lou… no offense, but I think you’re out of your goddamn mind. You drink like the Mongolian army is on the march, you start fights pretty much every day, you insult people directly to your face, and you mutter to yourself constantly!”

“That last bit is a trait I learned from you my friend.”

“Granted,” I said with a shrug.

“And who are you to talk,” Louie protested, clearly on a tangent. “You come from a people who drink, fight, and fuck like intoxicated gibbons!”

“Greeks?”
            “Bostonians,” Louie shouted, standing on the leg supports and throwing his hands up in the air for full effect.

“Hey! Sit down asshole,” someone yelled from behind us.

“Go sodomize a cadaver you diseased son of a whore,” Louie shouted over his shoulder nonchalantly. A subtle smile broke across his face. “Es tu termine?”

“I’ve told you a thousand times you sociopathic French Canuck: I don’t speak French!” I downed the rest of my beer and left the empty on a nearby high table. “But yeah, I’m finished.”

“Hah! So you do speak French, you damned liar.”

“Sue me.” I abruptly locked eyes with our waitress, so I signaled for two more beers. She nodded and disappeared back into the crowd. “Okay I gotta know. How in the name of Herman’s Hermits did you find this fuckin’ place?”

“Isn’t it great?” Louie beamed with pride at his recently discovered obscure circus of strange.

“Not quite the word I’d use to describe it.” The waitress, a frizzy-haired brunette wearing horn-rimmed glasses and bearing two full Irezumi sleeves, materialized from within the crowd with our beers. She handed me one with a smile, then shoved the other into Louie’s hand with a scowl.

“Have you considered my offer of baptizing the ladies room with our combined fluids,” he asked earnestly, his eyebrows bobbing up and down.

“I’d rather have sex with a chainsaw you fucking creep,” she said, her expression the perfect manifestation of disgust.

“Just ignore him,” I chimed, trying to placate the poor girl. “He was dropped on his head a lot as a kid. And to make matters worse, he has this thing about autoerotic asphyxiation… so his brain doesn’t get much oxygen.”

“What the hell is wrong with you two,” she replied, shaking her head in utter disapproval before disappearing back into the swarm of hipsters and creep shows.

“You anti-Semitic monster,” Louie abruptly shouted, standing up once again; the vein in his neck started to resemble a garden hose.

“Sit the fuck down,” the familiar faceless voice called out once again.

“Shut your face you belligerent pedophile,” screamed Louie. This time he was lacking his playful smirk… instead replaced by spontaneous rage.

“Alright Eastwood,” I said, pulling him down by the shoulder, “you can go vigilante once I’m gone. For once, I’d like to hang without you starting a brawl.”

“C’est tout bon,” replied Louie. Though he resumed his jubilant expression, I could see his fury lingering in the shadows. We sat quietly for a moment, absorbed by the cacophonic roar of the eclectic crowd as they watched two risqué beauties brutally strip each other in a kiddie pool filled with jello. The ex-roadie ref enthusiastically examined the details of the match… though who knows what those details were.

“You were saying something,” Louie suddenly said.

“Was I?”

“I think so.”

“Oh right,” I said, slapping my knee like Andy Griffith. I still have no idea why I did that. “I was asking how you found this place.”

“Do you remember my friend Clyde,” asked Louie between sips from his beer. “You know, the guy with the boa constrictor?”

“That nut case with the horns tattooed to his forehead,” I inquired apprehensively.

“Oui… that’s him. So I was out with him and his cousin a few weeks ago. We were driving around, trying to find something to do. I suggested we go shoot pool, so Clyde’s cousin drove us into this neighborhood. We were playing down the street and had made a little money hustling. Clyde is actually quite good.”

“You don’t say.”

“Ferme la.” Louie chugged a third of his beer. “Clyde and I were outside smoking when we heard a loud crash from inside the bar. Before we could react, Clyde’s cousin came running out of the bar with a broken pool cue in hand. He just jumped in his car and peeled out. It was the strangest thing.”

“Lou...,” I started, but was quickly cut off by a dismissive hand.

“I guess Clyde’s cousin got into a heated argument with some chump and smashed him with the stick.”

