Thanks for returning to another issue of my literary blog-zine. September's issue is short and sweet. I'm excited to add another new writer to the roster. Ignatious J. Reilly shares a story about his recent trip to Aruba during a hurricane. Diane Roy is back with a touching piece of fiction. And of course I have two stories; an Amsterdam tale, and another Coventry, Vermont story. Sit back, enjoy, and please spread the good word about this site. Be sweet, McG.
1. Charlie's Albatros by Tenzin McGrupp
She barely touched her tea, instead she put a hefty dent into the pack of Gitanes she bought during our desperate search for hash and French smokes in the early afternoon... More
2. Mausoleum by Diane Roy
The answering machine was the only thing alive, waiting like an exasperated lover, waiting to be released from the duty of reliving that day, over and over and over... More
3. Ivan and Aruba by Ignatious J. Reilly
Hurricane Ivan was on it's way and everything was closed up or shut down. Arubans were twitchy and dumbfounded, and that alone made me nervous. A hurricane, much less a category 4 storm, had not hit this lovely island in nearly 200 years... More
4. A Vermont Wake Up Call by Tenzin McGrupp
Sure it might have been the first strange thing I saw that day, but I was guaranteed that by Midnight, the naked pregnant chick taking a shit behind my tent would be the 136th weird-ass-happening that I'd experience... More
September 20, 2004
What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...
From the Editor's Laptop:Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. I'm happy to add Iggy to the long list of poker blogging writers.
I ask the readers that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor. Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL or the monthly e-mail. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.
Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.
Salukis,
McG
"To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now." - Samuel Beckett
Charlie's Albatros
By Tenzin McGrupp
Ophelia took an extended drag on her cigarette. She purposely took her time before she smoothly exhaled towards the direction of the tiny candle in the middle of our squeaky table. Ophelia sat mesmerized by the milky designs of smoke rings that mingled with the stagnant air. She was polluted. The absinthe slowly hit her. One second she seemed fine and coherent, and the next instance she was muttering in broken English and LA speak, twitching and waving her left hand at an imaginary fly. We had been sitting in the poorly lit Albatros Café on Westerstraat Street for over an hour, and in that time we attempted to discuss the various interpretations of Blade Runner, and I polished off three Amstels. She barely touched her tea, instead she put a hefty dent into the pack of Gitanes she had bought during our desperate search for hash and French smokes in the early afternoon. Opehlia could chain smoke like a World Champion. For the entire time we were in Amsterdam together, I swear she had a lit cigarette in both hands, even when she was in the shower.
“Don’t look now. But that smelly German guy from Dam Square just walked in.”
Of course I turned around and Ophelia was right. Lars was standing at the bar looking in our direction. While we had been taking pictures in Dam Square, a scraggly looking, lanky guy wearing a faded Italian football jersey walked up to Ophelia. I thought he was homeless because he was looking for spare change and cigarettes. He pestered us until I gave him a few Euros and he left. He must have followed us to Albatros, which was over thirty winding blocks east of Dam Square.
He walked over and whispered, “Charlie. I got it.”
He extended his right hand as if to shake hands with me. I stared at the dark lines of dirt underneath his fingernails. I reluctantly obliged. While shaking hands, I realized he slid something into my palm; a small piece of magazine paper rolled up to the size of a silver dollar. I unwrapped it and I saw white powder sitting in the middle of a vodka advertisement. Absolut Nose Candy.
“Charlie. Do you want?” he whispered again as he circled our table twice, obviously agitated, both times tripping on the chair next to us.
“If I buy it will you leave us alone?”
Ophelia gave me a revolted look like, “I can’t believe you’re buying drugs from this loser. What are you … a friggin’ cokehead from the Valley?”
I threw a couple of twenty Euro bills at him. Lars rubbed his blood shot eyes and ran out the front door.
“You’re not actually going to do any of that? Are you?”
“Come on? I’m going to sell it to the first batch of dumb American frat boys I see.”
She snickered, sluggishly lit up another cigarette, then mumbled, “Decker was a Replicant, you know that?”
