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Cheeseman1000
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Iceland
8201 Posts |
 Posted - 11/09/2004 : 15:36:55
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We want to hear something interesting thats happened to you.
Me first.
You remember the 'Serenading' thread? Well, I can exclusively reveal that my hypothetical 'friend' was, of course, myself.
"How did it go?!", I hear you cry.
It went OK... We had a party at the Student Union of the Uni where I work recently, to celebrate the end of the summer admissions rush. There was a free bar, so things were always going to get a bit messy, and so a little libation induced Dutch courage, and the idea popped into my head that I should actually do this, and see where it took me.
So I'm going through the thread in my mind, trying to work out what had been suggested, and at this stage I'm outside the Union for a bit of fresh air and who would walk by but the object of affecton herself!
It was a now-or-never kind of moment, so I launched into the first song I thought of - "The First Time That Ever I Saw Your Face" by Ewan MacColl. Kind of raucous unfortunately, and with no accompaniment, and I think she thought I was some kind of crazy drunk barking at the moon to start with. She got the idea though and looked really, really embarassed - but not offended I thought.
In my mind it was all going swimmingly, but the problem's started when the police turned up to the pub next door - there'd been some fight or something and people had called the fuzz. I managed to get mistaken for one of the troublemakers and was carted off to the police station.
I have eternal shame for this, but I was actually locked up for a few hours with a bunch of drunk chavs. However, the redeeming part of the night came when I looked up to see the girl I'd been singing to talking to one of the policemen, and he came and let me out, apologised even.
She was on her way home - she had a minicab outside - but she stopped long enough to check I was OK, then went on her way. I haven't seen her since, but I think it was an interesting night, if nothing else...
Now post your own.
"You ever seen a man say goodbye to a shoe?"
"Yes, once..." |
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soundofataris
= Cult of Ray =
USA
715 Posts |
Posted - 11/09/2004 : 16:34:37
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I was walking the other day in the cold and chill of the new york streets when suddenly, to my everlasting woe, it began to rain heavily. I was quite upset about this and my mood quickly fell to a powerfully low point, but then I had a revelation. The designers of green hooded sweat shirts had in mind percisely a situation such as this when they incorporated the hood into their designs, and low and behold I was wear such a shirt! Complete with hood no less!! I put it up and continued to walk the mean streets, snug and secure in my dryness.
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I go to bakeries all day long
There's a lack of sweetness in my life
People in love are stupid and gross. |
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BLT
> Teenager of the Year <
South Sandwich Islands
4204 Posts |
Posted - 11/09/2004 : 16:50:42
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quote:
Originally posted by soundofataris
...snug and secure in my dryness.
Pathos! |
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KimStanleyRobinson
* Dog in the Sand *
1972 Posts |
Posted - 11/09/2004 : 16:58:34
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Over the weekend, I consumed liquor.
After a period of this, I became intoxicated.
Not being a quitter, I continued to consume liquor.
At a certain point in the evening/morning I managed to make my way through the woods to my kombi, at which point I lost consciousness. I know I made my way to the kombi because I was there when I awoke around 3pm Sunday, not from any specific memory of walking there, laying down or even the last half hour or so of the party.
I then ate leftover vegetarian chili and drove the kombi home. I watched "28 Days" that night for some reason.
Pretty sure I need to get into Vicodin and cocaine before I really have to worry about anything.
Cheeseman.
Ouch.
She wouldn't have done it if she hadn't been thinking of you, so you did something right. Congratulations you cheeseball!!
This war, it will be just like the War on Drugs. It will be potent and effective and our objectives will be clear. The nation had a nasty drug problem and we declared a war on drugs and spent billions over many years and now you can't buy drugs anymore. It will be just like that.
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Domestiques
= Cult of Ray =
United Kingdom
503 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 00:01:20
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I didnt write this. But it is my favourite story ever and my favourite pices of writing. I first read this about 3 years ago, maybe longer and thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever read. I hope you enjoy it.
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On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning - Haruki Murakami
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a *Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her....
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“I want to be a star!” I cried
They said, “You’re overqualified.
Why don’t you learn to tune your damn guitar?” |
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The King Of Karaoke
> Teenager of the Year <
USA
3759 Posts |
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Newo
~ Abstract Brain ~
Spain
2674 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 04:40:09
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That's one of my favuorite stories too, Domestiques. I liked Murakami so much at one stage I almost couldn't see my way around him. Here's something I wrote a while back, hope you enjoy.
