Illinoir

20. A photo of something you enjoy doing. 11/2009. Adam plays video games.

Video games. My constant companion.  Lots of debate lately about whether or not video games can be considered “art” and I don’t know where I come down on that. Games contain art: graphics, story, even the programming can be artistic. Elegant, beautiful. But are they art themselves? Well. My response is: Blah blah blah. Let me shoot something.

Wakka wakka.

What was yesterday’s word count? Oh. I didn’t post one. Good. Today, we’re at 36,278, and nobody has to know that I wrote absolutely nothing yesterday.

Alright. Here’s the second half of that phone conversation from the other day. Be warned, it’s very sweary.

I heard a female voice yelling in the background. It was unmistakably Paul’s wife, Paulette. No, I’m not kidding about that. You can’t make this stuff up. It was unfortunate, but the heart wants what the heart wants; you can’t choose your soul mate. They were definitely made for each other, right down to their names. If I ever met a girl named Arthurina, I’d want to get to know her because undoubtedly we were meant to be together.
“Paul! Get off the fucking phone! You’re supposed to be tending the fucking grill!”

“Hold on, Art,” Paul said. I could hear the noise of him lowering the phone and cupping the mouthpiece. “I’m fucking talking to Art, Goddamn it!” I could still hear him as clearly as if he were speaking directly into the phone. They yelled at each other like nobody’s business, but it was all out of love. “Get off my fucking back!”

Paulette’s response was not as clear. I could hear that she was yelling, but Pauls hand did manage to muffle that.

“That’s what I’m fucking trying to do, Paulette!” was Paul’s reply. “That’s why I’m on the fucking phone with him!”

Again, Paulette’s muffled response.

“He knows to bring some beer!” Paul yelled. “You think he’s a fucking idiot? You think I’m a fucking idiot? You think I didn’t tell him to bring some beer? You think I didn’t tell him to bring some food? A dish to fucking pass? Like some fucking pasta salad?” Real quick, Paul was back: “Art, you’re going to bring some pasta salad, right?”

Before I could reply, he was gone again. “Yeah, he said he’s gonna bring some pasta salad. Now get off my back!” He brought the phone back to his face. “Sorry about that, Art.”

“No worries, Paul,” I said. “Tell Paulette I said hello.”

“Hey!” Paul yelled away from the phone. “Art says hi!”

Paulette’s response – “Hi, Art! Get your fucking ass over here!” – was clearly audible.

“She says for you to get your –“ Paul said.

“Yeah, Paul, I heard her. In case you hadn’t noticed, your wife is loud as hell.”

“So what’s all this about losing your Saturday?”

“Shit, man, that means tomorrow’s Monday,” I sighed, realizing the implications. “I only get one day away from Cola?” I shuddered.

“What a drag,” Paul said. “But hey, look, you’d really better get your ass over here. You feeling alright?”

“What? Yeah. I feel great. Better than I have in a few days, actually.”

“I guess that’s one benefit of sleeping a day and a half, huh? Maybe you just really needed it.”

“Yeah, I guess. After Friday night, I must have. Dude, it was so crazy. After you left O’Irish, I was about to leave but I heard this noise coming from the woods –“

I was interrupted by another shriek from Paulette: “Paul, get the fuck off the fucking phone and come make a fucking hamburger for your fucking son!”

“Art, I really gotta go. Just come over here and we’ll talk, ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.”

“Hey. Don’t forget to take a shower,” Paul said, and hung up.