Drunken Memories

 “Dumb Will Prevail”

There are first jobs and there are FIRST JOBS.

I am sure that young people today will never bag groceries, scoop ice cream or sweep warehouses on school nights and summer weekends. From what I have read on the interweb, most of today’s young people graduate from high school and go right into college.

Good for them.

When I was young man, I needed to work. I needed that money from bagging groceries on school nights and weekends to fill the 30-gallon tank of my 1971 Cadillac. For a short time, I even worked two jobs, working at bagging and then I would drive across town and flip pizzas until 1am. All on a school night.

Good times.

In 1985 my high-school was trying to deal with the explosion of rust buckets being driven to school by students and what seemed to be the ever-shrinking space within the muddy ‘student’ parking lot. The plan the great ‘powers that be’ had was to institute a Parking Pass lottery. A week before the school year started, each student who wanted or needed a parking pass was welcomed to complete a ballot. There were a few instances when a parking sticker was instantly granted.

*Student needed to arrive or leave school late or early.....Nope.

*Student was an Honor Student and volunteered off school campus....Definitely NOPE.

*Student had a job and needed to leave class early....This could be a maybe.

So, I filled out my parking ballot with all my Pizza cooking info and hoped that it was enough for a parking pass. It was not.

My 1971 Cadillac threw a rod the winter before, and I had grown into a torch red 1975 Cadillac Coupe De Ville and I was not going to take the bus to school dammit. For four months I drove to school and parked in a different parking spot every couple of days. Monday was in the teacher's lot. Tuesday and Wednesday was on a dirt road behind the football field. Thursday and Friday was at the pharmacy on Canton Center Road. I never got towed but the parking tickets were killing me. I needed a parking pass. It got so bad that in my desperation I created a fake parking sticker that worked for about a month before I got caught and suspended for two days.

Good Godd help me.

My art teacher in high school was the only person in this world that I would offer my own life for. She was a saint. In the darkest days of the teenaged drama that I vomited out for her every art class, she was there for me. One morning I explained my situation. Her immediate response was ‘I know a place that is hiring’. She explained that several weeks prior, a factory in Belleville had sent a job request to the printshop teacher. It was a part time job that required design skills and understanding of screen printing. On top of all this, it came with 3 high school credits, the ability to leave school a half hour early AND A PARKING PASS! My teacher stated that no students had even applied and that if I applied, I would get the job.

I applied.

The next week I got a phone call from AVS Plastics.

The factory was in Belleville right off of Haggerty Road. My teacher helped me prepare a portfolio of drawings, logo design work and several examples of my best (Crappy) silk screen work. I was so fucking nervous during the interview. The man interviewing me was the owner of the plastics company, his name was Gordon Noakes. I don’t remember much of the interview, most of it was a blur. But I do remember that Mr. Noakes told a few jokes and made a few comments that, at the time, flew over my nervous head and landed without me laughing. I remember laughing a day or two later.

I got the job AND my parking pass.

Mr. Noakes had built his plastics factory out of scrap steel and his own determination. The factory was actually two separate companies, AVS Plastics and MirrorAcryl. AVS made 4 x 8-foot sheets of colored and clear plexiglass while MirrorAcryl plated the sheets of Plexi-glass with a mirror finish in huge vacuum chambers. My job was to design and silk screen Christmas designs. Mr. Noakes had a dream to create HUGE Christmas ornaments using scrap Plexi-Glass and sell them at the yearlong Christmas village in Frankenmuth, Michigan.

I designed holiday bells, reindeer, and the best Santa you have ever seen. All of the designs were graphed out and loaded into a huge laser cutting table (That Mr. Noakes designed and built). After the mirrored colored Plexi-glass was cut, the plastic was silkscreened with my designs. Epic cool.

They didn’t sell a goddam thing.

Oh well. I got my parking sticker and a paycheck. Once I graduated and summer started, I quit so I could hang with my girlfriend before college. She blocked me on Facebook several years ago.

I do remember Gordon Noakes as being an incredibly smart man with an incredibly dry sense of humor. Guys in the factory told me that he designed and built every piece of tech in that factory and even perfected the chemical formula for a cheap sheet of Plexi-Glass.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in the chair I sit in late at night while drinking and doing laundry. Memories of my past burped up and Mr. Noakes popped into my head. The interweb is a wonderful thing, because I found him.

"Dumb Will Prevail"

 JEBUS IT HAS BEEN A WHILE

“I was a little too tall, could've used a few pounds

Tight pants points hardly renown

She was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes

And points all her own sitting way up high

Way up firm and high”

Mr. Bob Seger

I was not a little too tall and I could’ve lost quite a few pounds during my early teens. I was not real popular with the ladies either. I had that perfect teenaged storm that included embarrassingly bad acne, chubbiness that gave me breasts comparable to a fourteen-year-old girl, and the social skills of a rabid poo-throwing chimp. While I can look back and cringe at my teenaged years, the cards I was dealt gave me life skills that I value today. One of the most valuable skills earned during those years, that I use to this day, is that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Her name was Lori Heathmont and she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Well, the most beautiful girl in MY world. The first time I saw her was in 8th grade in between classes standing outside the science lab talking to a ninth-grade boy. She had long chestnut hair that was feathered past her cheekbones and she would comb her hair with a baby blue large handled comb that she kept in her back pocket of her skintight Jordache jeans. She was also wearing a white baseball jersey style t-shirt with black sleeves. I remember the fizz in my nether regions when I realized that the shirt was tight enough that I could see the outline of her bra straps cupping her tiny breasts. Luckily, I was conscience enough to look beyond her pert boobies and take notice of what was emblazoned on her shirt. She was wearing a silkscreened concert t-shirt for Detroit’s own Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band.

I learned everything I could about Mr. Seger, just in case I was given the chance to partake in a random conversation about music with my dream girl. 8th grade ended without that conversation happening and summer quickly evolved into an even more awkward 9th grade. I would go out of my way to catch a glimpse of Lori standing in the hallway in between classes and halfway through the school year I was granted my one single prayer to the powers that be. Lori not only shared my algebra class, she also sat right beside me in the second to last row of desks.

Soon each algebra class began with Lori, wearing an ever-rotating concert t-shirt from her collection, whispering if I had done the algebra homework and if she could copy it. I gladly handed it over and whispered back that I was happy to complete her homework for her. That semester, I completed every page of homework for her and even tried to write it in her own handwriting. I would even let her copy my answers on every quiz and test we had. What is strange is that my final grade for that algebra class only topped out at a meager C+, meaning that my sweet Lori probably only got a C or lower. But Lori was happy with the grade she received and you could say we became friends. Lori even gave me her phone number so I could call her if I couldn’t do her homework. The only time I called her number was after 11pm on a Friday night. I hung up before anyone answered.

The school year ended and I vowed to enter my first year of high school a new and different man. Over the hot summer months, I rode my bicycle everywhere, lost my baby chub man boobs and listened to every Bob Seger song I had tape recorded off of the three rock stations in Metro Detroit.

My first year of high school began with me desperately trying to find my sweet Lori within the huge school campus. I did find her after fourth period, huddled in the rain behind the auto shop class, smoking cigarettes with a couple of senior boys. She was wearing a new Bob Seger t-shirt. She jumped when I walked up behind her and touched her elbow.

I blurted a quivering “Hello”.

