Hey friends. My project "The Crow & The Cat" have a new single out called "South Together."

I was hoping for feedback here as NG folks have always given the most constructive feedback to me and because of this, I've come leaps and bounds as an artist.

Thanks!

I just want to thank anyone who has listened to the songs; has commented or interacted with me here.

Especially Tom.

This has been a really nice outlet for me and i am honored and humbled by your good graces.

I truly believe that the NG medium is really good for creating and in short...

Thanks to everyone here.

I just want to say that we are here today because Tom really cares about this site. He’s kept things OG and cool. He’s looked out for the little guy and is calm and compassionate. Tom has given us a platform that we remember as kids this early internet thing.

I want to… and I want us all to say “hey… thanks Tom”

count of 3

Hey everyone.

I’m doing Twitch now.

https://twitch.tv/twasbrilligandpaige

I do ASMR stuff and it’s pretty funny with my overdubs on COD Mobile matches.

I also plan on playing newgrounds flash games on my stream regularly.

If anyone wants to play with me my COD name is “twasbrilligand”

Hey neckbeards.

I am a novelist who hasn't made it yet because I haven't died in obscurity so far.

I have a six-book series called "The Invisible Escalator" that has the depth of world-building of Starwars and the Marvel Universe but doesn't suck as much ass.

To somebody who animates good...

Lets get rich and make the world a shittier place.

In celebration of my 100 recordings milestone, here's my new album.

"The Money Standard"

Thank you to everyone who has supported over the years and a special thanks to Tom Fulp!

   Betty June loved all her flowers with all her heart and that love did not stop at the seeds. She knew that each one of the seeds had a special gift stored inside and she was overjoyed to see the gifts they gave each time one would grow.

   In Betty's flower shop, it was considered cruel to keep seeds within pouches to sell to the customers. Instead, they were contained within clear jars, so they may gaze in wonder about the flower shop at all the plants that used to be little seeds just like they were. 

    Jeb was especially eager to grow as soon as possible. As far back as he could remember, he had always desired to become a rose. He was not like most other seeds in the jar who had not figured out what they wanted to become yet.

Jeb wondered how the other seeds could have any doubt about what they should become in adulthood. Roses were beautiful and cherished as gifts of affection from lover to lover. They also had thorns which could prick those who we’re not delicate enough and do not appreciate their beauty.

The goal for Jeb was to be chosen as a flower that will be gifted to someone to show affection. Jeb considered that life would be easy for him, seeing as he already had the answers to his future, or at least an idea of what he will become.

    One day a man came to Debbie’s shop and purchased a handful of seeds from Jeb’s jar. Jeb was one of the lucky ones to get picked. He squealed with joy the entire ride to his new home where he would turn into a beautiful Rose.

 Jeb was given his own pot with rich soil. The other seeds from Jeb’s jar were in the garden too; each having their own pot to grow in.

  Jeb joined the conversation his neighbors were having around him and soon found himself bragging about how quickly he would turn into the most wonderful shade of red they had ever seen. 

One neighbor expressed that he could not understand why Jeb wanted to be a rose so bad.

Another seed told Jeb that he doubted that anyone of them would turn into a rose at all, nor did they want to. They went on to say that it would be embarrassing having to deal with all the attention that roses generate.

  A few weeks passed and one morning Jeb noticed that nearly all the other pots in the garden 

had budded.

Little green leaves could be seen on the tops of all the pots surrounding Jeb.

This worried him deeply. Why had he not started to grow yet? He was exhausted from trying so hard to grow each day. He would stay up at night later than the others and stare at the moon, hoping it would help him grow.

   A few months passed and now it was clear to Jeb that the other seeds were turning into blackberry bushes. Every one of them had begun to produce their first berries. 

 Jeb was not a berry bush. He knew that. How could he possibly become something that did not even have a flower? Sure, they had thorns like roses, and that was sort-of appealing to Jeb, but 

twas simply not what he wanted to be all in all.

 A year passed and Jeb had not grown into anything.

