mutiny on the Cat Boat, part one

The cats on the Cat Boat are listening to the song ‘Tunnel of Love’ on the album Tunnel of Love by Bruce Springsteen. It is the 100,413^th time they have listened to it. The lyrics to the song ‘Tunnel of Love’ are:

Fat man sitting on a little stool
Takes the money from my hand while his eyes take a walk all over you
Hands me the ticket smiles and whispers good luck
Cuddle up angel cuddle up my little dove
We’ll ride down baby into this tunnel of love

I can feel the soft silk of your blouse
And them soft thrills in our little fun house
Then the lights go out and its just the three of us
You me and all that stuff were so scared of
Gotta ride down baby into this tunnel of love

There’s a crazy mirror showing us both in 5-d
I’m laughing at you you’re laughing at me
There’s a room of shadows that gets so dark brother
It’s easy for two people to lose each other in this tunnel of love

It ought to be easy ought to be simple enough
Man meets woman and they fall in love
But the house is haunted and the ride gets rough
And you’ve got to learn to live with what you cant rise above if you want to ride on down in through this tunnel of love

‘Oh god,’ says Mister Whisker.

‘What?’ says W.C. Fields.

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘I’m just tired is all.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Alright, but if you ever want to talk about anything, you know I’m always here, right?’

Mister Whisker doesn’t answer. Mister Whisker goes off to the prow and licks his tail. Mister Whisker thinks about catching a mouse. Mister Whisker thinks about eating a fish. Mister Whisker thinks about throwing himself overboard.

It is twelve fifty seven a.m. The Pacific Ocean looks like an unravelled ball of wool.

Mister Whisker mans the rigging.

He can’t sleep.

He can’t understand what Bruce Springsteen is singing about.

What does ‘Man meets woman and they fall in love’ mean?

What does ‘I can feel the soft silk of your blouse’ mean?

What does ‘Cuddle up angel cuddle up my little dove’ mean?

Mister Whisker stops manning the rigging.

Mister Whisker checks his emails.

Mister Whisker goes up the ‘special ladder’ and into the cabin where the record album is playing.

Mister Whisker takes the needle off the record album.

Mister Whisker takes the record album off the record player.

Mister Whisker throws the record album into the Pacific Ocean.

to do list by Paulo Coelho

empty the bin
have a shave
put things in bag (for later)
make a sandwich
check emails
write emails
finish library book
call mum and dad
demystify the unknown
find enlightenment in something small (toenail, ant, paperclip, etc.)
go on 'spiritual journey' (somerfield?)

oblique review of the album 'split lips, winning hips, a shiner' by the canadian band shapes + sizes

the man in the flat upstairs is building something. i can hear the noise of drills, hammers, etc. i think he has drilled a hole in my ceiling, to look at me in my room when i do things. i stand on my bed and stick a small bit of cardboard over the hole. i put on some music to drown out the sound of building. the music also sounds like someone building something.

the man upstairs sounds like he is building a giant robotic woman made from wood, that he can have sex with, and then get to do the dishes, and then punch in the face, and then sit in like a couch.

the music sounds like someone building a small, non-functional breakfast table out of spiderswebs and post it notes.

i am going to listen to something else now.

wig of blood session recording

have a look at this.

i really want to get them to record the song 'i will murder the tiny breakdancing child' or something.

$169 is about £80.

would people be willing to pay about £5 each or something to get them to record a song? we could write the lyrics together. please say if you are 'in' in the comments section. if enough people want to do it, i'll set up a paypal account or something. then i'll post the finished song on the wig of blood myspace for download, etc.

£££ insane wealth £££ bad ideas £££ a revolving car that comes out of the ground at the push of a button and exhibits all my shoes £££

i have a couple of blurbs for my novel now. i've put them up on my myspace page. while you're looking at them, why not take the opportunity to 'friend me' too, before i become so famous i blank you in the street.

expect less

come in. sit down. not in that chair, in the other one. this is good advice. listen closely. don't do that thing where you start to listen and then just look at my mouth moving and think about something else and then get me to repeat myself. because i'm only going to say this once. i'm going to say it very quietly too, i'm going to whisper it, so sit forward in the chair, put your mouth near my mouth, yeah like that, like we're about to kiss or something. i'm going to whisper the advice into your mouth and then you're going to close your mouth and not open it again for a very long time. when i'm finished, you're going to get up and go outside and walk down the street. it will be cold and you will pass a child and you're not going to make eye contact with the child. you're going to stick your hands in your pockets. you're going to go to bed. you're going to wake up again. this is going to keep happening. and if you want, sometime, you can whisper this advice to someone else. there's no 'copyright' on it. i didn't make it up. stop being so melodramatic. okay, here it is:

expect less.
do not expect things to taste good.
do not expect to get to the front of a queue.
do not expect to go to a nightclub and kiss someone.
do not expect to go to work and meet interesting people.
do not put on different combinations of clothes each day and think people will notice or care.
do not say something in a group, then feel disappointed when you're asked to repeat yourself.
do not buy those book from the 3for2 table, randomly, just by the covers, and expect 'greatness'.
do not lie down next to someone, and think 'this is good, i hope this lasts'

if i were you i would:
read.
stay inside.
stop to stroke a cat on the pavement.
take up a hobby (smoking, crystal meth, amateur pornography)
get a broadband connection.
masturbate hundreds of times a day.
somehow disappear.

