27.12.14
20.12.10
Emotional Nudist
I am living in a hotel in Santa Monica because I just got a job on the 3rd St. Promenade. I had the strangest dream last night, and I had to call someone which is why I'm talking to Baby Cakes. She's living down in Long Beach and it somehow comforts me to know that we're both watching the sun come up over the mountains shining out on the Pacific Ocean like a David Hockney print. She's asking me about the dream again, "So it was just like a Twin Peaks episode?" I say, "Yeah, except no dwarves or little people or whatever, but I was in a room with thick carpet and red velvet curtains, and in the middle of the room sitting on a sofa was my Nana, my dad's mom, and she was motioning me to come forward and sitting next to her was an old woman with her back to me and when I got closer, Nana slowly turned the old woman around and it was my Granny, my mother's mother." She's saying, "What's so weird about that?"
And I'm just staring out the window, back in the David Hockney print but nothing will come into focus except the faded yellow of the diving board, the inky water broken by the white splash, the bleached peach of the stucco. I'm trying to think how to explain to Baby Cakes why this dream is so weird and all I can say is something like, "Because Nana is my spirit guide, I know that now, and I never knew Granny growing up on the ranch out near Victorville, she was so sick and they kept her in the hospital, but somehow Nana is trying to tell me they're together on the other side, waiting for me."
I can hear the bubbling of the water bong, the one we bought in Venice Beach last week. I know Baby Cakes is thinking, deeply, profoundly. "I don't have any spirit guides," she says exhaling, "that shit's not fair." I tell her that if she can drive up here before 11 am, we can order breakfast from room service and bill it to Nike and also to hurry up and not forget the bong. Then I'm staring over the tops of the palm trees again, watching some Mexicans kids open the shops on the pier where there are already tourists snapping pictures of the Ferris wheel and the surfers catching swells down below. Nana is telling me, "Not everyone will understand, look how long it took you." I can't help myself and I’m answering her out loud, "You're not the revelation here Nana, Granny is, because of course I'd expect you to cross over, but Granny and I were never close and now you've brought us together, or at least introduced us. It changes everything." I'm listening but she doesn't answer me. All I hear is the hum of the air-conditioner on the 23rd floor of the Hotel Majestic de Santa Monica and it makes my want a hot cup of coffee brought to my door by one of those cute Brazilian boys who works in housekeeping. I hope she remembers the bong.
Rolling back and forth on the hotel sheets and down comforter makes me feel like I'm floating on clouds. I'm rolling over to look at the breakfast menu and I notice how similar the curtains in my hotel room look to the curtains in my dream. "Order the Colombian coffee, migas," I can hear Nana whispering in my ear, "and some blood orange juice for Baby Cakes so she'll have something to splash her vodka in." I'm dialing 3009 for room service and can't believe I'm hearing, "Jess sir, Colombian coffee, migas, an orn jess" which I recognize as one of the Brazilians who parked my car last night. She better remember the bong, I'm thinking and then I'm saying "Come quickly" which is probably my subconscious slipping and he's saying "Jess sir, room 2302, jess sir quickly." He's probably expecting a tip, and I'm probably going to give him a very nice tip no matter when the coffee gets here. I'm rolling the down comforter around me, then I stand up like a Greek statue and stare out at the ocean, wondering if I still have the David Hockney print in storage.
Letting the comforter slide down and drop to the floor, I'm guessing that yes, I do still have the Hockney print in storage and that no, I would remember selling it, or lending to someone. I'm wondering who I would like enough to allow them to borrow "A Bigger Splash." I can't imagine that Dustin would like it, and besides his boyfriend is a Leather Daddy from Calabasas and most of their art ranges from Tom of Finland to MC Escher prints, so no, I don't think they'd have it.
I'm also wondering where my iPod is and I fall back into the king sized bed and roll over and feel around by the Jonathan Adler nightstand and I'm not at all surprised when I finger an earbud and the pull up the steel blue mp3 player because I'm remembering that I was listening to that Japanese girl, Utada, last night as I was falling asleep. I'm sitting up and unplugging the ear buds, tossing them into the drawer of the nightstand, which is only open a crack and one ear bud drops in but the other is swinging down and almost touching the floor. The swinging earbud is practically hypnotizing me and I can hear Nana saying, "Put on that Danni Minogue song we danced to at the Abbey, the one they were playing after that producer from TelePictures bought you that Goldeschlager." I'm still scrolling through my playlists trying to find "I Begin to Wonder" but now I hear the knocking at the door. Either the Brazilian with coffee or Baby Cakes with the bong, I hope.
