challenges

Michelle made a suggestion. I am a bit worried The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli is too slow-moving, and I thought the problem that the current story arc with Doktor Maschinemensch was too long. Michelle thinks it might be because the installments are too short. The problem, much to my chagrin, is that Facebook limits the size of status updates to 460 characters or something like that. So Michelle suggested I write longer chapters on my blog and post links on Facebook. I am reluctant: I think adding one more step readership will go down. But something should change, otherwise the crazy German doctor stuff will take forever (particularly since there's some side stuff I want to do). So starting Thursday I'm conducting an experiment: for three days (Thursday, Friday, and Saturday) I will be posting a scene through the serial's blog (guakballad.blogspot.com) only, but I will provide links in my status updates. And then I will go from there.

Speaking of Michelle, she's a big fan of supernatural homoerotica, so she's asked me to write her something. This I find challenging since 1. I have little knowledge of erotic literature, and 2. I'm not attracted to dudes. Yet I have decided to grant the lady's request because I know it's her way to get me to write more. And because she really loves the smut.

stats

# of times someone tried to bum something from me in the 24 hours I spent in the Boston area: 1

# of times someone tried to bum something from me in the 4 hours I was back in Portland after returning from the Boston area: 4

Ridiculous.

That Emily is one special lady!

Last night I was cruising through the Old Port looking for someone, anyone, to flag me down and pay me to transport them somewhere else. What I got was a prostitute named Emily. I have driven her before, from Paul's Food Center to the Gulf Station on Congress Street. During the ride she had put her head in my lap and and rubbed my crotch. She ended up not having any money (shocker!) so she gave me a little bit of pot as payment. I haven't smoked this shit in years so I passed it off to someone else. Someone who was brave, or stupid, enough to smoke anything from someone who had admitted she was on an eight-day crack binge. Emily even tried to leave an empty crack vial in my cab, which didn't fly with this guy.

This time around she hailed me down at the corner of Market and Middle Streets wearing some...interesting...black top with gold trim and some leopard  print pants. She wanted a ride to Bill's Pizza (or, as a fare called it on Tuesday, Pizza Bill's) and gave me $4, but then she thought maybe she didn't have enough money for two slices and asked for a dollar back. She asked "pleeeease?" and put her head in my lap, but then I noticed her hand particularly close to where I had juniorbot charging. Immediately sensing what game this girl was playing I took her hand and gave her back a dollar.

She got out of Black Betty and asked me to wait for her. I sat there hoping someone else would hop in and need a ride. But she came out a few minutes later after going up to every table and talking to the people seated at them. I assume it was to hit them up for money or to ply her trade. But she got her pizza and came got back inside. Emily told me to drive into Bill's parking lot and park near a dumpster so we can "have a conversation." I admit I was curious as to how far I could take this without giving her anything.

Emily did not beat around the bush (so to speak). I pulled up to the dumpster and our conversation started...
EMILY: I'll suck your cock for $40.
GUAK: ...
EMILY: Okay, 20.
GUAK: ...
EMILY: 10...5! I just need some money!

She talked herself down three times from her original offer without me even saying a word! She decided to let me mull over the prospect of a $5 blowjob while she got out of the cab, pulled down her pants and squatted, and pissed in the parking lot. Then the lady of the night got back in the cab...but her pants were still down around her ankles. "$5 and I'll fuck you so good," she claimed. I informed her I wasn't giving her any money. Emily pulled her pants and went on a bit of a rant. I don't remember exactly what she said, but the key words and the gist I recall accurately...
"You're fat and you're ugly. How do you expect to get laid if you don't spend any money? You don't have any money, you ugly gross motherfucker. That's why you never get laid! You should do yourself a favor and be a fucking faggot!"

You know, it's not like those thoughts have never crossed my mind, because they do on occasion.Yet I didn't get upset with the tweaked out hooker. Nor did I get mopey and depressed about it later. Instead I chuckled and calmly said "whore, get out of my cab." And she did. It was the first time I ever called a woman a whore. I didn't particularly like doing it, even though she deserved it and is, quite literally, a whore, but whatever. Fuck that chick. Quite figuratively.

