Paper

Buried under paper that never ends.
Ten thousand little yellow sticky notes. Each
Bears a name a number a cryptic message.
Call Illegible at the Port Authority illegible.

What this means I have no fucking idea.
I don't know anyone named Illegible.
The Port Authority? Did they act like cops?
How do I even know this message is for me?

Stacks of reports and instructor evaluations.
Each must be dealt in the same fashion of
Meticulous detail with which I conduct my life.
"Fuck it. If it's that important, they'll call back."

Yeah hey, I'm an artist. A red rats crazy artist.
Some will find "crazy artist" to be redundant.
If I can't be an artist I'll teach. But for today,
I'm responsible for thousands of three ring binders.

So...Yeah!

Didn't get locked up. That was good. My lawyer has some major questions about whether the law enforcement agency (hint, there's a TV show about them. I can't tell you the name of the agency but their initials are NCIS), whether they had jursdiction to initiate an investigation against me, and more importantly, interrogate me. The judge just sat there staring at the complaint for like ten minutes. Flipping back and and forth with a WTF? look on his face. I keep hoping a judge, any judge, is going to look at this and look ast me and just say "Beat it! Stop acting like an idiot." But they didn't. They continued two weeks to see if we can unfuck this cluster.

What about tools instead?

Me and some guys I knew were hanging out in the pool hall where we...hung out. And a guy we all knew walked in. He was greeted with a whole lot of enthusiasm, handshakes, hugs and a frosty cold brew. He was an important man. One to whom you paid respect, because he'd earned it. He ain't The Boss. But he was sure as fuck my boss. After a little a dis and a little a dat, he strolls over to our corner. He takes a look at two of my guys and gives me the look. Tha Cat is on it. "Hey, Mark, go grab us another round of beers. Andy, you go with him."

He had a little job for us. Cold as ice. But he needed it to be anonymous. That's the beauty of working with junkies. People expect them to steal shit. There was a little section of a warehouse. There was something in that warehouse that someone did not want to be delivered. That something was cosmetics. Very high grade cosmetics. We were assured there would be no security or alarms. We could go in anyway we wanted. He gave us a price and a date. Tossed us 3k as an advance and split.

We checked the place out. It was a dump. In a part of town nobody gave a fuck what you did after dark. Great big main roll up door, with a padlock. Talk about easy. Yeah, hey we're going to need the big van and like ummmm...bolt cutters, pinking shears? People like this should put up signs that say "STEAL ALL MY SHIT" Christ, we'd need more sandwiches than tools to open this can of corn. So we got it all set up. Got some warehouse space to hold the shit til it was time for it to go to...wherever it was going. Got the bolt cutters. Made the sandwiches. It was time.

We pop the lock on the door and open it up. Our van (an old UPS truck) pulls in. We shut the door and hit the lights. I glanced around. And made one of the most gross understatements in my career.

"Hey guys? I think we broke into the wrong place."

"Yeah, this looks like a construction company or something."

Felix was about to have an aneurysm so I went over to settle him down some. Crazy ass shit jumping off in the middle of a job was my department.

"Look, we find out who's this is. If we don't know them, we get what we can outa here and go with that for tonight. We've already missed our chance on the other thing. It's a dead deal. It had to be tonight and it's too late to go now. We should get something for our work."

Me and Felix checked the logo on the trucks and the business cards on the desk. Went through a file cabinet or two. Nobody we know. I ask the guys. Nobody knows the outfit.

"Cos your friends don't dance and and if they don't dance well they..."

Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr Construction Company Owner Dude. We're gonna go ahead and take all this stuff off your hands. Oh look! A cute little safe. Nice. Great idea, the portable safe. I'd like to thank whoever invented that.

Felix continued to vibrate. "Eddie's going to kill us all, kill us and have our fucking heads mounted."

"Yeah, he might" And he might. "But you let me worry about Eddie. You get those worthless humps to work. I want everything we can carry. "

Which ended up being a surprisingly juicy amount. It was a big place. They had several large trucks and a whole bunch of smaller ones. The keys were hanging in the office, very nice of them. We loaded every thing that could be driven with as many tools and construction materials and little safes and office furniture. We took the fucking Coke machine. Shit, we took the fridge in the break room. Basically, we cleaned the place out like a horde of hungry huns. And drove it all back to our (What's that Felix? You think the warehouse I got was too big? Not anymore it ain't motherfuckers) now nicely full warehouse.


I needed a hit, a big one, and some sleep. Eddie is going to kill us all when he finds out we didn't get the shit we were sent to get. Or not. What about tools instead? Tools move well. So does office stuff. So will the eighty-five hundred doll hairs we found when we popped that safe. But that's all later tonight.

Eddie didn't wait til later tonight. He almost waited for me to wake up. As I became aware of his presence, his guy, Iggy, dragged me out of bed and threw me against the wall, hard. I hit the floor and he kicked me three or four times til Eddie was satisfied.

"What the fuck gives you the right to take my fuckin money to go do a job I set up. But you don't go to the job I send you on. You go pull a whole different job. And do I see the boxes I told you to steal? No. I see you in sleeping in bed with fucking needle marks up your arm. Like you ain't got a care in the fucking world."

He reaches for his piece. He's bluffing. I know he won't kill me. I'm in deep shit for fucking up, that much is crystal clear. But if Eddie wanted me dead, I'd simply wouldn't have woke up. He didn't go in for all the dramatics. All that, rolling guys up in rugs or burying guys under a hundred pounds of lime in a construction site, digging holes in the desert, concrete galloshes bullshit. And he also didn't beat, harrangue or lecture people he was about to kill. Most guys don't. I don't. And I learned that from Eddie. Get in fast and quiet, do the job, get out fast and quiet. Leave Mr. Target-Head wherever the fuck he lands. Drop the piece and fucking evaporate. You absolutely gotta move him? Try the nearest dumpster. You need to tell someone why you whacked this fucker? Try the nearest priest. But don't make the mark sit through your yammering bullshit about why this and that. That's just mean. Besides, it ain't gonna matter in 30 seconds anyway. So who da fuck cares?

"You fucking little piece of shit. You've sat in my home, at my table and eaten with food my wife cooked, eaten supper with my children! And you treat me this way? Like I never meant nothing to you? My wife tells me how fuckin smart you are. What the fuck does she know? "

"Eddie, you got it all wrong."

"Wrong? I'm wrong? I don't feel wrong. Iggy? Do you think I got it all wrong?"
Iggy kicked me in the ribs. Harder than he had last time. "Yeah see there, Iggy thinks I got it right. I think I got it right. What say you put some clothes on your worthless ass and tell me why it ain't fuckin unanimous? Is there anything to drink in this shithole? Michael how can you live in this fucking dump. Christ it's like your raise goats in here or something. It smells. You need a woman. And in this fuckin neighborhood? Christ. I gotta bring extra guys just to watch my car."

I think, I have a woman. She doesn't like to clean. I live here because it's close to the dope. That's what I think. What I say from the fetal position on the floor of my shitty little apartment, so I assumed Iggy was going to pour, was . "Yeah...Jesus Christ Eddie...There's ahhh, fuck...Wild Turkey in there, some pretty decent scotch, Stoli in the freezer and ahhh....fuckin brews in the fridge. "

"Is that scotch from what you guys took off that Fremont thing?"

"Yeah Eddie, same stuff. I ahhhh I got a a few bottles still here, help yourself to few. "

"That was a good score and you already paid me all I had coming, and two extra cases. So, I'll drink your scotch but I'm not here to take it from you. Not your scotch anyway."

By the time I was up, and not in my underwear. Eddie was drinking my scotch at my kitchen table, and a glass had been poured for me. It was now time for me to atone for my sin. I didn't know what it'd be. I knew he wasn't going to kill me, but a broken arm wasn't out of the question. This guy didn't get to push buttons because he was nice. Even though he was. And I had been working for him for a long time. And we were good earners for him and his guys. And we always paid. Any job we did, we kicked up. If we stole a pack of fucking smokes, Eddie and his guys got three of them. But this was bad...How bad? A couple other guys walked in. Guys I didn't know

"Eddie I fucked up. You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. It was a mistake. A stupid fucking mistake on my part that will never happen again. I'm really sorry. How bad is it Eddie?" I tried to sound sonly.

"Pretty fuckin bad Michael."

"Give me the chance to fix this Eddie. And I'll go back to work, better than ever."

"I was really hoping you'd say that." He reached across the table and placed his hand on my arm.
"We can give the stuff back." I offered.

"What you're hung up on that crazy bullshit thing from last night?" He laughs. Iggy laughs. The muscle doesn't laugh. "It's taken care of. The guy you hit, he's known to us. He fucking owes us. He still owes us. Not as much now." He laughs again." His insurance pays. All that swag your boys took out of there clocked in for more than double what we figured to do on the cosmetics. Fuck, the trucks alone were worth more than the other thing" He raises his glass. "Here's to making chicken salad out of chicken shit. We gave Felix and all the guys their end. Your end I keep so you remember not to fuck up no more. Yeah? And that other thing? Hey, Mikey we get em next time, no? Drink your drink...To a job well done. You think on your feet Michael, you always make me money. That's why I came here today."

