Nobody said it would be pretty.

After a long and tiresome day at the joke I call a job, there's nothing I desire more than a blow job and a beer.

Since I can barely support myself with the pennies that I'm paid, it goes without saying the blow job is outta the question.

So all I have to look forward to at the end of a shift, a shift I've usually contemplated slicing my wrists with an envelope opener or proving human beings can't fly by jumping out the window of my office about seven different times, is that ice cold bottle of goodness.

I can hear the regular joint on the North side calling my name as I place the CTA pass into the slot to deduct its $2.25.

---Oh don’t worry my beautiful love, I’ll be there soon to see you.----

Sitting on those old train cars, with the drunks and the lost, I feel pretty comfortable. For I too, was once lost. Found direction in the bottle I like to claim. But anybody who knows anything about this, that or the other thing (whatever the fuck those things are) will gladly tell you of their expertise in the demoralizing effects of alcohol on the human psyche.

I, for one, would much rather drink seven pints of PBR and piss on an electric fence while standing in a pond than believe them.

The voice of my place of comfort and drunkenness becomes louder as I near.

---Still ten minutes away, I’m afraid, but I’ll be there quick my love.---

Most places on the North side cater to those with money. Well, those with mommy and daddy’s money anyway.

Filled from the bar to the walls with preppy douche bags with their collars popped and three-quarters bottle of whatever gel is cool that week in their hair. Wearing polo’s with their favorite car emblem embroidered on the left lapel. Drinking Vodka-Red Bull’s and chasing them with top shelf Tequila, all while trying to hit on the girl with the shortest skirt on.

They’re a real bunch too. Wear so much makeup it takes longer to put it on than the fuck session they’ll have with the guy who told her, with his collar popped of course, she was the prettiest girl in the bar. And when they do get back to the condo on LSD that mommy and daddy pay for, he’ll try to accomplish what he thinks sex is.

All the while this is going on, she’ll be wondering and worrying if she feels good to him? If she’s the best he’s ever had? If he will let her sleep in the bed he’s fucking her in because she has no money to get back home?

They’re all jokes. Every last one.

But at my spot, things like this don’t happen. Sure, people meet for the first time and they do go partake in the events of sex with each other, but it’s not like at the other places.

At my place, that dark, worn out, tired place....the attraction level of the opposite sex isn’t really what attracts. It’s the minds of the people who visit.

Please, I beg of you, don’ get me wrong, but we are not scientists, lawyers or doctors. We are not a people who can sit with only people of our background and discuss things all others in the conversation already know. We do not, will not and can not, do that. There is such beauty outside of the boxes those people dwell in. It’s just too damn bad they’ll never step outside to find it.

There are a plethora of small, round tables which seat anywhere from two to twenty. The tables for two get used, but nowhere as often as the giant table for twenty in the back does.

It’s an old gal, and she’s seen far too much to try and describe here. Most everybody who has been entangled in a talk, a discussion, an argument or the plan of attack on all cowardly authors/poets/musicians of the World have scribbled their names onto her. And she is covered.

Years ago, when the names started, there was plenty of room for more. Now though, that isn’t the case. The tables top, its edges, even the fucking bottom...covered with the names of all who’ve sat at her.

The original owner of the place tried to wash off the names back in the ‘50's. But he wasn’t successful. Sure, the names of many would vanish for a few days, but each time there was an opening, somebody put the names they could remember back on.

---I’m a block away baby, have one ready for me.---

When you step up from the sidewalk running passed the front door the first time, you feel as if your life is going to change. And for most of us, the first time did change our lives.

Those of us who’ve changed ourselves, our minds and our lives just from going into this place and realizing that it’s not at all what they told us it would be. That it all doesn’t have to be the way that they tell us it should. And the way we want it is, and always has been, the way that many, many more want it to be as well.

-The old, bearded, beat-up smoker who spit words out of a clammy, whiskey stained yapper named Ray rests just next to the East row of tables.

