Episode 2

What follows is a work of fiction, and all included characters are fictional and do not represent any actual persons, living or deceased; even though many of the geographic locations are real places. I would also like to let readers know that much of my content tends to be raw, and possibly offensive to some. So, if colorful language and content offends your sensibilities, please avoid reading any further. That said, I hope you find it stimulating.

Episode 2
4:30AM on a June Saturday finds Rudy in a familiar position, on his knees, sweating, and coated with a lacquer of his own vomit. He’s even managed to squirt a little shit into his whitie-tighties due to the violence of his projectile vomiting. Ah, the sweet caress of demon alcohol. Somehow, the mostly finished bottle of sugary convenience store iced-tea with a lemon twist and the remnants of a bargain-brand vodka bottle just don’t look so appealing anymore. He knows he’s been out for at least three hours; three whole hours of comfortable, dreamless, stupor and escape. Three hours to forget about the pain of being alive, and being the victim of a shitty excuse for an existence. He even thinks of masturbating for a brief moment, and then the spins start. No joy in Mudville.
He didn’t start the night with the intention of committing suicide, but thoughts of going out like Hendrix or Moon did cross his mind. Too bad he was never that lucky.
The worst part of the whole ordeal is that he’s the one that will have to clean up the mess. Who in the hell else going to do it? That’s the joys of the single life in Gettysburg. The only excitement is the excitement you create, and tonight’s excitement is absolutely a solo effort.
He feels a slight vibration on the thinly carpeted floor. Then the sound becomes more apparent over the din of some bullshit hair-metal on the CD player: another fucking chicken truck. He thinks of one word: cock-suckers. Those cock-suckers, those cock-suckers that drive about sixty miles per hour through this shitty excuse for a town; not only are the trucks loud, you get that vibration and the incessant sleigh-bell like rattle of tightly packed poultry cages. Rudy thinks of those chickens. Those poor, stupid fucking chickens riding blindly, and in fear, to their dooms on that unseasonably hot June morning; all to be consumed by even dumber bastards at fast food restaurants, and in countless frozen entrées. Yum.
A rational thought briefly crosses Rudy’s mind, how did all those Jews feel on those trains? He’s sure some of them believed the Nazi’s promises through either shear naivety or blind hope, but most of them had to know. They had to know they were on a train to their final destination and couldn’t do a damn thing but hope. Hope for the intervention of a benevolent God. “Christ, I watch too much fucking Hitler Channel,” Rudy mutters to himself as he surveys the filth he has surrounded himself with.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Fiction

I present my first attempt at fiction to you all, and even I don’t know where it’s headed. I’ll attempt to keep plugging forward with an episode a week.

What follows is a work of fiction, and all included characters are fictional and do not represent any actual persons, living or deceased; even though many of the geographic locations are real places. I would also like to let readers know that much of my content tends to be raw, and possibly offensive to some. So, if colorful language and content offends your sensibilities, please avoid reading any further. That said, I hope you find it stimulating.

Episode 1
Simmering misguided hatred of everything had become his passion, his world, and his ever expanding universe. He seethed at everything imaginable, from asshole motorists who cut someone else off to the jack-off who couldn’t drink without slurping. No imagined insult, no matter how minute, escaped his notice. Worst yet, he never forgot them. They just sat there stewing in the hell-broth of his mind. No release, no savior, no escape.
He could never shake the feelings of abandonment that enveloped him. Though an outside observer could never find cause for these emotions, he felt them and they burned like a foundry inside him. The boy, unable to truly cross the bridge into manhood, felt that he never really belonged to anything. He just knew those friends he had were never really friends: they were either using him to assuage their own egos, or were just looking for someone else to share this swim through misery and despair. His god, the one that was supposed to be so fucking benevolent and omnipotent, managed to leave him high and dry again. He never listened, never fixed anything, and most certainly never brought any sweet vengeance or merciful justice. How in the hell could a righteous god let all this crazy bullshit happen in the world, and worst yet him? Why in the fuck could everyone else be happy, and not him?
Who can work towards heaven when you’re in constant hell? Who can hope for sunny weather in the middle of a hurricane? Certainly not Rudy, for his life has always been a level-five, certifiable, shit-storm. The anger blown rains of misery never ceased. Rudy was mired in a deep depression. A depression that pursued him like a pack of feral dogs, ripping him down by his Achilles, gnawing him into submission, and devouring every bit of life in his soul.

The above works and content are solely the intellectual property of Teddy G. Bowman, Jr., and may not be used without his expressed written authorization.

Rescue Me and Love Me!

They call me The Beast, and I’m a 1972 Chevelle SS clone. I’ve had a great life, but my owner doesn’t have time to spend with me anymore, and has told me to find a new home. I currently face the humiliation of sitting in a cold storage area amongst recreational vehicles, boats, and trailers. My horsepower sits idle and untapped until my owner can find the time to come over and drive me. I fondly remember when he would drive me everyday and wave to all of the fans who adore me. I’m not only full of great memories; I create new ones everyday I’m allowed to drive wide-open on the highway, or when you take the time to upgrade me. I’m originally from down south, but now I’m titled and inspected in Pennsylvania and good to go.