poem

i posted a poem on here about an hour and a half ago. then i got scared and took it down again. it wasn't very good. it was about a miniature swan, and some people on a sofa, and Paul Simon.

if anyone really wants to read it and laugh at me, email me (chriskillen at gmail.com) and i'll send it to you.

The Lizard Lounge

Ben Harvey has written a Cat Boat story about the cat The Lizard Lounge. cheers, Ben.

here is Ben's story:

The Lizard Lounge

The Lizard Lounge sat curled up in his spot by the mast. He was forming a plan. This plan was going to solve all the problems he had had since coming aboard the Cat Boat. This plan was going to get him well and truly laid.

Before he came aboard, he’d never really thought about sex. Life had been very different on land. He didn’t know any she-cats, and he didn’t know any other tomcats that could tell him about she-cats. Since joining the others on the boat, however, he had heard things. Some of it sounded good. Some of it sounded strange and a bit scary. All of it was fascinating, though, and it made him wonder about just what he had been missing out on.

In his former life he had lived in a large, dark, rambling house, full of dehumidifiers. He took enormous pride in the number of dehumidifiers there were in his house. One in every room. Ten rooms, if you counted the hall and the landing. Ten dehumidifiers. He wasn’t really sure what a dehumidifier was for. He imagined it might be something to do with making delicious sauce for fish.

Delicious sauce for fish was his overwhelming interest in the days before he found out about sex. His partner, a lady called Jill, fed him on different types of fish with different types of sauce every day of the week.

Mackerel fillets in a tomato and herb dressing.

Mackerel fillets in mustard sauce.

Peppered wood-smoked mackerel fillets in sunflower oil.

Tuna chunks in sunflower oil.

Sardines in a smoky barbecue sauce.

Herring fillets in a rich tomato sauce.

Pilchard fillets in a rich tomato sauce.

He wasn’t called the Lizard Lounge when he lived with Jill. Jill’s name for him was Mr Knightley. Some evenings Mr Knightley and Jill would curl up on the sofa watching period dramas. Mr Knightley would stretch out on Jill’s breast, listening to the hum of the dehumidifier and thinking about herring fillets in a rich tomato sauce. Jill would always cry silently when they watched period dramas. Sometimes he and Jill would curl up on the sofa together and watch The Aristocats. He would dream of tuna chunks in sunflower oil and she would cry silently.

One morning Mr Knightley returned home from a night spent chasing mice. He came in through the cat flap and went into the kitchen to look for Jill and his breakfast. When he couldn’t find her in the kitchen or the sitting room, he went upstairs and found her still asleep in the bedroom. She was asleep with her eyes open, which he thought was odd. Mr Knightley went off and did something else. When he was bored, and hungry for fish and delicious sauce, he went back to Jill’s bedroom. She hadn’t woken up. He bit her nose and she still didn’t wake up. Mr Knightley ate one of the pills that Jill had spilled on the bedroom carpet. Later that morning he had a violent attack of diarrhoea on the bedroom carpet. The water tank of the bedroom dehumidifier was overflowing and Jill still hadn’t moved.

He left that house a few days later, and roamed the streets, alert to the smell of fish. He had halved in weight by the time his nose led him to the docks. One of the boats there smelled particularly strongly of fish, and his mind was made up.

After a day on the Cat Boat, one of the other cats caught a fish. It was herring. He came over to see, and was puzzled that there was no sauce with it. He waited for the sauce to arrive, but it never came. The other cats ate and ate until the fish was gone, and still no sauce arrived. Mr Knightley went off and did something else. The next day there was another catch. It was tuna. As soon as it was on deck he ran up to the glistening body and sank his teeth into it. He leapt back in dismay. It wasn’t the kind of tuna he liked, with the sunflower oil. It was the other kind, the one he couldn’t stand, that came in brine. He was beginning to realise that these cats were very different from him.

After that, Mr Knightley started to feel himself changing. He walked differently. It seemed to him that his testicles needed more space than they had done before.

