Sliptongue Weblog

by St. Fond

email St. Fond

Yeah, I've been away from this Weblog for ages (Because, as stated below, it's under my own name and thus I'm expected to be myself in it and detail actual occurrences and spout heartfelt opinions, which makes me uneasy because I happen to be a writer of fiction. Fiction, of course, being the fine art of convincingly assuming false personalities and having the said personalities run riot within the psychic parameters that one's assigned to them while one remains safely in the background, hidden from view.) But, as a writer of fiction, I've been indulging my favorite alter-egos (Angie & Ella) and adding entires to the Random Frivolity Weblog fairly frequently, not to mention working on the first Angie & Ella novel.

As for the Angie & Ella entry of January 16, 2004, their 12 Frivolity... It seems a number of people are up in arms because Angie had the cheek of make fun of dominatrixes. It seems some people feel dominatrixes are to be unconditionally worshipped, and that mocking their costumes and posturing is a naughty thing to do. Well, what can I say? Angie's a contradictory brat, pure and simple: such is the personality I've assigned to her and if she elects to make fun of dominatrixes, then that's her right. Sure, as Angie's creator, I could rein her in and say: "Don't do it, Angie! Don't make fun of dominatrixes! It will annoy some people!"; but why would I do that? The idea is to let Angie fully indulge the personality I've assigned to her, without any interference on my part: that's what makes for a fine fictional roller coaster ride. Because I'll let you in on something: I never really know what Angie & Ella will cook up between themselves; they take me by surprise each time I sit down with them: I may not always agree with them, but I sure have fun!

One last thing: thanks very much to all of you for your support of Sliptongue! Our domain name, by the way, is registered until 2011 and will be renewed for another 12 years in 2010. We're not going to vanish, as some other sites unfortunately have.

Oh, and the best (and most inexpensive) place to register domain names is:

Be well everyone!

20TH ENTRY: MAY 9, 2003
Nearly three months since my last entry: why is that? It's quite simple: I'd far rather write fiction and speak through alter-egos than add to this Weblog, where I'm expected to be myself. I have serious misgivings about coming here to give blow by blow descriptions of actual goings on in my life 1) because such things, be they euphoria- or depression-inducing or anything else, are no one else's business, and 2) it would be flat out silly. I have no intention of being one of those idiots who only does stuff so it can be written about afterwards: living should always be the first priority, not writing about living.

Sure, I could detail fun had in the park and at the Boathouse and on the lake and at Four Seasons and the amusing reason for the celebratory dinner at Four Seasons and the girl met two nights ago but, to me, a straightforward telling is a cheapening of those experiences: I'm thankful for the fun, period; the fun, believe it or not, is an end in itself; plus others are involved and I'm neither the kiss and tell type nor the fun and tell type. My instincts are to wait for the writing of fiction to lay claim to my experiences, and alter them however fiction sees fit.

People who turn around and do a write-up of last night's events generally strike me as being people who are eager to boast and who value boasting over the things they're boasting about; to me, they're living in an ass-backwards manner. If they're only doing things to write about them afterwards, then they're not living spontaneously: their experiences are being crippled by premeditation.

Another possible use of a Weblog with my name on it would be to offer commentary on current events. Well, since I'm generally completely unaware of current events, this option isn't available to me. Plus such a thing strikes me as being a completely futile endeavor: because nothing's older than yesterday's news, the same goes for all commentary on yesterday's news.

Maybe I ought to use a pseudonym for this Weblog? Such would certainly liberate me from a great deal of the constraint I feel...


11:26 AM: Yeeeee-Hawww! A bonafide -- windy, cold, 2 inches of snow an hour -- blizzard! Rare for Manhattan to get anything but the leavings of other blizzards! Just came in from snowball fights and a stocking-up-on-beer run; not going to miss out by staying in here -- oh, no! Time to go out and hit Central Park! May the white fluff keep falling for days and days and days!

9:41 PM: Thrice to the park for snow festivities today -- actually not really snowball fights, more like snow-cloud fights, because the stuff's too cold to pack. Over at Cleopatra's Needle (that most magnificent of Egyptian obelisks, 3,500 years old) before 1:00 -- 'twas a foot deep, still unsullied by human footprints. Well, I'll admit we left an imprint of chaos in the snow at the foot of Cleo's (hell, no wonder the wench was enamored of the thing: it's one fine solid stony thrust of a phallic symbol piercing the sky!) and spoiled the pristine look.

Phone interrupted me (I don't often allow the phone to do such a thing) and now I'm out of mood with continuing. Also, I don't really feel like climbing out of the pleasant physical exhaustion daze I'm in because of all the snow games today...

18TH ENTRY: JANUARY 28, 2003
So a question came up: why do I write erotica?

Part of my reply:

All I've got to say is that if Ovid, Petronius, Martial, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Rabelais, Laclos, and de Sade (to name but a few) wrote erotica, then I'm in good company and have nothing to be ashamed of. This whole mentality of writing erotica for awhile and then branching off into more literary endeavors is silly: it's the level of style and language usage employed in a work and how authentic the depicted characters and emotions are that determines whether the work has literary merit or not. Lasting works are written in all genres -- Poe wrote horror, Verne wrote Sci Fi. It's not the genre that determines whether a work has struck a universal chord and has lasting merit, it's the author. Great books and horseshit alike occur in all genres.

What I'd add to the above is:

There's nothing more ridiculous than some of the so-called "literary" cliques of today: one wonders exactly what sort of an audience these writers of bland academic work have. Most of the subscribers and/or visitors to their magazines are either people who've been published in them or want to be. The editors all publish each other and their fame seldom extends beyond the silly little community they've created. It all has a lot more to do with playing the part of being an author than of having the amount of talent that's required to attract readers who actually enjoy the work, as opposed to merely wanting to be part of the group. No one with the least amount of sense for authenticity is going to have anything to do with perusing the contents of their pretentious carbon copy "literary" magazines.

Sliptongue was inspired by great works of the past: the Roman playwright Plautus with his impeccable comedic timing and hilarious situations, joined to a love of wordplay; the Roman epigrammatist Martial who lifted the form to a level that hasn't been equaled since; that greatest of epistolary novels, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, with it's multidimensional effect of letters simultaneously sent by characters who have no idea what the others are up to; the laughter that hovers in the background of all the outrages depicted by de Sade, the absolute gusto and joy with which he heaps one murderous situation after another upon the reader; the delight in deception and hilarious sexcapades practiced by the characters in The Decameron; the earthy humor of medieval fabliaux. These, among many others, are Sliptongue's models. Now, I'm perfectly aware I may be accused of seeking to place myself in company I'm a far cry from being in; but I haven't made such a claim. I'm simply giving an indication of what constitutes inspiration for me, and who those are that I look up to. After all, what would you have me do? Become part of some meaningless mutual backscratching "literary" clique that churns out bland writing class trash that only they'll ever read? Life's far too short for me to volunteer to be bored to death by imbeciles.

Yes, it's perfectly true that I love to argue and be contradictory. Quite often, I'll pretend to disagree with someone simply for the sake of arguing, even going so far as to heatedly utter views I feel are complete nonsense. But consider the alternative of agreeing with the person and patting each other on the back: where's the payoff, emotion-wise? If contradictoriness be lacking then it just smacks of so much laziness to me, as well as being exceptionally boring. So what if I don't necessarily believe what I'm saying, as long as I'm getting worked up enough for it to be entertaining?