That's All, Folks
I dreamed of you last night. We were in the Beechwood backyard, and it was somewhere else at the same time too. Does that make sense to you? Kublai was there, draped across the windowsill, asleep, dreaming of small flightless birds prolly. You wore a curious expression, mouth bunched up to one corner and eyes in a level gaze. Stoical surprise would be how I'd describe it. Had your turquoise shoes too, the strappy ones I like. Ah. I thought you liked those. You stood hipshot, tapping one foot on the ground. I felt you were drawing my attention to something. I turned and there was a mountain of suitcases stretching above me, vast and black and brown and red, I couldn't even see the uppermost point. Then the mountain tottered and collapsed on me. Symbolic eh. I felt disappointed when I woke: I thought we might have talked, if even for a few sentences. It feels good to hear your voice now I can tell you. Most times, speaking to a disembodied voice gives me the creeps, I feel like I'm speaking to a ghost. Perhaps that's why I sometimes behave differently than I would if I were actually face-to-face with the person. It's difficult to put it into words. Sometimes the conversation takes a curious left turn, that's all. Not with you though. With you it feels like all of you is squeezing down through the cables and racing thousands of miles and flooding out this end into my ear, and I feel a bit more whole for it.
Have you ever felt like you existed to a lesser degree? see during my last year of school, the bigger part of it I wore this knackered pair of tennis shoes, I had no money for an upgrade. There was a hole in the left and a hole in the right and I was constantly skipping back and forth to avoid puddles and gradually, I began to feel of less substance. The wind might have been blowing right through me. Now is similar. The morning I crawled out of bed to come here, one of those misting rains that seems to soak you more thoroughly than fat raindrops. I was still so tired I dropped off before the wheels left the runway. I remember my ears popping in my sleep. What I'm getting at is, a part of me feels as if I never left. As though another me is still living out my everyday at home: lying in on Sundays, having my hair cut, shooing Kublai off the table, thinking about sex, that sort of thing, while at the same time I am here. Like there's an eastern me and a western me. Best I can put it is I feel strung out across the globe. Um? Fine, I'm fine. Just missing you. How much? Let's see… I miss you so much I feel like turning myself inside out. Trust me, it's a compliment. Actually, it's how I feel about this whole thing. Really tough shoot. According to schedule, I was home two days ago. Walked about all that day with a fuckoff smile, feeling a little bit sorry for second unit, who've got another month and guess what? I get back to my suite at th- no. Tent. No, it's a tent, Mona. Really. Excuse me. Sarcasm only gets one so far into the evening. Anyhoo, there was a note waiting for me: ADJUSTMENTS TO SCENE. WILL NOTIFY. I could have screamed. I think I did. It creeps to fiftyfive degrees in the afternoon. Fiftyfive, and the only thing between a million square miles of sand and a colossal ball of flaming gases is yours truly. Luncheon vouchers at the Vic are looking pretty good right now.
Start of the shoot and you should have seen us. Our guide, Tariq, this tubby chainsmoker with a mole on his cheek, told us this was the area they shot the Tatooine scenes of the Star Wars series. That's right, Star Wars. You sound unthrilled. Tell you the truth, to me one sandbar looks quite like another, but still. Star Wars. Boy were we allsinging alldancing. Now I'm lying on a rushmat with a wet towel over my head. That's Nick Drake on the cassette player, Art was kind enough to lend me his on account of mine melted. My boots also, but that goes for the entire British contingent. Or should I say Briddish. He he. No, no, sterling crew. The whole genteel thesp schtick tickles them no end. Definitely. They really respond to it. Less so when I'm teetering under sixty kilos of combat gear, feeling like a newborn calf on skinny legs. So the whole weedy thesp schtick they find wearying - more and more so, I'm sure. Things have changed here. The mood feels oppressive. Last week, the dee-oh-pee stalked off after a volcanic spat with Herr Direktor and nobody's heard from him since. Net result was we had to fly in Borumhil Rozsa special. Yep. That Borumhil Rozsa. It's that kind of project. Writers are another matter entirely: they come and go in a pinch, we're handed new pages two-three times a day. Scene was Cortado and I and two others discover an upturned jeep, still smoking, and we fall under ambush. Simple enough. I play the conflicted embed who's nearly won the favour of the others and Cortado the steely grunt. The raghead groundtroop corpses play raghead groundtroop corpses. Then Herr Direktor strides over making throatslit gestures. Needs something, he says. Stakes are high at this point, we're well into act two.
