Flea Market Finds 10[7-11-14]12

The following is a collection of cheery things I've gathered the past Sunday-Thursday-Sunday at the Capitol Flea Market. Here we go . . .

The Haul

Well on! Another cane to join the other two. This one is collapsible and is
all prepped and ready to go with hairbands on the handle for just in case.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

A fine find whose brilliance include "Even men of the same age
and the same country do not always speak the same language."

Because Lord knows I need it, as socially retarded as I am. So how do you say hello?

                                                          

                                                                            Whoa uh oh it's them ladies again! The tough! The wise! And the pretty!

Quarter-Century Bum: Sheshonahim

Go on and press play. It's a good tune, I'm tellin' ya. =)

25 years and still I reign alone. =P

The names listed below are girls I was infatuated with/liked/loved/admired:

Michelle

Lilly

Louella

Navyanne

Malou

Kat with a "K"

Jean

Kathleen

Holly

Linda

Noraleen

Paula

Kelly

and of course . . .

the one, the only . . .

Krystle.

Yeah, sorry about that one, Krystle. I was jacked on Prozac. I will continue to leave you alone as requested. But thanks for the memories! Whoa, I was really cranked on those happy pills. Yow.

"Oh Krystle . . ." =P

[. . . LOOP] The East Side Circus Presents: Clown & Toothless! [LOOP . . .]

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was chilly but the sun was out and I tried to take in as much as I could of the yellow glory. Took a look at the green grass, and the vision of it pops, never failing to perk my mind. Out through the backyard door soon teetered and stumbled a Drunken Clown, a rising smoke-massive lit cigarette held between his bullshit lips, one hand holding a phone to his ear to hear feedback on his bullshit and in the other hand a bullshit-enhancing beer can.

Keystone Light: The Choice For All Moronic Alcoholics.

It's like steroids except instead of making you bigger and better it makes you less comprehensible and far more irritating. If you drink enough of the stupid-water - overdose - you just might piss yourself silly. Proof? This Drunken Clown has the stains to show for it. For multiple occasions.

If you sit on the brown long couch where the Clown sleeps at night you've just been inducted as a proud new member of the "I Got Drunken Clown Piss All Over My Ass" Club.

Congratulations. Being a member of I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. is far more prestigious than going to the Mystery Spot of Santa Cruz. Sorry, there aren't bumper stickers yet available but feel free to take an empty semi-crushed beer can with you on your way out.

There are plenty.

In the backyard I was taking notice of the Clown stumbling his way over to a chair over to the right of me. I kept on photoshopping, not wanting the stench of beer sweats to drown me out of my creative endeavor. The J Buddha picture was in its final clicks. I looked at it thinking she won't be content with it but oh well, art is a subjective matter. J Buddha has seen the pictures on my Facebook and that's that. The process of clicking through to find the image is enough reason for me to do it and was very enjoyable indeed. Drunken Clown sat and continued his bitching and moaning and bullshitting to whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. It was the Clown's aunt, poor thing. Drunken Clown bitched on and on and on about how much of a fuck-up his Toothless Meth-Head brother was, telling of a story about how Toothless went to the Philippines to continue being a complete fuck-up over there, completely fucking up his sister's and mistress' lives in tandem.

I, ever enraged by the simple mention of the addict apparent, chimed into Clown's dissertation on Toothless' Shabu Adventures in the Pearl of the Orient, to which he claimed Toothless Meth-Head was better off on U.S. soil . . .

"Well he was a total fuck-up here in the States too. He's a fuck-up there? He's a fuck-up everywhere" I reply, disgusted.

The Drunken Clown heard this and stumble-spun in his chair facing me.

"SHUT UP" the Clown said with a face of sluggish unease, too sluggish, impaired to give a decent expression. You know? Like the kind sober people can contribute? Or the kind that toddlers are able to portray?

There is no pause and I answer him straight "Well I was the one out here first if you don't like it go somewhere else."

Go be a Drunken Clown elsewhere.

I hear the Philippines is a nice place for fuck-ups.

The Clown no-sold it and continued with the bitching over the phone. Toothless this and Toothless that. Yes, I already know how thoroughly shabu-addicted Toothless and another brother - Magic Meth-Head - really are. So much so that they dollar-vulture every home with the same surname. Some bums beg for money. Other bums have complacent family members.

I prepped my computer, cane and tea [you know damn sure why I drink tea instead of . . .] to go back inside the playroom where my beloved music emanated from. A personally-created playlist entitled "Dig It" played on through shelf speakers. What is the source? An mp3 player that I cherish, containing feelings and memories I felt in absence of the the important life skill of socializing with people, in my long and still on-going time without friends. You have your buddies and I have the Typical Cats. You've got a night out with friends and I've just written a Cliche.

