what else can you do??

I’m house-sitting down here in DC this week for a buddy who took his lady friend to the beach. It’s a relatively easy gig; pretty much I have to feed his cat. That’s it. So it could be a little easier. But worth it; though I have admirably suitable digs of my own — still! a freaking no shit miracle — I am a nomad by nature and always appreciate a change of scenery.

Anyway my friend left me a set of instructions I found rather amusing. So here is the second installment in my current open container speedway series of stuff other people wrote:

Senior E,

House is kinda like an old VW. Sink drips. Mind it doesn’t run. Basement door lock is tricky. The hammer next to it will help. Blue trash can may be used to water the garden. Don’t mess with the amps please. Turntables are plugged into speakers. Turn off circut, if you turn them on. CD player is unhooked, but you are a clever monkey. Car key is on counter — emergency use ONLY. As in, a trip to the emergency room.

Ps. I dare you to do my dishes; here is a pile of herb for incentive. see you in a week..

Fortunately there thus far has been just one crisis dire enough to demand use of the car; when i woke up this morning & realized there was no Starbucks within walking distance.

Way I see it is that quick jaunt for coffee staved off a caffeine withdrawal induced trip to the emergency room.

*wipes sweat from brow*

Whew!

Close call.

In other news, for ya’ll who — for your own weird reasons — still hang around this crap ass blog, I have been busy writing lately. Really. I mean not really busy. But barely busy, which is busier by far than I had been. Really.

They say Work Is The Curse Of The Drinking Man. I agree. I know from experience how easy it is to be broke when you’re an alcoholic — and how hard it is to be an alcoholic when you’re broke.

Unless you’re in the company of a cadre of superbly friendly bartenders who feed you liquor for free. Then it’s wicked easy to be an alcoholic when you’re broke (but damn hard bothering to find a job). I know from experience. For awhile there, back in the day, I drank so much free tequila that I was forced to turn to hard drugs for relief.

But those days are gone — hundreds of miles & a good long while behind me.

I live in a different world now — one where the bartenders senselessly make me pay for every fucking thing I drink. Ah well. If nothing else it keeps me Gainful. Gainfulness also keeps a roof over my head — a condition I would dearly love to keep permanently.

All this takes time spent pulling nails, scrubbing floors & whatever other gig I can find to scrape up a buck. Add to that my precipitous drop in drug intake — most of this blog was written while I was on enough drugs to kill a mule (and bring it to life again) — and writing without them takes a little getting used to. All this produced a scenario where my relationship to the written word has grown estranged of late.

Work is the curse of the drinking man indeed. I put forth that work is as well the curse of the writing man. Unless you write for a living — and probably even then.

So let’s just go the distance & outrightly declare: Work Is The Curse.

If so then writing for me is the Cure.

Bad news for me: If I must work, and I must write — I must — then damn it all to fuck! I don’t have time to drink!

YIKES!! What the hell am I gonna do now that I’ve completely sworn off booze?

Shit. I guess try to drink a little less?

Guest post from a speedWay reader who got sick of waiting around for mike e’s lazy ass to write something

My friend has returned. He’s here visiting.

I’ts been too long a time that he’s been away.

We, at this very moment are doing what we would normally do,

with the correct stimulation at hand, and the desire to write.

This was a while ago, even before he started this blog,

even before  I started to draw seriously.

We wrote late into the night, and then into the next day,

and then into the next night, and so on and so forth.

We’re doing that now.

My friend moved away to the big city,

some time ago,  leaving this town with a wound.

But then others have left as well, havn’t they.

Some return. Much to the satisfaction of the cadre.

I have friends I havn’t seen in years now.

It would be nice to see them again.

Some are in Hawaii, some in Oregon, or someother such place.

Some are where I know not.

All roads lead to Brattleboro.

That’s what they say.

Brattleboro Vermont, home to tweakers, vegetarians, nudists,

and an incredible assortment of individuals.

Trapeeze artists, regular artists, glass blowers, corn holers,

cow tippers, frizbee flippers.

We have hoboes that return to Bratt this time of year,

a dirty green black combination,

that must be by embracing soot.

The Morris Dancers return to Brattleboro, every Memorial Day, like the swallows returning to Cappistrano.

A bunch of dandies they are, singing sailing song, drinking to excess at McNeill’s,

then go out, get the street closed down sothey can dance their little dance,

with their jangly bells, and little white hankerchiefs. They do indeed look silly.

