jeudi, septembre 23, 2004

Mad Lib(erties taken with Mad Libs) or

The Wages of Love
by H+P and L'O'L

Tom Waits lost his granny on 9th & Hennepin. When he got to the vigilantly vapid neighborhood dive bar he remembered in the Village, he realized what he’d done. He scratched 5 and a half day’s worth of beard on his chin, rubbed his putrescent eyes and figgered what the hell, might as well have a drink before I go looking.
That woman’s stronger’n I am
, he grimaced while throwing back a glass of eminently rectitudinous bourbon. Good for what ails ya. He sniffed and looked around the bar.

Decades worth of candlestick and the ghosts of Saturday night made the place feel like home for people with bad livers and broken hearts. On a little shelf in front of the mirror over the back of the bar were 16 shells from a thirty-ought-six. Waits shook his head and squinted his eyes and tried to think of some tawdry lyrics. Sniffed again. Forget it. Pushing both double jointed hands against the bar, he swiveled on the imperturbable stool and came face to face with a corrosive eyed woman. When she caught him looking, she smiled- all business. “Hey, baby, whatcha doin’ here?” He grunted and as he walked away, threw a, “Baby, I’m not a baby anymore,” over his shoulder.

He stood for too long right outside the door, baking in the stolid sun and a fellow with a briefcase bumped right into him. “I beg your pardon.” This was offered too staunchly for sincerity. Tom scowled and shot back, “I never talk to strangers.” The fellow looked offended and sublimated down the sidewalk. Tom shrugged his shoulders like a hardened guy and thought what you need, my fine friend, is a new haircut and a busted lip. The man didn’t hear that, though and Tom gave up and got down to business.

He found her again, standing in her red shoes by the drugstore. “Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Take me home,” she said. “This is strange weather on the precocial side of the je ne sais quois.” And then, “Who are you?” Tom looked his granny straight in the eye and said, My little turtle poop, you’re whistling past the graveyard.” He nodded his head quintessentially. “Well,” she muttered, “you can’t unring a bell.” “So it goes, so it goes," he said in return and grabbing a flower from somebody’s froward yard, he handed her the last rose of summer.
In his head he sang I’ll never let go of your hand.

8 commentaires:

  1. It worked, forget about that lukey kid. No more real writing ever again. I love it!

  2. It's all over but the smiting. (Sorry, Fids, I cannot forget the smiting.)

    This thing, in case you wondered at all, is about 17 (or was that 20?) Tom Waits song titles cobbled together into a story that I tried to make as shuffling and sweetly incomprehensible as the man himself. L'il tribute to a big talent.

    Did not know how mad libs worked when I started and was really nervous about it, but Lyds does not let you down, people, when you ask her for a noun, a past tense verb, adverbs and more adjectives than you can shake a stick at. I can't believe how well her randomly chosen words built up the wobbly Tom Waits feel I was already trying for. Freaky! Thanks, Lyds, and congrats again on your mighty poetry pen.

  3. Awesome! My favorite parts are:
    "came face to face with a corrosive eyed woman"


    “This is strange weather on the precocial side of the je ne sais quois.”

    Thank you for your support.

  4. A beautiful little bit of Waits-esque. (sneaks off to listen to Mule Variations)

  5. OK so I didn't actually read the madlibs, but I will share a limerick:

    There once was a man from nantucket,
    And OH we are out of time.

    peace out.

  6. Absolutely beautiful. My favorite was "eminently rectitudinous bourbon." Always a good decision.

  7. Wonderful work, my little turtle poops.

  8. Thanks, sweeties. Everything I do, I do it for you. (And other sappy, light rock lyrics.)