I remember an old nursery rhyme from
the sea. It goes, “In 14-hundred-XX,
Columbus sailed across the ocean in a
Mac truck and met with Captain Kidd.
The pirate waved his hand flippantly and said,
‘Good luck.’” – That’s based on a song I had on last
night at 10:10 PM, while cruising down 9th
Avenue in my 5.0 Mustang, with
the ragtop down so my hair could blow. Wait … what
hair? I’ve been called baldie since age 11.
Let me tell you this, God. That’s not fair. Think of
Brad Pitt. Now think of Brad Pitt with a horseshoe
bald ring. That guy’s not leading anything and
blah blah blah. It sucks to be bald, though. Really.
Imagine sitting in a restaurant with
two people who don’t really want to be
there with you. Now imagine you have bald spots
on each side of your head and three more clusters
of patchiness on top. You can hear the few
whispers and feel the many stares of people
who look at you and say, “Dear God, look at that…”
Fill in the blank. That’s life, Take it or leave it.
I can barely tolerate it myself. I
mean, what’s the point of toiling for nothing?
I write all of these poems and they’re all free
to read on my ridiculous website, or
“Blog,” if you will. Me? I can’t stand that silly
phrase. It conjures images of artsy folk
quoting Valens and Rimbaud and Edgar Poe
and goth kids, like the ones on South Park, with their
droll fascination con la vida macabre.
DeKalb is a town in the Midwest. I think
it’s in Illinois, but it could be… I owe
an apology to an old friend of mine.
The one who looks like Jimmy Page? His feet are
always clad in tennis shoes … and he plays the
guitar … kind of. Sometimes he yanks out his plug
while shredding on C.C. Deville’s guitar lead
and it’s the funniest damned thing you’ve ever
seen in your life. How does he handle it? Like
a man. He walks back, plugs in and keeps playing.
Why do we fall, Bruce Wayne? So we learn to get
back up. Speaking of which, let’s go back to last
night and my automobile drama. I was
on my way to Wendy’s with a burning de-
-sire for a cheesy-baconator fry,
a bacon cheeseburger, large frosty and an
apple pie and almost ended up with this
idiot biker guy plastered across the
grill of my car … and that would have been tragic,
because I brake for animals and birds and
shit, but I couldn’t see this asshole until
I was right up on him. He was pedaling
away like a maniac in the right lane,
the car to my left was riding close to me,
I saw him at the last moment and then … SCREECH.
Holy shit. I almost killed that guy. Why is
he not riding his bike on the sidewalk? It’s
much safer up there. “Well,” Megh said from the seat
beside me, “It’s illegal to ride a bike
on the sidewalk. They have to ride in the road.”
What?! That’s idiotic! It’s 20-15!
No one walks anywhere anymore, so why
not let the cyclists ride in total safety?
If there happens to be a person on the
path, they can step aside for one moment. It
won’t kill them to be courteous, but a car
going 38 will smash the life out of
anyone who gets in its way. I don’t know.
It’s just a thought. Do with it what you will. I’m…