The front steps tried to trample on me. Took advantage of the fog to waylay me.

Fri, 29 Aug 2008 08:32:35 GMT

I tell you, whether the kid knows it or not, he's real sick. Not that anyone's going to listen to me. Ohhh, no. I'm always predicting some sort of doom and gloom, so of course it can't be true.

Look, I hope as much as the next guy I'm just wrong. Hell, I hope more than the next guy, or any other guy or girl or hooker from uptown. He's my brother. He's all I've got, especially since... I care about the kid, all right? Now, you get that through your head, and maybe you'll start to see where I'm coming from.

Of course, the old miser won't ever see it. He's been what you might call willfully blinded. It's a tragic state to be in, very depressing, and impossible to shake. He won't do a damn thing until the kid's laid out on the floor, and then Christ knows what'll happen. That bastard'll probably chuck the kid into the sea, save himself the cost of a funeral. Christ.

Then again, the kid might prefer that, the way he talks.

It's gonna be a long night, with no help of companionship, if you get my meaning. Not that it'd do much good, but it'd be a distraction, anyway. Got a bottle with me, but I just don't think it'll do the trick.

Still...Here's hopin'.

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 13:44:00 GMT

It's too hot, and I'm too goddamned sober. I'll have to fix this.

Drinks, anyone? Ye Olde Miser left the cellar unlocked. Must be slipping; shame for him, but great fun for the rest of us. Let us revel in his folly, and bid farewell to this disgraceful state of conciousness!

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 05:34:39 GMT

Christ, Ye Olde Miser returned in his usual bluster. You'd think another round of wearing out that old part would get him to lay off for a little while, but oh no, not a chance of that. The bastard wasn't in for five minutes before he started griping about the hedges (for Christ's sake, he checked them before even coming into the house, just left Mama waiting at the door). Now he's running his mouth--with Mama waiting on him hand and foot, listening to his every goddamned word--and throwing me a lecture here and there, for good measure. "Remember thou art worthless." Thank you.

Papa, I've got something to say: To hell with your hedges. I'm going into town. Now reason to stay here.

I did leave a surprise in the bastard's room. Those bottles of whiskey he was expecting to come home to? Ohhh, they're here all right, and waiting in his room... Problem is, they're empty. Let's see whether Papa knows how to solve this little dilemma.

In the meanwhile, I'm getting the hell out of here.

21.3 Reasons to dislike Shakespeare.

Sat, 03 May 2008 02:39:43 GMT

1) I grew up hearing Shakespeare left and right, from the Old Man and elsewhere. And you know what made that one funnier than anything? The Old Man could walk around pretending he was Macbeth or Caesar (Christ, that was one of his favorites) all he wanted; every night, he'd turn right back to his disguise as the good old Count.

2) As if it wasn't bad enough listening to him spouting off lines, Ye Olde Miser had the kid and I recite parts of our own. We got a few bucks and some drinks out of him that way, sure, but there's nothing worse than having the role of an actor shoved down your throat.

3) Try sitting through Hamlet three or four days in a row. Just try it. I tell you, you'll need a drink by the second act of the second day, if not before. He's got a few things right, sure, but our most beloved Dane could stand to whine a little less and cut to the chase, if you know what I mean.

4) Marina. You want me to believe no one's going to touch her, just because she talks to them? I don't buy that. It's funny, and if he was going for humor, he's got it, but I don't buy it.

5) Apparently, it's disrespectful to laugh at, misread, misspeak, or saying something against anything Shakespeare wrote (or supposedly wrote, though that's another issue you'd just better not bring up). Now, I'm willing to give him a helluva lot of credit for what he did (or didn't do, whatever the case may be), but the minute you start making some guy in the theatre out to be your god, I'm out.

6) Papa worships the bastard. Need I say more?

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 06:29:54 GMT

"Who told you you could have another drink? The last thing you need's more of that poison." As if he hadn't had a drink or four himself, already. It's not only me who's been drinking, after all. And the old bastard just keeps talking, giving us a realm old-fashioned lecture. He'd be better off saving his breath. "Just what do you think you're doing down here? I wish to God you boys would go to bed, and let me get a decent night's sleep. Lord knows I could use it." Christ.

Papa'd better knock it off, or I just might give him what he's got coming. I really ought to. All right, all right, maybe I will. Always assuming I can keep myself standing long enough to do anything... The world's getting a little unsteady, if you know what I mean.

Christ.

She's walking around upstairs. There's no use fooling ourselves; no one's going to sleep tonight.

If Papa knows anything, he'll go and grab another bottle. We're nearly out.

makeyourlist 16.1 Make a list of things that inspire you.

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 06:40:03 GMT

1. Whiskey.

2. Ah... Scotch.

3. Pretty much any sort of booze, actually.

4. A particularly stunning hooker.

5. Whiskey. Just for good measure, y'see.

...yessir, that's about it.

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 22:10:18 GMT

Just thought I ought to mention that Ye Olde Miser is still an old bastard of a miser, who is neither getting any younger nor acting any less slavishly his accustomed role.

You catch that, Papa? Your accustomed... Ohhh, I kill myself.

Caught the kid wandering out on the beach again, and in the middle of the night. Tried to talk some sense into him, and when that didn't work, I went for the whiskey angle (Papa's best, courtesy of my favorite faulty lock). That did something, anyway, though I'm not sure it got the point across. With lungs like his, he's got to cut that kind of act.

Hell, someone's got to take care of that kid.

makeyourlist 15.2 Lies I never told Mama.

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 17:34:01 GMT

We've all lied to Mama. It's safe to say I've been the most honest with her, but we all know there are times it's better to make the truth more suitable to her liking. She likes it better that way, although I'm not always sure we're doing her a favor... And I guess that's why I sling the lies a whole lot less often than Papa and Edmund.

