Truckin' August 2008, Vol. 7, Issue 8

He did it again. forgot my piece!
This sure brings back some memories from early childhood…
You see, this was way back in the day, during the depressions (yeah, plural) and my mother had barely given birth to me before she forgot me in the bus stop outside the hospital. There were no ambulances back then either so she had to take the bus. The paramedics were too depressed to be paramedics, and all the bus drivers were alcoholics just like today. Being that the times were hard (back then the times were so hard that people didn’t speak about the times, everything just took ages) my mother rushed to work one and a half hour after giving birth to me.

And there I was. Sitting in the bus stop shelter, watching the rain from the cosy warmth of my dry newspaper. Incidently, that’s how I learned to read as well. Babies are very perceiptive and as a newborn having barely met my mother (she was a stranger to me then) I felt more in touch with those inviting looking letters, the nourishing ink and the funny smell. Add a few years and here I am today! Or I should have been had it not been for Dr. Pauly spending too much time with his own medicine. But I’m not bitter. Just like I learned to forgive my mother some fifteen years later, I will be able to forgive Pauly one day, given he straightens out the error of his ways and commit himself fully to the dao teachings that he spoke of so dearly so many years ago. Words about a horseman, some trees, a mountain, a midget and a bowl of fish.

FYI: all of this means that you’ll have to wait until September for my third and last installment in the One Night Out trilogy. Instead you’re gonna have to settle with this lot. Which seems, not much to my surprise, to be a sturdy group of fellow planet inhabitants or something. Titles look kinda interesting don’t they? Let’s give ’em a click. (By the way, Pauly sent me an e-mail at the last minute asking me to re-send the story but at the time I was being baptized in Guinnes at the Temple Bar in Dublin, Ireland. Sry.)


Even More Existentialist Conversations with Strippers by
On the third day of Prozac? That pretty much summed up my visit to the afternoon shift. The stripper was drunk, sedated on happy pills, sloppy, and slurring her speech like Albert Finney at happy hour…

Explaining Amphetamines With Words by
See the thing is an injection is a lot like a bullet from a gun, or words of anger, or like kisses—you can’t get it back. And that Valium was working, working its way through his body, his veins, slowing things down, slowing, his pulse, his already pretty-fucking-slow pulse, and then he was, he was, well, he was dead…

Black Hole Sun by
I couldn’t get her face out of my head. Blank and full of jealousy. Not directed at me, but me as part of the female species. As a representative of the sex that threatened her the most…

Separate From Things We Didn’t Want A Part Of by Philip D. Brown
My friend fell asleep but the girl didn’t and though it was dark I could see her watching me. She didn’t look capable of sleep or even rest so I told her that I could help. She told me that needles were out of the question because they were an invasion she wasn’t willing to accept…

Capistrano by
If the doctor says I’m living, he obviously is lying or seriously misguided. If he tells me I’m living, I’m going to laugh and tell him he better get busy dying for me, because somebody fucking has to…

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