A worthy cause

There is a school in Harlem, the Frederick Douglass Academy, that needs to purchase books for its students, but does not have the funds. I gave some money to help enable them to acquire The House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros. Many of us are voracious readers and know the power of a book to enchant and transport. If you have the ways and means, please visit their site and see if you can help. Maybe we can even figure out a way for our jounal enabler, AOL, to look for change under the cushions of their couch.

 

Click here:

Help the kids read

 

PK

 

Believe (Confront your happiness)

I'm starting to believe that it actually happened. I've read virtually every word there is to read on the Sox. I've seen all the highlights, tributes and commercials. I saw the damn game. Hell, I saw almost every single one of their games this year, thanks to the Comcast MLB package. I've been babbling like an idiot for close to a month on the topic (OK I’ve been babbling like an idiot for 38 years, but exceptionally so for the past month.) The only regrettable thing about this is that I don’t have a buddy who has lived and died through this with me. All my friends are Yankee fans, and they’re doing all they can to minimize it. (Except for Nance, who was with me as the final out was recorded and who urged me to confront my happiness.) They were the recipients of the most humiliating, ass-slapping comeback in the history of humanity. Who could blame them? Half of them are bandwagon fans, anyway—why else would they abandon a team so quickly? Q: What do you call 25 guys watching the World Series on TV? A: The Yankees. They hate it when I tell them that.  The Red Sox won. With grand, poetic, dominating fashion. Today they had the parade to prove it. Now what?

 

Ann - The Little Things

I sent you a card. Even if all else is out of allignment with the world, I take solace in the fact that you are born and alive, just as enlivening as Syd and Olivia are to you, you are to me, in an admittedly incongruent kind of way. You are the rare gem that few ever find. You are are a welcomed guitar solo. You are Roger Daltrey's scream. You are a desert rose dress torn in ribbons and bows. You are poetry in motion. You are a flat-out wonder to talk to. You awaken me. You are The Ann. I adore you, my dear. Happy Birthday!!!!!

Generations

Sisyphus finally pushed the rock over the mountain. It was all downhill after that.

 

This is a link to a Nike commercial that aired just after the final out.

http://www.nike.com/usa/justdoit/v2/index.jhtml (Broadband preferred.)

 

It positions the generations of a particular family watching the Red Sox through the years from the same Fenway seats, 1918 through 2004. Quietly, yet sternly, it urges me to regenerate on a reproductive level.

 

How scary is that? The Red Sox win and Nike says, “Just Do It.”

 

Of course I immediately think about how having massive funky sex can make future babies to sit in Fenway seats. Awesome.

 

The casting, music, year-by-year scroll and background EFX are genius. The progress of generations is so to the point of the Sawx state of mind.

 

I love Nike. I don’t care that they’re a huge corporation. I do care about how and where their kicks are made. I love that they allow—encourage, even—their ad agencies to create veritable pop art for the sake of pop art.

 

This commercial does not display a single shoe. So, is it a commercial or not? It made me smile and realize that, no matter how long it takes,“Just Do It,” can actually mean something. Perhaps it’s the power of a massive media budget. Perhaps they caught me at a strong moment.

 

I’d love to hear what Mrs. L, a Cub fan, thinks of this.

Hell Freezes Over

YES

Umbral Shadow

Last time I saw a lunar eclipse was from the rooftop bar at The Rio in Vegas. Next one I'll see will be tonight and it'll be hanging over Busch Stadium in St. Louis. I'll be hanging over my tele watching the game. Will this blood red moon portend of doom, or will it invoke images of Shilling, the Automatic Stigmatic, the man who’s socks have become the Shrouds of Two-Wins? Food for much thought tonight. More thought: red eclipse, I drive a red Eclipse. Boston Celtics beat St. Louis for their first championship in 1957. The Bruins beat St. Louis to overcome a 41 year Stanley Cup drought. The Patriots beat the Rams for their first Super Bowl win. Long way to go. The last words I said before I turned on the game were “Mookie” and “Wilson.”

One to go, but it's all gravy anyway.

SOX WIN 4-1. IS CURSE ABOUT TO BE REVERSED? PK ASKS, "WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG NOW?"

Is Manny pointing at the moon, or saying, "Just one more to go, guys,"?

Last pitch?

Was this Pedro's last pitch in a Sox uni? If so, thanks, dude. 7 shutout innings of flat-out domination.