Yeah let's talk about that Eddie. So...how's come you got all the muscle with you. I know why I got the beating from Iggy. For fucking up. I was lucky it was a light as it was. I got a half-assed beating and my forfeited end. But those two guys had come in while we were having our beverages. Then a third one. These were people unknown to me. And there is no good reason for them to be there.

"I didn't come here to talk to you about the jump last night. I came here to talk about those bruises on your arms. My son did the same fucking thing. He's dead, almost...15 years now. Overdosed. "

"Eddie, I got it under..."

"Shut your fucking hole. I talk, you listen. You tell me nothing. I tell you everything. You understand? You think you're a big man now because you know how to grab a little swag? Got your little crew. Fuck you, Michael when I was your age I'd been in prison since I was 12. You so smart? Want to hear something you dodn't know, genius? I was going to kill you. I should kill you. You endanger my interests. You put me at risk. But my wife said no. She said, help him. Look, Mikey, you're fucking up my business with that shit. Fucking up other guys' shit too. Guys that maybe don't know you so well as I do. Now, those people who work for you, I don't give two fucks about, they wanna die let em fucking die. Felix I don't worry about. Except when he's around you. "

"Felix has nothing to do with this Eddie."

Without even being told Iggy clocked me in the eye. Not hard enough to knock me out of the chair. Enough to say what Eddie was about to re-affirm.

"Is there someone else here talking? I thought I told everybody to shut up but I hear these voices. I should get that checked out maybe, yeah? Iggy, you hearing voices?"

And he tags me with a right cross to the other eye. What is it with me and two black eyes? I always end up with two.

"See? Iggy hears them too. Listen, I know what the fuck the Cat does and doesn't do and let me tell you this shit-for-brains. Felix is is carrying you. He set up the deal to make everyone happy. Yeah, that's right. Mr Bigshot Capo. If you're crew wasn't so busy acting like nine year olds in the candy store, the Cat would have clipped you and taken your crew a year ago. But he didn't. Because he has loyalty. So do you. So do I. But only to a point Mikey. You're good. But you ain't even close to that fuckin good."

"So...It's settled then. Don't fuck up like this no more or that's your fuckin ass and I ain't kiddin. Now. You're gonna go with these guys. They're gonna get you off that shit. Then you're gonna come back to and we make a shitpot full of money."

I just sat there looking at him. Finaly, he sighs and holds his hands up to his face and stares at them. I know that it means. I've seen him use it on me, his wife, his boss, his kids, the cops. It means "What have I done that I have to put up with all this bullshit? I just wanna make a livin for Chrissakes. I coulda been a fuckin priest"

"Fine Michael. What? You have to say something. Even though I said shut up. Even though I said it's settled. You have something more you need to contribute to this sitdown. What? What the fuck do you need to say?"

"Well, geeze Eddie, no disrespect intended. But, how's this going to work exactly?"

"Always with the fuckin details... How's it gonna work exactly? That's part of your problem. You think you gotta to know fucking everything but you don't. It makes you nosey. It makes people think you don't believe they can do their job. It's insulting Michael. I know you don't mean it as an insult. But it is a little insulting. "

"Fair enough Don Miguelito...How's it gonna exactly work? Exactly, you go with these guys. Bada Beep Bada Boop Bada Bop. They gonna clean you up and straighten you out. Do I look like a fucking doctor? How da fuck do I know how it works exactly! They ain't gonna put you in the trunk of a fuckin car in the weeds. That much I know. Not fuckin yet anyway. You thinkin maybe that instead Michael? "

I shook my head. No, not in a trunk in the weeds. I like dope but not enough to fuckin die for it.

The leg-breakers stepped to either side of me. We were, in fact, going to do this easy or hard. I stood up, raised my glass, drank it down, poured another generous serving, filled Eddie's glass. We raised a toast. I drained mine again.

"You're the boss, Eddie. You know me. Whatever you say, I'm all in."

And then I went to rehab. It was okay. Weird. Lots of pretty girls lots of pretty nurses. I got clean. Eddie paid for it. Then he made me pay it back over the next two years. Fucker. I did some of the most inspired work I've ever done. For close to three years, me and the Cat and our guys were like fucking pirates. Cruising for fat Spanish galleons We'd spot our prey, move in close.

"Run up the Colors if you please Mister Weiss!"

We were the Lords of All Ports. Blackguards Highwaymen Smugglers.

Then...then life happened...Felix got killed. I quit working so much. Then hardly at all. Once in a while but my heart just wasn't in it anymore. Eddie went away to Lompoc for...whatever they finally pinned on him. I didn't really have any hobbies so I just went back to banging dope full time, for a couple years. Did whatever jobs I needed to do to stay high and housed in the manner to which I was accustomed. Which meant living near where they sold dope. Nothing more than a common thief.

Is this a nightmare? Or the American dream?
So think twice if you're coming down my block.
You wanna journey through Hell? Well shit gets hot.
Pregnant teens children scream
Life is weighed on the scales of a triple beam.
You don't come here much and you better not
Wrong move BANG! ambulance cot.
I gotta get more money than you got.
So what if some motherfucker gets shot.

Ice-T

And that's how it went for me until I saw a chinese guy in a white shirt stare down a tank. But that's another story.

May December

So I'm talking to this guy I know and he tells me all about how he's banging this little 20 year old skin toy. And I think. Hmmm. 20. That's a year older than one of my daughters. You're 47. And I think about what I might do if my daughter was seeing a man more than twice her age.

I guess I'd have to invite him for a drink. Get to know the guy. Feel him out His intentions. Make sure he's a serious man. Make sure his drink is always fresh. Then maybe a little small talk about the weather or the game or what the fuck ever. Then, make sure I have his undivided attention:

"My daughter... I love her so much. She's my special princess. So much so, that if you ever go near her again, I will shoot you in the back of the head then hack you up into little pieces and feed you to my dogs. I'm not even fucking kidding, friend. You do not want to test me on this. Just walk away. Never see her or speak to her again. She'll get over you soon enough. "

You see, this is my tried and true, bad boyfriend speech. It's worked on...geeze, well, I have three teenage daughters so you do the fucking math. More than a few. See, I'm kinda crazy so...life working out the way life works out, my daughters some times bring home, let's say, more than their share of crazy boys. And a little crazy is fine. A little crazy is interesting. But say for example, "you committed an act of violence against my daughter" crazy? No. I can't allow that. I won't allow it. Before I'd allow that, I'd kill you and a dozen more motherfuckers that look just like you.

And if there is the slightest glimmer of misunderstanding, rebellion, argument or badassery on his part, if he so much as says "Yeah but...". I follow it with round two. Round two always works.

"Hey Hey...Take it easy buddy. That's fine. Look I can see you don't take me seriously. You think I'm just full of shit and you can kick my ass. And I understand that feeling. I want to help you, not hurt you. So, to prove to you that I'm a serious man I'm not just talking shit when I say I'll kill you...I'm going to break both your thumbs with this little crowbar I brought with me. Or, I guess if you'd rather we can go straight to hacked up into dogfood. It's no skin off my ass, man. You tell me. I don't give a fuck one way or the other. " Then I show him the gun I'll use to kill him. This is important stuff for you non-militant types to know. If someone threatens you with a gun or a knife and doesn't actually make sure you see it...He's bluffing. Anyway...That's usually when he takes off running. And I let him. Provided he does...run, that is.

This is a very sexist view on my part. I think that an older man (let's say, 45) , seeing a younger woman (make her 21) and I think...must be some kind of predatory element to this relationship. All sorts of dark thoughts of objectification and mistreatment.

But if a woman of 45 is out with a young man of 21, I think "Yeah!. Good for the both of you! Get some, baby! Get it while it's hot!"

That's kinda sexist on my part. I have daughters. That probably makes me less than objective.

I Saw Him One Day

I saw him. It was him for sure.
Standing in line at Ralphs or
Safeway or wherever the fuck
I was shopping when I saw him.

Standing there, in line with his cart
Nadine hon, can I get a price check
On maggots, monsters and murderers.
I walked closer, it was him. No question.

The kitchen utensils section had my tools
Selecting the most expensive and sharp
Serrated carving knife the store carried.
I slipped it from the cardboard package.

Into my basket with my bottle of merlot
My cans of tunafish, cat food and my bread
The knife waited, nestled amongst the food.
My next meal will be that worthless life.

Working in closer, he was second in line.
Plenty of room to move. Room I'd need
To crack his fucking skull with the merlot.
Get him down, gut him like the animal he is.

