Posts from — March 2008

Dropping By, Part 4

“You wanted to kill Ambrosia because Rob did all the writing of her,” Buddy said. “You got angry.”

“No. I wasn’t.”

“The plan was to have Hamstrung get her hanged.”

“That idea fucking sucked.”

“That’s what you said back then too. That might have been the first time you said fuck.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“You were pissed.”

“He was the wrong character. Hamstrung was bush league,” I said. “There was no logic to killing her.”

“Did we need logic?”

“We stopped the comics because the stories no longer had much reason to them.”

Buddy poured the contents of a small hardware store bag onto the coffee table in my living room. “I brought a hanging bracket for Ambrosia’s portrait. If you have a hammer, I’ll put it up.” The hanging bracket looked like some military piece of hardware, not just a little hook.

“What’s that? It looks like a mousetrap or something.”

“It’s for hanging a picture so that it stays straight and never falls off the wall. I thought you’d like it,” he said. “You’re always straightening my pictures when I’m not looking.”

He got up again and walked into the dining room then back towards the bedrooms and my office. He revisited the places that he had scouted earlier. He would hold up the picture on occasion, pause as if asking me what I thought and continued.

He saved my office for last. He held it up to each near blank wall. I had a couple of mirrors that would catch the candle light and reflect it back toward my seat at the desk. He took one of the mirrors down.

“Here might be good,” Buddy finally said.

I said, “I don’t want distraction here.”

“Scared of beautiful women?” he asked.

“This is where I work.”

“I don’t get it. You have a desk that belongs in a museum.”

“It’s Louis the XVI.”

“Whatever. But it seems lonely.”

“Not when I’m here.”

“This isn’t an office,” Buddy said. “It’s your desk room.”

“Don’t hang it here.”

“I want you to like where I put Ambrosia. She will be hard to move.”

“Why?”

“The hanging bracket. Hotels use these things to stop people from stealing the artwork.” He walked from my office back again to my bedroom.

The idea of hotel art permanently affixed above my bed skeeved me. I was less concerned about a picture of Ambrosia. But the way Buddy drew her, Dee would be.

Buddy said, “After it’s set up, all you need is a screwdriver.”

“OK.”

“It’s a little bit of a pain if you change pictures all the time like I do. But I thought with Ambrosia, you’d just leave it up.”

“OK.”

“Dude, you need something on your walls.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Dee would like it. You need to leave now.”

“Dee would love it. It’s you I wonder about.”

… continued

——

Dropping By

Part 4: Hangings
Part 3: Hamstrung Ambrosia
Part 2: Breakfast With Dad
Part 1: This Is Too Much

Fixing The Thing Done, Part 1

I routinely suggest to potential clients, “Bring me a copy of your rival’s work. Either another company or someone who you’re competing against for the big promotion.”

I rework it so that it sparkles. I also tear it apart savagely. It’s a Snark Hunt, and I discussed it in an early post - Toasted Cheese.

——
The introduction to Getting Things Done, by David Allen is four pages long. I rewrote it.

Some lowlights from the book:

Welcome to a gold mine of insights into strategies for how to have more energy, be more relaxed, and get a lot more accomplished with much less effort. If you’re like me…

It’s highly unlikely that I’m like you.

Other snippets of GTD:

“… in your ordinary workaday world.”
“I think efficiency is a good thing.”
“… confident that whatever you’re doing at the moment is just what you need to be doing…”
“I have searched a long time, as you may have, for answers…”
“… you’ll graduate to the next accepted batch of responsibilities and creative goals…”
“… the ability of any simple formula or buzzword-du-jour…”
“As I have personally matured…”
“… there is no single, once-and-for-all solution… … … And I’ve uncovered simple process… … … the world is hungry for these methods.”
“… in schools, where our kids are still not being taught…”
“The power, simplicity, and effectiveness of what I’m talking about…”

And to finish with:

“I want you to test this stuff out, even challenge it.”

You’re on.

… continued

——

Fixing The Thing Done

Part 1: Sparkles Savagely
Related: Toasted Cheese

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres, Part 2

I stood in the doorway, and watched Dee. Dee was standing at the kitchen counter. She was eating a cranberry-orange muffin from Whole Foods.

