Tired of the long haul

2003-01-02T01:11:00.000-05:00

It’s far too early to be as late as it is, my mind is foggy from with Nyquil and THC that’s had a good four hours to circulate through my system. January 1st has been nothing much more than a null day for as long as I can remember, and so it has been today, sleeping off the night before, leaving the last year behind and getting ready for the new one, this day is just a hiccup on the way there.

I’ve been coughing up anything that’s gone down my throat for the past day and a half, at first I thought it was just my lungs teaching my a lesson, and I’m still not sure that’s so far from the case, though it seems to be more than that.

I told myself that I would do certain things this new year, made resolutions for myself, usually I don’t go for that type of thing, usually I don’t try to look at myself and what I can do change myself, but this year I did. I will write at least one thing a day, whether it’s notes for a story or a story itself, I will try to do that each day, and then set up specific timelines for myself to finish stories. I will do the same thing for drawing. Maybe it’ll work out and maybe it won’t, but I will have tried… I hope it works out.

Also, I saw Two Towers today. That was pretty good.

--Stu

2002-12-22T01:31:00.000-05:00

There’s something in the back of my throat tonight. It’s a common enough occurrence, as if there was something I needed to expel from my body but just can’t get enough courage to do it. I could burst into laughter or tears right now, it would make no difference, my hollow face now elastic with whatever emotion fits most easily into the present situation. Life has become nothing but scenery to me recently, watching from the sidelines and occasionally making a comment to move the story along.

The lights are dim inside the house, compensated by the fifteen hundred candles lit throughout the living and dining rooms. The heat was tremendous. Steam rises from the back of my neck as I exit out by the sliding glass door to the back porch, I light a cigarette. The smoke hits the back of my mouth and claws its way down my throat as a take the first drag, it’s then that I notice the tear running down cheek. I caught it in my palm and wiped it across my face. It wasn’t that I was overwhelmingly depressed; I had just come from laughing and joking with unrecognized lifelong friends and acquaintances inside, to be alone with my cigarette, my drink and the cold night air. It was nice to not have to fight the long line of interrogations concerning what I was not doing with my young life, and what I planned to fail at in the future.

-- S
It's a lonely holiday.

2002-12-13T18:30:00.000-05:00

Current favorite song? "I want to live" off Rhett Miller's solo album, the whole album is really great. "I want to live" is the type of song you expect to see a cast dance to as the credits roll on some odd comedy, i dare you not to sing along.

2002-11-27T16:07:00.000-05:00

Can someone say, “Depression”?

Johanna was finally reviewed today and both people decided to pass on it, I know it’s not the end of the world, but it still not the wind out of me.

One guy thought that it was too contrived and confusing, the other one was less of a jackass and said it had some promise but didn’t really think the story went where the character’s wanted to go, and that I shouldn’t get discouraged, I should just make a major overhaul and try again. Yeah, I shouldn’t be discouraged, the script would be great if it was entirely different, thanks!

So now what? I guess I just keep waiting, because I really don’t feel like rewriting that damn thing right now. I’ll just have to wait and hope that someone likes the script the way it is. Damn.

Moving on to other thoughts; its Thanksgiving weekend, so that’s really good, I plan to get stoned and sleep for five days straight, its not much of a change, except for the sleep, that should be nice.

Go and join www.triggerstreet.com, it will make you a better person and fill that void in your life.

-- S

2002-11-25T22:49:00.000-05:00

why is it that wonder boys, by michael chabon, is about my life? how did he get into my head, i don't recall telling him how i think and what i think about, it's really wonderful and just as good as the movie, although different. read the book and see the movie, see the movie and read the book, then do it again by God. oh, so good.

-- S

2002-11-23T02:25:00.000-05:00

Excerpt from Wonder Boys script written by Steven Kloves:

CRABTREE leans over an old ROYAL TYPEWRITER, reads from
the freshly-typed PAGE curling from the carriage.

CRABTREE
Finally, the door opened. It-was a shock to:
see him, shuffling into the room like an aging
prizefighter. Limping. Beaten.'
(with an amused smile)
Sound like anyone we know?
(resuming)
But it was later, when the great man squinted
into the bitter glow or twilight...
(frowning)
Bitter glow of twilight? This kid definitely
needs an editor.
(resuming)
...and muttered simply, "It means nothing. All of it.
Nothing," that the true shock came. It was then that the
boy understood that his hero's true injuries lay hidden in
a darker place. His heart...'

CRABTREE stops abruptly.

GRADY
Yes? 'His heart...'

CRABTREE hesitates, then... reads on:

CRABTREE
'His heart, once capable of inspiring others
so completely, could no longer inspire so much
as itself. It beat now only out of habit. It
beat now only because it could. '

2002-11-22T23:49:00.000-05:00

I uploaded my script, “Visions of Johanna”, to Trigger Street yesterday. There haven’t really been any reviews yet, but that will hopefully change. And then, who knows… maybe it’ll get good reviews, and then maybe it’ll get in the top ten and be read by the panel with Kevin Spacey and Cameron Crowe and lots of other people, and then maybe they’ll want to make it into a movie. And then maybe Jessica Alba will invite herself into my house tonight, too.

So go to Trigger Street, sign up and review things, get exposed to the people trying to break into the movies, its free and it’ll make you feel like you’re making the world a better place, you’re not, but at least you’ll feel that way.