When I lived in the East Village from the mid 80s to early 90s there was a great deal of anti-gentrification sentiment in the neighborhood. I worked as a cab driver and lived week to week, earning far less money than many of those who professed the said anti-gentrification sentiments. Early one morning, at about 5:00 AM at Astor Place, a man was selling some brand new Bill Blass suits that had been filched from a delivery truck. An idea immediately occurred to me and I tried the suits on: three of them fit like a glove. I paid a total of $45.00 and returned home immensely pleased. A few extra days of driving allowed me to supplement the suits with shirts and ties from Bloomingdales and two pairs of Italian shoes from Orchard Street. In addition, I found a deal on a cashmere topcoat. I was all set: now I could amuse myself by occasionally going about in the suits and being a walking and breathing symbol of the gentrification so many people made a point of despising. Most of these anti-gentrification people were so-called artists from the suburbs who were having their little anti-establishment fling before settling down and hightailing it back to where they came from: it was a pleasure to piss them off.

I enjoyed looking like a perfect Yuppie while living in an illegal sublet (I only paid $231.00), working as a cab driver, and having far less money than most of the people who hated Yuppies. The whole anti-gentrification and Yuppie-bashing thing was just another version of mob mentality, this time practiced by artsy-fartsy politically correct suburbanite poseurs: what did I care if I annoyed such idiots? Only losers band together and demonize other groups of people.

During this period I made the acquaintance of a Polish girl who worked as a waitress in one of the East Village Polish restaurants; equally as appealing as her comely face and slender curvaceous body was her exceptionally mischievous disposition: we hit it off immediately. Simka (not her real name) was amused at my dress-up-and-infuriate-artsy-twits game and soon joined me in playing it. She'd put on her "church" clothes -- suits from Bergdorf, given to her by her mother -- as well as some prim ensembles found in thrift shops. To my mind, the conservatism of these clothes further accentuated Simka's curves and aura of sex-hunger by providing a contrast to these qualities. A knee-length long-sleeved wool dress, wide at the shoulders, that reveals little -- and very simple in design, with no attempt to heighten the curves of a luscious girl's body... Well, as far as I'm concerned, such a dress only makes a luscious girl's body scream out its presence more vividly! An acquired taste, no doubt...

So I'd put on a Bill Blass suit with the topcoat and Simka would put on a Bergdorf suit with drab gray ankle-length wool coat and we'd go to an East Village pseudo-trendy artsy place filled with would-be artists and delight to the dumbfounded stares. In particular, we picked on a short-lived cafe-bar thing called the Buffalo (not it's real name). The place was decorated with stencils of lizards done in fluorescent paint and lit by blacklights -- essentially, it looked like the interior of some suburban stoner's bedroom. The "artists" and "designers" of this nonsense were always present (doubtless waiting to be discovered by some well-known gallery owner or critic) and never tired of proudly admitting, in very loud voices, to having created it -- and, ha ha, did they ever hate us! Yes, there we'd be: the cab driver and the waitress, dressed very conservatively, sipping our club sodas (another intentionally conservative touch) while seated at opposite sides of a table and not saying a word to each other. We'd pull out magazines such as National Geographic (of which I'm still an avid reader), US News and World Report, and Forbes and sit there quietly reading them while the artsy shitheads muttered disapproval, darted hostile glances, and sought to make us uneasy with assertions as to how much they hated Yuppies. They'd have intentionally loud conversations about getting drunk that were laughably transparent attempts to shock us and, the more we continuing reading as if they weren't there, the more upset they'd get. Yes, upset is the word for it, incredible as it may seem: they were all such insecure, shallow, pretentious, fraudulent losers!

I mean, what did Simka and I really do? We'd very politely enter, find a table, order club sodas, quietly read, and that's it; but the amount of resentment that this inspired was beyond belief! -- and, of course, highly amusing! These artsy twits who considered themselves to be leading such "cutting edge" (whatever that means) lives were really no different than the easily offended residents of some small isolated God-fearing town.

Simka and I annoyed the patrons of the Buffalo in this manner for maybe a month, often dropping in twice a week (it was sort of an aphrodisiac for us, actually -- we'd very often go straight from the Buffalo to bed, laughing hysterically all the way). They really were nothing but pathetic small town gossips who had nothing better to do than endlessly stare and speculate about and attempt to intimidate some people who dressed differently than they and completely ignored them. And, hey, I actually didn't have any ulterior motive in mind -- I really wasn't setting up the artsy clowns for a surprise; but, as it turned out, I ended up giving them one, and this is how:

On Sundays cars were available at 1:00 PM at the cab garage for those who worked the night shift (as opposed to the usual 5:00 PM) and many of us often took advantage of this so as to drive during peak hours for our entire shift (12 hours) and make more money than usual without too much exertion, there being far less traffic in Manhattan on Sundays. One Sunday a number of us who lived in the East Village or nearby turned up at 1:00, drove the twelve hours, and turned in our cabs at the same time. Because it was still early (only 1:00 AM) we decided to share a couple cabs downtown and hang out for awhile; and then, lo and behold, I found myself on a street corner with these guys not far from the Buffalo. Now the Buffalo, of course, was excessively boring and we weren't going there but to a different place, a lot more fun. But an idea occurred to me: I told them that the regulars at the Buffalo had been very rude to my girlfriend and asked them if they'd do me the favor of having a quick beer there and being a bit rowdy. Well, hell, why not? After all, the night was very young...

Now, most of my driving buddies were interested in nothing but ass and some were authentically tough and fond of brawling (our shared point of interest being the ass part, mind you, as I'm neither what would be termed tough nor fond of -- or any good at -- brawling) and really weren't the sort of people anyone in their right mind would want to mess with. I enter the Buffalo with them and look the complete opposite of how the patrons of the Buffalo are accustomed to seeing me: jeans, leather jacket, boots. We find a couple tables, slam them together, and are loudly trading war stories -- assorted lunatics met; girls who flashed us or, perhaps, did a bit more; cons that were attempted against us; pranks played; retaliation tales; good deeds done; far-flung neighborhoods we went to. My friends are yelling things such as: "Can we get some beer here, now!" -- "What's this dumbass lizard shit on the walls?" -- "Can you turn these fucking lights off?" -- "Hey, what's that logo crap you're wearing?"

Ha ha! I almost felt sorry for the artsy twits, so mouth-agape and fearful did they look! I was very tempted to meet the stares of some of them and give them a poisonous smile, but successfully resisted such weakness: such would've been a reference to my previous visits and perhaps given the game away somewhat; it would've also revealed that I was aware of them to some degree. Far better to carry on with my friends without paying the artsy twits any mind and let their imaginations wander. We didn't stay long: a beer apiece and we were making for the door, laughing and shouting all the way.

When Simka and I returned to the Buffalo later in the week, dressed in our usual conservative manner and were sitting across from each other, silently reading our magazines and sipping our club sodas, the uncomfortable fidgeting of the artsy clowns was almost pronounced enough to be a palpable substance one could reach out and touch. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed several gape-mouthed and goo-goo eyed expressions, and it was difficult to suppress a laugh. When I innocently glanced about the place with my well-practised vacant look and encountered the eyes of one of these worthies, the said eyes would immediately glance away and quiver with bafflement and worry. Simka was tickled to death and even wilder than usual -- which is saying a lot -- when we returned to my place for fun and games.

