Cafe Netherworld

I went on a bit of an alcohol bender when I turned 21... the revival of my first bender when I was 17. It only took a few months to remember that because of this first bender, I didn't go to college and now I'm working in a warehouse.

I live in downtown Denver, so it is really, really convenient to bar crawl every weekend. As I started winding down again, I abandoned the bustle of Market Street in exchange for the dive bar next-door to my apartment, Cafe Netherworld. The name is 100% befitting if you drop the cafe part. I'll never understand that part. Although, the food really is good bar food. The baristas are small, sassy women with lip piercings and buff arms, the intellectuals are all wearing leather and look depressed, and instead of a cappuccino machine, there's a fish bowl that wins you a free shot of their choice when you sink a quarter.

The walls are painted black and strewn with life-size mannequins: skeletons, vampires, and one gigantic sarcophagus in the pool room. It's not a clever pool table, just a coffin hanging on the wall between the Family Guy and Sopranos pinball machines.

Netherworld is a kick. I've had some really fun conversations and also very serious conversations on that patio. People leave you alone, and the few that don't turn out to be insane professors and Scottish cliff-divers. Great bar for talking and shooting free pool on Saturdays. I like a place where I can hear myself think.

But those party animals sure do open their throats when they get outside, and it generates a considerable amount of activity outside my window while I'm trying to sleep. The drunken singing is amusing, but the rest of it is dark, break-ups and blood-curdling screams. I've almost called the cops before; women sound like they're being fucking raped when they argue.

One time my friends and I went to Netherworld, I think after a Rockies game or something, and we waited for our beer with such flushed, confounded faces, we were disarrayed:

The bar was swarming with half-naked roller derby girls. I didn't know there were forty-five players on a roller derby team. I accidentally grabbed so much inner thigh that night, you couldn't move! but I think my three male friends had their hands above their heads the whole time.

All the regulars looked so dejected. They were betrayed to the bone, what little slivers of them I could discern through the sea of women pulling their shirts over their heads. Cafe Netherworld is, for most of us, a chill space to grab a cheap drink; for others, it's a haven to escape the girls going wild and the pretty boys in sweater vests.

As the derby girls kissed and played pool by clenching the cues with their ass cheeks, my friends and I huddled together and sang The Police very passionately. I don't think we could have done that under normal circumstances without the goths ejecting us. Hot girls bring party.

There is one bartender at Cafe Netherworld that I have a hard time looking in the eye. He happens to live a few doors down from me, and I run into him on occasion in the hallway, or outside our building hunched over the street and throwing up profusely.

He is never sober, which is fine with me, I don't care if you get your life together or not: but he stumbles into me and it's time-consuming. He just walks right into me, stumbles back, and stumbles into the wall. Since we're going to the same place, home, I have to time my dash around him, anticipate his drunk maneuvers. I used to do that annoying football shuffle that people like to do when you get tangled up in passing. I'm not scared of him, I just can't trust somebody with those dead, glazed eyes.

He's had an escort lately, usually a woman who looks at me in a way that I interpret to be apologetic. I also heard that one night he was very drunk, and somebody at the bar shouted, "Better get a couple people to carry him home this time!" Then everyone laughed. They're coping really well with his disease.

Cafe Netherworld recently relinquished its ownership. I don't know when the switch is going to happen. And though I'm glad it's turning into a pub and not a Walgreens, I will miss that gothy little hell hole. PBRs are $2.

I wonder if my drunk neighbor will continue to work there. I don't know if he could throw back as much Guinness as he does Coors Light without imploding like a star, and I definitely don't know if he could abide by any sort of dress code. I've never seen him out of the same exact blue flannel shirt, I swear I haven't. Been here two years, folks.

New neighbors

New neighbors moving in across the hall. "Across the hall" is about two feet. I'm writing this story about how sunflower seed addiction can spoil a new marriage. This, however, is... somehow more noteworthy:

There are two girls, and a guy keeps fading in and out, but he doesn't seem to be important to this scene. After bellowing "I LOOOOOVE IT" in a grizzly voice from the gut, the girls spend their first ten minutes in the new apartment abusing the speaker system next to the front door.

