Wednesday, November 28, 2001
The story of Bruce: (Please read yesterday’s post for further explanation.)

Bruce feels little. He lacks any semblance of self-confidence and he is addicted to negative thought. Bruce hates living except when he is drunk. He hates hangovers and wonders if the pleasure from being drunk is equal to the anxiety he feels when the drug loses its potency.

Bruce is unemployed and lives in the rented basement room of a house divided into four apartments.

He reads when he concentrates long enough to do so. He gets through maybe a paragraph or so.

- kimmel 4:22 PM

Tuesday, November 27, 2001
Many of have asked when my next novel will be coming out. Others have asked to know what my next novel is about. Many of these same people have never visited this Blog. And that’s a shame; Because:

In my never-ending desire to manufacture the cleverest literary stunt since Harlen Mc’Covey published the infamous “one-word novel,” I have decided to introduce and reveal ideas, characters, and plot structures here, in this web journal. As a work in progress, you, the voyeur, will witness Dead in Bath Tub Water (working title) take shape and breath life.

And seeing as you have surfed your long-board here, today, if you e-mail me within the next fifteen minutes (or however long it takes) you will have an opportunity to have a character based on you. Yes, that’s right, the first person to e-mail me at makeMeAcharacter@jeremysprophecy.com will star, as a supporting character, in my next novel, scheduled to have a first run printing of 50 thousand copies.

So act now. Make sure to include some basic info, and some interesting anecdotes to help improve your chances in case of a tie.

Good luck, and thank you for your support.



- kimmel 6:32 PM

Wednesday, November 21, 2001
Our Way of Life

The holy days (Thanksgiving, etc.) have arrived. As such, I've taken to the road arriving first in the great badlands of the Midwest, east central Illinois to be more precise. Of course I haven't neglected my journal. Be it cliché, there is something romantic concerning one's travel journal. I've logged some moments worth noting:

Entry 1: I was resting on the Labrador fragranced sofa, digesting the first round of not-so-free-ranged Butter Ball, when Brenda Morrison, a neighbor, turned my way and said, "Now close your ears now son . . ." She looked for some response from me. "They closed?" Her eyes were as bright. "Cause he's got a fine ass that Garth does!" Her legs shuffled and her slippers slid as she stared at the television broadcasting the special live concert event. Her friend Mary, my host, sat stiff on the Lazy Boy equally in awe. Brenda's children, all five of them, even joined the worship by spinning in circles on the carpet.

The second youngest child, a girl not over five years said, "Mommy is that what Daddy looks like? He play guitar like that, Mommy, right?"

I knew of Garth Brooks before tonight, the way a middle-aged banker might have known Britney Spears. Tonight, though, it was like we ate Turkey together and we cleaned the cranberry slush on the corners of our mouths, with our tongues, together.

Entry 2: The next morning while waiting for my girlfriend, Kate, to finish her fruitless search for organic breakfast food in PeeWee's market, I entertain myself by observing a commotion just a few yards yonder. There's this one woman--pudgy in the thighs and biceps; but by the looks of her heavy breathing it's easy to see she's ready. Seeing all the excessive warm breath smoking in the frigid air it's easy to see they're all anxiously ready. Not quite sunrise and I swear I hear a track and field starter's gun. The vulnerable security guy unlocks the automatic, glass doors. With a bit of a quarrel the pudgy one gets into Wal-mart first, knocking, with her padded elbow, a wool cap, off the head of the frail lady beside her. And look at that she's given her first Christmas gift of the season--a puffy, black eye.

Entry 3: That afternoon a familiar, one-of-a-kind, scent filled me the way sucking a milk-chocolate baby bottle might. It's a combination of crispy grease blended with some mysterious--most likely illegal--pheromone (scientifically manufactured to trigger an automatic starvation response to those who smell it.) It's a smell familiar to everyone I'm sure and it was in the air, like it always is when I linger to close to a McDonald’s. It ought to be banned

My girlfriend's sister, Liz, was inside having, what one might think, was a chicken sandwich for lunch. She was dining with a tickled group of four. It was crowded and I was excited to make our evening plans with Liz so Kate and I could leave as fast as we arrived. In my zeal, I haphazardly sat in an empty chair adjacent to where Liz sat. Although I hadn't noticed there was one woman with stringy old hair and an electric green scarf occupying the table I sat at--a stranger. Quickly and with complete disgust, she said, "Am, I in your way!" looking at me as if I had just stolen her grandson. I was startled and surprised by her reaction. My actions seemed innocuous enough and before she allowed me a reply the dismayed senior stood up, took her ice-cream sundae and departed genuinely upset.

We left the place about ten-minutes later. I wasn't surprised to see that same lady drive past in her large, faded blue, Chevrolet; sundae in hand, American flag tied to the car's radio antenna, and a "United We Stand," bill plastered on the rear window.

