ok. unfortunately i didn’t write this. as to who did write it, i haven’t a clue. i saw it someplace and noticed that it was politically incorrect and nicely written. so, i decided to put it up here in some sort of pissed off at the whole system type thing. if you don’t see the humor in it or the irony…well, then, you’re part of the problem.
The Americans With No Abilities Act (ANAA)
President Barack Obama and Democrats in the House and Senate are considering sweeping legislation that will provide new benefits for many more Americans. The Americans With No Abilities Act is being hailed as a major legislative goal by advocates of the millions of Americans who lack any real skills or ambition.
“Roughly 50 percent of Americans do not possess the competence and drive necessary to carve out a meaningful role for themselves in society,” said California Sen. Barbara Boxer. “We can no longer stand by and allow People of Inability (POI) to be ridiculed and passed over. With this legislation, employers will no longer be able to grant special favors to a small group of workers, simply because they have some idea of what they are doing.”
“Of course, all of these newly created jobs will be union jobs, Made in America!” says Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid.
In a Capitol Hill press conference, Rep Nancy Pelosi and Senator Harry Reid pointed to the success of the U.S. Postal Service, which has a long-standing policy of providing opportunity without regard to performance. At the state government level, the Department of Motor Vehicles also has an excellent record of hiring Persons with No Ability (63 percent).
Under the Americans With No Abilities Act, more than 25 million mid-level positions will be created, with important-sounding titles but little real responsibility, thus providing an illusory sense of purpose and performance.
Mandatory non-performance-based raises and promotions will be given to guarantee upward mobility for even the most unremarkable employees. The legislation provides substantial tax breaks to corporations that promote a significant number of Persons of Inability (POI) into middle-management positions, and give a tax credit to small and medium-sized businesses that agree to hire one clueless worker for every two talented hires.
Finally, the Americans With No Abilities Act contains tough new measures to make it more difficult to discriminate against the non-abled, banning, for example, discriminatory interview questions such as, “Do you have any skills or experience that relate to this job?”
“As a non-abled person, I can’t be expected to keep up with people who have something going for them,” said Mary Lou Gertz, who lost her position as a lug-nut twister at the GM plant in Flint, Mich., due to her inability to remember righty tighty, lefty loosey. “This new law should be real good for people like me. I’ll finally have job security.” With the passage of this bill, Gertz and millions of other lazy untalented citizens will finally see a light at the end of the tunnel.
Said Sen. #$%$ Durbin, IL: “As a senator with no abilities, I believe the same privileges that elected officials enjoy ought to be extended to every American with no abilities. It is our duty as lawmakers to provide each and every American citizen, regardless of his or her inadequacy, with some sort of space to take up in this great nation and a great salary for doing so.”
i want to thank all of you who read this poem. the poem isn’t about my christmas this year. it concerns my christmas in vietnam during the war and the cutting down of a small pine tree at the beach. i also wrote about it a few years ago using prose. it’s back there in the vault somewhere. i wanted to present the scenario in a different way this year.
at any rate, this minor adventure is never far from my thoughts at this time. it’s just one of those life things. i hope you all take the time to remember those in the military and those of us who are less fortunate this christmas.
i wish you all a wonderful and peaceful christmas and a very happy new year. thanks, again, to all of my readers.
all isn’t sublime
nothing can alter
the dim hopes
the sad schemes
all slip and
slide in between
reality it seems
visions of a tree
frightful and small
scrawny and tawdry
ready to fall
vainly to bring
hope for us all
out on a limb
a viper does crawl
death kneel after all
three colts bark
before it falls
while the tree
grows new life
from december 2008 all rights reserved. tipping is optional.
this first appeared back in february of 08. i’d forgotten i’d written it. though with yet another election looming soon i’ve already voted. the ass hats just don’t know it yet. for you see i sent my official absentee ballot material through the shredder. it’s been six years since i wrote this and we’re not any closer to it happening than we were six years ago. a sad thing.
lots of wishful thinking on my part over the years on lots of different stuff. anything from the chance meeting of say, heidi klum, where we immediately fall into to bed and live happily ever after. or perhaps, the twice weekly i’m going to be the next california super lottery winner wishful thinking. i think the odds on either of those things happening are probably both in the same ballpark. a ballpark with very long odds and over 375 feet down each line to the foul pole.
