Nighthawks at the Diner

stick a fork in...

2007-02-22T09:44:00.000-07:00

This will be the final post at The Diner, new stuff will now be found at shounflynn.com

The way of the knighthawk will probably go down in flames as well since there's a blog at my site.

I've had The Diner for a couple of years and it's been kicks, but now it's time to have something a little different; so sf.com it is. See ya there.

ciao,
sf

moving on...

2007-02-09T09:32:00.000-07:00

I decided last night to close the diner. I seem to be in the mood to change things around here, so I've relocated and have begun on the path of The Way of The Knighthawk

This will be the new joint until the upcoming web site construction is complete. So, from this moment on, the diner is closed and the path is set.

See ya over there.

ciao,
sf

Finished...sleepy...

2007-02-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

So as of right now, it's official; Needles for Teeth the online literary/arts blog is now officially gone.

Nothing to be sad about. Life goes on.

Saw The Science of Sleep finally, great film, check it out. I highly recommend it.

Also, I'm thinking about organizing another reading from my book. More information as it arrives.

ciao.

Another one for the virtual scrapbook...

2007-02-02T20:33:00.000-07:00

Open Naked Eye -- as always, plenty of pith and vinegar! Baudelaire visits Capitol Hill and walks the mean streets of the heart... good stuff, young man! Forget Kerouac, you've got your own voice going... d

From a reputable local book critic from the local "Big People" newspaper. Not bad.

Infamous...

2007-02-02T15:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm back. Got back on tuesday, sad days and nights. Nuff said on that, let's move on...

There's a little blurb about Open Naked Eye in this weeks issue of The Onion. (ego...getting...larger...vanity...rising...must... strut...my...stuff!)
Can't find a link online, so if you're in the Denver/Boulder area grab a hard copy.

Just got around to seeing The Prestige last night, I liked it, made me think about the similarities between writers and magicians, there are many when you think about the process that they go through to create and properly execute a good illusion, the rivalries could equally be very similar. Think about it for a while, not interested in writing an essay on the subject, maybe tomorrow. If you haven't seen the film check it out.

Looking to catch the final episode of Afro Samurai today, can't wait. The soundtrack came out about a day ago, all new stuff from RZA, very nice.

Oh, and "how and I doing?" just fine, thanks for asking. Will begin blogging on the perils of airport security and the downfall of "the old days" of Chicago soon. Until then back to watching ghost in the shell: stand alone complex.

later!

Leaving town

2007-01-26T01:15:00.000-07:00

I'll be away for a while, don't know how long I'll be gone. A life is being taken away unfairly and all I can do is be there when it ends, it's not easy to talk about, or even write about, but it is what it is, and there's not much I can do about it besides get on a plane and get there as soon as I can before she's gone.

If any of you who actually read this thing and you live in the Denver area, if you were planning on going to the special reading event for my book, continue to have that plan. The event will not stop because I'm not there, feel free to dig on everyone else who'll be there doing their thing and reading my words, do it for me, I need to know that something good is happening in my life right now. Enjoy the music of Rachael Pollard, enjoy the words of Citymouse and enjoy the brave readers of the words from my book, read by good friends of mine whom I have great faith and adulation for continuing with the event itself. Have a good time, enjoy your life, see ya when I return.

Thanks for the support.
SF

truth be told...

2007-01-12T14:15:00.000-07:00

I didn't think this would ever get out, but it has...might as well live with it....

The Birth of Brother Ronin

2007-01-09T11:15:00.001-07:00

Had a strange dream the other night: I was walking around the west side of Chicago for some reason, visiting old neighborhoods I guess, and I was dressed like a traditional Edo Period Samurai, duel katanas and all. Every now and then people in the hood would come out of the shadows and whisper the words “Brother Ronin”, like it was a bad thing to say, as if something would happen if they were heard. I kept walking, not really looking at anything, just moving. The dream became more strange when more people came from out of dark alleys, doorways, over roof tops whispering “Brother Ronin”, I don’t know if they were talking about me or not, but there was a sense of respect coupled with a modicum of fear in their voices and mannerisms. The environment was slightly desolate and grey, trash and dust littered the streets. The air smelled sticky, it carried a scent of fried rice, a hint of grass (could just be me on that one though), and gasoline. I got to the end of the street I was walking on and turned a corner, there were other samurai standing there, waiting for me, swords out. I kept walking and went right past them and I heard one of them say: “There goes Brother Ronin, he lives in the mind.” The last thing I remember before moving on to another dream was some kid running behind me yelling for me to come back, but I kept walking, all I knew was that there was something that I needed to do, that it was too important to let slide, the last thing the kid said was “Brother Ronin, don’t die!” Then the dream shifted to something else, something about peach cobbler. But now I think I have a title for the new story I’m working on, seems to make sense to me for some reason. But there you have it, the next book, due around this time next year will be called “Brother Ronin”. Makes me all warm and tingly just thinking about it, dig?

Back on the sales rack

2007-01-04T11:05:00.000-07:00

My good buddy, Brotha James P. Johnson has put his book back on sale over at lulu.com, you should check it out, it's called Son.

Dig it.

Also, my other writer buddy Aaron Dietz's book is still going strong, check it out, it's called Reserved for Emperors.

Now, do some reading, enjoy yourself...I'm going back to my cave in the concrete woods.

Day 1

2007-01-03T15:13:00.000-07:00

So today marks day one of officially quitting smoking. I know, amazing isn't it. Never thought of myself as a quitter, but I'm tired of hacking and wheezing, and being told by many a woman that "You'd be so much more attractive if you weren't a smoker." Fucking hell in a box of shit! I can't do anything anymore. Well, whatever, doesn't matter. It's about time anyway, 19 years of sucking down smoke has finally reached it's point of unimportance. So, along with that I got that reading coming up and I want to be somewhat on the calm side when it does, it's gonna be strange, but that's life right? Strange is good, at least it's not boring. And I don't need a cigarette to enjoy it, strange is good for everyone, right? Yeah, maybe. Anyway, more to come later. Much to talk about.

Here we go now...

2006-12-28T14:33:00.000-07:00

By the tim I get to Arizona....

2006-12-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

I get strange questions all the time, don't know why but people feel the need to know what's going on with me, but they keep asking; for example, I'm sitting at my desk today trying to look like I'm doing something besides jonesing for a smoke and suffering with red eye from too much Zelda this week and this woman comes up to me and says: "So, what are you doing for Martin Luther King Day?" ...I'm serious. Yes she was white...Now, I've been in this world a long time (too long, depending on who you talk to) and I've never thought about doing anything besides hating on white folks for fucking up so much. Then I thought about it and I think that for this year I'll spend the whole day not being mad at white folks as much, I'll try to live the life of the stoic, peaceful man, in tune with all the world and the greatness that could come from everyone working together and being cool like that without a care in the world…Like it should be (but isn't, as we all know). So, on January 15th, when everyone is out and about, doing the parade thing, the celebration, singing songs and holding hands, when people are being genuinely nice with each other, I'm gonna be in my apartment with no internet, radio, dvd, books, or anything…Except videogames, but only those made my the Japanese (American made games always piss me off). And I will work very hard to be "The Sheppard" and not get so mad when white folks do stupid shit, one reason why I can't turn on the television, I'm sure you understand.
So on that day you can call my pad and I'll actually answer the phone without saying "The fuck you want here honky, I paid the light bill!?!?" why? Because on that day I won't be hatin', simple. That is one day where people just shouldn't hate, cut that shit out right? I'll take that day and try for more later...Don't call me before then though, you know who the fuck I'm talking too...

Selling myself cheap!!

2006-12-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

To try and take advantage of the holiday season, I've decided to take the hit lower the price of my book, Open Naked Eye. It's now $16.83. I know cash is tight during this time with buying gifts and what not, so there you go.

Thanks again to those who have already pruchased a copy. This price is final and will not change.

A public reading of selected stories is coming at the end of January, more details will be posted soon.

Easy,
shoun flynn

Just in time for the Holidays!!

2006-11-16T22:12:00.000-07:00

The book "Open Naked Eye" is done, finally. On sale HERE

And it's only $21.83 It'll make a great holiday gift for that special someone who you want to send on a dirty mind trip, it's also fun at parties, and the whole family if you're feeling just a little bit sadistic!!

there's my pseudo-advertisment for now.

Enjoy!!

SF

Almost ready....

2006-10-26T10:30:00.000-06:00

So, here's the cover to my forth coming book of photography and short stories. The title says it all I think. The cover design was done by Mr. Nathan Marcy.

I'm looking at a release sometime in November, over the next few weeks I'll begin updating more often on the process from the beginning of the project to final print.

ciao.

The 4th

2006-10-09T20:04:00.000-06:00

The Anti-Everything Ban went into effect about four years ago, since then we don’t do much. School is still a drag, there’s no recess, no talking, no nothing, just sitting in class watching history channel. About how and why we got here, it was boring. At home we don’t play video games anymore, there isn’t much on TV, they said that cartoons and action shows were making people too violent, so they took them away.
Sometimes Rob and I would walk around the neighborhood, you weren’t allowed outside the hood without a proper pass. All the other kids sat out on their steps, or the curb. Some had books, but they were school books, the only things we could read. They didn’t make comics anymore; and all the other books, like novels and stuff, were taking away in big trucks. Most of the cool holidays were cancelled too; we didn’t get a lot of breaks from school, just weekends.
They still had the Fourth of July though, that was still important. But there were no fireworks, no parties or anything. They would just play the new national anthem all day on the radio and every TV station had the history channel on, with new stuff added every year. Only some of it actually happened.
There were no fireworks; they were banned. One year, Rob’s father showed us a skyrocket that he’d kept hidden; he made it with stuff from around the house. He said that he was going to set it off on the 4th, that he didn’t care about the ban, children needed to see the fireworks. That next year my tenth birthday happened and then came the 4th. That night Rob’s father went to the hill and shot the skyrocket. I’d never seen anything like it. Everybody in the neighborhood was staring out their windows, watching as it exploded in a bright orange, everyone cheered. The alarm went off and the police came and took Rob’s father away in a big truck, but he’d left instructions with Rob on how to make a skyrocket.
Rob and I spent a year making skyrockets, we showed them to the other kids, and they made some too.
Three thousand skyrockets went off five minutes ago, the alarm will come soon.
We left instructions.

Drop it like it's hot

2006-09-18T16:13:00.000-06:00

WORD!

Updates for ya:

Have been working on the talking animals saving the world story for a while now, practically all of last month, I can hear their little squeaky voices in my head right now, telling me what to do, but I won't let them control me, I'm a human being. Anyway, that's coming along nicely. They will rule your lives when you get the book, I promise you that.

The Novel is on hold for another month or so, but I think this will definitely come out the way I want it. But the hard bit is dredging up all sorts of shit from my youth, its weird going back there, all the way to the 70's. Damn, I can remember some of the horrendous clothing my mother would have me wear, but that's another book all by itself.

The photo/short story book should be done by the end of October and ready for purchase by the end of November. I spent most of yesterday trying to come up with a good title for it, but no dice. That may take a while. But I think that will be the first of my trio of publications to round out this year and continue through the 2nd quarter of 07', I have a good feeling about 07' for some reason, like something is going to happen.

Back to hustlin' and flowin'.

I ain't dead!

2006-09-18T14:27:00.000-06:00

Someone has been spreading rumors that I died. I got an email and text message from two different people asking if I was dead, and saying that it's going around town that I died from an overdose. They didn't say what I overdosed on though. But for the record, I'm not dead, really, just ask my dealer.

FLCL

2006-08-23T19:44:00.000-06:00

I just finished watching the second episode of this anime where in the end this robot, who popped out of a 12 year olds' boy's head, was about to get into a fight with a much bigger robot, (which also popped out of the boys head, but later in the episode) but before the first robot began to go after the bigger robot, he ate the boy whose head he popped out of, you see the boy inside the robot growing a black light bulb on his head then the fight begins. In the middle of the fight the first robot (who ate the boy) begins to transform into a giant cannon, and fires, blowing the arm off of the bigger robot. The bigger robot, seeing that his arm has been blown off, has no time to respond because a girl who claims to be an alien (she also rolls in a bright yellow vespa and poses as a maid and has already by this time stolen a nurses uniform so she could hit the 12 yr old boy in the head with her base cuitar) jumps up in the air yells "CHANCE!" and clocks the bigger robot over the head with her base guitar (kind of like El Kabong, some of you may be too young to remember that, oh well). Tthe bigger robot blows up after this. No one is killed because the first robot (who ate the boy, remember he ATE the boy) grabs everyone (there's also another girl who's 17 but seems to have a thing for the 12 yr old because she used to date his big brother, ((who's off in america playing pro baseball)) and was in the area when the big robot fight began) and takes them off ot a safe place. The robot then pats the 17 yr old on the head and soon proceeds to shit out the 12 yr old, I'm not kidding here, he SHITS him out, the boy falls out of the area that would be the robots' ass, and he looks liquified and hits the ground like...well, like shit. And after a bit of talking (revelation of love and questioning of their place in the world) they go home, the robot too.

