Bah

I tire of the blog. I begin to even hate the word, equating it with fecal evacuation.

"I have to go take a blog."

I fear I must take a sabbatical from the blogging, lest this be the end.

The good news is that with my tax return I shall buy a computer for my home and do most of my writing there instead of here, at work. I feel that my blogging will improve if I can do it mostly naked and stoned. Or perhaps that is a recipe for disaster.

I'll continue to write, and if you wish you may find some of my entries, along with some other fine writers better than myself, here: superbadass.net

For now, I bid you a fond adieu. But I shall return.


M. PotPie

A Fashionable Death (Part Three)

(Yes, yes I know. It's about damn time. I'd offer excuses, but they would be lies.)

As we approached the bus station in Detroit I dialed up Janet on my cell phone. She was supposed to be waiting for me but I wanted to be sure she was there. The last thing I wanted was to be alone at the downtown bus station surrounded by degenerates.

"You may speak." Janet's voice in my ear made me smile. She had always posessed this weird, superior quality, as if she were royalty, and had never said or done anything to make me think otherwise. It rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I loved it.

"Janet! Don here. The bus is about to arrive, I just wanted to make sure you were there to get me. I do not want to be hanging around this dump very long."

"Donald. My dear Donald, I am already here, have been for an hour. L'attente ici pour vous avec la prevision hors d'haleine."

With that she hung up. What more was there to say? The bus pulled into the station and everyone stood up, seemingly at the same time, and began shuffling around preparing to get off. I only had a backpack with me and was ready to go so I started maneuvering towards the front of the bus. I managed to make it almost all the way to the front by the time the bus stopped and the driver opened the doors.

When the doors did open, Detroit hit me in the face like Tommy Hearns in his prime. Diesel fumes, asphalt, body odor and the noise assaulted my senses and sent me reeling for a moment. I came back to myself just as I was being shoved from behind and cursed at. Ah, Detroit! It's a lot like New Orleans in some respects, the music and the people, but where Detroit smells like diesel fumes, New Orleans smells like a deep dark roux. I made my way through the bus station and out to the parking lot.

I spied Janet sitting on the hood of her car smoking a cigarette, looking regal. I had known her since grade school and she was my best friend in the world. In high school everyone thought she was a dyke because she cut her hair short, wore combat boots and didn't date any boys they knew of. I happened to know that she preferred older men and short, profitable affairs. She didn't think of herself as a prostitute so much as a provider of services. On more than a few occasions she had been dropped off at home in a limousine which prompted her parents to call me to find out what was going on. She still hasn't told me who she was seeing, claiming that if their identities became public it would 'compromise' them. I believe her.

As I got closer she tossed her cigarette down and ground it under what appeared to be a very expensive pair of heels, Ferregamos by the look. She was definitely wearing Chanel and I wondered if she was 'back in business', so to speak. The car she had been sitting on didn't say so, it looked like an old Honda, but if the shoes and clothes were authentic...well, what did I care? I was just happy to see her.

"Donald, darling, it's been too long. You're wasting yourself down in that abysmal swamp of a state. And putting on weight, by the looks of it. What are you eating down there?"

"Shut up Janet, the food is great and you know it. You look fantastic! But where's Mark? I was hoping he'd be with you."

She backed up and looked at me.

"Donald, didn't you hear?"

"Hear what?" I didn't like the question or the tone in her voice.

"Oh shit, Don. You don't know. Shit."

"Know what? What's wrong with Mark?" I was getting a bit panicked. Janet opened her purse and pulled out her cigarettes, offering me one. I accepted. After lighting them she spoke again.

"Don, Mark's in jail."

"What? What for? Why?"

"Hold on, it gets worse. He's been charged with murder."

"Murder?! Oh my god!" I was in total shock. I couldn't imagine Mark ever killing anyone.

"That's not all, Don. He's been accused of killing Robert."

I dropped my cigarette and may have fainted. I came to in the passenger seat of Janet's Honda, staring out the window. She may have been speaking, I don't know, it was all a blur. One of my best friends accused of killing my first boyfriend...it was too much to believe. I felt something pressed into my hand and looking down I saw it was a metal flask. A drink was exactly what I needed to clear my head. But what were we going to do?

(To be continued)


M. PotPie

Well.

So it's been a week since I last posted. My bad. Maybe I should finally just get a damn pc at home. But I'll continue the new story today. Promise.

