I arrived at the bar at around six.
I was meeting a fellow teacher there who had expressed an interest reading and
editing my first book. My confidence that he’d take on either task was low.
This is because last year I sent my book to about twenty editors and they all
rejected it. One even more or less said it was “the most unreadable pile of horseshit
that had ever fouled the sanctity of his work space.”
With this rattling around in my
head, I found my colleague (we’ll call him “Don”). He was sitting at a table by
himself, smoking and sipping a shot of Becherovka.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I parked it and ordered a beer. It
came to me and I took a long pull.
“So um, tell me about your
book."
“Well …”
What fumbled from my mouth was the
same half-polished string of anal beads I regurgitate at anyone, who asks me
that question. It goes something like this:
“My book is a fictionalized account
of a trip I took around the world with my childhood friends back in 2006. It
not only details our day-to-day adventures, it documents the development of
this pseudo-culture we’ve created both at home and abroad. We’ve got our own
nicknames, initiation rites, deities and spiritual philosophy. We’ve even got
our own dialect of English, which we call ‘ROAST,’ for ‘Result of a Small
Town.’ With every trip we take, we add a little more to our culture. But this
trip in 2006 added the most to the pot. That’s why I decided to write a book
about it.”
I was expecting Don to excuse
himself from the table and hail a cab. Instead, he raised an eyebrow.
“Sounds like an interesting book.”
“Really?!”
I ordered another beer and a shot. I
inhaled the latter and gulped the former.
“So you wanna read it?” I asked.
“Of course. But first tell me a
little more about your body of writing. Do you have a blog?”
The word “BLOG” exited his lips and
moved across the table in slow motion. Before I could duck, it crashed against
my face like a loaded baby diaper.
“I fucking hate BLOGS!” I said,
spitting the word from my mouth.
“Why?”
“Because! They are the antithesis of
literature and the destruction of good writing! People set ‘em up with little
consideration of ‘why’ or ‘how.’ Then they just go on there and puke their
unformed thoughts up on the page for the whole world to see without ever taking
the time to really hone and compile them into what might have become a decent
book. All this ‘blogging,’ and ‘tweeting,’ and bullshit is the same! It’s
ruining the craft of writing and I for one will not participate!”
Don breathed in half his cigarette
then flabbered the smoke out of his mouth.
“Hans,” he said. “Get over yourself
and step into the twenty-first century. Every writer worth his salt has a blog
these days. And yes, some people do use them to ‘puke their unformed thoughts
up on the page,’ but not all. In fact, I know some people who have become much
better writers because of their blogs. What's more, they’ve expanded their fan
bases and created forums to showcase their work. How else is that guy in Brazil
who just might love your writing, ever gonna get to read it if you don’t have a
blog?”
The man I had a point. I considered
it with a sour face and ordered more drinks. Time rolled by like a beer barrel.
By eight thirty, I was tanked. I gave Don my book and thanked him for his
advice. Then I paid the bill.
“Remember what I said about starting
a blog,” he said.
“I will.”
….
I took the tram from Nové Město. It whined through the center then
descended into Žižkov like a finger down the Devil’s throat. It coughed me
up at my stop. I staggered down the hill, trying to avoid the doggy landmines
littering the sidewalk. At about the halfway point, I felt my bladder squeak.
It was filled to the splitting point and in desperate need of release. I found
the nearest tree. I widened my stance, unzipped my pants and pulled my dick
free.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” I breathed.
The piss drained from my tip in outrageous
quantities. As it did, I thought of my blog.
I decided I’d write the damn thing but wondered what to call it. I zipped up
and continued walking. A minute later, I had to pee again. I did so against a
building. I finished and walked the two blocks to my flat. When I got
inside, amazingly, I had to piss for a third time. I went in the John and did
my business. As the water tinkled, I remembered a phrase I’d read earlier in an
urban dictionary. The phrase was “Breaking the Seal.” It means “After having
consumed large quantities of alcohol, urinating once, and because of said act,
having to urinate again and again over a long period of time.” The beauty of it
all hit me like a pair of tits to the face.
“That’s what I’ll call it!” I screamed.
….
What you’re reading now is the
byproduct of that Eureka moment. I’ve broken my seal on these pages and will
continue to let it flow once a month, till my fingers give out.
Hope you all enjoy ;)
Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the character
names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the purposes of
identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in your
panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.