-The confused, about who they are not what they are, diluted women with nose rings and sleeves of tattoos move to the beat of their/our own drum as they swing lazily to the song on the dance floor.

-A 70-year old man’s birthday party, hosted by 20-somethings who all speak from their asses about wars, literacy and the government, held at the big table in the back, sing Happy Birthday William to the old cat in the chair. He’s smiling at them all. Not because he thinks it’s nice of them to do this for him, but because of their ideas on the topics they choose to speak about...wars, literacy and the government... are all fucking wrong.

-A picture of Bob Flannigan with no shirt on and clothes pins pinching his nipples, ears and arms hangs on the wall behind the bar collecting the lingering smoke from the butts we’re not supposed to burn inside of public places thanks to a new Illinois law.

-A photo of Bucky Sinister’s bottom lip with the word POEM tattooed on the inside of it hangs above the urinal in the upstairs shitter. I bet that lip was a pretty sweet spot to park a shaved pussy.

-A half naked, just her top, brunette getting her left nipple sucked by a bearded fella in a flower print button up adorn the South wall next to the juke box with the words, We Miss You Charles written on the wall under it.

-A very angry looking man, with a stars and stripes plastic hat atop his head, and a grizzly looking dark beard hangs next to the cooler that’s filled with bottles and bottles of beer and above the bowl of dog treats. A pint glass rests next to the bowl of dog treats with the name Allen etched into it.

-The man with the crazy hair, always wearing sunglasses, and holding a guitar or sitting at the piano hangs above the moldy floor and under the lights of the stage that we all will be atop at some point in the night, waiting for a Hurricane to blow in.

-And countless other photos hanging from the walls next to the cracked and dirty windows, under seiling fans covered with dust and dirt, above mouse traps in the corners of walls and under creeky stairwells. And nobody cared.

And then, after you’ve walked through the place, and maybe sipped back a pint or twelve and partook in discussions about whatever it was that you felt like having discussions about, before you leave, there hangs the one. The picture that pulls it all together for each and every one of us low-life, beer guzzling, truth telling, cock suckers that visit.

It’s black and white. With a man leaning against a brick wall. Taking a great, greedy drag from his cigarette. Watching and looking out over his city. Taking it all in. Looking for his next poem. Trying to write his next story in his head. Each time I leave, this picture reminds me, it reminds us, that nobody said it would be pretty, this thing called life.

They say Jack Kerouac did it that way. Wrote from his experiences. Just like all of us who visit someday hope to.

How do you want to die?

When we were younger, my buddies and I did all the regular country boy things: Campin’, fishin’, huntin’, fightin’, farmers daughters, Church on Sundays, never swore around Ma, stuck up for each other, protected our sisters and drank ridiculous amounts of ice cold Busch Light, in the can, of course.

Those nights we’d spend campin’ on the back 40 of the farm were always good times. A group of buddies, all drinkin', singin' with the radio and tellin' lies. It always seemed sometime after that old yellow moon lit up the countryside, somebody would get to talkin' serious.

One night in particular, the question of how we’d like to die was brought up. Not a word spilled from a single mouth. None of us ever thought about how we’d like to die. We were 17-years old, we had a long while before any of us went off to die.

Then a future death plan was fired off.

“I want to die saving somebody. If it’s a kid in a burning house. A woman gettin' robbed by some guy with a gun. Crashin’ my car chasin' the guy who just robbed my house. I wanna go out like that, tryin' to set things straight,” mumbled Chief. (Chief was the grand mind of our crew. He came up with the crazy ideas for the crazy things we did, thus where the name came from.)

Again, silence.

“I guess I’d wanna die ridin’. Some big bitch of a bull, never been rode, and I get ‘em. Then he gets me. That’s how I wanna go,” Cowboy murmured through a mouth full of Copenhagen. (Cowboy was, well, a cowboy. Since his real name started with a C, we gave him the handle.)

