I resisted going to work this morning for a couple of subsurface legitimate reasons. Mostly, I am feeling far too well to have it spoiled with office. Actually was able to sleep in the cool night air, which inspired numerous lucid sexual dream scenarios. An endangered skull species. Had to allow for more observation by social biologist spanky than the shrieking alarm clock beast would allow.

Happily discovered that HBO on demand updated their Six Feet Under selection, with five new past episodes available. Let the residual high from last night pleasingly ease on out. Ordered hotdogs for breakfast. Hotdogs make a fine breakfast. I know many ladies who love weiners in the morning.

YEAR TWENTY EIGHT CONTINUATED AND SHEEIT. Psyche! No, for real this time.

Lower Slope. You magnificent slum. Part of me appreciates the off the radar feel of living on the outskirts of trendy urban habitation. Honest decompression. However, often I would look around, thinking what a fucking dump that place was.

Our landlord, Gabe, owned an iron wrought shop two doors down. The soldered ozone would waft in and rest at the back of your throat. Just in reach of the tastebuds. He fashioned the security gate in front of the building himself. Would lock his pitbull in there. I would be shaken awake by the sound of his teenage son hosing the grunting beast down. As often is the case with that breed, he was a sweet pooch, who just had zero clue of his own coiled muscle power of the tensile strength of his jaw. Damn near took the legs right from under me as I tried getting inside with my bags of groceries.

Entire ground floor to ourselves. A selling point was the backyard that we had supposed solo access to. Gabe had been using it as the exercise yard for his pitbull shop guardian, as well as a repository for scrap metal. Grassy weeds choked the corners where the dog didn't dig the earth up or drop brown pyramids. One lone brave short fir tree. Ivy with free reign escalation up the surrounding walls and fence.

Khimydia took to becoming a Brooklyn gardener. She convinced herself that she was a domestic goddess. As in most activities she attempted, the sowing of seeds was also a clumsy struggle. Watching her rip invader green from the roots, standing on the top step in my boxers and Flash t-shirt, I casually suggested that maybe soil tainted with metric tons of dog poop and industrial welding run-off might not be the most condusive to the growing of vegetables meant for actual eating. Typical "whaaaa?". Sighed and walked back into the kitchen to finish my Rice Krispies.

The tin ceilings of the back extension dripped like a pasta strainer in moderate rainfalls. Gabe drove a leg through our kitchen in one of his many patching jobs. Often Khimydia could be found waging a plastic sheet battle against the stream of water that coursed through her side bedroom window.

I built the great wall of spanky. The place was originally a one bedroom. It did have two livingrooms, connected by a wide archway. First couple months tape on the floor sadly mapped out where actual walls would go, like Les Nessman's fantasy office in WKRP. A perpetually out of work pal of Khimydia's actually directed all the work, he had tools. Paid him a handsome cash sum for his efforts.

Once physical room boundaries were established I went to work. Not actual labor, verily, I was unemployed myself most of that year. No, I was commissioned with the valiant noble task of rescuing maidens from their restrictive panties. First time since I had moved to NYC that I had my own private space. Let the spankings begin!

A friend of Candy's, who I had met when I was still living at the Hell's Kitchen pad, surprisingly lived two blocks from my new place. We'll call her Gazelle. Aspiring actress, with delicious legs. She is one of those non eating bony chicks that I normally don't find all that attractive. The miniskirts showing off her amazing stems in combination with a sweet face housing some of the tastiest curvy lips I have seen, placed her into the desirable category. She wanted nothing to do with my cock. Apparently I wasn't horrible enough to her. The nice side of deviant and the ability to show artistic talent was a turn off. Sensible enough to understand I can't part all the red seas, I let thoughts of her pussy pass.

While walking to Gazelle's place for cocktails and movies, I happened upon maybe the strangest occurrence in my entire New Yorker tenure. The elevated subway line overpass divided the block in between our streets. If you are shooting a movie on urban apocalypse aftermath, the scenery under Brooklyn train overpasses is perfect art direction. It's breifly sketchy. Chain link fence unsuccessfully keeps transients at bay. While walking passed the fence a racoon was perched atop it, checking me out as I strolled on by. Wanting to stop, but slightly freaking out, I came to a barely moving crawl. The bandit masked critter peered down my face with wet black eyes. I was flabbergasted, what the hell? Last vision I expected to encounter in bottom of Brooklyn's famous hill was a rascally racoon. But there he was, chillin, and making sure I moved it along. Walked into Gazelle's crib still boggled and chuckling.