The Life and Times

Icky Twerp and Slam Bang Theater

2009-08-13T00:35:36Z

Back when America was great, there was this guy, Icky Twerp, and there was this show, Slam Bang Theater. Begin nostalgia warm fuzzies in 3....2....1...

ICKY TWERP FINE DINING

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My Friend Phil

2009-08-12T23:54:51Z

by Brandon Busch - Originally Published Feb. 2007

There was a mighty warrior king in olden days whose

epitaph on his gravestone was "If I were alive today, you

would tremble." He would have liked Phil!

My Friend Phil

As I write this little tribute piece, I'm sitting here in the quiet peaceful repose of my small, but comfortably

appointed living room. Phil doesn't even know where I live, I haven't seen him for over ten years, and yet,

I'm looking over my shoulder, half expecting this nearly mythical man beast, this semi legendary musical

prodigy of the Texas progressive rock music scene of the seventies, my larger than life friend Phil,

to come a knocking. Fronted and illicit pleasure powders in his sometime larcenous but always talented hands, someone else's connived car keys at the ready, looking for a naive and trusting accomplice, for a night's worth of mischief and low crimes, and no small

amount of improper merriment.

Some people are more a force of nature, than a normal human being, like you and I. Phil, the mighty Phil,

was, and perhaps still is, just such a man. I haven't seen him in a long time, and I have quite gotten used

to living a peaceful life of reflection, writing, and contemplation. None of which would ever be possible if

Phil was within a five county area near me.

I have known stone cold sober snake eyed defense lawyers, mean and tough as the penal code of Texas, who would

rip their own tongues out with red hot pincers, before they would utter his name more than twice - and never his full name.

Phil had a way of showing up, like you had innocently and unknowingly channeled some west Texas demon banshee spirit from a Ouija board. Hell, at the mere mention of Phil's name, or the telling of some offhand anecdote of his often dubious, and sometimes, (OK mostly) unbelievable exploits, sane people still cover their ears and slink away to safety, he was that unpredictable and, well, fierce.

Some folks still swear he prowls the dark Texas nights, in a stolen black GTO, pawn tickets of musical instruments he's sold for cash flying out into the dark Texas night as he flashes that million dollar smile at all the ladies, looking for virgins to deflower, scandalous women to associate with, yes, and dope to be palmed, ripped, or plundered, or a poker game to be fixed, thwarted, and thrown, by nefarious and scandalous means.

Or perhaps if the stars are right, and your luck was running strong that night, it's off to a clandestine meeting with some fabulously famous but fast fading giant of the musical world, for an all night recording session, where you might hear a rock, country, or soul, or jazz laced rock opera and space symphony worthy of the Gods.

IPhil was nothing if not a complex personality. And one of the most tortured, but talented men of the twentieth century.

And one of the most torturing, as well, if you were in his sights.

I'm a good sized man, six foot two in my boots, and well over 200 pounds, raised in Texas, and I don't take

much guff from any man living. But Phil is the only human I have ever known, who could refer to me as

"his little buddy" and make me laugh when he did it. He was a bit of my musical mentor late in his career, an artful

dodger, a loyal yet scandalous friend, and a fearsome enemy to one and all.

At various times long past his fame and glory in the music biz, he was my bass player, then my body guard, my chef, but Phil always a boon companion. And prone to fits of extreme adventure, that always included everyone in the room, whether they liked it or not

That didn't, however, excuse me from suffering from his "unique" sense of propriety.Woody Allen once said "an artist makes his own moral universe". Phil certainly embodied that philosophy more than anyone I have ever known.

He was just drawn larger than most, with a bigger pen, with a few more flourishes than most of us get, all

laid out on a sheet of parchment sized to the Maker's own hands.

And he was, as God is my witness, one of the true unknown marvels of the music business, along with the

band he helped form in the early seventies. The name of which, I won't tell you at this point, because that is

another complete legend of rock in itself, a whole story of it's own.

This ones for you, Phil.

I had heard of him for years before I actually met him. Rumors of his prowess with guitars, guns, and the

ladies abounded in our small town. He was the one of original bad boys of the local rock or "hippie" music

scene in Fort Worth. He favored mirrored aviator glasses, leather pants, and tight fitting shirts that were

cut to accentuate his friendly, but intimidating appearance. He had a most disarming and genuine smile, and

piercing dark eyes that would melt most woman's resistance on first meeting him. I saw him play

numerous times before I was old enough to get into bars the "appropriate" way, and he was always the

showman, the jack of hearts, the class clown, and Falstaff, all rolled into that crazy hippie genius with a killer bear hug mystique. He possessed a quick hand, a genuine laugh, and a goodline of B.S. as well as a willingness to face danger down and laugh at it all as he grifted across the country in a rock and roll band.

Trained by a local Karate legend, he was also most formidable in a fight, but like most smooth talking

con men, a cool head usually prevailed, till he could size a person up, and figure out just what he could do

them for.

After I graduated from high school, I began to work with some local theater groups and musical talents.

Some of them were putting on a play at a local museum/theater, and it was a drug fueled insanity fest

fas far as I could see, from the word go. Phil was playing the lead in this production, (the name of which mercifully escapes me, it was that bad).

The whole play became a shambles within the first act, but Phil's fine acting abilities were shining even under these atrocious conditions. This was a man uniquely suited to carrying the whole production on his own shoulders, and looking back, I realize now that he never had much use for supporting actors, or stunt doubles, or well, anyone but his next mark.

The audience, however, always remained in a hazy place of indecision for Phil, because while his ego needed them, his Orson Wellsian need to control everything he had nothing but disdain for them.

Phil would only meet them halfway, (the audience that is). God help their poor unsuspecting little souls if Phil turned on the helpless spectators.

As the pproduction followed the flight plan of the Hindenburg Zeppelin and metaphorically burst into flames, somewhere in the second act, a stage propused in the production unnerved even the most adventuresome of the audience members, (I believe it was a twelve gauge shotgun), and when the blank shot went off in the theater, most of the now rapidly retreating audience beat a path to freedom, but one poor schlep just had to make his debut, and have his say, in the unscripted and yet starring role of audience member as theater critique specialist.

He stood up from his third row seat, and proclaimed loud enough for most people to hear, "This play sucks, this music sucks, and you suck, too" just as he looked right at our leading man, Phil.

At this point in my narrative, I have to rely solely on what I saw, not on the fantastical and "mostly" not

true stories that would embellish this farsical night with near slanderous infamy in the local music scene

for years to come, as to what actually happened in that theater, on that night, in that particular little town in Texas, this is what I saw, let them say what they will in rebuttal.

