While we were at the skateboard shop, today, buying some shorts and sneakers for my son, my son introduced me to the young man working behind the counter. I said, "hello, I am Graem's dad, partially."

I kind of surprised myself by saying partially, and Graem immediately caught me on it, and shouted out across the room, "What do you mean partially?"

When we were outside, on the sidewalk, heading to another store to look for the sneakers that my son wanted, I tried to explain to him what I meant, but I really couldn't. What I said, after I had paid $65.00 for his sneakers, and $45.00 for his shorts, was, "look, some guy that really thought that he was just partially your father, wouldn't have just dropped a hundred bucks on you, would he?"

My son smiled.

We are still, or at least I am still having minor fall out about the discovery that my son has been smoking and drinking for the last couple of years. I'm pretty much over it. I mean I can't get rid of him, now can I, just because he doesn't measure up to every high, or rather, not get high expectation that I have for him? I have to love him irregardless, don't I. I am not perfect and neither is he. We have had long talks on the matter, and I think that we understand each other. Of course, I thought that we understood each other all along.

The thought crosses my mind, however: how would I like it if my son thought of me as his partial dad?!

"Ouch. Stopping smoking is damned hard. Repairing trust is even harder." --Ah, one of my My Space friends

When I find myself in times of trouble, I have to remember the what the little piece of paper inside a fortune cookie from the past said, "It is always darkest before the dawn." It's not always easy to see or remember this great bit of advice when you are in the eye of a hurricane. Little reminders often come though, such as in the form of the above comment that a women made in response to something that I wrote in a poem that I posted to my My Space blog about the feelings that I had upon learning that my son had picked up a pack of cigarettes and had started smoking the death and disease that the killers at the cigarette corporations package within.

I heard on the radio, yesterday, that sixty percent of all cancer in this country(the USA)is caused by cigarettes. Smoking is good business for the American Medical Association and its members, as well as good business for the sick and evil people who work within the cigaratte industry. But why my son?

Peer pressure?
Rebellion?
A cigarette goes well with a beer?
It's the thing that skateboarders do? (Should I have then tried to keep him in baseball?)

Wasn't the death of our dear Uncle Dave due to inhaling enough to warn him off? Can't he look at his step dad's thus far losing battle to quit as a sign for him to stay away from the death sticks?

I smoked for almost twenty years. At the end of my habit, I was often coughing blood, I was always full of phlegm, constantly trying to clear my throat of it, and grossly spitting it out. I had bronchitis. I coughed all the time, yet I reached for a cigarette the first thing in the morning, every morning, upon waking up. It took me six long years to quit smoking, after the day that I officially realized that I did not enjoy smoking and was only do it because I had to, i.e. I was hooked.

Shouldn't the example of what cigarettes did to me, what they did to Uncle Dave, and what they are doing to his wonderfual step dad be enough to keep him away from cigarettes?

The answer is no, and I am not sure why.

Since my son hid his smoking from me, lied about it, in fact, my mind wandered. I assumed that he was drinking. I thought that he might be stealing. I realized that I was paying for the cigarettes that he had so far smoked, with money that I had given him for food, with money that I had given to him so that he'd have a dollar or two in his pocket while he finished high school.

My mind wandered so far that he was going to wind up like Jim Carroll, as Jim Carroll chronicled in his book, "The Basketball Diaries," sticking a needle in his arm to get high on heroin and sucking dicks in a bathroom to pay for his addictions; extreme yes, but as Ah almost said, once trust is broken, trust is broken. I have a very vivid imagination, and I have been down paths with cigarettes, alcohol and drugs that I was greatly hoping that my son would be spared from going down.

I always thought that honestly telling my son the truth about my alcoholism and my several decades us of drugs and cigarettes would spare him having to experiment with these things himself. I was wrong.

On I don't know how many of those nights where he asked me to spend the night at Grant's or Lilliana's, he wasn't just skateboarding, he wasn't just playing guitar, he was smoking it up and boozing it. I know the truth now. Will I know the truth this afternoon when he comes home from school? Will I know the truth tomorrow when he is out and about on his weekend?

I am hoping that my son can shoot straight with me, from here on in. I assume that I now know the worst of what was going on behind my back. Why lie to me anymore? I got pissed this time, and I'll get pissed off even more, if I get lied to again.

Stopping smoking is hard.
Repairing trust is even harder.
Thanks Ah.

The vet said, today, that I should feed my dogs carrots and green beans as treats, instead of treats from the box. Javi has lost around 15 pounds, and the vet said that he needs to lose at least ten more. As with humans, the "secret" to this is diet and exercise! I threw Javi a carrot, just a minute ago, and he didn't even try to catch it. It now sits underneath him, between his paws as he rests on the carpet in the living room. To his credit, though, he did get in a fair amount of exercise, today. He followed me some, as Morisson and I walked around the house twenty seven times. I bet that the neighbors think that we are weird. All of a sudden, this guy dressed in black, starts walking around his house, with two dogs following him, one enthusiastically, and the other the best he can, considering that is old and has arthritis. I'm living in sin with Love now, and we have set a wedding date.

I also threw Morisson a carrot. His hit the floor, too, but I guess that he carried it into the living room, because I almost fell over it as I came through there a couple of minutes ago.

Kobain is still adjusting to the new abode. He spent most of his day on one of the couches in the living room. I did get him to jump up, once, onto the washer, which is next to the drier where his food is. He seems to be eating less. I'm sure that he misses the snakes, mice and rats back at the old abode that he used to regularly carry into us.

Kobain, my cat, is adjusting slowly to his new home. He seems to really like the garage. Maybe it is because it is cooler in there. Maybe it is because there are more things to crawl under, more things to hide within, more things to explore. Kobain is sniffing just about everything in the garage, and in the house.

He has little interest, so far, in his food.

What I feed him has to be out of reach of the dogs, so I have put his food up on the clothes drier. Several times, since I have brought him here, I have lifted him up onto the washer, which, of course, is right next to the drier, so that he will see and know where his food is. The washer was running, the last time that I lifted him onto it. He gave the situation one look and immediately jumped to the floor. He is having fun with the dogs, sniffing them and following them about, getting sniffed by them.

I hope that when he finally goes or gets outside that he doesn't run off. I have heard that a cat will sometimes do that; run off from a new home that you have brought them to. Do they run off in search of thier old home?

We are a long way from the old home, King Kobain, please don't run off.

How many of us don't believe in ourselves; and why? Is it because our fathers told us over and over that we were worthless. Is it a hereditary thing that we were born with? How come some people rise above and some don't? What really is success: your kid smiling at you, a million dollars in the bank?

I locked my cat, Kobain, in a cage, yesterday, and drove him an hour and a half from his old home to his new home. I bought him a new kitty litter basket, some new kitty litter and a poop scooper. For the past couple of years, Kobain has been pooping outside; he has also been coming and going as he pleases, in and out of our small apartment . I'm going to try and keep him inside, in his new abode, at least in the short run. I want him to get used to the idea that this is home, before I let him outside and he gets lost.

I'm trying not to go overboard on this. A month or so ago, I found half a pack of cigarettes in the car, that my girlfriend was nice enough to hand the keys to to my son. He lied and told me that they belonged to this other kid. I believed him. Two days ago, my girlfriend was taking out the trash, and she found a cigarette butt, the same kind of cigarette butt as the cigarettes that I had found in my son's car. I asked my son if he was smoking. This time he said yes. I didn't get pissed off at him. I have always told him that he can come to me with things like this. If he starts smoking or drinking and all that, it is his business. Just because I am a recovered cigarette smoker and a recovered drunk doesn't neccessarily mean that he will go down the same path, though there is a chance of it, heredit.arily, on the alcohol thing.

Love's not feeling well, but Love just got up out of bed and cooked us a beautiful dinner. She wanted, so desperately, to go out to eat, tonight, to celebrate; today marks one year since we met in person, and started hanky panking. We met on the internet, and we dated there, at first, for about half a year. I've asked her to marry me on the Saturday after Valentine's day. My friend, Dale W. Miller, said, "wow, but you guys are older!!"

Yes, we have less time, and have to make decisions faster. I know that this is a good one. I have never felt such love before. I want more, more, more, more.

Love found a Camel cigarette butter in the black garbage can in the living room. I asked my son if he was smoking and he said, "yes." I could have fallen to the floor. Of all the horrible, horrifying things for me to have struggled for so long to quit, for him to have started. I'm bummed out, but I still love him. You know what they used to say in jail, when they still let you smoke in jail, "smoke 'em if you got 'em!"

the growth on my face that she says makes me look like a homeless man
by mikel k

It grows back so fast,
but you know
it ain t gonna
last, when my
girlfriend is around.

I have been hugging the commode, all day, wishing that I was dead, because the pain of being sick, has been so intense. This morning, I thought that I had food poisoning, but as I emerged into the afternoon with a slight cough and a bit of a sore throat, I started to think that I might have a bug.

Love has come down with the same symptoms, tonight. Poor thing is laying in bed, in her pretty art opening dress, moaning a bit and trying, I think, to sleep it off, whatever it is.