She turned and squinted while looking from my feet towards my head. At first, I thought she may not recognize me after my dramatic summer weight loss, but her eyes widened and she uttered a warm “Hey, you. You look different”.

In a brilliant display of cat like reflexes I sang an altered version of Mr. Seger’s Night Moves. “Little too tall, had to lose a few pounds”.

The smoking senior boys laughed first, then Lori quietly joined them. I changed the subject by reminding Lori that I would be happy to help her with any of her homework.

She gave me a “Thanks”, before turning towards the senior boys to get her fresh Newport lit.

A book report on ‘Catcher in The Rye’, Algebra 2 homework sheets, and a pastel drawing of a cat for Lori’s art class were among the first of many assignments I completed and delivered to the concrete patch outside the auto shop class that fall. Fall turned to winter and soon spring bloomed with my 16th birthday. I passed my driver's test on the second try and my parents rewarded me with a $100 silver 1971 Cadillac Sedan De Ville and because I had a part time job scooping ice-cream at Baskins Robbins, I was rewarded with a highly coveted high school parking pass. Even most seniors didn’t even have parking passes. I can still remember Lori’s eyes light up when I said that I had a car and she wouldn’t ever have to ride the bus home again. So, for the next few weeks, when the school day ended and at her request, I drove Lori to the old city park out on Plymouth Road. Every day, before she hopped out of my car and trotted towards several of her friends sitting on the park picnic tables smoking cigarettes, she would lightly pat my right knee and throw me a cheerful “Thanks’”.

“Anytime” I would answer, leaning towards her hoping for a kiss.

A week or so before the school year ended, while on a short break in the back room of Baskins Robbins, I saw the concert schedule for Michigan’s famous Pine Knob outdoor music theater. The second week in August, Mr. Bob Seger and his Silver Bullet band were scheduled to play. The very next day on the concrete patch outside the auto shop class, I asked Lori if she would like to go. She was giddy with excitement and asked several questions that I did not have the answers too.

“How many tickets?”, “Can I bring Jenny and her sister?”, and “Where are we sitting” where all answered with the fact that I didn't have any tickets yet but I might be able to get them. I promised her that I would get them and call her when I did, then I handed her that week’s homework that I had done for her.

I prayed that night that I would be able to get tickets to Mr. Bob Seger, but not before asking my dad for a little help. My dad was a kinda high up guy for a major mid-western grocery chain and many times found himself bringing home ‘gifts’ like Indy 500 Pepsi Cola box seat tickets, front row KISS tickets for my brothers, and an impressive collection of food company sponsored electronic toys. One night after he had come home late from work drunk, I planted my request with him while he sat at the kitchen table imbibing a little ‘hair of the dog’. Several weeks passed and my heart sank a little bit every day I did not see an envelope of concert tickets on my bed. I dared not ask my father a second time for fear of him turning me down out of spite. Three days before Bob Seger’s scheduled performance and after a hard night shift of scooping ice cream, I found an envelope containing four tickets for Pine Knob’s lawn section to attend Bob Seger and his Silver Bullet band. I hugged my dad for the first time in my life that night, then I called Lori.

“Is Lori there?” I asked after four rings and a woman who I assumed was her mother answered.

“LORI, PHONE!” her mother yelled.

Five minutes of audible shuffling and Lori yelled back “OK, I GOT IT HANG UP MOM”.

“Hello Lori, this is Topher” I could hear breathing on the line when Lori yelled “MOM HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE”. The breathing stopped followed by a click.

“I got the Bob Seger tickets” I told her.

“HOW MANY?” Lori squealed.

She was very excited. I told her I got four tickets for the lawn section and a parking pass.

“Is lawn the only tickets you could get?” she asked with a sad note.

I told Lori I did my best and would be happy to drive her and her friends to the show, bring all the blankets to sit on and pack a cooler of pop and sandwiches. Lori told me to pick everyone up for the show at Jenny’s house and gave me a time and directions.

The day before the concert I asked my boss at Baskin Robbins for the day of the concert off. Mr. Samuel, the owner, told me that the work schedule had been up for an entire month and that I could not have the day off. I told him that I could not work at all on Friday and I absolutely needed the day off. Mr. Samuel then told me that if I don’t show up on Friday, don’t bother showing up on Monday. While at first, I was excited about having a four-day weekend, I quickly realized that I was being fired. I finished my shift that night and turned in my ice cream scoop for the last time knowing that it was for the best. I used my last paycheck to fill the thirty-gallon tank of my Cadillac.

The day of the concert I awoke, washed and ironed my favorite jeans and my only Bob Seger jersey t-shirt, packed two quilts my grandmother made for my mother, prepared several sandwiches and loaded a Styrofoam cooler with the sandwiches, a cold twelve pack of Doctor Pepper soda pop and ice. I then drove to Lori’s friend Jenny’s house, parked around the corner at a Shell gas station and waited three hours for the pickup time.

Lori’s friend Jenny lived out on the north part of town on a dirt road. Jenny’s family were Catholics and she had several older and younger brothers and sisters that I had never met. Five o'clock came, I parked in the street and was just about to get out of my Caddy to make the walk up to Jenny’s front door when the screen door sprang open and Lori, Jenny and her sister Bridget flew towards my car. Bridget turned and yelled, presumably to her parents, “We’ll be fucking home when we get home!”.

Ten minutes into the hour drive to the Pine Knob music theater I heard the frosty pop of beer cans being opened and smelled an odor that I had never smelled before in my life. Even with all four windows down and at highway speeds, the skunk weed smoke filled the Caddy. My three passengers giggled and spoke about boys they knew but never offered me a ‘toke’ or a sip of beer, not that I would have accepted, getting to the concert on time took every sober brain cell I had. The trip to Pine Knob was completed in six beers and two pot cigarettes and after flashing my red parking pass, we entered the preferred parking lot next to the ticket gates. Everyone tumbled out of my Caddy and Lori said one word “Tickets?”.

“OH, Sorry. Here you go” I paused unloading the cooler and the two quilts from the Caddy’s trunk and handed each girl a single ticket.

“If you give me a minute, we can all go in” I reminded them while wrestling with the quilts and cooler.

“We’ll see you in there” Bridget cackled as the three turned toward the gates and disappeared within the growing crowd. After a few adjustments, I was able to balance a quilt on each shoulder and hug the cooler with both arms while holding my ticket in my right hand. The ticket guy opened my cooler, ripped the stub off my ticked and ushered me in. A long walk later I found myself at the top of the outdoor lawn seating section and found a spot on its rapidly filling green grass. I laid out both of my grandmother’s quilts, sat my cooler filled with drinks and snacks between them, perched myself in the center and began to wait for Lori to find me.

After about an hour and a half, and several attempts by my concert going neighbors to rob me of my two quilt acreage, I saw Lori climbing up the hill with Jenny. Standing by my cooler and waving my arms above my head as if I were trying to take flight, I was able to get Lori’s attention.

Lori and Jenny passed me to take a seat on the quilts and I caught the smell of pot and cheap beer on them. They began giggling and talking about boys when I thought it may be smart to get some food in them. I opened the cooler and offered Lori and Jenny a wet peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They waved me off and began laughing and singing ‘Peanut Butter’ over and over. The sun began to set and you could hear the tuning of instruments on the darkened stage.

