You'll be caught and cultured
You'll be brought before the fire
Dove into a vulture
Another gun for hire
2009/05/17
2009/05/12
Lemonade
"This book's going to be even bigger, isn't it?"
"You don't seem to get it. This isn't about the money, the fame, or the power. This is about the women. Specifically you, Lemonade."
She looked baffled. If you can baffle a woman named Lemonade Lux Patterson, a woman who sees starlight through drinking straws, and regularly consults with pigeons about which sidewalks are best not walked down (really, who better to ask?), if you can inject into her multicoloured and aromatic world something that she hasn't encountered before, then you have accomplished something.
Accomplishment is not found in what I have done outside of this act. I write terrible horror novels. They sell like crack in a bad neighbourhood, and I do not fucking know why. I try to make each one worse than the last and they just keep selling more and more copies. I go to signings and launches constantly. People dress up like characters from my books. I've signed zombie-tits. Have you signed zombie-tits? Didn't think so. It's not all that great actually, the rotting flesh sticks to your sharpie afterwards. Stinks up the car. I've had women thinking they were werewolf bitches in heat after me, and while it is certainly flattering to be literally drooled over, there's Lemonade.
"Toby?" she asked. My name is a question. My name is a goddamned question.
"Yeah." I replied. I am indeed Toby. "Yeah, that's me."
Lemonade was still looking at me like I had sprouted snakes out of my eye sockets. Not a bad idea for the next book. I noted it. Lemonade, you see, if I may be so bold as to assume you are not peering through the world with a pair of pythons, is kind of oblivious to people. I only know her because she made friends with my dog, Visitor, when I was walking him one day. Lemonade and he connected, and she sort of followed us home, only really acknowledging my existence when, upon leaving, she asked if she could come back to play with him again. I said sure. She jumped up and hugged me, her dozens of bracelets jangling around my ears like some sort of pewter orchestra warming up, and then she ran off only to return the next day. Visitor has eaten prime rib every night since.
I made pancakes while the two of them played frisbee in the back yard. It was weird enough seeing my dog throw a frisbee, let alone seeing his new friend run to catch it in her mouth. When they both came in, panting, I tossed them pancakes, and they caught them between their teeth. She grinned at me then, and that's when she first asked my name.
"What are you talking about, Toby?" She wears a lot of green makeup. Emerald eyeshadow, mint mascara, and lime lipstick. That's really irrelevant to what's going on right now, but it will give you something to picture. Green-accented facial features looking confused under an iridescent orange and chocolate mop of equally confused braids and twists, and curls which seem to trip over themselves in an attempt to reach her shoulders. Green-accented facial features asking me what I was talking about. Asking my name as a question again.
When they ask your name like that, it means they aren't sure you are the same person they were talking to a minute ago. Maybe you aren't. Maybe I am no longer Tobias "Toby" Edward Daniels, author of seventeen best selling trash-monster novels and one and a half screenplays of questionable quality, amateur pool player, ex-grocery store jockey, and uninspired Aries. Maybe, in this moment of honesty and vulnerability, I have become something other than what I was, something bigger, brighter, braver. Maybe I am Batman! Maybe, just maybe, she'll stop looking at me like that.
"I am talking about... I'm saying... why do you think I keep writing these?" I'm the one asking the questions here! I thought. Hah.
"Because you're compelled to write about the monsters that plague your subconscious, in some vain attempt to exorcise them from your psyche." This was tossed off matter of factly. She said it like it was as obvious as the cobras I was looking at her with.
"You think that I'm bothered by slime monsters from outer space? You think they 'plague my psyche'?" I sat down now, collapsing back into the cushy chair in my living room. In front of me on the coffee table lay a copy of my newest piece of crap. Sitting next to that was my latest novel. The two complemented each other, I thought.
"Deeply." Lemonade's voice deepened with seriousness. Her own serpentine-lidded eyes expressed concern.