BEEP

"HELLLLOOOOO."

"Hehehe."

"Okay okay okay!"

Racing stairs and opening door. Probably a celebratory hug that twirls them in circles for a few seconds.

Closing door and racing stairs.

BEEP

"Hehehe."

"Can you hear me that's so coolllLUH."

"words"

"Does Jordan want to try? Let Jordan try."

"Jordan doesn't care," says Jordan from a distance.

The walls of this apartment building are pretty thick. Concrete with white paint. I learned the hard way when I thought I would be hanging a hammock in this cluttered hovel.

Actually the hard way would have been attempting to nail the hammock to the wall or ceiling and instead crushing my thumb, or piercing my wrist. My step-father just looked around and told me it wasn't happening. That was hard to hear, though.

I've never been able to hear my neighbors on the speaker system quite so clearly as with these ladies. Maybe that's because most people just buzz you in, or mumble "youhere?k." They don't pretend it's speaker phone in Stacy's bedroom.

I've had my fair share of commotion from #22 in the two years that I've lived here. Angry bald lesbians with a cow-patterned great dane. Gay anti-pot activists. Metrosexual asshole with the one long black piece of hair in his face. The raging bassist and congo drummer at 12 on a worknight. The gothic couple. The guy and girl with the bikes that I saw headed out through the iron gate of the building, and for some reason I barreled right between them anyway. I don't mean anything by it, sometimes I'm just in my own bubble, or my feet just escape me, or who knows what social illness that is. The guy mumbled, "We were... walking..."

I do think the excitement of my new neighbors is sort've sweet, and they aren't even annoying me, per se. I remember how elated I was when I found this place. My gray heart yearns to know other people's giddiness. And I howl with excitement over much pettier things than a really awesome apartment. So I get it. They are some noisy bitches though.

Jewels and jiches

I made two bracelets today. I plan to have my Etsy shop up and running soon. I just have to find a bunch of bracelets I've misplaced.

BATPEARL.

The stuff of my gothic dreams. Blood-red rose bead with deep textures, and black icicle beads. I may or may not be attaching one last object to the rose.

LADY ANA LEAF.

Brass leaf charm, lady bug attached to a turquoise bead, cork pieces. I made this for a friend of a friend's birthday, but I don't know much about her other than "the color blue is good."

I wish to represent myself

A list of six prospective author bio pics. I definitely think I would want to choose from one of the following.

#1.

#2.

raw! romantic!

#3.

#4.

#5.

I wonder what kind of horrors I am repressing from this day. His mouth is so round and cherry-red, I don't understand.

#6. my Beyonce phase

By the way, that damned gorilla loved me. This is what happened when my boyfriend got too close:

Story submission update

I received my first rejection letter with personalized feedback today; it made me so happy I had to be reminded it wasn't okay to shout in the workplace.

"I found the narrative more distant than I prefer; I didn't get as much of a sense of Ilian's motivations or emotions as I would like. I also felt that the full text of the song interrupted the flow of the story, and took the focus of the present events more than I prefer."

Thank god for feedback! I made the story bigger and better. I edited the song and cut it in half, I gave Ilian memories and psychology, I added beach sand and ferris wheels! I was cocky about it at first, but they were just so right... I've taken this and applied it to my future. I should never aim for emotionless spectacle.

Potty humor

Yesterday my boyfriend got a taste of what it would be like to live with me. Before he came over I was purging the refrigerator of rotting creatures, and while waiting for the toilet bowl to get ahold of itself (I had just flushed the hell out of some ancient watermelon juice) I poured into it at least a half-gallon of chocolate soy milk; I even thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be just like me to forget to flush this and leave the sight that will scar my man for life?"

