I, personally, am giving thanks to no one. I cannot, even in my most ebullient of modes, think of anyone who has laid a piece of thanks on me. Ever. In my whole life.
Not that I'm asking.
And so: I proffer nothing in return. Assholes.
I believe I've posted about this before, but it has to have been 3 years, and the memory keeps rising, like a chunk of plaque in my femoral artery. So let us revisit.
To set the stage: Nineteen Eighty-something. Little Five Points in Atlanta. Sunday, noonish. I am with the Bride, and my brother and Rankin' Rob, who were living in the Points at that time, as I recall. I don't recall what we did the evening before, but I was suffering a hellish hangover, the kind where you can't spit, the mouth is too dry. So the taste of fecal matter just sticks to the tongue.
We decided, wisely, to partake in a fine repast at Zesto's, a local burger chain reknowned for its liberal offerings of semi-coagulated animal fats.
As we stood in line to order, me swaying uneasily, like the engineers will tell you tall buildings do, you just can't see it, a mechanic from the gas station across the street walked in. He was wearing a welder's cap, and normal in every respect, except for the fact that he had no fucking ears. Where ears should have been he simply had holes in his head. And not nice, round holes either, but holes that looked like they'd been gouged by a small tree branch.
That was pretty sick. But what was worse, what put it beyond the pale, was the fact that the right hole was oozing... treacle! Resin! Tree sap!
Aye, a viscous fluid was seeping out, and had run damned near an inch down the side of his head. Fuck! Bile, meet breath.
I tried not to look, but it was mesmerizing. And when I finally got my order and was seated, I grabbed the catsup to adjust the pH on the fries. And you know what happens when you don't shake the catsup first? Treacle comes out first! Tree sap! Resin! It was as if our boy had leaned over, and allowed some ear sap to drip cunningly upon my fries.
Did I eat them? Oh yes. Did I gag, and have to choke them down? Oh yes.
That poor bastard should have worn ear muffs in a dining establishment. Just saying. I never did find out if those things worked or not. Curious if he could actually hear me retching.
Here's a benighted tale of a puppy with bad joss.
When we'd been on the farm about a year the Senator brought home a white German Shepherd puppy, whom someone named Rex. A beautiful dog, and one we could be proud of, because our mutt Brutus was a pathetic looking thing, full of hookworms and sporting a stiffened back leg from a bad break setting by an alcoholic veterinarian. We called him the Running Corpse, because he was rather swift with the gimp leg, and all, but his skeletal form was off-putting to visitors. He had the look of a beaten, gunpowder fed junkyard dog, although he was actually very sweet of disposition. He was just, you know, tacky.
But Rex! Ah, Rex. A magnificent canine, who surely would grow into a sublime, respectable animal companion, fit for nouveau riche graspers lording it the fuck over the tarpaper-shack white trash neighbors from our fecund acreage.
But alas. After we'd had the whelp a couple of weeks, we piled into the Karmann Ghia one Sunday morn, my eldest sister driving, to attend services. And not just any church, but a fundamentalist woodframe of unrecollectable sect in Tusculum, Georgia, imbibers of grape juice, eschewers of alkeehol, hitchers of britches, thumbs under the armpits with fingers splayed, all righteous American Gothic preening under the guise of humility.
Because we were sleepy-headed children, who could not arise early enough most Sundays to drive nearly an hour for proper Anglican worship in Savannah. But to church we would go under penalty of the tiger-toothed belt, and at any rate this church was actually rather docile, not like the creepy place in Egypt, Georgia, where the elders looked quite decidedly like they absolutely craved, lusted to whip your naked buttocks so deeply you could see their turgid, anxious cocks bulging beneath their dungarees.
Okay, maybe I just sensed that, but that doesn't mean it wasn't true.
Back to Rex. Thankfully. Mercifully.
