Fire On Crenshaw

It was a hot summer day in the North San Fernando Valley, Northridge to be exact. It was the mid-seventies and the town was quiet on it's way to catatonic. He was still wearing his hair long, longer then long, waist deep and riding a ten speed. As he stopped at the corner of Lassen and Encino, though he needn't because there was zero traffic in this dead spot, he saw a strange vision. A vision that wouldn't make sense for years to come. Walking east on Lassen was a boy his own age, mid-teens, a little pudgy and oblivious. The only thing that made the walking boy stand out on this hot day was the nazi regalia he was dressed in. There was no one to see him but the boy on the bike; incongruous to say the least.

As he grew older and moved to the city, Hollywood to be clear, he lost contact with everyone he knew from Northridge. It was a new era and punk rock was the flavor de jour. He was there for it and in those days the crowd was small and intimate. There wasn't a whole many people involved. Most of the kids he came up with ran for the hills as some post hippie sentiment about the corruption and futility of city life had been rammed skull style into their heads for so many preceding years. There were a select few who ran for the decay and there wallowed in and celebrated it.

The scene roiled and rocked, drugged and fucked, and there came a time where the two Valley boys intersected. How could they not. A party here, Slash magazine there, but the now shorn long haired boy never broached an introduction. They traveled in colliding circles but separate circles none the less.

It was a Tuesday night at the Cathay DeGrande, a shitty little punk rock club on El Centro, a block south off Hollywood Blvd. There was no good reason to be there except it was a place to be there it was. There might of been other bands playing but years and genetics would obfuscate any clear recollection beyond...

'I'm the jack on fire..'

It was swamp blues sung, howled and barked in keys sometimes close to their intention. There he was the pudgy boy from the Valley. The boy in the upsetting dress of past criminals. The boy held a microphone and had been transformed. Howlin' Wolf and Leadbelly, death and violence, sex and drugs...

'Let's go hunt Ivy... yeah yeah

Let's go get Ivy... oh yeah

For the love of Ivy...'





The two Valley boys were in the city now and the stakes were all changed and askew. It was mad music and though neither one was a real bonified bluesman, nor were they from the south, there was something lonesome and fevered about that strange music that they both related to and felt. The singer had never ridden a train at midnight or prowled a swamp, save for those landscapes in his mind, but those places were well traversed and real in both their pyches. Poetry and anger, mayhem and confrontation. Preaching the blues from a pulpit held together with safety pins.

'I went cruising down Crenshaw with a gun in my hand...

'Gonna shoot me a nigger just as fast as I can...'

The shock was immense. The imagery twisted and sad and filled with rage and confusion. The sentiment wrong and upsetting but the danger in those words was concrete and more then unsettling.

A few years passed and the cityscape changed. New York, The Palladium, the boy from the Valley watched as the other was now on a national stage opening for The Jam. Afterwards a forced attempt at a hello but the one boy's star was rising mojo style and he star studded right past.

More years and more time pass and now a common friend is gone. There is to be a memorial and much music is to be played. The two boys from the Valley share the stage, play together, share that music and conjure together. The circle is complete.

Some more years vanish and the Valley boys sit together and reminisce. The pudgy boy is pudgy once again from disease and is quickly angling for his departure. They finally talk of that hot day in the Valley...

It had been a hot day...





It was the mid-seventies and the town was quiet on it's way to catatonic. He was still wearing his hair long, longer then long, waist deep and riding a ten speed. As he stopped at the corner of Lassen and Encino, he saw a strange vision... walking east on Lassen was a boy his own age, mid-teens, a little pudgy and oblivious wearing nazi regalia...

'I was all dressed up like Elvis from hell...'

...and then he was gone...

'There's a ghost on the highway...'

Where The Angels Meet The Dumped Bodies

"You don't hear a word I'm saying, do you?"

"Of course I do."





"Then why don't you ever say anything?"

"I do."

"Really? Once or twice a week you or one of your illiterate buddies will make a peep but that's it."

"Well that's something isn't it ?"

"Okay thanks. But it's like I'm standing in a store window and everyone is walking by and no one acknowledges me."

"What are you some sort of glory hog? Isn't doing it reward enough in and of itself? Do you need to get approval and accolades to bolster your self worth and ego?"

"I just wish someone would say something. Is that so wrong?"

"Cry baby."

"Yikes."

Waiting For The Sun

"I'll tell you what, I'm going to do one more job and then I'm getting out of town."

"A little vacation?"

"Not really, I'm just going to leave town."

"Where to?"

"Doesn't matter, I just want to get of L.A. while I can."

"Things getting a little hectic? Just need a break?"

"No, now don't think I'm being weird but I think there is going to be an earthquake. A big one"

"Aren't you being a little premature. I figure we're not due for another ten years. You know we get one every twenty years or so and the last one was in '94 that means the next one isn't due for eight more years give or take a few."

"It's more like every ten."





"What do you mean? There was the '71 and then the '94."

"There were actually a lot more."

"Not a big one."

"There sure were. There was a 5.9 in Palm Springs in '86 and a big one in Riverside in '92."

"I was out of town for the '86, damn was it really a big one?"

"Hell yeah."

"But its summer now."

"I know its not January or February but the weather sure is trippy and I just feel we are due."

"This may not be standard earthquake weather but you are right this weird un- Southern California like warm and cloudy weather doesn't portend good things."

"And I just have this feeling."

"Are you sure it's not a psychic earthquake that is rumbling under the surface?"






"Could be, but probably not."

"I don't know about you but if there is going to be an earthquake I want to be here. They sure are scary but amazing at the same time."

"You can have it. I'll come back and take advantage of the low rents once the dust has settled. You saw what happened with Katrina. Its going to be worse in L.A."

"Whoa."

"Whoa is right."

Sweet Little Sister

She hadn't read a book in ages. Fact was she hadn't read anything, shy of the tabloids while waiting in line at the grocery store, in years. Every once in a while, when she couldn't sleep, she would watch the book show on CSPAN 2. Authors would read from their works and answer questions or lecture concerning the books cultural relevance and in this way she felt that at least she would have a little knowledge to throw around if she were perhaps interested in a smart boy.

She had been shopping at the American Apparel store on Hollywood Blvd. East, against her better judgment. While in the store she was confronted with what seemed to be lurid photos of young female models in suggestive poses. True these weren't the oversexed mannequins of a Victoria's Secret, they were everyday local looking girls but still she thought it odd that a company supposedly founded on worker's rights and fairness would resort to crass advertising tricks to lure customers. She had heard how the owner of the company had been sued by some of the female executives who worked under him for improper advances and sexual harassment. She in fact personally knew one girl who was awarded a tidy sum in an out of court settlement. With all that in her head she still purchased some tee shirts and undies.

As she walked east on Hollywood she came across a bookstore only two doors down. Outside the exterior of the bookstore was covered in books. She meant to walk by but she was intrigued by the staggering wall of books and so with nothing else better to do she decided to go inside. There were books everywhere, stacked floor to ceiling. It was overwhelming and disorienting. She was at a loss at where to start so she started moving back to the front door.

"Excuse me, can I help you find something."

There was a disheveled, hirsute older gentlemen, ball cap to the back of his head, oversized slacks and open dress shirt at her elbow.

"I'm not sure."

"Was there anything special you were looking for?"

"Nothing in particular."

"What kind of books do you like, maybe I can suggest something?"

She stopped and thought. 'What kind of books do I like? I guess I like books but which ones do I really like?'

"I'm not sure."

She felt embarrassed as if a fraud.

"Well do you like, fiction, non-fiction?"

"Fiction I guess."

"Okay that's a start. What are your favorite authors?"




She tried to think of an author that might impress the inquisitive old gent but nothing came to mind. She drew a blank. She wanted to run.

"Well do you want something current or classic?"

This she could answer. She didn't like much of popular culture so she happily answered...

"Oh classic, classic for sure."

The man looked her up and down, sizing her up as if for a wedding dress.

"Do you want something dense or more of a gentle read?"

"Gentle please."

"How cute. Have you ever read Raymond Chandler, I know some people think of him as man's author, but I see him in another light."

