Talk about a misplaced, poorly thought through column. David Brooks, a man with a megaphone at one of the nation’s most important newspapers proved there is at least one subject that he has no business writing about – that would be Rastafari nugz – I mean pot, marijuana, you know… dank. Last week, the NY Times columnist wrote a seriously banal, low energy, and at the same time insidiously inconsiderate column about smoking pot.
Note: This entry is a bit of a drug policy rant. It’s opinion, not fiction and potentially not what you came here to read. Consider starting with the next entry. Hugz not drugz – JSM
Continue reading “David Brooks Don’t Know Dank”
I’m beginning to reconsider my original assessment of how hot Sara actually is. Maybe I was a bit hasty in my initial appraisal. I do that sometimes; judge women a little too harshly. She bends over the coffee table and sets down a bowl of tortilla chips. I catch a sidelong look down her shirt and decide that there just might be more life in those boobs than meets the eye. Boobs can be tricky that way.
Continue reading “San Francisco Sojourn”
Disclaimer: This is a long entry (4600 + words), unless you’ve got a few minutes and like stories about LSD in cemeteries it might be best to start with another entry…
“Face it. You’re a pussy. You’re scared,” Sean says. He’s obviously attempting to goad me into going inside the tomb. It’s not going to work though. I won’t let him trick me. I’m not going in that creepy-ass, little room.
Sean is my friend, but I need to remember he’s also a major prick. He’s the kind of guy that abuses people for fun and for some reason I usually do what he says. I hate that he can often quite easily, get me to do what he wants. I’m not going to fall for his shit this time though. I’m not gonna cave. Continue reading “Crypt Keeper”
Trevor would never tell his friends, but he’s nervous. He and Kyle and Dave have taken over the front of the subway car, the part near the conductors’ compartment along with the single seat across from the bench that fits 5 or 6 people; basically everything North of the first set of doors. The boys are spread out with their feet up on the seats, like they own the place. To Trevor, sitting this way feels provocative. They aren’t denying anyone a seat. There are plenty of places to sit in the mostly empty train, but they are clearly staking out this part of it as their own. Without saying so, they are telling the other riders to go sit somewhere else. He knows it’s not a very tough-guy thought to have and would never let the others know this is how he’s feeling, but all the same, they are kind of asking for trouble. Why give anyone a reason to fuck with us, he thinks. He would never say it out loud though. If he did, he’d look like a real pussy. Continue reading “Uptown Dust”
Andy is being a serious cocksucker and holding onto my money. He won’t give me any. He says it’s for my own good and that I’ll just go and spend it on drugs. He’s right, but it’s irrelevant. It’s my money! He’s my brother, not my father. He’d be a better father than Pops is, but that’s a different story. Continue reading “Family Money”
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”