“I’m gonna say in a blaze of glory too. I’d want to save somebody, somethin’, or take the place of the woman I love,” Rodeo told us. (Rodeo, like Cowby, was also a cowboy. But since we gave Cowboy the handle Cowboy, we had to give Rodeo, Rodeo, because his real name started with an R.)

“I wanna die fuckin’. Me, the whole volleyball team and Mrs. Anderson. That’s how I wanna go.” Cookie added. (Cookie was, obviously, the guy who cooked our meals on the camp fire every trip. He was also the guy who always played it off like he was getting laid every day. Which we all knew was a lie.)

“Quick,” Norm said. Which we all understood to be somewhat of a joke. Norm raced cars and by him saying ‘quick’, we all knew he meant on the track. (Norm was somewhat of a bigger fella back then. And the boy could damn near drink his weight in beer if given the chance. We gave him Norm after George Wendt's character on Cheers.)

The rest of us all said that we didn’t know how we wanted it to end. And for many years after that night, I still didn’t know how I wanted to leave. But now, I'm pretty sure I’d like to go out like this:

Quietly...in a log cabin..in the hills of Colorado, surrounded by the pine. The morning sun would just be beginning to peak its face up from behind the trees while they're dancing with echo’s of lost love. The smell of an early morning rain and crushed pine cones throughout, the soft rambling of a creek as it trickles over the stone and the cry of an Eagle above. Alone... tearless...expectant and ready...with my fingers on the keyboard...a hot cup of coffee at my side and the slow lingering of Marlboro Light smoke in my eye, knowing...

...I’m goin' home.

Free Lancing Sucks

Today, I have realized that leaving a job that I loved, and made damn good money doing, to go back to school to become a journalist, is the biggest mistake I've ever made. It's a bigger mistake than the times I've been arrested for driving after drinking. A bigger mistake than sleeping with the more-than-I-care-to-admit women that I've woken next to the past 10-years. But I just found out that the job I've been working for the past two years, and putting in 50+ hours a week since the get go, has just taken a large budget cut and my hours will now be, get ready for this shit, 15 FUCKING HOURS A WEEK! How does anybody expect a 31-year old journalist, who's been barley making it by at 50+ hours a week, make it by on 15 hours a week? I started searching the job boards and the endless number of employment sites (Monster, Yahoo, Findajob, Blah-Blah-Blah-Blow Me) to find a new place to call my employer. But what really pisses me off about this gigantic budget cut the website I work for just took to limit all employees to 15 hours a week, the fucking head editor is hiring new cock suckers to work! And guess who it is that gets to train these hour stealing mother fuckers? You got it. Freddy in the Fucking Chi. I graduated from Columbia; the art school, not the smart school. Three-quarters of the guys I work with graduated or will graduate from there as well. There are a few guys who went/still go to DePaul and now, these new co-workers of ours all attend/attended Northwestern. I'm not saying that this school or that school has the better j-program, well, I guess it seems like I am doesn't it? My boss and my bosses boss both graduated from Columbia. My bosses boss grew up five miles from me back in the country. What am I even talking about now? I feel that I'm showing these new people how to do my job because at the end of the school year, my job is going to be their job. And if that is indeed the case, which I can't possibly know because certain bosses, bosses bosses or people who believe that they are my boss or my bosses boss pretend they know nothing on the matter can go it alone. Too bad those cock sucking instructors I had never told me that being a free lance journalist was the most unstable job you could have.

Two Wednesdays from now, at 7:35 pm, let's meet at the Main StreetBar & Grille.

There are two types of people in the world when it comes to planning.

Some people feel the need to plan everything far in advance. These are the people who carry around a pocket calendar and obsessively fill its pages with exact times for meetings, dinner plans, due dates. These are the people who actually use the calendar app on their cell phone. These people get a nervous feeling in their stomach if plans are not set in stone. These people don't do well when someone tells them, "let's meet one night next week." It is their natural inclination to respond with, "wait, which night next week? What time? Where are we meeting?" They need to be able to write something down in their planner. They need to be able to plan the rest of their week. I am one of these people.

