And So the Adventure Begins

Three-quarters of a harvest moon, yellowish-orange and brilliant, hangs over the night, illuminating it.
I’m up on the roof, in the shadow of the adjacent building, taking it all in. It’s quiet – the bar across the street is closed for renovations – and I’m trying to make sense of it all.
Knowing that I’m hours away from perhaps the greatest adventure of my life.
The pulse is quick. I try and calm the mind, but it’s been racing since the day I decided to throw caution and conventional wisdom out the door and follow a dream.
Live in New York for a year. Observe. Write.
(Try and write two short stories worthy of publication, although there are those people who are hoping for a novel.)
As I type this, 18 hours remain in my life in SoDak. Soon, I’ll run Trinity to the groomers, turn in my cable television box, come back to mop the floor, pack the truck. Walk-through with the landlord at 4:30 p.m., final beers and goodbyes with friends at 5 p.m.
The road trip east begins bright and early Sept. 29. Pick up the keys to my new condo on Oct. 1.
And the 365-day experiment begins.
So much excitement pulsates through my body, like a current.
I look at the moon and try and think of another time I have been so excited to try something. I know there must have been those times. The six months I spent in Japan. The eight weeks in Italy. The various journalism jobs, in various states, moving up, moving on.
But I can’t find any memories that compare to how I feel in the now. Maybe it is age, a better appreciation for things we are given.
I am excited.
I am happy.
My dad, who made this adventure possible financially, said he wanted me to be the kid I used to be: Full of wonder and questions. Willing to jump first, look later.
I have no idea how this year will turn out. I have thoughts, visions. I have the outline of a plan and freelance jobs to pay the bills. I will mostly take life in New York as it comes.
But I do have a feeling.
The notion that something good awaits me in the city.
And I realize that the next time I see the full moon, it’ll be from Manhattan.

Video Friday, XTC

XTC was an English New Wave band that formed in 1976. While MTV will put them in its "One-Hit Wonders" shows for the song "Dear God," they were much more than that one very interesting song.
The band has a very interesting history of making music, both live and in the studio. Singer Andy Partridge suffered horrible stage fright, so for years, they were a studio-only band.
Anyway, they made tremendously good music. XTC, your Video Friday:

"Making Plans for Nigel"


"Generals and Majors"


"Senses Working Overtime"


"Sgt. Rock"


"Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead"


"Mayor of Simpleton"


"Ball and Chain"


"King for a Day"


"Dear God"


And perhaps my favorite:
"Life Begins at the Hop"

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are gait, nudge and ripen.

Zooming the Girls

He falls to his knees and in mock torment, beats his fists on the sidewalk, which skews the contents of his backpack painfully to one side.


Two girls on bikes flank a third. She is tall and gangly (with a hint of the curves she’ll ripen into) and carries a skateboard.


Hazel eyes that sparkle in the sun, this tall girl is the one he craves. An adolescent tease in jean shorts, white blouse over a white tube top, flip-flops and a wispy braided bracelet around her right ankle. Her hair is long and curly and she’s pulled it back into a ponytail.


He stands up, thrusts his hands in his pockets, advances yet again in a cool, calculated gait.


“I gotta go,” he pleads.

The sentries nudge one another, put their hands up like stop signs, wag their fingers. He can only shrug his shoulders, eyes pleading.


The lanky girl, her skin the color of melted light brown sugar, thrusts her shoulders forward, shakes her head no, and screws her lips into a pout. Her cheeks are red; she puts a chewed fingertip to her lips. She smiles; her eyebrows arch.


“Just one kiss,” he says. “’Cause I gotta go home.”


The sentries won’t relent.


Even though she wants them to just disappear, in the very worst way.