So the above is an example of a more subtle sort of prank -- the messing with people's heads variety. I'll admit to having ventured somewhat into more overt pranking at the Buffalo's expense, such as when I once had some stuff delivered to them that they didn't order (and that also involved settling a score with the place doing the delivering); but I wasn't present to observe whatever consternation this may have caused.

The whole thing was a silly little sideline of mine for awhile that involved no great effort, the Buffalo not being far from where I lived; and the bottom line was that Simka was excessively amused by the game -- and that she loved being amused, and well knew how to demonstrate her gratitude...

So the next time you see free samples of food set out in a store you ought to avoid them, and here's why:

Earlier today I was at a well-known Manhattan gourmet store (founded by one of the Balducci siblings) and there was a basket full of pieces of a pizza they'd chopped up. I'm perusing the prepackaged salads nearby and happen to notice a mid-thirtyish woman sorting through the samples with her fingers to find the ones with the most meat and cheese attached: having found one to her liking, she crams it in her mouth, licks her fingers, and then resumes sorting for more -- all in plain view of everyone, utterly oblivious or uncaring of the fact she's distributing her spittle throughout the samples.

So my curiosity's aroused: I decide to linger a bit and observe how others behave. Next up is a well-dressed man in his fifties. He grabs a large piece, bites off half of it, and begins chewing while his mouth's suspended directly above the basket: crumbs fall from his mouth into the basket and mingle with the samples. With the hand that's still holding the half-bitten off piece he sorts as the woman did, an activity that causes the chewed off piece to brush against more of the samples.

Of the perhaps half dozen subsequent visitors all but one indulges in the same sorting activity, freely touching many pieces they don't take. A young boy grabs a piece, looks at it in disgust, and tosses it back.

Well, there was no need to observe any longer -- I'd more than confirmed what I'd already suspected: free samples are far from free, unless you don't happen to mind ingesting saliva, crumbs that have fallen from others' mouths, and food that's been fingered by who knows how many people who may have been picking their noses, wiping their asses, or picking up their dog's shit from the sidewalk (the possibilities are endless).

15TH ENTRY: OCTOBER 11, 2002
For a brand new Angie & Ella email exchange (Lady's Room Escapade & Fantasy Recollection Dress-Up) go to Hoot Island, a fine magazine that deals exclusively with erotic humor. The EroticHa Archives (to mention but one area of Hoot) are chock full of tales, bawdy songs, verse, parodies, and essays: all as sexy as they are reliable for a good laugh. The bawdy songs section contains one of my all-time favorites, The Good Ship Venus -- a ditty that I memorized in college and would delight in reciting at drunken gatherings.

And, again, with regard to Angie & Ella: I'm very flattered that people wish to get in touch with the girls. However, this is impossible because they are FICTIONAL creations.

Those of you who have detected similarities between Angie, Ella, Martin or Linda and someone you have known: all I can say is that our About and Contact pages contain the following announcement:

"The characters and incidents portrayed and the names appearing in Sliptongue are fictitious, and any similarity to the name, character or history of any person, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental and unintentional."

Thanks very much for the emails and I'll reply to all, but I'm simply attempting to clarify the matter here in the Weblog as well. Angie & Ella were born in fun, and that's it: the pieces are fun to write, I love doing girl banter, and I love all the experiences with BratCats that come swirling back in memory.

Two announcements:

Firstly, the new issue of Mind Caviar is up and running. Editor Jamie Joy Gatto apologizes for its having arrived later than she'd planned; but, really now, is any apology necessary? Of course not! But Jamie Joy's a gracious Southern Lady (forget that she'd rather be called "SlutDoll") and good manners are second, if not first, nature to her. She was in the midst of relocating, which explains the delay; and the quality is, as always, extremely high. Choice fiction, features, poetry, columns, photography! And if you look among the poetry you'll even find three pieces by yours truly... So thanks very much, Jamie Joy, and also to Charles Jennings for assisting her with the launch.

Secondly, let's welcome Sex-Kitten.Net to erotic WebzineLand. Founded by former escort Gracie, senior columnist at Adult Backwash, Sex-Kitten is a site dedicated to seeing to it that women "get their purr back." Fun-oriented advice that never loses sight of the sensible is one focus of this site, and who better qualified to offer such advice than an experienced sex worker? She's assisted by "some extraordinary friends" in the Boudoir Tales section -- friends who share their personal stories, experiences, fantasies, and rants. So pay Sex-Kitten.Net a visit.

13TH ENTRY: AUGUST 22, 2002
So let's get something straight: Angie & Ella, of the Trailer Trollop Romp & Martin's Comeuppance email Exchange, are FICTIONAL creations -- minxes bred of my imagination! They are NOT living and breathing females with their own emails that can be written to and flirted with! Get it? Angie & Ella are two characters in a work of fiction and they are NOT real life wenches scamping about in present day Manhattan! OK?

Now it is true that the BratCats I've known, taken together, served as the inspiration for Angie & Ella. "Taken together" is key: Angie & Ella, if anything, are composites -- as well as extrapolations -- of ALL of them. A snippet of a conversation or adventure from long ago... -- well, I may have recalled such a thing and, as they say, ran with it (in other words, fictionalized it); but, to get the idea that I'd be chronicling the actual present day escapades of two females of my acquaintance is a bit silly!

12TH ENTRY: JULY 24, 2002
So because at the end of the previous entry I stated I was off to the park, I get an email expressing disappointment that I appear to be violating my principles by traipsing about in the daylight! It's true I've devoted plenty of pages to extolling the delights of shutting out the day and living at night; but is that any reason for me not to enjoy a bright cheerful day in the park as much as the next man? I mean, here I am living in one of the largest cities on the face of the earth, and a few blocks away is a fabulous park -- Central Park, of course.

A fifteen or so minute walk places me behind the Metropolitan Museum: I'm surrounded by lush lawns, towering trees, fragrant shrubs heavy with flowers, orange and yellow lilies -- squawking jays, twittering finches, the red flash of cardinals arguing over territory. The steady hum of cicadas rises above the swishing of the high branches of the oaks; wild roses attract the fluttering of butterflies, whir of hummingbirds, and the buzz of bumblebees.

I've seen, at six in the morning, a red-tailed hawk ripping a pigeon to shreds on the lawn, a few yards from where I was standing -- utterly unconcerned about my presence, as if I wasn't there. Morning in the park: what a delight that is after having been up all night! I go to Turtle Pond: bullfrogs are bellowing, a large snapping turtle rises to grab a mouthful of air, shiny fish ebb and flow just below the water's silvery surface, a great white heron prowls the shallows. Where am I? I could just as easily be far off in the country somewhere!

Yes, I love living at night but that hardly means I'm going to forgo my park visits. Is there, I ask, anything more delightful than picnicking with a cutie below the branches of a flowering tree in springtime? I don't know what variety of trees they are, but in April their branches are weighted down by huge pink and carmine blossoms and the air is heavy with their scent. And when the scent of their flowers intermingles with the scent of a frolicsome girl's hair as one's clasping her tight on the lawn and shoving one's tongue deep inside her warm willing mouth... Well, is there anything more worthwhile to do? And it can be somewhat chilly in April, but that's not going to keep me from having some fun under those branches, and I've yet to be having fun with a girl who's failed to shove all awareness of the cold into the background, and keep me all tingly and toasty warm.