And so, as we five bumptious children piled into that VW, tardy as usual, my sister popped it in reverse and backed up, only to feel that bizarre wha-whump! as if we had driven over a croker sack of peanuts, or something. But that was no goobers. That was Rex, too young to understand the dangers of sleeping underneath the faux security of a wheel well.
And so we piled back out, like Keystone Kops, only nobody was laughing, because Rex had taken an enormous trauma to the abdomen. No longer the snow white pup, he looked like what I later in life saw to be clubbed baby seals, bloody, awful.
Instant hysteria amongst us younguns, of course, and we fetched the old man, who was inside with Shorty, our resident squatter and diesel mechanic (and what was Shorty doing at our abode that early of a Sunday? Obviously groveling for the only bonded whiskey extant in that dry county of a Sabbath. Which was probably why my sainted mother was not attending church with us, wisely deciding to play school marm to the naughty boys with the powerful thirsts).
The Senator, being a delegater, and decision maker, made us leave for church while he and Shorty would take Rex to the vet in Statesboro, about 25 miles as the buzzard pukes. We sniffled through services, anxious, only to find poor Rex buried by the time we returned. They said the vet couldn't save him, and it was a couple of years before we realized they'd never made it past the White Gate Fence at the end of the lane before Rex was either expired, or terminated with a .32 round in a gesture of humanity.
And so the issue before us today: how could a benevolent God permit such a tragedy to befall 5 little True Believers, who kilt their baby puppy in an effort to worship Him? I figure Jesus must have been sneaking a Kool outside the Pearly Gates (No Smoking in Heaven. They told you that, didn't they?). He never would have permitted such a travesty.
My mother said something about how He works in mysterious ways. Cruel ways, I would add. Never much of a fan of smokum and hokum after that. Felt a bit betrayed, I did.
Brutus seemed okay with the whole thing, though. Rookie, I'm thinking he muttered. All flash, no cash. Oh, but his days were numbered, too. But that is for another day.
"I'm afraid my parents won't die. And afraid they will."
That pretty much sums it up, Hoss. Wish I could have said it with that much class.
Let me go on record now as saying I don't like pizza, unlike 99.9% of the populace. I find it a pedestrian food, cold around the edges, hot enough in the middle to sear the fucking flesh of your upper palate. There is a scientific conundrum around that, but I won't bother to look for it, because I don't care. I hate pizza. Prole food.
Which is not to say I am uninitiated with the product. In college I delivered pizzas for all of two weeks. Domino's. Oh, yes. I not only helped support the grand Papist Scheme to take over the North American continent, I even helped fund some exotic baseball in the process by helping fund the Detroit Tigers.
But that is for another day. Herein the rub: there is no more freakish role than to deliver prefab cardboard masquerading as Italian food at night.
One gets the real feel for the corrupted when one shows up upon a doorstep with a double cheese large. There is a reason for the take out. Sometimes it's because the peeps work so hard. Often, though, it's because the situation is totally fucking disfunctional.
Wait: I forgot to tell you how I got fired: I was scheduled to work, and went on a trip to Cashiers, North Carolina instead. I needed to see some leaves turn. Didn't call in, didn't do fuckit. When I called back in the following Monday to see what my schedule was the owner/proprietor said "Who? Who the fuck are you?"
I deserved that.
Anyhoo, I had some weird scenes. Husbands slapping wives. Wives slapping husbands. Being accused of fucking the wife. And the husband. I had a pizza smashed in my face to teach me not to look at his wife that way. Had a dollar bill tip shredded in my face because I arrived at minute 31, not minute 30. Was kept waiting a half an hour while I distinctly heard sex being performed in the next room. The most bizarro freaks I've ever seen. For a fucking pizza.
Two weeks? A testament to my temperament, I tell ya. There are still three, four houses I need to burn down. My mellow soul does have its limitations. Even 20 years later.
The shit you find in your inbox. Click on Videos, Bat Day from 2004. Pretty much sums up my rather complicated feelings nicely.
Hell. Click on all of the videos.
