The Oscars

Wow, I've been gone a long time, but now I'm back. I've had access to a computer over the last week or so, but because it wasn't my own, I didn't really feel like posting anything. It would have felt forced.

So yes, The Oscars.

I think Chris Rock did a pretty mediocre job of hosting. He had a few good jokes, but most of what he brought to the table was the same tired, racist material we always see from him. At least he didn't once use the word "cracker." I think a line he should have added to his monologue bit about "waiting" should have been, "If you can't get Billy Crystal to host the show.....wait."

And come to think of it, why is it still acceptable for Rock to continue this racial inequality routine of his? Haven't the past few years at the Oscars dispelled any bias against black people? Not too long ago we saw Whoopi Goldberg host the show; and last year we all got to wince at Halle Berry's overly dramatic acceptence speech for best actress. Maybe it's just me, but I think she should have held back on her teary comments about "opening the door for black people," since she doesn't look the least bit African.

This year's ceremony also included numerous nominations for Hotel Rwanda (Including a Best Actor nod for Don Cheedle), and saw statues go to Morgan Freeman for Million Dollar Baby and Jamie Foxx for Ray. Gee, what a biased bunch the Academy are, huh? I mean, they only let Beyonce perform three songs! Cracker-assed crackers!

I Feel like Chicken Tonight

Yesterday I stopped at the grocery store to get a chicken.

My nose detected the aroma immediately as I entered the building, and I instinctively went about tracking it down. I slowly stalked my way through the cereals, avoiding the Quaker's watchful eye, before long arriving at a small, well-lit clearing. It was there that I spotted the fowl, warm in their roost, each heedlessly ignorant of any potential predators. At a short distance I observed their clustered formation with keen interest, deliberating exactly how I would play this favorite game of mine. Then, as if by reflex, my body shot forward, enabling me to snatch one of the plump birds with one swift movement. There was no struggle to speak of.

I find that markets and groceries are such conventional places these days. Nearly everything is sprayed with pesticides, comes vacuum-packed, or is crammed into some eye-catching package, designed to make your children scream until you buy it for them.

When it comes to meat, though, things are basically as they've always been. The animals are inspected before slaughter, and then dismembered and sectioned accordingly by the butcher's blade.

But I think the pre-cooked chickens they sell are the most fascinating items. It's such a simple animal to prepare. The head is lopped off, the feathers and guts removed; then, after being impaled on a spit, it broils slowly over an open flame, almost exactly as it would have been done thousands of years ago.

Devouring it is also primal experience. You begin by ripping the skin, fat and tender flesh directly from bird's brittle carcass, hastily gobbling it as you go. Eventually you are forced to put down your utensils (assuming you were even using them in the first place) and begin poking between each rib with bare fingers to grasp the elusive meat. When you are through, all that is left is a glistening skeleton. The chicken has served its purpose in serving you.

Golf on the Hill

When I was around thirteen or fourteen, my parents bought me a membership at the local country club. Prior to this, I thought I could never have an interest in golf. I didn't really know much about it, but despite this, whenever my uncle (who was an avid golfer) came over and suggested I start playing, I'd scoff, "No way--it's boring!" I assumed that it was boring, anyway. It seemed to be a slow sport, where nothing much happened. I based my opinion, of course, on what I had seen on TV. On the tube, the game seem so disconnected. It wasn't like hockey where all of the action unfolded before your eyes; it was more like a soap opera, where one player would take a shot, you'd see the ball (barely) float away, and then they'd cut to someone else.

When friends of mine started telling me about all the fun they were having on the golf course, though, I thought, "Hey, maybe kids can have fun with this sport," and I got interested. My interest resulted in me being given a brand new set of golf clubs! Score!


These are Golf Clubs

Jason, a friend of mine at the time, was of the kids who was into golf. He didn't have a club membership himself, but he'd been to the driving range from time to time. Anyway, Jason was over one day and we decided we'd go to a nearby neighbor's house to chip some golf balls, since they had a very big lawn, and had let me do so before.

These neighbors prefered that we use "whiffle balls," which are hollow plastic golf balls that don't fly very far. If we did choose to use real golf balls, we were to be very careful, since their yard (and our part of the neighborhood in general) was the highest point in town, so it overlooked much of the city. At the back of our neighbor's lot was a tree line, which was the very top of a steep, wooded hill. Beneath the hill was a street; beyond that, a used car lot; and beyond that, an even busier street, which ran parallel to the town's river.

As you might imagine, chipping plastic golf balls with our pitching wedges got boring very quickly. We livened things up by hitting them at one another, but even that grew tiresome after a while. Eventually we brought out the real golf balls and started chipping them to the tree line at the back of the lot. They'd tock off the trees from time to time, the occasional ball rolling harmlessly down the hill. And yeah, I guess that was kind of fun...

But what do ya know--even that got boring pretty soon! So Jason and I reached into our golf bags and grabbed our tees. Then out came the drivers, and then the real fun began. I actually tried to rationalize that we'd only hit "low drives" that would enter the forcefield of trees and then fall immedietly to the ground. Hey, it sounded plausible to a couple of kids who desperately wanted to crank a few shots! Ah, who am I kidding. I knew exactly what we were getting ourselves into.

TINK! Went the first of my drives, the golf ball soaring over the tree line.

"Oops! A little high, a little high," I said, teeing up another.
"You'd better be careful, man," Jason teased, before cranking a ball of his own over the trees.

We laughed hysterically as we belted all of our golf balls into the blue sky over the hill. Because we couldn't see where they landed, it was if they were disappearing. Such innocent fun.

Later on, when Jason and I were back at my house playing video games or something, the doorbell rang. I heard my mom answer it and then yell upstairs for me to come down. "Uh oh," I said to Jason, who was also told to come to the front door. Standing in the entrance way was an older police officer, holding one of our golf balls in the air between his thumb and forefinger, a stern look on his face.

"Does this belong to you?" He asked me very seriously.
"Uh-Uhmm," I stammered, looking at my socked feet. "Yeah, I think so."

For the next ten minutes Jason and I were lectured on how "dangerous" what we had done was. Well, it wasn't exactly a lecture. Basically, my Mom would shriek something like, "What were you thinking?!" and then she and the Officer would stare at us as we tried to look sorry for what we had done. Apparently we nearly hit some people who were browsing through the used car lot beneath the hill. The rest of the balls (and I don't know how many there were) miraculously managed to bounce through both the lot and through the rapidly moving traffic (some going as far as the river, around three-hundred yards away!) without causing any damage or injury.

My Mom later told me that while Jason and I stood red-faced, staring at our feet, the officer was giving her a slight smirk. When he eventually left (after giving us the stern warning not to do it again) he candidly remarked to my Mom, "Those two sure have some damn good golf swings!"

Kevin Costner's Response:

As I sat down to my computer, I noticed that I had "1 new message" in my e-mail inbox. Probably some new Herbal Viagra, I thought, as I clicked the pop-up.