She poured herself some coffee as she chewed. The steam caught the morning light.

“Hey,” I said.

She tried to wash the cake down with scalding coffee. It was too hot.

“Buddy stopped by yesterday,” I said. “My client called to micro manage. He’s obsessed with business cliches.”

“Buddy?” she mumbled between chewing.

“And wordy repetition.”

“Hmm.” She blew softly on her coffee.

“My client believes that we tell them what we’re going to tell them.”

She blew.

“Then we tell them.”

She blew harder.

“Then we tell them what we told them.”

She blew a chewed wad of cranberry muffin into her coffee. “Shit!”

“Exactly. And he keeps adding unnecessary work.”

I waited while she got a glass of water and drank. She said, “You’re gonna get paid, right?”

“Right.”

She filled a second glass. “More work is a good thing.”

“Yes. Unless I fire the client.”

“Fire?” She walked over and handed me the water.

“Then I’d probably not get paid.”

“That’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.” I paused to drink. “He’s given me a couple of referrals. I would lose the referrals.”

“No you wouldn’t.” She snuck close while I put the glass down.

“Why?”

“Because you’re really, really good.” She blew softly.

“Hmm.”

“You’re really…” She blew. “Really …” She nibbled. “Good.”

“I can’t.”

When did her robe unfasten?

“Sure you can.” She pushed my arm so that my cold hand was in the small of her back.

“So we’ll be naked?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“In bed.” I pulled my head back.

“Yeah,” she smiled.

I dropped my arm. “And I’ll be arguing with my client.”

“Tom?”

“My head will be going twelve rounds with this client.”

“I’m sure I could put your head somewhere else.”

“I can’t.” I picked up her coffee.

“How about my head? Where should that go?”

“I can’t.” I blew steadily.

“OK.”

“OK?” I took a small sip of the coffee.

“Yeah.”

“I need to get this damn project finished or it will ruin the weekend.”

I handed back her coffee. She smiled and started drinking.

“I’m calling C and Duke,” she said. “We should all get together at Yak’s tonight. I’m going to get you drunk.”

“Only if I get this project done.”

… continued

——

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres

Part 2: Put Your Head Somewhere Else
Part 1: Showier Prose

Dropping By, Part 3

Ambrosia was one of the few female comic book characters I had tried to write. She was a pain in my balls. I failed her. She corrupted my rules and my firmest plans. She could foment wild desires in the most strong-willed characters. Or writers.

Rob had fun with these qualities. If an arch villain wanted to destroy a city, Ambrosia would convince him that the city wasn’t grand enough, that it needed to flourish first.

The villain would then work to develop and beautify the city as only an arch-villain can, through manipulation, intimidation and deceit. Ambrosia would flame that character’s lust for destructive rage and the willingness to defer vengeance.

The city would prospered extravagantly. Its devastation would be biblical. Ambrosia would then help the villain to recognize that the city was his creation, and to destroy the city was to destroy himself.

Rob wrote several ironic tales fueled by Ambrosia’s ability to co-op any character’s essential impulse. And what comic book character could stand the self-irony?

To my consternation, Rob had to write her stories and dialog. My efforts were too weak.

Buddy created Hamstrung to have Ambosia’s own desires co-opted, too. Buddy wanted Ambrosia to sleep with Hamstrung. He even drew several explicit panels to show what it would look like.

Buddy rebelled against Ambrosia’s reflective honorability. He liked the gory, self-sacrifice, old testament kind of honor.

To piss Buddy off, Rob wrote the story of Hamstrung’s creation. Ambrosia collected and distilled sweat from captured villains during their arch moments of rationalized anguish. That essential spirit was the source of Hamstrung’s super powers.

Hamstrung became another clever plot device. He’d adopt some alias, show up, and then undo any progress a main character had made either in ordering the world or in ordering his psyche. Hamstrung told great stories. He was literally tall, dark and handsome. All the characters were fated to adore him in spite of the existential storms he festered.

