End Of Time

2013 and so far no one has stated it will be the end of the world. 2012 was full of end of times events. My neighbors, for one, were trying their damnest to end it, with Wally and me the filling in their Oreo battleground.  Of course we're still here and so that didn't pan out except for some Hindu shit-head is suing us and the city. But you would think a year that has 13 in it would be it.

And with all the diversity, the hood has Queers, Fuckin' Hindu Shit-heads, Drag Queen, Hag, Daddy, Mean Queen with a bunch of Israelis screaming at each other, Muslim Terrorist, Armenian Mafia, Village Idiot, and Jihad Party Boys just to name a few. But this year, Lady of the Forest hasn't been around. Someone is living there but they come in late and leave early, another fucking weird anomaly.

Yep, with all of what's in the hood, if the end of the world was coming, it would start here.

Wally and I are dining on Lobster tonight. I took him on a walk, he was tired after, then a shower, dressed and laid down for a nap. He said, "Thank you for all you do."  I haven't heard him speak a sentence in a long, long time. I told him I loved him and that I married him for better or worse, just didn't know the worse was coming up so soon. And then I said again, "I love you."  And he said it back to me when I kissed him.

It was the highlight of the whole fucking year. Of all the things that have happened, Wally talking, out of nowhere, was right there at the top. And on the last day of the year! What is that?

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Can't Get A Gun So I Can Kill

I'm sitting here in a prison cell and can't get a gun to kill.
Don't want to kill no deer, no goat, no bear, no sheep
Want to kill the warden, the warden and his wife's cat.
Want to kill the guy next door, want to kill the piano player

I'm sitting here in a prison cell, the only man in America
That can't get no gun to kill. It's unconstitutional, It's a crime
To keep me here with no gun to kill. What if they come for me?
What if they want to kill me and I ain't got no gun to kill?

I'm sitting here in a prison cell, I know how to kill with a knife
With poison, with a trap, but I want a gun to kill. I want the bullet
To fly. To kill to maim, here in my prison cell I sit in want because
I can't get a gun to kill.

Bomb Building Muslims Next Door

We were decorating for Christmas, and the party this Saturday when the FedEx man pulled up in front of Little Iran. He came to their door and knocked, no answer, yet all the cars were there, the Greeter and his wife's car plus the mysterious person that lives in their garage wearing a burka. We don't know if they are a male or female because the burka covers every inch of flesh. So, the FedEx guy rings the bell, no answer and he leaves the package on the front step.

We were about to yell to him to put the package down--carefully. But he was too quick and luckily the package didn't go off. As the package sat there we carefully went into the house and to the other side, taking mattresses from the bed for a shield. After an hour we came out and noticed that the package was either brought in or taken. We suspect that once the contents didn't explode, it was taken in and brought to the garage for assembly into their bomb making business.

They have been home, for the most part, ever since. It must be a tricky device that requires their full attention. Needless to say, Little Iran is not invited to the Christmas party. Little Israel is, well, more of a self invite, but I'm not worried about them making bombs. If Little Israel was going to get a bomb they would buy it. Little Iran makes everything, including the burkas.

If they weren't so secretive it wouldn't draw the attention that it does but they are. That and the lingo, all in Persian or whatever you want to call it. The one good thing is that their garage is on the other side from us. So if a mistake is made, it will blast the neighbors on that side. Not that it matters I suppose, the blast would probably put a hole in the ground three houses long.

Yes, I can say for certain that this holiday will come in with a bang.

Christmas In Gaza

The house looks pretty good. Garland around the windows, wreaths hung,lights on the house, a Christmas tree decorated. It looks like Christmas and a party is scheduled for Saturday. There will be a piano player, bartender, well, the Mexican Monkey will be a bartender, if he can keep from getting drunk while tending bar, sandwiches, Santa Claus hats and lots of people. But with all that, it's kind of lonely.

Us and the neighbors directly across the street are the only ones that put up displays and neither of us are religious. Is Christianity dying out? It is here, Little Israel had some sort of ritual thing going on last night. Some kind of wailing song being sung and Little Iran was dark and quiet, which I guess they do this time of year. It's all sort of strange, a kind of other world look to the hood with two house directly across from one another lit up like it was Christmas and down the block on either side, nothing, just one house after another looking the same as they did six months ago.

So here we sit, all dressed up and no one else to dance with except each other. Me and the guy across the street, encouraging each other that the other has the best lights. Hell, the only lights for the holiday.

Even though I'm not religious, It is nice to spiff up the place for winter. It make it feel like winter by stringing lights and decorating trees. In fact, with religion out of the picture, it's more fun. There is no guilt factor, no sins to be forgiven or church services to attend. It makes for a better holiday and I suppose that someday, the lights, wreathes and festivities will turn into a seasonal thing rather than a religious thing and everyone will join in lighting up the hood, having a party and enjoying a cold winter day.

Middle East Virtues

I'm watering the winter rye that's sprouting up nicely when Daddy from Little Israel comes out of his front door for a chat.

"Hello Mr. Mike."

"Hey, Daddy, what's up?"

"Mr. Mike, how much do you pay your handyman?"

"Twenty-five an hour."

"Oh, that's too much. I pay only ten maybe twelve dollars."

I look over at his place with the shit-brown paint that is already not looking good, the fading yellow of stucco, loose brick, Palace facade. "Yeah, well, guess you don't want the handyman's number then.

"I need to find somebody. They take my money for materials and don't come back."

"No shit. And when you promise ten bucks an hour, go figure."

"I need to find someone to finish job. The tile has no grout."

"Good luck with that, Daddy."

Mean Queen came out and nodded toward me. I guess I was suppose to bow or some such shit but just said, "Hey Mean Queen."

She didn't respond, but went straight for the car for Daddy to drive her somewhere.

After they left I was waiting for the next fucking Middle Eastern prick to come my way. The reason was I was served with papers for a law suit. Apparently one of these rag-heads of the East tripped on the cement walk in front of the house and wants fifty grand. Their last name sounded like what you call a camel when they spit on you. It happened back of February of 2011. And guess what, the fucking attorney is Armenian.  Figures, the hood is turning into a Middle East hodge-podge  of wacked out sand-jockeys and Armenian gangsters. Just great when all I thought I had to worry about was missiles from Little Iran and Little Israel.

I don't need to go to the Middle East or Eastern Europe. They have fucking come to me.

Little Israel Now has A Rocket Shield.

Daddy had it on top of his car. Mean Queen was inside the car barking orders in the phone at some poor soul. It was as big as the Accord, a large, cheap patio table. One of those you can stick an umbrella in and sit under with a beer. Only this one wasn't for beer drinking in the backyard, it was their missile defense system. The table's top went on and then the oversize umbrella. It covers the table and then some. In fact you could duck and cover under this when you hear the missile's whine.

It looks like a plain, cheap umbrella but looks are deceiving. Little Israel is girded for attack by Little Iran. Mean Queen and Daddy can, under the cheap-looking umbrella, launch their counter-attack and at the same time, defend against incoming strafe. Of course, us Queers of Gaza are fucked as usual. Missiles to the right of us, missiles to the left of us and here we sit like ducks on a pond right in the fucking middle.

The Greeter leaves early and arrives home late at Little Iran. There is a lot of Middle Eastern jibber-jabber going on too. Low key and I think I smelled a hooka last night while I was toking on a joint. It was that smell of honey and tobacco, a kind of pipe tobacco that doesn't stink like cigarettes. They were plotting for the main attack, I think, and this morning all the cars, except of course, the car that neither sleeps or slumbers, but is parked always in front of the garage door, were gone. All gone to get  more supplies for their jihad-homemade bombs to toss at the Jews. Never mind the Queers of Gaza are in between. Shit no, neither side cares a shit about that.

And that's what our Thanksgiving is going to look like this year in the Gaza strip. Jews fighting Muslims with us in between. Could be worse though. Wally said that years ago when, Mean Queen and Daddy's palace was a rental and I was complaining about the two idiots that lived there with dogs from hell. Nothing on the fucking planet is worse than White Punks On Dope. Nothing. And that's what moved in when the dog jerkies moved out.

Rockets From Gaza

A red sports car was parked in front of Little Iran today. Came in late last night and stayed until the afternoon. Wally and I walked by it today and I took a peek. There was something very strange inside. A cover concealed the entire back seat and passenger's seat. A thick foam type of cover so that nothing, not even strong light could peer in. Very strange.

The Greeter hasn't been seen. His car comes late, too late for me to see when he comes in and then leaves early. Always, always a car is parked up against the garage door. And, when I had seen the Greeter, he checks it, first thing when he gets out of his car, he checks the damn car blocking the garage.

Now, why does he check it? It never fuckin' moves. Yet he checks to see if the doors are lock and shit like that. Weird, and I think they are making rockets. Rockets to fly to Little Israel over the Gaza Strip and then us Queers of Gaza get the blame.  That's where they all disappeared to a month or so ago. They were taking their homemade rockets to Egypt to smuggle up the back ends of camels so that the Palestinians could fuck with the orthodox Jews. Now they are readying for the real thing.

Once the missiles fly over Gaza and land on Little Israel, Mean Queen and Daddy are gonna shit.  And it won't be kosher shit either. I can see it. An all out fucking Armageddon right here in Gaza with us fucking queers caught between Mad Jews and Insane Fucking Iranians.  

