Another one!

        So I'm driving up to the fancy art place to meet her.  It's an exhibit and I have a free ticket.  The hall is packed with finely dressed people and I am wearing a green hooded sweatshirt and jeans that are too long (all of my jeans are too long). 
        I drive up to the valet parking guy, because up and down the block there is bumper to bumper parking.  There's even some people parked on the grass, but the grass is on the other side of a construction barrier and it's hard to tell how they got there. 
        "10 dollars."  The valet states.  He is wearing a white tuxedo and a hat with a red feather in it.
         "Do you take cards?"  I say.
        He looks up at me nonplussed.  This is the perfect opportunity to use that word.
        The silence continues.
        I ease off the break a little and he slaps the hood of my car.
        "Can I just park for free?"
        "No one ever asks that."  He shows some humanity.
         It seems like he is going to let me do it when a car behind pulls up. 
         "That guy is going to know you didn't pay if you don't pay, so you have to pay."  He says.
         "But I don't have any cash."
         "Then you can't park here."
          I put on the brake and get out, and knock on the tinted window of the black limousine behind me.  A gentleman with a monocle and a top hat is driving... and there's no one else in there. 
         "Are you the limo driver?"  I ask.  "Why are you driving a limo with no one else in it."
         "Sir, what are you doing?"  The valet pulls me aside.  The line of cars is full of well behaved drivers, still.
         "Can I have 10 bucks?"  I ask.
          He just stares at me through his one squinted eye.
       ___________________________________________
         I park a few miles away, in a section of downtown by the Chili Store.  I don't like chili, but I like that places chili.  So I get chili and then I'm on my way.
         I look at my watch.  I'm already 20 minutes late.  The plan to initiate this part of the plan was more fun and interesting than the actual plan. 
         I pivot on one foot and nearly turn around and stumble back into the car and drive it home.  My raggedy legal pad has all of the questions I've planned out to ask her on it.

Continuing my Fiction

           This is a secret, don't tell anyone this.  You know the internet?  Of course you know the internet.  Let me stop trying to be funny.
          Well, you can look up any celebrity on the internet.  You know this as well.  You can find most celebrities email addresses on here, sometimes their PR teams.  It does not take very much energy to write an email, and some celebrities are susceptible to personal appeals.
          Find someone who has done some minor work, someone who does not feel like they are famous yet.  Maybe someone who wrote an article that you kind of enjoyed, not one that will change your life or leave any kind of lasting impression, just a decent story.  They probably slaved over this writing for longer than you would ever imagine, to them it's probably the equivalent of one hit wonder band that has been touring for 30 years and playing that same song over and over.  Write them and tell them that you enjoy that article, maybe break that article down sentence by sentence, apply it to real life situations, tell them that it made you feel better when you're having a bad day, something like that.
            Let them email gestate for a few months.  Maybe drop one here or there about their recent goings-ons, google them occasionally.  Tell them you do a lot of writing but you aren't confident enough to let them read it, they probably will offer to.  This is called a personal connection. 
            Now you can use this relationship for whatever reason you want.  At any given time, you can send them an email with a humble topic line like:  "Remember me?"  or "Your biggest fan."  (Your biggest fan in the outro line is a winner every time as well).  If it turns out somehow that this person is extremely successful, atleast at whatever place they happen to work, write and ask them about available internships, random writing advice, if they have any friends who are looking for personal assistants, etc. 
            I'm writing this because I did this.  Not me, the blogger, me the character in this fictional essay.  This is a fiction blog, so everything contained here is fiction.  Even the real stuff.
            So this woman who was a quasi-successful writer in the late 50s (came in second for a Pulitzer, something like that) has offered to lend me her tutelage.  She has a basement room with wall to wall file cabinets of correspondences with other semi-successful writers, newspaper articles of importance, dirt on the now defunct newspapers she worked at, and many more odds and ends.  She doesn't do anything now, doesn't even write (picture a wilted flower), but she still has a name that semi-famous people in the area will recognize.
           It's called networking.  It works retroactively this way.  It's about getting your feet into as many doors as possible, metaphorically as well as literally.
          Then the problem sprang on me:  What do you do when you get there?  You wonder if she's worrying about the same things, but it's the next morning already, and this is when you planned to get together.  You watch The Graduate that night, and wonder if she's going to be attractive.

Internet Sign On

This has become more of a mission to get as many words onto the page as possible in increasingly short periods of time.  Since grad school started my creative writing has really taken a hit.

Hamburgers.  He wanted hamburgers.

"I'm on the phone, buddy, can you wait just a minute?"  His bespectacled old man waved him off.

"You want hamburgers, buddy?  Hamburgers?"  The maid asked, stooping down to his eye level.

All of the internet connections were titled things like:  "Funny cock" and "Pocket pussy."  The kid better not learn any words like that, he thought.

First update in awhile

Hey it's really easy for me to just keep on typing.  This is an exercise in typing.  I have twenty minutes before a class.

So there's this guy.

He lives in a cave.

He has sandwiches that he makes from the animals that he hunts.  He looks in his pantry, which is a pile of rocks.  There's no more sandwich stuff left.  There's a residue left where the blood was.

He rolls out of bed, it's a large log.  He has cut out the inside.  It's pretty comfortable, so far the termites haven't gotten to it.

He picks up his sling and his bag of rocks.  He hates carrying the bag of rocks, but he hasn't thought of any easier way. It leaves a big red line on his shoulder blade, and the line has slowly became an indentation. 

He walks outside with his rocks, waves at the mailman and next door neighbors.

"Going down to creek, yup."  He says to himself.

The neighbor ladies are outside drinking tea.  They wave.  He is handsome.  They knew his mother.

He comes to a stop sign.  It's a big red circle painted on a rock.  There's a lot of noise coming from the forest.  He ignores the stop sign, if that's what it's supposed to be.  He's unclear whether or not it's trying to keep him out of the forest, but hunting is always dangerous.  He's been trampled by boars on multiple occasions.

There's an animal he hasn't seen before.