Thursday, October 04, 2007

One Mo' Time: Publishing the Unpublishable

The situation was hopeless, nobody in his right mind would want to be in it, a love triangle (rectangle?) wherein an unattached man is involved with a woman who is married, but nevertheless still has another lover and not the hopeful swain.

Enter the unpublished novelist, whose sole friends besides his "Britney" are the people in the publishing house who had rejected him. They won't publish his book, but they like having him around, for he's always in bizarre situations, and since each publishing executive is probably a frustrated writer, there might be some material here.

"Look at my life," says the editor. "My former wife went on to be a superstar in Canadian publishing, my only companion at night is this little mouse who has given notice in the first place, I make the scene with the magazine for entertainment, I am turning pigeon-grey and I work in these pigeon-grey offices.

"You, on the other hand, are publishing something in your magazine every week, you go on these mammoth drunks, you play guitar at nightclubs and you're involved in a menage-a-trois.

"Trade you lives."

Well, I wasn't sure. The man had had two major pieces published in Harpers, wrote a beautiful thriller about an aboriginal heroine from Oklahoma who had turned detective, was now editor of this house-- and the RCMP were hounding him for draft-dodging.
Always the "quiet" American.
Canadian publishing is quietly American. Tale out of school.

Nevertheless, I had somehow begun a career in "the pain industry", that is to say a situation where one was a half-shagged fox in a forest fire and all he had gotten from the lady was a probable roll in the hay one night, though he had been drunk and could barely remember.

I had gotten her smell, and was now following this little Britney around like James Joyce who had a hand job in a theatre one night, and liked the experience so much he had followed the lady around for years, dark glasses and all.

But the situation. The situation.

Besides the husband and lover, there was "Marco" and "Louis" and she kept talking of Willam Burrough's Naked Lunch and I was becoming convinced she was the blow job queen of the Mafia.
And I had to play guitar in that stupid nightclub where she'd frequently come, accompanied by her marginally gay husband. I had built up a sizable bar tab at the club, could not pay it, and the owner, another Italian, said I could pay off by individual performances. "That song was worth five dollars. Your rendition of Stan Getz's Samba Triste was shit. I won't pay you anything for that.

Then there was the scene where my guitar conked out, I had to do a strip tease and my shorts ended up in the owner's beer. My catch-up act may have thrilled some of the ladies, but the owner was not amused.

I got fired as a lounge singer.

"You're depressed all the time because you are a loser," said my East Indian faithful companion, himself known as "Paki Elvis" and a great collector of vegetables and dixie cups on the nights he was off his game.

Ah well. I still had my Britney to sit with, to play kneesies with, the husband sometimes joining in. I would talk loudly,, brag, throw wild promises to the wind; I would outline my great sprawling novel.
This would make the lady's eyes bat, like Tammy-Faye's, the husband would reach for my balls and I was in my glory.

And then the drive to their neat white cottage withe the mock cyprus trees in front, the huge picture window
behind which we'd perform some perversions that purists might term" refinements", the huband passed out upstairs--or was he peering through the peep hole? Yuppies are crazy.

And so was the midnight balloonist high up in his basket, probably the other lover of my Britney.

Ivan thought he had figured it all out, had won the set-piece, he thought.

But low over the house was the observation balloon.
But more realistically, he was sitting in his BMW pimpmobile watching two silhouettes on the shade and building up a jihad that would finally see Ivan doing a swan dive out of his second-story apartment; half-f*cked fox in a forest fire.indeed.

And still I had followed her. Pulled the pimp out of the sleek-assed car that had looked like an old Jaguar, beat the crap out of him, she was dialing the police and I had to run away.

Crazy and in love, in love with someone who now no longer wanted me.

"I thought he was a nice guy, but he's a
"smart" turned asshole and I want no more of him."

"I don't want to see you any more," she was saying on the phone. "Yeah, I had answered. "But what's your point?"

"You've got to get over this enfatuation with me," she was telling me as I ambushed her on her way to work.
"Keep this up, and I'm going to call the cops. I'm not kidding."

Well, that puts a damper on the "relationship".

I retreated to my apartment, my brain awash with Greta Garbo; images of Britney. My little Helen of troy
The face that launched a thousand ships.

Back to the typewritter. Back to the great sprawling novel.

But then, unexpectedly, a letter.
"I have included a self-addressed envelope. If you should choose to avoid communication, you can send this back."
She had outlined all our good times together, the struggle with " that old obstinate old Mustang", her car, the the making of warm, strange love on a far corner of the moon, the prim virgin pose she would take in the morning, saying to me, "I hope you don't think I'm a loose woman."
"You have to understand my intention.
"What do you want, a permanent relationship or just a roll in the hay?"

Weirdest and most untimely offer of marriage I had ever had.

I went back to cranking out my novel, the one that would surely be rejected (again) by my "friends" in publishing.

I outlined my plight to the editor the next day.
He had read my script, laughing in altogether unexpected places.

"This is a tragicomedy," he was saying.
"It's still not our kind of book, though I can see it between covers-- like from Grove Press, in New York.
"Could I suggest a title for you?