Conclusion: And so it hit me the way the lake water does after a high-speed water ski wipeout. I now fully understand this "our way of life," everybody keeps talking about that's apparently been attacked and threatened. Yes, I see it now. It's here--right here in east central Illinois. Here, where even before September 11th George Bush Jr. was, quite frankly, splendidly popular.

- kimmel 8:39 PM

Saturday, November 17, 2001
They’ve said tonight, the stars will shoot. This is nice.
They say (not in so many words) that streaks of glitter will dart about like fireworks across the sky’s black canvas.
Carl Sagan was into studying the Cosmos. I’ve noticed his name spells Satan less one letter. Fascinating?

A shooting star in all its definitions is empirically representative of balance—the equality of nature.
For when the star’s light peaks in the sky, it is then when it fades—it dies. Like the greatest of rock and roll’s shooting stars, they peak and die. Given the visual metaphor of a shooting star (one of a multitude of visual clues nature offers), one could say that the value of a specific high is accompanied by its equal polar opposite low.

Without delving further into a laborious thesis; what this says to me is that I have two choices:
To be like shooting star, or not. To peak with overwhelming catharsis, or to meander about in an unexposed, anticlimactic, neutral hum.

- kimmel 7:10 PM

Friday, November 16, 2001
Today is a day I normally would not write on. Not because it is Friday, not because it is the first day of Ramadan, not because I ate fried chicken last night. No, today is a day I normally wouldn’t write on because I am discouraged and disheartened. These types of days fake writers NEVER have. And I have no beef with fake writers; I just wish they would clear up some shelf space for those of us who were born to write. Get it.

The Story of Ben:
Ben is watching Oxygen channel on his pirated cable system. This, coupled with the good time he had having his hair washed and styled by Dave at Gossip City, has gotten Ben to thinking. He thinks he's beginning to enjoy women stuff. He thinks he may be becoming gay. Well, not really, not really gay. What he thinks is that he is becoming stimulated with being odd, even if he is the only one who knows what he is doing. Oxygen, estrogen, gayness; he has found a rather seductive taboo.

Ben has a theory that this is how many men (not all) eventually become homosexual—Depression, boredom, and need for breaking the norm.

At times during sex (with a woman), Ben’s partner becomes too lubricated, no friction. His thrusts become dull, flat, and pond-like. This is how Ben’s life has been lately. This exploration of things feminine, well, that’s adding some freakin’ friction. To put it bluntly, watching Oxygen TV for Ben is like a good FUCK. He finds something to tense up about.

Ben’s noticed he likes flirting with homosexual men knowing they haven’t a chance. It makes him feel like the intoxicating women he chases after. He likes the feeling of being in control of another man's cock.

- kimmel 3:04 PM

Thursday, November 15, 2001
What follows is a sample of my recent romance novel; Frivoled Panties and Endless Tits:

Part I

How do I love the fashion women adorn today? Why, I feel as if I visit the secret panty drawer of nearly every co-ed I cross. As she sits in her generic library chair; crouched just a bit, nose deep in book, or dozing from exhaustion; Victoria, Calvin, . . . Satin, String, Lace, Silk, Cotton crawl from about her pants—her blue jeans. Just a slither—a taste. She knows, as I, that escaped—exposed for heaven's glory remains a top centimeter or two where the gentle frivoled elastic clings to her skin like ocean salt itself.

Part II

To be continued . . .

- kimmel 3:57 PM

Wednesday, November 14, 2001

I've come to terms with the inevitable realization that in order for my existence to continue here with you as you meddle about in needless worry, fabricated goals and lofty yet, deluded plans, I must choose between two mind altering realities: heroin or meditation.

- kimmel 8:56 PM

The Plight:

Even the writer himself could never really understand the plight of the writer. You see, once he grabs a piece of comprehension a morsel of tangible sense, it’s lost. Doubt becomes the writer’s nemesis. The place where the reader feels comfortable is paper thin. And does not the writer write for the reader? (I pose the previous question in a rhetorical circular way, to instigate frustration.)

So where do we lay? I know that you feel that same umbrella, golden freedom place, that writer’s all write about in their writing way—that painter’s paint about in their painting way.

At times I respect and visit that paper-thin trajectory reader’s read in. It reminds me of those Apollo space rockets that upon return voyage had to enter the earth's atmosphere at one certain angle lest they burn into instant ash.

With death as its ally then, there must be validity to the paper-thin, microdot layer of reality where readers of writers take comfort. Maybe that place is—the gauge—the standard. Maybe it’s the fuckin’ bar those pole-vaulters are always striving to bounce over.

And so, out of respect and a desire to avoid desperate isolation, lonely doubt, and an egocentric separation from the universal breathe (no matter how bad it suffers from halitosis); I will write as thin as the paper my reader’s find comfort in. Or maybe I just won’t.

- kimmel 3:07 PM

Saturday, November 10, 2001
Goodbye Ken Kasey, to who my impressions of mental institutions was forever an intoxicating influence.