A Fashionable Death (Part Two)

(Stupid title, I know. Suggestions are welcome)


The bus ride from New Orleans to Detroit took forever. I'm not really sure how long it actually was, or even what states we went through, and I guess I don't care. The only thing I was interested in was getting off the damned thing and away from my fellow passengers. During the trip I made a hundred silent vows to save more money so I could fly and avoid riding on this travelling cesspool.

I arrived somewhat later than the forty-five minutes prior to departure the bus line had suggested, so when I boarded there were very few seats left, all of them in the rear. I had really wanted to have a seat to myself but that was out of the question now. Looking over the possible seats I decided to take one next to a bookish looking woman that I assumed was somewhere in her late forties. She was already reading so I figured she'd at the very least be quiet. The seat had the bonus of being very near the bathroom as well. At least I thought it would be a bonus.

I don't know if it was something in the air, bus fumes or whether people that habitually ride buses have digestion problems, but I swear the little stall of a bathroom was never empty. Not once, for the entire eleven hundred mile trip. And every damn person that went in there smelled worse than the one before, a hellish parade of human waste, both figuratively and literally.

But that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was that the kind folks waiting in line for their turn wanted to talk. To me. I had the aisle seat and must have looked very approachable that day because nothing I did, from reading the newspaper I brought along to pretending to sleep, could stop them from trying to chat with me. Even when I put the newspaper in front of my face they wanted to talk. One woman in particular decided to read the other side of the page I was looking at and wanted to discuss the story.

"Oh my. Oh dear. Oh! Can you believe it?"

I folded the page down and glared at her, giving her my meanest look. It didn't phase her at all.

"Can you imagine going through all that, just for an animal? Some people, eh?"

I had no idea what she was talking about so I glanced at the story. Apparently a couple in Shreveport had a newborn that was horribly allergic to cats. They loved their cat so much that they built an addition on to the house just so they could keep it. Weirdos.

"I can't believe that they really wanted a cat that bad. Well, it just goes to show you eh? Now I'm a dog lover myself. How about you?"

I had no interest in continuing this conversation and was silently praying for the bathroom door to open so she could go in. Even the stench that was sure to come out was better than this. I decided to take drastic measures.

"Me? I hate animals. All of them. The only things they're good for are eating and wearing."

That did the trick. She tut-tutted to herself and left me alone after that. I could not wait to get to Detroit.

I managed to take a bit of a nap and woke up when we made a pit stop. I had no idea where we were so I tried to track down the bus driver and ask her, but I couldn't find her. We were outside a little cafe called the Tick Tock, which promised fine dining and family specials. There was also a huge red sign on the roof that said "EAT". I decided not to obey this particular command. I walked back to the bus thinking I would try to continue my nap. As I got on I passed an older gentelman in a fishing hat.

"Excuse me sir, do you know where we are?"

"Yep." He answered without looking at me.

Well. Serves me right for asking a direct question. I tried a different tactic.

"Ok..well can you tell me how far we are from Detroit?"

"Yep." Still not a glance my way.

"Well, will you please tell me?"

"Yep. It's only a fur piece away, a coupla errs or so."

"Well...thank you."

"Yep. Don't mention it."

I walked back to my seat rolling my eyes and wishing the trip was over. Later of course I wished I had never made it in the first place.

(To be continued)

M. PotPie

The Flu is Gone

First off, thank you for all of your healthful wishes. And if you didn't want me to get better well...screw you. Thankfully it was not the bird flu thing. Nor SARS. It was awful, though. But thanks to good old-fashioned, home made chicken soup (with matzo balls, of course) I'm back and ready to resume, as Indy put it, Regularly Scheduled Programming. Part two of the new story is coming today.


M. PotPie

Sick Day

Yo. This monkey is nasty sick & going home. So there will be no story today, children. I shall return on Monday.


M. PotPie

Untitled so far

Okay, here's the first installment. It may be quite a bit longer than I thought.

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“Now don’t forget people, you may be on break but a designer never stops working, creating, thinking. Use your families and their respective dysfunctions as inspiration. What works for the holidays? What doesn’t? What’s new, or old, what’s just plain plebeian? I expect you to have a winter line in mind when you get back and to at least have drawings. Now scoot!”

