- Paul Morrissey, Film Director

Haight and Steiner

Waiting for my car to be tuned up, I got to thinking about the meaning of the “tuneup.”  The most common slang term, I suppose, is a timely and necessary beating, usually at the hands of the authorities.  A type of correction that reestablishes a proscribed ordering of power.  Especially, when one of their criminal co-workers needs to be reminded the rules of the game.

In other circles, the “tuneup” has sexual connotations, cleaning of the undercarriage and other associated chassis areas.

Either way, all the different meanings have the same underlying meaning – to set things proper, check the fluids (drain and replenish), and generally keep the machine running.

Back when I was drinking, I thought of the bar as a tune up shop.  Well, not really.

The bar was more of a scabrous chapel where the whiskey was sacrament of self-destruction.  I prayed the prayer of annihilation every night. “To EVIL,” was the only toast I would hoist and the out-of-towners were happy to oblige, while the locals moved away from my circular loop messiness.

But it was a tune up shop where I got my sickness refueled and calibrated.  Drinking offered daily escape into the drama of the drunkenness.  By that I mean, that the root cause – the addiction, itself – was displaced by the morning hangover, the black-out guilt, and the slow crest of nausea that bubbled through the day.  The problems of last night’s drunk over-coded the symptoms of the real problem.

And that real problem?  Its the real substance of addiction -  the idea that one can endlessly bargain, negotiate, and otherwise exempt oneself from the sad duty and tiresome work of actual reality.

The “other space of the addict” wants the intention of thoughts and words, spoken and promised, to be enough.  All the plans elaborately outlined on bar napkins or in furiously spinning enthusiasms are sidelined by the lack of actuality. All undermined and ruined by the encompassing apathy and foul stench of masturbatory self-medications.

The real plight of the addict?  A profound glee brought on by slipping into the altered state of totally expected pain, disappointment, and guilty delay.

The sickness allows us to pretend to have survived something, and in so surviving are, ourselves, dramatic and exceptional.

Window Gusting.

The rain seemed to start several stories below.  If I saw it, ever, it just floated in place.  Neither rising nor falling.  Rain drops hoovering on invisible wings.

So after I emerged from the elevator and stood at that glass double doors, I was always shocked.  Sometimes amazed at the dreariness of the water pooling on the well-curbed, black garbage bag mountain.  Other times, relieved by the aggressive bluster and solid curtains, snaking down the middle of 23rd street.

That is not how it is here.  But then, I am rarely far from ground level in San Francisco.  I can tell when the rain is out there.  It does not surprise me.  But the rain is not as insistent here, either.  It is a tad less pushy.  A bit more polite as it ruins my morning dog walk route.  And even on the most overcast, horrible looking mornings, the sun will emerge by lunchtime, drying the sidewalks, completely.

I am not really talking about the rain.  Nor am I trying my hand at allusion.

You got to understand that THE FEARS are not a condition that fit on you and, then, suddenly, you are in them.  Rather THE FEARS are a state of absence.

Regret?  Not regret.

Not melancholy, either.

Something more fierce than sadness.  Something that just sort of hoovers there, right out of reach, on invisible wings.

verso ‘l graffiar, che talvolta la schiena

rimanea de la pelle tutta brulla.

- Inferno, Canto XXXIV: 58-60

“In junk sickness, any conceivable line of action or inaction seems intolerable.”

- Wm. S. Burroughs, Junky.

“…Tyrone thought he was going to die any minute, and there were also times when he was afraid he wasn’t going to die.”

- Herbert Sebly Jr., Requiem for a Dream.

“I try to stop twitching. To stay still, to stop my very breath, let the pain stay inside. The slightest movement grinds tiny shards into my pores.”

- Jerry Stahl, Permanent Midnight.

It never will be about anything other than the darkest and dankest places.  The dampness, if you want.  I feel my icy toes.  Warm and natural to the touch.  Though to lift them up to do so, makes the headache behind my eyeballs shatter into a three sharp, gut stabbing tongs.  Then there is the blinded whiteness of the street light.  I can’t move the curtain, not again.

Back to the dampness.  My skin vibrates with a nervous sweat.  I feel it slipping down.  But if I move it disappears, so many ants scurrying away.  I am not sweating.  I am freezing.  Each kick of my leg, each twist of the cover, every single breath, takes me back to that yellow-edged fog of a 1986 hospital room.  I see the balloon slowly deflating.  Are there flowers?  No, just a tote bag with books and handiwipes.