And go read my script, I chose the creative user name stuart. It’s gonna be great! Really! Why do I feel like David Spade in the sketch where he was ecstatic because a woman felt that their friendship was too special to ruin with a physical relationship? Oh well.

-- S

2002-11-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

What Wigu Character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

2002-11-19T22:48:00.000-05:00

i feel really good tonight. i've been feeling kinda weird lately, but it all seems to be gone now, my rooms all clean, and i just finished a book and started another, its all good right now, so that's good.

okay, gonna go now, maybe get some sleep.

- stu

2002-11-15T22:10:00.000-05:00

Now it could be the fact that I’m somewhat light headed from battling the flu, and just finished a pretty big roach, and then put down half a bottle of NyQuil; but I just saw a really great episode of Hack, it was very touching, I didn’t cry, in fact I almost passed out, but it was still emotionally involving. So everyone should watch Hack, even if you’re not reeling from a bout with the flu, some weed and half a bottle of the over-the-counter narcotic that IS the “Q”, it’s usually really good either way.

I think I’m gonna pass out in front of the television tonight.

- Stu

2002-11-15T17:58:00.000-05:00

This is my past life diagnosis:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't know how you feel about it, but you were male in your last earthly incarnation.
You were born somewhere in the territory of modern USA South-West around the year 1375.
Your profession was that of a preacher, publisher or writer of ancient inscriptions.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Your brief psychological profile in your past life:
Timid, constrained, quiet person. You had creative talents, which waited until this life to be liberated. Sometimes your environment considered you strange.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation:
Your main task is to make the world more beautiful. Physical and spiritual deserts are just waiting for your touch. Keep smiling!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why don't you go and find out about your past life, i think mine is pretty sweet.

2002-11-14T21:09:00.000-05:00

Apparently my script is done and going to be handed around this local production company. I’ve kind of gotten my hopes up so if this doesn’t pan out I’m going to have to look into some type of ritual suicide, hopefully something that’s not too depressing, like jumping off a building with candy in my pockets*.

Okay, that’s it.

- Stu

* Patton Oswalt is pretty funny.

2002-11-10T14:28:00.000-05:00

would anyone be interested in a story about two drug using slackers where the world was seen through their eyes with all its strangeness and drug induced hallucinations molded by their unique personalities? i was thinking a four panel strip with an eventual ending, Pat said he might be interested if i give him a synopses and tell him a little more about it. it's something to think about atleast.

2002-11-05T18:25:00.000-05:00

download "Bohemian Like You" by the Dandy Warhols, it's wonderful.

2002-11-05T17:37:00.000-05:00

Okay, it's not much, but I figured I should post something before I forgot this thing existed again.

- Stu.

She was a remarkable person, capable of turning water to wine, walking on water, and shooting ray beams from her eyes, it was astonishing, suggestion after suggestion on how I should live my life, everything from how smoking is bad for you and offering to send me literature, to how abortion is a sin. Well, I marked the day on the calendar, because apparently Jesus Christ had returned as a five foot tall annoying bitch named Queen Jane and at night dawned the cloak of Elvira Queen of the undead GOP, and I got to meet her! Yes, I smoke, and yes, I have by some strange coincidence heard the rumor going around that they might be bad for me, but Fuck you! I want to smoke, and the next time you fucking talk to me about it, you fucking Republican Fascist Nazi, I’ll share my views with you about removing my foot from your ass. Ok, I’m done.

She was a forty year old Jewish dermatologist from North Jersey, now I’m willing to be corrected, but I don’t think there’s actually anything worse on earth, maybe a duck raping baby killer who sprays two aerosol cans while butt-fucking the local librarian, but I haven’t spoken to one of those in at least six months. She was my father’s girlfriend’s best friend, now I’m hoping to hell that this doesn’t mean that we’re related, and while that thought rams it’s boot through the front of my brain I manage to get myself to the bar and order a double of whatever they had open. It ended up being some kind of malted whiskey, and I’m by no means a connoisseur, but it seemed to do the job; I ordered another and headed out the back for a smoke.

I heard faint voices coming from somewhere in the distance as I lit my cancer stick out on the stone porch of this recreation hall out of a fairly cheesy Stephen King rip-off. There were stone steps next to me leading up to the next level of the open air porch, so thinking that I might investigate these voices further before my toes started to fall off. I saw a slow but definite change in the coloring of things as I traipsed up the icy steps, a sure change from a black and blue tint to more of an orange and white, then I felt the fire on my knuckles.

Anna, a close family friend, sat on a whicker sofa in front of the crackling logs. She was somewhere in her early forties but still retained her figure and wonderful smile, with that silky hair and olive skin that came from being able to trace your family tree to somewhere in the southern Mediterranean, we had talked many times and was by far one of the more enjoyable people that my parents knew, she was the person that was most similar to your grandmother, in the way that she didn’t have to worry about raising you so she could enjoy spoiling you, but willing to get you drunk. I had been told the previous week that she still takes the occasional sip of weed, but that it would be crossing an unmarked line to share in this activity with her. “Gar!” she said with that smile, “sit down.” She was a sweet person, and I recall being very happy that she was sitting there, red wine in her right hand, Marlboro light between the fore and middle fingers of her left. “What you doing out here?” I held my cigarette up, and she was forced to nod.

