At least one person thought the opening words and story in my July 8 post were my own. They didn’t recognize the lyrics, and only realized the story was from a song after reading my explanation. If anyone else “fell” for that, I apologize. I didn’t mean to pass the words off as my own; I thought the lyrics were well known enough to be recognizable at least by the third paragraph.

So, as penance for that appearance of plagiarism, I offer this original prose sketch. This isn’t a full piece of work, by itself. Think of it as an illustrator’s concept drawing of a single scene.

* * *

The corridor stretched before him. Ancient, brittle bricks made the walls, floor, and ceiling. His footsteps did not echo, but merely died in the dirt and dust. He closed on his goal. It was behind the small wooden door far down the hall.

Something behind that dark portal called to him. Summoned him. A great light beyond the door escaped between the valve and its frame. Shadows broke the glow and moved about.

He quickened his pace. He knew he must reach the light. Not why, only that he must bask in its brilliance.

Now he ran, chest heaving and arms flailing. The sound of his breathing and footsteps dissipated between the cracks in the walls.

Instantly he arrived at the door. It seemed to breathe. No, it wasn’t breathing, it was speaking. It commanded him to open and move beyond it. His hand seized the cold metal knob and opened the door in a quick, jerked motion.

The light blinded him momentarily. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and finally focused on the object beckoning him.

The light had faded to a dim, fluid glow. The room was a small, bricked chamber. In the center stood a rickety wood table, covered in dust. On the table was a small, glass orb. The glow came from the ball. It looked as though it had just been polished, for no dust coated its surface.

He did not remember approaching the table, but he stood mere inches from the glowing sphere. He gazed into its depths.

Faces. He saw faces. Pale faces contorted in gruesome expressions. The glow began to pulse. He must hold this orb. He must feel it against his flesh. He must feel its weight in his hands. What was it? He did not care. All he knew was that he must have it. Or must it have him? Again, he did not care.

He surrounded it with his hands, but he did not yet touch it. His palms became warm and moist. The glass ball played with his emotions of possession. Greed. Desire. Other feelings he had never experienced. He must touch it. He must. He had no choice.

He touched it.

* * *

There. An original prose sketch. Not as evocative as The Eagle’s story, but hey, I’m not insanely talented nor tripping on large doses of cocaine. Heck, I’m not even on Cap’n Crunch tonight.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

The Sugar Cabinet

We don’t have a liquor cabinet in our home, we have a sugar cabinet—it’s where we keep the Cap’n Crunch, Count Chocula, and Pop Tarts. It’s not locked, but it is very high, beyond the reach and sight of the children.

Have a hard day? Eat a bowl, or four, of Cap’n Crunch. Alcohol puts you to sleep, but sugary cereal puts the rush on so I can type 120 words a minute. I can make four posts in one night.

Comic Prices

I just bought a new comic book. It’s not the first I’ve bought lately, but it’s the first I’ve bought as one purchase. Until yesterday, my recent comic book purchases have been “throw ins” with larger purchases—other books, groceries, etc.—so I haven’t seen the price of the comic. Comics are four bucks, now days. Four dollars for a comic book. The last time I bought these books regularly, they were just a buck and a half, maybe two bucks for some. Four bucks.

They look really good, and the stories are just as good as before, but wow—four bucks.

Field #4

The boys and I went to the park for my oldest boy’s tee-ball practice. We got there about 20 minutes early, and were just getting out of the van when another family showed up. A couple of kids and their mother got out of their van.

The kids were wearing different uniforms than our team—somebody was at the wrong field. I knew I was at the right field, as I had double-checked the schedule before leaving the house. My 6 year old wasn’t so sure. He was ready to bail on the field. He apparently trusted the presence of strangers more than the word of his father.

I spoke briefly with the strangers, and the mother assured me this field was for her team. She held up her cell phone and said, “I just called my husband to double-check the schedule, and he confirmed we’re supposed to be at field number four.”

Okay, I guess that made me wrong. I admitted my mistake to my sons and got them back in the van. We drove over to field #1 (the only other one open for our league at the time). No one else was at field #1, and I wasn’t convinced that this was the right field. So we sat in the van for about five more minutes to see if someone we knew was going to show up.

The only person to show up was the mom and kids who had just told me I had the wrong field at #4. They drove through the parking lot, but didn’t stop. I figured she had found out that she had made a mistake. But she didn’t even wave, honk, or anything else to acknowledge me and the boys. We were the only other ones at either field, so she had to recognize us.

Anyway, I sat there for another minute and then left field #1 and went back to field #4. There were a couple other dads with their players, including our coach. So I had been right the first time. And the mom that told me she had confirmed she was right, and essentially sent me away to look for the other field, never bothered to let me know, even though she had passed right by us. Errr.

Editing After Sugar Writing

A writer on a sugar rush at night makes a lot of work for the editor the next morning. (I wear both hats.) That “120 words a minute” brag? Yeah, about 110 of those words are gibberish. The words weren’t misspelled or anything, they just didn’t make understandable context. I probably shouldn’t drive under the influence of Cap’n Crunch, either.

