Thank Gods It's Sunday

The Reverend Frank Freeknik

You can take Monday through Saturday and stuff them in the disposal. Sunday is when god gives up the goo extra chewy. It is also when everybody is on the street. You see people you forget they even make anymore. A tall man in a four color suit, shoes formerly reptilian, his smile says, "I know where to get you a sweet Lincoln Continental on the cheap."

Go outside on Sunday and see doors open that have been sealed since the last race riot. Out of rusty side hutches pop low slung creatures scuttling and confused. Gaze at them in awe. Who are you? How long has your caretaker kept you locked inside? How does it feel to finally feel a languid Sunday afternoon upon your swollen hump?

You listen as they whisper: Sunday is an old man trying to feel up your girlfriend between parking meters. It is two Mexican buenas buying a 12 pack while trolling for beunos on a cellphone. It is a swarm of small children hanging off monkey bars looking for adventure or whatever comes their way. On Sunday you come home at twilight covered in a slippery grime from the sweat of small crimes, including larceny and lunacy. To the beach, zoo, park, restaurant, steel mill, video store, theater, street, bar, alley, park, beach, lake, home and bed. Always bathe before you go to bed on Sunday.

It is a good day to visit with dead loved ones. Adorn them with flowers and reminisce about old times. Dead loved ones can be quite mischievous. Do not be surprised if, after visiting your dead friend, a waitress spills a malted on your lap. Or some guy who just got whacked in the head wanders into the diner, bleeding, asking for a phone. Dead loved ones want to remind us to be careful where you step on Sunday. More blood is found on Sunday streets and sidewalks than any other day.

Sunday is for lovers, loners and loiterers of all types. This is the day you sit in the intersection while the Uzbekistani grandmother learns the difference between the gas and brake pedals. I would like to make a special plea: Sundays should be a 'loiterer right of way' day. Trust me, I know what it feels like to be stuck behind a complete moron who needs to be dragged from their vehicle and forced to eat used chewing gum out of a dirty ashtray. But on Sunday we should all try to not give a damn. Just turn up the radio, imagine various pedestrians naked and consider where to get a snack soon.

Why are Sundays so memorable? It is because they cast poignant apparitions of how delicious this world is if we accept the terror too. To get in unfamiliar clothes, drive to new places, meet strange people, participate in spontaneous rituals, hear utterances unbelievable and touch monstrous beauty – Sunday sometimes offers this. Even if you are only going to Arby's.

Today is a day to Windex the computer screen or watch a weird movie on UHF or call your crazy friend in Baltimore or snack in somebody's backyard or scribble disturbing thoughts in a three ring binder or wander aimlessly. Try and discover lovers arguing over a pizza slice, loners searching in the stacks and loiterers spacing out in big plate windows.

Get out there and find out what god meant when s/he said, "Six days slog, one day snog."

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What happens after we die – A discussion on a bus.

Persephone Johnson

Some say the afterworld is like riding the bus. Others say it is like riding the subway. Still others say it is like riding the trolley with your head out the window. To keep things simple the afterworld is like riding the bus. If you have been good you will ride with the whole world singing in perfect harmony. If you have been bad you will sit next to befuddled people leaving foul puddles.

What is sweeter than getting a good bus driver? A nerveless lunatic who can take everything the world hurls at her. Bikes, cars, godforsaken pedestrians. Bus drivers carry that most precious of cargo, bus riders. Us transfer farers, us straightline swimmers and bucket seat clowns, we need the most skilled couriers available.

And we need a new saint. I nominate the lady who drives the Damen Avenue bus. She still wears that taut bus driver cravat and crisp shirt. She says hi and bye and talks on the phone while expertly dominating the rush hour slog. At the end of my journey I make sure to say, "Thanks for the ride." She replies, "Thanks for riding with me baby." A great driver and a shameless flirt, what else does a saint need to be?

But what about what happens after we die? The answer maybe here on the Milwaukee Avenue bus. I eavesdrop on two farm girls turned hipster chicks giving babies scary smiles while talking about romantic adventures in snow caves. I believe they have not stopped talking since early last year. If they know what happens after we die they do not share. Although I do learn about their love of Peter who has these amazing dogs. And how it is acceptable to use 'classic' snowboarding equipment. As long as it was cool to begin with.

Convicts riding to the court house on the Chicago Avenue bus seem a good bet to teach us about the post mortem. But all I hear are numbers exchanged, perhaps it is secret prison code. Things like, "Six big took me two three." Convicts on the bus are the loudest type rider and are always in the back. When they see their cousin enter up front they yell, "Yo Marvin where that playa Tim at?" Marvin repeats, "yeah" until such time as he arrives in the back. Then they exchange the secret prison forearm greeting.

