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I just started reading 'Porno' by Irvine Welsh. He really makes me giggle. Just finished 'Choke' by Chuck Palahniuk. That is one twisted dude. Anybody ever read 'Filth' by Mr. Welsh? One of the best damn books I've ever read. Oh yeah also read 'The Power of One'. Stupidest shit EVER!! I felt like putting a bullet through the perfect head of that little fucker Peekay. Anybody got some good reads to recommend?
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About the Author by John Colapinto
American Scream: The Bill Hicks Story -- by Cynthia True
These are great new books. The first one is about a new novelist on the scene in New York who plagarizes a book about his own life.
The second is a great bio of Bill Hicks if you like Bill then you will love this book.
read on...
American Scream: The Bill Hicks Story -- by Cynthia True
These are great new books. The first one is about a new novelist on the scene in New York who plagarizes a book about his own life.
The second is a great bio of Bill Hicks if you like Bill then you will love this book.
read on...
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i read a chapter from the welsh book, it was at salon.com or nerve.com or something.
he gets on my nerves with all this 'cannae' and 'willnae' stuff. dammit, i am imaginative enough to know how the guys talk, i saw the trainspotting movie for chrissakes, he doesn't have to spell everything out.
and then the plot is wack. i mean, there is this amateur porn actor and for some philosophical reason he refuses to do a money shot? am i supposed to believe that a guy has to be introduced to the concept of the ultimate porn cliché?
i am grateful however for all the book pointers and i will look into Palahniuk, Colapinto and True. thanks
he gets on my nerves with all this 'cannae' and 'willnae' stuff. dammit, i am imaginative enough to know how the guys talk, i saw the trainspotting movie for chrissakes, he doesn't have to spell everything out.
and then the plot is wack. i mean, there is this amateur porn actor and for some philosophical reason he refuses to do a money shot? am i supposed to believe that a guy has to be introduced to the concept of the ultimate porn cliché?
i am grateful however for all the book pointers and i will look into Palahniuk, Colapinto and True. thanks
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You're right Martino, the language does get rather old rather quickly. It's like those Russian novels where everyone has 50 different fucking names. I never know what the hell is going on. I'm also reading 'The Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov and I want to go throught the whole book and cross out all the Russian names and write Bill, Tom, Sally and Jack in their places so I can find out what the fuck is going on. Russians, whit are ya gannae do?
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mccutcheon
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don't you boys know you can't talk bad about Irvine on this site. cunts. Next thing you will be saying you don't like Primal Scream and I'll have to puill the plug.
and what's up with writers writing about writers. both about the author and frog king were about books and writing. I don't like. except I should take that back because my next book is about an exiled (on purpose) writer living in Paris and enjoying and spending his advance without doing a lick of work until his two buddies from back in the states show up and off they go on a train. thenthe fun begins.
and what's up with writers writing about writers. both about the author and frog king were about books and writing. I don't like. except I should take that back because my next book is about an exiled (on purpose) writer living in Paris and enjoying and spending his advance without doing a lick of work until his two buddies from back in the states show up and off they go on a train. thenthe fun begins.
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That's a great idea for a book, Mc. I've often thought of writing something about our travels in Europe or Venezuela or where ever. So many strange stories. Do ya wannae give us a taste? Cum oon ye wee cunt, makes us smile....
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mccutcheon
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I really shouldn't do this. I'm the kind of stupid person that has to write a sentence a 100 times to get it half right. And you only get one chance to make a good first impression. That's why i want everyone to wait with Burnt because I think it will be good when it is done, done. With that said, I'm bored so here you go Brett. It's not very good and it is a super raw rough draft. I'm 30,000 words into it and the working title is Super Cool.
The train is crowded. We are lucky to get seats together. We sit with two girls also traveling with big backpacks. They are probably juniors at some liberal arts university. Then I notice one of the girls is reading my book. She doesn’t notice me even though I see me staring back at myself. The photo on the back of the book is flattering.
“He wrote that,” says Don.
Oh shit.
