| THE HARD TIMES |
| TRUE-LIFE STORIES OF A BROKE, HOMELESS VAGABOUND |
| LONDON WITHOUT AN UMBRELLA |
| PRINCE AMONGST MEN, KING OF THE DRINKERS |
| PAGE 2 INCLUDES THE SEX STORY OF THE WEEK & THE PINUP OF THE WEEK |
| CALAMITY OF THE MILLENIUM THE AUTHOR IS BROKE! |
| I really am penniless and homeless; and in debt. Nobody's fault but my own. If you enjoyed my work a donation would be highly appreciated; and greatly helpful in my lifelong quest for experience in a drunken state of debauchery. I don't have certain social skills, such as how to kiss ass. If I could, I'd be a millionaire by now. But I have that which is more than millions of dollars. I have integrity. And no, I do not welcome or accept solicitations of a sexual nature. Don't bother. |
| SUPPORT LOWLIFE LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS BE A PHILANTHROPIST |
| Life gets better, forty ounces at a time. |
| THE AUTHOR |
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| OUT OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN IS FINALLY FINISHED |
| CHECK OUT THE FIRST 2 CHAPTERS OF THE AUTHOR'S SUTNNING NEW NOVEL: |
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| Check out Paradise Poker. I've been loyal to their site for years and cashed out hundreds of dollars. I doubt there's a poker site better than this one. Play for money betting starts at $.01 and they start you off with $2. Tell them melisssa (3 s's) sent you. Come play cards with me. |
| My most touching experience of humanity occurred in my late teens. I was in LA, broke, homeless and on heroin, just to make the art of living more bearable. I begged and stole to support my habit. Once I was sitting in the doorway of some cheery looking closed down building on Melrose asking all who passed by for some spare change. An enormous black man asked me what I needed it for. I get into too many bad situations because I rarely lie. (And if I do my conscience demands I confess.) I told him, "Heroin." He said I looked like I could use something to eat and took me to Johnny Rockets and bought me a hamburger, fries and a shake. He was trying to preach about the God that had abandoned me, but not to the point of being offensive. He just mentioned Jesus Christ from time to time, but that's all. When the food was gone we went out. He said I looked cold and bought me a jacket before he sent me off with a tendollar bill. "Don't buy drugs with it though." He knew by our conversation I was saving up for a dime of heroin. I don't remember exactly what I did with the money. It was a long time ago; but I know myself so I know I did not spend that particular bill on drugs. What I do remember was that it was not long after that I kicked heroin. And that's not easy. That man was special. He did good for the sake of goodness. Not too many people like that. I was leery of him, but he didn't want anything from me. Such an act of touching kindness. I'll never forget it. I wish I could thank him again. A prince amongst men. That man has been eclipsed. Over ten years later, after crawling out of the gutters of LA and making my way to a fine, productive life, in the cradle of comfort for years and years, I slowly degenerated to a state of disrepair, eventually homeless, again. This time in London. It's not so hard when you're jobless and homeless if you have a credit card. Some might, but I won't attempt to sleep on concrete if I can get a loan from the bank. (Concrete sucks every bit of warmth out of your body, and is uncomfortable to the point of painfulness.) I knew my way around London enough to make it to a youth hostel in my favorite part of the City where I knew I couldn't afford a room, but could afford a bed. I went in there, stored my luggage and went out for a pint before signing in. It was on a Sunday night and I was shocked to find my favorite pub, the Rising Sun, closed. I found another nearby, the Cockpit. But they wouldn't take credit cards and I was out of cash. Fuck! A prince amongst men bought me a drink and we gambled on dominoes. I won. I was offered a place to stay by one of the guys, but very uneasy about it. After many pints and reassurances from everyone I accepted. What the fuck? I was so tired of life. It's torture. What's the worst that can happen? I might be raped, tortured and killed; but my sex life had become non-existant, life lately had been nothing other than torture and I wanted to die. I couldn't lose. The end result is he showed me the best two weeks of my life. If I had to write and explain all he did for me it would fill a novel, and I don't have that much time. In short, his company is excellent. We drank. We gambled. We ate the best foods. His friends and associates are brilliant. (Although I know he would beg to differ.) He protected me from predatory men and my own self-destructive tendencencies. He corrected me whenever I fucked up due to not fully understanding English manners and morals; but never gave me cack about my drinking. He gave me time and space alone to write undisturbed. After we closed down the pub we'd summarize the day listening to Leonard Cohen, my newest favorite, his oldest; sometimes even singing and dancing together. I was happy. I was free. One morning we set out for the pub, He with a golf umbrella to shelter us both from the rain. I wondered aloud if they had umbrellas in Shakespeare's day, because I had some ideas about writing of him, only set in 1590. London would suck without an umbrella. I told him I was going to call it London Without an Umbrella. He said, "I'm your umbrella." He was right. |
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