After you die you must first ride on a bus. It will change night from day. The placards above you will be from the folks who put poetry in public places. They have used typical bus ads as their subjects. Like:

Baby means life
Abortion means strife
Avoid Satan's knife
And make heaven rife.

Or:

A diploma's as good as high school
Bad aroma a G.E.D cleans off a fool
Also keeps you cool
so you do unspool
Health, Wealth and Wise
This is what a G.E.D buys.

At the six way intersection, clogged and delirious we hit our nadir. People fidget, put on headphones, annoy their siblings, talk on cell phones. Is this where we go posthumously? Shades riding in a box with other shades, flickering senescence stuck in traffic. We examine the exclamations of dead love carved into the airless vent screen. Roman and Mary were lovers. Later additions show Mary learned of Roman's bad ways, took nail scissors and scratched him from memory.

Then it starts moving again. The day is nice, the windows are open and we get a breeze. Sun chases us through trees waving in the warm wind. A serenity falls on us. Outside seethes the inferno of honking cars, predatory pedestrians and homeless pets. Inside the mortal coil no longer reaches us with its pain. We bounce rhythmically. A small girl beams up to her mommy's beatific face and says, "I need to pee."

On the Division Avenue bus all the conditions are ripe for an epiphany as to what awaits when the old ticker clicks its last. Mixed together are angry ghetto urchins, uptight office workers, scowling elderly, hyperactive children, confused drifters and one very impatient bus driver. We hurl around cars, cut off trucks, perform rolling stops then hit an old metal bridge with a tremendous bounce.

And there it is for that one moment. Everyone on the bus is airborne, weightless, deeply focused on the one same thing: "What the…?" A glimpse of the other side of life, quite focused, needing only now.

Reentering life is hard once you have touched the afterlife. We hit the iron bridge with a shock up our tailbones. We shudder at our recent visitation, then turn back to the drive time commercial free party jam on the headphones.

This spiritual discussion is dedicated to all the beautiful and bold bus drivers of the Chicago Transit Authority.

The buttock summer fashion update

Cassie Bass

These new jeans are fitting nicely around people's backsides lately. Jeans do not always make asses look great, so when a mad genius finds a design to shapely mold buttocks, we rejoice. And inhale its sweet fruit. A juicy caboose is mighty fine. It emits a sweet gas as it rolls on down the line. Remember, a hot ass must get around. Reach out to those who are starved for it.

This leads us to a question from Dekalb, IL: When were asses invented? Trick question. They were not invented but rather sculpted on the planes of beautiful Africa. Here the first cheeks were chiseled in the tall grass where lions crept and caribou grazed. Here is where homo sapien sapiens first knelt down before exquisite gluteus maximus and said, "It is life. And it is good."

Then we were thrown out of paradise. Fast forward to modern day. Now we look at asses so ugly and terrifying it as if they attempt to attack us from worn spandex seams. But occasionally hot butts still come our way. And when we look upon one we see a reflection of our common ancestor, the first woman who begat the entire human race. Her name was Luca and as legend has it, her ass was un-buh-buh-lievable.

But back to today's asses. Big and plump are definitely in right now. Even little bitty butts are trying to fluff it up. That is where these new jeans come into play. These jeans have managed to hoist and swell even the most modest of cheek. In my book a fashion legend has been born. Congratulations to whoever you are. You have made us who need a lot of hot ass very happy indeed.

In terms of this summer's ass temperament, I saw some lazy ass strolling at the park the other day. There is something intrinsically compelling about a fat lazy ass. A bit sullen. What people forget is the immensity of the butt muscle, our body's biggest. When it flexes it has the power to smack a thousand mouths into anguished ecstasy.

Remember the following to have this summer's hottest ass. Think moist and insouciant with post traumatic stress syndrome. Aspire to as indifferent as the weather permits. Garnish with a twist of insolence. Keep your ass surly and you will fill gapers with awe and wonder.

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The Urban Industrial Corridor Walking Tour

Armand Hammer VIII

There is something so comforting about an urban industrial corridor. People in sturdy box buildings emit foul smells in the name of circular forms, feather down products, carne fresco, taxicab repair and even the familiar whiff of horse dung from the carriage ride company stables. It is empty and busy at the same time. Displayed in factory windows are sun yellowed, two sided signs - Work Yes/Work No.

