This post has no title except the words right here


Therefore, this post has no agenda.  I do this.  Have done.  Will have done.

What had happened…

For those hard-to-reach areas.  I wonder if it can get into the recesses of my mind, where a lot of shit gets lost...

For those hard-to-reach areas. I wonder if it can get into the recesses of my mind, where a lot of shit gets lost…

I will never understand which physical law I’m employing, but it’s happened more than a few times.  I’ll be pecking away at these keys, mind on autopilot and letters vomiting in a nice ordered sequence and—poof—gone.  They’ll just disappear.  I’d been describing my current surroundings, here at Barnes & Noble on a Friday night—people reading, a wall that may or may not have had boogies wiped on it.  Poof.

Sometimes things go poof.  People go poof.  In Center City, buildings go poof.  And, I suppose when the humidity spikes, hair goes poof as well.  Of that, I wouldn’t know.   Bald spots do not go poof.  They go pooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooofffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff…………………………………  You wake up some days and it might feel like poof.  But I’m under no illusion that my mane was once flaxen and flowing or dark and lustrous.  I had hair.  Pretty much.  You know, hair that grows on a man’s head that is neither impressive nor enviable.  But I lost that hair gradually, over time rather than in a magician’s wandwave.  I should have done more research, because apparently, in my gene pool, head hair gives way to body hair.  I’m thinking of combing my “tricep” hair over the inside part of my upper arms (that’s only half-redundant).  I think my innerarms would look swave and deboner if draped with excess hair.

So, when I started explaining the inexplicable wordloss, a child was doing his best to make his throat bleed.  What could his parents have denied him in order to prompt such a vocal rebuke?

A few round tables away, a flock of douchebags discuss pretend itineraries for their fantasy European excursion.  Conde Nast puts out one hell of a periodical, I’ll tell ya.  Oh boy, now they’re talking bucket list shit.  Dude wants to swim with sharks in Cape Town.  I should run over, show him my arm, and warn “Don’t do it, man.  Sharks are the kings of the aquatic jungle.  Swimming lions, bro.  Swimming lions.”  Then walk away mumbling about how Jacques Cousteau was a liar and Lorraine Gary knew the truth.

*****     *****     *****

That reminds me, have you guys ever heard how I lost my arm?  When I was living in St Augustine, a group of people that hung out at the same bar as I did asked me one time if I wanted to do some fishing with them.

“Sure,” I said, accepting their kind offer.  I’d just met them and all we ever talked about was football.  Being the asshole Eagle fan, I quickly established a bit of an antagonistic rapport with this bunch.  But, hey, fishin’ is fishin’.

On the day of, we reached the continental shelf, where supposedly swam several species of delectable fish.  Well, no sooner had the engine ceased its rumble, three guys grabbed me, held me to the deck while the lone female onboard hacked at my right arm with a machete.  Despite her extensive football knowledge, the now-dainty gal needed at least eight tries before I’d bled out enough to lose consciousness.  When I awoke, I found my arm wrapped tightly.  I’d not died from blood loss.  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I was amazed to see coolers overfilled with fresh catch.  While I was out, they must’ve emptied the friggin’ Atlantic.

“Wow,” I managed to speak.

“Hey!  Look who’s awake!”

“Jeez, you guys really cleaned up, huh?”  I was groggy, confused.  Then it hit me, as one of the men spoke.

“Hell yeah, we cleaned up!  Thanks to you, Chum.”

“What do you mean, pal?

I suddenly felt ill and wretched over the port side of the yacht.  My vision returned, I focused upon the waving ocean surface.  There, I saw floating: a pinky, a pointer, and what looked like a hunk of inked flesh.  Horrified, I stared at the hunk until I was able to read the letters R, O, and half o’ a B.  My tattoo!  I had my name tatted onto my right forearm in case I ever forgot!

Sick bastards…

So yeah, I’ve been working on my book a little recently…

*****     *****     *****

Los Douchebag are now discussing lobster rolls and open-pit habachi.  Worldly sonsabitches, I’ll tell ya.  They’re all clad entirely in black, though the older guy, perhaps the lady’s father, is wearing sweats.  He’s wearing the right color, just not the proper garments.  I’m guessing he reads a lot of Tom Clancy and, when in current company, brings up his trip to Miami a lot, only to be summarily dismissed.

“I swear, it’s like a whole ‘nother country down there.”

“Did Mom ever call that tree guy?”

He wears the sweats to piss his daughter off.  $22,714 for a wedding.  She divorced the poor sap six months later but the couple has lived together ever since.

“We’re just better as friends, Dad.  You know, we’re just like you and Mom, but without the archaic chains of some religious institution like marriage.  If God were real, he’d know we love each other.  Isn’t that right, Mark?”

Twenty-two thousand fucking dollars…  Pppppffffffffffttt…

“Jesus Christ, Dad!”

Oh, god’s real when I fart, but not when I shell out a fortune on a reception that featured something called “crab poofs” and swan ice sculptures.  Let’s see what’s hiding in up my nostrils…

*I should really have a kid or two before I die.  I have so many genius ideas for embarrassing them…*

  *****     *****     *****

So, this post had no title and I’m not one to go back and give it one just because it’s not about something.  Kinda.  I have no idea where I was going with this.  That’s one of the drawbacks to being diagnosed with Adult ADD.  Thoughts come into my brain, then—before I know what they were—go poof

*****     *****     *****

As always, thanks for stopping by.

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