What follows is a story by some guy:

Early this morning, the specific time escapes me, now. I can say; the sun, well, actually, those, far-off wispy clouds, they were pasted on the southeastern sky. They gathered the warm gold of the hidden sun; and they signaled morning was not too far off. These tattered shoes, these liver-spotted hands, these crusted kneecaps, they've seen a bit; but this morning, this morning I’d seen something most outrageous.

Molly, with all her zeal, she wouldn’t been so brave. She wouldn’t have been so courageous. She’d tap that tail between her shaggy legs weak like. But this little pup I'd seen skirtin' about, he was taking on two German Shepherds. "Imagine that," I says to myself. This here pup was just about nine pounds, white as an Eskimo’s polar bear and he's figtin' off two damn near wolves.

The little dog yelped at first; I suppose most any beast in that there position would succumb to fear. Soon, though . . .Quite real soon, This young pup sprung; like one of them cartoon jackrabbits; nearly thrice his height, disclosed his scrap, pointy teeth, and napped the snout of the larger of the two offending canine. He sprinted then, avoided the shepherds counter and attempted safety behind the frailness of my pail, creased legs.

‘Course now, wimpy as she was—this German hound—she wasn’t planning on forgettin’ this here little runts foray. Sure enough she hurled her 100 pounds ‘bout near my chest—paws stamped on my wind-breaker like one of them actor’s hands sunken in priceless cement. Knocked me to the pavement silly.

Margaret, if she were around; she mighta’ been spooked by all the commotion. She’d tell them dogs to quit their horsin’ and scatter away. Me, I just would smile then. I’d usually keep quit when Margaret had her way. Now, in the early days, things much were different. My fool-hearty young man fevers might have caused me to raise a hand. Not, now though. Now I would just let it pass; with short breath, just lettin’ it pass.

So when I saw sweet Margie smiling that way—standing beside, the light curled askew, there was some surprise. ‘Course hadn’t seen her, well not counting visits to the stone, near now eight years. And I didn’t feel to bad when the dogs played on a bit escaping my view. Felt much like morphine—lettin’ it pass, lettin’ it pass.

- kimmel 7:09 PM

Friday, November 09, 2001
Here is a commentary about the state of current events. This is not to say that affairs before 9-11 were without need of commentary, but for me the terrible tragedy of 9-11 was the camel that broke the STRAWS back! I mean, it's just that . . . wait, wait, wait. Hold on here. Stop the keyboard. Virus scan this word-processing software. Reformat this hard drive. Did I just stumble upon the most overly used, embarrassingly naïve, and unintelligibly misunderstood catchphrase of the early 21st century. I mean forget, "evil-doers," 86 "make no mistake about it," give, "wanted dead or alive," and, "attack on our way of living," a break. But, "terrible tragedy," there is just no excuse for this kind of redundant uncreative description of the terrorist attacks earlier this fall.

In no way do I suggest that these attacks were not terrible. In no way do I suggest that these attacks were not tragic. I steadfastly agree with the terribleness of the events of 9-11 and can not for one second insinuate that they were anything less than tragic. . . but "terrible tragedy?"

The question begs, what exactly is a "terrible tragedy?" Is there such thing as a "not-so-terrible," tragedy? What criteria do we use to gauge the severity of a tragedy? Where is the line drawn? If an autoworker loses a finger on an assembly line is this a "minor" tragedy? If a family of four loses only one of their two children in a car accident is this an "average" tragedy? Seriously, how could an entire nation, its leaders, and most importantly its television media use such an oxymoronic phrase and not even question the silliness of it? Clearly a tragedy is a tragedy. I've racked my brain diligently to find one example of a tragedy, either imagined or real, that isn't or wasn't terrible. Does such an event exist?

My attempt here is not to nit-pick, poke fun, or make light of the pain many suffered and still suffer because of the awful loss of life. In fact, I write because of that very horror. Well-meaning individuals describe the events of September 11th as a "terrible tragedy," completely unaware of the bandwagon sympathy train they've boarded. Such word usage highlights glaringly the media's lack of respect, patience, and concern. As quickly as it takes to make a bowl of instant oats, the press defines, categorizes, and subsequently desensitizes, the most prolific event in modern history with a word phrase that doesn't even make sense.

Could the television media be so creatively handicapped that "terrible tragedy" is all they got? How 'bout a "catastrophe," here or there or a phrase like, "September 11th monstrosities?" Maybe call it a "devastating event," or a "horrible circumstance."

Have we become so accepting and weak that out of sheer laziness we merely repeat what everyone else says like drones? What confidence can we have in reporters, politicians, and leaders, who seem so detached from themselves they can not describe, or even get in touch with the true horrific, depressing, soul-searching attacks on life, freedom, and humanity that has come to pass?

And so I scribe my few words of contempt and relieve myself of my distaste knowing full well that my battle is in vain. My chance is nil, seeing as my opponent--the television media--is merely the strongest super power in the world.

And that's a terrible tragedy! ;)


- kimmel 12:01 PM