Three feet and he sees me, I look in his eyes.
It's not him. I mean. Fuck, I don't know. No.
It's not. A muttered "excuse me" and move on.
Setting my basket down I head for the exit.

It's not him. After I got to my car, I knew
It couldn't have been him. No question.
He hadn't just had his eyes gouged out.
And I hadn't just taken a bite out of his liver.

That's how I knew it wasn't him.

Bad Dreams

Saw a guy jump off a bridge today. A big bridge. One you don't survive. One where they usually don't even recover a body. The tide takes them away to, who knows? I guess that big floating mass of plastic between here and Hawaii or wherever. Elsewhere. I didn't personally witness his death, but we got there right after. There was nothing we could do there except be in the way. We drove off. I beat on the steering wheel and yelled "Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker" til I just started crying.

So...I guess I'm officially still human.

29 Years

John Lennon was gunned down in the street in front of his home 29 years ago today. One of his values I have always tried to embrace is his view on gender equality. Therefore I will play, in his honor, the best feminist protest song I know. If you are offended by it, ask yourself why before you tear into me.

The Rest of The Sexy Girl Rocker List

There were some protests over my lack of inclusion of certain ladies on the first list. So, I've expanded it somewhat. I give you numbers 11 through 15.

11. Belinda Carlisle. Someone had to be the first full frontal nude on my page. I'm just glad it was Belinda.

12. Jane Weidlin. As long as we're discussing the Go-Go's. Let's not overlook Ms. Weidlin. She totally rocks, is an animal rights activist, likes to bowl and is allegedly a dominatrix. That certainly sounds like the makings of a fun date to me. Jane, you had me at "Is that real leather?"

13. The Jonas Brothers. No I'm just fucking with you. You know, because it's 13 and...yeah, so... The real number thirteen goes to:

13. Exene Cervenka. "Grab her throw her in the tub, she says 'Coffee and a piece of pie." I can't help it. I love X. I love the Knitters. I love her spoken word stuff. I saw every band there was to see in the LA punk scene. X kicked all their asses. Watch her in "Decline of Western Civilization." Not to mention that she was once married to Vigo Mortensen. That's pretty fucking cool.

14. Tina Turner. Always had It. Always will. Technically an R&B artist, I know. But...Come on. Can I get an amen for Miss Anna Mae?

15. Tina Weymouth. Like I said. My list. My choices. I choose Tina because when she played her fingers bled. Stigmata is sexy.

That's all for tonight

My Birthday Post

I have a list fetish. No lie. I love them. And don't be looking that way. It's not like it's my only fetish. I'm a grown man with passionate feelings who's been around the block my share of times. My share and a couple other guys' shares too. Besides, what's your weirdest fetish? Weirder than lists, I bet. Yeah, well so is mine. Weirder than lists, that is. But I do really really dig lists. So a list is what shall be written for today, the day of my birth. Sorry for the fucked up graphics. I'm on my shittiest computer so this piece just barely has a pulse. But without further yammering I give you...


The Ten Sexiest Women in Rock and Roll


1. Chrissie Hynde. Okay this list is in no particular order of sexiness. But holy shit... she's fine. She always gets the top spot on my countdown.









2. Etta James. If you are hip to her music, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. If you aren't, you need to be.













3. Meg White. Seriously, how do you not love curvy girl drummers? Number six is her mother-in-law. Heh.


















4. Terri Nunn. I was a huge Berlin fan for one reason and one reason only. That reason would be Terri Nunn.



5. Joan Jett. I know she's gay. I don't care. And her with Carmen Electra? Gives me a headrush just thinking about it..."Going faster miles an hour now. I got the radio on" I bet their amps go to 11.











6. Patti Smith. My list. My choices. I love this picture of her.


















7. PJ Harvey. I'm not sure I even know the words to describe her. How about, I need a fucking bib when I listen to her music because it makes me salivate like a Pavlovian dog hearing bells. And not just because of the leg licking thing. Not entirely.




















8. Candye Kayne. But dont take my word for it. Ask anyone who's ever seen her sing. Or go see her show. Or watch it on youtube. Mmm mmm mmm. Yes please and thank you.














9. Shirley Manson. See..I got this thing for redheads. And Garbage.





















10. Sinead O'Conner. See...I got this thing for radical activists who used to belong to religious orders and have honest-to-god moral courage. Courage is way fuckin sexy.















So that's my 10. If you like them, I'd love to hear from you. If you have other suggestions for future lists, I'm all ears. If you want to say mean shit about me or my stuff, and you aren't among those allowed to say mean shit to me...fuck off.

Angels in the Highlands

We're bouncing down a track in No Se, Peru. Or Ecuador. Hard to say. We were on our way to No Se, Ecuador. Or Peru. Hard to say. Martinez knew. The driver allegedly knew. I had a decent idea of the direction back to Lima. We had something that almost passed for a map. That was good enough for me. It's not like we had that many roads from which to choose. We had the one we were on, which was deteriorating rapidly. I swear to fucking God that if we end up walking more than 50 feet on this mission I will quit when we get back. I do not want to hump this bush. Not for a few minutes. Not for an hour. Not one kilomter up this hill. I had a picture of the guy me and Collins were supposed to grab. Or clip. Hard to say. We'd make that call after we arrived at...wherever. All this was entirely based on the premise that the shitty little car we were crammed into was going to survive the trip. And that the road held. Otherwise we'd be at least in the ballpark of totally fucked. Hard to say.

Nobody gave a good god damn about this guy we were picking up. Not us. Not them. But they wanted him less than we did so that made him ours. Therefore, deeper we bounced into the People's Republic of Vines, Bugs and Crazy Little Fuckers With Guns. I hate this shit job. I mean, don't get me wrong. It's awe-inspiring, it's intense, it's indescribably dark at night, it's a billion shades of green everywhere you turn during the day. The mountains are spectacular. The people here, tough as old shoe leather but still kind. With weird clothes and interesting music and art and food. But then there are the vines and bugs and crazy little fuckers with guns. Someone told me they invented potatoes near here. So, there is that. And Rio's kinda close. Close enough to bail to in times of extreme crisis. I mean seriously, can I get an amen for Rio. No extradition and...It's fucking Rio.

This was gonna be routine. A walk in the proverbial park. Cruise up there, drop this fucker and cruise home. We had the toys. We had legit papers. This had official sanction. Well, as official as anything was that happened down here. Shit, we even had three cases of bibles in the trunk. We were missionaries, sent by God Himself to bring the Love of Jesus to these poor raggedy-assed indians. Bring it to one of God's children in particular. One who was either going to ride back to Lima sitting between me and Collins or his head was going to make the trip stashed in the trunk under those bibles. Nobody seemed to care much one way or another. And look, I don't want to come off like some fucking sociopath or anything, but the car was already mighty goddamn crowded. This guy better have bathed recently or that might be all the reason I need. I hate this shit job. This was all speculation on my part. None of it actually happened.

We rounded a corner and like magic the jungle peeled back for a few hundred meters. The track ran down the hill to one side of the clearing. Up the hill from us was a little knot of buildings, a little farm, didn't look like coca, A barn looking building, a couple hootches, pig pen, the usual. By the time we got stopped and had more than a half-assed glance at the place, we saw the gunman. What was worse, they saw us. What was even worse was that they appeared to all be armed with Chinese-made weapons. Which was a bad thing.

Bad for us. Good for them. We, conversely, were not so well-equipped. I had a .38 revolver in my pocket and five extra shells. It wasn't even a real Smith and Wesson. It was a knockoff I picked up in Quito. I didn't plan on needing it more than once. The only reason I brought the fucking thing was to shoot this guy. I was going to drop it there and ride back unarmed. So I got nothing. I doubted there was much more defensive ordinance amongst the four of us. I'm sure Collins has something because he's my spare tire. Martinez had a nine strapped on during the briefing. For all I knew the driver had brass knuckles. Martinez is the honcho. He makes the call.

"Keep driving. Slow, but not too slow. This is not our mission. I don't give a fuck what this place is. Keep moving."

Good idea. Fuck it. I'm the only anglo in the car, and they can't see me too good anyway. Just delivering some bibles to poor oppressed peasants. And then we're gonna shoot one of them and cut his head off and hide it under some bibles. Even I chaffed some at that part of the plan. I mean...Shit over. Bibles? Collins, who was more religious than me thought it was funny as hell. One fact that has been noted by many people, myself included, was best expressed by Clint Eastwood in a film entitled Heartbreak Ridge. I know of no better way to say it. And it is at this part of our tale that it becomes relevant.

"This is the AK-47, the preferred weapon of your enemy. It makes a very distinctive sound when fired at you."

