Monday, September 29, 2008

A bit of poetry...(Not Mine, I try not to do that to you)

I heard this on the XM radio on the way to Burning Ham and loved it.

What We Might Be, What We Are

If you were a scoop of vanilla
And I were the cone where you sat,
If you were a slowly pitched baseball
And I were the swing of a bat,

If you were a shiny new fishhook
And I were a bucket of worms,
If we were a pin and a pincushion,
We might be on intimate terms.

If you were a plate of spaghetti
And I were your piping-hot sauce,
We'd not even need to write letters
To put our affection across.

But you're just a piece of red ribbon
In the beard of a Balinese goat
And I'm a New Jersey mosquito.
I guess we'll stay slightly remote.
-- X. J. Kennedy

New Short Story

Mr. Hyde is a real nice guy!
By: Robert J. Day Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day

"I think there's a whole region of images and feelings inside us that rarely are given outlet in daily life. And when they do come out they can take perverse forms. It's the dark side. Everyone, when he sees it, recognizes the same thing in himself. It's a recognition of forces that rarely see the light of day." - Jim Morrison

"Here's your breakfast dear" the man’s wife said cheerfully. He took his eyes off the morrning paper long enough to glance down at the plate she'd place in front of him. Bacon and eggs. Every goddamned morning, it was the same fucking thing. Bacon and eggs. Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't the stupid bitch fix something different once in a while? "Thank you darling" he said, giving her his best smile. "Would you like some toast, or a glass of orange juice?" What I would like is for you to just once surprise me with some French toast or waffles, you fat, lazy cunt. "No thank you sweetheart, this will do just fine."
He finished his bacon and eggs without tasting them, rinsed his plate, silverware, and coffee mug, and then put them in the dishwasher like the well-trained dog he was. "I've got to be getting to the office now honey, I'll see you tonight." He gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek, and managed not to grimace in disgust, then grabbed his briefcase and overcoat from the hall closet and headed out the door.
As she watched him leave, the woman thought to herself, as she often did, that she was extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful man. He was just such a nice guy...
I wouldn't give a shit if I never saw that ugly bitch again, the man thought to himself as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. "Good morning Mack!" he said to doorman as he stepped out of the elevator. You worthless sack of shit. "Good morning to you sir! How bout those Giants? Gonna go all the way this year I'm thinkin." Who gives a flying fuck what you think you goddamned old drunk? Fucking dumbass mick. "You betcha Mack, take it easy, don't work to hard okay?" Like you ever have. "I won't, you have a good day sir!" replied the doorman.
Ernie "Mack" MacDougal smiled as the man stepped out into the street. Nice guy that one. Helluva nice guy.
"Where to mister?" the cabbie asked as the man got in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. Back to India or Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell you came from raghead, thought the man. "21st and 6th please" he said politely. The cab driver nodded as he reached over and switched on the radio. Immediately the cab was filled with the most awful noise the man had ever heard. What the fuck is this shit? the man wondered. How can he stand it? I suppose this crap is what passes for music in your country Habib, but you're in America now, you asshole. Jesus fucking Christ.
He tried going over some reports during the ride to his office, but the horrible sounds that continually blasted forth from the cabbies speakers ruined any hope of being able to concentrate.
The man thought about what it would be like to reach forward and stick his expensive pen (a Christmas gift from his wife) into the side of Ali Baba's neck again and again. He imagined that his surprised screams of pain and anguish would probably sound quite a bit like the utterances of the dickhead who was currently singing that goddamn foreign gibberish shit on the radio. His head was pounding by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the soulless glass and steel tower that housed the offices of his company, and countless others exactly like it.
In spite of his headache, he gave the raghead a five dollar tip and a cheerful, "thanks a lot sir!" wondering as he handed over the money if he was helping to fund terrorism. What a nice guy, thought the cabbie as he drove away.
On his way to the elevator, the man spotted Artie Jenkins from accounting. Please don't let that schmuck get on this elevator he thought, I can't stand that whiney little son of a bitch. Artie stepped into the elevator just before the door was closing. "Hey, glad I caught you!" Artie exclaimed. He then began a rambling narrative that had something to do with his wife's sister, the man wasn't sure, Artie's voice was so high and whiney he was never really sure just what the hell Artie was talking about, it was hard to think with that shrill voice ringing in his ears. He tried to nod in the right places, occasionally throwing in a "really?" or a "you don't say?" when he thought it might be appropriate, but his headache was getting worse.