I asked her how everything was going and she told me, I asked her about work and she told me that, too. I could go into everything that we talked about but to be honest it doesn’t matter, I don’t think either of us were really paying any attention to the conversation, it was just made up of pleasantries burned into our brains by a thousand conversations before it. I don’t think either of us wanted to be in there at the moment, so we took shelter under the convenience of our socially separating nicotine umbrellas and retreated to the comfort of the cold rather than face what was in there. Anna had been a friend to both my parents and had even worked with my father on several occasions, but had always been closer to my mother, growing up in the same area, if not the same generations, and had only accepted the invitation to my fathers third wedding out of some kind of depressing obligation for a former business partner and friend. So we sat there, enjoying the warmth of our companionship, the fire and our alcohol, feeling our throats go scratchy and then numb from cigarette after cigarette.

2002-10-26T02:00:00.000-04:00

Our first stop was somewhere on the edge of Jersey, it was dark and cold, but it was my first cigarette in well over two hours.
I lit the smoke under my shirt, and then pulled out carefully, as to avoid hitting the cuff of my shirt. She stood next to me, only lighting her cigarette after several hundred times of her lighter’s flame fighting the unforgiving wind. Her name was Betsy Anne Clyde, she stood at only five foot five but was still the tallest out of her five sisters. She was the only one to smoke. She smoked Newport’s, one of many things about her that I never understood (menthols make me gag), she was the black sheep of the family, something else I shared with her. She was still annoying as hell and made me want to puke every time she opened her mouth, but on this trip she was good company.
She was also one of only two sisters that didn’t work in the family business, she had passed that up to fulfill her childhood aspirations of becoming the wife of a successful business man, when that didn’t pan out she fell into telemarketing, operator 649. You might have received her call, perhaps as you were sitting down to dinner, selling discounted long distance service and offering a possible free trip to Key West if you switch today! I never understood the draw of Key West, I don’t really like scooters, and I could always do without too much sun light, now that stuff will kill you.
She pulled her faux fur tighter around her and gave a whine as she inhaled. She was dressed all in black, which, I suppose, was to offset her blonde and match her dark roots. She had the “classic” Clyde look with cheek bones that look like someone took two large cherries and stuffed them down through their eyelids and kept pushing until they were each pointing out in opposite directions. “So, you excited about this weekend?”
She had this real inquisitive mind, and always knew the right questions to ask, I still remember the time she came over to house while me and my sisters were in the pool and asked, “So, what you guys doing? Swimming?” from that point on I knew the score. “I don’t know, I guess.”
“It’s about time, your dad made an honest woman out of Pat,” she said through a big toothy grin and a cloud of smoke. My father had been seeing Pat since before my parents’ separation, so I could see what she meant.

I was riding in the front seat with my mother on the way home from the video store, we would go every Friday after school, sort of a tradition. We were coasting down Main Street when we passed my dad’s office, I guess that’s what sparked her to say it although right now it seems that it would have happened either way. “Your father and I are separating.” I was eleven at the time. It was a week later that they informed my sisters, my father packed an overnight bag and left the house for good. At the time I didn’t think there was anything wrong with this, in fact I welcomed it, the separation and the new found responsibility of worry that came with adult concerns. There wasn’t enough money to heat the house, so we talked about that or there wasn’t enough money in the accounts to buy food so we’re going to have to take it out on the Discover card and pay it back at twenty percent interest. I didn’t see my father for a year after that day, when he took that little maroon leather bag out of the house, the bag that they had bought while on a trip out west.

She left rather abruptly to go into the service area, and out of the cold to get a “hamburger”, that had spent most of the afternoon cooking under a heat lamp, from Roy Rogers. I was alone again out in the cold, the bus driver had the bladder the size of a small baby seal and had remained on the bus, so I popped around the corner and lit a jay.
Everything melted off of me and I was no longer going anywhere of any importance to me, the cold cut into me but it became less and less of a concern as I got deeper into the joint. I fished the flask, that I had bought not a week prior off a website located somewhere near Michigan, out of my pocket and took a swig of the Irish whiskey that I had put in not six hours ago. It helped with the cold and my mood.

keep in mind that everything posted on this site in unedited, everything here is ruff drafts without revisions and thoughts as they pour out of me. just wanted to remind people of that. okay, i'm tired.

- Stu

2002-10-24T13:55:00.000-04:00

Four months ago everything changed for me, well not everything but a lot. And it kind of snuck up on me today, I was checking the date and all of the sudden it hit me in the face, “It’s the 24th.” So there it is, I’m not really going to say anymore about it, but I’m aware of it, and right now that seems like the only thing that matters.

I will say this; there’s this knot in my throat, and I can feel wetness on the edge of my eyes, and that would be fine if I could get passed that stage but that’s as far as it goes. If the wetness behind my eyes would collect and drive itself out of me, if I could cry, or let out a sob, let anything out it would be better than how I feel now, instead I have it inside me with no way to get it out. I want to go out and scream just for some kind of a release, but I can’t do that where I am now. So all I can do is go and do my work, call people I have to call, go out for the occasional smoke, and try and make it through the day. So that’s what I’ll do is what I have to do, and I really don’t know how I feel about that.

Okay, that’s it, I’m done.

- Stu
sitting at my desk
half dazed

2002-10-23T23:02:00.000-04:00

Saw Punch Drunk Love tonight. I'm a fairly big fan of PT Anderson's films, not as big as some, but still I appreciate his moving pictures. And despite most of the grey matter in my head I like Adam Sandler, I think given the opportunity he good make some real strides. I think I really enjoyed this movie, it held my interest the entire time and it put you right inside of Sandler's character, while allowing you to laugh at most of his actions. I think that Anderson pulled off the usual spectacular work that everyone expects from him and Sandler opened up new possibilities for what we could maybe expect from him in the future. One thing that I was especially happy to see, Anderson put out a movie that was less than three hours in length, so that was nice.

