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waltwest · 4 years ago

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The Freelancer

The following is the first thirteen pages of a short story I am writing titled “The Freelancer”. I hope you enjoy. I apologize for the unappealing formatting, this site does not have the most comprehensive text editor.

Studying the Keurig machine, I wondered how many complacent people it took to ware the word “brew” off the button, leaving behind nothing more than a “b” and an “e”, which looked curiously like an “s”. I imagined this instant coffee machine as the alter in which lost souls came to pay tribute to each morning before assuming their monotonously drudging tasks; lips drawn, eyes downcast. These people were never happy, not even content. It certainly wasn’t a wish of theirs to be here. Men who dreamt of becoming accomplished composers became pencil pushers. Women who yearned to be animators had landed at secretary. The office is where you come to lay your ambition to rest. Maybe it is a lack of assertiveness in demeanor which lands one here, maybe it is the fate of mere circumstance.

But I, Maxwell Goodman, knew what my job meant; I knew I worked among the dead. Luckily, there was a spark of life that incessantly flickered within me. With my ten ounce mug full before me, I reluctantly took my communion once again.

Safely back within the confines of my particle board cubicle, the manila folders and stacks of paper demanding this or that seemed to never be satisfied.

God, who knew lightbulbs could generate so much paperwork, I thought to myself.

I sat in silence and regarded the congregation of slain trees covering my desk. My collar was sticking to my neck… Trying to strangle me, for God’s sake. My mouth was dry and coated with the thick taste of cheap coffee. My desktop stared into my eyes expectantly, patiently waiting for me to pound away on the keyboard like a good boy… Like I was supposed to. The bulbs may be bright, but they can’t sell themselves! That’s what my boss Lonny loved to say. Lonny… God, how can someone be balding so terribly at thirty years old? Is it just bad genetics, or too much cortisol?

I felt a hand clap on my shoulder. “Max-o! Lovely morning, isn’t it? Hey, in case you weren’t aware, Sweet Charade is having a bogo on donuts until the end of the week…”

Speak of the devil.

I swiveled my squeaky and unbalanced office chair to face my boss. “Gee, thanks for filling me in, Lonny. You know how much I love that maple-iced.” I responded, attempting to sound enthusiastic. Lonny was a nice guy, he really was. It’s really difficult to be rude to a guy like Lonny, with his premature baldness and all. You kind of had to feel sorry for him in a way, it was impossible to predict whether or not he was just one snide comment away from completely breaking down. He’s kind of unstable, emotionally. Also, his wife died last year. She fell off a cliff. No really, she did. Her and Lonny took a vacation to the Grand Canyon last August. Kept complaining about how bright the sun was and how she “couldn’t see a damn thing.” Next thing you know, she was trying to take a picture of a bird flying above and somehow managed to fall right off the edge of a cliff. Worst part is, she was eight months pregnant with their son, they were going to name him Clint... So yeah, all in all it’s pretty tough being rude to Lonny.

“I know they’re your favorite, it’s why I told you. Oh, hey-“Lonny pulled his other hand from behind his back, revealing a bloated manila envelope”-think you could handle this for me? Just a little bit of inventory mumbo-jumbo. Nothing too serious!” He was really trying to exude a devastating level of charm, though the effort was ineffective.

One side of the envelope was sagging down in the air under its own mind-numbing weight. I never thought an envelope could actually look depressed, it almost made me giggle. Grudgingly, I acquiesced and accepted the package with the lift of the eyebrows and a nod. I didn’t want to be mean, but I also didn’t want him to think I was thrilled about all the extra nonsense. Hell, he might’ve even pulled another folder out of his waistband or something if he got the idea I was happy about it. “Here, how about closing this deal for a thousand LED’s to the grocery store down the street as well…” No, I had enough paper, truly.

Lonny gave me another hearty clap on the shoulder, his bulbous belly jiggling a bit from the force. Again, I had to prevent myself from giggling… I find myself doing that more frequently than I would care to admit. I get the urge to laugh at the worst times, always. “Thanks, Max. I know I can always count on you.” He confided with a smile of endearment. It was difficult to tell whether that was a positive thing or if this was going to come back and bite me in the ass. Probably the latter.

Ole’ Lonny then gave a sly wink and swaggered off with the air of one who just successfully pawned off his work to an underling, because he could. What a bastard, I thought. He was an alright guy though, I suppose.

After a formalized second trip to the alter, I submerged myself in the humming of the fluorescents above me and the ocean of paper before me. Seven more hours…

At precisely 4:59pm, I slapped all of the folders shut and jabbed the power button on my computer with vehemence. My eyes burned like hell, my head was pounding from all of the caffeine, and my hands were all clammy. Very uncomfortable. God, I couldn’t help but to feel that it wasn’t worth it at the end of each day. I was constantly attacked by the bigger picture. What purpose was I serving? What kind of impact was I having on the world? I dwelled upon these questions often, but couldn’t stand beginning to think about the answers.

After I ended my quick demoralizing contemplation, the sodden procession of rejects began to file out of the glass door. And with the exchanging of “goodbyes” and “see you tomorrows,” my co-workers fell into their hybrid sedans and putted on down the road. Usually I am pulling into my apartment complex before anyone has even started their cars, but I felt like watching today. Sometimes I like to detach myself from situations and just observe.

Like this one time, I was sitting on one of those couches that are situated in the walkway at the mall. You know, those areas where they have four couches are situated in a square all cozy and whatnot, just in case the going gets too rough. Anyway, I was sitting on one of those couches, just watching. I peered into a shoe store and beheld a child throwing a royal fit, really overdoing it. He was around tromping everywhere, steam spilling out of his ears and all. He was screeching about a pair of shoes he wanted but couldn’t have. They were these real hip joints, green canvas with blue laces. They were disgustingly ugly, if you want to know the truth. Knowing how these retail stores are, I bet they were like a billion bucks. “I want the shoes! I want the shoes!” He was yelling.

“I can’t get you those… I can’t. I’m sorry, you know I would...” His father replied weakly, trying his damnedest to not contribute to the mayhem. He looked sad as hell, embarrassed even. I couldn’t tell whether he was embarrassed because he couldn’t afford the shoes, or because his son was being such an ass about it; I suppose it could’ve been a mixture of both.

“Mommy would get them for me! Call Mommy! I want Mommy!” The kid was belligerent. Stompin’ his snow boots all around the store, trying to leave imprints in the god damn carpet. It was winter by the way, Christmas time.

“Oh, you know I can’t do that… I’m sorry, I can’t afford the shoes son. Daddy can’t afford them right now.” He was really trying to be quiet and take control of his bratty offspring. Gosh, he looked so ashamed. I cannot stand ungrateful kids. The father ended up buying his son a cheaper pair of sneakers, to the stomping child’s dismay. I say he shouldn’t have bought him any shoes at all, the way he was acting.

There was something disturbing and insightful about that encounter, though. If I had just been walking by and heard the kid hollering I would have thought he was acting like a bastard, and that would’ve been it. And he was acting like a bastard, don’t get me wrong. But it is intriguing how the layers of the family dynamic unravels, the more you just watch and listen. The divorced parents, the mother always outdoing the father in order to gain their son’s favor… I was able to see a man who didn’t really know what he was doing with his life, or how he’d even gotten there in the first place… He wasn’t in control, maybe he never was. Maybe he never will be. So yeah, I enjoy sitting back and observing sometimes, beats the hell out of boring conversation.

Anyway, it was time for me to leave work. I grabbed my pointless little leather satchel and walked out the door. Outside, the air felt nice and fresh… I love the revitalizing effects of fresh air. It was especially neat that evening because there was also one of those breezes that whips really good every so often. It made me hungry. So, I decided I would grab some Chinese food on the way to my apartment. It’s on the way, and I have a huge thing for oriental food… especially lo mein noodles.

II.

Pint of greasy noodles clutched in hand, I stepped into the elevator of my building and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, the top floor. I have a fear of heights, so initially I was not too keen on the idea of living so high up. But the thing was, I was pretty down on my luck, I suppose you could even say I was vulnerable. I needed a place quickly and this building was convenient for me… As I said, once I realized the only space for rent was on the top floor, I became a little nervous. But, the woman whom I talked to about the whole thing convinced me that rent was actually cheaper on the top floor. So, despite my uneasiness with heights of any kind, I took the place thinking I was scoring some sort of exclusive insider deal. But, after a few months of residing there and conversing with my neighbors, I learned I was paying around $96 more a month than most people in the whole god damn building. Even the other tenants on my floor were paying less than me. Something about my apartment being a “colonial” this that and the other. I don’t know. I swear to God I’m too gullible sometimes. I still had a year left on my lease.