Willie Part 2

A week and a half ago I lost my fellow cabbie, good friend, and confidant Willie Whitaker to a brain aneurysm. The cause of death was originally thought to be a heart attack, at least that was the word circulating amongst Portland's taxi drivers (a notorious rumor-mongering lot). He would have turned 45 years old May 27th. Please see my previous world wide web log concerning Willie if you haven't read it already.

I've been dealing okay. No weird breakdowns when I'm home drunk and alone. I do think about him every day, more often on nights when I'm driving. But most of the thoughts are of fond memories and not feelings of loss and grief, which I know Willie would have preferred. The wake was for family only, and there wasn't a funeral. Instead there will be a celebration of Willie's life the day after what would have been his birthday. This is also something Mr. Whitaker would have preferred.

The only time it gets tough is when passengers or other drivers bring him up; prolonged discussions make things hard, and I get cold and just want to be left alone and it makes it difficult to ride Black Betty. But I forge onward and put on my brave face and get through it. I'm hoping by talking it helps the other person handle it.

My first job Friday night was driving Willie's wife and son home. During the ride Jenny started weeping, and I'm left to wonder if it was because it was her husband's "little buddy" that picked her up, the only guy Willie trusted to get her home safely. When we got to her place we hugged for a long time, standing in the middle of Sherman Street, Jenny sobbing and me on the verge of it. I gave her my number and told her if she ever needed a ride to call me, and it will always be free.

I am mostly reminded of Willie when I am parked the the Greyhound station. The 'Hound was his perch. If he didn't have a fare you could bet on finding Willie there. If another Elite driver had the audacity to park at The 'Hound he would jokingly order him to "get the fuck off my stand." Or maybe just half-joking. Or not joking at all. I, however, was never told to vamoose. According to Willie, The Dude was always welcome on his stand.

And this is where I am as I write this, sitting at The 'Hound on a brutally quiet Tuesday night. It's starting to rain as I bang this out in my notebook, waiting until I get home to type this entry on guakbot and post it for the world to see. I'm feeling the coldness again. Perhaps it's because I haven't eaten anything since Monday night during Mittens + Fuzz Friendly Fun Time, but I can also sense his presence. Regardless, now and forever this will always be Willie's stand.

The latest collection of The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli has been posted (a link can be found below). It's got a bit of German in it, and some of the words I ended up looking up on juniorbot's Google translator widget dealie. So now the autofill of my phone likes to suggest German words, or English words with added umlauts. It's a pain, man.

Part VII

Also, I'm also interested in what those reading this thing think. Positive, negative, indifferent, I'd like to get some feedback. Feel free to leave any nice remarks as comments here, but if you're going to write something that might hurt my feelings and cause me to hurt someone, please email me at strutting_guak@yahoo.com

Willard Whitaker May 27, 1966 - April 10, 2011

I really don't have any friends in the cab business. Sure, there's a lot of shooting of the shit, and most drivers I like well enough, but none I have any sort of bond with deeper than on a superficial level. I did have one, Willie Whitaker, but he died of a heart attack Sunday afternoon. He would have been 45 next month.

Willie Whitaker was one of the few people I felt I could tell anything to without repercussion. Maybe because he had nothing to do with my personal life, but I told him things I have never told anyone and probably never will. Every frustration, no matter how big nor how small, I told the "teddy bear" (a nickname I did not bestow upon him but found incredibly apt). And while his advice was usually terrible, if he gave any at all, he never judged, though I'm sure I came across as pathetic from time to time.

I was the only one he truly trusted to pick him his wife if he couldn't. I never ran the meter on Jenny, which bothered her, so she would always give me significantly more money than if I had and ignored me when I old her it was too much.

Once, almost a year ago, Willie blatantly stole a fare that I had legitimate claim. It happens often enough; while we all may drive for Elite we're all in business for ourselves, and it can get mighty cutthroat out there.  But it hurt me quite a bit that he did it to me. We were friends. I didn't speak to him for a couple of days after that. Then we ran into each other at the office and put his monster of an arm around me and said "I'm sorry, buddy" and I couldn't stay mad at him.