"No. No. Slime monsters from outer space don't bother me any more than-"
"-Slime monsters from Earth," she cut me off. I laughed. Dammit. It was a manly and robust laugh, full of the tension that I felt gnawing at my stomach, but the Lady Lemonade had shaken and taken me again.
"-I write these, Lemonade, I write them because they seem to entertain you. I mean, you, yes, as well as thousands of others in six different languages around the world, but, really because they seem to entertain you. Because they sell well enough that I'm able to ... " Say it. " ... to..." SAY IT. "I don't have to worry about uh- you."
"Why would you worry about 'uh- me', Toby?"
"You don't have any money. I buy you meals all the time, but I don't know when the hell else you eat. You talk about other people, but I don't know how many of them are actually four legged furry critters who couldn't take care of you if you ever needed anything." It had taken me two weeks of careful stalking to discern that she lived in the basement of a local glazier's shop. I talked to the owner and he said he knew about it. Didn't mind, she was harmless. Three weeks after that I had had to act all surprised and unfamiliar with the neighbourhood when she invited me over.
She looked down. "I eat," she said quietly. "And soon, I'll have someone to take care of me forever."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm getting married."
"To who?" We matched blank stares. Mine was blanker. It meant she had to say something. Those are the rules. Even Lemonade will respect those rules.
"To Visitor." Man's best friend indeed. Oh, Visitor, see how you like bargain brand dog food after all that prime rib. Right behind my back, the sly beast.
"You can't marry my dog! Jesus Christ, Lemonade." Now was a time for pacing. I paced around the room. I made pace like I was a bit of gadgetry in an old codger's chest while he was having cardiac arrhythmia. I knew how that old codger felt. She looked up at me from the couch as though I was being unreasonable in not immediately popping open my best bottle of champagne and bringing out the fine crystal and doggie bowl in order to toast the happy couple.
"YOU CAN'T MARRY A DOG! Any dog! Especially not my dog though. Visitor, go outside boy." I paced out of the room, twenty three paces to be exact, and let him out into the backyard, locking the door behind his treacherous canine ass. When I returned to the living room, Lemonade was laying on her stomach on the couch, nose deep in my book, cocoa and tangerine locks falling around her face. She showed no indication of noting my re-entry.
"I was just fucking with you. You don't have to yell." Her eyes didn't leave the page.
"Sorry." I muttered and sat down on the cushion at her side. "How is it?" I nodded towards the novel. She rolled over onto her back looking up at me. No wait. She was looking past me at the ceiling. No wait. She was looking past the ceiling into the heart of Jupiter's red spot. When she's looking at Jupiter's red spot she crosses her eyes, just slightly.
"So what if I did want to marry a dog? Dogs are sweet, emotional, intelligent mammals. That's a lot more than-"
"Shut up."
"Why?"
"Just shut up, okay?"
"But how come-"
"I'm a sweet, emotional, intelligent mammal, you know," Snark, thy name is Tobias. I sat forward, and looked for Jupiter's red spot in the carpet. Jupiter's red spot is really, really beautiful I'm told. I hope some day to see it. When I cross my eyes, all I get is a headache and the vague notion that she's laughing at my expense.
Lemonade laughed. See?
"Yeah, well, three out of four, at least. I'm not convinced you're not a slime monster yourself."
"You don't seem to get it. This isn't about the money, the fame, or the power. This is about the women. Specifically you, Lemonade."
She looked baffled. If you can baffle a woman named Lemonade Lux Patterson, a woman who sees starlight through drinking straws, and regularly consults with pigeons about which sidewalks are best not walked down (really, who better to ask?), if you can inject into her multicoloured and aromatic world something that she hasn't encountered before, then you have accomplished something.
