Hi, Stu González here. I know no one really reads this shit, but I'm like, in the words of Bart Simpson referring to Prinicpal Skinner, a no-giving-up-school guy.
So!
La vida ha estado muy ocupada para mi. ¿Y para ti mismo (a)?
Patrick and I had this idea that I could do, a la Gustavo Arellano, something called "Preguntale a Un Chicano" and I would answer questions from non-chicanos about chicanos. We bounced this thing around like a beach ball until the damn thing flattened. Patrick said it was "derivative, not creative, lame, 'just something to ruminate on'" I thought it was a bad idea because I considered how I might react the first time some pinche puto cavrón asks me why we are "so proud."
Anyway, for the last few months I've been putting together a carefully thought out, thematically cohesive chapbook of poetry. I'm looking for takers. Despite the title, all poems are in Spanish and English.
Ahora, tengo que ir; ¿tal vez un día podemos tomar un café or ¡adios y gracias por el sexo!
... is filled with morning after regrets and rejoices, rallying cries and escape plans.
"Coyote Really Fuckin' Ugly"
i woke up and didn't even have to think.
her face was turned, buried in a pillow, but i knew.
i'd gone and done it again.
i was naked, but luckily my arm was not around her.
i got out of the bed and searched for my clothes.
i heard her snort, cough and shift.
my heart rate rose.
my chest was like the speakers of a sub woofer.
i turned to her.
she was smiling at me.
her teeth were crooked and stained from nicotine.
her hair was stringy, greasy.
"no entiendo ni hablo inglés," i squeaked.
"aww. pablo. my sexy man. don't be silly!"
i didn't even want to think about the fact...
...that she called me pablo... for when she raised the covers and
kicked up her legs, i was blinded by BUSH!
she offered to make coffee.
"claro, claro," i said.
she kissed me on the cheek and in a haze of bed smell...
moved past me and through the door.
hastily, i re-dressed, made sure i had my wallet,
made sure i DIDN'T have the condom that i'd been carrying,
(good on both fronts)
and opened the sliding glass door.
time for pablo to blow this hag haven.
MOTHERFUCKER!
this bitch lives 3 fucking floors from the ground!
so then i had an existential crisis.
"¡piensa, pablo, piensa! ¿para saltar o no?
i looked behind me.
coast clear.
but suddenly, i heard a "psst." from above.
"young man! i don't mean to pry, but... coyote ugly or forced marriage?"
"coyote ugly, señor."
"ah, well... forced marriage here. 15 years. look at it this way, you could be on my floor."
&&& S.G.
"La Novia que no Sabe Nada"
"The Girlfriend that Knows Nothing"
For the first time in my life
I had two girls at once
For the first time in my life
My girlfriend wasn't one of them
For the first time in my life
I had breakfast not at Denny's
but on my own gas stove
buttered tortillas
como mi mamá siempre las preparó.
For the first time in my life
I was alone and everything felt good
For the first time in my life
When my girlfriend came home
she suspected nothing
she usually suspects everything
because I'm out eating Denny's
after a binge with my friends.
Ay, she knows nothing!
&&& S.G.
"Friends, Brothers, Their Sisters, My Lovers"
--for posterity, may they learn all the lessons i had to, in every conceivable way--
one night i promised my buddy that i'd never hit on his sister.
his hot sister.
of legal age.
and one night while drinking and smoking and talking
we were sitting inches apart
and she confessed that
she liked smoking and sex and tattoos.
oh really?
¿en serio?
well then.
i showed her my tattoo of Raquel Welch
"did you know that she's a latina?"
"yes. very beautiful."
"indeed."
she noted that i have a reputation.
curious.
for what?
"well. showing off your tattoo of Raquel Welch..."
there was an and.
i knew.
"...and fucking my friends' sisters?"
"yes."
soon after we were kissing and petting
O, ROMANCE!
O sweaty, drunken, sloppy romance!
we had each other on the couch then on the floor
and for a few hours more
we talked and smoked and then she got a wild idea.
we got matching tats.
mine said, "i fucked your sister."
hers said, "i fucked your friend."
the next day, her brother, my friend, we sat and talked
for what seemed a time without end,
and he couldn't believe i'd do it to him.
haha haha haha
didn't you know, that nothing is sacred?
BUT.
"in my defense, i never hit on her."
&&& S.G.
"It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon"
It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon.
Me, a studious but hard drinking pupil of rock & fuckin' roll,
Her, a cocktail waitress/queen in need of a king,
By the time we realized that our collective shit was fucked up,
We decided that sleep could only come once we were dead,
Or after a night of raging hard-ons satiated by much needed friction,
Then we went to her place, had drinks, listened to some records,
And when I went to kiss her, she was not a whore nor slut,
But a beautiful queen,
Stuck in a rut,
Tut tut tut,
This is a caprice, and sex is a many splendored thing,
She said, "I guess" and we continued to drink and drink and drink,
And the vodka was screaming, I couldn't think,
Were we listening to the Dolls or Rundgren?
Was I Sid Vicious and she Nancy Spungen?
We rode one another into the morning,
And when I woke up and smoked the last cig,
And thought a final thought,
I dedicated it to Zevon, the man who made it all possible,
To fuck and flee and never get caught!
&&& S.G.
(2009)
25.10.09
24.10.09
Asshole
I saw her again today.
We noticed each other at the same time and pretended not to.
Awkward glances greeted by half hidden smiles as we passed each other in the hall.
"Asshole."
Whispered so low I barely heard it.
This is the second time I've seen her in a month.
The first time was at a bar, Lee Harvey's.
I was walking to the restroom when she said hi.
I smiled.
"You don't remember me?"
I was froze.
"Asshole."
"I worked at the Elbow Room."
Twenty some-odd servers worked there in the year I worked there.
"Asshole," she said as she walked off.
Sitting back at the bar I tried to place her.
Oh, ya.
Hot rocker chick.
Tattoo sleeved on her right bicep.