"Shoot," I had said, still a little depressed.
"How about Naked Came the Ukrainian"?

"Never mind," I had said.
"I don't think your "Homo Hotpants" was any screaming hell either.

Three months later, I finally decided that I would marry that woman.

But by this time, she was trapped in Holland Landing by Luigi the pimp, the mad balloonist whose Mongolfier was moored to one of his totems on the farm that adjoined Britney's cottage.
"SELF-SERVE" was a Crowley motto in a metal arch over the entrance to his property. To one side of his totem-studded yard was a little chapel with its own sign on the door. "Chapel of Our Lady of the Chain."

Jesus Christ..

Poor Ukie, out of his depth. Involved in a menage a quatre. The Italian pimp ballonist and his yardful of satanic totems, to one side of which was a chapel dedicated to "Our Lady of the Chain."

"Naked Came the Ukrainian" indeed. Still obsessed by her sweet memory.

Pounding the Hound through Hell would be a better title for his novel.

Ah, magnificent obsession.

Now I had to prove my mettle. I was in the middle of a classic Gothic novel. ( The heroine lives is in a castle, trapped by a Dracula, usually Italian)

Ah. Naked comes the Ukrainian!

Watch out, Luigi. And if I catch you, you get a piece of this.



JR's Thumbprints said...

Oooooweee Ivan, you're the literary equivalent of Kevin Federline, only bigger--he's stuck with the kids! said...

Poor--or not so poor?--Kevin.
Has his problems, but he sort of came into money. :)


Josie said...

I had to do a strip tease and my shorts ended up in the owner's beer.

There is no other blog in the whole blogosphere where anyone will read that line, but on this one.

Ivan, Ivan, Ivan....

Ha...! said...

There's no business like show business. :)

JM said...


I know this chapel and its kooky keeper. All cologne and hair oil, unctuous smile. He calls himself a simple barber and used to write long, incoherent letters to the paper, crazy dense scrawl interspersed with hand-drawn symbols. He plays violin, too. said...

I keep getting my fiction mixed up with matters of fact.
The guy described with all his tokens and his chapel (and his baloon?) is surely innocent of the things I ascribe to him in the story.
One's perfervid imagination runs away. The "pimop" in my story lived esewhere, not in Holland Landing.
I was just intrigued by all the
weird statuary and the chapel itself, dedicated "Our Lady of the Chain". It's a Palermo saint, I think, but I attributed weird Kraft-Ebbing qualities to it, you know-- Sadie and the rest of the Massie family. :)
I actually went into that chapel one day and kind of spooked myself out.
I was flat broke as usual, forgot what to ask for and as soon as I left the little edifice a ten dollar bill floated down.
(I was once fired the first time by the North York Mirror for never letting the facts get in the way of a good story).
Ah well, the circumstances of my blog are true...I was involved with pimps, priests and police.

I guess I'd better more careful when I model my characters from real life and actual places of residence.
Ah well. Say it on: Bullshit makes the grass grow green. :)

JM said...

No worries ... if I didn't know him to exist, the very description would defy belief. The chapel would indeed be a perfect and surreal setting for some kind of nightmarish scene -- I can see it in a David Lynch film, with The Barber playing violin (instead of mandolin, which come to think of it, is what I remember him playing). He was big on roosters, too, I recall.
... I must file this away for future use ... said...


Yeah, I had a notion to interview the guy myself once. He wasn't home a lot,so I passed the story onto
somebody at the Star (it ran in a suburban edition called Neighbours, sometime in the early eighties. Written by Doug something- or- other. Big photo spread, naturally, the weird statues and talimans.
I don't know how the owner of those things could be blind to the obvious satanic implication of all his works.
The Big Chicken armature reminds me of something out of Hieronymous Bosch.
There is an annual meeting of the Buffalo Gambini family near that place, though I don't think our "barber" is involved.
Not too far away is Riverdrive Park where the old stoners and druggies used to live.
Sh*it, the whole thing, on the face of it seems out of William Wyler's The Collector.

ivan@creativewriting.da said...

p.s. to Jeff Mitchell,

The totem place on Sand Road and the barber who owns the statuary, including "The Words Biggest Chicken" piece on his property:

It was Doug Ibboson who wrote the piece for the now-defunct Neighbours edition of the Star. I do believe it was l987 or l988...The Star might have it on old microfilm.

EA Monroe said...

Ivan, I can see this entire novel as a David Lynch film. Fantastic! You better get busy and get this one finished, so you can look up David Lynch.

Better than Walt Disney. Hah! That's what I'm working on now...

Trevor Record said...

Naked Came the Ukrainian, I must admit, is not a bad name. I guess the fellow is in publishing for a reason. said...


I think you're too beautiful a writer for Walt Disney.
I'm the kind of guy who generally isn't too interested in other people's projects, but your vignettes of childhood put me right there, on the scene. You have some wonky little dudes in your stories. I can identify. Girls would outsmart me every time.
"I am 'No Good Boyo' as in the part I played in a coffe house, from Dylan Thomas'Under Milkwood..
I don't think you've read Under Milk Wood, but I think you give the Master some competition when a Welsh childhood becomes an Oklahoma childhood, and we are right there with you.
Betcha your work has already been published is some magazine and yo're too modest to tell us about it.

