Absence

Okay. This experiment hasn't worked as expected. I'm simply not a faithful blogger. I'll keep An Unreliable History around as a virtual footnote in my long, long life but I doubt I'll contribute further, or at least for some great expanse of time.

Packing it in,
Mal S

Whot!

I have been absent of late, I know. I assure you, dear reader, it is not from lack of a creative wellspring from which to steal wishing pennies to give to all of you. No.

In fact, these seemingly disparate glimpses into my ever-so-slightly deranged universe are starting to grow legs and so I find myself, more and more, offline and writing an actual story to go along with all this self-aggrandizing drivel-stuff.

I shall return, or I shan't.

Time will tell and time- is on my side. Yes, it is.

The Glass Is Never Empty

We sang and drank and loved ourselves happy through the late night hours in our microscopic slice of the city, warm behind closed doors and glasses ever full.



It's so nice to get flowers while you can still smell the fragrance.
Lena Horne

American History

That my American figure defies the history provided you does not mean the past I have painted for you, dear reader, did not occur. It may not have happened exactly as I describe. I attest, however, that things are exactly as I recall, with only the most conservative sprinkling of poetic license applied. Really. I swear to God.

In The Parlour, Darkly

In the darkness, I stubbed my naked toe against some table or chair leg or another and cursed a blue streak. My crow was so loud as to be considered mythic and who's to say I wasn't, in those imperceptible seconds after my injury, when my senses blurred and the electricity of my brain shorted for an instant, hanging in the limbo of that infinite moment between life and death so like a crimson-visioned orgasm (ooh la-la!). Of course, it was only later that I contemplated this tiny connection betwixt pleasure and pain and the resultant, if temporary nirvana achieved with the proper alternating doses. My immediate thought was hatred for all heavy wooden furniture. That, and Damn! My toe!

Since Before It Was Cool

I’ve been considering a sad variety of creature that thrives in a metropolitan context such as Los Angeles, California. The sort of greasepaint monster who takes the epoch to heart; who honestly believes in trying anything and everyone at least once. He do some lines with Billy C. in the bathroom of a big city small club and she do this with imagined nobility, as a specimen of the age- a beacon atop the cliffs of the fashion du monde. A god amongst mortals! An alien amongst the cattle and thinking they are so original. Meanwhile, I’m at the stall behind you, correcting my aim. Go back to Rome, Caligula. Run home to Mama, Venetian. Die, you Libertine, in some rat-strewn London brickwork alleyway. Oh, I’m sorry. I really should watch where I point this thing.

I am available for children's parties, by the way."

-Bill Hicks

Out On My Asgard

I had been to the Low Key earlier that evening. Whilst there I decided to try something new. I ordered a trademarked mixture of the establishment, a cocktail bearing the designation Odin’s Folly. It tasted of honey and thunder. I finished the first; enjoyed another, lavishing in my recent boon whilst quietly cursing myself for being such a wastrel. My sorrows were quickly and deliciously drowned. I threw my dosh on the bar and sipped from a final Folly. I half remember staggering outside a short time later with my eyes closed, throwing back my angry skull and hanging my mouth open to chase the potent elixir with a few swallows of rain-water. The next afternoon, I awoke, suffering the All-Father of hangovers, promising aloud to the empty air never to touch a drop of the demon liquor again. This was a familiar oath.

“Money takes wings. The only thing that endures is character.”

-O.J. Simpson