The other type of person hates to commit to specific plans. What if something else comes up? What if, when next Tuesday rolls around, they no longer feel like doing whatever it is they said they'd do? These people like to just "go with the flow." They'll figure it out at the last hour. My ex-boyfriend is this type of person.

So here we are, almost five months since the breakup, trying to remain friends, keep in touch, enjoy each other's company without banging out. Last Thursday he gave me the dreaded "let's do something next week." Now, we're no longer together and I know he hates making solid plans (and even if he did set specific plans, he'd probably end up changing them the day of)... so I didn't push it. I accepted the uncertainty of our meeting.

I decided to give him until Wednesday. If he hadn't called me by Wednesday at noon (his typical waking time), I'd call him to make last minute plans for that night or for Thursday night.

(Do you see how I even need to plan my schedule for setting last minute plans?)

But then today I realized that Lost is on Wednesday night, and I would prefer not to miss it, even for the love of my life (who doesn't want a girlfriend anymore). And so I sent him a text message asking if he'd like to go out tonight. That was an hour and a half ago.

Of course he hasn't responded. And it has nothing to do with the fact that we're not dating anymore. We are on good terms and I know he sincerely wants to hang out with me. What this has to do with is his inability to commit to something that is more than an hour away. Five hours ahead of time is WAYYYYY too far in advance for him to make solid plans. What if he says yes now and something else comes up in a couple hours? Or what if 7:00 rolls around and he's just too tired to go out?

So instead of responding with a "yes," "no," or "maybe," he will wait until 5:00 or 5:30 to make up his mind and get back to me.. I will sit here, with that nervous feeling in my stomach, just WONDERING.

It drives me absolutely NUTS to not know what I'll be doing in three hours when I get out of work. Nuts.

The struggle between these two types of people is probably something that will never be solved; people are very set in their ways and seldom change. But if you are the second type, F you! You raise my anxiety level even more than it is normally.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

The Not-So-Secret Scandal & The Cracked Cup

"I'm with your cousin Keith in Cali. He thinks you, me, his wife and him should all go out to dinner next time I'm in Boston," read the text message that woke me up from a sound sleep. It was from Jake. If you read my TIBU, then you might remember me writing about him. If not, Jake is a guy I secretly dated for a little while. It was a bit scandalous and needed to be kept from my family & co-workers.

So you can imagine how this text message startled me. It's been about a year and a half since Jake and I were together. We had promised to keep the relationship a secret. So why would he tell Keith now, after all this time?

"That's not funny. What did you tell them???" I responded.

"It's your cousin Keith....... What's up?? Thanks for coming to my mom's birthday party. Jake is my boy.... Let's all have dinner."

What the fuck?? Is this a dream?? I decided not to respond and to just try to go back to sleep. But moments later, my phone buzzed again.

"Seriously, it's Keith. I am in CA with Jake. He's been a long time friend... He's not fucking with you. He's a good shit and I told him to text you."

Oh God... this is real.

Why do I even care that he knows?? I mean, the main reason we kept things a secret is because we thought Keith would care that his subordinate was banging out with his younger cousin and it could effect their work situation. But if Keith is cool with it, then what's the big deal?

Well, I guess the whole thing is a little weird to me. I don't like mixing my personal life with my family. I wouldn't want want my family to think any less of me based on rumors... so I'd just prefer they don't hear any.

For example, if Keith was told that Jake dated his little cousin for awhile, that's one thing. But if Keith was told that Jake banged out with his little cousin on their first date... see, it's all in the way things are worded. So I needed to find out exactly what was said.

"Haha okay, we'll discuss later. I'm asleep. Have fun," I finally texted back.

"Set a date," was the response.

The next morning, Jake explained that he hadn't told Keith anything; he said Keith brought it up out of nowhere with "So, you dated my cousin for six months?"

