Tuesday, November 13, 2007

A Writer Goes to Spain

I'm beginning my winter (anything below 60 degrees is winter) with a trip to Spain. This may not be the best time to go to Spain because the temperature is about the same as it is here. I'm choosing to do so anyway.

This motley crue of thieves and degenerates that I'm going with intends on having a good time. A little bit of a car ride. A little bit of paella and a little bit of the Rioja.

The truth about this trip is that it may be more mundane than anything. I anticipate that my big moment will be waking up before every one else, going down the street to a cafe then sitting down and writing about how nice it is to wake up early before every one else, walk down the street to a cafe and write down about how nice it is to wake up early before every one else...

Yes, that's right. I'm going to Spain to write down about how nice it is to wake up before every one else and talk to my journal.

Any of you writers know that experience makes a diverse pallet to paint your stories with. If you know me, you know that I'm writing a book called The Whiskey Dregs. It is yet to pass the 80 page marker. I go through all of the notes in my head and ask the same question over and over: Well, who cares about this story?

The story takes place in New Orleans and it's about the dregs of society having a great time. So far, what I have is a book about having fun. The thing you should be doing instead of sitting home on a Friday night reading about other people having fun. So what's the point? This is what goes through my head. It's a book for the same guys that buy porn mags.


Man in his 40's. Grease stained shirt. Eye glasses. You know, your typical cassanova. The love child women drop down to their knees for. That guy. He walks down the street. He's alone and it's Friday night. He's looking for love but there's no one available. The neon lights from his favorite store casts a familiar glow onto the puddle of water. The smell of fresh rain abounds the streets and he knows this the signal for the uni-mate ceremony that he performs for occasions such as this.

The pink neon glow refelcts from his glasses as he pushes them up. He tucks his shirt in, looks both ways and opens the door. The man is now inside perusing the fine undergarments with holes in places a crotch should be. He looks over the black gadgets that look like man's penis. He beams at the sight of a Jenna Jameson vibrating vagina. This is his wonderland. This is his swingset. But this is not what he wants.

Within a few minutes, the man is over by the counter.

"Hello, Habib," he tells the man who is guarding the mags and dirty books.

"Hello," Habib tells the man. He doesn't remember this customer's face and it's a generic smile: "Hi, how are you? Shut the fuck up. Buy my shit," that's all it means.

So this perv. This dirty birdie, he points to the shelf behind Habib and he asks, "Habib, give me a copy of [such and such] magazine and what's that book over there? The Whiskey Dregs? I'll have that too."

Folks, I'm telling you. I'm writing a book for porn kings and billy goats and people who frequent methadone clinics and go through 12 step programs. I'm writing pulp nonsense that is spliced together with my wisdom - or whatever it is I've learned from living in the sub-basement of New York for so many years. Now all I'm concerned about is:

New Orleans or Spain?

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