I don’t have anything to say.
Thus I will blog.
Actually, I was prepared to continue my onslaught on Jonathan Franzen, but due to the fact that he will be the Keynote speaker tomorrow night at the Decatur Book Festival, and because this blog is better than anything I could write today, I’ve decided it best to leave the pompous fart alone.
Instead, I will ramble unnecessarily. Or necessarily, depending on whether or not you are me. Which you are not. I am. Which means it’s necessary to me. But this is–still for the moment–a democracy we live in, so here you go…your chance to have a say.
I mean, I’m still going to ramble. That won’t change, but I really like polls.
My forthcoming book, Flutter: An Epic of Mass Distraction, takes place, partly, in Heaven, where a few of my characters get trapped in the realm of dreams, known as Level Five. It’s a bit of a disturbing thought, being trapped in a rolling scroll of dreams you wish you’d never had. It’s even worse when they aren’t your dreams, or if they’re dreams you’d rather certain someone else type people not see (especially the one about the Bunny Farm, that doesn’t have rabbits). But dreams aren’t all bad. They’re inane, true, but you’re hopefully not going to find fantasy baseball playing zombies in your basement any time soon, so in that respect, they can be quite enjoyable. For example, I found this guy (my dear counting friend above), in one of the rooms, and decided he needed a home in Level Five. So, in my rambling kind of way, here’s where Flutter takes us, for a scene.
Randall looked into the purplish complexion of the vampire, the weighty pull of its black pupils behind thin framed glasses, felt inevitability draw in around him, close upon him like a vise, and came to a decision about the moment.
He was not going to die in his underwear.
They weren’t even a good quality pair of underwear, like the boxers he so preferred, or even at worst, boxer-briefs. No, these were the tidy whitey, please dear God don’t let there be urine stains in the front, shame shorts he had worn in his much younger years. Back when his mother still dressed him. Just before college, as he recalled.
So, why should he be in them now?
As if on command, the briefs were replaced by satin boxers, covered in repetition with the Superman insignia. “Sweet,” he said. He struck a heroic pose.
“Why are you in your underpants?” asked Samuel, from somewhere.
The vampire flinched at the sound of Samuel’s voice, and bore its fangs as if prepared to do battle with a beforehand unseen mist. It sheltered its face in a black cape, uttered an over-dramatized count of blah’s, after which he cackled a less than fearsome laugh, and scampered off.
“I don’t know,” answered Randall absently, watching as the vampire reeled off in the opposite direction, bouncing along in a notably guided way. “Am I on Sesame Street? What the hell? Was that the Count?”
“You’re more concerned with the legitimacy of a vampire puppet, and its relation to your location, than why you’re essentially nude? And, I might add, broadcasting the level of your childish mind in the process.”
Randall shook his head from the sight of the bounding vampire, and shrugged. “What? Oh, the boxers. Yeah, I was just in eighth grade again. Same as always.”
It really just amounts to a cameo. I think he’s underutilized, to be honest. There wasn’t enough in the budget to offer him a real paycheck. Just enough to buy him an abacus, and time in a room to count himself silly.
I have now gone from having nothing to say, to saying nothing, and even for a blog, that’s not acceptable. So, um…The End.