If Jake didn't tell him... then how did he find out??

Apparently Keith was actually excited to learn about our history and encouraged Jake to go after me and to "get in the family! You have to get in the family!"

This encouragement led to Jake's begging & pleading to take me out to dinner. Just once. I owed it to him, he said, after blowing him off for this long. Just think of it as a free meal, he said. He promised he'd make me laugh.

Oh, this is getting tiring...

I eventually agreed to a dinner date just to get off the phone, after explaining to him repeatedly that I simply didn't see the point. I have no bad feelings towards him; it's just that we already tried this and I already know we're not right for each other. I mean, if I pour water into a cup and it leaks all over the table, I'm not going to try pouring more water in it. Clearly, there's a crack in the cup.

A prayer for the woman I love.

Hello....God?

I've been thinkin today about how it all mighta been, how it all shoulda been. Every hour that passed was full of mind travels and emotional scavenger hunts. It's not like I didn't understand her, and it's not like I didn't wanna be with her but she only wanted me...well, the way she wanted me.

I left. She stayed.

I buy magazines and papers now, just for the chance I might see her face. I listen to the radio to hear the song that makes me feel like the night she stayed in my arms, under a black midnight sky, back in the hills of Oklahoma. Or was it Kansas? Colorado?

She's gone now. I'm still here. How I wish to speak with her about love. The kinda love that doesn't die. The kinda love that must've died years ago in her. That kinda love I still got. She's the reason why. She's my reason why.

Where might we be? What might be my life? Her life? Our life?

Dust fell upon our love and crop circles formed in our hearts. Her love spun me 'round, and how bad I wish for that again. Busy streets stopped as we crossed holding hands. The games of hide and seek we played, always looking for the way. We found it, but sadly, those spots discovered were lacking sensitivity and full of betrayal.

I won't catch her. I would try, but I'd never be able to grasp her, watchin my words as she cries, decidin again, to stop the beat of her heart. People used to watch us quarrel in the courtyard with amusement, temptation, fright, lust, shame and fear.

And I sit, a thousand miles away, worryin about the song that I'm tryin to write for her just to let her know that if she wanted, I'd be right there by her side, to hold her head up off the floor like I used to. Or maybe she held mine? This guitar ain't gonna pay the bills forever, but if it could, wouldn't that be somethin?

If your rain can make it grow, and your sun can raise the hearts, why's this happenin? I can't play this game anymore. I have stowed away my love. She needs to be here. I need to be there. Sweeping sensitivities blinded me years ago on the day I cut my throat with the staple. What would she say? One more shot? It's all I think about, the love, and her with my heart in her hands.

I still hold her notes and listen to the word's spill from her mouth. Watchin re-runs of Saturday Night Live on an old fold-out couch, followed by a lick of her thigh. Thinkin over and over and over and over and over about how it mighta been, how it shoulda been, how it'll never be. So sad.

What am I gonna do? Keep on keepin on? Stop traffic with a hop, skip and a jump? Follow Red Rover, Red Rover as Freddy's sent over? Jack Flash ain't jumpin' and those Saint's ain't Marching In any day soon without her.

She can stay. I'll leave, again. I wish her the best to fix the mangled heart I've left her. Please hear me God, don't let her change her mind anymore, it'll only lead to another heart breaking episode in her life. This has got to die, this she and I.

I still hear her voice over mine, as I look into the eyes she left behind in the mirror. She always said she loved my eyes. I loved her everything. I'll search the world to find her. Just to hold her. To kiss her. To show her how responsible I'm not. To not let go until she tells me to.

As I stand on the stage, with all eyes on me, I see her in the crowd smiling at me, singing along with the words from my soul, without her actually being there. All without me at her side. Is it because I didn't know enough or because I knew too much? Probably both.