Minutes later I made my way to the kitchen where the Drunken Clown now sat at the dinner table, still bitching and bullshitting to the poor old lady aunt on the other end of the line. Clown looked me with a shit-faced smile and said

"OOhhkay . . . one more. .! . .?" referring to me retrieving for him another can of bullshit-enhancer from the garage fridge. He's easily over 5 cans in.

I stand stoic.

I stand stoic and tell him, "Nope, no more. I'm not gonna do it."

If Drunken Clown wants to overdose and further bless the holy piss couch with pure fuckin' alcohol stumble-flying from his flaccid nicotine & diabetic-debilitated penis he can do it of his own accord. There's NO way I'll be there for the assist.

I'd rather go to Mystery Spot. What is it like over there? I've never been. Does it stink of beer sweats like

[Whoa! Time-out! . . . I just scrolled up to check my writing and with what I saw I instantly realize that I am seeing the very same image, same few seconds in a dream I had nearly a year ago!!! I saw myself writing this exact piece! Okay. Play ball. Spiritual Freak-Out Time over.]

the home-base of the I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. Club?

I rounded my way towards the kitchen and looked at Nick the Slick & Donna-Ninja's water bowl out of habit making sure their bowls are filled. There was water in the bowl but to drive the point home I picked up the water bowl and mentioned "Nick, you need more water" then proceeded to replenish it with fresh H2O.

What is the point?

I would rather serve water to a dog than to serve alcohol to an alcoholic.

Soon after I went back into the playroom where my treasured music and super-important-write-write-station netbook computer was located.

I sat down, logged on to my blogger.com account and began typing . . .

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was . . .

Clearness On An Eastheld Sun

Monday, March 15, 2010

Open eyes. A yellow wall. The same wall which just hours before was an audience to one of my morbidly creative meditations on death and bringing my own end. Now it was ready for a performance of a different perspective. In the morning cold, on a stage of pillows and bedsheets, I saw something clear. Recumbent though I was, I had now a better view. The faint streetlight of the night before was replaced by fervent sunlight, eager to break through the heavy cloth curtain guarding my room from the brightness of a possible better day. A slip in the curtain gave way for light to shine through and onto the wall. Open eyes. A yellow wall.

Why? Why break my head over one man's meth-driven ruin? The noose around my neck tightened by his disregard. His total loss and complete negligence of the chaos he created was so calamitous that it became a flood that spilled viciously over to what I had held for him. My care turned into a concern and from a concern, into a burden. No man walks away from the wrong he has done. Bobby has done wrong and continues to walk uncuffed, untouched and more importantly, uncaring. Was I to shoulder the broken face of a man who has hustled this entire family for their care, their pity? It's what I did. It's something I decided I will no longer do.

I have been loud these past few weeks. You can call it care. There are many strangers out there breaking the lives of others but you don't see my words roll on about them. Bobby - who just so happens to hold the same last name as I - was natural as someone to give a shit about*. As of that morning and that yellow wall, it no longer exists. Clarity was found with that sun in the east. For his detached, heartless, unconcerned pseudo-livelihood, I return my care no longer. He is as strange to I as the many people I don't give a fuck about. As I who have searched for my own demise, I instead kill a pestering negativity that put the gun to my head. He is as good as dead to me. Bobby who? I don't know him.

Proof of my newfound stance will come in the following weeks where he is sure to make an appearance. We'll see what happens. May this be the last of the disheveled disgrace. I hope to no longer commit any words in his name.



*As for family and automatic respect, that's another entry to be discussed on its own. Two-word summary: "uhh, no."

Bitch of a Duck Run

"This will go good with the duck" dad said. "I'll go have Bobby buy the duck."

I'm here, aren't? What the fuck do I sit here for? To watch in dismay as Bobby gets a pat on the head for running piss-ant errands?! "Good boy, Baby Brother Bobby! As long as you go get the duck, you don't have to be responsible for your own fuck-ups."

"I'll go get the duck" I said defiantly.

The padre drunk stood wavering, a shaky tower dilapidated by alcohol & arthritis. He balanced himself with a hand on the counter of the kitchen stove.

His reply? "Then you go buy the duck . . . if you have the money."

I, a man of zero income, can own own up to my destitute meandering. I am the loser you laugh at to feel better about yourself. I am the one defeated, my pride buried long, long ago. I'm everything you don't want to be. The walking shame. The living embarrassment.

". . . if you have the money."

Ama.

What did you just say? To speak as though Bobby is a man of many riches, as if he does your food & beer runs out of his own pocket? It is he who bears his pockets empty. It is he who begs to keep the change. And yet you speak as though he is better than I, holding Bobby's proud flesh above my grave nigh.

Dad walked and wobbled away, unaware of the hurt he just caused. As he entered another room, my voice trailed on, echoing the pain I just felt. I sat angry. I sat wounded. In an attempt to deflect the verbal sword thrust into my fraction of dignity, I mouthed off to my brother beside me. But he cares not.