My son had his first ever art opening, tonight, and I couldn't fully enjoy it. I am proud of the boy though and I do love him.

I was greatly surprised, and at least somewhat put out that my dogs were happier to see my daughter, today, than they were to see me, after I had been away from them for nearly a week. I mean, the dogs reacted like they had missed me, but they went crazy, shaking their tails and all when we picked Scout up from school. How soon they forget. How soon they forget who feeds them. How soon they forget who walks them. How soon they forget who cleans up after them on the living room carpet after they have made a no no. I was gone from Wednesday to Sunday. I picked them up today, Monday. Is that enough time for two animals to have forgotten who I am? I'm feeling a bit insecure here. Morisson is licking my knee, as I write this. That helps a bit.

Picking Up The Story Somewhere Other Than In The Beginning...

I'm stranded at The Newark Airport. My flight that was supposed to leave around four p.m. got delayed , first, to five something and now it has been moved to six fifty three pm. It wouldn't be so bad, but this older lady sat down near me, about fifteen minutes ago, and started calling everyone that she knows. I think how, if it was me that she was calling, I wouldn't pick up the phone. This woman has got all this idle time for all this idle conversation, I'm learning way more about her and her family, her friends, and her business associates than I want to. I'm also learning what kind of benefits she gets at her job, how old several of her aunts are, and how one of her cousins is considering opening a travel business, among many other things.

It is a kind of painful thing that I am enduring. I could move, but face it, where do you find quiet in an airport terminal? I intentionally didn't sit near this two year old kid, in one section of this gate. I picked the spot that I'm sitting in because there was just this black guy asleep in a chair over here. I figured that he could not be too much bother, then this old biddy grabs one of the seats between me and the sleeping guy. He's awake, now, and is chatting on his cell phone, too, but he doesn't have a big mouth like the old lady between us.

I got in trouble for being a big mouth, myself, yesterday at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. My son, Graem, was trying to shush me up. He knew that I was being too loud on the cell phone; then one of the guys in the museum outfits showed up, waving at me.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm loud."

"Yes," he said, "Your voice does carry. You can't use a cell phone within the exhibits," he continued, "everywhere else it is ok."

The guy was cool. It is nice when someone can let you know that you are acting out of line without being a prick about it. I mean two wrongs don't make a right, do they? A security guard or an usher yelling at you or dressing you down doesn't make a bad situation good, now does it? Some people are just dickheads and they are constantly on the lookout for an opportunity to exercise their dick-headed-ness.

The loudmouth old biddy is now rooting through her phone book to find her next victim. I'm glad as hell that my number is not in that book. I'm glad as hell that she is not the type of old biddy who tries to strike up a conversation with people in person. That would suck.

Some guy in an airline uniform just showed up and got behind the counter. He keeps getting asked when we are leaving. I'm glad that I have a laptop with me and that the battery was fairly well charged when I arrived. I did a bunch of boring photo transferring, when I first sat down. I probably would never have gotten around to doing this, if I had not wound up stuck in the Newark Airport waiting for an airplane to Atlanta. Many of the photos that I am transfering from one folder to another, are of really famous paintings by really famous painters that I got off the walls of The Metropolitan Museum of Art and MOMA(The Museum of Modern Art.)

At first, I was calling MOMA, MOMO. I had trouble pronouncing the city of Secaucus, also. Yesterday, I asked the conductor of one train if his train went to Sassseeequakus.

He said that he didn t think so, because he had never heard of it.

My son and I hooked up, yesterday, at Washington Square Park(near NYU) and took a cab from near the park to the museum. The cab driver made the ride incredibly pleasant. He was not one of those seemingly angry cab drivers who either doesn't know English or knows it and doesn't care to use it on you. From his feelings on the firing of Don Imus, to tales of the bands that he used to book at the bar that he owned for decades, to polite inquiries about my son's plans once he graduates from high school in June, this man made a long cab ride pass by quickly. I decided to have him drop us at The Dakota, instead of The Met, since he said that we could walk to The Met from The Dakota. We got out and I held my son close to me and said a prayer for John Lennon. We took a couple of pictures and then went over to the Strawberry Fields Memorial that they have built to remember Mr. Lennon by. Somone had spelled out the word "PEACE" within the circular memorial. There was a long haired young man who hadn't bathed in awhile sitting on one of the benches facing the memorial. He was asleep. A guitar case leaned against the bench near his head. My son asked me how long ago was it that John Lennon was killed. I said that I thought it happened in 1981. My son then remarked that it was amazing that there was such a great interest in the man this many years later.

The long walks that I have taken over the last half a week in New York City have brought back the arthritis in my knees that caused me to quit training jiu jitsu with Jakare, several years ago. For awhile, I was on this pill that the Doctor prescribed, but the pill turned out to be poisonous or dangerous somehow, and was removed from the market. Vioxx, I think that it was called.
I would love to live in New York City, sometime. I guess that I would have to have a living situation where I don t have to walk a lot, or maybe this knee pain that I am feeling, today, will be temporary and will go away. Ideally, I m thinking that I'd like to go to grad school in New York, and either pursue a Masters Degree in Creative Writing or an MFA in Poetry. This would all occur in about five years, when my daughter, Scout, has finished high school.

Who knows though? Who really knows what is going to happen from one minute to the next. Many of the people here at Gate A10, at the Newark Airport are grumbling and complaining because their flight has been delayed several times. I am just thankful to be traveling and all I hope for is a safe arrival back in Atlanta, whatever time it turns out to be.

Allegedly, there are snow and wind and water storms that are making history in this area of the nation, today. It is very weird that such weather is hitting the Northeast in mid-April, is it not? Perhaps Al Gore, is right: global warming is going to get us. Of course, then, Mr. Gore needs to turn off more than a few lights in his mansion, to help the cause.

We finally got in the air. At one point, after we had been loaded into the plane, the Captain came on to say that there were 23 planes ahead of us, on the runway, and that it would take another 45 minutes to get in the air. There was a great deal of turbulence during take off, and now, after the Captain has finally turned off the seatbelts must be worn lights, the plane is still shaking a bit. There is a nice sunset going on outside the window across the aisle. I have a window seat, but my view has been of a darkened sky.

As soon as we were allowed to, I ambled back to the bathroom. Somebody must have been shooting up or dieing in the bathroom on the right, because they never came out the whole time that I was waiting to use the pisser, and when I got there, there were two people in front of me in line. Some people are just inconsiderate, or maybe this person was deathly ill, and was puking their guts out in there. In that case, I wouldn't have wanted to follow them into that bathroom.

There are two stewards and one stewardess on this plane today. One of the stewards is an older guy. He looks German. Or Czechoslovakian. The other steward is a black guy, probably from the same country as Idi Amin. This man is mean. He snapped at me to turn off my laptop, as we were about to get ready to get ready to get ready to leave. I then watched him bark orders at other passengers in an unpleasant manner. His temperament would better suit him for a job as a prison guard. Where do the airlines find these people who they hire to bring us one soda and one small bag of pretzels on a flight? The older German-looking man was doing some sort of a weird dance, at the front of the airplane, before liftoff, as the mean man spoke over the pa on such subjects as how to put the oxygen mask on, if it falls down in front of you and how to pull your seat out and use it as a flotation device should the plane crash into water. The German-looking guy looked like he was on LSD, as he did his weird little interpretive dance, he really did. I think that some stewards and some stewardesses feel like they are somehow on stage as they take care of us, as we fly from city to city. And in some ways they are. Can I please have some more peanuts?

There was a bit of a wait, once we landed in Atlanta. I could see airplanes in front of us slowly pulling up to gates. I said goodbye and thank you to the mean man, as I walked off the airplane. He smiled at me and said, "have a good day." Maybe his job stresses him out and causes him to act mean. Maybe he is nice when he is not working. Anyway, he and the other crew members got us safely to Atlanta from Newark and that is really all that matters, now isn't it?

I was looking my love's phone number up on my phone, which now worked, again, as I walked down the hall from the airplane to the baggage claim area, when suddenly this beautiful woman ran up to me, grabbed me, hugged me and kissed me. We had not seen each other in two weeks; it had felt much longer, though, so this embrace felt like I was being smothered by a brand new woman. What a hot piece of ass I am blessed with to call mine. I can't wait to get her in the sack.

My bag never showed up on turnstile no. 2, where the sign said it would be. Love headed to the forms office of the airline to fill out a missing luggage form. While she was doing this, I took a walk over to turnstile 1, where my bag was not supposed to be and there it was. I'm calling the trip officially over here. Special thanks to The Miller Family. Staying with them was more comfy than staying with The Hiltons or The Marriotts or any of them other expensive hotel folks. Plus the fancy hotels don't have the incredible chilli, pasta salad and rice krispie treats that Breigh Miller cooks. Kennedy is a truly lucky child; and I am a truly lucky man. Visit New York sometime soon; you won't be disappointed.










I

The Story of Yesterday May Never Get Fully Written...