The other cook and I started hitting on her the first day she worked.
The usual questions.
Where are from?
What type of music are you into?
Slayer.
Dead Kennedys.
Alright!
She seemed interested in me.
Probably the mohawk.
Then she asked THE question.
"Do you guys like Testament?"
Shocked I asked "Are you a born again christian?"
Yes.
The other laughed.
I couldn't hide my prejudice.
"I bet you like Creed too."
"Asshole."
We noticed each other at the same time and pretended not to.
Awkward glances greeted by half hidden smiles as we passed each other in the hall.
"Asshole."
Whispered so low I barely heard it.
This is the second time I've seen her in a month.
The first time was at a bar, Lee Harvey's.
I was walking to the restroom when she said hi.
I smiled.
"You don't remember me?"
I was froze.
"Asshole."
"I worked at the Elbow Room."
Twenty some-odd servers worked there in the year I worked there.
"Asshole," she said as she walked off.
Sitting back at the bar I tried to place her.
Oh, ya.
Hot rocker chick.
Tattoo sleeved on her right bicep.
The other cook and I started hitting on her the first day she worked.
The usual questions.
Where are from?
What type of music are you into?
Slayer.
Dead Kennedys.
Alright!
She seemed interested in me.
Probably the mohawk.
Then she asked THE question.
"Do you guys like Testament?"
Shocked I asked "Are you a born again christian?"
Yes.
The other laughed.
I couldn't hide my prejudice.
"I bet you like Creed too."
"Asshole."
(untitled)
I lie down and pray to my masochist mother. With one hand on my crotch and the other on my heart. That in the end I get off my knees, wipe the cum from my chin and actually have the balls to be a man and not just another punk rock poser that sells his soul to the highest bidder and kills his misery with another shot of bourbon to the heart.
Well, Bukowski's liver gave out and Thompson blew himself up and I'm sitting in this bar with two thumbs up my ass while singing songs about masturbation and believing that I'm better than I really am.
Every loser has a story and I have a novel of rampant alcoholism and chronic masturbation, trying to prove to world that I'm not just another failure, when I know that it's a lie and I'd whore myself out to another trick with loose change and a spare cigarette sing Tom Waits tunes while they beat me.
So instead of doing something
with my life, I'm drinking cognac from a dirty glass and daydreaming of pornstars and good weed while pretending to work for minimum wage and looking down on people I consider to be less intelligent than me.
Well, if Arnold Schwarzenegger can be governor of California, then Ron Jeremy can be president and I can be the UN ambassador to a third world country where the women walk around topless and won't laugh at the size of my penis and the liquor never stops and I can finally die in peace.
Well, Bukowski's liver gave out and Thompson blew himself up and I'm sitting in this bar with two thumbs up my ass while singing songs about masturbation and believing that I'm better than I really am.
Every loser has a story and I have a novel of rampant alcoholism and chronic masturbation, trying to prove to world that I'm not just another failure, when I know that it's a lie and I'd whore myself out to another trick with loose change and a spare cigarette sing Tom Waits tunes while they beat me.
So instead of doing something
with my life, I'm drinking cognac from a dirty glass and daydreaming of pornstars and good weed while pretending to work for minimum wage and looking down on people I consider to be less intelligent than me.
Well, if Arnold Schwarzenegger can be governor of California, then Ron Jeremy can be president and I can be the UN ambassador to a third world country where the women walk around topless and won't laugh at the size of my penis and the liquor never stops and I can finally die in peace.
23.10.09
Movie Review: "Gegen Die Wand/Head-On"
"Gegen Die Wand/Head-On (US title)"
Written and Directed by Fatih Akin
With: Sibel Kekilli and Birol Ünel
I have tremendous respect for German director Fatih Akin. From a substantial standpoint, I believe he does what most of the best filmmakers do. He doesn't moralize. He doesn't instruct his audience, demanding judgment or teasing feelings forth one way or another. If there is any manipulation, it is very subtle.
So, I was blown away by "The Edge of Heaven" and was informed that "Head-On" is even better. I agree. Both films are similar in style, formula, and theme, but what is particularly powerful about the film I'm reviewing here is, and here's what I don't bring up often: how it made me feel.
More on that.
Cahit and Sibel are two different people with onlyone two things in common: they are crazy, and they are Turks living in a German world. Now Cahit, who has lost his wife and has attempted suicide by driving his vehicle into a wall, is a very assimilated, very drugs (mostly alcohol) and rock & roll kind of guy. Sibel seems to come out of nowhere (with no expository info except for maybe allowing the viewer to infer that perhaps she's attempted suicide a few times) and demand that he marry her. He thinks this crazy, and doesn't so much verbalize it as shrug her off. He eventually takes her for a drink, where she again entreats him to marry her: "I cook, I clean, I like to fuck." And when she, in a cry for attention, tries to kill herself in front of him (in that very feminine, "I'll show you, I'll slit my wrists!" sort of way), and they later get kicked off a city bus (largely for being noisy, but more probably for being Turkish and announcing it), the courtship seems to end where it began.
But...
Eventually he agrees. The scene where he and his "uncle" meet her family is interesting in that Cahit is so obviously not comfortable. He is taking part in a charade in which he has ceded all power to Sibel. The funny part is that he can't even keep his lie straight, and his Turkish, as noted by Sibel's brother, is awful. Perhaps this is sabotage. Perhaps it's nerves because he believes that if he fails, the crazy bitch'll really kill herself. Whatever it is, I'm already with this guy. In for the long haul.
So they marry; Cahit is fucking a hairdresser/barfly who hooks Sibel up with a job, and Sibel, in her youthful ways, enjoys clubbing and fucking random guys she meets. Their lives are shared only by law and by the four walls they sleep within. The beauty is that there's this tension building between them. It's a definite arc. Of a natural kind of romantic tension. The kind where they are both reluctant to realize something more intimate. Even to the point where when they decide to finally consummate, she can't follow through. This creates a suppressed kind of longing in Cahit.