Pulling up my Nike wind-resistant sweatpants, even though there's no wind in my hotel room except from that sad vent in the ceiling, I grab a gray ribbed tank top off the floor and as soon as I put it on I realize it's on backwards, and I'm opening the door and the Brazilian's cologne is mixing with the smell of fresh brewed Colombian coffee and all I can do is turn and look at the chairs by the window and then he's pushing the cart across the sisal rug and setting the tray on the table. Reaching into my pocket and pretending to look for a cash tip I push my morning manhood down while walking over to sign the room-service bill. "Nike pays again?" I hear him say and we both laugh while I'm grabbing some crumpled bills out of the nightstand drawer causing the dangling earbuds to fall to the floor. "Yes, more Nike money" is all I say and I jam the bills into the palm of his hand harder than I mean to and he's not smiling anymore. "Obrigado" stammers out of my mouth and he's already leaving but I can smell his cologne so I stand in the doorway thinking how good the hot coffee will taste with the Blueberry Frost Baby Cakes is bringing and I hope she remembers the bong. And who has my Hockney print?
I'm about to shut the door behind me and I hear the ping of the elevator, and as the Brazilian Gustavo gets on, I hear Baby Cakes saying, "The 405 was so messed up, but I got here as soon as I could." I hate when people say that, because people just say that now, “the 405 was so messed up” even when the didn’t take the 405, it’s just an excuse. I'm still wondering how Baby Cakes got here so quick and I rotate my hands in a circle like a Pacific Coast Highway Cop and motion her into the room as she almost trips over the down comforter piled at the foot of the bed. "You're just in time for coffee" I say, "Did you see Gustavo in the elevator?"
She ignores me and we’re both sitting there staring at each other, while she’s rummaging around in her shoulder bag and pulls out the bong. I’m flipping our coffee mugs over and placing them on top of the Hotel Majestic de Santa Monica paper doily in the center of the saucer. Baby Cakes balances the bong on the floor. I rip the raw sugar packet open and pour them into our cups. She slides her finger along the Ziploc of the baggie pulled from her shoulder bag. I gently pour the cream into each of the cups while she's pinching a tiny bud of the sticky purple stuff. I lift the stainless coffee pot over each cup and watch the dark steaming coffee turn the color of Gustavo's skin. Baby Cakes is tapping the buds down in the bowl. Stirring our cups I watch as she takes a square plastic bottle from her bag filling the base of the bong with Fiji water and just covering the packed bowl. We are still sitting and staring at each other as the two smells mix in our nostrils. Reaching in my pocket, I hand her the lighter with the glowing margarita that I got at El Coyote last time I was there. She takes it, firing up.
Staring over the tops of the palm trees, the shops along the pier are open now, and I can almost imagine seeing Catalina Island, but I probably can't. Baby Cakes is staring down Colorado Blvd, up at the Getty, and out to Malibu. I think she'll probably say something about Santa Barbara, or Michael Jackson's Never Land Ranch, but instead she's asking, "Do you really think you Oprah and Gayle/Gail[spellcheck] are lesbians? I hear Oprah bought a place in Santa Barbara for them to hide out." At least I got the Santa Barbara part right, I say to myself. But since I can't answer her, I take a big gulp of coffee, another rip on the bong. We're both watching the smoke curl up the glass window, making the sunny beach below seem as smoggy as it will be later today if the Santa Ana winds aren’t blowing. "Anyway, that’s only a couple hours north of LA," I say, swiveling around and almost knocking over the bong, "And that's not a very good hiding place for lesbians, especially Oprah-level lesbians."
Baby Cakes had always been a lesbian, but I'd pegged her last lover as a wanna-be-lipstick-lesbain before she ever graduated from San Luis Obispo High School when I’d met her in San Francisco for the Free Tibet concert in Golden Gate Park that year. Baby Cakes was there in her earthy Mission-district lesbian funk, and Shanelle was twirling her hair around her little finger, smoking all my shit, telling me I looked like the Unabomber, and trying to convince people she was a lesbian, but I wasn’t buying it, even them, and I wanted to say, “I told you so” when they broke up and Baby Cakes ended up moving into that little place in Long Beach but I didn’t because that would’ve been mean. But I really did tell her that she wasn’t a lesbian, and that was pretty much the nature of our relationship, with me warning her and her not taking my advice and then I have to come in and pick up the pieces. Like with Shanelle.
But this was different, and I’d called Baby Cakes, and I’d been the weak one, I’d been the one who needed help, a shoulder to lean on, a sympathetic ear, whatever you call it. And now we’re sitting here drinking Colombian Coffee, eating migas, contemplating Blueberry Purple Frost and I’m still thinking about the Hockney print, and now Shanelle, and yes, I’m still wondering who would really care about Oprah, I mean, have you ever actually been to Santa Barbara? But I called Baby Cakes and she came and now I’m feeling social pressure to be a good host, because even though I want to talk, need to talk, I can barely talk, or at least I can barely talk about that, about what I should be talking about, because I didn’t really think Baby Cakes would drive up here, I just thought we’d talk on the phone until I felt better, but then there was the Blueberry Purple Frost and then I said room service and how did she get here so fast, and now I’m trying to think what we’re going to do the rest of the day. So I don’t have to talk about it.