Lori and Jenny were talking about boys and giggling when Bridget appeared standing above us and announced, “I found them”. Lori and Jenny leapt to their feet as I asked, “Found who?”. I don’t think they heard me.

But, as they walked towards the covered seating area, Lori turned and yelled “Thanks for the tickets, Topher”. All three girls vanished in the dimming light.

There was no opening band and soon Bob Seger began his set with ‘American Storm’ and followed with ‘Makin’ Thunderbirds’. It was during ‘Mainstreet’ that cool drops of rain began to fall upon the open-air lawn section of the Pine Knob Music Theater. With every guitar riff the rain began to fall in greater quantities. By the time ‘Like A Rock’ filled the air, sheets of rain surrounded all who remained on the muddy lawn. As hard as I tried to stop fellow concert goers from stepping on my grandmother’s two quilts, it began to become impossible to prevent the increasing herd of people from ignoring my whimpering request to walk around the quilts.

Mr. Seger’s rendition of ‘Night Moves’ was beautiful and the pouring rain hid my tears. That song spoke to me that night like no other piece of music. ‘Hollywood Nights’ ended the set and after a half hour of applause, the outdoor theater lights were turned on and flooded the entire outdoor venue. In the cool August evening rain, I waited for Lori and her friends to find me for the ride home.

Two hours later it had stopped raining and I had the idea that Lori may be waiting for me at my Caddy in the parking lot. I rolled up the two wet quilts as best I could, left empty the Styrofoam cooler, and headed for my car. The lights of the almost empty parking lot illuminated my Caddy in a sickly yellow hue and in the yellow light, I deduced two facts, my guests were not waiting for me and, in my haste to hand out tickets, I forgot to roll up all four windows of my Caddy.

I placed the two tons of muddy wet handmade quilts in the trunk, scooped out four inches of standing rainwater from the floor of my car and waited another two hours for Lori and her guests to find me as I began to shiver uncontrollably.

The drive home was very cold and lonely.

The next morning began the worst day of my life. I awoke at 9 a.m. and called Lori’s house to see if she made it home from the concert safe. Lori’s mom didn’t know what I was talking about and told me Lori said she was spending the night at Jenny’s. She also asked, “What the fuck is going on?”. I hung up.

An hour after the phone call, I made my mother cry. She had found the wet muddy wad of homemade quilts, that her mother had made, in the garage where I had left them the night before. They were ruined and it was my fault.

With my mother crying behind him, my father then asked me “It’s Saturday, shouldn’t you be at work?”.

I told my father that I had been fired on Thursday.

“Fucking idiot”, my father mumbled as he turned to console my mother.

Two weeks later, on September third, 11th grade began. That first day, during lunch, I walked out to the concrete patch behind the auto shop class to find that it had been fenced off and now was the home of used tires and rusted engines. I didn’t see Lori for another week after school getting into a senior guy’s 1975 Mustang II. She had dyed her hair blonde and was wearing an Ozzy Osborne concert shirt. I gave a halfhearted wave from the sidewalk, but she didn’t see me. That semester, I heard through the grapevine that the student smoking area had moved from the behind the auto shop to behind the football field concession stand. Too far for me to visit and be on-time for any of my classes. Lori would have to do her own homework that year, I figured.

I saw Lori a few more times that semester, hanging out in the lunchroom with the senior boys and the owner of that Mustang II, but something prevented me from saying “hello”. It may have been the fear that I had gotten her in trouble with her mom the morning after the concert. Or, it may have been the disappointment in myself for not being as cool as the guy that owned that Mustang II. Regardless of the reason, I grew up a little bit that school year and taught myself not to always reach indiscriminately for the first dream that pops into your head.

Since then, I have let go of quite a few dreams because a steady patch of paved straight road is far safer than an unmarked trail. This personal belief has allowed me to bypass what could have been sure failures in music, art and love and also has afforded me a fantastic middle management position with nice benefits. I have trained myself to never reach for the highest apple on the tree, when sometimes the ones on the ground are sweet enough.

My senior year of high school I heard that Lori had dropped out because she got pregnant. She didn’t marry the guy with the Mustang II, but she did marry a guy who sells mortgage insurance and, with their four kids, they make a pretty good living (according to her Facebook and Tik-Tok page).

My silver 1971 Cadillac Sedan De Ville threw a rod on a frigid February morning driving to school. I had it towed to a junkyard and got $25 for it. Working two jobs, I was able to buy a 1975 Cadillac Coupe De Ville just in time for the first day of my senior year. I then sold that car so I could attend the art school I would eventually drop out of.

2014 WAS A BANNER FUCKING YEAR

2014 was a banner fucking year

As a highly educated artist (I have an MFA), I have never flinched when confronted with the idea that I would need some sort of part time employment to supplement the income that I fail to gather from the sales of my fantastic works of art. If you are a frequent visitor to my blog, you will know that I have worked part time as a dish washer at Hooters, been employed for a short time as a gas station cashier and even fell far enough to teach art as an adjunct art professor at a number of community colleges in the area. Regardless of the source of the supplemental income, as an educated artist, I knew that non-art related jobs were part of the larger picture. Not everyone can afford to buy eight foot by four foot engraved day-glo Plexiglas drawings for display in their home or office.

As the year drew to a close and the days began to get shorter and much colder it became very clear that, if I did not find some sort of 'job', my studio would not have any heat. To be completely honest though, even though it started to get chilly way back in September, I didn't really try to start looking for part time income until December first. I know the early bird gets the worm, but I really thought some art collector would come through and write me a fat check for all of my art and I could retire. I really did.

Well, I needed a job and I knew that seasonal work was not something that could be frowned upon. Easy money is nothing to be ignored in my book and seasonal work is some of  the easiest money to be had. Let's face it, no one really has any firm expectations of someone who you know will be gone a day or two after X-mas; and when it comes to low expectations, I am all over that shit in a flash. I mean, show up for a month or two and do a really half assed job with the firm expectation that no matter how crappy of a job it may be you would not have to cry about it for too long. I am on that like a fat girl on a sale at Lane Bryant.

If I knew how easy finding a seasonal job was in December, I would have started looking in September. No fooling. I literally opened the Muskegon Chronicle, applied for the first good job I saw and in two days I was having a phone interview with some human resources lackey. I was a smooth as warm butter on a stack of flap jacks. Two days later I was accepting my new offer to be the new part time Merchandise Arrival Associate at that swanky Younkers at the Lakes Mall. It was a cake job, unloading trucks of merchandise and prepping  it for the sales floor. I know it sounds like a schmuck job for someone as highly educated as myself (I have a Masters Degree). But, it's easy and it would keep the heat on in my studio for a little while.

It was a Tuesday and I showed up for my first day 10 minutes late, I mean fuck them, I work on my time bitch. Right!? Well, that was immediately frowned upon by Jason who was supposed to be my new 'superior'. The first thing out of his fucking mouth to me was that two more late arrivals was grounds for instant termination. Jesus, how stupid is it that coming in on time for a part time minimum wage job should be right at the top of the list of things that they are looking for in new seasonal workers. I can think of at least seven things that would be more important. Showing up wearing  pants and sober is numbers two and three at least. Ten fucking minutes never fucking killed anyone. That first day, I vowed to show up 30 fucking minutes early every fucking work day and just hang around the back room off the clock just to be a big pain in the ass to Jason and his goddam time-clock. Well that plan worked pretty well until I showed up to work late on Wednesday for my second day of work and was promptly chewed out by Jason and his goddam three strikes rule.