I identify with Cahit as he slowly,unbroodingly falls in love with Sibel. You're quiet, but you don't stare out of windows on rainy days, or make indie music mixtapes or profess feelings in quirky ways, no. This shit's for real. No "aww" moments here. He sits in his flat while she's out one night, shooting a bb gun, looking at their wedding photo. Probably wishing it all wasn't so fucking fake. Okay, maybe that's a tad quirky, and brooding, but not intentionally. If there's a particular reason for it, Akin doesn't bother to spell it out or accentuate it through repitition. It just exists. Fine. She's young, beautiful, and nurturing in a way that is welcome for any lonely man. That is, if you don't mind your shithole being redecorated to accommodate her aesthetic needs. I mean, after all, shithole is the operative term. As damaged as she is, who could not appreciate her?
One night, Cahit, plaintive and drunk (as if the two were disjunct), ends up killing one of Sibel's lovers. The guy is bad mouthing her. She's not around. He knocks him the fuck out. Guy doesn't wake up. Now, normally I'm of the opinion that violence is bullshit, but I felt very sad for Cahit. This wasn't some random expression of machismo, it was the act of a man in the throes of drunken passion.
As one would expect, it all goes down hill for the both of them. He goes to jail, Sibel's family in Germany are disgraced by her, so she flees to Turkey where she works in a hotel managed by her sister. She does drugs. Gets raped. Gets beat up in a dark alley of Istanbul. Shit's getting hopelessly depressing fast.
When Cahit manages his way out of the clink somehow, he endeavors to find his love. Her life has changed. She has a child, and presumably a new life. There's not a lot of focus on this, because now the film is about Cahit... as it really always has been. The most powerful scene to me is near the end where he finds Sibel's sister, who refuses to tell him of her whereabouts. For some reason, and I don't know if this was written into the script, or if the actors decided to throw in their own bit of improv, but they switch to ENGLISH. Up until that moment, it was all Turkish and German, and then out of nowhere, Cahit explains his feelings en breve and that was all it needed. So little said so much. English, so denounced in some linguistic circles as being simple and inexpressive, grabbed me by the throat. He. Fucking. Loves. Her.
So beautiful.
Of note: I have talked very little of the compositional make-up of the film. The cinematography is beautiful but understated. A lot of beauty comes from the settings. In particular, there's a continuous musical underpinning filmed in front of a seaside cityscape.
Written and Directed by Fatih Akin
With: Sibel Kekilli and Birol Ünel
I have tremendous respect for German director Fatih Akin. From a substantial standpoint, I believe he does what most of the best filmmakers do. He doesn't moralize. He doesn't instruct his audience, demanding judgment or teasing feelings forth one way or another. If there is any manipulation, it is very subtle.
So, I was blown away by "The Edge of Heaven" and was informed that "Head-On" is even better. I agree. Both films are similar in style, formula, and theme, but what is particularly powerful about the film I'm reviewing here is, and here's what I don't bring up often: how it made me feel.
More on that.
Cahit and Sibel are two different people with only
But...
Eventually he agrees. The scene where he and his "uncle" meet her family is interesting in that Cahit is so obviously not comfortable. He is taking part in a charade in which he has ceded all power to Sibel. The funny part is that he can't even keep his lie straight, and his Turkish, as noted by Sibel's brother, is awful. Perhaps this is sabotage. Perhaps it's nerves because he believes that if he fails, the crazy bitch'll really kill herself. Whatever it is, I'm already with this guy. In for the long haul.
So they marry; Cahit is fucking a hairdresser/barfly who hooks Sibel up with a job, and Sibel, in her youthful ways, enjoys clubbing and fucking random guys she meets. Their lives are shared only by law and by the four walls they sleep within. The beauty is that there's this tension building between them. It's a definite arc. Of a natural kind of romantic tension. The kind where they are both reluctant to realize something more intimate. Even to the point where when they decide to finally consummate, she can't follow through. This creates a suppressed kind of longing in Cahit.
I identify with Cahit as he slowly,
One night, Cahit, plaintive and drunk (as if the two were disjunct), ends up killing one of Sibel's lovers. The guy is bad mouthing her. She's not around. He knocks him the fuck out. Guy doesn't wake up. Now, normally I'm of the opinion that violence is bullshit, but I felt very sad for Cahit. This wasn't some random expression of machismo, it was the act of a man in the throes of drunken passion.
As one would expect, it all goes down hill for the both of them. He goes to jail, Sibel's family in Germany are disgraced by her, so she flees to Turkey where she works in a hotel managed by her sister. She does drugs. Gets raped. Gets beat up in a dark alley of Istanbul. Shit's getting hopelessly depressing fast.
When Cahit manages his way out of the clink somehow, he endeavors to find his love. Her life has changed. She has a child, and presumably a new life. There's not a lot of focus on this, because now the film is about Cahit... as it really always has been. The most powerful scene to me is near the end where he finds Sibel's sister, who refuses to tell him of her whereabouts. For some reason, and I don't know if this was written into the script, or if the actors decided to throw in their own bit of improv, but they switch to ENGLISH. Up until that moment, it was all Turkish and German, and then out of nowhere, Cahit explains his feelings en breve and that was all it needed. So little said so much. English, so denounced in some linguistic circles as being simple and inexpressive, grabbed me by the throat. He. Fucking. Loves. Her.
So beautiful.
Of note: I have talked very little of the compositional make-up of the film. The cinematography is beautiful but understated. A lot of beauty comes from the settings. In particular, there's a continuous musical underpinning filmed in front of a seaside cityscape.
20.10.09
Poppy
She was a 12 year old slant-eyed hooker from the west.
Her name was Poppy.
Poppy had a thing for the spics.
She said she liked a man that wasn't afraid to kill. She still hadn't made it through puberty, but she was as well worn as any penny ante whore in this godforsaken city. She liked playing with my revolver.
