tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3265585610799213982024-03-13T14:23:43.850-07:00DriftingCowboySaddle up and ride.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-27146395487665792832016-07-15T23:24:00.001-07:002016-07-15T23:24:34.716-07:00BIG FINISH<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/l0sJ7Bwv2mg" width="480"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-68884424526169220952016-07-05T22:10:00.001-07:002016-07-05T22:10:38.002-07:00BIG FINISH<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/F3BgQJRCcok" width="480"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-33258584774205207292014-08-07T17:23:00.001-07:002014-08-07T17:23:52.069-07:00Sharon From Upstairs<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/8ZQubRV3mfI" width="480"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-32410564176591980622014-08-06T19:51:00.001-07:002014-08-06T19:51:10.182-07:00Sharon From Upstairs (Opening)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/sb568JZBCm4" width="480"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-77985306879847212982012-01-18T15:34:00.000-08:002012-01-18T15:35:52.084-08:00Bill Can't Sleep in Space by Jim Red Ryder<br /><br />Bill can't sleep without the orange pill. He twists and turns on his sleeping mat. His sleeping compartment is no longer a comfortable, molded, padded little cocoon; instead the air is at once too dry and terribly clammy. He hates the idea of dragging through his work shift sick with fatigue. So Bill washes down the pill with a sip of ration-water, then settles back to watch his cartoons and reruns of ``77 Sunset Strip'', enjoying the rapid descent feeling while going to sleep in his snug little compartment aboard the drug tug CCVS, traversing the outer sline of the Rabicus System.<br /><br />Bill is groggy in the morning so he takes a bright yellow ``sunny'' pill and another sip of ration-water before cleaning off with the slippery stone and pulling on a soft gray work suit and soft boots. His hair is stubble short, so there's no grooming there, and he only shaves his spare beard once a week. Bill's pale, strangely round, pale and drawn face stares at him like a disturbed person from the small mirror on the bulkhead. <br /><br />He goes into the molded, padded passageway, a slightly darker tone of gray than his suit, and heads to the galley. The galley is several machines set into the bulkhead. Bill takes yum-yum wafers, veg pills, and erz coffee, which resembles Earth coffee in spirit and color, and has vitamins and minerals in it. The crew of three aboard CCVS drinks erz coffee and the ration water, and they are always thirsty by the time they come in for refit. Other than being constantly thirsty (even though they capture and recycle every drop of moisture with a body harness, it's really not enough), life aboard is comfortable compared to working in a mine on the surface of one of these dreadful, blowing planets they glide past. The captain, Margery, blew off the topic at a crew meeting. ``By the time your kidneys fail they'll replace us with robots, so learn to live with it or go live on one of the colonies. Ugh.'' The all shuddered. While Bill had his breakfast, he was joined by another crew member, ``Dino'' who should have been on his sleep shift. Dino had insomnia, but for some reason was up like he was working a second shift.<br /><br />``Take your pill, Dino, and get some sleep,'' Bill said.<br /><br />Margery's voice came over a speaker. She had been monitoring the ship from the flight deck.<br /><br />``Dino, why are you awake? I hate it when we get off program.'' Margery's voice, when annoyed, sounded the same as all her moods. Tight, faintly hostile, monotone. She knew everything about running a drug tug, from raw materials to engineering to navigation to dealing with pirates.<br /><br />``I'll just have a word with Bill, Margery, and then I'll turn in.''<br /><br />There was no answer from the flight deck. Dino turned to Bill, and put his keen pale face close to Bill's blank, round, stubbly face. <br /><br />``Bill, have you ever had real coffee?'' Dino asked, with great intensity that was almost suffocating. Bill made a mental note to write in his ``Dino'' diary after shift. Dino was ``funny'', and it had to be documented.<br /><br />``What do you mean by real, Dino. And back up. Why are you so close?''<br /><br />``Coffee made of real beans, from Earth. I was born on Earth.''<br /><br />``You lived there a month'', Bill said. <br /><br />``But at least I was born there.''<br /><br />``Well, that's something to cling to, Dino.''