I took a train into New York City from Garfield, New Jersey yesterday, no mean feat, really, but I'm kind of pround of my adventure. I stepped off the train at Penn Station and started asking allegedly uptight New Yorkers how to get to NYU. My goal was to meet my son in Washington Square Park, which is surrounded by NYU, and then we would head up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Graem was crashing with a friend in an NYU dorm room, and I was staying with my good friends, The Millers, in New Jersey.

We took a cab from NYU to The Dakota, and said a prayer, and took a few pictures on the spot where John Lennon was shot. We spent a moment at Strawberry Fields, the memorial, to Mr. Lennon. Within the circular memorial, someone had spelled the word "PEACE" with strawberrys. A burnt out fellow with long hair in need of a bath or show was asleep under a blanket on a bench facing the memorial. A guitar case was propped up on the bence near his head. My son asked when Mr. Lennon had been shot and then remarked that it was amazing that there was still such a great level of interest in the man after all these years.

I then followed my son through Central Park; he claimed to know where he was going, in getting us to The Metropolitan. When I, and my arthritic knees who were aching and sore feet started to doubt his direction, I asked a man who was walking through the park with his wife and two small children. He pulled out a map. I think that he was from Germany. There are so many people from around the world; it is so refreshing to be surrounded by such. On 34th Street, when I was looking for a subway entrance to get to NYU, an young man from India walked up to me and asked if I knew how to get to 42nd Street.

I'm taking a train, today, from North Jersey to Penn Station to The Metropolitan Art Museum.

My son just left me at a coffee shop at the corner of 8th Ave. and W. 19th Street in New York City. I am amazed that he can find his way back to the NYU dorm that he is staying in. The only way that I can find my way around New York City, so far, is to hail a cab or tag along with someone I know who knows their way around, like Dale W. Miller.

Dale will be showing up any minute. He's been at a cymbal show, while Graem and I have been spending a chunk of our afternoon trying to hail a cab. It seems that it was easier in past visits to New York to get one of the orange vehicles to pull over, than it has been this time, so far.

We got one cab to pull over and the driver told me that if I didn't have an exact address in the East Village, then he couldn't find his way to the East Village. I was a little surprised at this, but I let him go. Graem said that I should have give him two sets of numbers: avenue and street.

The next cabbie that I hailed wanted to know the exact address of The Chelsea Hotel, which is where I wanted to go. Again, I was surprised. I thought the cabbie was supposed to know the city, and that was one of the advantage for "tourists" of taking cabs. I didn't realize that the cabbie might be dependent on you to tell him exact street numbers within neighborhoods. I guess, take me to Greenwich Village, is not good enough.

I wanted to spend Saturday night at the Chelsea Hotel. It is rich with writer history, and there is at least one "punk rock" incident that has occurred there that has added to the hotel's fame.

When I called, on Wednesday, the person answering the phone, told me that the only room available was a penthouse and it cost $585 for the night. My backer told me to go for it. She said that it would be a rich, once in a lifetime experience. I really wanted to ask if the room where Syd killed Nancy was available. I wonder if that room rents for more than just a regular room. I read somewhere that Burroughs wrote one of his books inside a room at the hotel. On a plack outside the hotel it says something about Dylan Thomas and a few other really famous authors, whose names I can't remember, had stayed there and written there.

(TO BE CONT.)

I'm tired, and I'm going to bed. I'll tell you about the show tonight, tomorrow. I'm going to stay at The Chelsea, Saturday night, if they still have a room open when I call them, after nine, tomorrow. God is good. Night, night.

Even in New York City, you have to take time out to smell the flowers, or, in my case, today, to hang out with Kennedy Miller, age 3 1/2. I didn't go out and knock on literary agents' doors, I didn't try to find a publisher, I didn't do anything to further, my "career," to make me the next all American novelist, or poet, or journalist, or whatever it is that I am. I hung out with Kennedy. We made videos using my digital camera. Kennedy sang; she danced, and she did a little routine where I asked her who her favorite person was, and she shouted out the answer. Guess who she picked? Keep in mind, that I had bribed her with the promise of chocolate milk if she gave the right answer to the camera!!

The Palomar(www.palomartheband.com) cd release show is tonight. I hate bars, but I am looking forward to going to The Mercury Lounge, tonight, in the Village, for this show. My connection to the band is their drummer, Dale W. Miller. He and his wife(and now their child, Kennedy!!) are old friends of mine. Dale was the drummer and my Keith Richards or Joe Perry type( in that he also worked his ass off to make that band a sucess) in The Mikel K band, a spoken word, musically improvisational group that put out two cds, and raged, baby, raged. Dale and Breigh met in Atlanta, ten years agao, moved to New York and got married, I guess about five years ago, now. Dale is still living his dream of playing music. He is lucky to have a wife who lets him go on the road, and spend all the time that it takes to be a musician. Dale is a great drummer, but more importantly, he is a great husband and a great father.
------------
I was saddened, last night, to see that Kurt Vonnegut had died. What a great talent. I am up in New York, as I said, primarily to see Dale play at his band's cd release party, and I was at a bookstore in Williasmburg, last night; they had several Vonnegut books on a table with other books. I thought to myself how I probably wouldn't see Vonnegut on the display tables in the bookstores back in Atlanta, and then I got home and found out on the internet that he had passed. He lived a rich life. He brought great joy to many of us. May God rest his soul.

Here's a piece that I wrote last night on the Harper Perennial's My Space Blog, when my emotions were raw about the passing of this great man...http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=58175312&blogID=252321062&Mytoken=EE7FE6F3-DC5E-42C7-ABD782B03D0CE92D1845207

Ps I feel really stupid. The bookstore in Williamsburg must have already heard about Mr. Vonnegut's death before I got there and that is why his books were on prominent display and I bet that his books were on prominent display in Atlanta because of his death. Death can be good for book sales.

The 8 shots of expresso, that I drank in Williamsburg, last night, did not keep me from sleeping, but i am WIDE awake, here in New Jersey, this morning at 8:52 a.m. I hear the pitter patter of little feet running about above me. This is such an electrifying sound, so unlike the depressing sound, back home, of dogs gone wild on the hardwood floor above me!! I might spend Saturday night at the Chelsea Hotel. Wouldn't that be great. It has such a rich history of great authors having lived and written there. I might not crank out a novel in one night, but I bet that I will get a poem or two of interest. I'm going to see if I can stay in the room where Syd Vicious killed Nancy Spungen. Wouldn't that be weird? It might be very creepy and scary. I wonder if they charge more for that room, or if they even advertise it or tell you which one it is. Dylan Thomas stayed there for a bit; so did(gosh just read this article by Cathleen Miller, to get the lowdown http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/travel/index/stories/miller01241999.htm.

Anyway, Kennedy and coffee are calling. I'm getting up off the futon, heading up out of the basement and into the Miller's kitche. What a glorious day to be alive. God bless all of you.

Now I'm at The Verb Cafe(in Williamsburg, New York.) I didn't know the name of the place until after I got my coffee and a piece of ginger cake that I shouldn't be having! Fairly appropriate name for a place for a writer from out of town to find himself in, don't you think? It makes me feel right at home, except that they don't have free wifi, and I can't tap into the neighbor's. Also, I'm sitting underneath the speaker; the music is good,original, but it is loud and I'm old. Did I ever tell you that this past summer I left a Tom Petty concert before he and the band were done playing because I had such a good seat that I was too near the loud loud music; and Tom Petty is my man, has been since "Damn The Torpedos." I have noticeable hearing loss, from my days as a music columnist, where I would get my drink(s) and go stand by the monitors all night trying to figure out what the singer was saying. I never figured it, I got drunk, I wrote some really brilliant columns; and I put myself prematurely on the path to a hearing what.

WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!

If you work in tandems, your co-worker can blow your tip for you. The gentlman who is working behind the counter here is real friendly. We chatted about Al Gore, John Travolta and our own personal energy consumption and the role that he and I have in ruining the planet in our own small way. I told him that I was a hypocrite, because, as a writer, I have often cried out for a stop to the madness which is destroying the world that my grandchildren will inherit, and yet I look at the vehicle that I drive and the amount of trash that I carry out of my house everyday and know that I am shitting on the planet just like the people who I cry out to.

Then honey with the tats and the sullen angry look took over on cash register with her don't talk to me i know you want to fuck me attitude ending my chat with the other guy. She handed me a ten and a one and all she got was the one in the tip jar when I had been going to bust the ten in half and lay a five in there. Anyway, Dale just called and I gots to scoot.
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It's twenty one minutes after midnight, now; I'm tired. Mrs. Dale W. Miller(Breigh) has gone to bed. She's pregnant. The Millers are going to have their second child, this one a boy, in August. Breigh said that she loved being pregnant. She lent me her cell phone tonight. My lousy phone only works in Atlanta. It seems to me that a cell phone that works anywhere you go is almost an essential thing to have in the world today. I have kids to stay in touch with. You know the deal. I mean where would you be without your laptop, if you are lucky enough to have one. I mean, once you have it, you can't live without it and you don't see how you ever functioned without it. When I travel, I always take my laptop. It is an extension of me.

