My hoodie and me. My hoodie and me. My hoodie and me. And the smell of Mountain Dew.
A stale citrus stink, too—like when some lemonhead john cruises the junkie lime hooker who hangs out behind the diner on Alameda and Bryant and the two trade on their separate loneliness in quick oily spurts behind a dumpster stuffed with soggy wooden produce crates.
You know the smell. Like a puddle of resignation.
—Speaking of which, did I ever tell you about the time my hoodie killed a junkie lime hooker? Me, I just stood there and watched, puffing on a Menthol cigarette and willing myself into a liquid state. A speck of rain on a windshield, disinterested, refracting a benign and glistening slaughter in twitchy oblong curves bleeding all the colors of the rainbow…
Then I washed my hands, went home, and had a bowl of clam chowder. Because that’s the kind of bastard I can be.
You smoke pot don’t you?
You’ve…been to Poughkeepsie again, haven’t you?
Been there? Hell, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my socks off, with my fingers between my toes, man.
You could dig out the copy of To Live and Die in L.A. – I know it’s not the same, but it’ll take the edge off the Friedkin-deprivation angst.
And Sprite. Sprite is good.
Love that flick. Could watch the Exorcist, too. But I’m in the mood for Bronson just now, and I watched both Mr Majestyk and Hard Times, recently. The Mechanic would work—but seeing as how I haven’t seen the Valachi Papers since I caught bits of it on TV as a kid, I figure I’ll give it a go.
Yeeesssss. Happy as a wino with a belly full of vomit.
SENTO ODORE DI ESTHER WILLIAMS!
If the need for a Bronson fix still lingers, how about Death Hunt? Bronson and Lee Marvin, rampaging across the Yukon. Still can’t figure why Hollywood didn’t team them up more often. Or, there’s Breakheart Pass – overlooked little gem of a movie, and admirably faithful to the Alistair MacLean source material.
Say good night, Gracie
Hmmm.
You should write a novel Jeff. No idea what the plot would be like, but I bet it would pretty damn funny.
 American Poster, Bret Easton Ellis…
Man, klonopin and William S Burroughs just don’t mix.
Eerie feeling of the ghost of William S. Burroughs walking about…
Love the seedy side of you Jeff. Nothing better than quick dumpster sex….
Manhattan or Boston?
I dunno about Jeff writing a novel–the novel doesn’t have those built-in wonderful uncomfortable ‘McFly playing the electric guitar in Back to the Future’ silences. Those require an immediate audience.
Off topic,
Why Alito merely balances the court, and certainly does not tilt it too far to the Right.
Did I ever tell you about the time I killed a drifter just to get an erection?
New England.
And natesnake: Yes, too many times. Please. Stop it. It makes me uncomfortable, frankly.
Her name, coincidentally, was Lipschitz.