So we're all in position stood hemming and hawing, looking like we're expecting the something Herr Direktor wants to fall out of the sky. Me, I found it difficult to think of anything. The air wrinkled and warped in the heat and I had a head full of white noise. So I pinched the bridge of my nose with index and thumb to feign deep thought, though at the time I felt like a shallow stream. The heat factored. If it was skindeep I could stand to weather it, but this heat boils a person from the inside out, invades my peace of mind like a crying child on a train. Some didn't seem fazed much by it. Cordado busied himself with warm-ups. Rifle wedged stockfirst in the sand, he stood tiptoed with legs bowed outwards and hands in a high steeple above his head, intoning, Memememememememememememomomomomo... Slocum hunkered on the sand, dashed the last of his water over his head. Lipgloss was passed around. Palacios had drifted asleep and was snoring gently, still standing. Beats the life out of me how she does that. Only the extras stood to attention, possibly thinking this sort of behaviour was par for course. Herr Direktor rocked on his heels and twiddled a finger in his ear, tasted it. His expression crinkled sour and he began to growl. The growl blended in the air with the drone from Cortado's chest. Then I saw Palacios' eyes snap open, and a pearltoned lightbulb blinked over her head. She whispered the Big Idea into Herr Direktor's ear. He was not displeased: his face creased into a warface of a smile and he levitated. Only a few inches mind you, but signs of approval come few and far between from him. Herr Direktor was a new man after that. Moneyshot of this act completed, cut to falling statue, this war was brought to you by D'oritos… We started blocking straight away. Hop to it, he said, clapping. Cortado, I want you in a crouch over here and you lot, you lot move here…Perfect I love you. More sprightly than we'd seen him in days, and as he gave me mine I caught a whitehot glow from one pupil. It hung in the air between us. I breathed in the colour, breathed it deep into my chest. We got most of it in the bag today. Only hitch was Slocum objected to playing a prisoner. Nope, he said, swiping a hand flat across the air, Somebody else on sandmonkey detail. Herr Direktor spun on his heels and snapped, Whatwhat? and Slocum tossed his native headdress to the ground and said, Not wearing this. My agent told me there'd be exposure. And there's nothing I can do to change your mind, sez Herr Direktor, eyes changing from green to red. No, sez Slocum, and Herr Direktor whips out a sidearm. There's a crack and a halo of pink mist around Slocum's head and Slocum crumples to the ground, and a horde of extras swarm all over him scrabbling for his union card...Who's that? Who is that? Don't give me that, Mona. The radio. Don't hand me that. Who is it? Steve. Steve Management Steve? What on earth is he doing there? No, I do not want to talk to him. I plain refu…Steve! How are you? Good. Good. Oh, can't complain. Boardtreading. Yep. Keeps the wolf from the door. Uh huh. Huh. Hahahahahahaha! Okay. Sounds good. We must. Bye Steve. Hi. What on earth is he doing there? Maximising data interface? Effecting a core dump I suppose. Don't be like what? I'm just being me. Whatever that might be. Mona. Mona. I do want to talk. Highstrung, that's all. This place smells as if it might burst into flames any second. Anyhoo, no more shoptalk. What are you wearing?
--
Moving from the clown to the jester will mean moving from similar to same, from alike to identical, from comparable to analogous. Though applied differently, the colours used on one can be used on another, and a couple of changes of costume will rapidly transform the jester into a clown and the clown into a jester. Strictly speaking, they almost duplicate each other as regards clothes and function, the only difference between them, from a social point of view, is that clowns do not usually visit the palaces of kings. |
Edited by - Newo on 12/18/2004 04:24:57 |
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Monsieur
* Dog in the Sand *
France
1688 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 05:19:30
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My favorite story :
The New Attorney, by Franz Kafka
We have a new attorney, Dr. Bucephalus. There is little in his appearance that recalls when he was still Alexander of Macedonia's war-horse. Those familiar with the circumstances, however, will notice a thing or two. Why, not long ago I saw, outside on the steps, even a simple court usher admire the attorney with the professional glance of a racetrack regular as he climbed the stairs, kicking high his legs, with a step that made the marble ring.