“Did you really just say chump?”

“What? Are you troglodytes in New England unaware of that term?”

“Oh we know it,” I retorted, “but I don’t think it’s been used much since the nineties.”

“You are an ass.”

“I’m aware, Louie. You remind me quite often.” We clinked bottles and took swings. “So your freak friend’s cousin flipped and bailed. That doesn’t explain how you ended up here.”

“Oh,” Louie said, lightly slapping his forehead. “Clyde was banging one of the wrestling girls here, so he suggested we swing by.”

“Christ, Lou.” I buried my face in my hand and shook my head… somewhat baffled, somewhat entertained, entirely confused.

“What?”

“Your whole story had nothing to do with your answer! You could have just said your weird buddy Clyde was sleeping with one of the girls and brought you! I didn’t need to hear about the whole bit with his insane cousin.”

“I thought it made for better context in the story,” Louie replied.

“There was no context whatsoever!”

“Well, maybe you can use it for your book?”

“I don’t know if that’s quite up my alley, Lou.” Once more, I managed to lock eyes with the judgmental waitress: this time, she quickly averted her eyes and vanished. Which, in my opinion, was totally uncalled for. Sure, Louie had grossly misbehaved… but what about me? I was only trying to diffuse the situation through humor.

“Speaking of,” Louie said, cutting my introspective monologue short, “how are things coming with the new book?”

“Fine, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“You mentioned you were trying to work your way out of a slump, non?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“What is the problem? Writer’s block?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I hate that expression?”

“But it is a valid phrase, Strat,” Louie countered, his tone legitimately sincere. Louie’s ability to switch between irrationality to empathy always caught me off guard. “Anyway, in order to refrain from insulting your chosen lexicon… what is the reason for your troubles?”

“That’s just it, Lou,” I said after a quick sip. “Lately I haven’t had any trouble. Every time I sit down, I just pick up the flow again as if no time has passed. The difference is I’m finding less and less motivation to actually make the effort to sit down and write. So I know what I want to say and how to do so… but I just haven’t wanted to do it.”

“Let me get this straight,” the powder keg-Canadian mused as he began to chew on his thumb. “You are inspired, ready to go… have no mental impediments to stop you from writing. The only reason you haven’t is because you’re lazy?”

“Well I wouldn’t quite put it that…”

“Face it,” Louie shouted accusatorily, standing again. “You are lazy! And for a writer, there is no greater sin! You should be punished… sent down into some abysmal Hell where you are forced to write romantic dramas for Lifetime for the remainder of your existence!”

“I’d rather be forced to read Nicholas Sparks’s entire bibliography than do that!”

“Exactement! So start writing again, you bum.”

“If you’ll recall our earlier conversation,” I said after finishing my beer, “I was planning on writing tonight before you showed up.”

“And what of the ball and chain,” Louie asked in a whisper… almost conspiratorially. “How does she feel about you spending your precious weekends writing instead of socializing?”

“She’s fine with it, man. Despite your attempts at sabotage, things are going well with her and she’s wicked supportive of me writing. And don’t call her the ball and chain.”

“I don’t think she’ll find out,” Louie chuckled, “unless of course you’re wired!”

“What if I write it?”

“You don’t have the gall for such an act!”

Just then, scantily clad ‘Catwoman’ was launched from the kiddie pool… shrouded in a hail of jello globs. She landed face down on the stage, her raven hair covered in green goo.

“It looks like she just got slimed,” I said, almost laughing.

“Slimed?”

“I know you’ve seen Ghostbusters, dude, so don’t even start with me. Half the cast was Canadian: I’m sure it’s shown in your preschools up there.”

“Goddamn ignorant American,” Louie spat back deviously.

“I’d have it no other way, moose jockey.”

“Things are good with Sarah, then?”

“Yeah… I think so. We seem to work well together.”

“How sad.” Louie shook his head and made the ‘tisk’ sound associated with the vice-principles of America.

“Wow... thanks a lot you jackass. Glad to know my friends are happy for me.”

“Attends,” Louie quickly interjected. “I don’t mean it that way. I simply mean you are at your best as a writer when you are bitter, cynical, and mildly depressed. When you are like that, your work est excellent.”