Williamsburg was cool. I dug hanging out there tonight. It's funky; lots of food, lots of coffee. I mean, what more could you ask for. I saw people who live there walking there dogs and I wondered what it would be like walking my dogs in New York City. Morisson would love it. Javi wouldn't care, as long as he was getting fed. I'm going to bed. I think that I'm going to stay at the Chelsea Hotel, Saturday night; you know, the place where Syd shot Nancy. Great writers have lived there and written. Am I a great writer?

ps The Baristat at The Real told me about a Polish restaurant that he said was great. He said that there were a lot of Polish people in the area. Polish people are very white. It is funny to look at someone who you think would have impecable english and they don't. At least it is funny to me, or maybe unique is the word I'm looking for. I'm certainly not laughing at anyone because they are Polish. The menu at the restaurant had burgers on it and chicken dishes. I told the waitress that I wanted her to suggest something Polish to me, and she did. The plate that arrived was incredible. The only thing on it that I recognized was some sausage and a little container of apple sauce. Everything else was new to me and exquisite. I figured that I was driving my blood sugar through the ceiling. I just punctured my finger and dragged the blood across the strip that you stick into the meter; 102; pretty fucking good way to end a great day.
Thanks to The Millers. Thanks to Cynthia B; and especially thank you to my Higher Power for keeping me off drugs, alcohol and cigarettes for another day. Graem is hoping to fly into New York, in the morning. I'm hoping that he and I can go to the Museum of Modern Art, and score some crack. Ha. Ha. Just kidding. Nite. Nite.

I'm in Brooklyn at this cool little coffee shop called The Read. Dale W. Miller (www.dalewmiller .com)met me at the Newark airport and we hung out a little bit before Dale had to hook up with his band, Palomar, for their final practice before their cd release party at The Mercury Lounge in the East Village, tomorrow night.

You've heard about this Don Imus thing, where the broadcaster referred to the well-educated, intelligent and hard-working Rutger's girls basketball team as, "nappy headed ho's."
Well, I had a window seat from Atlanta to Newark and the gentleman sitting next to me, of all things, was the Rutges' men's wrestling team coach. Coach said that it was said that such fine young women were so degraded. Imus is an idiot, from what I can tell; I'm surprised it took him this long to expose himself.

The barista, here at The Read, was blow away that I wanted four shots of expresso in my large cappuccino. I told him about The Lazarus that Dennis and Rob server at Java Lords in Atlanta, that has six shots and how when I go into Starbucks, these days, I often ask them for six shots in my Venti cappucciono. Starbucks only coughs up two shots in their large cappuchinos normally.

Famine. War. Rape. Child molestation, and I'm giving you the six shot cappuccino lowdown. The quality of my problems, these days, is excellent. What the fuck have I done for anybody else, recently? I don't have a foundation or scholarships in my name.

I'm tired, but I can't sleep. Do you know that feeling? It sucks. I am exhausted from not being able to sleep, last night, because I accidentally ingested a lot of caffeine right near bedtime and couldn't sleep worth a shit. I thought that tonight I'd be able to catch it up, snooze great, wake up feeling wonderful, but it's one of those nights where, when I sit at the keyboard, I can hardly keep my eyes open, and then, when I shut the computer down, fall onto the mattress, turn out the lights, and put the c pap machine mask on, I'm wide awake on that bed staring off into the dark. Anyway, I'm not bitching. Things are good here. Sleep will come, when sleep will come. Think about all the seventeen and eighteen year old kids, soldiers, in harm's way tonight, if you need some gratitude. And think of that kid, or kids, in Africa or China, or anyhere, who is, and who are, starving for food, or starving for love, or starving for food and love. Take gratitude where you can find it. Gratitude is good.

I'm flying to New York City at 1:30 p.m., tomorrow. I love New York City. If I had a million dollars, or more, I'd move the family and the dogs there, immediately. I wouln't go up there to deliver pizzas, wait tables or bag groceries, though. Nope, I definitely would have to be a millionaire or a multi-millionaire to live in New York City.

We upped the white pill, this morning, my therapist and I, by half a pill a day to make all the angry inner feelings go away. Pills affect your thoughts was the jist of what she said. I would do anything to live a calm peaceful life, inner self and outer being. I'll be fifty in a month and most of those years have been lived on an angry roller coaster of emotions.

Dear God, grant me the serenity...

Somebody stole my jelly beans. I had them in the kitchen in a plastic egg, and the egg is gone. I called Scout, she said that she doesn't even like jelly beans. I called Graem, he said that he didn't know that there were jelly beans in the kitchen. The dogs are gone; I'm going to New York City for five days and I took them over to the kids' mom's house so that Scout and her mom and her man, Andy, could watch them, so I can't interrogate the dogs and see if they took my jelly beans. I'm having a craving for sugar. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

I started this practice with my son, when he was old enough to walk out the door by himself and head down to the busstop to get himself to school, where he would come give me a hug before he walked out the door. This usually meant that he would wake me, as I am a writer, and I often stay up late at night doing what I do. The other day, my son was at his mother's, for the night, but he dropped by my place to grab something, and then he left without hugging me. Now, that is probably the first time, in either of our lifetimes, that that has occurred. I don't care if he is now 18 and all grown up; I am going to fight for my hugs, until he is gone off to Chicago for art school, in the fall. And even then, I'm probably go to fly up there, a bunch, just so that I can hug this young man who I love so much. Families that hug together, stay together.

One more toke before you hit the road...

I'd like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas; I really would, I mean I know that it's April and all but do you feel how cold out it is outside? I don't think that I've ever had the heat on in April. Say, maybe the gas company is behind all this cold, you know, maybe they wanted to make a few extra bucks before we turned our air conditioners on and started turning our hard earned money over to the electric company and not the gas company. I wonder how did the Indians make it before the gas company and the electric company came along. I have no idea, but I can certainly tell you this, I'm glad that I ain't sleeping in no small pox infested blanket.

This is just me talking as a fictional character...

I just deleted this person from my friends list, on you know where; I figure that she is just a useless piece of shit grab all she can grab type of lady, and I'm still a recovering prick, so there is no use in having our two worlds collide. Sometimes, it's best to end a relationship at four a.m. in the morning, when you can't sleep and you are half pissed off because you've ingested too much caffeine from a beverage that you didn't even really know had caffeine in it, even if there is, or was, really no relationship between you and this person. This woman wouldn't have any fucking idea about who you are or why you are pissed off at her. Things are just like that, sometimes; they don't make any sense. Just think of how many children were born so far out of and so far away from "love." I mean, a bunch of people have fucked hating each other, and then this kid pops out and is here and all trying to figure it all out, how the game is played and how to fit into the game. Maybe he turns out to be Ghandi or she becomes Al Capone.

I think that it's a good thing that I keep my phone ringer turned off most of the time because really I don't want to talk to you. You think that you are really clever or scary trying to get me to pay you money that I don't owe. If I was in charge, all you collection agency bitches would be taken out and shot. And I ain't talkin' ho's here, homies. Bang bang, like the Beatles said.

Three thirty a.m., time for one of the three dogs upstairs to start chasing his bowling ball across the hardwood floor. The more I now ignore the idiot that owns the dogs, the more he waves at me and says hello. What a stupid fucker. I tried to play the pleasant neighbor, "oh hello, how are you game," while his dogs were doing whatever the fuck they pleased, at my expense, but once this dooshbag told me that, "there was nothing he could do," about his dogs waking me up every morning between three thirty and five thirty a.m. and barking, for hours, while he was gone, the gig was up. He was saying "fuck you," my dogs are going to party. And he wonders why I turn my back to him and shoot him the bird when he goes, "Mikel. Mikel. Hello." What a dumb fucking ass. He's got buddhist plastered everywhere, so, I guess, that everyone will know that he's a buddhist. He's an advertising buddhist. Buddhist, my ass. Kiss my ass, mother fucker.

Every time I turn around, I am drinking Aspartame, again. The bastards have it in almost every beverage that a diabetic can drink without killing himself on sugar. I need to stick to the water with lemon habit that I have developed. Of course, then the pesticides in the lemons will kill me. I don't really want to live forever, but I'd hate to go out prematurely for something that Donald and Ron made more than a few bucks off of.

The world will soon forget about Hunter Thompson, just like they will forget about Bukowski and Morrison. That's how the world is; there is bread to buy, wars to win, propaganda to wage and religions to finance.

Most poets suck, including myself.

I figure that one thing leads to another and that if you keep doing what you want to do, as long as you're not hurting anybody else, that you are going to get to that place where you want to be.

I hate following rules, like when the label says add water to the oatmeal and put it in the microwave for three minutes, I add orange juice, just to see how it tastes, then I set the timer for thirty minutes on the microwave and I head out the door to find someplace else to eat. That's why I'm not submitting my writing to poetry magazines, they're like nazis, they think that their shit don't stink, that I should bend over and take it up the ass just to get into their useless piece of shit magazines. I mean fuck 'em, you know. Nobody cares about those magazines, nobody cares about poetry. We need to all just love our children, walk our dogs and overthrow the government and hang all the corporate leaders. Just kidding.

How can a broke man promise his daughter a pony for making good grades?

