Lord alone knows what (if anything) I am doing with a rambling plot-lite txt file like this, so...buzzylittlebOctober 6 2010, 21:07:47 UTC
Wolf Pack of Two
The only pack Callum had thought of doing was slow death wrapped in celophane, which is the standard response to the Canadian television actor demographic. Just look at Paul, perfect lips wrapped around a cancer stick as he explained the finer fucking points of being loved by every grandmother between here and Sasketchwan and how he could give up any time he liked it... it was just the Red/Green guys reminded him of the time when he'd blown up a shed on his parents' horse ranch in Alberta, where he...
And Callum had thought that the windswept street corner of clean-air excile would attract a better class of people than the fawning press vultures and intellectual pundits talking about last year's Stratford, which would have been... Paul. Wondering what to do by now and how soon could he make his gettaway or whether he should take his chances and hide behind the potted palm. He'd always been kind of skinny even when the money was American and only a brief sujourn to the links got rid of any unwanted moral fibre. Like he had much already. He. Was. A...
"Canadian Actor" Callum looked around to see Hugh leaning up against the wall and the brick snatched at every fibre of Hugh's tailored pure-wool suit in an almost-fashionable style. In the amber-lit darkness of downtown Vancouver on a Wednesday night, Callum's half-wrecked eyes couldn't make it out but was pretty sure the cufflinks were FUCK and YOU. An outside chance on LOVE and HAT - Hugh's dyslexia caused some very strange incidents when it came to rock'n'roll riders, the obscene and the obscure. Never let him near a typewriter unless you feel pretty sure that he wouldn't get high sniffing the white-out. That was one thing Callum loved about Hugh, the man of a thousand vices. Never quite the same, even if he had retired the old faithfuls - hopefully, homicide and suicide and heroin shooting - he always had something new and it was always cool, gnomesane?
Hugh's skeet shooting tendencies were a nightmare for the firearms wrangler.
The less said about the hill-billy anarchist sawn off the better -- it needed fixing
There was strange - off - about his eyes and it couldn't be liner and mascara. Hugh might telegraph the great subversive and sing about necropilia, addiction and insanity, but he was always PRESENTABLE whenever the press came home to roost. He had to know Hugh was a shoo-in for the Gun Show - Hugh's skeet shooting tendencies were a nightmare for the firearms wrangler - and it was just a matter of which colour is the parachute.
People back off when Hugh does INTENSE too loudly. This isn't much-vaunted INTENSITY.
Re: Lord alone knows what (if anything) I am doing with a rambling plot-lite txt file like this, so.buzzylittlebOctober 6 2010, 21:12:11 UTC
Written in notepad to get away from the spelling, mass editing tendencies and "just get it out!" [/cliched buzzspeak] and resolving into a hind-sight mess which doesn't quite work write right, hhhmmm *thinky*
Not so much a re-write as a write over... hopefully betterbuzzylittlebOctober 6 2010, 21:55:30 UTC
Cellophane crackled in his pocket as he pulled out the only pack he planned to see. He had to get out of that room - the awards show - and escape all those suffocating people. And he came here following the exiled tribe of smokers. Fortunately, the schmoozing was still in full-swing before the indeterminable sit-down dinner and the lights dimming for that indeterminable inquisition where a single bolt of light transfixed the martyr on the podium. This was Callum's chance and his date - a massage therapist from California - was powdering her nose. He forced down a queasy wave of guilt - they were on Dan's table and there were all the people Callum couldn't be. Writing people, acting people, anecdotal people.
The wind caught at the sleeve of Callum's sport jacket as he stepped into downtown Toronto on a Wednesday night. Paul had been at the stage door and nodded, understanding Callum's need to get away and find his own peace in loneliness. Callum had been kidding himself about giving up and he lit up his little piece of darkness and dragged the first hit in slowly. Awards evenings, press junkets, second-rate Oscars with third-rate dinners and fourth-rate alcohol he couldn't let himself drink because he knew it would be too good. An evening of hell, such was the lot of the...
"Canadian Actor" said Hugh as he materialised - like a manic Cheshire cat - besides Callum. Callum knew not to wonder how Hugh did it, not least because Callum was the only person to know. For sure. The pure wool suit barely masking an attitude of civilised fuckery - the socks would be orange, the belt will be punk and the tie was effortlessly cool. Hugh leaned over to snatch a cigarette only to pull his hand back, like he'd put it on a hotplate. Hugh was singing again. The cufflinks spelled out FUCK and YOU. That or LOVE and HAT - Hugh had an entirely incomprehensible rotation system and it was a full moon - like a dyslexic tattooist.