i’m not the first person to wishful think either of the two i mentioned. not by a long shot. male or female. for either. yeah, heidi’s that hot. drifting here. no, it’s the political season of the witch, no, not necessarily, lady machill. it’s just this season of endless political weirdness that over the years has become just annoying and nauseating and finally culminating with my withdrawing from all elections.
i have some wishful thinking that might drag me back into the fray. the problem being is that’s just what it is because the humps in charge of both major parties and probably the fringe groups as well, wouldn’t like it. oh, maybe some of the fringe guys might but the big sex and money boys and girls would probably have a collective massive coronary if it came to pass. which might not be a bad idea. then we could just start over from scratch. more drifting. perhaps.
i’m not the only person to come up with this wishful thought as it’s been tossed around every now and again over the years but it never goes anywhere. sadly. big money wants nothing to do with it. i think it scares them. good. they scare me. daily.
i think the time has come to scare the bejesus out of them for a change. this sad slate of presidential candidates would seem like the perfect time for my wishful thought to maybe make it past the blossom stage and give fruition to something that should have happened years ago.
oh, i’m sure all the candidates are probably sorta nice folks. i mean maybe you could probably invite them all over to the house for some grub, massive amounts of dago red, and mah jong. though they would all have to promise no politics. the only problem is they all, would at some point, renege and start campaigning. worse yet, while working the room glad handing anyone in sight, they would be spilling heirloom organic cabernet all over the living room furniture and in general just being boorish dinner guests. the whole sad deal would probably end up being worse than letting the local canvassing scientology crew in for a chat and a brew. god, the horror. i don’t know if they do that but just the thought of it scares me on lots of levels.
the point of this madness? for those of you that have stuck it out here it is…none of the above. yep. that’s it. none of the above needs to be added to every ballot in the country. it’s time is way the hell over due. it’s simple in it’s purity and gives those of us something to vote for other than the ever ubiquitous ‘lesser of two evils’. cause that’s what it generally comes down to in any election. in particular a presidential election. regardless who is running.
sadly it’s not going to happen. although i think it needs to be brought up and hammered home to our elected elitist that they serve us and not their pocketbook or summer home where ever the hell it is. it’s time we that have made ourselves the disenfranchised get our vote back. sure we quit voting on our own accord. however, they were the ones that pissed us off so much we just up and said, fuck this, i ain’t voting anymore every again for any of you witless bunch of money grubbing oily sanctimonious swine.
problem is they have all forgotten just who the hell it is they serve. they all think they are there just to serve themselves up their own personal money tree. yes, they are the folks that actually have that tree. the tree that your dad asked your mom if she thought money grew on trees tree. well, it does exist. you just have to get elected to any public office in the land. it also comes with the keys to the new tony soprano model caddy escalade AND your very own 23 year old smokin’ hot mistress. boy, howdy. makes a man want to run for office, don’t it?
imagine the chagrin some november after the votes have been tallied and candidate A gets 12%. candidate B gets 12%. the fringe guys and gals get their usual 1% and lo and behold, none of the above, wins with a whopping 75%. you snicker. though it could happen. no, by god, it should happen. it’s time we the fed up disenfranchised take our vote back. take our vote back and vote for none of the above in any damn election we feel like. we need to badger our elected swine into letting us vote for none of the above. why not? what’s the problem with that? why is it just wishful thinking?
what? what the hell? who the fuck are you anyway? why no way, sonny boy, we can’t do that. why that would be un-american. say, just what kind of commie pinko nazi muslim are you any the ways? by all that’s holy, you gotta be one of em or all of em for even suggesting such a vile idea. why, why, i think i’ll let my bodyguards shoot you for bringing that sick deviant idea up in my very own official officially sanctioned official office. ed, jack. take this commie nazi muslim scum out back and do what needs to be done.
so like here’s the deal. call your congressperson and senator. be polite. ya hear? yeah, well, hopefully he has no clue you don’t vote. then tell whoever answers the phone we need the none of the above clause added to All ballots in this once great nation. simple easy. sure they will laugh and hang up. come on, the caddy and smokin’ hot mistress need a good hot wax. so call again. give them the same rap. if enough of you supposed americans do this. we will get the none of the above clause on all ballots across america for every election. it’s time has come.
every year the memorial day holiday seems to come around with ever increasing speed. other holidays do too. it’s one of those getting older things. however, memorial day
is somehow a much more personal holiday to those of us who served in one of our never ending wars.