It really does. Make a very distinctive sound when fired at you. Theirs were no exception. We hadn't moved 10 meters when everyone of those little fuckers (who wasn't reading a map, taking a crap or cooking breakfast) lit us up with small arms fire. Most of them couldn't shoot for shit but at least one or two could. Somebody raked the driver's side of the car with what I'm sure was all 30 rounds. The driver was dead. Most of the his head looked like it was in Martinez's lap. Collins was hit bad, slugs had penetrated the side of that car and hit him, Christ...everywhere. Upper thigh wounds with severe bleeding, multiple abdominals that were bleeding just as bad. Chest wounds, at least two. Bright red, arterial. I'd seen this movie before. It end with a folded flag. I had a couple small fragments and some glass in my face. How I wasn't chopped up into ground pork I have no idea. I sure as shit wasn't waiting for the next round of target practice to begin. So I kicked open the door and dragged Collins out. Martinez looked hit. He'd taken at least two of those rounds. But he was moving. He was out of the car.

The car, after being ventilated, along with three of our guys, had actually rolled off the road and down into a little ditch that gave us some degree of cover from the enemy position. At least that was what I was telling myself. That and, Hail Mary,Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...You get the idea.

"What Collins' status?"
"He's bleeding to death."
"We gotta get the fuck out of here"
Geeze boss, ya think?

We're crouched by the side of the car, Collins is...bleeding. And a fucking RPG flies over our heads, missing by a comfortable margin, but still. It came from close. Real close

"We gotta move now, what're Collins' chances?"
"Fucking expectant."
He's going to bleed out and die, right here in this ditch and there ain't a fucking thing anyone can do about it.
"How long?"
"Three to five minutes, maybe less."
"Let's move"

Then something jumps from my peripheral vision, a flash, a flare, no a smoke trail, no it's another RPG. Bright flash of light. My head feels like it's caught fire. I hear it, it sounds funny, not right, but it punched me in the eardrums, and they screamed. And it then it was as if someone hit me with a giant pillow. Darkness, that seems to last forever. I can't move. Can't move. My eyes won't open. My ears are ringing bad. I force myself. Think goddammit. Move motherfucker! You want to die in this shithole? Open your fucking eyes and move! Okay okay okay, I see. I remember. We were hit. I see Collins' body. Next to the car. About ten maybe twelve feet from me. That's not right is it? The car's on fire. So is the driver. But he doesn't seem to mind. And Martinez. Jesus Christ, Martinez. What appears to be roughly the bottom three fifths or so of my boss is laying a few feet from the car. The rest of Martinez is...elsewhere.

I gotta move, right the fuck now. I try to stand. Indescribable pain explodes in my both my leg and arm at nearly the same instant. Things get dark again. Wake up now, now now. Think motherfucker! What's your status? Okay, head to toe, just like they taught me. Minor burns on my face and neck. I'm covered in blood, some of it mine, most of it Collins'. My left ear is bleeding and feels perforated, I'm at least 75% deaf. I'm certainly concussed and probably getting shocky. I have what appears to be a severe wound, probable fracture to my lower right arm and wrist. My right foot was there, but attached kinda sideways. I was also pretty sure all the hair was burned off my head. Not that there was all that much there to burn. Yeah haha, laugh it up Chuckles. I'm seriously wounded in hostile territory. I'm just barely armed. My entire fucking team is dead. And I am standing by to be overrun. One of the tires on the car exploded. I saw it, but I didn't hear much of it. My left eye was swelling shut by now so I was evidently about to be half blind and 90% deaf. For chrissakes, I can't even crawl into the bushes and try to hide.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen.

Repeat as needed.

Why aren't they shooting? Because they think we're all fucking dead. Here in a couple minutes they're going to send some poor shitbird down to make sure we're all fucking dead. I had a decision to make. What was going to happen when one of the fucking maggotshit bastards who just killed my friends walked down here to make sure I'm all the way dead? And here he comes, then his buddy, and another...what the fuck is the whole platoon coming down for a look? I saw 16. They don't see me. Not yet anyway. Sixteen to one, huh? Custer was a pussy. And I thought about how things didn't end so good for Custer. Okay well, sorry about that, Good People of the Free World, but I'm going to keep rolling the dice. Missionaries don't carry guns, not even little ones to shoot people behind the ear with. So my piece and shells all went in the bushes. Even if they do find it, one of them will just pocket it. I wrapped my head around Pastor David Pullman. American missionary with the right to travel this road. I figured about 70-80% chance they'd just shoot me outright. Why bother finding out if they hit the wrong car when they can just bury the four of us and move higher upcountry? Plus I was hurt, hurt worse than they'd be interested in troubling over. But it was the only chance I had. So I filled my lungs and in my best bad junior high spanish, shouted:

Ayuda Ayuda, tu ayuda! Help me please! I'm hurt, por favor! Estoi uhhhh Estoi danado. Please. Ayuda. Help me.

Well, that got every one's attention. Which is a bit like saying that the Loma Prieta Quake really fucked up the World Series. And they all came charging down. I wondered if anyone was back at the hootch area making sure breakfast wasn't burning. The kid with the map was certainly there. One of his boys skidded to a stop in front of me. I can see his mouth moving but I can't hear anything. He's saying "Levanto, levanto!" Get up! I mutter "mi pierno, no puedo" Another soldier steps in next to him and...pretty much says the same thing. The rest of the unit, I count...fuck 20 at least total, just sorta standing there like self propelled land mine detectors, waiting for the kid in the clean fatigues to make a decision. At least now I knew who it was I was up against. Let break it down. Chinese weapons, poor marksmanship, itchy trigger fingers, a vague sense of military order. I mean, someone was clearly in charge, but mostly just a bunch of kids trying to look tough, some in fatigues that didn't look like they'd been washed, ever. Some in civies. All of them malnourished. No doubt about it.
It was El Sendero Luminoso.

The Shining Path. Peruvian Maoist guerrillas that were so fucking poor they used to receive support from the Pathet Lao. There was a time when they were a cohesive fighting force. And not one you would take lightly. That time is long past. Their leaders are all in jail or dead. Their base of support among the peasants has disappeared. They've broken into a dozen (at least) splinter groups, all vying for control. God knows which one these clowns belonged to. One with RPG's anyway. They got the shit beat out of them regularly. You almost felt sorry for the little bastards. Almost. Almost felt sorry. But they killed my brothers.

My brothers? Well yeah, it wasn't like I was on the softball team or anything back in Lima. But we were all on the same side. Honestly, I never even learned the driver's name. We'd met that morning at the briefing. They gave us our passports, wallets with ID's and shit. Mine said David Pullman. Missionary. Nice. My second favorite position. I guess that beats the shit out of Mike the corpse. Anyway, me and the driver were both to busy eating and reading our briefings to exchange pleasentries. I'd been working for Martinez for about six months. He said shit, I said what color. I knew next to nothing about him. He once said he was divorced and had a kid. We never really talked much to each other. And why would he? He had an actual place in all this shit. I was less than nobody down there. And I liked it that way.

The only things I knew about Collins was that his real name wasn't Collins and he liked the Dodgers. Martinez was the only one who was an actual real live person. God knows why they even sent him on this chickenshit job. I guess to make sure it went smoothly. So far so good, Skipper! Collins and I were both contracted. Freelance was the term I liked. That's what it really means, freelance. A free lance, a knight not currently in the service of any specific noble. Well hey... I say freelance, you say contract murderer. Let's call the whole thing off. But that really was the really real deal on this place. Work when there's work, drink when there ain't. Here today, burning in hell tomorrow. Eight months of this had me ready to bail. I was just trying to scrape up enough cash to get to Rio or maybe even home. Expendable is a harsh word. One that the Good People of the Free World don't much like. But that doesn't make it untrue. If any one of those guys had been given orders to kill me, they wouldn't have hesitated. That was a two way street, and they knew it same as I did. But we were all on the same side. I looked around. Guess I'm on my own side now, bros. I fucking hate this shitty job

These cocksuckers will either execute me on the spot or beat me to death trying to extract information. Make no mistake about this. The Shining Path fighters had reputations as stone fucking murderers. They hadn't yet entered their "Just sell the guy to the highest bidder." version of communism. They would soon. Assisted by their Colombian allies. The Capitan over there is going to decide. I can't see shit. Jesus Christ my ankle hurts. This is taking a while. He doesn't know what to do with me. I give him a little hint.
"Usted ayuda por favor Capitan, Help me please. I'm hurt..."

"Shut the fuck up."

He said it like he was telling someone to turn down the TV. In perfect English. His accent sounded LA. He's smart, he's a kid, but an evidently an educated one. And that was good for me. Becuase as long as he thinks I'm worth something, I'm still rolling the dice. And he's thinking. Then I see it come to him. They aren't going to kill me. He doesn't think I'm a missionary. He thinks I'm an operative. No fucking way in the world is he dumb enough to just eliminate someone that valuable on a whim. He nodded at the gomer closest to me who stepped in. I thought I heard a crack but it's so far away now. Hard to say. I remember there was no flash. I always assumed there'd be a flash. But there wasn't. My life didn't pass before my eyes. Just exploding darkness and black fire.


