In the late 60s, the only good thing about Sunday was apple fritters—cooked in my mom’s deep-fat fryer then covered with maple syrup and, the final touch, a Republican dusting of powdered sugar. It wasn’t work to my mom. She loved every step, ending with placing the plates in front of her beloved and impatient children, their forks at the ready. She’d keep ‘em coming as long as we wanted to eat …
Kick the can
Long before the days of 24-hour cartoons and 24-hour porn, children actually played outdoors, porn-less. During daylight hours, one’s best bet was The Woods. Every neighborhood had it. You could do anything in The Woods. Anything—clothed or naked. Build a fort from lumber you stole from local construction sites. Cruise the seedy part of the galaxy in your speeder, looking for a score—from the …
At the car wash
I saw this high: At the car wash all the workers are meth addicts. You can tell because of Meth Mouth. The drug has rotted out most of their teeth. But these meth heads work their asses off. That’s why I’m a regular. The guy who greeted me had probably four teeth in his head. Very courteous. He prep-scrubbed my car by hand, working feverishly. As I was going through the …
My brain’s story
As is often so with mental illness, mine erupted in my late teen years. It had been murmuring below the surface my whole life, I think, subversively, like a coded message from the Underground. Then—kablamo! It detonated. I remember the very day. It was spring. The birds were twittering and the sun was shining but I was oblivious. I had just been dumped and I was dumbfounded and morose. I went …
Me and the Mormons
Things were getting dicey. You know me—push, push, push. “So what you’re telling me,” I said to the well-scrubbed missionaries, “is that you can become a God.” “Yes, that’s true,” the thinner of the two missionaries said. “It’s in the Bible.” “Really?” I could see the beefier of the two missionaries looking at my bookcase filled with “anti-Mormon” books and videos. Anything written …
My superpowers in starbucks
I’d like to show you my superpower. I trust you to keep my secret identity. Here it is: When I’m stoned, I can read people’s minds in Starbucks. I know, I know—that sounds just like something a stoned person would say. My sober brain, the one I take to the grocery store, told me this was a dumb idea, but what has he done for me lately? Before you judge me, it’s legal here. Two, I’m …