We Are Fucked.

A View Of Same-Sex Marriage In the Gaza Strip

The victory this election season came with a surprise. Every state that had same-sex marriage on the ballot won. Four states legalized gay marriage and one refused to change their Constitution to bar same-sex marriage, leaving it for the future. Is that a win for us queers in Gaza?

No. Here in California the religious right lied through their teeth to scare people into voting against marriage and then used their attorneys to keep it from us. It still lingers on the dock of the Supreme Court. It is an amazingly slow process that could take until next summer to hear their verdict.  Meanwhile, Wally and I are here, in limbo, married but a minority within a minority. A group that got married when the opportunity came and just as quickly went.

I don't understand it either, don't understand why some people work so hard to deny our rights as other human beings and citizens. It makes no sense other than to punish people for being gay. I guess that Christianity still has power to control who gets certain rights as an American and who doesn't. And it's the Pope, the Mormons, and all the wacky Christian South that seem to control this ability to deny or allow whom they deem worthy of marriage. 

Religion, the only thing people will accept without proof that there is a god to worship. A wacko assortment of ritual, ignorance and ancient text to keep humans controlled without bothering to prove anything but to wave a book at believers made of stories that are fabrications and obscure ways of life impossible to practice in today's world. And we are subject to the whims of wacko nut jobs that think they know what is best for others.

How in hell did that happen?

Could Obama Be Assassinated If Re-Elected?

I think the chances are high, very high that a serious attempt on his life would occur if Obama won the election in 2012.  I don't see Romney sweating it out, all the wing nuts are in his corner.  And if Obama was murdered, there would be race riots unimaginable. You can't blame people of color for going off if Obama was murdered, not for what the GOP has done in the name of fair and honest voting. So far, most of what you hear of voter fraud is from GOP related activities not the left and not African-Americans that seem to come under more scrutiny than white voters.

T-Shirts at Romney rallies, "Put the White back in the White House" or the Catholic Church stating a vote for Obama would put you in hell. True, a diocese of the church had bulletins on faith based voting sent to parishioners that stated exactly that because of same-sex marriage and a women's right to choose.

In Texas, a legislature stated that if Obama was elected, the populace would have to arm themselves for a possible Communist takeover. The hate, the fear, the loathing of change, not could, BUT will drive far right extremist to commit murder, they already have two reasons--God and Country.

When public figures and religious organizations begin to sow fear and hatred of others, it is time to be very concerned.  Now they have reason, once again, to kill others for having a different view. Gays and lesbians that marry, blacks that want to run for high office, those that do not share the ideals of the far right are in serious trouble. Beware when Pope and State are set against any group of people, there cannot be peace.

As for the left, there isn't much of a threat to the establishment only in that if Obama was assassinated, then for sure riots would erupt from one end of our country to the other with little hope of us ever getting along for a long time to come.  

All over something so simple as change, a change that will come at some point no matter the consequences.

Halloween in the Gaza Strip

Well the Jews turned off every light, closed their doors, rolled up the walk. The Muslim Brotherhood did the same, sneaking in the back door with the lights off. But for us queer folk, Halloween is our turf. We love it and I carved three pumpkins, lit them with candles, made up my face in a zombie-farmer look and passed out candy that is at least five years old. I have one gallon bag left of the crap.

I was amazed at the neighbors on either side of us, oh, and the House That Kills, they too turned out all the lights even though the Armenian mafia's car was parked in the driveway. You would think he would pass out bullets or something. And you would think the Muslims would pass out bombs and the Jews of Little Israel would pass out  matzo. But no, fuck no they didn't pass gas they're so damn tight.

It's the Fags of Gaza that keep the spirit of Halloween alive in this hood. Without us who would rot the teeth of children? Who would make their front porch gorgeous and who would dress up like a kid even at sixty-six? Not the hets. Fuck no, they're birthin' babies and running up debt. It takes a fairy to make a hood pretty, everyone knows that.

So that's life in Gaza, stuck in the middle of Jews and Muslims, we do our duty for god and country and beautify, beautify, Beautify America.

Life In The Gaza Strip

The weather has cooled to a delightful Fall temperature. Chilly mornings that warm up when the sun climbs in the heavens and stays comfortable until late afternoon. Fall and Spring are my favorite, with the weather, the scenery, it just works well for my temperament. But for the blood of the hood, well, that's a different matter.

In New Jerusalem, Mean Queen and Daddy were at it again. I don't know what the fuck Daddy was thinking when he told Mean Queen to clean up the yard. All in Hebrew of course, like rocks being tossed by someone's tonsils back and forth but hey, they seem to like it so much that it is all done at a scream. Still translates the same, "You fucking bitch, I told you to put the leaves in the trash. Not the fucking trash on the leaves." "Fuck you, Moshe, fuck you and you're whole fucking family. I didn't sign up to be a Mexican laborer, I'm a fucking JAP you idiot.  

In New Iran, the Muslims have planted all their bombs, and apparently they haven't gone off yet or it was another dud terrorist plot. I'm thinking dud because they paid way over price on that house they bought next door. And he thinks it is all suppose to hold up for another fifty years. Sorry pal, here in La-La Land nothing lasts fifty fucking years. Now they made the place look more Iranian, lots of fucking coiled wires everywhere in the patio. It looks like there is more coiled up electric wires than they have the electricity to  power it. I mean, get a fucking extension cord like the rest of us and put the fucking light up. You don't need twenty-fucking miles of electric cord to do it.

Now the ones across the street at The House That Kills, they scare me. Give me the Jews, give me the Muslims but for the love of Mike, keep the fucking Armenians the fuck out. The dude is real big and scary and never ever-ever smiles. He looks like he just ate his mother alive and is still hungry. A real killer that guy and now I think he would kill locally. Hell, even across the street, so I keep the fuck away from that one. The dude is diffidently Armenian Mafia, in fact, I think he teaches prospects how to kill the Armenian way by shooting the fuck out of everything in a circular pattern, leaving only yourself to walk out alive.

Well, that's the hood for Fall, nice place as long as you watch where you walk. 

The Return Of The Muslim Brotherhood And The Rescue Of Mexican Monkey

Not too many days ago all the cars at Little Iran were gone. Poof! for months they sat packed tight to each other in the carport, three of them and one on the street that moved ever so often. There is, The Greeter, his wife but there are others there. You hear them on occasion. like when they had missionaries over for dinner that turned out to be the main course. I guess the missionaries ended up skewered for the barbie. They burn everything on the barbie, it's as if it was sacrificed food. "How you like the chicken? Burnt? Yeah great isn't it."

Well the Muslim Brotherhood is back, their bombs planted, they are waiting for the right moment to make the call and set them off. Wally and I are pretty safe, unless of course they find out I'm writing about them and then I'm sure a fatwa will be sent out for our immediate murders.

They are very strange people from Iran, friendly one time, not so much the second and after the third, a bit rude. It could be there next to queers and so feel they will be sullied by our close proximity. We do have a lot of fun and I think Muslims are against fun when they try to kill little girls for seeking knowledge.

We almost had a terrible accident yesterday,  Mom was over, there's a slight flaw in the boyfriend, he's loving, giving, a democrat, has money, a house but apparently isn't into sex all that much. Mom was set to find a flaw and did, so she was getting drunk in the back yard with the rest of us. Popping beers like she does her sleeping pills she decided Mexican Monkey had to trim the back fence. Not a good idea because if the the little guy fell to the west he would end up in Iranian territory and possibly captured then held for ransom. Of course we wouldn't pay it and then they would send monkey parts to us until he was cut up like packaged brownies. If he fell east then the Israelis would have him, worked to death for little money and then cheated out of that, they wouldn't bother with ransom, he would be put in the alley when through with working him to death.

I did intervene and peppered her with questions about the quality of sex with the new Bo. Apparently quality isn't a problem, there is not much going on from that front to begin with. There is no quality, or quantity and so Mom as gained seven pounds, ate three chocolate donuts while here and her weight in beer. Mom likes her sex raw and kinky and ain't no amount of money to make up for that. At least Mexican Monkey is safe. He cleaned out the chicken coop today and started another batch of compost,  Such a good monkey he is and a good thing I stopped Mom from having a little fun at his expense for if he did get on the ladder to cut the hedge, he would have surely fallen at his peril. 

Leaving Cayucos Update

                          Wally and I out for a stroll on the pier in Cayucos


It was a wonderful time, we laughed, drank in excess, at least I did, Gabe a little, and ate well. Shopped til we dropped because there are three very large antique stores in Cayucos, two of which had two to three floors. Now, picture an antique store, filled to the rafters with every kind of bric-a-brac you could think of, then picture creaky,  very creaky old stairs to get to all that junk. So as you walk, all the ceramic, tin, tinsel and platters rattles along your path.

I found an ornate Chinese cast iron lantern for twelve dollars. I found a lot of things including some interesting books, one was of Moby Dick, thirty-five, H.G Wells, the same cover on ebay is going for eight hundred, The History of Mr. Polly with a forward by Sinclair Lewis for seven that doubled in price when I got back and looked it up on eBay. Pavilion of Women, by Pearl S. Buck for seven, first edition and in very good condition.
And then the old gal that I charmed gave me ten percent off. It was a real deal.



