I'm still frittering with adrenaline. Hunting for my humbles and knowing I should be outside making a sacrifice to a slew of deities. Later babes, just feeling this for the moment.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! OH YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY and well....my heart is pounding!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Disco was the least of the 70s. It was the lipstick on the pig of an out-of-control wedge of years caught between the wishful thinking of the 60s and the heart-wrenching chaos of the 80s. A truncated decade limping on platform soles between the wild abandon of Woodstock and the Death Card whispering "AIDS" from every dark corner. The sex cost too dearly, drugs took more than they gave, and rock 'n roll waited patiently in the wings. But not everyone was standing behind velvet ropes desperate for approval. Not everyone spent their last dime on the latest polyester guaranteed to get them In. That was in the movies. The economy was in free fall, the oil crisis strangling the working class the hardest. People dropped their credit card bills in the trash, unopened. Goals were sketchy, mutable. For a few, survival on their own terms was slipping through their fingers. Prophets Tango—S1: Out of Step What happens when a drug-dealing psychic with a side gig
The phone rang four times before I was able to grope the handset out of the cradle. Groggy and hoarse, a muffled “Lo?” was as much as I could offer, my head still on the pillow. “Is Kitty there?” I heard the door of a phonebooth screech a few inches and thud shut. I needed to hear his voice again. Immediately. “Who did you want?” “Kitty. I don't know her last name. We met at the Hi-Lo the other night.” “Hmmm. The Hi-Lo, huh? She gave you my number?” “914-232-5646?” He was off by one. Close. So close. The acoustics of the phonebooth was intimate. His voice was like melted butter and dark syrup swirled together. Salty, sweet, smoothly overwhelming. “No. No kitty here. Just me.” I yawned. If I could purr, I would have. “So what number is this?” “And why would I give you my number if you weren't looking for me in the first place? I snuggled deeper into the warmth of my nest. “Hmmn?” “Solid point but can I have some slack cause I’m gla
Jack knew little of his mother and less than nothing about his father. The dark green sweater with the name tag “Bridget” could have been borrowed. Or stolen. The rest of her clothing, a shapeless house dress, and worn-out Keds, were shabby. She was probably Catholic, given where she was when Jack’s birth overtook her. Sister Agatha would describe her to him just once. Once was all Jack would need. “Tell me about my mother.” Sister Agatha sat across from Jack at the chipped, enamel-topped table in the convent kitchen. Jack, perched on the step stool in his pajamas, was eye to eye with her over a glass of milk and a peanut butter jelly sandwich she’d slapped together for him. He was just seven; the so-called Age of Reason, with an appetite that had no off switch. He was the worst student with the best grades in Holy Spirit's third grade. Ag taught reading and writing and she knew Jack’s apparent brilliance was some kind of trick he was playing on all of them, but it was played
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteand EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!
OH YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY and well....my heart is pounding!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Awesome! That ought to get the creative genes working overtime! Enjoy...
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