“So you’re just trying to preserve my literary voice,” I asked skeptically.

“Oui! C’est vrai.”

“Nice try, Lou.”

By this point, ‘Catwoman’ had jumped back into the kiddie pool and held a fistful of ‘Invisible Woman’s’ hair extensions. What had once been a salacious tumble in jello had degraded into a full on rumble between two practically naked “performers.”

“It beats watching horse racing, non?”

“You are demented,” I replied. I couldn’t put it past him, though: Louie certainly knew how to get to the heart of weird in this unfair adoptive city we called home.

“Oui!” Louie hopped up once more, this time standing on the seat cushion. He then spread his arms out, mirroring a crucifixion victim, and howled: “JE SUIS DEMENT, ET JE SUIS FIER!” Amidst a tidal wave of bitter shouts and insults, a lone beer can came sailing out from within the confined, sweating masses… its amber contents streaking out behind it like a comet tail. It struck Louie smack dab in the back of the head, sending him sprawling forward: he landed right atop our less than amiable waitress.

“I told you to sit down you fuck,” shouted our ever unseen antagonist from the back. I jumped off my seat and helped Louie to his feet, then tried to help the waitress. Instead of taking my hand, she slapped it away and stormed off towards what I assumed was the manager’s office.

“Lou… are you okay?”

“Oui, yea, I’m fine,” he replied after a moment of slight wobbling. He then looked back in the direction of his assailant. A tall, scrawny, exceptionally pale man with a waxed moustache and disheveled hair looked back and, in an act more condemning than he realized, gave us the finger.

“We better get outta here, Lou. I think that waitress is pissed. Falling on her might have been the last straw.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Louie dusted himself off, then leaned down and picked up one of his empty beer bottles. “Follow me, mon ami. I have a quick stop to make…”

The Beginning Always Has Promise...

            …It was just a typical Friday evening in Los Angeles. Well, typical for me at least. I’m not too sure how most folks spend the anxious hours between seven and eight pm, but I’d probably bet they don’t take my approach. I was perched on a rickety wooden stool, at the far end of the bar, in one of my favorite Hollywood haunts… the Kibitz Room.

The Kibitz Room is an odd sort of place. Tacked on to a Jewish delicatessen in a neighborhood that is half Hassidic, half hipster… the Kibitz is an unusual establishment to say the least. And the atmosphere and subsequent clientele is no different. During the daylight hours of operation, the Kibitz is akin to a beat saloon from some pulp Elmore Leonard western. Regular faces sluggishly roam in… more at home in the darkened confines of the bar than out under the sun. Members of the miserable service industry take their lunch breaks at the counter top, swigging down stiff drinks with the free tortilla chips on the side before returning to five star restaurants… places they could never afford to eat in. Not on their salary, at least. Then there are the geriatric singles, in cruising the place for the chance of some afternoon strange between whiskey sours and menthol cigarettes. Hell, even a few bartenders choose to make afternoon court in the Kibitz: they drink like the world is ending before they eyes as they exchange the horror stories from their respective centers of employment. From my time lingering in the Kibitz, I’ve come to understand how working in the service industry in Los Angeles is a fate far worse than being set upon by face-eating bath salt junkies and convicted sex offenders high on Spanish fly. Okay, I might exaggerate a bit… but not by much.

I sat hunched over at the bar, my elbows sticking to the highly lacquered counter, mindlessly stirring my Bacardi and coke as I watched the newest batch of race results of Santa Anita. The resident swarm of fruit flies patrolled the bar for lime garnishes left unattended; a whole suburban neighborhood of theirs was established beneath the Coors Light tap.

I’d like to get out to a racetrack soon, I thought. Every time I watched the ponies, I was pulled back into that nebulous haze known as nostalgia: summer afternoons spent at the Aqueduct in Queens, swilling overpriced cheap beer, baking in the oppressive August heat, and watching my friend lose race after race. In misguided indulgences into excess and impecuniously decadent depravity, we lived like animals and like kings. Guayaberas, straw fedoras, cigars, and shots of bourbon from smuggled flasks.