Up, up, up the elevator went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, ding! Thirteen. The doors opened and I made my way down the hall. I will admit, the building itself was not too impressive. The ceilings had a few leaks, the walls were painted an awful yellow. Sometimes the air conditioner shut off randomly. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. Everything could always be worse, don’t ever forget that.

Of course, my special “colonial” apartment was way at the end of the hallway, number 327. As I approached my rickety door, my eyes locked onto a lone piece of mail sticking out of the little metal mailbox. A quick pulse of endorphins spread throughout my brain. I love getting mail. I pulled the envelope out. It was from the Print Box publishing company! Panic, fear, and excitement rose within my chest all at once.

I guess I forgot to tell you. I have longed to be an author for as long as I can remember. It is my dream, I guess you could say. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck getting published, or even acknowledged for that matter. I have written many different stories and have sent them to every publishing house imaginable. I’ve even sent short clips to shitty magazines hoping to get a bite, to no avail. The only responses I have gotten have been rejections. Most often they don’t even take the time to respond… Trust me, it’s not like I wanted to sell lightbulbs as a career, you should realize that by now.

And while I had never received positive criticism or encouragement in the past, it was impossible to not feel hopeful when I got a letter back from a publisher. I believed that one day my luck would shift. It had to… Right?

I hurried and shoved the key into the door, then shot straight to the couch to read what Print Box had to say. My noodles sat on the coffee table, untouched and getting slightly cold.

I ended up sitting frozen for a couple of minutes, staring at the front of the envelope… As if the address lines were going to tell me that it was going to be okay, this time was different. Really, I was savoring the moment. I had a certain amount of measured confidence when it came to this letter. In my opinion, the story I sent to Print Box was amazing, one of my best yet. It was a story about an inter-galactic space traveler who ends up meeting God and finding out He’s not how everyone thinks He is. I promise it’s not as crumby as it sounds. It was good. You would just have to read it.

Life seemed to be still around me; a foreboding, ominous stillness. Blood was rushing to my ears. My hands shaking ever so slightly, I ran my finger underneath the seal, and took out the prophecy within. Please, let this be it. Please.

It read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Goodman,

We received your manuscript for ‘Creator’s Paradox’. After review, we are terribly sorry to inform you that we have decided not to publish your work. It is simply not a fit for us.

Best Wishes,

Print Box Publications”

A cold knife sank deep into my chest. What? That’s it? The letter trembled in my hands. The excitement and hope fled my body entirely, and had been replaced by sorrow and confusion, even anger. How could this be? I should have known. I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Why would this time be any different? It was then that I thought maybe I should just give up. I am no good at this, I absolutely suck. That must be it… They say to chase your dreams, but what if you are just terrible? I had never felt such dread. Maybe I was meant to sell lightbulbs for a living…

Unceremoniously I ripped the bad news in half and let it fall onto the table. Sinking back into the frayed cloth couch, I would have been completely okay with just disappearing in that moment, I felt deflated.

After a shameful amount of sulking, I forced down the then limp noodles, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and slid out onto the balcony.

The night was warm, but not unreasonably so. It was that time of year when you keep a jacket in the backseat of your car, because you can never be certain which way the thermometer will flow. But even though the night was cozy, I had a rain cloud hovering over my head. I was already beginning to accept my future. The cardboard cutout life I was going to surrender to. 401k’s, strategies to improve my credit score… That sort of thing.

I sipped my beer and looked out upon the terrain before me, in the most reflective of moods. I had to admit, the view was pleasurable from up here. I lived in the boot heel of Indiana, by the way. An area of the world where it is commonplace for urban and rural landscapes to collide, battling for a prominent grip over the territory. Upon my perch, I could see and feel the city below me: the streetlamps, stoplights, cars honking at nothing in particular, the smell of gas and concrete which invaded the nostrils. But when I looked beyond the ring of cityscape, seemingly endless fields and small hillocks rolled into the horizon, with a strip of highway interceding here and there. The occasional semi would be finding its way through the night, like a worm over soil. It was comforting in a way, made you feel like you could always just escape if you wanted to or needed to.

I found and traced one semi making his way across the fields. He was at such a distance, I could only distinguish him by the studded lights that adorned his truck. He looked so lonely, plodding along out there, all by himself. I wondered, was he happy? Did he choose his life for himself? Or did he just throw in the towel, like I was having thoughts of doing… I suppose I would never find out. Not like I could pluck him off the road and ask him. Or her. I shouldn’t just assume they are a man. I wonder how much truck drivers make? I heard they bring in quite a bit of dough, actually… I pictured myself taking the reigns of my own eighteen-wheeler; soaking in the sights, getting into a bit of trouble at the various truck stops. It didn’t feel right, though. For a moment I felt my skin squirm.

The fight of two alley cats below suddenly tore me out of my trance. I noticed I was rubbing my fingers together really hard, and all of a sudden the stench of garbage filled the air. It was all discomforting. I realized that this was the moment that was going to lay the foundation for the rest of my time on Earth. Will I push onward, and become who I want to be? Or do I choose the easy, less turbulent path, and adjust. We all stumble upon this fork in the road at some point throughout our lives. Although, unfortunately, most are blind to the path tucked behind the brush, the path we were each destined to take. We only see the wider, more trodden path of conformity.

As I stood at the helm of my splitting path, I knew within my heart which route I was going to take. There was no question… I was going to part the foliage and venture into the canopied forest.

III.

The time was getting close to ten, but I had struck a vein of determination and inspiration. I was not going to simply shrug it off and go to sleep.

Back and forth I paced around the cramped living room. Couch. Coffee table. Television, resting upon an empty entertainment center. Plastic lamp situated in the corner. Generic cream carpeting. Bland, unextraordinary.

I paced and paced, contemplatively gripping my chin.

I knew I had to write something. But what should I write a story about? Gosh, I began to get nervous. In the early twentieth century, here was this Italian novelist named Cesare Pavese. There is a quote of his wherein he states, “the only joy in the world is to begin.” The only feeling I get when I begin something is anxiety and confusion… I can see where he is coming from though, I suppose. There is bound to be intrigue when diving into something new. And anxiety. Shit, where the hell did those Valium go?

My pacing shifted its course to the bathroom. On the way I passed the boring ass photos that were framed in the four-foot-wide hallway, standing guard. A vase of flowers sitting on a patio table. A tire swing. It felt like the first time I had ever seen these pictures. So generic… So dumb. God, they made me want to puke. Why didn’t I take them down whenever I moved in? My blood pressure was rising. Fucking stock photos.

I crashed into the bathroom and swung the mirror open. The ole’ medicine cabinet, baby. Where everyone goes when in need of a little chemical therapy. We’re all guilty…

Sifting through prescriptions old and new, some in my name, others not, I eventually found what I was searching for. Also, upon studying the array of medications in front of me, I realized I may have a slight drug problem. Oh well, it’s not as bad as it once was.

I recall one incident in particular from the past. I must have taken twelve Xanax bars, maybe more. I went to the park (I love the park) and was feeding some pigeons; leftover Doritos I had found in my car, they were at least four months past the expiration date. Anyway, after just tossing chips around all over the sidewalk for about half an hour, I took a particularly special interest in one of the pigeons. He was a bit smaller than the rest, and one of his eyes was circled in black. Incredibly unique, at least in comparison the others. He was really taking control of the situation too, despite his size. Really getting in there, hardly sharing any of the precious chips. Greedy bastard… I think that’s why I liked him so well.

Anyway, I decided that I needed him. You know, with his attitude, maybe he could protect my pad or something. I don’t know, I was pretty high. So, after wrestling with him for a bit (if you can picture that), it became clear I could not just pick the rowdy fucker up. Had a lot of fight in him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pulled out a cigar from beneath his wing and started puffin’ at me, head all cockeyed and whatnot. “C’maaaaaaaaaan, that all ya got?” I had to regroup, construct a more inventive method of capture.

Bingo. Easy. He may have been all brawn, but he still had an observable weakness… Doritos.

With an inward smirk, I strategically (and sloppily) began making a trail of chip crumbs that led to the opened passenger-side door of my car. Worked like a charm, perhaps too well. The whole damn flock began tottering and flapping over to my car. At this point I realized my coveted plan may have had a detrimental absence of foresight, I thought I was surely doomed. But as always, there was a solution. When the horde got within a few feet of my vehicle, I started kickin’ and screamin’ at all of them. They all flew away quick as can be, except for my new friend of course, the bravest of them all. Victory. I finally managed to coerce the prize fighter into my car with one last huge Dorito, and off to the races we went.