My parents are camped out next to my convalescent bed.  I am getting a shot of morphine, deep into my thighs, every two hours, when the night nurse arrives to reposition me.  Comfortably Numb plays in my head.  Its constant loop exploring new found meaning to the soaring guitar solo.

So very long ago.

A yawning expanse of life, really.

And again, I feel like my hands are made of two balloons…

Filed under: Humiliating Shame Rituals, kyphosis, Meth, san francisco, Satan, scars, surgery, Uncategorized ]]> http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/gonna-get-it-sorted-out/feed/ 0 rjxp http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/10/31/gooooooo-giants/ http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/10/31/gooooooo-giants/#comments Wed, 31 Oct 2012 17:08:18 +0000 rjxp http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/?p=812 ]]>

Come on, get in the car!

I do not work until this evening but I am sitting in a Burlingame Peet’s Coffee three hours before I have to be at work. Why? Because the San Francisco baseball team the Giants won the world series! What does that mean to me?

Well, I understand that the rest of the country likes to pretend that this hive of scum and villainy is not actually part of the contiguous United States, but we are dammit.  All the cross dressing, latte hugging, free range homelessness and bleeding purse buggery IS part of America!

And a baseball team winning the WORLD SERIES is a big deal.  Anyone coming from Ohio, I am sure you are a lot like me, and cannot even begin to understand the pride and excitement that accompanies a professional athletic team’s triumph, but from what I have witnessed in neighbors and coworker’s behavior, this is all extremely exciting.

On a good day, it takes me maybe forty minutes to get out of the City and into Burlingame, which is a scant 18 miles away. There is a lot of traffic and people fail to merge with acumen and decorum, a rudeness that spans all nationalities and persuasions.

In addition, to the lurching Muni buses and the sighing pick up trucks over stuffed with cardboard and day laborers, there are the homeless and drug addicts.  As we peel through the Tenderloin area, wheelchairs inch across crosswalks, bitches be going crazy yelling and yanking at wigs, and there is a drunk trying to roll a garbage bag full of cans down the sidewalk – all present their own treachery.

Add to that that today is Halloween in a City where most people live everyday like it is a made up holiday.  One that was created when the worst Christmas decorations starred in an amateur basement porno with every gaudy sexy Halloween costume, to birth a bastard Holiday child.  This new holiday has daily traditions of lazy cross dressing, hatefully smeared make-up, and a whole spinning world of loud make believe.

This City loves Halloween because it gives them a legitimate excuse to strip down to the body glitter, slap in their fake vampire fangs, and reposition their wigs with gleeful abandon.  Only PRIDE DAY is a bigger fucking deal here.

So in their infinite wisdom, influenced, I am sure, by deep ghetto tokes of their medicinal marijuana cigarettes, the City Government has scheduled the massive Baseball Parade down the middle of Market Street. Today. On Halloween.

More than a million fans are anticipated.  The press of orange and black clad humanity was already a strolling wall, blocking all the crosswalks and leaning off every curb.  Cautious people become extreme sportsmen, dodging the bumpers of taxis and pirouetting against the lights.

Three hours before the Parade was even to begin and I got the heck out of dodge.  Not that there were not other routes that I could take, but I feared the endless commute or a motionless parking lot, slowly moving toward the freeway.

I shoot at you so many times!

Noelle and I have always had a favorite Mexican restaurant.  We had a near weekly dinner date at La Fiesta, when we lived back in Cleveland.  That place was incredibly special to her, even though the food was not always so good.  We found Thursdays were the best days to go.

La Fiesta was one of her Aunt’s favorite places to eat and Noelle, often, ate there with her.  I am glad we added to that memory by making “our” spot, as well.

These days, we have a standing Friday night date at Tropisueno.  Its downtown which is only a few blocks from Noelle’s office.  Its a bit upscale for us and most definitely not the best or most authentic Mexican food in San Francisco, BUT, they have this salsa that Noelle is absolutely in love with.  She craves it.  A lot.

All I know is that salsa is orange and super hot peppery and makes my tongue hurt if I eat too much.  The best part is that this dream salsa comes free with the chips. Can you imagine that?! PLUS they will bring you more!