In general, the Bar approves of Bucephalus' admission. They tell themselves, with astonishing insight, that Bucephalus is in a difficult position in today's society and therefore, and because of his historical significance, he deserves special treatment. Today - and this no one can deny - there is no Alexander the Great. Of course, some know how to murder; there is also no lack of skill in spearing a friend across a banquet table; and for many Macedonia is too narrow, so that they curse Philip, his father - but no one, no one is able to march on India. Even back in those days India's gates were beyond reach, but the King's sword indicated their direction. Today, the gates stand in totally different places, farther away and higher up; no one shows the way; many hold swords, but only to brandish them; and the eye that tries to follow them grows confused.
Perhaps that is why it is really best, as Bucephalus has done, to immerse oneself in law books. Free, his flanks unhampered by the rider's loins, at a peaceful lap, far from the tumult of Alexander's battle, he reads and turns the pages of our ancient books.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust |
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Cheeseman1000
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Iceland
8201 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 05:35:14
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OK, I was thinking of stories which had happened to you like, um, my one. But hey, its all good.
"You ever seen a man say goodbye to a shoe?"
"Yes, once..." |
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remig
* Dog in the Sand *
France
1734 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 05:45:53
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I've got one but in french.
***********************************************
So you have no point of reference, Donny.
You're like a child that wanders INTO THE MIDDLE OF A MOVIE! |
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ramona
"FB Quote Mistress"
USA
3988 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 08:44:21
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Here's the beginning of a story I wrote - http://typical-boy.blogspot.com
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If you see me, look surprised
If you don't, then pass me by
And I might even touch your sleeve
Oh, as you turn to leave
________________________________
http://prettycrabby.com |
Edited by - ramona on 11/10/2004 08:45:13 |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 10:36:35
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Remi, post it in French. Go for it!
Owen, that was cool. Thanks for sharing it with us.
I was gonna post a happened-to-me story but it seems the thread's gone in another direction.
 I still believe in the excellent joy of the Frank |
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Cheeseman1000
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Iceland
8201 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 10:38:49
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Do it Kathryn, take control!
"You ever seen a man say goodbye to a shoe?"
"Yes, once..." |
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floop
= Wannabe Volunteer =
Mexico
15297 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 13:07:34
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i always regret not cheating on my last girlfriend
ist es möglich für ein quesadilla skrotum zu lecken? beim sprechen der quesadillas von LBF, ja. ja in der tatheheheheheheehehee! |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 13:48:59
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quote:
Originally posted by floop
i always regret not cheating on my last girlfriend
ist es möglich für ein quesadilla skrotum zu lecken? beim sprechen der quesadillas von LBF, ja. ja in der tatheheheheheheehehee!
Is it too late to get back together with her just long enough to
cheat on her?
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Frank |
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floop
= Wannabe Volunteer =
Mexico
15297 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 13:57:21
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quote:
Originally posted by kathryn
quote:
Originally posted by floop
i always regret not cheating on my last girlfriend
ist es möglich für ein quesadilla skrotum zu lecken? beim sprechen der quesadillas von LBF, ja. ja in der tatheheheheheheehehee!
Is it too late to get back together with her just long enough to
cheat on her?
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Frank
i guess that's always a possibility. maybe i'll do some drunk dialing tonight
ist es möglich für ein quesadilla skrotum zu lecken? beim sprechen der quesadillas von LBF, ja. ja in der tatheheheheheheehehee! |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 14:14:11
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Good luck. Get back to us with a good story.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Frank |
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n/a
deleted
4109 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 14:22:23
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Great story Kathryn! I have so many, as you all might have too, but as you know it´s not easy to write a whole story unless it was in portuguese... I´m trying hard with my english...but not enough to write a story!
No peito dos desafinados
Também bate um coração
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Llamadance
> Teenager of the Year <
United Kingdom
2543 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 15:00:17
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Here's a story of my Gran's trip to the Bistro on Tuesday. She's 83, and emailed this tale of woe to my mum. I've done a little editing so it's more understandable.
We went for lunch but we nearly didnt make it , it was a lovely day when we left and we took a taxi and your dad suggested i take the chair so that we could walk back.that was a big mistake because it doesnt fold down very easily so the driver took ages to get it in the boot .