Video Friday, PIXIES

Somewhere in the Midwest, there’s a little blond-haired girl telling her friends about the night her dad took her to the Orpheum Theater in downtown Omaha to see one of his all-time favorite bands, PIXIES.
Maybe it’ll be her favorite band, too.
Especially how well, how tight, Black Francis, Kim Deal, Joey Santiago and David Lovering sounded Sept. 16 as part of their “Doolittle” tour.
We watched, smiles on our faces, as the girl hugged her dad’s neck – she was riding on his back while he pumped his fists in the air – and Pixies played the Doolittle album start to finish (they opened with some very tasty “B side” tracks).
Maybe I’m older, more mature (and dare I say, more aware?), but PIXIES in the Big O might well have been the best concert I’ve ever watched.
Better than The Replacements in Minneapolis.
Better than Social Distortion in Chico, California.
Better than the Rolling Stones in Dallas.
(As part of being the first 10 percent to buy tickets, we get a free download of the concert, digitally mastered; special thanks to Nathan for jumping in and buying the tickets; to have this two-disc memento means the world to me.)
But now, more than ever, I want PIXIES to push past their Doolittle triumph and create new music.
I crave a new album of Pixies originals.
But, for now, your Video Friday is PIXIES, from the “Doolittle” tour:

"Debaser"


"Tame"


"Wave of Mutilation"


"I Bleed"


"Here Comes Your Man"


"Dead"


"Monkey Gone to Heaven"


"Mr. Grieves"


"Crackity Jones"


"La La Love You"


"No. 13 Baby"


"There Goes My Gun"


"Hey"


"Silver"


"Gouge Away"


And two encores later, PIXIES closed with...

"Gigantic"

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are demure, offend, volatile.

There She Is…
Miss Wisconsin 1979 lives in a cramped converted basement apartment that has a ½ in the address, like an afterthought.


A technician in a drug store photo department, she slips in-and-out of people’s lives one print at a time, wearing white cotton gloves as to not leave fingerprint evidence of her interloping.

The crown she earned so many years ago is part of an elaborate bunny ear construct, wire hangers, tin foil and tiara that allows her to get channels 3, 5, 6, 9 and sometimes 12 (but it’s fuzzy) on a tired 24-inch color television.

At home, she watches only the national newscast - the one with the older gentleman, since she feels like she can trust him - and knits stacks of dish towels she tosses casually in a wicker basket. After each nightly broadcast, she shuts off the television and eats her main meal of the day.


One protein, never bigger than a deck of cards, one green vegetable steamed, one starch (she’s been experimenting with new potatoes, as well as Yukon golds, with an ethnic shaker spice mix that has no salt) and one mixed-green salad, light on the dressing. Sometimes for a starch she’ll cook rice in a little steamer she found online, but she never eats corn – her mother told her once that ladies do not eat corn, on the cob or off.


When the sun leaves the sky, she meanders toward bed, yet allows herself a small snifter of brandy by candlelight as a way to unwind.

Dressing demure, like her mother taught her, she's partial to simple skirts to the knees in a neutral color (blacks and grays, mostly), pressed cotton shirt, sensible, functional shoes.

But under the skirt, she rebels. A trick she learned from Miss Kentucky those many years ago, her pageant roommate who taught her to wear French silk just so. Miss Kentucky, that dark-haired beauty with a thick country accent (she was voted Miss Congeniality by her peers in 1979) with whom Miss Wisconsin shared several brief, soft kisses late one night while trying on exotic finery.

Thigh-high stockings held snugly to her hips by a garter belt (how she loves the feel) and silk thongs also in neutral colors (she’s no slut). She likens the silken feel to wearing a warm breeze.


Swinging a canvas bag she’s decorated with rhinestones, she walks to work each morning with purpose, six blocks. The bag holds her starched lab coat, a sensible brown-bag lunch and a book she’s checked out from the library.

Flipping through stacks of prints, she’s appalled at how the photo memories of people have slowly morphed. From vacation shots at the lake, warm, wet skin and hair plastered to skulls and smiles and peace signs to fuzzy, underlit bedroom shots of sex and sweaty body parts, the women with their eyelids heavy, their eye makeup smudged. She makes mental notes how the men manage to keep their faces hidden and thinks it’s a double standard. The thought never fails to raise a flush rosy color to her cheeks.

There's a vulgarity to the photographs and shudders at the crudeness, yet runs her manicured fingers across her silk-clad calf, raising gooseflesh as she goes.


Lately at lunch, she’s taken to spying on the younger women who chatter at the corner table, the one littered with energy drink cans and fast-food wrappers. These are the volatile women who pick at their split, bloody cuticles, are covered with tattoos and piercings and curse like sailors through mouths painted in dark, forbidden tones.