Seriously, if they bottled that stuff and sold it, Noelle would buy all of it.  Probably devising all sorts of daily use for it, as well.

The great thing about Tropisueno, is that no matter what time of the evening it is, the three hostesses will tell you it is somewhere between a 45 minute to a 90 minute wait.  This discourages so many tourists and other museum hipsters to turn on their ironic heels and clod off.  It is funny to watch as we sit there waiting.  The wait is never longer than 30 minutes, by the way.

You know  I have always had a Mexican restaurant in my adult life. The first may have been Lopez y Gonzalez, in Cleveland Heights. Back when it was on the corner of Lee Road and Washington in Cleveland Heights in the middle 1990s. It was the site of many personal milestones.  It is where I drank my first drink, forged great friendships, ate too many urinal Dessert Mints, plotted and planned, and generally hibernated a winter away inside a margarita glass.

I might tell you all those Lopez stories, one day.  Maybe.  If you are good and ask provocatively.

When I lived in New York, there was Blue Moon, which was right down the street from where I lived.  Plus it was across the street from the Joyce Theater, so it was the after performance meeting place for the Feld dancers.   Some would pick at the chips and salsa, while most pounded margaritas.

I sincerely believe the appeal of most of these Mexican places, aside from the booze, was the fact that they brought us food while we waited for our food.  Chips and salsa are an addiction.  One that I am not sure is going to be broken any time soon.

All the Good Sidewalk Stencils

So last night, Noelle and I joined some friends (with a personal connection) at a poetry reading at City Lights Bookstore.  I could not help thinking how excited my mother will be to hear about this.  That we went to a poetry reading at City Lights.  Such an iconic and storied thing to do.  Quintessentially, San Francisco.

The reading was in support of a book launch for Marilyn Buck’s posthumous collection Inside/Outside.  Buck was involved with the Black Liberation Army and was incarcerated many times over the years, until it finally stuck.  She died a couple years ago with cancer.  The great leveler – the apolitical killer.

The event brought out all means and manner of aged white revolutionary.  The crowd, mainly over the age of 60, wobbled and lurched and teared up with great sincerity.  While there were no berets, there were countless tweed sports coats and practical short cropped hair.  Ball point pens pulled out of fanny packs jotted notes and quotes.  There was much head nodding and polite clapping.

I was disappointed by Buck’s poetry.  To me, it lacks style and voice.  It sounds and reads like average undergraduate workshoped poetry.  There is nothing special about the language, the imagery is expected, and the free verse bland.  While the message, high feminism and political, lacked rage or urgency.  But then, not every jailed revolutionary came reinvent themselves as an effective entertainer.

One thing happened that highlighted one of the aspects of white revolutionary participation in the political  struggles of non-whites that really bothers me.  Graciela Trevisan told the story of how, after becoming introduced to Buck and working with her on her translator’s thesis, Trevisan went through the prison system’s educator training/certification.  This allowed Trevisan and Buck to meet any time, not just during visiting hours.

One afternoon, at one of their working sessions, Buck offered Trevisan money to help her offset the taxi ride to the prison.  Of course, this made many in the audience cry.  I just shook my head.  Even in prison and one supposes with no actual source of income other whatever pittance the prison paid her to fold laundry or whatever, Buck still played the part of Colonial benefactor.  Somehow, she still felt privileged enough to offer a hand up to the struggling minority.

Am I being unjustly unfair?  Possibly.  But how else should a radical read that situation?  Where does the stern theory stop applying?  A convenience of excuses and sentimentality erases the strictures of the radicalism?  I am not saying it is necessarily hypocritical, I am just saying to me it seemed pretty “clear” what conventional power structures were at play there.

ALL THE BEST BLACK PANTHERS WERE WHITE

for David Horowitz

They rented the safe house,

U-Haul,

and bought

the ammunition

with all that good credit

and extra cash

and those driver’s licenses

in good standing.

They clean up, respectful

Born leaders.

Authentic White People

Make the Best Black Panthers.

