"Nobody looks good in spandex..." (from NFTD Archives)

…I exclaim to the silvered glass, “…don’t think you’re the exception, you’re not, your wattles show, your jiggly adipose tissue flounces around behind all that rubber like silly putty and the tire wound round your plus-40 waist is stretched so taut your blue varicose veins are translucent…”

I peel the shorts off like they were cosmolene and decide not to go jogging after all, nor ride the mountain bike nor for all that, nothing exerting I am bound for today, but rather another sedentary day of letting the muscles atrophy and flatten against this chair seat. Yawwwn…

...spandex, bicycles, jogging…what a nightmare! Now roller blading, that’s something I’m hip to; it’s a spectator sport only, at least for me, but how supple the human form rippling down the byways on roller blades, don’t you think?

...well, here again, unfortunately at that I suppose, this sporting observation is predicated on looks, appearances. Does she/he have the pecs, the abs, the boobs, the ass? I doubt that I, weighing in at a cool 1/8th of a ton, would attract much more than a little tittering attention as I thundered past on painfully-bended ankles, rippling the sidewalk as I rumbled over it like a train pressing down the tracks; no, I probably would not cause quite the stir a 19-year-old hardbelly – male or female – would cause as they flashed by.

I was never blessed with your basic beautiful body nor handsome face, if blessed is the word I want; I’ve had to settle for keen intellect, clever wit and charm, plus my natural animal magnetism, erudition and disarming modesty to get me by.

Who needs spandex?

Blah, Blah...blah, blah, blah...

BLAH BLAH BLAH...BLAH BLAH...

...blah, blah, blah...

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah!

...blah, blah?

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...blah (blah blah blah blah) blah blah blah; blah blah blah? Blah!

...blah blah blah blah (!) blah blah blah. "Blah blah blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah," blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah; blah blah blah, blah blah blah. Blah blah blah: Blah! Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah: "...blah blah blah blah..."

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...blah blah blah? Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah, blah blah - blah blah blah blah blah - blah blah blah.

Blah? Blah blah blah blah blah.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

...in my opinion.

Did you ever get hit in the mouth...

...there's nothing quite like it is there? I much prefer a kiss, but I have in fact been hit in the mouth in my life, not a lot, but enough to know I don't want to be a boxer - which is where I took one of those shots; I neither want to drink ouzo again because doing so wrought another punch, plus a baseball got me once and it was at least as bad as the branch which had also slapped me in the mouth as I raced through the forest, so I could see what was coming and I told Harry, "Look Harry, you don't want to do this, you don't wanna arm wrestle this guy (Roy White)...he's not a good loser if you should beat him...blow it off, let's go have another draught..."

"Get outta my way," he exclaimed with a grin and a push so I did and he and Roy squared off at the corner of the dim-red lit Carrie Nation's bar and started twisting wrists, Harry grinning and Roy looking determined and somber, indeed mean, and so when Harry pinned him once Roy shrugged it off and they went at it again and again Harry put him down only this time Roy didn't laugh. Like lightning he reached out and slapped Harry open-handed with a smack I heard above Warren Zevon and Harry turned to me and said, "Did you see what he did? Did you see that?!"

He spun around and hit Roy White with a punch he had to go back to the country for and then he grabbed Roy's lightweight jacket, jerked it up over his head so Roy couldn't see and was effectively blinded & strait-jacketed, and then went to work on his head, organized brain damage, bam, bam, slap, bam until Roy, gasping on the floor unable to see or defend himself, started screaming and Harry gave him another shot and humiliated him by making him cry uncle, and there he was: a beaten sobbing Roy White groaning and moaning and yelling "Uncle! UNCLE!"

He stood up and fled the bar, crimson with humiliation and boiling with rage, while Harry was chuckling and nursing his battered fists. "You better get outta here Harry," I said, "...you don't know that guy...he'll be back with a fuckin' pistol..." He laughs.

But I know Roy White, he WILL be back but I won't be there. You stay if you want, I think to myself and say to Harry, but I'm headed...

And I left. I didn't want to be in on the sequel, which came later and poor Harry...Whats' The Matter With Harry? What's the matter with Harry is Harry's dead because as I say Roy came back and blasted him while I was puttin' away a double baconcheeseburgersmotheredwithmayoandrelish, at The Green Door. Timing is everything. Roy gets out in 2017, Harry's in for keeps.

Where the thought came from...

