Hippo Meat

That's right kids, it's STOOORY time!! I wrote this last night in a bar and didn't finish it. I don't really intend to, either.


There went Joshua standing in a light skiff carried on the current of the Nile while poling for all he was worth. The best little whorehouse in Egypt was another nine miles down as the hippo drifts. He felt like he could get out and run faster if the stories about him were true but he knew they weren't. He was just human after all and he needed some ass and Memshar's Pleasure Garden had the plumpest young boys in the lower kingdom...

Memshar stood on his upstairs balcony. Half a mile away he could see the moonlight glimmering on the Nile like it didn't give a damn and let me tell you, it didn't. Memshar looked half his ninety years. He could, with his strange, short blade of unknown metal, chop a kopesh of the best bronze in two, along with the man wielding it, with a single stroke. Don't fuck with a ninety year-old gangster who looks half his age and gets real slicey with a fucking voodoo sword. He was watching the distant water for the Green Lantern...

At the barracks the reserve night guard was honing their bronze for a raid. The captain, the best of a hundred, wasn't allowing the unauthorized movement of controlled material into or out of his port. He didn't give a flying fuck what some local lapdog vassal of pharaoh says or wants or pays. "Personal favor, my ass!"...

The old seer sat at his favorite table in the tavern. He had seen it all over and over for years and was tired of seeing so he'd been avoiding vision with beer and scotch...

Shifal watched her fat-ass, tax-collecting husband as he stuffed his fat, greasy face with the best cuts of sacred river cow, something most Egyptians could barely dream of. Poaching hippopotamus got you a free head removal so no one but the nobles and a few of the lucky ever knew the sweet taste of fat-laden hippo meat. Bufarba certainly had more than his share.
"He'll get his due share soon enough." Shifal thought...

After spotting the Green Lantern, Memshar went down into the lobby of his most wondrous house of ho's. He stood, with arms folded, facing the main entrance. The pathetic Jew was standing there soaked to the skin from head to sandal. "Decided to swim, eh?" shot the facetious Memshar.
"A river cow swamped my ride. Got a towel?"
"That way, down the hall. The girls will clean you up. Better hurry, Li'l Tufa is all oiled up and waiting."
"Thanks."
As Joshua sloshed on down the hall out of earshot Memshar thought in a loud whisper, "Jesus Fucking Christ."...

Hard Way

Today wasn't bad after I looked back on it. Lessons learned the same way I always learn them, only to forget upon sobering. The gun show wasn't THE gun show. Only a minor off-shoot. 10 bucks to get in. I and a friend arrived starving. Stupid. A slice of pizza and a large Pepsi at the concession stand: 6 bucks. We don't even get to see a movie. Nothing but beanie babies and crap. Inside I cry rape.
We left and went to the Army surplus in an attempt to cleanse our disappointed palates. I bought a pith helmet. It rocks, bitch. It more than makes up for being cleansed of 16 bucks for one of the lousiest gun shows ever.
I donned the new head gear and rode my bike around and around from 21st to 11th, left across the bridge, left down the other side of the river, right up the hill and right again, across the bridge and almost back where I started. Repeat four times. A little less than twelve miles. Don't try to work it out with my descriptions of rights and lefts, I'm drunk and it all worked out in the end OK, fuck face?
I'll continue tomorrow...if I remember to do so.

Scatomancy

"Eating shit and loving life." Is how a drunk Indian responded to me when I asked how he was. I gave him ten bucks. I felt bad for him having to drink Scope to get buzzed. He had the sweetest breath. That act of kindness cut my own binge a little short tonight. So be it.
Tomorrow is the highest of holy ceremonies an Okie can attend. The grand-national gun-n-knife show. The largest on Earth. I'm there with bells on, baby. Gotta get some rest. The holy of holies is held in the Expo building at the fairgrounds. It was once the largest suspension building in the world. Literally a MILE+ of reloading gear, military surplus, junk handguns, rifles, and knives, fantasy crap swords, the latest gizmo to make your AR-15 fire full-auto without being full-auto, imposter perfumes, cheap-ass jewelry, Native-American art; genuine and forged, books on building a nuclear reactor out of a washing machine, books explaining why the Jews are collaborating with aliens, and balloons for the kids.
Present your military ID or DD-214 for a dollar off the ridiculous admission. Why bother when dollar off coupons are everywhere.
Eat shit and love your life.