Mr. Enderle’s lisp had barely faded, a tea kettle just taken off the stove, and I was already thinking of going home. Well, that and the fact that I had better come up with a new idea soon. I had been teamed up with Julia, we had planned on finishing design school as a team, but lately I had been doing all the work. I knew I shouldn’t have complained about it, that she would do something rude if I did, but I couldn’t help myself. We had…well, I had really come up with some great ideas and a killer theme, and the bitch turned it in as her own behind my back. Now I was stuck at square one. I had complained about it to my mother just yesterday.

“Mom, my winter theme has been stolen, and all I can say is fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Donald, honey, relax. I’m sure you’ll come up with a new one. What did you say to Mr. Enderle?”

“Ugh. Mother, Mr. Enderle is too much of a submissive bottom to do anything. I’m better off on my own.”

“Really, Donald, do you have to speak like that? It’s just so…gay. Not that I don’t love you honey, but your kind isn’t exactly front page material right now, right? Oh, I can’t wait to see you, it’s been too long!”

My kind. Like it’s a choice I’ve made, to love boys. If she was clueless, my father was even worse. Did I mention that I was looking forward to going home? Well, not for those two. My brother Brian, yes, and some friends from high school, but not them. I figured I’d do the holiday thing as quietly as possible, promised myself I wouldn’t make a fuss and spend most of the time with Brian and my friends. Specifically Janet and Mark. Of course, the possibility of ‘accidentally’ running into Robert was in the back of my mind as well.

Robert was my first boyfriend, my first kiss and my first penis that wasn’t my own. I was sixteen at the time, he was 30 and very unhappily married. A classic case of living in denial of his true nature. He had a wife and two kids and was terrified that they would one day find out about his secret life with me. We had broken things off when I decided to go to design school, but still exchanged letters once in a while. I had written that I was coming home, but he said with all the family around it would be hard to get away. We’ll just see about that.

I had decided on taking the bus home instead of flying. Not because I like the bus, mind you, but because it was far more economical. I was working part time as a waiter, which paid the rent, and I could eat for free at the restaurant, but after money for booze and the occasional drug binge I was broke. I had made everybody’s gifts this year, designed them myself, so I was able to save a lot there. I had considered car-pooling, but no one in my class was from Michigan. So, the bus it was.

The bus station in New Orleans was possibly the dirtiest place I had ever been, and that includes several disreputable spots in the French Quarter. New Orleans is a dreamworld if you love debauchery, which I do, but with that comes a price: filth. And it’s not just the streets and buildings. It’s the people. If you want to know where the demons from the lowest circle of hell hang out, it’s in the bus station in downtown New Orleans. And their leader, conveniently enough, decided to sit down next to me while I was waiting, even though there were empty seats everywhere.

He was filthy. Absolutely filthy, and he smelled like a combination of ashtray, ass, cheap wine and, strangely enough, lemon Pledge. He had probably been huffing it. But the worst part was his eyes. Crazy. One hundred percent certifiable. And, as luck would have it, he decided to speak to me.

“Hey you. You. You. Hey you.”

I tried ignoring him. When it looked like he was about to touch me I decided to answer.

“What? What what what what what?

He smiled, showing blackened stumps of teeth and a white coated tongue.

“In Bizarro world, people are rooted to the ground and the TREES walk about!” He cackled, sending his fetid and disgusting breath my way. I gagged, got up and walked away. He didn’t follow, thank god. I couldn’t wait for the bus to arrive.


M. PotPie

Alrighty Then

Ok, here's the deal: Between now and tomorrow I'll be writing a new story using every sentence you lovely folks have so graciously provided. (Chicken I have another idea for ours...gratuitous sex indeed!).

I'm at work until 5pm Central time, so if I get any more between now (1:45pm) and then I'll use those as well.

Y'all be cool and shit.


M. PotPie

New Fear For A New Year

I have started this year the same way I ended the last one: Uninspired. I'm finding it more and more difficult to do this on a daily basis without resorting to gimmicks. Have I run out of ideas? Do I just not care anymore? Has the energy-sapping & deadly ennui become permanent?

I simply don't know. Only time will tell, and that of course is the worst thing that can take place. Time moves slowly when uninspired, dragging on and clanking like old tin cans still attached to a new couple's car long after the newness is gone and complacency has set in.

I want this blog to be a creative outlet, not a diary or confessional. So I have a favor to ask:

Please supply me with one sentence. It can be dialogue, descriptive or completely non-sensical. It can be anything at all. I'll choose one or two (or more if necessary) and write new stories based on them and including them.

Thank you in advance. I figure with a bunch of freaky people like yourselves around this should be a good time.


M. PotPie