This is what life in a fit of rage has handed me - nothing.

I remained emotionally detached listening to him berate and threaten his drunk 12 year old son.
Most men do.
There was nothing to be gained becoming hysterical and acting irrationally...

He was from England - you know, that little island off the coast of France?
None so easily offended as the English.
They were weak, an embarrassment to their forefathers who’d fought and died in World Wars.
Given to talking about their feelings and little action, if there were ever a First World country ready for invasion, that was it.
Or so I'd heard.

It was from Shimansky I'd learned a curious Polish tradition: Putting your child in the washing machine to improve and correct their attitude - depending on the severity of the misbehavior this determined the number of spins and type of cycle: Delicate, Regular, Half-load, Express, Wool - RINSE.

A lot of the crowd threw their hats onto the stage and, I guess, they had to stop eventually because they’d run out of hats to throw. There was unpleasant scene afterward, people fighting and arguing over whose hat was whose…

I couldn't retaliate.
But I did and we both fell into the grave on top of Shimansky's coffin, shouting and fighting until the priest threw his bible at us and hitting me on the side of the head. Shimansky’s sister grabbed a can of mace from her bag and sprayed the priest in the face and he fell screaming into the open grave on top of the coffin on top of us. It was played all over the news, of course, that funeral fight.

His clothes were found on the beach but his body was never recovered - it never washed up on another beach some place later, either.
Very suspicious that business, don't you think?
Because usually it meant a body was walking around perfectly fine in another country that didn’t have an extradition treaty.


 

You could hear him clearly: “We shouldn't think of women as objects. We should think of them as beautiful people - beautiful people we can fuck…!

Usually at the first sign of adversity you should run in the opposite direction, away from it.

Almost as soon as Shimansky's kid saw me, he came at me with a whole lot of questions - and a knife.
Apparently he’d found out about Crystal and I.
She described us becoming "friends" for a while but by this, on further questioning, had proved to mean we'd engaged in mostly anal and ass-to-mouth sex.

Starting tomorrow I decided to at least make an effort and to have some aspiration.
I mean real ambition.
Not like my father.
The most ambition he’d had was perfecting that goddamn German accent he put on whenever the police or I were around. And it’s untrue my father was unambitious, because when I was growing up you’d have sworn he wanted to be a drunk.
Not just any drunk, the best drunk on the block.


 

Though no one could see the magic of our bodies glowing softly in the dark, what did it matter our bodies glowed when we’d made love? It wasn't a radioactive, poisonous glow, just the warm, soft yellow phosphorescence of embrace - whose fucking business was that anyhow? It all sounded pretty far-fetched, but isn’t that what love is – far-fetched?

“Who’s the lucky lady?” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
"Queer are you? Nothing wrong with that. I was a bit queer myself for a while. As a matter of fact, I still am occasionally."

Someone threw a chair across the venue they were so excited and there was a fight.
Because they were jazz-enthusiasts it didn’t last too long and the two brawlers shook hands and bought each other’s table a round.
Then they hugged and kissed and went mad as Poland played some very complicated piece entirely made up in the moment and her band grooved along.

I wondered where they were moving to.
“Greener pastures,” she said and I’d looked around - there was no place like that around here for miles…!

A diamond ring sounds as though it has a kind of permanency about it that a enjoyable holiday doesn’t and youth has an idealism that's hard to suppress without military intervention and troops on the ground.

So maybe I don’t have the decency to fall apart in private, but at least I fall apart on my own time, on my own terms and that’s admirable!

COHABITATION: Something animals do, sometimes in packs, to survive, and not for love.

I guess that’s feminists for you, a person advocating equal rights for women using every means possible.
Where feminists go wrong is they make the assumption every other woman agrees with them, when in fact every woman’s an individual with individual thoughts and ideas.
Of course, I’m not saying feminists are stupid, feminists have brains, too.
But, unlike all those other women, their brains are in their vaginas.

Rage?
I knew all about rage.
Rage was what I felt whenever I looked this bastard in the eyes.

I figured it would be a few days before she tried contacting me.
You know, woman always liked to play it cool before allowing you to possess them completely.

On the basis of earlier, previous

scientific observation, frontal lobes were

largely responsible not only for problem solving, memory and sexual behavior (and many, many other things) but also most problems – for more information, please see earlier references to “pussy”.