2002-10-22T23:27:00.000-04:00

Went over to Hack's today, hung around and had a beer or two. He spent the time running around trying to get ready for this 250 head catoring job that he took on, it starts tomorrow and runs through Thursday at some digital camera place over in Valley Forge. Apparently there's gonna be lots of people from the film industry attending, directors of photography mostly, looking at the equipment that the company makes and such. I asked him to see if Dante Spinotti showed up, thought that would be pretty cool. Just as a quick thing; I had a double shot of rum (I think you drink rum in shots), that stuff clears out your air ways, damn I swallowed and my ears popped.

On another note, I'm finally gonna go to Comics Plus! tomorrow, or at least that's the plan, and get some comics, which, coincidentally, is what most of there clientele go there for, as long as I get my pay check.

Okay, I'm tired, and despite the time, I think I'm gonna try and close my eyes, just for a little bit.

- Stu
At home, thinking about getting some more rum.

2002-10-21T19:02:00.000-04:00

His eyes were much like a child, still shimmering with the unquestioning optimism despite his many years walking the road of a traveling musician. He had come over from Dublin about thirty years ago for the first time, since then he’s criss-crossed the Atlantic sixty odd times. Going back for tours and such that he had organized himself, going from pub to pub and inn to inn all the while dragging along friends and their families from all over the east coast. He stood there on stage, behind the microphone, standing next to his glass of water and cup of coffee. He had half the crowd with him, the other talked amongst themselves. He dealt with this all the time, playing in bars with barely enough occupancy to fill a public rest room, going from bar to bar, gig to gig, lugging his equipment around, setting up three hours ahead of time to get half the door and a minimum percentage of the business done that night. Living out of a hotel for half the year and the rest of the time sleeping on couches, and then getting up there on stage for those two sixty minute sets, with a fifteen minute intermission, always with a smile beaming from his face.

I went out to Brittingham’s Irish Pub a couple of nights ago. It was really great, Gerry Timlin and Tom Kane were there and played a couple sets (although we only stayed for one, unfortunately). I’ve been listening to them since I was a little kid, I’ve always enjoyed their music and now that I’m older I can appreciate the whole combination of Irish music and drinking.

“I’m a rambler,
I’m a gambler,
I’m a long way from home.
And if you don’t like me,
Then leave me alone.
I’ll eat when I’m hungry,
I’ll drink when I’m dry,
And if the moonshine don’t kill me,
I’ll live ‘til I die.”

2002-10-21T17:45:00.000-04:00

I've been getting some positive feedback about the beginning of the short story, it's not really a begining it's more notes than anything else. But I do appreciate the fact that some people have told me it was interesting, I was kind of concerned about that, so great, I'm gonna keep working on it and if the mood strikes me I might post additions to what I've already posted.

2002-10-18T17:50:00.000-04:00

It’s been a really long time since I’ve updated anything, and it’s pretty much just because I forgot that this thing existed. I had to re-read my previous posts to remember the hell I had put on these damn things. But I pay that no mind instead, I choose to move forward with plans to post periodically again. And to start I think I’ll post this thing that I’ve been working on, just notes really, but if it continues the way I think it is I think this could be something that I could look to send out and publish, or ask people to publish anyway.

Opening possibilities -

“My lungs are about to seize up on me,” the words escaped from my mouth, along with a cloud of smoke. My compatriot says nothing, so I choose to ignore her for her lack of comment. She seemed engrossed in thought, anyway, any comments she’d have made would have been undoubtedly gibberish and unrecognizable gabbing from a high giggling fifteen year old girl.
So while sitting there in silence, well some music was playing but it was mostly just some background stuff, like Yo Le Tengo or something; I thought about this weekend and how I had gotten to this point. The point where I, a strapping young vital man, in the prime of his life (or what I hoped to be the prime of my life), sat in his beat up old beamer with his sister getting high waiting for his father to marry the town whore.

New Jersey has a plethora of neighborhoods and towns. There are the Newark’s, those with horrible crimes and ghettos, and then there are the one’s on the other end of the spectrum (where I lived), filled with gaggles of white bread honky bastards that would sooner vote for another George Bush than give a stranded man on the side of the road a ride. (I’m sorry, it couldn’t be helped, but I promise I’m not really that political.)
Despite all this, our town had not yet gotten to the point where they elected a head whore for the town. One hooker that could lead all the other hookers, give them shifts and regulate their activity, tax their services and maybe fix some of the roads. No, they haven’t done that, but they should, and if they did, they would probably elect her, Patricia, “Pat”. Shudder.
She lived in this town all her life, escaping once, only to be drawn back by one thing or another. To be honest, I haven’t really listened to one thing he or she had said since I was introduced to her on a “family” ski vacation when I was twelve.

I sat there and I thought, not about anything in particular, I couldn’t, thoughts flew in and out of my mind, I was unable to grab and hold on to any of them. I was starring out the windshield; the grass was brittle and raw, and the wind hit it violently, unrelenting. I knew it was time when I heard: “We should split, gotta get there eventually.”
The weed had started to kick in, and I was headed straight for the main republican campaign office for this damn area, that is if anyone ever bothered voting.

