In regards to yesterday's venom it appears some believe I have planted a party flag. The spanky seal of approval could never stick to a democrat. I CAN'T STOMACH POLITICIANS POINT BLANK. The deviant press more than capable of printing up extensive rants over the democrats as well. I could give a shit if my last entry painted democrat supporters in a foul lunatic light. I'm no political orphan, I don't need to be adopted by you.

The mules and elephants stir the same kettle as far as I'm concerned. Both have corporate sponsors handing them special interest spices to choke the stew. Complicity is shared. All houses on the hill need a douche.

Compelled into rage. Anyone adorning themselves with twin tower decorations for their own gain will always be met with bile coated claws. Using the worst violation I have ever endured as your superhero accomplishment causes involuntary spit to fly from my mouth into your face. I don't do cordial and polite in response to profiteers of the shitstorm day. Until you got a crater smoldering in your hood you can cram your limp noodle concern over how I express my anger.

Now, back to the thing.

YEAR TWENTY FIVE: The mighty electromagnetic freak particle collider continued smashing spank atoms.

Dragged my ever dwindling collection of possesions across the hall to the shack nextdoor. Claimed a corner in the livingroom. Threadbare folding mattress up against the wall, pillow perch abutted against a window onto Greenpoint. Freeman Street a few blocks from the Gowanus Canal feeding into the Polaski Bridge.

The radiant heat worked sporadically in a viscious winter. Major blizzard in Ninety-Five. Ghettorific streets of Greenpoint not a priority of Guiliani's plows then. Leg muscles gaining pedestrian cred, trudging through two feet of wet snow. Eight layers of blankets making a knitted igloo to protect me from the freeze. Had to dangerously crank the oven with it's door open to keep from frosting over. We wuz livin low yo.

My new roomies were Scott and Mario. Holy gourd.

People think I am a grump. Scott had Oscar the Grouch beat hands down. Homie had an opposing stance for whatever you had to say or do. He once picked a fight with me because I was eating my Chinese take out with rice. "Stop piling on the rice!" "Huh? What the fuck do you care?" "Man, you just are putting all that rice on there to extend the food, all you really want is more General Tso's chicken." "Dude, for real, I enjoy eating rice." "Whatever! You're just saying that to justify stretching out your food." "Okay, you're right, you know my culinary habits better than me, can I eat now?"

Luckily by this time we were both managers, and he could not lord over me like he did the staff underneath him at Stinko's. People just could not get perfect quick enough for his tastes.

He was a major Ren and Stimpy fan, so that made up for lots. Mellowed out some on the pipe, giggling and saying "G'huh, chocolate covered ah-raisins". He had this snapshot of him and a fellow frat brother displaying their stoned conquest of a giant pink Hostess Snowball they made from scratch. It was fairly brilliant come to think of it. He kept pace with the liver wars too. He was a beer repository. Once at Coyote he showed me a frat trick he gained back in Seattle. Slammed an unopened can of Pabst into his forehead three times and then pounded it by biting into the aluminum and swallowing the contents that rocketed out. I thought it was hilarious, especially since the spout end was pointed my way and I was showered with cheap cold lager.

One night that winter we were back in Coyote ( where else? ) fighting back Snow Meiser with firewater. Scott went missing all the sudden like Batman. About an hour later he comes stumbling through the door. He tells us he went skitching, which for those northernly challenged, means you grab onto the back bumper of cars and glide over the snow covered street as they speed away. He skitched all the way Uptown and back. We noticed that the back of his corduroy's were chewed up and dangling about. Blood was seeping out his backside at a decent clip. So drunk he still didn't care that he went through a gravel skin grater. Kept drinking with his bloody ass hanging out.

Mario was inexplicable. A former medical student from Louisiana, who dropped everything to become a clothing designer, taking classes at FIT. He was shady too. I swore he never spoke directly from his mouth. Literally five minutes from discussing something he was going to accomplish, he would unflinchingly straightfaced say he never agreed to take on the task or even that it was discussed in the first place. Made being his boss unbearable.

He was obsessed with hygiene. Every morning he spent twenty minutes brushing his teeth, constanty gagging himself, for which both fascinated and uneased me. He would spend an hour in front of the mirror preening his eyebrows. He would douse his pits with two kinds of deodorant as well as baby powder. And he ironed his jeans.

I never could stand people fucking ironing their denim. On principle I don't iron my clothes anyway, but your fucking Levi's? Unclench the anus.

He had his girlfriend from Louisiana visit. He made us go into Scott's room and shut the door when she showed up. We would have to repeat this behavior whenever she would come out of his bedroom to take a leak or leave for the day. She was so crippling shy that she couldn't take strangers studying her face. Listening to her mewing concern as she crept out from her mouse hole on whether or not Soctt and I were safely stored away. It was mad creepy.

The super's crackhead son broke into our apartment. Stole all my CD's and videotapes. He also took an empty pleather suitcase I had, probably to transport the nicked goods. In a secret compartment I had stashed over four grand in cash that I was saving up to put down on a lease to get out of that hellhole. Yeah yeah I know, don't fucking start, banking problems due to NYU and the scumbags at Chase, resulted in me free floating without an account for a couple years. I'm almost positive the fucker didn't discover it. Probably threw away the suitcase after he sold off my possesions for his habit. The police did nothing. The super denied even knowing where his son was, to which I informed him if I ever caught him on the streets I'd take him apart at the joints. I spent the next two days, not going to work, perched on a chair with a baseball bat waiting for him to come back for more, since the super didn't believe replacing our broken lock was an immediate priority.

Over two hundred cd's, haven't been able to replace half of it. Fucking crackheads. Would like to think I'm over it, but I'd probably make that fucker eat his jaw if I ran into him today.