I just finished watching that. It's called Fooly Cooly, or Furi Kuri, or FLCL don't ask me why. I'm not sure if I can suggest being a little stoned for this, it's only ramped up my hyperactivity, now I feel like playing video games and eating cheetos, but I'm out of cheetos and too paranoid to go outside.
I have two more DVD's of this. I'm gonna be gone for a while, I may not make it back.

Remember me.

SF

A Story of Brothas

2006-08-10T10:26:00.000-06:00

Damn!

I'm finally not the only brotha in the country that hasn't seen The Boondocks, best damn show on tv! I bought the DVD set yesterday. Check it out, learn ya culture...oh wait, after taking a quick look at my constituency here, well, um...oh yeah, there's white folks on the show too, so it's cool. Anyway, check out The Boondocks, best damn show on tv! But don't go emulating, or tryin' to be a hater. No, no, can't have that.

My big brother and his wife flies in from Chicago tomorrow. I will probably be offline for the majority of their visit, maybe, I'm hooked on the innerwebnets so it's hard to stay away from The Wiki and downloadable content. But I do have a plan for when they get here, the traps are set out front and my kung fu is strong and at the ready. I've been waiting a long time for a rematch from a battle with the Big Bro from a couple of years ago that I lost horribly; he out weighs me by about 200lbs and caught me off gaurd by throwing a little white kid at me when we were in the Mall, I was shopping for low top Chuck Taylors at the time. The kid fell on me, he had ice cream (neopolitan if I remember correctly), and it got all over my fresh suit. War was declared at that moment and I took it to him, could have had him too if he hadn't have got me with a metal chair in the shin section and a chop to the adam's apple. He always told me to "hit em' low when you get the shot, or else it's yo ass boy!" At least the bastard carried me back to the car. Where the hell was security? Checking out the young babies in the fucking Wilson's Leather store. Damn rent-a-cops!

By taking his adivce, I've placed 3 beartraps around the front door of my fortified compound on The Hill, I have smoke bombs, barbed wire, nunchucks, and my trusty Katana in case it gets rough (we don't use guns, they're for sissys). And a metal chair, just like the one he clocked me with. Hit em' low? ya damn right.

The Legend of Childhood Horror!

2006-08-07T16:12:00.000-06:00

Well, yesterday I was sick with West Nile and laid up on the couch trying to watch Finding Neverland and Ghost in the Shell SAC 2nd Gig when I had some crazy fever dream that threw me back to my youth, at exactly 8 years old. Dont ask me why, it was a west nile based fever dream, theres no explaining it. Anyway, I'm having my flashback and the thought occurred to me: Why do I give a rats shit about superhero films? Why do I think most of them aren't that good after what I was exposed to when I was a kid? Now I'm not talking about horrid cartoons that scare the hell out of me now when I take a look at them (Speed Racer, Ultraman, Starblazers) I'm talking live action. And not the first Superman film (or even the Spiderman stuff from back then) that I saw that in the theater and that was cool of course, but there was one thing that I'd forgotten about until yesterday, while laying on the couch, sweating and watching the cats make plans to escape my WN fueled lunatic ravings, I had a short memory shock of something that I now believe had ruined me way back then, something that had stripped me of any pain for anything that came after it or what's coming out now. Superman Returns? Pfft, its not as bad as people say in comparison. X-Men: The Last Stand? Whatever, Storm is still a fine woman. Constantine? Yeah, thats really gonna give a kid nightmares, but not the nightmares I had after seeing this tasteless filth, this shamefulI cant even finish what I want to say. Just look at it. And really, Ghetto man? GHETTO MAN???
I was just too damn young to be offended by that, but now...wow, thats all I can say.
Ive come to the conclusion that this is the reason why I was a troubled child that grew into a troubled adult who still has problems in life. Its because of this and this alone.
So now Im off to cry in a corner somewhere, then Im gonna find a support group, or just start one, I'm sure that this will explain a lot to people who've suppressed the memory of this horrible affliction to children of the 70's everywhere, and why there are many comic book guys out there in the world who are strangly enough, around my age. Ladies, dont hate them because they read comics, hate the Legend of Superheroes !!!

Thouse of you born after 1979, consider yourselves very, very lucky.

This has been a public service announcement.
You're welcome.

Ideas brew like coffee...

2006-07-24T10:09:00.001-06:00

Over the last few days I’ve been running this book idea around in my head to try and make a little bread for a new industrial printer, it’s a risky endeavor but I don’t have anything to lose so why not right? This is an interesting idea for me because it’s not just writing, it's a visual operation as well, something I’ve never really ventured in, at least not with whatever talents I carry in that department to make something ideally profitable, it’ll probably turn out like shit, but who knows, I may in fact make a buck or two off this thing and get a little closer to that printer. Getting this printer has been the bane of my existence for the last couple of months. It’s all in what the eyes see, at the right time, at the right place. The work officially began last night; you may see something by the end of the year (if not sooner, depending on how I work. I’ll continue to update about this as I go. I’m thinking of calling the book ‘Cat Scan’. But I’m sure that will change before the day is out.

The hell you mean I have Snakes?

2006-07-06T14:26:00.000-06:00

Sitting around bloated right now after having lunch at goddamn Wendy’s, this kid I know staggers into my office wearing some shit faced grin on his pocked marked face. I expect the worse and grab my trusty letter opener just incase I need to gut this chump; never fuck with a guy whose bloated, pissed off about it, and holding a sharp letter opener at the ready.

The kid says to me: Hey man, I just got some information that I think you’ll get a laugh out of.
Me: The hell you talkin’ bout law boy, you do see my sharp letter opener at the ready to cut some fools’ neck right?
The Kid: Sure man, sure. Are you all right?
Me: I went to Wendy’s for lunch today, state your business or get the hell out, I have Deadwood DVD’s to watch.
The Kid: You watch Deadwood while you’re at work?
Me: State your business, or I’m cuttin’ some cocksucker throat!
The Kid: Okay man, listen, I’m on the innernets today right? And I check out this thing on Snakes on a Plane, I find out that Sam Jackson’s’ character’s last name is Flynn, and his partner in the FBI, his name is Sean, what do you think of that, funny huh?
Me: Get the hell out of here, I hate snakes and there are DVD’s to watch, away with you!

The kid leaves, still holding that damn grin.

Now I have no choice, but to go see Snakes on a motherfuckin’ Plane.

Typical, I was gonna Netflix it, but how many times can you see a brotha on the big screen with the name Flynn? NONE! That I know of at least. Closest I’ve seen so far of my full name being on anything cool was the unaired pilot episode of Global Frequency (Don’t ask me how I saw it), and the guy lived at the end, gave me about 2% of hope for anything, but that’s about it though.

Still fucking bloated, and some fucker drank all the damn coffee.

I need sexy nurses, about 5 of them…and a banjo.

95 degrees, and I have to wear pants to work.....

2006-06-13T16:05:00.000-06:00

I was standing out back having a smoke while trying to figure out a way to make NFT bigger, stronger, and faster without having to do any work (which means hiring these worker monkeys I saw in Wal Mart last week) and this couple walks by me heading to their car:

Her: Ya know what?
Him: What?
Her: You have an attitude problem.
Him: Huh?
Her: You have an attitude problem!
Him: Really?
Her: Yeah, I really think that you have an attitude problem.
Him: Well, so fuckin what? I should have an attitude problem, people bug the shit out of me and it makes me mad, and I hate being mad! So damn what if I have an attitude problem?!
Her: So you admit to having an attitude problem?
Him: I don’t admit anything!!
Her: You’re impossible!
Him: Whatever, what the fuck are we having for dinner tonight?
Her: PASTA!

They got in their car and drove off; this was the highlight of my day.

It’s hot outside, people are getting nutty. I want to go home, take these damn pants off...

Welcome to the Layer Cake son.

2006-06-09T13:44:00.000-06:00

Well, been a while yes?

Feeling much better now that the NFT reading is over, the stress level is back to a calm gray shade.

The night itself went of without any problem, people came, stayed, listened, and gave compliments on the way out. It was surprising I must say, I never expect these things to go well, especially when there's no liquid libations to go around. Most people in Denver seem to think that unless there's a drink in their hand they're not going to have a good time, all that tells me is there are way too many wanna be drunks here, and that's their problem, I'm not here to help them forget their worries, fuck it, I've got enough of my own to deal with. I've been on the sause for way longer than I'd like to admit, but whatever. I've cut back much over the last few months and I believe I'm the better for it. But enough about me....

Layer Cake...See it if you haven't. I've seen the majority of gangster flicks that have come out over the last few years and this one I dig. Go to netflix, get it, sit back, relax and enjoy.

untill next time.

The Typerheads are coming!

2006-05-22T14:51:00.000-06:00

Son by James P. Johnson

2006-05-12T10:12:00.000-06:00

So, a little while ago my neighbor stops by and throws a book at me "you should read this, you weird bastard! you never read anything but those crazy Beat books and labels on medicine bottles in drugstores, you need to read this!" Then off he goes into his apartment. I pick up the book, light up a J, sit in the lazy boy, wait for the J to take hold and then get to it. And hot damn, it's a good first book, now the story behind it is that this is only the first chapter, so of course I'm going to be on the look out for chapter 2. But you should go here and get the first chapter, it's going to be a great serial novel, believe it!

Keep up the work James, we need more black male writers in Denver, I'm sick of being the only one, people are beginning to expect things...

Must be Monday, I must be bored

2006-05-08T15:26:00.000-06:00

Haven't written anything here in over a month.

The only new bit is a new issue of NFT on the streets, other than that life is on the quiet side besides making the firm decision to finish my big book of stories this year and the rent for my flat getting raised $50. Not much else is new, or maybe not anything that I'm going to get into right now. Let's just say all is quiet on the western front....But now I've just jinxed myself, the school where I work is going to get attacked by gun toting, energy drinking, sandal wearing law students who're pissed because the final exam for this week was too hard or something else that's equally trivial; "I can't find my Torts book, you bastard!" BOOM!! and there goes my right ear and part of my sexy jawline. Oh well, chewing is overrated anyway.

"You can stand on the edge of society, chart down everything it does, says, expresses physically, you can watch it sing songs of protest and freedom, act in plays and films of corruption and horror, you can view society as it's making love, crying, laughing, praising itself for the efforts of another, dream of it's past accomplishments that's never been improved upon, you can watch as it runs in fear, chased by the sound of televised terrorists and super-powered oil whores, you can see the rush to action to what it only thinks is evil, you can witness the birth of society if you squint tight enough, you can also catch a glimpse as it commits ritual suicide everyday for over 30 years, and still not see a fucking thing worth talking about over a beer with the boys."

That's a bit from a chapter in my book in progress. I like it. I may keep it, I may not...

Fuck, I'm getting older soon...I noticed more gray hairs the other day. Might as well hit the salvation army and get my cane after work, I'm sure I'll need it for those damn kids out on the lawn with their fancy moonboots and argyle socks.

Naked Junkies at Lunch

2006-04-06T16:19:00.000-06:00

Sitting on the patio of some shitty coffee shop on the south side of town.
12: 58 pm.