“Hey,” the bartender shouted; I snapped back to the dank reality around me. The bartender was a short, squat, aging Latino man with the most magnanimous moustache since Stalin. “Hey you! I told you no more!” He was prowling around the bar, shaking his fist at a ragged, broken down homeless man who was walking into the bar as if in a fugue state. A fractured, apathetic glare radiated from his gaze as he slowly yet meticulously placed one foot ahead of its companion. The bartender took another step towards him, grumbling loudly in Spanish. The drifter merely paused, surveyed the room with a sideways glance of his eyes, then turned and began shuffling back towards the door. Turning a corner, the only sign the vagrant left was the creaking of the heavy wooden door as it opened, the slow metallic moan as it closed, and the primal thud that concluded its sew-sawed journey.

“Puto pendejo,” I heard the bartender growl to himself as he resumed his post behind the countertop. It dawned on me that I was the only customer to take notice of the unexpected interloper: everyone else was stuck in their delirious realities.

In some bizarre, almost nefarious ritual, the bartender switched the decaying Magnavox televisions in the room to Jeopardy; every other patron in the room immediately sat upright, as if bombarded by an electrical current. The battered, veteran jukebox was cut off, interrupting Truckin’ by the Grateful Dead, and the TV volume went to max. This was the evening Jeopardy showdown in the Kibitz Room… where everyone is a contestant, and no one is a winner.

“What is the Spruce Goose,” I heard a familiar voice say. I turned to the right, facing the entryway, and caught sight of Louie. A former coworker turned constant misfit and partner in crime, my nonsensical French-Canadian friend Louie had been one of the few reliable sources of shenanigans in my west coast life. Yet how he came to be in the Kibitz just then… I had no idea.

“Ah shit,” I said, sitting upright and turning. “Here I was thinking I was gonna have a nice, peaceful evening and then I’m discovered by an insane, maple tree humping canuck.”

“Ferme la, you drunken New Hampshire dwarf.” Louie slapped me on the back and took a seat next to me.

“I don’t know who you’re calling dwarf, Lou. I’m taller than you.”

“Yeah, but I’m thin. You’re built like a human bomb shelter.”

“Thanks, you wretched, gangly fuck.” I raised my glass in salute, which Louie merely smirked at.

“Beefeater and tonic,” Louie called out as the bartender passed our way. He then clasped his hands and leaned forward, looking at the television. A few moments later, the bartender placed a highball glass, nearly overflowing, in front of Louie. “So,” he said after taking a sip of his drink, “where the hell have you been, mon frère?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy, ami. You’ve been missing in action for the last few months. None of the regular crew has seen you around and you’ve been absent from the usual places.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Alright,” I grunted; I picked up my drink and, in a more voracious effort than I expected, I finished it. “Maybe you’re right, Lou. I guess I have been lyin’ pretty low.”

“You don’t say,” Louie sarcastically spat. He took a gluttonous sip of his drink and slammed the glass down on the bar. “So then, mon ami. Where have you been?”

“I don’t know,” I replied with my trademark shrug. “I went away for a while over the holidays. I ended up spending almost a month back home, and I’m not sure why. I don’t even think you could understand, Lou. I just needed to get away… to reconnect with that primal identity I had when I was younger, full of promise and hope and innocence. I stayed because I needed to extradite myself from the chaos and miasma of this place and rediscover something pure… something true. I needed to find myself again.”

“Mon dieu,” Louie replied as he leaned back and surveyed my expression. After realizing I was sincere, the little Canadian finished his drink. “C’est vrai, no?”

“It’s true.”

“Why didn’t you say anything then my friend?”

“I don’t know,” I retorted. I raised my glass and shook it in the direction of the bartender, the universal drunkard sign for another; the bartender swooped by and grabbed my glass. “I think I just needed time to myself, buddy.”

“Je comprend, mon ami.” Louie smirked and shrugged. “After all, life is only what we make it, no?”

“I suppose you’re right, Louie.”

“Of course I am. You forget, mon ami… I’m always right.”

“That’s the biggest fallacy I’ve heard all week, and, living in LA… that is a gargantuan range to contend with.”