     He hadn’t given up on becoming a rose and knew he never would. This thought scared him. If all he wanted to become was something that he could not be, then would he turn out to be nothing at all? He would even settle for becoming a blackberry bush. They were not adored such as roses and no lover would ever give one as a gift, but they sort of looked like Roses and at this point it was about survival for Jeb.

  Jeb pictured all the other flowers besides Rose’s that he used to see at the flower shop.

He tried with all his will to grow into a morning glory for a few days and then after that decided that he was to flower into a daffodil; that phase lasted for a few weeks.

He even tried to talk to the bushes about his new identities as various flowers and pretended to have as much enthusiasm about being a lilac as he had shared about becoming a rose.

The bushes ignored the tiny sound coming from their former peer and around that time, most of the bushes had resolved to flat out ignore Jeb when he spoke. 

   The man who’s garden they lived in came out one day and picked the season’s wealth of berries from the bushes around Jeb and the bushes were all very pleased that their fruits were being so thoroughly enjoyed. 

  Finally, the man came out to the garden again one day and looked down into Jeb’s pot. He grabbed Jeb and placed him in a tiny jar and put the jar in his car.

Jeb was nervous at first but soon ecstatic to be in Betty June's flower shop once again.

  The man complained to Betty that this seed had not grown into a bush. Debbie exchanged Jeb for another seed. Jeb could not return to the jar with the other seeds, he knew that. He was too old and didn’t grow. He was certain that he was to be thrown into the trash. 

   He gazed at the Roses that he grew up admiring within the flower shop and he wept. 

   Betty loved her seeds too much to just throw Jeb in the trash. She tried a few different mixtures of soil and exposed Jeb to different amounts of lights each day.

Jeb sat in his new pot and thought to himself that Debbie was sure to give up trying to make him grow, but sure enough, suddenly Jeb began to sprout little green leaves. 

  Within a month, Jeb was a full-grown Marigold.

Betty said to herself that he was the most beautiful Marigold she had ever grown.

  A young man came into the shop shortly after Jeb had grown and asked for the most beautiful flower he could buy for his wife. Betty didn’t need any time to decide which one to send the man home with. The man agreed with Betty that Jeb was certainly the most beautiful flower he had ever seen.

Chapter One:

Fiona: Sometimes we think that the constant ups and downs and the loops and hoops are exclusive to ourselves alone.

I think we are all on the same rollercoaster and the only difference is the cart you’re in and everyone is tall enough to ride…

Chaz: Where did you learn to be so wise?

Fiona: If I were so wise, the person in the driver's seat presently wouldn’t be a tranny…

Fiona: …

Fiona: Wisdom is trying to not be foolish rather than trying to be clever, and being aware enough to observe that everyone tries...or some junk

Chaz: I want to know everything you know…Can you teach me how to play guitar like you?

Fiona: You’re already better at it than I am.

Chaz: No way! You’ve spent your whole life doing it. things, like… things like chasing your dreams and I’m… I wish I had done that but. I’m not jealous or anything… but I wish I…

Fiona: It's not too late to start. I have an aunt who just got her first period, god rest her soul. Everyone imagines having done different things, I’d suppose. Get the fuck out of my lane… fucking Lyft drivers! I Guarantee that guy imagines this alot. Prick! Do you remember which ones the middle finger?

Chuck: Third from your thumb. Third from your pinky.

Fiona: Great. Now the thumbs a finger.

Fiona: Regardless…

Fiona: I would have done basically the opposite of what I have achieved in whatever this shit around all our faces is.

Chaz: Like what?

Fiona: I’d rather have been like her.

Chaz: Like who. 

Fiona: The lady pushing the stroller we just passed. Don’t hurt your neck, sweetie. She was a mother with a baby - is the point.

Fiona: If you had kids would you want a boy or a girl?

Chaz:. Look! We will never be together. I have to draw a line somewhere.

