Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Red Mist Rising
Me: Why is there a copy of Red Storm Rising in the toilet?
Her: Because I've started reading it
Me: You're not using a bookmark
Her: I don't need one
Me: Well how do you know where you are?
Her: You're talking to the girl who frequently has six books on the go at any one time. I always know where I am in each of them
Me: How ironic that you never know where you are in real life then
Hoorah, man strikes another blow against femalekind at the expense of his own safety! Having just finished reading it again myself a few weeks ago (read it for the first time when I was eleven so some of the details were hazy) I can only imagine what the book would be like in toilet-break snippets.
Chance encounter
I said the muse had returned, I didn't claim that I had. Yet.
I had a chance encounter on my way home earlier this week with a woman who didn't hire me. Or rather, if I want to be accurate, they were desperate to hire me, but I said no. Anyone who remembers this site back when it was Bulletproof Punk can fill in the blanks, everyone else, just sit back, there are funny bits ahead.
Me: "Hey there Jo, how are you, where are you heading?"
"Oh I'm fine, I'm on my way home"
Translation: I cannot remember who you are. I recognise your face though, that is why you are not sucking mace yet.
Me: "Wow, I didn't realise you were living around here too."
"Yes, just right here on the corner, first floor. See? There's my boyfriend at the window"
Translation: What do you mean, this area is too expensive for someone like you. See that man in the window? One signal from me and you're chopped meat.
Me: "I'm just a little farther up the road myself"
"Oh really? How do you find it?"
Translation: And how much are you paying for it?
Me: "I walk up the street until I find a door my key fits into"
Blank look from her. We'd said everything that needed to be said. I think I'll change my route home.
Muse
Well would you believe it? I got my muse back. Just remains to be seen what gets done with it.