09:51 - Friday, Nov. 21, 2003 swirl
Internet's been broken all week.. I mean, what the fuck. Well, I just fixed it, totally and completely WITHOUT the help of the lady on the other end of the customer service line at Comcast. She told me to do a whole bunch of stuff I'd already tried, then yelled at me for doing it wrong, then flicked some kind of magic switch on her end and everything was all better. I wonder if they just randomly turn people's service off so they've got to call and run up their cell phone bill....?
Everyone's kinda draggy lately. It is most definitely time for Thanksgiving break. Even though I've got the misfortune of going to Houston instead of somewhere worthwhile, I still can't wait. I think everyone's almost forgetting where they are, who they are...
Only two of us showed up to writers' group and talked for 3 1/2 hours about the layout of our high schools, how to shade spheres, personification of alcohol, and oregano on pizza. I was the most productive writers' group I've ever been to, at least. Two days ago I walked into Nick's house and he was sprawled out on a beanbag chair playing 007 on some game system I don't know about.. Xbox or Gamecube or some such... he was taking a break from doing homework, and he had shaved his beard off. Now, first of all, Nick's sworn off videogames. Second of all, he never does homework, and third of all, a few weeks ago, he threw all his razors away so he wouldn't be tempted to shave his beard. And then he talked about registration. I mean, where is he coming from, being all normal like that?
I haven't seen much of anyone else, except Lara of course, because I live with her. And Robyn and Gail, since Lara and I got high on Sunday night and ran screaming into their apartment at midnight waving a pint of Ben & Jerry's: 'WE BROUGHT OFFERINGS!' Robyn's lactose intolerant, so obviously our offerings were attempted murder. (Attempted stomach discomfort...) Don't remember much after that, a few spliffs and bowls later, just Lara reproducing the Picasso painting on the wall in her journal, me stumbling home and realizing it's 2 a.m. and I have a philosophy paper to write.
.....I'm so ready for Thanksgiving...
21:23 - Monday, Nov. 17, 2003 this writing kick
�I�m going to go write a novel,� I say at twelve midnight on a Saturday in November.
They laugh. �Have you started yet?� Andrew asks.
�No.� I have no face because my back is turned, but if I did it�d be deadpan...
Well, I haven�t.
----
Anyway, that's what I've been doing. Writing pages and pages worth of drivel, or, in other words, wringing out my heart and my funny bone onto paper. Fear my pretentiousness. Fear it! I hope I never get off of this writing kick. I love it.
So far, it's almost completely nonfiction. I plan to span it from the past into the future, so half of it will be nonfiction and half fiction. I let Lara see a section last night; I reproduce that priceless luxury here...
(never take anything I say seriously, ever. and remember that I've changed all the names.)
--
We open this novel through a hole in the ceiling that Tony smashed in with a croquet mallet. The camera lens fits snugly into the cavity, the center of a roadmap of cracks leading out, out, out. The picture comes out a little dark and unfocused, but it�s still clear enough that just directly under the little �x�, we can easily see that a boy with long brown hair dressed as Jesus, toga and all, is hitting a joint. Spreading further out, one Ninja Turtle has his arms (flippers, claws?) around two giggling girls dressed as hippies. He roars. Does he think he�s a lion? He�s a turtle, for fucks sakes. Even a turtle who�s a Ninja wouldn�t roar so..
Anyway, it is Halloween. Not that it matters. In this house, with this camera, this scene could be taking place at any time.
The other three Ninja Turtles are spread out. One is careening down the block touting water balloons as ammunition, and another is struggling to disentangle himself from the embrace of an overly intoxicated freshman who was dressed as Jason until he misplaced his mask, so now he�s just Jason, some kid who�s too drunk... not Jason, the terrifying monster from the movies. The fourth Ninja Turtle is part of the witness protection program. It�s obvious that the FBI has done some serious work on him; it must have cost a fortune for the surgery. Somehow, they�ve covered up his shell and tinted his skin so he looks like a boy with short black hair and darting gray eyes wearing a dinosaur oven mitt on his right hand.
�Matt, you fucking wussed out on the turtle thing, man,� Donatello says to him.
(The WPP does you no good if your friends aren�t aware of the gravity of the situation.)
�It�s just not me,� �Matt� says.
�Whatever, Leonardo,� says Donatello. �We know who you really are.�
�If you find my Jason mask, man,� slurs Jason, �just hold it for me, aiiiiight? This is so the best party I�ve ever been to, man, thank you for having it. Thank you so much. I mean, this is the best party I�ve ever been to, man. This is the best...�
Cut.
Turtles are nothing when you�ve worn a ski mask to a frat party and gotten hit on by more sorority girls than have ever hit on you in your life. Or when you�ve stopped in at the fancy Italian restaurant on Main St. in a puffy orange jacket, gym shorts, and cowboy boots, pretending to be the Godfather as you pay ten dollars for a cake that isn�t yours. How about when a seventy-year-old man on a tottery blue bike stalks you down a riverbank and you think you see blood soaking into the silt at the shoreline?
This Jason kid has no idea how bad it can get.