Conversion

It's hard to be a dark pessimist when off time is becoming more enjoyable. I found Route 66 Diner downtown. They're open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday. Awesome food. Old pictures of struggler-saints from the depression adorn the bare-brick walls. High ceilings with exposed ancient pipes and a squadron of whirling ceiling fans. Old cabinets. Old stuff. Old, old, old. Very cool. I'll simply change my regiment for Friday night/Saturday.
Sunday, like today, must be for something else. Laundry, I guess. Shit. Now I want to drink. If I'm blotto, I can't do laundry.
Summer, so "they" say, will be returning soon. Thick heat. Unkind sun launching rays of insanity. Mirages notifying all that every surface is too hot for human skin. Traffic jams like arteries in a fat man sludging and clogging causing all to slowly die.
Just the thought of more Summer makes me want to move.
I guess I'd better enjoy the cool while it lasts.
Even though it's now laundry day.

Blast of Boreas

Feels like early October. Excellent. Finally got a coupla riffs I've been working on to sound good through my shakuhachi. A very forlorn sound. A good October sound.
I've been getting into crafts. I made a wallet outa duct tape. I'd like to make some Roman calligae, or sandals, out of some duct or gaff tape. Then a sword, a shield, armor, helmet, all that shit outa tape and cardboard. I'd march my imaginary legion, also made of tape, down Riverside Drive. If anyone, including cops, tried to stop me I'd respond, "whosoever opposes the legion of Darius opposes Caesar and Rome itself; the punishment for which is death!" I'd then thrust at them with my gladius to deliver the sentence as efficiently as a Roman officer can.
Now, if a cop were to stop me and shoot me it'd almost be worth it to know in my last moments that it would be all over the news about how the incompetent police can't even handle a looney armed with a sword made out of fucking tape without killing him.
If I didn't die, I'd get a nice vacation, meals, clean bedding, and get to talk to people trying to help me.
Reminds me of a Japanese philosophy that says something about sticking your neck out; either your head gets chopped off or you get a promotion.
"Words of wisdom, Lloyd, words. Of. Wisdom."

Dulcetry

Had a rain day at work today. We got outa there at noon. It was still cloudy and just ever so slightly drizzling. Beautiful. A record, in fact. Rainiest summer ever recorded in Oklahoma. I relish every moment of it. So what do I do? That's right, children, I hop on the bike and head downtown. I FINALLY get to see what it's like when everything's open. The main mall, Bartlett Square area is being renovated like a mufu. They ripped out all the trees and the beautiful fountains that were linked together with a flowing stream with fist-sized stones at the bottom. now it's a big construction site with chain-link fence corridors herding the professionals to their lunch appointments. Sterilization. I lock my bike up in an alley and go into Billy's on the Square, or whateverthefuck it's called. I woulda went into Lou's Deli but some fat fuck, I assume it was Lou, all in black sporting a ridiculous pompadour hair-do was cussing, in a Lebanese accesnt, one of the construction guys for a truck in front of his place. ALL these establishments have to deal with the "progress". Apparently Lou thinks he's a special case. Fucking prick.
After I finish a so-so meatball sub I head to Orphas for desert. I belly up. Natives on one side, rednecks on the other. I sit a little closer to the natives. Conversations with toothless brick layers, down-and-outers, ex-hobos, practicing hobos, the last of the true true-blood indians, and top-of-the-bell-curve-mediocre nobodies like me happen for the duration of my pitcher of High Life. I leave and the sun is giving his all.
What a pleasant day and it's not even 5 o' clock.

