Excerpt from My First Novel Yellow Socks Confessions of a Non Don Juan

June 4, 2012

An Excerpt from my 2010 novel Yellow Socks- Confessions of a Non Don Juan

 

Skeleton Woman or Things Like Me Don’t Happen To You

 

Christ it happened again. Another notch in my “girls that want to be my friend” belt. It made sense. We were perfect friends and she was real cute too. I kept thinking that I was ok with it. I’d be happy just being a friend again. I keep turning to God for strength to accept my fate as “Friend to all women” that I’m attracted to. My acceptance level seems to be ok. I go to my happy place. I go to my cave. I say the serenity prayer over and over I am sure that I will be ok with this. Yes I will. (no I won’t)

 

Cut to a scene from Fight Club

 

TYLER

Stop it! This is your pain — this is your burning hand. It’s right here! Look at it.

 

JACK

I’m going to my cave. I’m going to my cave to find my power animal!

 

TYLER

No, don’t deal with this the way those dead people do. Come on

!

JACK

I get the point, ok, please!

 

TYLER

No, what you’re feeling is premature enlightenment.

 

Ok. I get the idea. Feel the pain. Feel the hurt. Feel the rejection saturating my heart until I bleed more than just these words all over the place and finger my open sore of a brain as it wants to dwell on her over and over again. Screaming and roaring her name with anger and grief and sometimes a slight relief that it’s done and I know that she will not reject me again unless I go back for more and more or less or a little bite of her cheeseburger and a sip of her Pepsi to tide me over until the next one comes along with better food and spirits for my, for me for. Four scores of seven years itch as I scratch the weathered tired out mongrel of an ego that was left stray years ago in a pound for wayward hearts and letches that can only love and never be loved.

 

The pain of being a friend. A friend. I’ve heard that “Let’s just be friends” millions of times in my life as I gargle a new mouthwash and toothpaste hoping my breath will be the answer to my problem. My problem is as follows: me, myself and I. We altogether are the problem. We want to be loved so bad that we give off the vibe that scares the shit out of women so they just want to be friends. Friends. Friends. I think to myself that will be fine. Friends is ok. It’ll do. I can accept that. Bullshit! Feel the pain I tell myself. Embrace it. the pain is your friend. To hurt is to be alive. I’ve never been so alive. I’m alive. So alive.

 

“Did you ever hear about the skeleton woman?” Morton asked.

 

“Was that a Glam rock band from the seventies?” I ask.

 

“Ha. Ha. Nah. It’s an ancient Indian story. This guy was fishing in the middle of a lake. He was totally into it. He was relaxed. Not a care in the world except catching the next fish. All of a sudden he feels a tug on his line and he yanks it up. A skeleton appears on his line. He doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line and he gets scared. He starts paddling his boat away from it but it follows him. He still doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line. He gets out of his boat and runs into the village and he is carrying his fishing rod and the skeleton is still right behind him. He jumps into his Tee Pee and it follows him in. He lies down and tries to hide not looking at it for a while. When he finally turns to look at the skeleton it has changed into the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She is his. The moral of the story is that he was minding his own business doing something he enjoyed and that’s when the right woman came along. In other words when you are not looking for love is when it will find you. ”

 

“I know that but it’s so fucking hard to stay focused on other things without thinking about how much I want to be loved. Fall in love. Ya know?” I responded.

 

“I know. I know.” Morton said.

 

“We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.” Tyler Durden

 

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Polaroid Snapshot Memory

January 30, 2012

Polaroid snapshot memory caresses me from the inside out. Transcending candles light my way to the past and the joy and freedom I was unaware of at the time. Bizarre incantations of what life is and could be. Pass by and die. Pass by and let the fate of the Deities decide or roll the dice or not.

 

Freedom’s just another word for everything ahead. Wasted youth having a great time. Love. Sex, drugs and rock n roll baby. I lived it and didn’t know I was living. Love was everywhere. Free love was dead but I re-animated it. Acid trips and connections to worlds I wish I could have stayed in. Money was nothing to me and I thought it was everything. Carry the plight of darkness on my shoulder with a wicked smile.

 

Aging. Losing. Gaining. Winning. At the same time in my mind. I created it and I had no control of the inevitable events that lead me to me and back around the block. A haircut and a shave and a shower cures the common ME. Cut snip CUT. Parties over and starts again. Imobile as I travel and dream of travel and you.

 

Bulbous characters running in and out of my entire life. I call it life today. Tomorrow? Fuck tomorrow. I’ve always hated tomorrow. Diseased decaying tomorrow. Yesterday is where it’s at. Live today like it was yesterday and I feel fine. Crimes committed without my knowledge and I weep for you. For me.

 

Granite accelerator in the fastest carpool lane of a Lynchian progression. Up down. Freeze.

 

Tag.

 

You’re fucking IT.