Dude: Yo, Flynn dude, you said that the new issue of Needles would be out on April 2nd, it's now the 6th, what the fuck man?
ME:Yeah, I say a lot of things after drinking. I once told a girl I was the first black NASCAR driver to ever win a race, she googled me the next day, that was some funny shit when she called me up that night all mad n'junk. She was a virgin before we met, heh heh.
Dude: But dude, where's the new issue?
Me: (Staring off thinking about the night with the virgin.)
Dude: Where's the new issue dude?
Me: What new issue?
Dude: The new issue of Needles for Teeth, where is it?
Me: Oh snap man! Them shits at home.
Dude: Dude, you do know that people are waiting for that issue right?
Me: I'm sure they are, but there are starving children out there, it's more important to eat.
Dude: What? Dude, I think you should help out your literary community by putting out that issue.
Me: Well, some people think cucumber taste better pickled.
Dude: Dude, why did you get into this business?
Me: I don't know; chicks I guess.
Dude: And where are the chicks?
Me: Good fucking question! (Stares off thinking about where the chicks are)
Dude: So dude, when is the new issue coming out...Dude, DUDE?!?
Me: Fuck! I know where all the chicks are, I'll rap with ya later Dude.
Dude: But wait you owe money on the-
ME: (walking out the door, towards the bus stop) Damn chicks, think they can hide from me...Shit!

Me: (4:49 pm, still waiting on the bus) I'll show them who's Boss, I'll show them all!
Damn RTD is fuckin' with me too, I'll show them as well...

But really the new issue of NFT will be on the streets of Denver tomorrow, seriously.

damn it all to hell!

2006-03-31T11:40:00.000-07:00

Shit! This post was going to be about my growing addiction to Amazon.com, but last night I made a big mistake in the initial printing of the new issue of NFT and now I have to fix it, and I've already ruined a batch of issues because of said mistake (30 to be exact), and ink is gone and I'm almost out of paper! Grrrr! I was going to take today off from the evil cosmodemonic day job to finish all of my stapling and junk but now I need a quick print job done, which means I have to show up at the evil cosmodemonic day job, Bummer!! This also means that NFT is going to be late, by about a day, I think. So look for it on Sunday, maybe, I could get lucky between now and saturday.

And yes, I'm growing addicted to amazon.com, and netflix, and Overcompensating (to the right). Damn innernets. There goes my weekend.

This can't be right...Something. Is. Happenning.

2006-03-27T11:31:00.000-07:00

I've been at the evil asylum, the place where sanity vanishes, the house for the damned, the anger station, (or what most people call it) the day job, for about an hour and a half now, and I'm already bored with the innerwebnets. Something is terribly wrong. I'm not usually bored until at least 3 or 4 pm.

I'll have to look into this, I'm not ready to go back to reading books at my desk, but then again, A Scanner Darkly is online; I could read that and get weird and trippy while sipping free rocket fueled coffee at my liesure. Maybe I'll do that. I'll return after my second personality seeps in and makes an apperance. Ah, Substance D...

Confessions at Cooley High

2006-03-22T12:06:00.000-07:00

I'm not original in the least, this is true. I've come to accept my theft of image and attitude. Yes dear readers it's too true: I've stolen everything I know from this great coming of age film. Check it out if you can find it in the DVD shops. Or if you're lazy like me you can buy it here.

The guy on the left in the coat and tie, his name is Preach, my favorite film character of all time, really. I first caught this film on TV when I was 5 or 6, so we're talking 1975 or 76. The film was released in 73', right after American Graffiti which at the time everyone was calling the greatest coming of age flick, well, I have to disagree. It was dull then and today it's still dull. How could an inner city black kid relate to that?? When Cooley High was released I remember my sisters (who were way older than me, and still are , Hahhah!) going crazy for it. Cooley High was the first black coming of age film. Thanks really to Gordon Parks, Ossie Davis and The Great Melvin Van Peebles for really paving the way for black films. Sweet Sweetbacks Baaadassss song came out 2 years prior to this one, if it wasn't for MVP there may not have been a Cooley High, or Shaft (originally written for a white man), Coffey Brown, The Mack, Billy Dee Williams or Samual L. Jackson. Cooley High really made me think about life, and also made me ball like a baby at such a young age at the end of the film. Even to this day I can't watch the whole film due to tearing up when a pivotal moment comes, the sadness can rip you apart and break your heart more so than any film coming out today. (and that's only because the idea of sentiment and compassion has been driven away from most films, at lest most films coming out of America, unless is and indie though I will admit.

So as a child I got into the idea of being a writer from this film, the idea of wearing suits came from this and chasing skirts with reckless abandon. I'm an image thief sure, but it's better than aping some dullard like 50 Cent or Martin Lawrence, or Will Smith for that matter.

One of the strongest points in the film for me is the fact that it's filmed in Chicago, the ol' hometown, so whenever I'm feeling a little homesick I can throw this in the machine and roam around with these cats for a little while and feel okay about things. And right now that's all right with me. Chicago isn't the same as it used to be, I've noticed this on my last venture out there. It's become sick I think, saturated with glitz and yuppie wealth and fear. Going back to some of the old neighborhoods is like taking a stroll through Lodo (downtown Denver, horrible place) full of ugly people doing ugly things.

Cooley High also told me that eventually I was going to leave Chicago, at the time I really didn't know that but I knew that I wouldn't be there forever. So I left 20 years later, and here I am, still reflecting on a film that taught me about growing up before I was decade old.

Thanks Preach.

Work in Progress or something to that effect

2006-03-21T12:52:00.000-07:00

It's funny how you can discover how to do something different without thinking about it too much. I've been working on a couple of story ideas lately and coming up busto on the process of how to write these stories in a more intriguing way; something other than the norm ya see.

I like the idea of the book House of Leaves, creeped my shit right out but very well done in its execution and makes you pay attention to your surroundings, in the story itself and within your own home (after a while I had the lights on when I read it). What I think I'm trying to do is expand the idea of stream of consciousness writing by using the old school Kerouac theory of "first thought=best thought". I've never done this before, it was sort of forbidden when I was in college. My prof would tell us that "even though Kerouac was a cool writer that whole theory was bull, he did rewrite and edit".

And sure, that's true, but it's the theory alone that makes me entertain the thought of no edits, going with the idea of not telling a straight narrative, writing as if you're really in the narrators' head, using the voice of the mind in the unconventional manner of how people think, or at least how I think, which is probably more staccato than linear. Jerking here and there, easily distracted by anyone or anything that becomes of interest. I also plan on doing this under the influence. That may be a bad idea though. I used to date this chick who wrote a novel while stoned. She'd smoke a joint and write, then the next night write straight. Eventually she would go back and rewrite, not satisfied with what she'd produced. "It's just not coming out right." she'd say. I read some of it and found it interesting. I could tell in part where she was straight when writing and when she wasn't. The chapters written while stoned were much better, more loose and risk taking, her voice was more involved, more dominant. Those pages were what she would rewrite and in turn ruin what she had by being too concerned with traditional story telling and what the "readers out there" would perceive. This is where I think I can pull it off; the concern for acceptance by the masses is passe' for me. I think it's best to do what you want to do and not worry about the reception. I know a couple of people who claim to be writers but are very much into the adulation from people who they call "fans". Bah, waste of my damn time.

I think I've begun my new process and didn't know it with the last issue of Needles for Teeth. I have a story there called Blue Train; I didn't think too much about it at the time I was working on it, just remembering and writing it the way I remembered it. Sure there were little influences involved, but it was mostly memory that spurred me. So I'm continuing this idea, this process, trying to turn it into something bigger, hopefully I'll be satisfied at the end of it, or at the very least, except it as an experiment of (un)conscious thought procession in theory of word usage to express narrative communication, while intoxicated. Yeah, I'm so fuckin Beat. Now I need to smoke cigs and drink coffee.

Short updates

2006-03-09T11:44:00.000-07:00

So many things in plan, so much to do. I’ve been busy over the last couple of weeks getting ready for the “zine fest” which I’d rather call an indie publishers convention, the word zine still bothers me. I’m also in the beginning stages of a massive multi part story based slightly on Wuxia novels from China. This may last me until the end of the year if I do it right. I’m looking at the possibilities of a novella coming out of this, we’ll see I guess.
Also in the works is a gallery show for the photographers from the last few issues of NFT. Of course I have to find a gallery that I think is worthy, and get my photogs to get their work together (harder than it sounds) and then the fun begins. Hopefully I’ll be able to pull this off for some time in the spring.

I did find out yesterday that I’m officially a home owner. The mortgage is paid off on my house in Chicago and the deed is now in my and my mothers’ name. Now no matter what, if I have to skip town until some drama cools off, I have a place to go. Luckily no one knows where the house is. I’m good at secrets like that.

I also got a cryptic email from my brother and his wife the other day. I think they’re going to try and find me. I’ll have to refortify the apartment just in case.

More later.

Who would have thought?

2006-02-28T10:36:00.000-07:00

Your #1 Match: INTP

The Thinker

You are analytical and logical - and on a quest to learn everything you can.
Smart and complex, you always love a new intellectual challenge.
Your biggest pet peeve is people who slow you down with trivial chit chat.
A quiet maverick, you tend to ignore rules and authority whenever you feel like it.

You would make an excellent mathematician, programmer, or professor.

Your #2 Match: INFP

The Idealist

You are creative with a great imagination, living in your own inner world.
Open minded and accepting, you strive for harmony in your important relationships.
It takes a long time for people to get to know you. You are hesitant to let people get close.
But once you care for someone, you do everything you can to help them grow and develop.

You would make an excellent writer, psychologist, or artist.

Your #3 Match: ENTP

The Visionary

You are charming, outgoing, friendly. You make a good first impression.
You possess good negotiating skills and can convince anyone of anything.
Happy to be the center of attention, you love to tell stories and show off.
You're very clever, but not disciplined enough to do well in structured environments.

You would make a great entrpreneur, marketing executive, or actor.

Your #4 Match: ENFP

The Inspirer

You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.
You are also unconventional, irreverant, and unimpressed by authority and rules.
Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.
You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're qutie the storyteller!

You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist.

Your #5 Match: INTJ

The Scientist

You have a head for ideas - and you are good at improving systems.
Logical and strategic, you prefer for everything in your life to be organized.
You tend to be a bit skeptical. You're both critical of yourself and of others.
Independent and stubborn, you tend to only befriend those who are a lot like you.

You would make an excellent scientist, engineer, or programmer.

What's Your Personality Type?

NFT will be a little late…

2006-02-22T08:54:00.000-07:00

So, um, I woke up this morning dressed in my Ninja outfit that I thought I’d lost during my move into my fabulous hidden mountain compound last summer and there was a framed painting of Oprah laying on a feathered bed super glued to my ceiling. A guy dressed like a Jedi is sitting on my futon couch in the living room waving his lightsaber around, a ballerina is making eggs over easy with toast and juice, there’s cotton balls everywhere and my cats are no where to be found. There’s a makeshift rope made from toilet paper hanging from my radiator and out through the bedroom window (That’s why it was so damned cold when I woke up!). Something happened last night. All I remember is getting a taste for wine and talking myself into going to the liquor store for “just a little nip of the good old merlot”. The Korean woman behind the counter said something Korean to me after I gave her my credit card and here I am.
Now, I know I said I was done drinking but sometimes people get weak…Yes, I fell to a little weakness but I still can’t figure out where the Jedi came from, or the ballerina. Those damn cats of mine know something, but I’m gonna have to wait until they come back before I get some straight answers. The ballerina only speaks Russian and the Jedi keeps talking in that damn Yoda dialect (ooh, big word); I have no idea what he’s saying right now. I’m glad I found my Ninja outfit though. Guess I’ll make some coffee, everything makes sense after coffee.
SHIT!! I haven’t even begun working on the next issue of Needles for Teeth yet, that’s why I wanted the wine in the first place…I work better loaded for some reason…My Ninja outfit is really smooth, is this velvet? A Ninja only wears the best fabric.

I quit drinking for this?

2006-02-21T20:14:00.000-07:00

My cats shed too much, way too much. I get home from work today and there's cat fur everywhere, all over the joint is at least one smooth layer of cat fur. This happens about once a month and it takes about a day to clean it all. Some time ago I'd been thinking about shaving both of them down (I have two of the little bastards) but I think I was maybe talking out loud and the next day I couldn't find my hair clippers. It's been about two weeks now and they still haven't turned up. I'm sure that the cats have hidden my clippers, but I can't find them. This is getting a little out of hand. I have an afro now, big one. With the fro I'm a good foot and a half taller than normal, I should get into hip hop, become a rapper, all the greats have huge fros', and they get PAID!. I could change my name to MC Love Swami, or Dr. AntiFreeze, or The FLZA. I could be like Grandmaster Flash or that kid from What's Happening, the old TV show from the 70's. Damn cats. They're lucky I have bird flu or I'd go and get new clippers, but I'm not allowed in Walgreens anymore after infecting half the staff last week. The manager said that I had a "strange air" about me, whatever the hell that means. Stupid cats and their shedding. I think I'm gonna dress up like Lando Calrissian and chase old ladies though the produce section of Safeway now, that'll make me happy. I'll be back later ...