I love the park and the wildlife that lives there and the wild times that are to be had there, and anyone who fails to comprehend the attraction of it and who's going to chide me for enjoying the sunlight can drop dead!

11TH ENTRY: JUNE 17, 2002
Yes, I fully realize that, according to our homepage, this Weblog will be updated weekly and that it's been over two weeks since my last entry -- guess I'll change the homepage to read: "Updated at whim of author." As I've said, I hardly commenced this Weblog to be its slave.

I've been very busy: commenced more Web training so I can begin building sites from the ground up: Sliptongue Press, as well as my personal site. Sliptongue Press will be publishing print on demand hardcopies of material from Sliptongue, as well as material not found in Sliptongue: new Pawtawnee episodes, new Hightower, new Yours Truly. Plus Blangis and St. Fond have a great deal of work on reserve. We'll also announce open submissions for these books and, of course, authors will be paid. And we'll assuredly do a theme collection of stories or two.

As for those of you who'd like me to detail some of the pranks I've played... Well, fuck! Do you think life's just one long prank to me and that I spend every waking hour dreaming up mischief and putting it into practice? Not sure if I should feel flattered or begin to seriously reconsider the sort of image I'm obviously projecting to the world! At any rate, assorted pranks will be described when and if I'm in the mood and according to how recently they were perpetrated and according to whether or not they might be perpetrated again at some point in the future...

Well, I'm off to the park now. Y'all be well-behaved.

10TH ENTRY: MAY 29, 2002
The construction crew seems to be mostly finished with stomping about my terrace and keeping me awake during the day; I've been allowed to resume my customary sleeping habits -- a random burst of a drill here and there might temporarily awaken me; I soon fall asleep again and wind up getting my five or six hours. It's 2:42 PM now; I awakened an hour ago; a fine 17th century choral piece -- Te Deum by Charpentier -- is swelling through my apartment and enclosing me in soaring crescendos; my second cup of green tea's at my side; the shade's are drawn and the only light is that of this computer and a small desk lamp: as far as I'm concerned, it's already nighttime. I'll be up until dawn or thereabouts -- writing, pacing about, doing my exercises, yakking on the phone -- and I'll also be going out, but only after the sun's been down for hours. How wonderful to have my life restored to me! How wonderful to no longer have to force myself to sleep at night and be rudely kicked out of bed at the ghastly hour of 8:30 AM!

Ugh! The thought of the past month of having to largely be up during the day absolutely nauseates me! Daytime always seems to plod on forever and is such a bore! The only time I find daytime worthwhile is if I've been up all night and am, so to speak, still carrying the night inside me. Or if I get up, as now, and keep the shades drawn and, by so doing, start the night early. But to get up with the sun and endure a day with daytime sensations in my nerves -- yuck! Living death for me! I feel as if I've been exiled from drive and enthusiasm and that the only thing in this world is tedium! It's only when the sun begins to go down that I turn on again and feel energy surge; and then it's as if I'll never be bored again or ever need to sleep!

But, Christ! does the night ever whisk by in the blink of an eye! The beginning of the night's like catching a wave -- a wave of humming inner vitality, rising emotion. And I'm riding this wave; I feel sensation swell and accelerate inside me; I tingle in all of my nerves; I'm giddy with the amount of energy in my veins: sometimes I hardly know what to do with it all! And then, before I know it, the sun's up again! How many times have I been absorbed in writing, reading, lying on the floor all electric while listening to music and watching pictures swirl in my head while under the impression it's still dead of night and then happened to glance towards the windows and see that the sun's setting the edges of the shades aglow? "What, over already?" I ask. Well, it's not over because I keep the shades drawn and see to it that night lives on inside my apartment and inside myself.

A girl comes over? Well, I don't care what hour of the day it is, the shades are drawn tight. Oh, it's very bright and cheerful inside my apartment: all the lights are turned on and illuminating every corner. I want to see the girl in all her glory when her skirt slips to the floor and I pull her sweater over her head: nothing like lamplight racing up and down a girl's legs, flowing through her hair, highlighting her curves! But the shade's are shut and stay shut: it's my way of banishing all trace of daytime constraint, and seeing to it that nighttime abandon prevails for the duration of our time together.

Some of the more enlightened dance clubs also realize that there aren't nearly enough hours of darkness to suit some people: the festivities continue until past noon. Two AM turns into sunup with unbelievable swiftness; it's daytime outside, but inside it's still the dance-trance and sweat and exertion and unbridledness of night. Only problem is, one eventually has to venture out into the sun at around one or two PM: what a rude slap in the face that is! How one's whole body reels with revulsion! Best thing is to hop into a cab as quickly as possible and show one's dance partner how much one appreciates her company: deep lingering kisses go a long way towards keeping awareness of the day at bay!

New York crackles so enthrallingly at night and this crackle always enters my bloodstream and propels me towards the closest I'll ever get to experiencing heaven on earth!

9TH ENTRY: MAY 14, 2002
Here's an episode from Friday April 12th, the day after the construction crew began tearing my terrace apart:

After being up most of the night Wednesday and all day and evening Thursday finishing my taxes, I napped for a couple of hours before midnight. Then I was up again until around 6:00 AM on Friday, when I really didn't want to go to sleep but had to on account of having to get up at 3:30 in the afternoon to report to work. Now, I certainly should've gone to my friend's at that time to avoid any racket made by the construction crew but, instead, basically said to myself: "Why forgo the comfort of my own bed so soon? I'll go to sleep here for now and when the jackhammers kick in again I'll go to Midtown."

So precisely at 8:30 AM the jackhammers start shrieking again: from a deep sleep I'm sitting bolt upright in a second without fully comprehending why for perhaps as long as a half minute. Then I recognize the noise and am also cursing myself for being so stupid as to set myself up for this rude awakening when I could've gone to my friend's earlier and still be sound asleep. By 8:45 I'm fully dressed, have a few items packed, and am exiting my apartment -- all the while fuming at this rebricking nonsense that's essentially throwing me out of my home. In addition to being enraged, I'm in a daze: my sleep deprivation of the last few days has caught up with me (and I had, mind you, been catching up on my sleep when so thoughtlessly interrupted!).

So there I am standing outside across the avenue from my building -- standing there suspended somewhere between rage and exhaustion and the dreams I've been jolted from. I'm looking for a cab and, it being the morning rush hour, there are few to be seen, let alone any that are empty. Not quite rational, I cross the avenue again and stroll a block east to the next one -- and then for some reason I walk a block north to the next street -- and then a block west again to the avenue I was originally standing on -- and then a block south to the corner I was originally standing on. Well, Christ! I hardly knew what I was doing! Did I think I was going to find a cab any faster by walking in circles around the block?

I recall that, at one point during my circumnavigation of the block, I was muttering aloud to myself -- saying things such as, "Horseass sucking rubbish!," "Of all the insane senseless shit!," and "Pure motherfucking insanity!" These phrases are uttered loud enough for passersby to hear but, it being New York, people have better things to do than pay me much mind.