“Whatever,” Louie said dismissively. He flagged down the bartender, who replied with the stock ‘I’m busy but I see you and I’ll be right over’ nod of the noggin.

“How’d you know I was here,” I asked, realizing I hadn’t yet inquired.

“I didn’t,” he replied with a chuckle. “I was actually next door having some food with a few friends when, on my way to the restroom, I noticed your sorry excuse for a person sitting at the bar alone, I assume moping about the sad state of your existence.”

“Close… I was waiting for Jeopardy.”

“C’est merde!” The bartender arrived with Louie’s drink. “Two shots of Jameson, s’il vous plait.”

“You know we speak English in this country,” I teased. “Or Spanish, seeing as we live in LA.”

“Whatever. What are you doing tonight?”

“I’d planned on a quiet night in,” I said, cringing as the bartender poured two shots of Irish whiskey. “I have some social obligations tomorrow, and I figured I’d save my health for then.”

“When did you become such a pussy? You have told me all these stories about your life in New York, how you partied all the time. You have even called yourself Kid Chaos, you pretentious, self-aggrandizing bitch! And yet you have never shown this ability to handle the weird.”

“Hanging out with you has tapped my strength, Lou.”

The bartender placed the shots before us.

“To hell with that,” Louie countered. He picked up the shots and handed one to me. “I’ve got some things to do tonight, so you’re riding with me, no?”

“I don’t know Lou,” I tried to protest, placing the shot on the bar. “I’ve got shit to do tomorrow, plus I need to write tonight. I’ve been trying to fight my way out of a slump lately, and I shouldn’t miss my sessions.”

“C’est merde,” he barked, picking up my shot and handing it to me again.

“You’ve already said that.”

“Shut it. You’re a writer, no?”

“So I tell myself.”
            “Then writing will always be there,” Louie said defiantly. “You can always write, but you cannot always have experiences and live your life. You cannot exist exclusively on the page, mon frère. Life is for those actively participating. So stop lingering in social limbo and rejoin the world.” Louie tapped his shot glass against mine, then raised it… holding it up until I complied.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said after a moment’s contemplation. I clinked my shot glass against his and we downed the scorching golden liquid. After a few customary coughs and minor gags, my esophagus aflame with Irish firewater, I managed to look up. “Alright… what’s in store for the evening?”

“Have faith mon frère,” Louie replied with a deviant smile. “Have faith. Bartender! Two more shots, s’il vous plait!”...

Just Like That Tom Waits Song...

      It was 4:15am on an abandoned Sunday morning in Los Angeles when I found myself sitting alone, drinking a cup of coffee at Canter’s Deli. Outside in Fairfax Village, a deafening silence hung like a menacing spectre above the dust-swept streets. Neon signs flickered and hummed, permeating an electrical pulse in the noiseless night. The sunburned vagrants of the neighborhood had retired to their chosen sleeping spots: some huddled under tattered blankets while nestling the doorframe of a local business while others sought less traveled locations on the darkened side streets. A lime green taxi cab barrels north along Fairfax, the lights on the roof off and the meters running as it transported someone to unseen homes. A lone dog began barking, no doubt spooked by some nocturnal creature lurking nearby.

     I was sitting at the counter, facing the old school coffee percolator, reading my first copy of On the Road. The cover had long since gone missing and the spine had more cracks than a Detroit sidewalk; the pages, now yellowed by years in the sun, looked like peeling bark on a white birch tree. My head was propped up, supported by my left arm while my right lingered just within reach of my coffee mug. A plastic bag full of ice was resting atop my right hand, held in place by a crude rigging of rubber bands.

     Though I wasn’t alone in the famous delicatessen, it certainly felt like it. A quartet of young hipsters, most likely in from the Dime across the street, sat jabbering away over a communal plate of french fries. Their stylized accessories such as glasses frames without the lens, scarves, gloves, and buttons seemed to be the topic of conversation.

     Other than the neophytes, there were only individuals in this waking morning. Tired and embittered souls… lost in a bowl of soup and entrenched in their own despair.  And the skeleton crew in the restaurant, the few who managed to stay awake and on their feet, surveyed the patrons with an apathetic look of malcontent. Doldrums ran rampant in the heavy, longing night. Such is the way of early morning in the city of angels.