Back from The Dead

2006-02-19T22:50:00.000-07:00

Wow, I’m late, really late. Damn, it’s been a hell of a month so far.
So, updates yes?

The NFT reading at Gabor’s went very well, everyone had a blast, I got loaded and staggered home carrying a mini amp and a future hangover. That next morning I woke up sick as a mad bastard and didn’t go to work, no real loss there, but that hangover was a bitch. It was then that I’d decided to go on sobriety for a while. So, twenty days as of tomorrow and no booze, I’m haven’t been to the pub in about two weeks, and I do feel the better for it. Things have slowed down some and that’s cool, but I have a little more money now which is always good. But the funny thing is that after ten days of being that sober guy, I got the flu. I haven’t had the flu in years and I never take flu shots, don’t trust them. And I’m still sick, not as bad as a week ago when I was bed ridden and drooling Theraflu, popping Actifed and Sedafed like candy, but it’s still there. No one’s allowed in the flat until this is gone, but that’s okay, it’s too damn cold for anyone to come out anyway.

So now, I’m finally alert enough to try and get back to this writing game, I’ve had to push the deadline back for my current writers until next weekend due to the fact that I’m backed up with work myself. Gonna take a little while longer to get the groove back, but that’s the charm of playing the game, reevaluating the skills and maturing them with a bit of writers therapy, which is simply reading. That always gets me back into the game good and proper.
Now it’s time for a little Nyquil and my book of Raymond Carver stories. Hopefully this damn flu bug will be gone by this time next week. I have a lot of work and catching up to do.

Will update sooner than later next time, hopefully it’ll be a bit more interesting.

what's going on...

2006-01-27T16:15:00.000-07:00

Working on a story called "The Village Idiot", the new issue of NFT is hitting the streets tonight and tomorrow, reading the write up in this weeks Westword, getting mentally prepared for the NFT reading on tuesday and making sure that my ears are ready for the MF Doom show on monday...Not bad for January.

SF

Waiting for Duffman...

2006-01-18T12:04:00.000-07:00

it's noon and I feel like hell, a minor hangover mixed with tightened shoulders due to stress over impending newspaper write ups and a reading of works at the end of the month, has finally taken it's toll. So, after yelling in the pub last night about something trivial I'm sure and falling out of bed this morning, not remembering when (or how) I got home, I've decided that it was time to stop drinking for a while.

So, on February 1st I will stop drinking for as long as I can, I'm looking at the whole month, 28 days of sobriety. It'll be strange indeed.

I'm not looking forward to it, but when you find yourself thinking that you're gonna have to punch the bartender in the throat for another drink even though you know that you've had enough, it's time to cut the ties that bind. And if this works out, maybe I'll be able to kick smoking...Yeah right, who the hell am I trying to kid?

Cover art for NFT Vol. 2 Issue 1

2006-01-13T11:06:00.000-07:00

This cover was done by a good friend of mine, Nicholas Anderson.
The release date for this issue is January 31st.
Is good yes? I think so.

Photographic Memories

2006-01-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

So I get word today that the crack smoking, bad beer drinking, no money (or actual award that I won in 2004) givin editors at a certain paper that I won't name right now, wants to have a write up on yours truely here and his little journal called Needles for Teeth. I have to do a little interview and everything. And I have to take goddamn pictures! I hate taking pictures, I really do. Not that I think I'm ugly or anything, on the contrarary, I've been told that I'm one of the most handsome dudes in Denver, which is true of course, why shouldn't I be? I'm rough and tough in a snazzy black suit, Sam L. Jackson my ass!

Drink my goddamn beer!!

Flynn's Beer: "So good you'll punch out the bartender and his mama!"

But I digress, I hate getting my picture taken. It all goes back to when I was a little kid and my mother took me to Sears (which is tramatizing enough), some people were there with a baby leapord and you could get a shot with the little guy, me being a cat lover I begged to get a picture with it. So I got up there, they gave you the little guy to hold and SNAP! there's your picture, well, for me there was a SNAP, and then a claw, and then a bite, and then a scream, and then someone yelled "Oh my GOD!" and then a rush to the hospital for shots in the belly, many of them, many.

So now I don't like having my picture taken, bad memories with the flash, and screams, and scratching and biting, and...

Anyway, those whorehoppers want to do a write up with photos.

Hooray for me.

I'm gonna go and get a bottle of wine now...

It's on sucka!

2006-01-05T16:16:00.000-07:00

"When ya gonna post again Flynn, huh, huh??"

What, a brotha can't sit around at work in his underpants, sippin Irish flavored coffee while reading comics without some chump buggin about a post? Yes I know it's the new year and I haven't written anything, yes I know that the people are awaiting my magical soothing words of blissful madness on the general populous, yes YES!! I know this, but goddamn I just got back from a ten day vacation at The Pub and I need to re-adjust, and it's not an easy thing....But sitting in my underpants helps, so does this Irish flavored coffee, man, mmmmm, hmmmmm.

Now, as for updates: Issue 6 of NFT is on the streets of Denver and hot shit on a dog in heat if it hasn't been received well, people are beating each other with wet sacks full of rotten fruit for a copy. I saw a guy punch out his girlfriend because she took the last one in The Pub the other night, after she regained consciousness she kicked him in his junk, took the issue, and ran off into the streets screaming something about being a "Needle slut".
It makes me all warm and fuzzy to think about it...No, that's the drink...Anyway, we're all happy with the results and rumor has it that some paper ran by tyrannical crackheads and selfish booze hounds want to do some write up on me and the rag.

Well, I say it's on bitches! Bring it! I'm ready for action and satisfaction! I got a list of gripes and demands, I'm ready to party! Speaking of which I need more coffee with Irish motivational skills.....

So, 2005, a strange year NFT had just gotten started and we ran for a good 5 issues (within 5 months might I add) before I began to go fully insane. But it was still a pretty decent run. Strangeness ensued, punches were thrown, booze was bought, spilled and downed and brought back up again. 5 months of newsprint styled debauchery, then came the quiet time, the time of reflection and self examination (yes, we ran out of money for booze, of course it's obvious).
For another 5 months we took time off to figure out where we were at and where we were going. I felt that we'd ran our gamut with what we were doing and it was time to move on, but to what? To where? And how? I had to reevaluate this whole scene man, get to the root of it, dig the perils and the pleasures...So I went to The Pub.

After several drinks and weeks of it, I'd decided to make a strong comeback. New format, new content, new attitude. And now here we are. Needles For Teeth: the Literary Journal. HAH! Yes, that'll put the fuckers in their place. So now, two months after making that decision, the All Girl Issue was released and we are no in the pre-production process of the first issue of the journal. So for those of you who live in Denver and you know where to find and issue great, for those of you who don't live in Denver, get in touch with me and we'll work something out if you want an issue, I don't charge much, just some booze and a couple of virgin girls to carry it, plump ones, they hold a lot of blood and I need it to stay youthful. Can you dig it? Good.
Oh snap! I gotta put my pants on, it's almost time to get out of this slave den and go to The Bar, not The Pub per se, this is another joint, I go there sometimes when I need to get away from it all, and they don't know me there, not really.

Anyway, more tomorrow, I sort of promise. Yeah, that's it, yeah.

Back Cover Art

2005-12-20T17:01:00.000-07:00

Here's the back cover for the upcoming issue of NFT. It's a new idea that we're going to try out every few issues or so, instead of just having an ad on the back of the book. Oooh, we're so arty, yes yes. Hopefully we'll have a vast array of artists with different styles all over this thing before next summer, that would be nice.

This was done by a young woman named Larissa, she endured much coffee enduced pestering and drunken phone calls on late nights (all by me) and still pulled off a kickin piece of work, you should see the original, in color no less. Unfortunately I only have the non color, because I'm not smart enough to save it in color before changing it, damn photoshop...

8 days until the official release of issue 6.

And I'm not even close to being ready, typical. I'll probably have to quit drinking and watching cartoons until I get up to speed, maybe.

More later after I contemplate this theory...

Updates of a sort...

2005-12-14T15:56:00.000-07:00

Been strangely busy since last post. I'm printing the latest issue of Needles for Teeth and it's beginning to take up time, and with giving out advance copies to the very special people, spending as much time as possible at the pub and trying to write, and dealing with the evil, soul sucking, bloodletting day job, I haven't found much time to get to this damn blogger thing. Not too much new to declare. Been too busy to think beyond the box. Here's a shot of the cover for NFT vol 1 Issue 6. The cover is by Brooke Howell. She's a great visual artist from Denver, check out her site, buy some art and get hip with the program.

More after I spend some time with a Japanese girl with tiny feet who is going to walk on my back George Jefferson style while a Hungarian dancer feeds me strawberries and cream while singing Italian opera.

At least that's what I think I'm paying for, the operator seemed kind of vague on the subject...

Broke

2005-11-21T17:05:00.000-07:00

She called and asked me if I wanted to have lunch.
I said “sure, but it would have to be someplace cheap, I’m having those ‘day before payday blues’”.
“Oh. Don’t worry about it, it’s on me.” She said. “I want to go to that fancy place near the futon store.”
That fancy place was little more than a bar with napkin holders, a sign outside with all of the lights working, and an overly expensive menu.
“Okay, I can meet you there.” I said.
“Sounds great, I’ll see you then.”
I arrived at the restaurant before she did so I took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and waited. She came in at the half way mark of the glass.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, traffic was heavy.”
“Not a problem.”
“Let’s order, I’m starving.” She said.
It had been about a week since we had seen each other. She went to school full time and worked at the school bookstore, I had a job at the record store. Our last night together was magic, it was sweaty and raw. It was as if the world was ending and this was going to be the final fuck.
Our food arrived and I ordered another beer, she ordered a cocktail, something pink and fruity.
We didn’t talk much then, every now and then we would glance at each other and she would smile. It was a sweet but sad smile.
The bartender took our plates; she pulled out a pack of Parliaments, gave one to me and lit one for herself. We continued with our drinks.
“I’m happy to see you.” She said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you.”
She gave me that sad smile again, this time it didn’t feel as sweet.
“I think we need to break up.” She said quickly.
Then the tears came. I saw one drop into her drink.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because things are going too good, I think I’m in love with you and it’s only been two months. What if we get into a fight? You’ll hate me and you’ll leave, I don’t ever want to fight with you.”
“People fight, couples fight all the time, and it doesn’t really mean that it’s the end.”
“But what if it’s really bad? I couldn’t deal with that.”
She cried more, people stared at us. She got out of her seat, grabbed a napkin, and ran to the ladies room, sobbing and sniffling. The bartender came over and grabbed my empty pint glass. He stared at me sternly as I asked for a scotch and soda, lighting another of her Parliaments. He didn’t say anything as he made the drink; I didn’t say anything as he pushed it in front of me. I could feel the contempt from his eyes, from his flared nostrils, from the vain in his forehead, from his cheap red tie loosely hanging around his thick flabby neck.
She returned to her seat with red eyes, and mascara running. She looked tired, used up, spent. As if all that crying had taking the life right out of her. She quickly gathered her things into her purse, put on her coat and hugged me, her arms choking me as she began to sob again. Louder this time. She whispered that she would always love me then ran out the front doors. I knew then that I would never see her again. That was just a little too dramatic for me.

I turned back to the bartender as he was placing the tab in front of me. It was $28.50; I had thirty dollars and a half pack of camels in my pocket.
At least tomorrow is payday. I thought.
I gave the bartender the thirty dollars, he returned with the change. I left what was there as a tip.
I didn’t know what to think, that had to have been the fastest and strangest break up in history.
The walk back home was cold, the wind biting and bitchy.
It didn’t really dawn on me until later in the night after a few beers: She broke up with me and I paid for lunch.
She got me twice.

New place to go for new words

2005-11-12T19:54:00.000-07:00

My friend Kevin Elliott from A Slant Truth (in the links section) has started a new group writers blog called Satellite Heart. I'll be posting what I'm calling micro fiction there from time to time and if you're interested in writing jump in head first and see what happens.