Motherfuckers. I really didn't think they'd kill me.


They're dragging my body up the hill. It feels like wet clothes. Cold. Sticky. So this is dead huh? My physical existence began to just slough off. Then my body is gone. And I'm floating in a darkness that seems to go on forever. I'm not seeing or hearing any angels, maybe they come later. I feel warm, safe. I know the angels are coming soon. I can hear them singing now. In...Spanish.

I hope they get here soon, my ankle is starting to hurt again...my ankle? I look down. No ankles down there. No feet either. No legs, torso, arms or, I assumed, head. Just my mind floating in the dark. I hear something, maybe it's angels singing, but it sounds like bees or something. Maybe angels sound like bees. I see a light now. It's there, then gone, then there again. I try to move towards it, but it flashes once more then is gone. Bet that light is where the angels are. I don't think this is hell. I don't see any fire or demons and shit. It's not bad, it's just dark. It hurts some, it feels like i'm bouncing around like a roller-coaster in the dark. What's that one at Disneyland? Disneyland? What the fuck is Disneyland again? Oh yeah, with the ears and princesses and jungle cruise. The roller coaster jumps it's track and everything explodes into blinding unbearable pain. Pain so intense that it became my entire existance. I can not so much hear as I can feel someone screaming and I realize it's me. Waves of it seem to wash over me. Then nothing again. Nothing at all. Again I see the light. And again I try to move. And again I can't. And again the light disappears. And again I slip back into...Hell?

No, not hell. Pain. Ungodly pain in my head, my leg and my arm. I was waking up. And God Almighty I hurt. I tried to remember where the fuck I was. I was...What the fuck was I? I was...shot in the face? What the fuck? I reached up to touch my face and found a sticky mass that hid a whole new level of pain. So, after I almost passed out from touching my nose, I tried to see. My eyes were fucked up. Swollen shut. Yeah. I got shot in the face. My left arm was burned a little but still pretty good. I felt around. My right ankle felt broken badly. There's no way I can walk even with crutches. It had a folded blanket wrapped and tied. That was good. It was about the best you were going to get this side of a hospital. And maybe it was the vibe. But even laying there, half dead, half crippled, half deaf, half blind, and half blown up. I got the sense I was not in any sort of hospital or aid station.

My right arm was, broken? Below the elbow, ulna radius both. But at least it was closed. Hurt like a motherfucker but it'd heal. And my wrist was broken...again. You know how some boxers have a glass jaw? I have a glass wrist. Anybody says limp wrist gets to see that I can still throw a punch with it. It's been broken like a half dozen times and is so fucked up the if you kick it real hard more bones fall off. My right wrist. I'm left handed. So don't get any bright ideas. I felt around a little more. Carefully. My passport and wallet were gone. So was my cheap ass watch and my cheaper ass wedding ring. I was on some kind of litter. My fucking shoes were gone. I decide to continue playing possum for a while. Problem is, I can't hear shit of what they're saying.

I knew what must have happened now. That kid with the RPG reloaded and his second shot was better than the first. But he didn't get a direct hit. He couldn't have. That little car would have gone off with a lot of force. We (especially me!) would have all been killed instantly. No, the shot had to have been deflected. It must have clipped the top of the car, then detonated, sending me flying assholes over elbows into that ditch. I guess that's why the all buzzing and bleeding in my ears. A fucking grenade exploded right fucking next to my fucking head. Not decapitating me. Is it still decapitating when you lose like the head, and arms? No, I guess then it's just considered dismemberment. Not decapitating me, because I was crouching behind the car. And more importantly, behind the grenade primary blast field. Martinez wasn't. Crouching. The shaped charge that's designed to take out a fucking tank? Most of that hit him right in the chest. I reckon Collins just bled to death quietly. Looks like I was the only one out of all four of us that wasn't going to get a painless death. I half-assed wished that bastard would have actually shot me.

He didn't, obviously. He hit me with the butt of his rifle. One of them heavy ass old wooden ones. Pretty goddamn hard too, if the brokeness of my nose was any indicator. I was in a room. No windows. One door. An indian kid sitting in a chair in front of it. He was asleep. I decided to let him keep sleeping. On the floor was a cleaned plate once full of what I guess was cooking when we pulled up. I hadn't been out more than an hour, tops. As soon as they see I'm awake their going to come in here and kick the living fuck out of me, for starters. I hate this shit job.

The best laid plans...

Bearing in mind the nothing you read on this blog has ever actually happened. The only true facts are that I made it all up in my fertile imagination. I have a story to tell. Also the statute of limitations has run out on this not that long ago, so...Here goes.

Me and Felix always worked together. And before you ask, yeah, everyone called him Felix The Cat. But he was also my good friend. We understood one another. We traveled well together. I liked to cook, he liked to eat. I pulled more jobs, more jumps, more jacks with him than anyone else since I was a kid. Half the time we were room mates for fuck's sakes. We first met in a CYA camp up north. He was smart and big. I was smart and vicious. In case you're wondering, most of the people who do well in prison (even baby prisons like this one) are the smart ones. It helps to be big and vicious and smart. But unless you're a total basket case, being smart is usually enough. But don't take my word for it. Victor Frankl said the same thing. In places worse than...Well, worse than I've been. If they strip away every last vestige of your humanity, with what are you left? Your mind. If all you have is your mind, It'd better be well-developed. But this place wasn't a Nazi sub-camp. This place was a training program for apprentice criminals. I knew a fair amount when I got there. I knew a hell of a lot more when I left. And when I left, we had six guys working for us and a dozen more who wanted to.

What are you fucking kiddin me? We had the makings of an honest-to-god crew. And we had big plans baby, big plans. Regrettably, the Great Golden State had somewhat of a problem with recidivism in those days. An issue I understand still plagues the good taxpayers of California. Furthermore, the political climate was rather...down on criminal behavior. More so than normal. So, before too many months passed, it was just me and The Cat. We went to work. We did well for ourselves. Earned a reputation. And some decent money. Some guys we knew helped us get into jacking trucks out of Oakland, Long Beach, Portland, Wherever. For a kid from a small town like me, that was pretty intense stuff. Intense, but pretty fucking cool too.

One day, some guys we knew threw us this job. A jewelry store. Supposed to be very money. Lot's of green, lots of merchandise. There was even a hint that we had someone inside. Or at the very least, not to expect much of a fuss. A jewelry store. This was a gift.

"Uhh yeah, okay. Sure"

We got the details, checked it out and set it up. Easy squeezy. The day came, we hit the place. The guard actually said "Don't Shoot!" Every detail went down just like we planned. It was fucking beautiful. The shit was all there. The package is delivered right on schedule. We get paid, even a little extra (everyone was very happy) . Me and the Cat divied up and went our separate ways. Lay low. Enjoy. And then...

Bam...Bam! BAM! BAM! CRASH!

Hey uhhh, wake up baby. I think we're either about to be murdered by my ex-girlfriend's brothers or the cops are here. No no, that's definitely the cops. And here they are in my bedroom. With weapons drawn. I'm naked in bed and they have shotguns. This must be serious. Yeah yeah yeah I'm getting dressed. I had nothing, absolutely nothing in my pad. A little dope. But they weren't looking for a little dope. They were looking for evidence. Like the cops on TV they wished they were, they began to sift for clues. I was hauled in and they went to work on me. I knew they had jack squat, so I watched them step on their dicks for a while. I want my lawyer. They booked me in. I settled in. And waited to be arraigned. The real problem was for Felix.

Everyone knew we always worked together. It was common knowledge. If one of us got pinched. It was a foregone conclusion that they were looking for the other one. I said earlier he was smart. And he was. Smart, but not brilliant. He was (evidently) absolutely certain that we were going all the way down for this, that the cops had some damning evidence and we'd be found guilty and Tra la la. Away we'd go for 10 years in Chino, or worse. That was going through Felix's mind. Poor bastard. What was going through my mind was, "fuck man, spaghetti again?" I was at peace. My shit was stashed so deep nobody would ever find it. Nobody was going to rat. Even if they did, no one even knew the whole story. Except me. And I wasn't talking. I also wasn't losing any sleep.

Not so for The Cat. Usually I was the twitchy one and he was the calm one. The way it worked was I paced the floors and spazzed out over every little ridiculous detail right up until it's time for the job. Then I'm as cool as the other side of a pillow made out of cucumbers. Felix, on the other hand, was Mr. Jello-Puddin Pops through the planning stage but was lucky to make it through the actual job without having a full blown seizure. This time was different. Of course. He was on the run with no idea what the cops had. I had the benefit of having been interrogated. Generally, when dealing with the cops, it's not too hard to figure out patterns to which questions they are asking and which ones they aren't asking. After about 20 minutes, I knew they didn't have shit. They just figured we must have had something to do with this deal, or some other deal and they had lot's of activity and blah blah blah. They were fishing. I wasn't biting. I was staring down the business end of a misdemeanor and a violation of my parole which was ending in 74 days. So. I was looking at the real possibility of three whole months, hard time. I did the math in my head. Yeah, okay.