The first and second day were full of paperwork, W2 forms, training videos and instruction on how to properly accept new merchandise from a semi-truck trailer. The third day was when the real work started. I was one of eight 'new hires' and one of the only two men. Of the two men, I think I was the only straight man in the crew. My 'gay-dar' pretty much sucks anyways, but I would have wagered that the other guy was gay. Well, that really isn't important is it. We all must coexist, right! I mean, if some dude next to me likes the taste of semen, who am I to call him a goddam freak. To each his own, right?  I have never faulted another man for wanting to turn away from pussy, more for me I figured. Besides, Brandon was kinda cool. He liked to comment on all the women's clothing that would come out of the trucks on these huge rolling  steel racks.

"Fat girl prom dress"

"Mom jeans"

"Sperm dumpster slut wear"

"WHORE-ISH"

"FAAA-BU-LOUS"

I thought his comments were pretty spot on and kinda funny. How would a rack of size 16 pink sparkly cocktail dresses NOT be fat girl prom dresses? Brandon was a riot when we started getting the racks of jumbo sized lingerie. He would, take a sample right of the rack, put it on and dance around in the truck trailer snapping his fingers. Well I thought it was funny. The two women working in our team, Margery and Joan, always seemed to have huge sticks up their asses when it came to Brandon's colorful high jinks.

"Come on Brandon, you shouldn't be doing that with the clothes", they would huff from beneath stern frowns.

"Brandon, stop fooling around...come oooooooon"

Yes, the work was simple, boring and did not pay alot. But, it was honest work and the first couple paychecks were a nice change of pace to my payless Fridays. As a highly educated artist, (I have a Masters Degree) I looked at my small job as a creative endeavor. You know, kind of like how Van Gogh lived among the simple working folk while he honed his craft. I was drinking up every minute spent in the back room of this Younkers with the full expectation that it would drive a complete series of new paintings.

...or maybe it was a huge waste of time. Sometimes you really can't tell.

 The first month or so fucking flew by and the next few weeks were looking promising until some shit happened. Younkers provided a small clock radio for the back room and had a firm policy that the first person from the shipping and receiving team clocked in had choice of the radio station for that shift. Brandon always managed to be that person every goddam day. He was always there way before anyone else and as bright and bushy tailed as anyone could be. He told me that his mother works at the Chucky Cheese as a cleaning woman. Her job was to clean the entire place before 10 AM. That meant she got to work around 4:30 in the morning and she was Brandon's ride. That fucker waited in her car in the freezing cold ever morning until the Younkers employee entrance opened at 5:45 am. That's why that cock sucker always had first dibs on the radio station.

Brandon's choice of music was what you may call a 'Top 40' station and was probably a good choice based upon his unorthodox 'personality'. Muskegon only has a handful of stations, Brandon's 'Top 40' one, public 'hippy' radio, country, four religious stations and one talk radio news station. Based upon his choice of nail polish, I sure as hell would not have wagered that Brandon was a country music fan. Anyways, Brandon loved his music. Certain songs would come on and he would start dancing and singing. Other times, songs would come on and he would yell back at the radio.

"Oh no he di-int"

"Shut your mouth you whore"

"Do me, Do me"

Before I got this job, I knew nothing of contemporary American Popular music. So the pops and whistles emanating from the clock radio was so fascinating to me. The thought that the songs being played were the most popular songs in America, was amazing. For almost two months, the top two songs in America were played every ninety minutes. The number two song was a bouncy tune that insisted that men enjoy the sexual company of overweight women and that women need to embrace their fatness. The number one song in America was sung by a blonde millionaire part-time lingerie model and consisted of her informing the great unwashed masses of America that they need to 'Shake off' any harsh criticism and be proud of whatever they think they are. Oh boy did Brandon love these two songs, whenever they came on he would dance and sing around Younker's back room like a crazy man. I grew to appreciate the songs as unofficial anthem of the oppressed.

I don't think Margery and Joan felt the same way about Brandon's choice in music as I did. They always seemed so goddam serious about this crappy job we all had. Whenever Brandon started dancing, Margery would always give him a huge stink eye and Joan would remind him to get back to work.

Then one morning, Margery got to pick the radio station.

It was a Wednesday. Margery and Joan had arrived right at 6:30 am and set the clock radio to Muskegon's only news-talk station. I arrived to work hearing the chatter of weather and traffic reports filling the receiving bays. It was the first and only morning that everyone had beat Brandon into work. When he did come in a half hour late, you could tell he had been crying. From what he could sob out, his mother had been fired from Chucky Cheese on Monday and he had to take the bus to work. He said the state came in Monday afternoon for the monthly health inspection and found that the entire place was a shit hole and infested with lice. They demanded that it had to be shut down immediately. I guess Brandon's mom had been cutting some corners because when they emptied the ball pit, they found almost a half inch layer of coagulated urine and vomit. Brandon's mom took the fall for it all and Chucky's decided to outsource the daily cleaning to some big company when they reopened on Friday. He was really upset about it and said that he was supporting his whole family now.

For the next few hours we all worked quietly while the news and traffic reports were repeated every fifteen minutes. It wasn't until around noon that Brandon even realized that we all were listening to Margery's radio station choice.

From the radio came a familiar beat. It was the Pretenders 'My City Was Gone'. The heavy bass line beat out a slow chain of 'bumps' and for a few seconds I felt like dancing in the half empty semi-trailer. But the sound was not what I was expecting, the same bass line repeated three more times like a scratched record. On the fourth loop I heard the voice on Mr. Rush Limbaugh welcoming us to his daily radio show.

Margery and Joan's eyes lit up and they became gitty like young school girls at the sound of Mr. Limbaugh's rich tenor voice. It was the first time in months I had seen them smile. They were really happy to be hearing this radio show.

"OH NO, I AINT LISTENING TO THIS SHIT", Brandon's lispy voice wailed from the half empty semi trailer.

I was over near the pricing table when I saw Brandon came charging out of the trailer towards the clock radio, his arm extended ready to turn the tuning knob away from Mr. Limbaugh's show. Joan beat him to the radio and stood guard while Margery reminded him of Younkers back room radio policy.

"We were here first, so we get to pick", Margery burped.

"I AINT LISTENING TO THIS SHIT", Brandon reminded them.

What happened next was surreal. Margery was hugging the radio while Joan stood blocking Brandon from getting to her and it. Brandon was dancing and spinning trying to out flank Joan and take the radio out of Margery's hands. All the time, all three of them were yelling at each other.

"PEOPLE, IS THERE A PROBLEM?"....

It was our boss yelling from the employee break room. Instantly we all turned and answered 'NO' in unison. Margery placed the radio back upon the receiving desk. Joan turned and went back to pricing polyester sweaters and Brandon ducked back into the empty truck trailer. After about twenty minutes things simmered down, Joan and Margery were both working side by side at the pricing table muttering quietly to each other while Mr. Limbaugh spoke about our dear President and Brandon and I were rolling garment carts off of a truck. Brandon looked as if he was going to cry. He was not having a good day.