We reached the house overlooking the water about five minutes later, it was actually just down the windy street that ran parallel to the water. Now I’m the first to admit that it’s not one of the smartest decisions to smoke a jay down the street of your right wing over bearing father’s house, but it hadn’t occurred to me until now. I parked the car on the lawn, behind one of those tank/elephants that they have been apparently handing out to soccer mom’s with each ten boxes of cereal, the license plate read: “HILARY – 1”. I was surprised that they hadn’t lent the car to their fourteen year old daughter for the weekend, but there it was in front of me.
I was getting my bag out of the trunk that I realized that I was surrounded. People wearing paths in the lawn back and forth from the house to the tour bus rented for the weekend to take all of us lottery winners up to New York for the wedding. They were carrying bags and blankets and coolers from the house and cars, all of which were parked in the driveway, across the street and even on the lawn, to the bus.
I reached into my coat pocket, but before I could figure out what I was searching for, the cigarette was lit in my mouth and I could feel the smoke scratching it’s way down my throat. It was cold that day, not that nice kind of cold that made you think of Christmas morning, or snuggling up next to the fire, but rather that sharp cold. The type that cuts into your sides and the back of your neck, wind slicing you open and making you scream out in pain. And I would have but I was too busy watching out for the one that would learn my secret, and turn me in, she was out there.
I don’t want to sound entirely sexist, but I was fairly sure that it would be a woman, it was always a woman. When was the last time a nice old man carded you for a pack of smokes? I can’t remember myself, but I was carded last night by a short spiteful woman in her mid-forties. Although when I was out at Benigan’s the punk waiter did have the violent malice intent to ask for my ID when I had requested a vodka tonic to help warm the evening up a bit. I remember being quite angry with him for the rest of the night, “That’s what happens when you give a jackass twenty-two year old too much power,” I remember saying to someone. “Passive aggressive fuck.”
I gave my duffle bag to the driver, who then loaded it underneath the bus, while keeping my little green knapsack. I went over to the lake and lit another cigarette, hell, it’s the last one for at least two hours, or as soon as one the rug rats needs a changing. I also emptied about half of the whiskey out of my flask, I was feeling a little grumpy. The liquor helped with the cold, I zipped up my coat until it pinched the skin under my chin and stuffed my hands in my pockets as deep as they will go.
“You think I could bum one of those?” A beat up voice muttered at me from behind the curtain of frozen wind beyond my ears. I say, “sure,” and hand the pack over to the bus driver. He hands it back and lights up next to me. His head shaved, and cheeks raw from what looked like it was shaved that morning with a straight razor without the benefit of any kind of lubricant. His uniform wasn’t much, just what you would expect: dress pants (what I would consider dress pants), white shirt, sweater vest and coat. He had one of those hats that seemed to be designated for pilots and chauffeurs and, I guess, bus drivers, too.
“I’m Rifkin, what’s your name?” I don’t know where the words came from, I had no interest in this man, or his life, not that I had something against him, I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t know this man from Adam, and didn’t have the interest or the patience to change that, at least not at this point and time.
“Raoul,” He said rather a matter-of-factly, although he did seem to have the right, damn name was on his jacket.
“So, you get these kinda gigs often?”
I have no idea what he said, his mouth was moving but I couldn’t keep track. I was starting to feel sick, my stomach was starting to do summersaults, putting on a tantrum for something to eat. But there was nothing. I nodded for as long as I could and then told him I was a wet-nurse and had to make sure that I had everything packed in case there was some sort of emergency during the trip up. Or I could have just said that I was going to get on the bus now, please don’t talk to me. For some reason I find myself leaning more towards the former.
Unfortunately the half pint of whiskey I had just ingested didn’t help my balance and I fell into more than one person before I got to the bus. Inside the bus wasn’t any better, seat after seat was taken, and I had to move farther and farther towards the back. It didn’t bother me that much, the closer to the cooler the better. Seat after seat filled with yuppies, and their children, face after face of people that I feel I should know (and am told so quite often) but can never seem to recall. Row after row of midgets with pigtails.
I took my seat in the second to last row of the bus, the last row containing the bathroom and the coolers. The seats were padded and had this rough cloth over them, they were comfortable enough but I knew that eight hours down the line I was going to want to smother someone with my seat cushion if pushed far enough.

I can remember, when I was much younger, three or four, I believe, when I would have a bath, I sat in the tub and would but my hair up into a single spike of hair and shampoo. My hair was straight and blonde then, not like now, curly and brown, a fact that I consistently attribute to me starting to eat the crusts off of my cheese sandwiches. I would like to attribute all of the changes in my life since that point to the crusts of bread, or some equally trivial thing that I can blame – pinpoint the exact moment where things got away from me.
Where did it all happen? When did it all happen? The moment where I stopped being a free, fun loving young boy to a dark and depressed young man, it’s something that I think about quite a bit. But despite all that I have yet to find that moment, that decision where everything seemed to go to hell. I hope it was one decision, at least.
She smiles at me, trying not to laugh, or punch me in the face, either one. My lips pursed, as if about to speak but unable to find the words. I don’t know how long I’ve been this way, I had left my body to think about bathing, for some reason, and had no idea how I was presenting myself physically. Annie was, and is, the type of sister that you loved because she was your sister. She was more annoying than anything and, if I took the time to think about it, I knew she had her reasons for being that way, everyone has their personal gripes and the world. I feel like I understand that more than most. She bugged me all the time, whether it was overt or not depended on our respective moods. But it always seemed to be that way between us, from the minute after she was born. You can call it whatever you want, whether it was because she was the second child and I was used to having all the attention of my parents to myself, I don’t have any patience and I’m a selfish, selfish man, or maybe it’s just that she listens to shitty music that no-one could possibly like if they have a soul or any kind of scraping for goodness in their hearts, but that’s not for me to decide.
I rolled my eyes at her and turned my body towards the window. We were barreling down I-295 now, and clouds shot across the sky. It was darker, from the clouds, but also just because it was that time of year. All I could do was crack my knuckles to keep from reaching for a cigarette. Christ, we’ve only been on the road for twenty minutes. I decided if I couldn’t have a cigarette I might as well helps this buzz along with a beer.
Bad news, no beer. The only thing remotely resembling alcohol was this lemonade malt stuff, but what the hell it’s got something like .005% alcohol in it, that’s something. I sit down and take a swig, it’s not half bad, lemonade’s good and then it’s got that kick of booze, and it goes down smooth as hell, to boot.