… continued

——

Dropping By

Part 3: Hamstrung Ambrosia
Part 2: Breakfast With Dad
Part 1: This Is Too Much

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres, Part 1

I had let The Road Less Traveled project out of its tidy box. It sprawled over my desk. Notes were taped to the hutch of my desk. The eight pages of actual text, already three pages too long, swelled to 32 pages, spackled with run-on strike throughs, arguments conducted in the annotations, random usage of font, size, bold and italic, and different pastel shading for each entry from each person involved. My client’s comments were cast in the color of bile.

The pages were heaped into several piles. I had little room to work.

Still, I was focused and scribbled a series of fresh sentences long-hand into my Moleskine.

“You’re up early.” Dee said, standing in the doorway wearing her morning robe draped open. “I don’t have to go to work until later.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Whatever.” I hadn’t looked up for a second glance. I continued to wield my red Paper Mate flair against writing that included:

Our problem is self inflicted. Some of us:

- Show initiative far below capabilities,
- Have very little independent action,
- Are unawares of latest goings on in the industry, and
- Do not keep commitments.

My client refused my revision because it was too short:

We are lazy and unreliable.

Somehow, that text was not damning enough. It was easy to detail harsher criticism. There were many to chose from. I think I will try:

We insult our clients with our ignorance, indolence and unreliability.

I’d rather write that he is stupid, lazy, and erratic. But my client likes showier prose.

After several more minutes of vicious editing, I put my pen down and walked to the kitchen looking for Dee.

… continued

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty” - Part 5 of 5

I found a link for the tee-shirt with Homer enacting The Scream by Edvard Munch. I bought one for me and one for Dee.

I don’t think she will like it.

——

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty”

Part 5: Homering
Part 4: Bono Is An Asshole
Part 3: Rattle And Hum
Part 2: “Unmanageable Undoability”
Part 1: Pause

Dropping By, Part 2

After handing me a large coffee which had lost the allure of being near boiling, Buddy started wandering around the duplex, package under his arm. He was looking for something.

I asked, “Who was the meeting with?”

I wanted to ask him to leave, but he was so far from the door that I didn’t trust his instinct to follow a direct request. I would have to rely on the coffee to get me back to effortless writing.

“My old man. He’s been dropping by my place too often. I thought I’d plan something to stop that.”

“Your old man? I like your old man.”

“Yeah. He always wants to meet early when I suggest that we get together. Since he knows that I don’t like getting up, he drops by whenever he wants.”

“You can’t interrupt me like this Buddy. I’m in the middle of work.” I walked into my office. He continued elsewhere. I carefully folded up my project materials and put them back into the project box. I put my pens in their drawer and blew out my desk candle.

I followed after Buddy. He was in the refrigerator.

“Looking for something?” I asked, wondering if he was going to grab a beer.

“Cream?”

“Skim milk.”

“Cow piss.” He shut the refrigerator, leaving his coffee black.

“You are interrupting me,” I said.

“I thought you’d like some coffee.”

“Morning is the time I do all my writing,” I explained. “Even Dee knows not to call me even if it’s important. Really important, you know? I need to be left alone to work.”

“What the fuck? You drop by my place all the time.”

“You never seemed to complain. I’m complaining.” I walked into the family room. I hoped that we’d walk over to the front door.

“I do complain. You just never listen.” He sat on the couch and set his coffee down. “You always have some kind of serious excuse when I say what the fuck.”

I bring cases of beer. I bring food. I help straighten the place. I know that I’m welcome. You never complain.

“So why are you here?” I asked.

“I wanted to put my coffee on your coffee table. It’s rarely used properly.”

“Whatever.”

“I was cleaning up and thought I’d bring something by,” he said. “It’s one of the first paintings I ever did of Ambrosia.”

I was surprised. “Shit. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Here.” And he handed his package to me.

“Ambrosia was a much better name,” I said as I unwrapped the package. “Didn’t we kill her in one of our last comics?”

“You had the idea that she’d get hanged.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said. “I forgot how well you draw her.”

“You hanged her,” he continued. “We had to contrive something silly so that her superpowers didn’t interfere. Her blood drained to the ground as it happened.”

“That was grusome.” It was Rob and Buddy that executed the hanging even if it was my idea at first.

“And pointless. You can’t kill the thing that fuels desire.”

“Could she come back?” I asked.

