Hannah Ruth , my daughter, being from the brilliant stock she is, has devised the perfect way to allow all the legitimate Refugee’s into the country, while at the same time weeding out and arresting the terrorists among them. First, have them all come in through a special checkpoint or checkpoints. (Which most likely would be the case any way.) As the process proceeds collect the passports of everyone trying to enter. With the passports collected, take all those who are entering as refugees and place them in quarantine for say 48 hrs. At this point all the gathered passports along with an explosive device and some jet fuel shall be placed in a proper place for the test to be conducted. At just the right moment, and simultaneously, ignite the jet fuel while detonating the explosive device (preferably a suicide bombing belt). Now search the area for up to nine square city blocks. Gather the remaining passports that were indestructible and arrest those whose names appear on them, all the others whose passports burnt up, exploded into nothing, or otherwise were destroyed by such actions (as any normal passport would do) can now be admitted into the country. Case Closed, Everybody Happy. She is just genius!
It has been shown time and again that the passports of genuine terrorists can withstand this kind of treatment and remain perfectly intact, withstanding explosions, jet fuel, fires, and heat that melts structural steel beams to the point of producing molten metal that remains in that state for weeks. In fact it has been carefully documented by several agencies of our Government including, but not limited to Official Reports of Special Commissions appointed by our Elected officials, and, in Sworn testimony before Commissions, Congress, and Courts and officers of this United States of America. These testimonies have come from citizens, aviation experts, eye witnesses, Federal employees, building experts, structural engineers, first responders, conspiracy theorists, conspiracy theorist debunkers, chemical industry experts, U.S. Military members, and members of the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, NASA, the Terrorism Task Forces, the NYC Police Dept. the Washington D.C. Police Dept. the Secret Service, Members of the Bush Administration, the Clinton Administration, the Obama Administration, and almost anyone else with a Washington or White House connection. Also from almost every news media outlet in this country and abroad, which includes, NBC, ABC, CBS, CNN, Fox News, The NY Daily News, Newsweek, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Popular Mechanics, National Geographic, Howard Stern, Heraldo Rivera, Paul Wolfawitz, Wolf Blitzer, Al-Jezeera, Al Roker, and The Jerusalem Times. From Al-Queda, Helzbolah, Isis, Isil, Osama Bin Laden, Tim Osama, Saudia Arabia, Libya, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, Isreal, Mossad, MI6, M&M, Ted Nugent, Ted Turner, Jane Fonda, and the United Nations. By George Bush, Dick Cheney, Condolesa Rice, Colin Powell, Martha Stewart, Jimmy Hoffa, Maggie Thatcher, Princess Dianna, Jack and Diane, and even Jack in the Box… Maybe I get a bit sarcastic toward the end but think about it? The first 75% or so are actually dead on, which is a very scary thought.
In Recognition I hereby nominate Hannah Ruth for official Genius in Residence of this fair land.
Now don’t think to yourself, “Rob has really gone off the deep end now”. We all know that happened long ago. Must be that comfort food smells as memory inducers thing, but Thankgiving day and I’m thinking Irish Soda Bread. So if after afew of my Catholic School stories you are wondering if having missed the yard sticks, and ear pulling you benefitted somehow, as we say in Da Bronx, “Forgeddaboutit!” (The pronunciation is universal, while the spelling is not, if fact,is still progressing).
With that in mind and submitted for you approval, St. Patrick’s Day at St. Helena’s circa 1970 something.
Long before Lord of the Dance, Celtic Women, Martha Stewart, or even AC/DC, these traditions of Food, and Song,Music and Dance in the Irish tradition were developing in the small Irish hamlet tucked between Westchester Avenue and Olmstead Avenue in Da Bronx. Being Italian-Irish as opposed to Irish-Italian, I couldn’t say for sure if this took place on or before the actual day we call St. Patrick’s Day. I assume it did take place before since I know Columbus Day was a School holiday at this time, and at our state of evolution in 1970 something, if St. Patrick’s day was not I’m pretty sure war would have ensued and I could not be writing this now in 2015 something.