…was deep within and popped up out of nowhere, as opposed to me thinking it over and pondering the pros and cons of such a move, but as I routinely put paper into the printer I suddenly @ 4 ayem said aloud, ‘I need a drink,’ and barked out a couple death-rattle laughs from my constricted throat…

…where did the thought come from…what triggered the impulse…I chuckled a little more at the cunning ability of the left parietal lobe to blind-side me, and of course had the drink, a soul-satisfying Guinness stout which I, ever adaptable (Sonny calls me ‘…a man of convenient convictions…’) and as malleable as Proteus I thought, ‘Well shit, the days shot now…’ - so I followed suit and spun up a fattie and got wasted, which since I’m now well-beyond entry level recreational drug abuse and hitting on the addictive end of the spectrum I said the hell with it I only got one left and I might as well have all my vices going at once, and downed the last percocet, the recalling of which cracks me up as I write about it through a gossamer veil…

…chortling with laughter and with a nod to moderation just a little bit too late, I sit here enjoying my chemical reverie…not exactly a lesson in Spartan behavior nor the role model for anybody but you know and I know that sometimes you just give it all up and get laid back…or wish you could. Everybody gets high on something…it makes it hard to stand in judgment over anybody or anything they might do. And don’t worry, I’m not taking this show on the road.

Sometimes I wonder if...

...(From dusty NFTD Archives)

...this thing of ours, "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." is just so much pseudo-intellectual junk food for your already overworked cerebellum; folderol where there should be substance; or if in fact there might be a purpose to it.

…tell the truth I'm not sure what the purpose would be...actually I'm not at all sure of much of anything. NFTD could BE real literature as defined by - well, whoever decides what literature is, and incidentally, who does? To my way of thinking, YOU do. You the reader as opposed to they the critics.

…this antediluvian dictionary I have says literature is: the profession of an author; production of writings, especially of imaginative prose, verse etc. So I have to say I qualify, NFTD is imaginative and rife with prose and verse and worse...if you can take Noah at his word. …(…ok, ok, we don't exactly have 'War and Peace' here…) Nor is NFTD boring…

…hmmm…what in literature bores me? When first I began to read 'Wuthering Heights' I was expecting and prepared to be lulled to sleep and bored to tears but au contraire, it was wonderful...I was going to say 'Studs Lonigan' but I guess after all it wasn't a bore but rather it was tedious reading because this schmuck Lonigan was SUCH a friggin' loser...got to me after awhile it did. Great for your melancholia...

…so ok, NFTD isn't boring. Then what is it? For me it's an act of sublimation; figuratively speaking I am purifying and refining my 'socially unacceptable impulses & biological drives,' this according to Webster. (...and Sam...and Freud) Webster makes it seem to me that I have serious psychological problems underlying "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." and he may be right, but...what can one do? Besides, who the Hell is he?

FITZPATRICK! SPENCER! RASA! RASA DABRILLA...

...where o where have you gone friends of my wild youth in Boston...O Rasa you Lithuanian crown jewel with your inimitable accent and heart-breaking laugh...your apple-green jade, almond eyes...and you Paul...what's become of you? In all my life Charlie - are you there, Charlie, are you? Are you there!? In all my life Charlie I never would have said that metal spade would actually have pierced the rooftop of the squad car below in the alley off Commonwealth Avenue, but there it was pointing up at us three stories above and we soon were fast making tracks down the fire escape...but o as you know Fate will intervene at every step in your life and it suddenly loomed large before you as you slipped and fell the last fifteen feet to the ground, breaking your forearm in the fall. Ouch, I can hear the bone snap lo these 40 years later…

...all of you gone now, victims of heartless time, relentless, pursuing, ubiquitous indiscriminating time...more than likely I'll never see any of you again...my aching heart breaks for you dear memories of lost youth, why, you may be dead...breakfast in Bickford's...drinks on The Carousel, in the Stuart Street Tavern...the dangers...robbing, being robbed, mugging, being mugged...the city lights gleaming down on the seamy side of life…

...and light years from Vermont, from Attleboro, from reason...the memories rivet my attention and for just a brief moment I'm actually back there in 278 Commonwealth Avenue, riffling through the stolen mails and swilling pilfered wine and bootlegged beer...counting the swag...The Palace on Washington Street, long gone now...in those days, home of the blues, my black friend William Henry Robinson Jr. introduced me into the juke joint and I was quite comfortable, no one seemed to care I was white...and that music! I may never see Bill Robinson again, o you tall handsome drink of water you with your distinguished moustache and grey silver fox hair, you I'll never forget...a walk on the wild side...no I may never see you again but I've had The Blues ever since.

Excerpts from your ever-lovin' letters...