There are some funny laws, or should I say non-laws,

such as nudity. Some kids last summer or prehaps the summer before started hanging around Harmony Parking Lot.

Soon, old wrinkled farts were soon spotted prancing about in thier bestest birthday suits.

If you want to, you can still walk nude here but it will cost you 100 bucks.

Dr. Phil came here to see if there were any marketable aspects that he could elicit.

What a dope. Hollywood doesnt apply to Bratt.

We are immune.

We have the oldest mental hospital in the country,

it’s called the Brattleboro Retreat.

It seem that they open the doors late at night to let some of them out,

cause we here do have a seriousproblem with people that just dont seem to

understand the concept of reality. The water in The Connecticut River has been known to run north on occasion,

I have witnessed that myself just last year. Damnest thing.

In Brattleboro, around the turn of the 20th century they had here The Water Cure.

Several establishments that proclaimed that our water, out of some specific wells could cure all manner of ailments.

They are gone now, but are they really?

I lived in an apartment building right on top of one of these water cures, on Elliot St.

That’s right downtown for people not from around these parts.

In any case, I belive they left some unfinished buisness in my building.

There were happenings in that building that you would just not belive.

Just ask Dexterity, Absinthe Eve or prehaps Xela, and they would tell you gentle reader,

that some of the goings on in that building would make you think the place was haunted.

Oh sure, I may have over imbibed on ocaision, remaining so thoroughly fucked up that I might have hallucinated some of it.

Then again, this is Brattleboro, and many unnatural things  tend to happen here.

 It is good to see my friend again. 

I have another friend that moved away,

all the way to that other coast.

He returned to visit a year and a half ago,

and just before he left, as we were sitting around my drawing table, I turned to reach for something,

and having turned back I saw a white rock {coral}. It had, as  they all do,  in my rock collection,   natural holes right through them.

I had had on another stone, removed it and put the new one on. I still have it on. It’s never been off.

Thank you my friend.

I have a website with a few of  my more recent drawings on it. It ’s www.drawntomyart.com      

Hello to all my old friends out there. I miss you all.

PS  Make sure you give Mike e a ration of shit for not writing this himself.

mike e’s day off tour [remix]

i got a big bag o’ SHROOMZ

a spaceship & a

Wookie!

go to the school of hard knocks

but tonight i’m playin hooky.

cause that’s

the way you do It

don’t jump the turnstile

i walk right through it

just slip in the side

clyde

slip in the side door

& move & move &

move upon the dance floor

i found jesus christ

back @ Eugene ‘ninety 4

told me to Quit My JOB

& go on Mike E’s Day Off Tour

cause that’s the way you do it

don’t jump the turnstile I

walk right through it

truckin

I’m gone insane

shit

i’m more addicted than jane

get high wit a little help from

TNT Bang!

& when i say “i’m ok” you know

they LoOk at me kinda strange

I know

I know

I can’t stop twitching

But that’s because my rhymes are BITCHIN

boss said mike e

Your fired!

I says Fuck You

I’m RETIRED!!

cause that’s the way you do it

don’t jump the

turnstile

! !  !  ! !

We were somewhere near

Pluto

when the drugs began to take hold

rolling w/the Top Down

in this spaceship i stole

move ova ova ova

Move Over LonO!

one man gathers

what another man Folds

cause that’s the Way You Do It

i got an open container of make believe

no that ain’t workin

that’s the way you do it!

Buy the ticket? Why botha!!

we Takes The Ride for free.

Update

I had to literally count with my fingers to figure out how old I turned today.

38 or 39? Plumb could not recall.

Like, lemme see. I was born in 1971. So. ‘71 to ‘81 is 10 years.  ‘81 to ‘91 is 20. Turned 30 in 2001. Right? Double-check. ‘71, ‘81, ‘91. Right! 10, 20, 30. Now the tricky part.

Turned 31 in 2002. 32 in ‘03. OK. But wait! I thought to myself. Took a moment to reminisce about birthdays past. I was homeless — not unusually — on my 30th birthday. That particular winter I actually lived in the restaurant where I also occasionally washed dishes.

Why not? The beer was free after all the other employees went home. And the fact is that dishwashers never get fired — even when the dishwasher has to sleep in the restaurant because he has nowhere else to go.