My dad, Harry, married my mother when they were thirty-two, in the late winter of 1982. I was born in April of ’83, do the math and you’ll see that this marriage was doomed from the start. We moved to the most premiere town of Southern Jersey when I was five, I hated it then and I hate it now. But I’m told over and over again, “If you’re going to live in South Jersey, you want to live in either Moorestown or North Haddonfield,” I live in the former, I can’t really say much about North Haddonfield, but to hear people talk it’s fabulous!

The icy rain had started, and we were barreling down the highway at sixty miles per hour in a big steel coffin, and to top it all off someone has been talking to me for the last twenty minutes and I have no idea at all what she’s said. She’s been yakking on and on for the what seems could turn into a half hour, and all I can do is think about how she’s doing this and I don’t know what I’m going to do to get out of this. This is starting to scare me now and I try to calm down before everyone in the bus stands up and screams, “My God! The little bastards higher than the Spruce Goose!” I wasn’t going to let that happen, I started to think of ways that I could escape if it came to a question of me or them. If I smash this window, I think I could make it to that chevy on a good jump, if I had my footing all worked out I could make that. That’s what I was starting to think, if they discovered I was high on weed, what could I do to get away from all these Nazi fuckers before they got it in their heads to lynch me for tasting of the herb. This is not a good sign.
I started to watch her mouth next, the way her tongue hit her two front teeth when she said this certain syllable. Not that she was particularly attractive, I couldn’t say she had no personality because I haven’t been listening to a word she’s said, but if I had to guess she probably wasn’t that interesting. As I became more aware of her mouth I started to think about mine and noticed that it was quite dry, I decided I was suffering from some kind of cotton mouth, some one undoubtedly slipped something into my drink. I wanted to stand up and scream; instead I went to the cooler for another beer. Still faking the interest in whatever subject I’ve apparently been conversing about with this woman for, now, a half hour.
I don’t know how I get myself into these situations, I must just have “one of those faces”, the type that say, “come talk to this guy, but don’t show any romantic interest in what-so-ever, in fact if you’re an attractive woman stay away from him altogether”, just that “type” of face. Bastards.
Her face started to melt of her skull somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike. No one seemed to be aware of this but me, including her; for fear that she would not notice ‘til it was too late I tried to warn her. First I just contorted my face, trying to let her know in that all too subtle way that her face was indeed melting off her skull bones, but she didn’t seem to get it, instead she just looked at me oddly, like she was staring at a jackass. She wasn’t far off, I had decided that in the future I would never pop a pill unless I know precisely what it is and what, if any, the side effects will be.
Jefferson had been a good friend of mine ever since I was old enough to know that drugs were a good thing, and I have to admit that it was pretty early for me. He had handed me the clear plastic coated pills with a quiet smile on his face. “Take them,” he said, “they’ll put you right.”

2002-05-13T02:17:00.000-04:00

I just finished writing the first draft of this thing that could turn out to be something that I might end up being proud of, that would be nice. I was really worried earlier that I was blocked I couldn’t get the first sentence out of me for about an hour and a half, but once I got it down I just kept writing. I don’t know if I’m going to go to sleep tonight, it might be easier just to stay up at this point and write the entire night. I haven’t done that for quite a while, it would be a nice change of pace. I feel so good getting that thing out of me, I’m looking forward to going over it tomorrow with a fresh perspective. I think that it has potential, so much of my work is shooting by the hip, I find that it comes out more honestly that way. I start to get scared if I look at my work to much, it becomes to clear that everything and everyone in any of the stories are me and that I shouldn’t show anyone this shit, but here it is none the less. So I find myself writing things and then saving them and never opening them again. But I look forward to looking at this one, I hope that’s a good sign. I’ll have to show Pat the thing and see what he thinks of it, might have to get him drunk to do it, or atleast me, but probably both of us. I don’t have any problem with that.

2002-04-24T23:49:00.000-04:00

It’s breathing in and out and in and out and in and out and then there’s more some where. And in and hold until you almost pass out and then release warm air, with the faint sent of something, and you go missing in the mists of the un-realized. Falling into those big brown eyes, big brown eyes. Lost in them, I would love to be forever lost in those eyes. I think about her now and again, thinking about her takes everything out of me. I want to see her again, have her see me again, feel the warmth radiate off her… amazing. I want to have done something and have her just stop and think of me, the way that I will stop what I am doing and think about her. Just working or walking and then think of me and how we use to hang around and be in that same place and drive, drive off… to wherever.
What would she remember about me? What does she think of when she thinks of me, if she thinks of me… interesting… well, if she does remember me, what does she remember about me. I think about what people will remember about me a lot, well not a lot but often enough to be writing this. It seems like we all think about that a lot, whether we want to be remembered or not is not an issue right now, just the fact that we all think about that, maybe not, maybe its just me, in which case screw all of you.