Once upon a time, there was a magnificent silence. My blog. I had a few readers. Zombyboy. Rob Sama. Jay Solo. That was it. If not for these guys there would have been a huge echo chamber. I would have quit blogging, but for these guys, who gave me sustenance.
In the interim, they done well. I am proud of my homies. These fellows rock. My hat is always off to them. The poor days, eh, boys? And I still suck!
I've been discontented of late. I sit out on the lanai, a bit a sputum percolating upon my lip. Too thick to become drool. Just hangs there, coalescing, won't even allow me the dignity of dripping down my chin.
These are bad days, friends. One wants their spittle to run. A sign of health, I think. Like examining one's excretum for outliers.
Anyhoo, the spit don't run lately, but I have a plan.
It involves a bail out. Is it me, or has the Sphere become so choking, so boring, that it's time to bust a move? I'm not sure. But in true Romance fashion, I believe I can say, with all due diligence:
It's not Me: it's You.
We all have monsters in the closet, don't we? Those amorphous creatures that want to consume us?
Dad at 11.
SAT's at 17.
A scared girl at 18.
First day on campus.
First job interview.
Life is full of monsters, isn't it?
What scares you? What is your monster? I'll share mine if you share yours.
I can relate to this post. Key nailed it. A mere $95k to remove a guddam basketball of a tumor from a child's head, and the damned South Beach doctors are queued up for money before they'll wield the scalpel. Half of the citizenry of Mexico is on Medicaid. What the fuck? Where is the simple justice here?
Instead of taking pork from the transportation bill to get Nawlins jiggy I suggest taking 50 or so of those fucking Katrina debit cards from the filthy hands of the chronically fucked up, and fixing this youngsta. Just a thought.
Whoever used the site keys I gave you (and you are legion, I am a blogslut) and cleaned out that pingpornspam, I thank you. I've been too busy to even open the dogsex sites, much less cleanse the site of them, or smear the peanut butter where appropriate.
A partial list of actors I think are, ah, how do I put this delicately? Queer. Yes, that's it. Not that there's nothing wrong with that.
That Harry Potter boy
Samuel L. Jackson
Jean-Claude Van Damme
Harry Dean Stanton
The little baby from Look Who's Talking, Too
Beethoven (the dog)
Herbie the Love Bug
Anyone who portrays the Dalai Lama
So who does that leave? Clint Eastwood and Charles Nelson Reilly. That's about right. I think the Peppers would agree.
Back in Old Testament days, also known as the Age of Vinyl, my college brethren and I would take turns buying a record album, and then letting our bros tape it upon our relatively magnificent cassette machines, as stereophonic systems were a pretty good proxy for cocksmanship back then, actual sex being in rather short supply. One knew immediately where one stood in a friend's pecking order by the generation of your recording. Meaning, if you bought the vinyl, you recorded it to cassette first for yourself: the first generation. Your best friend got sloppy seconds, and on down the line, vinyl wearing out, clarity diminishing, all that sort of thing. So you knew if a friend let you record on, like, the sixth generation, you weren't really tight with him, and could piss upon him should he ever be passed out, with no great repercussions. At least as far as you were concerned.
I bring this up because my elder daughter asked if she could download a spurious file sharing program again. Now, we've had this discussion ad nauseum in the past. The last shit she downloaded so infected my hard drive with malware my diagnostics looked like Magic Johnson's blood test results. That tower is now a plant stand.
Kids don't get it. I informed her No Fucking Way!, but in the kindly, father-daughter, PG version. She has a job. Go Itunes. Go mainstream. Hell, go to Wal Mart. Pay yer friggin freight.
My point? Am I a hypocrite, because I engaged in a more primitive version of pirating as a youth? Maybe. But I think not, and here's why:
When I, or my friends, bought that vinyl, we also had the opportunity to buy an official, record label cassette at the same time. The problem was, the quality of an MCA, or RCA, or Capitol, or whomever cassette was so fucking poor it was absolutely disgraceful. Just sorry, sorry shit. Wouldn't floss my asscrack with that tape.
