Baby, I'm updating with my cosmic fingers. I am a mighty little man.

I went to see a Celtic band, The Secret Commonwealth, with Dust last night. It was nice. I fell asleep a few times-- but, as I've pointed out, I also fall asleep at Pearl Jam concerts. But, I had a good time.

Although, goddamn. I just remembered, Stacey asked me to, I don't know, call her or something before I left. Damn. Sorry, Stacey. Stacy. Stay, sea.

Dust bought me a ham sandwich. He was reading a sign and said, "Free chicken with overdraft benefit" but I thought he said "Free chicken with overdressed bedfellow".

I had a bit of synchronicity in my weekend, aside from all that. A few days ago, Em finished her story, Stay the Night-- alternately titled, the Lance-is-a-hooker story, and, I won't ruin it for anybody, but I found elements of it traumatizing, also, infectious. So I immediately began work on the Bobby-is-a-hooker story.

I got back today, and I checked Puppies In a Box for updates, and found that Synchronik had written just such a story, called "so, this"-- which is just a really cool title. Great story. But, so, the writing a hooker story in reaction to Em's finale thing would be enough for a synchronic moment, but the story includes references to things happening on Tuesday (which is the day when stuff happens in my story, too) and references to Lance's roommate and co-worker, Bobby.

woo.

Why am I updating?

I don't know. I'm half-watching the A&E biography of Sesame Street puppeteers, and it's marvellous. Elmo is a big, black man. Ernie and Telly are two people apiece. I love these people. I mean, what a wonderful world.

Doesn't that inspire that in you? What a wonderful world.

Steve Witmeier is the guy that does Kermit, now. He's been playing at being Kermit since he was a small boy-- on his high school annual, where most people have their names, he has Kermit.

He has these dreams about Jim Henson. Jim comes to him and Steve is all, like, "oh no, I have to give Kermit back." And Jim always says, no, no, it's alright.

Sunny days chasing the clouds away.

Good times. :]

Okay, that's enough. Life is good. La vita è bella.

Bobby sank deeply into the dusty, tattered couch and silently laughed at the fact that while the discovery of AIDS hadn't had any effect on the street price of a blowjob, the national inflation had. The black-haired head in his lap bobbed, and he fisted his hand there, tilting his hips quietly up.

"unh."

"Robbie, man--" said St.John, walking into the room with three beers. "Shouldn't you save that for the customers? What'd you promise for this one?"

Bobby drew his tongue across his bottom lip. "Gimme one of those. I gotta cover his shift Tuesday night." St.John set the beers down on the table and popped one open for Bobby, handed it to him.

"Yeh? You got a date, 'Berto?" he asked. The man on his knees in front of the couch started to pull his head away, to answer, but Bobby tightened his hand in protest.

"Yeah, he does. With that guy. ohh. The southern belle."

"Oh, we met him. He's cute. A little on the putzy side, but--"

Bobby's head fell back against the back cushion. "Sin, hey. Shut up. I'm concentrating."

St.John grinned. "You're a professional, Robs, you're supposed to be able t'do this under any conditions. This is, hey." He took a deep swig from his drink. "This is like, in that Kevin Costner Robin Hood movie, where the little boy is shooting the bow an' arrow, and Robin Hood is saying t'him, you've got to be able to shoot under all kinds of distraction. So the boy shoots, and Robin distracts him, and his aim is all off. Y'remember that?"

Bobby shot him a glare and licked his bottom lip again. St.John laughed and sat down his beer-- came over to sit beside the other man. "Whatcha thinkin' about, Rahhhhbeee?" he whispered playfully.

Bobby's eyes closed. "Fuck off, man."

St.John set his hand lightly on Bobby's thigh. "You've got to be able to shoot under all kinds of distraction, mate." Bobby batted his hand away, and St.John giggled and returned it. "I bet I know who you're thinking about. That _special someone_, right? That speeeeecial summmm--" Bobby grabbed his wrist roughly.

"Y'know, your skanky voice is kinda ruining the illusion that I'm _not_ in this shithole, okay? So stuff it."

He began to pump his hips faster, and when he said "it" his mouth stayed open.

"Stuff it?" St.John asked. "You want me to stuff it? _Stuff_ _it_? Baby?" Mimicking Bobby's short, harsh breaths. "Stuff it?"

"MotherFUCKER," Bobby said, shoving Roberto away from him. Roberto caught himself with one hand, wiped his mouth with the other. He said, "You better hope he's still gonna take my shift, Jinny, or your ass is mine."

"His ass is yours anyway," Bobby snorted, fastening his pants, still hard. "Don't worry, I'll cover you Tuesday. --you still owe me half a blowjob."

Roberto grinned and nodded. "You're my hero, man."

"Yeah, man." He punched the still giggling St.John in the arm, and took a long drink from his beer. "I'm a hero."

And then, I don't know, something about Remy being an accountant, maybe. hee.

Night, y'all. You are loved.

--Alestar,
there are mostly seven rooms,

but sometimes more, or less, 'cause things happen.