Accomplishment is not found in what I have done outside of this act. I write terrible horror novels. They sell like crack in a bad neighbourhood, and I do not fucking know why. I try to make each one worse than the last and they just keep selling more and more copies. I go to signings and launches constantly. People dress up like characters from my books. I've signed zombie-tits. Have you signed zombie-tits? Didn't think so. It's not all that great actually, the rotting flesh sticks to your sharpie afterwards. Stinks up the car. I've had women thinking they were werewolf bitches in heat after me, and while it is certainly flattering to be literally drooled over, there's Lemonade.
"Toby?" she asked. My name is a question. My name is a goddamned question.
"Yeah." I replied. I am indeed Toby. "Yeah, that's me."
Lemonade was still looking at me like I had sprouted snakes out of my eye sockets. Not a bad idea for the next book. I noted it. Lemonade, you see, if I may be so bold as to assume you are not peering through the world with a pair of pythons, is kind of oblivious to people. I only know her because she made friends with my dog, Visitor, when I was walking him one day. Lemonade and he connected, and she sort of followed us home, only really acknowledging my existence when, upon leaving, she asked if she could come back to play with him again. I said sure. She jumped up and hugged me, her dozens of bracelets jangling around my ears like some sort of pewter orchestra warming up, and then she ran off only to return the next day. Visitor has eaten prime rib every night since.
I made pancakes while the two of them played frisbee in the back yard. It was weird enough seeing my dog throw a frisbee, let alone seeing his new friend run to catch it in her mouth. When they both came in, panting, I tossed them pancakes, and they caught them between their teeth. She grinned at me then, and that's when she first asked my name.
"What are you talking about, Toby?" She wears a lot of green makeup. Emerald eyeshadow, mint mascara, and lime lipstick. That's really irrelevant to what's going on right now, but it will give you something to picture. Green-accented facial features looking confused under an iridescent orange and chocolate mop of equally confused braids and twists, and curls which seem to trip over themselves in an attempt to reach her shoulders. Green-accented facial features asking me what I was talking about. Asking my name as a question again.
When they ask your name like that, it means they aren't sure you are the same person they were talking to a minute ago. Maybe you aren't. Maybe I am no longer Tobias "Toby" Edward Daniels, author of seventeen best selling trash-monster novels and one and a half screenplays of questionable quality, amateur pool player, ex-grocery store jockey, and uninspired Aries. Maybe, in this moment of honesty and vulnerability, I have become something other than what I was, something bigger, brighter, braver. Maybe I am Batman! Maybe, just maybe, she'll stop looking at me like that.
"I am talking about... I'm saying... why do you think I keep writing these?" I'm the one asking the questions here! I thought. Hah.
"Because you're compelled to write about the monsters that plague your subconscious, in some vain attempt to exorcise them from your psyche." This was tossed off matter of factly. She said it like it was as obvious as the cobras I was looking at her with.
"You think that I'm bothered by slime monsters from outer space? You think they 'plague my psyche'?" I sat down now, collapsing back into the cushy chair in my living room. In front of me on the coffee table lay a copy of my newest piece of crap. Sitting next to that was my latest novel. The two complemented each other, I thought.
"Deeply." Lemonade's voice deepened with seriousness. Her own serpentine-lidded eyes expressed concern.
"No. No. Slime monsters from outer space don't bother me any more than-"
"-Slime monsters from Earth," she cut me off. I laughed. Dammit. It was a manly and robust laugh, full of the tension that I felt gnawing at my stomach, but the Lady Lemonade had shaken and taken me again.
"-I write these, Lemonade, I write them because they seem to entertain you. I mean, you, yes, as well as thousands of others in six different languages around the world, but, really because they seem to entertain you. Because they sell well enough that I'm able to ... " Say it. " ... to..." SAY IT. "I don't have to worry about uh- you."
"Why would you worry about 'uh- me', Toby?"
"You don't have any money. I buy you meals all the time, but I don't know when the hell else you eat. You talk about other people, but I don't know how many of them are actually four legged furry critters who couldn't take care of you if you ever needed anything." It had taken me two weeks of careful stalking to discern that she lived in the basement of a local glazier's shop. I talked to the owner and he said he knew about it. Didn't mind, she was harmless. Three weeks after that I had had to act all surprised and unfamiliar with the neighbourhood when she invited me over.