“Of course. We had those Elysiun fields of flowers as a last imagine of her.”

“Flowers?”

“Tulips actually. With the odd broken tulip splashing contrast in the fields of uniform color.”

“Was that cliched or beautiful? I couldn’t figure that out.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Her blood was the liquor for the Gods after all. Rob thought we could use the nectar from those flowers to bring her back.”

“How?”

“A god-inspired alchemist perhaps. I don’t know.”

“Didn’t we have God kill her?” I asked as my memory became more clear.

“Which one?”

“The God,” I said. “He was angry at her.”

“We never did explain that.”

“No.”

“The God, Rob created that character.”

“Yeah.”

… continued

——

Dropping By

Part 2: Breakfast With Dad
Part 1: This Is Too Much

Brienne, Part 5 of 5

I wondered about C and Buddy going off to the bar for drinks. Stanley was there, I knew. But Buddy was angry at C, and he loses control easily when angry. Maybe I should have gone with them just to make sure Buddy calmed down.

Dee interrupted my thoughts. “Nice night. First the psycho chick. Then you pay more attention to your old girlfriend as she tries to pick up your brother.”

I said, “They were playing.”

“And you were ignoring me,” she said. “You let Buddy pick fights with everyone. Instead of calming him, you fight.”

“I was trying to calm him.”

“Well, you failed,” she said. “When C finally gets Buddy to leave, you sulk. I’m having a great time, thank you for asking.”

“Duke’s friend got everything stirred up.”

“Yeah, that was fun.”

“Buddy was a prick.”

“What did you expect?” She asked.

“I was trying to keep things under control.”

“You failed,” she repeated.

“Now you’re jumping on my ass?”

Duke interrupted. “At least you two are married. But if you are going to scream at each other, would you do that at home.”

Dee said, “It’s OK, Duke.”

“I like psycho fights as much as anyone,” he said. “I don’t want to see you two go at it.”

“Duke,” I asked, “what the hell is with that chick? That was scary. Look what she did to Buddy and C.”

Dee said, “What did you expect from Buddy and C?”

Scott then asked, “Instead of calming down, why don’t you offer to sleep with me?”

“Me?” Dee asked.

“Well?”

“You’d have to buy me a drink.”

“Done.”

“Do something about Tom.”

That’s easy,” Scott said. “Tom, buy us drinks.”

“Fucking with your bother,” Duke said. “That’s cruel and cold. Both of you.”

I said, “Thanks, Duke.”

“You should invite your brother more often.” Duke said.

Dee said to Duke, “You should invite more girlfriends.”

“Girlfriends are a riot.”

“They cause riots. Now that I’m married I don’t have to do that anymore,” Dee said. “Now, I’m all soft and cuddly.”

“Except when you bludgeon,” I said, for no good reason.

——

Brienne

Part 5: Dee Stress
Part 4: We Had Our Tires Changed
Part 3: Agent Scully, Bitchy
Part 2: Agent Scully, Dribbling Stout
Part 1: Agent Scully, Provocateur

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty” - Part 4

Dr. Marty discussed I’m Your Man, the Leonard Cohen tribute film. “Some of my clients like the film for the music, some like it for the spiritual qualities of Leonard, and personally, I think all his Zen stuff is overplayed - you know? - plus too many people turn it into a form of regimented denial and then wonder why they still feel left lacking.”

I was surprised by his Zen comment. He was the type who would fall for faux Zen.

“For the purpose of our work here - you know? - Bono is the more critical, his character is the important one.” Apparently, U2 is a theme, the Rattle and Hum montage, the fake, miniature Joshua tree near his desk, and now this comment. The lyrics of One Tree Hill fit:

The sun so bright it leaves no shadows

Only scars

Carved into stone

On the face of earth

Joshua stopped the sun by God’s command so that it shined brightly into the eyes of his enemies. He imposed order on their wildness, cutting down those who wouldn’t succumb. Was that what Bono was trying to do to The Edge on the cover of Rattle And Hum?

Dr. Marty continued, “I would like you to imagine that your character - Alice Hopper for you Dee, and ‘Bogart’,” again with his air-quotes, “or whoever for you Tom - your imaginary character will play the role of Bono in a movie that tells everyone about your incredible talents and life. Part of what we want to do with my coaching stuff is prepare our character for this role. We might have to make this a project.”