Cocking it and pointing it at me even though she knew that the hand under the pillow held a boot knife sharper than her pimps tongue.
She liked to dance to the the blue smoke that flowed from the holes in her arm and vomit black tar.
She says it's the only way she can sleep. She liked listening to Lou Reed albums and crying in the rain.
She says that it's so beautiful, it makes her eyes bleed.
Poppy liked to strip naked for me and play with herself while I masturbate then lick the cum off the ground.
Poppy use to call me Daddy.
"Daddy don't you love me?
Daddy don't you need me?"
Poppy liked to hear me sing the blues.
Poppy loved to shake her money maker.
"Daddy will you take me to Chicago?
Daddy will you take me to see Buddy Guy?"
Poppy loved to dream.
I loved Poppy the way the way i loved my coke, raw and wet, uncut, pure. Poppy use to piss me off.
"Where are you going daddy? When can you take me with you? When are you going to take me away from her, Daddy?"
Poppy likes to steal from me.
She steals my dreams.
My poetry.
The whore.
Poppy is my savior.
I love you Poppy, who ever she was?
I'll never be able to tell you in person, but I do actually love you.
To hell with you.
Fuck you.
I love you, Poppy, fuck you.
And fuck me.
And fuck this whole little fantasy of mine.
Her name was Poppy.
Poppy had a thing for the spics.
She said she liked a man that wasn't afraid to kill. She still hadn't made it through puberty, but she was as well worn as any penny ante whore in this godforsaken city. She liked playing with my revolver.
Cocking it and pointing it at me even though she knew that the hand under the pillow held a boot knife sharper than her pimps tongue.
She liked to dance to the the blue smoke that flowed from the holes in her arm and vomit black tar.
She says it's the only way she can sleep. She liked listening to Lou Reed albums and crying in the rain.
She says that it's so beautiful, it makes her eyes bleed.
Poppy liked to strip naked for me and play with herself while I masturbate then lick the cum off the ground.
Poppy use to call me Daddy.
"Daddy don't you love me?
Daddy don't you need me?"
Poppy liked to hear me sing the blues.
Poppy loved to shake her money maker.
"Daddy will you take me to Chicago?
Daddy will you take me to see Buddy Guy?"
Poppy loved to dream.
I loved Poppy the way the way i loved my coke, raw and wet, uncut, pure. Poppy use to piss me off.
"Where are you going daddy? When can you take me with you? When are you going to take me away from her, Daddy?"
Poppy likes to steal from me.
She steals my dreams.
My poetry.
The whore.
Poppy is my savior.
I love you Poppy, who ever she was?
I'll never be able to tell you in person, but I do actually love you.
To hell with you.
Fuck you.
I love you, Poppy, fuck you.
And fuck me.
And fuck this whole little fantasy of mine.
18.10.09
Taxonomy is usually a method of Categorization.
Taxonomy One. 35 with 2 children. He gazes forward into the sky through the office window. 47th floor. He knows that at some point that once milky white phone with all the blinking lights, now covered with smudges, will ring. He knows that ring will throw tantrums in his ear canals. She'll call him to tell him that it's over. They're done. After 13 years. He wants to cry. He wants to scream for his secretary. Secretary. That's right. That woman. Women. They're the problem. Always have been. Maybe today he'll just surprise them all. Maybe he'll get up from his cluttered desk, take in a deep breath, adjust his tie, walk over to the big office window, survey the traffic 47 floors beneath him, laugh, walk back to his phone, dial up the secretary, tell her to cancel all his appointments, hang up and make a running start at the window. Maybe.
Suddenly he remembers something his foreign exchange roommate back in college told him about women in America. He smiles for the first time all day. The phone rings.
(2008)
Taxonomy Two (Rugby House) 10:45 PM, Arrival. There’s a cigarette between my lips and a gathering out back. I hop the fence and greet the strangers at the table before me. They break conversation for a moment, stare, and continue. The cigarette takes forever to burn and I’m thirsty. 10:47, I balance the forever burning cig on a nail that protrudes from a shingle of the shed and run into the kitchen via the den. Quiet party thusfar. "Jungle Juice or Shiner?" "Jungle Juice, my man." The coloration of the red cup in my hand nearly matches the pigmentation of my newly acquired tan that only goes as high as the sleeves of my shirt will allow. I soberly, clumsily stumble my way through the den and back outside to find my cigarette still balanced on the nail. Victory. 10:55, Girls, girls, girls. Well, three of them anyway. They’re talking about how great it is to be women. Why? I have no idea. I tell them about the horrible nightmare I had the night before. They guess quite accurately that I’d dreamt of being a woman. "It was horrible," I say, "I was short, had huge knockers, which, admittedly, were fun, but worse was that I actually knew what 'colors' like lavender and periwinkle look like. Weird." They laugh and I laugh, but laughter is followed by an awkward silence. 11:07, Flirtation. Dalliance. Her name is Nancy. My name is what it’s always been. At parties, anyway. I offer her a cigarette. She says no thanks, I’m breathing. I mockingly laugh at her sarcasm and tell her that trenchant females are just my type. She doesn’t know what trenchant means, and I gasp in shock because she claims to be an actress. She sips her drink, and darts her eyes in other directions, perhaps looking for a more attractive, less annoying guy. 11:32, Some of my pals show up. I’m working on my second cup of jungle juice, and from my vantage, I can see that the den and kitchen are packed with people itching to not be sober. Wes asks if I’ve had any luck. I assume this is in reference to women. "What do you think, man? See a woman attached to my arm?" 11:53, Dancefloor. Shitty music. No one cares. Pretty girls, though. 12:09 AM, Almost done with my second cup of jungle juice. Feeling nothing. Dreading the line in the kitchen. For some reason, I keep looking at the foreign exchange girl in the corner. