InsaneJournal

Character Information
Character Name(s): Adam Eckhart.
Nicknames/Aliases: Hey You, Asshole, I Want My Money You Fucking Prick, but those are only ever used by my ex-wife. Call me Ecks or Eckhart, please, I would prefer it. I am not at all fond of Adam, but it could have been worse. I could have been a Steve or, hell, a Cary. My mother loved Cary Grant.
Gender: Reclaiming my male-ness.
Race: Human.
Character Age: 40. All down-hill from here.
Date of Birth: September 3, 1967.
Birth Location: Erie, Pennsylvania. Cold, cold, cold.


Physical Description: I am hardly your romance novel cover model. Five-ten, one-hundred and forty, give or take. I have some muscle, which I suppose categorizes me as "lean". Spending more money on vices than food helps with the "take" portion. Brown hair, usually unkempt, seemingly unwashed, and tends to be a bit more on the shaggy side. Brown eyes. Not buff, and not a GQ model. I wear whatever I have that is clean and without too many of the "trendy" holes. When the occasion is appropriate, I have been told that I clean up very well.
Distinguishing Marks: Tattoo of a bird and the name "Jack" on my right forearm, named for a childhood friend that died when we were twelve. A couple more here and there. Not all of them are typically for show and not all of them have a purposeful story. Sometimes, you just want to feel some pain.


Personality: Cynical? Angry? Maybe. Look, circumstances in life change you. You live long enough, you might revert back to this or that or whatever. I was a little more carefree and assumedly careless two years ago than I am now. It is fair enough to say that I maintain a laid-back manner, even while I am being irritated, even when I am being enraged. My exterior tends to be as cool as a cucumber, however that saying came along, while inside I am ready to punch you in the throat and bite your nose off. Yeah, I have a lot of anger that may or may not be exacerbated by drinking, but you know what? Nothing lasts forever, not even a liver, so fuck it. Hey, come back here, I am not the biggest asshole on the planet, not by a long shot. I should probably just find a healthier outlet for my anger, but... Johnny, Jack and Jim are my support system right now, okay? Good. Now, as you will see or hear, I have managed to keep a sense of humor intact through all of this. I am hardly the goofy guy that you would find in the center of the little circle at social events. My wits tend to be a little drier and sometimes they might go over your head. I do have a few ounce of humanitarian left in me but you are not going to see me at the next Free Tibet rally or Go Green demonstration or whatever the next fad of temporarily-giving-a-shit will be.

Personal Background: No one really wants to know about you and that is the plain and simple truth. People only want to know the things that will satisfy the image of you that they created in their mind the moment they invested more than a side-long glance in your direction. There is that feigning interest, oh, sure. You catch someone in the corner of your eye as they sit across a room from you or pass you in the street, and you wonder what it is they do every day. Where are they going and where are they headed; what they had for breakfast and if they think there will ever be an end to this bullshit gas "crisis". If they appeal to you, you wonder how they fuck and how many drinks it would take, if any at all. We rarely ever look at someone and allow ourselves to end it with an "I wonder..." We wonder, and the mind goes off on its own.

There are two stories to every person: the one they give you to make you happy and keep your interest, and that story plus skeletons in closets and demons down the hall. Am I right? Yes. Take myself for example. Lady, you look at me and you wonder what I am doing here in a coffee shop looking like absolute hell. I keep rubbing my eyes, my hand runs down my face and pinches around my chin. I have not shaved in about a week. I am not wearing a wedding ring but there are other thick silver rings around long fingers. I sit slouched, in my wrinkled long-sleeved shirt and fitting jeans. My hair is rumpled but has that dirty rock star look to it, right? Maybe I was out last night in one of the city's many nightclubs, peering over the shadowed crowd and playing my guitar like there was no separation between us. I could still fulfill that fantasy of you banging Bruce or Tommy or whoever the hell is the singer made you put your hand down your pants in the privacy of your teenage bedroom and do as the Divinyls said--or Blondie, if you have no idea that they covered it. Yeah, I look like your classic bad-boy, a little older, but certainly not any wiser.

I keep rubbing my eyes because this screen is blinding me and the cheap, "chic" lighting they have in this fucking place does nothing for me. But hey, like you, there is free Wi-Fi so I am good to pay the two bucks for whatever flavor of coffee that tastes nothing like "coffee" to sit here for a few hours. It is a lot better than sleeping in the backseat of my car, which explains the hair and the wrinkled shirt. The jeans? I will not wear pants so low that my underwear show and looks like I am walking around with a gigantic shit in them; pull up your fucking pants. They are called "underwear" because you are supposed to wear them under your clothes. My address is currently a 1995 Buick Regal sedan, the color of recycled newspaper, and the steering column is a little off so it veers to the left. It is perfect for when I want to finally end it all and go off into oncoming traffic. The ring is gone because that fucking Cunt of a wife that I had was off shtupping some prick from some other department and she successfully ripped what was left of my testicles through my wallet via alimony checks beginning four months ago. Yes, I am bitter, forty-plus--but barely--year-old man with a dismal future, no friends, no family, barely any money.

