because my directv is broken i spent the weekend holed up in my bachelor pad trying to knock out this xxx novel that im ghostwriting for a celebrity friend of a friend, which is tough because writing is all about habits and one of my habits is to have the tv on even if im not paying attention to it.
what i love about the newer assignments that ive been getting is watching my body react to them.
i get ridiculously hungry when im writing something that isnt a blog.
its a form of procrastination but it also feels like im feeding fuel for the fire. its like buster keaton on the general and since ive got plenty of wood, the fire gets bigger and the writing just flows and flows.
the other day i found myself way ahead of schedule so i signed up for my 11th fantasy baseball league. big mistake because im in so many nba playoffs right now that i forgot to start some pitchers today.
ive noticed that my writing ritual is very rhythmic and follows a pretty strict schedule. maybe yours does too.
i like to blog, for instance right before i get on the subway and go to work. then i like to write at lunchtime and then once again when i get home. instead of writing the blog at night ive been writing this book and thank God its about done because it pretty much ruined my weekend.
but now it’s nearly done and nobody will ever know that i wrote it and i will get my little check and i will do something dumb like pay off my lone credit card and give my favorite charity the hollywood free clinic the rest.
maybe i’ll get some new pumas cuz these are two years old now and falling apart.
what i really want is a pony.
went to lunch today with the swedish virgin. we’re just friends which i hate cuz you have to keep your hands to yourself and pretend that you dont want each other. right there. on the table.
maybe its all the porn that i just wrote but when im with who i want to be with and shes looking so good and the farmers market clam chowdah bread bowl has fed the fire i suddenly find myself with energy that needs to be spent.
walking to the car i said why dont you put your hands on the hood of that beamer and give these tourists something to tell their friends about.
why dont we do for once in our lives exactly what we’d do if we were back in the jungle.
what about the cops she asked laughing and trying to wrestle her hand out of my firm grip.
oh baby by the time the cops showed up we’d be long gone with only the smiles on our lips and some dna on my pants and on your wrinkled skirt to condemn us.
but virgins dont play that
which is why you have to say it.
and when the valet drove her car around the corner i whispered i miss you and i love you baby
and she stopped laughing for a sec and said i love you and miss you too tony.
and we hugged and i slid my hand down down her backside probably for the last time