As soon as those fateful words left the unsuspecting theater patron's lips, a large, worked up, wound up

and rampaging Phil left the stage, bounded through, no, over, the orchestra pit, and then he seized the now wide eyed and trembling man, reared back his pile driving meat hook of a right hand, and cold cocked the

gentleman right out.

The poor fool fell right out flat over his chair, and went down for the count. As the man lay unconscious across

the back of the seat he had so recently occupied, Phil look around at the few remaining and now horrified audience

members, and asked "Do we have any more theater critics in the audience tonight?"

The cast party afterwords was a great success, whew, but quite lacking in representation from any members of

the audience, who had all chosen, en masse, to leave the confines of the museums fine theatrical facilities

at a most prodigious pace.

Phil was just an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, shrouded in lies, half truths, and innuendos. But he was

also one of the best musicians you could ever hope to hear. My own birth mother, who is a God fearing Christian woman and is hardly ever wrong about the real goodness of a person's inner spirit, LOVED Phil. Go figure.

He wrote songs that to this day, could bring a tear to the eyes of hardened criminals, and devout church goers alike.

At the same time.

I never met the like of his talent, not in Texas, not in Hollywood, nor anywhere else. Not often in my travels have I

heard more beautiful, more perfectly composed, gorgeous and heart wrenching songs played anywhere.

He was simply that damn good.

A genius I would say. A genius with a dark twisted need to tool and torment / enchant and delight his fellow man and woman, everyone of us he could reach, almost to the point of madness. But no doubt, Phil was a genius. And boy, could he write a song. Still, the lifestyle he chose cursed him to wretched excesses only kings and madmen are usually privy to.

Don't think I'm making it up.

Anymore

Phil White & Peggy

Of course, when I knew him, he sold every damn one of those songs for a pittance of dope, or booze, or even a handful of macanudo cigars. Every damn beautiful one of them. They were like his precocious children, and he whored them out like they were little innocent street urchins in a war zone.

I never knew him to own things, persay. See, that seemed to be beneath his voracius and Godlike ego assessment of his needs versus yours, or anyones's for that matter. His Modus Operandi was more like he engulfed, he nationalized, he more precisely, "obtained" things.

Guitars,cars, girlfriends, houses, he seemed to have had the grifter's touch unlike most I have known, and I

have known quite a few members of the grifter's guild, it's embarrassing to admit.

His exploits were truly mythic and bombastic, never staying within the confines of normalcy or redundancy, and in a business based on half truths, legends and hyperbole, Phil stood out, as a manic blessed Saint of melody, harmony, and higher thought in your rock and roll or county laced songs.

The man could play, he could write, and before the life he chose robbed him of his health, he was one hell of a performer.

He claimed to have met many of the stars of the old, now fading world, of Rock and County music, (insert breathless crowd noises here) names I won't besmirch with the telling, but most of them would cringe if they knew what I have heard, and that I am also a writer. No worries, it's too soon...

Years ago, a superstar legend of country music, young in his career, hired Phil to join his backup band for his first national tour, after hitting number one on the billboard country charts.

Unfortunately, Phil's first introduction to him was at a Nashville nightclub filled to the brim with record executives, and industry heavy weights.

So naturally, at least the story goes...Phil got so drunk and whacked out on a plethora of substances, that moments after he was introduced from the stage, and invited up to join them, he bounded onto the bandstand, kicking the country star in the shins, knocked him down, and smashing a most expensive show piece guitar to pieces.

You could say he had a way of entering a room that defied normal laws of, well, almost everything.

Phil was just too large for the little roles that most people had for him, and went on to produce a fine body

of work, most of which never saw the light of day, and more's the shame of it.

No one could possibly embody what Todd Rundgren called "the ever popular tortured artist effect" more

than Phil. Someday, I will tell you more, but damn it, now someone is knocking on the door. I fear I may

have called him from his morphemic slumber, and I now must huddle quietly in the back room, remaining

perfectly still, and hope he goes away.

I'm getting too old to join you anymore, Phil. But I hear you never stopped being the man behind the legend, They say imperfection gives the diamond it's color. And you my friend, were a diamond, all the way. And by the Gods, you were very, very colorful.

Here's to you, you amazing Son of a Texas mother. You will always be the one and only Phil, a musical genius, a wizard and a true star of Texas music lore.

"When the truth and the legend collide, print the legend."

Postscript Aug. 2009: When the door bell rings these days, I am a little less apprehensive, albeit a little disappointed at the same time. Word has reached me of Phil's passing. Peace. I could have gone to the funeral, perhaps, if I had heard of it in time, but how do you look down on a legend and a rascal of cosmic proportions in his frail and mortal death? I choked, I just couldn't make it. My loss.

Phil, remember how you said when you died I could have my custom made Leddy snakeskin boots back that you borrowed that night in Vegas? Keep 'em good buddy, I could never fill your boots.

You were fierce. Your likeness will not soon walk this world again anytime soon. Where you stood, marks, suckers and chumps and bullies will always tremble and feel a cold chill, and not know why, but I will.

As they say in the theater, break a leg, my good friend. But go easy on em. Phil. May you live on in a million wild mythical stories, each one bigger and more outlandish than the last. Only you know the real story, but now your voice has gone silent, for the first time since I met you all those years ago.

That's a first.

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The Rain People

2009-07-18T00:33:03Z

515937198_becf90697b

I saw them, and now they know, I know.
And that's what scares me...

It was about three A.M. when the storm hit.

Frightening winds, and a blast of rain like I have never seen before, hit my house like a freight train, and woke me up. I looked out the window to see what was going on, and I caught sight of one of them, from the corner of my blurred vision.

Not merely standing in the rain, he was made up entirely of the rain.

The lightning flashes just made his outline more distinct, but as my eyes adjusted, I began to make him out more readily, and to see others like him scattered about like chess men on a board, moving in abrupt and jagged jumps.

Never staying put, never walking, nor leaping, just ceasing to be in one place, then, in the
next instant, suddenly being too far away to have made that move by any means I could understand.

The Rain People.

They seemed to only exist in a space that dwells within the falling rain, and the more rain, the harder the downpour, the more of them I could see that night. Maybe they have always been there, perhaps I just never saw them before.

But on that stormy night, I saw them, and more terrifyingly, they saw me, as well.

They don't get wet, how can water become wetter? Looking at them made the skin on my neck tremble, they seemingly searched for eyes that looked upon them, and when they noticed me, they all seemed to focus on my tiny dark unlit window, till I pulled the shades down, and shivering, tried to go back to sleep.

But I knew they were still there. The incessant rains kept falling. The winds blew so hard, and then, the electricity went dead.

In our man made, and contrived world, we feel so safe. And yet...