But one could buy a blank Maxell, or Memorex, or Sony, or whatever brand cassette of excellent quality, and record off a pretty basic stereo system, and have a very fine recording. Far superior to the shit the Labels were attempting to foist upon us. Espcially once the metal and chromium dioxide tapes came out. We were little fucking engineers, recording with great care, and producing some nice stuff. And getting fucked if we bought a cassette retail.
So, no. We weren't pirates. We were overcomers. Achievers. The Labels were the fucking pirates, foisting miserable quality shit upon us. Could've bought a better quality tape of To the Hilt in a damned chicken stall in Shanghai than what Electra was peddling.
Those miserable greedy cocksuckers.
That is all.
After that last post I felt the familiar stirring, and went down to the lobby bar for a nightcap. Alas, said the bartender, I've just closed up. Rang out. See?
No, man, says I, juke me. I'll make it easy: vodka, rocks. And slid a five across the sink where it rested, unobtrusive, for his picking.
I can't, he said. My boss is right there!
Dude! I said in stage aside. Juke me.
And he not only risked his job for that lousy five dollars, he Ketel One'd me. And tossed in an olive.
Man, Jersey is alright.
But to the point: as I walked insouciantly back to the elevator a fellow who had been sitting at the bar joined me in the elevator.
"Man, that was nice work," he said.
"We're all in this together," I replied. "That guy's okay."
"Got two fights in Philly tommorrow!" he exclaimed.
"Really? Who's fighting?"
"Me!" he said. "I'm a bareknuckles fighter. Man, I love to fight."
"Does it hurt when you get hit?" I asked.
"Man, I fucking hate to get hit!" he said. "I love to do the fucking hitting, though!"
I let the moment pass, and when the elevator dinged on our floor he said "Got two fights in Philly tomorrow!" Curious, I said "Really? Who's fighting?"
"Me!" he said. "I'm a bareknuckles fighter. Man, I love to fight."
I pressed: "Does it hurt when you get hit?"
"Man, I fucking hate to get hit! I love to do the fucking hitting, though!"
Yes, I'm pretty sure we could have kept that conversation in continuous loop all night, but I was already growing tired of the game. And my ice was melting. And I so wanted to come tell you.
My sales call in the City went okay today, if one considers okay having a $40 million account tell one you fucking SUCK! and I thought we had a DEAL! and you bastards LIE! and this is no way to treat your very bestumous CUSTOMER!
Actually, it was much worse than that. So bad, in fact, that my boss didn't even show up, claiming a bad back. Dialed in from 800 miles away, while your humble correspondent bore the brunt face to face. Fact 1, we deserved it. Fact 2, it was not my call. I was only the messenger, and you know what they say about messengers: thank them for their candor, buy them a really fine meal in Manhattan, then score them some fucking lapdances, for crissakes.
I'm pretty used to this sort of thing, however. Rolls off my back like a Sysiphean rock, it does.
Which brings me to my next issue. My customer in Charlotte, perhaps sniffing the unmistakable scent of fucked organization in the air, cancelled on me for tomorrow. And so I shall stay north, and visit some other customers in North Jersey tomorrow, who still like me, their day in the barrel not having arrived yet, and onwards to the Hovel Thursday. With luck and a poultice I can turn one of these customers against the esteemed company, but I'm more the fence mender type. At any rate come 4 of the o'clock I'm pulling the fucking pin on work. If anyone wants to hang in Ironbound, or Rutherford, or anywhere in this
godforsaken hellhole Garden of Eden I'm available. Shit, I'll even go into the City and see Lion King. An apt metaphor for the take downs I endure of late.
I've never treated this site as a web log, actually. And I thought it might be fun to try that. Hereit:
Arrived at Jax Beach for Sea & Sky Spectacular. Catfish called just as I was arguing with a parking attendant about a space. He wanted to see which way the wind blow, update me on Robbie. I was trying to explain to the attendant that when you put a sign out that says PARKING $5 I expected to pay $5 and park. She said the sign was no good. I said I could think of a slit in close proximity where we could hides it, so no one else was befuddled by it. End result? Stalemate.