this first appeared a number of years ago and was re-run a couple of years ago. yeah, i have other tales of my time overseas like, the old west meets the old east, and others still unwritten. however, desire and and the muse must first meet for them to see daylight. which may or may not ever happen.
at any rate, happy memorial day to all who’ve served especially to all who gave everything. to my nam brothers and sisters, welcome home. once again.
while noodling around yesterday i came across the yahoo, and elsewhere, story of a young soldier over in the middle east who went to his firing position in his boxers and flip flops, during a fire fight. seems like the secretary of defense, robert gates, is all a gog over the situation. he’s happy about it. well, it’s memorial day weekend or more to the point, dead soldier weekend, and i guess they needed to sound pro troopers and military. plus, i’m sure folks everywhere are getting a kick out of the story.
it makes me think back to my time in nam. i’ve written any number of things about that experience here and other places. if you are a regular, i have no intention of bothering you with details you may or may not remember. if you aren’t a regular reader, you can always go through the archives or rummage through the vault. or just wait for me to trot the old stuff out again. but i digress.
while attached to macv advisory team 48, in nam, we had this major on the compound. he was either s-3 or s-1 or s-2. military jargon for stuff. not really important to this story. other than the fact, he got his pink boxers all tied up in a knot about us peons and other soldiers hitting our firing positions in levi’s and flip flops, bermuda shorts, flip flops and no shirt(my personal favorite) or other variations of civilian attire, or maybe just our regulation gi boxers and flip flops, during alerts.
yeah, civilian attire. it was macv and they didn’t care what you wore on the compound if you weren’t on duty or working. well, most of them. any the ways, this particular major was not happy about the way we fell out during those alerts. he made it his mission to see that we all hit our firing positions and bunkers in full regulation military gear. yes, sirree. no more of this civilian attire or gi boxer nonsense. there was a war going on after all, and said war, demanded we be properly dressed for the occasion because mr charlie might not like it. boy, howdy.
said major, even held a few ‘practice alerts’ and those ‘practice alerts’ weren’t over until he personally inspected each position to see if things were being done to his strict liking. yes, indeed. practice alerts for dress code violations in a war zone. no showing up with your weapon and ammo in boxers. nope, not for that major. not good enough. thank you jesus. thank you, lord, for some damn fine smoke and drink to help us all through the night.
well, we suffered through a couple of his practice alerts held in the middle of the night. a lot of pissed off troops and lifers as well. yeah, he wanted every swinging dick on board for his madness.
as it turned out, things were very quiet during the time of his practice alert stuff and everyone passed with flying colors. like what else were we gonna do? frag him? it was bullshit but it wasn’t worth a capital crime and/or offense.
one night, a few weeks after all the hoopla about the dress code and fighting charlie, i was working the night shift in the commo bunker. at the time, macv was using our commo bunker for their toc(tactical operation center) while their toc was getting a face-lift. charlie or the nva, lobbed a few rockets or mortars into our general vicinity.
the alert was sounded and it was all hands on deck. everyone was to go to their alert positions and deal with whatever in full military uniform. thankfully, due to the practice alerts, it was decided, by my signal sargent, my alert position would be in the commo bunker. lucky me, i was already up, working, in uniform, where i was supposed to be and with my m-16 and ammo. woo hoo!!
the incoming rocked my little world but i just opened my secret area door and casually leaned on the door jam to watch the deal go down. a total lapse of military protocol but whatever. i was probably somewhat loaded and had been listening to, ‘spooky tooth’, and reading porn at the time. another breech of protocol i’m sure.
on a side bar drift, the secret area was a perfect place to have a nice non-legal smoke. or take a nap. we had it set up so even if you were dead an alarm of sorts would wake you. though in hindsight it wasn’t necessary. incoming was incoming and could wake a dead man. count on it.
the drifts just keep on coming. WD40. the perfect weapon cleaner, for us lazy folks, was also a very good and efficient smoke cover-up. better than incense. yeah, ok. i did take my m-16 down to the firing pin assembly at regular intervals and properly cleaned it. so there. i could be a good soldier if i felt like it. my life depended upon it.
at any rate, i was just waiting for orders and THE word to send something to somebody somewhere about something or another via my secure radio teletype. real alerts were always something. some worse than others. but always angsty and an adrenaline rush regardless. while i was standing in my doorway watching stuff, in came the major of dress code and practice alert fame.