"I've never read him, what are his books about."

"Have you ever heard of Philip Marlowe?"

"It sounds familiar."

"Well Philip Marlowe was Raymond Chandler's iconic private eye."

"That's it."

"Right, well the Marlowe books are special, not only are Chandler's prose concise and powerful but there is a beauty in Marlowe's ethical code."

"Sounds cool."

"Cool, right." The bookseller laughs warmly at this. "Another thing that I love is that all the novels take place here in Los Angeles. He described our city like no one has before or since."

The bookman toddled away and went to a large stack of books and pulled one from the stack. He returned to her, opened the book, searched for a page and when he found it he handed the book to her.

"This is from a short story Chandler wrote called 'Red Wind'. Here read this passage."

She looked at the book and then read...

'There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husband's necks. Anything can happen.'

"Wow that is amazing. I always get screwy when those winds blow."

"So do we all."

"I'll take it. Anything else I should get?"






"Let's start with this and when you are done you can come back and we can have another chat. I'm being selfish, I like the company of pretty girls."

He had said the last part with such sweetness and with such a lack of perversity that she was smitten.

"And so I will."

The book cost her five dollars, he didn't charge her any tax.

As she left the bookstore she walked by the American Apparel store and she thought...

'I wonder what Chandler would have to say about this?'

She couldn't wait to find out.

Hey Didn't They Film Swingers Here? Part XVII

His small office was crowded and messy like all restaurant managers offices were. There was just so much to keep track of and with the place being letted out for the Hollywood movie folk that week there was one more layer of bullshit for him to deal with. Sal Flippo liked his job. There wasn't much pressure on him. The restaurant was well past it's prime and as long as he kept the bar pouring nightly he was left somewhat off the hook for the food services performance. He had tried to suggest a change in the menu but the owners were old and didn't want to upset their aging clientele. He once even suggested getting rid of Marty and Elaine and turning the whole place into a nightclub. He stopped suggesting things after that stern rebuff.

The restaurant had been used plenty of times for the movie business most famously it stood in as the 'Blue Parrot' in Jack Nicholson's 'Chinatown' sequel, 'The Two Jakes'. Sal had a poster of that film on the wall of his office. True, it was filmed before he started on there but it was still a source of pride for him and he brought it up in conversation whenever he could.
Sal looked over his desk, he had had Sunday off and he needed to go over that days receipts. Just as he began to check the books the phone rang.

"Hello, Sal speaking."

"Hi Sal, this is Kiki Morris with Brad Grey's office and I'm calling to check on our schedule for this Thursday's event."

"Yeah, okay, what do you need to know?"

"Um...right, well I would like to have a few of our people come over and discuss the details with you. What time would be good for you?"

"What day would they like to stop over?"

"How about today what would be a good time?"

"Anytime before ten tonight because after ten I'll be shit hammered."

"Excuse me?"

"Uh, oh, I was just joking. What time would they like to come?"

"How about three this afternoon?"

"Sure, no sweat. Just have them ask for me when they get here."

"Sounds great. I'll inform them, then I'll get back to you."

"No need to get back just tell them to bang loudly on the door."

"Fantastic, I'll let them know."

"Cool."

"Pardon?"

"I said, that's fine."

"Alright, thank you."

"You too babe."




Sal hung up the phone. 'Why are these Hollywood folks so fucking humorless?' Sal got back to his books. It had been a slow weekend except for Saturday night, the bar receipts were off the chart. 'G-d damn Marty and Elaine, fucking amazing, they just keep packing 'em in. They sure as fuck make people thirsty, go figure.' Sal got out his calculator and added up the columns, once he did that he began to enter the totals into the Excel spread sheet on his computer.

"Hey Sal."

Rene Navarette stood in the doorway of his office. Sal didn't dislike Rene, but he was wary of him. Rene was a schemer and Sal knew that because, although he didn't like to admit it to himself, there was a little bit of Rene's wiles in him as well.

"Rene, what the fuck gives?"

"Oh, nothing really, just in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop my head in."

"Alright its popped and now what?"

"Why you gotta be that way Sal? Can't a guy just stop by and say hello?"

"C'mon Rene, we're both a little too old for this toe dance, just spill."

"Shit you got me again Sal."

"Right, and..."

"Shit Sal, my car died and I just wrote a bad check to start the repairs. I was just thinking maybe you could give me a little advance. Swear I'll get you back on Friday."

"What the fuck are you on about? I don't even pay you. Marty and Elaine pay you out of their cut."

"Damn, Sal I know that, I was just thinking you might help me out a bit. If its such a big fucking deal then just forget I ever asked."

Rene was going into his wounded puppy dog act but Sal would have none of it. Having run bars for all these years this request was not one he hadn't seen a thousand times before. After being left holding the bag a few times he knew never to front anybody anything ever again no matter what catastrophe it might be needed for.

Rene had his head down and was trying to conjure whatever sympathetic feelings that might lie in Sal. Sal watched in amazement. 'Does this idiot think I'm going to fall for this routine?' Sal decided to play along.

"Damn Rene, that really is a drag. When did they say the car would be ready?"

Rene brightened, he knew no one could refuse him.

"Well they already started the work so if there are no unexpected problems then it should be just a few days."

"Wow that's quick."

"This mechanic is great."

"Sounds awesome."

"It's going to be like new."

"How much you need?"

Rene knew to ask for twice what he really needed. He knew Sal was no fool and would never heft over the full note.

"A thou'... rebuilding the engine"

"A thousand for a rebuild not bad."





"Yeah."

"Can't do it."

"What?"

"Sorry can't do it."

"How about five hundred."

"Nope."

Rene suddenly changed his demeanor. Venom oozed from his pores and he gave Sal his worst shit eating smile.

"Thanks for nothing Sal."

"My pleasure."

Rene turned and began to walk away. Sal called after him.

"Hey Rene, come back here."

Rene knew Sal would give in and he hurried back to hear the good news.

"What Sal?"

Rene stood over Sal again his mood had changed, now he was sweet and respectful.

"What did you want Sal?"

"Don't be late tonight, you were late twice last week."

"Fuck you Sal."

I Can't Stop My Mind From Thinking

"Shit baby, you're gonna like this."

"Fuck you, don't you see I hate your fucking guts. Leave me alone."

He shifted his weight to bare down on her. His foreman spanned her neck and he could have chocked her out if he so wanted. He glared at her, a smile forced upon his face. He would will her to come back. At this point he had nothing to lose and so force and threats made as much sense as anything else.

She wouldn't cry. She had already cried enough and she wasn't about to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her tears. This was familiar territory for her. Her father had visited this upon her mother and as a little girl she had been witness to it. How did this happen? Hadn't she sworn to herself that she would be different, that she would live her life without the violence and heartbreak? What had happened?

He moved even closer and dispassionately spoke directly and quietly into her ear...

"You've always been the only one for me. You have to give me another chance, I can change if you just let me, I swear. Remember how it used to be? We can be like that again."

She tried to talk but he was pressuring her windpipe and she couldn't speak. She struggled to move his arm but it wouldn't move and he wouldn't move it.

"We can get through this, I love you and I won't live without you."

She was sickened by him. How could she have ever thought that she had loved a person so filled with rage and violence? She wanted to kill him. She might have if she were able to move but he was in the position of power and it was her life that was in jeopardy.



"If I let you go do you promise to sit her and talk to me? All I want to do is talk."

She forced her head to bob in assent although it was really just a move to bide herself so more time. She wanted to live and be far away from him. He lessened the pressure and she took a large gasp of air.

She shrieked out loud a scream so filled with pain and anger that it could have startled the hardest of men. He clamped his hand over her mouth shutting down her plea.

"I thought you said that you would behave if I let you up?"

Then they came. A flood, a torrent and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Her tears ran to where his hand was on her mouth and she swung her head in violent spastic jolts, his hand slipping off. There were intermittent screams as his hand fought to silence her.

She struggled for her life, bucking her torso, clawing at his eyes and then there was a thunderous pounding on the door.

"What the fuck is going on in there. Open up, the police are on the way, open the G-d damned door."