He shit all over my seats, my dashboard, everything. God, it was terrible. Stunk like hell, too. To make a long story short, we were never meant to be friends. He continued to mercilessly defecate all over the apartment, pecked the hell out of my ankles, he was extremely aggressive… Not house trained in the slightest.

Needless to say, I was positively sick of this bastard by this point… I decided the best course of action would be turning him into profit. I took him down to the gas station and tried to peddle him off to the cashier for three dollars… He declined. But to be fair, I believe if he wasn’t at work and whatnot, trying to look good for his boss, he would have gone for it. He truly looked like he wanted that pigeon something fierce… Got all wide-eyed, sweat gathering at the brow. Either he wanted that pigeon, or he was deathly afraid of it. It was almost weird, his intensity.

Yeah, I used to be kind of awful about it. That happened right after high school. I wasn’t too productive back then, sometimes I wish I could go back and change those years.

Anyway, I quickly swallowed forty-five milligrams of Valium in the bathroom, on account of my soaring blood pressure and all. The stock photos didn’t help. Plus, I really needed to buckle down and figure out what I was going to write and how I was going to blow the socks off of the publishers and leave their feet steaming. This had to be the big one.

IV.

I set up shop in the kitchen, the only place in my apartment that has a table and chair. I had my tools for creation all laid out. A trio of freshly sharpened pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those noise machines that produces rainforest sounds and whatnot. Yes, I like those, and yes, I still believe in pencil & paper. Staring at a computer screen for extended periods of time isn’t quite healthy for you. It’s terrible on the eyes, you know. Additionally, there is something therapeutic about manually writing out each letter of a word, your hand carefully forming every one of those curves… The act feels intimate, and poking at a keyboard just isn’t the same. But I digress.

Let’s see… Romance novels are too cheesy, you almost always know how they are going to end. I had already recently tried my hand at space exploration. Though space is endless, making the potential for stories based in space limitless as well. Still, I wasn’t really in the mood at that moment. Ugh, brainstorming is too much work, truly. This is why I like it best when the ideas come to me naturally.

Just as I was delving deeper into thought, or trying to, my phone rang from the counter behind me. It gave me a shock, partly because it was getting so late and partly because hardly anyone ever called me.

Casually I looked to see who my caller was. “Silas,” the screen read. Of course. Silas is an old pal from school that I kept in touch with for some reason. He’s a morally decent guy I suppose, has a good heart. He just never quite grew up.

“Hello?��

“Maximillian! What’s up?” He was totally stoned. In the background I could hear the bubbling of a bong along with feminine laughter. I heard something else too, faintly… Was that… Street Fighter?

“Hey, Silas. It’s almost one in the morning, what’s going on?” I tried my darndest not to sound rude, sometimes I have a problem with that.

“Oh, nothin’ much man…” More laughter, it caused me to wonder what the hell was so funny. “Hey, Max, do you have any molly? Need some molly… Ecstasy.”

Initially I figured he was stoned, but he was progressively sounding more drunk than anything. Probably both. “Silas, I haven’t done molly in over three years. What the hell are you thinkin’, do I got any molly? No, I do not… Are you fuckin’ drunk?” This guy blew my mind sometimes.

Awkward silence. More bubbling. And yes, that was certainly Street Fighter. “Damn dude, my bad… For some reason I thought you might.” More silence. Generally, it’s difficult for this man to process more than a couple of sentences at a time… Got a hell of a heart though. “Well, okay. Hey, do you know anybody who does?” He sounded wistful, maybe even a bit desperate. All the sudden I had the feeling I was not the first person he called about this. It made me sad in a way.

I sat crisscross on the tile. Why there instead of the chair? I don’t know, it’s what I felt like doing then, okay? I liked the fresh perspective. “No, ‘fraid not. Haven’t touched the stuff in a long time.” Pause. “What the hell ya been up to anyway, Silas?” I was genuinely interested. I began picking at the tile with my fingernail.

“Uhhh, nothing really. I-…” He really had to think about what he had been up to. “Went to a Cannibal Corpse concert last week. Yeah, concert and stuff.” He sounded like he was about to fall asleep, or become a corpse himself. God, look at all that dust beneath the fridge…

Just then, I got a wonderful idea. “Gee, that sounds like loads of fun. Hey, Silas. If you were going to write a story, what would it be about? You know, if you were just going to write a story or something… About anything.” I was curious. I wanted to squeeze his mushy brain and see what came out. Plus, the Valium had me feeling a bit conversative.

The line was quiet for awhile. I could’ve sworn he had fallen asleep, phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, slobber dripping from his chin. “-A story? Story… Probably about a barbarian or something. Barbarian who has a club and nails chicks in his cave. Like Conan, I guess.” Silence… “Hey, Conan nailed chicks in caves, right?” He was asking someone next to him.

Boom, inspiration flooded the inside of my head, almost making me dizzy. How didn’t I think of this before?

Obviously, his idea was stupid. But the barbarian aspect intrigued me. How fun would that be? A barbarian who finds himself in a world of magic. Brings it back to Earth for the betterment of humanity. I don’t know, something silly like that. Something people will read, something that will keep them entertained.

Silas focused his attention back to me. I had almost forgotten I was on the phone with him. “Max, buddy. Hey, Max. Do you have any molly, by chance?”

I didn’t have the time for this anymore. I needed to get to work. “Sorry, gotta go. Goodbye, Silas.” I hung up the phone. Krosmere… That’s what his name will be.

I bounced up from the floor and positioned myself back at the table.

I took a deep breath, turned on the trusty rainfall machine, and poised my pencil. It was time to craft the legacy of Krosmere, rogue barbarian. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited to start something. I was now beginning to feel the meaning of Cesare Pavese’s words.

A ray of early morning sun dove into the kitchen from the window above the sink, casting the table before me in an orange-red glow. There I was, hunched over my papers, clad only in an old white tee-shirt and a pair of pinstripe boxers. Every hallow in my body had filled with salty perspiration.

Truly, I had not realized how late it was getting. Or, rather, how early… I risked a glance at the clock on the oven. “5:41am” it read in its obnoxious neon green radiance. Somewhere down the hallway I could hear the maddening wail of my alarm clock trying to be a voice of reason or something, I suppose. How did I not hear that until now? BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH. God, I just wanted to throw the damn thing against the wall. I have done that quite a few times already. Like after Cinco De Mayo last year. Threw that motherfucker so good it flew out of my room and smacked the wall in the hallway. Or after the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Hell, it wasn’t even morning time, and I’m not into sports! I just went into my room and punted the sumbitch right into the ceiling. I can be childish sometimes. There was also that one time when my ex-girlfriend threw the alarm clock at me… Does that even count? I don’t know. My alarm clock is actually quite beaten up, I should probably buy a new one.

“5:47am”. As I sat there a couple more moments, I felt intruded upon. As if the sun was invading my privacy, putting me on a stage for all the world to laugh at. Don’t you hate that?

I strutted to my bedroom, sticky boxers and all, and silenced the howling beast. On my way out, after tripping over an extension cord gone awry, I stood face-to-face with the blasphemous stock photos. Those motherfuckers were taunting me, I know they were. The flowers! The fucking tire swing! Are you kidding me? Rage flared within me. I seriously could not begin to tell you why or how I allowed these abominations to remain for so long. They really made me want to puke.

Instinctively I tore the frames from the wall and stomped back to the kitchen with them tucked under my arm. I could’ve sworn to God they were burning me with their wickedness, their phoniness.

I found myself in front of the window, the same window the damn sun broke in through. I disengaged the lock and threw it open. A blast of chill air sucked inward, air you could tell was leftover from the night. It had a nice smell. It was then that I realized how muggy it had been in the kitchen. Like two (or more) people were in here having sex all night or something. If only.

I peered outside into the shifting sky. You know, there isn’t a lot to brag about in Indiana, but the sunrises are absolutely beautiful. Picturesque, you could say. Deep reds that bleed over the entire Earth, splashes of orange, streaks of lavender. They are serene.

I felt a searing on my side. Pulling the photos out from my arm, I flung them out into the open air without so much as a last glance. I suppose I could have thrown them in the trash, but then they would still be inside the apartment. They had to be eradicated, and immediately. With pleasure I envisioned gravity pulling them down, down, down, all thirteen floors, where they would meet their well-deserved demise on the sidewalk below. Gosh, I hope they don’t hit anything… An afterthought.

It took only a grain of sand in the hourglass of our universe for the photos to collide with the pavement, marked by a satisfying crash. Later some would testify that a dog’s yelp followed just after the commotion, but I heard no such thing.