Met Judy and her hub Roberto at Bukkets. Killer site for the airshow. Front row center with excellent food, copious alcohol. Very nice peeps. Bringing them to next blogmeet.
Met De Doc. He's not only one of a kind, he's so unique he's half of a kind. Does that make sense? He brought no weaponry. I think that is a good thing. He also chose not to diagnose my rheumy eyes. That is a good thing, too, I reckon. Must get him to a blogsult, as well.
David showed up in time for the Blue Angels, with his beautiful bride and their own little Angel. Very nice fambly. I used to aspire to such wholesome normalcy. I did. Before the clinic faxed my results.
Did I mention there were 250,000 people in attendance for the airshow? Everytime time an F-16 would blow by, or the P-51 would stunt, or the Angels would buzz the crowd, or the female wingwalker strutted her stuff, half the crowd, somewhat inebriated, would roar in approval, and bandy fucking A's around, and drip testosterone. And that was just the girls.
You know, I kind of like this weblogging. I've just saved $37.99 in adjectives, and I've saved that delicious metaphor that's been rollin' around my head (like a porn star) for a rainy day. I might try this again, real soon.
May I say that that unnecessary celebration call against Vanderbilt on November the Fifth, 2005 (Guy Fawkes Day, by the way, for we conspiracy theorists) was the most reprehensible, corrupt officiating call I have ever witnessed in 40 years of watching college football?
Fucking Ada. Of course. It's my blog.
I hope that bastard got a good payoff, because that motherfucker is fired.
Remember, as a youngster, the debates over which of the five senses one could least do without? I do. It was rite, rote, ritual. It never deviated.
I canna do widdout the sense of sight!
Yes! And then I canna do widdout the sense of hearing!
Yes! And then I canna do widdout the sense of smell!
Okay. And then come taste.
Bringing up the rear? The superfluous sense of touch.
I am here to tell you, sistren and brethren, we had it all wrong. All wrong.
It is the sense of touch that makes us humans. That makes us the basest of animals, even. Consider:
Touch envelops the entire body. Every square inch. Think about that.
Now consider: would you rather have eyesight, or the ability to have an orgasm? Call me Blind Lemon Jefferson on this one, peeps.
Or: I cannot hear you, and yet I can feel your erogenous zones. The tactile, the tactile, is what makes us sentient. Can one imagine hugging their child without feeling that sense of warmth? Shaking a hand without feeling a sense of conmraderie? Shall I explore backslapping, rib-poking, ass-grabbing, cheek-caressing, buttocks-fondling, hair-stroking, finger-kissing, hand-holding, arms-cradling, genitalia-sucking touching? And, by the way, most things stink. It is an endeavor to find something I even want to smell. Harder still to find something I want to gaze upon.
I state my case: would you rather see your newborn child, or feel it, caress it? Feel the soft give of your lover's tongue, or taste it? Feel a pet's soft fur, or smell it?
It's all about the tactility, Intrepids. If you can feel it, it's real.
We underrate the touch, relegate it to fifth string. Not me, though. In fact, this entire post has left me rather grasping.
So please excuse me whilst I go grasp something.
Roughly equivalent to the Horse Latitudes, or the Doldrums. A becalmed two million square mile area of clear sea and sargassum weed in the North Atlantic, surrounded by powerful currents, but an area itself noted for lack of wind, lack of aquatic life, lack of hope for windless sailing vessels.
I've sailed to Europe and back on a square rigger, and plumbed the depths of the Sargasso Sea during a diversion to Bermuda. It is indeed a rather nightmarish area, but nothing like the rudder-choking legends of yore. Although it was very cool Hitler put those Mann diesels in that ship, so we could putter through when the breeze died.