Ivan said...

You young guys are awake.

Sure my publisher was in the game for a reason.
The title harkens back to ten journalists working for Newsday out of Long Island.
All ten of these reporters deliberately wrote a porn novel, which they had titled "Naked Came the Stranger."
It made number ten on the New York Times best seller list and took a long time to get off the charts.
What these ten journalists proved is that a book can indeed be written by a committee, but by a committee of smart reporters--and they had no trouble at all getting up there with the Puzos and the Gay Taleses.


Josie said...

Ivan, I just read JR's comment. He is too funny. He always makes me laugh. said...

JR is getting sharper and sharper.

He made me laugh too.

eric1313 said...

This was pretty good! It's better than a fragment. Keep writing this novel and writing on your blog and you'll have two novels soon.

eric1313 said...

Tha was one crazy love rectangle; a rhombus, really... said...

Thanks Eric.
Talking to my clever daughter some years ago, I didn't entirely avoid self-pity by telling her, in a weak moment that I was unlucky at this instance of love.
"You got a book out of it," she had said. said...

Ah, fictional plots and real life!
When I was in the situation with this "Britney" I'd sit over a bottle and build up thoughts of resentment about her epsilon semi-husband. "If only 'Fed' were dead", I'd sigh.
But I had no idea that Luigi was on the scene too.
Smart women around me would say, "Don't be surprised if there's another guy is playing...And don't be surprised if he's Italian."
He was.

Sela Carsen said...

Plus ça change, plus ça reste même. Coming back to your blog is like coming home, Ivan. said...

Hi Sela, and welcome back!

What a sweet thing to say about our blog!

Congratulations on your Heart of the Sea coming out next month and also for finally putting THE END to Daughters of Flame,the novel you've just finished. How you do all this with kids underfoot and a big old house to look after is beyond me. What a lesson in discipline and application.
Ah, now the book signings and the tours to think of. From my point of view, romance isn't just a genre. We all have romantic dreams of success. I have had that dream, but I think it was fulfilled too early and I spent all the money. :)
I love success stories and it's certainly nice to have you back here.


Josie said...

Ivan, I was in a "love triangle" recently. It was very sad. The fellow told his wife he loved me, not her, but she insisted he "give their marriage a try for three months" (after 20 years together) with no contact with me, and if it didn't work, he was free to come to me. He asked me what I thought. I told him to stay with her. It was obvious what she was doing. He just couldn't see it. I wasn't about to sit here, twiddling my thumbs, while they "worked on their marriage". He was really upset with me. If I were married to someone, and he told me he loved someone else, I don't think I could stick around for another three months.

I hope they both live "happily ever after", but I somehow doubt it.

TomCat said...

Ivan, the thing I like best about your writing is that you always leave me wondering what is fact and what is fiction. said...

So this is what the sturm und drang was all about, hovering there between the lines of your last few blogs.
And, not knowing your circumstances, I had to pipe up and say, tongue well out- of -cheek that you had only eighteen months to find somebody...kicking myself!...I must have seen the strain on your face in a photo, while myself not cognizant at all as to what was going on.
Isn't it a flat feeling when some
schlemiel of a man tells you to wait--wait for what?
In real life, I had something like that with the "Britney" in my blog.
"We'll get together, but it is going to take a long time. Many months."
(Meanwhile, she went and married somebody after divorcing from her husband).
Many months indeed!

Love can leave you doing a Cirque du Soleil on telephone wires and howling at the moon.

("All the things she said
All the things she said
running through my head
running through my head").

I wasn't prepared in this instance to lose at love, but I did.

Well, you haven't lost yet.
Circumstances change all the time.
You really never know what's around the corner.

I keep thinking of that Jann Arden
song when I think of what that man did when he tried to put you on hold.


Sounds to me like he's going to lose two women.
...And I guess he's going through a little world-squirm too.



Ivan said...


There are certainly times when I can't separate fact from fiction.

So many libel suits successfully warded off! Thank God! Hate to lose money.
Editors would tell me, "Yeah, Ivan, you never let the facts get in the way of a good story."

W. Somerset Maugham says that is what a novelist should really be like,"never let the facts get in the way of a good story", but then he had tried his own hand at journalism and failed miserably to sell anything at all.
I guess he was congenitally unable to separate fact from fiction too--one trait at least I share with that great storyteller.

Ah, but there's some solace from that Great Mad Dane, Kierkegaard, who says, "What? You make mountains out of molehills?
"When in love, you're supposed to make mountains out of molehills!"

It is possibly small wonder that the best novelists have been gay.
Things that go on between men and women shake the very rafters of the universe, it seems.

Ah, say it on. Most poets come accompanied by a Lyre.
When in Mexico, I met Clifford Irving, whom I drank with quite a bit.
Ivan is sometimes not just a liar.
He drinks accompanied by a liar. Heh.

Josie said...

Ivan, thank you. His loss. Really. Big time. I am not second best.

In this triangle, no on one - not me, not him, and certainly not his wife. I don't believe they are suddenly going to be happy as clams. I hope that's his punishment.