<br /><br />Bill didn't understand the point of this, nor did he care about Earth. Bill was born on Base Mobus, and Captain Margery was born on the India Star. They had never been to Earth. And frankly, Bill thought, who would want to? Insane, collapsed hell hole. And the emigrants who made it out, conned by the old emigrant bait of a new life on a new star, got a rude coming-to when they woke from their space slumber to find they were going to work in a Holdenite mine, or worse, on a planet that called 200 mph surface winds breezes. <br /><br />``Dino, turn in! That's an order!'' Margery's voice shook them both back into real time. Bill went off to fill prescriptions and Dino moved off as if to go to his compartment.<br /><br />Sometime later, Bill was returning from his break to his pill station where he place completed scripts on a go plate and they zoomed off to the customer. He was surprised to see Margery there when he returned. Her spiky hair was spikier than normal. It seemed to be twitching.<br /><br />``Dino's hiding'', Margery said. ``He's gotten funny. I'm keeping a log on him.''<br /><br />``Some am I,'' Bill said. <br /><br />Actually, they all kept log on the other two. They all thought the other two was ``funny'', and needed to be dealt with.<br /><br />They found him at the rear cargo bay, staring through a large guide window set in the bulkhead at an unidentified craft trailing their ship. The giant UFO looked like a glowing piece of crumpled metal that occasionally throbbed, like a human heart.<br /><br />``What do you think it is?'' Bill asked.<br /><br />``They want drugs,'' Margery said. `There's nothing we can do if they pull something, and we're too far away from any help. We'll wait and see,'' she said, resignedly. Then she turned on Dino.<br /><br />`` Get in your compartment and sleep, Mister. Or I'll have you put under heavy sedation.''<br /><br />This command got through to Dino, and he moved off in the direction of living quarters.<br /><br />Bill went back to work, trying to assume Margery's nonchalance toward the alien craft trailing them. But she was right. What was to be done except to carry on? He was full of dread, just the same, and had a weird, vibration feeling as if a low grade electric shock was passing through him and every surface he touched. Bill took a purple pill with a swig of ration-water, and waited for the wave of relief. There was nothing he had ever experienced that delivered well-being and vitality like a purple, and as a testament to its power and versatility, it even work on other species. There was data on it, and Bill remembered it vividly from pharmacy college. In fact, he was remembering everything vividly. When he was done with the shift, he was weary but still elevated from the purple. He stopped and had an erz coffee. He even chatted with Dino, who was back now for his shift in the pill-hold. Dino was drawn, dark under his eyes, pale, stubbly.<br /><br />Bill went back to his compartment and watched cartoons after taking an orange pill. Soon, he was asleep. He was awakened by a something, and when he saw it, he knew that it was the feeling of another presence in his compartment that had awakened him. <br /><br />Something that looked like a bearded man with a shiny metallic plate in his head, a shock of silver hair and luminous white skin hovered above Bill, levitated several inches above the deck with toes pointed down. At first, Bill thought the thing was an angel, but the death mask face was not in the least angelic.<br /><br />``Who are you,'' Bill asked, ``And what do you want?''<br /><br />``My name is Abraham Lincoln, and I want drugs. Take me down to where the drugs are.''<br /><br />They were heading to the hold, down the passageway, Bill padding along in sleep slippers and the apparition of Abraham Lincoln following, gliding along.<br /><br />Margery, who was a awake on the flight deck, picked up the image of Bill leading Lincoln on her screen, and she hurried down to where they were heading.<br /><br />``What do you want?'' Margery demanded. Dino stood behind her, his face paler than normal, speechless.<br /><br />``As I told Bill, I am Abraham Lincoln and I want drugs.''<br /><br />What kind of drugs?'' Margery asked.<br /><br />``Purples'', Lincoln said. ``Prepare one Jovian ton and send it via you go plate to out vessel that waits abaft.''<br /><br />``One Jovean ton will seriously deplete us, but we can manage,'' Margery said. ``Are you going to pay us?''<br /><br />Lincoln seemed to consider this question, the silver beard working as the jaw chewed over the question.<br /><br />``What is `pay'?'' Lincoln answered, finally.<br /><br />``That's it, boys, we're getting robbed.''<br /><br />``We better get busy,'' Bill said to Dino. <br /><br />It took the three of them the rest of the shift to complete the order. When the last bin of pills was sent to the ship, Lincoln, who had hung over the work like a supervisor suspended on stage wires, asked for a purple pill.<br /><br />``So, you probably assumed the image of Lincoln because you thought we'd recognize him immediately. You probably don't really look like Lincoln.