“What?” the girl asks. I can tell her mother warned her to be very cautious when traveling in Europe because her guard is up. Even though Don is speaking in English and obviously American you can never be too careful. Back in the States Don and the girl’s parents could go golfing together. On this train everyone is a scam artist.
“He wrote that book.” Don jerks a thumb in my direction.
“Yeah right,” says the other girl. She has a band-aid on her knee.
“No really,” says Jerry. He did, look at the back cover.”
The girl turns the book over. Then she looks up at me. Then back at the book.
“Oh my God! How fucking cool! I love this book. It’s the third time I read it. I think the girl is like a combination of a young Daisy from The Great Gatsby and Daisy from The Duke’s of Hazard. ”
The book has been out for almost two years. If this really is her third time through it either she does enjoy it or maybe doesn’t get it. Even though, like I said, it’s written in the first person and pretty straight forward. I’m told it’s the characters that capture the reader. Reading the book is supposed to be like watching a movie. The characters are that vibrant. That’s what was written about what I wrote. The youth of the today can relate to the characters mundane struggles and find hope in bleak survival. Blah, blah, blah.
I don’t write literature. I write entertainment. Entertainment is the most valuable gift you can give to someone. I’m not saying that the great writers aren’t worth reading. Hemmingway was my favorite. The great Fyodor Dostoevsky is pure genius. It’s not that the classics aren’t entertaining. They just aren’t to me.
I’m sure there are many people who enjoyed 19th century novels. I have read my share. It was a struggle. I can’t even begin to write epics like F.D though. It’s beyond me. You can’t write better than you can read. People shouldn’t try. Anyway I have a more difficult task then the person trying to write the Next Great American novel. I’m writing here and now for this generation. I’m taking on MTV.
“Will you sign it?”
“What?”
“Will you please sign my book? Oh my God! My name is Marcy”
“I don’t have a pen.” Whenever I’m asked to sign an autograph in this way it always sounds strange to me. I’m signing her book. The book I wrote is hers. She bought it.
“Claire you have a pen?” The girl fumbles in her purse but comes up empty. Marcy turns to her friend with the band-aid on her knee. Claire hands Marcy the pen. Marcy hands the book and pen to me. I’m about to write a bland ‘hope you enjoyed it’ phrase and my name when Claire speaks her mind.
“I didn’t like it,” says Claire.
I look up.
“Oh.” No matter how many compliments I’ve received it’s always the snobby criticisms that stick with me.
“It was too simple. Sure the things that happen are funny. And you got the pain and pleasure of being young and in love right, but there is no depth. You have failed to capture the human condition, which is the basis of all literature.”
I have heard this academic pedantic criticism before. On the brief school tour I did to support the book, the professors at the universities and colleges across American hated it while most of the students loved it. The academics probably got through F.D with smug smiles on their faces. I can live with that. I told myself a long time ago that I would never pretend to be smarter than I am. I know many people who can write better than me. My grammar is horrific. I can’t spell. And still I’m the one who did it. I’m the one who got all the way through and hit a nerve.
“I wasn’t trying to preach. I was trying to entertain.” I say.
“Why.”
“Well, I just wrote a story that I thought I would like to read.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little self involved and very narcissistic to read your own writing?”
“I didn’t say I read my own writing. I said I wrote something I would like to read. There is a difference.”
I’m telling a lie. I read my writing all the time. When I struggle with second and third drafts during editing I am always reading and re reading what I wrote. But it doesn’t stop there. I do read my book and stories after they are finished. Since my book has been published almost two years ago, I have read it five times, two times more than Marcy. Maybe like Marcy I really enjoy it and don’t get it, even if it is in the first person and pretty straight forward.
“So what’s the difference?”
“I don’t really know.”
Now I’m telling the truth. I don’t know. I feel it.