Josie said...

I mean no one "won". But you knew that. :-) said...

Josie, there are times when I swear I wrote the book on King Pyrrhos. :)
But a ten mile walk just gave me a flash.

Seems to me all triangles have four corners when it comes to relationships.
What if what had been good for the gander was at the same time good for the goose!..Just wondering.

"Your wife? She's in bed with Pneumonia."
"Why that Greek bastard!"

No laughing matter, for sure, but
insight sometimes comes with humour...But I'm sure he must have explained to you in great detail his relationship with her.

Ah, "the pain industry."
I have been wearing this asbestos suit for so long. Working in the pain industry.
Someone laid a pair of horns on me long after I threw my poor wife away.
And I don't like it much.

eric1313 said...

Better to be a literary Federline, than a literary caution line...

But that doesn't mean to stop pushing the envelope whenever possible. said...

"Better to be a literary Federline, than a literary caution line..."


That is startlingly original.
And it's not just a shot in the dark. You're actually working, Francis Bacon fashion, on the stuff itself. Somebody really good must have introduced you to a school of critixism. My hat's off to the prof.
And certatinly a salute from me for a line like that.


Josie said...

Ivan, I have deleted my blog.

Long story...

I may start another one in a while.


EA Monroe said...

Josie! I went looking for you this morning, and couldn't find you! I thought, Oh no! Josie's done it again. She's pulled the plug!! Come back soon and rejoin the Morlocks!

Good Sunday morning, Ivan! Hope you are doing well. I'm ready for some fall weather and what are we having? Temps almost in the 90s.~Liz said...


I thought it was me who was going into the English-style loo, muttering to myself, "Goodbye cruel world" and pulling the W.C. chain.
Eauu! What'd ye pull the chain for, mate?

Blog hara kiri.

Wo' hoppen?

Yours was the most popular blog around.
Somehow I feel vaguely guilty.
Did I swear in your blog comment space or something?

Something in your personal life make you pull the chain?

I know that when I wrote a piece very much like my blog above and got it published in the TOPIC Magazine, a man immediately got a divorce from hiw wife (whom I'd been living with--strictly as a tenant).
The roil of a man's ego?

As they might say on impolite blogs, WTF?

Ivan said...

Happy Columbus Day coming up, sweet Elizabeth!
We are having Canadian Thanksgiving here and for once, I am swamped with company, male and female.
I got a phone call from Tara (My request--my anti-virus guard wouldn't let me read her voice mail). She sounds so much like the actress Barbara Stanwyck from an excellent Preston Sturges movie of 1941, whose title escapes me.
She speaks standard American, like they might in Ohio--no twang at all. Talks as if she came from Toronto, my bailiwick.
She might be an empath; maybe she was picking up my accent.
The conversation was very pleasant and we talked of one day visiting Josie and maybe some other bloggers in Canada. Hey, we might do a dogleg to Oklahoma!
I think I have been blogging too much and letting the housework go to hell.
My guests, like my landlady, say my aparrmentis a scrapyard with dump-like tendencie.
Came all the way from Oakville Ontario to tell me that here in deed was a "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Swine."...Actually more like Arnold, who was an old pig.
Here, I thought I was Sanitary Sam, middle class and neat.
Been on the computer and into the fridge night and day and let everything else go all to hell.
This is not quite a magnificent obsession. Oink. Swine Lake!

"He was dirty and lousy and full of fleas
"But he had his women by twos and
threes." LOL

Some kind of Japanese mystic meditating, I suppose. They don't wash either.
Ah well. It wasn't my intention to be a bachelor and his floppy ways, but that is the way it turned out.
...My friends were thinking of putting a Navy firehose to my apartment.
Looks like I'll have to get off blogging for a bit and start cleaning before the Super comes again. (Fr.) Pork-ois?
What a thing to talk about!

Good morning Liz, and thanks for the hello.


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Good afternoon everyone....smiles... hello Ivan. said...

Good afernoon, Tara.

Hug, as per email request.

Hug for Josie too.

Poor lady, judging by the emails, has somehow taken her turn in the barrel.
"My turn in the barrel. Yikes!"

Life takes strange turns.

Lady bus driver last month called me a no-goodnick and a pr*ck.
Now she says she wants to see me again. "How are your tomatoes...and how are your cucumbers?" she is asking.
I know she is asking about my balcony garden.
Last month I wanted to report her for rudeness, to kill her. Now this.
Josie, it seems to come in waves.

Order. Disorder. Back to order.


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

She was in Balls of Fire in 1941 said...

was thinking The Lady Eve (1941).

Hey, we're really into nakedness here. Your example seemed to have a Zippo or a Bic in it. :)

And, BTW,you are better looking than Barbara Stanwyck...Her nose has the tiniest hook.

Josie said...

Ivan, I our sweet friend Tara has convinced me to start a new blog. If you click on the link here, you will reach my new blog. I have to go into hiding from a couple of people.

Josie said...


I see it.
I have added my usual prurient comment.
Something about sending a Valentine to a potato.

Maybe you're reconsidering the new blog. :) said...


I ate up everything in the house last night, even the pork roast.