What a joy filled occasion it was back in the day. The day would start as any day in St. Helena’s would then. The pledge of Allegience to the Flag.
Which went like this, I think.
(disclaimer, as I said we were not yet fully developed in the brain back then so feel free to insert any religious deity, or none, any flag colors, or none, any national sexual orientation or disorientation or none, group of letters,numbers, symbols, light beer, dark beer, cans, or bottles, that may be required at present time as to be non offensive, non discrimenatory, non invasive, non inclusive, inclusive, conclusive, non disruptive, non destructive, or just outright silly. Which will allow you to avoid cosltly litigation and logical thinking.)
I pledge allegience to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation, under God, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for All.
After which we said something else or other and did this or that, leading directly into a very Irish young man playing the bagpipes, a rendition of Amazing Grace even AC/DC had not thought of yet. Upon completion of which the most beautiful Irish girls in the whole neighborhood would put some very loud shoes on their feet and dance so wonderfully and fast that during their performance the most deliscious Irish Soda Bread would be cooked to perfection, and layed before us with sticks of real butter and jars of real jams and jellies.
Who was the best dancer and who brought the best Soda Bread? Colleen, or Eilleen, or Mary, or Catherine…O’ or Mc, all I know is it had the greatest smell as the pounds of butter slowly melted into it, and the bagpiper was long forgotten beyond the plaid uniform and knee socks. And shall remain a memory long after the days in Central Park for St. Patricks Day, with the mud and the blood and the beer, have vacated this beer congested brain. I can smell the Turkey cooking now so I’m off to sing a bar of Alice’s Resteraunt and switch gears again. I love my Irish heritage, and the memories it provided that are truly priceless. I know that yours are too.
The names may have been changed or forgotten but the comfort that Irish Soda Bread with lots of butter and jam brings will remain forever.
What most of us find so hard to understand is how so many people can continue to think that we”the conspiracy theorists” are the ones that do not “understand”. When the documents of the geoengineer/political/social/academic elites themselves are now public, how can so many continue to ignore the facts of weather manipulation, false climate change science, false radiation health data, false nuclear clean energy claims, false nuclear cheap energy claims, false oil industry environmental claims, false fracking effects claims, false and manipulated human effects on environment claims, false population impact claims and manipulated data. Well, if we throw it up against/alongside the other culture that I and some of you live in, there is a disturbing, shall we say, “reality”
We have a Christian culture club with its false piety that has turned our church buildings into nightclubs and its preachers into celebrity entertainers. Where “Gain is godliness” and poverty and persecution is a sign of the lifting of Gods blessing rather than a sign of desiring to live Godly. Where we have become religious in our non-religiosity. Prayer has been made to be something that must be taught beyond Christs words until we make it just what we were trying to avoid without realizing our error. Our evangelism methods along with the above have given us a generation of = trained new-birthers 25 years into their journey. Produced a boatload of rotting fish on the leaking deck of ship with a broken bilge, culminating in the missing person phenomenon expressed in an inability to distinguish between a personal relationship with Jesus, and our own private Jesus. Who declares the evolution of our great strides in making a God that meets our wants.
We have privately run prisons who bribe Judges into abducting our children. Cities have their own underground prisons where they secretly (at first anyway) torture our young adults. Programs run by our elected officials that poke, prod, and poison the entire population each in their own turn. All completely documented as if it makes no difference. The poison and the pill both sold to us by the same people, and the beat goes on. We ignorantly call for harsher sentences when the poor kill over pennies, all the while refusing to believe that such educated and refined individuals in positions of power could damage, maim, and kill millions for trillions. Could empty the earth of its natural lubricants making gentle sliding to become quaking and shaking and buckling. Or could harness rivers to create a false paradise and when the waters begin to dry up, they sell billions of gallons for mere quarters to be bottled and shipped elsewhere, leaving the regular folks parched and drought stricken. At the same time watering their own lawns with that same bottled water, retaing their own oasis amidst the desert.