“You’re a sinner but you told me you’re a saint…” I’m singing now “everyday it’s the same thing, different faces, no names, places I’ve never been before…and I begin to wonder” and I’m spinning the wheel on the my iPod listening to the clicks of all the songs I’ve downloaded but will never listen to more than once or twice, now slowly clicking past He’s the Greatest Dancer (Shapeshifter Mix), Hey (So What), For the Record, Perfection (Turn Me Upside Down), Push, Mystified, I Don’t Wanna Lose This Feeling, Who Do You Love Now, Put the Needle On It (Dirty Hands Remix) finally stopping on I Begin To Wonder. Sliding the iPod back into the base of two black and silver speakers Danni Minogue is singing this time “Every day it’s the same thing, different faces no names, places I’ve never been before. And I-ee-I begin to wonder..don’t cha know it’s really making me crazy.”
Picking up the comforter, I am Danni now, the wind machine blowing my hair like the video on PinkIsTheNewBlog and I’m carefully mouthing the slow part of the song to Baby Cakes, “Before I was over you, really over you…no time to think, I lost my mind, no I’m not over you…everyday it’s the same thing, different faces no names, places I’ve never been before.” Taking a deep pull on the bong, Baby Cakes is now holding it out to me, like a microphone stand careful not to let the water fill the hot bowl on the front, and I’m letting the comforter slide down my shoulders, and I’m leaning over to finish the last of the Blueberry Frost, inhaling deeply, truly, and she’s pulling my tank top off over my head and saying, “backward” and I’m falling into the comforter on the floor. “Walking down the street I call your name,” Danni sings, ”And there were days I went completely blind, no time think and I lost time, and I-ee-I begin to wonder.”
22.4.10
3.3 Ike
As a historical comparison, on September 8, 1900 the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 landed along a path similar to Ike's, bringing with it a storm surge that inundated most of Galveston Island, which was Texas' largest city and a major U.S. port. As a result, much of the city was destroyed, and at least 6,000 people were killed in a few hours. Engineers subsequently increased the average elevation of the island by 4 ft (1.2 m) and constructed a 17-foot (5.2-m) seawall to block incoming waves.
On Sept. 10,2008 U.S. President George W. Bush made an emergency declaration for Texas in advance of Hurricane Ike, making more federal help available for preparations and evacuations.[42]
On Sept. 11, forecasting models began to show Ike making landfall just south of Galveston. City Manager Steven LeBlanc late Wednesday issued a mandatory evacuation order for the low lying west end of Galveston Island.[47] Later, the mandatory evacuation order was extended to the entire island of Galveston, as well as low-lying areas around Houston, Texas.[48] Residents evacuating ahead of Ike were received by emergency workers in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. The fleeing residents were provided a place of refuge, medical treatment, and provisions until Ike had passed. After Hurrican Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast and submerged New Orleans, the DFW area became a place for New Orlean residents to recover from the storms destructive forces. The DFW area was still providing relief to evacuees from Gustav earlier in the 2008 hurricane season when it began preparations for Texas coastal residents leaving prior to Ike's arrival
Also on Sept. 11, at 8:19 p.m. (CDT), the National Weather Service in Houston/Galveston, TX issued a strongly worded bulletin, regarding storm surge along the shoreline of Galveston Bay. The bulletin advised that residents living in single-family homes in some parts of coastal Texas may face "certain death" if they did not heed orders to evacuate.[49][50][51][52] Reports said as many as 40 percent of Galveston's citizens may have not paid attention to the warnings.[53] It was feared to be much the same in Port Arthur, and it was predicted that low-lying areas between Morgan City, Louisiana and Baffin Bay, Texas, particularly those areas east of Ike's projected eye landfall would experience the greatest damage from storm surges of up to 20 feet (6.1 m). Waves at sea were expected to be higher, up to 70 feet (21 m) according to computer simulations.[54]
The price of gas increased in the expectation of damage to some of the numerous oil refineries along the South Texas coast, or at least delays in production from the oil and gas platforms in the Gulf of Mexico.[55]
On the morning of September 13, 2008, the eye of Hurricane Ike approached the upper Texas coast, making landfall at 2:10 a.m. CDT over the east end of Galveston Island, with a high storm surge, and travelled north up Galveston Bay, along the east side of Houston [98] (see storm-path image). People in low-lying areas who had not heeded evacuation orders, in single-family one- or two-story homes, were warned by the weather service that they may "face certain death" from the overnight storm surge,[51] a statement that turned out to be true for some unable to evacuate.[99]
In regional Texas towns, electrical power began failing on September 12 before 8 p.m. CDT,[51] leaving millions without power (estimates range from 2.8 million[100] to 4.5 million [101] customers). Grocery store shelves in the Houston area were left empty for weeks in the aftermath of the storm.[102]
Flood waters begin to rise in a neighborhood of Bayou Vista, Texas.In Galveston, by 4 p.m. CDT (2100 UTC) on September 12, the rising storm surge began overtopping the 17-ft (5.2 m) Galveston Seawall, which faces the Gulf of Mexico;[51] waves had been crashing along the seawall earlier, from 9 a.m. CDT.[103] Although Seawall Boulevard is elevated above the shoreline, many areas of town slope down behind the seawall to the lower elevation of Galveston Island.
