A Biographical Contest
I've been interviewed a few times and have gotten to blather on All About Me. . . and during the interviews I even told a version of the truth.
What a mistake, a waste of paper and bandwidth. Oh, how I wish I'd thought of this method instead. I should have asked the public to come up with my biography instead-- a la Liz at blondsense: Bugger. I can't seem to link to the memories, which are the best part. Does this work? (Yes! thank you, Liz)
You post a comment with a made-up, as in fictional, memory of you and the subject. It can be anything you want. Good or bad, it has to be fake.
IF this were a group blog, I'd definitely aim it at someone else.
I'm tempted to make you all post memories of you and Candy or maybe you and Doug. **
Heck, why not. . . Make it pg-13 at most, please.
Pick one of the players: Doug, or Candy and write a memory. The best one gets socks or mittens (I have a lovely pair all picked out-- my Fredneckian friend never identified herself in the last sox give-away. Bad girl.) I'm going to find an impartial judge (maybe Liz or Mule will do it). Doug and Candy can enter but only if they write about the other biographical subject.
And I think it'll end maybe ....ummmmmm in a week.
___________
**legal fine print: If either Doug or Candy start to whine, I'll change the player.
What a mistake, a waste of paper and bandwidth. Oh, how I wish I'd thought of this method instead. I should have asked the public to come up with my biography instead-- a la Liz at blondsense: Bugger. I can't seem to link to the memories, which are the best part. Does this work? (Yes! thank you, Liz)
You post a comment with a made-up, as in fictional, memory of you and the subject. It can be anything you want. Good or bad, it has to be fake.
IF this were a group blog, I'd definitely aim it at someone else.
I'm tempted to make you all post memories of you and Candy or maybe you and Doug. **
Heck, why not. . . Make it pg-13 at most, please.
Pick one of the players: Doug, or Candy and write a memory. The best one gets socks or mittens (I have a lovely pair all picked out-- my Fredneckian friend never identified herself in the last sox give-away. Bad girl.) I'm going to find an impartial judge (maybe Liz or Mule will do it). Doug and Candy can enter but only if they write about the other biographical subject.
And I think it'll end maybe ....ummmmmm in a week.
___________
**legal fine print: If either Doug or Candy start to whine, I'll change the player.
My memory is an old one – back when Doug was still Danika. We were roomies in University, way back in the early 80’s. Danika was studying for her Alien Physiology final, and I, being and arts major, was watching Gilligan’s Island reruns and rolling a joint.
ReplyDeleteShe walked into my room, topless and staring at her hairy breasts.
“Are they too hairy?” she asked without looking up.
You have to understand it was the episode where the Professor rigs a radio from a coconut and seawater, and it looked like they were finally going to be rescued, and I was detecting a little sexual tension between Mary Anne and the Skipper that I’d never noticed before, and here was Danika, waving her furry friggin’ tits in my face again.
“Jesus!” I said. “Thank God you aren’t a man or you’d probably never stop talking about your NUTS!”
A dreamy look came over her face, and she walked away. The next day she dropped out of school and started turning tricks. She dyed her boob hair red, stuck on some googly eyes, and learned to throw her voice so it sounded like her boobs were giggling. I found it disturbing (but, being an arts major, I didn’t find it too disturbing). The boys in the neighbourhood paid big bucks to spend time with her, and the gallon pickle jar in her room slowly filled up with fives and twenties and the occasional fifty. One day she announced she had enough money, she was going away for a couple weeks, and when she came back, I’d see a whole different person.
She was right. The Danika that burst through our front door was… well, she was Doug now. Gone were the breasts and the concern over the hair. Or so I thought. I was watching reruns of Barney Miller one night, and she – excuse me, I mean he -- walked through my door, pants around his ankles, personals held in one hand. “Are they too hairy?” he asked.
I’d learned my lesson. “Doug,” I said, “they’re just fine.”
damn, mm, it's going to be hard to beat that one.
ReplyDeleteKate, it is hard to beat, but that's only because the surgeon messed up the operation.
ReplyDeleteOy. Maureen, you've set the bar very high, but here goes.
Back in '82, I met Candy in Portland at a Bauhaus concert. She'd decked herself out in High Goth, with shoe polish black hair, lips to match, studded leather collar around her neck, and inch-long black fingernails. Saw me out of the corner of her eye, dropped her dance partner like a dirty diaper, and pushed her way through the crowd of slamdancers as if they were Brownian motes and she was a cruise missile. She hooked her nails in my belt with one hand, grabbed a handful of scalp hair with the other (you could do that, back then), and pulled my head down so she could whisper in my ear: "We slow dance this one, pal."
Bauhaus was playing their greatest hit, Bela Lugosi's Dead.
I caught my breath and asked her for her name. Candy. I thought she was feeding me a line.