But to my surprise, it was an e-mail from none other than Mr. Kevin Costner, in regards to my request for him to link my web page! If you're a first-time visiter to my site, check out the article from a few days back, entitled "Will Kevin Costner Snub Me?" -- it will make all of this clear to you.

In any event, I'm pleased to report that this page's first celebrity visitor (that I know of) said: "I had a good chuckle reading over the content of your site."
The unfortunate news, though, is that due to the overwhelming number of similar requests Kevin and his Publicist receive, they will not be linking my page. But to be honest, I'm happy just knowing that Kevin enjoyed my site.

Another comment I enjoyed in his rather lengthy e-mail was: "It was an amusingly low blow to reference my 'Tatanka-sized' heart in your open letter of your Blog, incidentally." Ha ha! Whups. I didn't mean any offense, Mr. Costner.

He concluded by wishing me luck with my future endeavors, and I was left with the impression that he'd be visiting "Walking Blues" in the future.

You heard it here first, folks! "Walking Blues" has been given Kevin Costner's "Celebrity Stamp of Approval!"


"Keep up the good work, Wino!" Kevin chuckles.

Preston's Reckoning

I went to the campus bar last night with Brittany, a girl from my class, to have a few beers. As we entered, I sat down at one of the last unoccupied tables while my friend went to the lineup at the cash to order, the two of us having already agreed to get a pitcher of the the cheapest stuff they had. After being in a class as boring as the one we were just in, any alcohol would have done just fine, so it only made sense to be economical about it.

I recognized the guy working behind the bar as a smug bastard--"Preston." He was lanky, around twenty-five or six, and had curly, pubic-like red hair, which was receding, almost as though it was trying desperately to get away from his ridiculous Buddy Holly glasses.
If you've been around post-secondary institutions, you've seen these types of guys everywhere. They wear brown corduroy pants in an effort to appear more earthy; and their T-shirts, which are usually tighter than ones underage girls wear to get in to clubs, are as obscure and ridiculous as possible--which, in their eyes, makes them subversive, different, and therefore "cool."


Yeah, this is the "Preston Look" all right. Eugh.

Guys like this usually do their best to make even the most simple conversations difficult, by constantly injecting their smarmy, pseudo-intellectual, leftist remarks. Brittany, now first in line, was about to discover this. She asked for our cheap beer, Preston tapping it in on the register's key pad, one of his eyebrows slightly raised.

"Hey Julie!" Preston said, grinning at a co-worker. "Do me a favor and pour me a pitcher of the very best cheapest beer we have, will ya?" He then snickered with a few of the other people at the bar.

Brittany, visibly annoyed, tossed the money on the counter. "How many times have you said that line today?" she asked. Preston gave no response, and passed her the filled pitcher and a couple of glasses. As she walked to our table she mouthed, "What an asshole!"
I nodded in agreement.

I hadn't eaten much all day, so after a bit of beer I decided I would get a few beef Samosas, which are basically spicey ground hamburger, wrapped in an egg-roll-like coating of...Samosa. They're about the size of those novelty dice people hang from their rear-view mirrors, only they're not cubes--they kind of look like greasy little pyramids.

I walked to the register, Preston eyeing my approach. "Hey, can I get three of your beef Samosas, please?" I asked.
"Three beef samosas, hmm?" Preston repeated, giving a chafed sniff.
"--That's what I said."
"That'll be five-fifty," he groaned, looking me in the eye. "You know, you may not be aware of this," he continued, "but Samosas are Indian food. In India the cow is a holy animal, revered above all others--so naturally they don't put beef in their Samosas. I think it's pretty absurd how the Western world is so determined to stamp out Eastern culture, yet constantly borrowing from them in order to add fuel to the ever-roaring capitalist machine!"

My hands, which were at my sides, then made a sound a lot like someone stepping on bubble wrap, I was clenching them so hard.

"Of course, simply stealing from their culture isn't enough," he went on, not sensing my rage. "No, we then take their Samosas, which are traditionally made only with spiced vegetables, and then fill them with the flesh of their sacred cow, as if to give the finger to their entire way of life! It's this sort of ignorance that made me become a vegan."

I stood there in disbelief. Does he actually work here, or am I on some kind of hidden camera show? I thought to myself. I reasoned that I had seen him here in the past too often for this to be some sort of prank. My mind went through all the responses I could give to this guy. But there were far too many to choose from, so I just gave way to my anger and let my mouth do the work.

"Take a look at that menu on the wall behind you, you stupid fuck!" I pointed. "It says BEEF SAMOSA--and you sell the goddamn things!"

All the people in the bar were looking at us by this point, but I didn't give a shit.

"I don't want hear about your fucking lifestyle, either, you sandal-wearing cocksucker! Instead of muttering your pretentious ideology to everyone who orders this stuff, why don't you fucking quit this job so you can save people the time it takes to point out that you're a fucking hypocrite!"

Preston squirmed. He was clearly used to having people nod along with his views.

"And by the way, I happen to love eating flesh!" I continued. "The redder the better, I always say. So toss those fucking samosas in the oven and hurry up about it!" I then bounced a handful of change off the counter for him to count and returned to my seat.

Brittany sat opposite me, shocked. "What?" I asked, pouring the beer, which I drank quickly.
"Oh, nothing--I'd probably have done the exact same, had I thought of it," she sarcastically responded.

A few minutes later my Samosas arrived, carried by one of Preston's co-workers. No surprise there. I stared at them on my paper plate, holding the plastic knife and fork they had provided. It occurred to me that Preston also worked at an establishment that chose to use disposable cutlery and plates so they wouldn't have to do dishes. Way to help the environment, Captain Planet!

I realised that I had lost my appetite. Brittany suggested we leave and go out for a smoke to calm down. I agreed. I took the Samosas to the bar and asked the now timid Preston if they had any plastic bags for me to put them in.

"No, we don't," he immediately responded.
"I find that a little hard to believe," I said.
"I can give you another plate to put on top of it, if you want."
"That's no good--I'm putting these in my backpack."
"Hold on," he said, walking into the back room.

He returned carrying a foam container, the perfect size for what I needed (although ironically even more harmful to Mother Earth, since it wouldn't decompose for another five-hundred years or so.) I wondered why he had to make a hassle right off the bat instead of getting what he knew was there immediately.

"Thanks a lot," I said, taking the foam container. Preston grunted his acknowledgement.
As I turned to walk out with Brittany, I glanced at the foam container and saw that something had been written on it in blue ball-point pen. "JERK."

"What's this shit?" I asked her, gesturing to the box. "Oh, that's probably the container they use for 'Jerk-Rotties,'" she responded. "They're pretty good, have you ever ha--"
"--that fucking asshole!" I yelled.
"I really don't think he was calling you an jerk," she said, handing me a cigarette, hoping I would follow her to leave.
"Yeah, right," I said, turning towards the bar.

