Saturday, June 30, 2018

On the Latest "Skagboys" (Irvine Welsh) Book

I just finished reading "Dead Man's Trousers" by Irvine Welsh. Oh man.

Renton is way too evil... and Sick Boy is marrying a crazy 'old friend' that appeared
out of nowhere (like Dawn from "Buffy", minus the supernatural justification). Begbie
 has somehow become a non-violent, well-read human being. Diane and Nikki were
 both put on a bus (I guess?) between "Porno" and "[...] Trousers". And poor old
Spud Murphy... I really liked him.

If there's another book I probably won't read it. I love Irvine Welsh, yet there's only so 
much of this I can take. The first few books were really relatable. But now? The so-called 
Skagboys are sober cats with terrible taste in music.
DJs are in, these days... but c'moan! Iggy's Iggy, ken? Ehs, likesay, immortal. Ye cannae 

forget a cat like him.
That dialect... wow. My brain's a bit 'Leithified' (Spudified?) right now. I need to
read/re-read something civilized. Like "Harry Potter".

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Fragments of a Murder Mystery

A/N: I've got tons of notes. I've planned the whole damn story. Alas! I'm too depressed to finish writing.

Every Wednesday, at noon, three aging women would eat lunch together at the 
old Metro 22 Diner. They weren’t important or special in any way. No, they were 
merely very loyal friends. Dorothy’s husband owned the local movie theatre, 
Agatha’s used to practiced law, and Agnes was a spinster who’d inherited a 
decent sum many years before. They’d known each other since childhood.
These little lunch meetings had been going on for at least twenty-five years. 
They always sat at the table in the corner - next to that attractive stain-glass 
window, adorned with elegantly colorful patterns. The waiters never bothered
 bringing out menus, since the women always ordered the same meals. A 
greek salad for still-slender Dorothy, fish n’ chips for the Anglophile Agatha, 
and a hearty cheeseburger for the more indulgent Agnes.
“How have you girls been?” Agnes asked, between bites.
“Well,” said Agatha. “George keeps saying we should move to Florida, but I
 just can’t bear the thought of leaving you two behind.”  
These three women never lied to each other, even out of politeness. They 
were closer than sisters.

Meanwhile - hardly more than three feet away - a solemn businessman sat 
awkwardly in one of the booths. He wore a stylish Brooks Brothers suit and 
a dark burgundy tie. Beside him sat a large leather briefcase. Compared to 
the rest of the diner’s customers, he looked stuffy and slightly menacing.
Across from him lounged an aimless, brooding teenager in a green hoodie. 
With his thin face and fair hair he bore a striking physical resemblance to 
the businessman. His manner, on the other hand, was far more casual. For one 
thing, he’d scarfed down his lunch (a cheap BLT sandwich) within seconds of its arrival.
Dad,” the boy was saying, unhappily. “I’m really trying. This dude just
 isn’t, like, interested.”
“He isn’t interested, Dad.”
The businessman frowned, then said: “Are you sure you said 20,000, rathe
r than - say - 2,000? You’ve never been too good with numbers.”
The poor kid blushed a deep crimson. “I’m sure. This guy doesn’t care about
 the money. He’s in it for, like, the art or something.”
“Running a tacky old cinema isn’t art,” the businessman replied, his grey 
eyes narrowing.
“I know.”
Nervously, the young man began fiddling with his walkman.

