Yesterday at Bar Code, that two-story temple of overstimulation in Times Square, the demo for House of the Dead 2 gave me what may be the best advice I have ever received: "Shoot the dead attacking you." The next time I get drunk, or overly caffeinated, I'm probably going to think of that phrase and be struck by its profound and obscure meaning. House of the Dead 2, which I played with Cassie, also enabled me to get in touch with my inner Loomis: while clutching the plastic revolver I got the chance to mutter, "I prayed that he would burn in Hell -- but in my heart I knew that Hell would not have him!" It was great, up until the huge headless zombie killed us with an axe.I also found a few bits of stories that I had forgotten about. That is, I had forgotten about the bits, but in some cases I had more or less forgotten about the stories, too. Like the beginning of what I intended to be an epic packed with symbolism, kind of like The Faerie Queene on crack, only not in verse form. I tried writing a verse epic once, in freshman year of college, and as a result my roommate requested a room transfer. That's how I ended up in the only single in the entire dormitory. Living in the single was nice, but it was not nice to be forced into it by virtue of my repulsive quatrains. Of course my roommate was an idiot who wore tinted contacts of a patently unbelievable green and consequently looked like some kind of cheery blond cyborg, but still. Jeez.
Cassie and her boyfriend Bear and I also went to the ginormous Toys 'R' Us a few blocks away. This Toys 'R' Us, probably like every other Toys 'R' Us in the English-speaking world, has a whole section devoted exclusively to Harry Potter. And I wondered, looking at it, what it must be like for J. K. Rowling to walk into a store and see Harry Potter action broomsticks and Quiddich manuals and Hermione Granger plush dolls. She is probably very pleased; but is her pleasure mingled with bafflement or even vague terror, that these products of her brain should have taken over the whole damn world? I think mine would be.
"Someday this will be me," I said to Cassie. "Someday there will be little shrinkwrapped Jeremy Mishigosh action figures."
"Not for children, though, probably," said Cassie.
I also found a piece of the story in which Jeremy gets married. I don't think I will ever finish this story; it seems like a better idea to allude to Jeremy's wife from time to time and leave the sordid details to the reader's imagination.
I like this part, though:
Jeremy had always suspected that his wife might be a vampire. While it was true that she had never drawn blood, she did like to bite his neck, sometimes rather hard. She only did this when there was no one else around, and she always got a funny look in her eyes right before she did it. He supposed that if she was a vampire she tried to control herself because she liked him. Even so, he kept in mind that at any moment she might fasten onto his neck and start draining his lifeblood.Today's creepy fact, which I feel I must get off my chest, is that Warren Zevon recently recorded a cover of Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." I've known this since yesterday and I still don't know how to feel about it. Maybe someday I'll be able to find it as funny as Warren undoubtedly does, but these days I feel almost as if I'm inventing myself anew each day, and I just don't know where to put information that requires this kind of heart-mind coordination.
On the other hand, she had only started biting him after they were married, so it was also possible that this was just something married people did in private. So in case his wife was not a vampire, and this was instead some kind of friendly marital gesture, Jeremy sometimes bit her in return. He tried to bite as hard as she did, neither more nor less, and the intense concentration this required used to make him feel a little giddy. He would start giggling, and soon she would start giggling too. This could go on for quite a while.
Total word count: 59,896 (take that, NaNoWriMo punks!)