On Sept. 10,2008 U.S. President George W. Bush made an emergency declaration for Texas in advance of Hurricane Ike, making more federal help available for preparations and evacuations.[42]
On Sept. 11, forecasting models began to show Ike making landfall just south of Galveston. City Manager Steven LeBlanc late Wednesday issued a mandatory evacuation order for the low lying west end of Galveston Island.[47] Later, the mandatory evacuation order was extended to the entire island of Galveston, as well as low-lying areas around Houston, Texas.[48] Residents evacuating ahead of Ike were received by emergency workers in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. The fleeing residents were provided a place of refuge, medical treatment, and provisions until Ike had passed. After Hurrican Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast and submerged New Orleans, the DFW area became a place for New Orlean residents to recover from the storms destructive forces. The DFW area was still providing relief to evacuees from Gustav earlier in the 2008 hurricane season when it began preparations for Texas coastal residents leaving prior to Ike's arrival
Also on Sept. 11, at 8:19 p.m. (CDT), the National Weather Service in Houston/Galveston, TX issued a strongly worded bulletin, regarding storm surge along the shoreline of Galveston Bay. The bulletin advised that residents living in single-family homes in some parts of coastal Texas may face "certain death" if they did not heed orders to evacuate.[49][50][51][52] Reports said as many as 40 percent of Galveston's citizens may have not paid attention to the warnings.[53] It was feared to be much the same in Port Arthur, and it was predicted that low-lying areas between Morgan City, Louisiana and Baffin Bay, Texas, particularly those areas east of Ike's projected eye landfall would experience the greatest damage from storm surges of up to 20 feet (6.1 m). Waves at sea were expected to be higher, up to 70 feet (21 m) according to computer simulations.[54]
The price of gas increased in the expectation of damage to some of the numerous oil refineries along the South Texas coast, or at least delays in production from the oil and gas platforms in the Gulf of Mexico.[55]
On the morning of September 13, 2008, the eye of Hurricane Ike approached the upper Texas coast, making landfall at 2:10 a.m. CDT over the east end of Galveston Island, with a high storm surge, and travelled north up Galveston Bay, along the east side of Houston [98] (see storm-path image). People in low-lying areas who had not heeded evacuation orders, in single-family one- or two-story homes, were warned by the weather service that they may "face certain death" from the overnight storm surge,[51] a statement that turned out to be true for some unable to evacuate.[99]
In regional Texas towns, electrical power began failing on September 12 before 8 p.m. CDT,[51] leaving millions without power (estimates range from 2.8 million[100] to 4.5 million [101] customers). Grocery store shelves in the Houston area were left empty for weeks in the aftermath of the storm.[102]
Flood waters begin to rise in a neighborhood of Bayou Vista, Texas.In Galveston, by 4 p.m. CDT (2100 UTC) on September 12, the rising storm surge began overtopping the 17-ft (5.2 m) Galveston Seawall, which faces the Gulf of Mexico;[51] waves had been crashing along the seawall earlier, from 9 a.m. CDT.[103] Although Seawall Boulevard is elevated above the shoreline, many areas of town slope down behind the seawall to the lower elevation of Galveston Island.
18.4.10
3.2 draft
Franklin Alexander Bartholemew III could feel the small beads of sweat running down his back as he sat staring at the small hand of the clock. The long hand seemed permanentaly stuck between IV and XII. If only he could push the hand forward with his mind, or somehow transport himself into the the future time, he could finally stop and have his lunch. His eyes blurred as he stared, listening to the steady rythm of the pendulum. He shook his head and ran his eyes up and down the clock, enjoying the careful scroll work on each side of the clock's cabinet. He smiled as his eyes came to rest on the image of the bird etched in the glass covering the inner workings. Strange, he thought, I have no idea how the thing works, yet I can tell time.
His Grandfather had brought the clock back from one of his many adventures abroad, and then his father had placed it here, in the center of the office, where it had hung for how many years, he did not know. The metal arm inside the clock struck the coil and the air vibrated as the clock marked the hour. Franklin's ears hummed as the sound washed over him, and he pushed back from his desk, anticipating the lunch hour. Leaning back in his chair, he thrust his arms up, stretching, and let a wide yawn overtake his mouth even as it forced his eyes shut.