With every story told by Mr. Limbaugh, Brandon was becoming more and more agitated. Then he cracked. Brandon walked over to Joan and Margery at the pricing table and calmly stated,

"Rush Limbaugh is a racist. That's why I can't listen to him"

Joan demanded that Brandon was wrong and that Rush Limbaugh was not a racist. Margery asked if Brandon had ever even listened to Mr. Limbaugh.

Brandon confirmed that he had never listened to Mr. Limbaugh's radio show...

"NO, The man is a racist. Only RETARDED people listen to him"

With Brandon's statement, a look of sadness came over Margery...

"Retarded is not a nice word and you should not use it"

"FUCKING GODDAM RETARDS", Brandon unloaded right in Margery's face.

With that, Margery bowed her head in defeat and Joan placed a consoling arm around her.

"Brandon dammit, her son is a 'special needs' person", Joan quietly stated.

Brandon became erect as he blurted...

"WELL THEN THE LITTLE FUCKING RETARD TAKES AFTER HIS MOTHER"

With that, a look came over Margery that reminded me of the time I told some little kid at the mall that the Easter Bunny was just some guy in a suit. Margery's world began to collapse upon itself as her eyes began to well up with tears. She turned and ran wailing. Joan followed after her but not before giving Brandon a look that would have frozen any 'straight' male.

"Goddam bitches", Brandon spoke.

Then Brandon turned and entered the truck trailer as if nothing had happened. I followed in shocked disbelief and we proceeded to roll the next apparel cart out. When we exited the trailer, a member of store security was standing on the platform.

"Brandon, Jason needs to talk to you"

Brandon shot me a look that he knew what was going to happen. The security guard and Brandon walked towards the store offices. In about thirty minutes, the security guard returned and asked if the coat hanging near the pricing table was Brandon's. I said that it was and he took it.

No one ever returned and turned the radio to WBLV, Muskegon's classical music radio station.

I worked quietly alone for the rest of the day.

My shift was about over when Jason, my 'superior' met me near the pricing table. He wanted to know if I would be interested in staying on as a full time employee. I thought about it for a second then told him that I would need to stay part time because my job as an artist was my full time job. Jason looked at me like I was swinging a dead cat over my head.

"I'm offering you a full time job here"

I reiterated that I already had a full time job and that I would be happy to stay on as part time.

"I'm sorry we only need a full time person. Are you sure?", Jason returned.

I told him that I did would not consider full time employment  and he told me that my services would no longer be needed. We shook hands and I clocked out for the last time.

I am an artist. I am a highly educated artist (I have a Masters Degree). Working full time as a shipping and receiving clerk would degrade my creativity. Do not get blinded by the sparkle of silver and stand firm to what you believe and who you are. Besides, it's spring time and I can turn the heat off in my studio.

Don't look so sad I know it's over

"...I'm not sure about the rape one"

A worn black plastic Croc swung from her swollen ankle like a piece of over ripened fruit as the artsy woman, spread out alone over half of the gallery bench with a pale alabaster unshaven doughy leg exposed from between the drapery of a large black muumuu, loudly pontificated.

How does one respond to such profound artistic criticism like that?

To be fair, she did start her statement with, "it's a nice show...". But, regardless how her criticism started, it ended with a comparison of my art to a rape.

"Well, it's only rape if everyone involved doesn't have fun" , I returned to an almost empty room of opening night gallery visitors.

You know those times in your life when you say something to a group of people and the very instant it leaves your lips you realize that it was a completely inappropriate thing to say. Every spoken syllable echoes in your head while you pray to whatever Godd you kneel before to grant you a single wish of turning back the clock and never uttering whatever statement that you will now regret for eternity. Well, my retort to my grandiose critic was not one of those times. In fact, I said it loud enough so that even people in the lobby of the gallery heard it and dipped their heads in to see what kind of Cro-Magnon would even utter such a crime.

The several audible gasps was payment enough for a show that didn't sell a single goddamn thing.

..And so ended my short career as an artist of Metro-Detroit.

As a young child I was told that if you can't leave a party with elegance and demure, leave the party by vomiting on the shoes of everyone in the room, that way everyone will remember you. A month later, when the show ended and my van was packed with all my unsold artist treasures for the long return journey home, I knew that I would never be returning to the gritty underbelly that is the Detroit art world. I was free. The chains had been broken and I wouldn't even beg for reparations.

My wonderful wife made a comment the other night, "Why is it on Facebook that when someone posts pictures from a Detroit art show, there are always the same seven people there?"

I told her that those seven people must come for the free wine and cheese, because they aint coming to buy art.

I have learned from my last solo show that's never a good thing to get anchored to something larger than yourself. There is always a risk of drowning when that large chunk of shit sinks. From this point on, I am now insisting that I be considered one of Muskegon's premier visual artists. It's a safe bet that Muskegon cant sink any further from where it's at.

If life is making you feel like a little fish, put on your big boy pants and walk to a smaller pond. Smaller ponds are not so bad. Smaller ponds have studios with twice the size and half the rent and a fucking great beach on Lake Michigan to roll around drunk on in the middle of the week. Small ponds also don't have fat ladies in muumuus comparing your work to a prison rape. Nope, the fat ladies here are happy to get what you fucking give them and say thank you for sharing.

"Don't look so sad I know it's over

But life goes on and this world keeps on turning, yeah

Let's just be glad, we have this time to spend together

There is no need to watch the bridges that were burning"

“I want a do over”

“I want a do over”

A phrase every child has yelled on the kick-ball field during recess. Maybe the ball took a wicked bounce on the way over the plate, maybe it was just too fast of a pitch, or maybe we were just not ready to kick the ball. Regardless, a called ‘do over’ was usually granted.

I want a do over.

I want a do over that rubs the slate clean and takes me back to Mrs. Petersons 8^th grade science class and Lowell Middle. I want a do over that takes me back to that day when I heard a very loud and very strange laugh from the far corner of the class room. I want a do over that takes me back to the day I met a very dear friend.

I’m sure Mrs. Peterson was great teacher. But, her classroom was always excessively warm and her lectures were always a bit dry. If one were not careful, one could doze off. And if one were on the very cusp of dozing off, you know that twilight time just before full sleep when your body disconnects with the brain and does unexpected things, one might let out a completely unintentional yet very loud belch. My belch was what earned a single laugh from the corner of the room, a laugh that I will never forget.

An old friend passed away the other day. A friend that I wish I could hear laugh one more time.

Bob Hammons was my friend.

He was my friend during those awkward early teenaged years when life seemed endless and huge.

As young adults we were friends, when life began to get a little more serious but there was still fun to be had.

We were friends when we entered our forties and life was a warm Fourth of July weekend spent with his wonderful son at the beach.

Memories of Bob are pouring over me like waves, memories that I never want to forget.

Memories of the cardboard U2 setting in his bedroom window that you could see from Lilley Road. In 9th grade, I didn't have a clue what a U2 was.  

Memories like the time he let me borrow his Adam Ant album. It was the first album I ever listened to.

Memories like the time Kenny Kim met us in the 2nd floor at Salem High and Bob grabbed the violin out of Kenny's hands and played the most beautiful tune I had ever heard.

Memories like the time I met him on the stairs in Canton High school to show him a flyer I was drawing. He was DJ-ing a teen dance night at that night club in Canton on Ford Road that is now a Wal-Mart. Standing next to him on the stairs was a girl that I had never met before, I would marry her one day.

Memories of Bob at my wedding. I told Hanna that I would only get married if I had three things there, Bob, Val and BBQ ribs at the reception. I got all three that night.

