Douglas Light

My Twitter, as if you care.

 

 

 
   
 

 

Blood Stories

Out now! Check it out

Keep an eye out for The Wobble, published November 9, 2015

 

Blood Stories Douglas Light
 
   
   
 

So I've evolved my website. Looks like a step backward, right? Ah, well maybe it is.


Saturday

A bald eagle flew over my apt in Harlem today. Ugh. Gentrification.

 

Monday (before Christmas)

Vacation. A monkey sits on the porch licking a pineapple sucker. Iguanas sun on rocks. M orders a bowl of soup, I get a sandwich. The waitress brings two small bowls of soup. "We only ordered one soup," I said.

"Soup comes with all food," she said.

Okay.

Finished with our soups, the waitress brings my sandwich. And brings M a larger bowl of soup.

 

Monday (afternoon some months ago)

Texts from my 13-year-old niece

Me: #WhenAreYouMovingToNYC?

Her: #WhenI'mOlder

Me: #Like,NextWeekOlder

Her: #LikeWhenI'm27or30Maybe

 

Wednesday (morning (some time ago))

A woman at the pool was going on about her love life to the lifeguard. "He was rich. Like really rich. But I didn't like him. He repulsed me. And the sex—well, he replused me. Still, we were together for eight months. I think he wanted me to marry him.  I could have married him, had some kids, and locked in a chunk of that money. But I'm not that kind of person," she said, adding, "He had a boat."

Saturday a few weeks ago

Jury duty this week. Voir dire. Defense attorney asks, "Do you have a problem with the fact that my client is dead?" No, I say. "Do you have a problem with Italian interpreters," he asks. Are you planning a séance?


Before Saturday (morning)

Deep in Bed-Stuy around 11 p.m. looking for food after far too many drinks.  See a barbershop going full blast. I roll in for a shave and a six pack later, learn a valuable lesson: never trust a barber drinking Hennessy with a straight-razor.

Before that 

Served as the motorcycle chauffeur for a french cameraman last night, zipping him up to the MET museum so he could film a girl famous for being in vampire movies. I pulled right up to the red carpet.

No one took my photo.

Before even that

Listening to The Strokes (yeah, don't ask) and ripping up old photos. Jeez, what is the point of memories?  Killers, right?

Way long ago

Growing up, I had a dog named Holly. She was part beagle, part something else. She was all black, save her paws and a white V that ran her chest. It made her look like she was wearing a tuxedo.

Holly is a bad name for a dog. It was my parents' idea.