Story Promo that will be on the site!
Better Than You
(all of you)
James Morgan is the international, best selling author of the novel, PieGrinder. But that was three years ago. His reputation and fame have been in a steady decline since then even if he refuses to admit otherwise. Waking up one morning in a Los Angeles hotel room-hungover, bitter, and unable to remember the name of the naked girl in bed with him-he bolts town and drives back to San Francisco for the girl of his dreams birthday party. What begins as any other bingefull night-James navigating through the dirty, drug filled bars and pads of San Francisco in search of the girl, cocaine, and respect-slowly descends into a new kind of hell that has James questioning everything, even himself and the one thing he’s built everything with, his writing and words.
"Better Than You(all of you)" was written in 2006 as part of a short story collection Myers wrote-which was never published-called Drinking The Bacon. This story also marks the first appearance of Myers’ infamous character, James Morgan, in any of his work.
I’d totally buy this fucking story. And you have my word, it’s fucking good and absolutely perfect!
And this(from the exit here sequel: Midnight City)
“When’s the last time you washed that bathrobe, brah? That pizza stain next to your armpit has been there for at least three weeks. There’s like two new pizza stains I’ve noticed too.”
Michael says this to Kyle.
The three of us, we’re at Kyle’s loft right now drinking tequila and pineapple.
Kyle’s just dumped an entire gram of blast on a mirror and I’ve cut it into six lines.
“Why are you paying so much attention to my bathrobe?” Kyle asks.
“It’s all you wear, dude. Like last night, when I saw you at the gas station. Bathrobe and sandals. That little bitch you fuck.”
“Which one?” he asks.
“The one you were at the gas station with. She was wearing a bathrobe too.”
So what, I say, cutting in. He wants to be comfortable. Nothing wrong with that.
“Wash it, dude,” says Michael.
A bathrobe’s still way better than sweatpants, I say.
“A tube sock is better than sweatpants,” Michael says back.
“When you knock Nose Candy out, Trav. You should slide a pair of sweatpants on him,” Kyle says.
I pour some tequila in a shot glass and down it.
Maybe I should, I say.
“Like I’ve got a bathrobe too,” says Michael. “I’ve got three actually. I like to wear them too. But none of them have pizza stains on them.”
“Dope,” says Kyle.
I grab the mirror and blast one of the rails.
“How often do you shower?” Michael asks.
“Everyday,” Kyle answers.
“Bullshit,” says Michael.
“How often do you shower?” Kyle asks.
“Twice a day motherfucker,” Michael answers.
I probably shower twice a day too, I snort.
“I’m not talking about you, Trav,” says Michael, taking the mirror from me.
“My dick’s always clean,” says Kyle. “And that’s what counts.”
“Very true,” says Michael, after snorting his line.
Appetite For Destruction is spinning on the record player, and I go, I’m gonna cut some of that dude’s dreads off tonight.
“Please do,” says Kyle. “Dreads on white people are totally unacceptable.”
“I can’t believe Claire fucking married that talentless fuck face.”
The night we hooked up, right before I put my dick inside her, I almost didn’t because of that. Because I was so disgusted that she fucked that dude.
“It woulda been a total deal breaker for me,” says Michael. “I’ve got standards.”
“So do I,” says Kyle.
She’s such a fucking babe though, I say.
“Absolutely,” Michael goes. “But there’s a lot of babes out there who don’t do that. You’ve got to be in a pretty bad place to let something like that crawl on top of you.”
Ugh, I groan.
I dump another shot of tequila down my throat.
Let’s not talk about that anymore.
Kyle slams a line and passes the mirror back to me.
“So what’s really gonna happen between you two after you leave?” Kyle asks.
What do you mean?
“You’re not really going to stay together, right?”
I say, We’re gonna try.
Michael starts laughing and goes, “Good one, Trav.”
“Come on,” Kyle goes. “You know what he means.”
I don’t, I say. Indulge me.
“Dude,” Michael goes. “I think it’s great Claire gets to fuck you again. Bitch loves you to death. But you’re not gonna stay together no matter how hard you’re trying to convince yourself otherwise. It ain’t in your DNA, man.”
I lean down and snort.
And Kyle goes, “He’s right, dude. You know it, I know it, and deep down, I think Claire probably knows it too.”