I want to go back at tell my younger self to spend a little more time savoring the few real friendships I had. I want to go back and tell Bob that I love him and that I will miss him very much one day.

I want to tell Bob thank you for being my friend when I was a young teen and had no friends. Bob gave me the strength to be myself and be proud to be different.

I want to tell Bob thank you for being my friend when I was a young man and I believed that I didn't fit in and that my life was over. Bob opened my eyes to what was important and that things can always get better no matter how dark it may seem.

I want to tell Bob thank you for being my friend as a middle aged man. Bob taught me that it is never too late for anything and that life is about the journey and not the destination.

I just wish the journey would have lasted a little longer with him in the passenger seat.

I want a do over so much right now.

I miss my friend. I miss Bob Hammons. I loved Bob Hammons.

DAYS AWAY FROM SWEET SWEET AFRICAN GOLD...

Say Hello to Mr. Tushy

Got an Email Today:

Mrs Monat

To 

Today at 11:33 AM

FOR YOUR COMPENSATION

Dear Partner 

Greetings, How are you with your family? I hope

fine. I'm happy to inform you about my success in getting those funds

transferred under the cooperation of a new partner from UK ,

Presently I’m in Australia, meanwhile I didn't forget your past

efforts to assist me in transferring those funds despite that it

failed us somehow with you.I know you thought it was a joke and you

did not follow me up and droped out.

This is to notify you that I have deposited the sum of $750.000.00

USD drafted conformable cheque for you with the Airmail Delivery

company in my country Burkina faso through my secretary.

You are advised to quickly contact them so that they will deliver the

cheque to you.

Feel free in contacting them by email or phone, their contact below,do

inform me if you do so.

Airmail Delivery services

Manager Dpp Airmail

+226 76 940571

Email: airmaildelivery.services@yahoo.in

www.airmail.org

regards

Lady Monat

_____________________________________________________________

Topher Crowder To Mrs Monatairmaildelivery.services@yahoo.in

Today at 4:05 PM

Hello Miss Monat.

I just got your email regarding the sum of mony. I am not understanding wat you wnt me to do? Is this a PAYPAL thing? Please contact me as soon as you get this because I would relly like to halp you in what ever way.

Assistant Director of Fecal Transportaytion Systems Maintanence.

Mr. Topher Crowder

_______________________________________________________________

Confirmation Notice from Airmail Delivery Services

Dear Beneficiary .Mr. Topher Crowder

open the attached file for our delivery notice,

After making your choice you are advised to send the fee by western Union money transfer for us to deliver your cheque, here below is our Accounts officer's name for the payment

RECEIVER'S NAME : OSSAI OSSY CHUKS

ADDRESS: BURKINA FASO

Thanks We stand to serve you best.

Mr John Kara Zongo

Manager DPP

Airmail Management

_______________________________________________________________

Me

To Airmail Delivery servicesMrs Monat

Today at 2:47 PM

Hello my good freind mister John Kara Zongoo

I a just reading the email you sent me and I need your help. it says that i need no money but i thought i needed to send you money to get my check for 75 million dollares. I dont see how much i am to send you.

I need your help becauese i want my money as soon as possible.

1: is the money going to be in african money? what color is african money?

2: can you send me a copy of the check? i have never seen a 75 million african dollars beforew.

3: can we do this through PAYPAL? I can give you my PAYPAL password and you can just put the money in PAYPAL

please answer these questions my loving african male freind (with soft hands?) (i hope)

your loving ameruican frend

Mr Topher Poostain Crowder

________________________________________________________________

Confirmation Notice from Airmail Delivery Services

Dear Beneficiary .Mr. Topher Crowder

Thanks for your mail and request, for your clear understanding options were given to you to choose any courieer service of your choice and send the money to us by western union, now we are making the best choice for you DHL and the cost is $820

Be assured that as soon as we receive your payment with your full address in the next 48 hours your cheque will be delivered to you with the Bank clearance guarrantee of payment.

Here below is the information to send the fee $820 Dollars

RECEIVER'S NAME : OSSAI OSSY CHUKS

ADDRESS: BURKINA FASO

Thanks We stand to serve you best.

Mr John Kara Zongo

Manager DPP

Airmail Management

_______________________________________________________

WU ZONAL AREA OFFICE BURKINA FASO

PLOT 6 AVE NKURUMAH OUAGA BP

TEKEPHONE/FAX +226 6424 3973

BURKINA FASO

ATTN: Mr. Topher

Here is our office and you are directed to send the money through our Accounts officer’s name

As soon as we receive your payment in the next 48 hours your cheque will be sent to you

Send us your full address where to send your cheque

RECEIVER’S NAME: OSSAI CHUKS

ADDRESS;BURKINA FASO WEST AFRICA

Regards

Regional Director

WU BURKINAF FASO

ALHAJI DANCO ZONGO

_______________________________________________________________

Me

To Airmail Delivery services

Today at 10:10 PM

Hello my chocolate african man freind Airmail Manager Mr. John kara Zongo

I got your email but when I opened the file you sent, i ciould not read the goddam thing. It looked all crazy with crazy words. Even mother could not make heads or tails of it. It may be becaue you are typing it in africa and when it comes to america it isnt spellet right. I am sure as an airmail management person you spell pretty good for a african but here is america we spell much better.

I have turned mother's check into cash I(i sent a photo of the cash) Say hello to mr tushy, he is my kitty. So I have the money, But i just need yu to resend the western union address so I can send the cash to you.

DONT SEND THAT FILE AGAIN...copy and paist it in american english not your crazy african speak.

1: as soon as you resend the western union address I will send you the $900

2: DO you have family members in american, Maybe I could drive the money over to them?

3: Please hold my $750 for me untilll you have my western union mail in your chocolate soft hjands.

Thank you, you are a soft and kind chocolate african man that I would be proud to kiss full on the lips.

Thank you for your patience, i know we will have our money soon with your help.

Mr Topher PooStain Crowder (Is it true what they say about brown men from africa? how big is yours?)

_______________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services

To Me

Today at 12:16 PM

Dear Beneficiary .Mr. Topher Crowder

view the attached file

Thanks We stand to serve you best.

Mr John Kara Zongo

Manager DPP

Airmail Management

_____________________________________________________________

WU ZONAL AREA OFFICE BURKINA FASO

PLOT 6 AVE NKURUMAH OUAGA BP

TEKEPHONE/FAX +226 6424 3973

BURKINA FASO

ATTN: Mr. Topher

Here is our office and you are directed to send the money through our Accounts officer’s name

As soon as we receive your payment in the next 48 hours your cheque will be sent to you

Send us your full address where to send your cheque

RECEIVER’S NAME: OSSAI CHUKS

ADDRESS;BURKINA FASO WEST AFRICA

Regards

Regional Director

WU BURKINAF FASO

ALHAJI DANCO ZONGO

______________________________________________________________

Me

To Airmail Delivery services

Today at 9:44 PM

Dear locving tender choclate man freind Mr John Kara Zongo.

I just got your resent email with the same goddam attachment. I had mother take a look at and she thought it might be best if we had fer boyfriend Mr. Hatwood Jablowme look at it. Mr. Haywood was [planning to come over tonight to service my mother (she needs lovin' twice a week) ....anyways, he helpped us out with downloading your african jiberish so that americans can read it.

