a state of urban decay.
*
"Pao, remember the guy you talked with last week? Karl? He's Karl De Mesa, he's the editor of this column, 'Damaged People,' and he has a published book with the same name. He's looking for contributors for his new book, short stories/fiction that border on non-mediocre/urban decay blah. I think you should submit something."
I have a big green notebook filled with short stories from my "angsty" (they call it 'emo' nowadays) years. And yes, there's nothing like being haunted by your own work. They still elicit the prerequisite piloerection (that's goosebumps, whee) each line I read. "Did I really write this?," and before I could answer the question, flashbacks of the span of a midnight kung-fu film in solar, a campy b-movie in cinema1 and episodes of The Jetsons (boomerang) at 4 am was usually enough time to give birth to a body of work. So my answer would be yes, I did write all of this. (If this is my version of writing about writing, then you should seriously pick-up The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Kundera --- that book details writing in a sort-of commentary-story way, plus, it's a lot more subtle.)
Although I must admit, I'm contemplating on it --- if only American-Splendor-esque (and I do love American Splendor) type of work was accepted, then going gonzo on the keys might cut it.
**
"yoo-choob is yoo-toob in the US"
That Gretchen thing in TV Patrol.
Thank you tv! Hahaha!