After a week on the Cat Boat he changed his name to the Lizard Lounge. The other tomcats had cool names like “You talkin’ to me?” and A Diamond As Big As The Ritz, and he was becoming jealous of the way the she-cats looked at them. He thought about calling himself Abraham de Lacey Giuseppe Casey Thomas O’Malley after his favourite character from The Aristocats but he was worried the other cats wouldn’t get the reference. In the end he decided the Lizard Lounge had the right ring to it. Now he felt he would fit in. He had even become accustomed to eating fish without any sauce at all.

After a month on the Cat Boat, the Lizard Lounge got his first taste of sex. He did it with Liz. Everyone knew Liz was ‘the slutty one’. One evening when the record player was playing, he spotted Liz on her own in the stern of the boat, licking herself and wiping the saliva across her forehead and ears. Before his brain had registered the effect her grooming was having on him, his body had taken the initiative. He hoisted himself up onto his hind legs and swaggered over to her. In his head he was Thomas O’Malley and slutty Liz was beautiful, pure Duchess. He was the king of the highway. He was the prince of the boulevard. He was the duke of the avant-garde. The world was his backyard.

At first he didn’t think he really liked it. It felt ok, but he was put off by the noises she made. The noises made him think that perhaps she was angry with him for sticking his barbed cat-penis inside her. She let him do it twice though, and the second time he felt much happier about it. After she had gone, he scratched two notches into the deck with his claws.

Something had been awakened in him. He looked at all the she-cats differently after that night. Liz had been good, but he hankered after something better. Something more high-class. A memory of the warmth of Jill’s breast sat uneasily in the back of his mind. He began to devise his plan.

Tomorrow it would be his first turn to carry the Christmas pudding. This would be his chance to impress. He had practised his two-legged walking day and night until he no longer swaggered. He practically danced when he walked. He had written a poem to recite while he carried the Christmas pudding to and fro. It was an ode to cat sex, and he knew it would melt the hearts of the she-cats.

The poem began: ‘I like a cheech-a-cheech-chee-roni’.

Tomorrow was going to be unbelievable.

breakdown of weekly spending (i need to start saving money)

hos - £90
bitches - £100
miscellaneous crunk - £500
food - £16
toilet roll - £2
showergel from somerfield - 60p
trip to the museum - £1 (voluntary)
big issue - £1.20
trip to Gregg's - £2/£2.40 (depending on jam doughnut)
crystal meth - £40

alternate lyrics to the album 'Graceland' by Paul Simon

The Boy In the Bubble

I walked around in Cholton for a while this afternoon
And looked in the window of Oxfam books
There was an LP in there
One by Bob Dylan and the Band
It was twelve quid
Then I had something to eat in the Chorlton Eatery
And returned my overdue library book (‘Cathedral’ by Raymond Carver)
I had to pay a fine of £2.50

Graceland

The flat is very cold
It’s kind of damp too
When I wake up in the mornings sometimes
The sheets feel a bit damp
And it’s difficult to get out of bed
And go down the corridor
And turn on the heating thing
I don’t know how to work the timer properly

I Know What I Know

Once, when I was about
Twelve I had a dream
About hanging around with a girl
At a fairground
And then woke up and wanted to be
Asleep again
And tried
Really hard
For about a month
To have the same dream again
(It didn’t work)

Gumboots

I bought a bottle of wine
From Somerfield
It cost 2.99
When I got home
And poured some in a glass
And drank it
It tasted funny
I felt confused
I felt a bit sick
I looked at the bottle
And realised I’d bought
‘De-Alcoholized’ Merlot
0.5%
Good lord
It tasted like medicine

Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes

What happens when you die?
(I like the parts in the novel
‘The Quick and the Dead’
By Joy Williams
Concerning this subject)

You Can Call Me Al

I can’t think of a film Chevy Chase has been in
In, like, the last ten years
Is Chevy Chase even alive any more?
What is Chevy Chase doing with himself?
Has he moved into ‘executive-producing’?
Or invested his money in real estate
Or something?
What is Chevy Chase doing right this second?
There is a time difference
Between Chorlton and Hollywood
Chevy Chase is probably asleep
Or just waking up and walking
Down a hall
And into a kitchen
And pouring some Alpen into a bowl

Under African Skies

My short story ‘Hiromi’ has
Been accepted by the Manchester
Based magazine Transmission
The new issue
Will be published on
The 25^th of January, I think

Homeless

I was in work yesterday and
Looked at the short story collection
‘Varieties of Disturbance’
by Lydia Davis
There are some stories in it which
Are only about two lines long, or
Even one line
And I felt good because I was able to
Read about ten of them in a couple
Of minutes and
Then I felt worried because I
Thought about how much thought she’d
Put into creating such small things
And I guess they were a bit like poetry
And I worried that I didn’t know what
Poetry was either and then worried that
I just write things too fast and
Don’t spend hundreds of hours
Picking a thing apart, sentence by sentence
But if I re-draft something too much
I can work myself into a state of inertia
And then I’ll worry that that feeling will work itself
Into the thing I’m editing