ah, yes, goddamn. he was resplendent in his steel pot, m-16, ammo, un-tied jungle boots, gi issued undershirt and boxers. yep. that’s it. nada mas. no one, of course, said a word about his poorly dressed alert apparel. lots of subtle snickering to be sure but not a word. after that night, it went back to come as you are for alerts, and the only thing that mattered was the m-16 or some other weapon with plenty of ammo when you got to where you were supposed to be.
it’s interesting to see how things have or haven’t changed. i wonder how melvin laird would have felt? or perhaps dean rusk? or macnamara? at any rate, it’s dead soldier day weekend. a time to say a prayer for those brothers in arms who never made it back. a time to say just how much you appreciate the sacrifice of those who didn’t come back and those who are serving or have served and did come back. whole or not. seems like none of us ever come back whole. a tragic veer if there ever was one.
dead soldier weekend. a proud american tradition since the civil war from whence it got it’s origins. you may not like war, this current one in particular. you may even be in the support the troops but not the war politically correct crowd. tell you what. god bless the child that wears his boxers to a fire fight. at least he showed up and was ready for trouble. god bless anyone who even shows up for the coming fire fights.
make no mistake, it’s not what you wear to a fight. it’s what you do when you get there. happy memorial day weekend!! light a candle for america.
eddie otto was born on
the mean streets of your town.
back when the streets were tamer
but by no means park like.
he lived by his wits and fists
or by whatever means he could.
you have seen him off
and on your whole life.
sure sometimes he was
away and out of sight.
like the stint at the
Q for instance.
but he was always there
sitting on a curb.
or the guy at the store
in line in front of you.
or sticking that pistol
in your ribs the night
you got car jacked.
sure he is older now
maybe not as spry
as he once was
if you looked at him
and the mind was allowed
well shit yeah
i know this guy.
if i turn around
and try to act
i wave and go
the other way
maybe he won’t know
or do those kind
remember or forget
has it been that long?
can he be out?
just the wrecked
burnt out hulk
of my car
over in shiteville.
you are immobile.
your feet failed
it’s like you are
at your dad
a 16 year old kid
trying to weasel out of
thing or another.
then there’s a flash in his eyes
and a flash in his hand
and a pain like no other
ever in your life.
on your back
you see the stars moon
the only thing
as your life
eddie otto is
around the corner
into the wind
taking the streets and
alleys like only
to his place in time
in your town.
this originally appeared here in september of 2008. john harrelson passed away in june of 2013. don rehkop passed away in march of 2014. may you both rest in peace, my friends.
let’s see…ok. the boys, dfr & jwfh, were over this past evening and i cooked up a nice sorta southern down home meal for my brothers. jwfh says i got the job. dfr as well. sweet. their lips to the food network’s ears. for those that are wondering, the brown eyed girl was busy doing stuff with her nephew.
at any rate, my sorta cooking skills aren’t why i’m here. ah, no. at one point i stuck john’s cd, ‘mojave’ on the cd player. yeah, well. i’ve been down this road before a year or so ago. none the less, ‘mojave’, by john harrelson still kicks ass and those of you that haven’t bothered need to bother because it is that good. trust me. the link will follow.
we are like eating and i’m yammering about this and that music wise on the cd. jwfh is yammering back. i tell him the title track, ‘mojave’, is stellar and i love it when he does it live. like who wouldn’t?
then we got to the tune, “joshua tree ’73”. one of the finest hippy country western tunes ever written. fuck yeah. ” under the influence of loneliness, morphine, and desire “…sweet, jesus. write it and sing it, jwfh. i told jwfh that i needed to hear him do the tune next time he did a live gig. he smiled and said, ‘yeah.’
then he went off into something i hadn’t heard before. turns out writing the song was one of those deals that just comes from beyond type deals. a channeling of sorts according to john. a tune nothing like he’d ever written before. after it it was written he was like, ‘where the hell did this come from?’
then jwfh says, ‘it’s the suicide note gram parsons never got to write.’ whoa. fine. i’m there. the tune is one of those late 60’s early 70’s country western tunes that sings of life on the edge. life, ala charlie bukowski, dressed up in a country western nudie suit. as a veer, google, ‘nudie’ and country western outfits. life ala what country western music means to me. not the sugar coated crapola stuff of today. the old days of hank williams and outlaw country. the old hippy cosmic country. real life angst and despair. angst and despair dealt out from the bottom of the deck. country as i remember it was and should still be.
my point? you should probably, no, you should, go to: http://cdbaby.com/cd/harrelson and buy the cd, ‘mojave’. if you like country western/blues/rock ‘n’ roll by someone who’s lived several lifetimes playing and writing it then this cd is for you. it’s time to jump on the bandwagon before it pulls out and heads west into that morphine induced unwritten note sunset. um, yeah. it’s ok, jwfh. i understand.