“Alice tells my story. What a great idea!” Dee said. She opened her new organizer, took notes as if to plan a new project. “Kind of scary, though.”

I planned to forget my character as soon as I could. That was a worthy project.

“Dee, I think that Alice would be honored to tell your story,” Dr. Marty said. “She sounds like a beautiful person and one who you have a good relationship with.”

She is a beautiful person.

“Thank you. I still need to have a good story for her to tell.”

“You will,” he said. “No doubt.” His reassurance lingered.

I was next. “Tom, I’m concerned about talking out this assignment with you because it sounds like we have a lot of work to do before we’re going to get going anywhere. But at least we get to start with the end even if there seems to be a lot of work to do.”

His idea is that Bogart-Asshole, acting Bono, full of self-styled, erudite opinion, narrates the biography of my life with a persuasive, Irish brogue.

That won’t happen.

… continued

——

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty”

Part 4: Bono Is An Asshole
Part 3: Rattle And Hum
Part 2: “Unmanageable Undoability”
Part 1: Pause

Dropping By, Part 1

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The knock at the door was persistent. Delivery men usually knock once then put the package down and leave. The commotion had grabbed my attention, and provoked me in the process.

I was getting good work done on The Road Less Travelled project. I wasn’t sure what time it was, or really much of anything other than the effortless flow of words, and tight, incisive editing.

Effective editing is an awesome experience. I print out my projects in a 13 point font with a 5 inch column. I use old-school Paper Mate Flairs - felt tip pens, red. I hack at the text with relish, breaking apart lumps of gooey, mangled kludge.

The current client loves to use the word “this”, and let that word stand alone without explanation. “This” becomes his essential ambiguity, a way to deny any reader clear understanding. I have had to replace ‘this’ 10 times in the first page.

One example. My client wrote, “this is why we have to discuss why we should focus on moving forward on this.” If I gave you a whole piece of copy, you’d never understand the purpose of “this” cruft. Now it reads, “We avoid change. We remain frozen. We have isolated this company, and suffer.”

I was literate, and my client would look brilliant. I exorcised the ‘this’es and replaced them with clarity. I was spinning gold from moldy straw, the kind that is black and toxic, and creeps up from distressed floor boards and chair rails.

More banging finally brought me to my feet and to the door. I prepared a nasty glare, but couldn’t find some Churchillian insult to match.

It was Buddy. “Dude, I brought you some coffee.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“No reason. I had a breakfast meeting is all. So I thought I’d bring you coffee.”

He walked in with Starbucks and a package wrapped in plain brown paper.

… continued

Brienne, Part 4

Scott said, “Bruce Springsteen once said that you haven’t lived until you’ve had your tires changed by a red-head. I think we just had our tires changed.”

C asked, “So you want your tires changed? Is that what your saying? So you’re going to meet psycho chick at the bar? Get you tires changed?”

“If she shows, and I don’t think she will, it’d be interesting to hear what she had to say. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I’m so curious,” C said. “Maybe I could come with you.”

Scott asked, “Did you see the movie Jerry Maguire?”

“No.”

“At first, Tom Cruise is a very successful sports agent. He is engaged to this red head, and she’s this sex fiend. She’s every adolescent boy’s fantasy.”

Speak for yourself, Scott.

He continued, “One night, after they finalized plans for their wedding, and while they’re screwing like rabbits, she says, ‘I’d sleep with another woman if you want. I’m not into that kind of thing. But if you wanted…’”

C said, “That is boy fantasy.”

“Yeah, and a scene or two later,” Scott said, “Tom gets fired from his high profile job and the fiance goes nuclear. Duke’s psycho friend reminds me of that woman.”

C asked, “Then you would like me to come to the bar with you?”

Scott answered, “Well, I’m not into that kind of thing. But if you wanted…”

“What if I promise to do whatever it is that she says she’d do? Could I come then?”

“I don’t know. Could you?” Scott drank his beer trying to hide his smirk. He had used one of my lines.

“I could,” C answered. “I can.” We all took a moment to drink, except C who just smiled.

