He loved his wife, he truly did, but she could never understand the clockworks of his brain. Like Superman & Lois Lane, one aging, one not.
Certainly, Lois could understand Superman, but its not like they could tear each others clothes off & make passionate love in the ionosphere
Could it be that he wanted to be with someone like Karin so bad that he even went so far as to search out someone with a similar name?
Didn't he used to think in singsong once? The jam on his toast an explosion over scorched earth propogations. Yet, he couldn't see it.
Read the Arts section, pages turned, slow, normal, as if he was the only one making any movement, as if he was the deciding motor of all.
Man of the Year 1967, at least it was not him alone, he shared the award with President Kennedy, Bobby deserved the recognition for NamNuke.
He hiccupped, hmnn. Now I'm using hippie talk lingo. Wife was happy with the new steam iron he gave her, maybe tonight the new theater
The Uptown, square blocks built on Sante Fe guidestones, daylight slits each nuclear winter moan; they could watch Mitchum & McQueen fight.
Sad what happened to Jack Lemmon, she'd said yesterday. Too bad, forget the retrospective, anger bubbled, he'd make her enjoy THUNDER DROVE.
He flipped the page, there it was, his 1969 Chevrolet ChronoSonic 360, hot off the blocks, lead lungs filled with uranium 238. 0-60 in 3.2.
Wife can't touch it, Bobby the K couldn't touch it. Johnny Cash...let him think on it. Quiet ruminations, whipslapKarin blinkwink blip augh.
Headaches. Always. Note to selves: buy stock in Bayer. Rummage the shelves, bottle emptyrattle plasticecho. Slow down, K., its okay. Shhh.
Settle for Cope. His wife's pills for when she menstruated. Always something made for women only, like that deodorant. wait drypop pills.
Strong arm a man, make out with his woman. Something like that. Headache gone, Kindred put some Sandy Nelson on the turntable. Telstar HiFi.
Let there be drums, pop those tubs, like when he killed the thugs. They probably read Batman comics. Whacked off to TV show Catwoman.
Moving like amniotic fluid, thoughts like a gentle barbarian. Servo-smooth. Leaving the arms of Karin Offal was the best thing he'd done.
Other than inventing the peacegiver alpha centaurian bomb along with poor, doomed Mantell. His morpho-ideamatic satellite raining the USSR.
1961, the Berlin Wall new. Work began, pencil sketches light projector. New-fangled percolater. A room-sized Cray computer calculated 01101.
Binary thoughts, secondary loves. Mantell and his too swift glances at Karin, Kindred never truly cared, he was already tired of her lines.
Apollyon backed them with crisp bills. Then they created the MoytoJet. Intersonic, yet unprovable while JFK was in office. Find Oswald.
Something he lived with as he shared drinks with Bobby the K, he was Kindred the Doc, laughs all around the Kennedy compound in Nebraska.
18 minute drum solo, time for something different. Flipflip labels, 33 RPMs. Mantell took an untested MoytoJet out himself. Rolling Stones.
Shot out the wall pneumatic-like. Tumbled in a brainstorm, growing exponentially with thought-radiation, USSR below, Mantell: love. Karin.
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A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
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