Friday, February 27, 2009

RICHIE (Chapter One - Twitter Novel / Keitai Shosetsu Version)

the kid who was talking
before silent now
so i wrote what he said down

- adolescence is the furnace
in which the great themes of
our lives are forged -

which i think is kind of
brilliant his name is richie
mr isaacs looks at him

and i thought he was gonna
say something snide like he
does but he actually kind of

- interesting quote richie
who said that - kind of with
his lips pursed

- i did i mean i didnt say it i
wrote it down awhile ago
but its mine -

isaacs arches his eyebrows
says something about not
mixing the metaphors being
good but

goes on to question the
validity which i guess means
i like the way you said that
but i dont believe you

the richie kid folds his arms
leather jacket creaks which i
think is cool i want one

he asks why and mr isaacs
goes into song and dance
about experiences of a 15 or
16 year old boy

and 40 year old man he will
become being totally
different as he grows life
changes themes change

and if not then person ends
up being kind of retarded at
least emotionally richie puts his
hands palms down on table

goes - i dont mean everything
concerns beliefs stay the
same that would be crazy

- i mean stuff they care about
deep down most important
what makes them feel like
passion -

and a bunch of kids laugh at
- passion - because theyre all
super gay and damaged and
cant be mature about it

isaacs says he knows what
richie means and admires his
passion then looks around the
room and pinheads shut up

but then mr isaacs goes into
evolution of passion over
lifetime more reasonable
balanced modes of

difference between an
arrested adolescent and
happy healthy adult and
richie sits back

goes - so you dont think truer
we stay to stuff we believe
now is more we fully stay
alive -

and isaacs laughs actually
laughs says - no not at all
this may be something that
can only be

learned by experience - and
the kid says under his breath
- maybe -

mr isaacs checks his watch
dramatically - thats as good a
place as any to stop chapters
4 and 5 for tomorrow -

//wave of groaning and

- look you little weasels stop
bitching or ill throw in
chapter 6 - immediate silence
- okay then -

then richie catches my eye as
im pulling on my pea coat
nods at me - nice shirt -

surprised i look down look
back up
- oh uh thanks -

-i didnt think anyone at this
school would know about
robert williams -

i pull up my pea coat - uh
whos robert williams - feel
immediately stupid

richie is taken aback - the guy
who drew the picture thats on
yr shirt dumbass -

i shrug downcast - i just got
it cuz ben from kill taker
wears one on their website -

richie whistles sadly through
his teeth - that band
suuuuuucks - pulls backpack
across shoulder

- do an image search on yr
shirt tonight and find out
about williams hes
awesome -

the kid swaggers out big
black boots thudding across
hardwood floor i say almost

- sure -

Friday, February 20, 2009

RICHIE (Part One - Regular Version)

Desmond writes the line down in his notebook, scribbling quickly before he loses the wording:

Adolescence is the furnace in which the great themes of our lives are forged.

He looks back up at the kid who said it, silent now, then up to the head of the table where Mr. Isaacs purses his lips.

"Interesting quote, Richie. Who said that?"

"I did. I mean, I didn't say it, I wrote it down a while ago. But it is mine."

Mr. Isaacs arches his eyebrows. "Well, I'm certainly impressed that you didn't mix your metaphors, but I do have to question the validity of your statement."

The kid, Richie, folds his arms, leather jacket creaking. "Why?"

"Well, to begin with, the experiences of a sixteen-year-old boy and the thirty or forty-year-old man he will become are, by definition, vastly different. The great themes of a man or woman's life change as the circumstances of that person's life change: who they love, if they marry, if they have children, what they do for a living...where they choose to live." Isaacs pauses. "The great themes of a person's life have to change after adolescence or that person will end up - again, by definition - completely mired in the past."

Richie leans forward, places his hands palms-down on the table. "I don't mean that, like, all of their concerns or beliefs stay the same - you're right, that would be crazy. I mean the stuff they deep-down care about, what's most important to them - what they think is right, what they think is totally fucked, what makes them feel, you know, passion."

A couple of chuckles around the table at the word "passion". Richie scowls, gestures to Mr. Isaacs. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, Richie, I do. And I admire your passion." He casts a glance around the table at the other boys in his class, who now remain silent. "But I think that the evolution of those passions over the course of a life into...more reasonable modes of what separates an adult from an arrested adolescent."

Richie sits back. "So you don't think that...the truer we stay to the stuff we believe now at sixteen, or fifteen, or whatever is...the more we stay fully alive?"