An Excerpt from my Novel, Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan

January 14, 2012

This is an excerpt from my 2010 novel; Yellow Socks-Confessions of a Non-Don Juan

Barry

One Sunday I went to the Baltimore Museum of Visionary Art and the Baltimore Museum of Art. I went with a girl I work with named Janet, her friend Lenora, and their Museum Education teacher Barry. Although I’ve shared a few rides and a few cigarettes with Janet I was riding for two hours with relative strangers. Janet picked me up in at 8th and Market where the Patco Speedline (Jersey to Philadelphia train) dropped me off. I got in the car and we made our obligatory introductions. “Hi. Good to meet you.”

I sat in the back seat next to Barry. Janet drove with her friend as co pilot. Barry was pretty cute. She had most of my requirements for a fuck fantasy. Cute face, skinny, decent tits, and long legs. But she’s probably an idiot. She was dressed very normal. Trendy jeans and standard shoes and jacket. I started to write everyone off as an idiot when I first met them at that point in my life. I was also willing to change that if I had to.

Janet’s friend, Lenora seemed to be one of those babbling women. She picked up where she left off before I got in the car. Something about her workman’s compensation not covering her tuition and who she wants to sue. She’s already got a few strikes against her for being beastly looking. I don’t want to feel like this but I do.

I especially can’t stand women that incessantly complain.

When the topic finally switched to something else thanks to Janet, I was still bored. Janet brought up seeing the band or performer or whatever it is called some name I can’t remember but sounds like she’s saying Herbal Essence. “They played on David Letterman and it was the greatest thing in the world and I can’t believe Letterman made fun of them. ” “Let’s put on the their cd.” “I think I have it right there.” They put it on and were singing along and I can’t even describe the crap I was hearing.

I came prepared for something to read. Jim Goad’s Shit Magnet was definitely great escape from this ordinary madness I was trapped with. I read for about a half an hour before Barry wanted to look at the book I was reading. I gave her my best watered down version of who Jim Goad is and his influence on me etc. She was surprisingly interested. So the ride perked up a little.

Conversations became more interesting and so did Barry. She was twenty-nine years old. She has an under graduate degree in Art History. She was working towards her Masters degree in Museum studies. I actually like people that are cultured. I wasn’t used to it on my personal life.. She was also down to earth. She wasn’t pretentious but she knew her shit.

I guess I’ve become a bit of an Art History common sore myself. I’ve learned a lot more than I thought I knew working at the Art Museum for a year. Enough to carry an intelligent conversation to a certain degree. I’ve also gained an interest in outsider, folk and self-taught art.

I couldn’t wait to see Rev Howard Finster’s creations live in person at the Museum of Visionary Art. He was best known for his Garden of Eden junkyard installment in his own yard. Sam Doyle was a nice surprise. I discovered him at the American Folk Art Museum in NYC. Real raw paintings of people on pieces of steel. And I found new artists to drool over. Elizabeth Layton, an eighty something year old artist who does these detailed cartoon style drawings that are almost reminiscent of Alice Neel, another old lady self taught artist with national fame. Barry and I bonded a little more and we seemed to end up together separated from Janet and her friend. Either I was following her or she was following me. In my head I still kept my distance

The Baltimore Museum of Art was also fantastic. The Modern contemporary exhibit is so much more extensive and intense than the Philadelphia Museum of Art. There was plenty of Warhol, and Raushenberg,art etc. Barry introduced me to and explained Zoey Leonard. Zoey Leonard takes fruit and sews it back together after eating the fruit inside. It represents death and decay of humans. I enjoy someone explaining some of the art to me and she was a good teacher. When she took off her jacket I thought that she was a great teacher with a nice ass.

We went through the Cone exhibit.

“In the early 20th century, two Baltimore sisters-Claribel and Etta Cone assembled one of the most important art collections in the world. Visiting the Paris studios of Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso, they acquired an exceptional collection of art, which they displayed in their Baltimore apartments. The sisters also collected paintings by Cézanne, Gauguin, van Gogh, and Renoir, and a variety of textiles, jewelry, furniture, and African, Asian, and Near Eastern art. Cone Wing galleries provide an intimate setting in which to view these masterpieces as well as insights into the sisters’ diversity as collectors.” A tour guide said.

It was pretty amazing. They also had this virtual reality touch screen that’s bigger than my TV. You can navigate your way around the collection on screen.

We’re all got pretty hungry by five o’clock since none of us but Barry ate all day. I had a pretzel but that doesn’t count. A fellow patron at the Museum suggested this Italian restaurant that I can’t remember the name of. We hit the gift shop then headed on our final mission together to get something to eat.