After we got in the cab i tried to shut the door but i couldnt reach it ,i left it thinking the driver would shut it before he got in. Well he didnt and as he took his seat he saw the door at my side was still open, he asked me if i could close the door. instead of telling him i couldnt reach i stretched out to shut the door and to stop myself from falling out i leaned on the side of the car which was where the door was to go .
i got my hand well and trully locked in the car. I tried to yell out but ajll i could do was shout "open the door" , it probably wasnt all that long but it seemed to me ages . we set off to go to bistro the the driver asked me if i could bend my fingers he seemed happy with that and we set off . by the time we got there my two fingers seemed to be pumping out blood .
ihad a paper hanky in my bag and i said perhaps as we are so near i should go into the vicky (the local hospital) , and youl never believe what he said to me - they will give you a plaster in there .luckily the owner got one of the staff who seemed to know about first aid and she put acloth full of ice to stop the bleeding and swelling , i think she done a good job as i only have two wee marks on my hand .
i phoned up the taxi office and made a complaint about the driver and she said it was quite a common practice for the driver to ask the passenger to close the door . and i said not if the passenger is disablee as i am and she agreed with me , i dont know if i will hear any more about it , but we wont be using that taxi rank again .
do you know the ride to the bistro cost us 2 fifty and yet the ride home was just 1 pound eighty - that was hampden cars so we will be using them from now on in spite of everything we had a nice lunch , your dad bought me a brandy. how is that for a story although it was go real
good night love mumxxx
 - she's okay now though. My Grampa is 87, their life is full of tumbles nowadays. |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 16:26:43
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That's the coolest piece of writing I've read in forever, Llama. God bless your grandma. If she were an American grannie she would already have herself an attorney or two and a lawsuit going.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Frank |
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Cheeseman1000
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Iceland
8201 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2004 : 14:09:20
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was walking through the streets of London today, as one does when one lives there. I passed a disused shop doorway, and there was a homeless guy in there with a coffee cup for change and a can of beer.
I offered him the last of what I was eating - a particularly rank quesadilla - which he gratefully accepted.
We got chatting, but he was rudely interupted when his stomach started makin some rough noises. Now, being a particularly polite kind of tramp, he rushed to the nearest public loos, but not before asking me to keep an eye on his stuff.
I'd actually sat down next to him, because I wasn't in a rush, and we were talking away... I hadn't had a shower in the morning and was wearing some old clothes.
Anyway, while our boy was in the conveniences, a couple of Salvation Army guys walked by, and seeing me sat there, asked if I'd like to come and get some soup. Not one to turn down a freebie, I accepted and went with them to the soup kitchen.
So I was in there drinking my soup, and after I'd been there a while, the homeless guy came in, looking really ticked off. He started shouting at me and chasing me round the place, so eventually I grabbed the ladle off the guy serving the soup and thwacked the homeless guy on the head.
That set everyone in the room after me, so I ran into the back alley only to find myself cornered by about a dozen hobos. Now, they can be pretty mean when they've been drinking, but seeing as it was early and they were nice and warm from the soup, none of them could actually be bothered to start a fight.
They started to sing/yell a bit, and eventually, I figured I could just run through the middle of them waving the ladle, and hopefully make it out. So I charged, but slipped on a banana skin from the dumpster, of all things, and fell down in front of them.
Fortunately, the salvation army guys appeared and started to bang the soup pans like drums to scare the bums away.
It worked, but they made me serve soup for the rest of the morning as penance, and I was late for work.
How did you spend your day?
"You ever seen a man say goodbye to a shoe?"
"Yes, once..." |
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Newo
~ Abstract Brain ~
Spain
2674 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2004 : 14:12:49
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Did that really happen? If I'da written that I'dve been well proud.
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Moving from the clown to the jester will mean moving from similar to same, from alike to identical, from comparable to analogous. Though applied differently, the colours used on one can be used on another, and a couple of changes of costume will rapidly transform the jester into a clown and the clown into a jester. Strictly speaking, they almost duplicate each other as regards clothes and function, the only difference between them, from a social point of view, is that clowns do not usually visit the palaces of kings. |
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VoVat
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
USA
9168 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2004 : 17:49:46
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quote:
OK, I was thinking of stories which had happened to you like, um, my one.