‘mojave’, is one of those cd’s you listen to and need to listen to a bunch in order to get it. it just gets better with each listen. my brother, know this. you knew it and did it. i just hope there’s more comin’ down the pike. capice?
i wrote this last night after the boys left. i sat at the computer and listened to “joshua tree ’73” a number of times while i finished off a bottle of sicilian red. it’s early morning and the sun is still around an hour away. i’m sitting at the computer again. this time drinking coffee. the only sound is the keyboard and the lonely night time wail of a freight train echoing north from down in de onta. i’m still haunted by john’s joshua tree tune. haunted by gram parsons. haunted by my youth.
i wish i was out in joshua tree this morning. sitting on a rock someplace and smoking a very large bowl of something or another while waiting for the sun to rise. there’s magic out there and there’s magic in john harrelson’s tune, “joshua tree ’73”.
jerry stood at the kitchen sink. a bit off to the side of it in front of the bay window. the sky was cloudy grey and he could see the tall dormant sycamores in the dim early morning light. their long leafless limbs reaching upward. he was eating a hot dog.it was nestled in a single piece of wheat bread. his early morning dog consisted of swiss cheese, mustard, mayo, along with bread and butter pickle slices and a handful of potato chips on the side. it usually served as his go to breakfast. though there was something to be said about grits mixed with creme fresh, parmesan, and topped with a fried egg covered with a generous dollop of his homemade asian chili sauce. finishing the sandwich he chased it with a glass of milk. the glass emptied the carton.
he rinsed off the dish and glass then set them in the sink to be washed later. probably after dinner. probably being the operative word. it was time for work. not work in it’s usual sense. jerry hadn’t worked in several months. though he had a job. a semi full time job working for a janitorial service. one afternoon he decided to not go into work. that one afternoon had stretched into a month or more. he hadn’t bothered to call the office. and they hadn’t bothered to call him. the company keys still sat in a drawer by the back door. he’d been living on his GI bill college benefit. a meager sum to be sure. he would probably have to go back to work soon because he’d given up on going to school as well. once the VA realized he was no longer in school that check would stop. that would probably happen soon enough.
it really didn’t matter to jerry. not much did. what mattered was having enough money to live on with enough left over for a few quarts of colt .45 and some decent smoke everyday. cigarettes too. the real ones. not the crap in the can or bag which left you to roll your own. he’d been doing that for the past couple of weeks. if there was one thing that would get him back to work it would be his need for ready made cigarettes and decent smoke. one could always scrape up enough cash for some malt liquor. regardless.
his job that morning was to go through some stems and seeds one last time in order to cull enough weed to get him through the day. he thought there was a slim chance at finding enough for at least one large joint. jerry pulled the baggie of seeds and stems from the cupboard along with some rolling papers and a shoe box lid. he sat at the kitchen table and slowly went went through what was left in the baggie. it had started out as a couple of ounces of some very nice jamaican weed. heady stuff. he’d scored it along with several grams of peruvian flake back when he had what could almost be said plenty of cash. sort of. jerry had paid for the smoke but the coke had been a credit deal. a credit deal which would soon become payable.
the only sound in the house was the seeds dropping onto the shoe box lid. he’d lift one end up where the seeds lay and slowly lift a few up with an old playing card. a jack of diamonds. the process wasn’t unlike panning for gold. that analogy wasn’t lost on jerry. the seeds ended up at the bottom and the dope, which was lighter, stayed up on the top. he kept it up for a half hour or so until all the seeds from the baggie had been carefully gone through. then he carefully picked over the stems once again. when he was finished he figured he had enough for a nice after dinner smoke.
the problem being there wouldn’t be anything to get him through the day. as he was still sitting at the table rolling up his last lonely joint the phone rang. jerry glanced at the phone as he licked the glue on the rolling paper and gave the smoke a last flick of the fingers. he dropped the blunt on top of the seeds and got up to answer the phone.
jerry? it’s sid.
