Posts Tagged ‘Styx’

Bra Swappers Near The Kranepool


29 Aug

Styx On The Run, (Madam's Organ)

Styx On The Run, (Madam's Organ)

samplex

Date: Thu Aug 29, 1996 3:14:54 PM

YAST passing up good beer and illustrative dress rehearsal to all things considered means I'm three cards shy of a full smashguard! My Lord, what's happening here? I queried Tim about dining full flush, and his standard "oh I don't know, guess we'll have to see how things and money blah blah" was the very next thing I remember hearing. I wasn't sure if the spacecraft from which I'd just been beamed back had interrupted my normal continuum, so it's tough to say if Tim prefaced his remarks with any noticeable interest in the meal deal of the week, or not. Since you've written yourself out of the Blumwreck beerfloat already, does this also mean Little Ethiopia won't see us darken their doors either? Sarcasm is the best of weapons with Blum since he often prefers to be licked to liked. Flames or female impersonators. Take your pick. The proof is in the pud. Ding! My popcorn is ready, so I'm off I to see the wise aardvark of Anacostia with a cache of dirty limericks a bunch of us wrote back in the pearly years as a last gasp Prodigy hunch. Back pack fresh. Catch you guys on the fly. By night. Fall is almost here. Yeah! Birthdays. Anniversaries. Death warrants.

What's this about dark skinned maidens of high quality serving finger food and honey wine. I haven't had Ethiopean food in ages (nor has a number of actual Ethiopean residents. Suddenly I find myself wrapped up in the plot to reserect Adid, thou he may be less worm eaten than we suppose! What with a simple case of beer can be suddenly construed as a tub of Tej. I guess this Labor Day remains unplanned as usual. —BLUM

Bob, why did you send the above penile implant as an attachment? I had to dig thru a half dozen folders plus launch MS Word just to read it. We have plans to eat Ethiopia back into Sam Kennison's joke graveyard this weekend. No solid plans have been made, just the idea to do it, but I can tell you right now I am not going to eat raw hamburger. That's Sue's (a STOO?) delight, not mine. You are certainly welcome to join us, but at this writing neither place nor time has been established. I'm leaning toward Fasika's myself, although I certainly have no qualms about the Red Sea. I'd just as soon avoid Georgetown if that's okay with you two ex-Georgians. Uh, wowser! that makes four ex-Georgians and Tim a gonzaga...

And Madam's Organ sounds okay. Might run into Styx. Need to return her stuff since she's reluctant to make the trip to Cap Hill from Church Street for swappers. Will tote her baggie full of underwear and condoms just in case we do. I suggest Friday night bullseye since I am kind of anxious to get out of the house, the earlier the better. Any pert rebuttals? My Labor Day Plans, are, oh gawd, not another holiday!

Date: Tue Sep 3, 1996 11:55:53 AM America/New_York

Bob, it's an emergency. I tried this weekend to mail you a "cc" along with five others. Your name was fourth in the "cc" list. After trying three times to post the note only to jam at your name with hard enough error to trigger the message box that your specific mailing address was problematic, I wiped you off that posting, and must try again. This is a trial nicker.

"We're all guinea pigs!" chortled the sandpicker.

Arguments 4 Sisters in-shacks-and-shod, left on the curb outside SMASH!Records sucking from a cup of joe forced to listen to some point blankers strumming in the alley, making more foreign noise than certain neighbors I know like to allow? I hear Tom's voice now. I don't see him. The bluescreen strikers have probably circled the wagons around their fearless leader, and allowed Tom to slip through them on his way to hitch a ride with Croyden back to The Thin Whistle where, yep, everybody knows his name, and a few will buy him drinks. Your bottom dollar, Tom Howell knows the ropes in those venues where secret handshakes are not something...
Sorry I fell out early Sunday night. I was beat, and had tried to arrange an even earlier bed for myself, but hoardes unfortunately in some cases create their own dancecards. We gone out to Madam's Organ the night before, left dynamited, came home to more. Can't sleep forever, even in hangover mode, so I was up, and was ready to go down again around eight. Steve wore me slap out with his buzzfly antics that afternoon as I was trying to learn a next level of webmaster skills.

"Hope you bag the cracker," each Cardinal taking the field tossed under his breath.

I wore him slap out in a letter I sent yonderways over the globe with too much spin so to knock a hole in your POP sockets, I'd guess. We'll shrink back just a quarter beat, the Steveskier & I. Two weeks is usually the bag limit for fragilities, but left field is always kept open by STOO for short term sorrows. Mixed metaphors are an extreme method for exciting and immediately exploiting the synapses of any number of slave subjects. Driver habits will cause mileage to vary. But all this is to be expected. In these Dollhouse Crime Committee Reports he's not any different than any other j-birds jonesing into the DH jawingroom, simply yet another. Lemme tell you whattaburger Bob, I know you put a lot of time and effort into your friendship arks. I manage only by default person to person, bellicose ripwriting & jawpicking, and a better balance of barnyard jawboning, all natural litter-strewn ruts scraped into stone, granite, interjected the Navy adjunct who had been Pop's best friend for all this tiny fact mattered during that limited trust, sunken subliminal pathways I still haunt in my eye to eye contacts. An anonymous pirate's reward often short a pisspot, why am I so greedy for my own writing pad privacy, and if not that, then my own command launcher? None of this mushy chaotic middle ground democrapic stuff-of-testosterones which is nothing but insult to the (uh, working needs of my people...?) exclamatory largesse, and should never affect my orders to execute all the specific declassé inertia I survey. Call that runaway liberalism to the mat in asking why is it I am such a prick without a price on my head? Am I batter-suited as the do then talker or the talk then doer, and how to I get to know the difference between the lion and the lamb? The beginning or the end? I am both reported the Jew who was to diasporas as I am to diapers. What does that make ME I ask him. Brothers-in-arms-and-legs-only? Arguments 4 Sisters in-shacks-and-shod, left on the curb outside SMASH!Records sucking from a cup of joe forced to listen to some point blankers strumming in the alley, making more foreign noise than certain neighbors I know like to allow? I hear Tom's voice now. I don't see him. The bluescreen strikers have probably circled the wagons around their fearless leader, and allowed Tom to slip through them on his way to hitch a ride with Croyden back to The Thin Whistle where, yep, everybody knows his name, and a few will buy him drinks. Your bottom dollar, Tom Howell knows the ropes in those venues where secret handshakes are not something...