Even when the dishwashers, after a long night of drug use, emerge into the restaurant’s dining room on Sunday morning & literally scare away the Brunch Customers — even then they don’t fire the dishwasher. Because if they do then someone else will have to wash the dishes — and no one else wants to.

Oh shit hold on. I lost count. Turned 20 in ‘91. 30 in ‘01. 31 in ‘02. 32 in ‘03. Etc & so on.

Well you get the idea — I’m too old to care how old I really am. But I always get curious, with regards to the current tally, around my birthday — and today I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I’m only 38.

Yo Bank Of America – YEAH I’m talking to you!

I ran into a snag at the bank the other day.

Actually the snag began in my wallet. There wasn’t enough money there. Actually there was none. Therein lay the Snag. But it quickly devolved into a systemic snag that threatened the existence of my entire personal banking system.

Trouble was: Rent. I mentioned a couple posts back that after I paid rent this month I would have no money for food. That was true. People who know me well know that when I say “I’m broke” well – I’m not fucking around. Broke to me does not mean I have only such-&-such small amount of cash laying about.

When I say I’m Broke it means that my ass is so broke it’s about to fall off.

That’s how it was after I paid rent last week. Now. My housemate/landlord is a cool enough cat; I could have shorted him $25 on the rent & paid it next week. But rent paid on time – longtime readers surely understand – is a matter of prickly importance to me. I don’t want to ask if I can be $25 short on the rent. I want to pay my rent In Full within days of when it’s due – and that’s that.

And that left me inadvertently short on the Basics. I had a grand total of $2 dollars in the bank. I needed $5 to ride the Metro; incontestably needed to get from Here to There and the charge was $5. I had $2. So I ran my debit card through the machine at the Metro station & VOILA!! The transaction was approved.

Well now. I thought to myself. If they’ll let me overdraw my checking account to buy a Metro ticket – if they’re into that kind of thing – well the fact was I was also short the $7 I needed for a pack of smokes. And come to think of it I was pretty hungry.

I went to 7-11 & bought smokes. Transaction Approved. Sandwich shop? Transaction Approved. It wasn’t exactly a Spending Spree. I dropped $26 bucks of money I did not have – money I knew for a fact did not have. A deliberate act to be sure. But I needed stuff I couldn’t afford & Bank of America let me buy it.

$26 grand total worth of Durable Goods.

Couple days later I looked online to check my account balance. Those $26 worth of purchases blossomed into a bank account that was suddenly $200 overdrawn. $200!! A $35 dollar fee was levied on each of the 3 overdrafts. Plus some random $10 dollar bullshit for a number of failed attempts by the bank to cover the overdrafts from my empty savings account. Does that even add up to $200? Bank of America says so. And as far as they are concerned that’s final.

I’d need to cough up the $200 to keep my bank account in good standing.

Begged the question: Why Bother?

My instinct was to go ahead & close my Bank Of America account & open another one at a different bank that would start me off with a zero balance. Why not?

Far as I was concerned I did not owe Bank Of America a damn thing. For what? Overdraft fees? Give me a fucking break.

Bank Of America recently bought Merrill Lynch. Fair enough. Banks buy each other. Trouble with that deal was that Bank Of America could not afford to buy Merrill Lynch. They did not have enough money in the bank.

They fucked up.

So…did Bank Of America get charged some gargantuan Overdraft Fee for initiating a transaction their ledger couldn’t cover?

Oh no.

When Bank Of America overdrew their account they were not penalized but instead rewarded with a $45 billion handout of taxpayer – and I now have a job so that is my – money. Well. Dontcha think I plain obviously needed a little Bailout cash when I was too broke to buy a subway ride, a pack of smokes & some food? Maybe from Bank Of America even – hell I would have gladly paid a few pennies in interest — all in the spirit of thawing the credit markets & getting the world’s economy moving again.

But no.

I held on to my uncashed paycheck for a few days trying to decide what to do. On the one hand I felt no moral obligation to cover my electronic debt with Bank Of America. I wished more than once in fact that I’d bought a carton of cigarettes & maybe a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon while I was at it. Why not? You don’t want to just burn a major financial institution – you wanna burn them with a little bit of Style.

On the other hand: Until very recently I had never paid a bill in my life. And there were times when that hurt me. For example: I could be a triple PhD by now were it not for the fact that I defaulted on my student loan back in 1994. Until it is paid I can not go to college; a waste of my considerable talents.