So I'm back on the same corner again: I know my around-the-block stroll in an attempt to locate an empty cab on a Manhattan rush hour morning was as stupid as it was futile -- I'm glancing at my building again and feeling renewed surges of anger rise up from within me at the thought of the stupid rebricking that's chased me from my cozy apartment. And, of course, I'm also keeping my hand aloft in the hope a cab will happen along -- a hope I feel somewhat silly to entertain. Before too long, an attractive woman with a friendly face and lively manner approaches from the west and politely remains on the curb while regarding me in an unobtrusive manner. I know she's also come in search of a cab and also vaguely sense she's waiting for me, the male, to offer to share one (assuming one is ever found) but I'm still too suspended somewhere between wakefulness and sleep to be capable of making this sort of overture. And now a vague look of bemusement seems to be appearing on her face (I'm sensing this from the corner of my eye, with the bulk of my attention focused on the cabless avenue): I think she thought I was a bit shy or something -- either that, or picked up on the fact I was only half there. So she very nicely asks me how long I've been there in a voice with a trace of a Southern accent: I gesture vaguely, mutter something about walking around the block, toss out a figure of "about ten minutes." Then she inquires as to where I'm going. "46th & 8th," I reply. She smiles, says she's going to 49th & 7th and it's immediately understood that we'll be sharing without us actually having to say it.

Shortly after Jane (not her real name) and I team up, a man in a compact car pulls up to the curb close to her and seems to be undecided as to whether to patronize the corner diner; in the meantime, I turn my attention to the cross street because the traffic light's shifted and a cab might appear from that direction. By the time the light changes again and I turn towards the avenue Jane's indicating that the man in the mini-car's going to give her a lift. It's a windy morning and the traffic's also somewhat noisy and I'm still none too alert so I don't catch Jane's exact words; I'm not sure if I'm also going to get a ride out of it until she emphatically jerks her head for me to climb in the car. Moments later I'm cramped in the back seat of a car that isn't a cab and being given a lift to Midtown by a complete stranger; I mostly owe this favor to another complete stranger who's had the requisite amount of initiative and charm to ask him for a ride and receive an affirmative response.

It's amazing how much one can learn about two complete strangers during a fifteen minute (due to traffic) ride from The Upper East Side to the Theater District. The man -- I'll call him Will -- is a very likable and sensible guy who's just been laid off from a well-known financial firm; instead of looking for work immediately, he's decided to enjoy the year and a half stipend he's received from his former employer: he'll be leaving for the Yucatan Coast in two days and be windsurfing, lounging around, enjoying the sea and sun. He's the son of cop, born and raised in the Bronx; he's been under pressure from his family to get married and start his own family and, while he's not against such a thing, feels it can easily be put off for a few more years. Jane's a corporate headhunter, is awaiting a $50,000 pay off (that she'll share with her firm) for having placed an executive with another well-known finincial firm, works six days a week, and loves her job. Her father's from Indiana and her mother's from Mississippi; she was born in Indiana and raised in Texas; was married for awhile to man in the army, divorced him when he returned from the Philippines with a girl in tow; immediately came to Manhattan and will remain here for the rest of her life. They both know where I work, what I do, the hours I keep, and that I'm fleeing my besieged apartment for the day; they know where I was born, where I grew up, what my father does, and where I ski during the holidays. In between exchanging suchlike information we're joking around and laughing a lot.

When we arrive at 49th & 7th, Will refuses to take any money; warm good-byes all around; once on the sidewalk, I thank Jane in particular for getting me down here so I can get back to sleep. Within 20 minutes I'm in bed again at my friend's place: nice quiet apartment on the seventh floor in the back of the building, dark curtains to keep the sun out, and a ceiling fan. I fall asleep fairly quickly and awaken at 3:30 to ready myself for work.

So I'd again like to thank the two people who rescued me from standing around in a daze outside my building on that morning, thereby making it possible for me to get enough sleep to be competent at work.

8TH ENTRY: MAY 7, 2002
So for nearly a month I've been under seige. Every single weekday (and even some Saturdays) there's been a construction crew on my terrace. Why? Because the coop board in its infinite wisdom has decided that every brick in the whole fucking building needs to be replaced! Now, maybe the things really do need to be replaced: the building dates from 1957 which isn't that old but the bricks are apparently crumbling in places because they used these stupid white ones that don't hold up as well. Then again, maybe some old ladies simply decided they'd prefer red bricks because they like the color better? or maybe some members of the board have family in the brick replacement business? or are getting hefty kickbacks? And, of course, everyone's saying the value of our apartments will go up. Well, fuck! I bought this place to live here, not sell it! And I don't live on the outside of the building but inside, so what do I care what the bricks look like? All I know is that precisely at 8:30 AM on Thursday April 11th the crew's jackhammers kicked in right next to my windows, less than four feet from my bed, and that I could well do without such disturbances!

I'm on the 15th floor, and am accustomed to laughing at jackhammers, car alarms, delivery trucks, howling kids: up here, such sounds are no more noticeable than the twittering of birds. But suddenly a lot of jabbering jackhammer-wielding slobs were on my terrace and tearing it apart! Christ! Did I buy this place to have to endure such trauma? I'm a confirmed night person; now they're forcing me to keep daytime hours! Up at 8:30 AM is a sheer nightmare for me! 8:30 AM's when I often go to sleep!

Yeah right, I know: I sound like a spoiled brat! Well, that's the point: I bought this place so I could be a spoiled brat! -- always have quiet, be able to keep my chosen night hours without day people bothering me when I sleep! And the flip side as well: I bought this place so that I could play music fairly loud all night without disturbing others. It's been reinforced inside, soundproofed from the other apartments. I didn't even have to do it, it came that way. I can have arguments with temperamental girls in here while punk, industrial, reggae, or classical is blaring and no one else hears a thing! The best of both worlds, until this rebricking mess had to come along...

For the first week I slept during the day at a friend's in the Theater District: that gave the crew enough time to remove the bricks. I've since discovered that there's a lot more to it, as far as the noise factor goes, than stripping the old bricks off. It seems that periodic hammering and drilling is required to install bricks as well; and, when the drilling involves the infrastructure of the building, it shrieks and reverberates as loudly as any jackhammer.

I've become tired of going to my pal's for a daytime sleep and resigned myself to being awakened at 8:30 each morning. I'll be a day person for awhile longer. They've mostly finished with my terrace. Perhaps by next week they'll be done with it. Of course, this won't prevent occasional shrieks of the building's infrastructure (same principle as when a pipe is rapped on and the whole building hears it) from reaching me for many more thrilling weeks to come. As I write this paragraph (2:46 PM) the building is rumbling and wailing: I simply turn up the music to drown it out and keep working…

7TH ENTRY: APRIL 29, 2002
The subject for today? I'm of a mind to discuss healthy eating. The input I have to offer as regards an invigorating diet is that I've steadily, from the mid-nineties until now, gravitated towards a diet that's virtually all vegan: not only no meat, but no diary. Before I wax enthusiastic about this diet and assure you that I love it to death and that it doesn't involve any discipline on my part, I'll give you some history. I was raised on the four food groups view of nutrition: equal portions meat, diary, fruits and vegetables, grains. My idea of a healthy diet in the late 80s was salami, cheese, and a banana. I used to laugh at all low fat foods because I'm 6 feet 1 inch and, since high school, had always weighed between 130-135 pounds (I'm now always between 145-150 pounds). Vegetarians, especially, were people that I delighted in mocking and making fun of: they struck me as being a lot of pasty-faced, irritable, fun-hating losers who were immensely fond of being self-righteous and preachy. I always had a large serving or two of meat a day -- burgers, steaks, pork chops. Then I got a microwave and the only meat that can be cooked with a microwave that turns out well is fish; so, always mindful of saving time in the kitchen and not really being able at that time to afford take out on a regular basis, I became a fish eater -- and then, to my surprise, I began to feel sickened at the thought of eating red meat. In addition, I began reading up on nutrition and learned all about saturated fat and began to avoid it: all quite naturally, without feeling it was hard to do and without anyone telling me to do it. I also leaned of the benefits of extra virgin olive oil and the bad properties of butter and margarine: I began using olive oil exclusively -- dipping bread and toast in it, using it to cook fish or hash browns. Well, suffice to say that I continued evolving and now subsist exclusively on and cannot say enough good things about vegetables, fruits, whole grains, soy, seitan (wheat gluten).