And there are some things I've never lied about, condemn my callousness or applaud my admirable, upfront nature for it. Lies never told include the following:

-"No, I wouldn't like a drink."

-"Sure, I'll stop drinking. Right now, in fact. Never again will I touch a drop."

-"Papa and I get along just fine."

-"I've never touched a prostitute in my life."

-"I love the theatre, and would rather perish than go so much as three months without some hack job as an actor."

-"Of course, I'd like to settle down and get married."

And, less and less lately, I refuse to say, "Why, yes, Mama, of course I believe you haven't been hitting the dope."

None of this means I don't respect her. Hell, if anything, it means I respect her enough to let her know the truth. Someone's got to, for God's sake.

Sat, 15 Mar 2008 01:02:13 GMT

Okay, Papa, all right, congratulations. You've done it again. You won another round. Here's a drink to you.

In fact, while I'm at it, I may as well finish off a bottle to your victory. Found it in the cellar, hope you don't mind.

Here's hoping.

makeyourlist: Traits I inhereted from my father. (14.3)

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 02:49:45 GMT

1. My hair. Which is thinning. Thank you, Papa, thank you very much.

2. Most of my physical traits, actually. It's not something I'm particularly proud of, but there you are, and the ladies like it.

3. A taste for booze. This may be credited both to his own taste and to the whiskey-remedies delivered to us impressionable children.

4. My remarkable, most mediocre talent for acting. Oh, I'm sorry, Papa... Did I just imply that your acting isn't exactly a case of fine art?

5. The voice. Though it is, I must say, much improved and put to far better use in yours truly. Papa can proclaim the world is his night after night, all he wants, but can he outroar a lion? I think not.

6. ~~My indefinable charm.~~ Sorry, my mistake; Papa's got nothing of the sort.

7. A head for memorization, whether of the entertaining--and here I'll give another nod to good old Kipling--or pretentious--here's a nod for Ye Olde Miser's favorite, Shakespeare--variety.

8. An inability to settle down in any sort of typical home. Never known one, never really felt like I needed one.

9. This one'll be a big surprise... My name. How about that?

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 23:39:22 GMT

Dear Papa,

First, I would like to make very clear the fact that you are without any doubt a bastard, and that you may indeed be the most despicable miser of a bastard ever to walk the face of this sainted earth.

Also, I found that bottle of whiskey you were hiding (or trying to hide, if I'm going to be accurate about these things). I would like to thank you, Papa; that was some damned good whiskey. You might want to buy another bottle, though... Just thought you should know there's not much left anymore, and the rest is soon to be gone, farewell, adieu.

I decided not to trim the hedge today. Oops.

Yes, I'm laughing,

Jamie

makeyourlist: Intro list.

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 23:04:21 GMT

1. My given name is James Tyrone, Junior, and yessir, you've got it, I am named after that most infamous old bastard of an actor, who also happens to be my father. I understand that he'd no more thrilled to see me besmirching his name than I am to have been blessed with the same.

2. I am an absolutely horrible actor, third-rate at best. I make no excuses for this, and I don't apologize for it.

3. Nearly every time I walk on stage, I've had a little something to drink. And when I say a little something, I mean a lot of something. (I managed to fall over on stage one night... Took my brother down with me, and I've got to say, that was something.)

4. Come to think on it, nearly every time I walk anywhere, I've had a little something to drink.

5. I don't mind cheap whiskey. Naturally, I prefer the better stuff, but I'll take what's available.

6. I've got a kid brother with a hell of a head on his shoulders. Now that he's gotten over this consumption issue and his nutty ideas about going out to sea, I'm sure he'll make something out of himself. And I don't mind telling you I'm damned proud of him.

7. However lousy a hand I might be at gambling (hell, it's only 'cause I'm usually drunk) I enjoy it, and no one's going to get me to stop.

8. Yes, I did pay for a night with Fat Violet. No, we didn't actually do anything.

9. Kipling knew what he was talking about. (Nietzsche, whatever the hell his name was, is another story altogether.)

10. I've never met a woman as patient as my mother. ~~Or as goddamned beautiful.~~

11. I used to write for a lit mag once in a while, and I even went so far as to harbor aspirations of becoming a newspaper writer. You can see how well that turned out.

12. It's true: I spend a lot of time with prostitutes. Often while very, very drunk.

13. I know I'm not the most successful gambler you'll ever meet, but that doesn't keep me away from Broadway.

14. I don't like living in Connecticut, and I don't blame Mama for hating that place the old bastard settled on.

15. No matter how drunk I get, I can't forget as much as I'd like. I can fake it, sure, but that's never the same thing.

16. Apparently, everyone--my parents, my teachers, you name it--had big plans for me when I was a kid. Said I was bright, said I was going places. They were convinced I'd amount to something. Shows what anyone knows, eh?

17. I've made a pretty solid practice of passing out in hotel lobbies, in bars, on sidewalks...

18. As much as I don't want to say it, might as well get it out there now: Papa's got a thicker chest than I do. Bastard.

19. I've pretty much resolved to drink myself to death; this is taking longer than I'd anticipated.

20. I couldn't cut a hedge straight to save my soul.

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 23:02:45 GMT

Wellll, all right, I've done it. Gone and gotten a journal of my own. Aren't you proud of me? I'm proud of me. Took a lot of effort, 'specially since I was a liiittle bit drunk at the time. It was a difficult endeavor, but I made it.

You know, I'm pretty sure this calls for whiskey... Yes, yes it does. All right, kids, it's been fun, but I'm off to find that divine drink of mine. Adieu, adieu, and so on.