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s pretty. Hmm. 12:15, Cup number three. After the hellacious line, I step outside for another cigarette. I notice my thespian friends in the corner. Nancy is with them. I shade my eyes and mingle in the opposite direction. I see Wes chatting up a girl. He’s drinking something of his own concoction no doubt. I sit at the picnic table, sip and smoke, perhaps hoping that maybe some poor drunken girl will plop herself next to me. 12:17, No such luck. I get up. 12:30, Dancefloor. The music still sucks. Still, no one cares. The girls are prettier, and maybe I’m just little buzzed. The foreign exchange girl is dancing with a guy I’ve never seen before and I get brave and start to dance. With a guy. He’s really drunk and just smiles at me. The song abruptly switches to a salsa. I can’t do this. After a few measures I retreat to the corner. I need more alcohol. Another cigarette. 12:45, I get my fourth cup. It seems low on alcohol, so I pour vodka into it. My cup is half jungle juice, half vodka. A deadly smelling combination. I know because I asked the foreign exchange girl. She was waiting in the bathroom line. Her name is Mari and she’s from the north of Spain is what she tells me. "It stinks," she exclaims. "What, the north of Spain?" I ask. She laughs and says no, the drink. "Oh, well... I’m sure in some places it does," I say. "No. It’s amazing," she insists. I tell her I love her accent, but she doesn’t believe me. "A lot of people hate it when Spaniards speak English, but not me, I love it." This is about when I realize that I’m quite possibly drunk or "crunked" as Wes might say, and I should probably quit while I’m ahead. 1:02, She really likes taking pictures. I’ve been in a lot of them. Wes taps me on the shoulder and says that "Bohemian Rhapsody" draws near. I say this to Mari and her friends. "Don’t make me explain it, just follow me." "Bohemian Rhapsody," for the uninformed, is a classic Queen song that, for many my age, was made popular by the film "Wayne’s World." At the Rugby House, the song is played at some point in the night, and we drunkenly gather and sing and dance to it. 1:14, "Ooooh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby. Just gotta get out. Just gotta get right out of here." I come out of the scrum with only half a cup of jungle juice left. Mari laughs at me. I tell her that not everyone can be so beautiful. She offers me a cigarette. "Did we just have sex?" crosses my mind, but for some reason, gladly, this phrase does not escape my lips. 1:38, I’m drunk. Unequivocally so. Mari and her friends are still around. I begin to wonder how in the hell I could not have scared them off. 2:03, We’re out in front now. Her friends are very drunk and kissing on each other. I’m pretty turned on, but I say nothing. Mari mentions that I’m the first drunken American guy that hasn’t tried anything. Am I not living up to expectations? Should I be? I ask her if this is a bad thing. She says it’s a good thing. In my head I think it’s a horrible thing. I’m so horny. 2:30, She’s so drunk, her English sounds terrible, and I tell her to just speak Spanish. 2:40, I’m too fucking nice. I have her number, but I’m too fucking nice. 2:48, I go to sleep early.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2008)
Suddenly he remembers something his foreign exchange roommate back in college told him about women in America. He smiles for the first time all day. The phone rings.
(2008)
Taxonomy Two (Rugby House) 10:45 PM, Arrival. There’s a cigarette between my lips and a gathering out back. I hop the fence and greet the strangers at the table before me. They break conversation for a moment, stare, and continue. The cigarette takes forever to burn and I’m thirsty. 10:47, I balance the forever burning cig on a nail that protrudes from a shingle of the shed and run into the kitchen via the den. Quiet party thusfar. "Jungle Juice or Shiner?" "Jungle Juice, my man." The coloration of the red cup in my hand nearly matches the pigmentation of my newly acquired tan that only goes as high as the sleeves of my shirt will allow. I soberly, clumsily stumble my way through the den and back outside to find my cigarette still balanced on the nail. Victory. 10:55, Girls, girls, girls. Well, three of them anyway. They’re talking about how great it is to be women. Why? I have no idea. I tell them about the horrible nightmare I had the night before. They guess quite accurately that I’d dreamt of being a woman. "It was horrible," I say, "I was short, had huge knockers, which, admittedly, were fun, but worse was that I actually knew what 'colors' like lavender and periwinkle look like. Weird." They laugh and I laugh, but laughter is followed by an awkward silence. 11:07, Flirtation. Dalliance. Her name is Nancy. My name is what it’s always been. At parties, anyway. I offer her a cigarette. She says no thanks, I’m breathing. I mockingly laugh at her sarcasm and tell her that trenchant females are just my type. She doesn’t know what trenchant means, and I gasp in shock because she claims to be an actress. She sips her drink, and darts her eyes in other directions, perhaps looking for a more attractive, less annoying guy. 11:32, Some of my pals show up. I’m working on my second cup of jungle juice, and from my vantage, I can see that the den and kitchen are packed with people itching to not be sober. Wes asks if I’ve had any luck. I assume this is in reference to women. "What do you think, man? See a woman attached to my arm?" 11:53, Dancefloor. Shitty music. No one cares. Pretty girls, though. 12:09 AM, Almost done with my second cup of jungle juice. Feeling nothing. Dreading the line in the kitchen. For some reason, I keep looking at the foreign exchange girl in the corner. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s pretty. Hmm. 12:15, Cup number three. After the hellacious line, I step outside for another cigarette. I notice my thespian friends in the corner. Nancy is with them. I shade my eyes and mingle in the opposite direction. I see Wes chatting up a girl. He’s drinking something of his own concoction no doubt. I sit at the picnic table, sip and smoke, perhaps hoping that maybe some poor drunken girl will plop herself next to me. 12:17, No such luck. I get up. 12:30, Dancefloor. The music still sucks. Still, no one cares. The girls are prettier, and maybe I’m just little buzzed. The foreign exchange girl is dancing with a guy I’ve never seen before and I get brave and start to dance. With a guy. He’s really drunk and just smiles at me. The song abruptly switches to a salsa. I can’t do this. After a few measures I retreat to the corner. I need more alcohol. Another cigarette. 