I know that some vegetarians can be annoying: there's often a lot of politically correct posturing with them. Not content to eat well and be healthy, they have to be smug about it, turn it into a lifestyle issue, indulge in a lot of posturing blather. Well, I'm a vegetarian for my HEALTH and for the ENERGY, period. I'm a vegetarian because it's the most sensible diet to feed my body. I'm not in it because I want to be snotty about it -- I'm not a member of the Green party, I don't go around spouting a lot of boring anti-corporate drivel. I don't begrudge others their pleasures. I'd much rather hang out with people who wolf down steak with relish than those who feel it's necessary to whine about such things.

The fact is that without your health you can do nothing. And if you're healthy life's a shimmering smorgasbord of the senses! And I feel very healthy as a vegetarian and that's all the discipline I need! I always think that, as long as I remain in good health, I can 1) experience many more rewarding nights with volatile cuties, 2) be able to annoy posturing artsy imbeciles far more effectively, 3) churn out Sliptongue for many more decades, 4) continue to get by on about five hours of sleep a day, 5) stroll all over town for miles, get in adventures, ski like a maniac over the holidays, play pranks galore: to name but a few things.

And hey, it's about time that being vegan is taken out of the hands of self-righteous imbeciles and put in the hands of those who know how to enjoy life, aren't afraid of sex, and have a sense of humor! Take it from an ex-meat eater who used to laugh at the very concept of avoiding fattening foods! I love my vegan diet, and I'm the opposite of being a badly groomed New Age horseshit spouting zombie!

6TH ENTRY: APRIL 24, 2002
Just heard a saying that I'd like to play around with. The saying is as follows: "No woman is crazy until a man comes into her life."

Well, of course the saying is false as an absolute. If it were to be rephrased as "Some women become crazy when a man comes into their life." then the saying would be true.

And then there's also: "Some women are crazy because there's no man in their life."

Nor to forget: "Some women are only crazy when they're with the man in their life."

It's the last one that interests me the most. What is it with the women who are the personification of tact and kindness with everyone except the guy they're sleeping with? At work they learn everyone's name, from the CEO to the cleaning crew: their tact gives them the right to address the former by first name, their sense of fun permits them to joke and pal about with the latter. If they encounter someone who's rude to them (almost always another woman), they'll surprise them with a little gift -- often handmade -- and so win them over. They are thought of as the cutest, most charming, kindest, sweetest, and most accommodating women around -- and so they are. Until, that is, they're alone with the guy who's sleeping with them. Ha ha! Do they hiss, claw, glare, instigate conflict, treat the guy to outrageously unreasonable behavior because they need to compensate for being Miss Manners all day, and must balance things out?

There was a girl I knew once long ago, in the days when I worked at the Deer Creek Branch of the Geological Survey in Palo Alto, CA. She worked in the personnel office, was head secretary, and just about the only good looking girl in the whole place: an accomplished flirt, she knew just how far she could go with all the guys there without, however, being held to anything, not even a cup of coffee at a café after hours. Well, naturally she was my girlfriend for awhile: I know an authentic prima donna princess temperamental type when I see one (whatever her public persona may be), and am always on the lookout for some invigorating friction. We pranked around the place a lot (so easy, this: Geological Survey types really can't even conceive of workplace hijinks -- they like hiking, they like the woods, they want to collect samples in the mountains, they don't want or look for any trouble -- they're very inoffensive and peaceloving). But I'm getting somewhat distracted here...

I say this girl flirted. Well, considering it was the Geological Survey, teased would be a more accurate term: she delighted in permitting her hemline to ride way up while chatting with any guy there and enjoyed the self-consciousness on his part that would very often ensue. And of course she was being a perfect sweetheart the whole time, sitting wide-eyed and interested in whatever the guy was saying. She'd offer relationship advice, listen with sympathy to all problems: she always said that a guy is a guy is a guy and that it never hurt to flash a bit of thigh during a conversation, regardless of how authentically respectable and happily married he was. As for the other women, who by all rights should have hated her for her beauty and revealing clothes: they adored her. Why? Because she always had time for them, enjoyed perusing catalogs with them, enjoyed talking and sharing secrets with them, enjoyed trading gossip with them. Not the least bit snobbish, she'd go for lunch with the aged cleaning woman and end up having a good time. In short, she was well liked across the board: women liked her for her loyalty, men liked her for her charm and understanding (and, whether they chose to admit it to themselves or not, for her shapely figure and comely face).

So one day we're alone in a hallway of the Survey together and she's remonstrating with me about something -- she's excited, flushed, wound tight, and her eyes are ablaze. What happens? An acquaintance from my department suddenly rounds the corner and sees her in that state. She's too heated to switch moods fast enough to assume her public manner; although the words she quickly reverts to are kind enough, the tenseness of her manner and the gleam in her eyes remains. The guy isn't there long: only fifteen seconds at the most. Later on, he comes up to me and says quite earnestly, "I've never seen her like that before!" His face was very serious and also very perplexed: he really seemed to be baffled at how sweet Carol (not her actual name, of course) could be tense and disturbed and, apparently, angry. And, well, it wasn't easy not to smile: what he'd seen of her overwrought state was a very mild version, compared to what I was accustomed to! Oh, I'm not complaining, mind you. After all, difficult cuties are far from boring -- and tangling with them is certainly emotionally rewarding. "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," says Nietzsche, and he's right. And it's by means of relationships that one resolves certain emotional equations within oneself that require the assistance of another. And when an exceptionally intelligent girl is throwing a temper tantrum and hitting you with all the wit and cleverness at her disposal and instinctively pressing all your buttons then you certainly find out what you're made of! And sweet Carol, the doll of the Survey with more tact on her little finger than anyone else had on their whole body, could certainly hiss and spit with the best of them! Ha ha! I can still picture her cute face quite clearly, the way it would tighten into focused rage -- the way her eyes would flare -- the way her whole expression would seem to snarl. She was also fond of throwing things. And, in addition, very good at pretending to have been pacified, when such was far from the case: the better to attack anew when I wasn't expecting it. And, again, no one else had the slightest inkling of this other side of her. Only I did, because I happened to be her boyfriend.