"Listen uhhh, hey there Officer Crew Cut? Like I was telling the other cop earlier? Can I go back to my cell now? Lunch is in like an hour and if I don't get my baloney sandwich and kool-aid, it fucks up my whole day."

But my partner didn't know this. While I was busy being a drain on society, he was busy freaking the fuck out. His thinking ran more towards, "The goons have found Tom! Open up Harry! We dig. Round the clock." In other words, the Cat was gettin' the fuck outta Dodge. Right this minute. There was another thing about Felix. It's only worth mentioning because it plays a pivotal role at this point in our story. Felix was Jewish. Orthodox. His grandfather was a Rabbi in Haifa. Guess how fast he was on a plane to Israel?

Yeah, about that fast.

So how do you like that kick in the balls? Felix is soaking up rays in Tel Aviv and dancing the nights away, with pretty Israeli chicks (I assumed). I'm sweating my ass off in the Kern County Jail, awaiting transfer to god-knows-where on a parole violation for the chickenshit they found in my apartment. And if the story ended there, I'd have one more friend. But god-knows-where was all fulled. So I didn't get transferred anywhere. Just short of five weeks in the can, all the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. I was sentenced to time served for the dope, and I got a ticket home. To my sad little life, my fucked up apartment, a stern talking to from my asshole parole officer, my bitchy girlfriend doing what she did best, and my 45,000 green american dollars.

That's the lie about best laid plans. That they oft go astray...It ain't true. They oft do not go astray. And the money end of this one most certainly did not. Nothing like getting paid to brighten your spirits. I told you they had nothing. I told you I hid it so deep no one would ever find it. Both me and my boy beat those charges like a rented fucking mule. We walked out clean as a Safeway chittlin. And aside for a few hiccups, it looked like it was going to be a good year. The Cat heard it was all happy good times. He said that he would be home soon. He was busy having a good time spending his end in Israel. He'd be back.

But he didn't come back. Not soon. Not late. Not ever. Apparently, a couple months after I got out of jail, Felix received some official correspondence from the Israeli Government. The Army part of the Israeli Government. The silly fucker went and got himself drafted. Drafted right in the middle of a particularly nasty stretch of a particularly nasty war. He called me after he got out of basic. He was upbeat, but he sounded scared. That was the last time we spoke.

I never saw or heard from him again. A couple years later I talked to his sister and learned he was killed in a rocket attack. Felix the Cat was a criminal. A good one. Smart. A damn good thief and top-notch muscle. But none of that was enough to keep him from ending up with his guts splattered all over some worthless fucking rocks in southern Lebanon. He was 26.

I still miss him.

On Holiday Confessions or Why I Can't Be Blackmailed.

I love that part of Thanksgiving where someone announces that they need to make an announcement. There are two parts here. The Announcement of the Announcement, and the actual Announcement. Both are key. Because if you catch the full Announcement of the Announcement, the Announcement itself may be anti-climactic at best.
Cousin Michelle says in a clear voice, "Excuse me, everyone...I need to make an announcement." I'm pretty sure I can go back to pouring my drink. She's a lesbian and that's her ladyfriend Cindy, no Sharon... "Well, there's no easy way to say it so...I'm a lesbian. This is my fiance Cheryl. We're getting married in February. I hope we can all be understanding and adult about this"
Right, it was Cheryl. Didn't Michelle come out last year? Yes, I thought she did too. So was Cheryl that blond girl that was at the Fourth of July barbecue? Or was that someone else?

The only thing worse than a NSSA (No Shit, Sherlock Announcement) is an IDA (Impending Doom Announcement). "So, as you may have guessed, our Java Juice franchise took a pretty serious hit this year. Seems people just weren't ready for real espresso mixed with fresh fruit juice." Be careful here. There may be a request for money later.

So, here's my butt-slobbering confession that everyone already knows. The question is not whether or not I fit the clinical definition of "drug abuser". I do. The question is whether or not I really am one. I am. Like most Holiday confessions, everyone who knows me, already knows all the details. And Thanksgiving it is, so...why not. Yes, I'm a drug abuser. One might even say a Drug Addict. Although that's a bit harsh. I can quit whenever I want to. I simply choose not to. Because when I do you all lock me up in whatever facility is deemed suitable to my detention. Which leads us to shocking revelation number two. It's no longer a question of whether or not I'm mentally ill in the colloquial, clinical or classical sense of the term. The answer is simple. Yes, I am. Psychotic, that is. Crazy. Maniacal even. My personal favorite is "Crazy as a shithouse rat". But then I also dug "blue-eyed devils". The relevant question is, how crazy am I today?

Not generally on the high side of terribly dangerous. Although that's always possible, I'm not, as a general rule, armed or dangerous. I'm pretty much on the less destructive side of dangerous. This is a fact well known by all my friends and family, the staff at several local hospitals, a few not so local hospitals and all five law enforcement agencies with jurisdiction where I live, including the fucking US Navy. To quote Pete Townsend "My name is Bill and I'm a headcase." Only my name isn't Bill. What's wrong with me? Lots of things. How about we go with,
Atypical Neurological Disorders of Unknown Origins.
That's geek-talk for all my ancestors were mostly psychotic, alcoholic, inbred, malnourished savages who painted themselves blue and chased wild pigs. Things went down hill from there. The black death, small pox, semi-annual famine for decades, forced migration. That sort of thing, repeated for centuries. can lead to some rather strange genetic anomalies. Like me. Unless you buy the Navy Lab Experiment Hypothesis. But don't get me started.

The fact that this is common knowledge about me is probably one of the most liberating things in my life. Everyone who really knows me knows who I really am. Most of it is a matter of public record. That means I can't be blackmailed. "You got naked pictures of me? No? You wanna buy some, motherfucker?" And fat people are hard to kidnap. So I'd keep a close eye on your wife. I'm not afraid of public embarrassment, not really. You want to see something really embarrassing, read the transcripts of my last divorce. I mean, talk about gory details. Everyone already knows I'm a freak and a deviant and probably shouldn't be trusted with anything more powerful than a small car, a microwave and maybe a cat. Everyone already knows I just might be found wandering the beach at 3am with a bottle in one hand and a severed fish head in the other. The beach is closed after dark, in case you're wondering. I mean...Fuck off with your "What will the neighbors think?" Bullshit. If they're my neighbors, they seen worse than this before. I live at the end of a dead end street for a reason.

Gonna lock me up? Well, I suppose if the good tax-paying people of this County are willing to foot my medical bills for, whatever length of time...Okay. I'm not afraid of being locked up. I once spent 26 days in the shittiest part of Santa Rita. That's the Alameda County Jail. That's Oakland for those of you keeping score at home. I was the only white man in the tank. Nobody fucked with me. I've rotted in tanks, cages and cells all over this fine nation, and a couple others as well. I can do my fucking time. You'll expose me as a psycho? Hah! That's my favorite. Look, I have been in hospitals and institutions all over the Western US. You know what I know about mental hospitals? Some of them are a lot like doing time. Except friendlier and there's girls. And usually better food. What else you got? Sue me? You'll take me to court and get my stuff. You'll mess up my credit. I can only assume from that attitude that you've never seen my credit score. Or a list of my assets. Okay, if you want to wet your beak you'll have to get in line behind Sallie Mae (that bitch always drinks first) the fucking IRS, the Great State of Oregon, my last two lawyers, my ex-wife, my ex-wife's lawyer, my last three landlords and a dentist in Whogivesafuck, Idaho. So, good luck with that. Give me a call from time to time. Let me know how things are going over there. I worry about you guys. That's tough work getting money from a guy like me. See, this is why I don't worry about identity theft. If someone steals my ID, I don't think they're going to get very far with it. I mean, I was using it earlier today and I had quite a bit of trouble just getting here.

So what else you got? You want to threaten me with violence? Please...Don't insult both our intelligence by even copping that bullshit attitude. Look, I will fuck you up. I'm not fucking around and I know how. If you laid awake at night and thought about it for a year, you wouldn't dream up as many ways as I already know to seriously fuck you up. So let's not dot that eye. M'kay? It's costly and pointless and I don't need anymore sin on my head. Even if you did get to me...The people I know are fucking insane. They'd simply hunt you down. You think to come after my family? Their guys are like my guys times ten. Those crazy motherfuckers will bury you in the desert and then go get TacoBell. When girls hit on me (hey, it happens, from time to time) I tell them that "I love my wife very much I'm very happy in my marriage and I could never in a million years cheat on her". Some girls find that a turnon and they try harder. So if that doesn't dissuade her I tell her the really bad news. I have a hideous skin condition that might make you scream if you see me naked. That usually works. If she still persists, I go for the jugular. "Yeah but see when my wife finds out (and she will), she'll just make a couple quick calls and have us both killed. Which would way suck. I am not even fucking kidding. So, thanks but no thanks." Let's all just count down and everybody be friends and have another beverage. Otherwise things probably won't end so well.