She'd found me in a vulnerable spot. Memories of my first love were still sharp as icicles, and Candy reminded me so much of her, part of me wanted to run the other way. But Candy proved irresistible. Young (oh, so young), supple, plump in all the right places, and she possessed one other quality, the most potent aphrodisiac of all: she seemed interested in me.
Candy took me back to her place and fixed me a drink. Next thing I knew, I was crumpled up in a grimy alley behind Powell's Books sharing a bottle of White Lightning with a toothless, prune-faced old woman named Olga. She kept repeating something, over and over. After a long time, I realized she was talking to me.
"I said, you really ought to see someone about that neck wound."
I checked out my reflection in a puddle of Rotweiler pee. There, right over my left carotid, two punctures. My tee shirt clung to my chest, sticky with congealed blood.
Now I roam the Earth, forever hungry for blood. Damn you, Candy.
So it was hot and muggy. Summertime, high summer, August, I think, or maybe it was February and we were in Brazil. Remember that one, Doug? No? Me neither, not much anyways.
ReplyDeleteYeah, come to think of it, I think it was Brazil in February. We'd been arrested for something, some petty misdeed of Doug's, like usual. Double-parking in a tow-away zone, or maybe killing the mayor's dog. Doug didn't like the chihuahuas that the mayor favored, and he was a good shot with a .22 pistol, and he was a mean drunk. It was a bad combination all around.
So yeah. We're down in the police station, probably drunk -- we spent the entire month of February drunk that year, on a dare from some lawyer name of Scott -- and Doug says, o you'll love this one, Doug says, "Hey, bet you can't guess where I've got the cocaine hidden." To me. But loud enough that the cop heard him over the tap-tap-tap of the battered manual typewriter he was using to write up the incident report.
So the cop looks up, his eyes all flat and dead, and pulls the paper out of the platen with this zip sound, and the whole room is silent for a long second, nothing even moving but the slow lazy fans above us.
"Is joke?" says the cop in his fractured English.
"Hell no," says Doug. "Go ahead. Guess."
So they take him away down a long half-lit corridor, into a room with a thick oaken door, and I never set eyes on him again.
But I guess he must've gotten out, somehow, because last night I got home and there was a photo of a dead Chihuahua pinned to my door.
Whatta ya say, Doug? You and me, in Rio, next month? Knives in some dark alley? Just leave the .22 at home. I want a sportin' chance.
Oh right, the punch line. The kicker to this whole story. When Doug dared the cop to search him, here's the thing, I knew he didn't have the cocaine on him.
Because I had it.
Hey, Pat, you channeling Hunter S. Thompson or something?
ReplyDeleteDoug
ReplyDeleteHey, Pat, you channeling Hunter S. Thompson or something?
Not that I'm aware of, though I suppose anything's possible. I just started writing in the little comments box, and that's what came out...
Merry Christmas kate....we miss you over there ...but i can see that you really have a more interesting place here...Happy New Year too's....nanza
ReplyDeleteOoh, I liked that Cheryl. And, yes, I figured out it a fem POV.
ReplyDeleteNow . . . where the hell is Candy?
LOLOL - I'm not sure I can top the first one, but here goes:
ReplyDeleteI heard about Candy the first time from my sister. She was a waitress, and usually came home after midnight. This time she came home early and said, "There's a new girl in town."
I asked what her name was, and my mm said, "Candy - with a C." (We know a Kandy with a K, so this wasn't my sister being blonde, even if she is blonde, and even if she does think Kandy with a K is Kute.
We lived in a small, one horse town in the south of north Dakota, so a new girl was something...new. I knew we'd run into each other soon, and sure enough, we ran into each other at the Seven-Eleven. She was buying incontinence pads and hid them behind her back when she saw me. I was buying blond hair dye and tampax for my sister. We hit it off right away. Turns out the incontinence pads were for her elderly aunt, who she cared for rather than put in a nursing home. Candy was like that. All heart. I asked her out. She agreed. We went to the local bar. We slept together on and off for about two years.
She moved away two years later.
I'll never forget her. Neither will most of the men and boys in my town. Candy gave us all a dose of clap. But we still missed her.
Even the town horse missed her. She was the only one to feed bhim carrots.
Oh ack. I pushed preview and it published. I wanted to clear up the typos. I still have trouble typing with my broken arm.
ReplyDeleteAnyhow...sorry about the typos!
doug loved horses...the problem was he loved them to damned much...he was nick named "the horse whisperer"....
ReplyDeletebut exactly what he whisper into their ears late at night in the barn was a mystery
candy told me that she and her friends could hear loud whinneying after dark...and as the rauchy broad that she is.... the speculations she put forth would turn the air blue....
snickering by she and her galpals greeted doug each morning in the coffee shop....he dropped in each day to order his fave iced carmel mochachinno.... the sweat was always pouring down his face.. even in cool weather this guy was HOT...
late one nite when i leisurely passed the barn i saw goings on in silouette i didn't need to see...YIKES.....
but man all the fillies he whispered too always won their races the next day....
the guy's a stallion !!!!!