Willie was only an inch or two taller than me, but he was close to 200 pounds heavier. Though on the tall side at 6' even, I do feel short on occasion  (having a friend who is 6' 8" will do that), but rarely do I feel small. And that's what he did. Yet it just wasn't his size; his larger-than-life personality contributed to it was well. Loud, funny, kindhearted, and often referred to "The Anaconda" he concealed in the sweatpants he always wore.

I found out about Willie's death via Facebook (a fact that bothers me to no end). I was checking out my preferred social networking site of choice on my way to Pook's for some thrilling Super Mario Bros 3 action. While I was there it hadn't quite sunk in yet, I think I was still in shock. I played SMB3 with some of my favorite people, and that was enough of a distraction. And then off to Boru's with some more of my favorite people, and that was also distraction enough. But about 2:30 or 3 Monday morning, drunk, playing Dragon Age 2, and eating a shitty turkey sandwich from Cumberland Farms, I broke down. I'm certain the beer played a part in that, but a deluge of emotions, none of them good, washed over me. It was also the first time in fuck knows how long that I cried. Just a little bit, I swear. That I do completely blame on the alcohol.

It's been getting a little better ever since. I tried writing this Monday night while I was in my cab, but I couldn't get past the title. Tonight I was able to, obviously, but it was hard. Luckily, I have some wonderful friends offering me support and help, and for that I am eternally grateful. It's only been two days, but I can already feel his absence. And it sucks.

The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli Part VI

I posted another collection of my serial-via-Facebook, The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli. I have also decided to make the story a Monday through Friday affair. The link can be found. Thanks for reading!

Part VI

Sucker Punched! Part III: All Good Things Must Come To An End

I woke up a little after nine hungry and dehydrated as a motherfucker. After pounding some water, Michelle and I headed to Ball Square Cafe. We tried to get there before the rush, yet our efforts were for naught. We waited outside for a spell, but that's okay: it was a sunny, albeit windy, morning. Owner man was nice and gave us some hot chocolate to warm our bellies. I ordered three chocolate chip and banana pancakes with whipped cream.

I am a little reluctant to admit this publicly since I love both the people and food at Marcy's Diner, but those pancakes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best flapjacks I have ever ever EVER had. Fuck, I hope Jolie and Murray don't find out.

We went back to Michelle's after breakfast, and I checked out her extensive book collection of supernatural eroticism. That lady sure does love her interspecies fucking! Scandalous!

I've just realized I used "fuck" in every paragraph thus far. I fucking rock!

My gracious hostess and I returned to Harvard Square to check out a cool, but cramped, comic book shop. I reckon it had been close to a year since I had stepped foot into one, which I find weird. I would go into Casablanca Comics religiously every Wednesday for the week's new books and now nothing. Leave it to six months of unemployment to make one reassess priorities. I also accompanied Michelle while she shopped for eyeglasses. From what I am told this is a fairly regular occurrence, but I hear all this looking around will soon pay off.

It's also at Harvard Square that juniorbot failed me. Michelle's phone was shitting the bed, and she asked me to see if there was a Verizon store nearby.  According to the store locator, there was nary a Verizon vendor in all of Cambridge. This I found queer, but the internets don't lie, right?  So of course we turn the corner, ad there's a dealer right there. I don't fault juniorbot; I place the blame squarely on Verizon and not her, but it still hurt.

Michelle accompanied me back to South Station. Sucker Punch Weekend was coming to an end. We hugged each other for a long time. This made me quite the fortunate fella, the lady being one of the finest huggers the world has ever produced. There were a few snags, but SPW was still a smashing success, though just the fact that I got to spend  a bunch of quality time with one of my closest friends (and one I don't get to see nearly enough) makes it a fucking awesome time any way you slice it.

Sucker Punched! Part II: Saturday Night's Alright for AC/DC and S&M

My co-conspirator and I needed to get the sour taste of Sucker Punch out of our mouths and only one thing could do that: gyros! Michelle knew this place called Cinderella's that served delicious gyros. On the way I noticed a Chinese restaurant named Pu Pu Hot Pot, which immediately became slang for a certain body part belonging to a certain person. The gyro was excellent. I wasn't sure about lamb; the only other time I had it was in a meat pie with hamburg and other stuff. This thing was a monster, about as thick as a beer can and nearly a foot long. It was sooooooooo good! I want another one right now! And, yes, the server pronounced it "jahy-roh."