Smug and triumphant with a menace destroyed, I turned on my heel, only to be blasted with more joy as my gaze fell upon my papers on the table. Oh, my work! My lovely work!

The lack of sleep, the now sweat stained boxers… It had all been worth it. I had spent all night crafting the structure for what I know, without a doubt, will be my best story ever. The big one.

I had finished the outline, was already on the second chapter of the story. Hell, I even sketched out a picture of ole’ Krosmere. A muscle-bound barbarian. Thick, long brown hair (like mine). I made him only have one nipple, though. You know, to add character and all that. Really, I am a terrible artist. I couldn’t draw my way out of a two-dimensional square if I had to.

I still had about three hours until I needed to start selling lightbulbs, which was fine with me. You can do a lot in three hours, if you really try. I figured I could make some breakfast, get cleaned up, maybe even go for a walk. Working through the day without a wink of sleep was not something I really looked forward to, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Adderall. I’m fairly sure I had someone’s script in my cabinet still. You know, for emergencies and the like.

With a newfound pep in my step, I threw the pan onto the rusted stove and began cracking some eggs, whistling along with the birds perched among the rooftops outside.

#writing #fiction

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ameryth74 · 5 years ago

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Two letter words:

There are 107 acceptable 2-letter words listed in the Official Scrabble Players Dictionary, 6th Edition and the Official Tournament and Club Word List:

AA, AB, AD, AE, AG, AH, AI, AL, AM, AN, AR, AS, AT, AW, AX, AY, BA, BE, BI, BO, BY, DA, DE, DO, ED, EF, EH, EL, EM, EN, ER, ES, ET, EW, EX, FA, FE, GI, GO, HA, HE, HI, HO, ID, IF, IN, IS, IT, JO, JU, JY, JZ, KA, KI, KO, LA, LI, LO, MA, ME, MI, MM, MO, MU, MY, NA, NE, NO, NU, OD, OE, OF, OH, OI, OK, OM, ON, OP, OR, OS, OW, OX, PA, PE, PI, PO, QI, RE, SH, SI, SO, TA, TE, TI, TO, UH, UM, UN, UP, US, UT, WE, WO, XI, XU, YA, YE, YO, ZA

Two letter contractions: I’m, I’d

Four letter verbs:

abet, abut, abye/aby, ache, alit, ally, ante, arch, aver, avow (10).

baby, bach, back, bade, baff, bail, bait, bake, bald, bale, balk, ball, band, bang, bank, bant, barb, bard, bare, barf, bark, base, bash, bask, bate, bath, bauk, bawl, bead, beam, bean, bear, beat, beck, bede, beef, been, beep, bell, belt, bend, bent, bere, best, bias, bide(archaic usage), biff, bike, bilk, bill, bind, bird, birl, birr, bite, bitt, blab, blat, blaw, bled, blet, blew, blip, blob, blot, blow, blub, blue, blur, boak, boat, bode, body, boff(vulgar usage), boil, boke, bomb, bond, bone, bong, bonk, boob, book, boom, boot, bore, born, boss, boun, bowl, brad, brag, bray, bred, brew, brim, buck, buff, bulk, bull, bump, bung, bunk, bunt, buoy, burl, burn, burp, burr, bury, bush, busk, buss, bust, busy, butt, buzz (117).

ca-ca, cage, cake, calk, call, calm, came, camp, cane, cant, card, care, carp, cart, case, cash, cast, cave, cede, cere, chap, char, chat, chaw, chid, chin, chip, chop, chow, chug, chum, cite, clad, clam, clap, claw, clay, clew, clip, clog, clop, clot, cloy, club, clue, coal, coat, coax, cock, code, coif, coil, coin, coke, comb, come, comp, cone, conk, conn, cook, cool, coop, cope, copy, cord, core, cork, corn, cosh, cost, coup, cove, cowl, crab, cram, crap, crew, crib, crop, crow, cube, cuff, cull, curb, curd, cure, curl, curr, cuss (90).

dado, daff, damn, damp, dang, dare, dark, darn, dart, dash, date, daub, dawn, daze, deal, deck, deed, deem, defy, deke, dele, demo, dent, deny, dial, dice, died, diet, dike, dine, ding, ding, dint, dirk, disc, dish, disk, diss, dive, dock, doff, dole, dome, done, doom, dope, dose, doss, dote, dove, down, doze, drab, drag, draw, dray, dree, drew, drip, drop, drub, drug, drum, duck, duel, duet, dull, dumb, dump, dung, dunk, dupe, dusk, dust, dyke (75).

earn, ease, echo, eddy, edge, edit, emit, envy, espy, etch, even, exit (12).

face, fade, fail, fake, fall, fame, fard, fare, farm, fart, fash, fast, fate, fawn, faze, fear, feed, feel, fell, felt, fend, fess, fete, feud, file, fill, film, find, fine, fink, fire, firm, fish, fist, fizz, flag, flap, flat, flaw, flay, fled, flee, flew, flex, flip, flit, flog, flop, flow, flub, flux, foal, foam, foil, foin, fold, fond, fool, foot, ford, fork, form, foul, fowl, frag, frap, fray, free, fret, frig, frit, fuel, full, fume, fund, funk, furl, fuse, fuss, futz, fuze, fuzz (82).

gaff, gage, gain, gait, gall, game, gang, gaol, gape, garb, gash, gasp, gast(obsolete), gate, gaum(US), gave, gawk, gawp, gaze, gear, geld, gibe, gift, gild, gill, gimp, gird, girt, give, glad(archaic), glom, glow, glue, glug, glut, gnar, gnaw, go by, go on, goad, golf, gone, gong, goof, gore, gown, grab, gray, grew, grey, grid, grin, grip, grit, grow, grub, gulf, gull, gulp, gush, gust, gybe, gyre, gyve (64).

hack, haft, hail, hale, halo, halt, hand, hang, hare, hark, harm, harp, hash, hasp, hast, hate, hath(archaic), haul, have, hawk, haze, head, heal, heap, hear, heat, heed, heel, heft, held, helm, help, hent(obsolete), herd, hewn, hide, hike, hill, hint, hire, hiss, hive, hoax, hock, hoke(slang), hold, hole, home, hone, honk, hood, hoof, hook, hoop, hoot, hope, horn, hose, host, hove, howl, huff, hulk, hull, hump, hung, hunt, hurl, hurt, hush, husk, hymn, hype, hypo (74).

idle, inch, iris, iron, isle, itch (6).

jack, jade, jail, jape, jazz, jeep, jeer, jell, jerk, jest, jibe, jilt, jink, jinx, jive, join, joke, jolt, josh, juke, jump, junk (22).

kayo, keek(Scots), keel, keen, keep, kept, kern, kick, kill, kiln, kilt, kink, kiss, kite, knap, knew, knit, knot, know (19).

lace, lack, laid, lain, lair, lake, lamb, lame, land, lard, lark, lase, lash, last, lath, laud, lave, laze, lazy, lead, leaf, leak, lean, leap, lech, leer, left, lend, lens, lent, levy, lick, lift, like, lilt, limb, lime, limn, limp, line, link, lisp, list, live, load, loaf, loan, lock, loft, loll, long, look, loom, loop, loot, lope, lord, lose, lost, loup(Scots), lour, lout, love, lube, luck, luff, luge, lull, lump, lure, lurk, lust, lute, lyse (74).

mace, made, mail, maim, make, mall, malt, mark, marl, mart, mash, mask, mass, mast, mate, maul, maze, mean, meet, meld, mell, melt, mend, meow, mesh, mess, mete, mewl, miff, milk, mill, mime, mind, mine, mint, mire, miss, mist, moan, moat, mock, moil, mold, molt, moon, moor, moot, mope, moss, move, muck, muff, mull, mump, muse, mush, muss, must, mute (59).

nail, name, near, neck, need, nest, nick, nigh, nill(obsolete), nock, nose, nosh, note, nuke, null, numb (16).

obey, ogle, oink, okay, omen, omit, ooze, open, oust, over (10).

pace, pack, page, pain, pair, pale, pall, palm, pang, pant, pare, park, part, pash(Austral), pass, pave, pawn, peak, peal, peck, peek, peel, peen, peep, peer, pelt, pend, perk, perm, pick, pike, pile, pill, pimp, pine, ping, pink, pipe, piss(vulgar), pith, pity, plan, plat, play, plod, plop, plot, plow, plug, pock, poke, pole, poll, pond, pool, pore, port, pose, post, pour, pout, pray, pree, prep, prey, prim, prod, prog, prop, puff, puke, pule, pull, pulp, pump, punt, purl, purr, push, putt (80).

quad, quip, quit, quiz (4).