Our seminaries that remain have become cemeteries, our Bible versions so numerous and diverse that anyone can”get what they need”. All the while unable to “guess my (his) name”.Yearly vacation Bible schools that must be increasingly extra biblically theme related, with extravagant inflatable props and music composed as if it were a Saturday morning cartoon. Trying to compete with Hollywood themed amusement parks, and the latest Satan worshiping halftime show performance. The blind leading the blind into a ditch so deep that even if they both could see neither would ever be able to escape. Our times and days of worship are scheduled around the big game or race or tournament, so that we will not miss paying homage to the ads that grace the screens of our homes and pay those million dollar salaries to the mighty men and woman who have the ability to throw, catch, or hit a variety of sizes and shapes of balls, beyond that which most mere mortals are able. And as the holidays approach we put colored bulbs of all shapes and sizes on our mansions and yachts, all across our little piece of dirt, in an effort to shed light in the darkness, even though we are the light of the world. Or should be if we are His? It just seems more practical and easier to pay the Electric Company to light things up.
We get vaccinated, genetically modificated, bioweaponised in our attempts to be healthier, stronger, and more powerful in body. Indoctrinated, hypnotized and robotized in our efforts to be increase our mental capacity, complexity and proficiency. Nanobots fill the air we breathe, the water we drink and clean in, and the “food” we eat in ever increasing amounts. Our Atmosphere, rain, snow, clouds are fake. While people continue to move further and further from humanity, and closer and closer to a trans-humanist future. From the God man, we discarded to the man-god we created the end is surely near as the old cartoon would display.But repentence is surely far away at this time and place and space.
When I Paint My Masters Piece or The Great American Shovel By Crackedbackeddiscus Shots
Growing up in the Bronx in the 60s and 70s
Get your boots on it’s gonna get deep.
CASH/or/CLASH
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1981 was the year I believe. WNEW the NY rock station I listened to most of the time had just made the big announcement. They always pumped it up a bit….”stay tuned we have a big concert announcement coming up at so and so a time”… So tuned in I was, when it was announced that THE Clash would be playing several shows at Bonds International Casino in Times Square. Now you have to understand that rock concerts were really my thing back then. It was not that unusual for me to go to Madison Square Garden to see a show even if it was by myself, I could have a blast anyhow. So with the few dollars I had I headed to catch the 6 train downtown and get me the 2 tickets I could afford. When on my way I ran into Joe Mac. from Archer St. I always liked Joe, we went to HS together at Christopher Columbus HS, a block or so off Pelham Parkway. We both liked the same sorta stuff back then…if ya know what I mean?….
Any way Joe decides to go downtown with me cause I guess he figured he didn’t have anything better to do that day. Well we hop off the train a 42 St. and climb the stairs to the street. Hmmmm? no body around, maybe we are gonna be the only ones get here this early, so we go around the corner toward where the ticket booth would be and can’t believe what we see, hundreds, no a thousand at least, people on the street, cops putting up barricades, I mean pandemonium! So over the course of the next several hours me and Joe, through some slick maneuvering had managed to get pretty close to the front when they began selling tickets. Now the police had the barricades set up like a funnel so as you got closer to the ticket window you worked down from about 20 people wide to 1 or 2 wide.