Mr Haywood Jablowme did ask me to ask you if everyone in africa was 'fucking retarted'...I told him that i would ask you. If you are your chocolate african countrymen are retarted, i hope the tender baby jesus will smile opon you to make you no retarted so much...

Any ways, I have the money $900 and mr. haywood Jablowme coppied this info for me..

1: Is this the banks mailing adress that I am to send the western union to?

WU ZONAL AREA OFFICE BURKINA FASO

PLOT 6 AVE NKURUMAH OUAGA BP

TEKEPHONE/FAX +226 6424 3973

BURKINA FASO

2: It is just that Mr. Haywood Jablowme is right, it looks fucking retarded....i mean what kind of name is WU ZONAL? A retarted name?

3: RECEIVER’S NAME: OSSAI CHUKS

ADDRESS; BURKINA FASO WEST AFRICA

Who is OSSAI CHUKS? He he a chocolate retard too? Should I just send the money to YOU?

4:Who is...

Regional Director

WU BURKINAF FASO

ALHAJI DANCO ZONGO....he he another one of the african retarts? Jeeze you guys need to learn to spell american.

5: OK OK....i just need you to confirm that i send the western union check to

WU BURKINAF FATSO at the WU ZONAL area office in Burkina Fatso

Is this correct. if it is I will send the $900 in the morning.

Please let me know as soon as you get this.

I will keep the vasoline warm until we can meet at I can see your african man root

((huggs))

Mr. Topher Poostain Crowder (not a retard)

______________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services
To Me
Today at 7:26 AM

Why are you making mistakes  see where to send the money to Mr  OSSAI CHUKS

His address is Burkina faso West Africa

That is all

____________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 12:01 PM
Look Mister Chocolate uppity african who cant spell....ok that was un called for, im sorry.

Mr. Zongo, i am sorry.

I rode my bike up to the wesern union shop to get the check but there was a problem. The old bitch up there would not let me get a check. She said she would need a few things before she could make the check.

1: I have been dealing with you Mr. Zonger and I trust you (I would trust a mouthfull of your manroot).

2: I dont know who Mr  OSSAI CHUKS is and I will need to see identification ....I would hate for him to take the money and screw us over.

Please either have Mr  OSSAI CHUKS email me or have Mr  OSSAI CHUKS send me his photograph id card. Is Mr.Chunks a 'large' chocolate man?

Please send me his photograch and his papers. (from the waste down would be better)


I will be waitin g with my $900 dollars for your email photograph. with one hand one the computer and one hand on my white snake.

Love, Peace and Magic ((huggs)) **kisses**

Mr. Topher Poostain Crowder

_____________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services
To Me
May 31 at 1:26 AM
If you want to receive the cheque simply obey and send the fee that is all

_________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 8:40 PM
Helloo My Chocolate friend.

I have the money all $900 for shipping
1: Western union needs your information photo.
2: the bith wont give me the check with out your identification card photo

I trust you but she does not. Please email your photpo itentification card photo. please

thank you

Mr. Topher Poostain Crowder

____________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services
To Me
 Today at 5:04 AM

Dear Beneficiary  .Mr. Topher Crowder

 view the attached file my photo
Thanks We stand to serve you best.

Mr John Kara Zongo
Manager DPP
Airmail Management

Say Hello to MR. Zongo

_______________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
 Today at 3:39 PM
Hello and praise jesus my sweet sweet little chocolate man friend...

thank thank you you for the photograph as proof that you are an honest and loving african man and from the look of the photo, it looks like you are hung like a horse (i am dreaming yes)

I hope that some day i can have a taste of that sweet chocolate man root.

well i just messed myself...

ok ok back to business. i just got back from the western union shop with my check for your (see photo graph)

i am placing the check in the mail today. i want to get this right.

I am mailing your $900 to:

WU ZONAL AREA OFFICE BURKINA FASO
PLOT 6 AVE NKURUMAH OUAGA BP
TEKEPHONE/FAX +226 6424 3973
BURKINA FASO

please confirm. My mothers boyfriend mr. Haywood Jablowme says that i can kiss that monmey goodby but i know you are trustworthy.

please, confirn the mailing address.

i have inclided a photograph of your money and a surprise wish photo that maybe we can some day hold each other like my mlother and mr. haywood jablowme do (a boy can dream)
please confirm mailing address!!!


((huggs)) **kisses**  @@rim job@@

your white love
Mr Topher Poostain Crowder

A Boy Can Dream!!

________________________________________________________________________________
Airmail Delivery services <airmaildelivery.services@yahoo.in>;
To Me
Today at 7:10 AM
OK SEND

___________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services <airmaildelivery.services@yahoo.in>;
 Today at 5:36 PM
Hello my chocolate love king..

The check is boxed and addressed (see photo) I added some gifts to celebrate our loving relationship. I hope you like them.

1: I placed a check for $900 made out to Mr. Magoo Cockrocket just like you told me to.
2: I placed a used pair of my soiled underpants in the box. They have a little bit of ME in them so treat them well.
3: I placed a pair of Mother's used under pants (they almost did not fit)
4: I made a crayon outline of my erect penis and inclided that to.

I hope you love my gifts.

Please
1: could you send me a photo of your bank?

I need to tape it on the outside of the box so the retarded african mail people know where to take my money

1: Please send me a photo of your bank

I love our friendship and look forward to the day I can tatse your sweet sweet man root

Your lover
Mr Topher Poostain Crowder

A Gift For My Sweet Chocolate African King

____________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services

To Me

Today at 1:32 AM

YOUR HEAD IS NOT CORRECT YOU JOKER

GET LOST SON OF  BITCH

______________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 1:33 AM

Please....help. dont leave me

Sent from Yahoo Mail on Android

______________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 2:11 AM

Hello?

Sent from Yahoo Mail on Android

______________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services
To Me
Today at 6:29 AM
If i should help you then send the fee then I will help you to ensure that your cheque worth of $750,000.00 seven hundred and fifty thousand USD is sent to you and it mush be cleared in your bank account with the bank payment guarrantee we shall send to there in USA

_______________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 5:52 PM
 Prase Sweet Baby Jebus.
I though I had lost you my deer chocolate african man friend lover. You are a sassy buck arent you?! All in my face calling me not right in the head. My little chocolate man has claws (meow)

1: I am sending $25 along with my soild 'gifts" for you...
2: When you say you are sorry for calling me names I will mail $300
3: Whne you get my $300, you will mail me a check for $1000
4: When I get the check for $1000, I will mail you $600 more.

That is how it will go. Please email me and confirm that you are sorry for call ing me names.

I will sent the 25$ today.

@@rim job@@ {{hugs}} **kissess**

Your eturnal butt pirate
Mr Topher Poostain Crowder

______________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services
To Me
Today at 12:57 PM
OK AM SORRY I WAS JUST KIDING
________________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 9:17 PM
Hello my little chocolate african man...all is forgiven!!!

Prase Baby Jebus!!! I forgive you.
I am mailing $25 american dollars (cash money) in exchange you will send me a saucey photo of yourself.

1: please let me know when you get My $25 cash
2: when you send me a photo of your wife or daughter wearing sheer to the waste pantyhose, I will send you $200.