There are no power babies in carriages here, no SUVs preening toward the upscale boutique. Not that money does not exert itself, just differently. A cocky Mercedes with vanity tags in a barbed wire lot. All sorts of money exhibition down here. From the boss man's cherished family sedan to the cholo souped-up Chevy in which a shift worker listens to a monster stereo.

Everyone is here in the name of commerce. But it is too messy and too busy to be too much about display. Trucks keep backing, rebacking then finally backing onto loading docks. They disgorge or demand, and nobody wants to hear a story about why you are not ready. No slackers work in the industrial corridor. Somebody needs this 30 gallons of beef lard and 4 lambs right now. So the trucks chortle stinky diesel and clog the streets. Smart cars avoid the industrial corridor like the plague. A truck idles in the middle of the street to tell a lengthy and crude joke to a guy in a white smock and plastic head covering. Only after pitchforks load him up and the punch line is uttered is he on his way.

When you walk through an industrial corridor always stop and look four ways at intersections. The ones you really have to watch out for are the garbage trucks. These waste routers do not play. They got too many dumpster loads to deliver to the regional transfer station (stay upwind of the transfer station) to worry about pedestrians. Besides, if they run you over they just shovel you into the back and mash you to untraceable pulp.

Basically you need to step lively. It is not just the trucks, it is the street people too: the crack addicts, pallet haulers, metal scavengers and sex workers one finds along the way. Do not worry about the guys with grocery carts. They are working, no matter how nasty they look, and will not screw with you. They will however not get out of your way. Crack addicts will hassle you for money but can be ignored if you keep up a pace too brisk for their drug addled lungs. Sex workers are tempting but should be avoided. Nothing conjures a crisis of faith like fondling a hag in an alley while watching somebody clean out slurry drums.

Art freaks can be found in the crevices of an industrial corridor. They are undernourished and overstimulated and are also best avoided. But the appearance of art freaks means you should start looking for industrial sized art pieces. See if you can spot a car completely duct taped in a vacant lot, or a twenty foot paper mache' head, or a frisky stick man made of iron who forges steel with 10 foot bow tongs. There is a certain type of artist who eschews nature completely to live here. They usually smoke so much they do not consider the effluent from the plastics factory to be unduly noxious. They also like big industrial rooms so they can finally get the monkey out of their head and onto the wall. Then get a bunch of other art freaks to come over, drink beer and leer at it.

The industrial corridor always has a varied geography. Like a foul and torpid river on which scrap barges chug towards the sea. Or an appalling canyon of train yard, dirt lots stitched up with rail ties. Or an upright bridge blocking the sun, lowered at midnight to convey fruit trains from California, potash from Virginia and bitumen from Ohio.

At some point you want to turn off and wander to a neighborhood with houses and trees and the sounds of crows and small kids. Nothing makes one appreciate a quiet sleepy street like a tour down the old industrial corridor. After the incessant thrum of smells and shouts and that unfortunate glimpse into the meatpacking plant, it is nice to sit in some corner place and ponder from a distance the wonders of the urban industrial corridor.

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Weekend Redecoration

Sponsored by Molly's Bolts - The Puncture Product People. "If you have to pound it, you'll find us at Fulton and Ogden."

Did a little redecorating this weekend. That is, I watched some redecorating on the TV. Meaning that my significant other likes "Trading Spaces." What do you learn on that show? Be careful or hysterical hiss pots will cover your bedroom in blue particle board.

Before I start a home makeover I like to check my emotional state. Do I really need to soundproof the basement to make a dungeon? Maybe I should just find a good anger management book. Rage does not lead to the proper arrangement of comfy chairs. And you never end up using a dungeon that much. It is sort of like a ping-pong table.

Do you ever get so sick of your house/apartment/box that you daydream up a giant suction tube that will inhale all your furniture, pets and cinderblocks you cannot look at one second longer? You are a candidate for a handy home project.

Does this mean you have to clean behind the stove? Absolutely not. Redecorating is all about color swatches. And filling the holes the dog gnawed into the wall. And wondering what in god's name is with these $7,000 home stoves? These are for people who overcompensate for the tiny roast they have to put in the oven.

First thing's first. You must wander aimlessly at a mega store. If a product is sold in a ten acre warehouse, it comes with a promise of quality. You must attack these places with a plan. Get the extra lithium battery with your cordless drill. Get the extra horsepower for your garbage disposal. And do get the hot dog value meal in the hut out front.