Today was an average day; a normal day. I slept late, wrote some incredible poetry, took a shower and went to pick Scout up from school, because she called me and asked me to; it was too cold, maybe, to ride the bus, today.

I am having internal anger issues, again, though; go figure. I fixate on one person I hate until the next person that I hate comes into mind and the people who are coming into mind are people who I don't hate at all, in fact, most of them I pretty much love. It's sick, and it's not a fun way to spend your time on earth, trust me. I see my therapist, tomorrow, and I definitely need more of the numb me out medication.

I used to think a lot more than I do now, and a lot deeper, and it was really useless because nothing ever came out of the thought but internal anger and depression that sometimes reared its head in ugly public displays of stupidity. Sometimes, when I was hanging around people more, some people would say, "man, you're taking lithium...that's bad dude. I smoke pot."

And I'm thinking, "like, dude, smoke your pot, I tried all that; that didn't work, and this mostly does."

I got a couple of killer pictures of Scout, today, outside the cd store holding up the two cds that I bought her for making the honor roll. She is much more photo friendly, much more willing to stand in front of my camera than is her brother, Graem. I have to use the whine and beg approach with Graem, "oh come on, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeez, give your old father the pleasure, before he dies, of getting a picture or two of you." And even that doesn't work, sometimes. I used to be able to threaten to take the car keys away from him, until we titled it to him and he turned 18.

With Scout, I just tell her that she will get more cds, if I get to take her picture. Har. Har.

The pics have been sent to all the relatives. I'm so very proud that this young lady, who I have the privilege of having a hand in help raise, made the honor roll, this past quarter. Last quarter, she made an F in reading and we all freaked out because that is a lot what Scout is about is READING!!!

Anyway, we have a goal, me and Scout of her getting 3A's and a B, this last quarter of the seventh grade and I have promised her a PONY!! (Sort of.)

TO BE CONTINUED...

Are you tired of having others speak for you?

Don Imus has loooooooooooong been an idiot; all you had to do was tune into his show, very briely, to figure that out. But who cares if Al Sharpton thinks that he should be fired. Are there any black people out there who are sick of Al Sharpton's self-appointment to speak for all of you? I think that Imus and Sharpton are about on the same level with regard to respect for the other's race. Fire them both.

Would you like a doggie style with those eggs?

A cute girl in a bikini top was waiting for me, this morning, to add her as a friend to my My Space. I clicked on her space and this is what was waiting for me, an invitation to an:

"Exotic Asian Megasite with Asian Anal, Exploited Ebony Teens, Horny Latina South Beach Girls, Blonde Porn Star Supermodels Thousands of Hardcore Sex Pics, Ethnic Anal Fucking Videos."

I pondered this invitation as I made my oatmeal, and placed an Easter basket on my daughter's laptop that my girlfriend had left for her before she went away for several weeks. I must have added the wrong person to my friend's list, I thought to myself.

TODAY IN THE DAILY K WHY MY NEARLY TWO YEAR OLD VACUM CLEANER IS STILL BRAND NEW LOOKING AND WHY BREAD IS EVIL(TO ME.) THIS IS SURE TO BE A VERY EXCITING DAILY K, I MEAN IF YOU HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING ON AT THE MOMENT, BE SURE TO CHECK IN WITH THE DAILY K; OK?

I am totally lethargic. I just woke from a brutal nap, and before that, I spent the day on a brutal interstate coming and going down that long and tedious road dubbed I-75 with one goal in mind: to get my daughter, Scout and her friend, Sylvia, home from their spring break vacation. The ride to Valdosta, where I was meeting them, was boring as hell. I almost fell asleep, once or twice. My arms and my legs felt uncomfortable for most of the ride. I don' t think that road tripping has the lure, at near 50 that it had in my late teens, early 20's. Then I would hop in the car with a six pack of beer, turn up the tunes and cruise. Now it's bottled water and mostly CNN or FOX on Sirius. I brought my dog, Morisson, along for the ride; Morisson loves to road trip.

I don't see how I survived all those youthful drunken driving expeditions. I remember pulling into Orlando, around 1976, after having pulled over somewhere between there and Tallahassee to get a second six pack, to drink while driving, but that's about all I remember was pulling in. Ostensibly, I was there to watch the FSU football team play in some bowl, but, really, anything that was going on, in those days, was just a background to the buzz. Speaking of football, I remember, sort of, throwing a sandwich at a cop who had pulled me over in Gainesville, Florida; what I was doing there I can't now recollect. Again, this incident occurred while I was a student, of sorts, at FSU. To this day, I can't understand why the officer let me drive off. Perhaps it was the end of his shift and he just didn't want to deal with it. I say student, of sorts, because it got to where all I was studying was the bottom of beer cans, beer bottles, bourbon and gin bottles. I went from being an honors program student to stumbling away from the university, one class short of a degree. I flunked this real estate finance class, twice, and said fuck it, I'm out of here. What a tragedy, don't you think, to have invested all that time and money into something and to then get screwed out of it because you were an alcoholic, but didn't know it at the time?

Somebody was looking out for me, in those drunken days of youth,though. I should be pushing up the daisies, baby, but here I am, today, entrusted to get two wonderful young teenage girls safely home. I got to give praise to my Higher Power for that, for sure.

Kobain, our cat, was waiting at the door when Morisson and Javi and I got home from our week of raking, pulling and planting in the country. Our cat had been on his own since Sunday, when we had headed north to the mountains, and I was glad that he was glad to see us. I took a nap soon after unloading our gear; Kobain jumped on the bed and curled up against my leg for the hour or so that I snoozed. I feel tense today. I think that girlfriend is misunderstanding me. I know that she is under a lot of stress. I think I'm just going to keep my mouth shut, if it is at all fucking possible.

I'm back on the road, again, tomorrow, at nine a.m.. I volunteered to meet Scout's grandmother In Valdosta which is halfway between Atlanta and Mimi's, as we call her, home in Daytona Beach, where Scout and her friend, Sylvia, have been for the last week so that I can cart Scout and Sylvia back; in time for school, har har. I'll leave around nine and so will she. We are going to meet at the first gas station off of exit 16 in Valdosta. We set up a meeting like this in case one or both of our cell phones go on the fritz. I will have Scout's new cell phone with me, tomorrow. Scout lost her old one; my Ghetto PSC won't work all the way down south.

Anyway, that is the boring everyday shit that is going on here. Graem got back from Florida safely. He was about four hours later than he said that he would be. He said that he would be home around four pm. Around six pm I started freaking out. He didn't answer his cell phone, so I tried Grant's phone and then Matt's, his two friends who were riding with him. Neither of their phones worked, either. About an hour later, Thomas, Grant's dad knocked on our door. It was weird(and good) to see Thomas here. In the eight years that we have lived here and that Graem has been real close to Thomas and Grant, Thomas has never dropped by, except to drop Graem off. Anyway, Thomas was freaking out a bit, also. I told him that Graem had just called on Seth's phone and told me they were about an hour away, that traffic sucked. Seth was in the car with them also for the ride back. The four young men showed up just as I was reciting to Thomas how "us parents first get scared, then we get angry." Grant is now almost as tall as his dad. These kids are growing up so fucking fast. I'm getting old and I'm glad as hell that the boys made it back from spring break safe. Graem's mother wondered to me if Graem had been drinking in Florids. I told her that I don't think that that is his thing. "Well, it is mine," she said, jokingly, pulling a twelve pack of bud light out of her car. I'm tired; I'm going to bed. Peace and Love. Peace and Love. Thank You Lord for keeping me and C off of B for another day. Amen.

I'm too tired to edit this. If it's choppy, I apoloze, but I'm heading for the bed. Graem just went by Java Monkey for me and scored me a pound of The Mad Poet bean. I've ground me a pot's worth and I can't wait to be sippin' on it in the am. Good night. God bless.
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I was so tired, tonight, that I forgot to take Morisson for his nightly walk, and it is on that nightly walk that he takes his nightly dump, so, of course, when I heard Morisson farting a little bit earlier tonight, he wasn t just farting; he left the hugest pile of crap that he has ever taken right near my feet. Poor dog. He looked at me with sad eyes like he was going to get in trouble, but I just looked at him and said, "its' my fault Morisson, I forgot to let you out." I said this for my son Graem's benefit, also; he was gagging and running towards the bathroom saying that he was going to puke as I was headed to the kitchen to get the grocery bags and paper towels that I use to clean the floor in such cases. Morisson shitting on the floor in the apartment highlights one of the differences between having a dog in an apartment versus having a dog in an apartment. While we were out in the country, in a house, I could open the door and let my dog out into the yard to poop and then do a poop patrol later to pick it up. Here, at the complex, as in the city, there is a leash law, so I have to accompany my dog when he takes a dump and pick it up right then.

I got out of bed to type up this little bit about Morisson and his crap on the floor, because I considered it essential to humanity to get it down.
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Did Christ rise from the dead tomorrow? I don't know, you don't know; it's pure speculation. If you are putting your money in the Easter basket and handing the basket to the church, I'd think about their motives in indoctrinating you to their belief system.