The Birth of The Wino

2005-11-09T16:07:00.000-07:00

Last night I’m at Sherry’s apartment checking out her photos that will go into the next issue of Needles for Teeth, she offers me a choice of two bottles of wine and not being the big consumer of wine I just point and grunt and then there’s half a glass of whatever I’d chosen in front of me. I sipped at the wine and didn’t get that usual bitter-tangy taste that comes with getting the cheap stuff. “This is really good wine, I love this stuff” she says. And after eating some pasta she gets into showing me her photos. Sherry couldn’t drink because she’s on antibiotics due to recent dental work. I finished off the glass pretty quickly soon after and she pours me another about half full (or was it half empty?) we lit cigarettes and continued digging photos of Yellow Stone and ruined apartments under construction. After about a half hour that glass was empty and she poured me another, a little more then half this time. And I realized after a couple of gulps that this was the best wine I’d ever had, it was the nectar of the gods of art and language, the sweet, sweet taste of life and love, it was a warm breeze in November after an afternoon rain, the cooing breath of a lover on your neck, it was magic, it was sex, it was fucking out of goddamn sight!
Soon I was very content and comfortable, my throat felt covered in molasses, and my speech didn’t slur more than it simply slowed. I noticed the tone of my voice slide lower and lower with each sip. I was in a momentary slow motion that I didn’t want to end. The slightly darkened apartment was illuminated in neon colors of blood red and blue ruin. Her cats ran around slowly it seemed, purring, fighting and jumping at heights as if they’d been to the same facility as the Six Million Dollar Man; the bionic sounds were optional, I chose them for aesthetic reasons. The glass empty again, I’d chosen about 10 photos by then, had about 8 cigarettes, and at least 4 visions. I had the thought of having more of this life affirming wine and more arrived as if my telepathy was working at 6 bars instead of 1. This is better than anything I’ve ever had in my life, I’ll be a dedicated Wino from here on out, to hell with beer, whiskey, whatever else. The wine is the way, the wine is the life. I will spend all money on this; I will waste no time in collecting bottles and strategically placing them through out my flat, to always have a bottle at arms reach no matter where I sit, even in the bathroom.
After another hour or so we’d gone through all of the photos, I’d ended up with about 20 total for distribution through out a few upcoming issues with option to see more as Sherry takes them. I finished off the last of the bottle of the great blood colored elixir.
“Sherry,” I said slowly, vociferously. “I drank all your wine, I’m sorry, it couldn’t be help.”
“Oh that’s okay sweety; it’s good, I’m glad you liked it.”

I left Sherry’s apartment at 1:30am and made my way home. I felt light and heavy while walking, and I didn’t have a coat, but the wine kept me warm. I now fully understand the power of good booze in wintertime. I didn’t feel any cold; it was nighttime spring for me.

This morning I awoke to the cats scrapping and yelling, wrecking up the place but it didn’t bother me in the least. I had no noticeable hangover, nothing lingering except the memory of the wine and the contentment. I was calm, euphoric. There was no regret of being awake and having to make the day job, no remorse at getting home as late as I did. Everything was good. And there was even a few cigarettes left in the pack to go with the morning coffee.

But now, I’ve come to realize that I never got the name of the wine, I can’t even remember what the label looks like.

I’ll have to call Sherry and get that information. But I still have to stick around the day job until my time here is done. I’m beginning to grow impatient; I’m starting to hate this place all over again.

I need to get out; I need to go to the liquor store. The life of The Wino awaits!

The Hell!?

2005-11-09T14:07:00.000-07:00

You are a Tortured Conceptual Artist. Your fellow
postmodernists call you an anachronism, but
you've never cared much about the opinions of
others. After all, most of them are far too
simple-minded to appreciate the nuances of your
work. They talk, while you are part of a lived
tradition.

What kind of postmodernist are you!?
brought to you by Quizilla

This place will drive you to drink

2005-11-06T22:42:00.000-07:00

That’s what’s printed on my coffee cup that I keep at work. It’s a reminder of what I know I’m gonna have to do when I get home from the day job, it’s a reminder of what I, and I’m sure thousands (oh fuck it right, millions) of others, have to deal with on a daily basis; the ignorance and unoriginality of people coming into your life in a place that you have to be at in order to maintain something of a life, coming into your office area to steal the coffee you made and try to make with the useless and banal small talk: “Staying out of trouble? Having fun yet? Working hard??” Its annoying shit, dig? Most people I know at my day job who ask these questions don’t drink, in fact, they don’t do anything. Maybe shop at Wal-mart or Bed, Bath, and Beyond; also boring and unoriginal, they’re made for each other now that I think about it.
Sometimes people ask me if I’m going to the pub after work, I say ‘Well, of course I am.” And they giggle at that, one woman I work with called me an alcoholic, and I told her that I wasn’t.
“What makes you so different?” She asked.
“I don’t go to goddamn meetings and the only guilt I feel is not having more money.” I answered. “The only twelve steps I take are to the mens room.”

There are a lot of people at my job that drink though, maybe not as much as I do, but there are few that definitely drink more than me. I know of a couple of cats who keep bottles in their office, in desk drawers. There’s a guy who has a mini fridge stocked with bottles of wine, he and I get along well in times of stress.

Sometimes I see big fucking booze trucks outside my building, delivering boxes upon boxes of beer, wine and what have you, I always wonder where those boxes are going. I see people stumbling around, giggling at nothing, asleep in chairs in the forum. Those bastards are hiding things from me…

‘This Place Will Drive You to Drink’

Am I drinking right now? Damn straight I am. I’ve been in a bad mood all day, no surprise right? I spent the whole damn day waiting on a delivery that never came; I was hitting the bottle by three, not giving a damn. Then I heard the noise, the horror… I got a woman who lives below me who has a little child that I believe is possessed by a demon. I hear the child at night, sometimes two or three in the morning, wailing, screaming, screeching, and damning all living souls to hell. I can’t sleep with this going on; the only thing that helps is a beer or a shot, or both. Once the child begins with its damnation of parental superiority I begin with the Cutty Sark and a cigarette, it’s going to be a long night for both of us.
I got a guy lives in the apartment next to me, he sings opera at all hours. One Saturday morning after a night at the pub I was awakened by the sounds of an accordion and singing, some Italian opera tune, I thought I had thick walls that could block out a sonic boom, I was wrong. The hangover kicked in quickly and it took a pint to clear it all away, opera and all. I fell out on my couch, safe for the time being. But he’s back again when I wake up, doing his Carmen, his Don Giovanni, his Magic Flute bit. Schlitz sounds better than that any day of the bloody week. And I fucking hate Schlitz.

‘This Place Will Drive You to Drink’

They say that people drink to forget, and yeah, that’s damn true. Do you want to remember the girl (or for you single ladies, the guy) who turned you down for a date that day, or the fact that we have nothing but morons in political office? Shit, we have a beer baron for a mayor, but do we have a free beer day in town? HELL NO! He’d rather jump out of airplanes and roll around on scooters, and still make the rest of us pay for pints in his bar. Do you want to keep in mind the really shitty day you had at work, where everyone was on your ass about some business that you had nothing to do with? Of course not, go to the pub after work, you’ll feel better, and you may meet some bird (or dude, for the girlies) that’ll float your boat and raise the sail for ya, and you’ll forget all about the bullshit of the day.

Young kids in pubs now days think it’s just fun to get drunk, be stupid, get into fights and talk a lot of shit, and sure maybe it is, I guess that’s what my thought process was when I was young. Now, it’s more out of survival, to try and keep my sanity while everything else around goes to hell. As I get older I’ve come to realize more and more that people in general are simply insane, in their own way for each individual of course, but insane none the less. To be able to deal with them, you need some sort of medicine. Some people go with drugs, some with religion, but we all know where that gets them. Others go with the bottle, the bar “scene” whatever that means.
I think that the young ones don’t really know the ‘This place will drive you to drink’ motto yet, they still think that everything’s cool, and drinking is only for fun and bullshitting. Yeah, sure it is, for the time being, unless they do something really foolish and have to pay the price for it, but that’s growing up. Not that those that are professional drinkers don’t fuck up, we just fess up to the fuck up a lot quicker just to get it out of the way and back to the pub before last call.

I fuck up often; I think I’m rather skilled at the “Fuckin up at the pub routine”. For instance, I’m in the pub with some friends one night and this woman I know comes over and sits with us, I’ve known her for several years and see her around from time to time. And we’re sitting and talking, ordering drink after drink, and she’s matching me, that’s something I don’t see too often but whatever…After some time my friends split and it’s just her and I, and I’m trying to throw the sweet talk out there and she’s a little receptive of it. I even show off a little short story I’d just done because I know she’s a big reader, not that I think the story is gonna get be somewhere but ya never know what could happen. So, we’re talking and next thing I know we’re making with the kissy face. Cool right? No not really. After the third or forth time kissing this girl I could hear Dave Chappell’s voice in my head: “Flynn’s FUCKIN UP!!”
Now the unwritten rule is that you don’t make out with a girl in your regular bar that you’re not exclusively dating, or fucking, or whatever the hell couples do. It screws your chances with another girl in the bar that may have had designs on you, or if there’s another girl there that you’ve had designs on but you’re just not bold enough to go and make with the sweet talk. And sure, there was booze involved and the inhibitions were washed away like a bent cigarette down a sewer drain, yadda yadda, but you can fuck yourself in this endeavor. Some gals could get the impression that you’re just some wannabe playboy, always out on the make with a slick line and no substance. (Only shallow, idiotic, hair twirling, giggly, moronic sluts go for that type of shit fellas, and most of them are carriers of something you definitely don’t want.)
So, take your make out session outside to the back alley, make it dirty and exciting, and pretend you’re in a movie. Or better yet, go to her flat or back to yours if it’s not too scummy. And that way you can show up at the pub the next night and not have to worry about that waitress who you’ve always wanted to shag giving you the stink eye if you make with the blah blah about her eyes or how she must work out because she’s on her feet all night carrying a tray of booze. Yeah, they’ve never heard that before boys, really.

Now, I didn’t make this realization about the whole making out in the pub theory until well after I got home. I’d walked the little woman to an apartment where she was crashing for the night and before she went in she reminded me that she had a boyfriend but he was out of the country. I say reminded because she’d told me this little bit of information earlier in the bar, but because of the kissy face incidents I quickly pushed that part of the story out of my head, for obvious reasons, and proceeded to make outlandish plans concerning trips to Paris and Rome, with a stop over in NY to see some friends.
So I went home, lit one of many cigarettes, poured one of several scotch and waters, and thought about how awkward things were going to be next time I strolled into the pub.

So not only will this place drive you to drink, you can drive yourself to do so as well. And as of right now, I’m empty.

So I’m gonna plant ya now, and dig ya later. There’s a bottle of gin in the fridge waiting to be poured.

Jockey full of Bourbon

2005-10-27T21:54:00.000-06:00

“You’re not drinking too much now are you?”

I get this question about once a month when I get the ‘how’s everything going over there in Colorado’ call from my mother. I think it’s funny that she asks me this all the time. The way I see it; I’m not dead yet, not in the tank every other night, not beat up, or thrown out of anywhere, still employed obviously (she calls me at work every time) and I haven’t knocked up some bird who I met one night at the pub while sucking down my tenth shot of whiskey with a PBR on the side, so I guess I’m not drinking too much.
I usually hit the pubs about twice a week now, for a while there I was getting calls almost every night from various people I knew:
“Hey man, ya going to the pub tonight? You should come out.”
“Nah.”
“WELL WHY NOT MAN?” (I put this in caps because my callers get riled when you say no to anything they insist upon.)
“I’m taking it easy tonight, I was out the last night, got a little too stinko, gotta recoup.”
“AWWW, C’MON MAN!”
“Can’t do it buddy, you have fun though.”
Then I usually hang up and go back to whatever the hell I’m doing, which is usually having a beer and watching something on the TV. Yeah, taking it easy indeed.
It’s more comfortable for me to drink at home most of the time, saves me the trouble of talking to people I have nothing in common with, trying to scarf free drinks from the bartender who knows all of my scams and excuses, and flirting with the waitresses who’ve seen me at my best, but mostly at my worst.
I can also go past that 2am curfew, which after eight years of living here I still can’t get around. Everything goes down at 2:30, everybody knows that!
When I was living in Chicago the bars were open until 4am, some went to 5. We had a system then, it worked pretty well for a while. Pop a few uppers, drink and schmooze all night, find some 24 hour diner at 5, eat and drink coffee (take more pills) until 6:30am and drive (or hop the subway) to the 7am bar across town, start it all over again. That was the weekends; Sundays were left to dealing with the massive hangovers which would consist of falling out of bed (or waking up on the floor) around noon, and meeting up for bloody Mary’s, eggs, coffee and piecing together the events of the previous night.

