Hanging with Hank
Aug. 10th, 2006 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonThe ghost of Hank Chinaski is rummaging through my kitchen!
"Well here's yr problem kid!" He shouts at me "You got no whiskey in yr cupboards which is probably why ya got no Woman in yr bed!"
He snatches a cheap bottle of red wine off the kitchen counter, bites down on the cork with a growl and spits it out like a cheap cigar. He downs the half a bottle with one swig, then tosses it over his back into the sink, catapulting it into a stack of dirty glasses and unwashed plates. He stagger-sways up over to me and thrusts a fat finger into my chest: "Hey! Wha' kinda writer are ya anyway?"
"Well i'm glad you asked." I smile triumphantly, "I maintain a semi daily Blog on both Myspace and LJ ..."
He drops a ham fisted five into my breadbasket knocking the air out of me.
"Speak English fer chrissakes! Don't make an old man embarrass ya, kid."
"I ... keep...a public... diary...on.. the...internet..." I say gasping for air.
"I thought that thing was jes fer pornography?"
"No, no... it's also a good place to post...er that is 'electronically publish' your thoughts, feelings, observations on any number of subjects... from say,,, what someone might have been wearing at a particular night club or um... the merits and failing of various 'Star Trek' franchises...say you know I write poetry too."
"Yeahhhhh y'don't say..." He says wearily, eyeballing my place frantically for the nearest exit.
"I was thinking... y'know since you're here and all.. that maybe I could ... well y'know read you one of my pieces? It's about this girl I met online..."
"HOLY SHIT NO!" he barks startled at the horror of it "Whaddya tryin' ta do get me killed a second time?"
"Well no, it's just that i'm a writer too..."
"Then waddya doin' wastin' my time fer? Write fer fucks sake. It's not like ya got anythin' else goin' on...."
"I do, I write and write and write but it never seems to go anywhere..."
"That's 'cause you don't go anywhere. Whad'ja expect, an army of publishers to start beating down yr door? Look i'm meeting up with the ghosts of Robert Mitchum and Johnny Cash for a few drinks at the Star Bar..."
"...and you want me to tag along?"
He drops another five in the guts, doubling me over like a folding chair.
"Noooo... not until y'learn how to take a punch. No, what I want is for you to get out of this goddamn tomb y'got yrself holed up in and try and meet yerself some women."
"Do you...have some...advice on how I could...?"
"Yeahhhhhh.... don't tell 'em yer a poet fer starters." he snorts and stagger-sways on other to the front door. "Anyways I need a drink, so I guess i'll see you around... unless I got some luck in me still... ohhh and by the way: 'Doubled over like a folding chair' is a terrible simile!" and with that the ghost of Hank Chinaski faded and faded away until there was nothing there but the smell of old man, cheap wine and cigars.
"Well here's yr problem kid!" He shouts at me "You got no whiskey in yr cupboards which is probably why ya got no Woman in yr bed!"
He snatches a cheap bottle of red wine off the kitchen counter, bites down on the cork with a growl and spits it out like a cheap cigar. He downs the half a bottle with one swig, then tosses it over his back into the sink, catapulting it into a stack of dirty glasses and unwashed plates. He stagger-sways up over to me and thrusts a fat finger into my chest: "Hey! Wha' kinda writer are ya anyway?"
"Well i'm glad you asked." I smile triumphantly, "I maintain a semi daily Blog on both Myspace and LJ ..."
He drops a ham fisted five into my breadbasket knocking the air out of me.
"Speak English fer chrissakes! Don't make an old man embarrass ya, kid."
"I ... keep...a public... diary...on.. the...internet..." I say gasping for air.
"I thought that thing was jes fer pornography?"
"No, no... it's also a good place to post...er that is 'electronically publish' your thoughts, feelings, observations on any number of subjects... from say,,, what someone might have been wearing at a particular night club or um... the merits and failing of various 'Star Trek' franchises...say you know I write poetry too."
"Yeahhhhh y'don't say..." He says wearily, eyeballing my place frantically for the nearest exit.
"I was thinking... y'know since you're here and all.. that maybe I could ... well y'know read you one of my pieces? It's about this girl I met online..."
"HOLY SHIT NO!" he barks startled at the horror of it "Whaddya tryin' ta do get me killed a second time?"
"Well no, it's just that i'm a writer too..."
"Then waddya doin' wastin' my time fer? Write fer fucks sake. It's not like ya got anythin' else goin' on...."
"I do, I write and write and write but it never seems to go anywhere..."
"That's 'cause you don't go anywhere. Whad'ja expect, an army of publishers to start beating down yr door? Look i'm meeting up with the ghosts of Robert Mitchum and Johnny Cash for a few drinks at the Star Bar..."
"...and you want me to tag along?"
He drops another five in the guts, doubling me over like a folding chair.
"Noooo... not until y'learn how to take a punch. No, what I want is for you to get out of this goddamn tomb y'got yrself holed up in and try and meet yerself some women."
"Do you...have some...advice on how I could...?"
"Yeahhhhhh.... don't tell 'em yer a poet fer starters." he snorts and stagger-sways on other to the front door. "Anyways I need a drink, so I guess i'll see you around... unless I got some luck in me still... ohhh and by the way: 'Doubled over like a folding chair' is a terrible simile!" and with that the ghost of Hank Chinaski faded and faded away until there was nothing there but the smell of old man, cheap wine and cigars.
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no subject
on 2006-08-10 06:04 pm (UTC)xxx