You can't believe how fragile our existence really is, the puny human mind just refuses to believe how fleeting our pitiful protections are, till you lose them.

But in the dark, as I lay there, I could feel them, not apart from, but a part of, the raging and relentless storm, as they erratically darted and jumped from place to place, their presence never quite confirmed or denied.

But the strange sinking feeling in my heart had already told me they were there, and when I dared to look out the window again, I could see one of them standing right there, looking intensely at me, seemingly only a few feet from my bedroom window.

And just as my mind adjusted to the shock, he transpired, he melted, he evaporated into the rain, and yet he found form again, in a split second, a hundred feet away, staring back at me, through me, from the middle of the street, as the raindrops painted his presence in my view.

I have never been so terrified, and I still don't even know what is was I saw.

Who knows what primitive man was afraid of, when the winds howled, and the rains fell.

But that night changed me, and I must get away, I must flee. I know they exist now, and worse,they know I know. Whatever they want, I couldn't tell you. But a more malevolent and sinisiter sense of evil and foreboding I have never experienced in my long, and until now, uneventful life.

I must get away, immediately. At any price, any cost.

I have found a place in the desert., humble yes, poor, and shabby, but located where it seldom, if ever, rains. I am moving soon. Oh God, I hope I can get packed and out of this place. I fear more and more each day, they will be back, and I could never bear having to see them ever again.

The apprehension rises in my throat like water in a well as I type these words.

Even now, I am throwing all my possessions in boxes like a madman.

I only hope I am not too late.

Tomorrows forecast calls for rain.

I have to go, I have to leave...

-------------

originally published on the Internet April 12, 2008

copyright Brandon Busch 2008

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Henry Rollins hates dating

2008-02-13T00:45:02Z

Henry Rollins let's it all hang out. Happy VDay.

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With Sincere and Abject Apologies to Pedro Neavis Gonzales, Esquire

2008-02-11T18:48:02Z

Tg05

Were we really as bad in school as I remember, back in the 1970's? Shit, we were worse. Turns out, I was just blocking all the gory details...

The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. And also because I'm not sure about the statute of limitations on stuff like this...

Way back in the heady years of the early 70's, 1972 to be precise, Nixon was soon to be threatened with impeachment, we were all scared as can be we would be sent off to Viet Nam in a few years, M.A.S.H was a brand new T.V. show nobody thought was funny at first, (you see, before reruns it didn't have a laugh track), The Godfather was the smash hit at the movies, T-Rex was everybodies favorite band, and Derek and the Dominoes were having a big hit with Layla, and because of that very song, I wanted so bad to become a rock star, that I decided that year, 1972, I was going to Hollywood someday, and was going to make my name shine bright in those tinseltown lights as a musician. Kids...

I was going to school in Fort Worth, Texas at Springstone Middle School. No cell phones, no iPods, this was before CD's and even cassettes, hell, we only had records and a few crummy stretchy 8-tracks for music, for cryin' out loud. No video games, or computers, we all played sports, and that meant football, basketball, and baseball, (except the freaks, and we chased them around the playground enough for them to all get track medals).

The War on Drugs was just in it's first year, barely getting started, so we did manage to find all kinds of mischief to get into...

Just like today, I rode to school, and home again, in fact I rode just about everywhere, on a beat up old brown and green ten speed Dawes english racer bicycle, I thought I was cool because I had purchased a Brooks leather racing saddle for $20.00 new and installed. That hard leather saddle busted my ass for the entire 8th grade year, but it finally got broke in about the time I gave up riding to high school the next year as a freshman, because that was just not cool.

Anyway, it was spring, and back then, there were no air conditioners in the classes. Seriously, it was always hotter than the blazes in that building that late in the year, and nobody really tried to do too much in the way of serious instruction. The building was an old monolithic three story brute of a place, built back when imposing structures were the style. I remember it always smelled of sweat, piss, and fear, like jails and old schools always do, but with a rich overtone of old concrete funk and wet mildew for a finishing touch. The class I was attending was what we refferred to as "cincher" , that meant easy, because it was being taught by a wonderful old teacher named Mr. Gorge.

Mr. Gorge was an retired Navy man, and he was mostly prone to two things. Falling asleep in class, or rambling for the whole hour about just about anything that came to his mind. And let me tell you, that man had traveled the world in the Navy. He told us stories of faraway places, life on a Navy ship, ports of call he had visited, and really deliciously creepy and gruesome things as well. He had been a WWII sailor, and had served at Midway, I think.

"War is Hell", he told us often.

He had a thick latino brogue, but was as literate and well read as anyone I ever met. He introduced us to Joyce, Twain, and even Coleridge, which I'm pretty sure would get your ass in deep dutch these days, exposing young impressionable 8th grade minds to such literary scoundels as these men. We didn't have lockdowns, metal detectors, piss tests, or cops in the hallways, man, those were different times.

We had pretty much decided sex was gonna be really cool, but only a few of us had even been lucky enough to have experimented with it. We had also discovered pot, boones farm, and ripple, and could usually find some wino down on Vickery Blvd. to get us a bottle, if we bought one for him, too. And somebody or other's big brother usually had a matchbox of what I would barely call pot today, that we could buy for the massive price of $10.00.

But we were good kids. See, the hippies, the coming revolution, womens lib, and the Viet Nam War dominated the news, and we just did what the society, through the news, our teachers, coaches, and Vice-Principals, told us constantly NOT to do.

Nostalgia was unheard of, we all loved the Beatles, and we all knew they were gonna get back together any day now. Bell bottoms on our pants were stylishly huge, and were only cool if they were so big that you could not see your four inch platform shoes underneath them, and life was about as good as it gets.

The aformentioned hippies congregated at the local duck pond park, and did hippie things, but none of us had dared to grow our hair that long, and most of the local establishment either looked like Mr Burns from the Simpsons, or just like old country western singers do today, with greasy slicked back hair, long sideburns, cowboy boots, and a pack of lucky strikes or winstons rolled up in their short sleeve button down shirts.

Anyway, this particular day, the class was being especially unruly, and Mr. Gorge had had to call out two or three boys for a few minor disiplinary cautions. Yeah, I admit I was one of them, being the class cut-up and having a close friendship with one of the most wicked boys I ever knew, Bart B. didn't help.

I had a reputation among the teachers as a bright, but hard to manage, and easily bored pupil. Bart and I were semi-famous for dirty tricks and such, but we just wanted to have some fun, you know?

Well, just as we were being asked to stand up and take our fair share of the shame and embarrassment of Mr. Gorge's derisions for talking in class, the old crackly Intercom system speaker up on the wall called out..."Mr. Gorge, come to the Principals office, please".