"Fuck this," I said, "I'll go buy that god damn duck."

Just then, Bobby entered the kitchen and searched for the key to the car. He was given the orders from dad. He searched desperately for that pat on the head. Irately, I stepped outside and asked dad if the duck is all he wanted. It was. As I headed toward the garage door, I told Bobby I'll get the duck. I asked him if he wanted anything else without waiting for an answer. I got in the car, started the engine. Bobby chased me and tried to hand off the money that came from Dad. It's too late for that. I sped out of the driveway, away from the hurt and away from the cause.

I may not have money, but I have something saved. What little I do have, I spend on the $16.33 worth of roasted, chopped duck. As a vegetarian, it's not even something I'll partake of. I was composed when I bought the duck. I was in such a mad hurry when I left the house that I ended up tying my boots at the Chinese restaurant off of Jackson & Mckee. The people behind the counter were nice. Anybody who isn't Bobby is somebody I'd rather see.

I went home less furious but still affected. I lifted the plastic bag of duck so that dad could clearly see it from the other room, through the multi-pane windowed slide door. I put it on the table. I go toward the other room and opened the slide door. Bobby is hiding, sitting on the floor, away from view. He knows what's up but like everything else in this world, he doesn't give a shit. But I made god damn sure he gave the duck money back to dad. Dad reached for his pocket, with few words, in an effort to pass the money to me.

I looked at him straight in the eyes and all I said was "No. No."

The damage was done. This bitch of a duck run.




I have no doubt in my mind that dad would sacrifice me to pull his brother Bobby up. If to the fire I must go, then at least I wouldn't see the fucker anymore.

I'm going to go away now. Take a little drive away from the mess that I see. I need a different view. Though I fear when I come back, HE will still be here. And he will be. As sure as the sun sets, he will be.

The cruelty that my mind absorbs is tiring. Bobby's broken face is all that it sees. The hole in the wall. The anger. It consumes me. To feel so much is not healthy. There are times when I just want to scream in his face. There are times when I just want to knock the fucker out. What I end up doing is write. Allow me the ill word. For without it, I would expire.

Memorandum

I am furious.

I let it out and send my fist forth.

There is now a hole in the wall.

That is where Bobby's face should be.


[note to self: when wanting to knock someone's block off, take it out on something that isn't as hollow as Bobby's head]

The Nuisance Sits

The nuisance apparent
The nuisance sits
Atop broken pieces of his own doing
Ruined
Heartless of the wreck committed
One son forsaken
By Pacific separated
He laughs
On high
So high
Affected by none
The disaster oblivious
Caring for no one
Self crowned
Proclaimed
King of What Mess?
The nuisance apparent
The nuisance sits

Who Are You to Talk?

"Hello, failure."

For me to be affected by Bobby's drug issue is in itself to be questioned. Why the strong response toward him? Because he is me. It is said often one person hates another because he see's himself in that other person. Bobby is the mirror of what I may become: drug addicted,uncaring, leeching off the lives of others, not able to stand on his own two feet. As I write this, I have never been employed, I am uneducated and foresee a life of solitary misery. For someone in my position to point out the deficiencies in another person is admittedly a giant hypocrisy. But still I do feel. Like a tea kettle, my pressure rises and these words are but a release. I do try and tread lightly on the hypocrisy that I walk on, a tight rope, no doubt. But I do feel. This blog permits me to release what keeps me bothered, uncensored. You are free to ignore it or read on.

Bobby was leaving and dad told him that if he had nothing to do tomorrow, he could drop by and help him wash the boat. Nothing to do tomorrow? Bobby hasn't been doing anything for what seems like years now. For Bobby to drop by, do a few chores and believe that he has filled his quota for responsibility in life is something I have an issue with. Going on a beer-run does not put food on your family's table. Nor does it excuse you from an addiction you cannot afford. For all the time spent here, he could be looking for a job. Instead, he is awarded with a fishing trip. Instead, he pats himself on the back washing dishes in another home when his own kitchen sink is full with last night's dinner.

I told dad right then and there that I will help him wash the boat tomorrow. That's what I am here for. It wasn't necessary for Bobby to be here and I didn't want to give him the opportunity to displease me for 4 consecutive days, something critically turning into a possible routine. Dad said he doesn't know what to say about my offer for help. Bobby left.

The debate began.

To debate with a drunken father is a circus act. Considering dad's inebriated habits, a merry-go-round is involved. He repeats himself on subjects already discussed. 3 times. 5 times. 10. Dad defends himself and says he's caring for his brother. I tell him otherwise. I tell him he's holding his hand. He's letting him be. To care for someone and to leave them as they are are two different things. It isn't help he's giving. For all the wrongs Bobby stands for, he gets a pat on the head. He gets to go fish on a boat on the bay. Dad brings up Bobby's past accomplishments. I ask dad if great deeds in the past excuses a man from his present faults. "No," he agrees, "but I'm helping him." The merry-go-round.