race, rack, raft, rage, raid, rail, rain, rake, ramp, rang, rank, rant, rape, rase, rasp, rate, rave, raze, razz, read, ream, reap, rear, reck, redd(dialect), rede(archaic), redo, reed, reef, reek, reel, rein, rely, rend, rent, rest, re-up, rice, rick, ride, riff, rift, rile, rill, rime(archaic)/rhyme, ring, riot, rise, risk, rive, roam, roar, robe, rock, rode, roil, rolf, roll, romp, roof, rook, room, root, rope, rose, rout, rove, ruck, ruff, ruin, rule, rush, rust (73).

sack, said, sail, sale, salt, sand, sass, sate, save, sawn, scab, scam, scan, scar, scat, scud, scum, seal, seam, sear, seat, seed, seek, seel, seem, seen, seep, sell, send, sent, sewn, shag, sham, shed, shim, shin, ship, shit, shoe, shog, shoo, shop, shot, show, shun, shut, sick, side, sift, sigh, sign, silk, silt, sing, sink, sire, site, size, skew, skid, skim, skin, skip, slab, slag, slam, slap, slat, slay, sled, slew, slid, slim, slip, slit, slog, slop, slot, slow, slub, slue, slug, slum, slur, smut, snag, snap, snip, snow, snub, snug, soak, soap, soar, sock, soil, sold, sole, solo, soot, sorb, sort, soup, sour, sown, spae(scottish), spam, span, spar, spat, spay, spec, sped, spew, spin, spit, spot, spud, spur, spurn, stab, stag, star, stay, stem, step, stet, stew, stir, stop, stow, stub, stud, stun, suck, suds, suit, sulk, sung, sunk, surf, swab, swag, swam, swan(brit), swap, swat, sway, swig, swim, swob, swop(brit)/swap, swot, swum, sync (155).

tabu, tack, tail, take, talc, talk, tame, tamp, tang, tank, tape, tare, task, taut, taxi, team, tear, teem, tell, tend, tent, term, test, text, thaw, thin, thud, tick, tide, tidy, tier, tiff, tile, till, tilt, time, tine, ting, tint, tire, toil, toke, told, tole, toll, tomb, tone, tong, took, tool, toot, tope, tore, torn, toss, tote, tour, tout, tram, trap, tree, trek, trim, trip, trod, trot, trow(archaic), true, tube, tuck, tuft, tune, turf, turn, tusk, twig(Brit), twin, twit, type (79).

undo, urge (2).

vade, vail(archaic), vamp, vary, veal, veer, veil, vein, vend, vent, vest, veto, vide, view, vine, visa, vise, void, vote (19).

wade, waft, wage, wail, wait, wake, wale, walk, wall, wane, want, ward, ware(archaic), warm, warn, warp, wash, waul, wave, wawl, wean, wear, weed, ween, weep, weet, weld, well, welt, wend, went, wept, were, wert(archaic), wham, whap, whet, whid(Scottish), whip, whir, whiz, whop, wick, wile, will, wilt, wind, wine, wing, wink, wipe, wire, wise, wish, wisp, wist, wite, wive, woke, wolf, wont, wood, woof, word, wore, work, worm, worn, wove, wrap, writ(archaic) (71).

x-ray (1).

yack, yank, yard, yarn, yaup, yawn, yawp, yean, yell, yelp, yerk, yeuk, yock, yoke, yowl, yo-yo(informal), yuck (17).

zero, zest, zinc, zing, zone, zonk, zoom (7).

IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT

(yes there are 28 ITs)

#louis tomlinson #song title #** **** it #lt1 #lol 😂#*** **

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daisychainduo · 5 years ago

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Join us for our first time @ Buck Bald Brewing 👉4/6 2pm👈 🎶🎙️🎸🎶 #livemusic #daisychain #daisychainduo #4thofjulyweekend #weekend #buckbaldbrewing #copperhilltn #copperhill #craftbeerbar #craftbeer (at Buck Bald Brewing) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bziyh4Zg_ys/?igshid=1v07gzbqm4di1

#livemusic #daisychain #daisychainduo #4thofjulyweekend #weekend #buckbaldbrewing #copperhilltn #copperhill #craftbeerbar #craftbeer

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frustratedcastingdirector · 7 years ago

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Callicoon and Beyond: Sunrise Ruffalo’s Guide to the Catskills

MAY 21, 2017 10:00 AM by MADELEINE LUCKEL “I love the community that the store represents.” Those are the words of Sunrise Ruffalo, wife of actor Mark Ruffalo, and owner of Sunny’s Callicoon Pop. The store, which is situated in New York’s Catskills region, has quickly become a local source for design goods. In the words of Sunrise, it sells everything from a simple notebook to a piece of embroidery that took 50 hours to create. “I like showing people how they can live cohesively with both modern design and items that have generations of stories within them. At my store, I’ve curated a collection of one-of a-kind pieces that achieve this balance of old and new.” But for Sunrise, her life in Callicoon goes far beyond her business. “I moved to Callicoon because of its pristine beauty, untouched natural resources, open landscape, and clear water. It has such a sense of balance between nature and the contemporary world; I wanted to instill that value in my children,” she explains. Below, Sunrise shares 11 of her favorite local gems. “For such a rural area, these restaurants, shops, and attractions are all part of what make this such a wonderful community. Our geographical connection is not the only thing that ties us together; it’s also our mutual appreciation for the outstanding beauty of the environment.” 1. The Western Hotel in Callicoon Step back in time and experience Callicoon’s hospitality with a sunset meal overlooking the Delaware River. My favorite entrée is the trout, a true local delicacy. 2. Catskill Brewery in Livingston Manor For the over-21 audience, experience great locally brewed beer here. As water protectors, we love that this brewery uses natural ingredients and focuses on not leaving a trace behind after production. 3. The Heron in Narrowsburg Delicious biscuits and buttermilk fried chicken. In other words, it’s great comfort food with a special touch. They also have amazing service. The staff greets you with such warm, welcoming smiles, and the tunes are always spot-on. Their balcony overlooks the big eddy, the deepest part of the Delaware River, which is ideal for summer. 4. 9 River Road Hotel in Callicoon This beautifully appointed bed and breakfast in town has cozy nooks and crannies in which you can read a book or watch the river flow by. Their breakfast is made from all locally sourced foods, and they provide bike rentals for guests. 5. MayerWasner in Narrowsburg A gorgeous collection of designer clothing. The owner of the store has chosen to create a business around a collection that is sustainable, locally made, and supportive to the community. She makes the most beautiful limited-edition Liberty print shirts in her avant-garde, minimalist style. She also carries amazing brands such as Ace & Jig, Raquel Allegra, and CB I Hate Perfume. 6. Lazy Fox New York in Callicoon For beautiful sleepwear that you won’t find anywhere else, this has been a wonderful new addition to our community. I’ve never been much of a lingerie girl before, but the proprietor, Susan, turned me. I got the most beautiful sets of underwear and bras. Trust me, my husband was not complaining. 7. Callicoon Theater in Callicoon This theater is an original one-room movie theater with the best popcorn I have ever had. (I’m a connoisseur of popcorn.) The theater was built in 1948, and still has Art Deco accouterments and lighting. I have rented out the entire theater at a reasonable price for private parties, and my guests always have a blast! 8. One Grand Books in Narrowsburg This bookstore has an incredible collection of 1,000 books between two separate stores, and we are lucky enough to have one of them in our community. The books are selected by celebrated creative minds who choose their top 10 reads to take to a “metaphorical desert island.” You could get lost in this little jewel of a space for hours. 9. Lander’s River trips in Callicoon Callicoon is a perfect location to take advantage of Lander’s kayaking, tubing, and canoeing down the river. The quiet water and surrounding beautiful mountain views make this the perfect place to find peace. Bald eagles have nests all along the scenic landscape, so you are sure to get a sighting. 10. H. Smith & Co in Narrowsburg H. Smith is an amazing party planner with a personal touch. She knows the area in and out and understands just how to create the perfect environment, whether it’s for a wedding, Fourth of July bash, or other summer festivity. She has such impeccable taste—I wouldn’t trust anyone else. 11. Buck Brook Alpaca Farm in Roscoe A beautiful hilltop farm full of extremely soft alpacas. It is a great place to take the kids when you have a moment. I have even fallen in love with their extremely friendly cats that roam the farm. Above, take a look at some of the items for sale at Sunrise Ruffalo’s store. Link to online article & photos: http://www.vogue.com/article/sunrise-ruffalo-callicoon-guide

