yo quiero a los que me quieran y olvido a los que me olvidan

Sometimes it occurs to me that I could populate a very unrealistic novel by simply describing the daily customers that come into my shop. Currently there’s a bronze-tone airhead escort and a nice couple in shopping for leather that I rather like. Middle-aged, short hair, I’m making castrati jokes with the wife and they’re asking for my opinion on how everything fits, whether his bouncy penis is showing or no. Another man is shuffling around, a senior citizen with immaculate inch long nails, (one pinky nail painted gold and a full inch longer than the others), trailing an oppressive floral perfume that goes well with his wrists full of jewelry and his over-size rhinestone rings, but painfully with his hawaiian-print silk shirt, teal gore-tex jacket, and ill-chosen dark brown lipstick. Even with the door open, the air will be choking sweet for hours after he leaves.

Yesterday a cross-dressing hooker dressed entirely in shades of pale baby pink gave me half a box of chocolate covered almonds because she’s trying to watch her weight. Last week a midget in a three-tier camo-print mini skirt came in with her intimidatingly conservative chinese grandparents and a girl with a inexplicable jar of peanut butter, which initially doesn’t sound odd until you’re aware of just how polished she seemed, as if she were wearing plastic on her skin to keep the dust off.

Every day is a little bit like this. A long song of eccentrics, broken up by bleach blond trendy girls with hoop earrings, playboy belly button pendants, and puffy white ski jackets that show their navels, clothing marking social regularity or mis-match. It’s a parade of costumes to the point where I can spot call girls from strippers in a crowd without trying just by the way they wear their hair. Eye make-up and foundation are also beginning to be tip-offs. I wonder if this is the skill I’ll pull away from this job, being able to spot market trends in people who put themselves up for sale.

Undressed – From the Hotel Lobby to a One Night Stand, a mix-tape by dys

There’s a Christopher Walken movie night happening this Friday at Michael‘s house downtown. At this point the plan is to watch the William Gibson film, New Rose Hotel*, the King of New York (by the same director), and Suicide Kings. (These are subject to change due to availability or complaints). There will be also various potentially painful SNL clips, if you are brave enough, and a reading of Poe’s The Raven.

*New Rose Hotel comes with a warning: Willem Defoe appears naked. This is more scarring than you would previously suppose.

this is my problem

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Point A is a little shop twenty feet wide by fifty feet long. Point A has taupe walls and a varying selection of shiny PVC boots in black, red or white. Point A is only properly bearable through the magic of the internet. Points B are exciting. Points B are made up of concerts, house-parties, restaurants, theaters, and various happenings. I suspect later I will leave Point A for an A.2, A Place Where Good People Are.

However, what I’m constantly searching for are Points B. There’s a slew of scientists here, as well as video game types, some skilled illustrators, a couple more musicians, and assorted accomplished writers. I know you folk can cough up. Be my friend, tell me what’s going on where you are and where I am. Die Puny Humans has been tickling my Need To Know with a damned heavy hammer.

Mike discovered where the Adicolor ads are coming from. Red and Green are now available. They make me happy.

Australian writer, Ben Peek, says “I quite like Nathan Ballingrud’s blog.” So should you.

“Serious writers have an obligation to empathize. If you can’t do that — if you can’t make an effort to feel the experience of another person, no matter how cosmetically and culturally different, then who exactly are you writing about? Are you writing the same set of characters over and over again, only with different names and in different settings? Am I?

Recoiling for fear of fucking it up is unhealthy for the writer, unhealthy for the genre, and unfair to people who find themselves either under-represented or all-but excluded from the genre. It is also downright criminal for a category of fiction which styles itself as forward-thinking, and culturally literate.”