He looked at that speaker on the wall with the consternation fitting for a king deprived of his chance to behead a peasant, but before he left the room, he turned back, pointed a massive fat and knarled finger at us, and said..."Stay in your seats, children, I don't want to hear a peep out of anyone till I return." Yeah. like that was gonna happen.

As soon as his massive and heavy steps stopped echoing from the hall, the whole class exploded in righteous and anarchic mischief. Spitwads flew across the room, girl's pigtail's were pulled by brutish little fingers, and Bart and I looked on with a certain sense of pleasure and satisfaction from so recently escaping the teachers wrath, just by the skin of our teeth, and due to nothing more than pure luck and timing.

Now, here I have to say looking back, that this was one of those days that changes a kid. Forever. Not me, or Bart, maybe, or the thirty odd students now running back and forth and up and down between the desks, but for two boys in particular, fate, in the dark and sinister form of Bart B. and myself, would soon lay it's cold, clammy hands upon them, and change their lives forever.

As I luxuriated in my crummy graffiti covered wooden desk, as only a gangly 8th grader can, I looked over at Bart. He had a particular demonic smile I recognized that meant as much as, "well how do you do, boys, let us bring some wickedness to the surroundings", on his face.

In his hand he held a tack, a single carpet tack, a tiny thing really, a small half inch type of carpet tack in reality, but in my long held tortured memories of that day, a mean and malevolent looking thing as I have ever seen.

Now Bart's specialty was incriminating other kids, and getting them in scads of trouble. He was the perfect angel to his parents, and to teachers and principals alike, and to most people who know him today, they would be aghast if they knew the real Bart as a young man. He was evil incarnate at times, and I felt awfully proud to be his accomplice in most of his shady games. He could throw a goofy face at a kid from ten paces, and you could place a good sized bet in Vegas that that same kid would get called out for laughing in study hall, while Bart remained stony faced like a professional poker player betting the moon. He was money, he was just magic that way.

But on this particular day, he had his eyes on a particular victim, more than that, two victim's, a double play if you will, and he showed that carpet tack he grasped so knowingly, to a poor lost soul of a kid named Chuck, that wanted desperately to be as cool as we constantly told him we were. Chuck would always be the patsy or fall guy for our games, he was a little heavier, a little slower, a little less sharp to see the dark side, the potential harsh consequences, of our sometimes evil childish pranks.

Bart leaned over like a practised card sharp, almost silently whispering something in Chuck's ear, and grinned maniacally, as he pointed out the intended recipient of this sticky gift.

Poor, poor, Pedro. If only he had been sick that day, if only he had stayed in homeroom a little longer, his life might have been different. He was one of the good kids. He studied hard, he wasn't a stuck up jock like us, in fact he was too slight to even play sports. So, why he was chosen I will never know. Fate, I think, just wanted to rip on him, and I tell myself we were just the messengers of that awful sharp pointed telegram of destiny.

And, most importantly, he was not sitting in his desk, and was occupied talking to somebody else, and looking away as the weapon of ass destruction was delivered to the sweating little hand of Chuck.

Chuck had a snickering kind of laugh, kind of raspy, and could barely contain his noisy glee to be included in such a horrible stunt. With the skill and timing of hitmen, both Bart and I raised a single finger to our lips for stealth and silence, then pointed at the exact spot where the carpet tack would have maximum effectiveness and total penetration, if Chuck would only contain himself, and stick that pointy sucker down in Pedro's desk seat. As we leaned back in our desks, and waited, little did we know we were changing two boy's lives for better, or most likely worse, on that hot May day.

We watched as the room became more and more animated. Would Pedro see the sneaky present we had had specially delivered to him? Would he brush it away before sitting down? Not on this day he wouldn't.

Silent like the lambs we weren't, we watched as Pedro sat down, right in his seat. He didn't just sit down, he landed. Many kids had a way of sliding into a desk, and if he had chosen that approach, that day, well, no one can say what might of been. Instead, he landed HARD.

He dropped into that desk seat like a heavily laden helicopter transporting a full load of something just a bit too heavy for an elegant landing.

POW! That sucker stuck in his butt, and it stuck good and hard. Chuck had made the placement exactly correct for a perfect, dead center career killing punch of the right cheek of Pedro's posterior.

At first, it was like those scenes in war movies where everything becomes focused on a single thing, and pulls the focus in tight, and sound is an afterthought. Three young hoodlums watched in first glee, then blending to a bit of anxiety, and finally heading into full scale alarm as we realized the awful and total effectiveness of this hateful trick, just lately played on unsuspecting Pedro, by our soon to be severely chastised playmate, Chuck.

The sound of Pedro's agonized yelping seemed to be coming down a long hall, a train tunnel almost, as the young scholar realized that something terrible had punctured his derriere. It was actually simply the doppler effect as his throat was being turned around and around by his head, as he reeled about to try to see just what was happening, you know, back there.

Pedro shot out that desk like, well, I saw a man shot out of a cannon once at the circus when I was 10, and Pedro was much quicker, with significantly more velocity, and simply tons more acceleration. As he danced like he had a miillion or more bees stinging his bum repeatedly about the room, gradually most of the kids in the class dropped their mouths open and stared disbelievingly at what was transpiring right in front of them.

Bart and I had already sat upright in our chairs and folded our hands on our desks in anticipation of what surely must come next. As the sound of poor suffering Pedro got louder, the class became icy still, and unearthly quiet. Try as he might, no amount of pulling, clawing, screaming or cursing, in equal parts Spanish and English, seemed to have the slightest effect on that carpet tack's tenacious grip on, or in, the thickest part of the muscle of his gluteous maximus.

He circled around and around the front of the room, grabbing like a crazed madman at his ass, shouting things I only thought I knew how to say at that tender age, as Bart and I exchanged the glance of warriors fully expecting a terrible onslaught of withering enemy return fire.

And poor Chuck just...sat there, almost unaware of his hideous, and rapidly approaching fate, for his hand in this awful fiasco.

Now I have heard, or read somewhere, that the bull elephant, and also the water buffalo, of Africa, are both said to "bellow" when angered. This I cannot confirm or deny. But the sound made by our sweet old retired Navy history teacher, as he walked into that classroom, and saw the one mexican boy in his class, screaming and cursing to beat the band, as the child grasped desperately at his own now twitching and spasming backside, to try and relieve the agonizing pain he was experiencing, could well and truly only be called bellowing.

How he knew what had transpired, I can't say. But he knew...

Mr. Gorge LOUDLY, with the full authority and tone of a man who was used to military discipline, bellowed at the top of his lungs in the direction of the class..."WHO? I repeat, WHO put the tack in Pedro Neavis Gonzales' seat?"