"What a high seeing you and Sam again. The (Boston) Globe profile (I'm passing it on) was a fitting tribute. That Lois Shea is a damn good writer...`It's hard not to feel as though Ward has just spent a few hours in your living room, tipping pints and shooting the breeze...' - Lois Shea, Boston Sunday Globe, May 8, 1994).

"How true.

"I notice you always acknowledge-affirm other people's gifts (e.g. Parkman, Taj Mahal, Joey - all the people in the Ben & Jerry's piece).That really is your special gift. You touch many lives Terry; I feel good when you touch my life. I'll surprise you one of these days and pop up in your shack..." - Sam Cucchiara, Fitchburg MA

"As you well know I'm about as conservative a libertarian as you will find. Often I disagree with your musings, but you do have a marvelous prose style...best regards..." - Adrian Krieg, Acworth NH

"Here's the Esquire Seth Morgan interview. Nothing new to report from the Wolverine State. Liked the comment about Ben Hamper and `Rivethead.' It was a good read. I did 4 years one month at GM and the book don't lie. Enuff said..." - Cutt, Canton MI

"Great writing as usual! Yeah, I caught a strange volt when I heard Rabin quoting Lennon. Maybe a little like `prophet Lennon' wasn't accepted in his own country or time?" - Judy Miller, Sparks NV

"Some writer wrote recently, `I have never seen a wild animal sorry for itself.' Perhaps that is the human problem...that great brain has its ups and downs. Not so with animals. Perhaps even plants...I will not go that far however...you do have quite a readership out there. Keep at it!"
- CJ Davis, Wirtz VA

"Thanx for the copy of NFTD you sent a few days ago. Dazzling - makes Ginsberg look like one of the New Kids On The Block. I keep it around as required reading for all houseguests...just got back from London a few hours ago and my body is still confused so I'm going to drink more coffee or take a nap...keep up the good work." - Kimberly Bright, Martinsville IN

"Thank you for your willingness to work with us to bring your account to a current status...we have suspended further collection based on the following payment arrangement...if payments are not made as agreed, and if the account remains in a delinquent status, your service may be subject to disconnection for nonpayment without further notice..." - Sue Smith, Credit Supervisor NH Elec. Co-Op

...IN THOSE DAYS I WASN'T VERY STREET-WISE...

...so as I walked through the dark, labrynthine warren of the Combat Zone to my own garret at 278 Commonwealth Avenue in Boston, a toney part of Back Bay I lived in light years & many fears and years ago, a naif to the world and very as-yet untried& unenlightened...I well recall throwing half-finished cigs into the gutters and watching the down and out scabrous bums of the day practically club one another to get to the smoldering butt in the filthy street, as I walked away laughing, an 18-year-old know-it-all with an attitude and a lot to learn, and learn that lesson I did as, fast forward 25 years, it was I - ME - scrambling for the butts in the gutter tossed by show-off kids!

Turnabout being fair play (this too I had learned) I had to laugh.

...at another point in this embryonic period of my life, we are talking 1961 and 1962, I in my unworldly ignorance was cruising afoot when I saw a man walking briskly along alone in the early Fall evening, through the Common which runs down the middle of Commonwealth Avenue, an easy mark I think as I draw alongside him, he stepping lively in his three-piece herring-bone tweed suit, pointed-toe boots, pale blue shirt, fancy Brooks Brothers tie, and a walking-stick umbrella tapping along beside him.

This should be good...

(I am not going to apologize for this, I have paid in many ways for decades, and - as you will see - I also paid for it immediately and have remembered the lesson all my life and become much enlightened since this incident, but not alone because of it; one grows and comes to know.)

Anyway...

He looked like a pushover.

"Give it up," I said to him, "...gimme your wallet or else..."

He grinned bigly...

...then went to work on me with the brolly! I created a monster! He was like Jack Sparrow fer Cris'sakes, jabbing and poking that goddamned thing into my ribs and the next one was in my ass Dude because I was running away from this crazy bastard as fast as I could go and he was just as fastly hitting me with that umbrella and finally tripped me from behind and put the dukes to me without ever mussing up his fuckin' vest...

I looked for another career...you could call it an object lesson in acceptance of others.

Life is good, short but good...

…so as time flies and takes my life with it I’ve been indulging my passions for dope, alcohol and Johann Sebastian Bach, with a generous serving of Rock & Roll – after all you never outgrow your need for Rock & Roll – in case there are none of these things in Hell.