The time of her life, I hope for her. I have no more advice to give her. You blessed her soul with perfection and grace. She was, is and always will be, in control of this mess I call a heart. All my heros are gone and I wanna be like them. It always looked like fun to do this, but it was a blatant lie I continue to tell myself to this day.

You're crazy; I tell myself. I'm probably right. I'm certain I am. Yeah.

Just to hold her hand, with a true breath, a great greedy gasp in the coolness of the night, without words, I'd fade away. In shadows and circles, I live my life. She counted down, I didn't launch, it was a fair warning. So faded, I am.

So dark...and worn...and faded.

She will never know that I'm faded because of her love. The love she never even knew was there. The love I denied myself to feel. Strangers scream I love you. Panties and bra's are tossed to me. Drinks bought. I miss her.

Maybe she knew all along the way it was to eventually be. I feel she may have. Strange. Faded lover of the shadows, dancing in the neon stars, a tryst in the lobby of the Hilton?

Thoughts of her crawl into my head everyday. Now, like the cockroaches that yell they love me, she really hates me. Please, don't let me hurt her anymore. Make her hate me in silence. Please, I beg you God, her hate, don't let me see it, feel it or hear it.

All the compliments for this or that, don't get me to my final destination. Please, see what's good for her, and make her let go completely. No more chances, I will only devastate her again.

All the things I couldn't/wouldn't do for her have caught up to me. And it is good they have. I finally can see that I wasn't the man I thought I was. She won't be my wife, I, not her husband. No baby boys showered with love. No Christmas trees. No carved pumpkins. Without cranberry sauce and a canned ham.

Love. Love. Love. Love.

When JC shined light on the subject, while nailed to that tree, nobody took it seriously. Gamblers of life and fate, we musicians are. I'll put it down. Send her back home to me so she can tell me she hates me. I'll know she wont mean it. Unless of course this time...she finally does.

Thanks for taking the time to listen God.

Amen.

John Mayer aint got shit on me.

I went to meet her family the other day, which was surprising, seeing how she’s told me countless times she's an orphan. I’ve got an addiction I guess, and only certain people know about it.

I love it when she pulls the shades down and stops the moon from peeking its glaring eyes in on us. She likes to wear dark make-up, which is pretty hot considering she has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, and the brighter than the sun gold cross she wears around her neck glistens ever so brightly off her dark skin.

Reminds me of the Spanish Angel’s Willie and Ray spoke about in song years ago. You know the song? About a woman who loved her man so much, after he died in a gun battle against the Federalalies of the old school South, she picked up his gun, knowing it was without bullets, just so the coppers would blast her down and she could go with him to the promised land. Because she knew that she couldn’t be without him.

I hope I make her feel the same way. She’s told me she loves me. I know I love her. But I can’t tell her, I’ve tried too, but each time, the words just came out wrong. Perhaps I’ll tell her I love her in song? No. Did that for another years ago. New plan.

When I talk with her, I talk in riddles, unknowingly. When I answer, it comes out as a whisper. All the attention in the world isn’t enough for her. To her it is. But I need to give her more so I don’t fuck this up. The memories of yesterday keep getting jammed in my head and they scare me. I can’t take it anymore and I want them to leave. Memories of the things I’ve done in the past to push the very few I’ve loved away scamper into me at night. I hide under the blankets like a little boy afraid of the rain.

I gotta do the right thing. If it’s this or that, I don’t know. Holding her hand as she’s beside me, breathing the air from her lungs, looking at nothing in her eyes. I will hide in shadows no longer.

Nothing seems to brighten the dark and gloomy things I call my heart and soul any better than seeing her beautiful face, smiling, while she bounces about the floor with the happiness of a small child. We pretend we’re alone. Her fingertips play the same song on the dance floor as I’m playing on the stage. She’s been hurt. I’ve been hurt. But I promise you, I promise her and I promise me, I will never have a reason to hurt her.

My heart feels like lightning, white lightning, burning brighter and hotter than it all. I guess it’s about time to learn to live again. It’s about time to learn to love again.