<br /><br />Lincoln swallowed the pill, closed his eyes, and opened them.<br /><br />``Of course I don't look like that, `` he said. ``I look like THIS!!!''<br /><br />Margery and Dino were screaming when something resembling a tentacle curled around Bill's leg and started dragging him away.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-40426246187205741832010-08-17T11:50:00.000-07:002010-08-17T12:26:33.451-07:00Sharon, from UpstairsThe most frightening thing about Sharon's taking over was that she came onto the floor without an entourage. She swept in alone wearing a gray suit, carrying a thin attaché. She was tall, slender with medium cut ash blond hair. She went into her office and began talking on her tiny phone, tapping notes into her thin device as she spoke. We all watched her from the floor. Her office wall was glass, and looked out onto the sales floor. The other bosses had kept the curtain drawn, but not Sharon. She wanted to be seen, we thought. She didn’t sip from a cup or a water bottle.<br /> “Go to work, you bastards,” Harding said to everyone. He was retiring, had seen it all before and knew that the best thing you can do is go about your business while the new boss settled in.<br /> The next day, a large man in a gray suit came in and began work in the secretary station. He looked like a paratrooper who had wandered into Barney‘s for a makeover.<br />“Sharon’s secretary,” Lisa said. “A guy, that’s so great.” <br />The secretary was Jim. He was polite, but silent, and set about running Sharon’s office. Her phone rang continuously. Jim managed the calls and Sharon’s calendar. No one breezed in past Jim to talk with Sharon. She took her coat off, and worked in a white blouse. Her nails were the color of wedding ribbon.<br /> The third part of Sharon’s team came in. Jack Busby, from Accounting. He smiled and looked shaved, showered, powdered and ready to downsize. Busby left a curl of cologne behind him as he swept by on his way to Sharon’s office. We watched him in with Sharon through the glass. She spoke and he listened. He was getting some orders, and he was paying attention, the bastard.<br /> “That’s it. We’re dead,” Wolcott said. He stood there in his charcoal gray suit with sherbet tie. He suddenly looked like he needed a shave. <br /> “Accounting. Christ, Jesus,” Tony said, getting ready to go out on the road. “Nice knowin’ you pricks.”<br /> “Anybody going out make you're you’re back by three,” Harding said, affably, nodding at Tony. “Sharon has called a meeting in the big room. Goals. Get your ducks in nice rows for Sharon. Poor bastards.”<br /> Everyone hated Harding. He was retiring, and he was enjoying this too much. Everybody hated him.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-10641693018952693822010-06-30T22:37:00.000-07:002010-06-30T22:40:58.261-07:00Little QuakeDawn<br />Pigeons high in the desert trees,<br />who knew they could fly like that?<br /><br />The cat acting like it's on the hot roof,<br />I go back to bed and it happens-<br /><br />earthquake,<br />something more than vibration,<br />something less than ecstasy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-65445363621523101012009-04-18T22:22:00.000-07:002009-04-18T22:23:11.126-07:00more from Las Vegas BluesI live at the<br />True heart of America<br />Commerce of dreams made real in flesh and dice<br />Ancient commerce<br />A harlot stoned<br />Armored thugs throwing bones with their backs to the dying naked God.<br />It never rains here. No Friday, no Sunday. Always Saturday, always night on the real main street of Empire.<br />The nucleus of the dream of light and pleasure.<br />I am awake.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-39641030100730027162009-04-08T08:20:00.000-07:002009-04-08T08:22:32.781-07:00from Las Vegas Blues<h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">First the money</h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">then the water<br /></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">became memory.</h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">The people fled followed close by their ghosts</h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">Then, as softly as a kiss the desert climbed the walls and it was done. -J Olson</h3>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-1361219044502072732009-02-05T07:36:00.000-08:002009-02-05T07:37:32.797-08:00'55 Chevy of "Two Lane Blacktop"1955 Chevrolet Original Two-Lane Blacktop '55 Chevy |(From "Lenp's Garage)Nope, this is not just another clone. This is one of three '55 Chevys built by Richard Ruth for the 1971 movie Two-Lane Blacktop starring James Taylor, Dennis Wilson, and Warren Oates. Two of the three '55s were reused in American Graffiti - this particular '55 was not. It was only used in Two-Lane Blacktop and then sold to a studio