Now for the guests. Pete with the meat had a bevy of girls waiting for him. His website is Captured Erotica and the guy is constantly being asked for photo shoots. I was amazed at the young women who wanted to be photographed by him tied up, wearing hoofs and a tail and spanked. The horse lady was the prettiest. even with the multicolored tail sticking from her ass and shoes that gave her feet the appearance of being hooves. The strangest event being when he was taking photos of the sunset and a young woman fancied him went home with him, got a call her grandmother was dying and still he got laid.

And I promise you, that Pete with the meat will send me a picture of Gabe. The guy that is Wally's caregiver. If you are in the market for one hell of nice guy and very good looking, this is the guy and he took care of Wally so well that I actually had a real vacation for the first time. 
                                        Pete With The Meat

By The Seaside, The Wonderful Sea

This is Morro Rock. From where we are in Cayucos it looks like a mystical island.















It is real nice here, and the weather for the most part has been great. We had some rain yesterday in the morning that lasted until noon and some more that's expected for this morning but I like storms at the beach and from what I hear on my walks, so does everyone else. The pier is a half block away, easy to reach from the house,  and with beautiful views as you walk on its long length. Fishermen are catching sardines. Not the kind that fit in those cans but larger than the length of your hand. In Spain they eat a lot of sardines and I can see why, they are good tasting and you can usually eat bone and all on them.

Went to a local tavern here or saloon as they call it. A straight bar, with talk of some local fag going on, yet the bartender had a slight lisp and the two of us talked of hats. He is a hat man and so am I. Feel damn near naked without one and we talked of our favorite hat. I was wearing mine, the fedora of Indiana Jones. I really really like the hat. I wore it in the rain and it seemed to soften up the stiffness of the brim making it look more like the rugged hat on Harrison Ford. And I think made me look more like Harrison Ford in the bar, being that it was dark, I was on the far side and everyone was getting drunk.

I like straight bars, they will talk to you in a straight bar. Not so much in a gay bar, where all communications is done with the eyes and gestures. With my glasses and my squinting eyes, I might as well be invisible in a gay bar but in a straight one, people will talk to you while having a drink and I find the conversations very interesting. You never know what will be said, but you can rest assured it will be interesting. 

David is coming in on the train and is staying at a nearby motel. It will be good to see him, get a report on the activities of the train and he doesn't drink, which if he did, the both of us would be in the saloon, talking about the local fags or the fags we know and getting plowed. When I'm by myself, it is easy to limit the martinis to one or two.

                                                        After the Storm

Livin' Like White Folk

Damn if it's isn't nice too. I took the train up from La La Land to San Luis Obispo, or SLO as the natives call it. SLO, and it is, Cayucos is slow too, that's where I rented a beach house for the week. The old lady at the one and only grocery store is still there and still slow but lovable. She helped me hide the bottles of wine in the basket of my bike with bread and vegetables. I'm not sure why, some law I'm sure for when we first pulled in and unpacked the cops were hassling the homeless. An alley in back, nice too but the hapless homeless guys made a mistake of drinking some kind of shit when the cops came by. Now they're in custody, taken away to some shit hole.

I'm having a great time. Really great because the train ride was fun. I got two critiques done while on the train, they have wireless when it works. Saw parts of the Pacific Coast that are only visible by boat or the train. There ain't nothin' the fuck out there, no houses, people or fences after the 101 turns inland the train takes a different direction, and it is an OMG experience with the ocean on one side where you are riding on the cliff's edge and the slopes of natural vegetation that go on to the horizon on the other.  Really, if you ever get the chance, take the train from Slo to La La Land or the other way, don't matter. It gives me hope that the Republicans haven't fucked us over too much with the environment in their quest to appease every greedy asshole that wants to fuck us all over in the name of commerce and themselves getting rich.

When are people going to realize we are living in a spaceship? SLO, in the past week or so passed an ordinance to ban plastic bags and if you want paper, it's ten cents extra. I can live with that. I came with plastic bags and glad to. Here at the rental we're in and it is a nice house too, are two devices that hold plastic bags for your convenience. Put them in the top and pull them out at the bottom. Yet at the market the sweet old lady thought she might have a problem with a newcomer not use to recycling. I smoke recycled chicken shit. Well, not directly but I use the chicken manure from our chickens, the plant material of the garden, ashes and make my own compost. Great for growing marijuana or squash. Great for flowers, lemon trees and grapes and I eat it and smoke it the form of recycled chicken manure and all, so plastic bags? Please, so latter day.

All is quiet

Maybe it's the weather, the heat just cooked the fuck out of all of us. Tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, eggs from the girls were all done under. And I can't blame them, who the hell wants to shit an egg when it's over a hundred. Day after day, the thermometer rose and with little falling back too.  Of course there's nothing to global warming, shit no.

Now though, the high with its murderous sweltering heat has left. We are grateful and slept with the doors open and the A.C. turned off. No worry of the Muslim Brotherhood attacking us at night, they're still out planting bombs.  House of Crime is quiet too. In fact, I'm worried. Not that we'll be murdered in an Armenian bloodbath but that someone somewhere is. Mean Queen at the Palace has been pleasant, waves when she is in her car and I'm out front. Daddy has yelled his last yell at the Hispanic workers getting shit pay to cover the earth in cement. Why do they do it?

The Jihad Party Boys in back had one hell of a party a few months ago. Lots of clap-clap songs and male bonding that they love doing. Hermit Witch came out once asking for Wally. I gave her squash, cucumbers and tomatoes to NOT put a curse on our house. At least this year's payment wasn't eggs and flea spray that it was last year. Flea spray, it's like what? You need flea spray and eggs? Okay, I have flea spray but does a witch need that? They like fleas, I always thought. They've been biting her, she said, from someone's cat that they had left her. Yeah right, it couldn't have been payment for a dismissed curse could it? Eggs, here, flea spray there, and familiars from everywhere--witches are strange that way but I like them.

Village idiot is truly an idiot. He lost three families already. He lost his car, his trash cans and I think he is losing his voice. His opera tenor voice. Maybe he's growing balls for the first time in his life. And next door to him, Lady of the Forest has been gone for a very long time. Someone is in there, they don't go there much but someone is in someway in there and I think a male. Drag Queen next to her shakes her booty now and then. I think she is on a road trip, some big-ass motor home came  by and picked her big ass up. She'll be back after chasing the fleet.

The House Of Crime Reveals Itself

Forget the Vamp and the goon that plays with old dead Aunt Thelma. It is none of those but something far more sinister, more deadly. I was worried about the Muslim Brotherhood next door. They've been gone a while, though someone in a burka is about, dumping trash or eating it. They evidently have finished making the bomb and are now planting it. I think the location is quite far. They left on Wednesday after street cleaning and the Greeters car is still there. They are terrified of being ticketed, which means they'll have to be back by this Wednesday, a full week. They were once ticketed and it totally freaked them out. The Muslim Brotherhood is on  a budget of sorts. Cheap, almost as cheap as Mean Queen and Daddy fresh off the boat from Israel. And that's another thing.

Workers were over for the past few days, I don't know what the fuck they had them do, other than locate any dirt and cover it with cement. There was fighting and crying going on. Over what, who the fuck knows, on either side they talk in Middle Eastern gibberish. "Here put these pebbles in your mouth and talk so the fag next door can't understand you." I'm sure that's what they do. They talk English, not well, I mean don't throw a curve in the conversation or they'll think you really do throw babies out with bath water. "Crazy Americans."

But across the street it was all revealed. Now, here is what I saw and you tell me. The trash is all gone, taken by city employees in a large truck. They took every last bag and then later dumped off new, brand fucking out of the bag new, trash bins. There was nothing wrong with the old ones but the new tenant has all new ones now. That leaves out cold dick and dead pussy eating. The vamp would have rats, they love rats for some reason, rats love vamps, so it wasn't any 'cleaning of the coffin' type shit either. No what happen was the new tenant came out. Big fucker. Big mean mother-fucker with a bad-fucking attitude and that means killer. Cold blooded killer for a mob and by the looks of him and the hood, Armenian. They have one of their churches up the street. Crawls with Armenian mafia on Sunday and all the holidays, and there are a lot. If they aren't doing a holiday it's a mafia funeral.

This dude never cracked a smile, he got in his Beemer and took the fuck off. He had the 'Gotta Kill' look. I'll be sure to give this dude plenty of space. I suspect cops soon. A big fucking shoot out that will make the O.K.. Corral look like a sand fight.

If the Muslim Brotherhood doesn't blow us the fuck up, the Armenian will have us all gunned down in a blood splattered mess. They did it to a restaurant not that far away either. Blew the shit out of everything and everyone. Us fags are deep in shit now.

The House of Crime

Okay, I'm still not sure who or what is living in there. At some point in the day their side of the street was lined with trash. Obviously from the House Of Crime, some of the trash is cardboard boxes from the moving. That leaves out vampire unless the vamp has a slave and doesn't everybody need one? I could use two myself. Very likely, though I couldn't bring myself to look, they are corpse users, for the better half of the trash is white plastic bags, tied off, scattered in the gutter. So typical of body dumpers to put arms, hands and legs in plastic bags and leave it to float out to sea at some point. It's Dexter all over.