Did you see the picture of the fireman who was dressed in a wig and bikini and was prowling a park near a kids' playground, in Ohio, yesterday, prior to getting busted for dui and a few other unsavory charges? The guy said that he was on his way to a gay bar to try to win $10,000 in some sort of contest. What a loser. Not only does he give firemen a bad name, but also drag queens. Honey, please.

I just got back from the grocery store and I got everything that I need except for the one thing that I have to have, milk for coffee in the morning. If it were anything else, I would not go back out into the night, but like a crackhead must have that crack, I must have that coffee in the morning and I don't drink it black.

Having to do anything sucks. Today was a blase day where I would like to have sat around the house and seen what kind of poetry came up from the recess of my alert mind, but tired body; but I couldn't do that, as I had several piles of branches, leaves and dirt to pick up to complete my week as lawnboy at my lover's house. I couldn't just go home tomorrow and leave the piles of lawn waste for her to pick up, when she gets home from her "vacation" in California, now could I? It wouldn't be prudent; and I might not get none, huh?!

Early in the week, I was loving the landscaping that I was doing; today it was a chore, and we all know that chores, by their very connotation, are abhorrent. Anyway, I'm whining like a bitch; I got the shit bagged, and only have a few things to put in the ground, before I head back to the city, tomorrow. Oh yeah, I left half a pile to pick up at the last moment. Hunger and sore muscles got the best of me, plus its cold out there again, today. Lawn work is not as fun when it is cold out; I've got a million excuses.

Lovey Dovey is, today, engaged in a far more awful endeavor than I am picking the dandelions and planting the flowers back at her house. She is officially divorced, as of some time today, yeah, but is still wrangling with a man she used to love over who gets what, and who gets stuck with what, and why. She and her lawyer and dickhead and his lawyer are all dressed up nicely, in a lawyer's office somewhere in California, to act like shit to each other. And you wonder why she doesn't want to ever get married again. Maybe she is scared that I'll say I have a stake in her house, because I spent a week raking it and trimming her bushes. Har. Har.

This "blog" is so much like a diary that I doubt that it will ever become the best selling book that I might like to see it become. Oh well. My fucking cell phone is beeping in the other room. The damn thing doesn't work out here in the country, so I don't know why it is beeping; I got the cheap plan. A moment ago, I thought that the beeping noise meant that I had put something in the microwave and had forgotten to go get it. Girlfriend's microwave never lets you off the hook; it beeps eternally until you come empty it. The one I have in my apartment and I get along much better than I do with this one because it only beeps once as a reminder to you that your food is ready, which suits me just fine. A microwave that won't shut up is as bad as a woman who nags; I ain't got time for neither one, darling. My cell phone was beeping because it wanted me to know that I have voice mail. Well, what the fuck, I can't check the voice mail, so why beep at me?

My honey doesn't bitch or nag; she reacts, and I usually create my own dilemmas with her with my own big mouth. There is something inside me that likes to irritate her and when I do, she gets nasty; wouldn't you? If I could just be polite and friendly all the time, then we would have a polite and friendly relationship. I mean the lady is not an angel, but "she's the only one I got."

I'm smiling. Scout turned me onto this pop hip hop duo that borrowed the lines, "she's the only one I got" from some big hit song in the past. I'm not going to mention this group's name, here, because I sent them a My Space shout out and they have ignored me. I mean, they didn't ignore me when I sent them an add me notice, so what's up; too fucking busy to say hey to the K Man. Har. Har. One day I will rule the world. The Queen of England will want to knight me and I'll say, "no way bitch."

My dog, Javi, loves the sun. He has found a spot of it this morning on the carpet, in the living room, and he is languishing in it.

My blood sugar reading, upon rising, at 9am, this morning was 172. This is high. It shouldn't be higher than 140, at this point in the day. I woke up around 2am and fixed me a plate of chicken salad. I ate a whole breast doused heavily in mayonaise, and then I went outside and gourged on some peanuts; this is probably why it is high this early in the day.

The lawn work that I have been doing at Lovey Dovey's house has not only been making me very sore, but it has increased my hunger, also. I had basically given up middle of the night trips to the refrigerator, until last night. The chicken was one of those kind that you find under a heating lamp at the grocery store, all cooked and juicy, waiting for you to cut right into it, without having to pull plastic off of it, clean it, season it, and cook it. If I had had to do all that in order to make me some chicken salad, I probably would have gone back to bed instead.

I love the delis out here at the country grocery stores. Some days they server meatloaf, other days it is stuffed peppers and, yesterday, it was spaghetti with cheese toast. You can get you two or three vegetables with it, whichever you want to pay for.

Yesterday, I told the lady wearing the funny cap and plastic gloves, as she was serving up my spaghetti, that "this is my home cooking." She laughed.

"Yup," I said, my girlfriend cooked for the first two months of our relationship; now she don't cook no more." She laughed and said, "well, she was just trying to lure you in." I laughed.

Now let me state for the record, and before girlfriend reads this and gets all pissed off, that I don't mind eating out or having food delivered to the house; so my girlfriend is not a louse. Trust that I am well-fed, one way or another!

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What time table are we really on, but the one that God sets for us? This thought came to mind, as I looked around and calculated what had to be done to complete this week of landscaping, that I have found myself in, here at my girlfriend's house.

Mainly, to close out the deal, I have piles of branches, leaves and dirt to pick up. I enjoyed creaint the pile more than I take to eliminating them. If love was here, I would try to take her into doing this part of the gig, like I was Huckleberry Finn, and her picking up the piles was some deal that we had made. Of course, I could just leave the piles and head back to the city, but that would make the job, and somehow, me also, incomplete.

Today, on the phone, I told my son what I had been doing all week, and how, at his age, I hated doing this kind of crap. My son said that he, too, at his age, didn't much care for it, so I know that I won't be able to talk him into making the hour and fifteen minute drive from city to country to come help me put these piles in lawn bags.

My dog Morisson is eating whole peanuts, today, shell and all. Gee, I wonder if I'm feeding him enough in the mornings. I throw the whole peanut to him, and he mostly catches them with his mouth, then sulks off to work on them. He seems to chew the whole peanut a bit, then spit it out, root through it for the peanut, and then go back and eat the shell. He won't eat strawberries, though. Javi will eat them though; whole strawberries with the green part cut off, half strawberries with the green part cut off, and he'll even eat the green part, if you toss it to him. Like I've said before, Javi is an eater!!

If I was doing this landscaping dog, errrr job, for money by the hour, somebody would have been on my ass, long ago, for going too slow, or because they were trying to figure out a way not to pay me at all.

The beauty of this gig, is that there is no cash involved; I'm doing this work because I love the woman who owns the house that all this landscaping is attached to. What if we break up? Well, I had this week didn't I, this beautiful week in the sun and in the shade doing something that I always thought that I would hate doing; and I have loved it! I cannot pay this woman back for this and I don't see us breaking up anytime soon. In a day less than two weeks, we will have been together for a year, and its been a long time, baby, since anyone has put up with me for that long.

Scout puked in her grandmother's van, yesterday, in Florida, down by the beach, on Spring break, after eating shrimp that weren't fully cooked. Ah, the joys of Yahoo Instant Messenger; I learn things about my children, or at least this child, that would have escaped me otherwise.
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I just learned that my older dog, who will eat anything, will also eat peanut shells, which is rather convenient, don't you think, when I am eating peanuts? I can just throw the shells to the dog after I have gotten the yummy peanuts out from inside the nasty shell. The younger dog won't eat peanut shells and he won't eat peanuts that are still inside the shell, but he will eat the peanuts, themselves, once you have gone to the trouble of taking them out of the shell for him.
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I'm in the country, still. My still lingering, and not too subtley waiting to rise from not being fully dead, bad attitude and my perceptions of what her mother may be up to regarding me, haven't run me off of love's property yet. I almost split, but this lawnwork thing has somehow become addicting. It gives me kind of an artistic high to look back and see what I have done, how I have improved the property by raking, digging, cutting, planting and pulling. Did you hear that honey? I have improved the property. Smile.

The folks back home have nicknamed me "Lawnboy," in their emails, so I am "Lawnboy K," for the week.

Morisson, (the younger dog), woke me in the middle of the night. I swear that I heard voices coming from the kitchen, when he woke me up, but it turned out that it was thundering and lightening like a motherfucker outside. No wonder the dog was trembling and begging for me to wake and comfort him.

After I inspected the storm, I let the dog crawl into the bed with me. He was right; the storm was vicious. I would probably need the dog's comfort as much as he needed mine to get through this one.

A dog in my bed, or hers, these days, is an absolute no no. When I had the old mattress, thrown on the floor, that was already covered in holes, and dirt, my dog was welcome to lay down with me. That mattress is long gone and so, too, is my dog's permission to crash with me; except in this rare, rare exception. I mean the poor dog was up on his hind legs, digging his nose into my underarm to wake me last night. Poor thing. He doesn't much care for storms in the city, either.

NEXT IN THE DAILY K: Lawnboy K picks up more sticks than any man ever seen; and what has Graem Kinsella been up to in Florida on his spring break. The Daily K tries to get the normaly shut mouthed kid to talk.