employee. This was the camera/dialog car and most any time you see the actors inside the car during a scene in Two-Lane Blacktop, it was this one. The studio fitted the car with scaffolding and camera mounts so the actors were filmed inside the car while they were actually driving down the road - some of the brackets the studio welded to the frame are still there. After a four-year search, the car surfaced in Canada and I was able to bring it back to the States in 2001. I restored the car cosmetically in 2002 and in 2005 I trailered the car to California where Richard Ruth removed a Camaro front clip that someone had put under it in Canada and fabricated a replacement straight axle with coilovers from original plans and photographs of the cars under construction in his shop in 1970. The '55 still has a 454 BBC topped by a Weiand tunnel ram, a vintage Muncie M-22, and a 1960 Olds rear. It is driven regulary. For more photos, visit www.twolane55.com.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-68945258174218023912008-12-02T12:58:00.001-08:002008-12-02T12:59:16.044-08:00Frozen WoodsUpper Peninsula, Michigan<br /><br />I wasn't very old, maybe five, when I went into the woods with my mother to get a deer. I can see her with the .30-.30 carbine to her shoulder, behind the fallen beech trunk, and the gray brown buck down in the snowy ravine looking up as the unbelievable crack of the rifle broke the world in half. The buck leaped up the side of the ravine below us, and mother levered another round home and fired again. The buck seemed to raise up in the frozen air and then he went down, forever.<br /><br />As mother dressed the buck, I asked her what my father used to do. "He worked in the woods," she said, drawing the hook knife along the belly of the buck. <br /><br />I wanted to work in the woods, but it worked out differently.<br /><br />It was cold, the air was full of frost. <br /><br />"This is a young buck," she said. "Young bucks are alone, and they aren't as experienced. Lucky for us. We'll have meat this winter." I helped Mother drag the buck out of the woods on a toboggan. I felt bad for the young buck, but I was young.<br /><br />Time passed, and I was working in California, living along the coast. Showing off for a young girl beneath the Pacific Beach Pier, I rode my surfboard into a piling. The hospital in Chula Vista is close enough to Mexico that you can see it from the windows in the hallways. I was going under when the anesthesiologist said "just talk."<br /><br />"I was in some frozen woods, skating, and there was a full moon above. My dog was running over on my right. It was as bright as day, but still night. I was skating along the frozen swamp. It was heaven."<br /><br />"It never froze in the Phillipines," the nurse said, "I don't know what that's like, but it sounds nice."<br /><br />"It was nice," I said.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-15091208591062865072008-11-25T14:40:00.000-08:002009-02-05T07:46:14.173-08:00Brough Superior-THe Mozart of British CyclesThe opening scenes of "Lawrence of Arabia are as indelible as a first kiss: an overhead shot of an impossibly young and beautiful Peter O'toole prepping his Brough Superior for a run through the English summer countryside. THe following events were at once mythic, tragic, meaningless and mysterious. I have posted some research and backround on the Brough from Wikpedia below.<br /><br /><br />Brough Superior<br />From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia<br /> <br />Brough Superior LogoBrough Superior (pr. bruff su-peer-ee-or) motorcycles and motor cars were made by George Brough in his Brough Superior works on Haydn Road in Nottingham, England from 1919 to 1940. They were dubbed the "Rolls-Royce of Motorcycles" by H. D. Teague of The Motorcycle newspaper. Approximately 3048 of 19 models were made in 21 years of production. In 2004, around 1000 still exist. T. E. Lawrence ("Lawrence of Arabia") owned seven bikes and died from injuries sustained while crashing one. George Bernard Shaw was another among many celebrities that were enthusiastic about Brough products.<br /><br />George Brough was a racer, designer, and showman. All Brough Superior motorcycles were high performance and superior quality. Most were custom built to the customers needs, and rarely were any two of the same configuration. Each motorcycle was assembled twice. The first assembly was for fitting of all components, then the motorcycle was disassembled and all parts were painted or plated as needed, then the finished parts were assembled a final time. Every motorcycle was test ridden to ensure that it performed to specification, and was personally certified by George Brough. The SS100 model was ridden at 100 mph or more prior to delivery. The SS80 model was ridden at 80 mph or more before delivery. If any motorcycle didn't meet specification, it returned to the shop for rework until it performed properly. The fit and finish was comparable to a Rolls-Royce automobile, and were among the most expensive motorcycles.