Several minutes before we got to the window the scalpers were asking how many tickets each person was getting, as they were in line also. I can’t remember what the limit was for sure, but it may have been around 8. When we got asked and said we were only getting one each, dude peels off a bunch of bills to each of us and tells us get the limit and he will give us a little something for it when he gets through the line also. Slowly as things tightened up this dude is further and further back from us jammed in 20 deep and way back there when I hit the window. I get my limit and see that he is stuck in the crowd so being the sinner I was and having my little bit of money left I take off toward the train hit the corner and book it. About 2 blocks later I ditch into a bar grab a beer and sit by the window. Low and behold here comes Joe with the same trot, I put my beer on the bar, ok I downed it first, and catch up to him just as we hit the station, jump the turnstile and catch the train heading back to the Bronx as, the doors are shutting. Not one of my proudest moments now but then, sticking to a scalper seemed the right and noble thing to do. One more thing I forgot, while in line I opened the case that had the big poster in it, like a movie poster at the Theater, pulled out that bright yellow and red Clash poster rolled it up and had it on my wall for years. If you remember anything about those shows, you know that the first night the Fire Marshall shut them down because they had sold like 7 times the amount of tickets for each night, instead of just that total for all the nights they were scheduled for. So in the end we wound up having like 7X as many tickets, because the Clash said they wound honor all sales and wound up playing shows for a lot longer than expected……true Rockers that they were….loyal to the fans. Sometimes I miss those days, but at least I can still give a shout out to Joe on Facebook wherever the thought arises and Joe..he’s always ready to say hey man , Love ya Joe!
A day that humanity will never forget, or at least a few of us. I don’t remember all the facts concerning this next tale. But the story is not hurt by that and memories are always a little different and changeable. Especially as time goes by. Regardless the story must be told. So It must have been around 1978/79 and a kid who had been hanging around, can’t remember who first brought him around. Micheal Garlick was a bit tall and quite a bit slim really skinny to be honest. Sometimes if we would see him coming everyone would take off to ditch him. No one really didn’t like him, just that’s what kids do. I sorta took a liking to Mikey though. Especially after I found him sleeping at the hole in the wall one morning. I would bring him home for dinner to our apartment and he would eat and tell story’s. The whole family kinda got attached to him.
So one day here comes Mikey strutting his way to the Wall in the South. he has his cut off jean jacket like we all wore back then. Mikey liked to wear his with no t-shirt. And there it was, ink, colors, right in the middle of his bicep. A thin flower and vine something, it was bad, but it was a tattoo.We all stared for a moment, then the questions. Did it hurt? Where did you get it? What is it supposed to be?
Well after all the questions and back slapping, and things had calmed, then Mikey blurts out anyone wanna go get one! Boom, it was out there. And before I could stop myself, without thinking, and at the same time me and Schirmer blurted out……me! That was it we were committed or should have been. Lucky for me I had no money on me, Schirmer, ditto. Thinking maybe we had dodged one there Mikey says no problem, I gotcha covered. AH? AH? ok lets go.
We head out and head to some apartment outside our neighborhood…truthfully I could not tell you where it was. All I know is when we got there I knew this was a bad idea. Mikey struts us in and this big burly biker dude says..So you kids want a tattoo? I hadn’t barely got in the door let alone looked at all the designs posted on the walls when this dude, did I mention he was big, and burly? I’m not really sure what burly is but this guy was it, grabs my arm and says ….”so you like that eagle? I stuttered for a second and nodded my head as he grabbed my arm and started inking away. When I came to I had this eagle on my arm and Johnny had Yosemite Sam on his. I think Mikey got another one also. School the next morning was great, everyone talking about tattoos, me showing my fresh ink, I was flying. Of course two days later when Andrea told Mom and Dad dinner wasn’t as fun. Well good times hey/ Wasn’t long after that I see Mikey and say “hey Mikey” he turns and says ” Don’t call mr that. My name is Crazy Mike Onions!” Ok and that’s what we called him from then on. Which wasn’t long since shortly there after he was arrested and got 5 to 15 for manslaughter. and I moved away before he got out. But won’t ever forget those days.