My neighbor, right across the street, a nice family, except they seem to like birthing a lot for all the kids they have but hey, I'm not contributing to overpopulation so it all works out somehow, they have this shit in front of  their house and it takes up over half of their parking. Bad sign.

It's pretty obvious what the House Of Crime is up to. Blame the hood neighbors for all the strewn guts in the street. And get this, any trash left out, is picked over several times a day and if the street urchins don't take it, then it has to be body parts and all the fucking bags are still full.

I hope they had a good ole' time sticking their dicks in cold pussy pate' or butt-holes assessable on both sides. I think they need a better disposal idea though, they're a little rough around the edges because the city's trash collectors only take the shit in the city's trash containers. They don't get out of their trucks and throw fucking body parts in plastic bags in the truck. They stay in the cab and push levers to do that shit and the truck only takes the city's containers, green for vegetation, blue for re-usables, black for body parts .

I bet you anything, they are Oklahoma hicks with a body fetish. A deranged version of Deliverance and they don't know that here in fucking La La land you don't put used parts in the fucking gutter in September because the rains are months away. Has to be hillbilly mule skinners with a kink.

The House of Crime Has A New Tenant

They moved in before the weekend. I'm not sure though it's a they. It could be one person. I don't know if they are male or female but they could afford a moving company that moved everything in one day. A car has been parked in the driveway since day one and has yet to move from that spot. The trash cans are all full and not a peep has come from the house.

I think this time it's a murderer and who ever is in there has a body that there taking a part or boiling or some other heinous degenerate dead body booty going on. That or Vampires. I have looked at night, being a light sleeper and some time in the early morning someone that was helping them had parked their car in front of the house but when they left it was early morning, pre-dawn. I'm thinking vampires or sick dead body orgies.

The windows are always closed no matter who is there. Why have windows? Are shades that attractive? Who has a carpenter put in a window so it can be covered up? Okay, at times yes but during the day in the living room you let light in unless you're doing nasty things with dead things or a vampire.

I'm really hoping vampire. I can deal with that and they don't take victims nearby, because it will tip off the location. The neighbors all nice-nice when there's a vamp in the hood but ten miles away? Not so good. But if it's humpty dances with people without a pulse, than that's something too fucking weird even with this hood. We have the Muslim Brotherhood next door and they don't take that kind of shit in the hood. Us fags next to the Brotherhood are one thing, but necrophilia? Even the Jews from Israel will toss stones on that one.

I'm going for vamp until proven otherwise.

The House of Crime

Mean Queen and Daddy have settled down. They now keep their trash on their property and they have no workers to order around. That's because people who work for other people like to get paid and Daddy likes them to work but not so much on paying them. The workers left in the middle of the day in an uproar with Daddy and Mean Queen yelling at them and they have not been back since. The Palace grounds are filled with rubble and stone stacked here and there, the job of pouring concrete on all the land only half finished. Their Holy days beginning, they have no place to march the palace guards, if they had any left, or hold court.

The Muslim Jihad Warriors had a party where there was English spoken by some of the guests. We suspect the English speaking guests were there for dinner for as the night wore on, we could hear claps of glee and then silence. We suspect they tortured and then ate the the English speaking guests one by one because later in the night there was only the babble of Jihad Warriors and no English was spoken again. Meat of some kind could be smelled from their barbecue. The remnants of the dead English Speakers I'm sure.

Across the street a red sports car shows up at the House of Crime. A woman stays there, only during the middle of the day and greets prospective renters. Never at night for the House of Crime is filled with spirits of criminals. They are housed there from the gas chambers and electric chairs that they were once fastened to. It waits patiently for the right lodger. The one that will awaken them and relive their lives of crime. The house wants another murderer, another killer to cozy up to and shelter. You can feel its intent even from across the street.

The Big Squeeze

For two weeks the Palace has had workers. Ordered to pile cement blocks they're digging out to replace with more cement, the workers placed the broken concrete on our property. Right next to the garage in a large stack. I asked how long are they going to be there and that they will be removed. Some Israeli contractor they hired that puts up settlers home in the Gaza strip  said, "Not long."

"How long is not long?" I ask.
"Tomorrow.'
Tomorrow was a week. Okay, I'm not going to blow a gasket over it and the workers used the parking area in front of the garage door to park their car, I'm not going to shoo them away, they leave by five and figure their not going to keep parking there. Then Daddy comes over with his so called free paint proposition, it's really to make his property look bigger and I'm not going for it. Once you paint redwood you're stuck with it. And redwood ages beautifully, way better than shit-brown paint.

The other night a car is trying to park in the space right in front of our garage. I'm watching and who ever is driving can't seem to maneuver very well, it takes them several attempts. Then they stay in the car and I'm wondering what in fuck are they doing? Later I hear arguments, Daddy next door knows who his is and they spend half the night arguing in the alley. It wasn't until eleven that night that they left.

Now, Daddy and Mean Queen are parking their fucking trashcans right in back of our garage. What the fuck is that? So I take their god-damn cans and move them on their fucking property. I hope the Israelis have a good idea that the Queers of Gaza aren't taking that shit. Let a fucking Israeli start taking over your property and they'll move a whole god-damn family in on you.

Fuck you pushy Jews of Israel, eat shit.   

The bomb making Muslims on the other side are  coming in late, leaving early and pulling bomb parts out of their ass to assemble in the garage. What the fuck is going to happen to the Queers of Gaza? Stay tuned.

Trailer For Rent And Rooms To Rent

The Taliban next door are bringing in bomb material through their back doors, as in stuff up the butt. Swear to Allah, there has been a lull in their activity. Late night arrivals and the garage door always, always has two cars parked so close to the door, shit couldn't slide by. Not the same cars either. They switch and there are always new cars for a while before you never see them. The Greeter is all you see. When you go over to be fucking American neighborly The Greeter is there to see you. Greeter has been in our house but we or I have never been in theirs. Ever, even standing there with produce in hand, they don't want eggs, just the tomatoes. Okay, their from Iran, the Iran Taliban Jihad Warriors building their fucking bomb don't want fresh fucking country eggs.

On the other side is Mean Queen and Daddy. Fresh off the boat from Israel they have themselves a palace, of sorts. What is it with the cement? See anything where a plant could grow? Cement it. Cover it in rocks and cement and then pick your fucking neighbors tomatoes by reaching over on a ladder to get them because you don't have earth. You have cement. He just fucked some Hispanic workers out of a day's pay. I know because I heard the argument. Daddy asked if I wanted the worker to paint my fence shit brown like he just had his. Fuck no. I like redwood. I know he has never seen a fucking redwood tree, they're in California but what the fuck would someone care about the beauty of redwood when cement drips from their ass?

We are the Gaza Strip. Fucking queers in La.La land with chickens, dogs, cats, parties and bicycles. Pinned between the Taliban and the Jews. What the fuck happened? Not that I feel squeezed. Fuck no, not that, just because their both fucking crazy on each side. Why would I feel squeezed?

Then across the street the House of Crime is still up for rent. They come, they go but the house is waiting for a criminal. Someone like the last two that needs guns, sheriffs with bullet proof vests and fucking bazookas for rifles before it will rent.

What this hood needs now is a load of black drag queens to take charge. They'll clean up this shit pronto.

Return Of Hugh The Jew

He was back after the Labor day party, full of visions of the Mexican Monkey's wife, a beautiful young woman from Switzerland. He wants a girlfriend, he wants to fuck and take her out then fuck some more. Hugh the Jew is a very lonely Jew.

We sat in the backyard drinking wine, smoking pot and him talking about how he can't forget Sheila. "She's so beautiful," he would say and then pick at something on his back.

He is always picking, scratching, snorting and rubbing something on his body. But this time, he was in earnest of scratching his back. It's a strange behavior, as if he could use a flea collar or bath but at one point in his lamenting no women in his life and digging at whatever was on his back, he  managed to finally gouge something off. It looked like a chunk of skin.

He was about to fling it, the size of a dime or penney, before I yelled and asked, "You are not going to fling a body part of yours into the patio where I  or someone could step on it! Are you?" I ran, yes ran into the house, grabbed a tissue, antibiotic ointment and a bandage. I didn't yet look at his back but had a feeling it didn't look good.
 
It wasn't, after I had him place his flesh part on the tissue, wrapped it and then threw it in the trash, I looked at what in hell it was he had taken off. There on his back was a bleeding wound. A deep gouged out portion that was a raw wound from whatever in hell he removed and scarred lines of scrapes from his fingernails. The entire wound was about the size of an man's hand, with the epicenter a meaty exposed area devoid of skin. That part that covered his body now gone and in a tissue in the trash.

I dressed the wound. Placed the pathetically small band-aid on the worse of the wound that wasn't able to stick because of the course hair that grows on his back. (Let me add here that Hugh definitely looks much  better with a shirt on than off. And I really wish he would keep all his clothing on even though I'm gay) When done, I sat down and asked him this question.

"Do you pick flesh from your body when you're trying to pick up women?"

"Of course not."

I don't believe it. The wound was apparently caused over a period of time and I've seen him nonchalantly peck at himself every time he came over. It was something he always did and I asked again.