I want to be cool. I want to do something worthy of being known, of being recognized, of being noticed, even if it’s screaming into the night. Known as that bastard who woke you up at three in the morning screaming his lungs out, that might be interesting. If not different.

stu
listening to counting crows
a little high

2002-04-17T01:25:00.000-04:00

I’ve been thinking about going to California a lot.
Going there and disappearing, living in Venice or in san diego or someplace like that. Going there and living on my own, doing nothing, living off something and just being somewhere where the sun warms you as you sit staring at nothing but the scenery, where I can mingle with celebrities or atleast live among them in secret, I think that would be cool. I just see all these images, of people that enjoy things and are fake and have the self-loathing that I crave, what I want to experience.

I imagine myself going there, shortly after the death of my father. When I’m about forty and he has past to his grave, leaving some kind thing for me in his will. I don’t think about this because I really want any of this to happen, it just seems to be what I think will eventually happen. It’s something that I have seen my entire life, I imagine what will happen to me and I’ve been right so far, now that may be do to me thinking that it will happen and my mind is set to it so it happens because of it, I’m not saying that I am psychic or not. It’s just happened.

So anyway, I figure that I would end with a building and that I would use that as my income. For probably the first time, I would not have to worry about making my rent or anything. I wouldn’t know what to do or anything and I would probably have to think a lot of things through, see if I knew what I wanted to do then and with the rest of my life. Not sure if I was doing what I want to do or what he wants me to do. I would rent out my apartment and move across the country to where there are no troubled people and the scenery is like out of a movie that would touch your soul, where I can straighten things out.

I would live there in a small house, somewhere relatively close to the beach, or with a porch and a wonderful view. And live, do what I want, not do any work and just be me and try and see where I want to go.

I have this feeling a lot, I want it to be true and I don’t, I don’t know what I want and when I want it, but I will know that I want it in my life.

Stu
Home
Partly high on life

2002-04-11T00:16:00.000-04:00

I want to make people laugh. I want them to come in and sit down and be totally blown away, both in their mind and in the gut, I want it to hurt them. I want people to come out begging for more and being thankful that the experience is over all at the same time. I want this very much…
I wish that this were possible, that tomorrow I could walk off, leave my job, leave my home and find a life in the city that would make my father sick. One where he would tell me how ridiculous and fool-hearty it is, how I’m going to regret this when I come back home, begging for my job back and hoping that they would let me back in the house. I want to not be able to eat more than ten meals a week and check payphones for change. I want to be constantly struggling.
I want to go out and hand out flyers for my show, I want to go down to the bar and do stand-up in off hours hoping that the manager might give me some tips. I want to wait around back stage with all the other performers, palms sweating, hoping that they’ll let me get on tonight in front of a live audience. An audience that could show you what to do and how and when, all by utilizing the simple tasks of laughing or booing. I want to not be sure about what I’m going to do for rent this month, or the next for that matter. I want to have to worry about myself and how I’m going to survive day-to-day.
I want to live. I want to look at myself twenty years from now and laugh at how foolish I was, how horribly I lived and what I did to get by. I want to go out on that stage and speak clearly without throwing up or freezing. I want to tell people what I think and why I’m right and everyone else is wrong. I want them to think about everything under the sun and not want to pick their ass out of the seat.

I want to connect with someone that will say that I influenced their life in some way even if it’s just that fact that they changed conditioners… Okay, maybe not that.

2002-04-08T12:57:00.000-04:00

okay, it's still not working, i really hate this

2002-04-08T12:55:00.000-04:00

you can email me, i haven't quite figured out the whole "email me" link on the side of the page so i just thought i would put it in here

2002-04-05T00:51:00.000-05:00

I need to be the person that I want to be and not the person that I am. I need to start doing what I want to do and start to live my life according to my dreams. I want to lounge around and live with my friend s and read all day and night while writing and discussing everything from the state of the world, and all the different philosophies and theologies, to the latest movie that was out last week, and how everything is all, truly related, if only because we experience them. And all while drinking and smoking and whining. I want to be the loser and black sheep of the family who comes to dinner every other Sunday and is told how he’s not doing anything worth while, agreeing with them entirely and not thinking anything of it.
Is it bad that I envy my comic book guy his job, while I’m working at a real estate firm and working towards a financially fulfilling career that will possibly keep me comfortable for the rest of my life. It’s okay, I guess, as long as I can retire at twenty-something, buy a house at the shore, open up a comic/used-books/whateverthehellelseiwant store, and relax sleep until I want to and then be. Sit out on the porch and light up a smoke of whatever kind I want and whatever else I want to do.

So many things to bitch about… I want to have intellectual conversations with friends and women, I want to talk about how we would do so much better if we ran the world. I want to talk about how no-one understands any of the world’s real problems with friends and women, did I mention the women and how the conversations would spark great sex? Well, I meant to.
I want to not shave and have it noticeable, I want to hang out with beautiful intelligent women who have wonderful senses of humor. I want to sit in “coffee” houses and smoke, drink and do other things aswell. I want to do all the things that young people are suppose to do, I want to do all these things and more and have it be normal and treasured at the same time.

