Every Bad Boy Is Off The Wall

Stomach crunches are evil.

Them fuckers hurt. I'm going up and down and suffering a new kind of Hell, but I crank them out. No wonder they use them in the military. I have to smile, they sure do make those young men suffer. I don't smile because they're suffering mind you, I'm smiling because I'm not in the motherfucking military at 47. Like I said, that shit would kill me. Stomach crunches are evil.

I get up and look at the clock. It's 1:00am. Yeah, that's right. I fell asleep early last night, ergo, I'll be getting up early this morning. I just can't sleep any longer. I just can't. I roll out of bed, finding my laptop still on from the overnight. I get behind it and start to blog, and write emails.

I keep an eye on the clock. Today, I'm doing some laundry. It's a bit of a chore because I have to walk down the block, up the street, and down a corner of the next block. It's not far, but it's mildly a chore. I sort up the clothes and I think about life. I think life could be like sorting clothing. We like to put everything in order, the whites with the whites, the colors with the colors, the permanent press with the permanent press, the cotton with the cotton. We put all of these things in order, but if you're like me, when it comes to the dryer, I throw all the shit in at the same time.

That's my life. It was all in order, and then someone came in and thew it all over the place, some going into the dryer, some in the garbage, and whirled that shit around and handed back to me a fucking mess. Thanks pal. Who do I thank for this honor, I'll punch him in the 'nads.

Well, like I said, I took my clothing to the laundry and join the few in this early in the morning who throw in their shit, get it done and get the fuck out. I'm more slower, although using the same washers and dryers. I'm trying to figure out much of the ratshit for the most part. There are not usually instructions for people who are just starting doing laundry after years of homelessness. I'm not used to the logic of many of the machines. This light...add detergent, that light...add bleach...this number, time left...that light, the different washing modes. Hot, cold, warm, permanent press, go to Hell settings. One machine can be tricky.

In between cleaning, drying and carrying loads back to the room I went past the office, going to the cafeteria for breakfast/ lunch and passed Sugar Plum in the office. What the fuck?? Now talk about someone that I haven't seen in a month of Sundays. I smile when I see her and she waves back, "Hello Hobo!" Hey Sugar Plum. I move on, going into the cafeteria, waving at Paula and her crows and get my breakfast from the food handlers. "Good Morning Hobobob," the old Black man says. Whoa! He remembers my name? Good morning...hey, what is your name? "Landry," he replies. Well thank you Landry. He gets my breakfast/lunch and I head for the elevator. Hmmm, those slapheads aren't all that dumb after all.

The door opens and a tall, thin, old man appears on the other side, his clothes hanging off him as if several sizes too large and covered with black stains. He looked as if he was dipped in filth from head to toe. He shambled out of the elevator and I took two steps out of his way, then slipped into the elevator. Someone inside, from the corner, slapped the fuck out of me, lifting me off my feet and sending me down to the floor of the elevator with my food, and laundry. I shook my head.

No...I landed in the corner of the elevator, my face against the wall. No...I wasn't slapped, I inhaled the stink that that old mother fucker left behind in the cramped space of the elevator. Son of a bitch!! I shook my head. No...I didn't fall into the wall, my senses just swooned, his stench was so strong! He smelled like locker room socks used to wipe a shitty ass. goddamn!!

I was HAPPY to get out of the elevator and make it to my room. I'd hate to have to live next to that mother fucker. He has a room here too?? These people don't work hard enough with these room inspections if a fucker like that can have a room here other than on the rooftop. And if he lived up there there should be a helicopter to come and pick his ass up and drop him off if he doesn't want to take a shower and change those clothes.

I go back to get the rest of my clothes from mission control...heh heh heh...that's a good name for the laundromat huh? If I can remember, that shit is just like going into mission control. They have the television on VH1 in Mission Control and on the screen is Micheal Jackson jumping around and shaking his biscuits to Beat It. I walk to a stop, looking up. In fact, EVERYONE in the laundromat look up at the screen as if they were watching a descending UFO throwing lights. Michael Jackson died less than fifteen hours ago. Some said heart attack.

It was as if a part of my childhood died. Alright, the man was a wacko...in fact, he was known in early hip hop circles as Wacko Jacko, and he was always a bit of a fringe lunatic. I know this, but he was a celebrity in my lifetime. We were the children buying the Off The Wall album and trying to dance like Mike for hours a day. For fun, my friends and I would make a dance line and imitate the dancers on Beat It and Bad, and Thriller! It was my generation that sighed in exasperation every time he was accused of fucking with some little boy, until we just didn't care to hear about it any more. Long after his career went into limbo, he was still doing wacky things like wearing a surgical mask everywhere and dangling his babies out off of the side of balconies.

I shake my head. Dead. Suddenly. Farah Fawcett, now Mike. Prior to that Ed Mcmahon and David Carradine. Fuck, a sluggers row. I gather my clothes and walk back to my building and there, in front, sitting IN a tree planter is the Dirty Old Man. Long filthy beard, frazzled hair, narrow bony knees up to his chest, a battered coffee cup next to his ass, waving at the little kids being dragged by their mommies to school.

Wow.

I head upstairs. I thought I was hungry, but I wasn't. I noshed on a roll and water and got back online to blog before I left for the day. I had a pretty big one ahead of me, going to see Dr. A, and then Dr. W.

A pretty big day. One without the Roach Motel. I guess they're going to miss me today. I'll probably be called up for my IPE on Monday then.

Yeah, right.

Hobobob