At last he reached his floor, just as he was seriously contemplating choking Artie to death with his cheap necktie. "Take it easy" he said to Artie, who was already moving on to his next victim. "Super nice guy!" said Artie to the bored-looking advertising executive next to him, pointing to the man's back as he stepped out of the elevator. "Seriously, just an all around good guy!"
"Good morning Karen." Karen was the man's secretary. She liked to flirt shamelessly with him but he knew if he tried to go anywhere with it she'd sue him for sexual harassment so fast it would make his head spin. "Morning handsome, you're looking sharp as usual. Anything I can do for you?" Bend over your desk and hike up that skirt you cockteasing whore, and put your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams because I'm going to wear that pretty little ass out. "Just the usual coffee, thanks." And your tits. Your firm, perky tits all over my face. He watched her pour the coffee, bending way too far over to put back the pot, causing her already short skirt to rise up and give him a nice look at the cheeks of her ass. "How is it?" she asked, after he'd taken a sip. A little too sweet, not unlike your wet cunt my dear. "Just right, thank you Karen."
What's with this guy? thought Karen. She'd been practically throwing herself at him for as long as she'd been his secretary and he was always a perfect gentleman. He was just too nice. "Mr. Sondenfield would like to see you when you get a moment." she said.
Barry Sondenfield was supposedly his boss, despite of the fact that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and when he bothered to show up at the office at all he generally drank his lunch. What the fuck does that incompetent moron want from me now? thought the man. How long am I going to have to do both our jobs? When will my poor head stop hurting?
"Outsourced? I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Sondenfield, how could this have happened?" And why the fuck am I only just now being told about it, you nasty old piece of drunken dogshit? "Times are tough..." said drunken dogshit with a nervous grin, "the company is making cutbacks and laying off all over the place. Hell, I was lucky to get promoted just before the shit hit the fan or else I'd be in the same boat as you. Unfortunately, one of the conditions for my new promotion was that I'd have to be the one to break the bad news to everybody. Don't shoot the messenger buddy, ha, ha."
He continued to speak, but the man was no longer really listening, his anger wouldn't let him concentrate and his headache was so bad he thought his head might explode. That fucking rat bastard sold me out. Really fucking screwed me good. Now who was going to be around to fix his fuckups, the retarded son of a bitch. He could have easily put in a good word for me and had them find me a spot somewhere. What the fuck was he supposed to do; he had a stack of unpaid bills and next to nothing in the bank. With the job market the way it was, it could be six months or more before he found another job, shit maybe even a year.
Drunken Dogshit was saying something about how he really appreciated all the hard work, but the man's head was throbbing so hard he was seeing black spots, and his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. Something Sondenfield said earlier had stuck with him, and kept repeating over and over in his brain. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger...
"And of course I'm more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation." Sondenfields speech had come to an end it seemed. "Thank you very much sir." said the man, rising from his chair and walking toward the door. "If you wouldn't mind doing that now, I've just got to grab something from my desk and I'll be right back."
Without waiting for a reply he left Drunken Dogshit's spacious corner office and walked down the hall towards his own modest little cubicle. Shoot the messenger? Oh no, he had something much better in mind. Reaching his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the 9mm automatic and the extra clip he'd been keeping in there for several months without really knowing why. Or perhaps he'd known all along. He released the safety just as Karen came walking in. "What are you doing with that?" she asked, looking completely unafraid. "Shut the fuck up bitch." he said, and shot her in the face at pointblank range.
The man shot and killed thirteen and seriously wounded six of his colleagues and co-workers that day before he was killed by police gunfire. Among the dead was Artie Jenkins from accounting, his boss Barry Sondenfield, and of course Karen Leary his secretary. The story made headlines across the country, and everyone interviewed by the media said the same thing, surviving co-workers, college friends, the taxi driver who'd brought him to work that day, family members, even his grieving widow.
"It makes no sense, I just don't understand, he was such a nice guy."