Another Random Vampire Novel Fragment

A/N: Mary's POV, Again. 
And we’re sitting in the living room again, drinking the blood Bill brought 
home. It’s not very fresh. Still, it’s better than nothing.
“He probably thinks you’re on drugs,” Bill mutters, darkly, running his 
hands through his hilariously Paul Weller-esque hair.
“I am on drugs,” I point out, amused.
“Yes, but he isn’t supposed to know.”
“It could be worse. At least he hasn’t figured out that we’re undead,” I point out.
“That’s true.”
    We sit there in silence, sipping our dinner. I detect a trace or two of medical-grade 
speed. That’s the problem with getting blood from the mental hospital phlebotomist. 
The patients are on more drugs than your average dope fiend. Luckily, many medications 
like don’t affect undead types like us. Especially when drunk rather than injected. Our 
stomachs don’t absorb drugs the way human stomachs do. Luckily.
Still, I hate the way lithium-tainted blood makes my mouth feel all weird and dry. 
It’s a shame so many patients are on that stuff.  
That’s one reason I prefer to find dinner myself. If only the Craigslist personals 
hadn’t been taken down…
“Whatever happened to that patient of yours?” I ask, idly.
He furrows his brow. “Which one?”
“That weird bitch-” Bill winces at that word, though ignore him. “-who went 
around telling people you tried to suck her blood.”
“I had her diagnosed as schizophrenic.” There’s a hint of regret in his voice.
“See, that’s why I can’t get attached to my patients. If I cared about her I 
wouldn’t’ve be able to do that.” He also has trouble truly helping people he 
cares about, which might be why he tolerates my little hobby. Seeing a person 
suffer - even for their own good - really upsets Bill. He’s way too soft. Like a 
teddy bear without enough stuffing, except not.
Not that he’d ever admit it. Men are like that.
“We’re really terrible people, aren’t we?” I muse, smiling to myself.
Bill nods, solemnly. “It’s in our nature.”

Friday, June 22, 2018

Song Parody: "Louie Louie (mumbling like Brando)"

A/N: After listening to the Stooges cover of this, I decided to write new lyrics. To do so I actually looked up the original. It's really dull, alas!
By the way... "Brando" refers to actor Marlon Brando (obviously?). People accuse him of mumbling his lines. I've only seen a few of his movies, and I don't really have an opinion... though I will say he didn't make a very good Sky Masterson. His singing voice wasn't strong enough!

Louie Louie,
oh man, I’m just mumbling like Brando,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, baby
Louie Louie,
oh baby, what I’m sayin’ I don’t know

They think it’s so freakin' obscene
What does it actually mean?
Few people really know
And they’ve clearly stayed home

Louie Louie,
oh man, I’m just mumbling like Brando,
Louie Louie,
oh baby, what I’m sayin’ I don’t know

I might as well be extremely obscene
They don’t know what it means
On swearing I’m not so keen
Though they’ll still hear a naughty mondegreen

Louie Louie,
oh man, I’m just mumbling like Brando,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, baby
Louie Louie,
oh baby, what I’m sayin’ I don’t know

A/N: One day I might film this and post the video. Hopefully it would make people laugh. Complaining about the world's problems is pointless. I ought to work on cheering everyone up. That's really important.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Vampire Story, Pt 2:

 A/N: Actually, it's more like "Pt. 5". I've been really lazy lately. As a result, only the
 most interesting scenes have been 'properly' written. If enough people find the idea
 interesting I might write more. Or not. Sobriety is a miserable state.