"Do you think that scraping flesh off your back and tossing it to the ground is a good idea when trying to impress women?"

"Of course not."

"Is it me then? You come over here to scrape your flesh raw while telling me how you can't get a date because, if that's the case, please start thinking of me as woman trapped inside a fat man's body."

He went back to snorting, rubbing and talking about how he needs to find a woman for his life. And I'm sure he does. I'm sure a woman would beat the living shit out of him the first time he scratched and threw on her clean floor some body part of his. He really needs a woman, a keeper or a nurse in his life. One with a strong stomach, I would think. 

I Have An Obnoxious Friend

Hugh the Jew to be precise. It could be said, that sounds a taint anti-Semitic well maybe but that's what Hugh calls Hugh. We call him obnoxious Hugh, and one reason why is that Jew always comes up. I'm a Jew this or that. Okay, I got them next door, fresh from the Holy Land and yeah, they're pretty weird I grant you but is that a Jewish thing?

Now, when I meet someone who is gay and is a Republican, it's like, What? And I know this absolute queen that voted for Bush--twice. But no matter how freaky gays can come they like their Broadway Musicals. It's a must to be gay. You never have to touch another same-sex person in your life but if you like Broadway musicals you have a gay gene in there. Now a log cabin girl may be obnoxious, they may be gay, but they don't have it tattooed on their forehead like Hugh does.

When, Mr. I'm-so-Jew-who-is-Hugh likes to come over I can't blame him. He eats like he hadn't a meal in four days and drinks beer as if it was going to be banned and smokes weed like a forest fire consumes pine trees but I'm sorry, you're obnoxious. And Obnoxious Hugh can only come over when I'm really bored and afterwards wonder 'Why in hell did I invite him?' The show perhaps? He is obnoxious and knows it and  he tries at first to control it but sooner or later it comes out. Usually sooner and then I have to ask him to leave. He's use to the drill. Once he goes to far, you can't get him back and the only option is to have him leave. Others must have asked him to leave as well because he does leave, he gets a tad whiny but leaves.

Example: And hold your nose because this is gross but true.  Recently I had fixed lunch when he was over, he ate so fast that he began to choke. His idea was to cough up all the food right in front of us. Not take his disgusting habit to the lawn like the dog is suppose to do. No, we'll just cough up the fur ball of food right here. Does it stop there? Oh, no, as soon as he got the wad of food out, he went back to cramming his mouth and I could see another food fur ball flying.

"Time to go Hugh."

He knows the drill. As soon as he got the wad down enough he finished his beer in one gulp and left.

He told me he doesn't have a lot of friends. I can see why but he knows too I like oddballs. After all, what good are boring people?  

What The Hell

Sometimes life can be very depressing. For instance, sales on Jawbone, from what I gathered on Amazon in book format aren't all that good. A half dozen books so far. There is no indication how much was sold with e-format. The publisher works mostly with e-format books and it is being sold through other outlets, I hope, But it can be a real pin in the balloon effect.

Yet, for comfort, like eating mac and cheese, I turn to writing. I can loose myself in it. Today was a conversation with a raven and one of the witches in my latest work. Ravens love to gossip and there was plenty in today's writing. Then I went to Critique Circle, a new Internet forum and found actual witches.

OMG, I posted on a forum that I was having a tough time getting good critiques on my work. It was a forum discussing, How to attract better Critiques. Okay, I'm asking how and never really getting an answer, just rips into anything I wrote. It was amazing, all these women writers that have their fat asses in the forum wait for the unsuspecting to enter and then tear them up.

Don't try to explain yourself, the PMS bitches are there to rip your balls right off if you do. I like my witches better, they have heart and a bit of mischief thrown in as well.

I'm looking for a Star Bucks to hang out in on occasion.  I'm a bit, I don't know, self conscious? I have weight issues, age issues, dress issues but besides my hang ups I'm thinking, What the Hell, go for it. Take your lazy fat ass to a Star Bucks along with your old Mac Book, buy a coffee and find a chair somewhere that, when you sit your girth on, will break and draw everyone's attention to my suspender & jeans hick look and laugh.  Or, I can, in all my nervousness, spill my drink into my Mac book and destroy everything. Then sit there and wait until the silence ends to look around to see everyone's eyes roll at that stupid idiot wearing suspenders and jeans in a checker shirt that just toasted his old Mac.

But What the Hell, every fucking vacation I have ever planned turned to shit, why worry about a brief encounter at a Star Bucks for a mini vacation be any different?

  

What Can We Do With Mom?

Saturday I asked Gabe to take care of Wally and that gave me the day to play.  And I did, only there was Mom to deal with. My plan was to bike to Hermosa, find an outdoor bar and watch the beach parade go by. Well Mom tried to throw a wrench in the works and wanted to do more miles and hills. Mexican Monkey told her to ride to his house if she wanted more miles, he wanted to cruise as well. Reluctantly she did and we had a very nice breakfast of scrambled eggs and peppers.

The day was beautiful, warm and sunny. The beach bike path wasn't crowded at all and the volleyball games gave us a great jump and jiggle show along the way. In Hermosa we found an outdoor bar that played Reggae and served Sangria by the pitcher. We people watched, drank, talked and then a guy came over and sat down next to Mom. She was once again a seventeen year old prissy school girl. Before that, after lugging sangria, she wanted me to pimp for her. When I told her that would cost her, I don't pimp for free, she thought she'd try it on her own. Only a woman in a fifty some body, it's in nice shape but she is still over fifty, that acts like she was in high school when around the opposite sex isn't going to get laid.

The guy mentioned he was tired and lived nearby and thought of taking a nap.

I said, "Isn't that funny because Mom was thinking the same thing."

Well, Mom giggled and didn't push it after that, he got up with a boner in his shorts and left and Mom said, "He can find me on Facebook."

"How's that?" I asked Mom.

"I told him what high school  I went to and when I graduated."

So after that, we cruised back to the marina, had two bottles of wine at an Italian restaurant and went home.

The next day Mom sent an e-mail out that she wasn't able to ride much on Saturday because I could barely ride from the marina to Hermosa.

Condescending bitch. 
 

The Help

The hood here is pretty strange, but nothing like my friends. Well, one friend in particular. He is on a fixed income and I give him thirty bucks to stay at the house on Wednesday from 8:30 to noon. I take a short bike ride with friends, the same thirty-some mile loop every Wednesday. All he has to do is wait for Wally to finish his cereal, take him to the bathroom and then help him to get back on top of the bed, fully clothed and nap. The only thing I ask of David is to be here in case there is some type of emergency,  fire, earthquake, whatever.

Today's forecast was for the low nineties. I was looking forward to home and sitting in the cooled living room after my bike ride. It had warmed pretty fast after 10.  I left the air-conditioner on, one of those wall units so the living room is very cool, set at 70 and the other rooms, depending on where they're located, are warmer. It's a small house and on hot days its more money to keep it cool but on cooler days I have the air off. It was just under ninety by a hair when we got back from the bike ride. In the patio, where I have misting fans to help cool the area are Wally and David, no fans are on, no misters and the doors to the house were wide open and the air-conditioner was off. Wally's head, when a fly landed, was being smacked by a fly swatter from David's hand and Wally was trying to shoo away what was hitting him on the head. David had a grin on his face.

I was dumb struck. I paid David the thirty while he was ranting about it was too cold in the house. Why he turned off the air and opened the doors and then sat outside taking Wally I have no idea, he said he was saving me money.

David has HIV, he is a long time survivor of the disease. I don't know what his thinking is, it's bizarre at best, mean and almost criminal at worse to put Wally in such a position and to take it upon himself to change our environment to suit what he wanted is very weird.

Gabe is coming next week to stay with Wally, he will be back from Germany and I have learned things from Gabe on how to deal with Wally myself, he has the patience of Job. I'm so upset about this. Every other friend I have talked to thinks it strange, Mom (our female bike friend) and her boyfriend both thought so when they came back with me. Only one other friend said I should give David another chance and talk to him. But I'm not sure if I should talk with David, tell him this is not appropriate behavior or just not ask him to watch Wally, he'll call me if I don't ask him. He needs the thirty to buy gas for his SUV, its a gas guzzler. I want to be careful what I say because I don't think he knows what he did was wrong. How anyone cannot see that and why I would have to tell an adult is a bit baffling. I think Dave has some type of brain malady. I'm serious about that, what he did doesn't sound rational to me.

Hood Is A Hoppin

Jihad Party Boys are setting off fire crackers. I think they're aiming for certain homes. Not ours though for some reason. The Muslims are having a party too. I think it's a Happy Ramadan party. They get happy once the sun goes down so they can eat and drink. Which makes me think fondly of Bacchus. Now there was a party god. Drink, fuck and drink some more and yet outside of a few places, the practice is losing ground. It' s Christianity and all its ugly morals.  In fact there isn't anything good that came from Christianity but Christmas and that was created by business anyway. If it wasn't for them and their constant need for more, we would be whipping our backs and burning candles to sweet baby Jesus.

Now, I'm thinking of a gay god. You know, sizzling hot because if you're going to worship a deity, why the robes and beard? Strip the fucker and take a look at what kind of cock that god has. Big dick gods will get way more attention. Trust me. And lets face it, what kind of god would settle for a limp dick and sagging ass. Not even old gods do, I've seen their statues and they may have beards, they be thousands and thousands of years old but they all got bouncing balls, thick dicks and bubble butts. They knew back in the Bacchus days of gods what people liked to see, even on the old gods.