Callum liked Hugh, the man of a thousand vices, never the same and never repeated, he was an endless source of fascination and chaos. The old faithfuls had gone - homicide, suicide and shooting up - and had been replaced with skeet-shooting and eight-track. Ice cream and friendship bracelets. Ham and pineapple. Hill Billy apocalypse and crime memoirs. Fucking and walking down the hall.
Infinity and darkness.
That was Hugh. His eyes never grew black with boredom. Another beast entirely. Callum snorted and shook his head as the smallest wolf-pack in the world looked across the road
The only pack Callum had thought of doing was slow death wrapped in celophane, which is the standard response
to the Canadian television actor demographic. Just look at Paul, perfect lips wrapped around a cancer stick
as he explained the finer fucking points of being loved by every grandmother between here and Sasketchwan and
how he could give up any time he liked it... it was just the Red/Green guys reminded him of the time when he'd
blown up a shed on his parents' horse ranch in Alberta, where he...
And Callum had thought that the windswept street corner of clean-air excile would attract a better class of people
than the fawning press vultures and intellectual pundits talking about last year's Stratford, which would have
been... Paul. Wondering what to do by now and how soon could he make his gettaway or whether he should take his
chances and hide behind the potted palm. He'd always been kind of skinny even when the money was American and
only a brief sujourn to the links got rid of any unwanted moral fibre. Like he had much already. He. Was. A...
"Canadian Actor" Callum looked around to see Hugh leaning up against the wall and the brick snatched at every
fibre of Hugh's tailored pure-wool suit in an almost-fashionable style. In the amber-lit darkness of downtown
Vancouver on a Wednesday night, Callum's half-wrecked eyes couldn't make it out but was pretty sure the cufflinks
were FUCK and YOU. An outside chance on LOVE and HAT - Hugh's dyslexia caused some very strange incidents when it
came to rock'n'roll riders, the obscene and the obscure. Never let him near a typewriter unless you feel pretty
sure that he wouldn't get high sniffing the white-out. That was one thing Callum loved about Hugh,
the man of a thousand vices. Never quite the same, even if he had retired the old faithfuls - hopefully, homicide
and suicide and heroin shooting - he always had something new and it was always cool, gnomesane?
Hugh's skeet shooting tendencies were a nightmare for the firearms wrangler.
The less said about the
hill-billy anarchist sawn off the better -- it needed fixing
There was strange - off - about his eyes and it couldn't be liner and mascara. Hugh might telegraph the great
subversive and sing about necropilia, addiction and insanity, but he was always PRESENTABLE whenever the press came
home to roost. He had to know Hugh was a shoo-in for the Gun Show - Hugh's skeet shooting tendencies were
a nightmare for the firearms wrangler - and it was just a matter of which colour is the parachute.
People back off when Hugh does INTENSE too loudly. This isn't much-vaunted INTENSITY.
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He forced down a queasy wave of guilt - they were on Dan's table and there were all the people Callum couldn't be. Writing people, acting people, anecdotal people.
The wind caught at the sleeve of Callum's sport jacket as he stepped into downtown Toronto on a Wednesday night. Paul had been at the stage door and nodded, understanding Callum's need to get away and find his own peace in loneliness. Callum had been kidding himself about giving up and he lit up his little piece of darkness and dragged the first hit in slowly. Awards evenings, press junkets, second-rate Oscars with third-rate dinners and fourth-rate alcohol he couldn't let himself drink because he knew it would be too good. An evening of hell, such was the lot of the...
"Canadian Actor" said Hugh as he materialised - like a manic Cheshire cat - besides Callum. Callum knew not to wonder how Hugh did it, not least because Callum was the only person to know. For sure. The pure wool suit barely masking an attitude of civilised fuckery - the socks would be orange, the belt will be punk and the tie was effortlessly cool. Hugh leaned over to snatch a cigarette only to pull his hand back, like he'd put it on a hotplate. Hugh was singing again. The cufflinks spelled out FUCK and YOU. That or LOVE and HAT - Hugh had an entirely incomprehensible rotation system and it was a full moon - like a dyslexic tattooist.
Callum liked Hugh, the man of a thousand vices, never the same and never repeated, he was an endless source of fascination and chaos. The old faithfuls had gone - homicide, suicide and shooting up - and had been replaced with skeet-shooting and eight-track. Ice cream and friendship bracelets. Ham and pineapple. Hill Billy apocalypse and crime memoirs. Fucking and walking down the hall.
Infinity and darkness.
That was Hugh. His eyes never grew black with boredom. Another beast entirely. Callum snorted and shook his head as the smallest wolf-pack in the world looked across the road
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