"Put down that Bible," she said, "read me some more O. Henry stories."



Blinded by the light. Or was it the rubbing alcohol. The man is working me into the ground, sorry I ain't been around much. I feel like a real cyber mute. Hey that would be a good name for a band, Cyber Mute. Not even enough time to touch myself. No hands free. Connection at home sucks, I can piss a faster stream than that computer transmits. Woe is me. Woe be being me. Woe be trying to be being me. I promise myself that I will not to turn into some other prick. I am only a few mood swings and and a couple of opinion morphings from becoming somebody else. Lucky I keep several selves in my stylish multi personality carrying case. If I keep giving a darn about work like this, they might find my soul in an interoffice envelope being wheeled away on a squeaky cart. AS for my blogging habits, that's how it starts, I know, the beginning of the end for a blog, first the person apologizes for the lack of posts then before you know it, the person types "I quit." I've seen so many blogs like that. Not me. I'm keeping this mare fare going until I die, I'll be old, blogging about my prune juice and my morning senior coffee discount and doing bumps in the bathroom at bingo night and flirting with the wrinklies. (Flirting with the Wrinklies is Cyber Mute's first album, it contains bonus tracks remixed by Skull Full of Poop.)


I wonder how many events in the last twenty years will be mentioned in history books. And for how long. As time elapses and leaves our sorry, self important asses in the dust, how many of these earth shaking events will get crossed off of some history book editor's notebook in the future?


Every day I pass a homeless shelter on my way to work. People wait outside to get in. I guess the place runs on shifts. They let in a certain amount of folks, the folks wash up, maybe they eat (I don’t know if they give them food in there) and then the folks find a bed and go to sleep. The front door gets locked, and outside a new line begins to form. These people who wait to get in the place – they are not being clever. They are not being sneaky. They’re not being slick, avoiding work, intentionally juicing the system. Some of them are mentally ill. They can not function in the world of Windows operating systems, ATM machines, mortgage payments, yard of the month clubs and all other associated horse shit. I BARELY CAN! I CAN NOT FIND A SINGLE GARDENING APRON THAT DOES NOT MAKE MY ASS LOOK FAT. But seriously, these people sit out there yelling, crying, some of them, telling the same old infinite loop type stories, laughing out loud the laughter of a person who is in denial or fear, they’re throwing up because of some horrible mess they ate or some horrible mess developing in their gut, some of them, pissing on themselves because of some condition. They need help. I want to give them something and I thought (really thought) what these folks might really need and it may sound stupid but here goes(also mindful of the fact I don't have a lot of scratch and barely have enough to eat at times myself, here goes) - shit like foot spray – antifungal athletes foot spray, socks, (these people hump around town all day in the same socks or no socks. I’ve seen them out there with their shoes off surveying the damage of the disasters that rage on their poor feet.) Lotion, skin lotion, SUN BLOCK – I know they must get scorched some days out there, sunglasses, anti-bacterial hand wash lotion, some kind of anestheptic for the cuts and scratches they get from day to day, mouth wash, bandages, this kind of thing, man – I see this one guy every day, he is straining his eyeballs to read the paper he finds – he has these old eye glasses that barely help – he reads a word through the glasses then picks them up and tries to verify the word without the glasses - up down up down go this poor guys glasses – some of those el cheapo reading glasses they sell in the drug store might work, man, some of those folding chairs like camping chairs that come in the sack you can haul around with you, somethin, I don’t know, wet ones, eye drops for stuff blowing around getting in their eyes, blankets (even in summer so they can lay it out on the grass) rain ponchos which are cheap as hell at Army-Navy . . .I don’t know . . . a lot of stuff at Army-Navy would probably help


"Hey, man! I want to put my dick on your glasses!"

The above quote was shouted at an old friend of mine through the bars of city jail one night by an inmate. My friend was about to start a career in law enforcement working there in city jail. Before you begin work there, they walk you through, give you a tour, show you around, maybe introduce you to some residents. It was odd that my friend would have chosen such a career path. Before he turned eighteen, he got busted with some weight, some paraphernalia and a whole sheet. He was under house arrest his whole senior year of high school. He was a wild man. He was a sponsored skater, he'd broken his arm, his collar bone, his ankle and he nearly exploded his eyeball out of his head due to blunt trauma to the temple. He always was kind of a stunt man. One day he was swinging on a chain in a back yard. Guys used the chain to pull engines. Attached to the bottom of the chain was a small, steel hook. My friend was balancing his foot on this hook, and he slipped. His body slid down the chain and his scrotum got hooked and ruptured. He had to be lifted from the chain and rushed to the emergency room. His mom was a nurse and was used to patching him up every time some sick, crazed stunt went bad. His mom was the one who set up the interview and the tour at the city jail. Last I heard from my friend, he was working as a pipe fitter and drinking at a country western bar and living with the night manager of the bar. The manager had a cat named Shiloh, and she lived down the street from the bar. You never know where you will end up, but you hope it will be comfortable once you get there.


makes you want to turn on the faucet and say hello to whatever comes out
makes you want to circle down the drain with your shower water


Sometimes he'd walk slowly up out of the woods behind a restaurant like a hungry old mutt looking for some scraps. He'd sing songs for the waitresses and cooks. He'd even do a little dance for them sometimes, it was always a party when he was around. I accompanied him to a performance of his one night. He trudged up to a bunch of restaurant workers who were standing out there before the dinner rush began. His clothes were tattered, he wasn't very clean. He began to address one kid, a waiter, but the kid walked away ignoring him. "I don't know what the hell he wants," the kid said to another waiter. "He wants some money to buy some crack. Spray paint or airplane glue. A girly magazine!" They laughed.

"Shut up, man. He just wants to sing his song," somebody said. He took a breath and got right into it. His voice did not crack, in fact it vibrated very pleasantly in the air, and he carried that tune, Rocky Racoon it was. He had real range and energy. As he went through each verse, his eyes moved from the ground up to the sky, big blue eyes, and his head bobbed a little as he sang. He dipped one shoulder, dipped the other. A couple of waitresses came out of the kitchen and lit up cigarettes. They took a look at this guy and started smiling. One girl dug her hand in her pocket and some change started to jingle.

He was a karaoke singer, he was a partying machine. He worked in sales before things started to unravel. He partied himself right out of his home, his family and his job. He never really hurt anybody, not directly. He never flew into a rage. He was rather professional about alcoholism. He never got a drunk driving charge. He never wrecked or got in fights or hit anybody. He just drank and drank and drank. A jolly drunk. He drank and sang. He drank and laughed until his gut hurt and his face was all red. He drank until his bank account was empty. He drank until his car got repossessed. He drank until he could not make his mortgage payment. He drank until he could not get up in the morning. He drank until he was out in the woods with the boys, making friends with them, telling them about it. He lost the wife and kids somewhere along the way.