"Hey Presss-ton!" I roared, running at full speed towards him. He turned just in time to emit a womanly scream at the sight of my charge. I then dove over the counter and barreled into him, driving him hard to the floor. Bottles rained from their display on the wall and crashed all around us. I grabbed an empty glass and splintered it into Preston's face, leaving deep lacerations.

"MY FACE!! MY FACE!!" he wailed, blood spurting. I then delivered a fury of punches, shattering his glasses and busting his teeth.
"I'm a Jerk, am I Preston?!" I shouted as I pummelled. "Well, I guess I'd better act the part!"

I then reached for a beef samosa that was on someone's plate and stuffed it into Preston's broken mouth. "Chew it up, motherfucker!" I screamed, attempting to work his jaw for him. "Swallow that dead cow--that's right! You loovvve it!"

Preston choked and spat a mixture of blood and hamburger as I continued to cram Samosa into his mouth. He had learned his lesson, I thought, standing and giving him a final kick to the head.

"Mahh fwayce!!! Mahh fwayce!!" he said unintelligibly, his mouth still stuffed with meat.

"Somebody'd better call this guy an ambulance," I said, wiping the blood from my hands on Preston's cords.

"Hey, way to go, man!" a guy my age said from a nearby table. "I've been wanting to tell that guy off for years, but I've never had the guts! I'm glad somebody finally kicked the shit out of him!"

I gave a smile of appreciation. "Hey, don't mention it. I didn't think--I just acted."

"Duuude!! Can we buy you a drink, dude?" another drunken frat-boy at the guy's table shouted, spilling a bit of his beer in the process.
"Thanks guys," I said, holding up a patient hand. "I'd naturally be happy to any other time, but... I think we'd better be on our way," I said, looking towards Brittany, who was still waiting, cigarettes in hand. I grabbed one from her and put it in my mouth, lighting it with my Zippo. As Brittany and I walked to the door, two enormous bouncers entered from outside and stood in our way.

"What was all that noise in here?" one of them asked. I gave them a cool stare, taking a deep drag off of my cigarette. Then, exhaling the smoke, I said, "Oh, nothing--just some homie causing trouble. I think he scurried out the back."

They evaluated the situation in silence. Well... near silence. Preston was still gargling "Mahh-fwayce!!" from behind the counter.

"Yeah, those homies are always stirring shit up around here," one of the bouncers said to me, winking. "You folks have a nice night!" They then stood aside, allowing Brittany and I to pass.

"You too, fellas--you too." I said.

Squirrel Trouble

Around five years ago, after saving up enough money from my first real job, I went out and purchased a brand new pellet rifle. It was a break-barrel .177 calibre "Diana," and she sure was pretty. The name doesn't sound all that threatening, I know; but trust me when I say that it was a very well-made gun. Or simply look up the company yourself.

My new Diana fired at a speed of 495 feet per second. This may seem like an arbitrary number, but it is important to note that when it comes to weapons, anything that fires at a rate of speed higher than 500 fps requires an Firearms Certificate. I obviously didn't want the hassle of taking a course in order to obtain one, so I told myself I could do without those extra five feet.

When I brought my gun home, I was eager to show it off - but unfortunately, no one was around. I knew, however, that my younger brother would be along shortly, so I waited, rifle in hand, on the back porch. Home is a residential neighborhood, but that didn't stop me from shooting a few pellets into some pop cans to kill some time. The gun fired with excellent accuracy, and a lot of power. I couldn't have been more pleased with my purchase.

Before long my brother arrived and I was quick to show off the rifle. "Wow, nice gun!" he said. "Can I shoot it?"
"Uh, I dunno," I frowned. "I've hardly shot the thing, myself."
"All right," little bro shrugged. "Show me what it can do, then."
"Okay," I said, turning to the cans I had set up on the lawn.

But just as I did this, I sensed something in my peripheral vission. On the grass to the left of my brother and I was a plump, black squirrel, searching about for some nuts, it seemed. The little tresspasser appeared to be unaware of our elevated position, since it was busily digging about, its head buried in the finely-cropped green blades.


"Did I come at a bad time?" Note: Actual squirrel was
much uglier than this little guy - much uglier.

Digging in MY lawn? I thought. Not on my watch! I was thrilled to know that the gun was going to immediately begin paying for itself, and put it to my shoulder, taking aim at the filthy little rodent.
What awful luck this squirrel must have, I thought. Of all the yards on this street--this neighborhood--this town! What are the odds of it crawling its way into the only one where a kid was wielding a fucking rifle!

Psst! I signalled to my brother, who gulped in surprise as he caught sight of the foraging creature. I then grinned, closed my left eye, zeroed in, and pulled the trigger.
The rifle "Thwupped" and the squirrel's body instantly flattened in the grass. Then, just as I was thinking how anticlimactic it was that it merely collapsed, I was startled to observe an arc of crimson blood, not unlike the stream of a drinking fountain, gush from the back of its neck! "Eughh!" my brother squirmed, his face shrivelled in disgust.

I looked back at the squirrel, which was now twitching about on the blood-stained grass, doing a slow summersault or two. "Shit," I muttered, immediately wondering how many neighbors were witnessing this gruesome scene from their windows--and also how many of those people might think it necessary to dial the police! For this reason I was a little hesitant to load another round. I simply wanted to resolve the situation--and fast!

"Hand me that shovel over there, and grab me a plastic bag from the kitchen!" I said.
My brother then passed me a spade and disappeared into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a white A&P grocery bag. He was now an accomplice.

We both hopped off the deck and ran to the squirrel. I scooped it up with the shovel and took it behind our shed where there was cover. "Okay, here's what we're going to do!" I said, handing the shovel to my brother, the squirrel still flipping about in pain at our feet. "We're gonna hit the sucker with the shovel, and then put it in the bag!"

"You mean I'm going to hit it with the shovel!" he protested.
"....right. But we there's no time to argue--so just do it!"

He gave me a contemptuous stare, but I was the older brother, so he winced and followed the order, clanging the flat side of the shovel hard on the squrrel's body.

"Waeeeeennnnn!! Wa-waaaeeeeen!!" the rodent squawked in agony.
"Hit it harder, you idiot!" I yelled, looking about in a panic for any potential witnesses, whom we'd undoubtedly be forced to kill also.
"Forget it! I'm not doing this!" my brother yelled, defiantly holding the shovel in front of me.
"Goddammit!" I said, snatching the spade, and looking at the still-flipping animal. I wasn't looking forward to this, but it had to be done.

Clang! went the shovel, as it hit the squirrel yet again, this time ceasing its noise and movement. I then quickly flipped it into the plastic bag and tied it tightly. I glanced around yet again and felt fairly confident that no one had seen us. My brother and I breathed heavily and went inside for a drink of water, leaving the bag behind the garage.

