Ice Cream and Declarations of Love

No, you’re not hallucinating. This is actually here. Guilt washes me like a car wash on crack.

I was up late last night, putting together more submissions and thinking about how I’ve neglected “A Momentary Lapse of Reason.” I suppose my motivation is lost somewhere. I’m not sure what kind of place this is. I’m putting too much pressure on myself to finish this book by the end of August, but that excuse is getting old—I miss you all.

I’m 10% of the mail at the post office. It’s nuts, like rock climbing in the nude, but it’s starting to pay off, slowly (the submissions, not the rock climbing). Excuse the horrendous similes above and below, like heaven and hell fighting over a hot dog at a little league game. This entry will be filled with them, like Santa’s sack on Christmas Eve, and not the one on his sled, bitches!—see what I mean? GROSS! I spend too much time worrying about what I say on the page that I need to be a stupid 3rd grader here if things are going to balance out. This is what writing a novel does—turns you into an idiot.

My head is killing me, like mice attacking janitors at a crayon factory. Run fuckers! Run!

Been reading all of your blogs and trying to catch up with everything going on in your lives. It’s sort of sad, like when producers actually agreed to make a sequel to Dirty Dancing without Patrick Swayze or Jennifer Grey. But no one puts Tommy in a corner. I’m still here, if you even care at this point—I don’t blame you if you've abandoned me. But here is my declaration of love to all bloggers.

Daisy, if you got a tattoo of a sprinkler on your bicep and said you were joining a biker gang called the Water Tanks, I’d still love you.

Mendacious, if you threw salami at small children because you just wanted to know what it felt like, I’d still love you, and perhaps find a place where you could get the right counseling.

Penelope, if you sold your shower curtain to buy hair extensions, I’d love you more. Don’t tempt me! We’ll braid those bitches, bake cakes in EZ Bake Ovens, and crank some JayZ.

Unwilling Adult, if you fought the law and the law actually fucking won, I’d mow your lawn, take out your trash, and start a chain letter with pictures of your mugshot on the stationary, all the while, still loving you.

And Cue, if you wanted me to drink soy milk for a year in order to help you learn the language of kittens, I wouldn’t be thrilled, it might take me some time to cope with this decision, but eventually, as time passes, I’d be up to the challenge, and still love you.

Incredible Megs, if chickens stopped laying their eggs, I’d kill a giraffe in your honor. No need to tell me twice, just one and a half will do, much like how any character on Fox’s Party of Five speaks. “You have to kill the giraffe, Baily. You have to.”

I see Hub-Bub is now blogging—may I love you as well or is it too soon—are you scared like me?

CHALICE! Watch over all of us with your mystical powers and warn off all evil-doers. Hope you’re out there bringing kindness to all. And if you’re not—I’ll still love you.

These are certainly tough reasons to accept, but I’m willing to overlook all of our flaws.

Lastly, one other thing that was bothering me late LATE last night was that someone in NASA hasn’t figured out how to use ice cream for deodorant. I just think the world would be a happier place and everyone would smell wonderful.

“That’s a lovely scent,” Brad said, edging closer. “What is it?”

“ROCKY ROAD! You like!”

All right, maybe that example doesn’t capture what I originally envisioned, like a boy with a broken legs chasing after fireflies.

I think I would wear something borderline feminine but still masculine, like Raspberry Pecan or Butterscotch or I don’t know….I’m out.

R I D E T H E S N A K E

I have such a headache. Time is moving so f u c k i n g s l o w.

So, has anyone else been watching The Drug Years on VH1? It got me thinking about acid. Nobody really drops acid anymore. I don’t think there should be a reemergence of LSD, but wouldn’t it be great if VH1 did a show called Best Trip Ever, similar to Best Week Ever. Or maybe Worst Trip Ever. They’d say, “So you smoked a gram of crack and stole your grandmother’s television, but one of these junkies is having the best trip ever!”

I imagine myself going back in time to San Francisco, 1967 to be exact, just for one day, a few sugar cubes of LSD dissolving on my tongue, and then I’ll stroll down Height Ashbury and dance like a seizure.

So, thinking about experiencing history on acid, if the cosmos reached down with its many liquid arms and offered me the chance to go back in time and experience 10 acid trips at any event, location, or time period of my choosing, guaranteeing that I’d survive without consequences, no matter how I participated or acted, here’s a rough draft of what I’d consider:

1.Altamont Speedway, Dec. 1969. California’s answer to Woodstock. Front row, where the Hells Angels, hired by the Rolling Stones as security, tore the place apart, marking the end of flower power.