For all the bad press they get - except for JS Bach – why you’d think Hell would be full of not only sinners & hellions, rockers, slackers and a motley crew of dissolutes – kindred spirits as I see it; Dante be damned, it sounds like THE place to be - but also those apparatos dos Diablo which get us sent there in the first place – like lots of reefer madness and Guinness, a CD in every modular apartment, an endless cornucopia of junk food, junk and junkies – & would it be too much to ask for a couple, well okay, a few, Sweet Young Things to help me thru my 1st several millennia as a devil?

In fact, compared to yodeling, sneezing in the canyon, singing hymns or whatever the hell they’ll be doing in Heaven, Hell seems a walk in the park; I don’t know one goddamned hymn from another but just in case Hell does not come so provided with the aforementioned tools of the devil and cleverly-disguised poisons, I’m getting a leg up on it and getting as %$#@&# up as I can now. What about it?

MORE THAN EVER…

…my tired mind races out of control; with every trembling breath I gaspingly take – especially at night when I’m alone – I feel the day of reckoning drawing closer. I sleep only as much as I have to and then I’m up and out of here, man, because I don’t want to miss what time is left. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. And I crave being with certain people, you know who you are, whom I am going to miss Big Time.

There’s no sense to make any plans, to read, to write, to do anything, but it’s impossible to not do something so I write anyway and I drink, smoke dope, eat to excess, drink – did I mention that? – and play cribbage, 200 games a week at four minutes per is a lot of cribbage, no human can beat me and this %^$#@*& computer has its electronic hands full trying to beat me too…I am not easy to keep down. And of course as per my NFTD job description I…

…babble on and babble on in a vain attempt to fill what remains of this life (and page) before I enter the vacuum ahead. I can’t say it doesn’t scare me, it does but I’m not afraid I tell you…many things on earth have terrified me much more than the thought of being dead…

Hmmmm…is that true? Let me think about that…hmmm….hmm…no, no it’s not true I guess. Truth be told I’m like that painting ‘The Scream’ – that is me full time now only so far I’ve been very private about it and have managed not to shriek in terror in public…I should give it a try some morning in the diner.

Emmanuelle...hi there, hello, hey...

...yes of course I mean you, you're the only Emmanuelle I (don't) really know...

...sorry about taking our relationship out in public with this more or less open letter, but then lots of people think I've made you up anyway, although David in Carrboro believes because you got your name in Braille from him, well - let them wonder longer. Plus, having a Friend with such a name, Emmanuelle, has a certain je ne sais quois to it and there's a pleasing cachet to the overall mystique of, well, of vous Ma Belle Ami!

I know, I know...moi French non too bon.

I only speak phrases of most languages, including this one (English), but I find it interesting that the few foreign words I know sometimes synopsize volumes into a quick phrase, for instance, I'm quick to toss off a bon mot, but at the same time such bon mots are at once ma bete noire et ma raison d'etre...

That may not make sense in French or English, nor neither Esperanto, ah yes, Emmanuelle, how I remember our days in Esperant, frolicking in the lianas and wafting to and fro in the ether...me Groucho to your Zelda; Fernandel to Brigitte, Woody to Diane; yes vividly I recall the Esparantans and how mellifluous and echolalian everything sounded when they caterwauled in their l'Esperanto tongue - o how we trembled when arose from the gloaming such a moaning, 'Mi divas skribi sed la tempon mankas...'

...I'll never forget that chilling moment...be still my heart!

...well I suppose you had to be there...

My Dear, are you still in Red Stick? Do you still play your drum? Are you well? Better? (Good) Worse? (Sorry) Hope things improve; sometimes they do, sometimes not.

TWard, half of two-person crime wave

The night passes...

...or like Ichabod Crane maybe I've been asleep for 20 years...

...whichever it is I open off the early morning with tea because I have no coffee. Now I like tea but it doesn't take the place of that cup of coffee does it? Especially the ones So and So used to make for me; they were the best ever, but tea will do today.

I was going to have tea and crumpets but I'm also out of crumpets. Truth be told I wouldn't know a crumpet if one stepped on me...hmmmm...let's see what Noah says a crumpet is: crumpet, krumpit, bent, crooked; an unsweetened batter cake baked on a griddle like a pancake...I guess I can live without a crumpet and I'm already bent and crooked.

So on to something else.

Too much time on my hands, or is it not enough? I can't decide if I've got too much in this life, or too little. It's hard to believe I'm already this age (I'm 64 if I live to November 30th) when it was only an hour ago, or so it seems, when Greg Hubbard and I were downing our first two quarts of beer in the cornfield across the street from the Hampton (NY) Hotel somewhere around August 1958, an endeavor I've pursued ever since but in no wise blame neither Greg nor Anheuser-Busch...they're just pieces in the puzzle of my life as you have the pieces in your's.