12:45, I get my fourth cup. It seems low on alcohol, so I pour vodka into it. My cup is half jungle juice, half vodka. A deadly smelling combination. I know because I asked the foreign exchange girl. She was waiting in the bathroom line. Her name is Mari and she’s from the north of Spain is what she tells me. "It stinks," she exclaims. "What, the north of Spain?" I ask. She laughs and says no, the drink. "Oh, well... I’m sure in some places it does," I say. "No. It’s amazing," she insists. I tell her I love her accent, but she doesn’t believe me. "A lot of people hate it when Spaniards speak English, but not me, I love it." This is about when I realize that I’m quite possibly drunk or "crunked" as Wes might say, and I should probably quit while I’m ahead. 1:02, She really likes taking pictures. I’ve been in a lot of them. Wes taps me on the shoulder and says that "Bohemian Rhapsody" draws near. I say this to Mari and her friends. "Don’t make me explain it, just follow me." "Bohemian Rhapsody," for the uninformed, is a classic Queen song that, for many my age, was made popular by the film "Wayne’s World." At the Rugby House, the song is played at some point in the night, and we drunkenly gather and sing and dance to it. 1:14, "Ooooh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby. Just gotta get out. Just gotta get right out of here." I come out of the scrum with only half a cup of jungle juice left. Mari laughs at me. I tell her that not everyone can be so beautiful. She offers me a cigarette. "Did we just have sex?" crosses my mind, but for some reason, gladly, this phrase does not escape my lips. 1:38, I’m drunk. Unequivocally so. Mari and her friends are still around. I begin to wonder how in the hell I could not have scared them off. 2:03, We’re out in front now. Her friends are very drunk and kissing on each other. I’m pretty turned on, but I say nothing. Mari mentions that I’m the first drunken American guy that hasn’t tried anything. Am I not living up to expectations? Should I be? I ask her if this is a bad thing. She says it’s a good thing. In my head I think it’s a horrible thing. I’m so horny. 2:30, She’s so drunk, her English sounds terrible, and I tell her to just speak Spanish. 2:40, I’m too fucking nice. I have her number, but I’m too fucking nice. 2:48, I go to sleep early.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2008)
11.10.09
Dormitory Debauchery
"Dorm Sex"
By Alix Orozco
It was my second semester of college. I'd already done as much as I could to build up a reputation as a pothead, an alcoholic, maybe even a slut. Not intentionally, mind you. I'd been approached only a month before by one of the more lax resident assistants to go get high.
Now that same RA was asking if my friend Vance would buy the 3 of us some 40s. He agreed and once the contraband had been procured and safely stored in the RAs room, we began drinking and listening to music. Half way through the second 40oz and our filters were off. We began watching porn and showing each other our favorite porn stars.
Then came the drunk texting.
I don't know if the cloud of testosterone that overtook the room got to my head, I don't know what it was that I was trying to prove, but I felt the insatiable need to get laid. And I knew just who to call upon. We met only the week before. After drunken makeouts and confessions of, "I think you're hot," I fellated him in the backseat of his BMW.
In retrospect it's hard to remember what exactly had convinced him to come over, probably some explicit review of the things that awaited him.
"I have to go!" I squealed to Vance and the RA.
"Where are you going?" the RA asked.
"To get laidddddddd, suckahhhh," I replied with zeal.
I made my bed quickly and found a condom. I suddenly heard a knock on the door. I grabbed my cell phone and texted my roommate, "I need the room for a bit. Text you when I'm done."
He surveyed my room and focused on the array of books scattered across my desk. His eyes zeroed in on a Player's Handbook I had for Dungeons and Dragons. "Oh, you play D&D! I have a chara..." he started.
"I didn't say I wanted to talk, Brody. Take off your pants and get on the bed."
"Oh, uhh, okay."
I straddled him. "Is it okay if I tie you up?" I asked.
"Yeah, umm, I guess so," he answered timidly.
I unzipped his pants, slid them down and began fellating him as I'd done once before. Suddenly I felt not only his penis in my mouth, but my own vomit. Part of me was disgusted, but the desire to continue was overwhelming. I swallowed it and continued.
A few minutes and once his penis was fully erect, I put on the condom and assumed the position (reverse cowgirl style) and began to gyrate my hips. He thrust his own forward until I made him stop. I wanted complete control of the situation. He was moaning.
He came and I untied him. He thrust his fingers into me and I directed his every action until I could no longer speak.
Half an hour later he was coming to orgasm a second time, "Oh shit," he said, "I think I got a little bit on your wall."
I pulled my skirt back down, showed him downstairs and ran back to greet the RA sitting on a couch in his hallway. "Guess who just got laid!" I sang while thrusting my hips forward suggestively.
"But you're a girl!" he protests, "It's easy for you!!!"
"You look like you could use a cigarette," a voice says from behind me. It's Liam and he's wearing a sly grin on his face.
"Yeah, actually. That'd be great."
We went outside and I was beginning to sober up from the night's activity. I was suddenly very aware of the rain falling on the awning above us, the silvery dance of smoke emanating from our lips, the dull, satifying ache between my legs.
Liam finally spoke after a few drags off of his cigarette, "Did you take that purity test everyone's been doing?"
"Yeah," I said, "I think I scored like a 46."
"You know," he smirked, "I got a 22. I'd be willing to help lower your score."
I surveyed my surroundings, taking into account possible things that were on the quiz that I had yet to do. "Well," I replied, "I've never had sex with 2 different people in one night, I've never had sex outside, or in public, or in the rain."
"Yeah?" he ventured. He put out his cigarette, "I'm in room D222."
I went to my own room and passed out. I woke up with a hangover.
© Alix Orozco
By Alix Orozco
It was my second semester of college. I'd already done as much as I could to build up a reputation as a pothead, an alcoholic, maybe even a slut. Not intentionally, mind you. I'd been approached only a month before by one of the more lax resident assistants to go get high.
Now that same RA was asking if my friend Vance would buy the 3 of us some 40s. He agreed and once the contraband had been procured and safely stored in the RAs room, we began drinking and listening to music. Half way through the second 40oz and our filters were off. We began watching porn and showing each other our favorite porn stars.