Settling back, he waited for Miss Metoyer to come tipping up the stairs with his lunch, as she did most everyday. He contemplated the machine sitting on the desk in front of him, and read the small brass plate attached to the front, "Phelps Elctro, Printing Telegraph, 1882." The word electro repeated itself in his mind, and he smiled, remembering the hours of training he received from that Italian fellow who'd sold the contraption to his father almost eight years ago. More sweat trickled down his forehead, his back, under his arms. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face. Looking back at the telegraph machine, the little keys reminded him of his sister's piano, sitting in their family parlor, just off The Strand, over on Post Office St. One made beautiful, music, the other made their family money.
The stairs outside his office creaked gently, announcing Miss Metoyer with his lunch even before the door opened. Swiveling around in his chair, their eyes met as the Creole woman pushed the door with her ample backside while swinging the large wooden tray onto the smaller tea table by the window. Her long curly hair was pulled back, and he noticed small tendrils stuck to her cheeks from the heat. The puff of her blouson sleeves tappered down to her slender wrists. He admired her small waist and imagined the long legs under her apron and the many folds of her long skirt. Her buttoned boots rested on the floor with the attention of a soldier addressing an officer. A grin broke out across her face and the spell was broken.
"Betcha thought I wasn't coming today" she said, pouring a glass full of the dark, sweet tea from the big glass pitcher. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of pitcher onto the linen cloth folded carefully beneath it. He allowed himself to relax and smile. He gestured for her to pour herslef a glass of tea and join him. This would've no doubt never happened when his grandfather was alive and ruling the law firm with his iron fist, but now with his father in control, and so often out of the office, Franklin enjoyed taking these liberties.
"JoJo, you're simply the best, and I never doubted you for a minute," he found himself saying, although he had indeed doubted the very fact not more that fifteen minutes ago. He reached out as she handed him a plate with bread slices, two chicken legs and some cheese. Their fingers touched briefly, and the electrical current ran up both their arms and they again locked eyes for longer than what seemed physically possible. He dropped the plate on his desk, causing the chicken legs to jump around, and a few pieces of cheese to tumble to the floor. Oh leave it for the mice, he thought. She smiled and seemed to agree.
They ate in silence, and when the clock marked the half hour she rose to go. He frowned and she immediately sat down. Nervously, she handed him the newspaper she'd carried up in the pocket of her apron. Knowing he hated to think about business during his lunch, she immediately regretted not waiting until his plate was empty and she had cleared the dishes and re-filled his glass, or offered him the piece of the pecan pie she'd hidden under a lace doily on the back of her tray. He snatched the newspaper and his eyes quickly scanned the large print just below the date, September 7, 1900. The bold block letters spelled out “unsettled weather likely” and the smaller type below mentioned something about the Leeward Islands, and tropical storms accompanied by h a map of the Gulf of Mexico and more notes from a ship that had recently arrived from the Antigua Islands. He quickly flipped the pages, and stopped on "Betty Bowers Social Register." The front page headlines, and subsequent business stories rarely interested him as much as reading the gossip and scandal of the island's most prominent citizens.
"You got that look on your face..." and before Miss Metoyer could ask him what it was, he blurted out news of the marriage of the oldest man in town to one of the youngest women they knew, the arrest of a church elder for drunk and disorderly conduct, and the discovery of an infant left at the steps of the Archbishop's Mansion. They did not take pleasure in the misfortunes of their neighbors, but it confirmed that things were never as calm and serene on the surface as people would have them believe, and they secretly shared a thrill in peeking behind the curtain of polite society. Their own relationship, if ever discovered, would be equally scandalous, and they somehow understood this, even as they never openly admitted it.
The clock marked the two o'clock hour, and reluctantly, he allowed her to collect the last of their lunch remmnants and slip silently out the door. Only the creaking of the stairs on the other side of the door hinted that she'd ever been in the room at all. He stood up and walked over to the large window, surveying the city and bustling port below. He marveled at the sheer force of commerce, the endless bales of cotton being loaded on the ships, the negro and white men counting bushels of corn while they haggled over quality and price, the wagons continually arriving with their cargos of rice, sugar cane,cotton, and the children darting in between the carriages of the rich men who occasionally tossed out coins to the precious little urchins. On such a day, it seemed strange to think that anything might have the power to disturb the bustling economy he and his family helped create and control. His gaze briefly flitted out across the open bay, to the dark clouds that were now growing on the distant horizon. He licked his lips and wondered if he could finish the last pieces of that delicious pecan pie.
His Grandfather had brought the clock back from one of his many adventures abroad, and then his father had placed it here, in the center of the office, where it had hung for how many years, he did not know. The metal arm inside the clock struck the coil and the air vibrated as the clock marked the hour. Franklin's ears hummed as the sound washed over him, and he pushed back from his desk, anticipating the lunch hour. Leaning back in his chair, he thrust his arms up, stretching, and let a wide yawn overtake his mouth even as it forced his eyes shut.
