Hey Story

Today I was thinking of the nature of this blog when I realized I have no idea why I even have one. There's nothing I have to comment on, no time I have to lend to clever online articles. I hardly have the time to keep up with what I read now. Despair sunk in and I found myself on the couch with a fat bowl of ice cream. Fudge, some cookies, and a big glass of non-fat milk. Then it hit me: what's better than having to constantly contribute to your own page? Having others do it for you! Brilliant!

(i make no claim to this idea, it's not original, it just sounds like fun.)

So here's the deal: imagine we're around a campfire. We're in the middle of nowhere so there's nowhere to go, you're stuck. It's cold. Brrr. We all huddle and rub our hands together an look at each other blankly. What to do to pass the time? It's a three day weekend and it's only Friday night. I know, tell stories! Okay, okay, I'll start, and, well, whoever wants, just pick up the string and follow it along (with the comments, of course). A story will make you warm, and remember, it's cold:

Mac was a small boy. Smaller than most by average standards. Even though he was small he was not a midget, and for this he was grateful. He knew one day he would grow, in fact looked forward to it. His father was six foot four and had grew well into his twenties. Mac often thought about this as he drank his morning coffee and stared at the marks on the wall, marks tracking his growth, marks that hadn't grown more than an inch in the last year, he thought about how he'd be a giant and tower above all the other kids when he was twentysomething. He sipped and pondered.

By all other accounts, Mac surpassed standards, average-wise. He boasted an abnormally large brain, was incredibly proficient in both math and reading, and could out-sprint just about everyone at school. Everyone, that is, except his nemisis, Corey Bakman. Mac frequently had problems with his abnormal brain size, not the least of which was his overactive imagination. Of late, this problem in particular had become increasingly troublesome, and no one knew what to do about it.

Of course, his best friend Bobby didn't make things any easier. Bobby was aloof, strange. He encouraged Mac's overactive imagination. Mac divulged that, indeed, he was significantly taller in addition to his real world abilities in his imagination, and this often helped him overcome defeat. But it wouldn't always, he knew that. Mac and Bobby both drank coffee, so they were always wired, so they typically were awake all night dreaming up concoctions and fantasies they both acted out. And that was how they found themselves in the present situation, in a battle with resident demon Hav-gog. A battle of good versus evil...

San Francisco

I brought this back with me from the last trip to San Francisco:

I am Jack Kerouac
standing outside of the city tonight
a bar left of City Lights
Vesuvio! And something about a grass
hopper. Something about this
dance hall monitor.
And I howl because I haven't seen
a thing, no dirty minds destroyed and
no real promising seeds
just an unctuous voice and and
sifting through the breeze down
roots and canals down streets and up
trees. I am Jack Kerouac and I am
not one thing.

San Francisco murmured, treat car beat
random happy measurements one liter a pint
crammed in a shack with nothing on my
back but a sweaty t-shirt I soaked
through wiling away the hours on
this manuscript that only too me
three weeks (years) and I need a drink.
Need a drink? I have a drink! I am
Jack Kerouac, in my dreams I'm asleep.
I canned Jack Kerouac and sold him
as sardines. Stark raving lunatic and
jazz string quartet frenzy in a bottle
what an excuse what no relief!

and the jealous mad rage that part of
me I hate.
I saw it in the Sutro baths, abating times helper
until sunset carries it
Roar! of the ocean and everyone I'm with
is brilliant. They're all Jack Kerouac I
snap a photo to prove it. They all have
his face, smug smile blast together,
they all hug waists, jungles wild catch fever.
And I ride on down on down the road
away from fiction more towards Kerouac
less towards Dulouz.