Cleveland is the perfect setting for just about everything. I started with the idea that it’s a great setting for a novel, but it’s perfect for movies too. Where else can you have rain, sun, wind, falling leaves and flowers all available in the same day?
Train rumbles past.
“God Bless America” flashes on the Browns Stadium.
The tops of the buildings disappear into the clouds.
Ocean-like waves rip over Lake Erie.
So many other little notices on my way into downtown.
BELLE THE CAT
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Guardrail
Somewhat of a Serial By S. Morgan Bartash
A gallon of milk can be a formidable weapon, especially when carried in the dominate hand. Kianti Augi found this out in the wee house of August 19 walking home. She had no idea where she had got the milk, but she was glad she had it when she heard the footsteps approaching rapidly from behind her. Icicles had been shooting up the veins of her right hand, she realized, in the slow, stubborn way one does with a mind swimming with the aftereffects of alcohol, tobacco, and loud music. This told her that it was cold, and she had been carrying it for quite a distance.
As the plastic jug smashed against the guy’s head, her brain sidestroked off, and she tried to recall why she wasn’t driving home. She had driven the Rexmobile downtown with Nick and Reena and Brook and Progressive Dan, hadn’t she? Milk splooshed over her attacker as the cap popped off, then glugged out onto the sidewalk. She was surprised to see it was chocolate. Then, as the guy lunged at her in a dairy-soaked rage, she turned and ran.
Somewhat of a Serial By S. Morgan Bartash
A gallon of milk can be a formidable weapon, especially when carried in the dominate hand. Kianti Augi found this out in the wee house of August 19 walking home. She had no idea where she had got the milk, but she was glad she had it when she heard the footsteps approaching rapidly from behind her. Icicles had been shooting up the veins of her right hand, she realized, in the slow, stubborn way one does with a mind swimming with the aftereffects of alcohol, tobacco, and loud music. This told her that it was cold, and she had been carrying it for quite a distance.
As the plastic jug smashed against the guy’s head, her brain sidestroked off, and she tried to recall why she wasn’t driving home. She had driven the Rexmobile downtown with Nick and Reena and Brook and Progressive Dan, hadn’t she? Milk splooshed over her attacker as the cap popped off, then glugged out onto the sidewalk. She was surprised to see it was chocolate. Then, as the guy lunged at her in a dairy-soaked rage, she turned and ran.
Friday, September 12, 2003
The Cologne Boys
Greg is fifteen. He plays soccer and walks to school alone every morning, after eating a breakfast of shredded wheat. He has a lot of cowboy books, strangely enough. He’s a little embarrassed about that. When he was younger, he was very into the Old West. Then, in middle school, this fact got him picked on, and so he rarely spoke of his interest. Now in high school, he’s not really that popular, but he at least has a handful of friends he can hang out with. They kind of make him stick sometimes, since he feels like he can’t really be himself around them. He wishes he was in basketball and not in soccer. He struggles with acne. He is 5’8” but seems a lot taller. He is blond and skinny. He wears Obsession for men.
Justin hates his name. He is sixteen and wishes his name were Lars. He smokes Marlboros but wishes he had enough money to buy imported cigarettes. He drinks a lot of coffee and draws strange pictures that look like cave drawings of stick figures shooting buffalo. He can drive now and has inherited his parent’s cast off car, a piece of crap Pontiac that he also hates, but at least it’s his for the taking. He spends too much time thinking and not enough time talking to people. He has contemplated suicide already, but wasn’t really serious. At least, he doesn’t think he was. He is too smart for his own good. He has black hair, brown eyes and is 5’6” tall. He wishes he liked punk music, but he thinks it sounds like crap. He does not escape through food, exercise, television or other such distractions, and the grind of modern life is slowly driving him insane. He doesn’t eat breakfast and wears too much Polo.
Nick is fifteen. He walks to school with the two girls next door that he has known for freaking ever. They walk past the convenience store and he usually buys a stick of beef jerky and a Mountain Dew for breakfast. No one knows too much about Nick. He’s a nice guy. He is nice to everyone. He usually has headphones on, listening to techno music. He is not a very good student. He lives in the basement of his house and watches television and listens to music. On the weekends he goes mountain biking. He smokes pot with some of his buddies on the weekends or after school. He wants to run away to Africa or join the military. He smells like sandalwood.
