The lunch truck, aka “the roach coach” pulls up around 11 every weekday morning. The diabetic old man that drives the thing, honks its horn – which sounds like that Mexican cartoon character, “Speedy Gonzales” – to let us know he’s arrived. Everyone comes out from their cubicles and offices and rushes down the fire exit stairwell. They stay orderly but there is no mistaking the very serious intention here. The entire company pours out into the parking lot and swarms the truck. Continue reading “Sully’s Dead”
Rodney King died a few weeks back. He was found at the bottom of his swimming pool on a Sunday morning in June. You probably know who Rodney was and if you are older than about 30 or so, you also remember where you were the night he got beaten by the police on the side of a highway back in 1991. Besides his recent death, he was one of those people who would pop up on the news every couple of years or so. In more recent times it was usually for doing something illegal or just unwise; say for frittering away large sums of money or a DUI. Continue reading “R.I.P. Rodney King”
I’ve been out of rehab for 3 weeks now and my Mom thinks it would be good for the two of us to go see my brother. I don’t have anything else going on, so I agree. She springs for plane tickets to Chicago.
I haven’t seen Jonas in probably 2 or 3 years. Let’s just say, I haven’t been the greatest older brother. Not during the year we were both going to college in NY and not in the years since either. Continue reading “Chicago Fiasco”
My mother is like an uber-preppie. She loves the little New England town we live in; our rickety little saltbox home and the fact that everything around here dates back to when Hezekiah Maplethorpe buried his only son. That would be the child that died of scurvy back in the terrible winter of seventeen-whothefuckcares. It says so right on the rock buried in the dirt over there. That kind of shit doesn’t do much for me. Not that I think about it, really. Continue reading “Small town, Small minds”
I hate this town. I hate this house we live in, stuck in the middle of nowhere, miles from anything. I hate my school and the hick kids that go there. I have no place to retreat to except for inside of myself. All I can do is read books. After school, sometimes I just crawl back under the covers of my unmade bed and read, even when the weather is nice. It can be weird to be lying in bed on a sunny day but I have a hard time thinking of a good reason to get up. Sometimes I sleep. Continue reading “A Murderer in the Family”
It’s the fall of 1984. I’m 13 years old and in adolescent purgatory. All I can do is wait to get older. I’m stuck in the suburbs when I know for a fact I’m meant to be living in the city. Boston is the city I know best and where we (my mother, brother and I) moved from 5 years ago. I wish we could move back. New York would be even better. In NY I could learn all the real hoodlum tricks. But it’s not to be, at least not for now. I’m stuck living in the sticks. Continue reading “Everything Means a Lot…”
I am among the few who on September 11, 2001 was both physically within a mile of the World Trade AND managed to sleep through the attacks.
I admit to feeling a bit ashamed about my lethargy, but I have an excuse, albeit a lame one. I was on California time. Continue reading “I Slept Through 9/11”
My brother Jonas invited his punk friend Christian over to our house today. The two of them are sitting up towards the front of the school bus, close to the driver talking about whatever it is that dorks like them, talk about. I figure it’s one of two subjects, Star Wars or RUSH. Who knows, maybe they’ve figured out a way to talk about both things at once, the fucking homos. Continue reading “Fucking Ewoks”