Crazy Love Vol II

We defeated semantics
I’m glad we did that

That Was Your Mother

I wish that David Shrigley was someone I could
Talk to on the internet
Or meet for a drink at Pi in Chorlton
Maybe tomorrow night
I think David Shrigley would probably have a
Pint of Flat Cap which is a kind of dark, sweet ale
I would have a pint of Lindeboom
And we would get complimentary peanuts
Not because David Shrigley is ‘famous’ or anything
But because they give everyone complimentary
Peanuts

All Around The World or The Myth Of Fingerprints

I downloaded the album ‘Music For Tourists’ by
Chris Garneau which I found by following a link
On the blog Estrn Mntn Sprts (see links, right)
I’m very glad I downloaded this album
It reminds me a bit of Sufjan Stevens
It’s good music for listening to
Walking down the road in the cold
In a new coat
And thinking about buying a scarf
And wondering where your old scarf went
And then waiting at the bus stop
For the 86 into town

step-by-step plan for the rest of my life:

i am going to sabotage my face with inappropriate expressions. i am going to expect less at all times (like, if i'm in a queue in Café Nero or something, i am going to not expect to get to the front, ever). i am going to speak in an American accent to my parents on the phone. i am going to colour in my legs with a biro. i am going to attach something incredibly small to my finger, something almost imperceptible, and keep it there for as long as i can. i am going to google image search ‘bill bryson’. i am going to make a mistake on purpose and then ‘suffer the consequences’. i am going to phone you up in about an hour and a half. i am going to go and stand in the bathroom and clip the hairs out of my nose. i am going to stop listening to the CD i’ve been listening to, eventually. i am going to bed.

read this blog instead

i like this blog.

wig of blood

new song added.