Look, bottom line...I'm not afraid to die. That may sound strange. Because I love life, I wallow in it's simple mysteries and it's mysterious simplicity. I love my family. I love what get to do and I love the people with whom I do it. And let's be really real folks, everyday north of dirt is a good fucking day. If I didn't believe that I wouldn't be teaching people how to save lives. Yeah, that's what I mostly do. I administer and teach in a program that teaches people how to save lives. So I'm not some pessimist with a death wish. Far from it. I'd like to live to be 100. That being said... If I gotta go, it might just as well be this trip as the next. Or as Michael Crichton wrote. "The Old Grandfather wove the skein of your life long ago. Go and hide in a hole if you like. You won't live one minute longer." Of course, he was paraphrasing something a holy man said a couple thousand years ago. "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" So, yeah. Death is the greatest trip of all. That's why they save it for last. I've seen a lot of people die. Some horribly, some peacefully. Everyone does it eventually. How hard can it possibly be?

Gonna sentence me to drug treatment? Okay. I can walk into any NA or AA meeting in North America, pour myself a cup of bad coffee and feel right at home. I've been to a lots of meetings. Lots and lots. For many years I lived the clean and sober dream, a follower of Bill W. I learned a lot there. I learned that it's a religion. But don't tell them that. They get kinda spikey about that. Here is something no one else will ever tell you. Totally true. There's way more recovery in AA, but NA has way hotter girls. In case you're wondering. And if you want to get laid for sure (and I mean For Sure Lead Pipe Cinch laid) go to an ACA meeting and cry. Indeed, the three best scenarios for getting laid in the world are as follows :
1. Go to a wedding - Any wedding will do. This one never fails. If you can't get fucked at a wedding you need to lower your standards.
2. Go to an ACA meeting and cry - Again, we're talking sure things here, so don't expect supermodels or even non-broken people. But you will get laid.
3. Hottie Date Where You're Clearly Out of Your League- Two choices here. A hockey game or a fight. Either one works. Both of you get insanely drunk. Take a cab home. This will lead to no-holds-barred butt-slobbering monkey sex all night long. But I digress.

It's not like there's a hole in daddy's arm where the money all goes. There was. Years ago. But I had kids and it's all healed up now. Still, the fact remains, I do take a lot of drugs. As the end my forties draw nearer, I don't know that's a such bad thing. Better living through chemistry. They certainly make me feel better. Both God as well as The Medical Industrial Complex knows there's enough shit wrong with me to merit just about any prescription I want. Including any of several dozen painkillers, tranquilizers, sedatives, herbal remedies (including marijuana). It's not like I go looking for drugs. They come looking for me.

If one considers that when I didn't take any drugs at all (an experiment I tried for over 15 years) I'm no less crazy than when I take all the drugs I want. I am, evidently, a whole lot less friendly when I'm not using drugs. And when I say "I'm a whole lot less friendly" I mean, "I'm a raging fucking maniac." Anyone who really knows me, knows that if I was happy and laid back(or even appeared to be happy or laid back) chances are I was geezed to the sleeves on something, baby. If I was being difficult, an asshole, unfriendly, snotty or short-tempered...I was clean. There are six exceptions. But they are only exceptions in the technical sense. They all get me high. Just not from external chemicals. These chemicals are the ones my brain makes. With help. Love sex art magic reason and teaching. In that order. Once I have those things in my life, and at least two rungs of Maslov's Ladder, my next question is: "Let's celebrate! Break with the kush and open that wine! We have red and white? Open the red and pack that bong!"

So yeah...I see red rats (a term from olden days for a crazy person) and I get high a lot. And I'm also bald, about 20 lbs overweight and have bad skin. The whole red dots thing from a few months ago? They're still there, quite a bit worse.

Uhhhhh let's see, what else can I confess...On Facebook someone answered a question about me asking if they thought I had a deep dark secret. One of my secrets is that I have a list fetish. Here's one.

Top Five Deep Dark Secrets About Me:

1. I always cry at weddings and funerals. So don't ask me to do yours, because I can't. I won't. And I don't.

2. I have never, in my life, had the hiccups. I have hiccuped once or twice, while eating too fast, but a real case of the hiccups? Never.

3. At last count, I've slept with five of my Facebook friends. Not since they've been on Facebook, obviously. One is current, of course, my wife. But others are from the past. It's awkward when FaceBook says "poke so-and-so" and I think, "Yep, I did. "

4. Do not fuck with me. I fuck back. Hard.

5. I do, in fact, know the meaning of life.

Happy Thanksgiving All.

Scarey Monsters

I made a remark a bit ago about Sarah Palin. I had to look up what toy company made Barbies. So I googled Barbie Dolls. Holy fuckin snappin assholes they got a lot of shit about Barbie Dolls. Turns out, it's Matell. But goddamn, people. Settle down with the Barbies. Okay? They're just dolls. You want to know what I know about Barbies? Their hair clogs bathtub drains. Same thing with My Little Pony. I've known that for years. I am a man of many daughters.

I got nothing...

I got nothing...That's not true. I got something. I just can't get it out of the ends of my fingers in a way that makes any sense. Even the ad copy and press releases I wrote last week came off as weak and stilted. I've always written whatever I felt. I feel uninspired. So...fuck it. It's me and my girl's anniversary. I'm going to go get laid.

Ahhh...Much better. Nothing clears my mind like a good fuck. Maybe smoking too much herb is my problem. I smoke a lot. More than most people. Scored a few ounces of AK-47 which I've been busily destroying in a series of small fires. Watching the president talk makes me think I smoke too much weed. He'll be giving a speech about some issue of vital importance. I'll be listening with great interest. Then the thought hits me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph hangin off the fuckin cross that guy's got big ears. I mean, they're like the size of little legue catcher's mitts. If I ever met the First Lady (not likely but it could happen) instead of being gracious and dignified, I'd just blurt out "Let me ask you a practical question Mrs Obama. Where do you buy earmuffs for guy with ears that size? They got a special section at the Big and Tall Store I don't know about?" And then I drift back in.

Five Movies About Native Americans That Featured a White Man As the Main Character.

1. Little Big Man

2. Jeremiah Johnson

3. A Man Called Horse

4. Dances With Wolves

5. Last of the Mohicans

Kind of Bitchy

"So many of the women you dated were bitches."
She declared. "You must like bitchy women."
Our eyes met. I wasn't saying a fucking word.
"I guess that's lucky for me. I'm kind of bitchy."
A good husband knows when to shut the fuck up.

The things you read on facebook...

She said she felt violated by the Swine Flu swab.
Guess where they stick that Q-Tip for the clap?
I remember experiencing that once because
One of us, no both of us, were fucking around.

Ultimately the blame lies with me, I was older
Should have known better. She was just a kid.
She smelled like honey blond hair and candy.
No harm. Negative results. I met a cute nurse.

Her

I knew it was her right from the start
We met in a place I've never been
In a place that no longer even exists.
She went by fast, too fast for a good look.
I saw what I needed to see.

She was married to an Austin bluesman
Guitar player, Johnny Iforgethisname.
Me? I was busy being busy. Busy being me.
A thunderbolt is not easy to ignore.
I'd seen what I needed to see.

But I wouldn't see her again for years.
Because ignore the thunderbolt we did.
Time and turmoil eroded the memory.
Eroded, but not erased. Dormant. Sleeping.
I knew what I needed to know.

Then chaos, marriages and buildings collapse.
Lives uprooted, shoved around the map
Like the little green army men of the gods
I land in a desert. It's cold, desolate, beige.
I found out something I needed to know.

She's right around here. Just up the way.
A couple of e-mails. She offers to set me up.
With a friend of hers. Guess she's still married
She's going to chaperone. I immediatly say yes.
I was about to learn something I didn't know.

It's dark in the club. House music is too loud.
Everclear is singing "Heartspark Dollar Sign"
I claw my way into the loud smoky darkness
And I see her. She's waves. Smiling. beckoning.
Now to find out what I want to know.

Hugs and introductions. My date is blonde.
But she has red hair, in pigtails, with striped
stockings and a red on black sweater with skulls.
Rectangular geek girl glasses and her scent.
And I remembered what I once knew.

How's hubby? What's happening with his band?
"We've been divorced almost two years." What?
You know the smoke in this club is so loud
It sounded like she said she was single.
By now, even the cocktail waitresses knew.

I was a man of action, and a total slut
I slid in, close to her. She slapped my hand!
"Keep that thing away from me! I don't
Know where it's been." I zigged and zagged.
She already knew all the tricks I knew.