And I still haven't got a bird.

(German. I think): Johann is ein vogel-hund.

Johnny is a bird dog.

I gotta go out and find a bird, if any store is still open.


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

:be still my heart:: what a sweet compliment. Ms. Stanwyck was quite lovely.

eric1313 said...





and Liz

and everyone else.

Hey Ivan. Thanks. I do try to put my all into writing even small responses. You never know what you'll come up with, sometimes you have to type the wrong things first, before the right things hit you.

My most critical prof was Donna Marino. She taught me my analytical approach and critical thinking over three different lit classes I took with her. She was tough! The first semester I almost dropped the course, and I didn't know if I could cut it. Then I found more classes she taught later, since I realized the value of the discipline she taught. As well as her championing the marginalized voices in the novels we read.

She did have us read The Bell Jar, Johnny Got His Gun, Slaughter House Five and 451 Fahrenheit (ten novels total for the semester) all in the same class, so I thought at least that was great.

I wrote my final paper on "the post modern meanings of the phrase 'so it goes' in the text of Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut." Got a damn fine grade on seven pages of no-nonsense critical analysis.

"Shit happens" is what it boils down to!

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

I looked up the movie, "The Lady Eve", on Very classy woman. said...


Well, you may one day be a prof.
They made one out of me on the strength of some colums I had in the big papers. And at the time, I had my M.A. degree (almost).
I told my First-year class that the college had hired me because "nobody had seen a drunk before."
They wrote this down religiously, and I immediately knew I was in trouble.
The most fun was teaching existetialism (replacing another teacher).
Get into a lot of good stuff like Nietzsche, Kierkegaard and even Hemingway. They told me I was a better dramatist than a rote teacher. I never like teaching the point-by-point Stanford-Binet approach.
"The world is my idea," I'd start off, quoting Schopenhauer, an opener that was very egotistical of old Art, but, strangely, true.
Natureally we'd move on to Bishop Berkeley and Davey Hume and the bright kids would start to dig it.
Yet I was never very hot on critical analysis of literature.
Damn near failed it at university.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

I am here, everyone is having dinner I am guessing. May I take a seat? said...

Ah, Tara.

You have more class than a shoal of dolphins.
...And I understand dolphins travel not in schools, but universities. :) said...


Turkey in the oven.
Must attend.
And cocktail hour.
Likely embpty the fridge again, turning the turkey over with a large electrician's screwdriver.

Just call me the Drunken Heintz of good living...Does anybody remember Duncan Hines?
Martha Stewart. We are not Poles apart. I think she's Polish.
Ah well, it's starting to smell like a Good Thing. Carve the bastard with an X-acto knife.

Beer break!


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

While you have your beer break I shall some wine. After that, a roast in the oven on slow so that it may cook all night.

I do not think I will have dinner tonight. I sure am up for some great company though. hmmm...

the walking man said...

Ivan, beat the motherfucker in the BMW pimp mobiles ass again,slap your Britney around enough to leave marks but blame her marks on Luigi when she calls the cops. Either that or go hang out with the almost gay husband and take him out and make him pay for your drunk.

may I suggest a title?
"Gay husband not only gets spousal support but tax free child support as well from the backwoods ho momma"



the walking man said...

HI everyone Tara and all at a coffee shop where they kick you off the internet every hour, in the hope you will buy another drink for a buck fifty...but they give free refills so I just tip well and get a hand full of code cards but it's still a pain in the ass coffee shop and you have to {fuck me} smoke outside!


but Peace all


Shesawriter said...

"Then there was the scene where my guitar conked out, I had to do a strip tease and my shorts ended up in the owner's beer. My catch-up act may have thrilled some of the ladies, but the owner was not amused. I got fired as a lounge singer."

Only you, Ivan. Only you. ROFLMAO!

eric1313 said...

Another beautiful night up here in the north.

Ivan, I really want to be a prof so bad, too. I'd be great and my students would bring me glory by just being.

Tara, Hope the house is warming to your presence in it. How is the writing? Let the words flow like red wine... or the green river...

Walking Man, hope the evening has been well to you. Coffee shops make for some quiet people watching. Or loud people watching. I always liked the Border's media-cafe on Kercheval. That's a nice haunt. said...

Funny thing, Mark.

One night when she chose to C-Tease me, I was reduced to a frustrated mess.
The following day, I said, "I should have hit you."
"You should have," she had said.

Had no respect for me, I guess, and a slap might have just brought her around. Jung says this happens sometimes in a complicated relationship, but I guess old Carl Gustav wouldn't go over today.

Well, I got a lot of frustration out by finding and beating on the pimp, but it took two tries.
Talk about a blind Zeppelin pilot!

There was a look alike for the pimp in a restaurant. I took him to be the guy in the Panama hat.
Laid a good one on him.
F*ck! It was just a poor dishwhasher whose faceI had altered.
I backed out of the restaurant to have the pimp behind me standing beside the BMW. So rapid was my exit from the restaurant that the pimp very nearly sodomized me as I backed into him.
Gotcha, Mothergrabber! Quick turnaround and a hit with closed left hand. Tally ho!