The pounding was explosive. They both froze. The spell had been broken and he now realized where he was. She stopped struggling. He got up off her and stood by the bed. A tear of blood ran from the corner of his eye from where her nail had found flesh. The pounding continued. She covered her ears with both her hands and let go a low tearful moan. She wasn't afraid anymore, she would be alright.





He looked at her and realized it was over. He had really messed up this time. It had never gone this far before and now there was no turning back. He grabbed his keys from the nightstand and without looking back raced to the door. He opened the door and passed the neighbors in a blur.

She could only cry. She never wanted to cry like this, she was filled with shame before these strangers. She swore she would never cry like this again.

"Are you okay?"

Silverlake And The Goddess

I went down to the lobby of the motel. Redondo Beach wasn't what you would call a top of the heap tourist destination. It was average by the sea. It was a town where suburbia met the ocean. It was where sad met infinity. I entered the lobby and saw the desk clerk.

"You know everyone is saying the girl is washed up."




That afternoon we had a quarrel that sent her away. It was a dream afternoon. She was an angel with apple blond hair. I picked up my key and went up to my room and cried. I was looking for her. It was an empty room with a view of the sea. It was a deserted room now. I was looking for her but she was gone, gone.

I went down to the ocean and it was so dismal there were women all standing with shock on their faces. A sad description but I was looking for you. Where had you gone, gone? Everyone was singing 'the girl is washed up'.

I walked the beach alone and then I called for you and there was no reply. I sat there and tried to reach you on another dimension but you were gone, gone. Would you ever return to my arms?

On Redondo Beach everyone is so sad. 'She was a pretty little girl' everyone said but now she was gone, gone. So I walked down the beach. The water rushed high in the tide and ran up to meet me. The water ran all around the world but did it run to you? Where had you gone, gone.

Further down the beach there were women all standing with shock on their faces. Everyone was singing, 'It was a sweet suicide... the girl was washed up'. There was hearse and it pulled away and the girl that had died was you. You were gone, gone.



You will never return to my arms. You will never return to my arms because you were gone gone.

You were small, a pretty little angel with apple blond hair. Now you are gone gone. You will never return to my arms.

Redondo beach is a sad place. It was where sad met infinity. When I got back to the hotel the desk clerk said 'The girl is washed up.' I went up to my room and I started to cry. We had a quarrel. You never returned. You had apple blond hair. You will never return to my arms because you are gone,gone. Good bye.

Love Means Never Having To Say You Are Sorry

Busy. Busy. Busy. Busy. Busy. Busy.
Lancaster, busy.
Patti Smith, busy.
Golf, busy.
Sonny Be Bop, Busy.
Cubby, busy.
Martijn, busy.
Tomorrow, not as busy?

The Legend Won't Say

Tuesday the second day of the week to his followers the third for the chosen. Oh Tyr you Nordic rocker, for whom the day was named, how we hail you once each week. Tyr the Nordic version of the Roman war G-d Mars, Mars dies, they honor his ass, ergo Martis is Latin for Tuesday.

Quakers love oatmeal and hate pagans, they won't even say Tuesday, they say 'the third day'.




Greeks love the olives and I heard sodomy, for them Tuesday (the day of the week of the Fall of Constantinople) is considered an unlucky and shitty day.

The Spanish speaking world think Tuesday to be a bad day as well. Don't do anything permanent on a Tuesday or you'll be screwed. They especially think Tuesday the 13th to be a double fucked 24hrs, not Friday the 13th, like the rest of the idiots around here.

The fools here in the U.S. could give a shit about Tuesday. They don't heed the warning of the Spanish speakers, why else would they schedule all elections for Tuesdays? Maybe those r rollers were on to something.

Sufferwords is fine with a Tuesday, he just didn't feel like spinning wise on this Tuesday. You can bet he'll spin wise on the morrow. Or not.

Hmm what might be the origin of Wednesday?

Scotty Fitzgerald Would Blanch

Patricia Hobby was getting on in years. She had once been an executive at Paramount Studios. Her claim to fame was her insistence that she had suggested that Marlon Brando play with the kitty in 'The Godfather'. No one could remember her doing it but then no one could remember her not doing it so most people took her word on it. In her twenty years on and off at the studio she was responsible for little else. Patricia Hobby was best at getting and keeping jobs without actually having any skills to succeed. She bounced from project development to publicity to marketing without accomplishing much of anything.

Now the years had caught up with her and the new breed were in control. Actually the new breed had already been phased out and now the studio was filled with children. There was no more room for Pat but that didn't mean she couldn't still try. Every week or so Pat would call one of the few people left on the lot that would recognize her name and pitch a project. She had never come up with her own ideas so the project was usually a popular book she could rework a little and call her own. Sometimes she would just read a newspaper article out of the previous day's paper. Most often she wouldn't get past the secretary but Pat was wily and in truth her real goal was to get a drive-on, or even a walk-on, to the lot so she could get someone to buy her a meal at the commissary or perhaps some one to touch up for a little loan. The fact was she preferred the walk-on for her car was old and beaten.

It wasn't too long before that Pat knew every guard at the Melrose gate and she could drive-on with just a wave of her hand but because of 9/11 security was tightened. No drive-ons, no admittance, without a pass period. For many years she would drive down from her swank apartment in Park La Brea in the latest sedan but that was when she had a guaranteed contract. Those days slipped away and were replaced by project to project deals and then nothing. Now she lived in a little single in a run down building near the corner of Cahuenga and Franklin. The government covered her rent and groceries.




Patricia Hobby once had a pill problem but that had become expensive so now she just drank when she could at the Powerhouse on Highland. The bartender Rob knew her from the old days when she would come in to Small's on Melrose for a few after work and he would stand her a drink every now and then when she couldn't do so for herself. Pat Hobby was not a beaten sort. There was always a deal just around the corner. There was to be the big one, the blockbuster just like 'The Godfather' that would show everyone that she wasn't washed up and then she would drive a fine car and move into rich digs.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up. A friendly but curt and business like female voice answered with a short courteousness...

"Good day, Brad Grey's office can I help you?."

Pat tried to put on a younger sounding voice

"Hi, this is Pat Hobby who am I speaking with?"

Pat prayed she knew the business lineage of the voice on the other end of the line. There was one thing Pat prided herself on above all others and it was her greatest resource, she had an encyclopedic knowledge of the who's who in the business. Who had worked where and for whom, who was in where or out there. All she needed was a name and then she could find an angle to work.

"This is Kiki."

"Kiki Morris?"

"Yes that's right, who did you say this was?"

"Its Pat Hobby how are you dear."

"Fine thank you, what can I do for you Pat."

"Didn't you work for Paul Schrader at Universal when he made 'Cat People'?"

"Well yes I did, that's odd."

"What's odd."

"Well it was such a long time ago I almost forgot about it myself, why do you bring that up?"

"Oh no reason, I was in development when that project was green lighted, I must say I was for the picture but I thought Malcom McDowell was wrong for the part from the beginning."

"That's funny so did I, I thought David Bowie would have been much better,"

"Wow Kiki, what an inspired casting choice."

"Thanks Pat. What are you doing now?"

"Oh I am still developing projects in fact that was why I was calling."

"Would you like to speak to Mr. Grey?"

Pat was ready for this, she had faced this exact conversation with the aide to every Paramount head for the last twenty years.

"I think that would be premature Kiki, but listen could you do me a favor?"



"What do you need Pat?"

"Well while we were having this little chat I was really amazed at your insight and I thought it might be fun to run some of my projects by you first, you know just to get a feel for which ones might be best suited for Brad."

"Wow, really?"

"Sure, listen dear why don't you just leave me a pass at the gate and we can have lunch, say around one."

"I don't usually take a lunch...but, okay it's a deal."

"Great, see you at one, bye Kiki."

Pat hung up the phone. She would take the bus at noon. On the way she would pick up the Los Angeles Times there was surely a story in there. There had better be, she was hungry.

Hey Didn't They Film Swingers Here? Part XVI

Elaine watched as Marty pulled the Allante out of the drive. Elaine liked routine and any upset could send her reeling. Marty leaving in the Allante was routine. He was probably going to Pro Drum, or to get a haircut, things he did on Mondays. Elaine watched until the car was out of sight and then went to the refridgerator.