“Well I think people shouldn’t bother unless they do it to enlighten. You get so much press while other true artists go unappreciated. You know who John Sayles is? Now he is a true artist”
Claire is right. I might get more than I deserve after just my first book. And I admire John Sayles very much. What can I do? Of course I wanted to get paid for my work. There are writers who have written four novels and still drive a bus. That is not for me. I didn’t want to be mainstream, the boy band version of the publishing world, but I wanted to make a living as a writer. There within lies the difference.
If it gets caught up in the hype I can’t help it. I really never thought I would sell more than ten thousand copies. Now I’m translated into many languages and have learned that Air France stewardess are reading me. I think that’s great. I wish every person in the world would read the book. Any writer who says he doesn’t want to be read is a liar. And if he is telling the truth he shouldn’t write in the first place.
Writing, along with painting, is still the pure form of expression as I see it. It is still possible to avoid getting completely engulfed in the profit margin, to be swallowed by business, the way film is. Making movies is all compromise- compromise of ideas, compromise of expression, compromise of egos, compromise of creation. Writing can still sustain the writer’s words. What is put down can still make it to the final draft. The only problem a writer faces is getting past their editors.
The train is crowded. We are lucky to get seats together. We sit with two girls also traveling with big backpacks. They are probably juniors at some liberal arts university. Then I notice one of the girls is reading my book. She doesn’t notice me even though I see me staring back at myself. The photo on the back of the book is flattering.
“He wrote that,” says Don.
Oh shit.
“What?” the girl asks. I can tell her mother warned her to be very cautious when traveling in Europe because her guard is up. Even though Don is speaking in English and obviously American you can never be too careful. Back in the States Don and the girl’s parents could go golfing together. On this train everyone is a scam artist.
“He wrote that book.” Don jerks a thumb in my direction.
“Yeah right,” says the other girl. She has a band-aid on her knee.
“No really,” says Jerry. He did, look at the back cover.”
The girl turns the book over. Then she looks up at me. Then back at the book.
“Oh my God! How fucking cool! I love this book. It’s the third time I read it. I think the girl is like a combination of a young Daisy from The Great Gatsby and Daisy from The Duke’s of Hazard. ”
The book has been out for almost two years. If this really is her third time through it either she does enjoy it or maybe doesn’t get it. Even though, like I said, it’s written in the first person and pretty straight forward. I’m told it’s the characters that capture the reader. Reading the book is supposed to be like watching a movie. The characters are that vibrant. That’s what was written about what I wrote. The youth of the today can relate to the characters mundane struggles and find hope in bleak survival. Blah, blah, blah.
I don’t write literature. I write entertainment. Entertainment is the most valuable gift you can give to someone. I’m not saying that the great writers aren’t worth reading. Hemmingway was my favorite. The great Fyodor Dostoevsky is pure genius. It’s not that the classics aren’t entertaining. They just aren’t to me.
I’m sure there are many people who enjoyed 19th century novels. I have read my share. It was a struggle. I can’t even begin to write epics like F.D though. It’s beyond me. You can’t write better than you can read. People shouldn’t try. Anyway I have a more difficult task then the person trying to write the Next Great American novel. I’m writing here and now for this generation. I’m taking on MTV.
“Will you sign it?”
“What?”
“Will you please sign my book? Oh my God! My name is Marcy”
“I don’t have a pen.” Whenever I’m asked to sign an autograph in this way it always sounds strange to me. I’m signing her book. The book I wrote is hers. She bought it.
“Claire you have a pen?” The girl fumbles in her purse but comes up empty. Marcy turns to her friend with the band-aid on her knee. Claire hands Marcy the pen. Marcy hands the book and pen to me. I’m about to write a bland ‘hope you enjoyed it’ phrase and my name when Claire speaks her mind.
“I didn’t like it,” says Claire.
I look up.
“Oh.” No matter how many compliments I’ve received it’s always the snobby criticisms that stick with me.
“It was too simple. Sure the things that happen are funny. And you got the pain and pleasure of being young and in love right, but there is no depth. You have failed to capture the human condition, which is the basis of all literature.”
