I hope that I don't come across as "a crank case".

A halting, nebbish Atheist/Jewish father trying to get away like a honking goose chased with a cranking meat-grinder while a converted 1960's mugglewump of a Buddhist mother looks on with a slight cloud of whimsical depression, unable to grasp the heavier agonies of generational overthrow-- yes, given "the hard sell" of San Fransciscan "flower-power" damnation with 'ole Veronica, the pscyhedelically-painted bus, driving down the "Highway to Hell" as Bon Scott boozes through the words and the moppet-haired choruses rises like walls of flame with the Christian Right hot in pursuit of Winona like "Buford T. Justice".

The only thing that will be sent "Back in Black" is his marriage proposal to "The Princess of the California Dawn", unopened, because the family moved to Canada and are guarded by a chorus line of Toronto Mounties that would raise the wrath of straight-shooter's everywhere back in the states. Canadian "Bacon"? Why, I'd sooner settle for Northern "Border Patrol" and "The Defense of Marriage Act" as the hound dogs bay, and my people dress up for a shabby and ceremonial violence with "Vote for Wallace" placards. . . . . . passing out axe-handles like cigars.

Watch the life of the author. . . . . a former dead-end existence that sounds like a liberal, middle-class version of "Deliverance". As a shy, doddering teenager as out of place in the company of young hoodlums as a Ninja Turtle would be with "gangsta" sewer rat delinquents, he puts up $80 of booze for an orgiastic hotel party. . . . . then they screech away in the liquor store parking lot, farting exhaust in his Bill Gatesian face when they promise "to return in five minutes".

He puts up $500 for "a stand-up comedy night" and a bunch of squinting alley cats kick it over, a night of "Animal House" antics that grew wilder and mean-eyed and more violent with stooped-over cretinism, hearts cast of stone, as the room that held the aura of a thousand Chuck Berry revivals and American Civil Liberty Union fundraisers full of laughing harlots, nebbish mollusks, and cruddy orifices had no comment for the fallen state of man's spirit, without authority-- left unchecked as the young danced around like stink lines of sulfur, methane, and worse upon Satan's anvil known as these flighty, dubious city streets of "blue-state"-minded assumptions.

The author attempts to get interviewed in a local, alternative paper for his quirky website and is misrepresented by $16,000/year sleaze that want to present him in the way that best appeals to tabloid-reading vermin of said "blue-state"-minded assumptions.

Sometimes it seems easier to give up and keep to one's semi-autistic self in moping defeat than try "reaching out" in this shit-town. . . . . the comparative difference between working on a hand-cranked press in morbid isolation like a 19th century printer tucking subversive literature on doorsteps and an industrial printing center that spits out 10,000,000 copies as a figure like Hearst smokes a cigar and taps his ashes in a golden tray.

It's akin to having a box of 100 matches when on three work, two singe your fingers, and "the lucky strike" goes out in the grim downpour as you shiver their in an olive-colored pauncho the hue of rotten butter. Socially, with my L.D's, I have not been blessed with "a blow-torch" or even "lighting fluid" and have to do this slowly and methodically, watching others grill by their fire without giving you no notice or care.

They think it's very strange when a cold, hungry beggar comes up to their grill. . . . . they think it's stranger when he's been slopping through mud, and gets so frustrated he comes giggering out of the woods like "The Turd-Monster from Outer Space" and falls down and knocks their grill over, only succeeding on setting his ass-hairs a-fire and running around like a smoking tarp. As for women, how can he provide for one? He has to go back to a cold, rainy tent, slick down a hot-dog bun with mayonnaise, and all but JACK-OFF with it.

It is no stretch of story-telling to mention about the time when he was in jail, when they were serving fish tacos, and how low the humor sinks when men save the remains and keep it up by the "whirring" ceiling heater. The inmates complain about the stench, and someone shakes his head "that it smells like a dead Mexican whore". The entire jail is in an uproar, and even the guards are trying not to laugh. That's just jail, but some people reckon that if they go to prison they'll stuff their "bung" with quik-drying cement so it'll be safe as the buried gold at Fort Knox. Something tells me that these boys are so far gone on drugs, that you can't do nothin' for 'em.

I don't want TO HAVE TO TELL YOU about the short, stubby, retarded girl who gives 50 cent blow-jobs for cans of soda and has a line of six, developmentally-disabled cretins lined up like a "plumpers" home video.

It is the state of the world. . . . . it is the state of Missouri. . . . . it is, THE UNDER-TOW.

(Hello there, cutie)

What I don't understand is how a transparent fraud like "J.T. Leroy" can sell her books of gay/transgendered/lot lizard, heroin-addled NYC HORSESHIT of broken mirrors, heroin spoons, weeping angels and Catholic guilt when THE REAL STORY is understated and right under 'YOR GAWD-DAMNED NOSE. The celebrity reading circle-- including my beloved Winona-- centered around a shrunken "Cousin It" in sunglasses and a blonde wig who all but spoke in high squeaks like somebody's exotic pet, only delighting as "the plaything of the rich". However, they wouldn't let THE REAL PIT-FIGHTERS in their homes.