About an hour later we came outside again, since we had to get rid of the evidence before our parents came home. Amazingly, when we arrived at the bag it was jostling about, the squirrel still squeeking from within! "Waeeennnn!!!" it squeeled.

What the fuck kind of squirrel is this?! I wondered. Why won't it die? It had taken a lead pellet in the neck, causing it to lose a significant quantity of blood, suffered two hard blows from an old metal shovel, and had been placed in a plastic bag where it probably should have suffocated by now! Who sent you, squirrel!? What do you want from us?!

I then gave it several more frantic blows with the shovel, and it stopped moving inside the bag. "Dead at last," I said. "About time," scoffed my little brother.

We then heard our parents pulling the car into the driveway. "Oh shit," I said, grabbing the plastic bag by the knot I had tied in it. I had to hide the evidence before we were discovered! I then opened the door to the shed, placed the bag on the ground, and covered it with a overturned flower pot. Just to be sure no one would disturb it, I placed a fifteen pound bag of soil on top of the pot. Crisis averted.


* * *

About a week later my Dad approached me and asked me to follow him. He led me towards the shed, and only then did I remember the squirrel! Putting it in there was only meant to be a temporary hiding place, of course, and I had meant to toss it in the garbage or something--but I had forgotten! It didn't look good, but I played dumb.
"Why are we going to the shed?" I asked, as innocently as possible.
"You know why," my dad responded, sliding open the door.

"Listen--I don't want you killing squirrels around here!" he said. "If we lived in the country I wouldn't care so much, but you can't be doing that in the city!"

Amazingly, he seemed to be more annoyed than angry. Not what I had anticipated.
"Okay, dad--I won't do it again."
"You'd better not," he said, walking back to the house. "And get rid of that thing--I can smell it from here!"

I then looked down at the spot where I had left the animal a week earlier. The soil and the flower pot had been removed by my dad, but the squirrel was laying on top of the bag, which it had obviously gnawed through! Its stiff body rested with its forearms outstretched, the face twisted in a look of determination! It haunts my dreams to this very day.

Will Kevin Costner Snub Me?

I didn't really add that link to Kevin Costner's site for any particular reason. I think he's a good actor and all, and he's made some fantastic movies, but the reason I added the link was mainly because I didn't have any at the time, and I wanted to test out the feature.


"Wino, I love your blog!"

But then I thought, I'm going to be sending all kinds of traffic in Kevin's direction, and yet he's not doing anything for me in return! And hell, we all know he hasn't been making movies as often as he could be these days.

Anyhow, I e-mailed Mr. Costner and said, "Because I linked your site, would you be so kind as to link mine?" I've got a good feeling that he will once he sees how amazing the content on my page is.

Yes, I expect to see many Costner fans stopping by "Walking Blues" before long.

Update:

The comments regarding this post have been very encouraging. I think it would be just incredible if the good Mr. Costner, or whoever runs his website, ended up linking to mine - it'd sure make my day! Oh, and I'm no behavioral expert or anything, but after observing this fine actor's work over the years, I just get the feeling that he has a Tatanka-sized heart, and is the kind of guy that would bend over backwards to help others.

Remember in Dances with Wolves (1990), when Costner's character, Lieutenant John Dunbar, invited all the nearby Indians over for coffee? He didn't have to do that! He could have easily reported back to his commanding officer and said, "Sir, I advise that we lay waste to the nearby Indian people, who are proving to be quite the nuissance." But he didn't. Instead he chose to reach out to his indigenous neighbors, and build a friendship that transcended their two very different backgrounds.

And that's all I'm asking Lieutenant Joh-- er, Mr. Costner to do now: To build a bridge; to reach out to the little guy and say, "I'm here for you, man."

And I think you, my loyal readers, can help build this bridge. If you'd like to see Kevin Coster's site link mine, simply e-mail him your pleasant request, as I did, at: questions@kevincostner.com

A Stop in Kentucky

I awoke to the sound of gravel crunching underneath the wheels of the Tercel. We had stopped on the shoulder of the road. "Oh fuck," said Jesse, stuffing his rolling papers underneath the seat, and out of sight. "What's goin' on?" I asked him, rubbing my eyes. He was squirming behind the wheel and didn't answer - but I managed to figure things out on my own, when I noticed the pulsing red and blue lights in my side-view mirror. "Oh fuck," I said.

* * *

It was summer, and we had just spent the past four days camping out on a large patch of Tennessee farmland with about two-hundred thousand twenty-first century "hippies."
Jesse's Toyota didn't exactly blend in with the old, rusted Volkswagen vans everyone else seemed to be driving, but we didn't care.
We didn't travel to Bonnaroo all the way from Canada to make friends with a bunch of stereotypes - we were there for the music, which included the likes of Bob Dylan, The Dead, The Dave Matthews band, and any number of lesser-known blues, country, and folk artists. That's why we were there.

And then of course there were the drugs.

The campground at Bonnaroo was absolutely teeming with chemicals. It reminded me of a hive, and the drones were steadily swarming in from the nearby freeway, each carrying his or her own personal nectar.
Jesse and I had stocked the coolers in the back seat with a good quanity of beer, but it quickly became apparent that if we wanted anything else -- anything at all -- we could get it. Within literally five minutes of parking the car in the not-yet-flattened grass, I was offered pot, mushrooms, acid, cocaine, ecstasy, morphine pills, heroin, and peyote.
My friend and I were young, and nearly a world away from home -- we felt as though we were on the first page of one of those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books.

* * *

"Just stay calm," I told Jesse between deep breaths, looking at the highway patrol officer in his cruiser behind us. "If we stay calm, we'll be fine."

It was a little after one in the morning and we had just crossed into the state of Kentucky. The festival was about an hour and a half behind us and we were on our way home. We were unshaven, dirty, smelly, and absolutely exhausted after having spent the past few days indulging in numerous substances, while wandering about listening to loud music under the sun's intense rays. Had we been stopped on the way down, we likely wouldn't have been as worried as we were at that moment. But because our brains were pretty fried, and we weren't entirely sure if we had anything illegal in the vehicle or not, our hearts were pounding hard.



Jesse rolled the driver's side window down as the trooper approached the vehicle, his boots clicking on the asphalt. We each tried to catch a glimpse of him in the side-view mirror as he came closer, but we were forced squint because the trooper shone the beam of his flashlight into our eyes using the reflection.

"How y'all doin' tonight?" the the officer asked, not expecting an answer. "Lah-cence and registration please," he continued, still shining his light in Jesse's face. After checking out his identification, he handed it back to him and politely asked Jesse if he would follow him to the back of the v-hickle.
"I just thought I'd show you why I pulled y'all over," the trooper said as he led him back. I rolled my window down an inch so I could listen in.