I have heard this academic pedantic criticism before. On the brief school tour I did to support the book, the professors at the universities and colleges across American hated it while most of the students loved it. The academics probably got through F.D with smug smiles on their faces. I can live with that. I told myself a long time ago that I would never pretend to be smarter than I am. I know many people who can write better than me. My grammar is horrific. I can’t spell. And still I’m the one who did it. I’m the one who got all the way through and hit a nerve.
“I wasn’t trying to preach. I was trying to entertain.” I say.
“Why.”
“Well, I just wrote a story that I thought I would like to read.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little self involved and very narcissistic to read your own writing?”
“I didn’t say I read my own writing. I said I wrote something I would like to read. There is a difference.”
I’m telling a lie. I read my writing all the time. When I struggle with second and third drafts during editing I am always reading and re reading what I wrote. But it doesn’t stop there. I do read my book and stories after they are finished. Since my book has been published almost two years ago, I have read it five times, two times more than Marcy. Maybe like Marcy I really enjoy it and don’t get it, even if it is in the first person and pretty straight forward.
“So what’s the difference?”
“I don’t really know.”
Now I’m telling the truth. I don’t know. I feel it.
“Well I think people shouldn’t bother unless they do it to enlighten. You get so much press while other true artists go unappreciated. You know who John Sayles is? Now he is a true artist”
Claire is right. I might get more than I deserve after just my first book. And I admire John Sayles very much. What can I do? Of course I wanted to get paid for my work. There are writers who have written four novels and still drive a bus. That is not for me. I didn’t want to be mainstream, the boy band version of the publishing world, but I wanted to make a living as a writer. There within lies the difference.
If it gets caught up in the hype I can’t help it. I really never thought I would sell more than ten thousand copies. Now I’m translated into many languages and have learned that Air France stewardess are reading me. I think that’s great. I wish every person in the world would read the book. Any writer who says he doesn’t want to be read is a liar. And if he is telling the truth he shouldn’t write in the first place.
Writing, along with painting, is still the pure form of expression as I see it. It is still possible to avoid getting completely engulfed in the profit margin, to be swallowed by business, the way film is. Making movies is all compromise- compromise of ideas, compromise of expression, compromise of egos, compromise of creation. Writing can still sustain the writer’s words. What is put down can still make it to the final draft. The only problem a writer faces is getting past their editors.
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mccutcheon
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here is a little scene later on that is a bit more fun: for anyone feeling the first nips of winter. hope this keeps you warm:
A pretty blonde, blue-eyed, deep tanned, Swedish girl comes to our table. I know this because she says in perfect English, “Hi, I’m Lina from Sweden.”
She sets down the tray. Don and Jerry are straight into the shots.
“Do you know if there is a doctors around here?”
“What?” Lina says. She is momentarily distracted from her pouring.
“I smashed up my ankle last night and I need a doctor badly, it’s throbbing in pain.” I point down to my swollen ankle for emphasis.
“No doctor here,” she says not even looking at me. “Ask John, he might know.”
“Who’s John?”
She points to the guy with the mega phone and moves on to the next table where I hear her introduce her self again.
Jerry hands me a shot of Ouzo.
“Come on Hem, this will help.”
He clicks his shot glass against mine and we both drink. The Ouzo tastes like poor man’s Pernod, strong on the black licorice taste. It goes down and takes over my hang over, dulling everything around me. My senses go numb. So does my foot. I want more.
Jerry jumps up and takes a bottle off Lina.
“Sorry girl, but we need this for medical purposes.”
Jerry, Don and I drink our way through the bottle. The whole time John is shouting out directions and bad jokes. When he is finished his rant and we are close to finishing as well, everyone stands up to leave. There is a mass exodus from the gaudy building. Seems that rooms and beds have been assigned. The boys and I have paid no attention. Lina walks over to us to collect the almost empty bottle and shot glasses.
“Did you boys get your assignments?” she asks. She is not amused by our drunkenness. I can’t blame her. I hate drunken people when I sober. It’s been a while since I’ve been in that situation though.
“What assignments?” Don asks.
“Your room number.”
“No.”
