balding angrily

I think I spoke too soon with yesterday’s post. The creative part of writing is the hardest; I’ve been staring at those few paragraphs for the day, trying to figure out where the story goes. Part of me just wants to end it there. Part of me wants to find out more about this character who has vivid and horrifying fantasies. And then I spent an hour this morning editing a few other pieces. I really love editing - taking an x-acto knife to a piece. The creative part hurts my head.

At Tuesday’s Writers’ Group, we’re sharing short-short humor stories. I re-wrote a post from this blog because nothing really funny is happening to me since Jen-An and Owen moved away. Oh! But good news, Jen-An is visiting Dallas, so we get to see her tonight. Hopefully she’ll do something wacky.

So, I just got back from the gym, and on my way home, there was a woman talking on her cell phone in front of me. As people on cell phones do, she was driving slow and blocking my way. I’ve been trying to stop flipping people off or honking at them because, upon reflection, I know I’m an asshole for doing it. Plus, as Jerry says, it just sends negativity into the universe.

Since I couldn’t honk or flip her off, and since my testosterone levels were really high thanks to my workout, I gripped the wheel and yelled at the top of my lungs. Which, upon reflection again, was really stupid. I think I seriously tore up my throat.

Anyway, this gave me fodder for the start of a story, which is below. The first line is from The First Line, a great website and resource for writers. I have a really hard time starting from scratch. Being given just a kernel of an idea is perfect for me. Then I can write about what I just wrote. Then I can write about that, etc. All I need is that first bit.

By the way, I don’t know where I’m going with this. At this point, I usually stop and map out how I want the plot to go and how characters want to feel to me. Then I write, letting the plot and characters lead me in different directions. Then I edit out all the extraneous stuff, trying to find the essence of the plot and characters. Adding more descriptive, more accurate, language.

So this is a sneak peek at that first part. It’s very rough. VERY rough. Don’t judge me too harshly.

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- Edit -

I removed the story because I submitted it after a re-write.  I don’t want to hurt my chances of publication by having it already “published.”  Write me if you want a copy of it.  Thanks.

Hammacher Schlemmer never ceases to surprise me.

Here’s the problem. Mom likes to say things but her tongue gets in the way, and I like to point out people’s faults.

I was 22 - just old enough to pretend that I could handle my liquor - and it was my sister’s birthday. Mom told Sister to choose any restaurant for her special birthday dinner. She chose Red Lobster.

Don’t get me wrong. I loves me some Red Lobster; their cheese biscuits are things of magnificent glory, but remember I was just old enough to play at sophistication. When I told Mom that Sister wanted Red Lobster - that she wanted to hand pick her lethargic protein item from a murky tank, a seafood ghetto - Mom gave me a look. Sister saw the look and said, “What? I want lobster!”

Acting as the designated gentleman, I held the front door for my family, confirmed that there was a wait, and took the drink orders. Mom and I had mixed drinks with enough alcohol in them to close our throats. It was as if our throats were doormen holding back of rowdy teenagers. And we, as the owners of the bar, had to pull the doormen aside to say, “Look. What’s the harm? Their money’s good.” Then when the teenagers get insde, they set fire to the DJ booth and rip the stuffing from the couch cushions. We had to will our throats to swallow. Sister had iced tea.

We enjoyed our meal for two reasons. Our waitress was exceptional, and Mom and I continued to swallow liver disease goodness from our glasses. When the waitress delivered the check I wanted to compliment her on her service.

“I just wanted to say that you did a wonderful job. Honestly. We had a wonderful time,” I said.

“Oh. I totally agree. Great job. Thank you so much,” Sister said.

Then as the waitress was clearing the last of the dishes Mom, waking from a stupor, lifted her head and said, “I just too had a good time.”

The waitress left, and I turned to Mom, closed one eye and said slowly, “You just too had good time?”

“I knew you were going to say something,” Mom said, growing red.

“I don’t know. I just thought you might want to explain what that statement means. Like JUST THEN, you had so good time? Or you had just so good time, in general?”

Mom made a pouty face and put her head down on the table with her arms and around her like a fort had the Spanish-American war been fought by salt and pepper shakers. The visible part of her head, the back, shook, and it took me a moment to realize that she was attempting to hide her laughter. Which started me laughing.

We sank in our seats, gasping and sputtering, and Sister looked at us in horror. The waitress came back to check on us, and turned on her heel when she saw the table was in a state of revolt.

Mom and I have apologized many times to Sister for that night.

Both fantabulastic and hurtsmyfeetandbrain. We stayed in Midtown, on the east side - across Times Square from the theaters and Hell’s Kitchen. So we always had to cross Times Square when we wanted to do something. This is bad. Times Square is just too overwhelming; I’m finding that I don’t do crowds and visual over-stimulation anymore. I think in high school I thrived on it, but now I can’t handle it. My brain gets all schizy and my sphincter clenches. The best times we had were in Lower Manhattan and on the West Side: Greenwich Village, SoHo, Chelsea, the West 40s. Even though those were still Manhattan it seemed like they were neighborly, inwardly-focused. One day we walked all the way from our hotel near Grand Central Station down to SoHo. We ate at a cool Mexican restaurant, I bought myself douche-wear (pre-torn jeans and tight knit shirts), and Jerry shopped galleries. He was a little disappointed in the galleries. He said that the galleries all held works by famous names. We were hoping to find more galleries with works from local artists. I guess that scene has moved to the Meat Packing District. Next time we’ll make it down there.

As usual we had some great meals. Our best were at Gotham Bar & Grill and Esca. We liked Esca a little bit better because it was a surprise to us. We were just strolling through the West 40s and we came across it. We shared a salt-crusted whole sea bass in olive oil. It was to die for. Our most relaxed-but-good was at Jack. Our biggest disappointment was at Serendipity 3. Don’t believe the Oprah-hype. When we weren’t feeling like interloping child-molesters due to the high female tween population, we were being assualted by Victorian kitzch. The frozen hot chocolate - their signature item, the confection that a Food Network star described as complex and rich - was nothing more than a Starbucks mocha frappuccino. Luckily Jerry fell for the hype instead of me. I enjoyed a delicious peanut butter sundae.

We saw Spring Awakening, Xanadu, and In the Heights. I enjoyed Spring Awakening and Xanadu the most. We sat in the front row, just off center during Spring Awakening. Jerry got sweat and spit on by the singers. We were close enough to see them cry, and we cried. It was just really intense. Xanadu was a fun, fun lark. Silly, stupid, old-time frivolity with Whoopie Goldberg doing a limited stint. In the Heights was good but the music wasn’t really to my tastes. The Heights is Washington Heights, which, according to the play, has a strong Hispanic population. The acting, singing, and dancing were all wonderful - the dancing especially - but I just couldn’t get into the Latin vibe of the music.

We walked a lot, as was our intention. Since I knew we were going to eat a lot, I wanted to maintain some semblance of health by walking. Consequently I was tired the whole time. Next time we’ll plan on eating less, walking less, and staying near NYU. That seemed to be the area that was central to all the places we liked the best. And we won’t be duped into Oprah’s recommendations.

We plan on gong to London early next year. I think I’m going to ask my doctor for an anti-anxiety medication. Hopefully that will help me to relax and enjoy myself more.