I wrestled with these quandaries. In the end though my decision was based on pure laziness; I did not care to bother with the rigmarole of opening a new bank account. It was easier — though it offended all my best instincts — to just go on & deposit my $350 paycheck & take the $200 bite.

And exact my revenge right here on this blog, for all the world to see – by telling Bank Of America to fuck off.

Yo Bank Of America: Fuck Off!

Yeah. That oughta learn ‘em!

A Town With No Bar

Sounds kinda like a bad horror movie don’t it?

Well that’s where I live.

The town is called Takoma Park, Maryland. It’s not a bad town I suppose — but Bad is a relative term when it comes to describing towns around here.

Let me tell you: There are some bad suburban towns strewn about our nation’s capitol. I work part-time in one of them; in a town called Gaithersburg. I know the town is called Gaithersburg because the bus I ride there goes under a highway overpass with a big sign hung on it that says Welcome To Gaithersburg. Otherwise there would be no way to know whether I worked in Gaithersburg, or neighboring Durwood, or neighboring Germantown. They look exactly the same. One long strip mall gone off in all 4 directions for endless miles. Where the strip malls end the endless rows of McMansions begin; endless rows of McMansions broken only by the occasional abandoned field full of half built mcMansions.

And then another half-out of business strip mall.

I call that part of Maryland the McWasteland.

Takoma Park is a bit better. It is DC’s original bedroom community, built back when it was fashionable for every house in a neighborhood to not look the same. My house is one mile from the DC city line. A 20-minute walk to the Metro. From there it’s 10 minutes to Union Station — a 10-minute walk from there to the US Capitol.

I live in a well-located spot.

The town has an enlightened element. There is a food co op; an independently owned coffee shop (no Starbucks); and until very recently a slew of “Impeach Them Both!” signs propped up on many front lawns.

While Takoma Park is charged leftward politically, it is far from proletariat. No working class heroes where I live — only me.

I was at a Phil Lesh concert last fall. Chatting it up over beer with some dude during set break, talking about the old days. Dude asked me where I lived.

“Takoma Park.” I answered.

“Oh.” My new friend rolled his eyes & goes, “Well la te fucking dah!”

Takoma Park, it turns out, is a notoriously well heeled community.

Consider that 3 houses on my street went up for sale in the past few months; the worst few months to sell a home since the Great Depression. Yet all 3 sold within weeks for the asking price. Housing bust? Recession? Shit — I build houses in Takoma Park for a living.

The town has its’ attributes, however flimsy. Fuck it. I live here now. Done worse; a thought which rarely escapes me.

But where is a jerk like me supposed to go after work for a drink?

Well. Why not pop into the Local, as it were, whatever bar is closest? Like I used to do back home. Even though I was homeless there half my life…it’ll always be Back Home to me. Or not? Well. They say you Can’t Go Home Again. Maybe so? But you can always go to the Bar.

Tell you a story about that Bar back home.

Once on Saturday afternoon years ago I rustled up a couple cute chicks to bring to the Bar with me. It was too early to drink, they complained, but I peer pressured them with great of skill & ease & waltzed into the Bar thus accompanied.

The bartender’s name was Saturday Steve. Sat. Steve has worked at the Bar every Saturday I think since the advent of liquor.

Saturday Steve at the Bar is a Friend Of Mine; best bartender west of Pluto.

“Ladies!” He exclaimed.

We sauntered to the bar.  Sattty Steve added, with smart-ass nonchalance,   “Um hey, ah,” He stammers & feigns like he can barely remember my name, “Oh right — Mike E — didn’t even see you come in.”

“You lie.” I demanded. “You looked straight at me & what you saw made you fall down!”

Steve grinned widely.

“You got it like that some days Mike E.”

You know right at that moment — yeah hay. It was good to be Mike E.

Saturday Steve pointed one finger skyward & shot up his eyebrow inquisitively.

Then Saturday Steve pointed his finger down.

Thus he posed the Question. Had I pointed down in response he would have cheerily poured me a beer.

I half-shrugged my shoulder. Disinterestedly strained one eye & grimaced slightly.

Eh.

Steve smiled luciferally & pointed his finger up again.

Oh Yeah? He wanted to know.

I pointed my own finger skyward & nodded buoyantly. Oh Yeah Buddy! I caught his eye & winked once with each of mine; one wink for each girl next to me.