They seem so dangerous. So exotic.


How would they react, she wonders, if she asks to join them. She clicks a manicured nail against her bleached-white teeth.

And instead, takes a small bite of sandwich, a simple filling on sensible whole wheat with the crusts sawn off, and drifts back to her book, not wanting to offend.

OneWord, Pouch

You'd think pouch, today's OneWord prompt, would cause a freeze-up in creative thought. Man, this thing flowed.
(Sorry for being so absent on The Tension; the move to NYC has been filled with hiccups.)
Here's today's OneWord, based on "pouch:"

He was born with a pouch. Just a lit­tle slit below his navel, two folds of skin that formed a small pocket. He didn’t mind so much, as it became con­ve­nient to stash stuff there through his pubes­cent shenani­gans and, if he thought about it, it was a lot bet­ter than, say, a curly tail or an extra eye­ball. He mostly kept it to him­self, until the day he met his soul­mate. Ner­vously, in bed before mak­ing love for the first time, he showed it to her. She laughed, whipped off her skirt and with a flour­ish, showed him her two vaginas.

Video Friday, Mighty Mouse

Today, it's all about the mouse.
Mighty Mouse.
Your Video Friday:

Thursday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are charm, feast and robust.

Charming

He sat, contemplating the feel of it, as it rolled off her tongue and through pouty, collagen-filled lips:

Slack-jawed yokel.


The remnants of the Four Seasons Martini dripped slowly off his dark, impeccably-trimmed goatee and was, at that very moment, puddling on the China between a feast of mashed Yukon gold potatoes with rosemary crème sauce and the lamb rib chop with quince jelly glaze. Untouched was the medley of baby spring vegetables, their color enhanced with their quick sear in the a pan of garlic-infused olive oil.


The slap was unexpected and drew a slight web of saliva across his reddened cheek; the cool Gin had helped soothe the sting.


He had watched her retreat, in slow motion like passing a car wreck, and though briefly that maybe she should have worn a slip under the little red dress she fancied for nights out when she liked to charm him – it being more than a little tight across her backside, and showed the defined etch of panty lines.


Now alone, he swiped the linen napkin across his face, reached for the crystal salt and pepper shakers, and gave the plate a light hand to the seasonings.


He then stared down the other diners with a cold, calculated gaze, picked up his fork and knife and paused.

Slack-jawed yokel.

He slid an elbow on the crisp linen tablecloth, rested his still-damp chin on the heel of his palm, lips kissing his knuckles that were going white as he squeezed the silverware.


“What the fuck?” he said, causing those startled diners near him to avert their eyes into their laps.


Furthest from his mind was the quarrel, the one robust insult that had lead to the strike, the doused drink, the abrupt departure.

Further still was the stigma of now dining alone at the featured table, a deuce near the kitchen where you could watch the celebrity chef shake sauté pans with a flourish and maybe a bit of flame, dramatic.


No, what he chewed over, pondered deeply, was that phrase:

Slack-jawed yokel.


Who the hell thinks like that, let alone talks like that?

Fiction in 58

Since several people put out the OneWord prompt up on the Twitter stream, I’ll go with a Fiction in 58 today. Please enjoy.

Metamorphosis
The itch starts just above his right wrist, where blue veins conjoin. He scratches idly, which only intensifies the feeling.
He increases the pressure.
Until thick ribbons of skin came off his hand, exposing greenish-gray skin covered in thick, clear mucus.
He tries to scream.
No shrieks leave his lips; blossoms of itchiness spread across his chest.

Video Friday, Jerry Reed

"You mean the guy that drove truck in Smokey & The Bandit?"
No, I mean Jerry Reed Hubbard, country music singer, guitarist and songwriter.
We were talking over the campfire, music provided by guitar and mandolin, and the topic got around to influences.
And not surprisingly, Jerry Reed's name was thrown out.
The dude could play, and he's written some great music. Reed died in 2008.
As a tribute, here's Jerry Reed, your Video Friday:

"Jerry's Breakdown"


"Wabash Cannonball"


"She Got the Goldmine (I Got the Shaft)


"When You're Hot, You're Hot"


"Chuck Berry Medley"


"Amos Moses"

OneWord, Trees

OneWord is a prompt that counts on brevity and quick-thinking. Click, word, write. For 60 seconds.
Today's word? Trees.