I'm so glad; I got the flowers watered before it rained.

There are a great deal of branches scattered around the exterior of my lady's house, beneath bushes that I just trimmed with the clippers that I bought, last night. I feel like I do when I put in a good workout at the gym. My muscles ache, a bit, but there is this healthy glow to the feeling.

I hope that I have trimmed the bushes correctly; that is to the specific desires of my girlfriend. Honey Bunny is out of town for two weeks, so any imperfections that I imposed upon her bushes, while she is gone, should naturally work themselves out in that period of time. I figure that fucking up a bush is somewhat like cutting yourself shaving; the flaw on your face soon goes away, as it should with any imperfections that I have cast upon my love's landscaping.

I have got to get this package off in the mail, today, to the financial aid office at the art school that my son is considering attending in the fall. These people actually asked, on the form that they sent us, how my son and I live on such little money.

I laughed.

Doesn't the wealthy art school realize that there are still poor people out there; albeit some of them may be ones who have chosen to "starve" for their art"

In my letter to them, I told them that if their school was a four year holding ground for little rich kids, that if all they were after was money, that they should count my kid out; but that if they are looking for a raw artistic talent, in the form of a well-mannered young man, then they should find the means, i.e. the money, to allow my kid to go their school.

Seems simple enough to me.

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Dear Love:

This was such a great day, until you just called, and said that your mommy said that I should put your car in the garage because it was going to hail, here in North Georgia, tonight. As I told you, before I hung up on you, your mommy doesn't run my life, as she all too often does yours. If it hails tonight, your vehicle and mine, will stand together, side by side, in the driveway taking whatever hard knocks that nature gives them, united like we should be, not listening to your mommy. How old are we now?

Thinking that your nosy old bitch of a mother is being driven by your house, by her caretaker, while you are out of town, so she can peek in on what is going on, while I am here playing your lawnboy, irritates me enough that I'll probably head out of here in the morning.

You are in California and she is still running your life, long distance. She won't run mine. I spent the day trimming your fucking bushes, raking your fucking flower beds, planting your fucking plants, changing your fucking lights in your fucking dimly lit garage and all I hear is that Mommy wants the car moved.

Fuck your mommy.

This is a lady who has three dogs in her house that shit inside and she doesn't pick it up herself. She lets her daughter pick it up. What a Queen.

I pulled weeds for the first time in my life, a few minutes ago. Girlfriend is out taking it easy in California and she asked if I would mind watering her flowers while she was gone. She got a "yes" on this and then threw in "and if you could, would you pull the weeds on the patio and get the ant killer out of the garage and pour it on those ant hills that are out back?"

Funny, this is the kind of shit that I thought that I had avoided for life. (I'm 50 on June 20.)When I was a kid, I used to mow lawns, shovel snow from driveways and sidewalks, and rake lawns for a living; or rather for basketballs, tennis raquets, candy bars, cokes and Converse All Stars.

Pulling the weeds wasn't all that bad. I actually found it a bit meditative. Making sure that I got the whole root with each weed that I pulled was my goal. The dogs added another element to my weed pulling, bringing their tennis balls up to me, as I sat on the patio pulling, so that I could throw the balls for them.

Last week, I told girlfriend that, if she bought a lawn mower, I would cut her grass for her. I must be hallucinating. What can be next?

Perhaps, though, it is like Eddie Albert used to say on the tv show, "Green Acres," "Country living is the life for me."

I have lived in the city since 1982. Pulling a weed or two and mowing the lady's lawn certainly can't hurt me, now can it?
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My backup hard drive is making some weird noises right now. It is 10:30pm. I was sure that I had changed the time for the hard drive to do its daily backup to around 4am, when I most certainly would be sleeping and wouldn't hear any noises at all. When I'm at my apartment, I have three sources of white noise that I mostly use to drown out the sounds of the city. The fan in the wall unit air conditioner is never turned off. My c pap machine is turned on every night that I go to sleep; it makes quiet a comforting whir noise. My portable heater has a fan setting. It is quite raucous, so raucous that I turn it off the first thing upon waking. It helps me fall asleep at night, but would bother me if I left it running all day.

My girlfriend recently bought a blindfold. Before you get all excited, it is the kind that you use for eliminating sunshine and getting some daytime sleep, not the kind that you use for tieing her up and spanking her, though I guess they could be used for that. I was going to make the point that isn't it funny all the devices that I have at my disposal to drown out the sounds of my neighbors in the city, so I can get a good night's sleep, but now I've gotten sidetracked. Thank God one of the dogs is indicating that he has to go, so I need to go. Bye.

It's 10:38am. I'm on the road to Demorest. I've got the dirty laundry basket with me, my meds, my c pap machine, and the thing that I never forget, my laptop. The ride from Atlanta to Demorest, city to country, my apartment to girlfriend's house, is about an hour and fifteen minutes. My Ghetto PCS phone, as some nickname it, will work until I hit Gainseville, Ga. I often use this time, this stretch of highway to reach out and touch, via phone, friends who I don't often talk to while wound in the hustle and bustle of my ordinary day activities.

Nobody, I know will be available at 10:38; they will either be asleep or at work. Most of them will be asleep.

I pulled into the Caribou coffee house in Midtown before I hit the road. I needed beans and Java Lords was short on them, last night, when I stopped by there to score. I asked the guy behind the counter at Caribou which pound of coffee that he liked best; there were two choices, this morning. The young man said that he liked the Costa Rican, so I layed it on the counter, said thanks, and ordered a cappuccino. I like the Caribou cappuccinos; they put four shots of expreso in them. Starbucks only puts in two. Caribou has this system where you can get a card that attaches to your key chain and you can put money on it to use it for future coffee visits. Beyond that, you can set it up where, if you hit a certain level of cash on your card, they will automatically hit your credit card up and rejuvinate your coffee card. You can't put a tip on this card, though and I thought that I only had a twenty; the guy couldn't get into the register to break it, so that I could drop a one or two in the tip cup. He didn' have a key, so I routed through my wallet, found a five, and put it in the tip cup.

This earned me a big smile from the man who had just help me choose the coffee beans for my home, and from the guy working with him. The guy working with him said, "make his extra special!"

I don't relate this incident to you to share with you what a great man I am. I relate it to you to show you that tipped employees should be tipped well, if they do a good job, if they exhibit a good attitude. I used to bitch about all the big businesses that weren't paying their employees enough, while they raked in huge profits, and they expectes us, the customers, to pay their emmployees' salaries via tips. Have you ever know a poor restaurant owner? Why is it that they can't pay their waiters and waitresses a fair wage? Why must the server rely on the customer for their bread and butter.

Anyway, me bitching about how bad big corporations suck does absolutely no good for anyone. Putting an extra buck or two in the coffee cup at the coffee shop does.
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I think that it was the older dog who woke me, this morning. He often does, as he often has to take care of business, immediately, the first thing in the morning. As I walked across the living room to get his leash, I looked down our hallway, as I do, every morning, when I wake, and looked at the bottom of my son's closed bedroom door to see if the light was on yet. I immediately realized that the light would not be on, this morning and would not be on all week, as my son was in Florida with friends for spring break.

It is funny, the little things that give me comfort. Seeing that light on at the bottom of my boy's door in the morning gives me a great comfort; it lets me know that my son is alive and well and that my son is in that room getting ready to start his day. My boy is growing up so fast; I fully realize that someday, soon, he won't be turning on that light, in that room, at the end of that hallway; he will be turning a light on somewhere else; in a college dorm, in a house with roommates, in a home with a wife or girlfriend.

I need to fully enjoy each minute of each day that that light is turned on, that that young man is in that room, soon headed down the hallway to say "good morning," and "good bye," to his father, as he heads out the front door to his Senior year of high school.
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I recieved a My Space message, this morning, that said, "I'm sorry that you hate God." Some people can't read. I don't hate God. I don't believe in organized religion and I don't trust Catholic priests, Christian ministers or zealot Muslims. I believe in live and let live and I don't like you shoving your God up my buttocks. I have my own special one on one relationship with my higher power; and I like it that way. I don't need guidance in my dialogue with the Lord. He or she and I get along just fine without the assistance of men who want you to put money in their basket for turning you onto their God.

I start every day by saying, "Thank you, Lord, for letting me see the air of a new day, breath the air of a new day. Guide me in thought, word and action, Lord, thy will be done not mine, thy will be done not mine. Please keep me off of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes." I then pray for every family member and anyone else who I can think of who might need a little prayer to get them through their day here on earth or get them through their day in heaven.

I don't pray prescribed prayers.

You can and I won't hate you for it.

To each their own, baby.

Dig?

I'm partying tonight. I'm on my second bottle of sugar-free black cherry soda. I've had my sushi and I've drank four or five glasses of spring water with lemon freshly squeezed into the cup at my own hands. I'm high; as high as I can get: happiness, for me, these days, doesn't come at the end of a bong, or from a bottle of bourbon or a line or twenty of speed and or coke. I'm clean and serene, and happy as hell about it. I won't black out tonight and wind up in the drunk tank, covered in blood and puke.