I liken the Sargasso to the angry red eye of Jupiter, a violent, massive storm that has probably raged for centuries, eons, shifting slightly, never going away. So it is with the Sea. It shifts a bit, depending on the currents, but essentially remains intact. Maybe some Bermuda Triangle ponderables arise from the lack of wind power, maybe not. Many a ship found crewless in the Sargasso, only skeletons, but I've seen birds eat worse things than manflesh, so that would explain that.
Why the Horse Latitudes? Because, when becalmed, the Spaniards would throw their war horses overboard to conserve water. I'm sure they kept the slaves. Columbus thought he was about to reach land when he hit the Sargasso, what with the seaweed. Fucking wrong.
Anyway, this is all because I was drifting off on the lanai tonight, and remembered a Jonny Quest episode, the pilot, in fact, from 1964, that took place in the Sargasso Sea. And I can't even remember what I had for lunch Tuesday. Strange, the mind.
So I was talking to Dax Montana today. He told me a joke so vile, so opprobrious, so salacious, so indecent on so many levels, even I won't repeat it. But since ole Dax vacillated on taking credit for the Acidman Dead Pool, I figure I owe him one (by the way, Dax: my readership is down 25% after that post. Instalanche notwithstanding. So take heart. I saved you from going from 12 readers to 8. On the upside, perhaps I culled some chaff from the base).
Short story shorter. I figure if Dax can post about having sexual congress with a girl's eyesocket surely he is man enough to post that joke.
Dax is a man's man. Afeered of nothing. Especially the delicate sensibilities of the distaff side of the populace. Right? I mean, right??
I do believe I've irritated CalTechGirl. Shucks. I was just messing with her. Having said that, I strongly endorse this project. I wonder, though... can the laptops be hot? I have an extra one, but I stolded it.
Going to run now. There has to be another pigtail to pull, or nose to tweak, out there somewhere.
Things are starting to gel. Not like Magellan, though. I believe he got his brains beat in before he completed his famous circumnavigation of the globe. But maybe that was Cook, in the Sandwich Islands, before they decided Sandwich was an uncool name when the local denizens speared you to death for your adrenal gland, and they renamed it Hawaii. Mebbe Ferdie just died of rickets, or something. I'm busy. YOU Google it.
The annual Sea & Sky Spectacular at Jax Beach this Saturday is the actual premise. Local bloggers Oyster, and Juan and David (no link) are supposed to attend. The Blue Angels, Marines storming the beach by hovercraft, it's always a pisser. And my blessed offspring get to see the depths I will actually plumb for a good time. I exist as object lesson. My contribution to the great progeny project.
The Blue Angels were founded in Jax, you know. They warm the heartles of our cocks, or whatever the phrase is. Always a good time. I am excited. I might even go to the fair tomorrow, and look for genetic misfires. That always stirs the loins.
UPDATE> Here's David's link. And here's a link for Juan.
Lest Elisson think my monkey issues are a recent phenomenon I submit, for your approval, a page from my high school year book. Primate vexation from way, way back:
And, no, I won't tell you what those girls scribbled in the margins. Other than Velociboy, and monkey love, were involved.
I read in this morning's paper that a thousand (a thousand!) truckers were cooling their heels at Jax Naval Air Station, bidden there by FEMA to deliver emergency relief supplies to south Florida hurricane victims. The only problem? No supplies, no need, red tape, some undefined government clusterfuck had them chilling. No Go. And yet these 1,000 truckers are being paid $443 a day by FEMA to sit around playing tiddlywinks.
Being an enterprising lad, I showed up pulling my little trash trailer behind the Blazer, demanding my $443, plus 3 hots and a cot. Can you believe I was turned away because I don't possess a Commercial Driver's License? A mere technicality, in the face of a pivotal and heart-wrenching travail.