Only one thing can eclipse this 3-0 feeling and that's an...eclipse. Tomorrow night's lunar eclipse, when the moon turns blood red. How am I going to make it through tomorrow's day at work? I have four conference calls (which reminds me, I have some old friends to call). How can I be expected to concentrate? I gotta be like Pedro. I gotta put on my game face. My game face needs a Johnny Damon beard.

It's on me

Many of you have seen me with nothing but regret and sadness as my personal portrait. Yes, that’s a part of me I need to work on. But I am so damn happy tonight. I wish I could take every person I’m close to from this journal out to the best restaurant in Red Bank for drinks and delicious food. Let’s enjoy it today, for tomorrow might be a bummer.

Jumping the Gun

Fenway of Life.

All thanks to ESPN.

I don't care about the series, it's just gravy

SOX WIN. PK’S SOCKS THAT HAPPEN TO BE RED AND UNWASHED PLAY KEY ROLE IN VICTORY. Yahoo. ;)

I don't care about the series, it's just gravy

HOMERUN BELLHORN!!! SOX UP 11-9.

WWJDD?

Woke up at the crack of 10, crawled out of bed, had a pee boner, wizzed like a maestro, put on sneakers and a baseball cap and went around the corner to the dry cleaners.

Got out of the car and immediately there was a dude asking me if I was ready for the game tonight. I was all like, “What the F U talkin’ bout, be-atch?” Then I realized I was wearing a Red Sox cap AND the Red Sox are playing in the WORLD SERIES tonight. I managed to stop my brain-to-mouth reaction fast enough to simply say, “Yup.” That's what Johnny Damon would do. Confidence ain’t easy.

While waiting in line at the dry cleaners, I chatted up a grandmom with six kids and 12 grand children. “You must be very happy and relieved,” she said. I was all like, “How’d you know I had a wicked pee boner?” Then I realized I was wearing a Red Sox baseball cap. Again, the brain-to-mouth reaction kicked in. “Yup,” I said. That's what Johnny Damon would do. Confidence is grace.

I’m all decked out in clothing I got from ESPN the Magazine subscriptions. I have on the fleece, sweats, and a kicking pair of Nike’s. The cashier at the Rite-Aid was all chatting me up as I purchased a gallon of water, a NY Daily News, two packs of Jolly Rancher chewies and a pack of Newports. “You going for it tonight?” she asked. I was all like, “With a combined purchase like this, howcould I not be?” Again, the Red Sox cap thing. I was just all, “Yup.” That's what Johnny Damon would do. Confidence is practical.

I learned this morning that chicks dig guys who wear clothing gained from magazine subscriptions, as long as you look like hell, are picking up at least $50 worth of dry cleaning, there is a Dunkin Donuts in the same plaza as the dry cleaners, and you’re wearing the baseball cap for a WORLD SERIES team. Helps if you’re casually drinking orange juice and buying a huge cup of coffee. Epiphanies, revelations, flashes of brilliance. This, today, was mine. Confidence is fun. Time to feed Lefty. That's what Johnny Damon would do.

Let's go Sawks.

(PK is very happy today.)

Song Lyrics Got Me Again

Elliot Smith – Word Genius, gone...whisper this to a 6/8 waltz rhythm

"I’ll fake it through the day
With some help from johnny walker red
Send the poison rain down the drain
To put bad thoughts in my head
Two tickets torn in half
And a lot of nothing to do
Do you miss me, miss misery
Like you say you do?

A man in the park
Read the lines in my hand
Told me I’m strong
Hardly ever wrong I said man you mean

You had plans for both of us
That involved a trip out of town
To a place I’ve seen in a magazine
That you left lying around
I don’t have you with me but
I keep a good attitude
Do you miss me, miss misery
Like you say you do?

I know you’d rather see me gone
Than to see me the way that I am
But I am in the life anyway

Next door the tv’s flashing
Blue frames on the wall
It’s a comedy of errors, you see
It’s about taking a fall
To vanish into oblivion
Is easy to do
And I try to be but you know me
I come back when you want me to
Do you miss me miss misery
Like you say you do?"

Do Not Not Disturb

This pic made me think of an uncharted, underground, yet-to-be honeymoon. A conceivable situation. Love lets the light—but also a slice of universe—into a long-kept cloistered mind. Is there a song as darkly sensual and hypnotic and seductive as Sneaker Pimps “Six Underground?” Maybe “Protection”, by Massive Attack, but the very title of the latter tune—despite its message of rose petal demurity— carries the sheath of stealthy insinuation. Both are dark, but one is a tad less light. Both are sonic soulgrinders. I think I’d rather be oversand, under boardwalk to Sneaker Pimps.