2.Woodstock, of COURSE! As long as I didn’t have to ingest the brown acid. And I’d love to step on stage and bust out some Pearl Jam, pawning it off as my own.

3.The crucifixion of Christ, since…come on, can you imagine tripping your face off and watching that shit?

4.Ford’s Theater—The Lincoln shooting. If anything, it would be one hell of a play. I could always stand and yell, “Duck, bitch!"

5.The Declaration of Independence, just so I could sneak in line and write Sum1Signme 4-EVA in block letters, or maybe Dick Cummings or Mike Hunt.

6.I’d follow Jim and the rest of The Doors into the desert and bring them all ice cream.

7.Dec. 1980. The Dakota Building, Central Park, NYC. I’d beat the fuck out of Mark David Chapman before John Lennon arrives home, then shoot Yoko Ono instead.

8.Become an extra on the first Star Wars movie and play a storm trooper working on the death star.

9.Crash my parents’ prom.

10.Befriend Bruce Springsteen in 1974, break Max Weinberg’s arms and play drums for the entire Born to Run Tour.

Mail Role Model

So, it’s been a while. My mind’s application for permanent residency in novelworld was accepted, and now I must ride this bitch until it’s finished, if such a finish line even exists, though my novel is about a blog, so technically, I’m updating all the time, but unfortunately this is not a place for that discussion.

Father’s Day is this Sunday, and I’ve already fucked that one up…

I was at the post office, mailing off a manuscript and 2 father’s day cards, one for my ‘actual’ father and one for Jesus! No, just kidding. The other was for my stepfather. After I fixed the stamps on both envelopes and dropped them in the slot, a panic stirred—I’m pretty sure I tucked my stepfather’s card inside my father’s envelope and vice versa, which shouldn’t be that much of a problem, since even though it’s their holidays, both cards contained some variation of the same message: “I am broke. Please send money.”

This could work in my favor. What if my stepfather reads the card addressed to my father, becomes overwhelmed with jealousy, and therefore, sends me a check out of guilt in an attempt to be a better long distant, semi-parent? Or, what if my father reads my stepfather’s card and arrives at the conclusion that I share a special bond with a fatherly figure other than him? Hence, guilt might arrive in the form of a check. Or they both might conclude that I don’t take father’s day seriously and cut me off completely.

Well, sorry to be away, but I assure you, it’s for a good purpose. Keep one eye on the prize and lemon pepper on your fries.

Peace.

Tom and Mel Random Moment # 5: Special 2006 MTV Movie Awards Edition

Tom: It's good to see Kate Beckinsale not dressed up like a vampire killer for once, but what the hell is up with her outfit. It's horrible! I bet it ends up on Go Fug Yourself.

Mel: It did.

Tom: No shit?

Mel: You figured that out all by yourself. How cute!

Tom: I know fashion. I know what's going on.

Excitement

Am I a true loser since I got excited after the mailman delivered me the Oxford Dictionary of Phrasal Verbs?

Pudding Time

My brain is like tapioca pudding and the world is one massive spoon.

I’m tired of being tired and fighting the good fight. Someone needs to give my checking account CPR or current places of employment will stand over my dead bank account and say, “It’s really a shame. I sort of liked tossing a few dollars your way. Guess you can’t win ‘em all.”

If this novel I’m writing doesn’t sell, I’m trading in my laptop for a pair of binoculars and moving to Brazil to become a professional, exotic bird watcher—I’m sure the pay is better, or at least close.

I’ve been away for a few days and will most likely be away for a few more. My schedule is consuming me, both personal and academic. The summer is beginning to depress me. Last year, around this time, Mel and I soaked up the sun at a beautiful condo in Ormond Beach, figured out a strategy to collect as many Fast Passes for Space Mountain at Disney, but now, we’re collecting astronomical gas receipts and drafting lesson plans, all for an exciting salary (I’m sorry did I say salary…no we don’t get that). Paying our dues sucks.

But like Christina says, “You are beautiful / no matter what they say / words can’t bring you down.”

Busy Bee

So, sorry to be away, but I'm immersed in BLOG. About 60 pages in and I could use a few readers. Anyone interested, please contact me. In return, of course, I'll read any work you want to share.