It's summer and the nights are warm, so wonderfully warm with night critters and fire crackers and people coming out to dance in the warm night air. I could dance too, in a fashion.

So don't let a warm summer night go by without a dance, even if it's with yourself. That way, we both will have a partner at some point, at sometime, someplace on a warm night in the summer.

Sniffing out bombs

Staten Island man can sniff bombs. Where he picked up this particular trait I have no idea but he assures me that his prominent nose has detected bomb making in the garage of the Iranians next door. And there is some evidence that this could be true.

There are strange coming and goings, people exit the garage and enter it solely by the back door, never the garage door entrance at the front. No cars are parked in it, all of them, and there are a lot of cars for next door, are parked either on the street or in the driveway.

The head guy, has a doctorate degree in engineering, and his wife is getting one as well. But the others, a man that rarely leaves is never talked about. The parents fly in from Iran every six months, stay a while and then go back. That's where the candy came from that I tested on a friend to see if it was poisoned laced, the friend still lives but I'm waiting just to be sure, it's been only a week.

Here is another strange thing, the Jews from Israel on the other side of us came over on the guise of borrowing the ladder. He said something was wrong with the air-conditioner but after he returned it two days later, said he thought something was wrong but there wasn't, the machine was leaking water which they all do.

I think he was using the ladder as a tower to peer over our fences and to see for himself if bombs were being made. After all, they are probably after the Jews, we are only the Queers of Gaza between Iran and Israel. We have no importance other than the vegetable garden and the eggs our chickens produce. But if bombs are being made, we are in the middle of a history of vengeance and deceit sown by these two rivals.

I give them both organic produce in the hope that they will be appeased and leave us poor Gaza Queers alone to farm and raise our chickens. Will it work? Will appeasement of two notorious rivals be enough to to keep us from their bloody wars? Only time can tell. Staten Island man still lives after a week of eating the candy from Iran, there is hope.

Back At The Hood

It's a funny hood, a changed hood from the time I arrived in the summer of 1956.  The hood back then was white as white good be. It was young families popping out kids right and left that created the baby-boomers, my generation. Schools were modeled on mass production just like the jobs our dads and moms worked at that supported the good life. It was all utopia for the up and coming white families that moved in mass from Los Angeles city side to the San Fernando Valley.

We barbecued, played baseball, and improved our lives from that of our parents, refugees of the Great Depression. Only not everyone went up the ladder, just like salmon, some of us were caught, some of us never made it to the next rung. That's what happened to my family. We stayed in our little pond and never left. I tried, went out for a while but in the end came back by a series of strange events.

I like the hood now even with the changes. There are Muslims from Iran to the right and Jews from Israel on the left. Makes me feel like the Gaza strip being the American queer in the middle. I bring them both vegetables from our garden. They give me strange gifts of candy from Iran and sour oranges from Israel.

And though it has been my dream to see the world and haven't, I have met people all over the world that have moved into the hood in this mix from the spill over from Los Angeles into the burbs. And since I can't write about my travels, I will write about the people that have traveled here and settled around the Gaza.
 

I'm lovin it

I started a new story that I'm really excited about. I'm finding it easy, so far, to write the story. Which I'm finding strange for me because it is mostly women. Yes they are witches, but these are more personal than your run-of-the-mill witch. They are likeable, at least they seem to me even though they did ruin someones life but it is the stick-in-the-eye of religion that seems to pop up in a lot of my work that I'm really relishing to write about. Religion, in this case, right-wing Christianity that I can't wait to dig into later in the story. I'm on chapter four right now. It is light, dark comedy. Not ghoulish, a bit sinister and I hope identifiable for most people. The witches use their talents to make very good wine, in fact their winery wins every year. The witches are three sisters and their mother that all live on an estate called Ravens Nest. They live quite well, are beautiful and each with a particular talent. The help is a band of gypsies with, I think, great personalities for witches to work with.

Gabe is working out quite well. Wally likes him and you can see that Gabe takes very good care of Wally. He is going to Germany for two weeks at the end of July, I'll miss him because for the first time, I can actually leave Wally and know that I won't come home to shit-filled pants. And Wally lights up when he sees Gabe, of course the guy is young, 27 or so and very well built, tall and a very nice personality. It was lucky to find him.

The Help

Friends are great, they are and will do many things for you, however there is a limit. We have two friends in particular that could use a little extra cash. So, in return for staying with Wally for a few hours  each week to let me get out, we gave them some cash. Not a lot of money, thirty, forty dollars for a few hours of spouse-sitting at a time but it hasn't really worked out.

Here is our  dilemma,  it was a rather startling awakening. Wally, a few years back suddenly became short of breath, and I took him to Kaiser emergency. They kept him for a week in the hospital and because I didn't want him tied down, his dementia and he wanted to find me, I stayed with him on a very uncomfortable lounge chair. During our stay at Kaiser in Woodland Hills, I have to mention the particular hospital because it is one of the nicer Kaiser's facilities and you would think be of better service.

Not so.

While there, we had a nice large room with a shower and separate toilet and sink. Large window that had no view but that was okay, what wasn't was the help. Those people with mops and brooms that keep the floor of the room clean was to be done by a woman from Poland. Nothing wrong with that but our room began to stink of piss. Wally, in the middle of the night would get up to use the toilet and of course pee along the way. Not a lot, but dribble that over days of not being mopped began to stink.

When I complained about it they sent this woman to our room who began to lecture us on the evils of homosexuality. In her country it would not be tolerated and it was against god. She did clean the floor during the entire lecture and it was obvious why she didn't before because we must be infected with AIDS and god knows what sinful disease god rendered unto the wicked, as she put it. Wally and I are both HIV neg. If it would matter in a fucking hospital.

After that experience, I didn't want anyone taking care of Wally unless we knew them or they were at least gay.  Oh, old gay people? If you're reading this, and suddenly find yourself in need of care, slash your throat rather than go to straights for it. Especially religious heterosexuals.

I put an ad on Craig's list. Twice actually but the second time brought a very nice young man. Gay, he goes to the local university, CSUN.  After having him over and watching him handle Wally, I can now go for a bike ride or a movie and know Wally will be fine. They got along very well. He is a very consciences young man, strong too and had no problem getting Wally up or walking him. 

If anyone thinks that because of a religious point of view, it is okay to deny treatment, mistreat or abuse someone because that particular religion does not tolerate them,  I say this.

GO FUCK YOURSELF!

The House Across the Street

It's a grey square house. As a kid I burned my eyebrows and eyelashes off when we lit a pile of gunpowder we removed from various firecrackers on fire in front of the house. That was over fifty years ago. But the house has always been strange.

The last renters had a sheriff's swat team out. Guns, flak jackets, the works. The family directly across from us and next door to the grey house moved their kids to the far end of their home. Nothing happened, no spray of bullets or tear gas bombs but the swat team was there for a few hours.

Wally and I were taking a walk a couple of weeks ago and went by the house on our way home. There was a slapping noise and the voice of a male followed by screams of help from a woman. I took Wally in the house and was about to call the cops when a car showed up with two guys in it. The woman came running out of the house and right then cops showed up with rifles as big as bazookas. The guy that rented the house knew what the cops wanted, laid down on the sidewalk and after handcuffed and taken away, has never came back.

The house is again, up for rent.

U-Verse TV

It's pretty cool. I'm sitting outside, working the blog, a meat pie is baking in the toaster oven on the patio and we're watching the Clubs. All while scratching my balls, swatting flies and drinking beer.  It's way better than sitting inside for some reason. Probably long hours in the winter with the cold.

The ATT guy could have been more attractive. But this way, I paid attention to the instructions which soon lost me. There are so many things you can do with it. One thing to do is move the wireless device in back of the television so that it doesn't pick up the remote and then click your ass off until you call the tech guy and he asks, "Where is the wireless box located?"

Jawbone

 

Review by Kat Yares, author of,  Vengeance is Mine, Journeys into the Velvet Darkness - Revealed Evil

If you've been reading horror for as long as I have (early 70s), you know that most of what is written today is either a:) zombies or vampires or b:) heavy on guts and gore with no plot. Jawbone is different. Sure it has guts and gore, but it also has a fantastic story and characters that you can relate too.

Jawbone is classic horror. Gleich has created characters not normally found in today's fiction. Each main character is flawed in their own particular way and those flaws seamlessly help propel the story forward. As with the well-developed characters of the story, the descriptive passages of the book will spark all of your senses to the point of being almost able to smell, touch, hear and see everything that is happening. This is one of those stories that draws the reader into the world of the narrative and making it real. The author's style is almost literary in its approach.

Combining Native American myth with real world characters makes Jawbone a must read for anyone who truly loves the horror genre. 

I've been so busy as late that I haven't been here or at my website. I think things have calmed down enough that I can get back to business.  The book will be out in paperback in about a week. It will also be available at  Damnation Books, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and independent book stores.  If you pick up a copy let me know how you liked and the story and, if you want, leave a review. Thanks.

Does Shit Fly?