Settling back, he waited for Miss Metoyer to come tipping up the stairs with his lunch, as she did most everyday. He contemplated the machine sitting on the desk in front of him, and read the small brass plate attached to the front, "Phelps Elctro, Printing Telegraph, 1882." The word electro repeated itself in his mind, and he smiled, remembering the hours of training he received from that Italian fellow who'd sold the contraption to his father almost eight years ago. More sweat trickled down his forehead, his back, under his arms. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face. Looking back at the telegraph machine, the little keys reminded him of his sister's piano, sitting in their family parlor, just off The Strand, over on Post Office St. One made beautiful, music, the other made their family money.
The stairs outside his office creaked gently, announcing Miss Metoyer with his lunch even before the door opened. Swiveling around in his chair, their eyes met as the Creole woman pushed the door with her ample backside while swinging the large wooden tray onto the smaller tea table by the window. Her long curly hair was pulled back, and he noticed small tendrils stuck to her cheeks from the heat. The puff of her blouson sleeves tappered down to her slender wrists. He admired her small waist and imagined the long legs under her apron and the many folds of her long skirt. Her buttoned boots rested on the floor with the attention of a soldier addressing an officer. A grin broke out across her face and the spell was broken.
"Betcha thought I wasn't coming today" she said, pouring a glass full of the dark, sweet tea from the big glass pitcher. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of pitcher onto the linen cloth folded carefully beneath it. He allowed himself to relax and smile. He gestured for her to pour herslef a glass of tea and join him. This would've no doubt never happened when his grandfather was alive and ruling the law firm with his iron fist, but now with his father in control, and so often out of the office, Franklin enjoyed taking these liberties.
"JoJo, you're simply the best, and I never doubted you for a minute," he found himself saying, although he had indeed doubted the very fact not more that fifteen minutes ago. He reached out as she handed him a plate with bread slices, two chicken legs and some cheese. Their fingers touched briefly, and the electrical current ran up both their arms and they again locked eyes for longer than what seemed physically possible. He dropped the plate on his desk, causing the chicken legs to jump around, and a few pieces of cheese to tumble to the floor. Oh leave it for the mice, he thought. She smiled and seemed to agree.
They ate in silence, and when the clock marked the half hour she rose to go. He frowned and she immediately sat down. Nervously, she handed him the newspaper she'd carried up in the pocket of her apron. Knowing he hated to think about business during his lunch, she immediately regretted not waiting until his plate was empty and she had cleared the dishes and re-filled his glass, or offered him the piece of the pecan pie she'd hidden under a lace doily on the back of her tray. He snatched the newspaper and his eyes quickly scanned the large print just below the date, September 7, 1900. The bold block letters spelled out “unsettled weather likely” and the smaller type below mentioned something about the Leeward Islands, and tropical storms accompanied by h a map of the Gulf of Mexico and more notes from a ship that had recently arrived from the Antigua Islands. He quickly flipped the pages, and stopped on "Betty Bowers Social Register." The front page headlines, and subsequent business stories rarely interested him as much as reading the gossip and scandal of the island's most prominent citizens.
"You got that look on your face..." and before Miss Metoyer could ask him what it was, he blurted out news of the marriage of the oldest man in town to one of the youngest women they knew, the arrest of a church elder for drunk and disorderly conduct, and the discovery of an infant left at the steps of the Archbishop's Mansion. They did not take pleasure in the misfortunes of their neighbors, but it confirmed that things were never as calm and serene on the surface as people would have them believe, and they secretly shared a thrill in peeking behind the curtain of polite society. Their own relationship, if ever discovered, would be equally scandalous, and they somehow understood this, even as they never openly admitted it.
The clock marked the two o'clock hour, and reluctantly, he allowed her to collect the last of their lunch remmnants and slip silently out the door. Only the creaking of the stairs on the other side of the door hinted that she'd ever been in the room at all. He stood up and walked over to the large window, surveying the city and bustling port below. He marveled at the sheer force of commerce, the endless bales of cotton being loaded on the ships, the negro and white men counting bushels of corn while they haggled over quality and price, the wagons continually arriving with their cargos of rice, sugar cane,cotton, and the children darting in between the carriages of the rich men who occasionally tossed out coins to the precious little urchins. On such a day, it seemed strange to think that anything might have the power to disturb the bustling economy he and his family helped create and control. His gaze briefly flitted out across the open bay, to the dark clouds that were now growing on the distant horizon. He licked his lips and wondered if he could finish the last pieces of that delicious pecan pie.
16.4.10
3 story draft
He woke to the guide licking his face, as he did each morning. The bright light burned his eyes as it poked through the thatch roof. Blinking and rubbing his eyes, his faithful companion sitting on his chest, he felt the gentle nuzzle and cold snout along at his right ear. The shells hanging from his lobe got tangled in his matted hair and he sat up and shoke his head. The small ball of fur cocked his head and waited for the master to begin the morning ritual of relief, walk, and food.
