rants n raves
by tom miller
rants n raves
by tom miller
11/19/98 - 2:53 P.M.
i read my novel and all i got was this lousy t-shirt.
tom's intake for wednesday, 11/18/98:
2 guinness
1 pitcher of sangria
4 shots b&b
1 shot tequila
2 quarts malt liquor
5 oz. whiskey
1 draft beer
*****
mr. prolific called several times at the club, but i never got the calls. just heard about them.
*****
so tired...
*****
read through my novel, 10 gallon hats o' blood, at ernesto's tex mex and had a pitcher of sangria and a tamale. discovered to my horror that chapter 16, a pivotal chapter in which a severed bosom is hanged as a criminal, was missing. ran over to the library to get the chapter on-line but the computers were all occupied.
stupid motherfuckers.
went downstairs to the young adult department to use the computer there, and there was a dumb ugly motherfucker on that computer too.
ran over to moon magazine and, thank god, mike was there. he's the editor. he let me use his computer to print out the missing chapter. i said i was reading my novel to the public.
he couldn't go.
*****
arrived at the civic media center and r. fidalgo was there dressed for the occasion. he had on a western outfit and a western hat. he was the only one who came in costume. he had two plates, one with chicken wings and one with vegetables. he had a dusty looking bottle of whiskey. he couldn't stay for the reading, but with all the stuff, it was excusable. we ate some of the wings and some of the vegetables. we drank some of the whiskey. then the old hippy dude strolled in. he had a beard. he started to talk. i invited him inside to sit down.
*****
court system fucked... yada... president something or other... yada yada... and this guy i knew and... anyhoo, what's goin on here tonight... readin a novel?
i don't know what the fuck he was talking about, but he talked and talked. occasionally, i glanced over to r. and raised my eyebrows... like, oh well. he's a human being.
i offered him some whiskey. he didn't decline. he produced a bottle of malt in exchange. fantastic. a hippy with a sense of dignity. then we got on to politics and i mentioned my fondness for ross perot.
"ross perot?" he said. "lookee here." he reached into his satchel and pulled out a brand new ross perot t-shirt. "have it." he said. i took it. i put it on.
then i spent several minutes, as r. was leaving, trying to talk him out of his western hat so i could wear it during my reading. he was reluctant at first.
"don't fuck it up."
"i won't," i said.
"i want it to look the same way it was when i get it back."
"it will," i promised.
"i'm serious. don't fuck up the rim."
"i promise," i said.
he gave me the hat and i put it on. i was ready to read, and so were the six people who came out to see me.
2 and a half hours later, it was over. i was drunk. there was beer on the hat. i raced out of there with my friend, josh, who hosts the poetry show on the pirate radio station, and next thing you know, we were broadcasting.
i was decent at the reading, but i was on fire on the radio. the banter, the poems, the cursing, the electricity, the liquor, the heat, it was glorious; at least what i can remember of it.
josh took me back to the civic media center. i got on my bike. i rode to the club to drink more. pearl had her usual wet jockey short / t-shirt contest. the guy with the big dick was in it again. he came in second this time.
a 25 dollar bar tab. that's 25 coca-colas.
i guess sometimes having a big dick is all you need, depending on your audience.
a girl won the first prize. lady pearl tried to skew the results and give the winning vote to the big dick boy, but she was overruled by the applause for the girl. i must admit, she had a pretty good set of tires.
*****
nice boy was there. we talked for some time. i was an ugly drunken fool with a ross perot t-shirt. my eyes were black underneath. my face was swollen. my hair looked like it had been styled with vomit. and here was the guy i thought was the sweetest friendliest guy you'd ever want to meet.
"maybe we can go out for lunch or coffee tomorrow," i said.
"you look tired. are you tired?" he asked.
"yes," i said. "very tired."
i had my book of poetry with me. he wanted to see the poems. i tried to pick one out for him to read. they were all horrible. what had seemed so good on the radio were now awful reminders of what a failure i am. poems about rats. poems about shit. poems about the suffering of love. poems about relationships gone bad.
"let me read one," he said. i dearly wanted to pick one out, have him read it, and fall madly, helplessly in love with me.
i didn't have one single poem.
*****
i'd write more and better today, but i am tired... so very tired.
this drinking is ruining me.
there is something missing in my heart.
i feel lonely.
(tune in next week for the continuing adventures of tom miller and his world of the system failure.)
back...