Here is blog #1 titled: From Hell They Came
I was browsing a scrapbook of fine vellum, containing large prints of Louis VI antiquities and Flemish paintings. Except for the table and chair, the room was bare, as was I. I remembered the platonic beauty from High School was coming home from work. I struggled to get my legs in the jeans, writhing on the floor.
She told her mom (in my presence) "the chemistry wasn't right", as we'd known each other too long, yet she had me sleep over (saying "don't get romantic"). Emerging from her room (nude from the waist down with long underwear), she'd smoke a cigarette and stare at me on the couch, as I chivalrously pretended to be asleep. Before one of her weddings, she intimated sexual favors in exchange for yard work. She loved to shop and do coke, and was probably dead from a neurological disease.
She was the girl from 'Noah Baine', a song on my new Anti CD 'Shades Of Dorian Gray' (due Feb.6). As in the song, she took me to a party,
The soiree was all E Channel cultural commentator types, only more repugnant and angry. I almost accepted each lying litany of reprimands. Some girl got me in bed, then ran to the bar.The tease was evidently revenge for saying "ribit" (like a frog) repeatedly at a party in another city. A tall recording artist on the 'Red Penny' label, said I'd disrupted her mother's train of thought with the mantra. I'd never said "ribit", and I didn't remember those precise countenances.
I'd thrown some tuna in the microwave with my bare hands (no plate within), I went to salvage it. There were bacon strips of burnt pizza, topped with asteroid shaped nuggets of bubble gum and garbage disposal mung. (My brother had made an Italian tuna dish Christmas night, with our leftover turkey from Thanksgiving.
There were shots of kaluah and cream all over the room; I drank a few. People were vomiting on the walls, in the manner of a Jackson Pollack painting. A bald archeologist and a loud and fat software designer lady from the Amtrak, were in bed together. The skin rag model who stuck her capri-panted butt out (and fondled it) in frontof Latino children in 'Fern Dell' recently (then scurried off to the next photo op), was straddling the couple.
As I awoke from yet another nightmare in the icy room haunted by my Darth Fader (a 'Caine'; A 7th descendant of a 7th descendant of a Cohen, and barred from family crypts), I realized the party goers were actual demons messing with me. We'd met before, we'd meet again, only next time I'd be "ready for 'em", like Brett Lewis (for 8th grade girls), when he got his first pubic hairs.