Passing the mirror to Michael, I light a cigarette and say, It’s different now.
Both of them start laughing.
And I go, You guys think what you want but I know how I feel.
“Now,” says Michael. “You feel this way now because you’re back but the second you land in L.A., you’re gonna shut her out.”
No, I say.
“Yes,” says Kyle. “You only like things in the moment, man.”
I don’t say anything.
“And once you’ve stepped away from that, you have no use for anyone you were with anymore.”
Michael snorts his line, passes the mirror to Kyle, then he pours me and him a shot of tequila and smacks me on the back.
“Don’t look so serious,” he says.
I pour the shot down my throat.
“It’s Claire’s fault for being in love with you still,” he says then downs his shot while Kyle does the last rail and adjusts his eye patch.
And one more excerpt from Blazed…
Love this at the beginning of chapter 43:
The RVCA party is killer. It feels like Kristen and Tyler know everyone here. This is my first party too. If you don’t count me wandering downstairs in the middle of the night in my underwear right into the heart of one of my mother’s epic after hour parties.
And all those strange faces.
The thick, hovering clouds of dope smoke.
The B-52 and Pretenders records blaring.
And my mother dancing by herself with a bottle in her hand. Or dancing with a much younger guy or younger girl or both.
Every second of it like some blurry dream and me pinching my skin as hard as I could to see if it was real and it always was and everyone was smiling or crying and one time I saw this man with a moustache wearing skinny jeans punch a mirror cos he saw a ghost and he hated ghosts more than anything.
Toast hasn’t played yet. Some DJ is spinning records. Tyler disappears with two girls.
I look at Kristen. “Customers,” she says. “Not worried.”
Excerpt from Blazed!
From my new book, Blazed…”In the shadows is where I found the most comfort, away from all the noise and the distractions, away from the excuses, face to face with the isolation and the vast silence, never apart of anything or anyone, but a reminder that yes, you’re still fucking alive…when the car broke down in the desert, the only thing I grabbed for the endless stroll was my notebook and my pencil…there was no way I was going stop this recording, no way this story was not going to be told, I’ve always understood the importance of stories, just think about that…we are nothing without our stories…It rained once for six days straight and when the rain finally ended, it was immediately replaced by a fog so thick that some people swore it was smoke…this was the first time I saw her eyes…in the fog…these golden wandering eyes that faded into this dark brown hair which hung just perfectly down her back…For the next two days I followed her through the fog and watched her from afar…every time she laughed, I felt alive, but it was her singing that kept the journey moving, her voice that gave comfort to my soul and justified the worth of my curiosity…I often dream of these sunny afternoons where I’m swinging so high I can taste the sky…those dreams usually end with me jumping from the swing into the ocean and laughing all the way to the bottom of the ocean floor where the only thing I see are more shadows…two days after we started walking through the desert, my notebook was full…we’d eaten cactus and tamed snakes and started a cult after meeting twenty beautiful girls and boys who were listening to The Growlers and Beach Fossils and racing dirt bikes through the sand….One day, I really will get to Paris and I’ll teach my girl all about Sarte…and I’ll pour absinthe all over her body while she quotes Rimbaud…In Mexico, me and her danced all night and drank tequila and she finally forgave me for that one choice I made even though that choice kept us apart for so many years…the notebooks were the key to everything…she was able to read about what had happened since the day I’d left her that first time and it was because of those stories that we were able to find each other once again and get right back to the place we’d left each other all those years ago…these are our days, this is our time…the only things we’ll ever truly own are our days, and our time, and our stories…this is our life and this is our only fucking chance in this special place where the sun triggers a million possibilities and the moon gives us the quiet we need to try and understand what we did with those possibilities…and hopefully we did a lot…there’s nothing sadder than a person with no stories of their own…there are no excuses for a dull life…there’s no time for regrets…everyone is given a choice to own their world, everyone is given a blank notebook…your memories are only as good as the life you fucking lived…so live a good life…make history…burn through page after page and drink the fucking air…In Vietnam we rode motorcycles and talked about a park in San Francisco…In Cambodia, we took turns telling each other the story of how we got here…how we got to this place…we told our stories…Our stories…and we laughed…and we drank…and we flipped another page as the stories moved on…the only real currency in this fucked up world are the stories we tell each other in the downtime of our lives…”