I ran with a tight crew back then; Punk Rock Stan, Sandy, Conner the Mick, Pam and Dylan (the only couple), Stanko, and myself. We ran all over the Bucktown/Wicker Park area, looking for kicks, luck, love, and the all mighty drink.
Monday nights we spent at a dive joint called Sweet Amy. Chuck, the owner of the place had a thing for poetry, crap ass wanna be Beat poetry at that. He claimed to have drunk Kerouac under the table in San Francisco, shared a needle with Old Bill in Algiers, and bested Neal C. in a wrestling duel while hanging with the Merry Pranksters. None of us believed his crackpot stories but he was fun to listen to on quieter times (During the early hours of the bar before the crowd showed up). Monday was open mike night, all the cheap hoods in town showed up with notebooks full of their weekend forays into the night, Casanova swing tips and rumblings and grumblings about the sufferings and trails of the under of the poor and subnormal; swigging shots and buying rounds for the other fellow “poets”. These nights did have their entertainment value due to the buggers getting piss drunk before their time on stage and failing to handle the heckling that would come from the audience. Some of them would challenge their hecklers to fights out back, those were best of all; drinks and fights. What a pleasure. It made the beginning of the week more exciting that the weekends. The applause really blared when someone got into it in back. Punk Rock Stan and I would make bets on who was going to win; sometimes we lucked out, sometimes not. We came to realize though that some of those damn poets were some mean mothers. We began heckling some of the weaker willed ones, just to see what would happen. We get them to buy us drinks afterwards, pulling the ol’ line of:
“Hey man, I’m just fucking with you, no hard feelings right? It’s all a part of the game; ya gotta be a tough bastard if ya want to make it yeah? So, hows about that next round? You’re a good kid, don’t worry about it, next week is your week baby!”
And so on and so forth.
Some Mondays we’d lose Sandy, and find her out back getting a tongue job from one of the younger-more drunk than he should be-poets. I mean younger by they were younger than twenty five and with Sandy being twenty seven they thought she was this queen of the scene, she knew her shit all right, and knew how to play those little chumps for a few drinks and a little on the side if she wanted. She never brought them home though, just out back and for her pleasure only. One night she came in though the back door with some young buck; he was wild eyed and sweaty. She sat at our table, pulled a smoke and told us that a round was coming. Sure enough, the wiled eyed, sweaty buck cam back with a round of shots and a pitcher of Guinness.
“He was pretty good.” She said.
“Fuck should we care?” Punk Rock Stan yelled, “We got his next round!”
Sandy reached into her jacket and pulled out a fresh pack of smokes.
“Got these too, they fell out of his pocket.”
Ah, Monday nights.

After a few months of patronizing, spilling my weight in scotch, breaking glasses, and picking fights with every so called poet with a goatee and a copy of Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell in his back pocket, Chuck was foolish enough to offer me a job as a door guy.
“Goddamn kids man, I can’t find anybody to keep track of the intake at the door.”
“You should stop hiring youngsters’ man, they don’t know shit.”
(Just so ya know I was twenty five then and talking like I was a big shot)
“That’s right! That’s why I’m offering you the gig, ya want it?”
I was working part time at a frame shop and not making much bread, I did make a lot of cuts on my hands though, people must have thought that I was the dumbest suicide there was. I was never good at manual labor, so I took the job.
Four nights a week, decent pay, more if there was a jazz group on that night, and when the owner was out, which was three nights out of the four, all the free drinks I can hold.
I made it a point not to work on Mondays though, there was too much at stake to be stuck at the front. It was too far away from the real action in the back.

My first night on the job was that next Monday; I was called in because the usual guy got busted for driving drunk. I wasn’t too happy about this considering that Chuck and I had a deal that I wouldn’t work Mondays.
“I need you on this one, there’s no one else.” He said over the phone.
“Fine dammit, but I want a little extra since it’s supposed to be my day off.”
“No problem.”
So there I was at the front door, checking ID’s and making sure things were running smoothly. Every now and then when Chuck stepped out on one of his ‘errands’, Big Joe the bartender would slip me a shot, at least I was getting my free drinks.
The stage monkeys were doing their thing, reading wasted lines of the disenfranchised, sucking down watered drinks while hecklers did their thing. From time to time Punk Rock Stan or Sandy would come up to give me an update on things. Stan won twenty bucks on a couple of bets and Sandy found a live one who was buying rounds. And I was in the front, mostly sober and bored off my ass.
At about nine Chuck split for the night; he left Big Joe in charge. I got a beer and a shot as soon as Chuck was out the door. At that time one of the local big shot readers by the name of Rick walked in with his old lady. They’d obviously been out boozing before coming to the bar because his old lady was wasted; she fell over in the doorway, clinging to Ricks’ coat sleeve. He tried slipping her by me as I was standing at the bar, I stopped them both.
“She can’t come in here like that man, she’s gonna drop any minute.” I said to Rick.
“Fuck you man, she’s okay, and we’re in here all the damn time.”
“I know, and your poetry is shit, get her home and you can come back, I don’t care.”
“Screw you door guy!” Rick said and gave me a little push on the shoulder; I guessed he was still upset with the heckling I gave him the previous Monday.
“Is there a problem here Flynn?” It was Big Joe talking, I looked back and Joe was rubbing his hands together, when he does that he seems to grow, almost like the Hulk but a little slower and more menacing, no one wanted to be on the other side of Big Joes’ stare when he was rubbing his hands together. I explained the situation and Joe told Rick to get the girl home and that he could come back after. Rick was pissed, but he took her out and came back a half hour later. I let him pass; Joe had another beer waiting for me.
Not long after Rick walked in he was on stage. His poetry was worse than anything that I’d ever heard, but the women seemed to dig it, the guys didn’t pay much attention. Stan and Sandy I could here back there laughing, clinking glasses. I felt alone up front, sitting on a barstool sipping my beer, every now and then checking the random ID of some young thing with a dope wearing khakis on her arm. It was a strange solitary existence up there. I needed the fire and all I had was bent cigarettes and cheap scotch.
“FUCK THE DOOR GUY!” I heard from the stage, it was Rick, he was drunk.
“FUCK HIM AND HIS STUPID TIES!” He was yelling into the microphone, I couldn’t tell if it was a poem or not, but I looked on anyway.
“If that guy thinks he so damn special, that he came come in here every Monday and try to fuck around with the rest of us POETS, why doesn’t he get up here and prove that he’s better huh? Why doesn’t he put up or shut up? Cause he’s a sissy that’s why! He’s nothing but a cheap bastard with nothing better to do! I wanna see him up here and see if he’s got the moxi to do what we’re all brave enough to do!”
And this chump got cheers from the crowd. Unbelievable. Stan ran up to the front, asked me what I was gonna do, if I was gonna take him out back. I thought about this for some time, I could feel all eyes on me; the joint was quiet except for the clinking of glasses, the sucking of nicotine from Kents, Marlboros’, Camels and Kools.
Rick grabbed the mic and brought it close to his face this time. “If you think you can write better than me Flynn, if you think you can read better than me, then come up here next Monday and prove it!” He stepped off the stage and got a round of applause. I had no idea that I’d pissed off so many people. It felt good and bad at the same time. I hadn’t written poetry since college, and had no interest in doing so again. But I was being called out by a punk with a bad hairdo and worse poetry.
I went to the bar and got another shot from Big Joe, everybody was staring at me. I raised my glass and then took the shot. I tried to think of something cool to say.
“You’re on asshole!” I yelled. The crowd cheered and clapped. Punk Rock Stan ordered two drinks; I took mine and sat at my solitary barstool. I was going to become what I hated, a drunken stage poet. It could’ve been worse I thought, but not likely.

2005-10-25T16:44:00.000-06:00

I haven't been posting much, yeah I know, it's been a couple of weeks, sure sure.
Been a little busy, with trying to work on this book of mine, and writing the column for Modern Drunkard (which has been completed and sent but I haven't heard from the editor yet, I don't know if it's actually going in or not, if not you'll be able to read it here), and spending (probably) too much time at the pub, reading a lot from Wikipedia, and Grant Morrison's The Invisibles.

It's been dull here in ol' Denver the last few days. The only big thing from the last week was meeting this woman in a bar on Friday night, walking with her to find batteries at the gas station, making plans for a date on Sunday, and not hearing from her after leaving a message on the voicemail the day of the date. I figured that she didn't remember me and was afraid of calling back. She was drinking that night, can't fault her for that. But if I see her again (and I'm sure I will, one of the rules of living in Denver is that if you meet someone once, you're bound to see them again within 3 months, it's just how it is) she'll remember who I am, no doubt about that. She was goddamn cute, that's for fucking sure.

But that was the weekend, besides getting a new couch on saturday, and after having it for 20 minutes I look to see that it's covered in cat fur, both of my little creatures are laying on it as if they own it, I saw Radical Edward (the name of my female cat) licking it, then looking at me with that 'Nah nah' gleam in her eyes. Saying 'It's mine now sucka, what ya gonna do about it?!'.

But the great thing is that after today I have one more day before my vacation begins, 5 whole days without the day job! It'll be grand, I plan to have a blackout at least two of those days and spend the rest working on the book. Things should work out just fine and my brain will have a chance to get back to normal while I destroy what remains of my liver. The more I think about it the more anxious I get, I should keep a bottle of scotch in one of my desk drawers, help ease the pain of working.

Eh, I'll just go to the pub after work. It is on the way home.

A little touch of fiction

2005-10-13T11:37:00.000-06:00

I found this in a old file, it's about 4 years old.
Enjoy, or don't, whatever...

This is where you break out of your trance. In a meeting room, surrounded by a small group of tabloid hacks. Your coffee is cold, your eyes burn, your tie undone, your mouth tastes of salt water, and you feel as if you've shared a private moment with a pig in its shit pen. The men and women sitting around you reek of cheap cologne and deodorant. They wear pastel lipstick, glitter-gold painted hoop earrings, clip-on ties, gummy bracelets, armpit stains, and rips in old stockings, penny loafers, with pennies included. The man at the head of the table, the important one who talks, then yells, then talks again, carries a mole on his chin, fat in his jowls, heavy gold and silver rings on his Vienna sausage fingers. You can smell him from twenty feet away. You sometimes dream of murdering your editor when you get bored with everything else.
You've been in this meeting for over an hour now and no one has come up with anything to make your editor happy. He yells at you and the others about not having enough copy for next week's edition. He yells about no one going out and hitting the streets, finding the stories and you wonder: What does it matter? None of the damn stories that he prints are true anyway, this is a tabloid newspaper for fuck's sake. Everything is either made up or is simply gossip, with no fact checks or true quotes.
No one cares, and no one listens. Hell, half of the people in this city can't read anyway, they'd rather eat, for every bookstore on one block there's five restaurants. The people in this city are getting more and more corpulent. But are they getting smarter? Of course not, stupid question.
Your editor yells, you yawn, the men undo their ties and the women shuffle in their seat, adjust their stockings under the mahogany conference table. You look around and you wonder why you can't get a job where there are attractive women. Every woman in this meeting room is unattractive, at least to you. You do know for a fact though, that some of the people in here are screwing each other. You've heard the rumors, seen the tell tale signs; the cryptic conversations at certain desks, even caught a few of them coming out of storerooms, claiming that they are looking for paper clips, or binders; flustered and red faced. Who gets embarrassed looking for a binder? Who unzips their pants while trying to find the perfect paperclip? You hate your job more than anything else.
You hate you job until your editor yells to you and the others that he is bringing in someone to shape things up, someone who will put this "office" back in order, like it used to be in the old days, when he was a young reporter working the streets. He slowly rises out of his chair, which you imagine will topple over with relief from his massive frame, and goes over to the door, opens it and makes a gesture for someone to come in; that is when you feel faint. You get one look, and you're finished for the rest of your days, you have fallen in love at that exact second she walks in the room. You notice a shift in the air, a change in the gravational pull of the planet. Her perfume takes over your senses and you feel euphoric. The rest of the men in the room straighten themselves, the women tighten up. Your editor sweats, wipes his forehead with his tie.
You watch her walk in and she sits next to your editor. She smiles warmly and you feel the need to clean up. You want to look presentable. You want to sweep her off her feet in the most pathetic romance novel way possible. For once you want to be noticed and acknowledged during a staff meeting.
Your editor announces her as Valeria Strummer, the new managing editor. There's a lump in your throat the size of a golf ball. Your editor says that she's going to put things in order, make the paper readable again. You want to smell her long, flowing black hair, breathe in her breath, taste her fluids, and lick her thin-rimmed black glasses. You've just seen the woman of your dreams, and she's your new boss.
And you know, from that moment on, that you are completly and utterly fucked.
But you couldn't be happier.