THE PEOPLE THAT YOU MEET WHEN YOUR WALKING DOWN THE STREET
Very early, not much past dawn, Me and my cousin just finished our paper route in the Parkchester area of the Bronx. It was Sunday and the paper was huge. Every other day during the week the trucks would drop a section for the Sunday paper along with the days issue. When the section for Sunday came all of the sections would have to be collated before deliver could begin. When we had completed or last building Johnny ,that’s my cousin, pulled a huge marker out of his pocket. I had never seen such a marker it was wide and thin, a strange site indeed. He said that he “bogarted” it from his older brother. Then he took a turn off our usual route home and when I saw where we ended up I was surprised. All around me were mail trucks, we were in the lot behind the post office where they park the mail trucks overnight, and on Sunday morning at this hour nobody could be seen or heard back there.I can’t recall his name, or “tag” but { knew it was my turn to use that ‘Miniwide” in a minute and I needed a graffiti name quick or he would think I was sqUare, or a wimp. The smell of that ink as he handed me the marker is a memory that lingers to this day some 43 years later. without skipping a beat I wrote Z I G Zig that was it , that was my graffiti name, blurted out in a mere moment on a Sunday morning behind the post office. We hit a few more trucks, and jumping back and forth across the big flat rear bumpers mail trucks had those days, almost like an Army vehicle if you ask me, we were gone.
In 1971 in the Bronx, or maybe in my mind, graffiti was in it’s infancy, pornography was a toddler, Vietnam raged across the sea in a place I couldn’t have pointed out on any map or globe. Dying was easy, happened all the time but living, despite our pleasant memories now of that time. Living was hard and soon to get harder.It would not be long before, us and our vices would all seem to hit puberty at the exact same time, and booze and drugs had already joined in. Our gang took it all in stride and rode that wave as far as it would go. And looking back I’m amazed there are still so many of us alive. Well mail trucks turned to trains, inside,outside, layups. the yards. And you can just imagine how all the other stuff went?
Most of my friends growing up went to one of the three Catholic schools close by, St. Anthony’s, St. Raymond’s, or my grade school St. Helena’s. There are a millions stories that go along with that part of our lives also, as you can imagine. I’m tired now, seems that way a lot these days. Think I’ll just rest a bit before I get into some of the real stories. Stories that would hurt your dear Mother if she knew about it.
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The shuffle board courts and what we used as the punch-ball field in the south
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Tie your laces or you are going to fall and crack your head open.
MY HOMETOWN
BULLYING
It’s hard for me to put a date on it, though I do know that we still lived in the East at the time. Our apartment had a window which kinda faced toward the East playground. Third floor if I am recalling correctly. The playgrounds in Parkchester in those days were a wonderful and also horrific site. What I’m saying is the slides, the monkey bars, the swings, scully boards were a child’s dream. Two sets of swings, the kiddie swings, and the big swings. Two slides also. The small slide, and the big slide. The whole thing, and here is the semi horrific thing, was surrounded by what at the time, to a boy of 6 or 7 seemed to be 10 foot high iron fences. The tops of which were a point, which resembled, no actually was a spear point. Anyway, on the particular day in question, 1969 ish, my sister Andrea and myself, were out there having a great time. If Mom needed us to come home she could just yell out the window like Ralph Cramden calling “hey Norton” on the Honeymooners. Did I forget to mention there was no rubber mats on the ground, or soft stuff under the equipment, we had asphalt or cement maybe. This I do know, it was hard as a brick. So here we are playing away and some kid is giving my sister a hard time on the big slide. So little brother decides it’s time to make a move. Chin up chest out all 35 or 40 pounds of me goes up the ladder to the big slide and I stay there. Now this kid is not gonna be able to have any fun either. Now if you grew up in the area you know about the Rec officers, they were older teens who would keep an eye on things run little games and crafts, and of course The Indian Pageant. Of which, I can’t speak at this point, but which will amaze the uninitiated. Aright back to the day in question, it was summer I suppose because the ping-pong tables were out, just past the slides to the left. Well, here I am standing on the platform at the top of the big slide, and bully guy is trying to get me to go down so he can be king of the mountain. I was feeling quite proud of myself, defending my sister, holding my ground at the top when all of a sudden……The next thing I remember I was sitting on the ping pong table and the Rec girl was trying desperately to put my canvas keds sneakers (the ones that had the small blue and red stripe on the side of the rubber sole) back on my feet. I wiped the tears away and Andrea and I headed home. No tattling, no parents called, no police. Took my lumps, and good ones at that, hope I don’t go too bald or lots of scars will be visible, learned a bit about the rules of playground etiquette. I also learned what a concussion was and most of all, the biggest lesson, if you fall headfirst after being pushed off the big slide and hit the cement headfirst you better have your Keds or Chuck Taylor’s tied right and tight, Mom was right , “if you dont tie those laces you are going to fall and crack your head open. There’s one more for mothers everywhere!