She took out a chilled bottle of Trader Joe's Garden Blend juice and then filled a glass with ice cubes and juice. She drained half the glass and then went out to the garage. She went to her secret spot and got the bottle of vodka. She took a long pull off the bottle and then drank more juice from the glass. She topped off the glass with vodka and then went to put it away. She noticed the bottle was nearly empty and she knew she would have to go to the store to get more.

Elaine didn't want to think she had a problem. How could she? She was happily married, worked a job, which at her age was a lot more then her friends could say. So what was the big deal? Why did she feel like a cheat and a liar all the time? One more drink and all these thoughts would disappear, they always did. It was her morning routine.

Elaine sat in the kitchen and drained the rest of the juice cocktail then went and washed and dried the glass. She felt strong and even keeled. She went upstairs and to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth. Routine. Back in the kitchen she looked around and took stock of any items she might need from the store. There were plenty of Trader Joe's goods still on hand and the freezer was full of frozen meats. Perhaps she could get one of those cheesescakes that Marty loved from the Gelson's on Hyperion. The truth was she really didn't need to go to the market except for one item and that was an item Marty could never know about.

The Gelson's was new. It had been a Mayfair but had become Gelson's the year before. Elaine told herself she went there because of the variety of goods and the service but in truth she only went there for one thing. She did her everyday shopping at Albertson's on Hillhurst. The truth was that because Gelson's was far and away the most pricey market around Elaine felt there was a less likely chance that she would run into anybody she knew there. Most of her friends thought shopping at Gelson's frivolous and they had told her so. Even so Elaine always made sure that she had more then a few items in her cart before she would add the bottle of vodka.



Elaine had a cheesecake, some fresh fruits and vegetables and quart of milk in the cart before she went to the liquor aisle. There were a myriad of choices when it came to vodka. Gelson's was class so there were fewer choices in the low price vodkas. Sure they had the Kamchatka and Smirnoff but they didn't have the cheap plain wrap vodka. This was fine with Elaine she would never be caught dead with really cheap vodka, that would scream desperation. Elaine grabbed a Grey Goose and then hid it under a head of romaine lettuce at the bottom of the shopping cart.

Elaine was careful not to go to the same cashier more then once every few trips, she needed to keep up appearances even with strangers. She got in line at checkout number three because she didn't recognize the cashier. There were a few people in front of her so she grabbed the Us Weekly and caught up on the celebrity gossip. Marty would never allow her to read one of these periodicals at home so she liked these waits in line.

When it was her turn she loaded her goods on the little checkout conveyor belt and moved to stand before the cashier.

"Why, hi Elaine." said the petite young cashier.

"Hello?" Elaine replied. "Do we know each other?"

"Oh no." the cashier said. "It's just that I see you and Marty play all the time and I feel as if I know you. You guys are great"

"Why thank you that is so sweet of you to say."

The cashier began to ring up the items making little comments one each on as she did. Then she got to the vodka...

"Oh Grey Goose, this is a good one. I love to have Grey Goose and cranberry don't you."

"Yes that is a good drink. I'm going to a dinner party tomorrow night and I thought I might like to bring the host a gift."

"Aren't you playing at the restaurant tomorrow night? I was all set to come, that's a shame."

"Oh, I'm sorry did I say tomorrow night, I meant next Sunday night."



Elaine shrank, she couldn't wait to get away but felt a need to cover her tracks. She looked behind her and to her dismay there was no one else in line.

"Elaine, I hope you don't mind if I call you by your first name, my name is Debby" she smiled and pointed to her name tag, "Anyways I was wondering, what's the story with that cool bass player."

Elaine was happy to change the subject.

"Oh you mean Rene, he's a nice kid, I suppose."

Elaine paid with cash as she always did, she didn't need a credit card receipt for Marty to find.

"Well Debby I have to go, we'd love to see you, be sure and say hi if you come."

With that Elaine grabbed her shopping bag and went to move away. She had only gotten a few steps...

"Elaine..."

She turned, her head filled with fear...

"Your change..."

Elaine came back and took the thirty seven cents from the metal change dispenser.

Elaine sat in the kitchen and breathed a big sigh of relief. It would be a little while until Marty got back perhaps she had time to go the garage.

Sunday Is For Loving Germs

The streetlight had already been shot out so that was one less thing to do. The porch light was as easy as unscrewing the bulb and when that was done the entire house was shrouded in darkness. There was no moon and his black clothing made him virtually invisible. You needed to be a phantom when going out for a creepy crawl.

There were no lights visible coming from inside the house, no cars in the driveway and the garage was empty too. He was alright if no one was home, true it was more exciting when there was a sleeping body hiding somewhere inside but it was fun either way. He let himself in through a side gate and made his way around the house to the backyard. There was a leaf covered swimming pool barely visible in the blackness, it looked as if a lagoon, dark and mysterious. What would it be like to wade in that murky water, to go to the bottom and stay there forever?

He tried a large sliding glass door but it was secured. He tried a door that usually lead to a utility or laundry room but it too wouldn't budge. This is where the fun started. There was a window, a smaller window about chest high closer to the side of the house, perhaps a bathroom, he tried it and it moved. He retrieved a lawn chair and set it before the window then used it to boost himself.

He was right it was a bathroom and he struggled to get inside the small opening. As his upper torso entered the house he looked down and saw that he was over the bathroom sink. This could be troublesome. If there were someone inside the odds of knocking over a toothbrush or water glass alerting them to the coming danger was escalated. He dropped in supporting his weight with his arms on the sides of the sink as he wriggled the rest of his body inside.

He was now safely inside and had not caused the stir he had feared. His blood started to boil with that adrenalin he so craved. He started out of the bathroom feeling along the walls to guide himself in the darkness. He was walking down a hall and so as he passed he checked each bedroom and they were, as he had presumed, empty. His pulse began to slow and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The house was empty and now he was in the living room. He made his way to the entertainment system and found the stereo. He turned it on and then pulled a CD from his pocket. He placed the CD in the player and then turned the volume up most all the way. Then he hit play...




It's Sunday and the streets aren't clear
The traffic's screaming
but we can't hear
The sounds...the metals...
driving us mad...
The sounds...the metals...
driving us mad...
We must bleed, we must bleed,
we must bleed

The crash as the bottle breaks
Flashes it will through my veins
The pain...the colors...
making me sane...
The pain...the colors...
making me sane...
the pain...the colors...
making me sane...
We must bleed, we must bleed,
we must bleed

I'm not one I'm two, I'm not one
I'm two, I'm not one I'm two
I want out now, I want out now
I want out now now now now now
now now now...

My Mother The Car

"You know how it just never stops..."

"Yeah, I can personally attest to that."

The waiter came to the table and then stood over them trying his best to ruin whatever good feeling they might have enjoyed up to that point. He attempted to grab one of the half eaten plates of food.

"Whoa pal, I'm not done with that."

"Right, can I get you anything else maybe dessert?"

"Not right now we'll let you know when we finish our meal."

The waiter stared for a second not betraying any emotion then turned on his heels and walked briskly away.

"Dude, that guy is a freak."

"What is it with these people? I mean I suppose there might be worse things in the world then being a waiter but damn if that is the job that you are doing you may as well just mellow out and be nice to folks."

"Its like they are so pissed at having to do it that they want to take it out on everybody they serve. I mean if it sucks that bad why doesn't he just get a job where he doesn't have to interact with people."

"Right, especially when their behavior directly influences how much dough they make. Fuck if I'm going to give this guy a big tip."

"Yeah, I always think the same thing when I get a bad waiter but then, being such the softie that I am, I think oh shit what if the guy's girl just dumped him or his dog died or some such shit and I always end up ponying up the usual twenty percent."

"Fuck that noise, this guy is getting ten percent max."

"Don't do that because then I'll trip and end up paying an extra ten making my contribution 3/4's of the total tip."





"You can do what you will but dude doesn't deserve the tip."

