Winks and Pelvic Thrusts

Here is part of a story that I have been working on for a couple of months.  It is from the point of view of an unsuccessful writer.  Lika hera hera go:


I’ve been published a couple of times.  I even won a contest in a magazine for a story about a hippy playing the bongoes.  I’ll summarize it for you:  The hippy’s dog keeps barking and barking, yap yap yap, while the guy is there trying to get into a groove on his bongoes.  But the hippy has to keep stopping to correct the dog.  The first time he says to the dog, “come on man," in kind of a whiney voice.  But when he tries to play again, the dog starts barking, so the hippy gets a little mad.  He snaps at the dog “shut up Leonard!” And okay, the dog is quiet, he has learned his lesson.   The hippy starts playing again just for a minute to where he is really getting into it.  His beeds are rattling and his head is shaking.  His hair is flying and he’s looking up at the sky for that moment, for that one thing, that clear tunnel that sucks you in like a vacuum tube and your just some light piece of dust.  He’s looking for it.  When he’s right at the edge (its like the lip of a glass, all rounded over and he see’s it like a blue horizon) the dog starts yapping again.  The hippy throws down his bongoes, snapping them apart, and kicks the dog hard in the side. 


The story was published two years after giving up on graduate school, in a pretty obscure magazine that I don’t think exists anymore.  I got the idea when I overheard my neighbor doing pretty much what I described.  I had just returned from some place that I can’t remember.  Work probably.  I was maybe thirty.  I was feeling pretty dismal, though thinking about it now I can’t say why I was so sad all the time.  The piercing yelp of the dog when that hippy kicked him in the ribs made me laugh out loud.  I was delighted to see someone who was wearing the uniform of tranquilty acting so viscious, so full of wrath.  I can’t remember if I thought of myself as the hippy or the dog.  We switch sides that way.

Walt for Desert

I just ate some cereal.  It was unsatisfying...  here is a drawing of Walt / Bryan Cranston from Breaking Bad for my illustration portfolio.  Bought some new markers to do it.  One of the colors I bought was "sand".  Another color I bought was "shell."  I also bought "taupe," "rose petal", and "light peach".  All equally funny names.

***I was wrong.  They did not announce the winners of the TMR audio contest yet.

Drawing hope...

 

Building up my illustration portfolio with some new drawings (celeb portraits, article based stuff) so maybe I can get a job that doesn't involve not getting tipped.

  

Side note: Fuck you kid who eats egg sandwiches everyday, it comes with cheddar mother fucker and you have high cholesterol anyway.  You should eat a bananna.

Jon Stewart is in the portrait.  For some reason the yellow is more pronounced on here, and by "pronounced" I mean "fucking too bright."

no wonder i can't get any work done... desk

N@B

Just made this flier for the St. Louis event Noir at the Bar featuring all sorts of badness in a good way.

There ya have it folks...

I got distracted.  Just submitted an audio story to a competition, so I spent a lot of time recording the sounds of my dog sighing and shifting uncomfortably and me cussing at him.  Hopefully I can find a way to post it on here.  The story, not the dog sounds and cussing.

Anyway, been working on a new story "There ya have it folks..." here is a video that helped inspire it.  Here are some words from the story:

“Hey light this,” some goatee guy in a hoody said, holding in front of Sabrina a small cyclinder with the face of the evil man printed on the side.  The radius of a red target made its sights on the center of his tan skull.  Sabrina tapped the burning end of her sparkler, like a fairy god mother tapping a dumpy step child with her wand, and lit the twisted whick that came up out of the evil man’s turban.  The goatee guy set the firework down and stepped away cooly.  The crowd backed away with him and watched.  There was a moment of nothing, then the cylinder burst from the top with the gaudy redness of casino lights, spraying in a volcano of almost electrical looking sparks.  It spit four balls that snapped in two, which was followed by a forceful blue smoke that choked out rather quickly.  The crowd was quiet.  Sabrina could hear her sparkler hissing, and she held it further away from her body.  Then the crowd cheered and closed around.  A few people tried to stomp on the spent cylinder, but they wrapped into one another and tumbled, knocking it over on its side.  The cylinder then rolled to Sabrina’s feet.  She stomped it so viciously, and kicked it so hard that it arched upwards spinning through the air, toward a fat guy with a red beard and a Redskins Jersey, who in turn raised his foot like it were ten thousand pounds.  Sabrina whistled as the man did his own dance on the evil man’s burnt head.  She held her sparkler up in the air until the flame disappeared and the metal stick wilted from the heat. 

the WOW! signal

bill is up to his old tricks.