March 2010 Archives

I took a long, slow sip from my whiskey glass and felt the liquid tingle the edges of my tongue.  The second drink is always my favorite.  The first is downed too fast.  It has a job to do and there is no time to stick around and socialize.  But the second can be sipped, savored, and rolled around in the mouth.  On its own terms, it's close to perfect.  And after a performance like that, it's only natural to want an encore.

I wouldn't call myself successful but by sheer luck and occasional effort, I have managed to reach a station in life where I can afford to drink high-end hooch.  Whether I want to is another matter.  I don't need to pay top dollar for some single malt distilled on a Scottish island inhabited by Wicker Man inbreds, especially when it has the bouquet of a burnt tire. 

On the other hand, well liquor isn't all that appealing either.  I shy away from any bottle where someone has tried to work both the bourbon and scotch angles by putting "Kentucky Haggis" on the label.  The stuff is usually aged for a week and a half in particle-board casks before caramel color is poured in and it is shipped off to market.  I am too old to endure the hangovers one gets from drinking this swill.

I like Jameson's, a mid-range Irish whiskey that sells for five bucks a pop at my local bar.  It gets the job done and doesn't ask to much of the imbiber.  It has a rather pleasant taste if you like whiskey and no one expects you to drone on about how smoky or peaty it is.  All that is required is that you treat it like a potato chip and have more than one.

    

White Alligator

White alligator
Or crocodile
Or whatchumacallit

Rules and regulations
Keep you from becoming
My boots and wallet

Successful writers who give advice to aspiring ones tend to agree on one thing.  You need to write every day.  That means putting aside some time where you make words hit the page.  Never mind if it's crap.  That bound to happen sometimes.  Your muse will take the occasional day off.  You, on the other hand, must not.

That is a daunting challenge.  It's much easier to look the part of the writer.  Stand at the top of a cliff overlooking the ocean with your collar turned up and the sea breeze wafting through your hair.  Or if you're less outdoorsy, exhibit bad posture and glare at the world with literary disapproval.

It seems like it would be  much easier to just sit down and write.  Well, it isn't.  Harlan Ellison said "I write because I cannot stop," but he is either the exception or completely full of shit.

During the time I was migrating Poison Spur to its new server, I didn't write anything.  It would have been the perfect opportunity for me to churn out a bunch of stuff, have enough material to pick and choose what to post and even (gasp) have a backlog.  Like most opportunities, I squandered this one as well.

The worst of it is that I've lost my momentum and need to get it back.  Maybe a variation on Ellison's words, "I write and I must not stop," would be more helpful.

Poison Spur is at its new home.

Rather than going with Blogspot, LiveJournal, or the like, I decided to go with a hosting service that allowed me to get myself into trouble.  Alex, who hosted my blog for years, suggested Spry.

The service isn't free, but it isn't expensive either.  Thirty-three bucks a month gets me a virtual Linux system, 20 GB of storage, one terrabyte of bandwidth, and root access.

It's a pretty sweet deal if you're looking for real flexibility.  The drawback is that you have to know what you're doing.

As system administrators go, I'm pretty awful.  I can do things like install apache and configure it in the most basic of ways.  The same goes for most software until I run into some error trying to compile the damn thing, and my reaction is usually something like:

"What do you mean you can't find libcog.so?  I ran a 'find' command and see it right in front of me.  You're obviously not even trying.  Fuck you, Linux system.  I'm going to go drink whiskey and surf porn until you learn to be a little more considerate of my needs."

This tactic does not work.  I know this for sure because I've tried it many times.

This time around, I decided to go against every fiber of my nature and persevere.  I banged away until I got things fixed.  My methods were pretty scattered and awful but Poison Spur is back, and dammit, I'm proud. 

Poison Spur will be shutting down temporarily, possibly as soon as tomorrow.  I've found a new place to host the site so it should be back within a week.

See you soon.

A couple of weeks ago, I started a my first Facebook group.  It was called I Bet I Can Find 14 People Who Like To Watch Old People Eat.  I thought it would go viral and millions of people would join.  I would find fame and fortune, quit my day job, and dedicate my life to hookers and blow.

Alas, that didn't happen.  With a paltry nine members, the group did not even live up to its eponymous promise.  I spent some time trying to explain its lack of popularity.  I disqualified the explanation that the idea wasn't all that funny to begin with on the grounds that it was hurtful to my ego.  That left me only one target for my blame.

Haiku purists.

The haiku I posted to the group had the proper number of syllables per line (without fudging by stuttering!) but lacked a seasonal reference.  I would have done better by writing something like:

Winter of their lives
Unchewables spat back out
Fucking disgusting

Live and learn, I suppose.