PK's Island

I write because it is the only way for me to barely communicate effectively. I suck at talking, I get all blathery and anxious and silent. I’ve always had an interest in semaphores – visual signals for sending communication. So today, I stumble upon a website that displays an orange iPod as a distress signal. Left side, second down from the top. How cool is that? If I dial it to “I Wanna Be Sedated”, will that garner a helicopter drop of Ginger, Mary Ann and a six-pack of Corona? If not that, I do see some marketing potential.

Link to: http://www.engadget.com/entry/9805793034735557/

 

The Biggest Playoff Comeback in Baseball History

From 0-3 to 4-3. Unprecedented. Unexpected. Unearthly. Unbelievable.

Damon’s grand slam was cool, don't get me wrong. But the clamor that Bellhorn's dinger made as it bounced off the foul pole fence was, ultimately, a death knell as prophetic and poetic as Shilling's blood-red sock. It was run number nine, with an added sonic twist. It made a sound that, if I were a Yankee fan, would have made me shudder.

It was a ringing, dissonant clang in a stadium with a reputation for resonance. A veritable cartoon doink. Only with a cheap, more rackety echo. It may have well been Big Ben shattering into shards upon the clapper-to-brass impact at the beginning of Mariano's AC-DC "Hell's Bells" intro stroll. I want that clank burned for 72 mins on a CDR.

Yet, Lowe is removed from the game after giving up just one hit.

Yet, I was physically unable to watch the 8th inning. Tension.

Yet, we now need to rely on Pedro.

Yet, let me repeat  until it is etched into your subconscious: Belief not tempered by doubt poses a mortal danger.

I have 660 AM on now, the NYC sports radio station. The callers are screaming for Torre's head. Unfair. On the tele, Cashman, the Yankee GM, looked like he was bearing Dante's 5th level for Steinbrenner. “The river Styx runs through this level of Hell, and in it are punished the wrathful and the gloomy. The former are forever lashing out at each other in anger, furious and naked, tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. The latter are gurgling in the black mud, slothful and sullen, withdrawn from the world. Their lamentations bubble to the surface as they try to repeat a doleful hymn, though with unbroken words they cannot say it. Because you lived a cruel, vindictive and hateful life...” (Dante translation)

I feel sympathy for Cashman and Torre, as I honestly do for dozens of Yankee fans. Especially those who were sympathetic toward me last season. Especially Nancy, who deserves good karma way more than anyone I’ve ever known. And she had nothing but kind words, mercy and good will from Geneva for me over the last three innings. She’s a huge Yankee fan and has been through hell and high water this year. If anything tempers this win, it’s her being so far away and alone through what will surely be a trying day, night, week and month. Hurry home Nance.

Who knows... next round it could be Clemens vs. Schilling. Perhaps not Schilling. Though it would be nice. Bloody Red Sock vs. Mr. freshly laundered socks. More likely on the mound for the Sox will be Wakefield. Clemens...he's 10 years worth of three days away for me at present time. And let's not get ahead of my temporary joy...it’s a delicious thing.

There was, astonishingly, lots of cheering for the Sox at Yankee Stadium, lots of Boston fans in the stands. Tons. During the post game press conference in the somber Yankee dugout, you could hear the roar in the background. I think part of that noise was lil' ol' me in Red Bank. Oh, to be in Boston.

It was either champagne or lithium for one of the teams. In the end, it was the Yanks on lithium. The Sox ended up drenched in bubbly. As they should be. ‘Bout damn time.  

Songs at play:

The Laws Have Changed – New Pornographers

Light and Day/Reach for the Sun – The Polyphonic Spree

Superblast – Lush

Rearviewmirror – Pearl Jam

Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who

Ghostbusters - That dude from the 80's

(with apologies to ESPN for the graphic, and thanks to Sam and Christine for the cell call creative strategy behind this sleepy entry)

The Babe, 1918, 1949, 1978, 1986, 2003 - The Curse is Over

The curse is lifted. History just hit the proverbial reset button.

No words, just tears, and a great big smile

:')

Literally, a blood-red sock

Win or lose, these photos poetically redefine a Red Sock.

 

10/21/04, 12:30 AM: OSHA be damned. I want this blood-soaked sock in the Hall of Fame.