Hashashin

We really have to find the pricks who came up with adware and spyware, force them to make a good virus that erases adware and spyware, and then kill them in front of their families. Certainly I can't be the only one gunning for them. I bet if we all collaborated, become like the Borg, if you will, we could find them and force our will upon them as they have forced theirs upon us.
I can't even access my mail thanks to those scum-of-the-Earth low-lives.
SURELY I am not the only one who realizes the people who offer you their product to get rid of these viruses and the creators of these viruses are one in the SAME! That's like me taking the tire off your car then charging you fifty bucks to put it back on. A simple yet effective scam.
I don't like being victimized by worthless fucks.

I want them dead!

Presto

I've been riding my new bike around a lot more than I did on Ol' Blue. I love this new one. Light, FAST (21 speeds. I musta been doing 40 down the hill on 15th just west of Peoria), and sturdy. I think it's a girl's bike. When I went to the pawn shop, all the modern-looking mountain bikes had oddly shaped frames that seem to have no gender like the traditional designs. I just picked out the Diamond Back, which was also of a modern design, and called it a done deal. I am starting to suspect, however, that mine is a girl's bike. Motherfuck. At least I won't blast my balls on the lower-than-usual cross-bar if I wreck.
I rode along the river observing the life forms. The homeless river rats seem to be in good spirits these days.( Yes, I see the possible play on words but that's too easy.). The milder temperatures have been kinder to their tortured brains. I pity them. I envy them. I'm sure they are disgusted with my pity as they are with my envy. Even so, I wish them well.
Here's a good snack to make and you can do it drunk:
Grind a handful of sweet rice, uncooked, in your electric coffee grinder. Get it as fine as you can, bitch.
Add to this about 2 tablespoons or so of melted butter, margarine, whateverthefuck, and enough water to make batter about the consistency of pancake batter. DON'T USE MILK! Unless you want it fucked up. Dollop this a spoonful at a time onto you George Foreman gorilla Machine or a skillet and cook 'em up until just lightly golden. Sometimes these things gimme heartburn like a mug, but they're easy and scrump-shus..........Whore.
It's supposed to get cool again this week. I'd like some rain. I love to hear the sound of cars going down Riverside in the rain. I like to see neon signs at night reflected in the slick pavement. Someone's gonna get laid. Someone's gonna get killed. Someone's gonna get busted and someone's gonna walk out with the bank.
Such is the nature of a rainy night in Tulsa.

Renewal

Friday, after work, I swing by the pawn shop and pick up a Diamond Back mountain bike in excellent shape for 40 bucks. I spent most of the weekend at some friends' house drinking beer, cooking out, and setting up our workshop of madness.
It's Sunday. Time for a bike ride.
The usual downtown tour. I see more activity than usual. Noon. The churches spill their sheep out onto the sidewalks, across the streets, into their cars, and off to village Inn, Jason's Deli, etc.
It's another cool, cloudy Sunday. I've never seen such a pleasant August here in Tulsa. Global warming, my ass! I ride up a ramp to a roof-top parking lot for Bank-One. Something here I never knew about. The Tom Tom Room. Was it an old club? What the Hell? The architecture can only be described by me as mid-60's television deco. It looks like something Mike Brady designed for Captain Kirk. Deserted. Of course. I'll find out more about this ol' jewel later.
I head toward the Brady Theater and notice chairs and tables on the sidewalk next to the Bowery, a snob bar. Seems a little eatery is open for biz. FINALLY! It's a tad on the foofy side. The type of place "fancy" ladies go for lunch when they're out spending the ol' man's money. Hell, at least SOMETHING is open.I grab a table and ask for a menu. Nothing is under 10 bucks. I order some kinda Mexican breakfast casserole thing that turned out excellent, but not $12.00 excellent. I look longingly over at Mexicali, a Mexican restaurant about 150 feet down the street, remembering with regret that it's usually open Sundays, is cheaper, and has a bar.
That'll learn me.