When is a story not a story?

Is it okay to post an entry that's not a story? Sometimes I feel a bit hampered by the need to stop and sit by the campfire whenever I post something. There will be many more of those in a week or so, I promise.

Anyway, I'm off to breakfast with Annie, shortly, as soon as she calls me back from taking her shower.

Saturday night was actually a rarity for Corb and me: we went out with a bunch of his friends. His buddy, Dan, was in town from Florida, and brought with him his main squeeze (I think), Dan. They sort of come across like Silent Bob and Jay: Corb's friend Dan is the talker, who spews out the word "pussy" every five minutes, while the other Dan, a young blond surfer dude, just sits there and looks pretty. Rounding out the posse was Dan's straight brother and Dan's former roommate, Ron, who I found to be the most interesting.

We went for Chinese food with Dan's divorced parents. Crushed into a booth like the occupants of a clown car, we waged a war over egg foo young and crab rangoon, and, for some, a quest to see how many times they could punctuate each sentence with the word pussy. And then, wonder of wonders, we actually traveled into Providence to visit one of "those" coffee houses. Gasp.

Yesterday was spent mostly by the pool, as well as getting a bit of loving from Corb. Although I'm completely ignorant when it comes to the world of art, I found myself fascinated by a profile of the artist Robert Rauschenberg. What I liked was his penchant for merging the mundane with the extraordinary into his work, his incorporation of a variety of mediums (photography/sculpture/silk screens), and also, his itch to constantly shape shift. One of these days, and I don't know when, I want to do that with my writing, particularly my journal. I'm just not certain what the hell that means, just yet. It's hard to maintain your voice, you know, if you try getting abstract, and, for better or worse, I'm awfully fond of my voice.

I'm awfully fond of this day, too. Man, it's beautiful out. Annie just called, time to head out and snag some breaky.

My quote of the night, from my friend Joycey...

"Stephen King pissed me off by making his books so friggin' huge that I couldn't hold them to read them. I have several novels of his that I never got around to for that reason."

It's an interesting thought, actually. When is too much of a good thing simply too much?

John Waters once said something to the effect that no truly great movie really needs to be more than ninety minutes long. I wonder if the same holds true for novels? Certainly there are many out there that are bloated beyond recognition, sort of like Elvis toward the end of his days.

I recommended the current short story collection from him I'm reading. There's one story, "The Man in the Black Suit," that is truly the best I've read from him in years. I told her it was very "Nathaniel Hawthorn-ish." She said she hated Nate, but would give it a try.