Scare tactics...

2005-10-12T13:35:00.000-06:00

In my office building today it's dull, nothing going on, quiet. That's not really something to feel good about for some people here; too much quiet means trouble is coming.
The more quiet it is, the bigger the trouble it seems.

Everyone is skulking around, hiding in corners, asking in whispered voices if there's something happening or is going to. People here fear the silence. They fear a lot more most days. But silence throws everyone into a panic.

This works for me because they all stay in their office for the rest of the day. The only conversations are through email, it's safer that way. At the end of the day people leave without saying good bye or good night. The Fear has it's grip on them and they rush to their cars, or the closest bus stop. I'm then left to my own devices, so I turn up the volume on internet radio, get a fresh cup of coffee, read the days headlines.

I've come to live for their fear.

Earlier today I came in from having a cigarette in the parking lot in back and saw two witches walking out of my office, they were looking for my boss, he wasn't around. Lucky him; they didn't look too friendly. Dressed in black, big pointy hats with red feathers and frilly things hanging off.

A couple of students came in, asked me what the witches were all about.
I told them that I didn't know, but it was about damn time they came out of hiding.

The students gave me a perplexed look, then backed away slowly out the front door, clutching their backpacks to their chests.

And it was quiet again.

Fear is my friend while at the evil day job.

The time of the season...

2005-10-10T09:03:00.000-06:00

The first snowfall of the season is happening right now. I don't mind it, I dig it actually, but don't get me wrong I'm not going out in that shit. Went out last night by request and got caught in the rain, for the second time of the day, and now I'm feeling like I'd been beaten and left for the rats. But the snow is nice, it's a good change from the sunny days that's lasted too long, it feels like it should. That's a good thing.
but I don't like feeling sick, no sir.

Last night was interesting, I got a call at about 8:30pm asking if I'd meet up with my friend Autumn over at the bar across the street. I go because I figure one drink, hang out for a minute then come back to my cop show that I've been watching on DVD; The Wire it's called, great stuff, check it out if you get the chance. This turns into a long night of boozing and bar hopping. I meet a few new people and find myself in this tiki bar talking to the editor of Modern Drunkard Magazine. And guess what? I've been invited on as a new columnist. It's funny how these things work out. I'd never thought about writing for Modern Drunkard, or any other magazine since the demise of my own a couple of months ago. I'd planned on spending the next few months working on my novel and other things I had going, and now there's this. I think it'll be an easy gig, writing a column on my drinking adventures, no big, I have more than enough stories, some I don't want to remember but they're there and now finally good for something. The great thing about this is the Drunkard is a national magazine, that's more exposure than ever. I can honestly admit that I'm a little excited about this. Being a publisher lost it's pazzaz after the second issue. This is something new. I needed something new. So here we are.

And the title of this new column? Jockey full of Bourbon. Kind of fitting don't ya think?

Now it's back to bed and my cop show. I'm feeling useless today.

Still howling at 50

2005-10-07T12:17:00.000-06:00

Allen Ginsberg’s epic and groundbreaking poem Howl turns 50 today.

And it still holds true to this day, maybe more then ever.

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night”

Yeah, go man, go.

Only nerds read the encyclopedia!

2005-10-05T15:43:00.000-06:00

Wow, it’s been a while, I know. My apologies. I’ve been doing some research while working on my book. This is not an easy thing, but I gotta say that it’s fun, scary as well, going back and re-examining the past 4 1/2 years of my life. Strange days indeed, but I survived so whatever doesn’t kill me only allows me to drink more than I probably should and show up to the day job hungover 4 days out of 5…

I’ve been reading a lot at Wikipedia today and I gotta say I love this site. Just today I started out reading up on literary theory of anti-heroes and after an hour slipped into transgressional fiction, and later found myself reading essays on temporal anomalies in time travel films.

Crazy.

Other than that today has been dullsville. Not even any whacked students to bug me over silly shit, like if I’ve seen their laptop that they think they left in a study room last Friday evening. One student did wave at me today and asked how I was doing, that was weird. I usually do my best to give these kids the impression that I don’t like them and that they should stay as far away from me as possible. But I don’t think that they’re getting the hint. Next thing ya know they’ll want to know what pub I fall into on Friday nights, when I do my grocery shopping, if I want to catch a movie.

Law students are a strange breed of human. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy.
Really.

Back to time travel.

snarky little bastard...

2005-09-23T07:57:00.000-06:00

Humph, haven't been updating as much as I'd promised.

Too caught up in trying to figure out this "Work in Progress" novel of mine that I've been chewing over for the last week or so. But I'm beginning to believe that I may have come up with something tangible to work with though. Storywise it's a no brainer, the topic is easy, it's the theory and style format that's been clogging my brain space. But I think I've reached the point where I can firmly begin this. The first chapter has been written, needs to be cleaned up a little and fleshed out with a bit more detail, but the point is there.

Anyway, I was standing outside my office building yesterday, smoking a cig and reading, this girl comes up to me and asks what happened to Needles for Teeth.

"I hadn't seen it in a long while." she says.

"Oh, Needles is on an indefinate haitus."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I have other things that I want to do so, there it is."

"Huh," she says. "Okay, well, can I ask you something?"

"Sure"

"Why did you always write about yourself, or wrote things in first person?"

I thought about that for a second and answered with a (admittedly) smirky smile:

"Shit baby, I have to write about myself, because no one else will."

"Oh."

I stubbed out my cig and went back inside, full in my unglory.

Over the counter drugs makes brain think too much...

2005-09-15T12:18:00.000-06:00

ya know, I've come to the conclusion that it's not as easy as some writers make to write about your life, the good and bad bits. I'm trying to get some thoughts together with this story I want to start, most of it based on things that I've experienced (the good and bad bits) and I find myself trying to avoid it, even though it's going to be the bulk of the tale, I find myself trying to talk myself out of writing it, I think that's why I've felt blocked. Not wanting to go back to those scenes, those images of things that I've either done or had done to me, or things that I've seen or heard, or had to go through unwillingly, things I've ran from, things I've dove headfirst into without thinking of the consequences. Things I've simply tried to forget over the years.

It's fucked up, really.

You'd think 'well, it's just memories, not much to it' and sure, you'd be right in some respects, but sometimes there are things that you just don't want to deal with, things you know (now) that you shouldn't have done, or maybe should have and you didn't. And there's the pains of regret, of what you did or didn't do, should have done, shouldn't have.

I have a ton of that shit on my plate.

Gotta figure out a way to get past it and get it down on the page. Get it out and over with, doesn't really help that I'm on minor Smoker's Lung medication and cheap pain pills.

More later when the caffeine finally kicks in.

I'm all out of titles...

2005-09-14T17:26:00.000-06:00

I've decided to dump this pseudonym (Flynn) I've been using for well over a decade. Fuck it, I'm sick of it. This is the first step in trying to find something new.

I also bought a pack of Marlboro Milds not realizing they were menthol, I don't mind that too much even though normally I hate menthol.

Something New??

I plan on hitting a hotel bar within the week, The Ramadan is what we call it. Who knows what lurks in the depths of that place? Only the Shadow knows...Even though I've always thought The Shadow was a spoiled little bitch who couldn't do shit without his guns so to hell with him and his fucking fedora.

I'm on coffee, day quill, and ephedrine. I still have a cold but I'm feeling frantic and I can breath real good.

I've been reading the graphic novel Preacher all week, this is one of the most twisted, wonderful, mindfucking books I've ever read, but I'm getting issue 3 of Desolation Jones this week, so we'll see. Yes, we shall see...

I can't take it no more!

2005-09-09T17:03:00.000-06:00

I need something new.
New environment, new digs, new bar,
new shoes, new suit, new brand of smokes,
new whiskey to drink,
a new woman with a new kind of craziness.
I need something new to get things going again,
I’ve been wiped out,
drained by mundane ideas based on nothing of substance.
My current state of booze intake doesn’t help,
the current affairs of the world only make me ill.
I turned off the TV and the internet brings me down.
I need something different, something weird,
something that I can’t quite understand,
but can hold my interest for more than 15 minutes.
Conversations become repetitive and frustrating,
the day job feels like slavery,
my apartment doesn’t have a couch, (maybe I need a couch?)
my cats give me dirty looks like they’re ashamed or something.
Maybe I need new cats.
Maybe I should stop stomping around,
reading the same old tattered and dog eared books,
trying to reclaim some old feeling from my youth.
Maybe I need new books,
New feelings come from new books yes?

I need something new, don’t know what it is yet.
But it’s gotta be out there, waiting to jump me and take my wallet,
drive me crazy, or get me locked up, thrown in the tank,
kicked out of my flat, make the cats fat and immobile,
get me back to writing normally.
Right?

Everybody needs something new, sometimes they get it,
Whether they want it or not.

Fuck, I’m bored…

Revampin'

2005-09-06T15:24:00.000-06:00

So, it's been decided that the Needles for Teeth website is going to go through a few changes over the next week or so. With the unfortunate demise of the printed work we've settled to put our final issue online instead. This will be the highly anticipated "All Girl Issue" All works written by women, we thought of it as something different in this town, not like a rag with an all girl staff, just something different than the norm.

More on the updates when they come in...

Of Course Pt. 2

2005-08-29T17:39:00.000-06:00

The first voice in my head came shortly after we took off form the House Party. It was that voice telling me to go home, that things were only going to get worse; either I was going to make an ass of myself or I was going to make an ass of myself in front of someone I don’t want to make an ass of myself in front of. There really was no way around it, except to get back to my small apartment and sweat the rest of this hellish experience out quietly, watch cartoons on DVD or something. But no, that other voice came in from the back door, smelling of cheap cigarettes and whiskey, polyester suits and Jheri Curl juice. This was the voice that visited me often back in the old days, this one got me into a lot of shit, but it was fun I must admit, at least at the time it was. There was always that next morning to contend with, dig? When the other (Good) voice would lament over whatever atrocity I’d gotten “us” into, asking why I’d decided to bring that particular girl back to our nice, decent apartment, knowing that it was going to be a bitch trying to get rid of her before the first cup of coffee, explaining that everything that I’d said was simple pillow talk; no strings, no guilt was my vibe at the time. My Evil Voice was all about it, where my Good Voice was left in the back, the door to my common sense area locked and bolted after the first pint. I’d just made 30 a couple of months prior to this night and the Common Sense Center hadn’t been built into Flynn’s Low Rent Brain Apartment Complex yet.

I won’t bore you with the conversation that went on in the car before we reached the warehouse party, simply because I can’t remember it completely. What I do remember is the pains of paranoia; the fear of prison, and the tightness of the noose. I was still concerned about the government satellite and how much information it had gotten from me before we got into the car. The shakes were running at top speed by the time we got to the place. Everything was a wavering haze, like being out in the desert, it was hot, I was sweating, and I was a wreck.
Bill grabbed my arm as we filed out of the car, keeping me going in one direction without failing, good ol’ Bill. Rick seemed to be doing better then before, not staring off into the sky for too long, and Marion was still going on about walking around the city, which we kept refusing to do. Once we hit the front gates of the warehouse, everything went from kindly weird to that David Fincher styled surreal where you can’t really tell what’s real or not, you just know that you have to get out. But I was in for the long haul, dropping out now would be a mistake, I would have to walk home, or find some poor fucker to drive me. Bill had to keep an eye on the other two, I split now and I’m alone in this, with that goddamn voice in my head for company. He said to keep going, and I did, straight on into the crowd outside the front gate.
Faces seemed too close to decipher who anyone was, different scents wafted through me and I felt ill. I could smell beer though and for some damn reason it gave me hope. I should have been put down but no one had a gun, just a goddamn keg.
We went through the crowd of tattered hipsters, slurping down plastic cups of Pabst, smoking cigarettes, looking cool in their corduroy, and cardigans; like death in a top hat and black leather hot pants.
We made our way to the back of the warehouse, there weren’t too many people around this part of the place, and most of them were up front watching a band play. It was loud and I couldn’t tell what kind of music it actually was, it could’ve been Polka music for all I knew.