“Listen,” I say. “I need a doctor and another bottle of Ouzo.”
“What you need is a place to sleep and sober up.”
“I need a doctor. I can’t even walk.”
But Lina can walk. She walks away from us.
Don grabs the bags and Jerry grabs me. Outside the building there is a little path through some barren shrubs. It descends down a rocky path. It’s a struggle but worth the effort. Fifty yards from the gaudy purple building we arrive on an expansive fine-sanded beach. People are sun bathing and playing volleyball. A few others are out for early morning swims. There is a shack at the foot of the path selling drinks. The guy working in the shack is German. He exchanges money for us. We buy ice-cold beer, giant sized Heinekens, and sit down on the sand. It’s 8:30 am in Corfu.
Don and Jerry unpack the backgammon. They start playing a game and then soon argue over moves. I put on my sunglasses and Walkman. We recline in the rising sun as the day begins. For us the night has not ended. About an hour later two blonde Australian girls plop down next to us. I have seen a lot of beautiful blonde girls on Corfu and still no one who looks Greek.
“G’day.” They say dropping their bags and bikini tops.
“Hello.”
“We’re going out to the raft. Want to join us for a swim?”
“Where?”
“Out there.” The Australian girls point to a speck on the horizon of the water. “There is a raft out there. It’s great fun.”
“Sure.”
Don and Jerry stand up. I hobble to my one good foot.
“You have to stay and watch the stuff,” Jerry says to Don.
“Why?”
“Because I say so,” says Jerry. He is really looking to get laid.
To Don’s credit he demurs in silence before making a scene. I owe him one. So does Jerry.
The girls run down to the water, their bare breasts bouncing in the sunshine. Jerry struts and I hobble. Once in the water I use my arms to swim because kicking with my one bad foot is too painful.
The Adriatic Mediterranean seawater is refreshing, giving my goose pimples as I immediately touch it and get knee deep. As I submerge myself my balls shirk. I hope this will help relieve the growing lustful repression that is inside of me. I’m becoming horny with all these missed chances of sexual fulfillment. Not that it would be the life-affirming fuck of the century. Getting laid helps the mind and the body. I dive under and it straightens out my head.
The girls and Jerry swim faster than I do. Before I know it I’m losing my ability to stay afloat. My arms are weak and start to give out. I thrust with my legs but the pain is unbearable. I call out to Jerry. He is too far ahead to hear me. I turn back to shore and make frantic movements with my arms to Don. I need his help. He sees me and thinks I’m rubbing it in that he had to stay and watch the stuff. He flips me off. I can’t believe it’s the second time I’ve almost drowned in five hours. I’m starting to fully understand the fragility and importance of human life. My life. I should know better.
I go under in flailing my arms, swallowing water. I’m convinced this is it. Then a body is helping me. It’s one of the Australian girls. She has swum back to save me. I am thrilled to be saved and still too frantic. Despite knowing better I fight against the girl in a state of panic.
“Call down, I have you,” She says. “You will be all right.”
I let her save me. She wraps an arm around me. I relax my head against her breasts as she takes me ashore. On the beach she gives me mouth to mouth. I pretend to be more out of it then I really am. Then when she is through and I try to talk I realize I wasn’t pretending after all. Sometimes we trick ourselves and bend reality when faced with very scary situations.
“Thanks.”
“You are stupid.” She spits into the sand near my head and then runs back into the water. I watch her swim strongly out to the raft. I know she is right.
“What was all that about?" Asks Don.
“My leg hurt too much to swim. I was drowning not waving you asshole.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s Jerry?”
“Out on the raft.”
“You know I didn’t think it was so cool that you guys left me here.”
“There were only two girls.”
“So?”
“So there were three of us, besides somebody had to watch the stuff.”
A pretty blonde, blue-eyed, deep tanned, Swedish girl comes to our table. I know this because she says in perfect English, “Hi, I’m Lina from Sweden.”
She sets down the tray. Don and Jerry are straight into the shots.
“Do you know if there is a doctors around here?”