But never get these things on the weekend. These places on Saturday sap your faith in humanity. If you have to go on the weekend, talk loudly to yourself in the aisles about building a top secret beam disabler. This will at least keep the path clear.

If you are the sole redecorating decision maker, the job is a lot easier. Just remember the basics – bleach, spackle and whatever the alley gives up. But things change when you must share the decision making. Communication can get strained. The questions become different. "Will it make it home on the top of my car," becomes, "But what happens when your sister and her kid get thrown out of another apartment and have to come stay for a month?"

Redecorating is admittedly a poor substitute for an unfulfilled spiritual life. Do cloistered monks need crushed velvet lounges? No, they are happy with bare wood and wet stone. What window treatment is more spectacular than holy refulgence swelling through a hole in a mud hut?

But we can approximate spiritual happiness with Ralph Lauren paint. Or new wainscoting in the living room. Do not forget interior foliage. Something about a new houseplant says, "I am ready for transcendence." Overcome metaphysical suffering with a funky 70's sphere terrarium. Add a mini plastic army man jungle war diorama and achieve enlightenment.

Redecorating, like spirituality, is as much about subtraction as addition. Whenever you wonder whether something has outlived its usefulness, use this rule of thumb - "Get rid of it." Better yet, put it in the alley so the redecorating cycle can complete itself.

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Dr. Mindgold's Power Personality Seminar

Today's Topic: Insanitize your life.

Power Personalities (PP's) invoke awe and dread in all who bask in their fusion-like energy. PP's draw the throng mainly because of their deep healing powers. But PP's also use insanity to bring people under their magnificent penumbra. Chaos can be summoned to really good effect. PP's utilize effective irrationality to increase external chaos by almost a third.

To insanitize we must prioritize. Are we properly using paranoia and delusions of grandeur for maximum pot stirring? Perhaps let's review the basics of insanity to refresh ourselves. Insanity is when DNA mutates, then spreads in oblique environments. In other words, when a crazy person meets a crazy situation there is a fundamental disassociation from reality.

We chalk it up to being an 18th generation sex addict, yet our mutations must be nourished by conducive ecologies. Stressful situations are common fertilizer, a tough break-up perhaps. One where Love has slayed all infected with her. If you are properly mutated this stress will cause you to conduct a rebound online relationship with a self-mutilating St. Louis college student. Those optimally insanitized will receive in the mail a left finger on a friendship necklace.

Nature meets nurture and willy-nilly noogies us. We instinctively resist the cacophony of chaos but I urge you to find a place for it in your power personality strategy. PP's always use both chaos and order. Where does order come from? Chaos. The light of reason? In the dead bolted meat freezer of insanity.

Insanity creates small black holes in our world. PP's use these holes to bend reality to their bidding. Think of it as bringing the halfway house ethos into any social situation. Yes, the hot plate is brand new. So is this electronic monitoring bracelet. And that voice. And that one too.

Saint James said it best: "You might know karate but I know kuh-razy." Amen to that my brother. Let us all keep a can of psycho juice at the ready to unclog gunky social intercourse. With seven personalities you too can push through to the Happy Place where only PP's reside.

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Move in together after two weeks

Dr. Lovie Fasterson

overview

You are lonely, afraid, confused. Life seemingly has lost its meaning. Then one day a person arrives in your life. Not an everyday person, but special. When this person is around all your fears and worries go away. Perhaps you even touch yourself while thinking of this person.

Two weeks pass. Your relationship has seen 14 days of trials and tribulations. You have shared meals, made up stuff about yourselves and exchanged coy emails. Perhaps you have touched each other to some extent. The question then becomes: should we move in together?

The answer is, absolutely. Who cares if you have to break a lease/marriage/religious vow and put all your stuff in storage? Why worry about anything really when you have each other? People say you should take your time, explore a person before moving in with them. This is not true.

strategy

The first thing to do is find a suitable partner. The main problem with the 'two week move in' is, short of abduction, you need two people to want it. This is not as easy as it seems. And it must be forefront in your thoughts.

What to look for in a partner who will pitch it all in a fortnight? Seek multiple dark rings under eyes. Or someone with an obsessive relationship with the almighty. Listen for statements such as, "I want to be an actress," or "I'm addicted to running over whores playing Vice City."

The search will occasionally feel futile. Do not lose faith. Make sure you are looking for love in the right places. Common law domestic partnership begins at a:

A)Library. It sounds strange but the freakiest do-anything-with-anyone type people like to read. Hang around the books starting with Library of Congress numbers 827. Lots of people looking for fast love here.
B)Urban Industrial Corridor. The thrum of heavy machinery and the smell of mechanically separated chicken quicken the courtship process.
C)Anywhere you see the guy who sells socks out of a bag. If you hear the sock man shouting, "Six for five," you are in the right place. Suitable partners can be found under nearby rocks.