"Okay let's do this. We'll start over and judging his service or behavior or whatever we will make a common decision on how much the tip is. If he comes back like gangbusters and rules the world then he's getting twenty. If he stays mister negative harsh toke bummer dude he gets the ten...deal?"

"Deal."

They went about finishing the meal and whenever an opportunity arose, more water, more bread, a busboy took care of it. The truth was they didn't see the waiter at all. When they were obviously done their plates were removed and without their notice the waiter appeared at their table. He just stood there saying nothing. They waited in judgment but nothing. Finally they broke.

"Can we have the check please."

Once again the waiter quickly turned on his heels and was gone.

"Okay that was bad right? No tip."

"What do you mean all he did was stand there."

"He didn't ask us how our meal was or if we wanted coffee or dessert."

"If you remember you said we'd let him know if we wanted anything else."

"Fuck that its his job to ask us."

"First you want it one way then the other."

"Who's side are you on here?"

"Now we are taking sides? I thought we were going to make a decision based on facts."

The waiter brought the check and before he could leave...

"Excuse me for asking but are you alright?"

"Alright, what do you mean?"

"Like is there something troubling you?"

"Listen guys I don't want to go into it if you could just pay the check then I can go home and this day will be over."

"Okay, okay. Didn't mean to pry."

The waiter forced a weak smile and took the check and money with him.





"Twenty percent bro."

"No way ten."

"Twenty."

"Ten."

"Twenty."

"Fuck it fifteen."

"Fifteen?"

"Yeah, fifteen."

"Life is all about compromise isn't it?"

"Fifteen it is."

A Lizard Licking His Eyeballs

Richard Wayne Penniman sat at the kitchen table as a myriad of film technicians ran this way and that.

"Now you see I was playing with John Coltrane and Wes Montgomery and you know Maurice James was playing with us, that was before he called himself Hendrix you see."

The commercial shoot had been arduous but Little Richard never made a fuss. He was made to be 'Little Richard' over and over again as the director tried, with a lack of skill or finesse, to coerce an agency approved take. In truth every take Little Richard did was magic. He was in fact Little Richard and there would never come another of his likes.

"You know I'm an Indian, yes I am, I'm Mohican and I'm also Jewish. I'm the last Mohican."

Much attention was paid to his hair piece that was unruly by design but a wholly independent beast on this day.

"Oh I wear a much higher hair when I perform. I gave up playing a few years ago but you see, there are so many people that I support that I couldn't just stop and leave them without jobs. These people have been with me for years you see."

The script called for Little Richard to say the lines 'Mashed potatoes, Gravy and Cranberry Sauce' with great gusto and so he did. Sometimes singing, giving his trade mark whoooo-hoo as the tag. By the fortieth take he became somewhat confused but always blamed himself if the take went awry. Truth was he had nailed the scene twenty times earlier but the director and the agency just wouldn't stop pushing.



There was a break as the agency people huddled with the director and the creatives. Little Richard was affable telling stories about a childhood friend Percy having a ball rhyming Mercy with Percy and then going on to talk freely and openly about the loss of his close friend Billy Preston. There was to be a grand memorial at the Forum in Los Angeles later in the month and Richard told of how great the event would be.

"You see I was on the phone with Paul McCartney, you know the Beatles were my backing band in England, oh and Mick Jagger and Elton John..."

The crew was called back to their positions and before the next take the senior creative asked one of the junior executives to give Little Richard a line reading. The junior executive was a nerdy looking late twenties guy, sandals and shorts. A want to be frat boy.

"Richard try it this way..."

In his most stereotypical black preacher voice he lampooned the lines...

"MMMMashed Po-Ta-Toooes...Grrrraaavy annd Cranberrrry Sauce..."

The crew shrunk in embarrassment as the creatives laughed and smiled at their cleverness.

This was Little Richard for G-d's sake. Beyond a legend but a national and world treasure. The crew gave each other looks and grieved at the humiliation that Little Richard in his generosity refused to notice.

Little Richard mimicked the junior's reading, it stunk, it was forced, it was not Little Richard.






As the insensitive director pushed Little Richard harder and harder, through fifty odd takes and more, it started to take a toll and he became frustrated and filled with self doubt and his performance deteriorated.

At the end of the shoot Little Richard was made to pose for snapshots, and did so without hesitation, for those who neither understood his majesty nor cared.

Who Said That?

"No good turns goes...ummm...?"

"You can lead a horse to...uh...?"

"A rolling stone gathers no...?

"Only the good die...wait, I...?"

"Loose lips sink...sink...shit...?."

"This is the first day of the rest of...dammit...?"

"Only mad dogs and Englishmen...stay out in... the noonday...I got it, I got it...noonday...fuck...?"

"Good fences make good...tip of my tongue it is, tip of my...bloody hell...?"

"If you can't beat em...you...you..you..oh no not again...?

Hey dude pass that doobie.



Sufferwords offers his apologies.

North East West South

"Remember when fruit
was cheap?"



"I know. Do you believe what they're getting for a head of lettuce?"






The supermarket was overflowing with fruits and vegetables of every manner. As they stood before the broccoli stalks the sound of thunder disturbed the soft rock playing on the store's P.A. -

"That is the weirdest thing do you hear that? Its thunder."

As she said this the broccoli was misted by water from an invisible automatic sprinkler system. As they looked around they saw all the fresh greens being wetted under the same circumstance.

"Wow. That's neat. They warn you about the spraying by playing the sound of thunder."

"I guess so but it doesn't justify the price of this stuff. My G-d how do the poor folks do it?"




"They probably don't. They can only afford the processed food."

"I know all that processed shit has high fructose corn syrup in it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. What happened is that when they bio engineered corn, I think they spliced a fish to it or something but the point is they have all this genetically modified corn and they don't have a use for it so they turn it into sugar."

"Shit."

"And if you look on labels for the contents you can see they put that crap in everything. In bread, ketchup, soda pop, I mean its in everything you can't escape it."

"That sucks."

"Why do you think Americans are ballooning into obese freaks of nature?"

"I wish it was like the old days, you know during World War Two Americans had victory gardens, grew their own vegetables."

"I know and come to think of it we are at war, maybe they should grow victory gardens now."

"They tried that in South Central."

"What happened?"

"A bunch of poor folks in South Central started a garden and it beacme the biggest urban food garden in the nation."

"Wow that's amazing."




"It was."

"What do you mean was?"

"They got kicked off the land by a developer."

"That is terrible."

"I know. Makes me think."

"You know what?"

"What?"

"We really are at war, but not with the Iraqis."

"You're right fuck em."

"Yeah, fuck em."

You Have To Move Out

"You always talk to me like I'm not doing anything."

"What on earth do you mean? All I've said was how was your day at work."

"I have to get my own place."

"Then go ahead you have two weeks."

He placed the quarters he had retrieved for her laundry and the lotion he had purchased at the store for her on the desk.

"It's like were married." She said as she blew on her nails to dry a fresh coat of nail polish.

She waved her arms in circles and then again blew on the nails. He understood but didn't understand what she was doing. As she left to go to the laundry room he stopped and considered what had transpired. They never really argued but at times being in such close quarters became a task. He knew he was capable of saying things that he would regret later and that his apologies, although sincere, were no remedy for some of the things that escaped from his mouth.

After her return she disappeared and he heard the hair dryer blowing loud from the bathroom. Was she drying her hair or her nails? She came out and her hair was dry.

"Babe have you seen my keys?"

This always frustrated him. It was one of those little things. Not a deal breaker but just one of those things that you either except or let drive you mad.



"There are only two places they should be. In the wicker basket or in your purse."

They were in neither.

He began to search the apartment when she lazily pronounced.

"Oh here they are."

The keys were on the bed just where she had thrown them down.

"Can you put some music on?"

"Sure babe."

He opened her ipod onto the computer and looked for something he might play to change her mood to his side. It was his side that needed changing but it wouldn't hurt if he calmed her first. He knew to play something of hers for if he were to put on something of his choice she probably would find some fault with it. As he sat there he thought how odd it was to be partnered with some one. The compromises made on a daily basis and for what?




She came out of the bathroom her hair, nails dry and looking for the life of her as beautiful as she could. She came to him and draped her arms over his shoulders and looked to the computer screen...