The cop then proceeded to explain that in all his years of law-enforcement he had never seen a licence plate that looked quite like the Tercel's, which had been almost entirely eaten away by rust.
"I mean, I couldn't even tell where y'all were from!" I heard the officer laugh.

Jesse forced a chuckle and nervously explained that during the winters in Ontario there was often a lot of salt on the roads, which accounted for the erosion. "I've been meaning to get it replaced, though," he added, undoubtedly hoping that this would be the final word of the evening.

But the trooper obviously didn't have to show Jesse his own licence plate; I understood immediately that he had separated the two of us in the hopes we would contradict one another's stories. This was the old divide and question technique. And, just as I predicted, the trooper then immediately got down to the serious business.

"Now, where are y'all comin' from?" he asked.
"We were just at the Bonnaroo festival," I heard Jesse say. "On our way home to Canada, now."
"That's a mighty long drive," the trooper said. "Did y'all enjoy yourselves down here?"
"Yeah--yeah, we had a good time."

Quit beating around the bush, I thought, tapping my foot impatiently.

"Now, I've got to ask you this," the officer said sternly. "Do you have any illegal substances in the v-hickle this evening?" I held my breath as Jesse paused a moment.
"No, we don't," he eventually stated. "Well, I can't say for certain whether or not James up there has anything on him, but I know that I don't have anything."
"You're sure, now?" rejoined the officer. "'Cause I've got a drug dog in the cruiser back there, and he can sniff out narcotics a heckuvalot better than I can -- even the tiniest ammount. So if you've got anything to tell me, now's the time."

Jesse paused again at this. "Well," he began, "there is a pair of manicure scissors in the glove compartment that we used to cut up some weed a few days ago. I guess those could have traces of marijuana on them."
The trooper said that he wasn't concerned with things like that. What he wanted to know is whether we had any substantial ammount of drugs.
"In that case, no," said my nervous friend.
"Okay, you wait here while I go talk to your buddy," the trooper said as he made his way to my passenger side window.

I then proceeded to repeat what I had heard Jesse say, word for word, about the scissors. I added that we did have a small bit of pot before we left the concert grounds, but we decided it was best not to drive on the roads with it, and gave it a couple of hippies -- much to their delight.

The trooper then gave me the same "now's the time to tell me" routine, which made me pause and think. I quickly realized, though, that any hesitation at this point would almost certainly look suspicious, and since I didn't want to risk having that drug dog poking around, like Jesse, I said that there were no drugs in the car.

The trooper, hunched over, stared hard into my eyes, attempting to read my thoughts. He then stood up straight, glanced back at Jesse and said, "Well, I believe you boys, and I'm gonna let you be on your way. You've got a long drive ahead of you, so you may want to get some coffee at the rest area around the corner."
We both muttered our thanks and told the officer we would take his advice as he walked back to his cruiser. "Y'all drive safe, " he said as he shut his door.

The two of us sat silently in the car until the trooper had driven off. "Holy shit, was I worried!" Jesse eventually said. "Oh, me too," I agreed. "Hey, let's head to that rest area he was talking about - I could go for a coffee."

Jesse then put the car into gear and accelerated down the road. A moment or two later he turned and looked at me, his mouth half open. "Holy shit," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"HOLY SHIT!"

"What! What is it?"

"Man, I totally forgot about that loaf of pot bread I bought!"
"Oh my god."

With our eyes widened, we both turned and looked in the back seat.

Sure enough, there it was, in plain view - the greasy, marijuana-packed loaf Jesse had shelled out a fair bit of cash for two days earlier. Its potency had been verified, since he had eaten a small piece of it on the day he bought it and been stoned for hours.

The amazing thing was, had we not genuinely forgot that there was a goddamn brick of drugs in the back seat, we wouldn't have known what to do! When asked the "are you sure?" question, we'd have likely stammered like an idiots, while sweating profusely. At that point the dog would have been summoned, half-crazed, the scent of drugs in its nose. He'd have located the bread instantly and Jesse and I would have been hauled off to a Kentucky prison, and given the opportunity to call our parents. "Hey, we were arrested in Kentucky - can you drive the 19 hours it takes to get down here and bail us out?"

As we pulled into the rest stop to get our coffee, we immediately tossed the pot bread into the garbage. We then sped off into the darkness, talking at length at how incredibly lucky we had been.

Procrastination and its Ramifications

Fox's post-Super Bowl programming kept me in front of the television until around eleven-thirty last night. Simmering on the academic backburner were two essays, due the following morning. What am I saying? They weren't simmering at all - they were dead cold, since I hadn't even started them, nor had I read the two lengthy plays which each had to separately discuss.

11:35pm - I decide to get right to work on my reading.

1:30am - I finally open the book. "I think I'll read on my bed," I thought, making a mound of pillows on which to comfortably rest my head. I begin reading.

2:45am - I awake from my sleep. My book is open to the second page of play number one. I curse my foolishness, but I'm thankful I had left the bright lights of my room on, because they made it more difficult to rest comfortably. I decide that if I'm going to be reading on my bed, I had better set my alarm clock to go off every hour or so, just in case.

4:49am - I finally make my way to the end of the first play, but time is running thin, and I realize that the second reading will be nowhere near as thorough. I begin skimming over the text, nodding off now and then, but jotting down the important tid-bits as I see them, act by act. "Lord Byron, you windbag, you."

9:00am - After a little reading and a lot of sleeping I have a general idea about what I'm going to write. I drink some very strong coffee and then allow myself an hour to work on each paper, since they were both due at 11:30am and I wanted to leave the house by 11.

11:30am - I'm done, but I'm late. I jog to the bus stop and wait there with an elderly woman and later, a guy about my age. He's fat, dirty, and looks like an asshole.


"I'm an asshole."

11:36am - The bus hums to a stop and Mr. Asshole decides he wants to hop aboard before the little old lady - who had been waiting there longer than either of us! The ground was icy and as he shouldered past her, he nearly caused her to lose her footing. I was already pissed that I was late at this point, so why not blow off some steam, I thought. After writing that post on pedestrian etiquette, I've been even more conscious of this sort of rude behavior.

I grabbed the fat fuck by the back of his jacket and tossed him back across the sidewalk and into the snowbank. Since he was so large and already up the stair of the bus, this was an easy maneuvre, because gravity did most of the work. The bus driver wasn't alarmed in the slightest, either. In fact, he looked pleased I had done something.


A picture of the fat asshole in the snowbank. ..
Okay, it's not him, but I had to add this.

"After you, ma'am," I said, gesturing for the woman to go ahead of me. At first she hesitated, a little alarmed at what had just happened, but then she gave me a smile and thanked me as we got on. I sat with her at the front, and gave fatass the most hateful look I could as he walked to the back of the bus in silence; visibly embarrassed, his clothing soaked with slush.

Blog Surfing

Click. Click. Click-- "What the fuck?"

