Touch me. Touch me like you didn't touch me last night.

I’ve never been as much of a slut as I could have (should have?) been. I've never known why. I just never did all the people things I knew I could have.

My brain is terrible and broken, but somehow—just as I remember where I purchased nearly all of my 1500 books and 300+ cd’s—I remember everybody I’ve kissed, male and female (Insert Shock and Awe Here) and all the circumstances, and everything that those moments remind me of.

I wonder how many of these people I'll end up writing about.

For now, for the first, I remember E.O.

 

benjamin
Listening to the Razormaid remix of "Soviet Snow"...now "True Dreams of Wichita" - Soul Coughing

PS – Quote of the Day? “I'm wearing a skirt and your wife's shirts.”

Sitting in a coffee shop, drinking my triple vanilla latte, hammering out a new Sir Reginald tale while Sara bowls with coworkers and then buys soapmaking supplies.

I keep thinking back to when I first arrived in this town, eleven years ago, and how I terribly miss the midnight sales at the now-closed local music store, Record Service, where we would brave the cold of winter to get our hands on the latest albums...they had an enormous chalkboard above the register that told of new arrivals for the next three weeks.

Now the storefront remains empty, and more and more places vanish, to be replaced by Qdoba, and Potbelly, and Starbucks, and Noodles and Co., and Chipotle.

Fuck, I am become old. And my flask of whiskey is empty.

Back to Sir Reginald...and Sir Reginald.

b

I'm reading a book right now called TOKYOSCOPE: The Japanese Cult Film Companion. As many of you know, I'm ridiculously forgetful. I often forget important things, like my name, whether or not I've eaten today, and if those are my legs.

So when I read a few paragraphs and some event from a dozen years ago flashes into my head, you can see why it might have some small impact. In any event, as I always like to say, "Enjoy or don't." Now here's my self-indulgent poem for your enjoyement.

--- --- --- --- --- ---

HEDORAH

It was
Godzilla
vs.
The Smog Monster
vs.
Brian.

In a hotel, in a strange city, on a show-choir trip, two adolescent urges at war.
On the television, The Smog Monster attacked innocents
Acid burning them to bleached bones.
In the room, I try to decide if Brian is too "cool" for me.
If what happened before, my loss of innocence
Had merely been a small town convenience for him.

I once made the mistake, when several others commented about a girl,
Of saying,
"Well, Brian likes boys, too."
I thought this was normal.
I saw no reason to be shy.
He winced, and raised his finger to his lips,
Shhhhhhhhh.

And so, in my head, giant monsters battle Brian.
Which do I want to see more?
When he leaves the room, will I follow him or the plot?

In the end, I did not pay enough attention to either.
I missed most of the movie.
I missed most of Brian.

Years later I read about the making of the film in a book.
It was a product of the times, full of '60's madness, a heavy-handed environmental message, and it dripped with psychadelic imagery.

Go-go dancing.
Bumbling military men.
Political commentary.
A cult hit.
I remember none of this.

Lesson learned.

I will rent the movie.
I will watch the movie.
And as I watch it, I will repeat to myself:

Boys come and go.
Giant monsters are forever.


benjamin sTone
Urbana, Illinois
12:10am, 05/12/04
Current Music: "Church" by Lyle Lovett
Current Book: God forgive me, it's THE DA VINCI CODE
Current Movie: About to watch OUR LADY OF THE ASSASSINS

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benjamin writes: compositemolecules@yahoogroups.com
everybody responds: dead-horse@yahoogroups.com
Also available online at: http://www.livejournal.com/users/benchilada/

    First things first, I just wasted over two hours of my life watching SEABISCUIT. Wow. Trite, terrible dialogue, stilted acting, horrible voiceover, and good god, the music. My ears are still bleeding. But if you like it, hey, that’s your thing. But damn…I’d rather watch METALSTORM: THE DESTRUCTION OF JARED SYN (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0085935/) again. A movie where JARED SYN DOESN’T EVEN GET DESTROYED. And a movie where they think mascara will be readily available after the apocalypse. At least this sucker doesn’t stand a chance against RETURN OF THE KING and LOST IN TRANSLATION, mmm?

    Ooh, and don’t need your pants? Get them scared off of you here: http://www.sh2004.com/
    The three red links are links to the trailer. I recommend the third one, bigger and better. Brrr…spookies…

    Okay, and now, a completely unnecessary preface for a work I’ve been pounding away on. The year is 1970. The place is Three Rivers, Michigan.