Aren't we crazy when young?
Pimbp coming "home" with black eye.
I phoned them and I think I heard the "Britney" giggle.

I did take the semi-gay husband out for a drink, we both ran out of money and finally a waitress took pity on us and bought some rounds out of her tips...I had said something about her face being straight out of a Raphael painting and she had like that.

Jaysus, I miss being an asshole!
But don't I long for those times again.
Danger. Danger just there as a backdrop till you do something.
...And then they retaliate by setting your house on fire. Who were the real assholes?
they could well have been burning a witch.
Me? said...

Won't be all be glad when Prohibition is finally over.
F*cking docs with their junk science and corrupt politics.
Everybody has heard of the eighty-year-old chain smoker. I am one. :)

But internet at Chapters here is fun. Well-lit, relaxing place.
But the coffee sucks.
Gimme Timmy Horton"s any time. said...

When a turn doesn't work, you have to be a seasoned clown and do another turn.
Never leave a turn unstoned, I say. :) said...

p.s. to Tanya (shesawriter),

I'll be over to your blog soon to compare rejection letters.
But something is up with me. Radar acting up Big Time.
Some person, somewhere, has read something of mine, and she likes it.
You can just tell these things.
It starts with a filigree vision of your recently sent manuscrtipt floating around just outside your consciousness and an image of a woman reading it. I am never wrong about this.
I hope you have a similar vision.

Or maybe I'm just thinking of Sela Carsen and her publishing just around the corner.



Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

umm wheres the coffee? said...

It is a nice feeling. They all want to nip and tuck at you after class, but all you want to do is drink.
Adrenaline high.

It's the F*ucking paper work of getting there! Six years, on and off, of hanging around being a TA until you are promoted to teacher.

A story goes with that.
At the college, they called me doctor.
At the Grey Goat Pub, they called me asshole. said...


Here is a steaming cup of Tim Horton's, Canada's national coffee, named after a dead hockey player who was known for icing.
Don't get sucked into those Krispy Kreme donut shops.
The donuts are made miles away.
By incompetents who can't brew coffee :)

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...


Thank you. But no doughnuts for me. I need to keep myself young if I am to ever catch up to you.

Tara said...


I just checked one of your blogs, The Emotional Being.

You are indeed svelte.
If you look like that, you need no donuts.
Holy mother of god.

Clear the track!

eric1313 said...

A new post at Emotional being? I hope.

How are you, Tara? Have some coffee;) it's Ivan's!

Ivan, I know it, the hoops that need to be jumped are on fire. There are ways, not for the faint of heart, but there are ways to get through it all and thrive.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

lol Ivan, I am a plain Jane. I know.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Thank you Eric. I think I will. anyone want to join me?

eric1313 said...

eating dinner part two for a moment, I have the metabolism of a cheetah on amphetamines.

but I hope we have a few people up for a spell tonight.

Great poem, Tara! You' aren't plain jane at all; your writing makes you a mystery, the more it tells us about you.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

I would like to make a personal dedication from Etta James as she sings... At Last.

Anyone care to dance on this very warm night?

eric1313 said...

I hate to presume...

But I will have to accept this dance as offered. said...

You are so right, Eric.
Just as I was at the point of having cleared the hoops at Seneca College, I suddenly ran away to Mexico to teach at the Instituto Allende, Gto.
I guess you can't take the neo-hippie out of the person.

Ah, but the bougainvillea and the flowers, the Mariachis.
Sharp smell of marijuana in the courtyard. Sexual perversions upstairs.
Am I turning anybody on? :)

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

;:smirks:: woooo! said...


You just sent me a mash note. :)

the walking man said...

Tim Horton ...Famous Hockey player before helmets and face into the donut business because he lost so many teeth from fighting that he could only eats gummable food.

Had his ass beat by quite few Red Wings I heard; born in Cochran Ont (as far north as you can go by car In Ont about 1000 miles north of TO)Yeah before you ask I have been there and to moose factory as well as Moosinee,

The coffee is a bitter brew of cheap beans roasted in a factory by underpaid CREE Natives where after they shell the cherry and the skin off the beans they make souvenir hockey pucks out of the leavings of them.

Not a bad donut but you have to take your chances eating them because they stay on the shelf until they get moldy.So you might be getting last weeks cryekker,

the walking man said...

I ain't dancing but I am naked except for my glasses and socks

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

lol mark, gotta have that hat on!

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

:::raises eyebrow:: sure did...

the walking man said...

Yeah you're right Tara, Bukowski would want the hat on so he or at least his image could dance naked too...but fat men don't dance we jiggle like jello


last smoke then bed been up since 0330 non stop

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

lol eric, mark thinks me a moldy doughnut, sure you want to dance?

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Mark, jiggle away my brother. I will protect thee...smiles said...

Well, here we are, two old guys in underwear (sox?), watching Tara and Eric dance.

Brings to mind this union organizer I once knew. Crazy as a bedbug.
"Boring night," he had said. "Let's j**k each other off."
He was six feet tall. I jumped up into the air and nailed him.
Hm. This banty rooster image may yet get me into trouble.
Tim Horton coffee high.

You might be right, Mark.
This coffee is all aphetamine and no taste.
Makes you crazy and rots your guts.