Fiona: You’ve drawn that line in the sand several times; so many, that it’s beginning to resemble a pit. I told you that I’m okay with being friends only. It sort of hurts my feelings that you keep reminding me of this in the sense that you make me think that you see me as guileful or deceptive. Like I’m a depraved pariah just because I am transgender; panhandling on Pico at day and haunting alleyways on Alvarado by night. I don’t expect anything of anyone or of anything. Expectations in this world is like racing butterflies and placing wagers on the winner.

Fiona: Anyway, that’s the one thing I don’t regret in all the dream chasing, having tits and stuff. 

Chaz: Hahaha.

Fiona: The pictures of myself on the husk of my FaceBook that now resembles Chernobyl, only more radioactive. The .gifs of dude me on stage at sold-out clubs, alongside C- celbs and D+ porn stars . The videos of me at book signings. That clip of me winning a poetry award and electing to tell the lore of the Man From Nantucket, instead of the poem that won, when I received the thrifty, fools-gold plated trophy that was in the shape of something I never learned about in geometry . The reel of fake me, playing the P.C-Herien roles in Target ads; blowing a rape-whistle at a white male coworker for asking an obviously Asian female colleague what kind of Asian she is; and all the other blah blah who gives a Mormons-gooch-about-shit I’ve did. If you knew the moments that strung these “achievements” all together, you’d probably have less dejection about not following those staggered footprints, as they were each placed within a frozen blizzard over sheets of well-trodden ice.

Chaz: Tell me.

Fiona: I suppose that most of the discourse of my life stems from a single line I drew in the sand on a beach that I can no longer recall. I also don’t recall exactly if I was even the one who drew it.

Chapter Two

Shannon: How come you never wanna to do any boy’s stuff, Finny?

Finn: I dunno. 

Shannon: Let’s pway WWC! I’ll be the Ondertakaw and you be Mankine, cuz he’s funny like you Funny Finny.

Maddy: You two get out of the mud! I swear, Shannon! I just bought you that dress. 

Finn: I’m...I’m sorry Missus K. I didn’t mean t-

Maddy: Shh...Shh. Finny. Don’t cry angel. If I know my daughter at all, I know that she started it. Oh sweetie. There, there. Let’s get you two back and get you into dry clothes. 

Shannon: One small step for Finny, one giant leaf for Shannon-kind!

Finn: Missus K? These clothes are really big.

Mady: That’s because Todd is in second grade and he's grown for twice as long as you’ve been alive. Go run along and ask Todd for a turn on the Sega sweetie, I have to give your troublemaker friend a bath and a spanking. 

Finn: Okay Missus K.

Mady: Who is it?

Mady: Finny. You are supposed to wait for someone to let you in after you knock or there would be no point in knocking.

Finn: But I'm hungry ma’am.

Mady: Todd, can you grab a GoGurt and string-cheese for Finny, sweetie?

Todd: Last die mom.

Mady: Todd!

Todd: Awe! Mommmmm! That was my last life! Fine. 

Mady: Run along Finny. Go get a sna… what’s the matter sweetie?

Finny: Did Shannon get an owie playing WWB?

Mady: No, angel. She just got a little muddy and grounded.

Shannon: Not fair. Bahaha. You’re the worst.

Mady: Get back here missy! You’re hair is still wet.

Finny: Where did Shannons p-p go, Missus K?

Mady: Oh, don’t be silly. She’s a girl and you are a boy, young man.

Finny: I know that.

Mady: Then you understand there’s a difference right?

Finny: Yes ma’am. When we go to kindee gardens, I put my bapak in the blue cubby because I’m a boy and the girls put their bapaps in the pink cubby.

Mady: Hehe, that’s true. There are other differences too though, angel.

Finny: Yes. Girls go potty in the rezroom with the stick-guy picter that has a triangel and boys go to the regular stick-guy picter, and that’s it.

Mady: Oh dear. I am not qualified for this sort of discussion. Come, lets get your snack and it’s nap time for you two.

Mady: Don’t you feel better now that you’re in warm clothes and not covered in mud, children?

