Saturday, August 14, 2010

Neurotic Fiction

(what to do when travel writing dies...)

Bermuda, 1989

Boris had met Elaine in Trimmingham's, he buying a soup to nuts wardrobe and tossing his sodden things into a Trimmingham's bag. Seems the concierge had been right about advising against a motorbike ride into Hamilton in front of the incoming storm after all.

Elaine was pale, petite and here on her own after her fiance had called it all off when he discovered her hammer toes. As long as she kept a pair of socks on under her sandals, Boris could tolerate the condition though he never tucked his chin lower than 85 degrees below the horizon.

Seducing her was easy, his taking her to most of the open conch museums on the island. In a fit of passion, he took her to the lanai, stripped her robe off and laid her onto the lounge chair. Pressing his weight onto and into her, she squealed with what Boris mistakenly thought was delight and soon was corrected in that the strapping of the lounge chair was pinching her pale ass in the Bermuda full moon.

Though called, the island constable on duty did not press charges, satisfying himself with an admonition to the couple and a hail of laughter in the sealed Police Ford Coronet.

Key West, 2000

Lauren let her new husband snooze the evening's liquor off in the Honeymoon Suite of what used to be the Flagler. She put her blue bikini on and a discreet wrap around the waist and walked out into the early night to the piers where you could lean over the side to watch the Tarpon swim lazily, looking for an evening meal.

Boris was there, waiting as he had promised once the Jonathan Winters retrospective was over on Showtime. The hotel had a great cable selection.

He too was watching the Tarpon weave their way in and around the piles that held the marina pier. Boris turned to Lauren and as she drifted into his arms, he received her and knocked the Southernmost Mudslide that he had balanced on the pier pile into the small of her back such that cream, Kalua and whatnot cascaded in small but passionate spurts down her discreet wrap and settling on her ankles and the tops of her feet. Sensing food, a Tarpon leapt up onto the decking which startled Boris such that he pushed Lauren away and into the water.

Toledo Spain, 2005

His flight was five hours late so he endured the scolding of his driver though he truly didn't have the first idea of what he was talking about. After a series of rushed meetings, facilities tours and a guerilla-like drive to his hotel in the front seat of a vehicle that was probably around since Franco had begun to die, Boris was dropped off in the San Juan de Reyes to be checked into a handicapped-accessible room and allowed his first shower in 32 hours. His feet dangling off the toilet scarce bothered him. He was only interested in soap and shaving and sleep.

But he was hungry, ravenous at six o'clock local time in a country where most mainstream restaurants don't open before 8.30 pm. He wandered the streets, shaven and showered but with a growl in the pit of his stomach that he was sure was frightening prostitutes. Not that he was looking but you never know...

He chanced upon a Brasserie that was open and serving beer and Tapas, racciones as many times and as much food as you cared to order and eat. Her name was Margarita and she was sweet but homely with glasses and a protruding chin. However, she proferred food and instantly Boris was in love.

He ate venison stew, asparagus wrapped in salty ham, olives and whatever else he felt he could pronounce and digest. When Margarita quietly said that she was leaving for the evening, he called for the cuenta por favor and asked Margarita if he could walk her home. He could.

She lived in a single apartment in the older section of the city by the Roman ruins. Strolling down the cobblestone incline he risked holding her hand. She accepted and squeezed his just a little too hard to be incidental. They smiled at each other through limited translation and Boris felt at peace for once.

The rumble began distantly and randomly but soon grew to an oncoming roar. In the middle of the cobblestone Boris suddenly realized that they were walking in a main thoroughfare. As the Volkswagen Jetta turned the corner by the El Greco museum, Boris had no choice but to loose his grip and launch Margarita into the stucco facade of the apartment opposing.

London, 2005

Boris and she had known each other through work although they were engaged in entirely different areas of the company. It was only happenstance that they found each other across the aisle of the same Cincinatti to London US Airways flight. They chatted over wine, brie and a flounder that wound Boris up in the digestive mile-high club somewhere over Greenland for the better part of the night.