She looked down. "I eat," she said quietly. "And soon, I'll have someone to take care of me forever."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm getting married."
"To who?" We matched blank stares. Mine was blanker. It meant she had to say something. Those are the rules. Even Lemonade will respect those rules.
"To Visitor." Man's best friend indeed. Oh, Visitor, see how you like bargain brand dog food after all that prime rib. Right behind my back, the sly beast.
"You can't marry my dog! Jesus Christ, Lemonade." Now was a time for pacing. I paced around the room. I made pace like I was a bit of gadgetry in an old codger's chest while he was having cardiac arrhythmia. I knew how that old codger felt. She looked up at me from the couch as though I was being unreasonable in not immediately popping open my best bottle of champagne and bringing out the fine crystal and doggie bowl in order to toast the happy couple.
"YOU CAN'T MARRY A DOG! Any dog! Especially not my dog though. Visitor, go outside boy." I paced out of the room, twenty three paces to be exact, and let him out into the backyard, locking the door behind his treacherous canine ass. When I returned to the living room, Lemonade was laying on her stomach on the couch, nose deep in my book, cocoa and tangerine locks falling around her face. She showed no indication of noting my re-entry.
"I was just fucking with you. You don't have to yell." Her eyes didn't leave the page.
"Sorry." I muttered and sat down on the cushion at her side. "How is it?" I nodded towards the novel. She rolled over onto her back looking up at me. No wait. She was looking past me at the ceiling. No wait. She was looking past the ceiling into the heart of Jupiter's red spot. When she's looking at Jupiter's red spot she crosses her eyes, just slightly.
"So what if I did want to marry a dog? Dogs are sweet, emotional, intelligent mammals. That's a lot more than-"
"Shut up."
"Why?"
"Just shut up, okay?"
"But how come-"
"I'm a sweet, emotional, intelligent mammal, you know," Snark, thy name is Tobias. I sat forward, and looked for Jupiter's red spot in the carpet. Jupiter's red spot is really, really beautiful I'm told. I hope some day to see it. When I cross my eyes, all I get is a headache and the vague notion that she's laughing at my expense.
Lemonade laughed. See?
"Yeah, well, three out of four, at least. I'm not convinced you're not a slime monster yourself."
2009/05/08
space cake
made in a microwave
concealed under futuristic plastic
preferred by aliens
seasoned with exotic spices
concealed under futuristic plastic
preferred by aliens
seasoned with exotic spices
2009/05/02
The best performance we've ever seen!
A life lived in the spotlight
Smiling out into the glare
Never quite certain
If the audience is there(-they'renot)
Smiling out into the glare
Never quite certain
If the audience is there(-they'renot)
2009/04/20
Introducing: Avis
Hahahahahahah.
"Ma'am? Ma'am are you all right?"
Haahahahhahahahaah.
"Jesus Christ! It's an ambulance but you can't drive like that. Someone had better be dying in the back."
Hahahahahhahah.
"There's no one back there? What the hell? Let me see your badge, what the hell are you thinking?"
Hahahahahahahah.
He shook her shoulders.
"Hahahahahahhaha" is what I'm thinking.
"The dopamine made me do it, officer." She looked up at him with feigned sweetness, then passed out.
"Ma'am? Ma'am are you all right?"
Haahahahhahahahaah.
"Jesus Christ! It's an ambulance but you can't drive like that. Someone had better be dying in the back."
Hahahahahhahah.
"There's no one back there? What the hell? Let me see your badge, what the hell are you thinking?"
Hahahahahahahah.
He shook her shoulders.
"Hahahahahahhaha" is what I'm thinking.
"The dopamine made me do it, officer." She looked up at him with feigned sweetness, then passed out.
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