WM_0018 ::::::::: When Things Go Strange
July 14, 2003
It would be very odd if any of these things
actually came to pass.
One. The book, upon publication, actually caught
on and sold 10 000 copies, enabling Mingus to stop
writing corporate words for the Abattoir, and start
writing words for Mingus, and for Mingus only. This
would indeed be strange. Good, but strange. It could
possibly lead to the many many things that Mingus
has dreamed of and has never given up hope of achieving,
but has never truly tasted in any form. We'll see.
I may have a publisher and a release date, which
is more than I've ever had, I ain't counting any
kind of chicken till it hatches and shits out a
cheque for 10 000 books. When the release date is
official, I will trumpet it from the motherfucking
clouds.
Two. The show, upon shooting, was actually completed
in a timely fashion and it was good and it was sold
and suddenly Mingus Tourette would have a television
show on television, a medium widely considered to
be the holocaust of culture and arts. Still, it
might enable Mingus to do all those things that
Mingus would dream of and lead to some sort of infamy
and / or enough money to retire from the abattoir
full time. Do we note a theme?
We shoot the show this Saturday, if everything goes
according to plan. Somehow, I have become not just
a writer and notorious personality, but a producer
as well. This fucking town is too heartless to allow
artists to simply be artists. One must be all things,
including self-agrandizing corporate shill and relentless
self-publicizing whore. My hope at this moment is
that the bar owner doesn't back out or sleep in,
that the guest shows up, that we find a chick willing
to read a quote shirtless, that the guy with the
gear has no problems handing it over and so on and
so on. Dick seems pretty solid these days, though
still unemployed and chronically neurotic about
finding a teaching gig somewhere and publishing
his book. He has a stack of 125 rejection letters
from this year alone. Poor bastard. I don't even
have fifty. This year.
Three. It cooled the fuck off in this fucking pad.
Christ, I wish I had air-conditioning.
Four. My car started tomorrow morning. Every Monday,
I have to push Chloe or phone K and get him to come
over and jump my motherfucking car, depending on
whether or not Chloe's shaggy head is in my bed
or not. Tonight, for the third night in a row, it
is. This is a rarity. Two nights on the weekend,
maybe, but she certainly likes to take a night or
two or three at home and does not like to pick up
the phone on those nights. Or, quite possibly, she
is not at home to pick up the phone. I ain't no
motherfucking fool. Or so I tell myself.
Five. Chloe would sleep through the night. She is
in my bed as we speak, and she is trying to sleep
and she isn't sleeping, but she is trying. We went
out drinking last night, just the two of us, and
she tried to explain where her head is at. She has
pressures, apparently, having just started rehearsal
for this play that she got in on. A real one. With
real actors on stage for the real madding crowd,
and she doesn't want to fuck it up. And she's dealing
with her Grappa dying. And finances. And wanderlust,
I think. As though none of these things bothered
me.
She wants to move on with her life, move on with
moving on, but she's still in my bed, and not sure
why, even though I'm sure why. Cause that accountant
is a limp dick with no ability to flip the switch
and she can't get away from that.
But she's trying. Apparently, she needs someone
in a suit to show up for her big show, in about
a month. I don't have a suit, and I can't afford
to buy one right now cause every buck is dropping
into the show. Now, I know that she knows that I
can't afford a suit, and she knows that I know that
if I can't afford one, she's gonna end up going
with the Accountant, who's only far too fucking
willing, because, hey, Chloe's gonna be a star,
or at least play a whore / bartender in the big
show. All of this, I find to be quite cruel. Because
I know that if she goes out with him that night,
she's going to feel inclined to toss him a pity
fuck. If she hasn't tossed him a couple already.
And she knows I know this, yet we just keep on going
out and fucking and talking like it doesn't exist.
I just hope we're both doing each other the courtesy
of wiping the cock and snatch juice off our thighs
before one or the other goes down on it. I would,
if I were breaking into some other pussy. But I'm
not. Yet.
Or maybe it doesn't cross her mind, or maybe she's
really just that twisted round. Who knows. She's
twitchy and paranoid these days about going outside
of her house, outside of my room in the basement.
Since her grappa died. Has a fear of cars. Likes
to walk, but only on low traffic streets. Has been
talking about going back to church. Refuses to discuss
religion with me because she says I have no soul.
Which is absolutely fucking true. My point on that
point is that I have no soul, but neither does she.
Or anyone else.
This sort of rhetoric is unappreciated by the recently
begrieved.
Six. George Bush got impeached for lying to the
American public. Christ, I still got anger. And
it ain't going away.
Seven. Mingus Tourette ran for Provincial government
and won. It's a thought. Maybe I'd sell more books.
Eight. A nineteen year old girl listed Mingus Tourette
on her top ten list of "men i'd sleep with just
for their brainpower/talent alone".
Really. Check it. I have never been prouder
of myself.
And finally, number nine. For Chloe.
The world was a greater, grander and more pervasive
place that did not threaten to turn summer into
winter with the thought of death, and sleepless
nights were but a dream. |
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