Don't you hate it when you're clicking from blog to blog when you're suddenly assaulted by a barrage of pop-up windows! "You're about to enter my site! - I can't wait until you see my site! -here comes my site!" and so on. Oh, and then something will come on my screen telling me that I've got to upgrade my browser or something! Why? So I can view all the shit you wrote about Jay-Z and Hillary Duff?

Yeah, it's usually young teens that do this, and it is very annoying. Maybe if they offered some real content I wouldn't be as pissed off every time

Another thing that annoys me is foreign language blogs. Is there a way to prevent these from popping up on my screen?

I'm sure most people have clicked on to Japanese blog that's brilliantly designed, right? Well don't you hate it when they alter the site around so that the "next blog" button is nowhere to be found? You're trapped!

The Tree House

It was summer, 1993. I was eleven years old, with few responsibilities--and that was just the way I liked it.

Our quiet resedential street was lined with hundred-year-old maples, and the dimming sunlight would flicker through them in the evenings as the neighbourhood children ran barefoot along the sidewalk. The wind carried with it the smell of barbeque and the sound of buzzing cicadas.



Directly nextdoor to us stood a Victorian-era brick house, with an unusually large side lot. It was so large, in fact, that the owner ended up subletting it in order to erect another home, which he planned to rent out. During this summer I unhappily watched from our porch, often with popcicle in hand, as that yard, where my friends and I would often have cap gun shootouts, was scooped out with backhoes so that the foundation could be poured.

Our industrious neighbor, who lived in the large Victorian house, had a daughter, Samantha, whom I had befriended. She was a year older than myself, but probably just as boyish. We both had mop-top hair styles, enjoyed riding our bikes, catching newts and worms in the nearby ravine, and loading up on as much candy a dollar or two could by us at the nearby convenience store.

Sam had two dogs, and they followed her everywhere, even though she almost never forced them to wear leashes. One of the dogs was a large, smiling golden retriever called Taffy; the other, her favored of the two, a tiny black poodle-terrier mix she had named Jack. Taffy was a very well-mannered dog, but whenever she was around Jack she did not receive much attention. Like an infant sibling, Jack stole the spotlight. His behaviour was nearly human. He would give polite little barks as if to say hello, and then look up at you with his understanding little eyes--although they were partially obscured by what looked like big bushy eyebrows. Sam could almost always be found outside, running up and down the street for whatever reason, with Taffy trotting beside her and Jack behind them, sprinting to keep up.

I had another friend named Tim in these days, who would often come over to my house to play Nintendo, because his parents refused to buy him one of his own. One afternoon, after our thumbs had become raw from playing Super Mario Brothers 3 for several hours, we ventured oustide in search of more wholesome entertainment.
Samantha, as usual, was nearby with with her dogs, and she quickly approached as if she had been waiting for us. "Hey, what are you guys up to?" she asked.
I told her that we were bored with video games and in need of something to do. She paused a moment and then her eyes lit up. "Do you want to go work on the tree house? We've got a ton of lumber scraps on our lot!"

This suggestion interested Tim and I, and we nodded our approval. We knew of the "tree house" Samantha referred to--it was nothing more than a few decomposing boards that someone had hammered into one of biggest maple trees in the neighborhood. This tree grew in solitude in the far corner of an empty lot at the end of our street. None of us knew whether the fort had been constructed years earlier and left to rot, or if had been constructed recently with material that was already rotting; but this didn't really concern us. Our plan was to tear the old fort down in order to build a new one in its place.

So, after hauling out my old wagon from the garage, we all proceeded to the build site nextdoor and began collecting various pieces of wood that littered the yard. Then, after we felt we had grabbed enough, we carted it all down the street along with a few hammers and nails, Taffy and Jack following patiently behind us.

The original fort was perched about fifteen or sixteen feet above the ground. Sam, Tim and I all ascended the steps, hammers in hand, eager to begin the demolition. Meanwhile, the dogs waited in the shade below, playfully chasing one another from time to time.

Up in the tree we began our work by attempting to pry the rusted old nails from the wood; but we soon discovered that because there were literally hundreds of them, this would be a slow and futile effort. Thankfully, because most of the lumber was so old, we realized that we were able to hack at it with our hammers and dislodge the boards quite easily. So the three of us began chopping and prying at the fort, in an effort to make way for the new one.

We were making a good deal of progress when Tim and I decided decided to rest for a moment. Samantha, however, was feaverishly attempting to dislodge a very thick board, which was dangling from a cluster of brown, crooked nails. Tim and I sat silently as Sam, totally focussed on the task at hand, began kicking at the old plank with her running shoe.

The board suddenly broke loose from the tree and fell, and each us hunched over the hole it left in the floor in order to see it land. It was during this instant, which still remains burned in my memory, when the three of us remembered that Taffy and Jack had been chasing about on the ground below us. What made us forget about the dogs, I don't know. Perhaps it was the excitement of working on the fort--or maybe because they were always so quiet. Whatever the reason, all I know is that at that moment there was nothing we could do but watch.

During the instant the plank fell, little Jack was rounding the trunk of the tree counter-clockwise, playfully chasing Taffy. The board hit the little black dog hard with its corner in the middle of his slight frame, right behind the ribs, abruptly slamming him to the gravel. Jack yelped repeatedly in agony as he squirmed to free himelf, and then ran frantically in circles. No harm had ever come to him before, and this sudden onslaught of pain terrified him. He bucked and kicked as if he was fending off invisible enemies, but what he likely thought were repeated attacks were in fact the waves of agony shooting through him.

We watched helplessly from above as Jack suddenly collapsed within the whirlwind of dust and debris he had kicked up. Samantha, horrified at what she had just done, scrambled as fast as she could down the tree with tears in her eyes, saying Jack's name over and over again. Tim and I remained frozen, and exchanged a wide-eyed look at one another. "He's dead, he's dead!" Samantha hysterically shrieked as she ran up to Jack, who lied very still in the dirt.
At this point, Tim and I made our way down to the ground and subtly approached Sam and her little dog.

Jack wasn't dead, but it was clear he was dying. His tongue, which hung like a rope from his mouth, began turning blue, and his eyes, his previously warm and caring eyes, were glassy and vacant. Between sobs, Sam shouted garbelled orders about veterinarians and "going for help" to no one in particular. And it was just as well, because she must have known that Jack didn't have much time.

The little dog's stomach was distended and his breathing was rapid and automatic. Taffy, who no longer had a reason to run, sat calmly nearby and watched the scene, looking like she always did: contented and simple. Tim stared in silence, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

And then Jack stopped breathing.

We all sighed, not knowing what to say--so we didn't say anything. Samantha regained her composure and picked Jack up off the ground to carry him. Tim and I gathered the tools, put them in the wagon and began walking home behind Sam; Taffy as always, moving silently with the procession.