I decided to leave most of “Field #4” uncut because it makes the writer look like a whiny ass. An editor’s job is hard and thankless enough without the writer making it more complicated by writing stream of consciousness with a sugar high. The editor has to take his shots where he can. [Insert maniacal laugh here.]

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

2YO: “Daddy?”

2YO: “Daddy?”

Dad: “What, son?”

2YO: “Daddy?”

Dad: “What?”

2YO: “Help me, Daddy. Get game down.” [Game is in closet higher than boy can reach.]

Dad: “Just a minute. I’ve got to finish putting the dishes up.”

2YO: “Help me, Daddy. Get game down.”

2YO: “Help me, Daddy.”

2YO: “Help me, Daddy.”

Dad: “OK, I will, just a minute. I’m busy right now.”

2YO: “Please.”

Dad: “Thank you for being polite, but I’m busy right now.”

2YO: “Get game down, Daddy.”

2YO: “Help me, Daddy.”

Dad: “Son, son, just hold on, OK?”

2YO: “Alright.”

2YO: “. . .” [About 3 seconds.]

2YO: “Daddy?”

2YO: “Daddy?”

2YO: “Daddy.”

2YO: “Daddy.”

2YO: “Daddy.”

2YO: “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”

Dad: “WHAT!?”

2YO: “Get game down.”

Dad: “Look, I have to put these dishes up, first. I’ll get your game down in a minute. Play with your puzzles or trucks.”

2YO: “Alright.”

2YO: “Daddy?”

2YO: “Daddy?”

2YO: “Daddy.”

Dad: “OK, I’m done. I’ll get the game down for you.”

2YO: “Alright.”

[Dad gets game down from closet.]

2YO: “Daddy?”

Dad: “Yes?”

2YO: “Imungy.”

Dad: “What?”

2YO: “Daddy?”

Dad: “What, son? I got the game down for you.”

2YO: “I’m hungry.”

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

On a dark desert highway, with cool wind in my hair, the warm smell of colitas was rising up through the air. Up ahead in the distance, I saw shimmering light. My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim. I had to stop for the night.

There she stood in the doorway. I heard the mission bell, and I was thinking to myself, “This could be Heaven or this could be Hell.” Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way.

There were voices down the corridor. I thought I heard them say, “Welcome to the Hotel California. It’s such a lovely place, with such a lovely face. There’s plenty of room at the Hotel California. Any time of year, you can find it here.”

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted. She’s got the Mercedes bends. She’s got a lot of pretty, pretty boys that she calls friends. How they dance in the courtyard—sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

So I called up the captain, and said “Please bring me my wine.”

He said, “We haven’t had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine.”

And still those voices are calling from far away. They’ll wake you up in the middle of the night, just to hear them say, “Welcome to the Hotel California. It’s such a lovely place, with such a lovely face. They’re living it up at the Hotel California. What a nice surprise. Bring your alibis.”

There’re mirrors on the ceiling, there’s pink champagne on ice.

She said, “We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.”

And in the master’s chambers, they gather for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can’t kill the beast.

The last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before.

”Relax,” said the night man. “We are programmed to receive. You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave!”

* * *

As an experiment, I edited the lyrics to “Hotel California” (The Eagles, 1976) into prose, to see how it would look as a story, rather than a song. I still can’t read it silently without singing it in my head. Even reading it aloud requires attentive control to avoid it flowing into the melody. I wonder how it would sound being read by someone who didn’t recognize it right away, or didn’t know the song at all. Maybe I need to get someone under the age of 20 to read it to me.

It’s interesting how as sung, the story seems to make a kind of sense. (At least to me.) But as prose, it’s disjointed and fragmentary. I think the mind tends to fill in the missing context because of the music behind the lyrics, and that makes it make sense to the listener. Although, I’ve heard more than one interpretation of this song from numerous people over the years—it’s about a witches’ coven, it’s about a Satanic cult, it’s about drug addiction—so the context one inserts is varied.

* * *

Girl, close your eyes, let that rhythm get into you. Don’t try to fight it, there’s nothing you can do. Relax your mind, lay back, and groove with me. You’ve got to feel that heat, and we can ride the boogie, we can share that beat of love.

I want to rock with you all night; I want to dance you into day light. I want to rock with you all night. We’re going to rock the night away.

Out on the floor, there’s nobody there but us. Girl, when you dance, there’s a magic that must be love. Just take it slow, because we’ve got so far to go. When you feel that heat, and we’re going to ride the boogie, we can share that beat of love.

I want to rock with you all night; I want to dance you into day light. I want to rock with you all night. We’re going to rock the night away.

And when the groove is dead and gone, you know that love survives, so we can rock forever.

I want to rock with you, I want to groove with you. I want to rock with you girl, and dance the night away.

* * *

That’s the prose version of “Rock With You” (Michael Jackson, 1979). I dropped a lot of repetitive verse from the end, so this is probably only about two-thirds of the song’s length. This is a little easier for me to read without sliding into the melody.

Anyway, that’s enough of this experiment. For the record, I got both these lyrics from the liner notes in my own CD collection. I have very eclectic taste in music.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com