realtime review of 'dropping the writ' by cass mccombs -- score: 9.9

i have decided to review cass mccombs' new album 'dropping the writ'. i am reviewing it realtime, and should probably be asleep. i am not going to edit any of the sentences i just typed, unless i make an obvious mistake i can see. this will contribute to the review's 'realtimeness'. i am listening to 'lionkiller' now, which is the first song on the album. how does this song sound? it sounds kind of nervous. the first time i heard it i didn't like it much. i felt confused, because i was thinking of the other two cass mccombs albums. the other two albums are more melodic than this song. this song has a melody, but it is more repetative than things from the previous albums. cass mccombs sings the line 'stick a needle in my eye / i'm middle class 'til the day i die' on this song. it's over now, though. the second song is playing. i don't know what it's called. i will check. it's called 'pregnant pause'. just as i found out, he sang the words 'pregnant pause'. i like this one more (although with repeated listens i like 'lionkiller' too). this one is more 'immediate'. it is melodic. it sounds like things from other cass mccombs albums. he is speaking now, in the background. somehow it is not pretentious. i think that's what i like about him. he is just a person with a 'lot of things to say'. i guess if you have that much to say or lots of ideas or whatever it is that cass mccombs has that other people don't have, then it must be tough not to feel like you're 'showing off'. i am not sure if that last sentence made sense. it's playing 'that's that' now. this is -- i think -- my favourite song on the album. it is very melodic. it is 'catchy'. i have listened to this song more than all the others. this song makes me for some reason think of ice skating. some fifteen year olds going round an ice skating rink in solihull. tuesday afternoon. there are backing vocals on this song, that go 'doo wa, doo wa, doo wa'. they sound nice. and a guitar that goes, 'deee deee dee duh duh du-duh'. good work, cass mccombs. i just started thinking about whoever it was who read my blog a few hours ago, because they did a google blog search for 'cass mccombs' and how this will be (for about an hour) definitely the 'top hit' or however you say it. now it is playing 'morning shadows'. this one is both melodic and 'moody'. it sounds like someone crawling up a flight of stairs on their hands and knees. cass mccombs's voice is good. not just in this song, but in general. it sounds sincere, and confused, and not like any other voice, i don't think. a friend of mine said that on one song he sounds like he wants to be morrissey. i don't agree. it must be either kind of hard and something to 'work towards' or just occasionally natural to have your 'own voice' when you sing, and not to be an approximation of the things you have heard and like. i think cass mccombs sounds like he is just naturally singing in a unique way. have i forgot to mention one of the songs that was playing? okay, i got confused. the last song, the one i was writing about was called 'petrified forest'. this song is the one called 'morning shadows'. it is also 'moody', but in a different way. it sounds like someone rubbing someone else's back, softly, for a long time until they go to sleep. it's just finished. now it is 'deseret'. this one is 'eager-sounding'. this one is shuffling along a hallway towards you, whenever you are not looking. when you turn your head to look at it, it freezes. i wonder how many of these songs were 'conceived in the studio' by cass mccombs, and how many were ones he wrote on an acoustic guitar in his room or whatever. i wonder if i emailed him with some questions about making this album, and other things, whether he would answer them. i would like to know what kind of a person cass mccombs is. he sounds like he might be a 'bit of a weirdo' from listening to this album. when i type that, i just mean 'someone who thinks about things too much' i guess, which is only 'weird' to the percentage of people that don't really think about things and just 'get on' with stuff and then find things like awkwardness and lack of coordination as things worth picking fault with. i don't know what i'm saying. i guess i am saying cass mccombs was probably bullied in school, but maybe it is what has 'shaped' him into the fine singer/songwriter he is today. not that i am advocating 'character-building' school-bullying or any kind of bullying, either. i am wondering if this was a stupid idea. i am feeling a bit tired now, but for some reason can't stop typing either. there's a new song playing: 'crick in my neck'. i just thought about my neck. my neck is fine. my neck doesn't have a crick in it. my hand feels funny and 'pins-and-needles-y' though. this song sounds like someone pushing you round aggressively in a nightclub while you are high on maybe opium or glue or something. it's just finished. the next song is 'full moon or infinity'. this is the 'simon and garfunkel' one. it sounds like something intricate being stitched. i am worrying now that my descriptions will put people off. i guess i am somehow hoping that someone like me will read this, and somehow think that the cass mccombs album sounds like a good album to buy by reading this. i'm not even sure that it's actually out yet. i think it 'officially' comes out next month or something -- i got a promo copy from the vinyl exchange place off deansgate in manchester (maybe there's another one. i only paid 3 or 4 pounds. you should have a look ...). i saw cass mccombs play once, in the 'social' which is a bar in nottingham, about four or five years ago. at that point i didn't really like him. i think i stood at the back and kind of half-listened and half talked to my friend. 'what a fool you were' i think now. now it's playing 'windfall', which, if a 'big film' was going to use one of the songs from this album, this would be the one they'd use. it would a be a scene where a boy and a girl have broken up or something and are remembering each other. somehow the song manages to conjure feelings of melancholy without being sentimental. i think it would be a lot harder to avoid that kind of sentimentality if there were accompanying visuals of attractive people crying on their own and then running towards each other and kissing in slow-motion or something. i'm a bit drunk. it's four-something in the morning. this song sounds like something from 'titanic' if 'titanic' was a good film, and wasn't so manipulative. his voice is good. he sounds like he is not trying but very naturally producing pleasing sounds from his larynx. he sounds like he has a 'velvet larynx'. now it's playing the last song which is called 'wheel of fortune/healing' according to windows media player. i just rested my head on my hand. i think i want to sing exactly like cass mccombs and start a band and 'play him at his own game'. why can't i just enjoy something, without looking at it like a competition? he writes good lyrics. i feel envious when i hear good lyrics, done well. i think i need to somehow calm down a bit. i probably just need to go to bed. it's 4:41am. the album is almost finished. this song sounds like a film with clint eastwood in it, but clint eastwood is very small and walking away and there is a bright white light which is almost eclipsing everything. the bright white light fades and there is just a spot-lighted piano. cass mccombs is singing, sincerely. he is not lying to you. cass mccombs doesn't want to be your friend, particularly, and feels uncomfortable being scrutinised, but also has 'something to say' and so is happy for you to be listening to his album. the album is finished now. i'm going to bed.

try these links on for size

my friend socrates has started a blog. it looks good so far.

my friend emily mcphillips has a very good short story/poem thing on dogmatika. it's funny.

i got an email asking me to link to this blog which also won something at the manchester blog awards.

i didn't win the post of the week thing.

i bought a new coat.

tao lin is giving away the template to his blog.

zachary german has posted some videos of himself reading lorrie moore and things.

i can't stop listening to the new cass mccombs album. if i wrote a review of it for pitchfork i would give it something like 9.9, i think. i am going to review it on here soon and give it 9.9.

duncan cheshire is up to chapter 75 in the untitled 'supermarket nightmare' 2.

if you've not already read my story on the new straight from the fridge, there's a new version of it up now, with corrected grammatical things, and possibly one new sentence.

Les Savy Fav

sarcastic Les Savy Fav videos.