Alder saplings, thick, dark, hot, snap at him like whips from every direction. He’s had to move through the trees, quickly, since hearing the final screams from camp. He never saw exactly what happened, the pines too thick, but he had heard. Yes, he had heard the cries for help, the pleas for life. He didn’t even try and help, which stabbed through the adrenaline rush like tiny pin-pricks across his flesh.
But he was alive. For the time being.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The Words over at Three Word Wednesday are break, negative and surface. This is a reworking of an old piece of flash that I’ve never been quite happy with in parts, mostly the ending.


Moving Day

My agent convinces me that a move to into the city will be good for my career, which has cooled since I took a break and moved into the outer boroughs.

I say OK, but nothing pretentious. No SoHo loft, nothing in Tribeca.


I ask my assistant to find me something sensible, sedate, but with good on-street parking. 
He finds me a small one-bedroom in a rent-controlled high-rise with a doorman who wears a long purple jacket and a black derby hat.


“It’s the next big thing, as far as areas go,” my assistant assures me. “And I’m only eight blocks away, if you should need anything.”


Moving day arrives and I drive into the city with a few necessities – sheets that smell like home, favorite books, alarm clock, laptop – and I walk through the tiny space and take mental snapshots of my new nest.


There’s a knock at the door and I open it to find a tiny woman in a Chanel suit the color of Pepto-Bismol. She’s carrying a small, pink pastry box tied with white twine.


“Mr. Bascomb, my name is Mrs. Levitz and I just want to say how happy we are that you’re moving in,” she says. “Here at the Constantine, we’re all very big fans – who will absolutely protect your privacy like our very own.”


The box in filled with four monster cupcakes, two chocolate, one red velvet and one that looks like vanilla, with toasted coconut sprinkles covering the entire frosted surface. I thank her for her generosity and she’s already waddling down the hall, waving a hand and reassuring me that my solitude is safe.


I stare at the cupcakes and realize they’re the only food in the place.


I grab my coat, hat and head out to find the nearest market. There’s a slight drizzle, so I duck under a black-and-red striped canvas awning where there’s bins of apples, oranges, fresh-cut flowers. The doorbell jingles its little tune and I pick up a red-handled basket and start down the aisle.


Next to the coffee and teas, there’s a display for catheters and enemas.


Near the dairy case, a giant display of rubber bondage suits.
Next to the cereal and oatmeal, equestrian tack - whips, crops, bit gags.


There are shiny metal speculums mixed in with the cheese graters; nipple clamps on an end-cap near produce; all manner of dildos and vibrators near the beer and wine.


The entire back wall of the shop is one big magazine and DVD rack, with titles like WhAP (Women who Administer Punishment), Leather Journal, Whiplash, Lesbian Cat Fights and ToeKiss.


I decide it’s time to check out.


The girl at the check stand is early 20s, her hair raven-dark and she wears it like Betty Page. She’s in a black leather bodice, held together with red satin ribbon. Over her black leather pencil skirt, she’s wearing a white apron.


“Did you find everything OK?” she asks, eying me suspiciously as she rings up my purchases – a quart of milk, loaf of wheat bread, Swiss cheese, Parma ham, a couple apples and oranges, a bottle of Merlot.

“Just fine, thanks,” I say, trying for an even tone, nothing too stupid or negative.


“Nipple clamps are on sale today,” she says.


“That’s OK, thanks.”


“It’s Thursday, so all latex is 30 percent off.”


“I’m good, really.”


“Here, then, can’t let you go away empty-handed,” and thrusts a small tube into my palm, the label reads “Stroke 29, Masturbation Cream.”


I rush out, flush, and nearly flatten Mrs. Levitz. The small tube of lube falls, rolls, stops at the toe of one of her pink shoes. She picks it up, reads the label through cat-eye bifocals attached to her with a gold chain.


“Mr. Bascomb, tisk, tisk, tisk” she says, hands me the lotion.

And she waddles away, waving a hand and mumbling about my solitude.


I look back at the store, the sign reads “Food & Fetish.” And fish into my jacket for my cell, hit speed dial for my assistant.


To tell him that my transition from the suburbs will be much more gradual.