So the point of this little story, again, is simply to illustrate that: "Some women are only crazy when they're with the man in their life." Such was certainly true of the cutie at the Geological Survey. And, by way of a footnote, I'll add that I wouldn't trade the association I was privileged to have with sweet Carol for anything in the world (and I'm not being facetious)!

Perhaps I'll play around with these sayings again in a future entry: for the time being, I've had enough of it and shall bid everyone good night.

5TH ENTRY: APRIL 15, 2002
So, as strongly hinted in my previous entry, Paris was a worthwhile place to live for two years -- a total of two years, two months, and two weeks to be exact, with summers spent in my birth city, San Franci
sco. Following my last fall-winter-spring in Paris in the mid-eighties I came to Manhattan, and -- aside from a stint in a small town (which shall remain unnamed) in the early nineties -- I haven't left since. I sort of fled to the small town for awhile to, so to speak, get my act together. I was sick of being a New York cab driver (As a fellow driver so aptly put it, "Every psycho in town ends up in your cab at one time or another and eventually it starts to rub off on you and you become a psycho too.") and needed a break to get my bearings and return to New York in a different capacity. I'm now employed in a professional capacity and own my apartment. What am I employed as? That shall remain undisclosed...

But, hell! What am I getting into here? I didn't start this Weblog to write my autobiography! Reminiscing here and there -- well, that's OK and fun and sometimes even a way of answering questions that have been gnawing at me; but it shouldn't become a habit and dictate the contents of every entry -- forget that!

But I'll tell you why I'm getting into the reminiscence thing: it's because it's safely removed from the present. Think I'm going to faithfully detail my present life the day after events occur? Not likely! It would provide certain people with information that could be used against me simply because it's so current! Do I want people I associate with every week being able to find out what I've been up to lately? I'll phrase it another way: would I give them permission to tap my phone?

Ha! The way I see it, a good Weblog conceals as much as it reveals and raises as many questions as it answers! The way I see it, a good Weblog can be used to confuse as well as clarify! No one's going to pin me down because of this Weblog, no Sir!

Have a fine Monday night, all!

4TH ENTRY: APRIL 9, 2002
So I'm wondering: why do German girls have a thing for cemeteries? I've (somewhat accidentally) done research in this area: when I lived in Paris I'd often make a point of asking a girl, shortly after I met her, if she cared to go for a stroll in Cimetiere du Montparnasse, located across the street from where I lived. Now, the point isn't whether they agreed or not -- why wouldn't they agree, I'm an agreeable guy and have never taken an unwelcome liberty with a female in my life; the point is whether they would agree with enthusiasm.

I recall strolling through the cemetery on a cheerful May day with a Mexican girl, met in a Sorbonne French class I was taking not far away -- a mild look of perplexity crept into her face, and she said, "Sort of strange, coming into a cemetery, isn't it? People don't really do this, do they?" I skirted this question by saying I'd brought her there to see the cats -- the magnificent, half-wild, cats that live in all the Paris cemeteries and subsist off of hand-outs. She liked cats and sort of accepted this as a reason for being there (she was a trifle upset that the cats wouldn't allow us to pet them but their beauty, thick fluffy coats and piercing eyes, was undeniable), but she still couldn't get past the impression that being taken for a stroll in a cemetery by a guy she'd just met was a little "weird."

British girls, Spanish girls, Italian girls: none ever greeted my cemetery stroll invitation without a quizzical look and some of them never really lost the look for the duration. In addition to the cats, I'd fall back on a visit to Baudelaire's resting place as an excuse for being there or simply say it was a shortcut to a café on the other side: I didn't want these girls to be uncomfortable.

French girls, on the other hand -- whether they be Parisian or not -- generally seem to have, so to speak, seen it all at the moment of birth: nothing astonishes them. The somewhat distant look of placidity on their faces wouldn't alter in the least at my inquiry as to whether they cared to go for a stroll amidst the sepulchers: no surprise or dismay would flicker in their eyes; neither would enthusiasm. The cats? -- of course, they were pretty and well worth watching. The tomb of Baudelaire? -- why not? And they'd be inherently graceful, like all good French girls -- and keep their thoughts to themselves, like all good French girls -- and be sweet and affectionate and so unconsciously sexy, like all good French girls -- and grasp my hand and kiss and make out on a bench without the least trace of reserve in a nondemonstrative manner, like all good French girls. But the fact that we were in a cemetery meant little to them: they could take it or leave it.

But German girls are another matter. Ask them if they'd like to promenade in a cemetery and how their eyes light up! Perhaps they were keeping their opinion of me somewhat in check before this question; but, after this question, it was as if I could do no wrong! German girls can't wait to get to cemeteries! They'll tell one to please hurry up if one stops merely to tie one's shoe! And once there... No, they don't go racing about marveling at the sights -- they don't feel any particular need to poke their head in every sepulcher: they simply like being there -- they're at home. They become blithe and animated, chat up a storm, ask questions, talk of themselves: they want to cover the getting acquainted interval fast, and get it out of the way!

There was one German girl in her early twenties (I wish I could tell her name -- it was so quintessentially German, and beautiful) with such an engagingly cute little girl face that all took her for sixteen at the most -- she'd be stared at in the Metro by junior high aged boys as if she was a girl in their math class that they wanted to grope on the playground. And this girl -- I recall it as clearly as if it were yesterday: she's seated before me on a headstone in Cimetiere du Montparnasse, wearing a short pink dress with white fringes -- and lacy white half-gloves that leave the fingers exposed -- and a white ribbon in her long flaxen hair; and her blue eyes are flat out spinning in delight as she grasps the back of my neck with both hands, stands up, and plants her lips on one of my cheeks and begins sucking with all her might from between gently scratching teeth: I don't think I've ever gotten a hickey so fast! The contrast between her innocent doll face and take-charge hunger was priceless! And I distinctly felt I owed it all to the fact that being in a cemetery, so to speak, awakened her.

There was another German girl, inordinately fond of wearing capes and of a somewhat artsy and career-minded disposition (she wanted to be a producer), who I met through friends. One evening, early on at a rather tepid party that we were both bored at, she was busy lecturing me about my propensity to stay up all night every night and sleep during the day -- saying that eventually I'd have to give it up in the interests of making a living -- that I couldn't be irresponsible forever: she seemed to be annoyed at me for some reason (while also liking me in a sort of begrudging manner) and was digging at me in this oblique way. So, because the party was so stupid and she had little interest in it and because I'd had enough of being dictated to and also because I liked her despite her artsyness and lecturing nature, I asked her if she'd like to go for a stroll inside Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, located a short Metro ride away. Well, she altered in an instant -- all of her subdued hostility melted away; attentive warmth swept into her features; her eyes grew interested and kind. But then a thought occurred to her: it was after 8:00 PM and the gates to Pere Lachaise were closed: how would we gain entry? So I told her that we'd need to locate a van parked close to the wall of Pere Lachaise and climb on top of it to reach the top of the wall -- after which, I'd drop to the other side and assist her down. Ha ha! She began laughing so excessively that she drew stares.