(thanks to Ben Myers for the link)

James

Emma J. Lannie has just submitted a Cat Boat story about the cat James. thanks, Emma.

here is Emma's story:

James

James the cat wakes up, looks around, blinks a bit and then yawns. The first words he hears are: “I been around the world and all across the seven seas.” I am still on the Cat Boat, he thinks. He is a little unimpressed by this. He was dreaming of his other life, the second one. The one where he had songs written about him, the one where he drank the finest buttermilk and actually got paid to chase birds and butterflies. Chasing birds and butterflies were his most loved hobbies. And they paid him good money to do it! In that life, he really was some cat. All his dreams take him back to that life, and they feel so real that on waking, there is always a shudder of disappointment.

James the cat tries to make the best of it. He tells himself that this life, the sixth life, the life at sea is better, much better than the previous three. He tries to focus on this fact. He tries to be glad that he's no longer part of that drama troupe that toured the Working Men's Clubs in and around the Huddersfield area with their ten-minute versions of Harold Pinter plays. That was a life he was glad, so glad to be rid of. But then, just as he thought he'd hit litter bottom, his next life brought him that awful contract with Lionseal Windows. He hated putting his name to those humiliating commercials. He would try to hide his features behind the robes they'd tie onto him, but he couldn't hide from himself. The shame of it kept him awake at night. It took a bottle of Dubonnet to knock him out, and even then, his sleep was fitful. In the end, the ever-increasing Dubonnet consumption kept James the cat in his room for longer and longer periods, until the bigwigs at Lionseal let him go. And then began life number five.

In this life, James the cat really tried to be a normal cat. He used his best “Method Acting” to bring his role alive, to make himself believable. And the little girl bought it, hook, line and sinker. At first. James the cat would chase that stupid, pathetic effigy of a mouse for hours. He acted like he really, truly believed it was a real mouse, and she squealed with delight at either his stupidity or her own cunning. But it didn't last. He couldn't sustain the pretence, and she grew bored of his refusal to jump after a piece of string. It was his eavesdropping on a conversation that included the words “animal shelter” that led to him being on the Cat Boat. He reminds himself of all this each time he wakes.

After a big stretch, James the cat sidles over to the starboard bow. Some of the cats remember him from his glory days. Sometimes, after one of the carrying-the-Christmas-pudding events, they ask him to recount his tales of fame and fortune. And he laps up the attention. No one mentions the Lionseal commercials. He hopes this is because they don't know about them, but he suspects they are just being kind. He is grateful for that. Ethan Hawke prowls up next to him. They have become good friends. They spend long afternoons discussing the thrills and the pitfalls of fame, giving each other tips on “Method Acting”. They speak of setting up their own drama group one day, when the Cat Boat finally comes to shore. Neither of them knows when that will be.

i am in prison

Socrates Adams-Florou has submitted a Cat Boat story about the cat i am in prison. it has swearing in it. thanks, Socrates.

here is Socrates' story:

i am in prison

"You think you fucking know me mate you don't know about me where I've been what I've done you think you're life is hard mate your all over the place comin to my turf fuckingmowingme up like a piece of something you kicked off your shoe yeah I've done some bad things who hasn't you haven't i have mate we've all done it yeah so where is your ball now all over the lawn shat into a million pieces coz you can't step to me coz you've totally totally blown it up like last night down the nags mate thats right i've been downthe nags at the end of the day at the middle of the day at the end of the day early doors late doors out doors in doors through doors draw doors dour doors locked doors closed doors draw straws with me mate swap places with me mate youll know whats what then mate your mate judging me just cause I've maid mistakes we've all made mistakes you fucking dweeb poindexter nerd try hard don't bother fobbing me off mate don't think about fobbingme off you think jus coz i don't tork like you you think i'm some kind of fuck long spaz mate you think i'm some kind of fucking tard you think yore better thanme you think jus coz you've been ivy league red brick fucking finishing your course doing your fucking sociology fucking biology fucking biology fucking all your fucking biology you think i give a FUCKING SHIT just fucking spike your drink piggy spike your fucking drink with my shit mate spike myfuckingdrinkshitfeatures."

"See you in a couple of weeks dad."

straight from the fridge, etc

i have a short story in the November issue of Straight From the Fridge.

you can read it here: everything is miniature

also, Ben Myers has posted an interesting article on 'flash fiction' on the guardian books blog. i get a quick mention in it towards the end.

i like frankie sparo a lot. here are the lyrics to 'bastard heart' by frankie sparo. frankie sparo is my favourite lyricist, i think.

Bastard Heart

Weary as the cinema
in your broken coat,
dreary is the pictureshow
with phantoms rattling round your bastard heart.

Photographs of motorcrashes
starring me—I pulled them from
an incision in your throat
while you were fast asleep.

Where were you when evening fell?
All the town grew still and old.
Something set itself on fire,
and flew across the sea.