Then came the drunk texting.
I don't know if the cloud of testosterone that overtook the room got to my head, I don't know what it was that I was trying to prove, but I felt the insatiable need to get laid. And I knew just who to call upon. We met only the week before. After drunken makeouts and confessions of, "I think you're hot," I fellated him in the backseat of his BMW.
In retrospect it's hard to remember what exactly had convinced him to come over, probably some explicit review of the things that awaited him.
"I have to go!" I squealed to Vance and the RA.
"Where are you going?" the RA asked.
"To get laidddddddd, suckahhhh," I replied with zeal.
I made my bed quickly and found a condom. I suddenly heard a knock on the door. I grabbed my cell phone and texted my roommate, "I need the room for a bit. Text you when I'm done."
He surveyed my room and focused on the array of books scattered across my desk. His eyes zeroed in on a Player's Handbook I had for Dungeons and Dragons. "Oh, you play D&D! I have a chara..." he started.
"I didn't say I wanted to talk, Brody. Take off your pants and get on the bed."
"Oh, uhh, okay."
I straddled him. "Is it okay if I tie you up?" I asked.
"Yeah, umm, I guess so," he answered timidly.
I unzipped his pants, slid them down and began fellating him as I'd done once before. Suddenly I felt not only his penis in my mouth, but my own vomit. Part of me was disgusted, but the desire to continue was overwhelming. I swallowed it and continued.
A few minutes and once his penis was fully erect, I put on the condom and assumed the position (reverse cowgirl style) and began to gyrate my hips. He thrust his own forward until I made him stop. I wanted complete control of the situation. He was moaning.
He came and I untied him. He thrust his fingers into me and I directed his every action until I could no longer speak.
Half an hour later he was coming to orgasm a second time, "Oh shit," he said, "I think I got a little bit on your wall."
I pulled my skirt back down, showed him downstairs and ran back to greet the RA sitting on a couch in his hallway. "Guess who just got laid!" I sang while thrusting my hips forward suggestively.
"But you're a girl!" he protests, "It's easy for you!!!"
"You look like you could use a cigarette," a voice says from behind me. It's Liam and he's wearing a sly grin on his face.
"Yeah, actually. That'd be great."
We went outside and I was beginning to sober up from the night's activity. I was suddenly very aware of the rain falling on the awning above us, the silvery dance of smoke emanating from our lips, the dull, satifying ache between my legs.
Liam finally spoke after a few drags off of his cigarette, "Did you take that purity test everyone's been doing?"
"Yeah," I said, "I think I scored like a 46."
"You know," he smirked, "I got a 22. I'd be willing to help lower your score."
I surveyed my surroundings, taking into account possible things that were on the quiz that I had yet to do. "Well," I replied, "I've never had sex with 2 different people in one night, I've never had sex outside, or in public, or in the rain."
"Yeah?" he ventured. He put out his cigarette, "I'm in room D222."
I went to my own room and passed out. I woke up with a hangover.
© Alix Orozco
7.10.09
Excerpt from: "The Best Way to Do Shots"
In Celebration. From "The Best Way to Do Shots"
We met for $2 shots at that new place that used to be a coffee shop. At the moment the name escapes me-- too many drinks in between-- but I'll probably remember it when I'm sitting on the crapper reading the New Yorker or something. We had just thrown our daughter a party for her second birthday in a very family friendly environment, so after leaving her with her grandmother, my girl and I decided it'd be fun to get away and slam a few. After all, she's the one who should be getting the presents, right? Baby had a head like a melon. I always laugh about that, but she doesn't.
So I was buying. We decided that we'd do shots 'til we dropped. She had the Yellow Cab Co. on speed dial. We get the first round. She picked vodka. I was a little disappointed because I'm a whiskey guy, and I have horror stories with regards to mixing lights with darks, but I jammed with it. Vodka it is. "Any particular kind sir? House?"
"It's all two bucks, right?"
"Yes."
"Stolichnaya," I said, and turning to her, "I never heard it in a rap song."
She chuckled.
She looked at me smilingly, adoringly. I had to shake my head. Pinch myself. Never thought I'd be the recipient of such lovely things, not from this woman. We get our glasses.
"Did you know," I said, "that vodka is Russian for water, and that it was originally seen as a feminine drink?"
"That was on the Wikipedia entry."
I toasted to her and we drank. She signaled to the barman. Two more. "Everything's on Wikipedia," I said. She nodded. “Mhmmm.” We turned, and two more glasses filled with clear alcoholic water stared up at us. She toasts to me, we drink.
“Are you implying that everything I learn, I learn from the internet?” she asked.
“No, but... I don’t see you read much.”
“Fuck yourself,” she said.
Two more! We glared at one another, stifling laughter, awaiting our poison. The bottoms of the glasses scratched against the bar’s surface as the bartender slid them toward us. We grabbed blindly at the glasses, careful not to break the glare. We toasted to our daughter and drank, reacting animatedly to the burn.
“TV,” I said.
“What?”
“TV. The thing is always on.”
“I don’t watch that much! It’s just noise!” she insisted loudly.
“Yes, you hate silence,” I said, signaling for two more. She seemed a little perturbed at that point.
The bartender handed us our shots directly, one at a time. We toasted to us and sent them down our throats. She wiped her lips and smiled. “How ya feeling?”
“Good,” I said. I was confident. Just as confident as the first day I met her. I put my hands on her hips and drew her into me. She pushed off and told me I wasn’t getting out of it. She called for two more. She toasted to my horniness. I toasted to her always being on her period when I’m horny. She laughed and we slammed the shots down our throats.
“I hate it when you leave me with the baby,” she said.
“I hate it when you nag me,” I countered.
Two more! We toasted. After that we got two more. We had to sit down. We were all over one another. Just like junior year of college. Next thing I know, she had called a cab and we were standing outside, puking on the corner of the night, waiting for it.
