They say this place is haunted.
I watched the news story,
saw the blue-walled backdrop of my apartment
and the last tenant insistent
about otherworldly persistence.
The ghost is supposedly a child,
a little girl,
which seems logical—
if spectors and spooks
what’s more real
(If you don’t understand
then pat yourself on the back
and hug your mother
congratulations on Daddy loving you.)
I leave a lamp on at night
with two bulbs
(one white one blue)
but not because I’m scared
of spectors and spooks
but because I’m scared of
and my thoughts
in the isolating dark. Read the rest of this entry
It’s a thin borderline
that separates me
from a full-blown personality disorder.
(or is it Nasa Cova now?)
back in a coma—
he’s awoken from his limp-dicked slumber
and he’s eyeing escorts
and flirting with friendlies
like a romantic in retrograde.
But at least he brought flowers,
Take Cadillac de Bergerac’s
he’s peeping on the ribs again
and what’s worse
has the audacity to refer
during his Evening treetop misadventures.
Just steal his fucking valve stems
and be done with it,
But Johnny Warpath won’t make
like a tree at all.
Turns out he doesn’t only come out
when I drink my gin.
he ain’t Dr. Jimmy, man.
He ain’t Mr. Hyde neither
and he ain’t hiding no more.
I don’t have a checkered past—
It’s more polkadot
Some of it I’ll never forget, but more of it I’ll never remember.
And thank heavens for that:
I’ve read the police blotters I’ve made cameos in
and if I can take their word for it
then I’d just rather leave certain things blotted, please.
How do I look on paper?
Well, that all depends on the paper.
(College transcripts and rap sheets, unfortunately, are two entirely different kinds of coverage.)
One of my finest moments:
Being asked by a cop what I was on probation for
without wasting any time
and smirking in his stupid fucking pig face
because it was true
and I thought myself
oh so clever.
The moral of the story?
Hubris gets you handcuffs
and my answer to the same question today
would be very different, indeed.
This song is one of my favorites and holds a lot of personal significance so, naturally, I decided to butcher it. I’ve already written about my obsession with Warren Zevon and the importance of this composition, so I won’t repeat myself. If you feel so inclined, you can read all about it here.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off for a virgin margarita…
We found the Germans to be rather trusting and accommodating people for the most part. They shared their beer, offered us their couches to sleep on, and (as previously mentioned) flowed us ridiculously large bags of swag weed. They also didn’t seem to question our intentions or credentials too much when we tried to do things that young men of our age and caliber would never be permitted to do stateside. Like, say, rent a Mercedes Benz to drive to Oktoberfest in Munich.
To my knowledge, one must be twenty-five to rent an automobile in the states; the oldest amongst us was Yorick, who clocked in at an ancient twenty-one years old. But this was Deutschland, where they let kids drink at sixteen for Christ’s sake. In spite of some language barriers and concerns as to the validity of Yorick’s California driver’s license, we were able to secure a rental car for the next week that would get us to Munich, which is about 364 miles* from Berlin.
The Benz was a stick shift, which meant that Yorick would be doing all of the driving, as neither Franky nor myself could operate a manual transmission. Yorick swore that was the only car they would let us have, but I was convinced that he picked it on purpose so that he could do all of the driving. Indeed, Yorick was rather fond of speeding, and was certainly excited about the prospects of entirely ignoring all of the speed “suggestions” on the Autobahn.
My second year at Berkeley, I lived in Oakland. And not Lake Merrit or Rockridge or any of the nicer parts where other college kids or members of Green Day lived– no, I lived in Oakland fucking proper. With the exception of some of the kids in the punk house a few doors down*, my roommates and I were the only white people on the entire street. We totally stood out and I totally dug it. My roommates did too, until they started getting mugged regularly.
I had hated the experience of living in student apartments so much that I made a conscious decision to arrange living conditions for myself that would be as far removed from that paradigm as possible. In Channing Bowditch, there had been rules, there had been order, and there had been write-ups. On Apgar Street, there would be chaos, there would be disorder, and there would be drive-bys.
Three guesses which one I dug more, man.