<br /><br />Brough Superior motorcycles have always been rare and expensive. Because of their connection with Lawrence of Arabia, their high quality of fit and finish, and their reputation for reliability and race victories, they are among the most collectible motorised vehicles. In 2007, prices ranged from $40,000 to more than $3,000,000 USD.<br /><br /> <br />Lawrence of Arabia on a Brough Superior he called George V. Lawrence owned eight Brough's in all, listed below, with notes in brackets:<br />* 1922 - Boa (the name was short for Boanerges) * 1923 - George I (the cost of £150 was more than the price of a house at the time) * 1924 - George II * 1925 - George III * 1926 - George IV * 1927 - George V (RK 4907; see photo) * 1929 - George VI (UL 656) * 1932 - George VII (GW 2275) (the bike he died on) * Undelivered - George VIII (still being built when Lawrence died).Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-79662146338868658562008-10-20T16:20:00.000-07:002008-10-20T16:22:30.483-07:00Poem for BrigetteI climbed a broken rock face in the dark, and rested on a high ledge<br /> eating wild blackberrries, <br />thinking of you, Brigette <br /> as the Sangre de Christos appeared in the pure singing sunlightAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-89265237203956438292008-09-17T14:41:00.000-07:002008-10-09T05:40:01.761-07:00"I Cry All The Time"-Published at ZoetropeGod grant me the serenity to remember who I am.”-Joe South<br /><br /> <br />Las Vegas Evening: Heat Exhausted Birds Fall Dead From the Sky<br /><br />I was in bed on Saturday night, crying, watching Univision, not understanding a word. I was crying while Don Francisco hollered hysterically at Jackie the weather girl, dancing a teasing little twitch in front of the band. My phone played “Stranglehold.” My brother, living near elderly mother in Dallas, was taking care of things as usual, feeling the heat and looking back in a bloody rage.<br />“Nice going,” he said, his voice at organ stop vox drill-sergeant sarcastic.<br />“What’s the matter?” <br />“Don’t ever tell Mom about your out-of-control blood pressure again. She’s crying, ‘my baby, I almost lost him when he was a baby’ and the rest of it. Did you tell her you quit smoking, you liar?”<br />“Probably. I’m sorry. We were talking about something else. I called her to verify a story about Michelangelo and Leonardo tending to an eye injury with pigeon blood.”<br />“What the hell are you talking about? No, don’t tell me, just don’t make me call again about this. I’ve got my own problems.” Dead connection.<br />There was nothing to do but get up and ankle out onto my little terrace with a cold bottle from the refrigerator. I drank cold water in the Las Vegas pizza-oven heat, praying my headache would ease. One thing I knew for certain. I knew what it felt like to love a creation so much that you wanted to talk to it. That was one thing I had in common with Michelangelo, the bearded, marble dust covered genius of Florence and Rome. I wrote about Gerda Taro, and in the middle of the screenplay I fell in love with her. I fell in love with a woman killed 70 years ago in the Spanish Civil War. I had an orange tattoo on my forearm: “Photo Taro”, her logo. I wanted to travel somewhere and talk to her. It’s different with living people. I tend to travel the other way from them. I don’t have any pity for my own blood. This was interesting, because my own blood pressure was killing <br />me. Who said there was no balance in the universe, no consequences for actions? My years of drinking, weight, and cigarettes were chickens on the roof beam now. Maybe that’s what made me fascinated with a marble sculpture depicting a mother and her dead son, a son who once told his mother, on the street, that he did not recognize her, that he had no family, and yet there she was at the end. The Pieta. It sure is. A mother’s unconditional love shown for all of us. There was a line from an Emmylou Harris song where God says: “you may be a mess, but you’re still my child.” There is a connection somewhere, but you get it.<br /><br /><br />Behind the Hard Rock<br /><br />Huge shallow pools, bright and sparkling in the enormous sun like a titanic turquoise and silver necklace. Sleek young women wearing good jewelry, heels and tiny swimsuits at poolside, the men in surfer trunks milling about in crotch deep waters where they could drink, gamble, connect with beautiful young women who know more then the men do, but keep it camouflaged until they know the score.