Oh where are you now, Pussy Willow that smiled on this Leaf?

"The time has come," spaketh mine own inner conscience, "To talk of many things." For too long this blog has been filled with generalities, pregnant with the inconsequential. But you, dear reader, you demand more. You Demand Better. And frankly, you DESERVE better. Who am I to withhold the truth, the veracity of my own soul, when you put forth the effort to arrive at this site, every day, seeking, nay, expecting, satisfaction? My new Goal? To Thee Quench. So Quaff away, ye of inner thirst, and fill the empty bowels of thine own depravity with mine. For, as you may have heard , my cup runneth over.

I will disclose a bit of mine own truth. I recently reached the modern age of music, 'ere around the time of the celebration of the mass of Christ, with the attainment of the Pod of I. Specifically, the video pod of I. The black one. And it's fuckin' dope. Word to thine own respective mothers; let them know I'll be by soon to pick up my bestained vetements; and drop off a bounty of me own excess kibbles, maybe some bits. And bits. And bits.

Due to the acquisition of the aforementioned object, my blogupdating (yea, t'is one word) has fallen by the side of way, some would say wayside, and some would be correct, some would not be, but judgement, befalling us all, would simply be. Sitting in front of a computer at work all day, and then at home burning my entire collection of music, has not only diminished my eyesight, but hindered me own desire to type or stare at a monitor. BUT TIME HAS COME TODAY, old hearts will go their way; the burning is done. 2500+ songs later, three books of CDs, many, many days passed to reach the realms of my current disposition. So there is time, yea, to return to the origin, nay, the genesis of this whole blogsterectomy. Telling Tales.

The very first post on this very Weblog involved a party, wherein my lovely roommate won a Camel (the cigarette) party pack valued at $1000 +, where they sent smoking jackets (one which I wear to this very day), a new stereo, cigarette holders, fedora hats, feather boas, etc. It brought to mind the day in college when as Freshmen we held a "40's Party," and our friend Katie said she was so excited to "wear a flapper dress." "Katie," we told her, "We mean 40 ounces. Like St. Ides."

And let me tell you about St Ides, my friends and never neighbors. That shit is the single strongest 40 ounce available, at least if you are subject to the idiom in which my disposition exists manifest. Not only have I unsuccessfully hit on innocent young women every time I consumed its plentiful poison, but I also did other things. Which I can't remember. Just the rejection.

But getting back to my first posting. 23 posts later, I am willing to share one story which occurred during that time; the story of Plumber Paul.

The tale of our consonantly ascribed friend begins one day, when an inordinate amount of shit clogged one of the toilets in our house. Having been built in the 1940's, the plumbing in said domicile isn't exactly up to the "snuff" in which the new millenium s'est situee. But it's ok. So the cup of shite done run over, and we had to call some outsourced plumbing goodness. And like a criminal to Florida, so done cometh the Plumber man.

At first glance, he seemed like a great guy. Sober (REMEMBER THIS DESCRIPTION), knowledgeable about plumbing, calloused; in short, that which you look for in a laborer. Turns out, he lived in our 'hood. "Here's my number," he thusly spoke. "I'll come by when I'm not on call with the company, and hook it up for you, under the table, cheap, etc." And though "etc." he did not verily speak, I summarize to open thine own eyes to see the point of the ice pick. Some suckers say we're free I gotta disagree. But tequila grabst (like Jeff doth Probst) mine own capacity of mental focus and attempt to turn me toward Ice T, O.G., which really doth contain one of my favorite tunes (and currently playing on the 'pod as I type) of all time, "Pulse of the Rhyme." But enough about my street cred - You know I got it. Bow down and frown 'cause I'm down with the brown. Yes, heroin.

So we're like "Plumber Paul, you down with our crew now. Come by on Saturday, we're having a bash, fix our plumbing, then hang out, get absolutely shitty, and do some of the worst shit.." OH Wait! I almost spoiled the surprise. But basically, you get the idea - come on by, Sir Paul, fix it up, we'll hook it up.

So he comes by. We pour him a nice Vodka drink. He goes under the house. And in California, ain't nobody got no basements - earthquake shake of death and all. So he gives our home's undercarriage a little how's your father, and bada bing, bada bang, plumbing's working. "Paul, you the man," etc. Have a drink. And another. And another.

So I roll home after a tough day doing something. See laughing Plumber Paul. Having a good ole time. I'm like, "Sweet. I'm a motherfucking (co) home owner. Under the table labor solves problems. Life is good. I'm gonna make it, this fucking life of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, Pour a beer, put on a smoking jacket, let's rock."

And then I notice Plumber Paul. Talking to our favorite housemate's mother. With said mother's husband right next to her. Talking loudly. Talking shit. And then he starts telling her that she looks good. Telling me that "Your roommate's mother is hot." Spilling drinks. Falling over himself. And it's still daylight outside. But hey, it's a party, let's rock.

So nightfall comes. Plumber Paul is out of his mind. Fellow co-homeowner/housemate is behind the bar, serving up cocktails. I am on the back porch, enjoying a smoke, talking to some friends, being atypically social, etc. Fellow co-homeowner/housemate has a sister. At the time, unmarried, yet engaged. Fiance is at the party as well. I am on the porch with Plumber Paul. Having a (I think at the time) harmless discussion.

Plumber Paul: "I'm so fucking wasted. See that girl? I wanna fuck that girl."
Me: "Nice. Yeah, she's good looking. (kind of blase, kind of egging him on)"
P.P. : "Shit, I'm so fucking wasted. (he stumbles, I help him up)"
Me: "Why don't you tell her she's cute?"
P.P.: "(garbled something or other) Nah.. (actually showing restraint.)"
Me: "Hey, (girl's name withheld to protect the innocent) Have you met Plumber Paul?"
Girl: (smiling, walking away nervously)
Girl's Fiance: "Hey Paul, I'm (name withheld)"
P.P.: (drunkenly falls over. gets up.) "Name withheld, I want to fuck your wife." And then, most importantly, HIDEOUS LAUGHTER. From P.P. Cackling. Yet wholly serious.
Me: (laughing like I've never laughed before)

Ok, so really, that's the whole story. Shakespeare be it not, but Shakespeare be not I. I grabst the poor young fiancee's brother, and he walked P.P. to his Plumbing truck, and threw him in the passenger seat. And, in a twist of fate not cruel but cool, Me housemate, the Golden Shower himself, got to drive the plumbing truck. He dropped of P.P. in front of a house after P.P. indicated "here, this is my house," but when he got out, he walked in another direction, and lord knows where he ended up. My roommate walked back to the party and resumed the festivities.

Fatigue and alcohol hath dulled my senses; perhaps this post is valid only to those who were there. Or insulted. But as Melina says, no second guessing posts in Aught Six. T'is what T'is.

And as an addendum to such ridiculum, most importantly, I must say goodbye to Lou Rawls.















Thank you for everything.

Love is a Hurtin' thing.