Filed under: san francisco Tagged: Black Liberation Army, Black Panthers, City Lights Bookstore, Graceila Trevisan, Marilyn Buck, Tupac Shakur ]]> http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/all-the-best-black-panthers-were-white/feed/ 0 rjxp Tupac Strummer http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/05/13/canterbury-memories-and-death-by-broken-heart/ http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/05/13/canterbury-memories-and-death-by-broken-heart/#comments Sun, 13 May 2012 19:34:15 +0000 rjxp http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/?p=795 ]]>

Those are the classroom windas.

Canterbury Grade School, in Cleveland Heights, sat at the end of my street. A large two story complex of red brick and gun metal black roofing. A monument to the open classroom movement of the early 70s, long streaked windows and all the sharp edges of playgrounds waiting to be childproofed by the safety moms, waiting in the PTA wings.

The grade school is notorious for its smell.  It soaks into everything, clothing, book bags, and even lined paper.  The smell is sweetly pungent, a burning sensation of an organic chemical.  Fertilizer made of poop and flower pedals.

Canterbury holds a particular resonance in my personal mythos – it is pivotal to my origin story as it relates to Princeton Road. Canterbury, over the years, would function as a weekend play destination; a waiting room; a labyrinth of caves and hiding places; a safe landmark on the blurry horizon.

Though for right now, Canterbury Elementary exists as the foundational vortex of panic and anxiety.  I was frightened of everything as a child. Big kids in other grades.  The possibility that I forgot something (like permission slips or gym clothes).  Academic Expectations (like paying attention or spelling my mom’s name right on the Mother’s Day drawings).  Or the playground gossip that had certain teachers annihilating little kids with shame and notes home.

But those are all far better stories which I should tell you someday.

What got me thinking about all this was the shower this morning.  Well, not really.  See while waiting for the hot water to cover the mirrors in steam, I smooshed a spider.  Then flushed the spider corpse down the toilet.

I have an imaginary fear, meaning I really an not afraid of it at all, but enjoy pretending that I am paralyzed by it for my own personal amusement, of “Toilet Spiders.”  The whole imaginary fear started because I refused to poop in rickety old outhouse stall in the basement of our old Blanche House.  Remember that one? 

Watching the toilet paper coffin being swept away into the water system, I thought about the questions I might field from a little kid worried about the spider’s return.

“How do you know that spider was really dead? How do you know that spider will not crawl back up out of the pipes?  What if it does and waits under the toilet seat?  And when I sit down what if that spider bites me?!”

All that, in turn, reminded me of a film we were shown in, maybe, third of fourth grade.  The film was one of those clickity clack numbers that hummed just loud enough to drown out some of the staticy soundtrack.  I am sure if you think hard enough you can see the old aqua green and flecked gray film projector that was necessary to screen it.

I am sure you can put yourself in the afternoon stuffy classroom, as well.  The long shades pulled down and the lights snapped off.  Maybe a bee or fly is trapped between the shade and the window, its ping ponging slightly distracting.

Or maybe you can’t.  I dunno. ANYWAY, getting back to this disturbing educational film…

I clearly remember the opening scene.  A little boy in a dark winter hat, the knit kind we all wore because that was the style in those days.

I used to pull mine all the way down over my head, then peel up the front like a helmet’s windshield visor.  This left the back of the hat hugging my neck at the hair line and totally covering my ears.  I never understood how some kids could wear their winter hats, neatly on their heads.  With the little fold, perfectly rolled evenly around their head.

Which is exactly how I remember the kid in the film wearing his.  Or maybe he was not wearing a hat. Probably not, now that I think about it.

So the first scene.  This kid, who is really sad looking, a smudge really, steps off a school bus only to fall flat dead on his face.  Really.  Dead.  Just like that, the film starts with a dead kid.  You kind of got to love the 1970s, huh?

This was a message movie.  And the message of this movie was that sometimes the kid sitting next to you in class, the freaky one that smells a bit like uncooked hotdogs and has greasy hair and gets picked on, when he is noticed at all, might DIE.

I am not sure if the film was an anti-bullying screed, since even that was a thing back when I was in school.  Or if it was some veiled religious message about loving everyone, even the smelly.  Or maybe it was produced by some child abuse intervention group funded by the Carter Administration.

Child advocacy and abuse education groups seemed to spring up all over the country in the mid-70s, spurred on by “stranger dangers,” the recovered memory movement, and the daily threat posed by cult rituals requiring child abductions.