An hour later, there goes my boyfriend to the bathroom. He shuts the door and there is a moment of silence; he later explained that he tried, but nothing could persuade him to urinate into that murky brown nightmare. So he flushes, and now I'm in the living room remembering what I'd forgotten, and I contemplate letting the joke ride out.

However, I know he is probably so mortified that his bladder has already begun to shut down forever, just a brick building below his stomach, so I call out, "H... hey. Did you have to flush anything?"

There is a pause, and then, like a lamb in headlights, he calls in a far-away voice, "...Yes..."*

He thought I was sick with the king of hostile ass-eating parasites, and said he loved me enough to plan on never mentioning it. How sweet and childlike his voice was in that moment. Cutie! He really, really didn't want me to know I was a monster.

It's hard to say whether I'll be self-conscious from now on ascending the stairs ahead of him. Does he view my backside any differently? Has it become a brand new canon in my body waiting to throw him down the stairs and bury him alive? I would never do that to him...

Luckily I have a history of wearing my underwear and/or eyeglasses to the shower, and walking three blocks to my car without realizing there's an inside-out Care Bears sock hugging my keychain. Shame on him for believing the explanation could be so logical as diarrhea in that toilet.

I asked about the milk patterns in the water; the last remnant of what I poured was dark syrup. When he flushed, a deep chocolate cloud ballooned up the center like a dragon's tongue reaching out for him. (yeah babe? was it like a dragon's tongue then? the groping hand of the devil?) I should ask if he almost cried.

Look how good he is to me, and all I do is give him grief.

I don't intend to be wasteful, the watermelon etc. I am just so unused to having anything to snack on and rarely visit the fridge. You know how at your parents' house you seem to be opening and closing the refrigerator door all day? You're not even rummaging for something to eat, your heart's not in it, for some reason we just have to do this and drive our mothers crazy. "MELISSA LOUISE."

There's a clockwork to the habit that doesn't quite translate into independent lifestyle. There are fanged dust mites wearing sheaths of my dead skin cells and swinging from the rafters of my pantry. The cupboard hinges are crusted shut from neglect, and the plates and silverware sing sad songs that keep me up at night.

That is actually an exaggeration. It is the godforsaken water heater that keeps me up all night -- and the first nemesis encountered in my book. You really, you just... the hate in my heart for that water heater...

I am incredibly lucky to have a mother who insists on supporting my food supply when she can now and again. I would have disintegrated sometime last March if it weren't for that woman. I have marathons of toast and salted pasta for weeks, and then suddenly I am feasting up to my elbows for seven long days on english muffins and salad and so many delicious apples. It doesn't sound right, does it? It feels so right.

Thanks mom! I'm your grown adult daughter! I plan to return the favor with everything I've got, it's half the reason I am so tenacious in the pursuit of my writing career. As my book continues to push freer and grittier boundaries, the swimming pool in the backyard of her mansion becomes bigger and bigger... If I leave in the bit about masturbation, I'll have to do something over-the-top. Adopt a highway in her name.

The point is don't ever ever buy soy milk because you'll never be brave enough to test it when you think it's gone bad, it's so much trickier than animal milk, which is courteous enough to curdle. That carton will be the elephant in the refrigerator for weeks, deterring you from ever eating again.

*I can't believe I made the cliche leap from past to present tense so fluidly. Only the baby boomers tell a story like that. "So she says, she says to the guy, she says."

Third

I now have six stories circuiting the market! I received an e-mail from The Cafe Irreal informing me that my short story "Movie Man" is under consideration for the March 2010 issue. I receive the verdict on April 16th. Regardless, I am titillated by the recognition; it propelled me to submit two new short stories tonight.

"Movie Man" is the greatest story I could think of to receive attention for the first time. I wrote it as a Christmas present and never expected anyone but its recipient to read it. But it turns out I like to submit stories until I pass out. I worked hard to make "Movie Man" an homage to the brilliant minds of film and personalize it all to the tastes of a very passionate and particular man. Somebody out there is digging that I go on those benders about Jan Svankmajer's clay private parts.