-------------------------------------

    Just looking at him, you wouldn’t guess sixty. But that’s probably because you don’t see many sixty-year olds sprinting madly through the December night, dressed in black, a balaclava rolled up onto their forehead. Holding a semi-automatic pistol. And smiling.
    By the time he slowed down, he was in the backyard of what could have been any backwoods cabin in southern Michigan.
    A quick pistol whip quieted the obligatory dog, and the glass sliding door was invitingly unlocked. Just inside, an even older man was asleep on a sofa, cradling a young child in his arms.
    Quietly spinning a silencer onto his gun, Jeffrey placed his hand over the man’s mouth.
    “Mr. Davidson? I need you to be very quiet. We don’t want to wake the young lady, now do we?”
    Mr. Davidson shook his head very slowly.
    “Granddaughter?”
    A slow nod.
    “Nice girl. Let’s hope she got her brains from the other side of the family. Now, you know the drill. I’m going to take my hand off and if you cause a problem, she dies first. We have an understanding?”
    Nod.
    Jeffrey carefully removed his hand from the man’s lips, which were taut and pale, though his eyes blazed with quiet fury.
    “Mr. Davidson, do you remember where you were in September of 1939?
    “I’m sure I have no idea what you…”
    “Mr. Davidson, I don’t want to kill her because you lie to me. Which is what you’re doing now, yes? Lying to me?”
    Nod.
    “Thank you. Now then, in September of 1939, you left this country for two weeks, correct?”
    “Yes. I went on a business trip to Spain.”
    “And while you were in Spain, what type of business did you conduct?”
    “Trade.”
    “Please don’t be oblique. What exactly did you trade, Mr. Davidson?”
    The old man looked quietly down at the girl in his arms, and his eyes began to sparkle with tears.
    “Mr. Davidson, what exactly did you trade?”
    “I traded,” he whispered, “an amount of black-tar heroin for seven boys and three girls.”
    “Which did you bring?”
    “The heroin.”
    “And which did you take?”
    “The children.”
    “Where did they go, Mr. Davidson?”
    “All of them went to different homes. Rich families, the kind of people who wanted the respect that adopting…buying…a foreign war-child brings.”
    “Were you aware that what you were doing was illegal, Mr. Davidson?”
    “OF COURSE I…”
    Mr. Davidson was suddenly very aware of how dark the barrel of the bulky and efficient silencer on Jeffrey’s gun really was.
    “Hush. She’s sleeping. Were you aware, Mr. Davidson, that you were breaking no less than two mandates of the League of Nations?”
    “I’m sure that I…the League of Nations?”
    “Yes, Mr. Davidson. According to Article 23 of the League’s charter, all member nations were to ‘entrust the League with the general supervision over the execution of agreements with regard to the traffic in women and children, and the traffic in opium and other dangerous drugs,’ Do you understand that you violated Article 23 on two counts?”
    “I don’t…I mean, I guess I do, but…”
    “But what, Mr. Davidson?”
    “Wasn’t the League of Nations concerned with disarmament and non-violence whenever possible?”
    “Whenever possible, yes. For all other situations, there were people like me. So you do understand the charges put forth against you?”
    “Wait…isn’t the League…I mean, who do you work for? This was 30 years ago! I’ve gone straight! I have children, grandchildren; I work weekends at a soup kitchen.”
    “Very admirable, Mr. Davidson. I’m certain that higher powers will take all of this into consideration when deciding the fate of your soul. I’m just here about your body.”
    “Wait, wait! Isn’t there some sort of appeal? You can’t DO this!”
    “I warned you about your volume, Mr. Davidson. And orders are orders, no matter how old they may be. To your credit, you were an elusive little bastard. I mean, Michigan? Christ. In any event….”
    Jeffrey’s finger tightened on the trigger…
    “W-wait, please, wait…wasn’t the League of Nations disbanded in 1946?”
    “Yes, Mr. Davidson.”
    “Didn’t they tell you that your job was done?”
    “No, Mr. Davidson. I must have missed that memo.”

    Jeffrey was able to take the girl into his arms before her grandfather tipped quietly onto his side. Despite the two breathy exhalations from his pistol, the girl had not moved. He carried her into the next room, where a turtle-shaped nightlight lit her crib. He carefully tucked her under her blanket and left the house the way he came in, switching off the light as he went.
    There really is no satisfaction, he ruminated, like that of a job well done.

---------------------------

benjamin sTone
Urbana at 12:15am

Music: Tegan and Sara are singing “Girly Man”
Last Movie: *sigh* SEABISCUIT

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benjamin speaks: compositemolecules@yahoogroups.com
everybody responds: dead-horse@yahoogroups.com
Also available online at: http://www.livejournal.com/users/benchilada/