Walking along the waters edge, the sun was alredy high in the sky and it burned it his skin. He had not applied the oil and grease yet and promised himself to do so as soon the morning ritual was done and he returned to his small hut. Standing in the water now, he relieved himself and watch the urine arc into the shallow waves. His companion raised a hind leg and made a puddle on the sand. Yapping and running circles the companion was demanding food. He too, could feel his empty stomach rumbling.
Approaching the larger group of huts nestled among the trees, he greeted his sister who was sitting in the largest of the dugouts. She had not come out into the sunlight since her warrior was lost at sea. Smiling, he asked about morning meal preparation but she said nothing. He could hear her voice clearly in his head, telling him that she wished to be dead, like her lover, and that she refused to eat, but that he should have her portion of the crab and small berries, to keep his strength. Her mouth did not move.
Inside, he took a small seat far away from his father. His mother lovingly greeted him with a kiss on the forehead, a scold for not using the oil on such on a hot day, and swift kick for the small companion who was now cirlcing the food which had already been laid out on the table. He reach up to fill a bowl and put it down for the little beast, who began to eat it as though he had not eaten in days, eventhough they had gone through this ritual many times.
The crab was cold from sitting in the water all night, and the berries were sharp, sweet and delicious bursting in his mouth. He did not know how hungry he was until he began to eat. His mother brought a small cup of the berry leaf brew and set it next to him as she had done for the father. The boy had not grown accustomed to the dizziness and light headedness yet, but he was determined to learn. He must learn how much to drink; too much and he would loose his morning meal, not enough and he would not be alert during the hunt, but if he learned the correct amount, he could have the strenght of two men, and could hunt all afternoon.
He caught his father's gaze resting on him. Slowly he looked up and engaged the older man eye-to-eye. Much like his sister, the father did not speak from his mouth. In his head, the father's voice spoke his new name, Monanguia. You must be strong, the voice told him. Lead the others today and make us proud. The young boy nodded his head and the shells hanging from his ear spoke of the sea once more. At his feet, the little compaion was now licking his leg, ankle and toes, happily unaware of the task before his master.
Walking along the waters edge, the sun was alredy high in the sky and it burned it his skin. He had not applied the oil and grease yet and promised himself to do so as soon the morning ritual was done and he returned to his small hut. Standing in the water now, he relieved himself and watch the urine arc into the shallow waves. His companion raised a hind leg and made a puddle on the sand. Yapping and running circles the companion was demanding food. He too, could feel his empty stomach rumbling.
Approaching the larger group of huts nestled among the trees, he greeted his sister who was sitting in the largest of the dugouts. She had not come out into the sunlight since her warrior was lost at sea. Smiling, he asked about morning meal preparation but she said nothing. He could hear her voice clearly in his head, telling him that she wished to be dead, like her lover, and that she refused to eat, but that he should have her portion of the crab and small berries, to keep his strength. Her mouth did not move.
Inside, he took a small seat far away from his father. His mother lovingly greeted him with a kiss on the forehead, a scold for not using the oil on such on a hot day, and swift kick for the small companion who was now cirlcing the food which had already been laid out on the table. He reach up to fill a bowl and put it down for the little beast, who began to eat it as though he had not eaten in days, eventhough they had gone through this ritual many times.
The crab was cold from sitting in the water all night, and the berries were sharp, sweet and delicious bursting in his mouth. He did not know how hungry he was until he began to eat. His mother brought a small cup of the berry leaf brew and set it next to him as she had done for the father. The boy had not grown accustomed to the dizziness and light headedness yet, but he was determined to learn. He must learn how much to drink; too much and he would loose his morning meal, not enough and he would not be alert during the hunt, but if he learned the correct amount, he could have the strenght of two men, and could hunt all afternoon.
He caught his father's gaze resting on him. Slowly he looked up and engaged the older man eye-to-eye. Much like his sister, the father did not speak from his mouth. In his head, the father's voice spoke his new name, Monanguia. You must be strong, the voice told him. Lead the others today and make us proud. The young boy nodded his head and the shells hanging from his ear spoke of the sea once more. At his feet, the little compaion was now licking his leg, ankle and toes, happily unaware of the task before his master.
13.1.10
Because it's 2010
Director- Peaches
Camera and Post Production- Fubbi Karlsson
Producer, Editor- Bobby Good
Dancer- Helga Wretman
Makeup- Ferida Uslu for Uslu Airlines
Please visit Peaches Official Blog at:
http://www.peaches officialblog.com
for the full story and exclusive behind-the-scenes footage.
5.12.09
Because it's Saturday - Video Snippets
The new Chromeo video for their Green Label Sound single, "Night By Night." Download "Night By Night" for free at GreenLabelSound.com.
0neeskim0's Givin' Up is a super cool video from the super creative lifelong friendship society. Super!
"Official Music Video" Birdman Feat. Drake & Lil Wayne - 4 My Town(Official Music Video)(PLAY BALL) | Directed by Gil Green
aphex twin's amazing & disturbing video for Come to Daddy, directed by Chris Cunnigham.
electro-rap duo Thunderheist von That Go. Grand Jury Prize für Music Videos auf dem SXSW Film Festival 2009.