Fan...t...fic

Fantasy fiction was my first love. It started with The Lord of the Rings in the seventh grade.

No, it started with winning the bonus vocab word "gruesome" in third grade, which I'm still so proud of in adulthood that it's awkward. I drew a medieval castle for a school assignment that year. It had vines very precisely coiled and colored, and windows with faces, and I remember a girl standing in the mote with hair of the brightest yellow colored pencil I could find. There was a lot of activity in those castle windows, people and places and things, nouns, loaves of bread levitating in mid-air.

I procrastinated for two years. My poem "Dreamboat of Constellations," a highfalutin work, was published to an anthology in fifth grade; the same year that rather than actually reading a book for the weekly book report, I composed elaborate reports from my imagination and babbled about them to the class, my voice hyper and fast and warbling with my lie. I did it every single week for the exhilaration, not of laziness; I poured a lot of energy into making those books sound fully realized; beginning, middle, and end, protag- and antagonist. The only fake title I remember is "The Red Bookmark."

I didn't want to read when they told me to read; I wanted to create. The teacher must have investigated those books. I think he is a fucking charming individual for letting me continue without ever saying a word. It is because of this betrayal that I am the only young adult who has not read A Wrinkle in Time.

I procrastinated for two more years, reading only Stephen King and becoming bored with it.

I read The Lord of the Rings in seventh grade and made lots of awesome LotR fan shirts. I saw The Fellowship of the Ring so many times in theatres. Orlando Bloom became my effeminate fantasy. "I HEART Legolas" in Sharpie. I spelled it out like that, I HEART him. But in seventh grade I hearted everyone. I met a boy in an AOL chatroom; "I HEART JOHN" on a post-it on my chest, which I wore all over school.

I started writing my first book in eighth grade, a fantasy novel that I gagged over all summer under a tree of my former elementary school. There was a female warrior with purple dreadlocks, a teal-skinned alien that spoke an exotic language (hsilgnE sdrawkcab), and a lot of 'juniper melons' in the a;sdghkladgs trees. It was a far cry from my Dreamboat days.

My second attempt to write my first book, I was nineteen. An urban fantasy of which I had a couple hundreds pages completed, and a flourishing outline. There was an alcoholic vixen with purple dreadlocks, a hero with a cheetah's face, and a monstrous rabid pumpkin that pulls the vixen underground with its vines. The cheetah, whose name I forget, saves the hungover broad from being eaten. He does it with bow and arrow.

I deleted that project about a year ago. I didn't save a trace.

Then I got a job working with used books. I had by this point exhausted the libraries of Tolkien and Palahniuk and found the classics for the first time. I was introduced to the beats (belatedly, I say, as Dharma Bums would have serviced me greatly in high school). I read Updike and Vonnegut and Joyce and I can't imagine having never read any of it! I realized I was missing out on true inspiration. I didn't go to college; I won't learn anything if I don't educate myself through other people's masterpieces. If I had never broadened my library, I don't know... "Catcher in the Rye is really good," I'd have as a stock response to a real bookworm. "One Hundred Years of Solitude, eh? Never heard of..."

I considered writing under an androgynous pen name so that nobody would know I am a woman - that awful stigma, I thought, of a creative woman! I could tell that wouldn't work as soon as I started brainstorming my alias. More a-sexual than androgynous. Sam Howell, Howl Junior...

My sole purpose in life may be to write a book and get hit by a car, whatever it is how short how long, I know it's writing. I should stand by my writing and let it take my name.

If I was missing anything throughout high school, where I fooled around and didn't apply to college, partying my face off instead of studying my chosen path in fiction writing: I missed that vital influence of a female writer. There is something about it, a woman who aspires to write looking up to a woman writing. My greatest influences are mostly men, and I love those men to death; but then you read Sylvia Plath, and suddenly you are cranking out 8,188-word stories in first-person narrative, a style with which you have always struggled, and they're stories that make you laugh out loud because you're so happy with them.

Anyway I'm not writing fantasy fiction per se.