Scott then said, “I’m just a married guy thinking out loud too much. I’ll probably just keep drinking.”

“She must be a real bitch,” C said.

“Duke does seem to date some interesting women.”

“I was talking about your wife.”

“My wife rages at me like that red head just did.” Scott finished drinking his beer. “Rant after rave, all so screwed up. And she never even suggests sex, certainly never like Duke’s friend did. Wow.”

“So I’m going to the bar with you,” C said. “And I’ll know what to say after we hear from the redhead.”

“Ignore her,” Buddy said to Scott. “She’s flirty now. She’ll turn into a bitch.”

“You’re a God-damn dick,” C said. “What the hell? Were you listening in on us?”

“See Scott?” Buddy said. “A bitch.”

“That crazy red-head didn’t know the half about how you’re stupid and mean.” C finished her drink, looked at her empty glass then put it down with some force. “You either cry or you abuse your friends. And you know, it weren’t for Tom, you’d have no friends.”

“You’re just as whacked as that red head,” Buddy said. “No one but me even knows that. Why don’t you tell everyone you want to sleep with Scott?”

“She doesn’t need to,” I said. “You just did.”

“Why are you sticking your fat ass in this conversation?” Buddy asked.

“Yelling isn’t conversation,” I said. “Can we cool it?”

“Fuck off ‘Dad.’ Go buy me a drink.”

“You go buy drinks. If you want to get loaded, use your own God-damn money.”

“Yes ‘Dad.’ Thanks ‘Dad.’ Can I have my allowance now? Your brother isn’t such a pain in the ass. Hey Scott, let’s get a drink at the bar and leave these fuckers.”

Scott said, “Everybody funny. Now you funny, too.”

“What?” Buddy asked.

“You funny.”

“No, you funny.”

Scott said, “You funny, too. It’s a line from a George Thorogood song.”

“One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer,” I said. “Scott taught me that line, too.”

“Sounds like what we need.” Buddy said. “A prescription.”

C asked Buddy, “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Fuck you.”

“Come on Buddy,” C said. “How about you and I go get the drinks?”

… continued

——

Brienne

Part 4: We Had Our Tires Changed
Part 3: Agent Scully, Bitchy
Part 2: Agent Scully, Dribbling Stout
Part 1: Agent Scully, Provocateur

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty” - Part 3

I ignored Dr. Marty’s blather, and instead, stared at his walls. Staring might not be the correct word. ‘Cataloging’ sounds better.

I studied Dr. Marty’s office decorations. I relished each gee-gaw as I would relish badly written business correspondence. Sordidly beautiful, especially those relics laced with unintended irony or self-parody.

Amid the helter skelter of his office, on one section of wall, he hanged several charicatures of The Scream by Edvard Munch. My favorite was the one with the platypus, painted by D. William Platypus of Platypus Art. I wondered why he was so amused by a cliche.

The largest Scream, centered behind the couch that Dee and I sat on, was a tee-shirt with Homer Simpson enacting the scream. It was framed as if it were a game shirt from the 2006 Cardinals World Series. And instead of a copy of The Sporting News World Series Issue at the bottom of the frame, he had a signature card in big sharpie pen, “Thanks for the help! Matt Groening” drawn among character from The Big Book Of Hell. The image was perfectly cromulent.

The wall art most obvious from our seat was a framed montage U2 album cover for Rattle And Hum. A platinum record was half way out the sleeve. Several pictures of the band from that tour were framed along the bottom half. The band had signed the cover glass with a platinum Sharpie. Bono added the embellishment, “Rock On Dr. Marty!”

I studied the album cover. I was warmed by the radiance of the kleeg light beam that Bono shined on The Edge. The light’s bloom reminded me of headlights during rainy, foggy nights.

The Edge is bent over by that astringent light, burdened by his guitar and certainly by the scrutiny of his vast audience. His jeans are torn, and his only protection from the light seems an insignificant hat. In fact, the light seems to burn right through him.

Bono is staring intently without facial expression or emotion. He is harsh truth to The Edge’s faltering art. The two are the classic paring - the bright frontman and mysterious guitarist. Both are too intense to be at ease.