So I'm going to Plan B. I'll round up some skank ho's on Phillips Highway tomorrow, and ferry them to NAS (yes, they will have to ride in the trash trailer. I once gave some hitchhiking girls a ride in my Celica in 1973, and never got the fucking BO out of my car. Hey. It was foggy. They looked clean at the time.) Those lot lizards should do a pretty good job of scraping a decent percentage out of that $443 per diem. And half to me. Those boys need comforting, and I'm all about greasing the skids in a moment of national tragedy.
I hate traffic. I really hate rush hour traffic. I absolutely loathe rush hour traffic in areas populated by absolute screwheads.
Case in point: some many years ago, when I lived in Savannah, where I was hatched as a young Velociraptor, I used to commute down Bay Street on my way to the ports. There is a stretch, just west of the viaduct (I don't know the name of the viaduct, or if it even has one. It is, merely, The Viaduct) at Ocean Terminal, where one traveled a busy stretch of extremely narrow four lane that proceeded past the flagship ghetto, housing project, in Savannah: Yamacraw Village.
The lowlifes in Yamacraw would raise holy hell every ten years or so about the conditions there. Now, I've seen some subpar housing in my time. Mud huts in Mexico. Thatched roof death traps in Jamaica. Hell, I've seen people carve a fucking cave in the side of the mountain in Madeira and live in that. So on a global basis, Yamacraw Village was what one would properly call Exremely Nice Subsistence Housing, compleat with government assistance. Two thirds of the earth's population would give their left nut, or their father-in-law's left nut, to live in air conditioned splendor like that. They even swept for wharf rats on a regular basis, I am told by a very reliable HVAC friend.
But the caterwauling would prevail, and the Village would be renovated on a consistent basis, only to fall into crackhouse hell within a year or two.
But I digress. Bay Street ran past the Village, and one did not care to tarry, not even for a malt liquor at the Rib Hut. But the drivers on that street, the locals, would drive the commuters insane.
Here's an example: I was heading home one afternoon, anxious to level my mood with a whiskey laced with whiskey, barrelling 45 MPH in that 45 MPH zone by the Village, when the asshole in front of me slammed on his brakes, stopped in the middle of the street. STOPPED. Put his car in park, climbed out, walked around back, and pulled something out of the trunk of his beat-to-shit Cadillac. In the middle of the damned road. Meanwhile, traffic was locking down behind me, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the southern evening.
Despite the mayhem he had engendered, this fucking pimp-assed bastard strolled back to the driver's door, eased in, and pulled away ever so slowly.
There is a reason The Bride and I called this stretch of road Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Stop lights? Optional. Right-of-way? Optional. Run you off the road? Mandatory. Stop in the middle of the road to fetch your crack stash? Mandatory.
I ended up doing three 360's in my Datsun on the Viaduct one morning on the way to work. Fucking crackhead lane-changed me into the concrete side of the 'duct. Got popped and pinged all the way down the Viaduct by cars in both directions. The only car that didn't take a hit? The crackhead, of course.
I was so shaken when I got to work I sought out one of my union clerks and had my first, and only, smoke of the rock.
The Viaduct. And the Village. I'll bet it hasn't changed a whit.
For blue crabs, that is. Fresh caught. I haven't devoured a crab I've fetched with my own hands in years. I make waitstaff bring them to me. And that's no fun.
I like catching crabs. And not body lice, either. Many a childhood memory hoisting the devil beast unto my dock.
Here's a conundrum: I not only used the dread crab trap growing up, meaning the fitful cage you only had to check every other day, but the basket. One ties a chicken neck to the basket, and pulls them up.
There are purists, and you know who you are, who insist the only way to catch a crab is with a piece of string, tied to a chicken neckbone.
And I admire your purity. You fucking Luddites. Fuck that. I crave crab. I'll dynamite a creek for the bastards. Neckbone on a string, indeed.
Although that IS how one teaches the chirrens to crab. Make it a bit hard. After you've caught a dozen or so with stealth, and skill, then one can tell the little fobs how to harvest the fuckers. I think it's only fair to teach the olde wayes.
I crave a blue crab. Always. Hungry. I may go crabbing tonight.