I will never forget that moment as long as I live. As tiny beads of guilt ridden sweat rolled down my forehead, I could barely move. No one made a sound, not one child chirped, not one student sounded off. But with the awesome skill and perfect precision of a Chinese Olympic drill team, the whole class, every single long since forgotten child, every single one, turned their heads, as if attached to only one body, and stared right at....Chuck.

My heart raced incessantly as I realized NO ONE knew of mine and Bart's very slight but still sinister complicity in the whole sordid affair. Not one student in the whole classroom had seen us chide and tempt Chuck with the task he was being set up to completely take the rap for. But two things led to his total undoing.

First, someone HAD seen Chuck place the tack right before Pedro's posterial arrival, and as Pedro danced the dance of the tortured all over that hot steamy Texas classroom, word had spread quickly, as only children can spread it, that Chuck had in fact, done the dirty deed.

And secondly, Chuck just had a guilty face.

The look of disgust, mixed with rage, tempered by outrageous and protective anger for a boy of his own heritage, on the face of my history teacher, will haunt me till three days after I am dead.

Chuck quickly realized the fix was in, and that he had been absolutely fingered by every single kid in that classroom. Including me and Bart. We couldn't help it, it was instinctive. We were just staring at Chuck in disbelief at our double lightning strike of luck, and his imminent downfall, all occuring in the short space of a few minutes.

The scene in my mind nows shifts to a slow motion sort of Sam Peckinpah finale reel, as the enraged teacher tries to both comfort and relieve the suffering of the afflicted Pedro, as well as bodily lift Chuck out of his seat by the closest earlobe Chuck possesed. This was a man used to the horrors of war, the strangeness of anything the far east had to offer, but he was LIVID at the shameful transgression he was seeing acted out in his classroom. As he put his arm around Pedro's shoulder, Pedro was drug closer and closer to the desk Chuck would only occupy for an instant more. Then Mr. Gorge reached over and uplifted the now terrified Chuck completely out of his desk, by his earlobe, I swear, and as Chuck just hung there suspended in midair for a moment, I couldn't help but think of a little squealing piglet, hung up on the butcher's sharp and merciless meathook, and I truly shuddered for him to the depths of my soul.

I shot one furtive look at the ringleader of this whole grimy mess, but Bart was perfectly and astonishingly composed. That dude was bad.

Then the words rumbled, no, more like exploded. from the incensed history teachers mouth..."YOU..Chuck...are in quite some trouble, my friend", and he let Chuck slip from his grasp momentarily, only to grab him by a more substantial portion of Chuck's now quaking frame, and drug both boys, both now kicking and screaming, out the door of the classroom, and down the hallway.

Even now, the aftermath of that moment is terrible and wretched to my memory. I felt awful, just awful, for the plight of the two obvious victims, Pedro and Chuck, but there was also such a surreal and bizarre air in the room at this time, after what our young eyes had just witnessed, that it was only just a matter of seconds befor the whole class erupted in almost frenzied and side splitting laughter.

Appparently the school nurse had been able to quickly assess the entire situation concerning the interloper in Pedro's bottom, and relieved him in as just as quick a fashion. His voice died down, just as the plaintive cries of Chuck could be heard coming from the echoing halls, emanating from deep inside the Vice Principal's office, as louder and louder Chuck proclaimed his complete and total innocence of any wrong doing.

These hearfelt but futile sounds were quickly drowned out by the singular and still hard to remember sound of at least 5,000 hard blows with a paddle being dispensed with true relish by the now also enraged Vice Principal.

Then the bell rang, and reality reigned once more in the classroom I was occupying. All the kids looked about at each other, and then scurried out of the door like rats off a burning, sinking ship. The hallways were instantly filled with that high pitched drone of sound that is normal between classes in any school, and I sped away from that classroom, as fast as my shoes would allow on the hard, slick, cement floor.

Perhaps, Pedro was not really as badly injured as I might have feared, but I never once spoke to him again, fearing he might know somewhere in his heart of my small part in that horrid practical joke gone horribly wrong. Bart and I remained good friends till college, but my heart was never in another scheme he concocted the same as that day, and then wouldn't you know it, he was the one who made it to Hollywood, years later, not me. I wish him the best, and hope I never get on his bad side, for he could be murderously deviant in his quest for practical jokes, at least back in the day.

I wish him well.

Poor Chuck was never the same. God willing, he will learn to live a more normal life someday, but I fear we put him on a path in life he was only marginally willing at first to tread. And me, I am just a wisened old man, sitting in front of a computer tapping out my confession to one of the most amazing, hilarious, and embarrassing events of my life.

Peace.

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With Sincere and Abject Apologies to Pedro Neavis Gonzales, Esquire

2008-02-11T18:48:02Z

Tg05

Were we really as bad in school as I remember, back in the 1970's? Shit, we were worse. Turns out, I was just blocking all the gory details...

The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. And also because I'm not sure about the statute of limitations on stuff like this...

The War on Drugs was just in it's first year, barely getting started, so we did manage to find all kinds of mischief to get into...

"War is Hell", he told us often.

I had a reputation among the teachers as a bright, but hard to manage, and easily bored pupil. Bart and I were semi-famous for dirty tricks and such, but we just wanted to have some fun, you know?

Bart leaned over like a practised card sharp, almost silently whispering something in Chuck's ear, and grinned maniacally, as he pointed out the intended recipient of this sticky gift.

And, most importantly, he was not sitting in his desk, and was occupied talking to somebody else, and looking away as the weapon of ass destruction was delivered to the sweating little hand of Chuck.

He dropped into that desk seat like a heavily laden helicopter transporting a full load of something just a bit too heavy for an elegant landing.

POW! That sucker stuck in his butt, and it stuck good and hard. Chuck had made the placement exactly correct for a perfect, dead center career killing punch of the right cheek of Pedro's posterior.

And poor Chuck just...sat there, almost unaware of his hideous, and rapidly approaching fate, for his hand in this awful fiasco.

How he knew what had transpired, I can't say. But he knew...

And secondly, Chuck just had a guilty face.

The look of disgust, mixed with rage, tempered by outrageous and protective anger for a boy of his own heritage, on the face of my history teacher, will haunt me till three days after I am dead.

I shot one furtive look at the ringleader of this whole grimy mess, but Bart was perfectly and astonishingly composed. That dude was bad.

I wish him well.

Peace.

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Some Notes from the Halftime

2008-02-11T18:34:01Z

Riverhawk

I just turned 48, and I made a few little observations to keep it all in perspective. Perhaps you might enjoy it if I shared them with you.

