It's here, folks. Larry's Box. Check it. Out.

Day Too-Much-To-Count,

I think I may be in a constant state of drowning.

but still, COMING even SOONer (than last time you checked)

LARRY'S BOX

Day Ninety-Two:

Ever since the arrival of that damn box, my ship has been sailing faster than ever. And the new leak in the boiler room has me bailing water faster than you could imagine. 

Anyway, ... preliminary color tests.

COMING SOON!

Larry's Box / Return to Sender

Troubled by the recent death of his cat, Larry is in need of something to love. When a mysterious box falls at his porch steps, he welcomes it into his home. Trouble ensues, however, as Larry quickly discovers... 

(what does Larry discover?)

Can Larry find love in a cardboard box?

stay tuned!

"Am I Just Wasting my Time Here?"

"Does God Roll Dice? (or, Am I Too Late?)"

"Do Fish Blow Bubbles?"

Day Seventeen:

With the help of several seagulls, thirty thousand yards of fishing line and twenty-five billion ping-pong balls, I was able to patch the hole and float my boat to the sea surface. Now, floating once more, I can continue the search for land. 

With the seas calm and the salty air still, I pace the ship's deck anxiously. At intervals I scan the horizon: I see nothing but the sea, still as the night air, stretching out its arms as it drifts in and out of sleep. And as the darkness closes around me I try to maintain composure- the hallucinations and thoughts of wandering eyes are dangerous in these trying times. Enough to sink a ship, they say, and I am all out of ping-pong balls. 

I try to remember my parents (as a forgotten past is enough to delay any flight). Born in the front seat of a 1952 Mercury Coup, my parents were shocked to learn I was perfectly normal at birth- no teeth, some hair, and the vocabulary of a dull block. A chipped block. A chip off the old block. 

My mother, of Polish descent but Russian by nature, married my Greek father when she was only nine years old- they met on the fairgrounds of her family's traveling circus when they were passing through Spain on their 1923 Tour de Farce; my father, a drunk by blood but a clown by nature, had wandered from his village and spent the night chasing my mother as she spun from the trapeze, all the way asking her for the time of their flight tomorrow morning. She said she admired the color of his cheeks and so, against my father's wishes, they would be wed immediately. Surrounded by the freaks, flags and frogs that made up the circus crew, they were wed under the big top. To the sounds of her parents weeping and the freight train that passed every time something happened in the world, they said their vows and went to bed, and promised to be better looking in the morning. 

Unfortunately, I think, for my parents, the sudden conception of their first born son was ill received by the circus folk and my parents were forced off the grounds: my mother banished from the freak show and my father strongly discouraged from ever returning. He said he didn't want to anyway; he grabbed my mother's single arm and together they hopped to the used car shop three miles outside of town where Herb, the used car salesman, would be gracious enough to give them a great deal on the new set of wheels whose cigarette burnt suede interior would be my first sight, and introduction, to this world.

Day Thirteen:

Last night, while sleeping under the deck with the dirty laundry and thanksgiving leftovers, I had a dream. 

Last night I had a dream. It was snowing (outside) and I was walking home. There were five blocks in between myself, the spot that I stood, and my apartment door, or the spot I was destined to reach. This was my plan: To reach that door, by walking. By walking over the now icy pavement, five blocks of very icy pavement, I was going to reach my door and go inside to my warm building. That was my plan.

And it worked out well: I walked the five blocks with ease. I stuck my key into the lock and it turned. It turned smoothly, as if the landlord had oiled it (there were probably past complaints); I opened the door. I could feel the heat on my nose and fingers and as I took off my hat I felt it on my ears and I enjoyed this moment... and then I fell.

When I woke from this dream I was soaking wet and my eyes burned. I couldn't see a thing...

Within minutes it became apparent that I was on the bottom of the ocean, and there was a huge hole in the side of my ship. 

Day Ten,

We have lost our way. There is no more hope. I am now alone on the ship. Everyone else has jumped. 

I fear a storm is on its way. The winds have picked up- they blow hard against the acrylic sheets tied to the mast. The red sharpie skull and bones on our flag is holding up well in the rain, but it has only just begun. I can no longer see the sun: the skies are grey with oil paint and asbestos, and the ever-growing waves are warm, and they hum with the strain of a slow network. 

I can no longer stay in the crow's nest. At nightfall I shall climb down and find shelter under the deck with the rum and panties. Wish me luck.

Day Three:

Still on the big ship... and the water is still on fire.

Day One:

We've been at sea for 23 years now, and no sight of land yet. The Captain's lost his mind, and his first mate's got scurvy. The two of them wander the deck, singing of drink and booty. 

As for myself, I sit in the crow's nest, and wait. 

(While I wait, I see things. Check out FREEBUNK links, to the right, to see what I see...)