Praise the Lord. I give thanks to my higher power. You don't have to get drunk tonight, baby.
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I'm alone tonight. Both of the younger kids are in Florida; the older kid is finishing his hip hop cd and girlfriend is in California for a few weeks. Of course, I still have the dogs and the cat. And Sylvia.
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The Sylvia that I said, earlier, that I was sleeping with, tonight, because my girlfriend is out of town is the poet and writer, Sylvia Plath. I'm curled underneath the covers with her phenomenal book, "The Bell Jar." This book reads kind of like "The Catcher In The Rye," only the pace is faster, the author's vision is clearer; no small feat: I love "The Cathcher In The Rye."

I love you too, baby. You don't have to get drunk tonight.

My girlfriend went out of town, tonight, for a few weeks, so I'm going to go to bed with another woman. Her name is Sylvia.

I just scared the piss out of my cat. He was laying asleep on my bed and I threw a half full bottle of hair conditioner that I didn't want to forget to pack later for a trip that I was going to take, onto the bed; it hit some books that were lieing there, made a loud gun shot like sound and bam, Kobain was up and off the bed in an instant. Mind you, this is a fearless cat, who regularly brings home snakes, rats and mice. We live in the city too, so I don't know how or where he's finding snakes. He's kind of like the apartment complex cat; everybody thinks he's a stray and everybody loves him and lets him into their apartment. Maybe he is stealing their pet snakes and bringing them home to me and my kids, half-dead.

Kobain did an intense under the bed inspection before he let himself out through the custom made cat door that occupies our back window. I figure that the cat was headed out on the prowl to find out who had woken him up and to take measures to assure that that will never happen during one of his cat naps again.

I was just clicking my fingers so ferociously to the introduction to "L.A. Woman," by The Doors, that I woke my oldest dog up. Oldest dog places himself near me, nearly at my feet, not so much out of love, but because that is the best vantage point that he can get to the kitchen. This dog does not miss a beat, when it comes to the kitchen. Whether you are preparing food for yourself, for him, for the other dog or for the cat, older dog is down and digging on the scene.

Oldest dog's name is Javi and he has these soulful brown eyes that don't so much beg for grub as hypnotize you into giving him an extra dog treat here and there throughout the day.
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Dude next door is dealing bags; I'm convinced of it. I can hear his door get knocked on, open and bang shut all day long and way into the wee hours of the night. Cars pull up. People knock on the door and enter. Many come right back out; many stay about the time that it takes to smoke a joint. Cars pull out. None of this would piss me off(I think that pot should be legal and thus someone would and should have to sell it) except that his customers park right in front of my house, good ole apartment number 17, and take my parking space. I live here. I pay rent. And I can't get a parking space anywhere near my front door nearly three quarters of the time.

I thought about dropping a dime, but I don't really want to do that. I thought about grabbing a can of spray paint, and tagging his door with "A DRUG DEALER LIVES HERE." I've thought about this and all kinds of other things to try to get this and other neighbors to conform to my expectations of what is neighborly and what is not. Why won't people do what I want them to? Why won't the world conform to my expectations? Who died and made me King?

Suppose I drop a dime and dude shoots my kid.? Suppose I spray paint his door and the landlord evicts ME and I get arrested for vandalism?

Live and let live; ehhhhhhhhhhhhh?

Like Lee Ving, of the band Fear, screamed in one of his songs, most raucous and wonderful punk rock songs, "I LOOOOOOOOOOOVE LIVIN' IN THE CITY!!"

Girlfriend headed out of town to California for two weeks, about an hour ago. Before she left, she left two Easter baskets on my daughter's desk; one for my daughter and one for me. When I kissed her goodbye, she said, "I smell peanut butter cup on your breath; you been in your Easter basket, already..." I lied and said, "No, I haven't. That is the smell from the pancakes that I had for breakfast this morning." We both laughed.

When I got home from dropping my gal at the crowded airport, I went straight to my Easter basket. Before she left the house, girlfriend had been stuffing money in brightly colored plastic eggs and sticking them in my daughter''s basket and I wanted to see if she had put any money in mine. She hadn't.

I'm not a Christian. I don't buy the myths. I think that they were promulgated to subjagate, dominate and tax in the name of the Lord. But I dig chocolate Easter bunnies, though, and peanut butter cups and the act of handing a basket full of goodies to a kid and watching the kid smile.

That's what God wants: smiling kids, not a bunch of rules and regulations handed down from some old men in weird robes who run back to the church and hide with their money when it is learned that abstaining from sex has created a bunch of child molestors within their ranks.

Happy Easter.

This poison pet food thing really sucks. I just heard on the radio that pet snacks are now suspect, as well as wet and dry food. The thing to do, said some vet, who also said that the most important thing to do was to get your pet into the vet, was to check for wheat gluten from China. He said that if the wheat gluten in your pets snacks, wet and dry food was from the US then you were ok; your pets weren't in danger of kidney damage. He also said that one of the signs of kidney damage was if your animal was drinking a lot of water.

I drink a lot of water.

I have kidney damage; but no I haven't been eating my pets' food. My kidney damage is either from diabetes or the use of lithium to combat this little bipolar thing that I have going. The Doctor put me on some sort of pill for the kidney damage. I'm not sure if the pill is supposed to arrest the process of kidney disintegration or halt it. Often, I just do what my Doctor says, because I trust her; and I don't trust many doctors. Do most kids go to med school to save lives, to promote health or to make a good living?

My insurance said that they would not pay for the drug that was supposed to help my kidneys. I wonder if they in in cahoots with the wheat gluten makers in China?

This morning, moments ago, as I looked in on love, who was still sleeping, while I was pounding the typewriter keys, in pursuit of the perfect poem, the perfect journal entree, I thought that maybe she and I could fill the John and Yoko "all you need is love" void that was created when John was shot. Yes, I thought, me and my gal could be the new champions for love. We could be the new champions for great relationships and relations amongst men. We could be the new champions for peace and love in the world.

Stop.

I don't want to champion anything. I don't want to show anyone how to do anything. I don't want to tell anyone how to live. I just want to live in peace and quiet. I just want to live in love.
You do your thing, mate; I'll do mine. Let's just respect each other and not step on each other's toes or fuck each other's girlfriends or steal an election and then fuck the nation over.

Dig?

Cynthia B. and I went to Helen, Georgia to have dinner, last night. The drive was pleasant. Girlfriend let me listen to some tunes. (She sometimes would rather that we chat when we drive.) I didn't hit the button for Mastodon; I played these best of the '70's cds that girlfriend had laying around her house. The first song to play was, "More Than A Feeling," by the band Boston. It is funny that after all the times that FM radio has played this song in my cars, over the years, that I can still listen to this song and enjoy it. It is sad to think that the singer of this band is no longer with us.

"Smoking In The Boys Room," by Brownsville Station was one of the next songs to play. I, still, really dig this song, also, but think it funny that when the character in this song, a high school student, gets stressed out, he heads to the school bathroom to have a smoke. Getting busted for smoking in the high school bathroom is pretty much a high stressor itself; don't you think?

When we pulled into the parking lot, there was this sign that said, "Parking Three Dollars, Pay At The Store Across The Street."

Girlfriend said, "I don't see anyone else paying," but I have seen all kind of parking scams, over the years, where you come back to your car and there is a big metal boot on one of your tires, so I grabbed two dollar bills and four quarters out of the spare change compartment in the car and headed across the street. The guy who took my money handed me a ticket and I said, "should I put this on the dashboard?"

He said, "That won't be neccessary," so girlfriend was right. The parking lot was based on some sort of honors code, where suckers like me, from the city, who had seen many a car towed for not putting money in the parking box at the lot, got beat.

Girlfriend said, "See, I told you so."

Why are women always right?

We got the killer table right by the river. What a view. Water rushed over rocks on the way to the bottom of the beautiful mountain that we were perched on. The hostess was an old grump, though. Back when I was in the restaurant business, they always told me that the host or hostess might be holding down the most important job in the joint, because they were the guests first impression of the establishment; bitch was foretelling evil.

Two couples came up behind us, looking for a table on the water. Dude was drunk, I guess; he kept asking one of the waitresses who had wandered up to the hostess station if she could sing. I guess that he thought that he was funny. Later in the evening, I had to wait for longer than I should have to piss, outside a locked men's room door; when it opened, it was dude and his lady leaving the head. Dude said something to me that was, I guess, supposed to be clever, leaving me to wonder if his lady had just sucked his dick in the filthy bathroom or maybe she was a golden shower freak and he had pissed all over her, before they returned to dinner.

Dinner sucked. We were at a tavern or more aptly a big ole bar and we were eating bar food. Huge margaritas and many pitchers of beer kept coming out of the kitchen. A couple pulled up beside us, at one point in the meal and started lustingly fondling each other before they got their table. I am all down with peace and love, baby, but I've never been into porn and I certainly don't want to watch it live over my bratwurst and sauerkraut.

It sounds like I'm bitching about my dinner, doesn't it? Well, I'm not. Though the food sucked and a couple of the patrons were one toke over the line, baby, the night was beautiful. Girlfriend looked lovely. I wanted to take her into the bathroom and...