Do not think, once you find a partner your work is done. Your work is just beginning. You now have two weeks to convince this person the only choice left for you both is to move in together. How? Assume a mask of total confidence and try these tactics:

1)Lie. Not about the little things but about your future dreams and desires.
2)Talk less, touch more. What says "please move in" better than skin on skin for 14 days straight?
3)Agree with everything. For two weeks say nothing but, "You're absolutely right, honey." In the meantime make a set of spare keys.

best case scenario

You move in together and never look back, too busy battling, babbling and bamboozling each other to notice, 20 years later you have three kids and one of them figures out you two started shacking up 14 days after meeting each other. Your kid asks you, "What sort of freaks would do that?"

worst case scenario

You meet your match in the loony bin of life. You subsequently get eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner. After getting chewed up and spit out you rent a small room in a forgotten town and write an unsettling, thinly veiled novel about this relationship. This sells a surprisingly large number of copies. Due, in large part, to lengthy descriptions of lurid encounters in rusty automobiles.

intangibles

-A haunted domicile.
-Extreme meteorological events such as earthquakes.
-The forced assimilation of pets.

conclusions

This is recommended right after a bad break up. People who manage this trick always come out wiser and healthier, if not wealthier. In fact don't expect this move help in the wealth category.

But spread your checkbook open wide and discover a world often sung about, but rarely encountered by mortal man.

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Life Mistakes: Make Them for Fun and Profit

Ned Notagain

This pamphlet is now censored in Sierra Leone for its power to rebuild a village.

In This Edition:

Move in together after two weeks.

Do that last shot.

Believe you will be together after school/prison.

Buy it because it smells like seventh grade.

Phone your ex-lover.

Climb K2 after watching a TV show.

Move to where your friend is.

Believe in the goodness of our creator.

Volunteer in politics.

Buy it because it is 2 for 1.

Do it because your parents hate it.

Convince yourself it is all a coincidence.

Walk there.

Quit the job you love.

Take gambling advice from the guy who only says, "Oooh!"

Get the T-bone, eggs, bagel, home fries and coffee special.

Move to Los Angeles.

Grope an Englishperson.

Adopt a pet missing a limb.

Do it for love.

And more...

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Free Time For Dogs

Brought to you by Petastic - Has your pet reached euphoria yet? Bring your pet in today for a free consultation at Armitage and Halsted.

What do dogs do in their free time? Do they diet and behave and make themselves useful? A vacation from the labors of letting the mailman know what awaits him lest he let a finger linger. The dogs in my dreams always ask me to do such long awaited activities. We burst onto long embankments, chase down squirrels and rip them to shreds.

I remember an old dog when I was a kid. We used to like to do stuff and huff and puff. Maybe dig a hole if the opportunity arose. When it got boring we would fight until one of us was slightly injured. Then slink to neutral corners while mom checked the relevant immunization records.

Everyone is so concerned about their dog these days. Walking past the dog park I see dogs better cared for than three-fourths of the world's children. The dog nannies huddle in the corner, smoke and chat about the neuroses of each animal's owner. Guess the behavioral disorder made manifest in the overbred spastic labradour unable to excrement on the asphalt.

The dog park is on the way to the used bookstore. What do bookstore employees do in their free time? I assume they take a break from silently seething at the rabble of humanity. They eye me for problem making potential. Book readers are erratic customers. We are cheap, picky, prickly and have nowhere to go. I understand why the keepers of the books must choke down spite to spit out smiles.

I sniff around the paperbacks and pet a cat. Here's a pet. The cat. They know what you are, who you are and you can just go ahead and pet their ass. Then maybe they give a little purr. The cat and I sit down with some old novels. What do I even look for in a novel? Is it drunken English lads careening into old crones? Or is it the evil tart who made them do it? Us book readers are a despairing lot. With furrowed brow we try and avoid the poetry section. Perhaps popular science. Just how big is this universe? Just how do I copulate more within pack animal social structures?

A woman and her pug lead me back out on the street. Why do people suddenly like dogs with smashed faces? I like dogs with long noses that sniff out what you had for dinner yesterday. But such are the tastes of those whose opinion counts. I follow her and her smudge pudge into an arty store. It is going out of business. What will the arty store owners do in their free time? They might cover their nude statues with sensible slacks and spend the afternoon polishing shoes.