The film’s educational content consisted of flashbacks telling this poor child’s story.  He was seen neglected, ignored, and bullied.  Then at the end, he falls dead getting off the school bus.  I imagine some plaintive narrator sternly warning us to take care of one another, so that this would not happen to anyone we knew!

Of course, the first question asked, after the excitement involving the lights buzzing back on and the window shades being stretched and raised, was something along the lines of, “Miss Crabtree, can someone really die like that?”

I do not envy the teacher who had to explain the film’s obvious metaphor to a group of imaginatively literal grade schoolers.  But, I suppose she knew what she was in for by choosing this canister from the AV closet.  Or maybe she was still hungover and just grabbed whatever movie was on top of the pile on the shelf and was now mentally adding up all the ways that day could get any more annoying.

Plus, I wonder if I went home and in my super vague, withholding-the-most-important-point-of-the-story-way, laid into my over-anxious mother about the potentiality of sudden death and broken hearts.  I am sure there was much confusion and some worry involved, thereafter.

Weird thing to think about first thing in the morning, huh?  But that movie has stuck with me.  And I would love to see it again, if only to correct the very vivid memories I have involving it.

Hope you have a perfectly good Mother’s Day.

Language is a Virus of Postal Stickers

Not much happens, then suddenly something does.

A woman appeared at the desk, a real in-person patron.  She was a tallish white woman wearing so many toy necklaces so that she looked bundled in a plastic, multicolored scarf.  She had on a brown leather flight jacket and a large floppy cowboy hat, the cloth kind.

I guess she is a regular, who lives in an explicitly more interesting and dangerous reality than the rest of us. All her questions and concerns are animal focused.

I was told, later, that, in the past, she has researched racoons.  Why? because a friend of hers had purchased a bed which was awfully infested by racoons. From her report, they lived on the underside of the mattress and clawed at her friend all during the night. She thought they might be trying to get out that way.

She started talking very loudly to the librarian at the desk, “Do you keep books on animals here?  Well, really animals and insects.  Well, really, insects.  I know.  I have used them here before.  Maybe (pointing down the stacks) somewhere down there.  I just need to know where they are kept.  Then I can use them.”

Librarian: Well, we do have some, but not as….

Woman: My roommate was bitten by a scorpion.  And I know I have used the animal books here before.  I just need to know like what a

scorpion bite looks like and how to treat it.  Because my roommate was bitten or is it stung?  Anyway, I need the books on the insects.  Scorpions are insects, right. (SIGHS LOUDLY) I dunno.

Librarian: The books on animal bites and that sort…

Woman: Scorpions.  I guess they are animals.  Maybe, more insects.  My social worker told me to get the information.  He had been bitten too.  They are everywhere this time of year.  How long does it take for the eggs to hatch after it bites you?

Librarian: Eggs?

Woman: Even my social worker had been bitten.  I watched him pull two eggs right out of his chest.  (starts to walk down toward the books) So maybe I can just look at some books and figure it out, since no one here… (stops dead, spins around and returns to the desk)  You did say the insect books where down there?  I do not want to get lost, no one knows I am here.  I did not tell anyone I was coming straight here.  Plus they were busy with the eggs. (SIGHS)

She did read some books.  Or at least left some scattered around the table she sat at for a few hours.  None of them were about scorpions.

Black Light Putt Putt

I returned to San Francisco with a bad case of The Fears. We had been in Cleveland in Ohio for nearly two weeks. While there, I survived on a steady diet of chemical sugars which probably accounted for this pervasive flu-like depression. That, or this is the meanest detox I’ve had since vikocandies.

Either way, I am back. Shivering with an anorexic self-loathing while swallowing the sharp edges of late night hate snacking. Home is a collage of praying mantis mandibles, pet food kibble, and an unvacuumable layer of awkwardness. The kind one feels entering a home haunted by continued breaking and entering.

Which is all a fancy way of saying, “It is good to be back.” I did not realize how much I enjoy being here, until I was driving around the satellite ring suburbs of Cleveland Clinic’s Hospital City.

Sure. There are things I miss. Like snowball fights with trees. Or maybe the fancy cleanliness of the Strongsville Rec Center. Or detailed conversations with my six year old niece about “Judy Moody.”