I'm such a lucky guy. I come from long lived and fiesty folks going back 3 or more generations. I knew and learned much from both my great grandfathers, and one of my great grandmothers. Due to my mother's remarrying when I was 8 years old, I had three wonderful and amazing grandfathers in my lifetime. I also sat and learned at both of my grandmother's feet a lot when I was young. Along with two great men who are proud to call me their son, I have the most amazing mother any man could ever hope to have.

You could say I have had an exceptionally broad number of ancestral influences in my life. But as I grew up, and got busy with the business of living, one by one most of them slipped away from me, and it seems looking back, I was too busy to hardly even notice.

Lately, I was feeling so alone, without purpose, so lost and afraid, I admit, I thought I was losing it. My life, my health, my career, my very reasons for living had come into question more than once.

And I realized all those wonderful ancestors, as fabulous as they were, were only just a few of the people who had helped me to get to this place in my life. Looking at my life, they were so many famous and not so famous writers, some willing and almost unwilling mentors, obscure country and western singers, long dead and forgotten songwriters, and not a few poets, even some grumpy old football coaches, long suffering teachers, and of course, all my friends, old and new, some now gone, dead, or departed, that had all infuenced me in so many deep and lasting ways, that I decided to sit down and take a little time off, just to kind of gather my notes for the next half of my life.

And make no mistake, I have not been an unmitigated success. I have tasted some sweet things some people can only dream of, but I missed out on other things so many people would just take for granted.

I have driven an expensive fast car on a perfect Hollywood night down Laurel Canyon Road, but today I cannot even drive an automobile. I have held perhaps more than my share of radiant and beautiful women, but they are all gone now, and I have never had one of my own children, to hold in my arms, to raise, or watch them grow up.

I have lived on my own beautiful mountain in the wilds of Montana where the explorers Lewis and Clark walked, but I never held onto my successes very well, and had to leave so many wonderful places like that beautiful mountain, in shame and disgrace.

I have at times lived in lavish houses, with gorgeous furnishings, and had in fact, all the big boy toys available to me, but I lost so many friends and family along the way, that those things, don't even rate remembering now.

Adn I've been to the very doors of insanity from drugs, liquor, lust for fame, and greed, but something, or someone, always walked me home, held me tight till the wretched fever was gone, and tucked me in, and I awoke to a brand new day, time and time again.

I never finished college, or ever quite won the big brass ring of fame and fortune that seems to be the hallmark of the American dream.

But, make no mistake, I have lived like few others I have ever known, and if I made mistakes, they were my mistakes, and I tried to gut it up, and fix them if I could only find a way. Sadly, most mistakes in life can't be fixed. That was a particular hard and bitter lesson for me to digest. So you just move on. And you keep on smiling.

But, I do know I will survive this period of gloom, darkness and despair.

This piece I am writing tonight is not meant to dwell on the events that have happened to me, but rather, to focus on what little tiny pieces of wisdom I have held onto like a drowning man holding onto a life raft in a raging sea, what do I really think, looking back over all these many years, made the grade to "self evident truths", and not just hoped for promises I told myself, or lies I believed for venal or selfish reasons, merely stupid platitudes I might say without meaning a thing.

I don't know if I can even begin to list them in a codified way, but I will attempt it, mostly for my own use in these trying times of my life, and if they help you, amuse you, or illuminate something for you, so much the better.

1. There are really only three kinds of people in this life : MAKERS, BREAKERS, and TAKERS.

I am ashamed to admit which two of these I usually was behaving like in my first 48 years. May I learn to be a maker for more than a little bit of my remaining years of life.

2. Stuff, things, or possessions will NEVER make you happy.

If I had learned this earlier in life, I might not be facing the trials I am today. So be it. I have learned it the hard way, and I have learned it well.

3. Even if hope is all you've got, hope is all you need.

When the chips are down, and it's a long way to a firstdown, much less a touchdown, hope is a pretty damn good thing to have. The very saddest moments of my life were when I have forgotten that, and I let despair of fear blind hope to me.

4. People can fool me so easily it's pathetic, but you can't fool a good dog.

I always should of listened when my dogs told me to shy away from one person or another. Invariably, they were %100 correct, every time. Dogs just seem to know bad folks from good folks.

5. Another person can only break your heart if you have one to break.

I have felt like an utterly tragic and silly old fool in the game of love so many times I have lost count. But, when I hear the stories of other people's relationships from men and women I have known or read about, I realize many, many people never once found that sublime and marvelous moment of perfect transfiguring love that may exist for only a flash, a second or two it seemed, but it was real to me, it was fine, it was transcendent. I will always be a fool for love. And I hope my heart gets broken a hundred times more, or else I will have lost something magical and unique in my life.

6. Words can hurt worse than brutal blows from a baseball bat.

God, why did I say those awful things? I didn't realize at the time they would hurt those people so much, so hard, and for so long. I must of been cruelly insane. Forgive me, all of you I have hurt. Please let me always be kind in my words. They have so much more power than any of us know.

7. The things I have done never hurt as much as the things I left undone.

So many broken promises, so many unfulfilled dreams, and so many of them are lost, gone and forgotten now. Until I fall asleep, then they all come quietly crawling back, and haunt me. Will they ever set me free? I pray to God they will.

8. The morning sun, shining on a woman's back, as she sleeps quietly next to me, is the most beautiful thing I will ever see in this lifetime.

I remember mornings where I just layed there, and listened to her breathe so softly, watching the sun illuminate her skin, and I was truly in Heaven. May I get to go there again.

9. Life is what you make of it. And up till now, I've just made a mess of it. But only I can change that.

Why didn't I see the clock ticking? Why couldn't I make the right moves, say the right things? Who knows, the first half is over, but I still have the next half to learn from my mistakes, and do the things I will truly be proud of, that actually matter, that make the world just a little bit more...right.

10. If you don't follow your heart, what could ever guide you in this world?

So many lost souls have wandered into and out of my life. But the ones that made it to something real, something fine and outstanding, ALWAYS followed their heart, and nothing more. May I have the courage and tenacity to do exactly the same.

That's it. Thanks for reading this far. I don't know how I will do it, or even what's in store for me, but, I have a game to get back into, this crazy game of life, and I am going to do things quite a bit differently in this, the second half.

You see, I still have quite some living yet still to do.

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Make Me a Millionaire - or I swear, I am gonna go on welfare

2008-02-11T18:19:28Z

Just a dollar, one measly dollar, from each person on the internet is all I want. You don't like boring poor people do you?

That's it. I am so tired of trying to make a big bushel of bucks the hard way. Working is for those that can't find a better way of making money.

I have studied the ways of the rich and famous, and they never take money from the rich, Hell no, they get it from people just like you. The workers, the poor, the ones that invest in America, the regular people.