<br />I, along with two guys from Miami, was sitting in a fully appointed (wet bar with bikini’d bartender) party cabana behind the Hard Rock. I was making a movie pitch to two indie-movie producers who needed a solid project to launder some money for some people who didn’t listen to movie pitches. The hired producers to do that. The two men from the Miami wore David streamline shades and Technicolor pool clothes, Prada flip flops. A platinum haired bartender from an agency in hot pink bikini tended bar behind them. They were drinking. I was applying for a job. I guess you could say we were all working. I told them about the scupture, a mother holding her dead son and grieving.<br />“I don’t get it,” the hairier producer said. “Help me out. Are you talking about Michelangelo the rapper, because I kind of get a woody thinking about that.”<br />“No, the sculptor, ” I said, lighting a Camel.<br />“Ok, let‘s cut the shit and get down to it,” the shaved head producer said, glancing at his clunky platinum watch and making a face. “ By the way, this is a no-smoking cabana unless it‘s weed . So put that out. I didn’t come to Vegas to get smoke blown up my ass. So here I am, listening about a piece of shit sculpture of a broad holding her dead son. Just so you know, I’m doing this because I’m re-paying an outstanding marker to a dear friend . Otherwise, the closest you’d get to me would be bringing the ice and wiping my ass. Why should we make this? Who even cares about it?” He sat back and waited. It was a good question. Maybe nobody. Maybe everybody.<br />“Michelangelo,” I said, evading the question, “made his masterpiece at the height of his powers and under enormous pressure. He suffered an injury to his eye while using a thin chisel and thought he’d lost it.”<br />“Lost what? His schwantz?” The hairy one shook the ice in his drink to signal bikini girl. He had a twenty dollar bill wrapped around the glass.<br />“I’m falling asleep here,” the shaved one said<br />“An apprentice” I continued, “took him to his greatest rival, Leonardo-not the ninja turtle- who knew something of human physiology. He sprayed cool pigeon blood into the eyes, and the shard of metal eased out. Leonardo bandaged him, a patch actually, and asked him about “The Pieta.” <br />“The what?” <br />I ignored them.<br />“Leonardo said ‘I heard you threw a mallet at the base because it wouldn’t talk to you.’ Michelangelo looked at him with one burning eye and said, ‘no, I threw it because I couldn’t talk to them.’” <br />“Ha” the hairy one said. “Wack job. He wanted to talk to the statue”<br />The shaved one took a long drink. He looked at me with no hostility on his faceted, hairless face. Maybe was thinking about a muscular, lusty Italian sculptor, sexing up a hot babe beneath a huge Italian moon, ripped off from“300“. Leonardo. The old hateful prick who trains Mike for the big project, a statue of the broad with the dead guy in her lap. “Fanfare for Mike” by Bill Conti, Jr.<br />“You want something to drink, Johnny?” The shaved one was genial now, using my name for the first time.<br />“How about some water,” I said.<br />“Hey, Seka the Bartender. Some Pellegrino for our guest” The platinum girl got a small green of bottle Pellagrino out of the refrigerator and handed it to me. She smiled.<br />“Do I tip you?” I asked<br />“Let them handle it. I love the idea, Honey. It reminds me of when I used to go to mass” she said. Just then, I started to cry. <br />“What‘d she say to you? Hey, what did you say?,” the shaved one said.<br />“Allergies,” I said. That was a lie. The meds that flattened out my blood pressure made me cry all the time.<br />“I’m kinda getting a hold of this thing’s jerk rope” the shaved one said. “You got a script?<br />I handed him a manila envelope containing 233 pages. <br />“He was switch hitter, wasn’t he? Michelangelo,” the shaved one asked.<br />“I don’t know. He loved beauty in men and women. He was in love with a woman and probably in love with a man. It wasn’t considered unusual. There is nothing known for certain of his personal life. My script is a story about his work and the pressures around him. Think “Amadaeus” meets “Rome.” <br />“We could shoot in South Africa. Or Libya,” the shaved head producer said. “Even in the Caymans.”<br />The hairy one was quiet now.<br />“Why don’t you let us look at this fucking thing” the shaved one said. “Who is your agent?”<br />“Beth Planet.”<br />“We heard of her. Tough bitch.” <br />“She’s my niece.”<br />“Oh, sorry. Anybody else seen this?”<br />“ Russell Crowe,” I lied.<br />“Shitsky,” the hairy one said, sitting back into the coral cabana lounge.<br />“He‘d be perfect as Michelangelo” the woman piped up.<br />“Just stay out of it and get our guest here another Pelligrino. We got enough producers around here.” the shaved head producer said. To me, genially: “What did he say?”<br />“Russell said he was thinking about some things.”