Feasting hungrily on the dark sky above us, the low moon gradually drifted further and further away from the earth.
Irrevocable, as it fell further and further away, eventually the planet would destabilize and everyone float off into space and die.
And the uncaring moon looked on and swallowed us whole into its watery, silver darkness…

Quite a standard reaction, typically, when in a relationship, I become completely unreliable within a very short space of time.

I waved.
And using a series of flags to further communicate with her, I let her know I was available. And could also offer drinks or a choice of other light refreshments, if she wished. I also bust out a series of very current, intricate hip-hop moves so that she knew I was serious, still young at heart and would be okay in a club environment.
She signaled to me that we should meet.
I was pleased, I’d never had any one respond so well to flags before.

Life's a grueling machine, you put something in one end and it comes out all fucked up the other end.

There’d been an incident. I'd managed to spend an impossibly inordinate amount of time hanging around one of the building’s communal female toilets.
Before someone raised the alarm and drew the attention of the building superintendent, Ethel Sackball.
"What you doing here, hanging round these toilets like this, Broadway…?" Sackball demanded.
"Honestly? I'm hoping to get lucky…!”
“What…!” Sackball screeched.

There’s a certain freedom, a certain stupidity only accounted for by being 18. Problem was, I was 38. And the last time I checked I'd been living recklessly for about 20 years already. In fact, I'd hit a low point as a man in round about 2002 I think it was and, if I remembered correctly, now let’s see, what had happened in 2002…?
Thinking about it, I couldn’t remember what had happened in 2002.

I realized what I’d thought at first was a man was actually: A very stocky woman with short hair who’d forgotten to shave.

Goddamn! was I tired of this woman and her very short skirts…!
Short skirts were every where.
I went to work and there were short skirts.
I went to lunch and there were short skirts.
I came home and there was Bobbi-Jean in a short skirt.
Directly, indirectly, probably, the short skirt was responsible for so much already - wars, love affairs, famine, horrific art. And these short skirts were every where - what in Satan's name was gong on here…?

 

There’s a certain freedom, a certain stupidity only accounted for by being 18. Problem was, I was 38. And the last time I checked I'd been living recklessly for about 20 years already. In fact, I'd hit a low point as a man in round about 2002 I think it was and, if I remembered correctly, now let’s see, what had happened in 2002…?
Thinking about it, I couldn’t remember what had happened in 2002.

Generally the remit of every customer was: "I'm about to ask you a series of entirely random and meaningless questions to which you will never ever be able to provide sufficient enough answer. Also, this is time you will never be able to get back, it will be minutes from your life, gone forever…!"

The customers were vexatious.
And dishonest.
And insane.
In a recent survey, 75% of all piano sales people interviewed said they believed almost every customer was a total a-hole. The other 25% of sales people, after a further survey, turned out to be crazy and were fired.

Beaumont raised his eyebrows. 
Now, this was a pretty big undertaking on his part as his eyebrows were something to truly behold and involved erecting scaffolding on an industrial scale. I watched as the scaffolding was erected, a small team building it. 
Several days passed. 
Or so it felt. 

While the Boss was grilling me some more, and smoking, a customer came in. 
He was wearing a heavy coat, buttoned up, a ladies pink tea hat and a matching ladies handbag over his shoulder.
Jesus Christ! How was anyone supposed to take customers seriously…?
“Hold on a second, Broadway - you okay there, Madam?” the Boss said to the man.
The man said his name was Catherine.
“You looking to buy something, Catherine?” the Boss said without missing a beat.

Trying to get fit and lose a little weight I’d encountered a technical problem: Genetically, I was fucking lazy.

“Another thing, no smoking anywhere on the premises," the Boss said, stubbing his cigarette out.

“Shoes are a way to judge a man - you know why, Broadway? So you at least you have an idea of what kind of shit a man’s already stood in.”

Sharnay Serizay, Albanian in nature, was one of those girls who'd meet you halfway, as long “halfway” was her way.
She could be totally flexible in some ways. 
But in other ways she was a massive bitch and had one of those personalities that was entirely subjective.  In other words, subject to the fact you were sleeping with her, for a while you could probably rub along with her. But it wouldn't be long before you ran. 

My phone in my pocket rang.
I didn’t answer. Because it could only be a woman, one of my shady parents or someone I owed money to. 
And I didn’t want to speak to any of them.