I held up 3 fingers.

“3 Mike E Ritas it is!” Steve responded snappily.

He whipped them up in tequila-laced pint glasses & served us moments later. And though he knew I was doubtlessly penniless Satty Steve waved both my lady friends’ money away – as if to say don’t be ridiculous.

“These are on Mike e.”

Where else does that happen besides your hometown Bar?

Not around here. Takoma Park idiotically has no bar — this town sucks dog shit for breakfast.

Flimsy attributes obliterated. A town with no bar is like a stolen Cadillac convertible with no swimming pool to drive it into — senseless.

What kind of town has no bar? They are by law allowed to sell beer, wine & spirits here. A couple of food businesses do. But no business is dedicated solely to the craft of drunks & drink.

The free market system fails grimly yet again.

I’d ask: do these people not drink? But the question is stupid. Of course many of them — thousands — do. But where?

I’m required to leave this city of 20,000, where I live & work, and go find a bar in a neighboring town; where no one knows your name. It’s dehumanizing. AND metro service stops 2 hours before the bars close. That is downright inhumane.

And horrific for the local economy! A neighboring municipality pockets a nickel coin every time a Takoma Park resident buys beverages at one of their bars. In a moderately busy bar those nickels could bloom  into a yearly quarter-mil shoveled into town coffers. Booze is recession resistant. Bars employ people. Stimulate the freaking economy. HELLO??

Even a Sober Person could see that — and Sober People are stupid!

But this thing runs deeper than economics. It’s a human thing.  Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name! Somewhere faithful & FUN & forgiving & above all close to home. It is our reward; to fill our highest human need for Community; exercise our constitutionally enshrined Right to Pursue  Happiness;  for freedom’s sake Let Freedom Ring..

Pop in for a few after work! Do it for God & Country. Never forget that Our Forefathers fought & died for  our right to have a neighborhood bar.

Viva the Troops!

Viva!!

And if Takoma Park will not honor their sacrifice by opening a bar, well…

See ya!!

The town is uninhabitable. Now if I could only afford to leave…

Look The Fuck OUT!!

I’m back.

For various reasons, I’ve not had a computer since May ‘08. Put in historical perspective: the last time I had a computer Hillary Clinton was locked in a scrappy, to-the wire battle against Barack Obama. Though it looked good for Obama, no one at that point knew for certain who the Democrat’s nominee – let alone the next President — would be.

Just sayin it has been awhile.

So. Things worked out pretty well. For America? Well. We could have a worse President; beyond that the Results aren’t in.

Sure doesn’t look good though. 50,000 Americans lost their jobs — today. Some half-million homes have been foreclosed on this month. Another fat cat no doubt lost his shirt on Wall Street just moments ago.

But I’m doing alright.

A week from today I will empty out my bank account — yep, got one — to pay to live in this sweet room I rent in the basement of what I accurately describe as a downright palatial home. I can not afford to buy beer this week because the damn rent is almost due. After I pay the rent…it’ll be about another week before I can afford to buy food. But you know what? Fuck it.

Welcome to Planet Earth; so it goes.

Now. I could sit here and bitch about how my job does not pay me enough to afford to buy food and beer and pay the rent all at the same time. I could. I can. And let me assure you: I Do. But not today.

I’m in no mood to bitch today. I just got me a new lap top computer, see? Well not a new one precisely. But a 100% functional get-the-job done used rig. Makes the guy who can’t even afford to buy a 6-pack feel like not bitching, you feel me? It is cause for celebration.

Do you realize: there are 211 posts on this blog. Many were written at the Bar. Some in the chair I often slept in in a friend’s studio apartment. Often I would put the finishing touches on a post as I sat on the curb outside the bar, hours after it closed, just before dawn, picking up a loose wifi signal and in a mad hurry to finish up before my laptop — and I — ran out of battery Juice.

I’ve written blog posts in all kinds of fucked up places & from all kinds of fucked up states of mental disrepair. But this is the very first blog post I’ve written from the comfort of my own home.

To make matters better I just found 3 cold beers I altogether inadvertantly neglected to quaff during my last bender.

Cheers.

OK. I’ll bitch a little — I wish there was some leftover bourbon!