He was on the fifth floor of the Durand, she on the third and they agreed to meet for dinner where she announced that it was her habit to abandon the rules while abroad and invite her first likely opportunity to her bed. Boris relished the thought of exploring her heretofore tweed and nylon-cloaked nether regions of opportunity. He stood, leaning against the portable butane space heater that warded off an early London June chill and accepted the cigarette from her, that which had been previously forbidden him. Lighting it, he leaned a trifle too heavily into the heater and as it fell off the open platform of the dining area the cigarette ignited the spilled butane.

Fortunately, Kate was a wonderful and caring sister in the burn ward afterwards.

Friday, August 13, 2010

I'm Not a Wet Baby

And like anyone other than a wet baby, I don't like change.
Which is funny in that change seems to love me and follows me around like a hungry dog and I'm wearing Snausage aftershave.
This week, after studiously ignoring it, I changed my home email along with our home ISP.
That is to say, we changed the ISP about a week ago and they left me instructions on changing the email. Needless to say, something else to do that changes things, I slept, ate, watched TV, took out the trash and cut the lawn on it until I finally forced myself to go through the setup screens today.
Had to do it. The old email was shuttered. Changed ISP. See, its 2010 and I got the ridiculous notion in my head that for over a hundred bucks a month, I should be entitled to an ethernet cable that I could stick into a switch and power up more than one computer on.
Apparently, my ISP thought otherwise. I had contracted through Bigass, Inc., pretty much the only show in town at the time. Reluctantly of course, since I had once used Bigass, Inc. for cable only in a Previous Lifetime.
I hadn't started cable with Bigass, Inc. But they took over the local cable provider and the next thing you know, Pat Croce is all over the screen shilling his latest avoidable read "I Feel Terrific and You're Gonna Hear All About It Cause You Got No Choice."
Add t0 that they stuff silly little local interest stories in the middle of national news broadcasts so if you've only got fifteen minutes you're going to miss the updates on the California earthquake dropping LA into the Pacific because Elma Mipple from the Luvin' Kitty Kat Korner Klub is being interviewed.
Once I left my Previous Lifetime and moved into the Knob and Tube Palace, I was thrilled to find that Bigass didn't cover my area. There were two cable/ISP providers, Piddlydink and LocalPodunk. I went with Piddlydink and for about ninety bucks a month I got simple Outlook email, clear phone service and cable that plugged into the back of the TV and used the remote that came with the set.
What else did you need?
Then I had to go and change jobs.
Simple yet affordable Knob and Tube Palace was sold and we moved into humble Paramour that unfortunately was located in Unaffordable County. Walking to work was replaced with a drive and a security ID and a guard and a gate.
Piddlydink ISP went back to Bigass, Inc. and now my email featured Java-scripted stick figures dancing like she was stirring her children into a cooking kettle while the tag line announces that: "Obama Says Re-Mortgage Your Future!" and the weather in San Mateo, CA where Bigass Inc. ISP seems to think I live is always sunny and fine.
And instead of a router that plugs into a switch I got an option to pay another $6.95 per month to Bigass, Inc. for a second line. Plus the cable TV comes with a decoder box and its own remote so now we have enough button devices in the den to launch two space shuttles simultaneously.
Enough was enough and I went all Wet Baby on Bigass, Inc. and switched to Corporate Reset, Inc. as an ISP.
I'm now holding my breath for their particular foolishness but so far, so good. Yes I still have eighteen remotes and a branded home page but the remotes actually turn the TV on and not the blender and the home page only plugs their own products. I'd still rather have generic outlook but what ya gonna do? Only folks that write me at Causticbunny at are spam from women I once dated and the occasional Magazine Man or Cog wondering why the hell we haven't launched the 21st century version of George?
But I do have a wireless router which I wasn't expecting and that's the closest I'll come to kissing an installing technician named Bob.
So now I have a new personal email address and it took a while to name it. Tried to transfer my old email address which was my first unpublished novel @ but that domain was taken. Since I haven't named my second unpublished novel, much less written it, that was out of the question. Tried an older email address but it was gone too. Scratched my head and wondered what a big old stupid bunny was going to pick as an email address.

Apparently, that.

Bunny on.

visited 34 states (68%)