Burnt Roof
Burnt Roof
I just signed on to this site, work is slow and I found myself sick ond tired of pretending to care about the assholes I work with. You guys have done a pretty amazing job here. I was really getting into the Burnt Roof story. You going to finish it? I feel like I've been sucked to the point of explosion then walked away from. Come on man, put some meaning in my empty existence. You guys ever drive up to Vancouver? I'm looking for friends because my current ones don't like staying up for 48 hours. Pricks.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Burnt Roof
A bit but nothing big, or that pays the rent. At the moment I've stopped to concentrate on the craft and all that crap-- like finishing Burnt. But I'll send stuff out after I overcome my myriad of limitaions with the written word. I almost got published by Nerve.com but then me and the editor got into an email fight. Oh well.
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<sarah>
Burnt Roof
Is this a coming attractions trailer for something to be released soon or is this a teaser
I am happy that it's here!
I love Marvin Gaye and wonder why all the good men get shot!
I am also starting to fall in love with David Gray; I lost his cd and then found it again tonight.
A groovy 70s poem, because I was a disco baby
David Gray, rhymes with Marvin Gaye
I can dig them both
in their very different ways
I also dig it when mc posts his writing
it's a good paxacidus day!
I am happy that it's here!
I love Marvin Gaye and wonder why all the good men get shot!
I am also starting to fall in love with David Gray; I lost his cd and then found it again tonight.
A groovy 70s poem, because I was a disco baby
David Gray, rhymes with Marvin Gaye
I can dig them both
in their very different ways
I also dig it when mc posts his writing
it's a good paxacidus day!
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<mccutcheon>
Burnt Roof
Thanks Brett, I am putting all my efforts into finishing Burnt. I'm caught between finishing the ending and editing the whole piece, and for someone as stupid as me it's a lot of work. But I think I'll like myself a bit better when it's done. Just for your kind words here is a bit of scene never seen before.
****************************
We drink the vodka. When the drinks are finished we order two more. Bi wants to play the jukebox. It’s an old fashion jukebox run down with records and old buttons that stick with the years of spilled alcohol and drunken serenades. The selections are country songs that predate the crap that made Garth Brooks a millionaire. These tunes are from the days when the good old boys had soul. I pick Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. Bi chooses the blues with three Blind Willie Johnson selections.
We drink the vodka and talk.
“Have you seen the new Interview?”
“No.”
“I’m in it.”
“That must be nice for you.”
“It was started by Andy Warhol.”
“I know.”
“Do you like Andy Warhol?”
“Yes, but I’m going to Europe soon. I want to see the art there, like Van Gough. I think I would like Van Gouge much more than Warhol.”
“European artists are old and dead.”
“Warhol is dead.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I did not know this.”
“When did he die?”
“I don’t know, a while ago.”
“Was he shot?”
“Yes, but unlike Van Gough he didn’t die from it.”
“Yes, he was shot. I saw the movie with David Bowie.”
“David Bowie. He doesn’t make very good movies.”
“This was good. It was real, based on a real feminist who everybody ignored. I can relate to her. I’m like that.”
“What was her name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“She was tough.”
“I’m tough.”
“You are not a militant dyke, are you? I actually don’t think you have too much in common with her. That girl didn’t even like the models Andy Warhol hung out with in the factory.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw the movie too.”
“American movies are fake. I like European films. They are real. America is the land of plastic people.”
“I thought you liked New York?”
“I do. New York City is not America.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Where?”
“In New York.”
“Why?”
“Because Andy.”
“Aren’t you here because of modeling, the agency?”
“I could have moved to Paris, Americans always think America is the place to be.”
“I thought New York was the place to be.”
“Then why do you want to go to Paris. People in Paris smell like moldy cheese.”
“I am from here. I want to see more, learn more. I want to travel and see the world.”
“That is not a bad thing. I see lots of the big cities, though I hate to walk. I like to stay in the hotels and see how the room service is. I always like to get a bacon burger with Roquefort.”
“You eat that?”
“Yes, I love cheese.”
It’s at this point Bi falls off her stool and passes out in a heap on the grimy floor. I was wondering why the conversation was going in circles. She never slurred her words even though she must have been very drunk. I try to revive her.
I cup her radiant head in my arms, place the back of my hand on her right check.
“Bi? Are you okay?”
She slumps in slumber. Nothing, there is no response.
“Bi wake up,” I say gently.
“Try giving the little bitch a slap.”
I look up. One of the barflies has come over to give me his advice. From the look of him it’s his last two cents.
“I’m sure she will be okay.”
I pick Bi up. Of course she is easy to move around. She can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. I support her lithe form against my sturdier frame. We walk out of the bar.
Outside the air is crisp and cold. Smoke exhaust and smog swirl together in a late night slow dance. I hope the cold temperature will wake Bi up.
“Bi, wake up. Are you okay? Hey Bi?”
“Hmm?” Is all she mutters.
I try to hail a taxicab. No one stops. Then I put my hand down. I realize I have no money for a cab and wouldn’t know where to take her anyway. I look through Bi’s purse that is slung over her stooped shoulders. She has a Gold Visa card and platinum American Express and no cash. This is typical.
Two doors down from the bar a late night Video store is open. They don’t have triple X’s in their front window but I’m certain most of the selections lean toward porn. I rest Bi against the outside door and enter hoping to use the phone. I can call Mike on his cell phone to come to pick us up. He might even know where Bi is staying.
A fat woman with a massive ice cream ass, in her mid-thirties, with a Brooklyn accent stands in the doorway. She has the black, bad permed, curly hair of that borough- the worst hair do of the five constituent political divisions of New York City. The woman is talking to the thin painfully pale employee. The clerk looks like a chemotherapy candidate with his emancipated appearance and grotesque translucent skin. He also has radiation type patterned baldness.