Finny: Yes.

Shannon: No!

Finny: Missus K.?

Mady: Yes?

Finn: What are summore diffrents for boys and girls?

Mady: Okay Finny. I will tell you one more but you have to promise that you will ask your parents to give you more answers? Promise

Finn: I promise.

Mady: Well. You know how Zoro has a mustache? Well, you’re too little to grow a Zoro mustache but someday you will be able to because you’re a boy.

Finn: But Shannon won’t be able to grow a mussacch?

Mady: No sweetie. Oh my lord, Shannon! I just washed your face! Sharpie, again! I can’t afford to repaint your room, the living room, the kitchen, the closet, the neighbors walls, the parrot.

Shannon: I am zoro! Swish, swish, swish.

Finn: Hehehe. I guess girls can have mustacchz. Hehe.

Mady: You’re Zoro and I’m parent-of-the-year. You two sword fight. Mommies going to go have some apple juice.

Finn: May I have some, please?

Mady: No.

Chapter Three

Chaz: The... “the sand.”

Fiona: Yes, almost there. Don’t get too excited, The sand is painfully gravely at Point Dume as you might expect from something that sounds like where Sauron takes his new Grindr dates. Good place to kill a fifth without the impending doom of the drunk tank though.

Chaz: You said that there was a specific line in the sand that changed your life?

Fiona: Yeah. I suppose it was the moment that I left the little girl I was at the closest fire station, without bothering to ring the bell or knock. I chose a side as life makes us do. I don’t know if either side would have led to resolution on an irresolute planet. I am certain they both would not have, actually.

Chaz: I get what you mean. I don’t know if the road sodas I’ve had but I kind of felt the same thing when I was a kid. Pull over so I can take a leak.

Fiona: That is definitely the road sodas.

Fiona: You look five pounds lighter.

Chaz: Shut up.

Fiona: Ok. You were saying something?

Chaz: Yeeya… When I was a kid, I mean. I stole my sister's panties and wore makeup and stuff. It felt pretty alright. I dunno. I mean. I mean… It was… well I get it.

Fiona: We’re here. Welcome to Malibu where the slogan of the town is “get off my lawn - some rich guy” population: zero poor people.

Fiona: Alright Charles. Let’s play a slightly different variation of frisbee. 

Chaz: I didn’t know frr-frisbee w-was a game.

Fiona: That’s disk golf. It’s not a game but let's make it interesting.

Chaz: Word.

Fiona. If you’d like to; draw a line in the sand right about there and no matter where the frisbee goes, you have to catch it from the side you pick.

Chaz: That’s ridiculous. Why would I do that? 

Fiona: I dunno. I didn’t say I was going to draw it for you. 

Chaz: Okay, so then when it’s your turn…

Fiona: Oh no, sweetie. I’d rather just throw the thing and not worry about arbitrary lines or compete. I know that I have this whole shore to respond to whatever comes my way, and it’s nice.

Chaz: Ouch!

Fiona: That wasn’t a diss, it was a…

Chaz: No, I meant that this beach has sand like fucking glass.

Fiona: Tolld you to bring footwear but you just can’t tell a man what to do. Especially if you have tits.

Fiona: I think the main reason I jumped lady-balls deep into being a tough guy for twenty-eight unceremonious years was that there's not only the pressure of society, or rather, the pressure of other men to become a man, but after my little brother was... after he was molested by the babysitter I…

Chaz: Stop. Nope. I can’t talk about shit like that. Fuck! look what you made me do.

Fiona: It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ll go get it. 

Chaz: No, it’s lost. I’m gonna grab another from the van. Shit!

Fiona: …Ok man. Maybe just the guitar? I’m pooped with frisbee anyway

Chaz: …

Fiona: And the wine, please!

Chapter Four

Chaz: Hey Fiona

Fiona: Hey Charles

Chaz: Can I show you a song I wrote

Fiona: Of course

Chaz: I wrote it back when I was in middle school. I sort of haven’t written too much since.