So we said our good-byes to the others, hopped the Metro to Pere Lachaise, and began strolling around its walls. We found a delivery truck parked up close enough and I assisted her in ascending it. And my, but what a priceless memory this is! This girl, always overdressed and seeking to project some sort of mystery woman image -- this girl, a somewhat pretentious devotee of gallery openings and avant garde films - this girl, so utterly finicky about her clothes and very protective of her capes (often frowning when they happened to brush the ground and yanking them up with something verging on alarm) -- this girl, I say, is climbing onto the top of the cab of the truck with her precious cream-colored cape dragging along the grille and getting dirty and she doesn't care! A childlike look of mischief and joy is absolutely beaming from her eyes! She's far too preoccupied with getting to the top of the wall that circles the cemetery to care about striking mystery woman poses anymore, being annoyingly artsy, or delivering career-minded lectures! The escapade at hand -- the prospect of strolling inside Pere Lachaise after dark -- has thoroughly banished all predilection to posture and be self-righteous from her personality! Why? Because she's German and therefore has this cemetery thing: her ancestry runs deeper than putting on silly art-girl acts!

So we climb onto the top of the wall -- conveniently about two feet wide -- and I drop down the other side into the cemetery. She requires assistance to descend and this requires that I grasp her in places that I haven't been allowed to touch before. She's a very fit girl -- athletic build with a hint of voluptuousness -- and my palms thrill to the soft sensation of the satiny cushions of her behind. Once she descends, her dress and cape are caught between our bodies and have been lifted higher than her waist and she's laughing herself dizzy. She backs away and her dress falls into place again and she says, "Well, I think you'll have to wait until we leave until you see that again!" (She's referring to the boost I'll need to give her when we climb one of the tombs to reach the top of the wall from this side.) But she's not serious: I get to see the engaging sight of her behind again not long thereafter, and other things besides. And, again, I know for a fact that I owe her kindness and familiarity to the fact that I had the good sense to invite her for a stroll in a cemetery; barring that, I seriously doubt I'd ever have broken through her subdued hostility and confirmed that even posturing artsy girls are capable of having fun.

So here's to all the German girls who adore and come alive in cemeteries, as if driven by some sort of need to give the lie to the presence of the dead!

Well, this entry ended up being a trifle longer than anticipated -- later, y'all!

3RD ENTRY: APRIL 8, 2002
So have I commenced this Weblog to annoy people, practice the fine art of making enemies? Naw, that'd be a far too one-dimensional reason, every bit as stupid as if I commenced it to ingratiate myself with assorted online cliques. As I've said, the amusement of myself is the primary reason: perhaps, in the course of amusing myself, I might make some friends and enemies: such is only to be expected! It's virtually impossible for me to open my mouth or jot a thing without pleasing some and getting on the nerves of others...

Oh, and to address a question that's come up: those of you who're tuning in for the purpose of getting some kiss and tell stuff are in for a sad disappointment! "Starting a Weblog?" someone asked me, adding "Great idea! -- can't wait for some Leyse debauchery!" Sorry, that would -- again -- be a far too one-dimensional reason; if anything, this Weblog will be a refuge from my so-called debauchery. And, besides, this Weblog will eventually be assessable via it's own domain name so that people uninterested in the adult content of Sliptongue can come straight here: as with investing, an author should know how to diversify. Sure, I toss sex into some of what I write and enjoy doing so immensely, but to only be able to write about sex would be quite pathetic! So no, not only will there be no kiss and tell in this Weblog there'll be no X-rated stuff, because only an inept clown dependent upon formulas and gimmicks needs to be X-rated in order to attract an audience!

2ND ENTRY: APRIL 5, 2002
Well, the first entry was easy: all I had to do was lay down a few rules -- any idiot can do that. But, now, I've got to provide a real entry dealing with real events in the real world; either that, or whip up some wit or absorbing reflections! Ha! Maybe I didn't fully realize what I was getting into, and ought to pack it in right now?

I was taught in gradeschool that once one begins something one ought to see it through: actually a very stupid rule to live by. After all, how does one know one wants to do something until one tries it first? And if one tries it and doesn't like it, why should one be expected to stick with it? If the shoe one's just tried on doesn't fit, is one obliged to buy it? If a shapely cutie turns out to be a prude in bed, is one obliged to be her boyfriend? I don't think so!

But this Weblog stuff's alright: total freedom, no plot constraints! No having to create and sustain a mood or tone for a given amount of pages! And, besides, the opportunities for being contradictory and annoying people are unlimited! And, well, that alone is more than enough to recommend keeping a Weblog! So I'm not packing it in, no Sir!

1ST ENTRY: APRIL 4, 2002
So how to begin? What are the common sense rules of keeping a Weblog if one wishes to maintain reader interest, have people salivating with anticipation for each new exciting entry? Let's see if I can whip up something of a program here!

(1) Seek to be as natural as possible: toss off the thoughts as they occur to me to avoid sounding too stilted and calculating. It's for fun, right? It's raw prose, as unpredictable and twisty-turny as the pictures constantly whirling in my head.

(2) Avoid the mundane: no one will care what I had for breakfast, what mindless errands I need to run, what the temperature is, whether the new shoes have been broken in yet. I pissed away three hours combing the net for directories to add Sliptongue to? Better keep that to myself! It won't be any more exciting for others than it was for me!

And now the rules which, although they might occasionally work against producing an engaging Weblog, will serve well for my own protection.

(1) Keep the workplace out of it! I've already vicariously learned a lesson with regard to this. A friend at another workplace has a Web site with something of a Weblog -- sort of a personal rant and rave area. Someone complained about something he did and he felt it was a pathetic petty-minded sort of complaint made by a complete loser with no life. So he sounds off to this effect on his site and everyone at his workplace is reading it -- many laughing, some fairly in a rage. As a result, he's summoned into the office of the head of his department. Well, he informs her that it's a private site and he's not forcing anyone to go to it and they have no legal rights over him with regard to it because it's completely an outside activity; but, hey, he still has to work in the place and it's his living so he very sensibly cuts a sort of deal and agrees not to chat of the said workplace on his site anymore. And, well, my situation is that before Sliptongue actually existed I foolishly blabbed about it to a handful of people I shouldn't have and now a lot of people at work seem to know about it. So, despite the rich vein of comedy begging to be mined from the place, I'll have to forgo the pleasure.

(2) Use different names, switch timeframes around, substitute one location for another when dealing with personal matters involving others so that no one outside of my funloving circle can disentangle things and figure out who really did what. The adventures will be true but the framework of time and space in which they occurred will be different. For instance, I might relate something that happened five years ago as if it happened last week, and vice versa. And maybe it happened in Paris, but I'll say it happened in San Francisco. Hey, I didn't have to let on with respect to this at all, right?

And now for some other items, not necessarily rules:

(1) I'll answer most emails and definitely encourage people to write them. I will not, however, reply to exceedingly stupid, petty, hairsplitting, or smug ones. I might reply to hostile ones, but only if they're well and entertainingly written.

(2) New entries are solely at my own whim and time permitting. There might occasionally be a week when people think I'm doing nothing but sit here and key in whatever comes to mind. And then I might be silent for nearly a month because it's started to seem like a chore or because mundane rubbish has been put off for too long and accumulated and demanded to be attended to or because I'm simply not in the mood. In short, this Weblog is gratuitous messing about on my part and I'll not have it controlling me, no Sir! And if I'm lucky enough to have people pestering me for more entries, I'll still not give in -- until I want to.

So long for now: here's to all of us enjoying ourselves!

Sliptongue Weblog © 2002-2004
by Sliptongue, Inc.






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