Maybe Monsieur really WAS Alexander's racehorse.
"Signature quotes are so lame." --Nathan |
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Cheeseman1000
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Iceland
8201 Posts |
Posted - 11/22/2004 : 05:57:14
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quote:
Originally posted by Newo
Did that really happen? If I'da written that I'dve been well proud.
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Moving from the clown to the jester will mean moving from similar to same, from alike to identical, from comparable to analogous. Though applied differently, the colours used on one can be used on another, and a couple of changes of costume will rapidly transform the jester into a clown and the clown into a jester. Strictly speaking, they almost duplicate each other as regards clothes and function, the only difference between them, from a social point of view, is that clowns do not usually visit the palaces of kings.
Being chased by a bum army? Do you honestly think so?
"You ever seen a man say goodbye to a shoe?"
"Yes, once..." |
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Newo
~ Abstract Brain ~
Spain
2674 Posts |
Posted - 11/22/2004 : 06:27:03
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I was asking you, nameseehC. I live in Barcelona, essentially a giant retirement home for young people. You want a bum army? I could get you a bum army by three o´clock this afternoon.
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Moving from the clown to the jester will mean moving from similar to same, from alike to identical, from comparable to analogous. Though applied differently, the colours used on one can be used on another, and a couple of changes of costume will rapidly transform the jester into a clown and the clown into a jester. Strictly speaking, they almost duplicate each other as regards clothes and function, the only difference between them, from a social point of view, is that clowns do not usually visit the palaces of kings. |
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n/a
deleted
4894 Posts |
Posted - 11/22/2004 : 08:26:47
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Between lectures we go to the pub. We always go to the pub on the hill, essentially a student pub although we never see any other students in there. It doesn't look much, sticky dark wooden floors, tables with cigarette burns scorched into their top and occasionaly an I love someone this week carved into the wood with a biro, a battered faux brown leather sofa in the corner and a ripped red pool table; with only one short cue. It costs two pounds to play. The lighting is dark and the bar staff are surly. Always a woman, always bottle peroxide with noticible roots. I'm sure they have names but we don't like to ask. You can be sure that your customary pint of what we assume is lager will be banged onto the counter before you, the semi cold liquid spilling over the sides and when it settles always sitting far from the top of the glass, never a full pint and always watered down. To question this would result in stares and quite possibly phlegm somewhere in the luke warm stodgy food you've ordered. It just isn't a good idea. The jukebox is dreadful glam rock and once there was the best of the eagles. That didn't last though. The seats are hard. The toilets are only for the brave, and the whole pub has an overwhelming smell of smoke with stale urine undertones. The pub is on top of a hill, a big hill. We climb up this hill dutifully every break we get to only have to trudge down it again after, inevitably in the rain sliding through the mud and looking worse for wear when we get to the bottom. The mud sticks in your shoes. We go to the pub on the hill for lunch, the menu is limited to carbs and meat. The portions are meager and undercooked. More often than once, a night of stomach cramps and frequent trips to the bathroom have followed after eating there. Desert is unmentionable and the coffee barely hot warm brown water. We go to the pub on the hill sometimes four times a week, we're often the only ones there. People ask us why we all go to the pub on the hill, but you see once, with the sausages and mash, we found a finger.
Frank Black ate my hamster |
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Cheeseman1000
>> Denizen of the Citizens Band <<
Iceland
8201 Posts |
Posted - 11/22/2004 : 09:59:57
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Yeah I want a bum army. I give you til three pm tommorrow, and I want it delivered to Holloway Road.
"You ever seen a man say goodbye to a shoe?"
"Yes, once..." |
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Newo
~ Abstract Brain ~
Spain
2674 Posts |
Posted - 12/05/2004 : 11:28:38
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The Dialogue of the Dogs (after Cervantes)
-Story and dialogue that took place between Lola and Ebolabola, who belong to the Kilfeather family, in the city of Dublin
LOLA: Ebolabola, my friend, let us trust the safety of the Feeding Hand to luck tonight, and withdraw to the peace and tactility of those mats.
EBOLABOLA: Top-hole, Sister Lola. There we can talk the day’s troubles away and bathe our genitals.
LOLA: Reserving tender contempt for those of the household unable to reach theirs with tongue, of course.
EBOLABOLA: Mwah-hah-hah-haaah.