The End?

Monday, September 22, 2008

Check it out!

An article I wrote for the Black Rock Beacon's website after Burning Man 2007 has finally been put up on the site! I stumbled across it accidentally and was pleasantly surprised!

Saturday, September 20, 2008

A Christmas story (outline of yet another work in progress.)

I think I may actually finish this one though, I like it a lot...
Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day [Don't plagiarize me, bro!]

A Christmas story.

There’s these two tweakers, a relatively happy couple despite their horrendous meth addiction, which isn’t immediately apparent in the story’s opening. The story begins with the happy couple (Tim and Debbie) about to embark on a shopping trip. They’ve been really “good” for two whole weeks and if they put off paying the electric bill, (they’ve paid late before and not been shut off, they’ll just have to pay the late fee again is all) they’ll have the princely sum of ?200$ to purchase Xmas gifts for their three kids, one of whom is named destiny, the other two’s names mean something like paternal love and responsibility??
Their hearts full of love and Christmas cheer, they set off for the local Wally World to make the holiday dreams of their children come true, and why not?? They’re good kids, they deserve better than just the one or two cheap dollar store presents they got from Toys for Tots last year because Debbie had to bail Tim out of jail and there just wasn’t any money for presents, or even a tree.. Shit, Debbie had to give a couple blowjobs just to get the last few dollars for the bail money, and when the newly-released Tim learned his old lady had no beer money and only a little dope, he sent her back out on the streets with a black eye to suck her way to his next high. On Christmas.
Debbie didn’t mind, not really. She loved him. Besides, he was different now. He’d been making good money the past few months stealing copper from construction sites for recycling, so they’d had plenty of crystal and sometimes Tim would bring home a half gallon of milk for the kids with his case of beer. And Tim felt so bad about last Christmas, he’d insisted they clean up for two weeks so they’d have money for the kids.
Cleaning up meant only pot for her and no meth, for him it meant he’d only do his friends dope at “work” and not buy any himself. But it was the tree that made Debbie believe that Tim had really changed for the better this time. Just this evening, Tim had come in with a barely used, fake Christmas tree, the kind with the lights and the the ornaments already on it. It was at this very moment set up in the living room, next to the TV, flashing and blinking, it was in fact “lit up like a Christmas tree” and Debbie thought it was the most beautiful Christmas tree she’d ever seen. To anyone else it might not have been anything special, but to Debbie it represented everything good and normal that a family is supposed to be and so it was the best tree EVER.
They wait until the kids are asleep, and leaving them in the care of their friend Dinky, they head to Wal-Mart. As they’re getting into the car (Pinto or Station Wagon??) They run into hambone, one of several dealers in their apartment complex. Hambone sells meth, and Tim and Debbie were important clients of his until about two weeks ago. He wants to know where they been, he was starting to get worried about them, etc. Well, it’s good to see them anyway, and hey by the way, he’s got some killer shit, did they need anything?? No thanks, they say we’re fine. Are they sure, this is REALLY good shit, and just because they were friends, he’d give them a great deal. Well, maybe just a little to perk them up for their shopping trip they say, they can afford to spend a little of the money, it IS their money after all, and there’ll still be plenty left for presents. Sure what the hell they say, “Give us a 20.”
But of course Hambone can’t do a 20, his shits already been pre-weighed and packaged and he doesn’t have any sacks that small. He says he’ll give them a 50 sack for forty, cause it’s them. They don’t need that much, but Tim says he can always sell the rest to the guys from “work” and since they needed to save a few dollars for Christmas dinner anyway, it was just like money in the bank.
They score the shit and go to a nearby park to get high. They’re sitting on the swings passing the glass dick back and forth when Carol shows up. Carol is a fellow tweaker who used to live in their complex until she was evicted. Now she divides her time between the local shelter and this park. Tim and Debbie are feeling exceptionally giving this evening and invite carol to join them, which she gladly does.
Hambone was right, the shit is killer, and the three of them are soon VERY spun-out, the first bowl led to bowls two and three, as it often does , and a couple of hours pass by almost unnoticed, as they often will. “Shit, we gotta go!”
Carol switches the dope sack with a sack of cut, and Tim sells cut to the wrong guy (Stevie) on the way into the store, they shop like they’ve never shopped before.
Stevie is waiting in the parking lot, and he isn't happy. He says they sold him a bag of fake shit. Tim says no man, that shit was really good, come to the park with us and we'll try it out.
At the park Stevie beats up and robs Tim, taking everything, and then he proceeds to rape Debbie in the park, as Carol watches from the bushes where she’s been hiding. Tim is beaten so bad he's barely conscious and can do nothing but watch helplessly.
They return home with nothing, and when the kids wake up asking if Santa Claus came, Tim beats them out of shame and frustration, and after catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, is sickened by what he sees staring back at him.
Not knowing what else to do, he dropkicks the fake tree across the living room in disgust. Destiny sees it fly across the room, and it is the ugliest thing she’s ever seen, to anyone else it might just look like a flying xmas tree but to her it represents everything ugly, vile, depraved, and evil that her family has always been and so it is the worst tree EVER.
The story ends with the lights going out, it seems they had gotten away with paying their bill late for the last time. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
Definitely NOT The End.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Playa Time VS. The Best of Intentions