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Ophelia took an extended drag on her cigarette. She purposely took her time before she smoothly exhaled towards the direction of the tiny candle in the middle of our squeaky table. Ophelia sat mesmerized by the milky designs of smoke rings that mingled with the stagnant air. She was polluted. The absinthe slowly hit her. One second she seemed fine and coherent, and the next instance she was muttering in broken English and LA speak, twitching and waving her left hand at an imaginary fly. We had been sitting in the poorly lit Albatros Café on Westerstraat Street for over an hour, and in that time we attempted to discuss the various interpretations of Blade Runner, and I polished off three Amstels. She barely touched her tea, instead she put a hefty dent into the pack of Gitanes she had bought during our desperate search for hash and French smokes in the early afternoon. Opehlia could chain smoke like a World Champion. For the entire time we were in Amsterdam together, I swear she had a lit cigarette in both hands, even when she was in the shower.
“Don’t look now. But that smelly German guy from Dam Square just walked in.”
Of course I turned around and Ophelia was right. Lars was standing at the bar looking in our direction. While we had been taking pictures in Dam Square, a scraggly looking, lanky guy wearing a faded Italian football jersey walked up to Ophelia. I thought he was homeless because he was looking for spare change and cigarettes. He pestered us until I gave him a few Euros and he left. He must have followed us to Albatros, which was over thirty winding blocks east of Dam Square.
He walked over and whispered, “Charlie. I got it.”
He extended his right hand as if to shake hands with me. I stared at the dark lines of dirt underneath his fingernails. I reluctantly obliged. While shaking hands, I realized he slid something into my palm; a small piece of magazine paper rolled up to the size of a silver dollar. I unwrapped it and I saw white powder sitting in the middle of a vodka advertisement. Absolut Nose Candy.
“Charlie. Do you want?” he whispered again as he circled our table twice, obviously agitated, both times tripping on the chair next to us.
“If I buy it will you leave us alone?”
Ophelia gave me a revolted look like, “I can’t believe you’re buying drugs from this loser. What are you … a friggin’ cokehead from the Valley?”
I threw a couple of twenty Euro bills at him. Lars rubbed his blood shot eyes and ran out the front door.
“You’re not actually going to do any of that? Are you?”
“Come on? I’m going to sell it to the first batch of dumb American frat boys I see.”
She snickered, sluggishly lit up another cigarette, then mumbled, “Decker was a Replicant, you know that?”
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Mausoleum
By Diane Roy
It was wonderful what the room told. 20 by 20 it grasped a blender still dirty, waiting to be washed, a basil plant dying and still waiting to be plucked. The roaches had claimed the frying pan from Williams-Sonoma still fervent with old fried egg. The mice had gingerly walked around the Calvin Klein sheets waiting to be washed. The only thing still alive was the answering machine. The little red light was flashing, rushing still and it was terrible what the room told. The room was neat and it's filth was only a day old, and like a vampire, it was trapped forever in this day. The answering machine was the only thing alive, waiting like an exasperated lover, waiting to be released from the duty of reliving that day, over and over and over, when Margaret would finally have the courage to come over. When she would get the spare key from Stephan's landlord. It was wonderful what the room told. The flowers had long died before the day and looked dreadfully ornate amongst the milk on the counter that had run over. While everything else in the apartment was busy grieving, it was the answering machine alone who was still nervous. It alone held the remnants of Stephan, the eight messages one after the other.
The bedroom was huge really. Wood floors, a little patchy but polished supported it. The walls were yellow, not paisley and complacent but a gold yellow; royal really. The bed was a queen sized bed, fitted with starched sheets, red to match the room and all of the furniture was unfinished wood. The only thing out of place, in the Ikea country décor was the answering machine. Black and sleek, it sat atop the heater blinking. It was a Casio, fit with all the trimmings. Digital answering machine AND Caller ID, all in one shot. The black plastic matched the gold yellow wall and gave the room a bit of new age ambiance. However it was the incessant blinking that disturbed the aura. The little red light flashing on and off sat there like a ghost. Janet sat on the bed, legs not crossed but together. She was perfectly still, but then kept smoothing her skirt over and over. She began to think that if she continued she might wear a hole through it. The sunlight streamed in through the window next to the bed, illuminating the yellow of the wall and the brown in the patchy floors. Warmth filled the room but the phone with the blinking light was still cold. Cold since the day Robert had left for his flight to San Diego. Janet sat there wondering when she would get the courage to hit play. The courage to hear the “I love you's” and the “will you marry me's” and the ominous “will you have my baby's” waiting, on voicemail. She knew he would say all the things he couldn't over dinner and the countless dinners before that that they had together and the little red light waited for her… just blinking blinking. Wondering what it was like for him, knowing he would die and having the freedom to say all the things he couldn't. A freedom she no longer had because during the incident her cell phone had stopped working. She wondered if it was better that he hadn't gotten through. Better because she didn't know what she'd say to a dying man. What would she say? What could she say? Finally she got up and walked slowly across the room and hit play. It responded, quietly and dutifully "I miss you already."