Michael kept his eyes shut until the train arrived at Montgomery and he almost missed his stop.  He alit shortly before the doors closed behind him and walked to the center of the platform.  He waited for the crowd of people surrounding the escalator to shrink before moving forward to exit the station.

During his short walk to work, Michael tried to make sense of what he saw.  There was no logical explanation but that Clarissa, his Clarissa, was more real than he had ever imagined.

He crossed intersections against the light.  Angry motorists honked at him.  He kept on walking.

The day was pretty quiet until about 11 a.m. when he got a phone call from an angry database administrator who was employed there.  The DBA's boss had rejected her time sheet because neither of the projects she listed had anything to do with database administration.

Michael vaguely remembered her name.  She was one of the last persons to be given project codes.  There was nothing left that matched her job description so he assigned her "Legal Counsel" and "Facilities: Plumbing and Heating."

Michael apologized to her and tried to make it sound sincere.  When this failed to calm her down, he put her on hold.  He liked her better as a red blinking light on his telephone than when she was calling him names.

He thought about contacting some people higher up to remedy her situation but thought better of it.  All that would come from his efforts would be extra paperwork and a lecture from his boss on how everything should work if you follow the proper procedures, whatever those were.  In the end, she might get her timesheet woes worked out but the process would remain as flawed as it always had been.  The best move for both him and the DBA was therefore to let her solve her problem elsewhere.

The red light was still blinking at noon when Michael got up and went to lunch.

He went to the Lee's down the street and bought a medium bowl of non-dairy cream of vegetable soup.  He returned to his office building and ate at the only empty table in the break room.  He took his time consuming his lunch, spending the last fifteen chewing a colorless mass of what might or might not have been a piece of potato.

When Michael returned to his cubicle, the light had stopped blinking.  Fearing she might call back, he unplugged his phone.  He spent rest of the day staring at his computer monitor.  Streaming P filled the screen with employees and projects but Michael made no effort other than to shake the mouse every so often so the screen saver wouldn't kick in.  All the while, he thought of Clarissa, outlining what to expect in the first year of their relationship in just a few short hours.

That night, he ate at his usual Sizzler.  He showed up a little later than usual to miss most of the dinner-hour crowd.  He didn't want to look at a single human being so when he ordered his meal, he spoke to the waitress' reflection in the window.  This was an improvement over the real one, but still, she was no Clarissa.

Michael then returned home and fell asleep watching a rapid-fire mix of sitcoms, Afghanistan war reports, and "American Idol."

He was happy to see Clarissa on BART the next morning.  If he hadn't seen her, he probably would have gotten off at the next stop, taken another train home, and tried again tomorrow.

Clarissa looked at Michael as intently as her counterpart stared down at the book she was reading.  Clarissa was smiling mischievously.  She was up to something.

His eyes beseeched her for an answer but that only make her shake her head and broaden her smile.  Whatever Clarissa was planning, Michael was just going to have to wait.

The BART train went underground after West Oakland Station and picked up speed as it crossed under the bay.  Lights from the tunnel streaked by the windows of the train car.  After a few minutes, Clarissa raised her finger, signaling Michael to wait.

The train arrived at Embarcadero.  Clarissa's counterpart closed her book, got up, and exited the train.

Clarissa did not go with her.

She was no longer a reflection either.  She was still as transparent as she had been in the window but now she stood in the aisle in the center of the car.  No one but Michael seemed to notice Clarissa, not even those who appeared to be staring straight at her.

The train arrived at Montgomery station.  Clarissa beckoned Michael with her finger and then turned from him and began to walk away.  Michael followed her out of the train.

The two walked out onto the center of the platform.  She took his hand in hers and turned to face him.  Michael's eyes closed as their lips met in a kiss.  When he opened his eyes again, Clarissa raised his hand up to show him that he was now as transparent as she was.

She looked to her left and gestured with her head.  Michael looked and saw his physical self continue to plod along.  With no one at the controls, it continued to walk undererred by the yellow safety strip and fell forward onto the tracks on the opposite side of the platform and into the path of an oncoming train.

The operator hit the brakes but there was no chance of stopping in time.  Metal wheels squealed as they skidded on the tracks.  Morning commuters screamed and gasped in horror.  People ran to the scene, some of them straight through Clarissa and Michael.

She kissed him again and they walked arm in arm toward the escalator.  Michael did not bother to look back to see what happened to that mass of skin and meat and bone he never had much use for anyway.