Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Pandora packed up her pantaloons and proceeded to pick a picturesque place to party. "Pelican Point! A perfectly pleasant and pristine park!" she pondered, pointing past the pasture toward that pool of paradise.

"Please people, applaud!", she pleaded and purred, proudly presenting her perfectly passionate plan to her pal Paul, and pint-sized pixie, Pamela.

Paul and Pandora picked up their packages of personal and precious pearls (plus Pamela), and proceeded to pile into the purple Porsche. Passing Pontiacs, Paseos and Plymouths, they plodded down Plunket Place until the pace picked up on Primary Parkway. Passion was piqued. Pocket Pals and Presarios and other previously loved persuasions paled in comparison to parking by Pelican Point and peering out onto paradise.

Paul had a problem that he had previously not paid any point to. He was parched. At Paul's persuasion, Pandora proceeded past Priscilla's Place -- portly Priscilla passed off a pretty pleasant peanut stand, sole proprietor -- and parked in a parking place at Passions Pub so Paul could purchase a pint of Pepsi and a pastrami on pita with plenty of pepper.

Pandora's party practically did pirouettes into the PP (the popular appellative for Passions Pub). Pretty quickly, Pamela perched herself on the pub potty, then proceeded to prance back to Pandora and Paul where a platter of picayune peanuts was precisely placed for picking. They placated themselves, then packed up purse and pint -- Paul ordered a pint of Pete's Pilsner -- and proceeded down Primary Parkway to Pelican Point. Pandora's posture was poised, yet peculiarly paranoid.

By profession, Pandora was a pizza parlor entrepreneur. She'd paid the price for paradise and she expected perfection. Paul, a pioneer in precision plastics -- responsible for putting people on other planets -- was painfully prepared to partake in the pastime of puny prattle at any pub on the pier. Problem was, though, after passing by the PP, he was no longer parched, he was plastered.

Perusing Sylvia Plath, he had pointedly tried to pace himself with Pete's Pilsner, but had positively failed. His pint now empty, Paul pleaded, "Pass that Pontiac, please! Pan, I'm not pretending. I'd like to be polite, but please park at a place where I can pee!"

Poor Pandora was pooped. Her prize was Pelican Point and Paul's pleading was paramount to pessimism. "Please Paul! Hold your pants on. We'll pull into Pelican Point pretty soon." Paul prayed in pig latin. His posture posed like a penguin waiting to pounce. "Pretty please, Pandora! Pick a parking spot and park. I am NOT playing!"

Pandora pulled of the parkway and Paul spied a pile of pine needles, then pulled the handle on the purple Porsche and practically pounced. Panting, Paul poked his head back in t he Porsche window partially open. "Pandora, your a princess," he pined, pretty much impervious to her pragmatism. "No problem, Pauly, my pearl" she purred.

Paul Prescott was not a perpetual suppler. One pint pretty much incapacitated him. Princeton was the peak of Paul's partying. Panty-waste Paul, the Pi Pragma Pi pals called him. He was a pint-weight pea in a pack of piranhas. He wasn't one for pouncing at the Princeton pub. No, Paul was a plastic entrepreneur. His purpose was poised by Peter. Parent's in Paul's neighborhood, planned. "Pauly. You will be President of a Plastics partnership," Peter had pushed. Paul was imprisoned. Peter's pension was Paul's plague. If he had proceeded with a private plaintiff practice, Paul's father's pension was pulled. So, Paul was a plastics entrepreneur. And Pelican Point sounded like paradise.


.......
never finished this story...

I had a hand-written notebook full of these alliteration stories. I think I wrote 13 out of 26 letters. This is the only one I ever typed up. One day, when I was feeling in one of those moods to clean out all the stuff in my house that had accumulated, I found the notebook on one of the bookshelves and tossed it. I've regretted that ever since. It was going to be a silly book with illustrations I was going to draw. Sigh...

Oh and crap, I also gave away a collection of hard cover classic books I started collecting for my son when he was born, 32 years ago. I was in one of those overwhelmed moods again and my bookshelves were overflowing and my friend was here doing some home improvement project and there was construction debris everywhere because he's one of the messiest human beings I've ever met, but anyway, so, I started cleaning out my stuff because I was overwhelmed with the mess and I pulled about 15 books off the shelf and piled them near the front door to give them to Goodwill because my son never took them when he moved out, though he probably has read every one of them because he's one of the most well-read persons I've ever met, a genius, matter of fact, so there was this pile of books, hard cover classics, and my friend finished the construction project, I paid him (as usual), and as he left he asked, "What are you going to do with all these books?" and I said, "I'm giving them away to Goodwill. I have too much stuff" and he said, "Don't do that! I'll take them!" and so he did. (How's that for a run-on sentence?)

And NOW.. he's reading all those great books and here I am tapping away this nonsense on the internet as if anybody cares.

And there you have it. The "Alliteration Story Book That Never Came To Be" and the story of "The Classic Hard Cover Books Which I Wish I Never Gave Away".

A pleasant presentation of particular prose

A perfectly pizazzed reply. Pleased to present this piece and I appreciate your patronage.