… continued

——

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty”

Part 3: Rattle And Hum
Part 2: “Unmanageable Undoability”
Part 1: Pause

Brienne, Part 3

Yak’s was quiet. Brienne was not. Most people stared. No one had to strain to hear her yelling. Everyone followed as she circled our table. Duke circled after his enflamed former girlfriend.

Stanley stood behind the bar with his arms crossed. He was a good friend of Duke’s. He shook his head, told something to one of the people at bar who was looking at Brienne. They both laughed.

Brienne pointed at C and asked, “Are you fucking him?”

C looked away.

“I thought so!”

Duke said, “Brienne, let’s go outside.”

“I know you plan to sleep with everyone at this table,” she said. “You’ve already slept with psycho and his bitch.”

For the record, C had only slept with me.

Pointing at Buddy and talking to C, she said, “You probably slept with his brother, too.”

That would be my brother, Scott who sat quietly with a conflicted smile. What had Duke told her?

C smiled with amusement, picked up her drink in toast and drank.

“Brienne,” Duke said. “Leave.”

“Leave?”

“Leave,” he insisted. “Leave now!”

As she was about to walk behind me, I pushed out my chair, and clipped her. She spilled more from the pint of stout she had brandished as a weapon. More than half the pint had already spilled. She slapped me hard on the top of my head.

Continuing to address C, Brieene said, “You’re a slut. Duke’s waiting his turn. It’s nothing big. It’s a cold beer, a sad five minutes, and maybe a pat on the back when he shows you the door.”

Brienne looked at Scott, and asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the brother.”

Boo and his babysitter walked into Yak’s. Boo broke away and hurried on over. He stopped when he got close enough to hear. Scott did not see him.

“Do you want the fuck of your life? Do you? Are you scared?”

Buddy interrupted, “Sweet-Mother-Mary-of-God.”

“That’s me,” Brienne responded with a practiced line.

Buddy stood, and said, “You’re my kind of girl.”

“I’d rather clip my toe nails,” Brienne said to Buddy as if she was speaking about me. I was insulted.

Buddy pointed at me. “He’s Tom. He’s boring. I’m the pyscho. He’s my bitch. Come on. You and me. Are you scared?” Next to Brienne, Buddy’s blonde hair blushed slightly red.

“You’re one of those artsy shits. Gets his minute of fame. Goes on some fucked-up bender. Ends up on the cover of I’m So Fucked Up. Spare everyone. Get it over with. I’d rather fuck him, anyway.” She pointed at Scott. “He’ll crawl back to his sweet wife and forever crave me. That’s what I want tonight.”

Scott stood, and smiled. “Tell you what. I’ll meet you later. Over there.” He pointed to the bar and to Stanley. “You can tell me how great you are.”

Brienne said, “11PM. You’ll never forget me. It should take only a few minutes. Fuck you all.”

Boo walked to his Dad, tugged his shirt, and asked, “Daddy?”

“Hey big man. Tell this lady what you told your mom.” Boo looked reluctant. “It’s OK. Go ahead.”

“You bitchy fucking bitch!”

Brienne shrieked. She threw the remaining stout at Duke and took off toward the door.

Boo chased her, yelling, “Bitchy! Bitchy! Bitchy!”

… continued

——

Brienne

Part 3: Agent Scully, Bitchy
Part 2: Agent Scully, Dribbling Stout
Part 1: Agent Scully, Provocateur

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty” - Part 2

Dr. Marty and Dee argued about the type of dog I should have. Dee wanted me to get a cocker spaniel, and Dr. Marty mentioned all sorts of large dogs. Then they decided that I liked cats better.

He said, “So if we’re talking about getting a pet, we should talk about Getting Things Done. So tell me, what are your thoughts about GTD. What are your first impressions?”

I waited for Dee to answer.

“Dee?” Dr. Marty asked. “What did you think about David Allen’s art of stress free productivity?”

“I fought with my boss, Mr. Dickless all week,” Dee said, waving her hands. “He dumped a crap load of work on my desk after I fucked him over in front of the division head. It was worth it, too. Then Tom’s brother was in town. It’s been crazy, Marty.”