LOLA: Friend, I must say on the whole of it I feel my role as defender of the hearth is much appreciated by the bipeds.
EBOLABOLA: More or less, yes.
LOLA: More or less?
EBOLABOLA: The alphas, Owen and Loesha, warm me no end but one of the beta males, the disagreeable Sam and his grandiose capacity for taunting…I tell you now if he keeps to his present course I shall feel obliged to sink my teeth into one of his meaty shanks.
LOLA: Ah. Sam. Many an occasion I’ve had to curb that particular impulse. Chin up though, soon to be on his travels.
EBOLABOLA: Whatwhat? Is there any truth to this?
LOLA: Preparations are already underway. This September he is to be banished to the land they call Yooney-Vursty.
EBOLABOLA: Never to return?
LOLA: That’s the word.
EBOLABOLA: September is a long way off but.
LOLA: Still plenty of time to teach him he’s not the leader of the pack.
EBOLABOLA: How do you do it?
LOLA: Do what?
EBOLABOLA: Remain philosophical under the same roof as such a wretch.
LOLA: I sense a stone of discontent at Sam’s core. Perhaps breathing the air of the land they call Yooney-Vursty will melt it.
EBOLABOLA: You never cease to amaze me.
LOLA: No big trick to it. When near Sam in his natural habitat, sat in communion with the creature they call the Box say, or strolling about the garden, watch him carefully. Flip your mind into his heart. Imagine his pulse, imagine holding it between your paws. Feel yourself inside the rhythm of Sam’s own rhythm, inside nature.
EBOLABOLA: Sister Lola, I am in your debt.
LOLA: I shall let you in on a secret: By way of a goodbye present I shall leave some of my womanly blood on his pillow.
EBOLABOLA: I quietly cheer your initiative, Sister Lola. Do be careful in the bedroom, I caution you - Sam’s bed is the one nearest the window. I say this because last week I made the mistake of napping on beta female Mim’s pillow and was seized by a sneezing fit brought on by its perfume content.
LOLA: Ghastly business.
EBOLABOLA: Extracts from the anal glands of cats.
LOLA: And those of the musk deer too I believe.
EBOLABOLA: Let’s not forget ambergris, from a specific type of whale-vomit produced when the whale's stomach is irritated by squid-beaks in its diet.
LOLA: Ack. Do these people not worry about other animals cottoning on to the idea of using human sex scent to implement theirs?
EBOLABOLA: Well as long as we’re telling secrets…whenever Owen and Loesha have been making the sex I like to take a tumble in the laundry basket and Mitzi can’t get enough of me.
LOLA: You dog.
EBOLABOLA (grinning): Grrr.
--
Maze rats dreamed of mazes, according to the latest studies. Maze rat scientists dreamed of rats. I was dreaming of cheese. |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 12/18/2004 : 19:26:05
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Not to go off topic, but...
There is a riveting story in the current issue of the New Yorker by A.M. Homes about her being found by the birth parents who gave her up for adoption. Unfortunately I can't find it online. It's worth hunting down.
I still believe in the excellent joy of the Frank |
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Homers_pet_monkey
= Official forum monkey =
United Kingdom
17125 Posts |
Posted - 12/27/2004 : 08:23:01
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quote:
Originally posted by Domestiques
I didnt write this. But it is my favourite story ever and my favourite pices of writing. I first read this about 3 years ago, maybe longer and thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever read. I hope you enjoy it.
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On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning - Haruki Murakami
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a *Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her....
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“I want to be a star!” I cried
They said, “You’re overqualified.
Why don’t you learn to tune your damn guitar?”
Japanese you say? Well I tihnk they may well have gotten it on after all.
Help me! He keeps making me post!
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 10/21/2005 : 20:11:22
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Am I the only one who thinks about this thread still?
Swimming in the heavy water, buried in the sand
Happy hearts fall from my shaking hands
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starmekitten
-= Forum Pistolera =-
United Kingdom
6370 Posts |
Posted - 10/22/2005 : 06:47:12
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| actually, no me too |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 10/22/2005 : 07:08:35
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Actually, I wrote something last night. Might post it. Might not. Haven't decided yet. You post one, kitty. Tell us about London.