As we made our way down the sidewalk, a young lady in her mid-thirties, who was just leaving the front door of her house turned to Samantha and exclaimed, "Awww, what a cute little puppy!" and reached to pet Jack, who lay as if he were sleeping over Sam's shoulder. In a flat and uncaring tone, Samantha responded, "He's dead." The woman, startled, quickly recoiled and put her then shaking hand to her mouth as we marched on.

We buried Jack amongst the hedges in Samantha's side yard that day, and never went back to complete work on the tree house.

Women with Authority - Gasp!

The professor's got it all figured out.

Did that title make the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? If you are a male, the answer to this question is likely yes. If you are a female, the answer is probably a no--you're likely salivating right now.

I, (like many males, I'm sure) could write volumes on this topic. But in order to keep the ladies from turning away in disgust, I'll make this short, simple, and relatively easy to digest.

If you're a woman in a position of authority, don't try and give us men a high-heeled kick to the face on behalf of your sex. Acting in a vindictive manner will only cause you to crash through a few levels of glass ceilings, regardless of the title you have on your name tag. All of your male colleagues will whisper behind your back even if you hold one of them over the fire.

The reason for this is because the male ego cannot withstand such treatment from women. History has taught us that change comes slowly. Hell, women only got the right to vote eighty-odd years ago, and since some men (not including myself) are still steaming about that one, it's pretty naive to think that ordering them around will go over that well.

Why, I can recall working at a job a few years ago where just such an incident happened to me. A younger female co-worker with less seniority than I, thought her newly appointed "Supervisor" status gave her license to boss me around. I quickly made it clear that her behavior was unacceptable, but she would have nothing of it. Mad with power, she told me to go home and that she was going to call the big boss man about me. "Fine," I said, grabbing my coat to leave. "You do that." And by golly, she did! She called up the very man who had just given her her authority and explicitly detailed how she had abused it. A tactical error on her part.

The next day I came into work and the boss motioned me to come talk with him. "So," he said, giving me a slight smirk, "I hear we had a 'problem' between you and 'Karen' last night?"

I understood immediately that we were on the same wave length.

"Yeah," I responded. "Yeah, we had a little problem."

"Well, I'm sure we won't have any more problems like this, will we?" he said.

"I have a feeling we won't."

After this, "Karen's" behaviour was noticeably subdued. She maintained her Supervisor status, but if she wanted me to do something from then on in, she asked--and smiled politely when she did. And do you know what? I was almost always happy to oblige her.

See, that's the lesson here: men know that in today's society women can ascend to almost any station--and we're fine by that (*nervous cough*). What we don't like is when this authority is abused in order to harm us. The trick, which I alluded to above, is to deliver your bitter medicine with a spoonful of sugar. Remember, authority is relatively new to women, so in order to reach higher heights, you've got to act nicely. The day will come when no one will remember a time when women did not have authority, and on that day women everywhere will be perfectly within their rights to kick the shit out of any man who looks at her cockeyed. But because that won't happen for another, oh, hundred and fifty years or so, please be patient, mmkay?

Pedestrian Etiquette: How to behave

Why is it that when someone makes a careless maneuver in their vehicle, it is commonplace for other drivers to angrily honk their horns and make obscene gestures? Well, naturally, it is because when a person defies or neglects to obey the rules of the road, he or she is automatically--and quite audibly--singled out and made to realize how fucking stupid they are.
When it comes to walking, though, we do not have a set of rules in place. Yes, there are pedestrian crossings at intersections and that sort of thing, but I am referring to instances when all that keeps us from crashing into one another is common sense. Unfortunately, though, few people possess this trait. Collisions are rare on sidewalks, staircases and in hallways, but because of other peoples' ignorance, we all suffer. Whenever I am scheduled for an appointment with the dentist, for instance, he will remark, "Your teeth look great; but it looks as though you've been grinding them in your sleep." No, Doc; I grind them whenever I encounter fuckwits who get in my way--so I guess I grind them a lot!

Usually it's hard to piss me off when there is a lot of space. The reason for this is because if I am walking in say, a parking lot, and there is someone coming towards me, I can alter my direction very slightly and manage to stay the hell out of the other person's path by making a new one for myself. Oh yes, I am perfectly willing to take the initiative by being the one to move out of the way; this is all I ask for: the freedom to go where I want, when I want. But because most of our day to day walking does not occur in parking lots, but in confined spaces, when people do not behave conscientiously, it drives me nuts.

So let's discuss a hypothetical situation, shall we? Two people are walking down a hallway towards one another and there is enough room for both to pass by comfortably. Okay, now I don't know if in England, where they drive on the left side of the road, people will walk in a similar manner; but because this is North America and we drive on the right (ie. correct) side of the road, we should naturally do the same thing when it comes to walking.
I absolutely hate the defiant fucks who will walk on the left and look at the ground in front of them as they approach, as if to say, "I don't you see you coming, so what I'm doing is okay." Wrong, asshole. Wrong! It is not okay, and I will make this person know it, either by stopping abruptly and forcing them to go to the other side, or by shouldering them. No, not enough to send them flying, but just enough to say, "I hate you."

People are naturally more confident when they walk in groups because they feel there is strength in numbers and that they do not have to pay attention to anyone else. When walking by yourself, how many times have groups walking two or three abreast forced you to the side? Lots of times, I'm sure. So this brings us to the etiquette one should follow when strolling along in numbers.
It's quite simple, really. If space--whether it be on a sidewalk or in a hallway--is limited, don't force others to jump in a snowbank or flatten against a wall to avoid you; momentarily walk in single file, for fuck's sake!

With regards to speed, I'll say this: slower traffic keep right. If you're determined to walk slowly, that's fine; but don't do it in the goddamn centre of the hallway so others can't pass you. I don't want to scuff your heels with my boots, but I will if I have to. This relates perfectly to escalators, too. If you want to stand there like a goon, travelling at a speed comparable to even the slowest of walkers, it's fine by me. But consider this: because cumbersome things like shopping carts and baby strollers are not allowed on these machines, it's only logical to deduce that they were designed to get people to their destinations more quickly--not leisurely. So again, stand on the right side of the stair to allow others the opportunity to get either to the top or bottom about ten times faster than you.

And now a few words on how we should all deal with doorways. Because I am a gentleman, I am more than happy to hold the door for a lady. Women are, after all, delicate creatures who appreciate such gestures. Why is it, then, that the weaker sex will often fail to reciprocate with kind acts of their own? Women will happily enter first as I hold the door, but will just as quickly let one shut in my face. Infuriating. When it comes to men, never yield the right of way as you might with a female, but make sure to either hand off or give added push to the door if they are following behind you so they can catch it.

When it comes to public transit, it's is truly amazing how selfish others can be. For example, every day I ride an inner-city train, and every day the same thing happens: as we come to a stop and the doors open, there is always a fucking wall of people blocking my way on the outside, craning their necks in an effort to seize the first opportunity to squeeze through the crowd and hop aboard! You morons! Why do you do this!? There is more than enough space outside the train for people to create a path for what should happen. (I sincerely hope that you know the answer is to allow the people on the train to get off before you attempt to get on.) It is so simple, yet people never let it happen. When you are waiting to board either a train, bus, taxi, or anything, understand that if people are getting off, they have the right of way.