I’m a middle-of-the-road classic. I’m not a heap or a show car; I’m a great driver. My appearance is fair to good, and my drive train is very good to great. My body and frame are solid, rust free, undercoated, and lacking in Bondo. My throbbing heart is a high output; four bolt 350, with a radical cam, headers, and a sweet sounding Flowmaster exhaust. I always fool people into thinking I’m powered by a 396 or a 454! Best yet, I have no pollution controls to rob my horsepower. My Tremec five speed transmission and drive shaft are only a year old, and my awesome 3.73 twelve bolt posi-rear was rebuilt at the same time. I have power front disc brakes and power steering, and drive straight, fast, and true. I have a new gas tank and suspension components, but my therapist says I should have my lower bushings replaced soon to keep me optimal. I do have a tiny power steering leak, but he says that’s pretty normal for a high performance classic of my vintage. I think my paint should be replaced at some point, but a good waxing will do for now. I have a little bit of rust on my trunk pan, wheels, and side view mirrors, but that’s pretty easy to get a handle on.

Please save me from a life of idleness and love me. My owner is willing to sacrifice me for $12,000 firm, as he has a lot of green and love invested in me on top of the $15,000 he paid for me. Cash is king, but he’ll consider certified checks or Internet escrow. If you're seriously willing to take me on, leave your email address for my owner. I would also like to thank my therapist, Uncle Cliff, of Cliff Froggatt’s Auto Service in Narvon PA (717-354-6376) for giving me expert care and upgrades when I’ve needed it. He’s not only a great auto therapist, he’s a great friend, singer, and a mechanical magician!

Help Fight BRS

Friends, I have found another problem I need to address. It is an illness that can affect anyone of any sex, race, religion, or creed that is above sixteen years of age. Even so, people of the upper-middle class seem to suffer most. The terrible plague that has befallen us is known as BRS, and its victims are many.

BRS is the acronym for Big Rig Syndrome. This infirmity is suffered by people who, for whatever reason, purchase and drive vehicles far too large for themselves. It could be because of ego, peer-pressure, or simple ignorance; the reasoning does not matter nearly as much as the results. Aside from the environmental issues (for which I can’t rightfully throw any stones), there are more practical concerns.

These people are a menace on the roadways. They constantly weave into opposing traffic, have near misses, and drive too fast a for road conditions which is due to a false sense of security provided by four-wheel drive and extra sheet metal. The worst is when they try to make turns into driveways, or at intersections. Sweet Jesus, you’d think they’re driving one of those old fashioned tractor and tiller fire trucks, or trying to put the QE2 into dry-dock. They have to come to a complete stop first, and then attempt to negotiate a turn most of us could handle in excess of twenty-five miles per hour. Hell, that’s IF they’re not on their cell phone!

For the safety of everyone and the sanity of myself: you know damn right and well its too big for you to handle safely, so trade it in on something smaller!

Ears

Boy, I’ve been up to my ears in it lately. I wanted to use brute force to pound my way through the rest of my undergraduate program, but it’s fighting back! What I THOUGHT would be easy electives for me, have turned out to be rather intensive. Combine this with me running around and trying to get that car sold, and dealing with the typical administrative problems with Immaculata University, and starting a new job, the typical things life throws your way; and you’re just asking for disaster.

Surprisingly, I’ve been holding up pretty well. I certainly have to give a lot of credit to my wife, family, and friends for all of their support. It’s a tough phase, but it’ll pass like all of the others before it. Then, it’ll just be a whole new batch of problems!

I really have to get to get that car sold. I love it, but it’s really kicking my ass right now!

bee

Most of my readers, no matter how few they are (thanks AJ :)), probably recognize that my persistent antagonist, aka “bee,” happens to be the very woman who whelped this literary pup.

I ask all of you (which is probably just the aforementioned AJ) to join me in encouraging her to either: 1) start her own blog, or 2) finish her book(s) and try to have it published.

“Excuse me if I’m clinging on to life, but my parents wove me from tight thread.” –Jeanne Calment (famous for living to the age of 122).


PS: I’m thinking of turning the blog into a fictional serial. It would help me meet some of the requirements of that MFA program, and it might be more fun than hearing me bitch and complain. If you have any subject-matter ideas, let me know. Beginning is the hardest part!

Dilema

It’s not exactly a big deal, but I have found myself brooding over some more choices. The first choice, whether or not to go to graduate school, seems pretty straightforward. I have to answer yes to it; worst case scenario: I hate it and quit, but I at least gave it a go and won’t have all those “what if” doubts swirling in my head. I have already picked a school that I’m very likely to be accepted to. Simple.

The second choice is tougher. I have found myself forced to decide between an MA in English Publication with a concentration in writing and editing, and a MFA in Creative Writing. I certainly have time to decide, as I won’t finish my BA until September, but I’ve always been one to look ahead. Carpe Next Year.

