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Nov. 1st, 2005 09:23 amLucius called last night and we chatted for about an hour. He's had another eye surgery which means the trip to France is off – "My doctor told me my eyeball might burst." He's given up smoking. His work is going well.
Then he made the mistake of asking me how I am.
"Tired," I said. "Very, very tired. Tote that barge. Pull that train. You know, I love my little store and in some ways it entertains me more than anything I've ever done in my life. But the workload is relentless. It never lets up. And it's not making any money. So I'm always in a state of financial panic."
Lucius was silent for a couple of seconds. Then he said, "You know what I wish for you more than anything else in the world? That you could just take two years off and write. You have what it takes. It's a fucking tragedy that you aren't doing it. Shit, if I had the money, I'd bankroll you."
Nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite some time…
In other news, Halloween was a big bust. Just couldn't rouse myself to the proper level of consumer mayhem. All I could do was calculate the marginal utility rate of pumpkin purchases and the economic effects that the seasonal spike in candy sales were going to have on the GNP. Shopkeeping has ruined me forever for plain, old-fashioned fun.
Plus Robin wasn't into it at all. All weekend long, I kept nagging him: have you thought about a costume? All weekend long, he had not. At eleven years old, I figured the kid is plenty old enough to do his own Halloween planning.
He had other things on his mind. Samantha's birthday party Saturday night: a coed affair, albeit heavily chaperoned. Plus it turns out he's writing a novel:
Okay, I'm completely unapologetic about monitoring Robin's online journal and if you're the mother of an 11 year old boy, you are too. (The journal – on My Way, recently purchased by Barry Diller for umpteen billion dollars – lists Robin's age as "19" and his residence as "Monterey, California" in the state of Alabama, which juxtapositions made me chuckle.)
But I hesitate to censor it.
Not so Ben, to whom I read the passage aloud, and who was completely appalled. "Way too many four-letter words for an eleven year old!" he said. "We should do something about that."
"Oh, come on," I said. "You were eleven years old once. He's beginning puberty, that ten year long dance pushing the limits. From a critical point of view, I think this is pretty good actually. Better than ninety percent of the fanfic I stumble across. Aren't you dying to know what color those birds are?"
"No, I'm not. And I'm afraid that repetitive 'Booze' with a capital B is an indication of strong addictive tendencies. Maybe we should enroll him in rehab right now as a prophylactic measure."
Then he made the mistake of asking me how I am.
"Tired," I said. "Very, very tired. Tote that barge. Pull that train. You know, I love my little store and in some ways it entertains me more than anything I've ever done in my life. But the workload is relentless. It never lets up. And it's not making any money. So I'm always in a state of financial panic."
Lucius was silent for a couple of seconds. Then he said, "You know what I wish for you more than anything else in the world? That you could just take two years off and write. You have what it takes. It's a fucking tragedy that you aren't doing it. Shit, if I had the money, I'd bankroll you."
Nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite some time…
In other news, Halloween was a big bust. Just couldn't rouse myself to the proper level of consumer mayhem. All I could do was calculate the marginal utility rate of pumpkin purchases and the economic effects that the seasonal spike in candy sales were going to have on the GNP. Shopkeeping has ruined me forever for plain, old-fashioned fun.Plus Robin wasn't into it at all. All weekend long, I kept nagging him: have you thought about a costume? All weekend long, he had not. At eleven years old, I figured the kid is plenty old enough to do his own Halloween planning.
He had other things on his mind. Samantha's birthday party Saturday night: a coed affair, albeit heavily chaperoned. Plus it turns out he's writing a novel:
"Mary Kingsley, A wonderful woman,an even better wife,she died from an unknown Cause, but hopefully peaceful, and may god Bless her heart" said Father Mare as he stood above Mary Kinsleys coffin. "Shes alive you Bastard get out of my way my little Mary is alive" screamed John Richards as he ran at the Father. "Thats enough John we all know she is dead" said Dr.Lock as he put a hand infront of him. "Well where is Charles Hm? I always told my little Mary that he was a stupid Dud, He wouldn't get her anywhere in life and that she should marry some Rich man, someone who could get her all she needed" said John. "You just want the money for Booze" said another man. John screamed and attacked him screaming "You fucking bastard shut up Shut up". Meanwhile 3 blocks from the Funeral Charles Kingsley, a 55 year old, Bald Headed with a little grey hair on his sides, sat smoking a cigarrete. "She wasn't that important eh infact I was too good for her" he said laughing. As you could tell he was drunk, very Drunk and sweat ran down his face for a gun sat next to him loaded with one bullet. "Hehehe ya" he said laughing "Im too good for life too" and he put the gun to his head and said "Adios Lil Americanos" and was about to pull the trigger when he heard a voice. "Charles I would stop if I were you" said Dr.Lock stepping from the dark. "Eh Doctor? Oh this lil thing its just a joke" said Charles and he threw it into the bushs. "Charles your drunk maybe I should drive you home and you should take a rest as you know tommorows your first day retired" said Dr.Lock. "Your older then me. Why aren't you retired?" asked Charles taking another sip of Booze laughing. "Charles please don't drink infront of me and to anwser your question I enjoy working actually" said Dr.Lock pleasantly. "Eh really? Hm ya want some Booze" he said and he handed the Doctor the bottle. "Im sorry Charles im not in the mood" he said and dropped the Booze in the trash can. "But Mary ain't home, Ill be alone, All alone" said Charles sounding strange. "Quite, I do suggest then you come spend the night at my house,Betty and I do enjoy your company" said Dr.Lock. "Shure thing Doc" he said laughing standing up. "Your shoelace is untied" said the Doctor. "Huh" said Charles looking down as the sidewalk melted. "Welcome Charles to Time itself" said Dr.Lock laughing. "What the Fuck you idiot what are you doing" screamed Charles. "The journey begins" said The Doctor and he snapped his fingers.
"No" screamed Charles as he awoke in his bed. "Hm" he asked looking outside seeing the birds.
Okay, I'm completely unapologetic about monitoring Robin's online journal and if you're the mother of an 11 year old boy, you are too. (The journal – on My Way, recently purchased by Barry Diller for umpteen billion dollars – lists Robin's age as "19" and his residence as "Monterey, California" in the state of Alabama, which juxtapositions made me chuckle.)
But I hesitate to censor it.
Not so Ben, to whom I read the passage aloud, and who was completely appalled. "Way too many four-letter words for an eleven year old!" he said. "We should do something about that."
"Oh, come on," I said. "You were eleven years old once. He's beginning puberty, that ten year long dance pushing the limits. From a critical point of view, I think this is pretty good actually. Better than ninety percent of the fanfic I stumble across. Aren't you dying to know what color those birds are?"
"No, I'm not. And I'm afraid that repetitive 'Booze' with a capital B is an indication of strong addictive tendencies. Maybe we should enroll him in rehab right now as a prophylactic measure."