12 hrs, 22 minutes and counting

I was possessed with this very same hope last year and ended up catatonic for weeks, mumbling “Aaron F****** Boone” through work and life with deep sympathy even from Yankee fans. No way am I letting this get to me like that again. No way.

Who am I kidding?

 

4-2

YES! I BELIEVE. ONE MORE, PLEASE!!!!!

Another nail biter in Boston

Sox win in 14 innings. My rally cap worked! Five hours on a veritable roller coaster. I can't take much more of this. Wake me when it's over!

New World Record

Last night, my record was four. If the Sawx lose, I aim to amp it up.

 

Update: Talked to Amy. I retract that last statement.

Darth Jeter

Luke Skywalker is a Sawx fan.

Humility

Belief not tempered by doubt poses a mortal danger. (Mark C. Taylor--in his obit of Derrida, NYT, 10/14/04)

Update: No one knows who Jacques Derrida was, eh? Sheesh.

Fave Shoes (via Mrs. J and By the Way)

Re: By the Way

I've been through alot with these skates. I recently bought a new pair. I thought that after 15 years it might be time to give 'em a break and work on breaking in a new set. But I rarely wear the new ones. It feels like cheating. Just ain't right.

If you look close, you can see toe prints toward the right of the left shoe.

A scratch of the surface conjures NY Subway, NJ Transit, The T, The Tube, LA, London, Boston, Philly, DC, Chicago, San Fran, Vermont, Virginia, Vegas; Stone Pony, CBGB, Limelight, Fast Lane, (Name a venue in the tristate area, they've stomped there), Asbury Park; the whole Jersey Shore, sand, ocean, rivers, ponds;  Jenkinson's and Martell's, Seaside, Lavallette, Wildwood, Avalon, Stone Harbor, especially Point Beach;  Manhattan - Upper East Side, Upper West Side, Lower East, Village, Central Park in the dark, up and down, cross town. Bruce, the Dead Milkmen. Mojo Nixon. X. Black Flag. Pearl Jam. Hole. The Ramones, Jane's Addiction, Afghan Whigs, Sponge, Love Spit Love, Oasis, Ministry, The Chemical Brothers, Tool, Monster Magnet, Bowie; Red Sox, Mets, Yankees, Jets, Giants, Knicks, Nets, Rangers, Devils; third base literally, home runs metaphorically; dance steps in theater, movie sets; garbage cans, dumpsters, alley ways; every convenience store ever; Ned's Atomic Dust Bin; broken glass, outta gas, fires, blood dripping fights, mustard; cops, one more fix, 3 bands, 5 cars, 12 steps, church, hospitals, work, play, five relationships, hundreds of parties, bong water, beer, fishing, boardwalks, first kisses, break-ups, job interviews, 10,000 pages, running away. 15 years without a hint of the meatball hack tired sole/soul metaphor. They wilt from time to time. They don't spring back as quick as they used to. They look like hell. But they're my bunny slippers.

Unos, dos, tres, catorce…

OK, this is my new fave. I played the iTunes video about a hundred times in a row tonight at block-rockin volume. It's on myPod. It's all over the tele. Sam cranked it up in his office yesterday, and being the fan of pre-Joshua Tree U2 that he is, loved it. Erin and I heard it on the radio after lunch and she described it perfectly: This song is hot.

Like Sam, it sounds to me like they're getting back to their roots. Less overdub, more anthem. How can you not like a song that starts off, "One, two, three, fourteen"? Bono can feeeeeeeeel and he let's you know it with a mere wail of invocation — no tears, no heart on his sleeve, just rock. Let's not tell him there's a war going on. This song is too much fun.

Surfacing

It’s times like these my id comes screaming, soaring to the surface, suffocating for breath after interminable hibernation, gasping for some impetuous dimension of vision, noise, taste and smell and touch; for swathes of love and swats of pain; for the burn of fever and lust and palpable palpitations of ever-and-ever-amen choruses that whisper and tease and lure with gauzy hope. This is the assenting ascension that will surely touch the bounds of some future promise, sans the vicissitude of history with its unabating ability to turn frustration into hope, hope to anger, and anger to frustration. This is the id that ablates ego and super ego. This is the ethereal buoyancy of transcendence that leads to at best affirmation, at worst annihilation.

 

Go Sox.

 

Inadequate Affirmation?