"What are you writing babe?"

Hey Didn't They Film Swingers Here? Part XV

Marty had finished with the paper and his coffee and was then somewhat ready for the day. He had a whole day to see to before he and Elaine would arrive at the restaurant for their nightly show. Marty lived to play music. Sure it would have been nice to have been a huge success like so many of his contemporaries but he was truly proud that he had been able to make a living playing music. Elaine had her nights but often she found the gig to be more then she wanted. She had tried to talk Marty into working only the weekends but Marty wouldn't hear it. He loved to play and he also knew they needed the money and that he was well past the point in life where taking on a side job was a desirable option. What could he do, work at the Starbucks? He really had no skill but to play the drums and sing.

Marty loved being on stage with Elaine. They had been married for years before they had started to play as a duo. When they were first married Marty felt Elaine to be an amateur, he had real dreams of hooking up with a big name jazz quartet and then going on to a recording career and so he treated her talent in a somewhat condescending way. Elaine sang for fun. She was good, at times great but she lacked the discipline to be special. Her keyboard skills were passable at best but she had a natural way of entertaining. She connected with the audience.

As each of Marty's chances at the big time fell one by one to the wayside Elaine stood by him. Marty had stars in his eyes and never once did Elaine try to move him off his path. Marty took each failure harder and harder. There was the time he got the call to play with Art Pepper. Marty had talked to Art and the saxophonist had told him of an upcoming tour and recording dates, it was all set. Marty didn't even need to audition the job was his if he wanted it. The first gig was to be at Shelley's Mann Hole, and Marty and Elaine had a big dinner before the show to celebrate. Marty got to the club on time and put his kit together. The bass player showed and then the piano player. The trio started to play and Marty was in heaven. They were hitting it and the three of them passed glances of excitement of what the group could achieve. All they needed was Art Pepper. The cocktail crowd enjoyed the music but there was no Art Pepper. Later in the night when the real jazz crowd showed up still no Art Pepper. The night wore on and the trio kept at it, Marty playing for his life but no Art Pepper. It was close to closing and the audience had long since dwindled to only a few drinkers. The band was at a complete loss. The manager of the club hopped up on the bandstand and talked into Marty's ear.

"You guys can keep playing until closing if you want, Pepper that junkie got pinched tonight.. oh and you guys aren't getting paid this was supposed to be an Art Pepper gig so you might as well drink your wage."

Marty was destroyed, almost to tears. Once again he had been had. He looked out at the almost deserted club and saw there at the very front table sat Elaine and she was beaming. Marty could hardly face her. The band played one last song but Marty's heart wasn't into it. At the end of the night as Marty loaded his drums into the car Elaine stayed and chatted and laughed with the bar staff. As they left the club Shelley Mann came over to Marty.




"Sorry kid, hell of a break. You were sure hittin' it tonight. Give me a call sometime."

That night as they drove back to their little apartment Marty was silent. Elaine looked over and saw his distress.

"Hey babe, you were amazing tonight. That Art Pepper doesn't know what he's missing."

Marty looked over at his adoring wife and it hurt even more. He so wanted this, for her, for himself, for them. His subsequent phone calls to Shelley Mann went unreturned.

Marty got into the Allante. It was Monday. Pro Drum Shop was open on Mondays.

Don't Hold It Against Me

This wasn't the first time this had happened. He always acted as if it was no big deal and perhaps to him it wasn't such a big deal. To the orderlies it was a big deal. A 72 hour hold meant just that. A guaranteed three days in the psych ward. No if ands or buts. No 'Hey guys I really don't need to be here' or 'This is a mistake you can release me'. How you spent those three days was to some degree in your control. Act cool and you could just do your bit in the ward and then after the three days leave. Cause a problem and there's no telling.

Tony had been on a 72 a few times. His buddy Swan had been there too. A lot of drug addicts end up there. Someone thinks that they are going to do something rash, maybe suicide, and bam they are swooped up by 911 and delivered to the local nut hatch. Swan had once tried to escape. He made it out of the ward, ditched into the stairwell and on to the roof. He made his way over two fences and then to the street. It was broad daylight and his absence was immediately noted and so the local authorities were called. Swan had made a hasty exit and so was dressed only in his scivies. The hospital was in a busy part of Los Angeles and as soon a Swan made the sidewalk he saw police cars racing to find him. His best option was a bank. Not a very good option. It took five uniformed officers to grab him and drag him screaming from the bank and back to finish his 72.



Tony had tried to escape from the very same ward but he never got as far as Swan. Actually he tried a few times so when he found himself once again on a 72 he thought he might try again. After only a few of the 72 hours having passed Tony tried all the verbal options at his command. 'They got the wrong guy', 'I didn't do that', 'I don't want to kill myself that's insane'. All of these arguments were met with quiet disregard by the nurses; they were not impressed in the least. So Tony tried to ratchet up the emotion and got a little combative. This only served to rub the orderlies, the large orderlies the kind found in pysch wards, the wrong way and before Tony knew it a small mass of orderlies removed him to his own private suite.

He was brought into a room and then assisted onto the bed. To make sure his stay was comfortable and that being that he was unfamiliar with the bed and might fall off they tied restraints onto his hands and feet. Tony yelled and screamed but his pleas were to a degree ineffectual do to the fact that he was tied down. After the orderlies had chuckled at him and left him alone Tony had time to think. 'I'm fully clothed tied to a bed on a 72, well I'd rather die'.

Tony began to work against the restraints on his hands. He pulled and wriggled his wrists this way and that and to his surprise one began to loose. He struggled a bit more and his hand pulled free. The other restraints wouldn't budge, not even with a free hand, so Tony reached down and pulled his shirt off and wrapped it around his neck and began to pull. 'I'll show them'. The door burst open and a policemen and two orderlies rushed in. Tony let go of the shirt from around his neck and as the policeman approached he threw a vicious punch that landed square in the cops face. This action was not meant with a lot of approval.




For the rest of those 72 hours Tony lay restrained, tightly, naked, under an air conditioning vent. The lights in the room were never dimmed as he froze naked in the psych ward on a 72 hour hold.

Tony laughed huge and hard as he told this tale. It had been some years since his last 72 and he hoped never to go back.

"I hear Mikey is on a 72."

"Yeah, I took him" said Tony "He started to pull out his I.V.'s and I told him to hold up. I'd been in this spot before and I knew he would be better off just playing cool."

Then Tony began to spin a yarn...

The Blush Off The Rose

"I am sorry to report that you are no longer welcome here."

"Says who?

"That wouldn't really be any of your business."

"Some one has to have objected to my presence or this edict would never have come down."

"That is true but it is a point of procedure that this person or person's identity not be exposed."

"Well I take exception to this gap in procedural due process."

"You don't understand. You have long ago waived your right to redress or even a hearing on this matter."

"But I do posses some rights, do I not?"

"You very may well but in regards to this instance you do not."

"I want to bring this before the board."

"I'm sorry you have already exhausted that option."



"Then I want to address the group in general."

"They will not here your case."

"Then what is there left for me to do."

"Well I heard Maroon 5 is looking for a bass player."

Overheard out side the door of Third Eye Blind's manager's office.

Say It Aint So Joe

"What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"What do you mean tomorrow?"

"You know not today but the day after today."

"I know what tomorrow is."

"I'm sure you do."

"I do of course but why think about tomorrow?"

"I don't know but... maybe... like... um... plan for the future be it only the next day."

"Well what about now?"

"I don't know. What about now?"

"What about now? You know some guy told me that in the Hebrew language there is no present tense."

"There isn't?"

"No, this guy said that in Hebrew you say 'I go to the store.' "

"Not I'm going to the store."

"Nope."

"Why that is really weird."

"Maybe so but there is a reason for it."

"What might that be?"

"Well this guy says that the reason there is no present tense is because there is no present. There is only the past and the future. You know as soon as the present is here then it is gone, that sort of thing."

"Of course everyone knows that."

"True, but he says the Hebrews took it one step further. We English speakers have no problem with the present but the Hebrews thought that the only thing in the present was G-d."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So they figured that we could not exist in the present that only
G-d could, it is kind of proved out through Buddhism as well, you know how they try to slow down the world through meditation."