“What?” Lina says. She is momentarily distracted from her pouring.
“I smashed up my ankle last night and I need a doctor badly, it’s throbbing in pain.” I point down to my swollen ankle for emphasis.
“No doctor here,” she says not even looking at me. “Ask John, he might know.”
“Who’s John?”
She points to the guy with the mega phone and moves on to the next table where I hear her introduce her self again.
Jerry hands me a shot of Ouzo.
“Come on Hem, this will help.”
He clicks his shot glass against mine and we both drink. The Ouzo tastes like poor man’s Pernod, strong on the black licorice taste. It goes down and takes over my hang over, dulling everything around me. My senses go numb. So does my foot. I want more.
Jerry jumps up and takes a bottle off Lina.
“Sorry girl, but we need this for medical purposes.”
Jerry, Don and I drink our way through the bottle. The whole time John is shouting out directions and bad jokes. When he is finished his rant and we are close to finishing as well, everyone stands up to leave. There is a mass exodus from the gaudy building. Seems that rooms and beds have been assigned. The boys and I have paid no attention. Lina walks over to us to collect the almost empty bottle and shot glasses.
“Did you boys get your assignments?” she asks. She is not amused by our drunkenness. I can’t blame her. I hate drunken people when I sober. It’s been a while since I’ve been in that situation though.
“What assignments?” Don asks.
“Your room number.”
“No.”
“Listen,” I say. “I need a doctor and another bottle of Ouzo.”
“What you need is a place to sleep and sober up.”
“I need a doctor. I can’t even walk.”
But Lina can walk. She walks away from us.
Don grabs the bags and Jerry grabs me. Outside the building there is a little path through some barren shrubs. It descends down a rocky path. It’s a struggle but worth the effort. Fifty yards from the gaudy purple building we arrive on an expansive fine-sanded beach. People are sun bathing and playing volleyball. A few others are out for early morning swims. There is a shack at the foot of the path selling drinks. The guy working in the shack is German. He exchanges money for us. We buy ice-cold beer, giant sized Heinekens, and sit down on the sand. It’s 8:30 am in Corfu.
Don and Jerry unpack the backgammon. They start playing a game and then soon argue over moves. I put on my sunglasses and Walkman. We recline in the rising sun as the day begins. For us the night has not ended. About an hour later two blonde Australian girls plop down next to us. I have seen a lot of beautiful blonde girls on Corfu and still no one who looks Greek.
“G’day.” They say dropping their bags and bikini tops.
“Hello.”
“We’re going out to the raft. Want to join us for a swim?”
“Where?”
“Out there.” The Australian girls point to a speck on the horizon of the water. “There is a raft out there. It’s great fun.”
“Sure.”
Don and Jerry stand up. I hobble to my one good foot.
“You have to stay and watch the stuff,” Jerry says to Don.
“Why?”
“Because I say so,” says Jerry. He is really looking to get laid.
To Don’s credit he demurs in silence before making a scene. I owe him one. So does Jerry.
The girls run down to the water, their bare breasts bouncing in the sunshine. Jerry struts and I hobble. Once in the water I use my arms to swim because kicking with my one bad foot is too painful.
The Adriatic Mediterranean seawater is refreshing, giving my goose pimples as I immediately touch it and get knee deep. As I submerge myself my balls shirk. I hope this will help relieve the growing lustful repression that is inside of me. I’m becoming horny with all these missed chances of sexual fulfillment. Not that it would be the life-affirming fuck of the century. Getting laid helps the mind and the body. I dive under and it straightens out my head.
The girls and Jerry swim faster than I do. Before I know it I’m losing my ability to stay afloat. My arms are weak and start to give out. I thrust with my legs but the pain is unbearable. I call out to Jerry. He is too far ahead to hear me. I turn back to shore and make frantic movements with my arms to Don. I need his help. He sees me and thinks I’m rubbing it in that he had to stay and watch the stuff. He flips me off. I can’t believe it’s the second time I’ve almost drowned in five hours. I’m starting to fully understand the fragility and importance of human life. My life. I should know better.