Came across this one in a NYT review of Harold Bloom's new book, "Where Shall Wisdom be Found?" Read it yesterday and it seized my brain for the day. I'll me musing on this baby for a while...

Ponderous ponderance of the week: 

"If not I for myself, who then? And being for myself, what am I?"

Geneva

Have fun in Geneva, Nance. Just think of all the BS playoff angst you won't have to deal with first hand for the next couple weeks.

A Stimpy-like mood

I am so friggin happy that the Sox won, that Ann is my friend and that I survived the summer. My manic nature is approaching a capstone nadir, brimming with dopamine and new REM songs. I’d like to thank my release inhibitors for the nucleus accumbens* that made possible this brief reward experience. The only thing that can possibly dampen this happiness is the coming punch line. Tell me it’s not coming and tell me it’s not a punch. Or a line. Please don’t ruin this for me. Please. It feels so nice. I feel normal. Or happy. I don’t quite know the difference. Been awhile.

*a nucleus forming the floor of the caudal part of the anterior prolongation of the lateral ventricle of the brain

Peninsula

For Ann. ;)

Romper Stompers

The Sox won 10 hours ago and I am still moshing by myself with romper stompers on. Lefty just stares.

By the way, the Sox won

OK, now we have to wait for the Yankees. Be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you wish for. Call me manic. Bring 'em on. I'll ride it all on this.

Mad World

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
'Cos I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World
Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday
Made to feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me

Darko cheats death, eh?

Something happens and I'm head over heels.

PK

Head Over Heels - Ch 4 on Donnie Darko DVD

My recent deconstruction of mass deduction has a mild influction on my own destruction. Let's play Clue.

Flood

Held it in 'til the Sox won. OMG. That's my caption. What's yours?

Abominal curse word

Is there a man more loaded with hope than PK today?

 

I am up and I am on. Thanks to a chi-awakening conversation with ann7inflorida last night I am weary but invigorated, temporarily blind to contrary insight and doubting and any loutish nature. Pile on a Red Sox lead and I am one happy fumin’ human.

 

Have you ever heard a crowd roar at Fenway? Yankee Stadium has its roar, but in the volume one can hear the sqeak of the bandwagon wheels. At Shea, one often hears sarcasm. In Philly, the boos are louder. In Baltimore, it was all about Cal. In Boston, it’s 34,000 humans yearning, loving, hoping…with not quite the confidence to believe. Yet the volume to adore.

 

My perfect pitch.

It is the hope for love, the grief of loss and the wild abandon of full-fledged passion. It is the collective voice of want ever on the verge. It is hope against hope, with hope being the anti-protagonist. It is the sound of distorted reality. It is the brightest of color in the darkest of dreams. It is the very beware to dare.

Guts

I just read the very short story “Guts” by Chuck Palahniuk.

 

I am not able to breathe.

 

Do not, do not click this link to read the story. Do not. Resist every temptation. This link is not the big, red, shiny, candy-like button and you are not Stimpy. This is disturbed and disturbing. This is wretched, retching and, quite literally, wrenching. This will never leave your head. This will etch your flawless crystal mind with a scratch you will never stop staring at. This is gore that causes you to cover your eyes at the movies. Only here, you cannot cover your eyes, because the words are already there in your cerebral cortex. Words soaking in because it is too late. The wretched etch.

 

Then again, I’m a bit squeamish.

 

But I told you not to click the link. Do not click.

 

http://www.seizureandy.com/stuff/guts.html

 

One down, two to go

Manny cracks one in the top of the 4th.

 

After what happened last year, hopes are high here in Red Sox Nation south--otherwise known as Red Bank, NJ, and yet otherwise known as Yankeeland. Several people have asked who I’m rooting for in the Yankee/Twins series.

As if.

Bring on the Yankees. There is no other possible way to fully recover from the heart-shattering loss of last October than to return to the scene of the crime and extract excruciating, cold blooded revenge. I have been in a mental haze since that Aaron F------ Boone home run. I dare even posit that it played a part in my little trip to the Monmouth Hilton, that it paved the way for the 10-yard gaze that the social coordinators interpreted as a need for a little time away.

To quote the massively excellent ESPN columnist, Bill Simmons,

“I still remember everything about last October, those twelve playoff games unfolding like rounds in a classic boxing match, so many twists and turns that even Harold Lederman couldn't have scored it. I still remember the minutes and hours after that fateful Game 7 in the Bronx, when I called Dad just to make sure he was still breathing. I still remember the following afternoon, when everything hit me at once -- the residual emotions of the past three weeks swelling up like a killer wave, knocking me right on my back -- and I actually had to leave work early. It was too much. Baseball shouldn't mean this much.