Anyway. There’s lot’s to tell. About how I got from There to Here and what I’ve done since. Above all there are people to Thank; people who literally saved my life. But I don’t have time to explain everything right this second. Plus I figure the best way to say thank you is to do what I do best: rip out a funny story.

They have public transportation here in DC. Long-time readers recall a time when a simple bus ride – one I could not afford — may have done me a world of good. Well I can afford to ride the bus now. Hell on good days I can even afford to ride the subway! Not every day is good like that. There have been days since I’ve been in DC when the extra buck for the subway would break me. So I’d bounce from one bus to the next…buses that would always stop at the Metro stations. And I would stare at those bright shiny lights of the Metro longingly, sure wishing I could afford to ride the train.

One major advantage afforded the Metro vs. the bus rider is, well — chicks. On the Metro you are virtually guaranteed to have at least one good looking lady to look at. On the bus, well…not so much. But on the train you got a pretty good shot.

Really she doesn’t even have to be that good looking. Just enough to entertain your thoughts until the next stop.

Yes. I am a subway gawker. But hell I mean — who ain’t? C’mon.

I try to keep a newspaper handy. Just to have something else to look at. Also because I like to keep abreast of the Day’s Events. But mainly because you don’t want to specifically look like a subway gawker when you’re gawking on the subway. You want it to be more a thing where some chick on the subway feels complimented by the fact that you take time out of your busy newspaper reading schedule to gawk — I mean peer — at her.

It’s an Art.

There are Finer Points to the art of the subway gawk. First off: never, ever march right up to the one good looking chick on the train and plop your gawker butt down in the seat next to her’s. Way uncouth dude! Remember: with rarest exception no one is going to take some girl home to do Whatever after you gawk her down on the subway. It just ain’t like that.

She’s just there for the Lookin.

There is one exception to the rule where you don’t sit next to the girl: when there are no single seats available. On a crowded train it is perfectly reasonable to slip onto the seat next to the Hot Chick. I mean who wouldn’t? When it’s either that or plop down next to some dude…

Hell no. Sit with the girl. QUICK! Before some dude beats you to the superior seat.

Funny thing happened one time on a train to Baltimore. It was a Friday evening, rush hour. Crowded train. Not full; lots of empty seats. But — remember that the set-up is with 2 seats side-by-side — no empty 2-seat units. Lots of dudes occupying one of those seats — plenty of empty seats available next to Some Dudes.

And then there’s me, right? Looking for a place to sit. The train was filling up fast.

It was a long train. A double-decker in fact. And on that whole damn long ass double decker train there was a grand total of one empty seat that was not next to some dude.

I knew she was out of my league.

I mean she was hot. Dark skin. Uber Professional. I had no business peeking at her from behind my newspaper — let alone being so presumptuous as to sit next to her — especially when there were plainly empty seats next to some dudes aplenty.

I walked past her more than once looking for some just kinda alright looking chick to sit next to.

There were none. Besides her it was — as we call ‘em back home — a Sausage Party. And it was a whole hour to Baltimore. And the train was filling up quick — if I didn’t grab the superior seat someone else soon would.

I sat beside her — I hoped not too nervously. Nothing to see here. Just some jerk sitting next to you on the train, mam.

I peered deeply into my newspaper — the Wall Street Journal as I recall. Very sophisticated. My country bumpkin ass was freshly showered even.

The train hadn’t yet started to move.

She was seated at the window, I on the aisle.

“Excuse me.” She said.

Then she stood & slid past me & went & sat somewhere else.

Moments later some dude sat beside me in the window seat.

Dear Santa Claus

Well Howdy

A Kurt Vonnegut quote I intended to furnish a year ago but was otherwise indisposed — locked inadvertently up in a loony bin, oops! — at the time. In any event I’ve done quite nicely for myself of late. And for those who may be dying of Mike E deprivation, this time I PROMISE: See you right back here real soon dudes. 

“I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

“It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one and another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.

“Armistice Day has become Veterans’ Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans’ day is not.

“So I will throw Veterans’ Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don’t want to throw away any sacred things.

“What else is sacred? Oh, Romeo and Juliet, for instance.

“And all music is.”

vroom.

Well there’s good news folks!

Yeah yeah. I got a roof over my head. I house sit now in fact. Sweet digs believe me. Yeppers — the xtreme couch surfer comes in for a landing. Smooth. Way. But whatever. Oh, right, I got a job too. Suffice to say that I am none too thrilled with that arrangement — but some would call it a Success. I call it a Temporary Affliction. I must say however that I do enjoy the Disposable Income angle of my new situation immensely.