I could write a fucking book on this issue, but I think these few guidelines give a good understanding of how to behave. I encourage everyone to try and think of the other pedestrians out there. Be as courteous as possible and proceed in a calm and orderly fashion.

Attack of the Vagrant

Monday, December 3rd, 2001.

My alarm clock radio went off promptly at 8:00am sending two annoying noises into the air: one was the annoying sharp string of beeps that are standard on most alarm clocks; the other, the godawful music of Creed. My response to the words, "Can you take me highhhhhhhher?" was a firm slap to the snooze button.

I took a moment or two to contemplate sleeping for the rest of the day, but then decided I would rather absorb some local culture, head out for a walk and chat up some merchants. I threw my legs over the side of the mattress and placed my feet on the floor.

"Fucking shit!" Bare thighs coming into contact with the cold metal frame of the cheap university bed was never a pleasurable morning experience. My roommate groaned and rolled himself over. I lit a cigarette knowing he hates me smoking in the room. I didn't have to worry about setting off the smoke alarm since I had detached it months ago. I threw on my faded Levi's and put on my long black leather jacket. Out the door I went. As it closed behind me, the alarm clock's brief "snooze" came to an end. I heard my roommate curse, get out of bed, and then stomp across the rooom to shut off the clock. I struggled to light another cigarette due to my mischevious laughter.

I was soon walking down a stretch of sidewalk, fast approaching the downtown area. As the shops became more frequent, so did the pedestrians on the street. Elementary school children darted around the other walkers trying to get to the playground before the bell, no doubt. I took a deep drag and finished off my fifth cigarette of the morning, then hastily flicked it off the sidewalk and into the mouth of an alley way.

My curiosity made me glance over to see where my smoke had landed and I was startled by what I saw. A white-bearded homeless man in his mid to late fifties dressed practically in rags was trying desperately to suck the remaining smoke out of the discarded cigarette. My face shriveled into a grimace of disgust at the sight. The bearded man then looked up at me and said, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have another one of them to spare, would ya?"

"Fuck no!" I responded. "I can’t spare any. Besides, these things will kill you," I sarcastically shot back.
"Ah come on--I'm well over the legal age!" The bum replied.
"Fine, "I said, withdrawing a cigarette from its package. "I'll sleep better tonight knowing that I played some part in getting the homeless off the streets--inhale deep."
I then tossed tossed the cigarette with an underhand motion just out of his reach. A small gust of wind pushed along by a nearby closing door helped the cigarette into a stagnant puddle by my feet. It quickly absorbed the festering water and the whiteness of the paper disappeared leaving a wet, rotten-looking brown colour.


I was fortunate enough to be carrying my camera that
horrific moring.

"Ah, fuck you!" the homeless man roared, his few remaining yellow teeth barred in anger. "You owe me a smoke ya son of a bitch!"
"The hell I do, you piece of shit!! Go get a job and quit wasting my time!"

I then turned on my heel started on my way again. Suddenly, without warning, I experienced a sharp stinging pain deep within my shoulder just under the collar bone.

"Yarrrrrrrgggghhh!" I screamed.

Looking down at my shoulder, I saw the filthy hand of the bearded vagrant clutching a deeply imbedded hypodermic needle! Despite the intense pain shooting through my body, my mind was racing! I was much more concerned with long term effects of this encounter than I was a bit of exterior damage...or so I thought.

"You goddamn cheap son of a bitch!" the bum wailed as he applied all of his weight onto the needle. A loud groan was all I could muster. I could feel the syringe tearing my flesh. Suddenly I heard a 'snap' and I was momentarily freed from the psychopath. The needle obviously could not handle the thrashing about. My leather coat also must have aided in breaking it in two.

By this time bystanders watched in horror as the crazy bearded man made another lunge for me. This time I was ready. I ducked quickly to one side avoiding his lumbering attack.

"Arghrrmrph!" he muttered as he struggled to regain his footing. "You are so fuckin' dead" I screamed.

"Bring the noise!" he fired back.

With that, we charged one another. My fist made a swift and forceful blow to the man's mouth and I grinned as I heard a crunch as felt his jaw shift.

"Mmmarrrggghhh!" he squealed, as blood trickled its way down his fuzzy, cotton candy-like facial hair. He stumbled to his knees but then fell to the pavement on his side, taking long rattling breaths.

"You bumbling oaf!" I said. "It was a bad move trying to pick a fight with a fit, young student. I not only get to enjoy kicking the shit out of your aging body, I can also enjoy peace of mind because no court in the country gives two shits if I exterminate your sorry ass!"

"Yah?" The bum wheezed. "Well you won't be too happy with what I injected into ya!" He then laughed maniaclly.

"For your sake, I hope that's only a bum joke," I calmly responded.

I then lept into the air and brought my knees to my chest.. The heals of my heavy boots were poised and ready for impact. A cluster of pigeons took off, startled by my aggressive movement. As I descended, I eyed the unshaven throat of the homeless man--it was my target. I made a mental note to thank my grandmother once again for buying me the Bruce Lee Collector videos, closed my eyes and clenched my teeth tightly.

An audible 'thud' mixed with a 'pop' echoed in the nearby alley as my entire body weight crushed the man's spinal cord. It was a mere stubborn layer or two of old dirty skin that made the difference between a broken neck and a decapitation. The bum's body trembled momentarily but then stopped as the last sour breath exited the lifeless heap.

There was a shocked silence from all on the sidewalk who had stopped to watch. My mind became conscious of all that was going on for the first time in what seemed like ages. I noticed that cars had stopped on the street to view the scene, while mothers tried in vain to cover the eyes of their curious young children.

Utter silence.

My mind raced. "Will this mob now take my life! What have I done?!"

Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of...clapping! I looked up, puzzled. I observed that this was no solitary clapper, for others were readily joining in. Smile after smile appeared on the faces of the bystanders; cheers and whistles were made; and car horns honked with excitement.

"Good work," said a middle-aged man in a suit as he patted my back with approval. "Don't worry, we saw it all -- that asshole got what he had coming."

"Damn right, he did!" another man added.

My mind took a rest. "Self defense -- self defense all the way," another voice said.

I turned around and saw the figure of a police officer. I froze and nervously muttered something.

"Don't worry, son. You did good. You did real good," he said, grinning.

After that there was only the matter of my wound. I spent the rest of the day enduring test after test at the local clinic. Thankfully, there was no sign of any diseases or foreign substances in my system.

Just to play it safe, they gave me a tetanus shot. The nurse gave me a bandage for the cut on my shoulder and sent me on my way with a lolly-pop.