Please send me more photos for more money
3: please confirm when you get this email.
I love you!! dont ever leave me. Some day we will live togehter under the eyes of our lord Baby Jebus

@@rim job@@ ((huggs)) **kisses**

your white man with a small pink wang

Mr. Toher Poostaine Crowder
_____________________________________________________________________________

Airmail Delivery services
To Me
Today at 12:02 AM

make contacts lets  make money ok
_____________________________________________________________________________

Me
To Airmail Delivery services
Today at 3:21 PM
re: your white snake lover craving chocolate man root

I am sorry, did I do something wrong? Why wont you speak to me?

If we are gonna make this love work, I am gonna need more that 3 or 4 words and a moneyshot to the face.

1: send me photos of your wife.
2: I will send you $20
3: My mother wants a photo of you with your shirt off
4: tell me you love me

your lover with a penis like a curly pig tail

Mr. Topher Poostain Crowder

A Mother's Love....

As we progress through life, we come to the realization that there exceptions to certain rules.

• You break it, you buy it....unless you are a hobo. Then it seems like you can break all kinds of shit and no one will do a damn thing, because urine soaked hobos are so damn lovable.
• If you can't feed them, don't breed them....unless you are an uneducated single mother on food stamps and without a job. Then by all means WE will feed your damn ugly poor kids so keep pumping those rats out.
• If it aint broke, don't fix it...unless you got a new set of $5000 22 inch chrome rims. Then by all means bolt those fuckers on your twenty year old Cutlass that you bought off of Craigslist for $100. Those rims will make any POS car look hot AND it's a good investment.

Today is mother's day. It has been fun looking on Facebook and seeing everyone's mother's day posts. The faded Polaroids showing young vibrant women holding their young children in a loving embrace. The black and white high school graduation photos of their mothers, taken when their mothers had their whole lives in front of them. Taken when their dreams were as bright as the noon day sun. Taken before they became pregnant. Taken before the unfulfilled dreams of youth were washed away and replaced with 6th grade parent teacher nights and waste cans lovingly placed next to the beds of children who ate too much Halloween candy.

Most everyone I know believes that their mother should be made a saint for what they had to put up with. The wrecked cars, the poopy pants at Denny's, the vomit on her favorite blouse, the $200 long distance phone bill for a girl you thought liked you and you would call every day, the eating of her reddest lipstick and then ruining the wallpaper by kissing it all down the hallway, the sealed letters from the homeroom teacher waiting for her on the kitchen counter when she came home from work informing her that her child has a problem with biting other students and she will need to come in to discuss it and finally all those times when she would have to make up the fold out bed in the basement again because her adult child spent the rent money on a various ill planned adventures.

A mother's love is fascinating and seemingly endless.

That is why it is best to learn very early in life that most rules have exceptions.

I learned that a mother's love has limits during the summer of 1972. I was four.

In my eyes, my parents were golden gods who worked very hard and could do no wrong. I didnt know it back then, but we were not a monetarily a wealthy family. But, my two older brothers and myself never were allowed to go without anything. It seemed that we had it all. Sure, I had iron-on knee patches on my hand me down Tough-Skins, But when you are a kid, those patches are goddamn badge of honor and look really cool. I didn't realize it then, but both my parents busted ass to make I and my brother's journey through childhood as effortless as possible.

Effortless and educational go best when they walk hand in hand.

My dad worked in the grocery business and received a lot of cool stuff from food brokers. We recieved toy race cars from Coca-Cola, a COX gas powered airplane from Sprite, and inflatable rafts from Coppertone. All this stuff was really cool but it was a portable cassette recorder from the guys at 7-up that I remember best.

Back in 1972, portable cassette recorders were big, had fake wood grain trim and generously trimmed in chromed plastic. The recorder was as big as a briefcase and had this massive black dial on the top next to the tray the cassette was placed into that made a loud 'click' when you turned it from stop, record and play. It also came with a single 60 minute Maxell cassette tape and a swanky handheld microphone.

This thing was tits for my eight year old brothers.

At first my brother's only were recording songs off the radio, favorite television shows, the neighbor kids were enlisted to scream silly songs into the mic, the cat was enticed to meow and the flushing of toilets was explored extensively. But soon, more creative outlets begged to be unearthed.

I have never been comfortable listening to a recording of my own voice. I have always thought that I sounded like some kind of Kansas City homo with a bad head cold and a stuffed up nose. As an adult, I have come to terms with my feelings about this. I mean, what can I do? It's not like I can cry about how I sound on someone's voicemail.

But, I could cry about it when I was four.

I don't remember what started me crying on that warm summer afternoon. I do remember my brother saying to me, "Why don't you cry loud enough for mom to hear?". 

At the time, his advice seemed like a good bet. Through my tears I could imagine my mother hearing my painful wailing and running into the livingroom to rescue me from my brother's dastardly plan to disembowel her youngest child. 

A mother's love...

My crying escalated. Maybe mom was next door having coffee at Rosie's house? Maybe it was time to take it from an eight to a ten?

Then I heard it. The sounds of my own nasally wails wafting throughout the house. I stopped long enough to hear a loud click and cassette tape being rewound. Then my recorded cries of distress again began to echo loudly. 

"STOP IT", I cried.

"NO", my brothers laughed.

I began to cry again. This time the tears were real and not just a call for the safe loving embrace of my mother. I ran from the living room and into my bedroom and slammed the door. From outside my room, I could hear my own sobbing being replayed, rewound and replayed over and over again. My brothers never stopped laughing and I began to cry louder and harder. 

Every new recorded broadcast was met with my own sobbing demands that they "STOP". After what seemed like an eternity, I finally resorted to burying my head into my pillow to muffle my crying but they had that damn swanky microphone that seemed to pick up everything. 

At this point, my entire face was a glistening mixture of snot and tears. Thats when the sound of the screen door slamming caught my ears. Mom was home. Now my laughing torturous brothers would be punished and my wounded bleeding soul would be healed by a mother's love for her youngest child. 

I cried loud enough for mother to hear.

The cassette recorder heard me first.

Through my recorded crying screams mixed with the wild laughter of my brothers, I could hear my mother ask "What is going on in here?". 

"Listen to Topher", my brother Tim chimed as he clicked play on the cassette player.

"STOP IT", I protested.

The cassette player did it's job, my brother's broke into wild laughter and my mom began to giggle.

In her own way, she thought the recording was funny. The recorded sound of her youngest child crying in pain amused her.

What little composure I had quickly melted and I became a sweaty sobbing blob with my head buried into a thoroughly moistened pillow. Every recorded cried of despair was met with a trio of hearty laughs from both my brothers and my mom.

"If you stop crying we will stop recording you", my mom added after every replay. That afternoon I also learned what 'circular logic' is.

But more importantly, that afternoon in 1972, I learned that a mother's love has limits. Scraped knees, bee stings and ear infections all fit into a mother's list of things that deserve her loving attention. A mother will go to the ends of the Earth to make her child with a swollen bee sting feel better. 

But if you are gonna cram your head in a pillow and cry like some kind of fucking pussy, you got another thing coming. I learned that my brothers probably would have stopped recording me had I punched them in their fucking heads. Sure, it may have turned into a bruised face and a nose bleed for me when they hit me back, but at least I wouldn't have been recorded and laughed at like some kind of retard. Besides, a black eye and a nose bleed would have got me a fair share of the mother's love thing.

So if you want your mom to love you, don't be an idiot. No one loves an idiot.

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