Well, I was going to open this blog with a photograph of the proof copy of my novel, "Live Fast! (Die Out of Town)" that arrived today, but between the new cellphone and the old computer, no one is talking. It's not the final copy in any way, shape or form. Actually, that's nearly entirely untrue: it will have the same shape for cure and perhaps even the same form. Right now, there's a lot of black border around a photograph I had taken many years ago outside the grave of "Elvis Aaron Presley" from Graceland.

But today, instead of reading that in print form for the first time ever; it did begin life as something altogether different, I finished reading the two-year old "Giving In" for only the second time since writing it in November  of 2010. Not feeling quite ready to start working on an edit, I will be looking forward to reading Live Fast!

Below, is an excerpt though, from "Giving In" -- have I spun myself around enough for one day? I think so; I have some drinks before heading out to Target Field. Yeah, it's a beautiful day for the end of  September and yet here I am, about to finally attend my first Yankee game of the season.

Excerpt:

These are the times that try men’s patience; these are the times when you find out of you’re the man who throws his jubilant hands in the air or the one who grips the bar in front of him as if to squeeze the life out of it as the rollercoaster descends precipitously. Do you close your eyes as you head toward the fast approaching loop-dee-loop or when you’re going through it? Do you keep your eyes wide open, let the tsunami winds dry your contacts out? Damn the torpedoes! Go on another E-ticket ride?

The only real difference being is that you know this one is going to crash. Probably not the first time through or even the second; what’s better than a false sense of security? But do you get on the rollercoaster that you know is going to smash to bloody and broken pieces on the hard ground? And if you do, would you really throw your arms up in the air like you don’t have a care? Would you be able to keep your eyes open for much of it? He wasn’t suicidal in the least; he was cautious with his heart but it wasn’t boxed up then. It was what the rollercoaster ride was doing to these lovely and amazing young women that made cuts that wouldn’t be staunched.

There were the ones who didn’t communicate with him any longer. He would have to then long range project to know how they were doing. He would have to imagine both ends of conversations in far too many settings and situations.

For some time there were the ones who stayed in his orbit and he liked having their shining stars circling. He fed them what he could; they gave back only what he would accept, but they offered up so much more than that. So there was always the awkward air of indigestible rejection over these dinners and drinks.

He’s sitting there, musing over that old fact when he gets a message out of the blue offering to do something for him. Exactly what he needed from the Universe, right? And it’s not like he wanted to shoot the messenger; far from it and that was the rat bastard side of the Universe balancing his stupid ass out for him.

Billy sang about having to take the crunchy with the smooth and Bronson had stolen that so many times, most thought it was his line.

He was opening taped up boxes that should have stayed that way most likely. He couldn’t just poke his nose into one, he couldn’t just reach a hand in and bring one thing back out with him. It wasn’t even a case of all or nothing. Once it was rented open, it ripped at the very edges of the Universe is how he saw it. The galaxy expanding wherever it sees fit, Bronson got pelted from asteroids from all sides.

See? Salinger had it all wrong. If you really want to disappear, you don’t make it some great mystery. Not that Bronson was comparing himself to that great writer in any other way. But in this case, Bronson felt he won this chapter hands down.

He wrote them a letter. He left his poetry brush beside his unused comb. He didn’t want anything to be misunderstood. He needed to be simple and direct, for a change. It was such a new tact, he was almost afraid they wouldn’t recognize it. Bronson asked if he came there to help take care would they help take care of him. Offering his help didn’t stir any dust; clearly asking for help was an alien transmission.

No one was quick to answer. His noose tightened although they had no idea such a stricture was occurring. Each thought another would come back quickly with an ebullient reply so for an extended moment the 911 call was not made. Before all was lost, the elder statesman made the call. It’s how it should be; it should have come from the head of the table. The words landed on grateful, nearly crushed to death ears.

Gears began to shift. Oils were applied. Appointments and anointments came and went.

He left.

Again.

This time, though he didn’t feel as if he was coming back. The door didn’t hit him on the ass on his way out. He didn’t turn off the lights though.

A joke: How does an impatient man wait? Impatiently.