Well, had enough here. Gotta go sow some mo' iMote somewar elts...

"When in doubt, start a commune, not a bomb hoax" whispered Salome with four thumbs on my knot. Then some piker leaned over, checking out her cleavage as indifferently as he could manage with the eyes he had, to grab the mike away from her, and plunge a marginal apology sharply into her neck of the woods. "That's bogus." she said afterwards.

GT

Neither Stick Nor Stones (She Mumbled)


16 Aug

styx

Styx Haunts The Dollhouse

samplex

Originally published on August 16, 1996

Well folks, it's official. Styx has left the building. After spending four of five nights away from the Dollhouse in her search for fun & frenzy around the U Street corridor, spending nearly every dime of the $200 plus she bussed in with, Styx wandered up on Wednesday afternoon an hour past her declared work time of noon. I told her she was fired, having been very clear that if I was going to make work for her in order to help her make Dollhouse rent I wanted her to take it as serious as any outside job: honesty, dedication, and consistency the foundation of that relationship. And since she now had no visible means of support, I thought she should leave for those greener pastures she had taken up in recent days.

Tom Howell and his pals had as much adopted her, and I wanted her to go, so I worked up the stones to insist she leave. She was too quiet, acted like a prisoner, an ugly step-child, a peril to herself and to us, too antsy to get out of the house night after night. Obviously she was not comfortable here. And the feeling was mutual. Tim had wearied of her ghostlike emphemera, hardly a word spoken, and then only a whisper we invariably had to ask she repeat. We thrive on explicit boltwrenching chat around here. She thrived on escape. She just wasn't working out. All my speeches intended to enlighten and provoke exchange mattered nothing to her. She just wanted to flutter beyond like gutter garbage in the wind in some unspecific marking of time.

Despite yesterday’s hangover slump after crucifying an entire bottle of vodka the day before to ease the anxiety of having to turn my back on somebody, even somebody I probably loathed, I was notably relieved that she was gone. No deep & disturbing psychodrama, merely thirteen hours of photograph labels had passed between us. Other than $125 dropped on a twin mattress for her, which I am sure we can parlay into a proper use once we can afford to remodel the basement, I feel she owes us nothing, and I nothing to her. A closed chapter in all our lives.
When I awoke Tuesday morning and Tim said she had not come in again that night I figured she would stroll in late, and asked Sue to take the Metro leaving me the car to move her across town. And so I did. I fed her some Ethiopian along the way, and that was that. No anger, no final speeches. Just the shared feeling that this was the most natural thing to do considering the anxiety we both endured while she was here. Although she said she was prepared to complete her day's work that afternoon, she admitted she was happy to try her luck on the street.

She had spent last night at Ted's. An odd but warm fellow, a heavy-set bearded lost & found street saxophonist, Ted kept a place over on the notorious in one of the Paul Lutauf Belmont Street buildings—a barren dump as you can imagine, having lived over on that same stretch of Belmont-In-Squalor yourself a decade of woeful memories ago, eh Jennifer, but certainly more the Styx style than the ordered clichés of the mid-life middle class Dollhouse manor. We made no vows to keep in touch, for as I said, very little was directly exchanged, particularly on the topics of the immediate past and the oh so immediate future, and what little was said I drew out with a direct questioning, the sole standard form of communication we seemed fated to share until she would leave I presumed.

Despite yesterday's hangover slump after crucifying an entire bottle of vodka the day before to ease the anxiety of having to turn my back on somebody, even somebody I probably loathed, I was notably relieved that she was gone. No deep & disturbing psychodrama, merely thirteen hours of photograph labels had passed between us. Other than $125 dropped on a twin mattress for her, which I am sure we can parlay into a proper use once we can afford to remodel the basement, I feel she owes us nothing, and I nothing to her. A closed chapter in all our lives.

Strange how I once thought she & Tim might hit it off, when instead it was Howellnyms & his Braeniac crowd who took immediate advantage of this wandering waif.

She was quite efficient in those thirteen hours at the Mac. I used a microrecorder early in the mornings before she was stirring to identify the appropriate people, place, and dates of each photo. She then transcribed them, printed to label sheets, and then applied to pictures each label at an astonishing rate. I was quite pleased with her work, but I knew she wanted to maraud the cityscape instead despite her acquiescent nods when I plied her with questions concerning her comfort & intentions amongst the Dollhouse regulars. I might have let Rob Williams down, but it no longer mattered. He'd passed her along to me. I passed her along to Tom and Russell Braen—no doubt to their prudent chagrin—but at least she wanted to be over there with Russell's Myhouse crew, closer to the urban street action than she was with us. I heard somebody say Patrick Tracy, our looming Irish writer, won a Madam's Organ backroom blowjob out of it, her idea, his treat. Enough said.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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