Finally I leave you with an experimental comedy about tennis balls, dancing cars, and God.
Please remember to add your add your favorite clip and comment/rate it even if you hate it!
0neeskim0's Givin' Up is a super cool video from the super creative lifelong friendship society. Super!
"Official Music Video" Birdman Feat. Drake & Lil Wayne - 4 My Town(Official Music Video)(PLAY BALL) | Directed by Gil Green
aphex twin's amazing & disturbing video for Come to Daddy, directed by Chris Cunnigham.
electro-rap duo Thunderheist von That Go. Grand Jury Prize für Music Videos auf dem SXSW Film Festival 2009.
Finally I leave you with an experimental comedy about tennis balls, dancing cars, and God.
© 2007 Michael Langan
Please remember to add your add your favorite clip and comment/rate it even if you hate it!
21.11.09
Because I couldn't post on KOS or Open Salon (video snippets: POTUS & Pattison ed.)
Coming to you from Uptown Houston & the nation's fourth largest city. If you're in the Houston area, please come out and join me on Thanksgiving evening, as thousands of Houstonians and out-of-town guests gather along Post Oak Boulevard for the Uptown Holiday Lighting Presented by TXU Energy, an event now in its 24th year. This fun-filled family event, benefiting Sheltering Arms Senior Services and Be An Angel, will ring-in the holidays with more than a half-million twinkling lights; festive music; holiday characters including clowns, larger than life Santa’s reindeer; a special appearance from Santa and a fireworks extravaganza.
We need to start with this week's weekly address from President Barack Obama. I think we're all tired of the MSM coverage of a certain moose-shootin'-mavericky-going rouge-kinda-gal's book has received. Listen to our POTUS speak, and contrast that with any of the mad-lib/word salad/verbal vomit of the Thrilla' from Wasilla.
For those New Moon fans out there, I bring you Michael Buckley's always enjoyable, always hilarious, and always current "What the Buck" show featuring some great advice for Robert Pattison & Kristen Stewart.
However, because we are Kossacks, consider Mike Albo's article in the Advocate about New Moon author Stephanie Meyer and her ties to Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What do you think?
Finally, I leave you with The_Golden_Filter video for "Thunderbird." This great clip offers inspiration for your daily tribal dance ritual. What? You don't have a daily tribal dance ritual?...and you call your self a Kossack?
We need to start with this week's weekly address from President Barack Obama. I think we're all tired of the MSM coverage of a certain moose-shootin'-mavericky-going rouge-kinda-gal's book has received. Listen to our POTUS speak, and contrast that with any of the mad-lib/word salad/verbal vomit of the Thrilla' from Wasilla.
In an address recorded in Seoul, South Korea, the President discusses his trip to Asia. He talks about his push to stop nuclear proliferation in North Korea, Iran, and around the world. He talks about promoting Americas principles for an open society in China while making progress on joint efforts to combat climate change. And talks in-depth about the primary objective of his trip: engaging in new markets that hold tremendous potential to spur job creation here at home. November 21, 2009. (Public Domain)
For those New Moon fans out there, I bring you Michael Buckley's always enjoyable, always hilarious, and always current "What the Buck" show featuring some great advice for Robert Pattison & Kristen Stewart.
Watch clips mentioned here:
http://buckhollywood.com/rpatz-leaves...
Please rate/comment/fave/tweet!
I hope you subscribe for more!!
Comment Questions of the Day:
1. Favorite Oprah memories?
2. Seen New Moon yet? Thoughts?
3. Why do the Twilight stars ITCH so much?
4. BEYONCE IS AWESOME!
However, because we are Kossacks, consider Mike Albo's article in the Advocate about New Moon author Stephanie Meyer and her ties to Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What do you think?
Moody, alluring, even a little campy, the Twilight saga has all the sexy requirements it takes to go down in the gay — ahem — annals of pop culture history. It’s not hard to see a future of Taylor Lautner shirtless montage videos playing in a loop at gay bars ... or even an Edward Cullen drag king contest.
This lack of pink makes sense once you know that the author of the mega-popular series, Stephenie Meyer, is a devout Mormon who is a faithful member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and graduate of Brigham Young University — not exactly the most gay-friendly environment.
Defenses of Meyer (from The Mormons Are Coming! blog and En.FairMormon.org, for example) stipulate that LDS’s contributions to Yes on 8 campaigns were through individual contributions and “in-kind donations”(free or discounted services) that total about $190,000. Defenders also contend that support for the campaign only came from congregations within California under the direction of the Protect Marriage Coalition.
Finally, I leave you with The_Golden_Filter video for "Thunderbird." This great clip offers inspiration for your daily tribal dance ritual. What? You don't have a daily tribal dance ritual?...and you call your self a Kossack?
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