Sheep in the Garden, Sonia on the Futon
July 17 / Guest Blog by Bill’s Best Bud
Yo, Bill, I want you to know I’m settling in here real fine, and living small, pretty well keeping to your loft studio, where I crash on the futon. I brought up the TV so I could watch the old-movie channel. One of these days they’re going to show “Duck, Chuck,” I heard it was on their list.
The main bedroom is out of bounds, still stinks of the BuggerOff I sprayed. You may have to wash the bed covers. I’d do it myself, but the washing machine is on the fritz. Also, the toilet overflowed again. “I’m backed up too,” said the plumber. Maybe next week.
I vacated your writing studio just in time. A family of otters has taken up residence underneath it. Stinks worse than Moose’s boots.
That’s the good news. The bad news: I forgot to lay in some brew, and can only confess and seek forgiveness for getting into your 18-year-old Glenmorangie last night. I had company to entertain, I was up against the wall. Took a photo of it first for your memories.
Otherwise, all is lovely and serene. The dormer window is wide open to receive the rising sun, the warblers are warbling, the thrushes are thrushing, the quails are quailing and Mabel McGuiness’s sheep from next door—lovely fluffy ewes—are grazing in the garden. I left the gate open for now. They’re very efficient weeders.
Meanwhile, I am at my keyboard working on my treatment for “The Transformation Mission”—that’s the working title. Dignified, unschlocky. A thoughtful and frightening movie, but not some grind-house splat flick. More and more locals fall sway. The house drink is called gupa—echoes of Jonestown. But they don’t lose their lives, just their minds. It’s an allegory about the dumbing down of America.
I’ve decided to give my hero, Brian, a love interest. I played with giving the role to Sue, but I have not forgiven her (“It’s just not happening.” What was not happening?), and have settled on the hip eco-activist wannabe writer I have been sort of mentoring. I told Sonia her short story had some nice moments, but the sparring between Lana Marpole and mean-minded, pseudo-fascist, climate-change-denying Fritz Grogan needed a twist, a reversal. It needed a big sex scene.
Speaking of which, I see Sonia stirring on the futon. Hope you don’t mind if your sheets are a little spermy. Got to blog off.