Hey kids-
Okay, I promised some real words, so here they are. This thing I was working on the other night, a short excerpt. First draft, no editing, haven't even looked at it yet. Feel free to comment, if you so desire.
Sheik Europa’s sitting on the barstool next to me and watching me write in my little black journal and he keeps feeding me ideas and they all suck.
“Dude,” he says, lifting a glass of something that’s blue and swirls around, even though he’s not shaking his hand, “you need a fight scene here. I can feel it.” He sips from the glass and tilts his head back and the lights that hover around the bar’s ceiling reflect back in the mirrored lenses of his shades. “A fight scene,” the blue whatever gurgling around in the back of his throat, “or a love scene. Just a kiss or a shove would do it.”
“Something subtle like that, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nods by sawing his chin back and forth through the air, like he’s trying to ring a doorbell with it. His nods use everything from mid-spine to the crown of his head. It’s more like a full-body jerk of exultation than a simple non-verbal affirmation.
There’s no way he’d like that last line.
“A girl. Or a bad guy. Either way, you’ve got desire, right? And desire is what?”
Desire is the meat of the story. Sheik Europa Lesson #1.
If you believe him, the Sheik is the one responsible for Baywatch. Not the heroic-lifeguards-having-drama-on-the-beach part, which could have come from anywhere, but the slow-motion-running, silicone-injected, Playboy-Bunny-meets-Calvin-Klein-model part of Baywatch.
Also, he’s responsible for the American fascination for feng shui. Probably also for the almost complete confusion as to the point of feng shui for most Americans caught up in the fascination.
Also, for one of the asteroid movies that hit a while back, but not the big one with Bruce Willis. The other one, with Morgan Freeman as the President. And he claims that he came up with Die Hard. “Man, I knew that was gonna just kick some ass. Had Bruce in mind the whole time. ‘Yippee-kayo, motherfucker.’ All me, Lar.”
I don’t argue, ‘cause he’s probably telling the truth. Nobody seems to lie around here. What would the point be?
I don’t blame the Sheik for feeding me shitty ideas (“Larry, listen, cyborgs, right? But not just cyborgs, a cyborg love story. They’ll just eat it up.” “What about Blade Runner? That was all cyborgs and love.” “Yeah, but that was like twenty years ago. Who remembers?”), ‘cause that’s what he does.
But I hate it when he feeds ‘em to me while I’m trying to write this down.
Anyway, it is what it is. Enjoy or move on. Roy Moore got bounced from the bench and the Senate hosted a slumber party to argue over Jr's judicial appointees, so there's hellarad more important crap going on in the world today than my little stuff.
Out.
Okay, I promised some real words, so here they are. This thing I was working on the other night, a short excerpt. First draft, no editing, haven't even looked at it yet. Feel free to comment, if you so desire.
Sheik Europa’s sitting on the barstool next to me and watching me write in my little black journal and he keeps feeding me ideas and they all suck.
“Dude,” he says, lifting a glass of something that’s blue and swirls around, even though he’s not shaking his hand, “you need a fight scene here. I can feel it.” He sips from the glass and tilts his head back and the lights that hover around the bar’s ceiling reflect back in the mirrored lenses of his shades. “A fight scene,” the blue whatever gurgling around in the back of his throat, “or a love scene. Just a kiss or a shove would do it.”
“Something subtle like that, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nods by sawing his chin back and forth through the air, like he’s trying to ring a doorbell with it. His nods use everything from mid-spine to the crown of his head. It’s more like a full-body jerk of exultation than a simple non-verbal affirmation.
There’s no way he’d like that last line.
“A girl. Or a bad guy. Either way, you’ve got desire, right? And desire is what?”
Desire is the meat of the story. Sheik Europa Lesson #1.
If you believe him, the Sheik is the one responsible for Baywatch. Not the heroic-lifeguards-having-drama-on-the-beach part, which could have come from anywhere, but the slow-motion-running, silicone-injected, Playboy-Bunny-meets-Calvin-Klein-model part of Baywatch.
Also, he’s responsible for the American fascination for feng shui. Probably also for the almost complete confusion as to the point of feng shui for most Americans caught up in the fascination.
Also, for one of the asteroid movies that hit a while back, but not the big one with Bruce Willis. The other one, with Morgan Freeman as the President. And he claims that he came up with Die Hard. “Man, I knew that was gonna just kick some ass. Had Bruce in mind the whole time. ‘Yippee-kayo, motherfucker.’ All me, Lar.”
I don’t argue, ‘cause he’s probably telling the truth. Nobody seems to lie around here. What would the point be?
I don’t blame the Sheik for feeding me shitty ideas (“Larry, listen, cyborgs, right? But not just cyborgs, a cyborg love story. They’ll just eat it up.” “What about Blade Runner? That was all cyborgs and love.” “Yeah, but that was like twenty years ago. Who remembers?”), ‘cause that’s what he does.
But I hate it when he feeds ‘em to me while I’m trying to write this down.
Anyway, it is what it is. Enjoy or move on. Roy Moore got bounced from the bench and the Senate hosted a slumber party to argue over Jr's judicial appointees, so there's hellarad more important crap going on in the world today than my little stuff.
Out.
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