How I wished that you were there,
watching yourself go away.
There was always two of you
in my peculiar dream and bastard heart.

what happens after you die:

There will be a room, with things in it. The things in the room will be: a desk, a bed, a chair, a coffee table, a sofa, a wardrobe, a cup (with some tea in it), a computer, a copied CD of ‘Planet Waves’ by Bob Dylan, a pair of shorts, a sunlounger, a bottle of Daiquiri, a pair of mirrored sunglasses, a coat, a hat, a pair of tweezers, a sheet of writing paper, the lid of a biro, an empty cassette box, a packet of Walkers crisps (prawn cocktail flavour), a poster of Ben Affleck, an empty ice cream tub, a toy car, a toy boat, a miniature copy of ‘War and Peace’ (6 pt. font), a 50p coin, a cigarette lighter, a cornflake, a wisp of hair, a blank greetings card (‘Best Wishes!’), a pornographic magazine from the seventies, no windows, no door, and the smell of cats. You look around at all the things in the room and then go and sit down in the sunlounger. A voice from somewhere says, ‘Well done.’ You wait for the voice to say something else but it doesn’t.

my eyelid has just swollen up

my previous post, the one about work, has been nominated for this 'post of the week' thing. thank you, whoever it was who nominated it.

the manchizzle has given the cat boat a bit of publicity.

i accidentally found this blog about moustaches.

also, i have had two recordings of people saying 'i like Raymond Carver' so far. thank you, Duncan and Vim. would anyone else like to send one in?

here is something for people reading this at work:

We are in work. We are working. Oh god. Hello there. Here comes the boss. What are you having for lunch? Did you see X-Factor at the weekend? Me too. My brother has been in university for the last seven years. We are opening paperclips and making them into the shapes of horses. Mine is better than yours. Mine has little hooves, see? Can you make yours gallop across the table and mount mine? Not in a sex way, just in a one-horse-riding-another way? If I took all the things on this table and balanced them one on top of the other, how big a tower of things do you think I could make? A phone on top of a box of drawing pins on top of a fax on top of a sellotape. I haven’t even started. I am having marmite in my sandwiches. I made them last night, four in the morning. It was cold in the kitchen. He’s gone now. He’s in the office. We can talk normally. Say something. Are you going for a drink afterwards? I’m going out into the hall. I’m going to go to that veggie place for lunch. Fuck students. I’m going to fax my face to the head of the department. I’m going to make a facebook group about my legs. “My legs.” Here is the phone number for that guy who was asking about that thing. Clare, can I have a quick word? I got hammered last night. I fed my life savings into a deal or no deal machine. I got shafted. I watched telly and nothing came on. If we all stood up at the same time, if we all started banging everything we owned on our desks, what do you think would happen? We are like invalids. I am cold. I am being frozen alive by the air-conditioning. I am making my chair go round in a miniature circle beneath my desk. The man in the lift was looking at me. ‘Hot property’. There are Americans somewhere, doing things, picking things up and putting them down again. There are starving kids in Africa. My sandwiches will curl at the edges when I open my lunchbox. My hair is nice. Nissan. Pentium pro. The floor above = confusing. We are moving around with our hands and legs. We are making a mess. We are phoning. We are chewing. Elvis Costello has not written a good song in about seven or eight years.

please sing on a wig of blood song

i am going to record another wig of blood song this week, called 'i like Raymond Carver'. if you would like to be on the song 'i like Raymond Carver', please record yourself saying the words 'i like Raymond Carver' and save it as a "wav." file and email it to chriskillen [at] gmail.com. you can sing the words if you want, but it is really okay if you just speak them. or even whisper them. there is a simple recording thing on most computers. you just need that and a microphone. i think you can even use headphones as a microphone, by plugging them into the mic socket and speaking into them. i'm pretty sure that works. i will use all the recordings on the song. it is going to be kind of a 'rap' song, i think. you don't actually have to like Raymond Carver to be on the song. i won't mind.

wig of blood

new wig of blood song added:

i will murder the tiny break-dancing child

rock over london. rock on chicago. the treasure pot in chorlton is good.

new fanzine wants your submission

click this writing to go to a page that tells you about a new fanzine which is looking for submissions (stories, poems, non-fiction, pictures, something that you are the first person ever to do) on the theme of 'postcards', which looks good and nice and has a submission deadline, i think, of December 20th

Masha

Ben Harvey has submitted a Cat Boat story about the cat Masha. it's a good one, Ben. thanks. (it was intended to be a bit of a Halloween one, i think, but being lame, i didn't post it in time.)

here is Ben's story:

Masha

“Oh, yes, we have been to see old Nightingale!”

“It isn’t true, no-one aboard has ever laid eyes upon him.”