Mary's POV:
So, I’m sitting in front of my computer… but I’m a bit out of it. I keep zoning out. 
Nodding. That’s the funny thing about opioids. They make you sort of tired. Sometimes… 
sometimes I want to sleep. Except I can’t. Not right now. I’m editing TV Tropes. Reading, 
too. I think. Hands keep slipping. Can’t keep ‘em… can’t keep ‘em on the keyboard. 
Fuck, who cares? It’s great… feeling. So blissful, so happy.
I love heroin. More than anything.
Anyway, I’m trying not to seem lazy. I don’t want to be a stereotype… curled 
up in the corner, dead to the world. No, that’s not me at all. If you ask me, it’s 
better to work on something while you’re all hopped up. Often I’ll re-read a bit 
of Irvine Welsh. His characters tend to be pretty relatable. Also, that Scottish 
dialect is pretty thick. It’s a challenge, trying to understand the garbled spellings - 
even when I’m sober - and I like a good challenge.  
I guess I read his books to prove that I’m clever. Some people assume smack 
makes you stupid - like pot. They’re wrong. I mean, being a serious junkie is a 
full-time gig. Such a lifestyle requires a lot of planning and plotting and thinking
You’ve got to work at it, man. Most people hate your guts. Nobody’s on your side. 
Junk doesn’t grow on trees (opium kind of does, though not around here… and that 
isn’t the same!). Scoring take effort. Either you steal it - which takes a lot of scheming 
and/or physical strength/flexibility - or you buy it from some poor, paranoid bastard.
To be a successful dope fiend, you must be able to network and plan and lie convincingly
 and keep your mouth shut and know when to lie versus when to be quiet…
...And I think I’m going to pass out. It makes me tired. Real sleepy. Editing… that I 
can’t do. Now. Not right now. So peaceful.
I guess it’s pretty easy initially. Now, maintaining the lifestyle - that’s trickier. If you take 
too much, or use more than one drug, you could OD. That’s never fun. Also, prison. You 
really don’t want to get arrested. I (probably?) haven’t ended up behind bars, but I’ve
 heard it’s terrible. Even if you don’t end up ‘finding a stranger in the alps,’ or vice 
versa, it’s a nasty place to be. The food is shittier than public school lunches.
Anyway, one must avoid prison. And police. And overdosing. And lots of other things, 
including malnutrition. See, when you’re high, food doesn’t sound too interesting. 
Sometimes I’d stop eating. That’s never a good idea.
Luckily, I’m undead now so I don’t require food. In fact, I can’t eat. My stomach won’t 
process anything that isn’t blood or water. If I do try to eat something it often... returns. 
I’m getting better at controlling it, mind. These days I’m able to keep a meal inside for 
up to three hours (Bill can keep food inside for even longer, I think). That’s an important
 skill. I mean, we undead types have to blend in with humans. If we don’t we’ll never
 be able to go near our dinners. We’d starve!
Suddenly, Bill shows up. He’s carrying a couple of overstuffed brown paper grocery
 bags. They’re from a nearby Harris Teeter, I think. He sets them down on the counter.
“What’s all that for?” I ask.
“Our refrigerator is empty, save for some leftover blood. I don’t want Wade to get 
“We could just keep him away from the kitchen.”
“He might find that suspicious.”
I sigh and quietly reply, “That’s true.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m just a bit tired.
“The undead don’t get tired.” He frowns. “You’ve been using again, haven’t you?”
“Would I do that?” I ask, sweetly.
“Yes. You suffer from a substance abuse disorder.”
I hate when he says things like that. He makes it sound so medical - so serious, so
 depressing, so detached. Claiming it’s a hobby - a choice, albeit a bad one - makes
 it easier for me to deal with. I can’t joke about a disease.  
“Do we have to talk about this right now? Wade will be here any minute,” I say.
“Marianne Falco…”
    “You’re a mess.”
“Thank you.”
Somebody's knocking at the door. It’s probably Wade.
Bill glares at me, saying: “You can put these away, I’ll answer the door.”
So, he leaves the room. I do what he says. Because I’m high, I don’t complain…
 even though I feel sort of pathetic and housewife-y.
Now he’s back. There’s a kid with him, looking pretty nervous. He wears a 
Cheetos-stained Green Day t-shirt. His jeans’re dark and slightly stale-looking, his 
messy hair chin-length and jet-black. Also, I’m pretty sure that's black 
eyeliner. What an edgelord. God, I bet he has shitty taste in music. Probably hasn’t
