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Monday, February 28, 2011



Lorelei and her Exchanged Dad drove off in his expensive foreign car from Fashion Fair Mall and I walked over to my cheap foreign car, my Celica, the one whose engine I'd rebuilt in my bedroom. I tossed the two bags of clothes through the open window into the passenger seat.

This is how Fashion Fair looked back then, before there was color in the world.

This is how it looks now, evidently. I wouldn't know, first hand.

What the hell was up with that weird German chick?

She was nurturing me. Like she was my mother. She was mothering me. When you were a kid, being mothered was the best thing in the world,




Fresh baked cookies, sammiches with crusts cut off, and ginger ale and chicken soup when you were ill.

Now, I don't know about you, but when a chick who is not your mother proceeds to mother you, then something is wrong.

(Unless you have a virus. Then it's OK, because it makes you feel better when she mothers you in this case, and she does it so you'll stop whining at her and being a little bitch about your stuffy head and puke-fest.)

Why was Lorelei mothering me?

What was in it for her?

She "chust didn't vant me to be so sad."


Driving back home, I decided to stop thinking about it. It was giving me a headache. Hell, she was here for only another couple of weeks, and then she would be gone. Ivan Fucking Drago would be gone as well. And Kanigetaboohoo would chust be so sad.


So I went along for the ride, with Lorelei at the wheel. It would be the last time I did that kind of thing, ever again. Fuck that shit.

It is because of the Dance. It is because of what happened there, and the aftermath, which was not fair. The Germans went back home, but I was left in Fuckno to deal with it.

But before then...


I pulled up to the section eight housing development on Chestnut Street off of East McKinley near Dakota Avenue. This was my home. As you know, I was fucking poor. And you also know that I was making my own cash money working at a biker bar, cleaning up broken teef, blood, spilled beer and used condoms each morning before school. Lovely.

I went in and showed my new threads to my two little sisters. Galen, the older one who was dressed in a potato sack, clapped her hands and squeeled, "You will look like Johnny Fucking Rotten in that shit, yo!"

I kid you. She liked them, and the younger one, Spamela, (which I called her), got caught up in Galen's excitement. Cute little ladies.

Sean knocked on the rear door that led to the cement walkway which connected all the duplexes to the inner courtyard. I knew it was him. No, not from a secret knock or anything. Simply that he was an impatient young man, and he knocked like a kid with a spazztastic condition that would one day be solved with Ridlin. Knockety knock knock knockknockNkNkNkNkNk....

I let him in. Galen and Spam started talking like they were on a sugar high about my new clothes, andtheydidnotletupuntilfinallyIclosedmydooronthem.


Sean whistled. "That is some really faggy stuff there, bro."


Fucking Sean.

Never one to lie to me, he'd get pissed at Joey causing trouble by twisting things around to see what fights he could cause. Little instigator.

Sean, he too would always have my back.

I just didn't know it yet.

We left the complex of duplexes fixing two sixpacks betwixt two young punks who got drunk for their kicks. You can get a quick little drunk-on for an hour or two by shot-gunning a six pack to your head.

Earlier, we'd pimped some beer from a kind bum with a heart of gold.

Yeah, right, fucker stole half the twelve pack and our change.

He knew we wouldn't fuck him up, because he was the only one there all the time at the 7-11 up at the end of Chestnut. Convenient, indeed, but pricey.

This was before Starbucks stole every corner lot, mind you. Talk about Pricey.

So then we had to go and get more. Being underage sucked, probably still does.

Now we were sitting on the sloping edge of the cement canal down the street, feet dangling over the quick-flowing mountain water below.

Fresno water canals, aerial view.

"Will. What's this I hear about you banging some Foreign Strange?" Sean eyed me while positioning a pen near the bottom of an upside-down beer can.

"Dude, I ain't banging her." I got my own "shotgun" ready.

He pressed the pen into the bottom of his beer can and opened a hole called "the carb," which here has nothing to do with calories. Carburator. Air Inlet. For an engine. A beer can will become an engine in such a way. TIMT would agree. He's an engineer.

Sean firmly pressed his thumb over the hole while gently turning the beer can right side up. "Then you got some 'splaining to do, bud."

In one deft motion, his lips covered the can and he slipped the tip of his tongue against the hole while taking his thumb away from it, and then cracked open the top of the beer can.

He took his tongue away from the hole, and the beer was in his belly in moments.

"Sean, I don't want to bang her." I put my own can up to my mouth, tongue over the hole.

As the frosty cold effervesence of beer shot down into my own belly, Sean burped loudly and laughed.

"Man," he said, "you are pussy-whipped by two bitches now, spanning the Atlantic all the way from the Pacific."

He was right about that, but wrong about everything else. I didn't know what everything else was; I just knew he was wrong about it.

We shot-gunned a rack apiece and set off down the edge of the canal into the fading sunlight; two sillouettes against a golden, Californication sky.



Here's a band I like, but all they shit is a bit too slow for most. This one is cool.

Portishead, Glory Box, video montage of chicks, Not Safe For Work.

Saturday Comics for ya.

Amusing Quotes about Creationism.

So you have an Audi TT, why not add a leopard and double your sick?

Secret Life of Harvest Mice, pics. Pretty cool.

Time flies by faster, the higher up you are. Proven.

Difference between Android and iPhone.

Tea Bag Party Candidate.

Crunched cars. No pics of gross things like body parts here. But look away, if you have an active imagination of what these cars, and their former occupants, must have went through.

Carry on, my friend.

Photoshopped famous ladies.

Saturday Comics for ya. Click on the pic each time for a new one, and spend a while enjoying a laugh or eighty...

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

One more for ya.

Saw this guy at the end of Fremont Street last week. Got a buzz from the fumes.


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