Victor

Several said he had killed a man. His carriage was intimidating. Deerskin vest, knee high mocassins, long black hair. Few spoke to him. There was little or no reason to. He was still just a dishwasher and an Indian, even if the rumors were true.
"You got smoke?' Victor said. 'Yeah sure' as I handed him my Marlboros. Stupid kid I was. 'Not that kinda smoke', but he took one anyway. We shook hands and exchanged names. Prison verbage was a foreign language to me. I had heard the stories. He had killed a man . We acknowledged one another after our exchange of tobacco. Kind words, a simple greeting, perhaps sharing a table at staff meal. One party, chock full of whiskey fueled anglican courage, I spoke with Victor. I asked him if it was true; had he killed a man? He had. A fight broke out in a bar, there may have been a woman involved (I can't remember). Outside he waited for the man. He shot him with a remmington .308 deer rifle. He was 21 and a murderer. I was drunk, and callous, but more so...curious (I was a child of the simple and not so dangerous suburbs. A land of self imposed fantasies about real danger, and not so real consequences). I was a dumbass kid, he was a murderer. But, and this is the big Goddamn but, we talked. Over the course of several weeks we became freinds. He tolerated my questions about life and prison. He had read Plato. He considered himself doomed. He was lost and a 'half-breed'. The idea of anyone being lost was foreign to me. I was 19 and at best niaive. Only romances of the Indian and white world existed in my mind. 'The sacrament of the white man is the sacrament of the indian' he told me. I didn't know, really, what the word sacrament meant (I had been raised agnostic). Later I realized the import of his statement. Regardless of our tribe we are bound and freed by the same sources. We all suffer the same vices, booze, drugs, tobacco, and religion. He was sure that it was too late for him. Too much of his life had been spent in the wastelands of prison. Too much was learned there..difficult things to unlearn.

I saw him shortly after he was fired (apparently the chef was a screamer, not the ideal employer for an ex con). We shared a few smokes. We talked about the world. I wished him well, and he wished me the same. There was a silent agreement about who's well wished sentiments would be truly received.

With the thud of the dry tree branch, all went squish, fuzz, red, black, silent. With the thwack of a branch another chapter closed. No more would the carved life continue to be revealed. It was back to twisting in the wind; a tattered wind sock with no true direction. He was not the only one to fall that day. Those he had grown close to over the past months had suffered similar if not worse fates. A triage of broken lives and dreams surrounded him. The not as unlucky tended to the truly unfortunate. What once had been a small thriving Artist camp was no more. Yurts, and tents turned to rags and ash. Tortured canvas shredded and broken as if attacked by a hundred painters in a petulant fit. The blurred filth and destruction presented itself to his one good eye. Images of the past and signs of the future, but nowhere her.

Dreams again

Always loved dreams, the other world, the impossible nature of them. The ability to recall and remember them comes and goes. Now that I'm not working quite so much, I've been dreaming again. Which is nice. I used to have themes in my dreams. Some sort of beasty chasing me. Zombies, or aliens. Vampires once or twice. Cops or the army on more than one occasion. Strange stuff. Running. Sometimes not fast enough, or at least not feeling fast enough. Sometimes I'd have a gun (particularly in the alien or Zombie dreams) It never really worked quite right (Yes I understand the Freudian implications; however I assure you that I run frequent diagnostic tests and all systems seem to check out). Now I have kitchen dreams. Dreams of being in old kitchens again, running them but being completely unfamiliar with them. Or soccer dreams, were I can actually play the game, and score goals (Not sure about the Freudian conclusion there, so I defer to Aaron, either one). So i am reminded of a dream involving both zombies and the kitchen.

It started out like so many other dreams. Indiscriminent light from no general source. Illuminating things equally, no shadows. It was in what seemed to be an abandoned city. I was in a group of no one I knew in particularly. They were functionally red shirts from star trek, fodder. I knew what the tone of the dream was going to be. We needed to move, keep moving, something was out there. We ran through the streets and eventually underground. That's when we first saw them. Goddamn Zombies! Thankfully they were the slow shambling George Romero zombies, not the pissed off, rabid, adrenalized, hopped up on Mt Dew zombies of 28 days later. We could get through this all we need was a couple of bats maybe a table leg. We navigated the guts of the city and found our selves in a bay. There were others waiting to be rescued by helicopters. Wow this is going to be and easy one. Didn't really see any zombies and now I'm going to hop onto a helicopter, with any skill in lucid dreaming I could have quickly turned this into a beer commercial. Unfortunately I am not a lucid dreamer. The zombies came. Hordes of Zombies. Instead of trying to hold them off, we ran back into the city. This time they were hot on our heels, they smelled fresh meat. In one quick and foolish decision we ran into a building and started ascending stairs. (Ok, so if you are being chased by zombies, or aliens, or the cops, or any number of dream beasties, and your trying to get away, never run into a building and start climbing stairs.) So we realized that there was no where to go. Below us were hungry, brain starved zombies, and above us was, wel none of could gly, so we'll just say gravity wsa above us. We finally get to the top of the building, with the zombies in close pursuit, and it's Fuckin Alba! ANd I was late for work! Not only were zombies after my scrawny yet whiskey tenderized fleah but I was late for work! The servers where keeping the zombies at bay while the kitchen put out plates for the few remaining non-zombie diners. When it looked like all was lost and the zombies where going to over run the kitchen and sit down for a little dinner service of their own, a helicopter showed up. I said to the chef that we needed to evacuate. He was reluctant 'We can do a few more covers. Noe reason to close up yet!' I informed him that 'All of our customers are dead or zombies! We need to go!' He acquieseced and we left the building as the zombies burst into the kitchen. I slowly woke up, not really sure what the hell the dream really meant. I know that I shouldn't be late for work. Zombies are not welcome diners.