#sunrisecoigneyruffalo #sunriseruffalo #mark ruffalo

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mariedfkissel · 7 years ago

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Buy it on Amazon - http://ift.tt/2BHRBtK - Mr. Coffee 4-Cup Steam Espresso System with Milk Frother Review -- Click the link to buy now or to read the 1406 4 & 5 Star Reviews.Subscribe to our Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCM2Y00pEe-SRoHBP1zhlCzg?sub_confirmation=1 Like us on Facebook for videos, pictures, coupons, prizes and more - http://ift.tt/2wCDdi2 Mr. Coffee 4-Cup Steam Espresso System with Milk Frother Review super easy to operate and now that I'm a pro at frothing the milk I realize how much of a rip off my local coffee shop is because this 35$ espresso maker out performs either there stainless steal several hundred or thousand dollar espresso makers or there effort is weak ....either way at 5 bucks a pop plus tip at the coffee shop that's 5-6 trips and you could grab this lil gem and a can of descent espresso and a gall of milk 10$ do the math it pays for itself in 2 weeks !!! I'm really happy with... Reviewer : Eva Bucifal This isn't the Porsche of espresso machines; this is the jeep or pick-up. Before this one, I had a fancy espresso maker that looked stunning, but started breaking after 1 month and was dead in a year. The Mr. Coffee version is going 2 years strong. I bought one for my dad (a farmer who is hard on things) and myself. While his brew/steam knob is balding and hard to read, it is perfectly operational after 2 years. When polished up, mine is new looking. As for the coffee it is a solid 8/10 -- I get... Reviewer : Ben C. Click http://ift.tt/2BHRBtK to buy now on Amazon or to read more reviews. Frothing arm makes creamy froth to top off your cappuccinos and lattes Easy pour glass carafe serves up to 4 shots Removable, washable drip catcher collects coffee drips and keeps brew space tidy I suspect this product is keeping Mr. Coffee in business. You cannot expect a product at this price to perform well, yet this machine has not let me down. I have made a latte daily in my own house since 1998; usually two or three. A day. I have no shame. I have owned a variety of expensive machines, including pump machines. The volume at which they operate is ridiculous. Next door neighbors should not be able to HEAR you simply making coffee! The Mr.Coffee model shocked me when I gave it a... Reviewer : Flow 901 Click http://ift.tt/2BHRBtK to buy now on Amazon or to read more reviews. ***Let Us Know What You Think… Comment Below!!*** Watch my other review Videos – https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCM2Y00pEe-SRoHBP1zhlCzg See other products on http://ift.tt/2xhK4Ru Subscribe to our Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCM2Y00pEe-SRoHBP1zhlCzg?sub_confirmation=1 Like us on Facebook for videos, pictures, coupons, prizes and more - http://ift.tt/2wCDdi2 #Mr. Coffee, #Mr. Coffee 4-Cup Steam Espresso System with Milk Frother This is a review video for : B000U6BSI2 Manufacture : Mr. Coffee Thanks for watching! http://ift.tt/2xhK4Ru Related Videos in Channel

#IFTTT #YouTube

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winifredhoffmanblog · 7 years ago

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Buy it on Amazon - http://ift.tt/2BHRBtK - Mr. Coffee 4-Cup Steam Espresso System with Milk Frother Coupon -- Click the link to buy now or to read the 1406 4 & 5 Star Reviews.Subscribe to our Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCogildlWIYWEb7TkJDcXjFg?sub_confirmation=1 Like us on Facebook for videos, pictures, coupons, prizes and more - http://ift.tt/2wCDdi2 Mr. Coffee 4-Cup Steam Espresso System with Milk Frother Coupon super easy to operate and now that I'm a pro at frothing the milk I realize how much of a rip off my local coffee shop is because this 35$ espresso maker out performs either there stainless steal several hundred or thousand dollar espresso makers or there effort is weak ....either way at 5 bucks a pop plus tip at the coffee shop that's 5-6 trips and you could grab this lil gem and a can of descent espresso and a gall of milk 10$ do the math it pays for itself in 2 weeks !!! I'm really happy with... Reviewer : Eva Bucifal This isn't the Porsche of espresso machines; this is the jeep or pick-up. Before this one, I had a fancy espresso maker that looked stunning, but started breaking after 1 month and was dead in a year. The Mr. Coffee version is going 2 years strong. I bought one for my dad (a farmer who is hard on things) and myself. While his brew/steam knob is balding and hard to read, it is perfectly operational after 2 years. When polished up, mine is new looking. As for the coffee it is a solid 8/10 -- I get... Reviewer : Ben C. Click http://ift.tt/2BHRBtK to buy now on Amazon or to read more reviews. Frothing arm makes creamy froth to top off your cappuccinos and lattes Easy pour glass carafe serves up to 4 shots Removable, washable drip catcher collects coffee drips and keeps brew space tidy I suspect this product is keeping Mr. Coffee in business. You cannot expect a product at this price to perform well, yet this machine has not let me down. I have made a latte daily in my own house since 1998; usually two or three. A day. I have no shame. I have owned a variety of expensive machines, including pump machines. The volume at which they operate is ridiculous. Next door neighbors should not be able to HEAR you simply making coffee! The Mr.Coffee model shocked me when I gave it a... Reviewer : Flow 901 Click http://ift.tt/2BHRBtK to buy now on Amazon or to read more reviews. ***Let Us Know What You Think… Comment Below!!*** Watch my other review Videos – https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCogildlWIYWEb7TkJDcXjFg See other products on http://ift.tt/2xhK4Ru Subscribe to our Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCogildlWIYWEb7TkJDcXjFg?sub_confirmation=1 Like us on Facebook for videos, pictures, coupons, prizes and more - http://ift.tt/2wCDdi2 #Mr. Coffee, #Mr. Coffee 4-Cup Steam Espresso System with Milk Frother This is a review video for : B000U6BSI2 Manufacture : Mr. Coffee Thanks for watching! http://ift.tt/2xhK4Ru Related Videos in Channel

#IFTTT #YouTube

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junker-town · 7 years ago

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NBA scores 2017: Manu Ginobili isn’t done having Manu moments, and 7 more things from Friday

Ginobili will never stop being him.

Watching Manu Ginobili is 2017 is a strange thing. For a decade, he felt like a post-modern sign of things to come. His game always had a futuristic feel to it, with his rainbow three-pointers and craftiness around the rim. It’s weird to see him in a league that has adopted all of his tricks.

Well, not all of them. Ginobili proved that on Friday, as he buried a game-winning three-pointer against the Boston Celtics to push the San Antonio Spurs past them. The Spurs are still treading water while Kawhi Leonard’s return is imminent, but Ginobili didn’t allow that to disrupt them thanks to this skyscraping triple that pushed San Antonio ahead for good.

Manu stole an offensive rebound, then he did thishttp://pic.twitter.com/4PHZ3mm67Y

— Tom Petrini (@RealTomPetrini) December 9, 2017

Ginobili’s still here. In fact, he’s more here than the previous two seasons, averaging nearly 21 minutes and 8.3 points per game. After two seasons shooting 39 percent from deep, Ginobili’s efficiency behind the arc is down. He’s only played 21 games, so that might just be a small sample size problem — we’ll see if Ginobili can pick things up once Leonard returns. Still, it’s adequate for a player who is currently 40 — FORTY — years old.

You could argue that it was Manu Ginobili who truly introduced the Eurostep into this league, and now it’s something that even lumbering big men pull off with ease. His overall craftiness still translates to 2017. His bald spot has grown into a bald head, something that truly signals his age. And clearly, his clutch three-pointers have survived the years — this is far from the first one that he has knocked down in a crucial moment.

The rest of the league has become more like Manu Ginobili, but don’t think for a second that Ginobili still isn’t just as special.

Cleveland’s streak has finally been snapped!

I’ll let LeBron James eulogy this one.

"Listen, that was a good streak," James told reporters. "We never talked about it, we just played each game, executed each game. Streaks are meant to be broken, obviously. We came in, we knew this was going to be a tough game for us, they've been playing extremely well at home. But we gave ourselves a chance. That's all you can ask for. Best thing about this league is you always, most of the time you've got another one less than 24 hours. We definitely have that."

Of course it was the Indiana Pacers, who have survived all preseason expectations and turned into a fun, lively crew who might even make the playoffs. Who knows! LeBron James still had 29 points, 10 rebounds, and eight assists, but he was somehow outplayed by Victor Oladipo’s 33 points, eight rebounds and three assists.

I’m still worried about Jae Crowder, who has been a shell of his Boston self with the Cavaliers. He shot 1-of-7 in the starting line up on Friday. He hasn’t scored double figures in four games.

