Pop the boob tube on and the very same movie version of Mice And Men is just starting on IFC. Chaotic coincidences happen far too often for this cynical bastard's tastes. Far too often.

Did anyone else just start singing a Fishbone spoof of Freddie's ( Lenny's ) Dead?

YEAR NINETEEN: The Intentional Change. It's all the nineteen spanky's fault for the current spanky personality. Send time travelling congratulations or admonishments to nineteen spanky.

I might have decided on the Intentional Change at the Clayton bus transfer spot. Bi-State, beep beep, going your way. Never been much of a motorist. Briefly had a liscense when I was sixteen, which was summarily cancelled since I wasn't paying for auto insurance. So the Bi-State bus company was my chariot to and from Forest Park.

Clayton is the posh business district of St. Louis. Riddled with doctors, lawyers and other business marketing scumbags. Tragically clean and modern, somehow the whole place seemed birthed from a late Eighties pastel and chrome wet dream. It had antihistory. Suspiciously unthreatening.

Across the street from my bus stop was a magazine and comic book shop. Constantly sculled around the stacks. Snatching up the latest issue of Heavy Metal, National Lampoon, Graphis, High Times, Easy Rider, Utne Reader, The Source, Spy, Mad Magazine, special Batman series, X-Men titles, and a full range of art mags. So the cosmetically plastic blah of the map spot was overlooked. Ease of access to my media smack, obviously fit into the slacker junky schedule.

One day, when the chill bared it's icicle fangs, I had a confrontation with one of the rigid bleached buttock muscles that infest St. Louis in general. The bus stop was enclosed on three sides with heavy glass panels. However, there was about a one foot gap where the panels stopped short of hitting the ground. The moist winter wind am a bitch on the less covered lower legs. So, I would stand on the bench to avoid the focused air blade slicing through my achilles. I was often joined by others, thanking me for the great idea.

A lily white bastion of repression started in on me. Actually, not directly at me, started a general speech about how other people had to sit there, and shouldn't have their Wodehouse crafted posteriors besmirched with the dustings of my slum footwear. I sneered and ignored. She wouldn't relent, continuous string about the unrefined trash spoiling her glistening ivory tower. I snapped to the tune of "shut your fucking powdered sugar cake hole, and shove that elitist shit up your tight dried up gash, you nazi honky bitch.". She clutched her chest, and then her Gucci purse. I could see the utter contempt shaking in her irises, and shocked that a gutter dweller dared speak to her like that. Hastily walked away, looking over her shoulder to make sure I wasn't gonna chase her down. She might have been going for a cop, but my bus pulled up and I hopped on.

She got the adrenaline dump going in my stomach. I was quivering with rage the whole way home. My eyesight tinted with a sanguine haze. I knew it for sometime before that incident, but I affirmed that moment, in my creaky bus seat, that I was just not made for that divisive right-wing conservative closed minded mecca just west of the Mississippi River.

Also, that it wasn't my fault. I had tried to shove my freak in a corner. Tried to wear the pablum facade to swim smoothly through their expectations. Made me miserable. I shot out the womb a geek and a freak, I was gonna expire as one. Might as well accept it and get some amusement out of the zany ride. I was in a pit of judgement and brimstone. It wasn't my fault that they all devalued my existence. Fuck them, I won't let em convince me to hate myself anymore.

I didn't exactly kick open the nailed shut door of my coffin and leap out as Mister Spankenhyde. But that was detonation spank bomb. Few years of the oppressive radiation to spin out it's half life, and viola! I'd like to introduce everyone to the redesigned spank showroom model Devialoon Nerd X-2000.

The pussy knows when you don't like yourself, and when you do. Genie from the Powerhouse had her feet on my lap at one of the crew's apartment, after hours round up, sucking back chambers of bong. She ran her toes along my thigh and came across an active critter under my pocket. She asked me who that was. I said "I think it's my dick". I was still very clumsy with the bedroom skills at that point. She captained the controls. She seemed happy enough to drive. We took a few delightful road trips.

Also that year a fortysomething lady on my block took my sexual education into her, ahem, hands. I won't explain the circumstance, but I was jerking off on her livingroom couch watching Real Sex on HBO. She walked in on me and laughed. I was dizzy and flushed, balls started cramping up. Took me in hand to the bedroom. She told me that we could only have oral sex since it was an agreement she had made with her husband. Proceeded to instruct me in the way her clit and pussy wanted to be tongueally handled. It is the bedrock of spanky cunnilingus theory to this day, and my lips bring the juices.

And. And and and! Started tagging along to the strip clubs over in East St. Louis with the managers from Rigatoni Hut. One curvy brunette was basically giving me a blowjob through my cotton slacks. After I exploded under my pants, from her crouched position, big brown eyes naughtily looking up at me, she told me if I ever wanted the real thing to let her know. Her powerful mouth brought me off in a dark corridor on three more visits at later dates that year. They may never pick up the garbage in East St. Louis, but bless that over the river heaven of illicit substances, 24/7 booze, and booty rock.

My cock finally got wet! You gotta keep wattering those racals or else they'll never grow. Like any fine plant root, needs nutrients to prosper and flourish. Nothing survives when the roots wither up.