Green Rocket

Eastbound at 85 mph we passed the Tribal Authority Bronco headed westbound. Miller and I were in the back. We saw the Tribal cop flip a bitch and hit the rollers. The girls in the front weren't listening, but fuck, we had a serious head start and Babb was only five miles out. We could still make it. We had to make it. There were two bands waiting for us. It was the fourth of July. It was our duty to bring Rock and Roll to the friendly natives of Babb. We would rock them. It was our duty as guilty white suburban punk ass kids. Our progenetors had stolen their land, commited genocide through murder and sickness, and appeased them with our own vices. We would rock the fair people of Babb on this fourth of july night. So there we were strapped into that green 1973 two door catalina, strapped in like slim pickens to the A-Bomb. Except it was 1990. We were riding a squealing tired, green skinned, scudbuster, patriot missle of freedom. We were going to make it.

Mommy Kisses (Warning Graphic Material)

A many of you may know, while a cook, musician, writer, roustabout, good for nothing, knave, twit, half-wit, Genius, drunkard, trivia master, and snot nosed little brother, I am above all else an idea man. I have no time for the nuts and bolts of the 'how to'. I am the man behind the men who think up the things to make for the people that make things. My list of grand ideas is impressive. (And many are pending patent. So don't get any ideas. My lawyers are watching!)

I can't believe it's not Vegetable/Fruit: Unfortunately the passing of the atkins diet craze has left this meat based produce supplement in the dust.

Teddy Foreskin, the erotic story telling cousin of Teddy Ruxspin

Paleo-Place; an anthropological dining experience

The Tater-Dog: A corn dog wrapped in Tater Tot

'I've already slept with everyone here': A dating service for the Service industry

The list goes on, but more importantly it keeps growing. Which brings me to my new idea. The seed was planted while watching the World Cup of Futbol. It seems that several times during a match players, without apparent cause, would drop to the ground clutching shins, calves, knees, ankles etc. A trainer/medic/faith based healer would run on to the field, assess the situation and then quickly break out a spray bottle. After being thuroughly anointed with the spray the player would jump an dbe ready to play again. What miracle was in this bottle? What magic, what mystical concentration was being applied? Upon recently injuring myself at work, of which I am still suffering horrible pain from, I began to ask myself this question again. What is this special spray and where can I find it. My second thought though was what could the spray be. Of course, what is the panacea for any bruise, scraped, sprain or burn? It's Mommy Kisses you idiot! Fucking Mommy Kisses! There is no greater healing essence known to man. Mommy kisses is what I needed!*(Aaron see below) But Mommy is too far away! So here's the idea. We bottle concentrated mommy kisses! Get a sweat shop filled with deperate single moms, empty nesters, grandmas, house moms looking for a little cash on the side for that new addition to the house. Now here's where the science gets fuzzy (not my strong suit). We take these collected MK's (Mommy Kisses) distill them , or whatever science stuff needs to happen, bottle them and make a freakin' fortune! I'll be looking for backers and science people to make this plan happen. This is gonna be big! Get on board now or be left behind.

*Aaron, I know what your suggestion is gonna be; however you are not nor will you ever be a mommy, nor is what you will propose technically a kiss.

Blue

The old linoleum tiles are faded, blue, specked with white, streaked with rubber black. The cabinets deeper blue yet washed out, worn, a blue that has seen too much flourescent light. There is a clean smell, clean like the fading smell of soap and mint, like a new box of tic tacs. I have been here before. I have been here and in other places like this. I am not here for me. Outside of the curtain there is the sounds of work. Sounds of wheels, electronics, joking, urgency. Things are heard that one doesn't hear on the streets 'Yeah, close the door. She's really tweekin', she's taken a lot of Meth.' voices and lines float as if they're traces, ghost words of past traumas. 'So what seems to be goin' on tonight?' Are these words I've heard before. The lights wash out everything, expose everything. Illuminating the sick, emphasizing there weakness. Yes I've been here before. Twenty feet away in room C4. It was the same time of night, morning more appropriately. That was the first time. I was there before. In room C8. It was the afternoon. I was not there for me. I have seen to many of these places. Sometime it will be for me.