our friend drano

that’s right.

tonite, i met a cat named drano. he was an extremely angry black man, who had earlier done community service by breaking the door off the pool table at the neighbourhood watering hole (logan’s pub. they done got a hippo for a mascot) making it free. he got mad when we alerted the bartender to the status of the table.

and well, drano, he wanted some respect for doing the community a service. us, we just wanted to play a game of pool.

and furthermore, it’s a good thing he had no more than words hinting at teaching my good pal miss bliss respect, coz boy woulda done got a crushed face.

i’m no frat boy (unlike captain ravenstahl, who has clearly never been to singapore), but bliss’s man is hella volatile.

and me, well.

it’s good that drano’s pal managed to keep him from doing more than bothering people with vague and ignorant threats.

so, you, right? are you that angry all the time?

as i said to my pal, ‘i’m glad i’ve got sense enough not to go out when i’m that angry, and furthermore, if i do, to keep my bloody mouth shut.’

are we that out of touch that we need this? you’re in a bar, you’re a friend. how it’s been, (or) how it should be.

kids, it’s ugly out there. but most people who hang out in bars are ugly. hence, my life (or my concept of my life) is filled with ugly fuckers. but they’re alright in my book. and c’mon. look at this fucker, my patron saint:

yes. bukowski. you wanna pull the cliche card? fine, i don’t give a shit. but i will say this: i fell upon him like he fell upon his favourites, and i never drink white wine.

furthermore, i don’t pretend to believe he’s more of a writer than an idea, or more to the point, a philosophy (go back ten spaces, raygun). boy said it clear about walking through the fire. all that matters is how you do it.

and drano, he does it. prolly burn himself up before he gets anywhere, but he walks.

drano, thank you for adding to the immense repository of story fodder, bumming cigarettes when i know you had some, shaking my hand with two fingers, and rocking your gear like it was the best coke you never blew.