A smile slowly breaks across Mr. Isaacs' face. "No. Not at all. This may be," he tilts his head, "something that...can only be learned by experience."

Richie, under his breath: "Maybe."

Mr. Isaacs checks his watch. "And that's probably as good a place as any to stop. Chapters four and five for tomorrow, gentlemen." A wave of groaning protest engulfs the table. Mr. Isaacs' previous calm, easygoing demeanor immediately disappears. "Look, you little weasels, stop bitching or I'll throw in chapter six!" Silence follows. "Okay, then."

As they pack up their books, Richie casts a glance over at Desmond pulling on his pea coat. "Nice shirt."

Desmond looks up at Richie, surprised, then down at this shirt, then back at Richie. "Oh, uh, thanks."

"I didn't think anyone at this school would know about Robert Williams."

Desmond finishes putting his pea coat on. "Um, who's Robert Williams?"

Richie looks at him, taken aback. "The guy who drew the picture that's on your shirt, dumb-ass."

Desmond shrugs, drops his gaze. "I just got it 'cause Ben from Kill Taker wears one on their website."

Richie whistles sadly through his teeth. "That band sucks." He pulls his backpack over one shoulder. "Do an image search on your shirt tonight and find out about Williams. He's awesome." Richie swaggers out, big black boots thudding across the hardwood floor as Desmond quietly murmurs to himself, "Sure."

Friday, February 13, 2009


The girl was heavy into Jeff; she knew it, we knew it. Much beers later, you had half a mind to tell the kid because he obviously wasn't gonna get it on his own. Snakeland was good for beers and bong hits - no one ever there except homeless dudes. And snakes. The part by the water you could huck the bottles in; dig the splash, then the echo of the splash. The empty grain elevators were a wall between us and the cops, all floor holes and broken glass. Pretty sweet. The girl was totally listening to Jeff and all his World of Warcraft bullshit which he never would've been talking about to a girl unless he was totally high. Which he was, but that's still no excuse to be blabbering that geek noise to some piece of ass that followed us to Snakeland. So we all give Jeff the eye and the nod and he finally gets it and he's like you wanna go down by the water? and she's like yeah, sure and they grab a couple of beers and they go and we laugh a little and they laugh a little. And then Tony's all Let's build a fire! and Dez is all No, let's just cut out the middleman and actually tell the cops where we are, and then it's Fuck You but bong hits later no problem.

Jeff or the girl whips a bottle in the water but it must've been a big one because the echo is even bigger than the splash, or at least it sounds that way. From where we are. The girl walks up, hours later maybe, feels that way, wiping her mouth says Jeff fell asleep. Dez waits until she leaves, looks at us, goes Is that a good sign or a bad sign? And Tony goes Who cares, where did they get wine? Dez is like The fuck you talking about? And Tony says Her mouth was all red, dude. Her lips were all red.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


It was as if the fever dreams of a thousand lonely hardcore bands actually came true. Ronald Reagan, fangs elongated and dripping green poison, hunched over the big, fat, round, red, candy-like Button with his crooked finger poised to press, cowboy hat perched on his slick black Bob’s Big Boy quiff, a crucified Christ in miniature bouncing on his right shoulder like some over-eager younger brother on a pogo stick. Too perfect to actually exist, this was the collective image that reflected back at us from the t-shirts and album covers of a terrified and neutered nation.

Except that it did exist, but only for a moment before it was swept away by the plutonium wind. “I’ve just outlawed Russia forever,” he giggled, his fawning Yes men laughing along, Nancy poised just behind with her elongated fingers brushing his collar. “We begin bombing in f-f-five m-m-m-m-m-minutes” he stuttered out like a Sigue Sigue Sputnik remix and then he pushed it down, he pushed it down and it made a tiny squeaking sound like the horn on a Fisher Price plastic car. Oddly enough, the Button was also made by Fisher Price, but unfortunately their steadfast attention to detail in this case meant that the Button actually worked, and soon the missiles filled the sky.

MAD, or Mutually Assured Destruction (as every schoolchild was taught in 1988), was supposed to be the ultimate deterrent to nuclear Armageddon as any sane individual would be thought to refrain from pushing a Button that would be summarily pressed in kind by his Russki counterpart after death began to rain down from above. But Ronald Reagan, he pushed it down; and them in Moscow, they pushed it down; and you, you can fuckin’ fill in the rest.

Baby make boom boom. Ha ha.