Category: Tom

When exactly does the autumn of your life end? If my internal clock is correct it started counting down this week. “Jan 6” that give me exactly 20 months of autumn left in my own private Idaho. As I dwell on this calendar metaphor it occurs to me what a long strange trip it’s been. Am I to head gentle into that good night. Go into the woods as a Brahmin disengaging from the responsibilities to leave it to the younger generation. Wait have you carefully noticed the ambitions set of the Whatever Generation. Fuck, I’m turning that hourglass upside-down

I have known my friend Wayne for just little under 40 years. He was the first of out cadre to have his own apartment, He preceded me to California and was substantially reason I settled in the Golden State. Wayne loved boat, or more precisely he loved sailing. I always thought he would one day sail round the world. The world had other plans for Wayne. He married, raised a family, built houses in the middle middle of American as far away from an ocean as one can get. Last month he bought a boat in Seattle. Happy sailing dude.

Everyday I wake up and wonder when the fuck I’m going to get out of this cockroach suit, I mean its been days, or maybe week … come to think of it I can really remember when I end up flat on my back in this cheap hotel room. I’ve given up trying to right my self, you’d think will six legs I’d my merrily on my way under the refrigerator. Lately I have been having these nightmares. I hear this long winding hiss. Then I see the Orkon Man looming above me. Then I wake up. Well sort of.

We went to the Dickens’s fair today. Gail is fond of the blow-off at Mad Sal’s, so we got second row seats. When Sal made her appearance on the stage a stream of her company would hover close by and engage in some important exchange of direction. I told Gail I thought something was not right. “I think she is not well.” Gail said it could be diabeticly related. It seemed she was more interested in the show be great then being great in the show. Tonight she was the showman par excellent: Female contortionists and an operatic tenor. Bugger-off.

“Take a number.”

Said the beef man behind the counter. I turned my head from side to side and glanced behind.

It’s just me.

“Why?” I inquire.

“Rules.” Says he.

I step up; give the number dispenser a yank. The number two tears off the roll from inside the bowels of the Pick-A-Number machine. The beefy clerk presses a brass button in the middle of the counter. Above him clapboard squares franticly rotate and finally settle displaying the number 2. I smile, then the remaining digits 134 appear. I drop my number to the floor and head for the door.

Psyche Miranda Lewis was not fond of her name. In high school everyone kept calling her Psycho Lewis. This taunting gave breath to a smoldering flame which would suddenly come to an unfortunate end at the senior prom. With a wave of her hand all the doors in the auditorium swung shut. A small ring of fire climbed up the walls. A mass of bodies broke against the doors. When the smoke cleared the senior class of 1978 was gone. Well almost gone. Miss Psyche Lewis was sitting on a bench read Steve King.

“Think I’ll try The Stand next.”

Frank had his IQ tested in 8th grade. I was 101. To get into mensa he needed a raw score of 133. So he started reading the Britannica repeatedly. Added a primer to organic compound a year later. And the great books series in the third year. On retesting he got to 130. Not good enough. Frank drop out of high school and went to Santa Cruz. Spent the summer dropping acid and yagé. On a lark he reretested got a 190 this time. Took the results folded them into a paper crane and dropped it into the outgoing tide.

Let it be known we of Local 1066 Orcs, Trolls, Goblins Union AFL are formally placing the following on the table for binding arbitration. “No Man Meat.” In our rank and file the rise in gout has seriously reduced our ability to pillage, dismember, and rape.

Slopehead, may I call you Slopehead? Historically your union has fought hard to have a benefits’ package that includes universal health care, six weeks vacation, and man meat. Since we are bargaining in good faith I have been directed to offer the following: Prosciutto on Ciabatta.

With a Cherokee purple heirloom and avocado.

Done!

Master Keith was habitually late with the rent. When Gail gave him a 30 day notice, he begged for 60. For the last two weeks Master Keith failed to answer phone or door. Seems he was hiding out. He had good reason. He was last on the last months rent. This evening a set of house keys appeared under the frontdoor mat. The room was empty, in fact more than empty. Master Keith absconded with the microwave. Some might say being stiffed on the rent and a loss of property was a major bummer; I consider it getting off easy.

There’s an elephant in the room. So. What do you mean: SO? I’m saying there a fuckn Elephant in the middle of the apartment. So. If you say that again I’m going to drive this fork into your upper arm. “You said I could have a pet.” A pet’s a cat a pet’s a dog pet’s a bird a pet does not take up 90% of your living space. His name is Ralph he followed me home. No elephant in the history of elephants ever up and followed anyone home and how the fuck did he get up the elevator.