The work I have been doing for the last two months involves driving to different cities and attempting to write for a magazine or a newspaper. When I was younger and much more naive, I wanted to be one of those investigative journalists. I was going to bring down the big, corporate bastards screwing all of the little guys over with interests--or worse, the rat bastards that leave toxic waste next to kiddie pools that spawn cancer or babies with two heads and thirty toes. I was out to give a big fuck-you to every person that I thought deserved it. This was not because I am, or was, a vindictive person. I grew up reading and watching what faceless people were writing and printing and I questioned what was real and what was just to pacify me until I was robbed blind and on my death bed. And I cannot say that my intentions were completely noble, either, because I had every intention of being famous in the process and marrying Molly Ringwald. Turns out that I met The Cunt while working for a newspaper in Philadelphia. Yeah, she had a hot-head for all the same shit I did, was as passionate as I was, blah blah blah. We were married for eight years before I come home early one weekend from covering a conference in Chicago to find her on top of a guy in the house that I paid for, in the bed that we bought, on top of the duvet cover she picked out and I fucking hated. Thank God she was more wrapped up in her career--in more ways than one, as it turned out--that we never had kids. She is a good bit younger than me, too. I just figured if she wanted to have kids, we would, when she was ready for her body to never be as good as it was.

Back to the car and the driving. I left the east coast and came out west, like all people wanting a new life or some improvement of their current shit existence do. Los Angeles is entirely too crazy and I am fairly certain that everyone there is fucked up on more than just the limelight. And it is too warm there. I actually enjoy the rain and as it turns out, Seattle is supposed to have more rainy days than sunny ones. I went from being an editor at a respectable newspaper in a big city to scrounging for opportunities to do reviews--movies, restaurants, music, you name it, and chances are I will or can give an opinion on it. My arrangements have to be a little different as far as payment goes; cash only, so there is no trace of income and so The Cunt cannot demand anything more from me than the little I send. I buy the cheap noodles in whatever China Town district that every city seems to have, I drink the cheap vodka which is going to kill me before the ex-wife does, and I buy my own tobacco and papers because there is something a bit more satisfying when you can roll that yourself. I am not going to tell you where I keep what is left, but it sure as shit is not in some fucking bank.

Changes the story, huh? The one you created in your head when you first saw me. Which would you rather have, the rock star, or the divorced, unemployed, forty-something alcoholic?

Thought so.


Family: Mother was Abigail, now dead. Father was Matthew, also dead. Brother, Christopher, lives somewhere in New York City but we rarely talk. Ex-wife, known as The Cunt, is still back in Philadelphia. No kids, no pets, no real ties to anything.


Race and Personal Weaknesses: Like I said, nothing lasts forever. Nobody likes a doctor unless they are trying to land one; needless to say, I have not had a "check-up" in a few years so I would imagine my lungs, heart, and liver are not what they were when I was twenty. You grow up, you get old--some of us--and you die. I am a bit nearsighted and will wear eyeglasses when I feel like it. I can see perfectly fine for about ten feet or so and can drive without glasses, but images and words are not going to be crystal clear. Personal weaknesses? This goes right back to that two-story thing, you know, but if you really want to be amused... The divorce is still fresh, so excuse me for being an honorary douche bag when it comes to relationships with women. Something like that can either make a person want to go out and fuck anything that moves and rebound again and again and again, or they turn into themselves like a turtle. I am a turtle. The drink, the tobacco, those are a given. I guess, material-wise, you could say I can appreciate a good hat. I would not be caught dead in a baseball cap, fuck those duck-bills, but I like this old fedora. Gives a touch of class which, on me, is out of place most of the time.
Magical Abilities: N/A
Skills and Training: Writing, editing, "leadership" as it requires for one to be an editor. I can do mostly anything related to print as far as stories or articles go, however you want to put it. If I were so inclined, I could probably get a better job than the one I have because I do have the experience, but the more money I make, the more that gets sucked out by my ex. Why would I want to bust my ass for that? I also happen to enjoy painting, when I can afford it.
Job: Writer.
Residence: My car or some motel from time to time.

Plot Ties can be found and periodically updated HERE.

PB: Johnny Depp