A chick came over to us and began talking to Marion. I heard Marion say that she was on shrooms and wanted to take a walk around the block and they took off. Rick told Bill and me that he saw someone that he knew and away he went. Bill asked me if I wanted a beer and I said yes. He fought his way through the thick field of moptop plants and vanished into the thick. I was alone, leaning against a wall, sweating. I lit a cigarette of my own and tried to get my composure in line. The Evil Voice talking to me all the while:

‘That’s right son, light them shits up, there ya go. All the ladies will be here in a minute, just give it time, flash that sly smile like a Hellblazer baby, just a little bit though, don’t’ want to give off too much now, remember, we’re a bad muthafucka, and no one’s got nuthin on us man, we’re the shit, yeah dig it. Just be cool, okay check this shit, here comes a chick we know, I’m sure she’s single, she’s coming this way, play it cool baby, we’re going for a homer, knock it out the box baby, show em’ what ya got.’

I could here my Good Voice banging on the back door, trying to get out and save us, but it was locked tight, and Evil had the key.

This girl did indeed come over, her name was Farah, and I hadn’t seen her in a while. I could barely see her now.

“Hey Flynn,” She said, cocking her head slightly, looking up at me. “It’s been a while man, I wouldn’t have thought to see you here, I thought you didn’t go for warehouse parties anymore.”

I tried to come up with a decent response, from what I could make out she was kinda cute, but I still had the haze on me.

“Yeah well, ya know, people think cucumber taste better pickle.”
‘Oh snap, ya fuck up man!’ Evil screamed in my ear.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ I said to Evil.
‘I don’t know man; just roll the dice, maybe you can make a saving through with a +2 in bullshit?’

“You’re so funny sometimes Flynn.” Farah said giggling.
“Yeah, must be the drugs.”
‘Oh damn, ya fucked up again son!’ Evil yelled.
‘Damn those saving throws!’ This I said out loud, yes, I said it and Farah heard me, yes, think what you will.

Farah got a queer look on her face and said that she just wanted to come over and say hello, nice seeing ya, etc etc. She walked off looking back once, and then made quicker steps to get away from the drugged up and goofy guy.

‘Great one Flynn, you just blew a shot with her, now we have to find someone else for the night.’ Evil said, seemingly disgusted.
‘I don’t think I can handle that right now.’
‘You’re not doing the thinking anymore son, leave it all to me.’

Bill came back with a couple of plastic cups. “It’s Pabst.” He said.
“Good, good.” I took a pull and it was cold going down and it soon made me feel a little better.

Bill and I stood around for a while rappin’ about this and that. Every now and again he’d get a look on his face which told me that I’d said something either incoherent or just plain dumb, and every time I told him to pay me no mind; “It’s the damn shrooms and this voice in my head, nothing to worry about.”
‘Fuck you jackass!’ Evil said. ‘I got feelings too bitch!’
‘Shut up!’ I yelled to Evil.
‘Oh, that’s it man, I’m sick of your shit, I’m kickin’ it up a notch!’

I soon felt to urge to down the rest of my beer and go for more. I told Bill that I’d be back with two more and made my way through the crowd of plaid shirts and cool haircuts.

Half way through I could see my destination in sight, but it was covered with ants, giant ones. They were dressed as most of the hipsters but with big heads and pincers. They were crawling over each other trying to get to the spout. It was sickening and decadent. They didn’t seem to notice or care that I was staring, they didn’t seem to notice me at all. I took a few steps closer to try and get a better look.
‘This is the damn shrooms doing this, that’s all. The kegs right in front of me, it’s just people.’ I thought.

‘Yeah right,’ Evil said, ‘unless you can get out of here, you’re in for it. You’ve peaked chump. There’s no turning back until you come down, good luck son, I’m out.’

And Evil was gone. It was just me, the shrooms, the keg and a bunch of giant ants trying to get a damn beer, and my cup was empty.

One of the giant ants stopped crawling for a second and gave a look in my direction, it crawled over some other ants and stood in front of me, I couldn’t tell what expression it was carrying, but it had teeth, I could see that, then it spoke:

“Hey man, what’s up?” It said, between the crowd and the band of giant ants on stage its voice seemed high pitched and nasally.

“Uh, not much.”

“You don’t remember me do you? I used to hang out at The Winchester, it’s been a while though, and didn’t you go out of town a while back?”

“Yeah, Texas, big state, big mistake. Listen, I gotta go.”

I turned away and found myself surrounded by a warehouse full of ants. I saw Rick on one side of the room talking to four ants in plaid shirts, Marion was chatting with a couple of ants wearing wigs and skirts, Bill was rappin’ with an ant in a black jacket, smoking a cigarette, like he was the hymenoptera gang leader, a rebel without and antennae. This was too much to take, I had to get out. I fought my way through the crowd of ants and pulled Bill away from Adam Ant and tried to make things as clear as possible:
“Dude, ants everywhere, on the keg, on the floor, wearing clothing, government conspiracy in the beer, we gotta get out of here or we’re next!”

“Flynn, you really gotta lay off the shrooms, man. Seriously, you’re fucked up.”

“Yeah, right, shrooms, listen, I’m going, giant ants, tell the others that I’m out.”

Right then, Rick and Marion came over and said that they both needed to leave, as it turned out, they were peaking as well.

“I wanna walk around on Colfax.” Marion said.

We made our way back to the car, Rick and Marion decided to sit on their balcony and watch the sun come up. I had no idea what time it was and opted to go straight to the sanctity of my apartment.

They dropped me off in front and I waved them off as I got my key in the door and ran up four flights into my flat. The room was breathing on it own and my wall posters were dancing and singing songs, but there were no satellites or giants ants so I didn’t mind. I lit a cigarette and put Coltrane on the Hi-Fi. It was some time before I finally came down, the sun was up and I’d gone through two packs of smokes and several glasses of water (only two beers were in the fridge). By the time I was ready to pass out I’ done enough thinking to conclude that my time with days of tripping were over. Squiggly lines and cartoon characters on the walls I can deal with, giant ants and government satellites I can’t, fuck that son. I’ll stick with grass, booze, caffeine, and nicotine.

Is there a moral to this?

Of course not.

2005-08-24T15:01:00.000-06:00

There's a rendezvous of strangers around the coffee urn tonight.

Of course I'd like to sit around and chat, but someone's listening...

2005-08-22T15:18:00.000-06:00

Over the weekend I went to the pub, nothing new, just the usual drinks and cigarettes, casual conversation with people here and there. Ran into this one cat I know and we somehow got on the topic of how we're too old to do hallucinogenic drugs (both of us being in our mid-30's), now sure, if I really wanted to I could hop back on that horse and ride off into the multi-colored sunset, find my power animal, and become more paranoid and mentally destitute than a Denver Cop with a loaded pistol. But (un?)fortunately, those days are over. Psychedelic drugs and I used to get a long well, we had a nice relationship that wasn't too demanding and if we didn't see each other for a couple of months, that was okay, there was never any hard feelings when we crossed paths again.

But one night it just wasn't in the cards for us to be together. For whatever reason my good buddy shrooms decided that this was going to be the last trip we take together and I was never going to forget it.

About four years ago on the 4th of July, I'd decided to take a handful with some friends, Rick and Marion, our other friend Bill opted out of the brain train ride since he was our driver for the night. There were a couple of parties to hit and we wanted to be good and jacked up for it. The first party we went to was at the drummer for a local neo-country bands' house, it was a big party, kids everywhere, booze, blue cigarette smoke and the occasional doper. By the time we arrived the shrooms had begun its assimilation of the senses, and the shakes came on like 4am television static, starting with a slow decline of the spinal cord into the deep cushion of the car seat. My legs had the tingle and gave a feeling of giddiness, but it didn't last for long.

On the way to the party the conversation had been lively, loud and full of good humor, in the twenty or so minutes that it took for us to reach the house things had changed. Rick became sullen, leaning his head against the window not talking, Marion was quiet as well, her head bowed as if praying to some unknown god of illegal substances, for what reason, I didn't know, she did speak occasionally though, but only in short bursts, and was unintelligible. Every now and then Bill would ask us all if we were doing alright, grunts and whistles were the only responses we could come up with. Marion made some statement about getting out of the car and walking to the party, Bill hit the power locks and checked to make sure her seat belt was locked.

Once we reached the first party house, Rick, Marion and I weren't in such good shape. I immediately went into the house, I needed a drink. My mouth was dry and I had a bit of nausea going, beer was the only answer. I got inside the house and another friend of mine was sitting in the living room with most of the lights off playing guitar, he was putting on a house show. People were everywhere, I couldn't find the keg, and everyone looked greasy, real greasy. It was hot and muggy and I thought I was going to pass out from sweating when Bill showed up with two cups of beer. I took one and slammed it down and began to feel a little better, but I was still sweating and the people surrounding me were still greasy. I needed to get outside.

Once back on the outside I found the cat who was throwing the party, we shook hands and I warned him of my intake of the night. "Don't worry man, so many people are drunk right now that you seem like you're sober." I couldn't tell at the time if that was a good thing or not.

He introduced me to a few people and one of them was the bass player of his band, they were in the same band as my buddy in the living room playing guitar in the dark with the greasy people. The bass player of the group was an odd kid; he told me that he was from Texas and was a little too excited to meet me. I got the feeling that some shit was going to go down and not feeling capable to properly defend myself, I began thinking of ways to make a cool exit. The Texan grabbed my arm and pulled me off to the side before I could make the great escape.

"Dude, I gotta tell ya sumptin!" he said in that drunken Texas drawl that gave me visions of white sheets and fire, ropes and tall trees.

"Oh yeah? well, ya gotta make it quick, the beer train is leaving soon and I gotta make time."

"What?"

"Nothing, what are you saying?"

"Dude, you're like the first black dude I've ever met man! And you're COOL!!"

"I gotta go, beer train."

"Right on man, good to meet you black dude!"

"Yeah, that's right!" And off I went.

In front of the party house I ran into my buddy who was playing guitar inside, I told him that his bass player was drunk and needed to stay away from black folks.

"Someone could get the wrong idea, we don't take Texas Ignorance too lightly, you understand yeah?"

He said that he did and gave me a beer for my trouble, it was Pabst, it was good.

I met up with Bill and Marion and they both looked frazzled, Marion for obvious reasons but I didn't know what was up with Bill. They asked me if I'd seen Rick, apparently he'd wandered off and had been gone for some time. I envied that bastard, if I had strayed off into the night I could have avoided the encounter with The Texan, I turned and looked behind me and he was giving me the eye. The Texan gave me the nod and tipped his beer to me.

Things were getting too strange for me.

Marion walked off saying that she was going to look for Rick. I finished off my beer, leaning back to get every drop out of the can. I still had the tingle and everything seemed brighter, but fuzzy, almost like a slight haze. I looked upward and the stars looked as if they were moving, one in particular was the brightest I'd ever seen. It was then that I became certain that it was a government satellite, gazing down on us all, getting names, addresses, shoe sizes, blood types and eyeglass prescriptions.

I grabbed Bill's arm and pulled him towards the nearest tree.

"Listen, there's a satellite looking down on us, we gotta jet, this ain't right, I'm sure they know the last time I bought condoms, premarital sex man, the government's not with that man, gotta jet, gotta jet now!"

"Be cool man, everything's fine." Bill was always one to be optimistic about shit.

"As soon as we find Rick we can split, dig?"

"Whatever man, that damn thing is looking, I gotta jet right goddamn now, satellite lasers man, Star Wars, Reagan era space tech, they think we're hippies, we're fuckin doomed! Where's the car?"

"Chill man, we'll get in the car and drive around the block until we find Rick and Marion. You good with that?"

"Sure, sure. But we gotta do this fast, look the damn thing just moved!"

We made a break for the car and found Rick and Marion sitting on the curb next to it. Rick was staring off into space and Marion was smoking a cigarette, staring at the smoke and running her fingers through it.

"We gotta go man," I said to Rick. "Star Wars and Reagan, they found us man, satellites, they know the last time you had sex, I'm out."

Rick got up immediately.

"Fuck that!" He said and pulled Marion up from the curb, then we piled into the car and took off into the night, off to the warehouse party. And I had yet to reach the peak of the shrooms.

To be continued...

2005-08-17T16:41:00.000-06:00

Opening sooner than you think.