2002-03-25T21:56:00.000-05:00

I just realized that it has been about week since anyone has said to me, "You know, Stuart, that isn't good for you," referring to the cigarette in my hand. How horrible is it that I get to the point when someone not saying that to me for a week is a good thing. I fucking hate these people that come to me and say that, do I come to you when you're jerking off and say, "You know, bitch, that isn't the best thing for you." I will slap the next shit that says that to me. Fuckin' Nicotine Nazis.

2002-03-24T10:42:00.000-05:00

I’ve given up. Given up on all my dreams for the future, all that I ever wanted and wanted to be. To be a writer, an artist, anything that could empty me of this self loathing. I have realized that these dreams were nothing more than pipe dreams, something that I have feared for a very long time. I was never any good at any of these things, that didn’t stop me from wanting to do them, but it has finally sunk in that they are foolish things for a man to dream about. I know that I am a little young to be throwing away my idealistic hopes and wishes for the future, being all of 18 years old, but it was bound to happen at some point. Maybe not going to school, giving up on school so quickly, and going into the business world speed things up for me, I don’t know – I can’t answer that, it’s one of those things that no one could answer, not experiencing that reality. I can offer guesses and inferences, but that would be pointless and a waste of time.

I feel lighter, now that I have forgone these wishes. A great weight has been lifted off my shoulders, I have no concerns about what I am going to do with my life in the area of writing and trying to break in to that world, both as a business and as a lifestyle. I now only think about getting to the weekend, about passing through the week as quickly and as effortlessly as I can, while still doing my job. I think about the commission that is owed to me and what I’m going to spend it on, and then how much I have to save to get myself a house and build a nest egg for myself.

I will probably end up married to a wife that I will end up resenting because she got pregnant and because of my morals and sense of obligation I married her. I will have the 2.3 children and live beyond my means having to keep working in a stress filled job because the kids have to go to college some day, after all in their entire lives, all I’ve ever told them is how important education is. I will end up divorcing my now ex-wife and my children will resent me for it, but that won’t stop them from accepting my money, nor me from trying to buy back their love with it. I will get migraines at least once a week and the monthly ulcer, as well as a urinary tract infection about every three years, from all the financial and familial stress. I will try and groom my son to follow in the family business, which he will either do because he is giving up on his dreams, like I once did on mine, and has fallen into the same horrible trap that I uncovered only twenty years before. I will have meaningless affairs with woman that will give me all sorts of disgusting venereal diseases. We’ll meet in seedy motels or in highway bus stops and use the public bathroom to take care of our “business”. When done we will go our separate ways, her limping because of a broken heel and me itching my crotch because of the crabs she just gave me.

My life will end up the exact opposite of what I dreamt it would be, I will die one day, and all I will have to show for my miserable life are the children that I had with a woman who I haven’t had a civil conversation with in thirty years, and whatever unpublished works that I have written between now and then. The future is not written ins stone but it is foreseeable.

2002-03-20T16:29:00.000-05:00

I try so hard to keep this family as close as I can, playing negotiator and devil’s advocate and whatever the hell else I have to do, so that I can keep the line open between my dad and my sister, or my dad and my mom or my sister and my other sister, and whoever the hell else that might want to come into this failed thing that I see decaying under a piece of dog shit on the ground that I call my family. I don’t know what to do anymore, there is not much that I can do, I try and try and then give up and try again and then hope that all might be well without my vigilance but it never will. Whatever, it means nothing in the long run, all I want to do is move out and then be able to come to my mom’s and have Sunday dinner and mooch off one of, future, productive sisters and live my own life without having to worry about whether or not they are not getting along, drink myself to sleep and have the more than occasional joint without having to think if there are in some kind of cold war with each other.
That is my goal, to be off in my own world, about a town over, and just be and then come in to their world for dinner and the occasional munchies. I know that this doesn’t sound like the most driven of dreams or ambitions, but I don’t really care. That doesn’t matter to me, I don’t need a lot of money and I don’t know if I particularly want a lot of money, I just want my little corner of the universe and that’s it.
My sister asked me to ask my dad to buy her a bag for her birthday. So, I did. I asked him and he told me, “Okay,” and that was that. But that wasn’t that, it was just the start of the migraine that I have had and have not been able to get rid of, I think I need another drink. I no that this shouldn’t bother me; I play the role of the uninformed pot head who doesn’t know what’s going on and doesn’t care. “Who’s going to dinner tonight?” I don’t care, doesn’t bother me, and whatever you want to do is your business and not my concern. But that’s not the truth, is it? No, it’s not; I think I just said that, but that’s a horse of a different color, stature and height, all-together. So I end up buying the bag with the plan that my dad would pay me back - which hasn’t happened yet, but anyway – so I bought the bag and I thought the head-ache would end there, but no. Now the problem is, when is she going to get the bag, “When am I going to get the bag, Stuart?” I want to fall off a ledge or something, I swear. But I don’t I sit here and I say I don’t know. I tell her to come by and see dad and pick up the bag, but she doesn’t want to do that, she wants me to take the bag and bring it back to her, so she doesn’t have to see him. She wants the presents from him but she doesn’t want to see him, I shouldn’t care, but I do. That’s where we are right now…

Like I said, I want a lot of money, money just gives you more head-aches, all I want is to have enough at any given point, and sit on my little corner of the universe and stare off indiscriminately, I know that it seems a little idealistic, but fuck you, I don’t care about any of that, just give me the time to stare.