I am as well as I’ve been at any time in my life. Better even. I can not describe the enormity of goodness I have witnessed of late. Something special has touched me. Socks? Shit daddy be sportin’ a fresh-bought spanking set of brand new mofokin shoes.

Good shit my friends.

But whatever. Yada ya.

The big news here is:

I think I might be an alcoholic again.

WHEW!

Just like I always hoped one day I would be.

Whoa nelly.

Sweet Jesus somebody pinch me!! Or better yet shoot me in the face. Maybe I ate the Brown Acid? I mean I must be freaking DREAMING!

Seriously this is one positively bona fide fuck of a major development.

Praise be.

But am I really? An actual drunkard I mean. Well let me see. It is Saturday morning — 12:53 PM to be precise. I finally quit bitching, a bit more than an hour back, about how there was no beer or scotch to drink — and poured myself a tumbler full of Grey Goose vodka ice cold. Ah. Well. Hally friggin lu-ya. Swoosh! Like a good morning Bloody Mary — minus the Tabasco, horseradish, Worcestershire sauce & V-8. Extraneous bullshit, that. Who needs it? Not me! Now my only Trouble on Earth is that the Goose flew the coop so to speak. I mean the vodka is all gone. Now What?? Guess I’ll have to drop some of my disposable income on a 6-er of Stella Artois. Only trouble is that my week’s pay has been well disposed of already. Yeah but who gives a fuck? Not me. I just borrowed $20 bucks to cover the Deal. Why not? My credit is good here.

Who WOO whoo. Go on take the money & run.

Can you feel the enormity?

Boy. That trip to the beer store was awesome dudes. I could have bought a bag of heroin while I was out — it’s like that here on the streets of our nation’s Capitol. I could have — but I did not. Not like I’m going Soft on ya’ll don’t get me wrong. I do what I wanna. And the fact just now was that I did not want a bag of heroin — or nothing of the sort. I wanted a cold six pack of beer.

Inadvertently I came home with a 12-pack. Now I ask: does that qualify me for alcoholism officially? I mean for real. Well I sure as fuck hope so! If for no reason other than to validate all I have strove so long for.

Never end a sentence in a preposition. Never jump off a moving train. These are just a few of the rules I have learned & broke skillfully in my time.

>>HST

Here’s the deal: ‘Long about 10 years ago I popped my first hit of Speed. Well Hot Damn I said. I could hang around & drink beer for the next 3 days straight! The pill had a chemically sweet after taste that curled clear to the pit of my gut. Like a taste I’d wasted the previous 29 years of my life waiting around to feel…

I mean I was relentlessly all about ‘dat shit motherfuckers!

And that is a verifiable Fact.

…Fast Forward 9 years.

Somewhere along the sleepless line I forgot Why I ever took that shit to begin with. I mean I quite literally forgot. Forgot, as in one day I found myself at the Bar with a large glass of tequila-based Beverage in my hand. A warm glass of tequila-based Beverage — that’s what was Wrong With That Picture.

“Warm.” I complained. “Ice please?”

“Fuck ice.” The bartender replied. He dumped out my warm drink in the sink. Whipped me up another juicy tequila-based beverage fresh & frosty cold. And, as per the established Norm, at no cost to me.

“Try not to forget to drink this one Mike E.”

My bartender admonished me.

Always listen to your favorite bartender. He knows what is best for you.

Try to not forget to drink.

Try? Shit. Wise green dude once say: Try Not!

Do.

I digress. The point here is that what happened was that — way back when — I dug the shit out of amphetamines because they could keep me awake & slugging down beers for the next 3 days straight. Which was solidly a day & a half longer than I’d been delightedly able to hang around & slug down beers previously. It was never specifically about the speed per se. Back then it was all about the booze baby.

Back in the good old days it was all about booze. A few bits of What Not on the side surely — but by this time any Saturday — back when it was real good — it really was all about booze.

But I forgot about all that somewhere along the line. A half-decade into my aforementioned amphetamine frenzy my cocktail got warm in my hand — I spaced the fuck out & quite literally forgot to drink it.

A heinous mistake.

Well my friends! I have now happily rectified that situation.

Got one? Clink beer bottle.

Cheers.

Drink to that.

Do.