"That is true. I've heard about that."

"Same thing with the Hebrews. They think that the only constant, the only thing that spans time is G-d. They feel the closer you get to the moment, or present, just like the Buddhists, the closer you get to G-d."





"Wow that is pretty heavy."

"I guess so."

"So what are you going to do tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Maybe meditate."

"Cool."

"I guess."

Make Money Quick I Can Show You

The prophet came down form the mount empty handed. He had lasted rains and drought. His humble dress was now but rags to his bones. It had been months that he did not eat to his nourishment and further he drank only the meagerest of water. His exile was not forced as so many other prophets had been tested. His was self imposed and a result of a dire lack of faith.

When he had finally strode to the bottom where the land was flat and there were rivers a plenty, he stopped and meditated. He waited for the word as he had on the mount. He heard a frightened wind and the moan of the mourning dove. He did not hear the word as he hadn't when on high. He arose and made his way to the riverbank. Again he kneeled and asked that he may receive some reckoning but none came. He waded into the current and felt the cool waters and those waters stripped the filth from his body. He drank deep and his mouth, wordless for so long, once again was made ready for speech.

Up the riverbank he saw a fire burn. Could this be the sign? He made his way slowly, reverently towards the bright flames. As the river snaked around a bend he lost sight of the fire and was consumed by the darkness. Had the fire dissipated? Had he lost his chance at hearing those words? Again he knelt and quieted himself. The rush of the river then was also quieted and then nothing but his breathing. Not a thought or a movement, he was still in the present.

Again he lifted himself aright and moved along the twisting river. His heart soared as once again that fire came to view. The word was at hand. Though perils traversed the end of the doubting reached toward him pulling. One last bend and answers to questions never considered.

And then he was upon it. The fire screamed but the promise was not answered. A family there by the fire cooking a rare colored meal. At last finally he sat disheartened. Wasn't he just the fooled? Darkness, ignorance and blindness were his only resource. So he sat and stared to the fire. The family took in his view.

"Excuse me sir but are you ill or in discomfort?" the father spoke.



He could not answer. It had been so long since words had felled his ears that their sense confounded him in a brace of divergent meanings. Was he ill? He had no notion. Was he in discomfort? This too he could not speak.

"Please sir you needn't speak but dare join us in our meal. To the looks of you it might not be such a wrong idea."

A plate was placed before him and he considered it. There were bright vegetables and grains steaming and plump.

"Do go ahead and eat this bounty. You will not being doing so to our detriment I assure you."

As he ate the foods he felt his body breath in the sustenance. He was overcome with gratitude for these people and even more so for everything that was. He had never experienced such a calm or peacefulness.

As he walked from the fire that night, sated and whole he started to hear words. The words were at first disjointed and confusing so he sat and quieted himself once more. Then he heard those words so long alluding him.

"Prophet do you know this voice?"

He did not answer it.

"Prophet believe that you know that this voice is the one you seek and all will be revealed."

He arose and opened his arms to the heavens in bliss.

"Do you want to know the word?"

The prophet tried to speak but words would not come.

"I beseech you to tell me of your need."

The prophet could not utter a word to speak.

"Then I will go. Let it be told that you will never here the word."

The voice was gone. The prophet sat and in doing so loosened his bowels. Then he slept.





He awoke the next morning to the sight of the father standing over him. He felt as he had never felt before so was the brilliance of his condition. He beamed at the father.

The father beamed back then spoke.

"Then sir you are well?"

The prophet spoke.

"All this time I have been searching for the word but I was misled, it was not a word that I sought with such desperation."

"If not a word then what dear sir."

"I will tell you. A little chow, a nice dook, and a mega snooze that is the meaning of life according to this prophet."

The two men looked to each other, smiled and nodded in agreement.

Hello There Ladies And Gentlemen

"Dude."

"What?"

"Do you wanna rock?"

"What do you mean do I want to rock? Of course I want to rock. Why wouldn't I? Rockin' is what I do"

The television was set to the nightly news. The grey haired anchor was blathering on and on about gas prices and gubernatorial elections. They paid little attention for tonight was Thursday and everyone in Los Angeles knew that Thursday was the best night to go out and rock.

"Where do you think we should rock?"

"I don't know, perhaps the Rockatorium."

"The Rockatorium sure does rock that's for sure."

The news anchor went on to a story about the anti same sex marriage amendment to the constitution that was being discussed in the Senate. This caught their attention and thoughts of the Rockatorium subsided for the moment.

"Dude."

"What?"

"That anti gay marriage amendment is straight up bullshit."

"True that. Shit, they don't really even care about it they just need something to get the red necks to the polls. Those republican mother fuckers are scared shitless that their asses will get pounded in the next election."

"You're so right. I mean everytime they get in trouble they play that card. I mean the war sucks ass, gas prices are fucked up, health care..I mean there is no health care but oooh boys want to kiss so vote for us. Didn't you hear those democrats are all for boys kissing so vote republican."



"Yeah, bunch of bullshit if you ask me."

"Those republicans go on and on about family values and the sanctity of marriage. About how the holy union between man and woman is the supposed backbone, the moral glue, that holds this great nation of ours together."

"That they do."

"Well how about this. Alright mother fuckers, so you can have your anti gay marriage amendment but you have to include another clause to protect marriage so righteous."

"And what would that be?"

"Outlaw divorce."

"Oh hell yeah."

"Right? If marriage is so sacred then fuck em, no more divorce. See how they like that those morally superior pieces of shit. That's right redneck, dump the wife go to jail."

"Fuck yeah. Dooode, you oughta run for office. That shit is dope."

"I'm just sayin' ".

"Bad ass bro."


The news gave way to Jeopardy. They sat there in stone silence unable to guess the answers to any of the questions Alex Trebek read.



"So dude do you wanna rock?"

"Bro, rockin' is what I do."

It's Lip Smackin' Good

"Keep it simple stupid."

"Huh?"

"You know, you're ego is not your amigo."

"I do what?"

"One day at a time pal."

"I'm you're who?"

"Take it easy."

"When?"

"One day at a time."

"Michele Phillips?"

"First things first."

"But I thought you said?"

"Sit down, shut up and listen."

"Now wait a minute..."

"You have to give it away in order to keep it."

"You're starting to really bug me out."

"It's easy to talk the talk but you have to walk the walk."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Fake it until you make it."

"Make what?"

"The mind is like a parachute it works better when it is open."

"Open my mind? How about open your ears, you are tripping balls."




"Stick with the winners"

"I guess that excludes you."

"Keep coming back."

"Right... right. In a million years ."

Overheard outside the Starbucks at the corner of Prospect Ave and Vermont Blvd. on Wednesday, May 30, 2006.

Hey Didn't They Film Swingers Here? Part XIV

The knock on the door was loud and obnoxious. It was a small apartment, a single, and when the door was pounded upon the whole place shook. The pounding on the door only exacerbated the pounding in her head. She knew not to have those last few rounds at the end of her shift cocktailing. On this night as Marty and Elaine finished their set, the bass player Rene had cornered her and before she knew it she had downed two Jager shots. She hated Jagermeister and the jury was still out but leaning towards conviction on Rene.

She tried to ignore the knocking on her door but it was impossible. She pulled the pillow over her head and prayed for whoever it was to just go away. It was silent for a moment and she said a little prayer of thanks to herself. When she prayed she would imagine her mother who had passed away a few years previous and this gave her a sense of well being. Today she prayed through the hangover but then it happened again. Another flurry of rapping on her door. She extricated herself from the sheets on her bed and made the four step walk to the door.

When Sheri looked through the peephole she was dumbfounded by what she saw. It was that bass player Rene from the restaurant.

Rene saw movement from behind the peephole.

"Sheri, Sheri, hey its me Rene."

Sheri had no idea how Rene had found her place. She couldn't remember telling him where she lived. She hadn't been that out of it last night, had she?

"Rene? What are you doing here?"

"Open up."

"I'm still asleep."

"Just for a minute."

"Hold on."

