The New Adventures of Chase and Chase: The Rather Quite Chronicles, Part II

Breaking News

After a long week of writing and drinking cheap local beer, local celebutante and wannabe novelist Clever-Ann "Chase" Rhymes, best known for her longtime on-and-off relationship with King 5 evening news broadcaster, Rather Quite, is apparently, quote: "exhausted." Rhymes goes on to say: "You know what? This is fucking ridiculous. Yeah, I know, my name's fucking Clever for chrissakes," Rhymes expounds through the intoxication, "but at least it's not fucking Punky. Or fucking Rather. I mean, dude...Rather? What the fuck kind of name is that? Damn, bitch, I'm fuckin' tired." Rhymes estimates she'll eventually get some sleep sometime in December, although she elaborates that it is not guaranteed if, quote: "Rather keeps reading me the fucking news all hours of the goddamn night. Ha ha," she said laughingly.

[italics, again, mine.]


For Angelica

The New Adventures of Chase and Chase: The Rather Quite Chronicles

by: Chase Moure

Dedicated to Chase Arents in the Style of Chase Collum

This just in: Local celebrity Rather Quite, best known as longtime evening news broadcaster but also dabbles in AIDS research, was found this evening spinning around in circles mid mild traffic on the corner of Airport Way and South Lucille in naught but his boxers. Witnesses attest that he is most likely suffering from a crippling cocktail of mental illness and alcohol. Judy Box, local artisan and Georgetown resident who witnessed the incident quoted him screaming through a rolled-up newspaper that he fashioned into a makeshift bullhorn: "Call me Punky Brewster again and I'm gonna show you who's gonna read the fuckin' news! Me, goddamnit! I'm gonna read you the fuckin news!"

[italics mine.]



Fuck NaNoWriMo.

Okay, okay. I know, make love, not war--but seriously. This is the part I hate--when ideas are running thin and word counts are running low and I'm trying to find some inspiration for the final push.

Hopefully I wont end up 4000 words shy this year.

Oh, you want more excerpts?

I guess I will oblige, but first I should take the time to actually describe my NaNoWriMo project.

The idea is that I'm rewriting a series of Greek myths using events that, um..."actually happened" [these are much more highly fictionalized than I usually write] to update and re-define them. The point? To figure out whether we deify our loved ones or humanize our gods. Take that as you will.

The last excerpt was a re-write of Cupid and Psyche. I've done Persephone, Icarus, and Narcissus...and this excerpt is from the last.

In the retelling I equate drug use and egotism to the overly expressed vanity in the original story. Enjoy.

“So what’s good here?” He says, smiling at me.
“Everything.” What I mean is that everything is equally good. It’s a diner—every diner has the same stuff, and it’s all pretty much fine. I have my favorites, however, and have no idea why I’m even glancing at the menu. The truth is that I already know exactly what I want, and so I fold my menu next to me, take a sip of my coffee.
“Everything? That can’t be true. What about…what about the french toast? Is it good?”
“Yeah, it’s good.” The truth is, I have no idea. I’ve never had it here. Ever. In my life.
“Awesome. French toast it is. We have this place in Portland, Dots? They have the best pancakes. The best. We used to go there before practice on Sundays.” I think he’s forgotten that I used to live in Portland, I’ve been to Dots many times. Yes, it’s true, they do have the best pancakes. I chose not to remind him.

Our waiter comes around to take our orders. Alex, just as promised, orders the french toast. Then the waiter turns to me.
“I’ll have the one-egg mini breakfast, scrambled, wheat toast, and a Grey Goose Bloody Mary, no Tabasco, extra horseradish. Does that come with dilly beans, or celery?”
“Both,” the waiter replies, “and olives and onions.”
“Perfect,” I say, handing him my menu, “just how I like it. Alex, you want one too?”
“You know,” he says a bit contemplatively and not lacking in judgment, “I don’t really drink.”
“Excellent choice,” our waiter interjects as I stare at Alex wide eyed and wondering why he had asked me for drinks the night before, “your Bloody Mary will be over in just a jiffy, sweetheart. You two might want to work this out in the meantime.”

Hurricane waiters are known for their surliness. I note that this one, citing more than just the single raised eyebrow, is not excluded from this.

“Yeah, I just, you know, I had a couple bad experiences,” Alex is expounding, “a couple violent experiences. I’m not a very accomplished drunk, and so sometime in my twenties, I just decided not to get drunk anymore.”

What I eventually say and what I’m thinking are two completely different things. I’m thinking, oh fuck, this is going to be like dating a non-smoker. Oh fuck, The walls of his perfection are crumbling, oh fuck fuck fuck—all of my friends are drunks and bartenders. No matter, I can handle this. Unfortunately, I see many days ahead of passing a pipe that I don’t actually partake of. Although I’ve only seen him smoke one bowl in the last 12 hours, I’m now positive that I’m sitting across from a complete and utter—albeit highly functional—honest to god stoner.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave me the fuck alone. Tonight, yes. Tonight I'm taking off, but only because I accidently screamed at my poor sleeping boyfriend in the middle of the night last night. His crime? Sleep-elbowing me in the face. Now I owe him dinner and backrubs.

Actually, you should have been there. If you've ever wondered what I might scream at you in the middle of the night after you've woken me with a swift elbow to the face on accident, then rest assured that the result is pretty hilarious.

"Goddamnit! You're not being fucking fair! That is not fucking fair!"

[I'm really, really sorry. Also, I'm totally still giggling.]


NaNoWriMo '08: Excerpt.

So at my birthday party, there was some talk that, due to my new monogamous relationship (yes, that I am in. seriously.) that I have come a long way from my manifesto. I was thinking about this coming into the inagural days of NaNoWriMo, and wanted to begin on that note.

To answer all of your pre-emptive questions, yes. I am behind. Already. I am, however, trying furiously to catch up and no, this is not one of my procrastination techniques of which I have many. Trust.

By day, as he has told me, he spends his long hours penning short songs that pull the heartstrings of his audiences. In the evening, should a venue present itself, he will perform them, and in this wake people swoon and buckle to his inklings. Couples will glance to each other during a refrain and see each other as they have not before and friends lean to grasp each other’s hands. A verse might bring about a roving eye from a single lad that lands upon a deserving maid who, unbeknownst to her, has already in his mind been qualified as the one. A hook might bring a tear to a woman’s eye that misses a loved one overseas.

I believe him when he tells me of this though I have never seen it, because this is what I want for myself. I want my pen and I to elicit such response, to bring tears and love and anger and all manner of such vibrant emotion. I want people to ache to hear what I have to say; I want to be the one to speak of the queues of people just wanting to catch a glimpse, a note. A word.

I have another 300 words today just to catch up from yesterday. If you're not currently calculating and breaking this down in your head, then I will say it plainly for you--

I have another 2000 words to write. Today.