In the early days of my writing career, back when I was as much of a young, desperate "suck-ass" as anyone, I was probably not much better than your typical liberal arts panhandler. . . . . worse, probably. There I was-- hiding out in the cold bunker as winter closed in, finding oneself in about as much "world-denial" as a dog struck with a brick howling down the road, yet looking for "a magical solution". Yet there were some things I was only dimly aware or half-aware of, like the sweet sump of emotional projection and self-pity.

One was that sometimes if you endeared yourself to people with "the right look", "the right attitude", and "the right softness" that usually you could cut yourself "the better deal"-- known as "the surrender tactic".

Another "tool of the trade" was selective honesty in order to get the person-- usually women, children, and baby-faced liberals-- to lower their defenses.

Nothing makes me laugh harder today than "Holy Sanctimony"-- particularly that of the secular religious gods of our barren era that once made me "shake at the knees" with its "steeple-chase" of competing bids of "who was more authentic", "hip", "happening", and "real".

One trope was of "the reformed" criminal, lout, or alcoholic painting a blessed picture of "self-reform" before simply going back to their same old habits "when they thought no one was looking", reverting once more to "the song n' dance routine" of what's expected of them "to get another hand-out". What always makes me laugh the hardest is the con artist who preys on the sentimentalist-- particularly when I see a bit of myself in both the swindler and swindled.

Like most spoiled children, I could play my parents "like a fiddle" but was not worldly or "street smart" enough to understand the ways I could be seduced by the most dubious, pathetic things. In other words, I was "a soft-touch" because most of the time I was fooling myself with my own florid, emotional projections. . . . . usually rooted back in some grand, conceited notion of myself as either "the destined hero", "the liberal savior", or "getting down" with "the noble savage".

One of the most brutal lessons of my life was how "my lock-picking skills" could only take me so far, particularly if I "only chiseled on the easy ones". It may work on your parents, relatives, and neighbors-- but it doesn't "carry truck" with your peers in quite the same way, or even a coach or an authority figure when you have to most certainly "hold up your end of the bargain" with hard work.

There would be a situation where I would be bellowing on the other side of the bars of my self-imposed prison, rattling the lock and screaming "I'm Michael Adams! I demand that you let me out of here!"

And the guard would look up from his paper and utter:

"Fuck you. . . . ."

But if a man has 24/7 to strategize, articulate, and reframe-- then you bet that he's "gonna get pretty good". I recognize a lock-picker when I see one, and what is the most charming is "to go along with the fiction"-- when both you know, and the other knows that you know-- that they're "fibbing". Only then, can the pretenses be dropped and there be true communication and an unbreakable bond.

And that's the truth. . . . .

-- "Get a job, Asshole!"