Right now, I’ve been leaning towards the Creative Writing degree. I’m guessing it would look less impressive on a professional resume, but the title Master of Fine Arts does have a sweet ring to it. Not to mention, there’s that “he’s an artist” excuse every time I mess up something mere mortals can do with their eyes closed. My brain will be churning on this one for a while, but anticipation is the best part of almost everything, is it not?

Gauntlet

I’m afraid that my personal critic, otherwise known as “bee,” has laid down a gauntlet, of sorts. Bee thinks that the move from muscle car (which I STILL own) to economy ride, and the transition from night-time laborer to “9-5” cubicle-flunky somehow make me family man material. I think not.

To this assault I say: Ha, Ha! Remember, we are all stuck working for “the man,” and we do what we need to do to achieve our ends. Which, in my case, is getting an education, keeping a comfortable (but not lavish) home, driving a balls-out car, computer games, music, and enjoying what the arts have to offer.

Like the great AC/DC once encouraged, “Stand up and be counted!” Continue the fight my revolutionary brothers and sisters…your guerilla struggles against the corporate entities will be hallowed in the future! Kind of like that “Terminator” movie…

Continue to wear their business casual clothes, exist in their cubicles, and support their coffee funds; and all the while, constantly subvert their existence with half-ass work! Fight the power, indeed.

“Believe some say the neon signs...Might allow speakers repeatin’...And everything is fine...A subtle silence...To demolish the troubled conscious...Of a compass with no knowledge...And every freedom denied...Every dream is designed and broadcasted...From the masters to the masses...From the antennas on top of the trine...As far as the receiving planet during a panic is shorted...It reports back everything in your mind...Everything is lying...Everything is dying...Everything is a rule...And everything is a crime...Everything was healed...And everything rewinds...And new weather burn the feathers off everything's line”*



*From “Streets on Fire,” as recorded by Lupe Fiasco.

Horses of a Different Color

Even I have succumbed to the threat of winter weather. So much so, that I went and purchased a second car. Now our family of two has three vehicles. In all honesty, there were some more practical reasons, aside from the weather, for the decision.

In addition to my beloved Chevelle (which I just can’t sell), I now own a 2004 Toyota Corolla, which gets about five times the gas mileage of the beast; even if it is about five times less fun to drive. Not to mention, front-wheel-drive handles the winter weather much better than high-horsepower rear-wheel-drive and I don’t have to worry about PennDOT’s salt eroding the Toyota. Hell, at least it’s not milk or bread.

With my gas cost cutting solution, I’ve added some new problems. Now, if I don’t get the Chevelle sold, I have to store it, insure it, maintain it, and find time to drive it. I guess I could solve the problem by buying a house with a big garage, but somehow I doubt my wife would appreciate that. Even so, I won’t cry: I dig my own graves and refuse to regret having fun. Besides, nobody died and I have learned a lot from the experience.

I’m certainly not advocating complete hedonism, but just live your life, enjoy it as much as possible, and tell the critics to kiss your ass. Everyone is very willing to tell you what you can’t do; so much so that you start to believe it yourself. Sometimes, you even have to tell yourself to kiss off.

Brain Freeze

In my last post, I touched on the intriguing January weather. This week, I have skeptically watched an ever-changing forecast for Monday’s (January 14, 2008) weather. Even though the outlook has been constantly changing, it consistently involves that dirty four-letter winter word: snow.

Snow seems to make a babbling idiot out of the wisest of Chester County residents. As soon as it is forecast, stupidity follows on its heels. Excellent drivers suddenly become inept, and well-to-do homes suddenly need to be outfitted with enough milk and bread to supply Sherman’s march on Georgia.

I am not immune. The siren’s song of slick commutes even prompted me to by a second car. More to follow…

January Seduction

What a tease January has been. It seduces you with a few days of mild weather and you just know the killing blow of real winter weather is just around the corner. I was able to share the road with a few other classic cars and plenty of Harley-Davidsons. Even though we did not have many birds singing, we certainly had the macho rumble of high-horsepower muscle and tuned exhausts.

I get the weird feeling these snow showers scheduled for Monday might be worse than expected…..

Object of His Affections

Well, it seems our cat (Rudy) has found a new object of affection since we took the Christmas tree down. Oddly enough, it’s a nationally known wood-cleaning product.

The basement is the cat’s domain, the rest of us just visit. It’s where his majesty’s litter-box resides, and is his safe haven from the dog. Though he’ll allow you or I in, Rudy will be sure to keep a close eye on your actions and be in constant escort while you’re there.
Even though us humans rarely use it, the basement is finished on one side with wood floors and furniture.

Lately, my wife has been bitten by the cleaning bug and decided that Sir Rude’s kingdom needed a good deck swabbing, and she used diluted Murphy’s Oil Soap to mop the floor. As soon as the floor got wet with the concoction, Rudy gleefully rolled around in it.
Mind you, this is a cat that hates baths, and will run for the hills when you turn on the kitchen sink sprayer, or use a squirt bottle. Maybe he was just helping?

As best I can tell, the soap is non-toxic and biodegradable. Even so, I’m sure cat bathing was not an intended use of the product. I have to assume it’s one of the natural ingredients that put the cat in a quasi-euphoric state.

If anyone else has had a similar experience, feel free to share!