I've been wiped out, nothing new to report other than ughdushuiadguiogaydogsgodyo. Yes, I've been speaking in word verification language. I assure you my novel is not.

Port City Drama 2

So, he took off. Two men in uniform went after him and another, undercover, is waiting here, sitting and drinking coffee calmly.

Port City Drama

It’s a little after 7 a.m. I’m at PCJ and this homeless person came storming in here, picked up a chair and started growling like a lion. I feel so bad for these two kids who are here with their father; they were right by the door when he approached and scared them. The little girl jumped back and hid behind the brother. The father was ordering at the counter. Apparently one of the …

OK so he just came back RIGHT NOW and he’s banging on the coffee shop windows. The manager is calling the police.

Christ, you know I wake up early and come down here to get some writing and find DRAMA. More updates to come on this…

Losing My Religion

Q-How can I wash away my sins?
B- Only cleansed by His blood!

I saw this caption on a church billboard this morning while driving to work. What the fuck is wrong with the South? Sometimes I wonder how the hell I ended up here. The First Baptist Church behind our apartment also advertises a billboard, “The Davinci Code Decoded. Come and here the truth!” Organized religion…no wait, let me back up…Disorganized religion (that’s better) gets more airplay in this town than Cher’s “Believe” when it first hit radio. Also, I ‘heart’ churches that advertise the messiah like he’s actually fucking here! In Wilmington! Right fucking now! I drove past one not too long ago that read, “The Lord is here. Come here him speak this Saturday!” I was like, “This Saturday? Fuck! I’m going to be out of town.” Personally, if He is, in fact, here, I’d love to hear what’s on His mind. Something like, “Oh my Me, so many of you showed up. Thank you for coming. Don’t forget to try our salad bar.”

Lord, I’m tempted. I cannot lie. Please show me Your greatness and guide me with Your patience. I’m tempted to show up at church next Sunday, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and say, “Hi, my name is Tom. I’m here for the cleansing.” What sort of cleansing are we talking about? A shower of blood? Perhaps a garden hose connected to a shower, then filtered through a sprinkler system like the ones I ran through in my backyard as a kid. That would be bitchin! Maybe a little Black Sabbath on the house system.

Did any of you know I went to Catholic school for many MANY years? K-5. It seriously screwed me up. Once I threatened to punch out a nun after she took my Metallica cassette. Isn’t that awful?? I really could’ve use some cleansing then. Now, God would have to start with preschool and just work his way down the list.

But honestly I really REALLY blame the South. For example, a few months after I first moved to Wilmington in 1999, I spent the summer selling Bruce Springsteen bootlegs on Ebay. Granted this is another sin that needs cleansing, but it’s the truth. I made a fuckload of money before Ebay shut me down. But one particular afternoon, smoking pot with my friend Michelle at my apartment, we heard a knock on the door—It was noon, and no one ever visited me unannounced. I looked through the peephole and saw two men in dark suits. Mind you, I was really REALLY high and convinced they were from the FBI, coming to bust me for selling unauthorized live recordings on eBay. My kitchen counter looked like a shipping and receiving center, about 5 copies of 6 different shows, a label kit, etc. I stashed everything in the freezer and then opened the door. These two men in nice suits stood before me, each wearing a nametag that read: Hello, My Name is Jesus Christ. They weren’t feds. They were spreading God’s news.

A few weeks later, I was reading a Stephen King book at the beach when three gorgeous women approached me—tall blonde, curvy, hourglass women. They asked all sorts of mundane questions like, “Where are you from? What do you do for a living? How do you spend your weekends?” etc. These women were beautiful and I thought to myself, Something’s up. This is too strange. These women are too hot to be hitting on me. I mean all at once? Did I put acid in my corn flakes this morning? Am I being Punked? I sensed an agenda. Finally one asked me if I’d like to get together over the weekend. I was like…Um, FUCK YEAH! That’s when a scrawny boy, no more than eight, entered the picture and these girls introduced me to him. His name was Alex and he told me about how these women saved his life by introducing him to Jesus. He said he used to steal and lie to his mother, but now he found God. To make a long story short, my beach-blonde fantasy didn’t come true and still hasn’t til this day.

So, Jesus take the wheel and drive me out of this town that lies about your whereabouts and allows false prophets to roam its streets. I mean, if you do really exist, I don’t think Wilmington is the right place for you. People here are just batshit crazy!

Amen.