ON PETE

Of course I liked him. Who didn't? I'm just saying I didn't like his music that much. It was just too much of a thing, ya know, too much of a communion. I once took Henry to one of those horrible festivals at the river park and there he was, up there all hunched over his big, long banjo. "Is that Bob Dylan, daddy?" Henry asked. "That's Pete Seeger, Henry. He's a very special person. He lives here in Beacon. He lives right on the mountain." "Oh. Can we go now, daddy?" You could barely hear anything over that crowed. They were all on their feet, clapping, and singing along to This Land Is Your Land. Uh, God, you should've seen those creatures. Few groupings of people disgust me as much as what surfaces at something like that. I don't like be around anyone singing and clapping anyway. I mean, unless you're up there performing, keep your fucking mouth shut. I don't even like it when people sing Happy Birthday. And these people around here. I'm serious, I'd much rather brave the crowed at one of those monster truck jams or something. Their type of positivity should never be trusted. To believe in humanity like that. But, anyway, you know, I still respected the hell out of him. But what I really liked was seeing him around town in his orange hat. I also liked that he always wore Wrangler's. I'd see him shopping for produce at the farmer's market or at the health food store, and it was just the way he picked things up, the way he held things, the way he would study a vegetable or a piece of fruit. That was enough for me. So rest in peace, Pete. You certainly deserve it.

PIPE DREAM

I'd give anything to own a little gas station/convenient store out in the middle of nowhere near some dried up old lake somewhere with one beat up old pump sticking right out of the dirt. Actually, the store would simply be the front portion of my house, an extension of my living room, where I'd be sitting half asleep, reclined in my big old Lazy-Boy, watching the Price Is Right or old reruns of Magnum P.I. or Roseanne. I'd sell cigarettes and beef jerky, strange looking fishing tackle, some sort of live bait, but I'd always be out of the live bait. A couple sleeves of Saltines, a few bars of candy, Snickers, Mars, a couple of KitKats, an assortment of Lifesavers, and the only gum would be Big Red and Juicy Fruit. There'd be some other odds and ends, a lone box of bandaids, tampons, a plastic comb, toilet paper, paper towels, paper plates, some diapers, toothpicks, plastic utensils, condoms, a jar of instant coffee, sunscreen… Everything would be dusty and most of the packaging would be old and faded. I'd have a regular old fridge in the corner filled with Coors and Budweiser, bottles of Coke and Fante and A&W Root beer. At the top would be a tiny little freezer compartment filled with Icy Pops. So anyway, if this dream I have were to somehow come to be, and if for some reason you wound up there and you needed to stop in, whatever you do, do not let that screen door slam. The sign will be right in front of your face: "DO NOT LET THE DOOR SLAM!" For God or somebody help you if you do.

AHOY!

It seems I've always had two types of friends in my life, ones that are like me, who feel that life is sadder than death, and then those that like to watch sports.

SO ALONE

The flowers became the thorns.

COME ON, MAN

"Come on, man, no one climbs into love."

THE FUCKER

I actually really like him. I think he's come pretty far with the energy he has. I just can't stand to be around the fucker.

RIGHT AT MY ASSHOLE

Another reason I wouldn't want to be a gay man or a good looking woman is that I'd hate to always have to consider the fact that whenever I had sex, at some point, the other person's most likely going to be staring right at my asshole.