And here's where you can help me. I have devised a simple, interesting and fun way to get me to the bottom rung of respectability in modern American life.

Send me one dollar, no seriously, just one dollar.That's not as much as George Bush wants for less than one second of his bitchin' wars, less than the latest rock star/rapper wants for you to watch him parade around like a stupid bling bling fool, less than God's self appointed main man Pat Robertson needs for his latest death threat against a political figure from some country he's never even been to.

And this offer is going out to every single one of you. You work hard for you money right? Well, thats why I want it. Thats how people get rich in America these days. They take it from you, so they wont be, well, I'll just say it out loud, poor.

From all of you, anyone of you that realizes I am right, from all over the freakin' pyscho-space of the Internet.

And here's the beautiful part, what will I do for that dollar?

Nothing. Zilch, nada, zip, not squat. NOTHING.

I will be the most fucked up, stupid, and shallow celebrity you have ever seen. I will go to expensive places and do expensive things, for no particular reason, other than that I can.

See, I figured out where I was going wrong all these many years. I was always doing something for my money, working, investing, creating, always giving some back...pffff, that didn't work for shit.

And then it hit me like a ton of golden bricks, what do the celebrities, rock stars. movies stars. sports figures, politicians, preachers, and informercial people do for their money these days?

That's right...Nothing.

I will run for office with absolutely no qualifications other than I am rich. I will go on talk shows and talk for simply HOURS about shit you could NEVER do, because, you my friend, have to go work every day.

I will run a major important company into the ground by doing nothing but fuck off and play golf. Any CEO worth his multibillion bonuses these days does just that.

And so will I.

Or I will pretend to be a movie star without ever putting out a single movie. Just like you know, Paris, or well, most of the celebs I see on the boob tube lately. Or even promise you the moon, while doing nothing but selling you out to the highest bidder, just like all your favorite politicians.

I might even tell you that I speak for God, and that he speaks especially to me, and ONLY me, while spending all that money I just know your gonna send me, on fancy ass shiny sharkskin suits, limousines, and the most bodacious baddass house, (make that multiple houses), you have ever seen.

I would do that for you, because I don't want to be a boring person anymore. I want to be that person that makes you want to hang on my every stupid doubletalk speech, every soundbite balanced micro statement, every vapid promise of more for you, while keeping it all for me.

Isn't that how it works in America these days?

I will piss all your money away toot sweet, on all the stupid things the rich and idle piss their/your money away on. But you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you had a hand in making me rich, venal, and vapid. I will be the proudest shining star of the American celebrity lineup. Stupid as the day is long...

And when I bounce in and out of rehabs like a Dallas Cowboys halfback breaking through a shoddy zone defense, I will tell the whole world how much I want be forgiven for acting like a spoiled frat boy with his daddy's credit card at a topless club buffet. In fact, to show you how serious I am, I will go to every strip joint I see, and spend like a crazed madman, just to show how commited I am to making you love watching my stupid pointless antics.

And if, no WHEN, I get caught acting so stupid, and appear to almost have to have suffer some real consequences for my stupid fucked up actions, I will beg everyone to bear with me because I am different than regular folks, because with your help, I will be bulletproof, I will be RICH.

But I can't do a thing in my present condition. For you see, I am poor, I am, well, forgive me, boring.

Wouldn't you really prefer I was rich and stupid, glamorous without having a clue, just like all our favorite stars, media darlings, and rich pricks? I know I would...

That's why I need your help. These rich guys and dolls don't do a damn thing but spend, spend, spend, and I promise I won't either.

This is one promise that I will never break. Send me just one dollar, (well better make it two, because all the rich and interesting people in charge of America have lately devalued the FUCK out of the dollar, so yeah, better make it two), and I will do NOTHING for you, and I will do nothing just as well or better than any damn rich sparkly darling of the bought and paid for media you have ever seen.

Thank you for your help. I can't wait to see me on the T.V.

And if I don't wave at you, don't take it too hard. I will be different than you, I will be a rich asshole that did nothing for his money, and that will give me certain, well, privileges.

Come on, send them two dollars. Make me filthy freakin' rich, it's the American way. Your a good American aren't you?

So send the damn money already.

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In Defiant Praise of Women

2008-02-11T18:13:45Z

As my esteemed colleague and noted author, Brian Roper, from our ivy covered and illustrious alma mater file 23 Magazine www.file23.com once said. "Dude, this shit is my escape valve, my release, my therapy!"

How true those words seem when I read the comments on my last piece "Wimmin, I dont waste my time no more on 'em". Frankly, I admit I was a bit harsh. On the ladies. Excuse me, I just had a brain fart.

l truly adore women, and wouldn't know what to do without them in my life. I was hurting, and I admit it, I was venting. But my feelings are so much more complex, so much closer to reverence and awe than you might think, that I must present the other side, if you will indulge me.

This next piece was written in response to a flood of anti-woman rhetoric on the Dallas Fort Worth Craig's List Rant and Rave section. I present it as exhibit B, for your perusal and pleasure.

"...My my my, there are a lot of bitter people out there. So what, I think life is too short to worry about most things I read about on CL. I recently told my girlfriend she had to move out because we were having some issues we couldn't resolve. Yea, I miss her, the smell of her hair, and her delicious body, but you know what? I still treasure the good times we had. And boy did we have some fun!

She was just the last in a sweet line of beautiful and sexy women I have been fortunate enough to get to know intimately in my long life. I was 47, she was 22. She acted a bit silly at times, but God, she had so much sexuality to share with me. And I loved how she wanted me to take erotic pictures of her. All the time. She blossomed in front of the camera into a beautiful Goddess, just oozing sensuality.

In my younger days, I never would of thought I would of had a chance with a girl like her, but I found out that young girls are just like women all over, they love to be touched and held, needed, lusted after, and then satisfied by a real man.

You fellas that can't find a girl, don't worry, if you have something to offer, they will find you. And if you don't, well, what do you really expect? And if you bitch about that, it's just your loss. Grow a set.

Get a life, and then you will get a women.

I'm not rich, not particularly good looking, not even that smooth a talker. But I am never at a loss for beautiful women. Yes, it's true, I am presently looking for another girl, or women, or lady, that can appreciate all I have to offer. No set list of things I am looking for, she could be young or old, plain jane, drop dead gorgeous, or simply a quiet kind of cute. I will be smitten by one very soon.

Because the hunt is part of the fun. I have run many adds on CL, and I don't get too many responses that meet my expectations. But I will, the next adventurous lady of my life is out there, just waiting to be found. Just be a MAN, that's the thing, and you'll see a big change in your womanly prospects.

As the French say..."Viva la difference".