I love this store and am sad that it is going out of business. Where will I find obsessive compulsive prints of elongated babies? Or little pleas for help written on driftwood? Or Japanese snack food? This store should be making it. But instead we get our culture at the sandwich shop. Where we affirm lifestyle choices by eating mechanically separated industrial farm animal. We should all feel a bit smaller now that the arty store is gone. Especially when the drug dealer's girlfriend gets her dream of owning a nail salon. Please scratch my eyes out so I never see another another nail salon.

I grieve in the slacker coffee house across the street. For no reason no dogs allowed in here by order of the health department. I sit in the smoking section and don't smoke and scribble small drawings of my dream tree house. It has a rotating widow's peak. In the back by the bus tub and butt mounds, brochures and posters advertise music and art shows. One card only has a time and place and a picture of a dog wearing an Aztec mask. I consider whether the masked dog means free wine and snacks at this show. I pocket the picture of amores perros in tepid consideration.

I go to the old lunch place down the street for a fish sandwich and deep fried potatoes. The same guys have been running around this hot kitchen for years now. In their free time they make sure to count all their change before leaving the register area. They make my sammie just right, give me way too many fries and afterwards I must stagger out. Much like a greedy dog who has stolen a ham off his owner's table.

My friends' dog took a five pound ham off the table, then when she couldn't finish it, she hid the rest in her owners' bed to nibble on later. She lay in a semi conscious stupor for three days afterwards. And so we must ask ourselves again, what do dogs do in their free time? Do they fast and grieve for the mischief they have caused? It is hard to know since they are always working.

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Drifter Diaries

William Boxcar III

Ed. Note: Hizzer means his/her or him/her.

The urge to drift does not descend upon all in equal measure. For some a couple months in Europe are all they need for a lifetime. Real homebodies only need a weekend in Madison, WI to drift enough morally and spiritually. But once a full moon there arrives at the Greyhound Station that most rare species of freak. Yes, s/he is called the drifter. Don't ask hizzer too many questions.

Does the urge come hardwired in our brain? Are some predisposed to peripatetism? Yes. But many people attribute this urge to the evolutionary-sound strategy of finding new, fallow land into which to plant one's seed. No. Drifting is a physical deformity that makes one extremely sensitive to the seething, insufferable discontents of domestic life. We drift, biologically speaking, away from something, not toward something.

Drift away from what, exactly? Certainly a dead end job in Charleston, SC will start things in motion. Away to a tortured co-habitation with a lover haunted by an evil witch in Macon, GA. Blown away to a black market sales job visiting Gary, IN half-way houses. Only to get whisked away to a converted cookie factory in Oakland, CA. Are you making and distributing your own pamphlets yet?

The major malfunction with a drifter is hizzer heart is always two states away. Not to mention a soul left in New York, NY. And what about the small cache of books left in Eureka Springs, AK. Here is what that town teaches a drifter: don't go up in the hills to buy forged art from a hermaphrodite named Billy.

It can be scattering, the drifter's dementia. One wonders at the capacity to keep on keeping on that allows people to live with their affliction. A little drifting can be a good thing. Say you have run out of medication and the Greek club owner of inordinately violent temperament has learned you fondled his love toy. This is the time to get an E-saver fare, put the manifesto on ice.

But the real drifter keeps going and going, even after the Albanian hunchback enslaved hizzer into preparing Amazonian tribal foreskins as a medicinal aphrodisiac on Sullivan's Island, SC.

Drifters draw succor from their wonderful ancient role models. The heroes (great and small) who have gone before us in that never-ending quest for the next place. Odysseus wandered around the earth a couple times. Jesus of course drifted deftly across many media (earth, wind, fire, water.) And the legendary North Country Girl was infamous for tearing up towns and breaking down hearts.

Do not forget homegrown American drifter heroes like Johnny Appleseed and Typhoid Mary. America is both blessing and curse to the drifter. Her sheer breadth allows for many oases in which one can sup from shallow roots. But she is also home to many psychopaths who set insidious traps hoping to ensnare vulnerable drifters into perverted psychodramas. Like marriage and a job in Memphis, TN.

The open road is fraught with peril. But those rare born drifters will continue getting loose from ghastly 'home' and scatter about the land in discount airline jets.

And for you homebodies out there, remember what St. Dymphna said: It is good luck to give a drifter homemade sweet potato pie and ice cream (if the ice cream is also homemade that would be extra good luck.)