     A haggard waitress, entering her twilight years and straining to see through the bifocal half glasses on her nose, rounded the counter and approached me with a coffee pot.

     “Need a refill,” she asked monotonously. She held her offhand against her hip and gently rocked back and forth.

      “Please,” I replied, looking up from the book. In the moment that I made eye contact with this veteran waitress, I noticed a fatigue and weariness in myself. It showed in her return gaze… in the recognition of the same state of existence. She flashed me a subtle smile in a somewhat trite display of sympathy.

        “Rough night,” she asked, nodding towards my swollen hand.

        “You could say that,” I replied with a shrug. I shut my book, leaving my finger at the right page. “More like a rough weekend, though.”

        “They keep adding up as life goes on, hon. It’s always the ups and downs.”

        “It’s the name of the game, then?”

        “I wouldn’t call it a game, kid,” she retorted dryly. She topped off the coffee and went off without another word.

        Not a game, I mused to myself. I couldn’t help but smirk at the waitress’s remark. I marked my page with a bookmark and took a slow sip of coffee. And like a torrential flood ripping through the alleys of my mind, I started thinking about the last seventy-two hours. In a series of seemingly innocuous events that rapidly spiraled out of control, I was overwhelmed by disaster, hilarity, shenanigans, and nonsense. It takes days of madness to end up sitting alone drinking coffee at 4:30 in the morning, after all.

        Not a game, I though once again. I chuckled, opened my book, and began reading again.

       How wrong she was! It might be crazy, unpredictable, and mildly sado-masochistic… but this gonzo little life of mine is nothing but a game! Because only a game could be so odd. Just look at ‘Mousetrap’….

Fact or Fiction?

There are times I can’t help but wonder if I’m living out some nebulous melodrama, the likes of which haven’t been seen since the days of Danielle Steele. I mean really… there are so many aspects to my day to day that confuse, confound, and condemn me that it doesn’t seem possible. Sure, everyone has those nagging demons from the past dry-humping their sub consciousness. And yes, I’m well aware that most folks experience the licentiously oriented gorilla known as regret. But as far as I know… I don’t have influence over anyone else, so screw em! I’m stuck facing my own reality in some bizarre emotional introspective nightmare and with each passing moment I feel more and more like I’m a deranged antihero in my own little novella. That or I’m slowly becoming Biff Loman.

            The hardest part with a life like this is trying to stay sane while desperately working within the crazy. The further I go with this whole writing thing… the deeper I feel I am sinking into my own mild, presently humorous-eventually tragic insanity. There is, admittedly, a very large portion of my cognitive mind that wishes I weren’t as such. ‘Oh if only I could be of the detached mentality like such heretics as Sparks and Picoult,’ I lament during my hangover riddled Sunday mornings. But I can’t. Every word that I put to page is not some arbitrary phrase pulled from the ether for the sake of lyrical platitudes. No… I live and breathe in each word. I struggle to rein them in within my mind as I immerse myself in the minds of my characters. How can I write what I can’t see?

            This probably sounds absolutely trite and self-serving to everyone else. Well… tough shit! This is my itsy-bitsy digital soapbox and I’ll preach like Moses on the Mount if I so choose! Besides, I know I’m not alone in this philosophical approach to writing. Several of my friends, compatriots, contemporaries, or whatever else you call them all practice the art of living in the writing. And I don’t mean creating a fictional world for yourself. No… it’s quite the contrary. It’s using reality to weave the story: even fiction writing needs a level of authenticity and realism. Hell, even steam punk or high fantasy needs to be grounded in the familiar so that readers can relate and connect to the characters and the story. In completion of my little opinionated diatribe, all I can say is this: good creative writing blends reality and fiction seamlessly.

            So there you have it you Percocet addicted polka-junkies! I give you the sad yet undeniable truth and key into my very existence. And I’m not even charging you! Well, not yet at least. But we all pay the devil his dues, as the aphorism goes. It’s all a matter of trying to siphon the purest concentration of reality to roll into the joint known as fiction. God, what a mess…