I go under in flailing my arms, swallowing water. I’m convinced this is it. Then a body is helping me. It’s one of the Australian girls. She has swum back to save me. I am thrilled to be saved and still too frantic. Despite knowing better I fight against the girl in a state of panic.
“Call down, I have you,” She says. “You will be all right.”
I let her save me. She wraps an arm around me. I relax my head against her breasts as she takes me ashore. On the beach she gives me mouth to mouth. I pretend to be more out of it then I really am. Then when she is through and I try to talk I realize I wasn’t pretending after all. Sometimes we trick ourselves and bend reality when faced with very scary situations.
“Thanks.”
“You are stupid.” She spits into the sand near my head and then runs back into the water. I watch her swim strongly out to the raft. I know she is right.
“What was all that about?" Asks Don.
“My leg hurt too much to swim. I was drowning not waving you asshole.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s Jerry?”
“Out on the raft.”
“You know I didn’t think it was so cool that you guys left me here.”
“There were only two girls.”
“So?”
“So there were three of us, besides somebody had to watch the stuff.”
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damn sweet.
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Very cool. When my wife and I were in Corfu we stayed at a place called Vrachos. There was an eight year old girl who lived there named Effie. Effie would drink cans of juice like she was shooting cans of beer. Endearing and frighteneing at the same time. I actually led motorcycle tours of Corfu even though I knew where nothing was and was drunk all most all of the time. One drunken idea was to load up one of those paddle boats with a crate of beer and 8 people. The boat said maximum of two people but what the hell does a boat know. We got about halfway out to this rock formation that we were gonna cliff jump off when we started taking on water. We went down quickly. The beer was lost and the ocean was littered with drunk, stoned tourists holding those stupid fanny packs over their heads while they treaded water with their legs. It was chaos. Luckily a fishing boat was closing in on us. Unluckily the owners of the boat had a long standing feud the owners of Vrachos. They sailed right by, laughing at us the whole way. Eventually an armada of kayaks came out and towed everyone to shore except me. I stayed with the boat as a Captain always should. Once the guys reached shore they sent out a speed boat to tow me and my capsized paddle boatback in. One thing about Greeks, whether they are on the road or in the water they have two speeds. Stop and HOLY FUCK I'M GOING TO DIE. So the little fella cruises up at mach 10, stops 3 inches from hy head and ties the paddle boat to the back of his 15 ft, 200HP boat. I say I'll stay in the water and get dragged in, thinking that it will be kind of nice after the ordeal we just had. So very fucking wrong. This crazy son of a bitch opens her up and the paddle boat and myself immediately go submarine. He notices the drag and slows down. The boat and I reemerge. I think I might die out here, I've been in the water for like 3 hours by now and am getting rather cold. Captain Chaos figures out the speed to drag correlation and for probably the first time in his life drives not full out. Once we get back to shore, I thank him profusely, flip the paddle boat over and drain the water out then paddle it around the point back to where I rented it and collect my deposit. "Any problems?" the lady who rents the boats asks. "Nope, had a real nice time".
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McCutcheon, you just get better with age. I was drawn in to both sections of the story you posted...even the one you labeled "less fun" than the other. IT seems to have something intelligent to say even though you protest that it is just entertainment. Go for it. You write about what it's like to be a published writer as if you already knew. Thats a talent right there..or is it a premonition...
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By the way, I liked your anecdote too brett...it inspires me to do some more traveling.
Also, thanks for the sugestions of stuff to read. I am always looking for good books, and tend to be disappointed often when I just pick something that looks like it might be good. Keep those suggestions coming, and I'll post any gems I stumble upon.
Also, thanks for the sugestions of stuff to read. I am always looking for good books, and tend to be disappointed often when I just pick something that looks like it might be good. Keep those suggestions coming, and I'll post any gems I stumble upon.
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mccutcheon
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Everyone should read Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates. It is the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL. Oh yeah, and written in the 50's it started the Beats, and all 60's revolution.