Monday, May 5, 2014

Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves

Sometimes I just get tired of this blog, mostly because I weary of beating depressing and infuriating ugly truths and experiences into the keyboard. There's times when I want to take a vacation, but because I can't laze around the house or drive my Airstream down to Mazatlan all I can do is prop myself against a freeway pylon on a sheet of cardboard and quaff enough booze that I can get lost for a few hours in whatever scrivenings are pouring out of my pen at the time until I pass out early to bed.

My brand new Swiss Army backpack and my nice lightweight mummy sleeping bag were stolen from me Wednesday night. I was stupid and let my guard down, leaving my stuff strewn all over my camping spot while I wandered kitty corner across the street to chat with some of my neighbors camping in the shopping cart complex. I was glancing over at my spot pretty frequently, but apparently a girl had managed to slip inside a window of opportunity to make off with my stuff (the sleeping bag was in the backpack). I wandered all over the area looking for the girl, even into Old Town, my thoughts a muddled vermillion morass of murder shot through with consternation at having been careless enough to let my bed get stolen out from beneath me, figuratively speaking. Of course I never found her. Luckily for me I was given a replacement military surplus mummy bag by a neighbor who tends to collect stuff from the streets only for it all to pile up on two large push carts, which I made sure to wash and dry at the laundromat by the Friendly House.

It's just galling, knowing anything I haven't locked up at the Friendly House will get stolen from me if I don't carry it on my back or sleep on top of it. I'm not the only one, too: a couple over at the Maginot Line has had a toolbox stolen from them and one of their neighbors has had all of his bedding taken from him multiple times. It's the damn druggies, is who's responsible; meth heads. Like a buddy of mine complained last night, we've got kids running around on the streets who are turning themselves into kleptomaniacal zombies by ingesting a poison that's ladled out of trailer park and welfare apartment crucibles or trucked in from Mexico, and God is probably the only One who knows just what chemicals these fools are using to melt down their bodies and burn holes in their brains.

Yeah, it gets old, constantly complaining about thieves, the weather, cops, canning, thugs, nutters, wastos and dope fiends, and life in general. It'd be nice to have something pleasant, or even triumphant, to relate.

1 comment:

  1. Au contraire! I always read "the fucking thing." And, despite your difficult circumstances, you have a flair for imbuing your writing with a great deal of originality and humor. So there!! Take care, street scribe!