Greg is fifteen. He plays soccer and walks to school alone every morning, after eating a breakfast of shredded wheat. He has a lot of cowboy books, strangely enough. He’s a little embarrassed about that. When he was younger, he was very into the Old West. Then, in middle school, this fact got him picked on, and so he rarely spoke of his interest. Now in high school, he’s not really that popular, but he at least has a handful of friends he can hang out with. They kind of make him stick sometimes, since he feels like he can’t really be himself around them. He wishes he was in basketball and not in soccer. He struggles with acne. He is 5’8” but seems a lot taller. He is blond and skinny. He wears Obsession for men.
Justin hates his name. He is sixteen and wishes his name were Lars. He smokes Marlboros but wishes he had enough money to buy imported cigarettes. He drinks a lot of coffee and draws strange pictures that look like cave drawings of stick figures shooting buffalo. He can drive now and has inherited his parent’s cast off car, a piece of crap Pontiac that he also hates, but at least it’s his for the taking. He spends too much time thinking and not enough time talking to people. He has contemplated suicide already, but wasn’t really serious. At least, he doesn’t think he was. He is too smart for his own good. He has black hair, brown eyes and is 5’6” tall. He wishes he liked punk music, but he thinks it sounds like crap. He does not escape through food, exercise, television or other such distractions, and the grind of modern life is slowly driving him insane. He doesn’t eat breakfast and wears too much Polo.
Nick is fifteen. He walks to school with the two girls next door that he has known for freaking ever. They walk past the convenience store and he usually buys a stick of beef jerky and a Mountain Dew for breakfast. No one knows too much about Nick. He’s a nice guy. He is nice to everyone. He usually has headphones on, listening to techno music. He is not a very good student. He lives in the basement of his house and watches television and listens to music. On the weekends he goes mountain biking. He smokes pot with some of his buddies on the weekends or after school. He wants to run away to Africa or join the military. He smells like sandalwood.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight Profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight profound insight
I could try the theater down the street one more time. Volunteering there didn’t work out last time. Oh well, that can be forgiven. It was my first attempt.
I just became a member of The Nature Conservancy even though I hate the word conservancy. I am letting my Sierra Club membership lapse. I did purchase checks that have Sierra Club printed on them, and 5 – 20% goes to the organization.
I just became a member of The Nature Conservancy even though I hate the word conservancy. I am letting my Sierra Club membership lapse. I did purchase checks that have Sierra Club printed on them, and 5 – 20% goes to the organization.
People tell me, more often than I would like honestly, that I look like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my sholders. I guess it happens more often than I'd like because when it does happen, it meens that there is something on my mind, but I can't share it with anyone. I feel at times that I'm too stupid to share my feelings. I groom myself as a writer, but when it comes to actually expressing myself out loud, it ends up becoming a game I can't win and I don't know the rules to. Truth be told I'm not good with words. I'm not good at judging people. I don't understand a lot of things. Some things I truly don't care about, and when I encounter other people who do, I get rattled. I also have taught myself to be a bit of a man when it comes to crying. I can pretty much get away with a Depp-like "Crybaby" tear and a lot of sniffling. I wasn't always like that.
What makes a person? You are what you eat. Who you associate with. Where you live, what you do.
What makes a person? You are what you eat. Who you associate with. Where you live, what you do.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Be a bitch to Target.
I have actually heard of people who have a problem with Target, but I have had good luck with them. Not only do they have a good selection of trendy cheep stuff, but they give a percent of each charge to their Target Card to the school of your choice. Well, since the school of my choice is closing after this year, and I don't have my card any more, I thought I'd share a story which may make you think twice about shopping there. I would not want to be a stock holder - and really, would the place exist without shopers and shareholders? I don't think so.
From a Media Relations & Crisis Comm E-Newsletter 9/1/03:
Earlier this year, Reuters reported that Target Corporation had refused
to allow shareholders to ask questions at their annual meeting. That
puzzled me, since I thought one of the primary purposes of annual
meetings was shareholder communication -- and any PR intern knows that
effective communication is two-way.
Realizing that media coverage is not always accurate, I tracked down
Target spokesperson Douglas Kline, identifying myself as editor of this
publication, describing its purpose and audience. I asked him to tell me
what really happened. He confirmed the Reuters report with a
fascinating and educational response:
"Our financial relations people have said repeatedly that there are many
other and better opportunities to interact with shareholders," Kline
said.
