secre5

Hi. If you�re reading this then you�ve probably just read the three thousand word story that precedes it; or, you ran roughshod over it, and if you ran over it I can not fathom why you would stop such a good thing now. Lord knows I wouldn�t.

After completing that story I really ran out of ideas for this last page. At first I thought of making up some humorous interviews with the people who I imagined playing the roles in the story you�ve just read. But that wouldn�t have had anything to do with anything, so it was cut. Also I made a really boring casting call, which didn�t help.

I thought about throwing up some links to other websites where you, the reader, could be entertained far better than I can accomplish. Instead I wound up doing this very pathetic, self-deprecating journal entry in which I write about how I�ve run out of things to write about. And looking at that trainwreck of a story I�ve just put up, it�s really the best thing for the world that I don�t write much more.

Not much better, though, is what I�m about to do, which is turn out my folders full of old pictures and try desperately to associate them to what�s going on here. You�ve been warned.

These two pictures were on display at the Museum of Science and Industry, at the U-505 exhibit; the new one. Both Mike and I were enamored with them because of their amusing, Freudian sexual imagery of robust, shirtless men-still wearing hats-pamming large phallic artillery shells into cannons.

This reminds me of the nautical theme of "The Secret Sharer." The Freudian undertones also mirror the tones of the Conrad Story.

This is me and my friend Mike at the U-505 exhibit that yielded the above pictures. Like the Captain and Leggatt, he and I are very close. He, like Leggatt, is also in Exile; he moved to LA. I, like the captain, drove him around religiously for several years of his his life: to work, to the national guard, to his girlfriends, where ever. This was one of the last pictures taken before my haircut.

Next there was to be a painting of a gigantic tentacle rising from a calm ocean, entitled "The Tentacle of Doom." It was going to suggesting those things just under the surface of conscious thought, as things under water, like Leggatt at the opening of "The Secret Sharer." But Pagebuilder sandbagged me.

E-mail all your complaints to the Geocities troubleshooting staff.

This is me in Central Park, New York City, New York. I was there three or four years ago(god, it was a long time ago) with Mike, the guy from the last picture. We went on the basis of having lodging with someone he met on Livejournal. This is back when Livejournal was like MySpace, when Myspace was like Youtube. Unfortunately, this girl was a pot-headed dingbat, no fooling.
Like a Flannery O'Cooner story, nothing good happened. It was a long, testing drive to get to Brooklyn, it was a literal nightmare just trying to get in touch with this girl, and as it turned out we were not welcomed to stay with her. We had an arrangement to take her back to the midwest, which we honored. By the time we were on the way both of us were very angry with her, and she was upset, and nobody had a happy ending.

It was still better than an O'Connor story, though, because the characters grew in the process.

A picture of my right wrist. My wrist was incredibly soar from clicking this fiendish mouse. Typing, they're trained at. They can type type type away till the dawn. But the whole thing has gone rubbery from mouse work.

Left: Chicago's most famous ward bosses, 'Hinky-Dink' Kenna and 'Bath House' McCauseland, who had an incredible knack for controlling Chicago elections. Both were famous in their time and near complete opposites. They died quietly, remembered by very few.

Right: Leopold and Loeb, two of Chicago's most famous and incompetant murderers. For duality's sake, but a decidedly darker side of things.

All the way back.

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