Reintroduction

I haven’t posted much on here because I figured it was futile, and I damned the ambitious impetus to be “heard”. I haven’t stopped writing though, far from it, pages and pages locked up in the vault of my various hard drives and browning notebooks. Now I’m thinking “fuck it, post this shit and be ‘published’”. Doubt there’s interested readers and I wonder if there’s ever been a reader of what I’ve decided to put on this site.
Should I write about the latest technological fad sweeping and enthralling society? Better throw around facebook, twitter, myspace, Google, Obama, terrorism, football, PS3, Xbox360, Nintendo, Call of Duty, what else? McDonald’s, Tiger Woods, porn, yeah that one is essential, writing for the computers nowadays, no breathing thing in sight.
I think I’m through with the cynicism and morbidity for this post, got my search engine tags covered so I know this post is gonna be gold, and I’m not hungry right now, body’s sated and warm, protected from the leeching Minnesota cold, and them ruthless authorities and mandarins, persnickety and unforgiving, making me wake up before light has pervaded the ether to move my car for the terrifying snow plows, or else I get towed, have to wait in a querulous, seething queue, no outlet for anger, feel sorry for the automatous though innocent clerks, ready to pay boatloads of dough that I reserved for guitar strings, painting supplies, and drinks at the taverns that line the street I live on, all this I must sacrifice just so I can have my hated jalopy back.
Should I rip some zingers about some hapless celebrity, mired in mélange of ignorance and luxury, there’s money in paying attention to the movements of the sybarites, and little money and attention for the rigors of the rabble, especially my own maladjusted perspective, pessimistic, built on teetering jeremiads, scanning the skies for anything resembling a seraph from the heralds of yore, but there’s only me, a handful of people that I regard as allies, and time.
Last week I toured Provence, though the trip was shortened due to a Christmas gift blizzard that made Northwest/ Delta airlines cancel my flight, but I got there, and wandered about with the family, snuck out late at night while father snored and I sauntered in search of somewhere warm where I could sip on something strong, whether it was a full-bodied beer or some stinging whisky. My ventures were relatively fruitless, though I did find an establishment that served me, an Irish pub on some narrow street in Nice. They played soccer games continuously on archaic television screens, jerseys festooning every wall, and I attempted to speak to a couple of older women who had recently divorced their husbands, while the barkeep, a gray, corpulent man that treated me with haughtiness and remained aloof even when I tried to pry some information from him, wiped down the scuffed bar with a filthy, damp rag and grumbled. These two women did little for me sensually, but I was a jet lagged insomniac and I had ears, eyes, and skin pulsating, fiending something sensuous, something human, without the fetters of money, to communicate to. Our discourse was brief for I felt like I was intruding, though for awhile they seemed happy to practice their English.
“Pardon moi,” I said, as I walked up to their table. In my not so suave manner I split some beer and one of woman looked down in disgust for the dribble had landed near her shoe and a little had splashed onto the leg of her pants.
“Je suis desolee. Je suis tres bête. Vous parlez anglais? Je parle Francais tres peu. Je suis bête Americain.”
“Yeah, we speak English. You look like an American. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I knew it from the moment I saw him,” said the other woman, the one whose pant leg remained dry. Short frizzy hair on them both, round faces, copious amounts of cakey makeup clearly visible in the dim bar, wearing large coats in the stifling stickiness at least to me. I was perspiring profusely from nervousness, again suaveness is not my forte.
“Sorry I spilt on you. I can be so clumsy sometimes. May I sit down and share a drink with you two?”
“If you want to listen to us complain about or ex-husbands, then sure.”
“You know he looks a little like Glenn don’t you think?”
They proceeded to talk in French and they both starting whooping in laughter. The bartender told them to quiet down in a jovial manner, maybe looking to get lucky. I asked what their names were and they said that there was no reason for them to tell me, like I was some weirdo and I maybe I am. I’m not capable of judging that. They left after an awkward “au revoir”, awkward to my heart, and I threw back another shot of whisky or maybe it was two. Staggering home, a copper in his little cop car said something to me in French and I pointed to my hotel that was luckily within pointing distance. He stopped in front of it and watched me as I fumbled with getting the key card out of my wallet and swiping it over the scanner. I shut the door quietly and shot him a big fake smile, but his eyes were already on the road.
Furtively, I snuck back into the hotel room and paged through Book of Sketches by Jack Kerouac in the bathroom so I would not disturb my father. At four in the morning I finally fell asleep. Three hours of sleep and a hangover headache is no way to greet the day.