Stay real! WE are all brack people.
I saw the most amazing guy this morning, as I got off the SkyTrain.
Actually, he was sitting across from me in the train, but other than a passing glance I was more interested in my book. But he was in front of me as I got off, and I followed him off the platform and down the stairs.
His hair (if not naturally red with an odd artificial red laid on top) was a carrot-raspberry colour, and sculpted into two thick ragged saw-toothed points, fore and aft.
He had on crazy checked pants that wouldn't have looked out of place on The Honeymooners, except these were baggier and had zippers up the back.
His jacket was incredible. I couldn't figure out why, since it looked like a scruffy rough jacket, until I realized that it was, in fact, fairly new and a reproduction of an old model, and then carefully gone over with some sort of abrasive to roughen it up. You could only tell this from a few spots.
The kind of care that this guy must have put (or had put) into his ensemble was astonishing. Almost as astonishing as me noticing in the first place.
And now, an excerpt from my book. I'm not sure why I chose this particular bit to share, so debate at will.
--------------------------------------------------------------
She looks up at the ceiling.
And finds herself remembering the experience of lying more or less happily, or at least pleasantly abstracted, beneath a boyfriend named Donny.
Donny had been more problematic than most other Cayce Pollard boyfriends, and she has come to believe that this had all been signaled in the first place by the fact that he was called Donny. Donny was not something, a woman friend had pointed out, that the men they went out with were usually called. Donny was of Irish-Italian extraction, from East Lansing, and had both a drinking problem and no visible means of support. But Donny was also very beautiful, and sometimes very funny, though not always intentionally, and Cayce had gone through a period of finding herself, though she never really planned to, under Donny, and Donny's big grin, in the none-too-fresh bed in his apartment on Clinton Street, between Rivingdon and Delancey.
But this final and particular time, watching him phase-shift into what she'd learned to recognize as the run-up to one of his ever-reliable orgasms, she'd for some reason stretched her arms above her head, perhaps even luxuriously, her left hand sliding accidentally under the cockroach-colored veneer of the headboard. Where it encountered something cold and hard and very precisely made. Which she brailled, shortly, into the square butt of an automatic pistol - held there, probably, with tape very similar to the tape she'd used here, this morning, to conceal the hole in her Buzz Rickson's.
Donny, she knew, was left-handed, and had so positioned this so that he could reach it conveniently as he lay in bed.
Some very basic compuational module instantly had completed the simplest of equations: if boyfriend sleeps with gun, Cayce does not share bed, or bod, with (now abruptly former) boyfriend.
And so she'd lain there, her fingertip against what she assumed was the checkered hardwood of the gun's grip, and watched Donny take his last ride on that particular pony.
Blog title from here. Cheers. ;)
Actually, he was sitting across from me in the train, but other than a passing glance I was more interested in my book. But he was in front of me as I got off, and I followed him off the platform and down the stairs.
His hair (if not naturally red with an odd artificial red laid on top) was a carrot-raspberry colour, and sculpted into two thick ragged saw-toothed points, fore and aft.
He had on crazy checked pants that wouldn't have looked out of place on The Honeymooners, except these were baggier and had zippers up the back.
His jacket was incredible. I couldn't figure out why, since it looked like a scruffy rough jacket, until I realized that it was, in fact, fairly new and a reproduction of an old model, and then carefully gone over with some sort of abrasive to roughen it up. You could only tell this from a few spots.
The kind of care that this guy must have put (or had put) into his ensemble was astonishing. Almost as astonishing as me noticing in the first place.
And now, an excerpt from my book. I'm not sure why I chose this particular bit to share, so debate at will.
--------------------------------------------------------------
She looks up at the ceiling.
And finds herself remembering the experience of lying more or less happily, or at least pleasantly abstracted, beneath a boyfriend named Donny.
Donny had been more problematic than most other Cayce Pollard boyfriends, and she has come to believe that this had all been signaled in the first place by the fact that he was called Donny. Donny was not something, a woman friend had pointed out, that the men they went out with were usually called. Donny was of Irish-Italian extraction, from East Lansing, and had both a drinking problem and no visible means of support. But Donny was also very beautiful, and sometimes very funny, though not always intentionally, and Cayce had gone through a period of finding herself, though she never really planned to, under Donny, and Donny's big grin, in the none-too-fresh bed in his apartment on Clinton Street, between Rivingdon and Delancey.
But this final and particular time, watching him phase-shift into what she'd learned to recognize as the run-up to one of his ever-reliable orgasms, she'd for some reason stretched her arms above her head, perhaps even luxuriously, her left hand sliding accidentally under the cockroach-colored veneer of the headboard. Where it encountered something cold and hard and very precisely made. Which she brailled, shortly, into the square butt of an automatic pistol - held there, probably, with tape very similar to the tape she'd used here, this morning, to conceal the hole in her Buzz Rickson's.
Donny, she knew, was left-handed, and had so positioned this so that he could reach it conveniently as he lay in bed.
Some very basic compuational module instantly had completed the simplest of equations: if boyfriend sleeps with gun, Cayce does not share bed, or bod, with (now abruptly former) boyfriend.
And so she'd lain there, her fingertip against what she assumed was the checkered hardwood of the gun's grip, and watched Donny take his last ride on that particular pony.
Blog title from here. Cheers. ;)
posted by Rimmy at 20:48
2 Comments:
Fiction?
What's going on here?
Fiction. My bad (once again) for not quoting source.
Pattern Recognition, by William Gibson.
You must be making your blog rounds to avoid endless repeats of Family Guy. ;)
"Honey, there's a bear in my porridge!"
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