Swimming in the heavy water, buried in the sand
Happy hearts fall from my shaking hands
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Newo
~ Abstract Brain ~
Spain
2674 Posts |
Posted - 10/22/2005 : 08:54:26
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Post it. Storytelling Saturday.
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Buy your best friend flowers. Buy your lover a beer. Covet thy father. Covet thy neighbour's father. Honour thy lover's beer. Covet thy neighbour's father's wife's sister. Take her to bingo night. |
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HeywoodJablome
* Dog in the Sand *
USA
1485 Posts |
Posted - 10/22/2005 : 10:31:11
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This happened about four years ago:
Band practice gets cancelled so Johnny and I decide to head down to TJ (Tijuana) for the evening. He says "We should go down there to eat and hangout". Now anyone who's been down there knows that eating there is a bit of a health risk and hanging out there is just asking for trouble from their "fine upstanding police force". But I'm bored and feeling extra stupid so off we go. The drive down is pretty uneventful except that we get into a big argument over Perry Farell being gay (we were listening to Janes first record in the car)Johnny maintains that he is while I tell him that all the smack he does just makes him act a little funny, he finally agrees with me and we soon cross the border. We're both hungry so we stop at some road side taco joint that he claims is "well known", and by road side I mean that it is a couple portable ovens covered by a blue tarp set up right on the sidewalk. He asks me if I want to try a goat spine taco. I tell him no thanks and then he gets some kind of other taco that has the lining of cows stomach as the meat. I don't know what it's called in spanish. Then we're off to Revolucion street and on the way we bump into some local people Johnny knows who tell us they can get us a good deal at one of the bars, which I take to mean "drink deals". We get there and I realize that we're basically in a brothel that serves drinks. I sit down with my drink and am immediately approached by a young girl with very sad eyes who looks like shes been chewed up and spit out by more than a few people. She tells me the usual things someone in her position tells a prospective customer and I let her know that although she seems nice, I'm not interested. She then quickly moves on to Johnnys' friend (sitting right next to me) and repeats the same exact things that she had said to me, and even though I thought of her as a whore it was a bit hurtful knowing that I was just another inconsequential blind stab in her tired routine. So after leaving Johnnys' friends to their own devices at said place him and I moved on to some divey ass club at the end of a sort of entertainment strip mall where we spent to rest of the night. Some alternative/punkish Mexican punk band was playing and every other song or two they would break into a Nirvana cover with all the lyrics in spanish which was pretty cool and funny. After about our fifth caguama each it was about 3 am and we decided to split but get something to eat before going back across. We stopped at a small torta shop right next to the border and upon entering saw the cook in the throes of a heated argument with a customer. The customer was waving some kind of sharp object in the guys face and screaming something about discrimination. Just then a Federale was cruising slowly by whereupon the cook whistled I presume in hopes that he would stop and intervene. This sent the customer flying out the back entrance and the cop car speeding around the block to catch him. As we are obtaining our orders you can hear the police out back yelling and throwing the guy down repeatedly onto the hood of their car. We are walking back to my car, which is parked some distance down the block, I can see that my passenger door is wide open and some guys ass and legs are sticking out of it. As we get right up to the car we look inside not knowing what to make of the situation and see that the dude was in the midst of trying to rip off my stereo but had nodded off in the process and had his face buried in the passengers seat. Drooling away I might add. So we wake him up and he starts acting hostile and tries taking swings at the both of us, which if you've ever seen a junkie trying to fight is a bit pathetic. Fearing the feddies will pass by and see whats going on and try to get inovolved (they are famous for extorting money from anyone who looks to be from out of town regardless if your breaking the law or not) I run around, get in, start the car and like a pro wrestler throwing an opponent into the ropes Johnny slings him into some ramshackle aluminum shield of a shopfront. As we're speeding away we look back and see him slumped against the aluminum door looking in our direction brandishing his fist and shaking it angrily. We got home safely and just in time to see the blue light of morning waking up our sleeping town, good to be back.
Last time I ever went to TJ, and in no hurry to go back.
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Edited by - HeywoodJablome on 10/22/2005 10:32:21 |
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kathryn
~ Selkie Bride ~
Belgium
15320 Posts |
Posted - 10/22/2005 : 11:18:42
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Best thing I've read in days. Thanks, Heywood.
Swimming in the heavy water, buried in the sand
Happy hearts fall from my shaking hands
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Tell Us A Story