"A few months passed. I thought I was okay…This isn't about a curse, it's about baggage, the way an accumulation of experiences alters your innate reactions. Like every Red Sox fan, I have baggage. Tons of it. Now we're heading into October…My guard is up. I can't help it.”

Do the man justice and read the full text: http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/040929

Bring on the Yankees. It's the only cure not worse than the medicine. It's the only cure for the curse. And don't tell me to be careful what I wish for. It's never stopped me before.

Panic on the Streets of Red Bank

Must say I did have a good time at the Oktoberfest Party. And the cops only showed up once! I haven’t been to a party that got busted in at least a year. One of my neighbors must have complained about the music—not that it was loud (it was)—but that the hosts kept the same CD on repeat for three full go rounds. I guess there aren’t as many Smiths fans as there used to be. Hell, I would have called them myself I had to hear “How Soon is Now?” one more time. Come to think of it, when was the last time anyone was busted for playing the Smiths? Someone contact Morrissey. He’s relevant again.

Octoberfest

There is a huge Octoberfest party going on in my back yard. There are about 200 totally smashed people drinking beer and eating bratwurst. I entered the party in its 7th hour, as usual. Tent, food, beer, wine. I am entering this log in my journal because I had to come inside due to a full bladder. I peed like Austin Powers after he was reanimated. Feel free to stop by. Just say, "I know PK."

Drunk girls

There is a huge Octoberfest jamboree taking place in my back yard. Should I attend? I have a paranoia of getting stuck in a dimwitted conversation.

K

In the honesty of all honesties, in the aura of all halos, I did have a bit of a thing for you. And I did have fun.

Find someone who can write a better line than that. I challenge you all.

 

 I am now in uncaring rockstar mode.

 

 

Corporate journalers suck.

What's that smell?

JACK
                       (pointing)
                 How'd you do that?!  You're a fucking
                 figment of my imagination... you're
                 psychogenic fugue state...

                             TYLER
                 Fuck that, maybe you're my
                 hallucination.

     Jack falters, pointing at Tyler's feet.  There's no walkie-
     talkie there.  Jack looks down, sees the WALKIE-TALKIE
     CRUSHED under his own foot.

                             JACK
                 Oh... Christ...

     Jack holds his head, walks around, at his wit's end.

                             JACK
                 Why... why... why... ?

                             TYLER
                 Why what?

                             JACK
                 Why can't I get rid of you?  Why
                 can't I just wish you away?

                             TYLER
                 You need me.

                             JACK
                 No, no, I don't.
                       (pause)
                 I thank you, I really do.  Thank you,
                 but I don't need you anymore.

                             TYLER
                 Look, I can be selfish, I know that.
                       (pause)
                 I'm not blind to my own failings...

                             JACK
                 Noooo, please...

     Jack backs up against a window, numb and weary.

                             TYLER
                 From now on, we'll share Marla.
                 We've been spending too much time
                 apart...

                             JACK
                 ... no, no, no...

                             TYLER
                 No more running off without you.
                 From here on out, we do it together.

                             JACK
                 Why are you doing this?!

                             TYLER
                 I'm doing this for us.

                             JACK
                 Please understand... I've gotten all
                 I can from this, Tyler.

                             TYLER
                       (sullen)
                 If I leave, you will be right back
                 where I found you...

                             JACK
                 I swear on my life, I won't...

                             TYLER
                 You will.  You know you will.

     Jack stares at Tyler, tears welling up, hangs his head.  He
     looks at the gun in his hand...

                             TYLER
                 Can you live with that?

     Jack stares at the gun a long time... then...

     Jack brings the gun up, PUTS THE GUN IN HIS MOUTH.

     Tyler cocks his head.

                             TYLER
                 What are you doing?

                             JACK
                 What have you left for me?

                             TYLER
                 Why do you want to do that? Why do
                 you want to put that gun in your
                 mouth?

                             JACK
                 Not my mouth.  Our mouth.

     Tyler is calm.

                             TYLER
                 This is interesting.

     Tyler smiles in appreciation, slowly walks forward, stands
     very close to Jack.

                             TYLER
                 Why are you going with this, Ikea-
                 boy?

                             JACK
                 It's the only way to get rid of you...

