6.17.2007

Save the date: The Nihilist Bookfair

A con[blog]versation I had with Hunts recently spawned some thought.

First, from me.

m--
Nice work, Hunts. You're blogging, and I'm Proud. Proud like a really really proud thing.
Wow, that last sentance sounds a lot like my prose as of late. Huh.
--M


And from Hunts:

M--
Hey, i miss you, sorry to have not called. but we should hook it up; maybe later we can cruise down to r. kelly blvd and get some fried chicken. What are these "reviews" you speak of? I need to know about these things. Your words are a little bit punk rock, but what dominates is the nihilism. so. the cookie hath crumbled; and now you're a nihilist, which, as the dude says, must be exhausting.
--m


What the fuck. A LITTLE BIT punk rock? I mean, don't I get at least a medium amount or a generous handful of punk rock?
I suppose it doesn't really matter--I mean, don't punk rock and nihilism walk hand in hand anyway? I mean, it's like: "Okay, I'm at this fucking show and this fucking moron looked at my friend funny. I could either a: break this fucking bottle over his head or b: drink this fucking beer. Hmm. Whatever dude, they're both pretty punk rock."

That's what I'm fucking talking about.

Okay--roll call. Does anyone fucking remember that time I worked at the circus and Damon and Spokane Mike showed up at the Honey Hole with the NUMBER ONE PRETTIEST BOY CRYSTAL AND I HAD EVER SEEN? Remember when I finally got him in the back of Jackson's car, leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear: "I could ride you until you cried"? Oh yeah. I wrote a piece loosely based on that night. I was reminded of him two nights ago, and so, I will tell this story as I might if in the company of my favorite bartender, Jeremiah Harrison.

So there I was, two beers in but just arriving at Whiskey Thieves. A quick lap reveals Erica has not yet arrived, so I saddle up to the bar to order a Maker's rocks and a beer. The bartender retreats to grab my PBR from the fridge, and in an effort to get my wallet from my bag, I bump into some kid sitting at the stool next to me. I turn in his direction to whisper a 'sorry' and am met with the gaze of the NUMBER ONE PRETTIEST BOY I HAVE EVER SEEN. True story. When I finally got the guts to introduce myself, I come to find his name is James.
One Maker's turned to two, which turned to last call, and next thing you know, James and I are rushing to the corner mart to grab a six pack before it's too late. This of course leads to the standard 'go to my apartment, put on some punk rock and try on all of my sunglasses while we trash the place' type after party.
It was somewhere midst all the subsequent naked sexiness that he took my hand and explained to me that in actuality, he has a girlfriend, that maybe he shouldn't be doing this. My response? Oh. Yeah. It was something like: "Dude, it doesn't matter whether you actually do this or not--your intent would be the same, and should you chose to obstain it doesn't make you fucking valorous because you were able to express some will power. What you really shouldn't be doing? You shouldn't be doubting your relationship with your girlfriend--the fact that you are doubting it isn't saved or destroyed by cheating on her or no. And yes--yes you do doubt her--or you wouldn't be here right now getting the best blow job of your short life."

Fine. Call me what you will, but do not for one moment take the last dregs of my rock and roll lifestyle from me, because you will have to tear it from my cold, dead hands.

Oh, yes, you in the back? I'm sorry, your question? Oh. Did I ever sleep with the kid from the Honey Hole? Unfortunately not. I was valiant in my efforts, but that one must be filed with Mr. Jackson, a couple of guys named Pete, and ironically, Spokane Mike.
Yes. Second row. His name? Oh, you mean the Honey Hole kid?

Funny you should ask.

It was James.

--M

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