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
It was wonderful what the room told. 20 by 20 it grasped a blender still dirty, waiting to be washed, a basil plant dying and still waiting to be plucked. The roaches had claimed the frying pan from Williams-Sonoma still fervent with old fried egg. The mice had gingerly walked around the Calvin Klein sheets waiting to be washed. The only thing still alive was the answering machine. The little red light was flashing, rushing still and it was terrible what the room told. The room was neat and it's filth was only a day old, and like a vampire, it was trapped forever in this day. The answering machine was the only thing alive, waiting like an exasperated lover, waiting to be released from the duty of reliving that day, over and over and over, when Margaret would finally have the courage to come over. When she would get the spare key from Stephan's landlord. It was wonderful what the room told. The flowers had long died before the day and looked dreadfully ornate amongst the milk on the counter that had run over. While everything else in the apartment was busy grieving, it was the answering machine alone who was still nervous. It alone held the remnants of Stephan, the eight messages one after the other.
The bedroom was huge really. Wood floors, a little patchy but polished supported it. The walls were yellow, not paisley and complacent but a gold yellow; royal really. The bed was a queen sized bed, fitted with starched sheets, red to match the room and all of the furniture was unfinished wood. The only thing out of place, in the Ikea country décor was the answering machine. Black and sleek, it sat atop the heater blinking. It was a Casio, fit with all the trimmings. Digital answering machine AND Caller ID, all in one shot. The black plastic matched the gold yellow wall and gave the room a bit of new age ambiance. However it was the incessant blinking that disturbed the aura. The little red light flashing on and off sat there like a ghost. Janet sat on the bed, legs not crossed but together. She was perfectly still, but then kept smoothing her skirt over and over. She began to think that if she continued she might wear a hole through it. The sunlight streamed in through the window next to the bed, illuminating the yellow of the wall and the brown in the patchy floors. Warmth filled the room but the phone with the blinking light was still cold. Cold since the day Robert had left for his flight to San Diego. Janet sat there wondering when she would get the courage to hit play. The courage to hear the “I love you's” and the “will you marry me's” and the ominous “will you have my baby's” waiting, on voicemail. She knew he would say all the things he couldn't over dinner and the countless dinners before that that they had together and the little red light waited for her… just blinking blinking. Wondering what it was like for him, knowing he would die and having the freedom to say all the things he couldn't. A freedom she no longer had because during the incident her cell phone had stopped working. She wondered if it was better that he hadn't gotten through. Better because she didn't know what she'd say to a dying man. What would she say? What could she say? Finally she got up and walked slowly across the room and hit play. It responded, quietly and dutifully "I miss you already."
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
Ivan and Aruba
By Iggy
Allow me to paint a picture for you of my last evening in Aruba. Hurricane Ivan was on it's way and everything was closed up or shut down. Arubans were twitchy and dumbfounded, and that alone made me nervous. A hurricane, much less a category 4 storm, had not hit this lovely island in nearly 200 years.
But the wife and I decide to head out in the evening. It was our last nite, after all. The hurricane wasn't supposed to 'hit' until early morning so we made some calls and discover that only the poker room at the Allegro and Radisson are open. The wife and I head to the Allegro with intentions of my teaching her how to play craps after my Las Vegas lessons with Hank.
Sadly, not enough dealers showed up for work on this historic Hurricane evening, so the craps table was shut down. I reluctantly sat down at a blackjack table for about 20 minutes before my lovely lady taps my shoulder and says, "Screw this, go cash out and play poker."
Sweet. Mrs. Iggy rules.
She drops me off at the Radisson. The weather is getting very ugly now - the main coastal road is entirely washed out and the beaches are under water due to the relentless pounding surf.