But. What is most familiar and safe and routine about Cleveland has changed. Slightly older, more gray and tired around receding hairlines. The shock of seeing all those subtle changes, like the growth spurt or the added wrinkles, which are invisible upon daily viewing.

Would I ever go back? Sure. Though, I think I would hire someone to plow my driveway. And maybe carry me around on a divan.

“Lookit here, now, ” Scoobie coughed without covering his mouth. Then he spit on the sidewalk before continuing. He moved his burned finger along with the words as he read the flyer to Byrd:

MISSING DOG

PICKLES ran away from yard on Saturday.

7 year old wire haired Dashaund

Timid but answers to his name

$500 Dollar Reward if found

“And then see here, they wrote Ree-ward – one, two, three, fo’  more times in the corners. See?!!”

Byrd just looked down at the soaked cigarette butt. Had he been able to focus that far from his face, he could have considered the way the tobacco flakes shone through the translucent white paper. Or counted the little silver gun powder rings, who’s color was, suddenly, more defined – almost in raised metallic relief.  But really, all Byrd thought about was the vomit knot tied around his midsection. That sick which threatened to double him over in pain.

“See here now, Byrd, we is going to find us self’s a little poochie,” Scoobie confidently plotted. He wiped his fingers across his drooping eyes, Byrd often saw that white boy pull his eyeballs straight out of his head that way. No matter how fucked up they were, Scoobie always got them back in by the time they come down.

“Now, what now?”

“Damn ole man, listen up! This ‘ere sign dunn tole us how we’s gonna make sum bayank.”

“Hows that?”

“REEEEEEE WARD! Damn you ain’t pay attention to shit, do ya?”

Byrd laughed, but mostly at the way Scoobie tilted back and forth on his heels as he shouted.

“How easy is it to find us a little lost dog? Easy,” Scoobie said, “Gawdamn we see us doggies damn near everywheres we go, donwe, Byrd?”

“Perhaps. But how many of them is this here lost dog? Not a single one so far.”

“Sheet is you a pessamiss,” Scoobie shook his head and nearly took a nose dive into the sidewalk.

They had started walking again. “I do not know, Scoob. Even if we see this dang little fella, how we catch ‘em? I mean them little dogs move fast. My auntie had a little shitzoo that could book it. Once it got moving nothing was faster. Not even a kid on a bike.”

“Kid on a bike?” Scoobie picked at a scab on his ear, “What the fuck you talking about?”

Byrd stared at his young campaion. Scoobie’s attention was twitchy and errant but strangely focused – like someone manically channel surfing the same four channels. Scoobie claimed Attention Decifit Disorder. Byrd just thought Scoobie was an asshole.

“Nevermind.”

They walked a few more blocks in silence. Or at least without speaking. Neither of them were ever silent. These two were like a small marching band playing groaning experimental tunes made from deep chest hacking coughs, snot-pulling snorts, and other escaped low level bodily gasses.

Sometimes the hills are too steep.

Out of habit, they followed a set path toward their regular dealer’s block. Some days he would be outside, somewhere. Other days, like when it was pissing rain, he would be wrapped in an “Indian blanket” on his porch or holed up in that car that never moved from in front of his place. They’d tap on the steamed up windows, hoping he’d roll it down low enough to hand out the little bag of drugs.

Scoobie started spending the money. He subtracted sums. He added others. His strange monologue was impossible to follow as the money doubled, tripled and then shrunk, depending on what he planned on buying.

“Enough smack for a year? Not possible. A month, set them up good. Maybe rent a room to get out of the rain. How about getting some new shoes.” On and on and on. Byrd did not listen.

“Scoobie, shouldn’t we find this damn mutt before you go off spending money you ain’t even earned yet?”

Scoobie stopped dead. He looked up and down the old man, “Damn Byrd. How hard is it gonna be finding this damn lost dog? Easy. So easy, its like we already done it.”

“Except we haven’t,” Byrd rubbed his eye as rain dripped from his eyebrow.

“Except we will.”

They stood looking at each other for a few more minutes before they walked on.

Filed under: angry bums, cigarettes, cocaine crack, drug bags, drug dogs, Meth, san francisco, sickness, smelly homeless, street people profile Tagged: drug fiction, Drugs ]]> http://lovebunnipresswest.wordpress.com/2012/03/15/generous-reward-offered/feed/ 0 rjxp cindercart