     Jack COCKS the hammer on the gun.

                             TYLER
                 I can see you feel very strongly.  I
                 feel strongly too.
                       (pause)
                 Hey, you and me.
                       (pause)
                 Friends again?

     Their eyes are locked, unblinking.  Long silence.

                             JACK
                 Do something for me.

                             TYLER
                 What?

                             JACK
                 Appreciate something.

                             TYLER
                 What?

                             JACK
                 Look at me...

                             TYLER
                 What?

                             JACK
                 My eyes are open.

     EXTREME SLOW MOTION:

     Jack's finger squeezes the trigger...

     KABLAM! -- Jack's cheeks INFLATE with gas.  His eyes bulge.
     BLOOD flies out from his head.  The WINDOW behind him
     SHATTERS.  SMOKE wafts out of his mouth and tear ducts.

     RESUME NORMAL SPEED as the GLASS FALLS behind Jack...

     Tyler stands, in gunsmoke, eyes glazed, sniffs the air...

                             TYLER
                 What's that smell... ?

I got me a Fight Club script

Jack pushes out the door, files under one arm, catching up...

                             JACK
                 I can't explain.  You wouldn't
                 believe me anyway.  I'm trying to
                 protect you...

     Jack grabs her arm, tries to hail a TAXI, but the taxi races
     past.  Marla pulls free, screaming at him...,

                             MARLA
                 Let go of me!

                             JACK
                 Do this for me, Marla.  Do this for
                 me, if you never do anything else...

     Jack spots a BUS idling further up the street.

                             MARLA
                 Leave me alone!  I don't ever want to
                 see you again!

                             JACK
                 Okay, if that's what it takes, you'll
                 never have to see me again.
                       (digs in his pocket)
                 Here... here...

     He pulls MONEY from his pocket, holding it out.

                             JACK
                 Take this money, get on this bus...
                       (pointing to bus)
                 Get on, and I promise you, I'll never
                 bother you again, if that's what you
                 want.  Please...

     Marla looks at Jack, numb.

                             MARLA
                 Tyler...

                             JACK
                 I'm begging you.  Get on the bus.
                 Get on the bus.

     Marla takes the money from Tyler, walks towards the bus.  As
     they approach it, Jack shields his eyes, afraid to look...

                             MARLA
                Why are you doing this?

                             JACK
                 I can't let myself see where you're
                 going.  Go wherever it takes you,
                 remember... keep away from major
                 cities...

     Marla stands at the doors of the bus, heartbroken, gives one
     last look at Jack.

                             MARLA
                       (holds up the money)
                 I'm not paying this back.  I consider
                 it "asshole tax."

                             JACK
                 Yes, fine.  Just, get on.  Stay away
                 a couple of weeks, at least.

     Jack's still covering his eyes.  Marla gets on the bus.

                             MARLA
                 Tyler...

     Jack finally looks to her.

                             MARLA
                 You are the worst thing that ever
                 happened to me.

Red Bank, 2/2004

In spite of the fact that we both have fastidiously recorded every word the other has said in one form or another, I am resigned to the notion that you won. I always thought you were beautiful in so many different ways. I saw beauty in you where I can only hope some man will notice. That was my vulnerability and downfall. If a man doesn’t look like Brad Pitt or Rob Lowe, he has no business confronting even the whitest whale with such reverence (that was a kind Moby Dick reference, by the way. It’s a good book.) I feel awful about how things dropped off the cliff since we last spent a night sleeping next to one another. I do not expect that to happen again and I harbor no illusions that they will reoccur. All I hold is that you were warm. And I have this bizarre memory of buying you chocolate at the video store. If I had my way and could do it again, I’d have Godiva delivered to you on red velvet pillows and sparkling silver platters.

In the honesty of all honesties, in the aura of all halos, I did have a bit of a thing for you. And I did have fun.

 

Look out, Security is here

I look like a goof f---, but Dave did make it down with security hats in tow. Consider us in charge.

20 lb kitty, snoring

This is my bubba, Senior Grande(Lefty). I adore him asleep as I adore him awake. He's my buddy, my compadre.

PK's Museum Plaque

If you ever have writer’s block, print this out, cut it out, and tape it next to your screen. Instant art!

 

 

 

 

Untitled (Blank computer screen)

 

Anonymous (2004)

 

Semi-permanent, interactive accumulation of space and time on virtual paper.

 

(Collection of the artist)