I walk down the huge half-open-air lobby to the casino entrance only to find it locked. Ouch! But then I hear a Southern twangy voice call out to me, "Come on over, the poker game has been moved here!"
I look over and find the Aruban senior poker dealer dealing to what turns out to be five American guys on a big coffee table with bottles of rum, wine and whisky strewn about. They are drinking heavily, smoking bigass honking Cuban cigars, stacking giant stacks of ten dollar chips and looked to be having the time of their life.
"You've got to be kidding me," I utter.
The leader of this gregarious crew shouts out, "This is the only game in town and we're gambling like it's our last night on Earth, which very well may be true with the fucking Hurricane on the way!"
Egads, I think. I can't make this shit up. My 'sane' internal voice tells me to get the fuck out of this open air lobby and back to the resort, where my odds of living are far better.
But my internal IGGY voice bitchslaps the voice of reason and I hear myself say, "If that booze is available to all players, deal me in boys," and they all cheered loudly.
Buy the ticket, take the ride, as Hunter Thompson says.
Ignatious J. Reilly is a writer and poker player from New Orleans, LA.
Allow me to paint a picture for you of my last evening in Aruba. Hurricane Ivan was on it's way and everything was closed up or shut down. Arubans were twitchy and dumbfounded, and that alone made me nervous. A hurricane, much less a category 4 storm, had not hit this lovely island in nearly 200 years.
But the wife and I decide to head out in the evening. It was our last nite, after all. The hurricane wasn't supposed to 'hit' until early morning so we made some calls and discover that only the poker room at the Allegro and Radisson are open. The wife and I head to the Allegro with intentions of my teaching her how to play craps after my Las Vegas lessons with Hank.
Sadly, not enough dealers showed up for work on this historic Hurricane evening, so the craps table was shut down. I reluctantly sat down at a blackjack table for about 20 minutes before my lovely lady taps my shoulder and says, "Screw this, go cash out and play poker."
Sweet. Mrs. Iggy rules.
She drops me off at the Radisson. The weather is getting very ugly now - the main coastal road is entirely washed out and the beaches are under water due to the relentless pounding surf.
I walk down the huge half-open-air lobby to the casino entrance only to find it locked. Ouch! But then I hear a Southern twangy voice call out to me, "Come on over, the poker game has been moved here!"
I look over and find the Aruban senior poker dealer dealing to what turns out to be five American guys on a big coffee table with bottles of rum, wine and whisky strewn about. They are drinking heavily, smoking bigass honking Cuban cigars, stacking giant stacks of ten dollar chips and looked to be having the time of their life.
"You've got to be kidding me," I utter.
The leader of this gregarious crew shouts out, "This is the only game in town and we're gambling like it's our last night on Earth, which very well may be true with the fucking Hurricane on the way!"
Egads, I think. I can't make this shit up. My 'sane' internal voice tells me to get the fuck out of this open air lobby and back to the resort, where my odds of living are far better.
But my internal IGGY voice bitchslaps the voice of reason and I hear myself say, "If that booze is available to all players, deal me in boys," and they all cheered loudly.
Buy the ticket, take the ride, as Hunter Thompson says.
Ignatious J. Reilly is a writer and poker player from New Orleans, LA.
Vermont Wake Up Call
By Tenzin McGrupp
15 Aug 2004, Coventry, Vermont
Normally as an insomniac, I wake up several times in the middle of the night, usually never falling back to sleep. I passed out hard after the first show due to the serious sleep deprivation I suffered from the entire week of being on the road seeing four shows spread out along the Eastern corridor. My first memory of Sunday morning were the wailing screams from a drunk guy. I wiped away the eye boogers and unzipped the door to my tent. It was 8:30 AM and I was greeted by a shirtless dude wandering around our camping area with a cocktail in his hand.
"Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay morning! It's go time! High temperatures 76, low of 72. Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay morning!!!! Time to get up. You're all on vacation. You're all in Vermont. Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaay morning!!!!! It's go time!"
He repeated the same phrases for twenty minutes straight. He woke up everyone in our acre of wet grass and mud. Despite her ear plugs, Molly could still hear him. As soon as he calmed down, I heard the girl in the tent next to us utter, "I am never doing mushrooms again."