“We both have seen him, and I have seen him twice. He lives alone in the hold of the boat, and never comes out on deck, not even when the Cat’n almost dropped the pudding overboard.”

“We crept down when all were asleep, and we saw him.”

“Then what does he look like?”

“It was terribly dark down there; it wasn’t easy to see him at all…”

“Liar! You never have set eyes upon him!”

“…but in the half light of the moon, the very little light that fell into the hold, we saw his long, long, fur, matted and tangled, rising and falling as he slept a deep, dreamless sleep.”

“However do you know it was a dreamless sleep?”

“Then, (and I feel a shiver go down my spine even to tell it) he stirred, and suddenly his eye was open and it fell upon us. One great, pale eye, like the moon itself, wet and rimmed with pink, and smirched round about with thick, yellow, substances. For an age, he looked at us, and we looked back at him, and the only sound was the creaking of the boat’s timbers and the breaking of the waves on the hull.”

Masha was listening now, the hair on her neck ever so slightly raised, as her grandfather continued his tale. She wriggled closer against her grandmother’s belly, feeling safe in the embrace of the downy white fur that furnished that round, warm pillow of a stomach.

“It seemed that he was about to speak to us. His dry mouth opened slowly, ever so slowly, and a sound like a broken record player scratching a copy of Tunnel of Love filled our ears. The inside of his mouth was gluey-looking. Long stalactites of spittle hung down from his pallet, and then...there was silence.”

“What did you do then, grandfather?” Masha was straining forward, her eyes wide and her whiskers trembling. Her grandfather exchanged a glance with his wife.

“That will have to wait until tomorrow night, my dear.”

*

Masha lay in her basket, listening to the strains of Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love drifting from the deck, where the older cats prowled about as they did every evening after she had been put to bed. She tried hard to keep her mind off that terrible image of Nightingale sitting, filthy and horrible in the dark. It was impossible, whether she closed her eyes tightly or kept them open. Nightingale’s single, staring eye loomed out of the darkness, fixed upon her. Just a few feet below her! The music continued, and she could hear the words, rasping like a cat’s tongue on the bottom of an empty bowl:

“Fat man sitting on a little stool…”

Her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings as she uncurled from her basket. To get below decks she would have to leave the cabin and pass, unseen by the older cats, right past the record player to the hatch. She padded silently across the cabin floor, staying just out of the wedge of moonlight that divided the cabin in two. Upon reaching the door, she stopped. Keeping her nose flat to the frame of the door, she inched her face towards the opening. First her whiskers appeared around the edge, then one oversized ear, and finally, her right eye. She could see several of the older cats still on deck, some looking out over the edge of the boat.

The Pacific Ocean looked like transparent milk.

Springsteen played on. She took a last look back at her basket.

“…smiles and whispers good luck. Cuddle up angel, cuddle up my little dove…”

Masha lifted one paw, watched it as though it were no longer a part of her, and set it down on the other side of the door. Sinking her body low to the deck, she skulked from board to board, her ears swivelling on high alert. She slipped from shadow to shadow, slowly, ever slower. A white bird, ghost-like, swooped low over the deck, bringing yowls of loathing from the cats. As it passed silently overhead, the cats turned to follow it with their eyes. Their tails were bristling with hatred, their ears flattened to their heads. Masha dived out of sight, beneath the table upon which stood the record player. The music seemed to have the solidity of iron as it pressed down upon her head. She could hear the needle hissing in the groove with the same venom as the cats had hissed at the lime-white bird.

“But the house is haunted and the ride gets rough…”

Two more steps and she was through the hatch.

“There’s a room of shadows that gets so dark, brother.”

*

The first cat to wake was Coco. The sun was glaring off the Pacific Ocean. He stretched his back, concave, convex, and padded over to the edge of the deck.

“Shit still looks like a big puddle, man.”

He spat, distractedly, into the water. The sun still illuminated the surface. A shadow passed over the water where he gazed after his spittle. Looking up, he saw that the bird was still making lazy passes overhead, crying out in its voice as ragged as the threadbare flag that flew day and night from the mizzen mast. The albatross dropped lower, below the flag, below the mainsail, a few feet from the deck, and passed over the boat from end to end. Coco felt a rush of air on his whiskers. The great pale bird held its course, becoming a black spot against the burning sunrise. Coco stared into the sunrise until his eyes hurt.

“Shit look like the whole ocean on fire.”

He grew bored of the sunrise and started off towards the record player. Some of the other cats were awake now. He passed the old pair who lived in the cabin with their granddaughter. Their tails were low, almost brushing the floor. He got up on his hind legs and flicked the record player on. He stretched out to enjoy the music.

“…then the lights go out and it’s just the three of us, you and me all that stuff we’re so scared of.”