It never fails...

You make plans, buy stuff, make more plans, maybe make a few promises...

You fully intend to do all those things you said you'd do, meet those people you've been wanting to meet, and who wanted to meet you, but the second your feet touch down on the Playa, everything flies right out the window.

It goes slowly at first, but by the end of the week it's out of your control. Playa time. When "I'll be there in an hour" turns into "See you next year!" and you have no idea how that could have happened. I have as good an excuse as anyone I guess, I was working for the Gate department most of the time. Partying my ass off and having the time of my life, but working nontheless.

Even when I wasn't working at the Gate I would often find myself there, or in the vortex appropriately named The Black Hole, and even though I missed a fuckton of cool shit, I was right where I needed to be usually. Fuck what you heard, the real party is the one behind the scenes, primarily before and after the actual event.

So while I am truly sorry I didn't get to meet anyone I was so looking forward to meeting, I'm not THAT fucking sorry, because in the end it was you who really missed out, and not me. If that sounds a little conceited, I don't mean for it to, because it's not really about me or any one person in particular, although I did meet some of the truly great ones. It's the combination of all the eclectic and unique individuals and our common goal that makes The Pirates so goddamn special. If you see the pirate ship coming get the fuck out of the way, because we WILL run your hippie ass over!

But that's not what this blog entry is about, oh no. More on the Pirates later perhaps but for now I'd like to take a moment to try and convince my other Burner friends that I am not completely full of shit. A tall order perhaps but I believe I'm up for it, mainly because I've got the truth on my side. I arrived on Playa the Thursday before the start of the event and with all my plans, hopes, and dreams still very much intact. The next day after helping erect a giant bottle of Ketchup I worked my first shift at the Gate and became violently ill.

I had Gate Fever, a nasty ailment whose symptoms include but are in no way limited to: Euphoria, right-on'ness, a sense of accomlishment and belonging, and mass alcohol consumption with no intoxication, which can lead to workaholism. I lost an uncle to workaholism, and it wasn't pretty, there were pie charts, graphs, and alphabetically filed receipts everywhere man.

There is no cure for Gate Fever, and once infected it will almost certainly kill you. I guess it's not such a bad way to go...

To Be Continued...

Friday, September 12, 2008

It's been awhile...

Since the last time I posted anything here. I've always hated blogging, and while I know keeping a writer's journal can be beneficial, I've never been real good at keeping up with one of those either. It's hard enough to just write something everyday, much less having to post it on the web for all to see.

My apologies to any and all of my internet friends with whom I promised to meet up with at Burning Man this year. I was busy pillaging with the Pirates of the Gonnorhean, AKA Gate, Perimeter, and sometimes Exodus staff.

When I wasn't working for or partying with the Gate family, I was working for or partying with the Ketchup family, my friends and Playa neighbors. Much love goes out to Mr. Bruce Bender and Kat, and the whole Krazy Ketchup Krew! Only you could have kept me away from Doc Pyro's Meet and Greet!

Stay tuned for the garbled details of my many misadventures in the desert!

To Be Continued...