Sheri left the door and grabbed a heavy terry robe off the floor. She had still been in her undies and she didn't want to give Rene any more ideas than she might have mistakenly given him the night before.




Sheri opened the door part way and looked out at Rene. He was smiling and affable as if this was an every day occurrence.

"Hey Sheri. What are you doing? I was just in the neighborhood and you said I should stop by sometime. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Well...umm, no, I guess you're not disturbing me that much."

"Cool. Can I come in?"

Sheri looked back over her shoulder at her little messy apartment. There really wasn't much room for more than a bed and she felt uncomfortable having anyone in there much less Rene. What would they do just kick it on her bed? She wasn't ready for that.

"Oh sorry, I, um...look, what do you want?"

"Oh I don't want anything, I just thought you wanted to hang. You know we see each other at work and I just thought it would be cool to hang out here in the real world."

"Uh, doesn't work qualify as the real world?"

"Yeah, it does, sure, but you know what I mean?"

"Alright, I suppose, but listen I'm really, well, I 'm not really busy but I have a lot of shit I need to take care of today before work."

"Oh, okay."

Rene went into his vulnerable act and this was a role he could play to perfection.

"Hey, its no big deal, I just thought..."

It worked. Sheri against her better judgment started to feel sorry for him and she didn't even know it was happening.

"Oh Rene, listen I didn't mean..."

"No, no, really it's fine. Maybe another time."

Sheri was on the verge of changing her mind but Rene was a pro and before she could change her mind Rene's wounded puppy started away from the door.



In his most crushed voice Rene called back.

"Hey, no harm done, I guess I'll see you at work later. See ya."

Sheri was left standing in the doorway as Rene disappeared.

As Rene sat behind the wheel of the Pinto he had that feeling. He had laid the trap, it might take some time but he knew in the end he'd get what he wanted. He wasn't going to be in this Pinto for long.

As Sheri attempted to drift back to sleep there was something unsettling her. It wasn't just her hangover.

'Rene wasn't really such a bad guy, was he? Did I really tell him where I lived last night? Maybe I did? Oh well, hey mom please help me make it through tonight I think I might really need your guidance'.

Take My Word For It - I'll Pay You Later

Hello.

Sufferwords is here to say.

A fogged head is a dead head.

A dead head is not necessarily one who is a devotee of the Grateful Dead.

The keyboard seat in the Grateful Dead is the drum throne of Spinal Tap.

Spinal Tap liked big bottoms.

Big bottoms was the theme of a Queen song.

The Queen is dead.

Does that make the Queen a dead head?

Tomorrow more with Marty, Elaine and the shady Rene Navarette.

An Orange Fell From A Lamppost

It happened in a moment. He knew it as soon as it occurred. It wasn't the end of the world or some cataclysmic event but a simple mistake. He was at a birthday party for his good friend Penis and there was a groaning board laden heavily with every kind of delicacy, Meaty Tays, ribs both pork and beef, every manner of vegetable and a incredible strawberry and whipped cream cake. He sat before the table and sampled until he could barely stand.

In the backyard the progeny of Penis' friends were running wild. The children, all young girls, were chasing the adults about flying on their sugar highs. He stood with a group of old pals, Martony, French Balls, Doogles, and watched the mayhem. One of the little girls, Max, came over and asked if he would like to lick her popsicle. He first thought no but the mother gave him a 'how can you dent the poor child look', so he acquiesced. As soon as the frozen treat hit his tongue he flashed...'I bet I get sick from this'. He knew never to share food with kids especially when they were in a large group. Germs spread like wild fire in the schoolyard set and they were no match for his spotty immune system.



The moment came and went and he never gave another thought to it. The work week was a breeze, big money short hours and everything seemed to be running at an even keel. On the eve of the third day after the party he was driving his auto and he seemed to be short tempered and easily flustered. No big deal. He was unusually tired and he chain smoked to revive himself. Somehow the cigarettes failed to do their magic. He barked at his girl. Everything should have been swell but there was an uneasy cloud hovering over him.

The next morning as he tried to pack in a few extra minutes of sleep he noticed a slight pain in his throat. 'Mustn't smoke so much' he thought to himself. The pain subsided so he rolled along on his day. Frustration met him at every turn of an errand. 'I'm sorry that special has expired', and then at the next stop, 'No you may not contest this decision' and on and on. And then like a recurring nightmare it was upon him. 'Holy fuck, I've got a cold'. It was a hot day yet he felt a chill to his bones, there was the headache and the sinus'. 'Oh man, I was supposed to go to the Skidmore and then go see The Jerks', all this would have to be cancelled. He was stalled.

He opened the medicine chest to look for a remedy. There were many choices. There was the Maximum Strength Comtrex promising relief from body aches and headache, nasal congestion, fever and chills. There was non-drowsy Claratin (original prescription strength) in the bonus value box that touted relief of sneezing, runny nose, itchy-watery eyes, itchy throat and nose. Theraflu Thin Strips that quiet coughs, treat runny nose, sneezing, and the usual symptoms but in a strip that melts in moments. How about the Sinusalia by Boiron that combined homeopathic medicines used to relieve sinus pain, regulated as a drug by the FDA, Sinusalia is made of very diluted substances that stimulate the body's natural resources. Phew.


Finally there was a box of Alka-Seltzer Orange Zest cold medicine. A delicious blending of acetaminophen, chlorpheniramine, phenylephrine mixed with a tasty combination of acesulfame potassium, aspartame, citric acid, some dyes like red#40 and yellow #6, some magnesium stearate, maltodextrin, saccharin, sodium, sodium bicarbonate with a hint of sorbitol.
Mmmmm it all sounded so good.

The cold took a firmer grip and as he tried to narrow down the remedies he became confused. Which one would be the correct one? They all offered promises of relief but which one would do the trick the best? The sicker he got the harder it became to make a choice. As the frustration mounted and crossed into the land of unbearable dilemma he finally came to make a decision.

The cigarette glowed to life and he inhaled deeply. 'If these things are so deadly perhaps if I smoke enough it will kill the cold'. He wasn't very good when it came to health matters.

Paradise Cove

"What do you mean, 'you've been pushed too far?', getting pushed around is part of our job description."

"Not like this it isn't."

As she looked up she saw her reflection in the bullet proof plastic that separated her from the public in general. She never really wanted to be there. She had hoped to get out of the city but what chance did she really have of doing that? She had taken the job as way of at least getting a regular paycheck and then there was the medical insurance and other benefits. Where else was she going to find that with only a high school diploma? When it came down to it she had little choice but to go to work for the city.

There was layer upon layer of bureaucracy to deal with at every turn. Every action was controlled by a set protocol that she couldn't waver from. The public never understood. She had been threatened repeatedly, almost routinely. Each day she did her best to put on a good face for her fellows but it became harder and harder as the days mounted. She felt for the public. The poor people took the brunt of the City's draconian parking regulations and hers was the only face the City put forth. She was the final stop and most often times she delivered negative responses.



She wished you could make the citations go away but the City had strict oversight over her department and she was for all intents and purposes handcuffed from doing anything to help those ticketed. The fines she collected were outrageous. A half a day's wage for a street sweeping violation, triple that if you couldn't pay immediately. It mattered little that the streets were rarely swept, it was the money the City was after and they didn't care about the circumstance of those forced to pay it.

"What happened this time?"

"This poor lady came in, two babies in tow. Her Volvo wagon had been ticketed and she hadn't the money to pay the fines by their due dates and by the time she came in she owed $258.00. All the tickets were written by the same officer. She said that she had tried to reason with the officer, a guy named Stines but he wouldn't budge. This poor lady obviously didn't have the money to spare. She was crying and then paid me in cash. Those babies won't have enough to eat, all because of these unfair laws we are paid to uphold. The rich never come in and I suspect they never get tickets. The rich have parking at work and driveways at their homes. The poor take their chances. I can't tolerate the inequity anymore."




"You're just having a bad day."

"No, every day is a bad day."

"Well, hang in there I have to get back to my window."

He was stunned as he walked out. It was a miracle. $174.00 worth of parking tickets dismissed. The clerk who had helped him was a sad young lady.

The clerk had been in tears.