After a fantastic dinner  we had some time to kill so we searched around for a place to get a drink. This was around seven on a Saturday so it was busy everywhere, including Asgard (an Irish bar?!) and a place with the word "Science" in it. But we found a spot that was dead, and we each had a dark and stormy (though, for the sake of accuracy, I ended up drinking nearly half of Michelle's libation).

After that it was time for Saturday night's main event of Sucker Punch Weekend: karaoke! Karaoke, specifically, at Michelle's haunt, Courtside. I was skeptical about the place at first, thinking it was a sports bar due to its name, but luckily it was named due to its proximity to some court house. Phew! Michelle sang fairly early in the night, performing a lively rendition of "S&M" by Rihanna. She sure belted the hell out of that number! The whole time I was drinking PBR and downed a shooter called "your panties my tongue" - a delightful orange concoction that I think tasted of coconut.

I was getting mighty lit when the emcee called for Harry G (that's me!) to sing AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" - one of my favorite songs. I'm typically a modest man so believe me, gentle reader, when I tell you that with the exception of a few missteps I rocked it. I fucking rocked it. At the end a table of gay gentlemen and their lady hangers-on chanted "Harry G! Harry G! Harry G!" A truer indication of success may never be discovered.

Shortly after my performance the one low point of karaoke occurred. There was a man there, mid-40's, short hair, his white shirt tucked into his jeans, that I knew if he sang, whatever song he picked would piss me off. I just had this feeling. And Mr. Jackass did not disappoint. Rage filled my head and heart as the opening bars of  "Old Time Rock & Roll" started. While Stevie Ray Vaughan is the musician I despise above all others, that particular piece of shit song by that fuckhead Bob Seger is, unquestionably, the worst song ever recorded. And this shitface sang it. I discovered the only thing worse than "Old Time Rock & Roll" is some redneck asshole singing it karaoke-style.

But Michelle was able to drive it out of my head with a balls-to-the-wall rendition of "Highway To Hell" (an AC/DC one-two punch? score!). If the road to Hell was paved with Michelle's karaoke spunk and finesse it would be a journey I wouldn't mind taking.

One o'clock came and it was time to go away. We scored a ride back to Michelle's place (fuck you, bus!). After some water and Tosh.0 it was time for bed. Though I may have squeezed in some Angry Birds.

To be concluded...

Sucker Punched! Part I: The Disappointment

It has been some time since I have posted an entry for GuakTalk. I could make up some bullshit excuse, but when I'm working all my downtime lately has been spent tooling around on juniorbot, and at home I'm in the Guakcave playing video games.

Yet I admit it's due for an installment. I wanted to write about my experience known as Sucker Punch Weekend, but that was a week and a half ago. Was it too late? My partner-in-crime suggested that SPW be a GuakTalk topic, so fuck it. Better late than never, right?

Michelle and I had been excited about the film Sucker Punch for months; the trailer looked absolutely amazing: hot, scantily clad ladies take on dragons, zombies, orcs, and robots with katanas, pistols, and gatling guns. It was fanboy, or in Michelle's case, fangirl, masturbatory eye candy of the highest order. We didn't give a shit about what the story was. We had to see it when it came out, and the concept of Sucker Punch Weekend was born.

After an excellent late breakfast with Bethlynne and the Coolest Baby In The USA, I boarded the bus to Bean Town. I read a  BPRD trade paperback that David lent me and once I was done with that I worked on Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter, which I'm really enjoying. I arrived at South Station at 3:30, and I hit the ground running (not literally: I do not run). Michelle and I took the T to Harvard Square, starting SPW the right way...or so I thought.

We smuggled in some snacks and we shared a cherry Coke. The movie was...disappointing. Not enough of the anachronistic ass-kicking. The story was confusing and convoluted. And even for action movies the characters were cookie-cutter and didn't capture my sympathy even a little bit. Carla Gugino (whom I love) pulled off an Eastern European accent well enough, but she and the bodacious bad-ass babes weren't enough to make me give a shit. Stick to the adaptations, Zack Snyder.

To be continued...