She called me a player, a joker and said
She didn't come all this way to play or
Tell jokes. What did you come to do?
She brushes me off. She's smarter than me.
That was something I didn't know.

more coming....

Something Old

I wrote this two years ago. Those two years are gone. Three left. They're making movies out of it now.

What would you do if you found out you had about five years left to live? And what if you knew, for a fact, that it was true. And when I say "about five years" I don't mean it as in maybe on this day or that day or within a 2 month time frame, plus or minus. I mean the date. The time. Exactly.
And, as long as we are speculating, let's assume there wasn't a single thing you could do about it. Nothing. On this date and at that time, that's it. And let's assume that if you tried to tell someone they almost certainly would blow you off, maybe with a polite chuckle or a witty comment at best. But overall, they'd refused to really believe it was going to happen. And even if they did believe in the general idea they would, almost without exception, believe that not only don't you know, but that it isn't even physically possible for you to know the exact date and time. Assume that some people would believe you, once in a while. But they were most likely already looking at the same stuff you were.
Five years is not a large chunk of time. But, five years is enough time to achieve just about any reasonable goal. Maybe something you've always wanted to achieve but the years just passed and you never found the time. Three years is long enough to get a college degree in damn near any major you choose, provided you're willing to work your ass off and go to summer school. Long enough to become a passable expert in some subject. Long enough to learn a trade. Long enough to to do something at least moderately important. Long enough to become the person you know you were meant to be. Five years is long enough to change your life in a very deliberate manner. More or less.
So...
Would you just shoot for as much joy as possible(whatever that means to you)? Become a hedonist. Or as much wisdom? As much knowledge? Would you try to help the less fortunate. Would you simply go to the temple and pray. Perhaps you'd choose to devote the time you had left to God, or Good? Would you seriously re-consider your beliefs about the afterlife, about heaven and hell as it relates to your life thus far. Perhaps you'd dismiss this most common version of the afterlife as nothing more than an antiquated myth, meant to scare people into compliance. Maybe you'd do just the opposite. Move into a "there are no athiests in a foxhole" mentality? Mybe you'd try to wring as much hedonistic pleasure as you could from this existance. Or maybe...You'd just keep on doing that thing you do. Because, what the hell. It got you this far. It'll likely carry you the rest of the way through.
Not an easy question to answer, if we answer within the parameters of this hypothetical situation.
There are two reasons I'm asking this question. First: I've been reading a lot about this idea (it's sort of a hobby type thing for me) and I think the answers given can tell a lot about a person. Second because I'm bored and it's cold and it's snowing and I'm supposed to be packing stuff (we're in the middle of moving) but instead I'm sitting here writing. Bad Husband! No Pizza! That last part was a joke. Honey...if you're reading this I worked my ass off all day and just wrote this in little bits and pieces between incredibly heavy loads of crap I haven't seen since the last time we moved. I'm kidding. Not about moving stuff I haven't seen since the last time we moved (that part is true), but about the second reason I'm asking the question.
The real second reason is more, shall we say, written in stone.
What is possibly the most accurate calender ever devised by humanity is the Mayan Long Count. See, the Mayans (using the the Long Count Calendar) predicted a whole bunch of astronomical occurrences, eclipses, solstices, equinoxes, star movements, the return of comets and that kind of stuff. And they were always right. Exactly right. Every single time. Not within some acceptable margin of error. Absolutely correct. 100% of the time. So, obviously, it's a pretty reliable calender. The Mayans also predicted, using this calendar, significant events within human history. As with any prophetic proclamations, they are subject to varied interpretation. But, it is not a huge stretch to say they are clearer and more reasonably believable than say...Nostradamus, St Malachi (who, coincidentally, predicted that the next Pope will be the last Pope) or any of a few dozen others.
The really weird thing about Mayan Long Count, with all its accuracy, is that it features something that is not generally seen in calenders. It ends. On an exact date. At an exact time. What is supposed to happen after the precise moment that the Mayan Long Count Calender ends? Well... that's hard to say. One, somewhat commonly held, theory is that the Mayans, using the Long Count, were talking about the end of time, the end of the world and everything on it. Including us. That they were predicting what might be called the ultimate pucker-time.
That exact moment, as predicted by the Mayan Long Count is, in the Northern hemisphere where the Mayans took their readings:
6:08 am, December 22nd, 2012. UTC (Zulu time)
No kidding. This is factual. That is the precise moment that the Mayan Long Count Calender ends.
That's Five Years, Three Weeks and less than One Day from when I am writing this.
So...What would you do? Assuming it was true.
Does this missive mean I believe the world is going to end on that day? Don't be absurd. I mean, let's look at this from a historical perspective. If the Mayans were so dang smart why did their culture collapse around the 10th and 11th centuries CE after developing for a paltry 3000 years? Most Mediterranean and Asian cultures, most of them about the same age (really starting to gel about 1800-2000 BCE, or so) were just just getting up a good head of steam in the 11th century. The Mayans were already, more or less, in a state of societal collapse by then. And where are they now? Nowhere really. Their language is spoken here and there. Fragments. Their way of life has been, generally speaking, overtaken by run-of-the-mill Central American culture. Their offspring are scattered between Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Belize and Costa Rica.
A strange thing happened during the 10th and 11th Centuries. Huge numbers of Mayans just stood up and walked away from their cities, their homes, their lives. Mayan culture was devastated. It never recovered. Bits and pieces of the Mayan way of life echoed through the lush green mountains and valleys of the Central American jungle for a few hundred years. Other societies, some using similar architecture, concepts and languages, sprang up in their place. But the huge Mayan cities, the ornate temples carved with religious symbols were already overgrown by the jungle when Cortez and his ilk arrived 400 years later. Almost all Mayan books that had survived were burned by the Spanish. A couple are still to be found. And of course, the stuff they carved in stone is still there. Archeologists have diligently dug out the cities and temples, chopped back the vines and creepers to reveal once more to the prying eyes of science. We're still finding new stuff every few years.
The History Channel will tell you anything you want to know about this stuff. But, the real point is; what kind of a freaky, hocus pocus culture would do something like that. Walk off into the jungle, taking almost nothing but the barest essentials, and start over from scratch? That's crazy. What's even nuttier is the idea that some quirk in their religion, some crisis of faith, some real or imagined potential catastrophe, probably linked to the Long Count Calendar, was the reason they abandoned their cities. You remember the Long Count don't you? That precisely accurate calender that says time ends in around five years.
So...Just for shits and grins...What would you do if you had roughly five years left to live? Fa reals. No polite bullshit. A brutally honest answer.
Me? Hell, I dunno...Probably shoot for all I could do to be there person I was meant to be. Which maybe I already am or maybe that's too vague of a pretense. Maybe there's no such thing as "the person I'm meant to be". Maybe that's just human self-importance in action. Hard to say, really.
I guess I'd try to make up for some of the pain I've caused some people who's only sin was caring about me. On the other hand, going for the joy would probably be high on my list of options as well . I seriously doubt I'm already the person I'm "meant to be". If I am (and that's assuming it's even a valid supposition), I'd need God to tell me I am. Personally, directly, with no ambiguity. I'm just not that zen. That's what I'd shoot for and probably see some moderate success. But, most likely, I'd pretty much whittle away the time doing that thing I do and hope for the best. I'm not that ambitious of a guy.
Besides...It's all just a load superstitious mamba jahamba from a few, relatively advanced, tribes living in the jungles of Central America a thousand years ago. Just another version of cosmic mythology. Right? And every day I trust my life to Sir Isaac Newton. He said the end is coming in 2060. When I'll be 99.
There's probably nothing to it.

All Saints Day

Do you ever pray to the Saints?
If you are or ever were Catholic,
you understand what I'm asking.
If not, it's okay. I'm not Catholic
The Saints don't seem to mind.

They're reputed to be conduits
Who can put in a good word
Get me out of jams. Fix tickets.
Do I believe in the Saint? Maybe
I believe I want them to be real.

I pray to St Jude, Patron of Lost Causes
And police officers. Jesus' brother.
Or St Joan of Arc. She helps martyrs,
militants, prisoners and visionaries
Those who are ridiculed for their beliefs.

There's St Brigid. A Pagan Goddess
With 12 virgins and an Eternal Flame.
Remade a midwife at the birth of Jesus
The virgins became nuns. She looks after
Poets, fugitives, scholars, sailors and babies.

How about St Teresa of Avila? Ecstatic.
Penetrated by the Spirit. The soul's acsent
Somewhere between Hopi Creation Myth
And making mad sweet passionate love.
She watches over those who've lost parents.

Or her boyfriend. St John of the Cross.
When he wasn't having the living shit
Kicked out of him, by the Church
He wrote poetry, amazing poetry.
He's on mystical theologians and poets.