THE LEGEND OF THE HUNDRED HALLS
Where have all the children gone?
Now growing up in Parkchester had a lot of wondrous and exciting advantages to many other neighborhoods in the Bronx. One which stirs up childhood fantasies, and memories is the Hundred Halls as they were referred to by almost every kid in the neighborhood and many adults. According to a paper found online, “Parkchester is comprised of 51 buildings with a modular system of varied cores and wings. 12,273 units house 42,000 people. Building range in height from 8 to 13 stories,” What this means is that most buildings were connected to other buildings. For the record if you lived there you know that we called them 7 story and 12 story buildings And while there were not direct pathways from one lobby to another there were ways to cut through if you ventured down a flight from the lobby. You see back then we had things called carriage rooms. You could walk down a flight from the lobby and go down the long hallways below to enter these rooms. most were long with metal railings on opposite walls. Generally there was a ramp access on the outer side to the lower level for easy access. The women of the buildings would keep the large baby carriages of the era there, some would lock them I guess with a chain to the bar, though I can’t remember anyone doing that. Some people would keep their bikes and store other things in these rooms , before crime got to be such a problem…..
Ok, so back to the legend. While travel between certain buildings was simple to achieve, it was the idea of being able to go to any building in the complex that drew our young minds to adventure. But to do so would require the help of another legend of Parkchester “The Master Master Key”. Master keys were held by the porters who kept the buildings clean and all the things in working order. These master keys were good for one or two buildings but the” Master Master” would access those doors that led to the very secret hundred halls.
Several times in my misspent youth I or a friend would take it upon ourselves to rid a lax porter of his key ring, he may have left on his jacket, hanging on a doorknob while he worked.
This is where the adventure began. the basement halls could be long and dark, with lots of doors that were unmarked except the fallout shelter rooms with those yellow and black signs. And kids, well we loved drama and would try to keep each other on edge and scared as we wandered underground trying keys in doors and going through different rooms to other halls. Feeling like we had gone miles and been down there for hours we would have to ultimately emerge only to find out we were still just a building or two away.
Today it may not seem like much to you, but to us who grew up there and lived these adventures, to us it was more than even Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn could have survived. And I’m sure if there are still kids living there that somehow, by someone, the legend has passed down. And with it the stories of the kids who went looking and never came back.
This is the link if you never lived there that will show you how buildings were connected around the complex.
This was base, where you were supposed to be safe…….The Wall in the South.
HOTBEANSANDBUTTER
/OR/
HOTPEASANDBUTTER
Along time ago in a land far far away. Or so it seems these days. Enough of that back to the serious matter at hand. A game whose origin must stretch back to the days betore man was civilized. At the least as far back as the 50’s or 60’s, maybe further.
Who came up with this sadistic form of fun is also another of the great mysteries of growing up in Parkchester, and it’s surrounding neighborhoods. This much I think, everyone who is familiar with this game can agree on, It had to have been devised by one of our older brothers or sisters. How do I know this?,cause they were always the person that suggested the playing of the game.
My first run at this childhood game was at the Wall in the South. I don’t recall all the faces on that illfated day, “oh the humaity”! I am quite sure that I was with my cousin Johnny, strange he pops up alot in these tales?! or #@$%&##…others included Mary Jane, Tommy, Albie, Patricia, and Patricia, possibly Georgie and Andy.