the coke on credit had just come due. he bolstered up what he thought was some bravado but doubted sid was buying any of it.
hey, sid, what’s up?
not much. look, the reason i’m calling is i haven’t heard from you and my end is looking for their final payment. i need my money.
ah, shit. yeah, man i um been meaning to get down there. you know work school and all…
yeah, i get it. when can i expect you?
tomorrow evening at the latest.
ok. i’ll be seeing you soon then.
you got it. later, man.
jerry hung up the phone. said, shit, and realized he wasn’t going to be heading down to sid’s place anytime soon. or anytime at all ever again for that matter. sadly, it meant no more flake for sure. ah, well. at least smoke was easier to find. you just needed some cash. thankfully, sid had no idea where he lived. no idea other than the city. sighing he went back to the table. as he was about to toss the stems and seeds out a thought hit him. tea. he’d never done it but he could brew up some tea with the stems and seeds.
he filled pot up with water and sat it on the stove. he turned on the burner and went to the fridge. he found an old lemon with some life left in it and sliced it up. by the time the water was boiling he was looking forward to his home brew. he turned off the gas and dropped the lemon slices into the hot water. then he carefully put the stems into the pot. he used a spoon to get them submerged. he followed with the seeds. putting a lid on the concoction he left it to steep. he needed some music.
he thumbed through his LP collection searching for something that fit the mood and the day. he settled upon frank zappa’s semi jazzy, ‘waka jawaka’. long instrumentals that made him think of rain and snow. very soothing. the music filled the house. jerry sat on the couch almost drifting off to sleep. the sound of the turntable turning itself off roused him. he flipped the LP over then he started side two. he figured the tea had sat long enough and went back into the kitchen.
the kitchen smelled of something. almost unpleasant. he lifted the lid on the pot and the smell grew stronger. it was tinged with lemon. the water had turned a dark color and was still warm. jerry thought of english breakfast tea. he found a mug and carefully poured some of the liquid into it. smelled it. held his breath and drank. he nailed the cup all at once. cringed a bit then thought it wasn’t all that bad. just different. he filled the mug again and drank. ok, he thought, now i wait.
while waiting he finished dressing and decided he should hit the grocery store while he still had some cash. filling the car’s gas tank was also in order. deciding he wasn’t feeling anything from his tea he thought it had been a waste of time and energy as he turned off the music and headed out the door to his ride and the store.
the drive to the store was uneventful. though as he was parking he began to feel THC jolts up his spine. by the time he got inside the store it was obvious his shopping trip was probably a big mistake. he was getting blown away. not a bad thing but he wasn’t so sure about getting home now. he was also sure a shopping trip alone and high wasn’t a good idea as well. as he turned to leave the floor rose to meet him and began grow wavy. great. just fucking great were his thoughts. things were going to get weird.
as he got to the exit he realized not scoring some malt liquor for that night would be stupid. hopefully there was something at home for dinner. he turned around and made his purchase. the checker turned out to be a pretty young thing around his age that he hadn’t seen or noticed before. hopefully, he’d remember her.
carefully driving home he tried to remember when he had been this stoned before. the nam probably or before that a trip into l.a. to see the kinks live after taking some mescaline. he’d thought he was surfing and shooting the pier while going under the 405 and 10 underpass. his passengers hadn’t been very happy to hear that.
making it home in one piece was a relief. he put the colt .45 in the refrigerator and noticed some zucchini. dinner he thought as the phone rang. with any luck it wasn’t sid again. had he given the checker his number? he had no idea. he picked up the receiver.
it sounded like his work partner, larry mitchell.
yep. man, where you been? pete’s been fucking wondering and worrying.
ah, yeah, i bet.
you know the keys and all.
safe in a drawer in the kitchen.
ok. you planning on coming back to work? it’s been a while to say the least.
at least it finally dawned on pete to find out just what the fuck was going on. good ole pete. more concerned about the swinger parties he attended than anything else.
fighting the high he said, tuesday. he thought today was saturday. though he wasn’t sure. at any rate, tuesday was their day they did the floors at a local denny’s. lots of change on the floor under the tables and in the creases of the booths. gas and malt liquor money.
yeah, see you at 2. the usual.
fine. i’ll tell pete. later, man.
as he hung up the phone he realized there was more tea left in the pot on the stove. it was going to be a good rest of the day of whatever day of the week it was. yeah, a good day.