I looked at her beautiful face. Her eyes were like two dead planets the way they regarded me, just floating in their sockets - no life there

I could tell: The woman in the passenger seat was beginning to get suspicious. Already I’d pulled into two different, but equally popular fast-food drive-thrus - one was for chicken and the other was, predominantly, a burger chain. This way, when they found our bodies, hopefully they’d be able to review any CCTV footage and get these bastards. Obviously I’d made an effort to be memorable to the servers taking the cash at the windows and said things like: “You Australian…? Let’s see, Australia, historically you’re all descended from convicts. You know that…?” I asked the women in the passenger seat.

My father took off across the lawn shouting: “Rendezvous One…! Rendezvous One…! Rendezvous One…!” a reference to when I was a kid and my parents had still loved me and, in order to protect us in the event of a nuclear attack by the Russians (only the Russians), had agreed various rendezvous points for the family to meet up in case we were ever somehow separated.

Which we frequently were, separated, I mean.

“You know, nobody wants to fade away. But we do. Some more quickly, some more slowly. Life's a very slow sun descending forever to sink below the horizon of all you’ve done. What I mean is, despite the differences you’ve had with your mother and I, we haven’t wasted our lives - life’s no waste if you’re living it…!”

You know what's free? This advice I'm giving you: Nothing’s free.
So just remember that. Nothing is free and you always have to pay.

All around us were all these people, living.
All around are these things going on, but no one notices me - existence, it can be a lonely thing.

Johnson said: “Partly, hold up a second. When you say the hand-built, German Friedrich Herbert Conservatoire, you mean the Chinese, entirely machine-assembled in less than one day piano with the German-sounding name sold to the Chinese factory on license.”

She was an actress in the American fashion – can’t act, overpaid and under qualified but she sure had a hot-shit body. Unfortunately, her dialog was like a fight between a ballerina and a boxer, with her just clumsily sliding her way through scenes and, you know, truthfully her body was a much better actress than she’d ever be.

I had to take a Leave Of Absence, take some time to come my senses.
Before I lost them completely.
Or at least one of them. 
You ever lose any of your senses?
If I lost any of my senses I hoped it was smell. Smell I could do without – you know, compared to losing an eye or a finger…? 

There was a woman standing at the rear of her car. The boot was open and she was looking at something in her hands. 
A picture frame. 
There was nothing in it, just the frame and she, gazing through it, was imagining what: Picasso? Van Gogh? How her life could have been...? 

I believe I lay there for some hours, possibly even days. I didn’t blame anyone, this was a typical response of anyone living in Downtown Tokyo. 
You were taught early: Never help anyone. 
Unless under duress, at gunpoint and you’re life was in absolute danger.

I was 8. My parents were out for dinner one evening to celebrate my father coming into some money unexpectedly (more than likely illegally). Suddenly my father shouted at my mother: "Why do you always have to cause a fucking scene…? That's it! I'm checking you into the nearest mental health facility…!"  
My mother hadn't said anything.
Neither had I.
But then - his mind on his money - my father suddenly became budget conscious and said: "Nothing too lavish, though, maybe we should just go and see a doctor instead and get some pills."

This was an upscale, New York City apartment., a spacious two-bedroomed affair with separate lounge, bathroom (with a window!) and kitchen (with windows, plural). I figured she must have been giving a lot of head to a lot of different men other than Holland Tiburg to be able to afford the rent on this place.

“Call and I’ll be around at the drop of a hat," he said, which was an idiom meaning: Something happened immediately. Obviously this was before the invention of the word "immediately".

And what if you didn't have a hat to hand - what then, how long would things take to happen…? 

I wasn't particularly religious, but the other day I was speaking to God - that's right I pray, I pray that if there is a god he's listening to my prayers. 
I guess God is what happens when people stop believing in themselves. 
And finding God is what people do when they suspect they are about to die or, even worse, survive some catastrophe they were unprepared for.

I cared very, very deeply. 
Cheese (and other dairy products) have never meant so much to me.
Then I kissed her and said: “Now get back in the filing cabinet, Shantelle,” and locked the doors on her.

Morning's come and gone and appears not to be out of breath. 
Whereas I’m still crawling out of the wrecked night on all fours screaming all kinds of rabid shit. 

There was a woman standing at the rear of her car. The boot was open and she was looking at something in her hands. 
A picture frame. 
There was nothing in it, just the frame and she, gazing through it, was imagining what: Picasso? Van Gogh? How her life could have been...?