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Drifter Diaries: A retrospective and guide for osmotical diffusion in rapidly shifting ecologies.

William Boxcar III

Ed.Note: Hizzer means him/her or his/her.

A drifter is one who knows the love that is found in a switching station outside of Omaha, NE. But hizzer also knows the pain of the slow road out of Phoenix, AZ carrying hizzer life's contents in a red plastic suitcase.

A drifter is sometimes confused with a ne'er-do-well. But there is a crucial difference. The drifter never quite knows how s/he ended up here. Ask a drifter how they got into this present predicament and a good answer never comes. But the ne'er-do-well will always tell you they have a development deal with Miramax, millions to arrive shortly.

The drifter is also frequently confused with the hobo, the wanderer and the guy who let the voice of Bob Barker take control. We must distinguish the pure drifter as a unique species. One marked by unadulterated tumble and rumble. The drifter is more storm system than primate. When s/he descends into town you better hide your loose change jar and put a fresh battery in the smoke alarm.

Whether a lonely sojourn on a rent-controlled couch in Chelsea, NY. Or a quick dash from a gun toting crack dealer in Philly, PA. The drifter is always a couple moves off-plan. S/he is driven by more seasonal and migratory patterns than average people. These 'primal currents' occasionally swamp good intentions and spew drifters out on the road once again.

The drifter can be understood as essentially cyclonic in nature. S/he must contend with polar currents, telleuric pressure and astrological electromagnetism. You can estimate how long a person has been drifting by counting hizzer personalities. A new personality per year is the standard deviation.

Nothing says drifter like the guy who can list off the drink specials on ATA. Is the coconut rum passion fruit punch on special? 3 dollars for a limited time. What is today's drifter like, really? Is he a downtown degenerate slummer, or an uptown unclenched undulator?

One thing for sure, the modern American drifter is hotter and sexier than ever. There is a unique allure to an outfit pilfered from a St. Dymphna thrift shop in Camden, NJ. Or a Philco TV bartered next to a dumpster in Tampa, FL. Or a shabby insolence stolen from a Portland, OR hostel urchin. Today's American drifter is younger and slimmer than ever.

Being a drifter is not all about open road and frisky locals. Sadly, it sometimes feels like walking a dragnet for a decapitated body in a Kansas City, MO nature preserve.

Nobody said drifting was for half-steppers. One thing that would help the modern drifter is drifter depots dotted across the country. A kiosk where you can buy a baloney sandwich and a glass of lemonade from a homeless orphan for a dollar. A place you can make cheap phone calls to lost lovers. A place to pay your storage bin rent (don't forget the late fee.) Throw in a coffee machine, a post card writing center, shower and a washer/dryer and you have the ultimate 'innout' homeless depot for those on the go.

So drift on, you rare born drifters! Perhaps you will roll on to that strange sun falling to the west, a star requiring the chosen follow so that Paradise may again be found.

Don't forget your can opener.

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The Meaning of Life

Bumby Goldmine (AKA: Bumskovich Mindgold) presents:

The Meaning of Life

The novelization of the miniseries shelved by the U.S. Government due to its uncanny power of accuracy.

FAQ's:

This section replaces a traditional introduction. It is for those of you so lazy you cannot read a whole book even though it contains the meaning of life. Shame on you.

Is there a god?

Yes.

Why am I here?

To touch a beautiful buttock bobbing in a buoyant ocean.

What happens after I die?

Life is a joke. After you die, if you were good, you hear the punchline. If you have been bad you will hear somebody forgetting the punchline. After you consider how bad you have been for a few days, maybe you get to hear the punchline.

Why is there good and evil?

Evil is frankly better looking, and good can be a bit of a bore.

Will mankind ever find peace?

No, however look for an exciting mineral rights war on Uranus about three thousand years from now.


Do dogs go to heaven?

Animals that eat whole hams off tables when you turn your back for one second are obviously not allowed into paradise.

Is religion dead?

Not a chance. There will be many new religions by the end of the century. Implementing sophisticated direct marketing techniques and instilling a desire to make love to god, new religions will be more popular and come with a lay away plan.

Do miracles and people with magical powers really exist?

Yes, as do curses and people with the power to make pestilence and plagues. Distinguishing between them before it is too late is, unfortunately, difficult.

How do I live my life?

With a vigorous vanity and a knowledge that beauty is our quarry.

Is it an eye for an eye or do I turn the other cheek?

This is a quantum issue and so considered in terms of probability. If you turn the other cheek to have a cheek turned for you, then turn away. But if you turn the other cheek only to get slapped, start poking sockets.