But, in all the ways she's like me, she’s not like me, and I don’t care. As long as she keeps coming with me, I don’t care what she’s done in the past. I’ll take her as is. I don’t care who or what she was in her past, as long as she doesn’t care who or what I was in my past. And it seems she doesn’t.

In my mind, I’m still a little boy. She’s still a little girl. But I got a feeling the Devil is ripping a hole in me. The things I was ashamed of, I ain’t anymore. The things that I used to do, I don’t do anymore.

Sleeping naked, under the blankets, kissing her lips. I want her to pull me from the stage and take me home, before it’s too late. And let me fall asleep and wrap me in the blanket of her soul.

Held her in my arms as she slept, without makeup, and listened to her breathe. Watched her eye lids dance to the music playing in her dream. And even though she was dead to the world, her fingers still played. All musicians are the same. You can take the guitar away, but the music never leaves.

The alcohol dried in my veins. And as I stood in that early morning rain, smoking a cigarette, those cool drops washed away my fears. I used to know what it all meant, this thing they call love. I think I’m starting to understand it again.

The Day Before Yesterdays Tomorrow...and Tomorrow’s Yesterday

My forgotten dreams, thoughts and prayers of yesterday
present themselves to me each
morning when I wake:
still drunk, high and naked.

Luckily, no-more,
do I remember they were ever mine.

A million and two torn tears have washed
away the thoughts,

loves,

sex partners and

ripped condoms,
and I'm rather glad that they're gone.

Slow, brisk winds lifts the skirts of the
sluts standing in line to get into the club
as the crack pushing coppers turn their
fat asses the other way:
Favor repayable by blow jobs and donuts.

A cold bath, with the sweet aromas
of stale beer and blood lined urine
staining the air, is all I crave.

With or without an electricity charged
hair dryer to accidentally slip into the tub.

A nosy door man, a thieving parking lot attendant
and a neighbor with Photo-shopped nude pictures
of Dakota Fanning on her wall.

I couldn't dream of
a better spot to call home.

1,006 miles I'd walk for her.
I've loved her since the get go: 20,736,000 seconds ago. Give or take.

Syringes full of arsenic and pills
coated with detoxifying solutions from GNC.

A misplaced vibrator, found in the freezer of
the school lunch room, belongs to the Dean of Students.

A flaming bag of cat feces, left on the door of Reverend Father Phillips.

Three quarter of the varsity softball team,
suspended for group sex with the vice principal
and her secretary. They both got raises.

A pop can filled with flaming weed.

A gym locker dispensing Viagra, HGH, multi vitamins,
Rubbing alcohol and Molotov cocktails.

A dirty sewing needle,
a half quart of black ink stolen from
the sewing and stitching department,
and a dozen 18-year old football players
tattooing their love for Brian Bosworth
on the inside of the left thigh.

I admit it, I pushed it all away that night.

All the times I promised to remember where I came from,

finally,

one had the power to make me forget

Death became it.
And it will become you too.

You can't stop the Irish from getting drunk at St. Patty's Day!!

Over half a million people flooded the streets yesterday for the 108th South Boston Saint Patrick's Day Parade. They were greeted by approximately 600 cops in bright yellow vests eagerly waiting to hand out $200 fines to those drinking in public. The addition of 200 officers to the 400 present at last year's parade, along with new regulations that bars close by 7 p.m. and liquor stores by 5 p.m., were all a part of the Boston Police Department's effort to reduce the public drunkenness and fighting that had become so common at the parade in previous years.

Southie is a very Irish neighborhood, and as we all know, the Irish love to drink. Especially around Saint Patty's Day.

The police crackdown was a hot topic the week before the parade. The news reported that Boston Police would be enforcing a zero tolerance policy and would be issuing $200 fines to anyone drinking in public. But was it all talk? Were they just trying to scare people?

