||[Jul. 21st, 2004|11:27 pm]
They Might Be Fictionalized
John Linnell finished up his last sentence quickly, ignoring how irksome and untidy his handwriting looked against the pale brown margins of the contrastingly clean, classic styled page. He was about to stand up and put the journal way, when he noticed he had signed "John Sid" at the bottom without even consciously meaning to. A small smile wormed its way onto his facial features as he noticed this - it was rather like Pavlov’s dog, in a way. The dog, upon hearing the bell, would salivate. John, upon feeling rushed with a writing utensil in hand, would sign things. Both habits, John’s and the dog’s, had been formed through repetition. John often felt many facets of his personality had been forced into by him utilizing this method.. in an unintentional kind of way. This similarity had in fact been one of the reasonings behind why he’d chosen to write the song "Dinner Bell"; the entirety of the lyrics about not knowing whether the narrator would rather to have this or that piece of food were parallels to choices he had in his own life.
Shaking his head, he stood from the bunk, stretching and cracking his back as he did so. Well.. he grimaced at the dull ache that formed there, Headache or not, I may be needing my painkillers anyway. He closed the pages of the small book with a satisfying thump, and then bent over to tuck it away in the side of the case that also contained his old red accordian.
Once satisfied that it was sufficiently hidden away, he wandered over, past Flansburgh’s rather disheveled looking bunk (the other man’s sheets were all in a large heap, laying half-off the far side of the bed to grace a portion of the floor, where scattered articles of clothing also resided) and twisted open the door to meander into the main corridor. Within a dozen feet or so, he made a left turn into the small community area, the centerpiece of which was currently a green, fold-out table. Seated at adjoining sides of this table were none other than the two remaining Dans; Miller and Weinkauf. Danny rose to greet him with a grin, tossing back his thick, dark-brown hair as he did so.
"So you’ve decided to join us?"
Linnell found himself nodding and saying, "Yes, sounded like a good time. Do you guys have poker chips, or do we need to find them?" He eyed the blue-backed set of Bicycle playing cards Miller was currently shuffling, then cast Danny an inquisitive glance.
"No," the bass player responded, "But Miller brought an excess of board games along, so we’re just going to use Monopoly money for betting. Works like a charm; more fun than chips, anyway." Dan looked up at this acknowledgement, and he and Weinkauf exchanged grins. "Anyway," he continued, "what we DO need is more players. You up for finding both Flansburgh and the new guy?"
"Sure, it’s not like I’ve got very much space to cover looking for them, is it?"
"Well, you wouldn’t think so; but you’d be surprised at the places Marty can hole himself up in." Danny frowned, "We all suspect he secretly listening to fusion jazz in a closet somewhere, so we don’t all make fun of him for it."
He ended up displaying one of his grins of amusement that happened to show off a good portion of his gums, at this, as he chuckled. "Really now?" he asked, rhetorically. With this dialogue completed, not really expecting an answer; he continued onward to the kitchen, suspecting he might locate, at the very least, Flans there helping himself to a snack. Plus, he reflected as his tummy gave a slight, audible jolt; he could do with a bite to eat himself..