Fiona: That was pretty good. I’d suggest a bridge of some sort; something to break up the riffs and to articulate the words better. Sounds like the lyrics were good but even if you have good words if you say them through your teeth, they sound untrue.

Chaz: I’ll try that. I guess I gave up because I’m not really sure about how to go about writing songs anyway. Got any tips?

Fiona: Name that one “Crawdads”

Chaz: Why?

Fiona: The words remind me of something involving crawdads. I don’t know. Probably a lousy reason to name it that, as it is not my song.

Chaz: Crawdads… What if I change the third verse from “never met dad to…” I don’t know…”something crawdad?”

Fiona: Nah. Too on the nose. If you want to plainly spell out the concept of the song, what’s the point of the lyrics and music? Why not just hop in front of a crowd and say “daddy left me at a young age and I can’t remember his face?” The concept should be tacitly buried at least six feet deep within the words

Fiona: I think that far too often, particularly in modern music, the cart is put before the horse.

I feel the best songs that I’ve written at least, the music was developed with the purpose to be an appealing enough vehicle for the lyrics to drive.

A song is like a bullet.

The music is the gun powder and casing that propels the bullet itself - the words and concept, into the hearts of the listener and when you have a hit, you will hear…

“Headshot!” Counter-Strike style.

The artist is the gun.

To take this metaphor one step further, an artist should have a gun safe full of all the different armaments they will need to shoot the correct caliber that is appropriate to the situation; sometimes maybe the weapon that’s appropriate hits the mark without a single word and the title may simply a what key it’s in and that it’s a sonnet or a waltz or I don’t know. Some Beethoven shit.

No matter which gun you use that is your favorite, not one of them is universally appropriate for every situation.

Fiona: Charles?

Chapter Five

Vercin: How come the steak isn’t on a hook?

Finn: Crawdadin’ ain’t like fishin’ 

Vercin: That's a big-ass one! It’s going to eat the whole thing.

Finn: When I say “now,” splash the water from your side and these little fuckers will swim backwards faster than shit. You gotta try and come at them in a way where they will all shoot into this here bucket.

Vercin: Ready.

Finn: Now!

Vercin: Rad! How many did we catch?

Finn: Looks like eight. The big one got away.

Finn: What kind of man do you see yourself being someday?

Vercin: I don’t know. I don’t ever think about that, really.

Finn: Got you bitch! Ha! 

Vercin: The big one?

Finn: I think it’s a different one, but it’s as big.

Vercin: How about you? What kind of man are you gonna be?

Finn: I’m gonna be like the Godfather. Tough, but fair. A gentleman but not too gentle. People are gonna know not to mess with me. Classy, brave, defender of the innocent, destroyer of the bad guys. Kind of like Batman except, I would have killed the Joker a hundred times by now If I were him.

Vercin: Yeah. Pretty much me too. I’ll be Robin though. You can be Batman.

Vercin: Dynamic Duo. The Dark Knight and Boy Wonder.

Finn: Yeah…

Finn: Boy, wonder what time the sun goes down tonight? No moon tonight, that broad with the nice rack on the news said, gonna be a dark night. We got enough Crawdads. Let's go.

Dear Mr. Waters

I am not sure how to begin this letter as I have so much to say to you and I don’t want to come across as a fanatic or a crank although, seeing as the entire mafia that is todays media has labeled you as such - coupled with the knowledge of your character and how you are a champion of the very few on the fringes or otherwise, that cannot help but say what their hearts implore them to voice, regardless of the consequences, I believe that these words may be considered.

I suppose that I am a bleeding heart and artist, and mainly this is your fault.

Thanks a lot.

Before we get into the politics and saving the world, which I thought I would eventually grow out of, I think it is necessary to illustrate how much your life and your art has to do with the trajectory of my own existence.

I used to dream of meeting John Lennon even though he was assassinated ten years or so before I was born.

I often cry when I think of his death, in fact I am presently swallowing my heart that his risen to my throat for the very mention of this great tragedy.