Life just keeps getting better, and so does the sex!"

You see, I do love woman, every one of you. At times, I am just lonely, please forgive the bellowing of an old bull.

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Wimmin, I don't waste my time no more on 'em...

2007-11-07T10:11:45Z

Waiting

I am not the perfect man. I freely admit it. I think women today want WAY too much for what they offer us guys. I just don't care to try to jump through that hoop anymore. Hercules himself couldn't deal with the modern American woman, and he was the offspring of the Gods...

Looking back, I've had so many hot babes in my life, no wait, that must be someone else's life I'm seeing. Seriously, I'm just a regular guy, not very handsome, not very rich, not too talented, so it's always been a stacked and crooked game to find a happy, well adjusted, pretty, and compatible woman to spend my time with. But for 36 of my 48 years on this planet, I have chased the ladies like a piss soaked, booze addled wino chasing a fresh bottle of Thunderbird wine rolling down the stinkin' gutter right into oncoming traffic, with amazingly similar end results.

But this last time around I thought I had won the prize, hit it big in the love lotto. My last girlfriend was a true beauty, all right, young, sexy, blond, with steel blue eyes that promised nights of wicked and kinky paradise. And she was also bipolar (two years off her meds I found out only afterwards) but she was built like a size 2 sex doll, hot and horny, and she loved to do the nasty as much as me. Unfortunately, she had major and unsolvable issues with me, men, her life, and well, life in general. Can I pick 'em, or what?

Like always being a ticking emotional time bomb, like her and her drug addled ex boyfriend's 4 year old developmentally ravaged demon she-child, (that she screamed at constantly, yeah, that sure helped), like her love/hate affair with any illicit drug that made her stupid, insane, or hateful, and of course, her endless need to be entertained, wined and dined, and her endless bitchy mood swings. Instead of doing any housework or making any contribution to the payments on her expensive lifestyle, when bills had to be paid, she just complained she was "bored" and would run off with her friends. Or to her mama, the multi-addicted hippie freak burn out.

When she recently spent $400 of her whopping $500 two-week paycheck on "Halloween" costumes for her and her little fuck trophy, instead of helping with our bills, two days before my birthday, I snapped off, and kicked her out of my house. Good riddance...

God, why did I wait so long? Looking back I remember endless days of twisted emotional anguish trying to fulfill her non-stop cravings, that she threw at me day or night (as if I had nothing in life more important to deal with), or her complete addiction to those stupid $3.00 a pop "energy drinks", or her total inability to appreciate anything I did to help her, or gave to her (such as a new cell phone, a new laptop computer, and many other "trinkets" like $50 a shot panties, or me making all my buddies give her rides to and from her shitty little mall job when I was working, and just too busy).

She was like crack with tits, and I must of looked so fucking stupid, but, baby, I was hooked.

And of course then there was the night she decided to suddenly tell me that she had known for a "few months" that she had a "small" case of ovarian cysts that she just "couldn't bear" to get treated, and so had let flare into a major medical problem, and she was bleeding and in major pain, so off we go to the emergency room for 18 hours of nail digging, bitching, and hateful vitriol tossed at everyone that was trying to help her, including me, and all the overworked nurses, and the emergency room doctors, (which condition she subsequently would still NOT get treated, even though I had set numerous doctors appointments for her. She probably still hasn't dealt with it).

Shit, the list goes on and on. And the week before I chunked her ass out on the street she had decided she "just had to have a kitty, no, TWO kitties" and then left the little darlings with me when we split up, as she couldn't take them where she was moving to. (Of course, they needed expensive shots, and to be spayed. And I still haven't got them adopted out yet, thanks for nothing, bitch).

And through it all I just bit my lip, hung my head, and tried to convince myself how lucky I was to have a hot little sex bomb like her in my life, although a nagging little voice in my head said, sooner or later, dude, great sex or not, I was going to have to remove this little problem child from my life like a big ugly tick chewing on my short and curlies . But it got real nasty in the end. She sure didn't like reality much.

So I did it. I hated myself, felt untold guilt and shame that I just couldn't please her enough, knew I might never get a piece of ass that wonderful again, but I did it. I kicked that stunningly beautiful but hopelessly flawed wench out of my life. Took back the cell phone I provided her, boxed her shit up, and paid for a cab to send her packing. And even as I write this, she still has my name all over her myspace.com page proclaiming to the whole damned world that she still loves me. She wouldn't know what love is if it bit her on that sweet, little, succulent ass!

And the very same day, very same fucking day, (like there is a hell bitch phone service that tells these demonic drama mamas when to strike when we men are weakest), my ex-ex-girlfriend I had broken up with 18 months ago, (who was a mean drunk mortgage broker/real estate salesperson, a pretty, sexy, but deadly borderline type with multiple emotional problems as well), decided that after destroying my savings, getting me in deep dookie with every person she ever came in contact with, and generally making my life astoundingly miserable over our ten year ""relationship", she calls me and says that she "forgave me" and decided that I was, after all, the one true love of her long and miserable life. She said we were simply meant to be, that we were "soul mates" and she wanted to start all over again, fresh, and could she please move back in with me? Did I mention my skills at picking winners for girlfriends?

I told her in the subsequent 18 months that I had had to think about it, that I had come to the brilliant conclusion that we were not "soul mates" but rather "cell mates", and that I just didn't have the time, or inclination, to go through that particular nightmare experience again. I'd changed my phone number twice since we had broken up, but she always managed to find some idiot that would give her my new number, and as I write this she is calling non-stop and bugging the shit out of me, trying -still- to get back together again. (In fact, my cell phone is turned off right now because she JUST WON'T take the hint. Another new phone number, coming up. Stalkers, thy name is woman...)

PLEASE, God, sick these fiendish hell hounds on some other poor soul, I've had way too much of this kind of fun. I know, like vampires, these psycho-bitches from the depths of hades must feed, and spawn, but always, always, "why me"?

I hear all the time about women bemoaning the lack of the "right" kind of men to date, (or trick into the one way ticket to despairville for men that is the modern American marriage). Well, ladies, maybe it's because some other woman destroyed the souls of the men you cast your scorn upon, ripped their man hearts to pieces before YOU got a chance to do that fiendish deed yourself. I'll tell you the truth, guys, this old, ugly, bitter and broken man is through playing that rigged and joyless game.

Men, listen to me and heed these words of warning! if you are single right now, and thinking you are missing out on something, STOP, laugh, scratch your balls, fart out loud, grab a beer, and kick back and enjoy the best feeling there is. Freedom...

I hate the bullshit, I can can cook for myself, and I don't need the endless drama. When I need companionship, I've got a good dog, and if I need sex, I'll just call a hooker.

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