It sure as shit does. Fact. I can verify that shit does actually fly, Wally is losing his knowledge of toilet practice and Depends is what I catch the shit and piss in. The piss isn't so bad. Think I'll use one myself making the trips to pee a thimble full unnecessary.

And the shit? Well the Depends is dependable. It catches shit but it doesn't keep it from flying. The reason? You have to take it off and dispose of the shit filled diaper. That's when it flies and boy does it. 
Shit flies in your face, on your clothes, on the walls, floor, sink and anywhere it can find refuge.

Shit likes to stay on you. It is what shit was made for. Good shit, got some bad shit, that's total shit and shit dude, are a few examples of how shit sticks. But to stick it has to fly.

That's the mystery. How does shit fly? I don't know, I just know that when I clean up Wally, there is  shit everywhere. It's not like I'm messy, shit no, but shit goes everywhere when I do. Fortunately we have a tiled bathroom, I can practically take the garden hose in and if there was a drain the middle, wash the shit away but there is no drain the middle of the floor it's is in the bathtub.

A good chlorine rinse after my shit duty is mandatory. It gives me a clean feel. That and Carmen who comes once a week and scrubs the shit out of the bathroom.

I'm so use to shit now, it doesn't bother me anymore, shit no.

Life in the Gaza Strip

To the left are Jews from Israel in their palace. To the right are Iranian Muslims in their tent. And we are between in the Gaza Strip. Not wanted by either but tolerated--to an extent. We offer eggs to the Jews for peace and get sour oranges. We offer produce to the Muslims for peace and get nothing but a thanks, not even invited in. And that pretty well describes Gaza here or in the Middle East. 

We is the fags of the hood. Stinking Palestinians that no one wants. And Fuck them I say.  What we do is party. Party Party Party on the weekend. It don't matter what the weather, we party hearty. Drink, barbecue and play country on the Boze. There is banter and laughter and cards. Penny a point and plenty of beer. When the weather permits we do it outside, out in the patio in the middle of our fairyland garden. With flowers and vegetables, grapes and  bubbling fountain.

They have each other. Justice prevails.

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Final Episode

With laser precision, Campy almost instinctively knew where the bridge was and at the right moment signaled to Vic to slow down.  The road turned out to be a turnout with a purpose. The waterfall was near the road and the bridge made of wood. For when there was a heavy run-off, the bridge was flushed with water, perhaps even to the point of a wash-out. The cul-de-sac was for someone to park and use the gate made of bright yellow metal pipe to swing out and block access to the bridge. It was better than what Campy had hoped for.

Vic saw immediately what Campy had in mind. Both men placed their bikes out of sight and with a large rock, smashed the lock holding the chain that held back the swinging gate. They maneuvered the gate across the road and held it in place with the same chain. Then, as they heard the last two remaining cars careening around corners behind them,  looked for a place to hide from sight.

One of the cars sounded as if it hit something, there was a screech of metal along with the squeal of tires on pavement. But after that there was still the sound of more than one car fast approaching. Not sure, Campy tried to think of where they might be when suddenly he heard the careening of tires only this time it was there and it was both cars sliding sideways in a desperate attempt from hitting the guard rail.

As the cars slid and came into  the view, inside the leading car was the faces of Jean Claude and the Contesta de Claude. A look of real fear frozen on their faces. The driver was sheer white and stiff, realizing as milliseconds passed,  the inevitable. 

The  cars collided against their sides, they slid with the weight of both vehicles, gun toting thugs and the de Claudes screaming insults at them. They hit the metal rail and caused sparks to fly as the vehicles tumbled to edge of the precipice and with one last look at the Contesta and her son clawing at the door both cars tumbled over the edge and down the side of the waterfall hundreds of feet in height to the craggy rocks below.

There was an eerie silence, even the birds of the forest stopped. Girlymann and Vic walked to the edge and looked. There, at the bottom of the gorge was a tangled wreck of metal. There was no movement save for the water from the fall splashing on the black metal heap below. The men turned and moved the gate back into a  position, securing it again with the chain. Then the two picked up their bikes, dusted off their clothes and started down the hill in silence, saying nothing between them until Campy looked at Vic and Vic did the same. Then a big smile came across the faces of both of them.

The ride into the valley was exhilarating fresh from their pursuit, they felt the cool forest air against their faces and the thrill of speed on their bikes without having to peddle much.  The forest gave way to oak and bay then in the foothills of the mountains, vineyards came with small country farms nestled here and there.

In the first village they went through, the people stared in disbelief of the two famous cyclists enjoying a leisurely  ride. "Where are the de Claudes and their bandit henchmen?" They asked each other. Then the cry went out and sent like a lightening streak ahead, that the de Claudes were no more.

Floweres were tossed, Champagne sprayed on the two bikers on their ride to the city and the townspeople who would carry the two to a podium to receive the key to the city and a celebration party that would last three days and three nights.

The End.

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Final Episodes

Campy took a quick look at Vic to see how bad he was hit. His helmet took the brunt of the bullet but there was a trickle of blood running down the side of the domestic's face. The crest was near, not too far. Still the cars were behind them but because of the steep climb they too had a hard time as well.

"Vic, push it man, give it all you got!"

They did and when the crest came up and eased their labor, they both sucked in air and with sped up their bikes, quickly shifting gears and gaining speed to tuck in and become as air-streamed as they could. They heard the cars crest but now they had distance between them once again, their speed with the decent, gained quicker by the second.

They were going thirty then fifty miles an hour down the crest of the mountain and banking in each curve, something the cars had difficulty with. And they knew it too for now the vehicles in hot pursuit realized their mistake and the squeals of their tires sounded like sirens at each curve. Campy was keen on curves and downhill racing. The domestic was safely tucked in behind him in the vortex of Campy's draft. The automobiles, with their weight and inability to bank in the curves were at a disadvantage and Girlymann knew it. With a smile on his face he decided to taunt them.

Raising up he caught the wind and it slowed their speed down, just enough to give the men in the cars the idea that they could catch them. In one sharp corner, the screech of tires ended in a crash and  car one of the cars going over an embankment. That left two a bit wiser.

Girlymann knew he had only the mountain to give him a chance. Once on the flats, they would be dead ducks. But at the moment the two reveled in their power over the gun toting thugs on their tail. The thugs had backed off enough to make the curves but at the cost of slowly falling behind. It was a cat and mouse game and they did not want to be the losers.

Campy Girlymann scoured the countryside on their fast decent. With each curve, his gaze would canvas for something ahead he could use, some kind of advantage.  The thick forest gave way, here and there for a mountain stream or waterfall. In some gorges, a bridge was used to cross over the water and at one, there was a dirt road that ran off to the side just before the bridge.

Campy was hoping that luck would be with him.  He signaled to Vic to keep his head up for a maneuver, with his target in mind, Campy lowered his body and tucked in to make himself as aerodynamic as he could. Their speed picked up. With Vic in the draft it made the slip stream even more powerful. They were going into curves at sixty-plus miles an hour. One slip, one mistake, flat, mechanical error could be the end of them without the bullies having fired a shot.

It was hair raising but with bravery, good biking skills and some luck, an experienced biker could practically fly in  a mountain decent. The thugs fell far behind and this forced them to speed up just to keep an eye on where the bikers were in the decent. It took them some time when they realized the distance the two were making on them but when they did it forced them to take chances too.

Campy was tracing the curves in his mind, not knowing this road brought its own dangers but he couldn't afford to overshoot the target. With Zen like determination, Campy pictured what he viewed from above to where they were at the moment. He knew in a few minutes, they should be at the bridge......


To be continued....

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Final Episodes

The blood flowed from the flesh wound on Campy's arm. It ran down his side and splattered on the ground beneath the bike but Campy kept on.

"Vic! You okay?" He asked.

"I think so, but your arm is bleeding pretty bad."

"Never mind that, I'm okay." That's what Campy thought, but to make sure, while he rode, he took out his handkerchief and with his teeth to help him, tied off his arm just above the flesh wound.

He didn't falter in the climb and even seemed more determined than before to reach the summit before the cars caught them. Girlymann's heart though, so strong to pump his blood cycling, now worked against him. Even with the tourniquet, the pressure exerted by his heart forced the blood through the clamped off wound. It wasn't as bad as it was at first, but he was seeping blood every second through the crimson soaked handkerchief.

More shots rang out, some came close. The cars were now one curve behind the two cyclists. Each straightaway brought danger for the bikes and spurred them on as a whipped horse. The top came into view, one more curve, a short climb and the crest would be there's. If they could have a second more, A mere breath.

Then Vic cried out, "I'm hit."

To be continued.....

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Final Episodes

Girlymann steadied an eye on the pack of black metal beasts. He knew they meant trouble and were quickly gaining on them. Campy and Vic picked up speed. They could see in the distance the pinnacle of the climb where the road went  between two colliding mountain tops.

"Let's go for it." Campy yelled.

And they did. Each man put as much muscle to the pedal that they could. Their bikes flew up the climb. It surprised those in the chase, for at first, they kept to the speed that would have had them near the cyclist.  But now, the cars had to speed up as well, trying to reach them before the cyclist reached the summit.