<br />“Listen, take some Pelligrinos with you. It’s hot like a rented box in this desert,” the shaved one said, gesturing with irritation toward the platinum haired woman “Get him some Pelligrinos, for Christ’s sake. Johnny, we’ll be talking with you. Hey, are you still boxing?” He dropped into a mild boxer’s crouch.<br />“No,” I said. “I’m 55 years old. I’m a carpenter.”<br />“Oh yeah,” said the hairy one from the coral cabana lounge. “That sucks.”<br />“Being a carpenter or being 55?” <br />“Never mind, “ the hairy one said. “I don’t know what I meant.”<br />“Hey, how would you like to meet Tommy Lee? His cabana is just over there.”<br />“No thanks, I’ve got to get to work.”<br />I had gone maybe twenty feet when the platinum bartender touched me. She had a net bag clinking full of Pellegrino bottles.<br />“Don’t forget your water, Baby. And I loved your idea. Don’t let those guys make you cry. We’re all just making money. Why don't you call me? My card's in this bag. I'll make us a nice light supper. Take these and God Bless.”<br /><br />Beth Planet Calling<br /><br />“Hello Uncle Johnny… You’ll never guess who just called… No. Russell Crowe… Yes... He wants to know why everyone knows about the Michelangelo script except him… He thinks it‘s a great idea… He almost fired his California office… I faxed it to him…You need to get out here today…Dallas? …Well tell Grandma you have to go see Russell Crowe and she’ll understand …She thinks he broke up Meg Ryan’s marriage?… Put Grandma on ”Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-2216492234225806412008-09-12T08:05:00.000-07:002008-09-12T08:14:12.217-07:00"Birch Trees" by John Olson 9/11/08(For a friend who lost her sister)<br /><br />Birch trees like just enough sun and<br />a long, cold slumber.<br /><br />They awake to rain<br />and share it with the sandy loam.<br /><br />Just enough and no more,<br />even give fire against the freeze, waiting like soldiers in ranks<br />beneath the snow.<br /><br />And when there is no more time,<br />they lie down in a sea of ferns;<br />A doe and fawn bed <br />down next to the white bark.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558561079921398.post-10195215114029161682008-09-07T11:15:00.000-07:002008-09-07T11:20:09.760-07:00Excerpt From My Short StoryFrom: "Message From Beyond Death Involving Las Vegas and the Afterlife" published on Zoetrope Virtual Studio.<br /><br />"I discovered in 11th grade that I liked routine and new things in tandem. Many people are like this. It is a wondrous thing. I awakened early, went out on a cold winter’s morning in my Troy Colts sweatpants and t-shirt to the yellow “Free Press” box bolted to the mailbox post and got the morning paper. The air was frigid and you could feel it in your lungs. The winter birds were ranked on the power lines. A clump of bare birch trees with trunks white as a wedding dress stood against the tweed woods where the frozen swamp was. Sometimes I skated to the bus stop through the frozen woods. One night I skated through the trees on clean ice with a full moon over head, my dog Mac on my right, running along, barking. Walking back with the frosty rolled up paper I could smell the diesel exhaust from the big trucks on the other side of the narrow, frozen river. It smelled good, almost like pretzels baking. They growled and prowled like big cats in the DPW yard. In those days, I read the Detroit Free Press every morning. For breakfast I had dark toast and a cup of instant coffee and read the paper. Headlines. Back page of pictures and Bob Talbert‘s column. Entertainment. Sports. This morning, I flipped to the back page and what I saw froze me. The Beatles playing on a London rooftop. I loved the Beatles. They could not play live anywhere else except the roof of an office building. It was a sublime solution to a host of problems. Paul had a heavy black beard and a black suit, playing that violin shaped bass as familiar as my mother’s face. Ringo wore a wet-look coat of a type that was then fashionable. John, like a carving on a bowsprit, long hair blown back by the wind as he sang into the mike, playing that white Chuck Berry-style guitar. George, dark and long mustachioed like a tartar. Brooding watchfully with his dark guitar. I felt as light and high as a cloud. Why? It was rare, surprising news and a picture of people I loved. 40 years later, I discovered that Ringo’s striking wet -look Carnaby coat belonged to Maureen, his wife. Ringo came to the rooftop and found he was cold. Maureen put her raincoat on him. It fit. Also, at the end of one song, Paul says “Thanks, Mo.” That was Maureen. She was clapping, going “yea!” I wrote this into a character in a screenplay about winter street racing to show a character snapping out of his winter depression. The movie person didn’t get it. 'It’s not visual.'"<br /><br />Beatles rooftop clips on the video bar below.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01923022143584573775noreply@blogger.com0