Everyone in their tents started a domino effect of uncontrollable laughing and giggling. The poor girl next to us from Kansas was still tripping when she woke up. Yeah, Dorothy, we've all been there. Dr. Pauly's advice.... smoke through it. And don't forget... no matter what you might think, you cannot fly.
"Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaaaay morning. High temperatures 76!"
I stumbled out of our humid tent and began my ritualistic wake and bake session, my first ever in Vermont. That's when I saw the naked pregnant woman squatting down in the woods behind our tent. She was taking a shit. A nasty one, too. I heard a several uncomfortable grunts and moans. Only at a Phish festival could you shrug off that scene. Sure it might have been the first strange thing I saw that day, but I was guaranteed that by midnight, the naked pregnant chick taking a shit behind my tent would be the 136th weird-ass-happening that I'd experience. Now if she gave birth right there... then that would have been definitely blogworthy.
What does one say to a naked pregnant woman taking a shit in front of you while you're getting high?
"Ummm, er.... how about those Red Sox, huh? Want a hit?"
No, she probably didn't like baseball. Plus the Sox suck. That would have been bad. I wandered over to the Common Ground Cafe and I picked up two egg and cheese sandwiches on a wheat roll and two waters for me and Molly. I chatted with a few Canadian Mounties to get the weather report. There were plenty of people still up from the night before as they stumbled back to their tents. We ate a little bit and Molly called her stepfather to get the skinny on the weather via the Internet to verify the information the Mounties had given me. Technology vs. odd Canadians in red shirts on horses. Which do you trust when you're stoned out of your tits and see dark clouds rolling over the hills from the West?
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
15 Aug 2004, Coventry, Vermont
Normally as an insomniac, I wake up several times in the middle of the night, usually never falling back to sleep. I passed out hard after the first show due to the serious sleep deprivation I suffered from the entire week of being on the road seeing four shows spread out along the Eastern corridor. My first memory of Sunday morning were the wailing screams from a drunk guy. I wiped away the eye boogers and unzipped the door to my tent. It was 8:30 AM and I was greeted by a shirtless dude wandering around our camping area with a cocktail in his hand.
"Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay morning! It's go time! High temperatures 76, low of 72. Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay morning!!!! Time to get up. You're all on vacation. You're all in Vermont. Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaay morning!!!!! It's go time!"
He repeated the same phrases for twenty minutes straight. He woke up everyone in our acre of wet grass and mud. Despite her ear plugs, Molly could still hear him. As soon as he calmed down, I heard the girl in the tent next to us utter, "I am never doing mushrooms again."
Everyone in their tents started a domino effect of uncontrollable laughing and giggling. The poor girl next to us from Kansas was still tripping when she woke up. Yeah, Dorothy, we've all been there. Dr. Pauly's advice.... smoke through it. And don't forget... no matter what you might think, you cannot fly.
"Happy Sundaaaaaaaaaaaaay morning. High temperatures 76!"
I stumbled out of our humid tent and began my ritualistic wake and bake session, my first ever in Vermont. That's when I saw the naked pregnant woman squatting down in the woods behind our tent. She was taking a shit. A nasty one, too. I heard a several uncomfortable grunts and moans. Only at a Phish festival could you shrug off that scene. Sure it might have been the first strange thing I saw that day, but I was guaranteed that by midnight, the naked pregnant chick taking a shit behind my tent would be the 136th weird-ass-happening that I'd experience. Now if she gave birth right there... then that would have been definitely blogworthy.
What does one say to a naked pregnant woman taking a shit in front of you while you're getting high?
"Ummm, er.... how about those Red Sox, huh? Want a hit?"
No, she probably didn't like baseball. Plus the Sox suck. That would have been bad. I wandered over to the Common Ground Cafe and I picked up two egg and cheese sandwiches on a wheat roll and two waters for me and Molly. I chatted with a few Canadian Mounties to get the weather report. There were plenty of people still up from the night before as they stumbled back to their tents. We ate a little bit and Molly called her stepfather to get the skinny on the weather via the Internet to verify the information the Mounties had given me. Technology vs. odd Canadians in red shirts on horses. Which do you trust when you're stoned out of your tits and see dark clouds rolling over the hills from the West?
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
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