I think if I was able to speak to Mr. Lennon, I would simply say “Thank you for everything.”

The other person I used to dream about meeting someday is you.

In fact.

I started a band when I was 17 and have had no success other than the reward of spending nearly the amount of years in my life pursing music than I had lived when I first took one small step and one giant leap into this quixotic yet, fulfilling endeavor.

Anyway….Enough about me.

Let’s talk about me.

The Final Cut is my favorite record. 

I recall an embarrassing moment when I was twelve or so, when my older sister walked into my bedroom and I was laying on my bed, blaring that CD, singing every word and pantomiming conducting the strings and other instrumentations.

I played The Final Cut so many times on my CD player that it eventually warped or possibly melted from the unforgiving Northern Nevada heat, as my lower middle class family could not afford to run the A/C unit.

Enough gushing about how much I idolize you… for now.

I want to be honest and say the following.

My best friend; he is around your age. He is a mentor and saved my life and is good man.

He is Jewish.

He sends me several articles a month about how you are anti-Semitic.

And I am shamefully admitting that I never read any of them and that, even though you are possibly the person who I have looked up to the most and made the most substantial impact on who I am today, I started to believe my friend that you are of the mindset of what he is convinced of about you.

I finally got around to doing, as your amazing and strong mother instilled in you, reading about things that are weighing on me. And I followed through with the other bit of advice she gave you when she said this. 

Read up on the opposition, the other side.

I have deduced…

That you truly are the hero that I grew up admiring and although I am now a geriatric millennial and maybe too far along in life and too poor and too marginalized because of the particular sect of society that I am apart of to stand up for what my heart says is right, your bravery and your concern for basic human rights as well as your conviction to keep standing your ground on these issues, it inspires me so much and has given me strength.

At the risk of deafening the point.

Mr. Waters.

You are a hero and…

Thank you for everything.

Customers sometimes ask me how I got into bartending and they don’t believe me when I tell them that I’ve been doing it since I was seventeen.

The setting is Reno Nevada, one of the last frontiers of the Wild West during the time which was 2007

Back when the one or two folks in town who did receive a DUI for being sauced so goddamn always - behind a wheel or otherwise, would not only fail at reciting the alphabet during a sobriety test, but were more confused by the letters DUI than they were in receiving one.

I got a job as a bagger at a grocery store

At sixteen.

I showed rare promise when the store director observed that I did not put a gallon of milk on top of a carton of eggs in an extra-ass double paper bag.

I was immediately reassigned to work on the overnight freight crew, unloading trucks and stocking shelves from midnight to eight-thirty.

I ascended to freight manager just because the ones old enough to have been charged with the task noped the fuck out when they realized how brutal the work was and how crap it was having to commit the hours and by default, resigning having a social life - not as if the neck beard I replaced socialized beyond faping it to Barbie Doll tea parties in his mommas basement.

Now I’m seventeen.

I had no life, in part because of my sleep schedule, but mostly because I was a misanthropic little cunt.

My Roommates who were identical twins and in their thirties, kept trying to get me to go out and be a human for two seconds.

I finally gave in and I bought the worlds most legit fake id for $300 - hologram and all.

The twinks…

The twins took me to some trash frat bar and it was my turn to nope the fuck out.

A friend recently clarified to me that the words “trash” and “frat” are synonyms.

Thanks Sean!

So tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumbAF, sez:

“Let’s go to that new bar on Arlington. The house that got turned into a bar.”

I walk in with the twins.

It’s just them, the bartender and myself.

Bar is actually gorgeous.

Bear-skin rug near the fireplace.

Art that was no-joshing, some of the best I’ve seen to this day.

And the bar top.

A solid piece of African limestone quarried from a riverbed, presumably by children.

Barkeep asks for my ID.

Place it on the bar.

“You’re gonna make me pick that shit up? Try again kiddo.”

I hand it to Jeremy, who was actually the owner of the bar.

He grins.

“That’s a pretty good fake.”