How do I put meaning into my life immediately?

Rub yourself twenty times while singing your favorite Madonna song. Then go have a snack, go outside and go play.

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Adopt a Pet Missing a Limb

This Seminar sponsored by Prosthetic Pet - Come see our new Titanium Paw line at Belmont and Diversey.

overview
You are duped by friends into going to the pet rescue center. Behind the front desk is a pet that recently had to have one of its limbs surgically amputated. You strike up a friendship with this pet. It has a great disposition. However it also has hundreds of stitches and a difficult time standing upright.

Later at home your friends talk endlessly about the pet missing a limb. One friend in particular keeps bringing up this pet, commenting that you and the pet hit it off so well, you should get the pet. Then later, this same friend leers a very peculiar smile and says, again, you and the pet had such great rapport. You should adopt the pet.

The next day you return to the pet rescue center. You again play with the pet missing a limb. A name pops into your head. "Freesocket." You strike up a conversation with the person behind the desk. You are warned that such a pet requires extra work, extra care and twice daily pet massages.

Getting a pet missing a limb is a mistake. Yet there you are, hopping down the street getting gawked at by small children. You have become the proud owner of a pet missing a limb.

strategy

It isn't that adopting a pet missing limb is extraordinarily difficult. Although availability is erratic. It is surprising how many pets there are sans un appendage. Coincidence? Right.

No, the hard part is dealing with getting a brand new identity. Not many are strong enough. Because your whole world will change. For the better it goes without saying. But no longer will you be known as "Earwig" or "Stretch" or whatever your name is. You will now be known as "the person with the pet missing a limb."

With this title comes responsibilities, but also benefits. You will assume the role of one who can speak with the animals. People will look to you to help make decisions of pet life or death. By owning a pet missing a limb you will know that life and death are two parts of the same thing. And with this healing wisdom you can help the passage of pets into the next realm.

Remember the life of your pet missing a limb is a very important one. Take your pet to halfway houses and other residential institutions. Those that play with your pet will be rejuvenated and healthier.

Notes: Do not put any clothes on your pet that hide the fact that your pet misses a limb. Do enter your pet into newspaper photograph contests with prizes in the 45 dollar range. Do begin a multimedia biography of your pet. You should have something to give away at your pet's funeral if you outlive your pet. If your pet outlives you, do stipulate in your will that the multimedia bio of your pet should continue and should be funded by your estate, such as it is.

best case scenario

Your pet is not just a pet missing a limb but an entirely new species. It turns out that during fetal development instead of making the normal amount of limbs your pet used the materials to make more brain matter. You do not have a pet missing a limb. You have a normally limbed new pet species with the intelligence of a super predator and the thriftiness of a housewife from Scranton, PA.

The problem is, how do we continue the species? If you only have one of a species (unless your pet is hermaphroditic which we assume your pet is not) then it cannot go forth and multiply. You take it on yourself as your life's work to find another 'pet missing a limb but not really because it is a whole new species' that will couple with your pet and start a new species of super pet.

Years go by. Your pet's biological time clock is ticking down like a nightmare. We cannot find a pair. What can be done? Should we cryogenically freeze the pet? Should we begin cloning the pet? Should we at least get a sample for later? But then, hopping across the street, a pet. No ordinary pet but a brand new pet. A lonely brand new pet seeking to get married and have the first babies of a new species suckling on their momma's teets without delay.

worst case scenario

You bring home your pet missing a limb and you snuggle up to it and you never stop. You realize that all you have ever wanted to do is cuddle up with your new pet. You lose your job, family and religion. You develop a strange skin disorder due to constant contact with your pet.

Of course it takes a toll not just on you but on your pet. Your pet exhibits signs of mange related passive aggression. It howls during cartoons and bites you in your sleep.

You separate, but make up late in life and are asked to live full time as an exhibit at the Smithsonian. School trips come from all over to witness you two cuddling in your perfectly restored living room. Eating, arguing over the TV and never once not touching each other.

intangibles
-Food costs
-religious leaders with obsolete views on pets
-Poop or pee shyness

conclusions

You will wear your pet missing a limb like a love struck sorority girl wears her boyfriend's boxer shorts.

Your new pet will make you healthy, wealthy and wise. Of course your fixed costs will rise but do not forget, rich old people are very prone to giving away their fortunes to pets missing limbs. The health benefits are obvious and can be proven with a blood pressure test. Wisdom is perhaps the greatest reward. What is the sound of a pet missing a limb clapping? Get one and get enlightened.

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