I'm not a lot lizard, but I certainly knew one-- and there was nothing "noble" about this savage. He used to meet the truckers over behind the old "Big Lots" discount retail chain, callin' out over his CB with the handle of "Battery-Charger" and "got his battery charged", alright. Probably had "a spark-plug" up his ass, for the way he malingered around with an agape expression, and had all these "gifts" stacked up in his demolished bedroom. He was running around with this "Aryan chipmunk" of a Lutheran pastor's daughter from the local Concordia Seminary, she got pregnant, he got sent to prison with one of my wild childhood friends when they were caught in a car with cocaine and a loaded gun, and then she was living in an abandoned trailer up on blocks by a reeking, trickling river of SEWAGE like "a real bandita". 10 years ago, Miss Aryan Chipmunk, her bandito boyfriend, a car thief, and a wanted murderer were driving around in my car looking for liquor deep in East St. Louis at 2 A.M following the Sunday night of "Labor Day".

What the hell was I, but a overly-sheltered misfit who was tragically divided between upper middle class respectability and working-class shiftlessness somewhere between hell & oblivion. . . . . when everyone else had moved on by this time and all had futures, and he was running from the shame of being absolutely alone? Well "the bad neighbors" up the street picked up on the stink of his famine like vultures and were "swooping in" to pick him clean like scavangers. Some spoiled punks use nihilism as a fashion statement, others "live it" because it's all they know.

You find yourself in a situation where "getting by" in conventional society is like trying to walk along with an infected nail driven deeper into your foot with each hobbling step like split bone and gangrene. Of consequence, you tend to be lumped in with those who tend "not to walk very far"-- usually out of ignorance, shiftlessness, criminality, or disability-- and I can tell you stories about those washed up "in the sluice gates" of society's social problems like crud in a bleeding ulcer. One problem is the maltreatment you tend to get of those left in charge, accustomed to dealing with the dregs and not assuming that you're much better, with your lack of confidence and how you tend to talk into your chest like "a whipped dog". Throw in high intelligence and somewhat off-kilter wiring, then they don't know what to make of you.

A funny tableau would be Franz Kafka sitting in a jail cell with 30 blacks, looking like a funky Eastern-European "scaredy-cat" in his formal suit and then when they start muttering and looking his way, he leaps to his feet and starts screeching "Heil Hitler!" at the top of his squeaky voice to appear a lot more fearsome than he is, but probably not doing a very effective job. The black inmates jerk their heads back and go "whut?", mutter amongst themselves, wave their hands as if warding away "whitey's stench", and want nothing to do with him.

That is an image I'd soon leave buried in the St. Louis city jail. . . . . that one time I made my old flaky liberal-arts school think that a 6' 8" half-black Aryan terrorist named Leo Felton was going to show up and take a dump on the headmaster's desk because he wouldn't take a certain ex-student's family off the mailing list who had been unjustly expelled 10 years before for fighting for his little sliver of respect. Though the letter arrived on Valentine's Day with a box of tampons (-- to show the administration that I thought they were "pussies") the S.W.A.T. team showed up in mid-June, after the school year ended, to fully investigate this half-Jewish "Teutonic Terror". What they found was my panting dog and yours truly eating a cheeseburger in a Wayne's World hat as I half turned-around, and raised my hands in the air.

The dog got the burger.

They rifled through the closet, looking for weapons, and only found my porno tapes. And the "Blow-job-to-go" novelty gag, which was Marilyn Monroe's rubber head in a box sitting there like an order of Kentucky Fried Chicken and just as rubbery-tasty when you tried to make out with it, much less hook the head up to a vacuum cleaner and "be a big stud".

Well the S.W.A.T. team was holding this sadly-drooping head up by what passed for it's hair in one Kelvar-gloved hand, not knowing what to make of this. Then they threw me down flat on my face and cuffed my hands behind my back. The only right apparent here was the blushing right to remain silent. . . . . as they rifled around and joked amongst themselves.

Down at the station-house as "I spread 'em" with "balls to the wall", a Negro sung with his hands outward like Al Jolson. For surely we were "The Lord's Captives" and all in this together as they lead us in a chain to the jail, all chains of recurrent DNA racial superiority broken up and stirred into one hobbling, shoeless centipede. As the only "honky" in "the lair of the panther", I was not about to start a one-man "Aryan prison gang" and THE GREAT WHITE BEAST kept his trap shut.

What became of "Marilyn", I do not know. Probably thrown on an incinerator along with my prelude to a better life. Until then, the author will have to save his Teutonic death-fuck to his fingers skittering feverishly across the keyboard, looking for a Bettie Page head.

*** (Part of this was told to make an outrageous story-- no vacuum cleaner is BIG ENOUGH to accept my manhood)