He was taken aback when I didn’t panic that he realized I was just a kid with a fake.

I didn’t care about drinking or haunting a bar. 

#nihilist 

I was ready to leave.

I stood up and started for the door, without caring to grab the fake.

“Wait! Hey kid…”

I stopped and half turned.

“You’ve got crusty mustard all down the front of your sweater.”

I notice the stain for the first time and rub it twice like it would get rid of it and like I cared that it was even there.

A salute and:

“Duly noted!” Me sez.

I made it to the door.

Jeremy shouts.

“Hey. Help me out here. I don’t drink alone but I’m also a drunk.”

“Sucks”

Turn the door knob.

“You’re either special or special Ed dude.”

He lays out two Dark and Stormies on the bar.

“The latter.”

Out on the patio now.

Waiting for the twins to finish playing pool.

Realize I left my lighter on the bar as I felaciate a marb red.

Before I could do the walk of shame back to where I had sat, Jeremy walks out to the patio with a Marb Green.

Tosses my blue zippo to me and brings the cocktails.

Sits down.

I never drank much before, I was a prolific stoner them daze.

“Cheers, weirdo” 

We clinked our bucket glasses and I set my cocktail on the table and drank from the straw without lifting the glass.

Jeremy cracked up.

He took the straws out of the glass, threw them elsewhere into the night and rebuked me for fucking up a cheers as well as drinking from a straw without holding my drink, like a bitch.

The one drink got my glow going and I opened up about being a songwriter/singer blah blah.

Jeremy takes me to the basement.

Was a bit leery of him making a skin lamp out of my ass but he seemed like a salt of the earth kind of guy, plus I was in anger management through elementary and middle school and they didn’t even try to talk my through the anger, they just gave me a bat and a pillow. 

“Don’t ever be Irish….”

Ghandi - during an interview about how to be peaceful and forgiving.

What happened next became both the bat and the pillow for the next ten years.

Jeremy had his drum kit, a PA, mic and stand, bass amp and bass guitar.

We wrote a whole album that night.

Little did I know I would soon be not only the main bartender at Strega, but also part owner along with Jeremy.

To be Continued….

I get off and not Inna good way.

Get it.jpg

Offs from work at grocery store at 8:30am

Can’t wait to drive my candy-apple red Jetta back to my place and write another song about how life sucks.

Jeremy calls my razor flip-phone.

“Dude… Joy called in because she did too much acid…three days ago. We have to open today because it’s some holiday that people get turnt up on.”

“St. Paddies…?”

“Dude, you know I hate religion. Anyway I’m at my folks estate in Tahoe and the hottest bitch you’d ever seent gave me some special k. I need you to open the bar today.”

I was confused.

“Dude, If the cereal you’re eating conflicts with you physically, maybe try being gluten-free like I…”

“The stars… I see them… I ate them all!”

Laughter.

Moaning.

So, 3pm I dig the key to the bar out from under the mat.

Guess I’m a bartender.

Thank gosh my only customer was good-ole Spit Snograss.

Jet-black died hair. Spiked like Dexter Holland from The Offspring. Heavy metal rings on every finger that died his fingers green. A swaztika on more than two of them.

Hated this chode more than I hated the rest of humanity because, fuck Nazis.

At least the bar was empty and he only drank Bud light Platinum.

Easy. I got dis.

Spit did a rail of what looked like shards of sugar-glass, right atop the bar.

He was telling me his sad ass life story but my focus was entirely on the purple blood cascading from his right nostril.

I pointed out to Spit that he was bleeding.

He snorted it up like it was another rail and stuffed the nostril with some Vaseline that appeared from the only pocket within his trench coat that was not stuffed with a gun or drugs.

Mahogany front door bursts open.

Three of the hottest chicks is ever seen come in.

I would have been half-mast if I wasn’t shitting lead, thinking about what would happen if one of them orders a lemon drop.

Thank fuck they go straight down the hall that is out of my sight towards the bathrooms.