Also, obviously, my brain.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...


Offer me your hand I will dance with thee as well.


the walking man said...

Ivan lets go out together and start a fight with three guys bigger than us and kick their's not like we can get any more broken up.

Besides it would be a hoot two old guys beating the crap out of three young guys...but like I learned from BUK ..always carry your steel with you I got one in each front pocket and they both open and lock with a flick of the wrist...we could cut 'em up so they had scars like ours...hell ya gotta start getting them somewhere right!

g'night all my fat naked ass is going to sleep


TWM said...

Well, there's you and Eric.

I hate to cut in.

Besides, you make a good looking couple.

eric1313 said...

By all means, Ivan.

I was in the parking lot on the phone for a half hour.

I might smell like a good joint, however. Is the coffee spiked?

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

One eric is in his own world od writing and two... ;;;ugh!::

c'mere you!

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

i am starting to feel very unwanted.... ::deep breath:: said...

That dancing thing was for Tara and Eric.
Weren't we a crazy bunch of MoFo's in those days?
...And I'm not a very large unit.
Speed and fury of the attack, I say.
Now I am intimidated by ladies who know how to use a laundry computer card better than I.
What's that campfire song? The font of my passion has become my water spout.

Still up? said...


A woman always changes the quality of a conversation. How can we ignore you?

I mean, come on now.

The female affects everybody.

Mark is down to his socks and glasses.
You and Eric are dancing.

And Cheech is saying to Chong, "Dave's not home!"

eric1313 said...

Well, feel wanted!

you are.

eric1313 said...

The one up there was for Tara!


Ivan, she can obviously dance our feet off.

But it's a better way to go than most, I imagine. said...

Hava Nagila!

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

what are we rejoicing Ivan?


eric1313 said...

maybe we should keep dancing.

let Ivan play a song.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

You know I am not fluent in hebrew Ivan.... but if you like we can choose another language....

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Is anyone home? Am I the only in a, hmm, lets say rather good mood? said...

Oh crap, Eric.

I just lost my thunder.

I was going to sing, as per request, in Hebrew.

Well damn. I already have this comment drafted out, so here we go:

I was going to say Hora dance, but i've gotta watch my assonance.


As per request,

Hava nagila
Hava nagila
Hava nagila
Dei Ish makha

Hava na runna nah
Hava na runna nah...

Sh*t, I'm not fluent in Hebrew either.
Just a mimic. said...

My good mood is probably the result
of my scarfing down part of tomorrow's dinner.
There's some enzyme in turkey that makes you gemutlich.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

oh and I thought it might have something do with me....maybe I was just in a different world.

I don't bite, well, not hard said...

Heavens to Myrgatroid.

Do we now jump from Judaism to Oral Roberts? Heh.

Gotta watch that Oral guy.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

lmao Ivan! You know ... lol well, that is a more private ahem!matter...

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Mr. Bob Dylan everyone... lady lay lady.... lay across my big brass bed said...


I hope we're not scaring you away.
I am no scholar, just a poor uncircumcised muzhik.

Now we come to Virginia Ovals?

Oh Slick Willie. said...

In Canada, we used to have a dues-paying coffee house singer named Doug brown.

His sample lyrics:

Ever since my masochistic baby left me
I got nothing to beat but the wall.

Ever since my masochistic baby left me
I got nothing to block but my hat.

Ah, sweetie. George Thorogood:

You can leave your hat on.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

woohoo Ivan! playing with a fiddle... I see ::smirk::

eric1313 said...

I ould n't help you with the fiddle, I'm a self taught musician.

I play by ear.

eric1313 said...

sorry! Phonecalls with my family keep ulling me away from my screen, and not in a good way. said...


Hi diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle.


I am no Stephane Grappely either.

eric1313 said...

Maybe he would have the naswers, ehh?

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

"the first time ever I saw your face, i thought the sun rose in your eyes..."

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...


sorry to hear can be the best and the worst.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...


i have the hat... now what?

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Where's the hammock? said...


This is starting to tempt me toward rap.
I am getting punchy, so I might offer some rap and really clear the room out.

Egad, is this the 111th comment?

Worse thing you can do during sex (heh) is to fall asleep.

Je sui fatigue.

Ah, the hat, the hat.

Maybe a pole dance.

A Mexican dance?

Show me a a man who rides side-saddle
And I'll show you a gay Caballero.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

okay crowd, we are requesting Etta James again with... "Teach me tonight"

Startng with the A..b..c of it right down to the x...y..z.. of it..

eric1313 said...

The winds pick up,
and the breeze cools us
with its breath.

The night sleeps,
not we.

A pink and white hat on the breeze turns and rolls as in the dreams of flamenco dancers.

There are so many earthly sins, I wouldn't call love one of them,
even if sometimes,
it feels like it is.

eric1313 said...

Whoop! Felt like a little free verse.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Falling asleep is pretty bad, but so is screaming someone else's name in the moment ... that happened to me once, his ex was sara... lol and I am Tara.. how can you mix that up. I turned, looked at him, and kicked him out of my bed... that sort of thing kind of smarts!

eric1313 said...