Jaylen Brown is Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

Proof:

Jaylen (Abdul-Ja)Brown http://pic.twitter.com/UWrkacbuB7

— Boston Celtics (@celtics) December 9, 2017

Jaylen Brown can also JUMP

CONFIRMED: Jaylen Brown can jump. http://pic.twitter.com/fYrSz2Y1XI

— NBA (@NBA) December 9, 2017

This is confirmed.

The Warriors held on against Detroit

Golden State hasn’t been swept by any team since Charlotte during the 2013-14 season. The Pistons had beat the Warriors earlier in the year, so technically, they could be the first team in four seasons to do so. They came within five points of it!

... but no, the Warriors won 102-98 against the Pistons on Friday. Kevin Durant had 36 points, 10 rebounds, and seven assists while Stephen Curry remains out. He also had five more blocks! Man, Durant is in a groove and that is scary.

"Where I'm from bullies get bullied. In my hood bullies get bullied.”

Z-Bo to Cousins: "Where I'm from bullies get bullied. In my hood bullies get bullied." http://pic.twitter.com/17Pq9Pu8Ep

— Kings on NBCS (@NBCSKings) December 9, 2017

Zach Randolph ain’t taking s*** from DeMarcus Cousins, that much is clear.

This Giannis dunk ain’t fair ...

Was this ........ a pass?

Just like they drew it up http://pic.twitter.com/cbNkEwvyab

— Warriors on NBCS (@NBCSWarriors) December 9, 2017

I don’t think this was intentional, but it sure doesn’t look like a normal shot, either.

Friday’s NBA scores

Bulls 119, Hornets 111 (Blog a Bull recap | At the Hive recap)

Warriors 102, Pistons 98 (Golden State of Mind recap | Detroit Bad Boys recap)

Pacers 106, Cavaliers 102 (Indy Cornrows recap | Fear the Sword recap)

Nuggets 103, Magic 89 (Denver Stiffs recap | Orlando Pinstriped Post recap)

Raptors 116, Grizzlies 107 (Raptors HQ recap | Grizzly Bear Blues recap)

Bucks 109, Mavericks 102 (Brew Hoop recap | Mavs Moneyball recap)

Kings 116, Pelicans 109 (Sactown Royalty recap | The Bird Writes recap)

Spurs 105, Celtics 102 (Pounding the Rock recap | Celtics Blog recap)

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threeravenspublishing · 1 year ago

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Trailer Parks and Pixie Punch? A Strange and Delicious Mix!

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ringokhan · 7 years ago

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Star Spangled F*cktards

... Or Why I Hate the 4th of July

I hate the 4th of July more than any other holiday. Hell, I hate it more than I hate tax day, and I'm a self-employed writer who never manages to set aside enough dough to pay the IRS or remember to apply for an extension. Yes, Independence Day sucks worse than the tax man.

What's to like about a day that celebrates our nation's birth (via the anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence by the Second Continental Congress), but does so via the detonation of explosives that follows drinking in the hot sun All. Damn. Day.? At least that's how the day plays out down here on the Redneck Riviera of the Florida Gulf Coast. Each year I pray for rain, and this year that asshole on the television promised me we'd get some—and we did—but my 4th of July still turned out to be the worst one yet.

It all started on the eve of the big day while I was driving home from work—in the rain—when I suddenly felt the telltale bump-bumpity-thump of a flat tire. The rubber on the Fiero had been balder than my editor's head since Memorial Day, but this being tough times for freelance journalists of my ilk and political leanings, I couldn't put together quite enough scratch to spring for a new set.

I pulled over into the Amscot parking lot on Manatee Avenue to inspect the situation. It wasn't good. The steel belted radial looked as though a grenade had gone off inside of it. I had no umbrella or even plastic poncho to speak of, so I embraced the warm, sticky rain as it soaked my clothes and pulled the spare out of the trunk. It wasn't in much better shape than the other three but would have to suffice.

For the next 40 minutes, sweating like a whore in church despite the rain, I filthied myself up while proving that I would never work in a NASCAR pit crew—and not just because of my snobbish aversion to motorsports and the people who watch them (particularly those who advertise their favorite drivers on ball caps and window stickers).

Just as I was finishing up, a man whose clothing suggested homelessness emerged from the Amscot to ask if I had a dollar he could borrow in order to get something to eat. Everyone knows that Ringo is down with supporting the less fortunate, but I was nonetheless unable to manage anything more than an angry look meant to say, Do I, the sweat-soaked gent in the pouring down rain who’s changing the blown out tire on a piece of shit (if classic) '86 Fiero, and changing it with a bald spare, no less, look like I'm well heeled enough to spare a generous thought let alone a buck? He shook his head and mumbled, “fucking cheapskate,” as he walked off.

Properly shamed by the (possibly) homeless man—though it had by this time occurred to me that you usually come out of Amscot with money—I made for home. On the way, I stopped for a sixer of my new favorite beer, Motorworks Pulp Friction Grapefruit IPA—the perfect antidote to this blistering summer heatwave—but only after I'd checked the balance in my checking account on my phone to ensure that there would be enough left for the bargain basement tires that the Walmart oil, lube and tire clerk had just told me they could put on the next day, being the only tire center open on the 4th.

Hoping to settle in for the night, catch a buzz, drink a couple of tasty, refreshing beers and binge watch some Silicon Valley on the HBO Now account my roommate’s ex-girlfriend had forgotten she'd programmed into our Smart TV, I was halfway there only to be awoken by the sound of what seemed to be large-caliber gunfire or possibly anti-aircraft missiles raining down from above. It had started already. Actually, the first signs of Redneck Christmas had presented themselves as early as Sunday, but the festivities had indeed begun in earnest by 10:45 p.m. on the 3rd.

To make matters worse, my roommate, who was out of town with his new girlfriend, had coaxed me into dog-sitting said girlfriend's boxer, Rufus, who, I shall make it known, has no affinity for fireworks and had pissed on the hardwood flooring (is there softwood flooring?) of the house we rent on three occasions by this point. He and the other dogs on the block—which often seem to outnumber the humans—were barking, whimpering and I suspect pissing more or less in unison through much of the night, giving us all a preview of what the 4th would bring, which is to say utter redneck misery.

Rufus whose best trick is impersonating a thoroughbred horse, while taking a piss.

Actual Redneck Christmas started off the way the usual mornings in my neighborhood begin, which is to say to a chorus of barking dogs that their lazy asshole owners let out as early as 5:45 in the a.m., as to not have to put the beasts on a leash and walk them to the corner.

Being self-employed, I give myself the day off for all Federal and Jewish holidays (I'm not kosher or even Jewish for that matter, but they have a lot of holidays, which often seem to fall on weekdays, so I figure observance is the least I can do, given their historic plight). My disdain for dealing with the muckety-muck on Redneck Christmas notwithstanding, I had decided to go to the beach, as I do on most holidays. I knew I'd have to get there early, well ahead of the parade of morons who typically tend to spoil our national holiday by 2 p.m. when the island falls prey to a large assembly of low-brow, lite beer-drinking fucktards with expensively-modified pickup trucks emblazoned with fishing, NASCAR and/or “Salt Life” regalia.

Having successfully fought the urge to hit snooze a seventh time, I rose from bed by 8:20, pressed the handle on the cold-pressed coffee and cruised into the public parking lot at 9 a.m., easily scoring a choice spot and setting up my gear far enough from the maddening crowd to safely pull out my Pulp Friction and enjoy a cold brew—its pinkish can can easily mistaken for flavored water or a sports drink. For five glorious hours, I enjoyed one of the only fair-weathered, rain-free beach days this summer.

By noon, however, the crowds had swelled and the beer was being imbibed more liberally and openly, despite the signs warning of illegality and threats of steep fines. It was already a menacingly-hot 94 degrees, topped with staggering humidity. Beach-goers had long since ran out of bottled water and were drinking their hooch more for the sake of hydration than to chill out—never a good recipe at this devil latitude of just 27 degrees north of the equator.

It's hard to properly describe such a day to anyone who's never been a problem drinker and/or lived in a sub-tropical environment. The heat here in July and August is nothing short of evil, a relentless blanket of bad vibes that fouls the air with the scents of dying musk and vegetative detritus. Most of us have no choice but to drink cold and stubbornly alcoholic beverages that, while refreshing, have the effect of pulverizing good sense and obliterating sound judgment. For those in this region who begin their cool, air conditioned, non-alcoholic mornings with much less common sense and sound judgment than the average high-school dropout—and by this I mean the ignorant, under-educated, possibly-inbred, red-necked hillbillies of which Florida has plenty—the results range from disappointing to disastrous.