“That’s OK,” Dr. Marty said. “You aren’t the first one who avoided learning how to solve problems. Some problems, like Mr. Dickless, are often so scary, it’s easier to put your efforts somewhere else.”

“No. Wait. That’s not it.” Dee shook her head. “I looked it over. I know I’ll love David Allen’s productive stuff. This material probably would be great in some of the training programs I want to develop…”

“You want to develop training programs?” Dr. Marty asked.

“Yes. I’m thinking about that,” Dee said. “But Getting Things Done looks like it will take a lot of time. Firstly, I have to read the book. Also, I’m supposed to get everything organized. Won’t I need a week’s vacation just to do all this stuff?”

“Don’t you see,” Dr. Marty said as he motioned for Dee to slow down. “It’s never all done. It’s all about doing. Look, I think we should start with just the first chapter.”

He swiveled in his chair, making a production out of looking for his copy of the book. I could see it on his shelf from across the room. The book was tattered. When he opened it, I could see that it was markered and taped in places.

After looking at a page or two, he said, “Dee, all I want you to do is write things down about projects at work. You’ll end up with a long list that’s unmanageable undoability and you’ll probably stress out once you see it.”

“What was that?” she asked.

“Unmanageable undoability,” he said. “You and I will work on the list together. David way overcomplicates that, so please don’t rush in if you can avoid it.”

He flipped through the book again. “Tom, what do you think?”

“The writing is awful,” I answered. “And as the author said in the introduction, most of this stuff is obvious.”

“Next meeting, I want to talk to you about a different type of assignment, not related to GTD, OK?”

He waited. I said, “OK.”

“So maybe you could rewrite a small part of David’s prose for fun. Or at least pick out the worst parts.”

The whole of the introduction and first chapter qualified as “the worst parts.”

“OK,” I said.

“E-mail me when you do,” he continued. “You are right, the writing is messy and unfortunately, he complicates his material in the process. But remember, there is meat too, it’s just that the banquet is over elaborate. We’re all gluttons if David has his way.”

… continued

——

Bono Says, “Rock On Dr. Marty”

Part 2: “Unmanageable Undoability”
Part 1: Pause

Brienne, Part 2

Brienne had grabbed Buddy’s beer and walked around the table backwards without incident. But when she pointed at him, she spilled beer all over.

“Tom” she said abruptly. “This is all your fault.” She announced my name with authority. Other than Duke, no one had never met her, so she didn’t know who was who.

“Me?” Buddy said.

Speaking to Buddy as if he were me, she said, “Duke says that you’re just a dried old gramma p***y bitch.”

Duke said, “Stop.” He stepped forward.

Brienne threatened Duke with the stolen pint of stout. Duke stopped.

She looked again at Buddy. “Coward. Bossy,” she said waving her beer. “You’re a just a prick of mass destruction.”

I got off easy.

She turned to Dee, completely at random it seemed. “Duke says there is no fucking reason for you.”

Duke said, “Stop,” and braving the stout, he took a step toward Brienne.

“Why are you married to that bitch boy?” She demanded as she backed away. “Your husband,” she said, point at Buddy, dribbling stout on herself, “he’s too busy taking care of a psycho.”

She guessed Dee correctly.

“Brienne…” Duke said.

She talked over him. “Duke wants to fuck you real bad.” Dee squeezed my knee in alarm. “Real bad.”

“Duke,” I said. “Do something.”

She mimicked me. “Duke, do something.”

“Stop…” Duke stepped toward her.

Brienne repeated, “Duke, do something,” goading him.

Brienne circled the table. She stared at Dee and said, “If I was Duke, I’d be too proud to flip you over and kiss you.”

This time, pain from Dee’s grip shot through my knee. I stood.

Duke looked at me and said, “I got it Tom. OK?” Dee pulled on my arm. I sat.

“See,” Brienne said. “You are a coward.”

Duke changed tact. “Brienne, let’s go.”

“Go where!?”

“Let’s step outside and talk.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Fuck you.”

Duke pointed toward the door. “Let’s not do this here. With my friends.”

“Are you fucking her!?” Brienne said, pointing at C.

… continued

——

Brienne

Part 2: Agent Scully, Dribbling Stout
Part 1: Agent Scully, Provocateur