The road became steep and then very steep. Each turn was like climbing a spiral staircase, the curve  went almost straight up against the mountain's side making the boys take the curves wide. It added almost twice the time, though it took less energy. It gave an edge to the motorcars that gained distance every second that slipped by.

Campy knew what to do. But could the Belgian make it? He could,  thought Girlymann. And as he geared for battle. He forced his upper body to relax, holding lightly to the bars and concentrated on getting as much oxygen in his lungs as he could. He would need that for the final push and when Vic saw what Campy was doing, immediately did the same. He instinctively, tucked in behind Campy and began to relax, taking deep breaths as they used only their legs to power the bikes.

It was cool from the altitude and helped the boys from overheating, Once Campy flushed his blood with oxygen he raised from the saddle and shifted gears. The bike responded by increasing the speed and as soon as he hit a curve, Campy settled in the seat and shifted again, to ease the steep climb.

Vic followed suit tucked in behind Campy. It helped. The cars too had to slow in the curves before gaining speed and though it made their pursuit harder, Campy could hear the strain on the gears of the automobiles become louder, like lions in pursuit, as he and Vic sweated and strained to put out more strength to save their necks.

The top was near, veiled with a mist that clung to the pine trees, it cooled the air and brought a stillness to the area. The only noise that could be heard were the breaths of men and roar of machines trying to catch them.

Girlymann could feel his legs tire but willed himself to stay his ground, his breathing grew heavy and he could hear the Belgian behind him.  He didn't know how long Vic could hang on. He didn't know how to help him either, other than hope the draft he gave the domestic was enough.

A shot rang out, followed by machine gun fire. The bullets ricochet off the sides of the mountain when they struck the hard granite around Campy and Vic. A little more, just a little further and they would be surrounded by the high clouds of the mountain's top. Just a little more, Campy thought when he felt the sting and saw blood drip from his arm.


To be continued...... 

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann's Final Episodes

The sandwich was good, Campy thought but not tuna. The apple too was delicious but not exactly what apples taste like and what looked like a brownie, didn't taste like chocolate at all. It wasn't bad but different. And the air tasted cleaner, the sky brighter, and he felt much lighter, almost as if he was floating.

"Say, Vic."

"Yeah?"

"How do you feel?"

"Really great, Campy. Man what a great day."

"Yeah it is great." Campy had a smile as well and felt the best he had in years. 

Everything was fine until they passed someone on the dirt road talking on the phone. When he saw Campy and Vic pass by he yelled at them to stop. The boys didn't but the guy on the phone started to chase them on foot and once he saw there was no way to catch them, drew a pistol.

A shot rang out and bullet flew between Vic and Campy which spurred them on. Before the man could fire again they had rounded a curve and were soon on to the next one.


No one needed to say they had to watch their backs. Both men kept a look out for anything that moved and held close to the edge of the mountain as they climbed on. But all too soon they heard the whir of a helicopter coming up from behind and not long after that shots pumped the earth nearby.

"Zig-zag." Campy yelled and swerved his bike left and right, with Vic doing the maneuver in the opposite way.

It made it difficult for the helicopter to get a good aim but it slowed the two cyclists down. Campy looked ahead, there was a short drop before it started to climb again and in the drop was a grove of trees.

"Vic, follow me and when we get to that grove of trees pull up next to me, jump off your bike and climb that overhead cliff. You'll know what to do."

With that they dived into the grove, stopped and Vic got off his bike. Campy grabbed Vic's bike and kept riding further down in the gorge and then over the side with both bikes. He tried to  stay upright as best he could but not far from the road he took a fall with both bikes twisted  around him.

Vic, in the meantime,  ran to the other side of the road and quickly sprinted up the hillside, as he did, the helicopter dived down toward the gorge. Vic was equal to the helicopter from his vantage point and quickly realized what Campy meant.

Faster than he ran before, Vic climbed higher until the helicopter was now beneath him. It looked too that the copter had lowered itself  further looking to see who was in the wreckage of bikes and that was when Vic grabbed a good size rock and hurled the weight.

The large rock made a curve fall right into the blades of the copter. A blade broke and the copter became uncontrollable. It swirled and tipped before it suddenly crashed below where Campy was with the bikes.

As soon as Campy heard the copter crash he got up beneath the bikes and pulled them up back to the road just as Vic had ran down to greet him.

"Man, that was close." Vic said.

"There's  going to me more, I'm sure." Campy said, straightening his saddle.

Both men readied their bikes and began to climb when the noise of several cars could be heard from behind.

To be continued........

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Final Episodes

Campy, gingerly, felt the lump in his back pocket. He touched it and the thing didn't move. He took that as a good sign. Vic though, tried to bend enough and pull his jersey enough to see what he could. It wasn't much. Girlymann slowly pushed his fingers into the pocket and felt one of the objects. He then grabbed it and pulled out a somewhat square object.

Holding it in his hand, he found, whatever it was, wrapped in a red and white checkered cloth. Carefully he unwrapped the package and beheld something like a sandwich with a tag laying across it. "For Endurance" it said. Campy then smelled the sandwich and was pleasantly surprised. He wrapped up the sandwich and felt for the next object which was round. An apple with a note tied to the stem. "For Strength.' The third was wrapped in blue and white checked cloth and looked like a brownie. "For Agility."

Once Vic saw Girlymann's gifts he too opened his and found the exact same thing. Each item with a note and wrapped the same way.

"You mean what I thought was a dream--wasn't?"

Girlymann looked at Vic in a puzzled way. "What dream?"

"The one with the troll and a witch with a talking rat."

"Dream?"

"Oh, well, huh. Shit, do you think this stuff is for real?"

Campy had placed his food back in the jersey and mounted his bike. Vic watching,  took to his bike and the both rode toward the hills ahead. Campy pulled out the sandwich, unwrapped it and took a bite.

"Kinda like tuna." He said to Vic with a smile.

Vic laughed and then bit into the apple. The two riding side by side on the dirt road covered over by giant limbs of oak on a beautiful French country day. 

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann Continue

"You two must be those bikers everyone is looking for."

Girlymann and Vic looked at each other before turning to the stranger. Campy stood up and brushed some leaves from the back of his pants.

"Campy. Campy Girlymann and you?"

"Better left unsaid in case the Du Claudes skin you alive asking questions."

Campy's blood pressure rose. "We wouldn't want that."  He remembered what the witch and troll had said, about a price on their head.

Vic stood as well and offered his hand to the stranger. But the stranger didn't take the offer. Instead, he looked Vic and Campy over from head to foot with what looked like a bit of disgust.

"Don't worry none. The Du Claudes are not my friends. They steal my truffles each year and leave me with less than half  of what my pigs find. They are as worthless as cyclists."  Then he spit on the ground and raised his stick toward the horizon where the dirt road disappeared among the foothills and oak groves.

"Your best chance is to take this dirt road, stay off the side roads. They all dead end at some point. Once you hit pavement the road becomes a wicked winding descent into the next valley. If you should reach that valley, the Du Claudes can't touch you.  The house of Du Claude are mortal enemies of that region going back centuries."

The stranger then lowered his walking stick, "Best get back to my pigs before they eat what little I'll have after the Du Claudes take their fill."

With that the stranger turned his back on the two men and walked on toward the sound of grunts coming not far away.

Campy and Vic watched him disappear among the oaks and laurel. Then they turned to each other and started to laugh. "Guess there's only one thing to do," Campy said as he picked up his bike from the grass and began to inspect it.

"Ride out of Dodge?" Vic asked.

"Hell yeah, and get our asses to this valley pronto." Campy's eye was caught by a bulge in the back pocket of Vic's jersey. "Say Vic?"

"Yeah?"

"What's in your pocket?"

Vic looked a bit astonished, "I was going to ask you the same thing."

To be continued.....

The Adventures of Campy Girlymann in the Land of Trolls

 At first, Campy began to laugh. He looked at Vic who also was on the verge of laughter. Their bellies were full and their heads heady from bottles of good wine.  Then the music began to play from here and there in the room and before either knew it, they stood from their chairs and started to dance.

Raccoons played flute, pixies on harps, badgers beat drums with a whole troop of hares playing bagpipes. The whole room filled with music as the witch danced with the troll, Campy with Vic and the rat did a rumba with a duck. They changed partners and danced some more and then they danced in groups until they danced out into the night and frolicked under the moon. Trails of fireflies flitted about in the air as the party danced and danced. It was a whirling, swirling, twirling shindig. But at sometime, in a no-time place, Vic and Campy woke on a grassy mound beside their bikes next to the dirt road that they had left to follow the trial.

They looked around in a daze when the first rays of dawn's light struck. There was no path that led to the forest, only the dirt road and their bikes next to the mound of grass and the oak trees that shaded them. There was no music, no laughter and no magic.

"What the hell happened?" Campy asked.

"I think I was dreaming, I...." Vic looked around and he looked confused. He felt like he had  a hangover.

"Jesus, I have hangover." Campy barked and then laid back in the grass.

"How can we have a hangover?" Vic asked.

"It must be, I had a hell of a night. Didn't you?"

Vic shook his head to clear cobwebs but nothing came back in order. He too laid back and watched the light play on the leaves overhead. Birds sang and the grass rustled in the breeze while they laid there getting their bearings. It was so peaceful and quiet before a stranger poked their legs with a stick.

To be continued....