Twice he left the debate. Twice I stood my ground. I tell him of addiction. He does not want to see it. He refuses to acknowledge that drugs played any role in how Bobby is now. He wants proof. I give him proof - how he has affected others. I don't have to see Bobby inhale what he lovingly refers to as "bato." As I have eyes, I have seen. With my ears, I have heard. I tell him of a family, I tell him of a son, I tell him of a home. Dad - in his drunken reasoning - asks why I bring other people's issues into his house. Why should he care how other people have been affected? All I did was give him proof. No man with any sense of clarity could consciously bring such hardship on his own family, a man who previously was a provider, a man who was once a father.

Dad does ask why must I be so loud? Why must I make it into a problem? As depressed as I am, I have my own issues to tackle. Bobby is a mirror. You put that mirror in my way and my problems are multiplied, shining back at me how much of a fuck-up I really am. Except I can't point towards a drug. My mind is the lone culprit. Bobby lives on without care about how he has affected others. I am laden with guilt about who I am, how I am a failure and why the hell I'm still here. For all of my faults, I am ashamed. Can Bobby say the same? Can he own up to what he has done? This is why I'm loud. This is why I speak. This is why I write. Who am I to talk?I'm just another loser.

After all that was said, I find out that Dad is fine with the way things are with Bobby. Though he doesn't see how I see it, he is content with the situation as it is. He will continue to hold Bobby's hand, indefinitely. 30 minutes into the debate, dad ended it and told me to shut the fuck up. So I did. I didn't want another trip on the merry-go-round. During the exchange dad had proclaimed I was the only one who has a problem with Bobby. Is this true? For all my barking, am I really the only one to be so bothered by him? Perhaps so. I really should shut the fuck up, shouldn't I? At the end of the circus act I felt like a complete jackass, granted, a jackass who at least got his point across. But then the guilt piles on, yet another thing to be ashamed of.

"Hello, failure."

"Hello" I reply.

Your Face

Oh how lucky am I
To see your face
For 4 days a week
A disheveled disgrace
You want and you gnaw
You take and then hide
In this home you believe
You're a saint but it's a lie
In silence I stay
But in silence I rage
At the decrepit before me
Unaware of his own shame
You come here for pity
Hoping I may abide
But it's hate I return
For I am not on your side
So go on you poor fool
And indulge in your crystal meth
Is it a sin to actively pray
For someone's death?


I don't care who you are. How dare you throw me a suspicious side-look in the house that I live in! You know where the fuck you're at. You know what the fuck you do.

Good riddance and Godspeed, you piece of shit.

Calling All Drug Addicts! Calling All Drug Addicts!

You’re a drug addict, fine! We hold no judgment against you and what you do. At your age I take it that you do stop, look and listen before crossing the street. There exists a dilemma, however, and the dilemma is this: When you do decide to go from your silly 3-day sobriety to your next oh-so-sweet high, the problem is that this home - free of the poison you so lovingly inhale - becomes a necessary stop to get there. Do not bring your addiction to this house and lean on us to get your next fix.

Do not drive all the way here from wherever you’ve come from, jittery and sweat-browed on a cool evening to ask your brother’s sons for “gas money.” Do not ask to give you a ride to a certain location just off a main road, tucked away in a seemingly innocent neighborhood. Do not use this home’s phone number as your own to receive calls from suspicious strangers. Don’t ask to borrow a car, say you’ll be away for a little awhile only to return 9 hours later, 3:00 A.M. in the morning. When asked about where you were while away, don’t play us for a fool and claim you “played Scrabble.”

Again we say that no judgment is held against you but the lies you do tell scream loud over what we choose not to say. The extent of your lean is made obvious by the fiction you create. Along with those stories exists a monument of fact: When and where the mere whispers of your habit do arise you mockingly piss on those concerned. And though you hover in your high, you come back down again and you find yourself asking for “gas money.” We don’t have “gas money” but we might have “drug money,” would you care to take that?

If you can’t support your habit, maybe you should quit? When you find yourself scavenging every nook and cranny for a fix you can’t afford, that’s a sign. Take a look at your wallet. If you fueled your car instead of your addiction, you wouldn’t have to ask. You eagerly grab your beggar's dollar for the one unoffending but it's still connected to the other. So don’t ask. Do not ask us for we will not support what you choose to do. We will not give you a ride, nor will we give you money. We will not in any way play the role of an enabler for your precious fix. Although you feed us lies, we tell you this quite plainly so stop, look, and listen, “This house, this home will not be a stop to your next high.”