The Greater Evil

The SHOUT OUT was great as usual.

There were no problems. Cyndi Lauper was her usual cranky self. That is one ornery woman. A myriad of slappings would do her nicely. I would like to be on the giving end of a couple of hundred thousand of them motherfuckers too. I'd slap her so silly that she'd get dressed in the morning sticking her head down into her skirt and her legs up into her sweater.

I got up this morning feeling queazy, a little disturbed in the stomach. It was very minor, but I felt it anyway. It kept me from running at 100%. I get up, get some soda this time and go to my laptop, getting online and answering and sending out emails. Everything as usual, until I grew sleepy and passed out in the chair. Now many of you would say, so what? What's the big deal, but if you've ever seen my wooden chair, you would know that it's not made all that comfortable to sleep in. In fact, its made for someone NOT to be able to sleep in it. But then again, I've had years of training sleeping in chairs that were specifically made to NOT allow someone to get any rest in. So, my chair doesn't stand a chance in Hell keeping me from sleeping. Not a chance. I passed out in the seat easily and somehow crawled back into bed, because that's where I woke up at.

I am exhausted. No matter how much I sleep. Paula is outside of her door, so by extension mine, shouting into her apartment: "How can you lock me out of my place??!!" I wanted to rush to my cupboard, come away with my plastic pot, snatch open the front door and beat her to a bloody pulp in the hallway naked as the day I was born. I could see her falling up against her door, brain matter splattering upwards to the ceiling like a bloody fountain, bones crunching like dry crackers with each blow, her legs splaying outwards underneath mine in a gathering puddle of gore. I would dance and whirl in her life fluids like Gene Kelly, singing in the rain, kicking it high and splashing about in it.

I relax, staring at the door, plastic pot in hand, panting wildly. I replace the pot and pour a cup of coffee. Actually the last of the Starbuck's coffee that Igor had given me. I don't want to get dressed for the SHOUT OUT today. I never do. It's a long and drawn out job, from beginning to end, UNTIL, that is, THE end. Once over, there is a feeling of exhilaration. A rush of energy, of euphoria, that makes hosting the SHOUT OUT worth everything.

But in the hours before, it a needless chore, tiresome, burden- some. I sit on the edge of my bed with one sock and a shoe and one sock. I look like some dog in a pet shop window, staring at the wall. What the fuck is wrong with me? I pack up my gear and saddle up, walking out of the crib and down the now quiet hall. I step into the elevator and an emaciated man gets in with me. He unwraps a pack of cigarettes, puts the pack into his pocket and begins to fold the cellophane in half, then in quarters, then in eighths. He looks up at me, folding the cellophane again. "I ball these things up," he tells me with a smile. "It helps my nerves." I see, pal, I say. When he returns to his new toy the elevator door opens and I jump out, heading down the long hall and out the front door.

After the SHOUT OUT my brother and I file out into the streets with a few of the poets wanting to know what we were up to. I didn't even know what the fuck we were going to be up to. There were no plans drawn up, nothing that had to be done, nothing that we were doing other than going to Kennedy's Fried chicken and buy some dinner for the evening. I bought a sweet potato pie, which I wolfed down in seconds. This only ignited a larger flame in my members. I stopped at a nearby bakery for an apricot turnover, which stepped up the heat again for a blueberry cake from Starbucks. My sugar had to be crazy high.

Now that my sweet tooth was satiated, I was hyper. At a nearby Starbucks we found a table next to a few power outlets. I jumped in, jacked in and surfed. There were emails...there's always emails.

And of course, there is blogging.

Like emails, there's always blogging.

Hobobob