When I started to ask for more information, he interrupted me with this
gem:
"Target doesn't communicate with trade publications or niche
publications such as yours, so I really have nothing to tell you."
My reply? "That's OK Doug, you just told me plenty."
I have actually heard of people who have a problem with Target, but I have had good luck with them. Not only do they have a good selection of trendy cheep stuff, but they give a percent of each charge to their Target Card to the school of your choice. Well, since the school of my choice is closing after this year, and I don't have my card any more, I thought I'd share a story which may make you think twice about shopping there. I would not want to be a stock holder - and really, would the place exist without shopers and shareholders? I don't think so.
From a Media Relations & Crisis Comm E-Newsletter 9/1/03:
Earlier this year, Reuters reported that Target Corporation had refused
to allow shareholders to ask questions at their annual meeting. That
puzzled me, since I thought one of the primary purposes of annual
meetings was shareholder communication -- and any PR intern knows that
effective communication is two-way.
Realizing that media coverage is not always accurate, I tracked down
Target spokesperson Douglas Kline, identifying myself as editor of this
publication, describing its purpose and audience. I asked him to tell me
what really happened. He confirmed the Reuters report with a
fascinating and educational response:
"Our financial relations people have said repeatedly that there are many
other and better opportunities to interact with shareholders," Kline
said.
When I started to ask for more information, he interrupted me with this
gem:
"Target doesn't communicate with trade publications or niche
publications such as yours, so I really have nothing to tell you."
My reply? "That's OK Doug, you just told me plenty."
Monday, September 01, 2003
I walk around with my Alpha waves cooking away, thinking of cool shit all the time and when I finally sit down, they all poop out. I walk around the library and truly believe there are enough books out there - they have all been written.
In the Sandman, not only did there exist a Merripen, but he took a knife stab through the hand and actually did something cooler than I had envisioned - he grasped the hand that held the knife. I gotta write before someone else writes all my stuff (I still should write that story about the lady that did that without thinking and was stalked by the other lady whose brain she had tapped.) I do have an idea dump. It lurks behind me, starring with glowing eyes into my spine - a very bad feng shui set up.
Bad dreams:
Biting so hard I crack all my teeth
My right leg, for no reason, suddenly collapsed beneath me. I felt my knee give way, and knowing my temperamental joints, it was more of a grimacing annoyance. What was a surprise was the fact that I was at the top of the library staircase with my arms laden with media. My grimace fell to a frown as I toppled forward, letting go of my books and cds that fell with a clatter, pages fluttering and plastic cases cascading down the steps like a shower of flower pedals. My arm was too far from the rail, however. I could not catch myself. What hit first were my shins, and the base of my spine glowed with pain as the front half of that which is me stopped suddenly in its graceful decent and reversed direction. My wrist crumpled as I unsuccessfully through my hand out to catch myself. The worst pain came when my chin hit, snapping something in my head that made my ears ring. Then my forehead hit as my body slid a few steps down, floated on the skittering volumes of James Joyce and the Bach biography I would never get around to reading.
In the Sandman, not only did there exist a Merripen, but he took a knife stab through the hand and actually did something cooler than I had envisioned - he grasped the hand that held the knife. I gotta write before someone else writes all my stuff (I still should write that story about the lady that did that without thinking and was stalked by the other lady whose brain she had tapped.) I do have an idea dump. It lurks behind me, starring with glowing eyes into my spine - a very bad feng shui set up.
Bad dreams:
Biting so hard I crack all my teeth
My right leg, for no reason, suddenly collapsed beneath me. I felt my knee give way, and knowing my temperamental joints, it was more of a grimacing annoyance. What was a surprise was the fact that I was at the top of the library staircase with my arms laden with media. My grimace fell to a frown as I toppled forward, letting go of my books and cds that fell with a clatter, pages fluttering and plastic cases cascading down the steps like a shower of flower pedals. My arm was too far from the rail, however. I could not catch myself. What hit first were my shins, and the base of my spine glowed with pain as the front half of that which is me stopped suddenly in its graceful decent and reversed direction. My wrist crumpled as I unsuccessfully through my hand out to catch myself. The worst pain came when my chin hit, snapping something in my head that made my ears ring. Then my forehead hit as my body slid a few steps down, floated on the skittering volumes of James Joyce and the Bach biography I would never get around to reading.
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