By 2 p.m., the scene had turned ugly. A few feet from my chaise lounge, a pot-bellied man who one could only guess sustained himself with a bullshit disability claim had begun yelling at a fat lady in a confederate flag bikini whose daughter insisted on feeding grapes to the sea gulls.

“They're gonna bite her fucking finger off!” he screamed. “Whatcha gonna do then, you dumb broad? DCF will take her ass off you for sure.”

“I told her not to do it,” the woman slurred back. “What the fuck do you want from me? She don't listen! If I beat her, they'll take her from me just the same. I suppose you think she'd be better off in foster care? I fuckin' hate you!”

It took a couple of moments for me to put enough of the conversation together to surmise that they were a couple, and though they had recovered enough of their anger to be kissing sloppily by the time I had finished packing up my gear, it still seemed like bad foreshadowing of things to come.

As I crossed the parking lot at 2:15, cars were now hovering for open spots like vultures looking to descend on festering carcasses. An available space had apparently emerged, and two rednecks with aggressive trucks began fighting over their entitlement to it from their respective cabs, each revving their engine and inching toward the other's flat-black bumper.

The one whose bumper stickers ran the gamut from INFORWARS.COM to #Vaginatarian and Your Girlfriend On Board seemed to be winning the pissing match thus far, but the beefy-armed sport with the Louder Than Your Girlfriend Was Last Night sticker over his suspiciously-large exhaust pipe seemed to be making inroads, nonetheless. I waved my hand and told them that I'd be pulling out of my spot in the next row, and that they could refrain from scratching the paint on their pretty trucks, but they looked only half-happy to receive such news, since it meant the redneck mating ritual would come to an end without bloodshed or gunplay.

*************************************************************

While driving home, I wrote a haiku as I waited out a painfully-long drawbridge opening, while wishing that I'd sprung for a Freon charge for the air conditioning unit of my car. After getting back onto the mainland, I spun by Walmart and shopped for a new deodorant that could stand up to this year's particularly brutal summer heat while the crew put the “performance” discount tires on my ride (because the Fiero is nothing if not a high-performance vehicle), while the skies finally opened and the rains fell. Yes, I screamed to no one in particular, celebrating the fact that a downpour might tame, or at least mildly dampen that evening's explosives. Again, no such luck.

The skies cleared by early evening, and the mood for the night was set around dusk when a large woman with red and blue curlers in her hair and too much of herself spilling from a tank top emerged from a neighbor's (above ground) pool party with the kind of rubbery-legged sway that suggested shitfacededness of the highest order.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” she screamed at the much skinnier man that was giving chase. Her words came through the sort of slur that is generally only facilitated by a full day of drinking hard liquor in the Florida sun; that or a liberal dose of prescription opioids. Faaaaawwwwk youuuuuuu, she said again to punctuate her statement, using a slurred out oral elongation that would have made Michael Buffer proud.

Another girl emerged to successfully cajole her back into the party, which by 9 p.m. had become a full on cacophony of high-powered munitions that left my neighborhood sounding like the war-torn streets of Aleppo, crossed with Beirut in the '80s. Rufus began pissing on the floor before I got through half an episode of Silicon Valley and, after cleaning it up, I realized I was out of beer. I am not ashamed to admit that I cried … a lot. By 10 p.m. the dog had muddied the floor, and I'd had about all I could take of this absurd carousel of hillbilly horrors.

Fit to be tied, I stormed over to their bungalow and fought my way through the overgrowth of landscaping to the back patio where a decades old four-foot (above ground) pool with a tiny cylindrical filter that could not have possibly been managing all of the dirty urine these exceptions to Darwinism were spilling into the chlorinated (I hoped) water—at least judging by the pile of semi-crushed Natural Ice cans littering the landscape.

“Excuse me, my friends,” I said in the voice of an angry pacifist. “Might we have adequately awoken the dead?”

“What,” said a tall, thin peckerwood with tattooed arms, one of which held a beer, the other an e-cig. I recognized him as the man who was chasing the woman with the curlers down the street earlier.

“The fireworks,” I explained. “What say we be done now?”

“It's 4th of July,” he answered, looking at me as though I were wearing two more heads on top of my own.

“This is true,” I conceded, “but while I can't be entirely certain, I'd be willing to bet that we've met whatever quota on explosives might be required to prove that we're good, patriotic Americans.”

“You don't look American,” said a red-headed gent with freckles and bottomless eyes who was standing in the (above ground) pool while lighting firecrackers.

“Well, I have some Pakistani on my mother's side, and my dad's British, but I was born here,” I explained. “So were they, in fact.”

“So you're an immigrant?” asked the first one, suspiciously.

“And a Muslim?” asked/said the other.

“No, actually, when you're born here, you're American, particularly when you're born here to other people who were born here, I mean not more so, but it should be more clear, I would think. My citizenship is not in question. I am, as they say, a native, and a second generation one at that.”

They looked at me like I was speaking French.

“So you pray to Allah?” asked the ginger.

“No, I'm an atheist, though I did consider praying to Buddha, L. Ron Hubbard and Jesus Fucking Christ Almighty that the explosions would cease, but thought that instead I might come over here as a good and decent human being, appeal to your humanity and ask you to cool it on the fireworks so that my dog—Rufus, well, he's my roommate's new girlfriend's dog—will stop pissing on the hardwood floors.”

“What do you want us to do, light fuckin' sparklers like a bunch of fuckin' pansies?” the first one asked. “Maybe throw some snaps and light them little snake things, while we're at it?” he laughed. “That shit's for kids!”

“Look, Ace, I hate to point this out, but it's all for kids, and I feel that it's worth mentioning that I don't see any of them around (thank God), just a bunch of grown men getting their jollies on loud explosions. I'm not sure what that's all about, but I know Freud had some interesting theories.”

“You sayin' we're queers?” asked the red head, who had clearly not worn sunscreen for the afternoon leg of the party.

“No, and neither was Freud,” I answered. “He was suggesting impotence, or at least fears of inadequacy in terms of, shall we say, boudoir skills.”

They both turned their heads sideways and looked at me as though they knew they should be offended but couldn't say why.

“He's sayin' your dicks don't work, you fuckin' retards!” shouted the large woman who'd given the suggestion about leaving town on a horse earlier in the day. “And I know he's right in at least one of y’all's cases (apparently there is a such thing as softwood, and this house had some).”

Utter silence.

“Look, buddy,” said the tall fellow. “I didn't serve in the Marines for 10 years to come home and be told that—as a veteran no less—I don't have the right to celebrate our country's birthday.”

Finally, some commonality.

“Look, I served too—Coast Guard—but I ...”

“Fuckin' Coast Guard?” he managed to say through his hysterical laughter. “Are you shittin' me? What the fuck kind of pussy are you?”

At this, they all had a good laugh.

“Look, pal,” said Red. “You can call the cops, or you can come over here and try to stop us from settin' off these here fireworks, or you can go fuck yourself, for all I care. But that's about the long and short of it. So why don't you just take your pansy, Coast Guard ass home and clean up the dog piss.”

Being a devout pacifist, I put my palms in the air and walked off, shaking my head at yet a bit more lost faith in humanity.

“Yeah, go on now,” shouted the large woman who'd understood the Freudian reference. “And one more thing, FAWK you AND the horse you rode in on, AND your damned dog Rufus!” she cackled as the three of them broke out into more side-splitting laughter.

"It's my roommate's girlfriend’s dog," I muttered in dejection.

Defeated, I headed back to the house, cleaned up the newest puddle of piss and decided to make the best of a bad situation. I pulled out the last of the edibles my sister had sent me from Colorado from a shoe box under the bed and ate them greedily, though not before tossing Rufus one of the sweet gummies to help with his anxiety. Then I put in my Redux edition DVD of Apocalypse Now with the extended footage.

Somewhere around the time Captain Willard and the boys had made it halfway up the river toward the camp of Col. Kurtz, the THC began to take hold. By the USO scene, the collective fireworks were blending into sync with Coppola's masterpiece and soon I couldn't tell the firecrackers in the street from the bombs on the TV. Rufus had managed to settle into chillax mode, as well. Somewhere around the time Robert Duval was giving his famous, “Charlie don't surf!” line, I dozed off into a peaceful sleep where I remained until half a dozen dogs began the morning chorus that calls me to wake each day in this godforsaken hell hole of a neighborhood.

When I left for my morning walk with the dog—because I'm that kind of guy, the assholes in my neighborhood notwithstanding—the smell of dynamite from the quarter sticks and M-80's was still lingering in the already thick and humid air. And for once, that's all there was … that chalky, smoked out dynamite smell. It smelled like … victory.

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