The answer, it turned out, was no. They were pretty serious. Police issued 400 citations and made 13 arrests. Personally, I'm just happy I wasn't one of the 400 recipients. I already received one $250 drinking in public fine from Boston Police in the past year and one is enough for me.

The police did try to kill my fun, however, when they showed up on the rooftop deck of my friends' Southie apartment where we were partying. Six officers just walked right into the house, up the stairs, to the roof. Why, you may ask? Good question. When we asked the officers why they barreled their way through the house, they mumbled some bullshit responses like they wanted to make sure we had a railing on the deck and they thought they saw something get thrown off the roof. They seemed disappointed that we weren't actually doing anything wrong.

The police presence was a bit excessive but it didn't stop most from getting belligerently drunk (myself included). As I walked to the Andrew T station to finally head home after 11 hours of drinking, I tried to pick up a guy who I literally had to pick up - He was lying on the sidewalk. And that, my friends, is how Southie Parade Day should come to an end.

Another Vodka-Tonic, Please

"I think you're very passionate," he said. It came to me two days later. Most of the night had been completely forgotten, including the exact number of vodka-tonics I had consumed.

Why did he say that? What were we talking about? Where did it come from? Why is that the only line I can remember from the second half of the night? God dammit, remember the rest of the conversation!

I couldn't shake the feeling that the line was one intended to soften up a harsh message. You know, like when someone says, "I think you have a really nice personality" as a nice way of saying "you're ugly."

"I think you're very passionate..." Why can't I remember ANYTHING else from that conversation? Was he trying to tell me that I'm too smothering? I mean, I've only known the guy a month.

"So you don't call me anymore when you're going out?" he said. Okay, it's starting to come back... I think that was the first thing he said to me when we ran into each other at the bar.

"Well... You didn't call me either," I responded. This all came before the passionate line.

He kept pushing... Why didn't I let him know that I'd be out in the city that night? He had gone to the Bruins game and I had gone out with some friends to a bar right outside the Garden... the same bar where we'd first met. And we just ran into each other. It was completely unexpected.

"I knew when you left yesterday morning that I wouldn't hear from you," he said.

"What do you mean?" I was startled that he could read me so well.

"When you left... I knew you wouldn't contact me until I contacted you."

He was the first (and only) guy I'd slept with since my ex shredded my heart into a million pieces like a pedophile tearing up pornographic photos while the Feds approached his front door. To me, having sex with a new guy was an important step. It was something I needed to do. Otherwise, I would never be able to move on.

"So why didn't you call me?" he persisted.

"Honestly?" I finally gave in. "I didn't know if you wanted to hear from me." I had felt him losing interest the week before I slept with him, but did it anyways to help myself get over my ex.

"Why would you think that?" he asked.

The next part I can't remember at all, but I'm pretty sure it immediately preceded the passionate line.

It's been over a year and a half since I've been out on the prowl for guys. I'm not used to it. I've definitely lost my touch. I think I've probably come off as at least slightly crazy to this guy, considering I basically wouldn't allow him near me for a month until my ex told me (again) that things were over forever and suddenly I wanted to hop in bed and then not talk to him afterwards... But maybe it wouldn't seem so crazy if he knew all that. I'm all for honesty, absolutely, but I don't think it's appropriate to bring up complicated "ex" stories on the first few dates.

Or maybe he doesn't think I'm crazy at all.. If only I could remember what came after "I think you're very passionate.". I mean, who knows? Maybe he meant that in a good way... But then again, there was that text I sent to him one day that said "So what, are you done with me now?" when his interest seemed to decrease slightly. What?? I'm fucking pissed off at guys in general right now. I don't give a shit about this one, I can take it out on him!

At one point during the night, I remember him motioning to a corner and saying "That's where we met." Was that before or after the "passionate" talk? Was it on the first floor of the bar or the fourth? Why can't I piece the night together?

Does any of it matter? I'm done with him.

...before he can be done with me.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

That was by us. This too, is by us.

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