Experimental Experiences- A novel in blog form

Decent and common sense has been like a needle in my eye for quite some time. Abandoning dreams of freaky Frisco bay and handbags of LSD geltabs has been like strapping a turnicate around each of my limbs. John College is finally out of college, and the itch is on. Calamine and hydrocortizone are for horseshit. I need trainhopping, gin-swilling, moon howling country nights chasing demons from of the consciousness of man. Maybe not that much irreverence is needed, but little in my northwest urban corner can get my blood churning, let alone boiling, anymore. 

It is good to have a project to start working on. One audio project I am starting is recording some fratty type (yet still humorous and transgressive) stories from my friends and then have either a kid’s or extremely old woman retell them behind some kind of astral loopy background fuzz, maybe just a lo-fi static. That’s gonna be a trip.

This other joint I’m fixing up is a running novella type deal I’m gonna post every other day here at fearandloathingatthe.wordpress.com. I just started with this character, so I have no other short stories or previous shit associated with this one, aka anything can happen. If anyone ever reads this, let me know if you want something to happen to our main man Cass or have any plot ideas. So from here on out, enjoy 1,000ish words every other day and we’ll see where it goes.


MESSAGE 1- Cass learns to love his fellow man. A barmaid dances with a barfly.

Cass sat with his hands folded over his eyes. He pulled at his long, blue-blackish hair for a moment before he realized any attempt at controlling it would only lend more frustration to the already decaying scene in front of him. His flight had been delayed for three hours and the eight dollar drafts had caused his wallet to drift up into the air like a snaketail of smoke from a cigarette. It was shaping to be one of those days that seems like two or three meshed and stuffed into one, especially after his fifth pint at one in the afternoon. It was a Friday.

He should have just gone back to quaint little Terminal  2 and meandered drunkenly through a crossword puzzle, or engaged in some harmless digital banter on his mobile, but something inside of him prevented such irksome undertakings. It was the same things that had gotten him kicked out of two college dormitories and damn near locked up for a year on burglary charges he couldn’t remember. To boot, the middle aged barmaid serving him comforting cold drafts had an impeccably constructed backside, and once again fortune’s foolishness became the only commodity worth investing in at the moment.

 He moved his hands from his face and took another look around. Many had shifted to and fro amongst the gummy plastic stools and grease laden miniature tables; the sports bar was really more of a cannery than anything else. A cannery with cable television and overpriced booze.  It was quite enlightening to watch the exchanges between anonymous passerbyers. Every qualia of man could be represented at an airport lounge at any time: the big city pimp, the excited Southern preacher, the transient sociopath, the overzealous and overdressed backside slut, the lonely old stranger with an old ball cap and unkempt silver beard, the quaking teenager latched onto an unwanted family.

 Cass challenged himself to figure out who was fucking who. This particular batch of capitalistic Mongols was positioned at the east end of the bar. Their Italian threads and Blackberry’s were nothing next to their predominantly prickly vibrations that Cass had come to identify with almost certain exactitude. A pair of fair brunette twenty-something’s kept flirting with various brands of scotch at the bar in some sort of contest with these assuredly senior sales representatives.

Traveling alone is never fun, and any corporate mogul needing to keep a money churning employee knows precisely the right time to toss the chum to the starboard hull. “Secretaries for note taking? Yes, yes put that one on the company card. We’ve got to see to it that Bill has a grand old time.” These old dogs were not pining over lost time with their wives. Methodically the mossbacks  inched closer and closer to the fawns, wanting some embrace while their cocktails sunk their inhibitions deeper and deeper like hermit crabs on an anchor. You can’t blame the geezers for that, Cass thought to himself, any wrinkled piece of lint equipped with a functional penis dreams of slamming their last Philly into the stable yard.

It was the two girls that pinched Cass’ nerves and tap danced all over the cornea of his mind’s eye. He loathed slapdash hookers like them, the happy middler’s who banked on the promises mommy and daddy had been whispering into their ears since they could bitch and moan about happy meals. He could tell the type almost by smell, and other sensory clues helped him profile the girls further. This duo of chuckling scorpions had draped themselves in all the ‘right’ social emblems of greed and me: matching Tiffany’s bracelet/necklace combinations,  beadazzled smart phones built for internet updates, low cut Polo skirts, bleach patterned waves of hair whipping around each shoulder. They knew their shit, that much was for sure. He eyed the scorpions as they continued to chat up the elder statesmen, and just before Cass overflowed with disdain and detestation and rudely bubbled over onto the Asian man hunkered next to him, he let out a small chuckle and turned his head from the low cut skirts for good.

 “Thank ye fucking Gods,” he muttered to himself. He thought about those same whispers he had heard years ago, long before his parents split up and even longer still before he found his brother face down, breathless  in his college apartment. Those promises were soul sucking vehicles of spiritual anhiliation, and Cass no longer had to watch his life force wrenched out of him via a facebook friend request. But who was he to judge them? Let them drink their scotches and perform with gusto in their ego-driven dramas. Laughter was the only proper response left at this point in his life, so Cass’ unholy rage turned to shamanic joy and he ordered another pint.

  “One more, please,” he said. He took his last sip, breathed in a helping of satisfaction, and reached down into his backpack. Just before he could retrieve the day’s black and white and red all over his motion was usurped and his eyes raised above the bar counter like a pair of submarine scopes.

“Where you headed,” the barmaid inquired as she cleaned out his glass and prepared another pour. Her movements were unconscious yet professional. The question appeared transitory and nonchalant, and despite Cass’ oncoming inebriation, he could instantly decipher that she had been summoning up the courage for such a conversation opener for at least his last two beers. She was older than the scorpions down the bar, but her face warmed Cass’ eyes the instant he saw her.

  “Well that’s a hell of a pickup line in an airport,” Cass laughed back as he finished gathering his newspaper. He said things to make himself laugh, which can lead to people mistaking you for being an impolite elitist. It wasn’t a question of elitism though. Organic human reactions were like dressing room at the J. Crew sex to Cass, so it was of no concern to him whether his comments were germane or not. She was either going to laugh or look at him with the “You’re a dick” eyes that only a mistreated woman can deliver properly. She gave him the former and he excitedly continued the conversation.


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