Regardless this is how the game went. One of the older kids says. “hey lets play hot beans and butter” and all the younger kids say, “Yeah, Yeah, how do we play?” Was Margaret there that day? I think so. Anyway, at this point the rules are spelled out for the uninitiated……..”ok who has a good belt on? great that will do, now the first person, that will be me since me and Tommy are the only ones who have played before, hides the belt…then after it hid, yous guys have to try and find it..if someone is close, I’ll say you’re gettin warm, if you start to get further away , I say something like “Johnny’s getting cold”. Now this spot here is base, if you make it here you are safe, Then all us little kids say….”safe from what?” …”Well when someone finds the belt then they get to whip anyone who has not made it to base yet until they do”..”AHHH? OK?” says our little minds.
At that point the rest of the rules were spelled out:
no hitting with the buckle
no hitting above the waist
no hitting in the front
blah..blah..blah
penalties were imposed for infractions
1 lash, 3 lashes, and on to the gauntlet!
Now I may be a paranoid, tinfoil hat wearing conspiracist, but I am pretty sure that at least that first round was rigged and Tommy and Johnny knew that Johnny was going to find that belt. And then the game was on!First round, Tommy hides the belt, Johnny finds it and several of us get a good little whipping. Johnny was great at finding that belt, he would be standing right over it and couldn’t see it until almost everyone had made there way close, and bam! he would pull it out of no where and be on us.
Several rounds and several red welts and arguments about penalties later, after a few tears here or there (mostly here) an event took place that ended the game for that day. Now we all knew that Bronx girls were tough, I had lost a fight or two to several already by this almost grown up age of nine or ten. But, I don’t think any of us had any idea exactly how tough, until Mary Jane got whipped in a fashion that did not apply to the rules. I kinda think she was already upset after Patricia got two big ole welts on her back the round before, that were above the zone deemed legal. Well in a flash as the next swing came at her, she had the belt and was swinging like a Yankee in the World Series. Most all of us got a lashing and the game ended on that round, until next week when we gave it another go. At least thats the way I remember it happening, you may have a different memory of the day and that’s ok.
So whether you call it hot beans and butter, or hot peas and butter, that’s not important to me or to the story of that day. To me, and I saw it myself in the eyes of the older boys..I was a little young at the time…,in Parkchester boys love a tough girl, and the girls in our neighborhood, in the neighborhoods around us, the girls in our gang, they were tough.
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stairs down from the Wall
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How tough were those girls? these are the roller-skates they went down those stairs on.
The names used in the story are not the important thing (though the people are}..you see we were all guilty in our own way, but also so, so innocent and young. Time moves by, and we moved on here and there, but somehow I always felt like these were special times, and though my memory is not what it was…memories like this are special, and people like those in my story, are special and always will be to me. Thanks for listening. Yous guys know who you are! But seriously if you think its you in my story and would like your name removed let me know.
poetrY, that was probably a bad term most would call it that but in reality what i’m putting out there would be better described as folkwritings. whilE my writings may consist of some elements academia would consider traditional poetry, rhyme, rhythm, meter, and the like are not considered to be prominent to me. I speak of my thoughts across a wider range of expressions. I can’t remember who said it or where i first heard it, but when asked what folk music was they said something like..its music by folks ..for folks… stylE, structure, humbug i write what i like what i feel not for appeal. jusT words on a page, or a bunch of 0s and 1s in a plastic box. dO i hope other people like it , well thats hard to say. aT least if they dont like it i hope they hate it. oR maybe feel somethin’ more than just the emotions we have been conditioned to adhere to. perhapS if i’m good it will be as good as the words on a cereal box..diG it!
disclaimeR
thoughtS,opinions,visionS of the writerS
especialY of a political
oR social nature
arE subject to change at any given
liviN’ moment
iN time
iN space
iN matter
thougH it matter not
R.P.filos
10$20$15
heR neck so soft
sO tender to the touch
legS slim but just
meatY enough
heR breasts
heR breasts so plump
sO white
shE will be so delicious
thiS thanksgiving night
endtimesconspiracy 