My new writing project (yeah, this will happen)

After the tenth time of listening to my son sing Deck the Halls in his four year old approximation of English, I realized that there was a writing gold mine hidden in the lyrics.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the first installment of the great hardboiled Christmas series. Ready and running by next Christmas season (which I think starts around September 10th now a days)

From the darkened alleys of this down and out fa la la la burg, I work. I got an office, I got a gun. I got a couple pints of egg nog jostling around my gut, making me all merry and mellow. Like that will ever happen. I'm Menow. Don Menow. I'm working the private detective racket in the sticky part of Caroltown. A Christmas Carol denizen gets themselves in some trouble, they wind up coming to me. I usually kick them out, because I can't be bothered, but a few of them I take their money and do what I can.

I was lighting another cigarette, waiting for the headache to stop, when she walked through the door. She was a dame, had the legs of a girl who worked the chorus line gigs for longer than her made-up face would say. She sat down without waiting and took out a hip flask of Christmas cheer and took a shot of it. "I heard you can help a lady down on her luck."

"I ain't seeing any lady here. Just a dame in a chair. What's the damage?"

She wasn't fazed one bit, "You got the chivalry I figured to be hit with. Yeah. I do a little hoofing. I got a gig with a new troupe, the Nine Dancing Ladies. I would love to say we got an upfront legit routine, but that would be a bent line. We dance in a few slips of holly. The guys hoot and toss coins. Nasty work, but it pays  for the pot roast."

I said, "Yeah, I heard of you girls. You work down at that dive bar, the Pear Tree. Don't you work with those loofer boys, The Lords a Leaping. Man, has there been some sordid talk about those guys."

The girl laughed, "Yeah, my life would be so much keener if they were all just looking for a sugar daddy, and not for a nice dancing girl."

This was rich, "So one of those leaping pretty boys had an eye for some Christmas cookie like yourself. That happens. Some of those boys works all sides of the court."

The girl started to cry, "If only he wanted a little of my skirt. He was long and man how he leaped. But he had his eye on the money. He got me involved in some photo business."

"A little skin. A little less gay apparel than the constabulary would approve of?"

The girl's water works really was turned on now. "If only that was the case. No. He was in to a little blackmail."

I leaned in. "Lady. Now, I'm listening."

 _______________________________

That's it for now. Next Monday, I will continue with this timely tale of Christmastown degradation. Right now, I will be watching Scooby Doo with my son.

I have given up - Dr. Duke

I think it is official. I just don't like the writing of Hunter S. Thompson. Years ago I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and thought it was good though about 50 pages longer than my interest led me to desire. This year I took out from the library two of his books to listen to while driving. I lasted 20 minutes of Rum Diary before radio commercials and oldies rock seemed more fascinating and pertinent. I was nearly half way done with Hey Rube, before I just threw up my hands. I think some of that had to do with the reader, he had a scratchy near yelling voice (I wanted to give him a lozenge and remind him that he should use his inside voiceu) But even with that, I didn't care what he was saying and the Thompson hyperbole just wore my ass out.  So that's it. I think I am done trying to like his work. He is one of the writers people speak of with reverence but I don't think the people who name drop him read him that much.

Blasphemy alert!!!!

I feel the same way about William S Burroughs. Can't seem to get through any of his books. I admire him, I just don't think I can read him for longer than 20 pages.