can't she say something

I realize that I haven't post anything in a while and the other day while wandering our town square I got to thinking why. It turns out that I haven't really been pissed off by anything lately, at least nothing that lasted long enough for me to make it home and decided to type.

Now that doesn't mean that I'm not bored, because I am, even though I'm working full time. I haven't had a good conversation in a bit and my current writing project is stalled so maybe I need somebody or something to piss me off. Where's Sarah Palin when you need her?

More New Fiction News

Late last night word came through the internet that my story The Wire Out was won second prize in The Barry Hannah Memorial Contest at Fried Chicken and Coffee. They'll be publishing it in the new future and of course, dear blog reader, I'll be letting you know when that happens.

The story started as an assignment at Goddard for The No Masters No Gods informal class. Later at that residency several of us were driving between Plainfield and Montpelier when I spotted a man working on the highway holding the stop/go sign. Then the next day Darcey asked us to describe something without naming it in her Lucid Detail workshop. I described that guy, then put some things together.

Badass & Sexy

How many times can I say 'if it weren't for $300,000 second home condos I'd be unemployeed' and not feel like a sellout.

The 200 Washington Complex isn't exactly one of my favorite places. It's half a mile or less from the square and a block from campus but it's filled with out of towners who live elsewhere part of the time. One of my least favorite customers lives here. We call him the enemy and in the previous post I've put a link to a story I published about him and as luck would have it the day before that story went live we were summond back to the enemy's place.



From the roof of the enemy's place. My first winter with The Window King we sprayed bleach on every piece of white you can see here, and more. I ruined a pair of pants doing it.



I don't understand why so many people with so much money want to live so close to each other. I've literly gotten lost in the 200 Washington Complex even though it's only a circle, but everything looks the same. Over and Over again.

The Enemy came out and shook my hand when we first arrived. He was pleasent and decent, women his own age probably call him dapper. They might even whisper to each other about why he stays with that pill popping wife of his. After finishing his place a series of events led to the money shot. 1. We had to clean the place across the way from the enemy. 2. The Window King had to go to the accountant's office and thus moved the van. 3. The Enemy sat on his porch, chewed a cigar and read. 4. I climbed the roof of the opposite condo.

AND THUS-----

New Fiction

Hey y'all,

I've got a new thing up at Muscadine Lines. It's called The Enemy Sat Shotgun and as soon as I finished typing this I'm going to work up a post about my most recent adventures with The Enemy, including photos.

Blood Brothers by John McManus

When you have a minute read this gnarly story from my friend John McManus:


Blood Brothers at Fried Chicken & Coffee

Riding Home From Work

Today I was riding home from work and listening to outlaw country on Sirius. They were playing Steve Earle and when the song finished Mojo Nixon came on and was yelling about how they created that station so he could play Steve Earle's Copperhead Road any time he wanted. Then he said "if I want to I can play a black banjo player from North Carolina." The group was called The Carolina Chocolate Drops and the song was really good so after playing with the dog and taking a seven minute nap I searched for them on the net. Needless to say I was pretty damn stoked with what I found. The first is a promo video of them talking about their new record, the second is just a live performance.

When Worlds Collide And Morning Comes Twice A Day Or Not At All

I intended to take my camera with me to clean windows to better document the events of the day but I forgot. I guess I'll have to paint the picture with words.

Last night when the window king called and said we were working at the Whitwell's house I became suspicious. While he was giving me directions to the house he said I had been there before. And though the directions weren't very good I found the house this morning. The window king was already on the job, taking apart storm windows and assessing the day, so I parked, put on my work belt and geared up. He came outside and told me where to start and whatnot and as he was walking back inside I asked him if this was the Whitwell's whose son wrote a book. "Yes," the window king said.
Flash back to October: I had been working at the bookstore for a couple of months and a self published book by a former Ole Miss student hit the shelves. I don't want to judge a book by the cover but we all do it so here it is.




For those of you that don't know, that's the former Ole Miss mascott, a bottle of ?Jack Daniels, and a scantaly clad women with a sword. So be it-he's a lawyer/lobbiest and if he writes a book and pays to publish it then go for it. But then his 'publicist' called the store. She told me that Quentin was doing a reading down the street from the store and wanted to see if someone could help carry books up a flight of stairs. I told her that there was only two of us in the store and that we couldn't get away. She got saucy.

Twenty minutes later the 'publicist' called again and tried to find out if someone from the store was going to go to the event and sell the books. She said that she had talked to someone a few days before and that someone was supposed to be there. I said I would ask my boss about it as soon as she was out of a meeting. The event wasn't at our store and when another employee got back from dinner break he said he had been told to go sell some books. So if the cover of the book or the synopsis on the back didn't make me hate the guy, then his 'publicist' surely did.

Fast forward to this morning: I was working the outside, listening to the jams on my ipod and made it all the way until the third window before I spotted a copy of the book inside the house. It wasn't hard to spot, it's purple if you don't remember.





But the rest of the day went alright-other than the neighbor blasting techno from 300 yards away and making it hard to hear the White Stripes and the grumpy ass maids running the vaccum and making it where I couldn't hear my Willie Nelson. If By Whiskey-It's about Obama baby.