Wiping the vomit from our lips, we fucked one another with our eyes. We started kissing. Inside the cab we held hands in silence. As the vehicle made the turn on our street, she looked at me and told me that it was too bad she was on the rag.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
We met for $2 shots at that new place that used to be a coffee shop. At the moment the name escapes me-- too many drinks in between-- but I'll probably remember it when I'm sitting on the crapper reading the New Yorker or something. We had just thrown our daughter a party for her second birthday in a very family friendly environment, so after leaving her with her grandmother, my girl and I decided it'd be fun to get away and slam a few. After all, she's the one who should be getting the presents, right? Baby had a head like a melon. I always laugh about that, but she doesn't.
So I was buying. We decided that we'd do shots 'til we dropped. She had the Yellow Cab Co. on speed dial. We get the first round. She picked vodka. I was a little disappointed because I'm a whiskey guy, and I have horror stories with regards to mixing lights with darks, but I jammed with it. Vodka it is. "Any particular kind sir? House?"
"It's all two bucks, right?"
"Yes."
"Stolichnaya," I said, and turning to her, "I never heard it in a rap song."
She chuckled.
She looked at me smilingly, adoringly. I had to shake my head. Pinch myself. Never thought I'd be the recipient of such lovely things, not from this woman. We get our glasses.
"Did you know," I said, "that vodka is Russian for water, and that it was originally seen as a feminine drink?"
"That was on the Wikipedia entry."
I toasted to her and we drank. She signaled to the barman. Two more. "Everything's on Wikipedia," I said. She nodded. “Mhmmm.” We turned, and two more glasses filled with clear alcoholic water stared up at us. She toasts to me, we drink.
“Are you implying that everything I learn, I learn from the internet?” she asked.
“No, but... I don’t see you read much.”
“Fuck yourself,” she said.
Two more! We glared at one another, stifling laughter, awaiting our poison. The bottoms of the glasses scratched against the bar’s surface as the bartender slid them toward us. We grabbed blindly at the glasses, careful not to break the glare. We toasted to our daughter and drank, reacting animatedly to the burn.
“TV,” I said.
“What?”
“TV. The thing is always on.”
“I don’t watch that much! It’s just noise!” she insisted loudly.
“Yes, you hate silence,” I said, signaling for two more. She seemed a little perturbed at that point.
The bartender handed us our shots directly, one at a time. We toasted to us and sent them down our throats. She wiped her lips and smiled. “How ya feeling?”
“Good,” I said. I was confident. Just as confident as the first day I met her. I put my hands on her hips and drew her into me. She pushed off and told me I wasn’t getting out of it. She called for two more. She toasted to my horniness. I toasted to her always being on her period when I’m horny. She laughed and we slammed the shots down our throats.
“I hate it when you leave me with the baby,” she said.
“I hate it when you nag me,” I countered.
Two more! We toasted. After that we got two more. We had to sit down. We were all over one another. Just like junior year of college. Next thing I know, she had called a cab and we were standing outside, puking on the corner of the night, waiting for it.
Wiping the vomit from our lips, we fucked one another with our eyes. We started kissing. Inside the cab we held hands in silence. As the vehicle made the turn on our street, she looked at me and told me that it was too bad she was on the rag.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
3.10.09
Damned By Faint Praise: Where fiction and reality meet and eventually fuck, spawning horrible, horrible children
Yes, I really was a Model UN nerd. Kind of. One of the running themes throughout these entries is 9/11. I don't write about it a lot for various reasons, but it was certainly in the background as we traveled. The dates are accurate.
and now...
March 27, 2002 from "My Life as a Model UN Delegate"
I hate these fucking dress shoes. They give me blisters. Carla sneered at me when I complained. Lunch break. Hopefully it’ll be better than the awful continental breakfast. Those are always bad. Nothing new. Two meetings in, and the only thing I really remember is the moderators-- college kids, all fucking one another, most likely; sexual tension and all; sexual competition; gender division; girls moderating the Security Council; guys moderating the Human Rights Council; who can churn out the most resolutions; intimidation-- with their gavels and their obnoxious loud voices, yelling about decorum. Decorum you little shits! That’s what they really want to say. So I laughed when Miles showed me a funny picture of one of the guys with a huge dick ripping into his ass and cum gushing out of his mouth like one of those European fountains you see in all the tourist photographs.
Mostly we sat around watching representatives from other more important nations running around, wheeling and dealing. Ideas. Debates. Resolutions. Occasionally we’d be approached by someone from Lesotho or Papua New Guinea wanting our input on some resolution they’d drafted that guaranteed such and such or affirmed whatever for whomever they pleased. It was all very boring, very useless, and very much an exhibition of spinning wheels on wet pavement. Futile, destined to hydroplane. Good luck getting America to give half a shit, much less the two that seems the hyperbolical norm.
Met these two guys from Vermont. One was Jewish, the other Muslim. Best friends. Nice guys. We showed shock at the revelation of their long tenured friendship. We shouldn’t have, but the current events, the media; in that moment, we were everything we hate, I think. They represented another country that would have little input into the meetings. In fact, if you weren’t a Western power, an Asian power, or certain middle eastern countries, you were destined to spectate.
Ben and Carla came to our council meeting to brag that they had just been "semi-instrumental" in getting a resolution passed. Yay for them, but I'm not sure what they mean by "semi" instrumental#. Anyway.
After all was done, we did some more tourist shit that culminated in a trip to the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Miss Tanguay and Jasen held one another quite romantically, making me very uncomfortable. Miles must’ve been off smoking a cigarette, and Ben and Carla, who knows? Asking questions at the information center? Either way, it was pretty damn fucked up to leave me there.
It was cold and high above the city, the building having reclaimed its position as tallest building in NYC. By default.
More tomorrow. Goodnight.
©Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2009)
A note on the #. Apparently this format doesn't support footnoting. In the story, the footnote is simply a dictionary definition of "instrumental."
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