March3 2022
But I am just a monkey man
I'm glad you are a monkey woman too
I was bitten by a boar
I was gouged and I was gored
But I pulled on through
Yeah, I'm a sack of broken eggs
I always have an unmade bed
Don't you?
Driving home last night. 4am. The city is dead except for The Night People. As a certified Red Light Disrespector (trademark, copyrighted by Winston Inc.) I don’t drive slow enough to really ‘soak it in.’ But I was going under a bridge. One I know The Cops like to lurk behind waiting for people like me.
I don’t blame The Cops. They are sporting Men. Make bets with them, deals, negotiations, competitions. They like this. I once went through a traffic stop. Couldn’t avoid it. Earlier that same week I tried to avoid one by pulling into a nearby driveway, turning off my lights, throwing beer into residential bushes. After waiting a couple minutes I backed out and sped the opposite way. Freedom felt good. Wild. Liberating. Fuck them. Outsmarted. This feeling crumbled quickly. Two sets of Blue and Reds turning the corner zooming after me. They caught me. Another story. Later.
Back to it. Sporting Men. Yes. I had to go through this traffic stop. An ounce of flower in my backseat. Half in one jar, half in another. Skunk fumes pouring out of the window because the Team had just hotboxed. Emotions were high, the new Wiz album was playing. This was years and years ago. I was a cliche. 4 state troopers and 2 local cops cars sitting at a corner caught me like fly in web. Nothing I could do.
“We know you have drugs we smell them. Show us” I show them half. One of the Jars. “Why do you have this much” I’m back in town from College for Christmas break. blah blah blah more details but they’re not the point of this article. But the sporting aspect: Eventually I was let off the hook if I could:
“Pull up there. 100 yards away from all of us [Officers]. Get out of your car. Unscrew the lid on that mason jar. Pour it all out. Stomp on it. Look back at us. Give a thumbs up. You have 30 seconds before we come after you” Searing energy. Lightening.
Like I said The Cops are sporting men. It didn’t help that I’m white. and smart. and charismatic. and from the same City as them.
After that we pulled 3 minutes away into the country club, walked into the foundation of a house being built on hole 2, a deathly long Par 4. Sitting in some future nuclear families foyer we did more drugs. I drive past that home now. See the family. Oblivious. They never know the christening that happening before the walls of their Home were finished….
Back to: I leisurely cruise under the bridge. I don’t want to have a run in with The Cops tonight. While slowing I look under the bridge to see strange sight:
Homeless man is behind the pillars. He’s laying in his sleeping bag. Toboggan on, thick Winter gloves. Nothing unusual. EXCEPT THE IHPONE HE’S HOLDING OUTSTRETCHED INFRONT OF HIM. Ironic observations. I hate these the most. Like schoolgirl sneakily late night texting her crush from the warmth of her parents home.. This man, calloused, outside in 40degree temp, a rogue, scrolling his $1,000 phone in the dead of night in his under the bridge bed.
I don’t pretend to know his story. Only was odd combinations of visuals.
Message from loyal Reader Don about March 1st writing. (Sent at 4:44) (numerologist KNOW) We are taking a train trip. Imagine Ken Kesey, novelist and ‘Counterculture figure’s” Merry Band of Pranksters circa 60’s with a bus painted in quintessential hippie designs full of acid heads and woodstock artifacts. Except now it’s 2022 and a group of Weirdos get on the urban passenger train so drunk they start throwing up complaining about motion sickness to the train attendant frantically asking him to please MAN slow down this fucking train! “Why would we get on drunk!?” It ask. “If prone to motion sickness, why?” It ask. For the Story. Why Else?
Pigeon perched on skyscraper unapologetically shitting on Reality below is a lot like me. Except I sit on my balcony. Alone. Flicking cigarette buds down, aiming for the tops of foreign made vehicles. The Mark of the Beast is a semi circular scorched burn splotch on the hoods of these machines. One day a butt will land under the car. Rolling ‘randomly’ into under engine gas leakage. Explosion will ensue. Mentally, I am not prepared for this. But I continue. Curious if this will really happen. Nonetheless this way-of-passing-time is why I canceled on my date last night.
This is twice this week. At this rate I will be alone. Self induced. Worried? Never. Abundance always. She wanted to ‘come over.’ Is that even a date? Whore. She just sent me text. Ironic. My reads are on. Not checking it. Looking like a picture of a smoothie or something. She just wants me to listen to her. I’m a great listener. People tell me deep dark secrets. Then, during their final push of breath will zap back, look at me and say something like
“whoa I’ve never told anyone that…”
or “im sorry! i don’t know why that all came out I never mention that stuff to people”
Suicide attempts, emotional baggage from childhood they’ve built up to be ‘interesting,’ obscure sexual kinks, even sinful thieving/scheming they had locked away. I hear it all.
Maybe it’s my eyes. They spark at INTERESTING things. All the aforementioned are interesting. I think people see this spark when they begin opening up. They see a completely enthralled looking human, actually listening. This is 50% true. I’m good at ‘looking’ like I’m listening. But sometimes I drift. Why does the corner of their mouth move like that? Are they mirroring my hand position? I move my hand to see. They adjust. They are mirroring me! I own them. All of this is happening while I am ‘listening’ and they are talking to me as if I’m therapist.
God gave me this trait for some reason: being ‘easy’ to ‘talk to.’
I don’t mind it. And i’ve learned to have boundaries with my time and enrgy. But It helps people get weird with me. And the best part is I never have to even open up to them about my Demons. I wouldn’t, regardless, but They don’t even need that trust-push. This weirdness inspires me to urge more people to open up their weirdness…
So I cancel. I don’t feel like listening. Or having anyone near me. I want to be alone for a day or two or three or 3 summers locked in “making 5 beats a day for 3 summers that’s a different world like 3 summers.. I deserve to do these Numbers! The kid that made that… deserves that Maybach!”
The plan isn’t necessarily to ‘change the world.’ How cliche! That’s inevitable. We’re too prone to hissing at faux authority figures to avoid influencing at least a speck of change. No. More importantly the plan is to manipulate, continuously, my perception of the world until 1. I go crazy, holed up as a recluse unable to abandon delirious opinions on the Real America that was Taken or 2. create a change.
Whatever happens, it will be Stylish.
I worry rarely about ‘big picture plans’ in this regard. I move forward, every day, with passion, and God puts plans in my heart. Small things. Petting that disgusting dog at the park earlier today was an example. Gross creature. But i touched it. Bringing some sense of pleasure to its being. Maybe it carries that Joy. Later it licks its owners face out of a love, a response of affection derived from my selfless petting earlier. Then maybe that owner, happy, subconsciously, from the dogs love, donates 1,000 to my Doom Fund.
Ripples. Life is like this. To hard plan is to kill!
Write me something:
Can even be an evil plan you have that I may or may not use to blackmail you throughout the 2020’s until you forget you even said it but now it’s 2034 and you’re running for public office and I need money and I sell the email detailing your evil plans to your opponent.
Godspeed,
Winston
Souled Idea
Red Light Disrespector
Backyard Philospher