Half an hour later, Spit reminded me about the girls and he went to go lurk and try to get laid or sell them all the things illicit.

They gone.

Not only they gone.

Paintings are all gone as well.

I think myself “Well at least the exhibition of paintings this time were total dog mierda” 

I shrug it off.

Spit goes to the Chev next door to buy some more Parliaments.

He comes back and he’s all like:

“Bro. This chicks robbed the Chev at gun point. The fuzz was there and I told them about the stolen paintings.”

I told this cunt hair that I was 17.

“Dude! Why would you tell them to come here? You know I’m underage!”

“Yeah. Fuck the police! I’m out.”

Spit Snoggrass… you.. why I oughta…

Sorry. 

Don’t mean to talk shit on the dead.

About six months later he suicided by way of cops.

Had the road rage.

Fishtailed a suburban with a mother and her infant child aboard.

Held mother at gun point.

He was just holes after the standoff.

Back to my first shift as a bartender.

Cops come in bar from The Chev.

I give them the fake.

One disappears to his unit, meanwhile my own unit is baby-dick.

Other cop:

“What do you think the paintings are worth”

“Dog shit, zero moneys. Not worth zero moneys or dog shit.”

Which brings us to Bruce Lindsay.

The coin-purse who painted these things.

I hung around the bar long enough to f-wording-ly despise this pedantic fat-old lawyer.

Whenever he sat down, he wanted a “true” Manhattan and tried to not let us see him gag at the mixture of sweet and dry vermouth with rye, while we could not help but gag about his folk album that he always made us play over the mains.

“For every Bob Dylan and Shakespeare, there’s a thousand who never were recognized. I am both Dylan and Shakespeare.”

Ok Morressy….

Now this cuck paints?

FML.

So we hung his trash cuz…

light bulbs need energies.

Even before I pretended to be a barkeep, I would happily show new guests the really amazing artwork at the bar.

I gave a few guided tours to patrons about Bruce’s exhibit.

“So here we have “Dog shit it blue.”

This one is brilliantly dubbed “Crimson Dog Poo. 

And now we’re at the Magnum Opus: “Dog Shit in Dog shit - medium, Dog shit. The frame is made from imported Korean free-range canine turds.”

I closed the bar at ten and wished I had been living it up in Tahoe eating krunk-ass cereal.

Pounding on the door.

It was around after the fifth set of poundings (not as hot as it sounds) that I got all Irish and ran up to the door. Flung it open and repeated “Closed you cunt!”

“Not to me you’re not!”

Bruce elbowed me as his fat both fluidly and rigidly avalanches into bar.

“Who said my paintings are worth… dog shit!?”

So Bruce sat down at the bar…

“Make me a perfect…”

I shooshed him.

“Here you go. I think this is whiskey.”

I poured him a double of something brown.

“My paintings have been heralded as the quintessential….”

He put his stupid expensive archeologist hat on the bar. 

I picked it up and frisbeed it to the door.

“Why you little so-and-so!”

“Look Leonardo… I’m 17. We got robbed and I told the cops your paintings were shit so that they wouldn’t keep investigating the issue.”

That’s when I stepped off the steep and treacherous path of always telling the truth, into becoming a gift of gab lier. 

Bartenders best resource.

“Oh. Beg pardon. I’ll represent you in court! I’m a very well known…”

Weeks passed.

Three months now.

A detective who boasted a pair that most cops become cops because they ain’t gots…

He’s calling. 

All the time.

Two new phones, hair dye, a fake mustache. Nothing threw this guy from the scent.

Finally he and four other badges show up at the grocery store and bring me to the precinct.

They bring me into the lineup room and I’m behind a two way mirror looking at…

Dudes?

Five of them.

“Tell us who did it son…”

I didn’t recognize any of them.

“Your honor. They were hawt chicks”

“No. They were bunch of trannies boy! Which one?”

I point at whoever.

Detective grabs my elbow and moves my pointed finger to the one they wanted.

“I can go now?”

No reply.

Enrolling now for bartending school. 

Dm me.