 heard of the Stooges or the Dolls. Poor baby. I’ll have to teach him, won’t I?
 I’ll have to show him what he’s been missing all these years… American Idiot indeed.
“Hey.” He mumbles. “So... you’re Bill’s roommate?
“Yeah. My name’s Marianne, but you can call me Mary.”
“Cool… Mary.” Kids looks terrified. How small are my pupils? Does it even matter?
 Even if he notices, I could really care less.
I grab a random book from the coffee table and begin reading. Then, I start to sort-of 
pass out on the sofa. Again. Fuck.
“Should I show you the kitchen?” Bill asks.
Wade doesn’t seem to hear. He just stares at me, and whispers: “What’s wrong with her?”
“I’m tired. I suffer from insomnia,” I tell him.
“She suffers from insomnia,” Bill repeats.
Does that make the lie truer? Should that sentence even exist? At this, I laugh.
“Ignore her, Wade,” Bill mutters, wise eyes narrowed.
“So, where’s the extra bedroom?” Wade asks.
“Right this way.”
Bill leads Wade into another room. I follow them, silently, still clutching a book.
 They don’t notice me, of course. Undead people are pretty good at being stealthy. 
We’ve got to be - I mean, how else would we sneak up on our prey?
“Wow, it’s small. Is this why you’re only charging $500?” Wade asks.
“Indeed,” Bill replies primly.
“How soon would I be able to move in?” Boy, isn’t he eager.
“Is there a down payment?”
“Cool…“ Why does he keep saying that?
“As long as you can provide proof of employment and pass a background check.”
“Okay… then. I’ll think about it.”
He turns around, steps out of the bedroom, and sees me. His already wide, 
kohl-rimmed eyes widen in wild surprise. The kid looks like a traumatized 
raccoon or something. I try not to laugh.  
“Hello… again,” he mutters, nervous as ever.
Suddenly, his expression changes. He smiles, eyes alive with excitement, and 
points to the book I’m holding.
“Wait - is that Marabou Stork Nightmare? By Irvine Welsh?”
I nod. “Yes. Are you a fan?”
“Have you read Trainspotting?”
“Who hasn’t?” Good answer.
    Acid House?”
“Loved it.” Saw that coming.
“That ending, man - so Renton.” He’s grinning like a child.
I’m smiling now, too. “I know! How did Sick Boy not see that coming?”
Bill just rolls his eyes at us, saying: “Not to be rude, but you both have terrible taste.”
“Says a man who owns every single book Michael Dobbs wrote about Churchill.” 
It’s true - he’s obsessed!
“Winston Churchill was an admirable man.”
“Well, some people prefer scoundrels,” I point out saucily.
“I’m a scoundrel,” Wade says. This man doesn’t know how to talk to women.
Bill raises a dark, stark eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Um… in a trustworthy way.” He pauses, blushing horribly. “Is there an application or…?”
Yes, there is. Bill gets it for him.
Wade leaves, and I’m on the couch again… reading. Bill paces ‘round the
 room ever so seriously.
I’m not quite sure how to react to all this. Who would’ve though Wade - of all
 people! - read Irvine Welsh? Okay, most adults have read Trainspotting or seen 
the movie. Acid House and Filth aren’t that obscure, either… but Porno? Marabou
 Stork Nightmare? They aren’t exactly well-known outside certain circles. In fact,
 I only know one person whose read them (a white trash junkie from Baltimore 
that I’m currently avoiding).  
Finding fellow fans is much harder than it sounds.
“I like him,” I say happily.
“I’ve noticed,” Bill replies.
“What do you, um, think?”
“He’s a bit too clever.”
“Is that really a bad thing?”
“Yes. We don’t want him to find out what we are.” I suppose he’s right.
“Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.” Which is true. I mean, who would believe
 anything that kid said? He probably doesn’t even have friends.
“Yes, it would.” Now Bill sounds like a bratty kid... in a posh, sophisticated way.
“No, it wouldn’t. Nobody would believe him. He dresses like one of your angsty
 teenaged patients,” I point out.
“That true.” He sighs. “Still, we shouldn’t take the ad down yet. Someone better 
might come along.”
“Yeah, and my brother might come back from the dead,” I reply sarcastically.
Bill gives me a strangely teacher-y Look. “Stop being snarky. It doesn’t suit you.”
I roll my eyes, then say: “Says the 200-year-old who dresses like a character 
from Quadrophenia.”
Even Bill laughs at this. And it’s true. He loves the 1960s and still wears a lot of 
his old Mod suits. He still has that old Lambretta, too, with the decals and 
the mirrors. When we moved from London to New York… and then from New 
York to DC… he had it shipped specially. Being an immortal being with an
 almost-bottomless bank account sure has its perks.