Bust a rhyme, MC P!

Gin and juice on tap!

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

I am the elixir tonight ....

eric1313 said...

Ouch! That does smart!

Better than asking what a forgotten name was. I almost forgot someones name. The second it came back to me I was so happy!

Then it was all over anyway...

As they all do in the end.

Listen to me, as fatalisimo as ever. said...

Sung by Russian Bluegrass group:

The sky's a blackboard high up above you
If s shooting czar goes by...

Or, from Lucy and the Sky With Diamonds, where "the girl with colitis goes by." Wow.

eric1313 said...

You sure are, Tara!

To you
with you


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

ahem! wow is a start! where were their heads lol

eric1313 said...

Russian bluegrass was so before it time...

When did you invent it, IvAn?

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Love does not leave you, you leave love....

and eric,

it did smart, maybe he decided i wasn't for him.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

where did everyone go? oh my do i have to lay in the hammack alone?

eric1313 said...

You can't leave love
if love is truly inside you.

It's terrible, but women do that too. My situation of forgetting was a sign that maybe one night stands are not the wisest things.

I only had one of them, that was enough.

Or maybe two... But it's not right! said...

re the poetry.

There must be some sort of energy here. You write such great stuff on my blog.
Better than on your own.

I wonder why that is. said...

re the poetry.

There must be some sort of energy here. You write such great stuff on my blog.
Better than on your own.

I wonder why that is.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...


what i meant it...sometimes we are given love and we know what it is, we see it, but we walk away from it. As we take this walk we know it could have been exactly what we wanted, but we still say, "Hell no"! and walk away. So in essence, love does not leave us, we leave it.

eric1313 said...

Maybe love is what happens when two make a spark

Maybe love is a fire that dies in haste

Maybe love is only a complete circuit.

Maybe love just never wants to wait.

eric1313 said...

You are right. I'm not arguing with you, Tara

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...


You are making it far too complicated. Love is simple, it is the basic need we all have but fear the most. It can take our bodies and make us split apart at the seams when we want to make love to someone and it can hurt like hell when it all falls apart. the key is accepting it when given... if we don't we lose and so does love.

eric1313 said...

Thanks about the poetry, Ivan. Sometimes it is the different environments.

eric1313 said...

You are very right, Tara.

It is best not to squander opportunities when given.

I agree with you.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

ivan? said...

I am getting punchy. Up to late.

But better the organ than the fiddle, I say.

eric1313 said...

Sorry to hear it, Ivan

You'll have plenty of grand nights ahead if that dream of a beautiful open minded editor is reading your manuscript as we speak.

eric1313 said...


I know what you mean about tired, I've been sleeping normal hours lately. It's killing my nocturnal writing cycle.


Are you still there? said...

You kids go on.
I can feel my lights going out.

Need some oil of ofay. Ofay drinks a lot.

Good night Eric.

Good night Tara.

Keep on rockin' here in the free world, if you want.


eric1313 said...

I'll keep a candle lit,
and we can all find the way
on our dark roads home.

I'll keep the fire burning
through the midnight chill
so maybe our sight won't go
by scratching love letters to

under the full moon grin,
wrapped in the west wind
under a billion stars
on a candlelit night.

eric1313 said...

I'll keep a candle lit,
and we can all find the way
on our dark roads home.

I'll keep the fire burning
through the midnight chill
so maybe our sight won't go
by scratching love letters to
under the full moon grin,
wrapped in the west wind
under a billion stars
on a candlelit night
at the crossroads of home.

that's much better.

Ivan, you can delete the crap copy above this one.

eric1313 said...


I was writing a lot of verse in a couple of the responses above. I hoped you wanted to write, that's how I dance best.

Wish I could tell you goodnight in a Teutonic language...

eric1313 said...

A train is whistling
whirling by in the night
I wake up just in time
to hear it gently fade
and the rumble dies
without a fight.

The cricket's own symphony
is playing my song,
and no cars pass by
hissing loud like air
escaping confinement,
no sound made by the dark.

The whistle blows again
or maybe it's just the wind.

My memory of the whistle
a plaintiff moan fading,
as the crickets sing
it's all just a dream
and the rumble was nothing
but other worlds dieing.

Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

Good Morning Ivan, Goodmorning everyone. said...

No crap here.
Put it through Robert Frost filter and still can't detect any imitation..

Over at this place, you poetry scans beautifully, where sometimes in your own blog, it might not. said...

Good morning Tara and all.

Egad folks have to scroll all the way down to comment #146 for this!
Busy place.


Inside our hands, outside our hearts said...

It has become our home away from home. said...

Happy Columbus Day, Tara.

I have to step out for a bit.

Feel free to roam around here.

(You can even go through my drawers. Heh).

Josie said...

Hey, boychik, what the heck is going on? I pop over to say good morning and you have 148 comments. Holy doodle.

Good morning :-)

Josie said...


A lot of insomniacs out here( he said) as comments come up to l50.

This has never happened before, except on Dave's blog where hitting 200 is nothing new.

Ivan said...



I meant "Dan's Blah Blah Blog" and not Dav'e blog.

Dan's blog is extremely high volume.