We pulled up to this Italian restaurant and it was next to a place called Moe’s Seafood. We thought since we were in Baltimore we should try seafood so Moe’s it was. The second we walked in the nasty stank of bad fish hit us. We looked around and it looked horrible. Dirty tables. Smoke filled room. We left and went back to the Italian restaurant. After all, a Baltimorean recommended it so it must be great. We walked in and it was the opposite of Moe’s. It was fancy and we were under dressed. We waited ten minutes to get seated and another fifteen at the table. We were starving so we left.

We walked the streets for another half of an hour before we ended up on Broadway and there were so many restaurants we panicked. So Barry fixed her eyes on a place called Bertha’s with a big sign that said “Eat Bertha’s Muscles”. It was telling us what to do so Bertha’s it was.

Bertha’s was a just a bar when we walked in. There was nowhere to sit. We were going to give it up but I spotted the sign that said Dining Room. We squeezed our way through the bar to the Dining Room. We were seated immediately. The service was fast. The food was awesome. We shared muscles and the laughs. Great conversations and I felt our bond growing even more as Barry shared personal stories and experiences. At one point she touched my thigh while laughing at some joke. I caught myself thinking about her naked. I caught myself thinking it’d be really different to get with a woman that has her shit together. I immediately dismiss these thoughts because they usually lead to nowhere anyway.

The trip home was comfortable. We all spent an entire day together and still liked one another. We were laughing and joking even more. The flirting and the connections were growing stronger and stronger. I knew better. It would all mean nothing to anyone here after a week or two. I shook her hand goodbye and said “it was nice meeting you.” I got out of the car and left Barry behind me.

I never saw her again and it’s better that way. The attraction. The flirting. The exchange of personal information. The temporary connection. It probably meant nothing to her. Sure she’ll say “Pete was a nice guy or Pete was cute.” but it really doesn’t mean anything. She’ll forget about me. Times like this used to mean something to me. Now it’s just what people do. We share moments. We share blocks of time and whether we bond or connect only mean something for that short time. I still remember these times but I don’t feel them anymore.

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The Artsy Girl – an Excerpt from my novel Yellow Socks

July 11, 2011

The Artsy Girl (as it originally appeared in Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan)

 

Living with Terry and Morton was a blast. They were both in their early thirties and I was in my late twenties. We are all artists in one way or another and we were all on the prowl for the ladies as we clumsily tried to pick them up at coffee shops, AA meetings, bars, art shows and anywhere else we thought that we could find our type.

 

Our types varied. Terry was obsessed with finding a “Vampire chick” or a “Goth Chick’. Ironically he dressed kind of standard 1988 in 1995. He had that bob cut hair. It was kind of long on the sides and real short in the back. Morton was after the “Rocker Chick Slut” or the “New Age Hippie chick.” He usually dressed the part either wearing his new age outfit or his Rock star clothes. He had long black died hair. As for me, I stood by with my usual requirements: any good-looking girl that actually liked me. We rarely found what we were looking for after obsessing day and night about these fantasy girls we would never have. We had fun in our bonding of failures with the ladies.

 

We all lived in a house that Terry owned in a town on the outskirts of Camden, NJ. It was a poor neighborhood and was becoming racially mixed. It was mostly poor minorities and white trash. The chances of ever seeing hot chicks that fit our tastes were next to impossible.

 

Then she appeared. A young girl of maybe seventeen walked by our house every day around 5:30 pm. She dressed a little on the “alternative” side. It was around the end of the grunge years and that’s when the poor neighborhoods usually take over a style is when the middle class is done with it. Always a step behind. Kind of like us. So Terry nicknamed her the “Artsy Girl” because he says she dresses artsy. It was a style that was once artsy but not now. The three of us became obsessed with her. Everyday at 5:30 one of us would call to the others “Artsy Girl!” and we’d all come running to the kitchen window to see her.

 

“Artsy Girl!” I said.

 

“Where?” Terry said.

 

“I don’t see her. Did I miss her?” Morton said.

 

“Stop fucking with us, man. This is the highlight of our day. We don’t need to be teased.” Terry said.

 

“Sorry. I just think that it’s funny that we all start salivating the minute someone rings the Artsy Girl bell.” I said.

 

She was cute in her little flowered dresses and her Doc Martins. She had medium length reddish brown hair and pretty brown eyes.

 

One day I was walking home from the train and I ended up walking home with her. She didn’t acknowledge ever seeing me before. Thank God. She didn’t know what a letch I was. Her name was Megan. She just got out of High School. She was going to start working at the local convenience store. I was going to hit on her then I realized that she was just a regular little girl. That’s ok but not for me. When we got to my house I felt sadness in her eyes that I was going home without hitting on her or asking her for her phone number. After getting to know her the thrill of the “Artsy Girl” vanished. I realized that I am not the letch I thought. She was too young and too inexperienced in life.

 

I still fucked with the roommates though. I still gave them the mating call of the Artsy Girl. They still kept a running. I never felt the same again.

Purchase your copy of Yellow Socks; Confessions of a Non-Don Juan here.


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