...I took it upon myself to give you the insider's view on a life spent wandering around the planet trying to figure out why.

I cannot begin to tell you the number of times that I’ve lost chances to do things because other people said that I wasn’t able to say what was on my mind well enough (without going to great lengths to add a few details to make whatever I had to say more interesting).  But I’ll try... I think I'm required to do so as one of the prime tenets of my membership in the Amalgamated Assemblage of Bullshit Artists-- inflict as much damage as possible upon the retinae (is that the plural of 'retina'? I really should find out some day) of anyone foolish enough to attempt to gain a little insight into the window of my soul. It is a barren place, I warn you, so make sure you take plenty of fluids if you should undertake the journey.  

Ever since I can remember, and this goes way back, too, probably back to my earliest days of being a kid, back when I used to like to go down to the corner drug store and buy those little things of flavored syrup that came inside a pouch shaped like a tiny Coke bottle, only made of wax instead of actually being a glass bottle—I think they did that so that kids wouldn’t get hurt when they bit the tops off and sucked all the goop out of the inside.  I can’t remember what flavors they had, but I remember that my mom got real mad when I ate the bottles, because they stopped me up tighter than a lid on a jelly jar three days after Aunt Lucy caught cousin Jeannie Rae eating jelly right out of the jar and slapped the taste out of her mouth!  I don’t think they have too many corner drug stores anymore, but you know that, so I won’t take up a lot of time telling you about how sad I feel that we don’t have any more corner drug stores, especially the ones with the soda fountains... the ones where a kid could steal a quarter from his dad when he was drunk and passed out at the kitchen table with a wad of bills and change laying there that he’d won playing Liar’s Poker down at the bar where he spent the day because he was pissed at his boss and didn’t feel like going to work and my mom had to go downtown and haul his sorry butt out of Hoff’s Tavern or the Blue Lady Lounge or The Bus Stop Bar so that he could get belligerent and refuse to eat and they’d have a big fight where she’d stomp out of the room and go upstairs and cry and I’d steal his change after he’d finally passed out and go down to the corner drug store to get a vanilla coke or a cherry phosphate then take the change and go to the movies across the street at the Fox Theater, where I’d sit in the front row of the balcony—the section where us kids weren’t supposed to be, but we’d sneak in when the usher was escorting that fat lady down the aisle—and make fart sounds by putting our hands under our armpits and flailing our elbows up and down real quick, before the usher started getting complaints about all the giggling and finally came up and made us go back downstairs where all the kids were supposed to sit.  Those were the days... 

Anyway, ever since I can remember, I’ve had to go the long way around the block to get what I want, or at least, what I thought I wanted at the time, even if it wasn’t really what I needed, know what I mean? Who among us can say that somewhere along the line he didn’t fall prey to some foolish bauble that got in the back of his mind and tried to bore its way out, constantly reminding him that it was totally necessary to obtain at all costs, even if his father said he couldn’t have it? Hell, especially if his father said he couldn’t have it, because then it became a mission. I can’t have it, huh? Bet me I can’t have it... I’ll get it if it takes every cent I can steal from you. In those days, telling a reasonably-intelligent boy of thirteen that he couldn’t have something was roughly equivalent to walking up to him and saying, “Bubba, I’m going to be working a little late tonight, why don’t you go into my bottom dresser drawer under my Field & Stream magazines and find that envelope where I keep those two twenty dollar bills and take them and go down to Dave Cook’s Sporting Goods and buy that catcher’s mitt that I told you not to even think about.”  Yea, I knew he’d beat my ass, but a whipping with the belt was a fair price for the Wilson A2000 Yogi Berra Model, I mean, it wasn’t like he’d actually kill me or anything like that, even if he would threaten to, the next time I did anything like that, which would probably be no more than about three days hence... I never said I was a rocket scientist. Oh, he’d make me do enough chores to earn the money back from him, but in my house I found that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission, so rather than do without something I really, really wanted, I normally took the path of least resistance right to that dresser drawer. Admittedly, as time passed, he moved his stash around, but give me an hour or so and I’d manage to find it. 

Anyhoo... never let it be said that I wasn’t industrious.  I was a workin’ fool when I was a kid... from the minute I awoke until the last few seconds before I fell asleep (and, if other folks can be believed, for a fair amount of time after I went to sleep, too, such was my capacity to describe my dreams whilst still actively involved in one... hell, it’s been suggested that from the quality of my speech while dreaming, I’m actually capable of combining more than one dream in the same performance given the right circumstances, which normally involve the periods of time directly after either a two-day drunk or some other highly-charged emotional outpouring such as getting shot at or laid, although in all honesty, if I might be so indelicate to admit, I prefer the latter to the former, me being a lover rather than a fighter if you get my gist... I honestly wish I could stay awake to hear what I say when I’m dreaming; I think that might be worth the price of admission in and of itself, not that I’d really charge anyone to watch me sleep. Who in his or her right mind would actually pay good money to sit and watch someone sleep in hopes that he’ll have a juicy dream and start telling about it?  That’s just plain dumb... although I guess I could have them pay a nominal fee before I go to sleep and then refund it if they didn’t get a dream worthy of the price of admission. But how would I know if they tried to rip me off and insist they get their money back even though I did spew out some tidbits of inspirational quality?  I guess I’d have to video tape the proceedings, just in case.  I admit, I wouldn’t want to be the one who has to review the tapes, though.  Who would want to just sit and watch tapes of himself sleeping, in hopes of catching someone in a lie just to rip me off and save four bucks?  Do you think four bucks would be too much to charge?  I don’t, not if it was a good dream. I mean, folks pay a lot more than that to see a lousy ninety-minute movie, so why should they bitch about paying four measly bucks to watch me sleep for six or eight hours in hopes of being treated to a masterpiece? How much does a good video camera and tape player cost? I don’t mean one of those cheap-o models, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to go top-shelf and buy a Sony or one of those other Jap-sounding brands because when my guests come over to watch me sleep I don’t want them to think that they’re watching some rank amateur who doesn’t know what he’s doing.  Maybe I’ll even fly to Hollywood and take a course in dream-directing and cinematography so that I can make sure to focus the camera angles to get my good side... although that might be difficult because I tend to toss and turn a good bit when I sleep, especially if I’m drunk or sick which, I’m told by a bevy of ex-wives, tends to happen a good bit of the time, but that’s really beside the point, isn’t it?  Would you take the word of five or six world-soured, antagonistic floozies over mine, knowing from the git-go that they each had her own particular axe to grind? Well, I’d certainly like to think you wouldn’t, but I’ve been fooled before—even by my closest friends— sad as that may be to contemplate.  Just when you think you can count on them to stand by your side through thick or thin, they turn on you just because you stole a little money off their coffee table or drank all their beer while they were out of town... if they didn’t want you do that, why did they leave their keys laying around so that you’d be tempted to run right down to the closest hardware store and have their house and car keys duplicated? I ask you, is that any way to treat a close friend? It’s not like I meant to fall asleep with pork chops cooking on the stove... if they drank beer rather than whiskey, like as not that wouldn’t have happened at all. I can’t be held responsible just because they didn’t have the foresight to get adequate homeowners’ coverage that would cover more than one house burning down in the same calendar year. Next thing you know, it’ll be my fault that I wrecked their car, too...) 

Now, where were we before I got sidetracked?  (to be continued... maybe)