“I want an Audrey Hepurny black and white, classicy, type of movie only in color and maybe with Julia Roberts,” she says.
“We have Sabrina, that one with Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond,” the clerk tries to help.
“What is that?”
“It’s a remake of Sabrina, with Humphry Bogart and Audery Hepurn.”
“Really? When did it come out?”
“Nineteen ninety-five.”
“That’s not modern enough. Anything else?”
“Excuse me,” they both look up at me.
****************************
We drink the vodka. When the drinks are finished we order two more. Bi wants to play the jukebox. It’s an old fashion jukebox run down with records and old buttons that stick with the years of spilled alcohol and drunken serenades. The selections are country songs that predate the crap that made Garth Brooks a millionaire. These tunes are from the days when the good old boys had soul. I pick Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. Bi chooses the blues with three Blind Willie Johnson selections.
We drink the vodka and talk.
“Have you seen the new Interview?”
“No.”
“I’m in it.”
“That must be nice for you.”
“It was started by Andy Warhol.”
“I know.”
“Do you like Andy Warhol?”
“Yes, but I’m going to Europe soon. I want to see the art there, like Van Gough. I think I would like Van Gouge much more than Warhol.”
“European artists are old and dead.”
“Warhol is dead.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I did not know this.”
“When did he die?”
“I don’t know, a while ago.”
“Was he shot?”
“Yes, but unlike Van Gough he didn’t die from it.”
“Yes, he was shot. I saw the movie with David Bowie.”
“David Bowie. He doesn’t make very good movies.”
“This was good. It was real, based on a real feminist who everybody ignored. I can relate to her. I’m like that.”
“What was her name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“She was tough.”
“I’m tough.”
“You are not a militant dyke, are you? I actually don’t think you have too much in common with her. That girl didn’t even like the models Andy Warhol hung out with in the factory.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw the movie too.”
“American movies are fake. I like European films. They are real. America is the land of plastic people.”
“I thought you liked New York?”
“I do. New York City is not America.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Where?”
“In New York.”
“Why?”
“Because Andy.”
“Aren’t you here because of modeling, the agency?”
“I could have moved to Paris, Americans always think America is the place to be.”
“I thought New York was the place to be.”
“Then why do you want to go to Paris. People in Paris smell like moldy cheese.”
“I am from here. I want to see more, learn more. I want to travel and see the world.”
“That is not a bad thing. I see lots of the big cities, though I hate to walk. I like to stay in the hotels and see how the room service is. I always like to get a bacon burger with Roquefort.”
“You eat that?”
“Yes, I love cheese.”
It’s at this point Bi falls off her stool and passes out in a heap on the grimy floor. I was wondering why the conversation was going in circles. She never slurred her words even though she must have been very drunk. I try to revive her.
I cup her radiant head in my arms, place the back of my hand on her right check.
“Bi? Are you okay?”
She slumps in slumber. Nothing, there is no response.
“Bi wake up,” I say gently.
“Try giving the little bitch a slap.”
I look up. One of the barflies has come over to give me his advice. From the look of him it’s his last two cents.
“I’m sure she will be okay.”
I pick Bi up. Of course she is easy to move around. She can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. I support her lithe form against my sturdier frame. We walk out of the bar.
Outside the air is crisp and cold. Smoke exhaust and smog swirl together in a late night slow dance. I hope the cold temperature will wake Bi up.
“Bi, wake up. Are you okay? Hey Bi?”
“Hmm?” Is all she mutters.
I try to hail a taxicab. No one stops. Then I put my hand down. I realize I have no money for a cab and wouldn’t know where to take her anyway. I look through Bi’s purse that is slung over her stooped shoulders. She has a Gold Visa card and platinum American Express and no cash. This is typical.
Two doors down from the bar a late night Video store is open. They don’t have triple X’s in their front window but I’m certain most of the selections lean toward porn. I rest Bi against the outside door and enter hoping to use the phone. I can call Mike on his cell phone to come to pick us up. He might even know where Bi is staying.
A fat woman with a massive ice cream ass, in her mid-thirties, with a Brooklyn accent stands in the doorway. She has the black, bad permed, curly hair of that borough- the worst hair do of the five constituent political divisions of New York City. The woman is talking to the thin painfully pale employee. The clerk looks like a chemotherapy candidate with his emancipated appearance and grotesque translucent skin. He also has radiation type patterned baldness.
“I want an Audrey Hepurny black and white, classicy, type of movie only in color and maybe with Julia Roberts,” she says.
“We have Sabrina, that one with Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond,” the clerk tries to help.
“What is that?”
“It’s a remake of Sabrina, with Humphry Bogart and Audery Hepurn.”
“Really? When did it come out?”
“Nineteen ninety-five.”
“That’s not modern enough. Anything else?”
“Excuse me,” they both look up at me.
Burnt Roof
Thanks brother. In a life of intangibles the written word can be like oxygen. You been published yet?
Burnt Roof
You could call it, 'The Instant Fix Page'. Speaking of fixes, any plans for the weekend? Keep at the writing, the worst thing is life are the what ifs. I once knew a girl who would wake up in the morning, look at herself in the mirror and ask, 'What can I do to make Kathleen happy?'.That is one hell of a way to live life. If you love to write, write. If you love to fuck, fuck. If you love to travel, travel. Life is to short to put limitations on yourself. Do it all.
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Burnt Roof
Tonight is Felix Da Housecat with Rosie and Tony The Tiger!
Burnt Roof
Saucy.