“I’m a man child, I’m a hoochie coochie man,” Mudbelly wails. I want it louder, but my next door tenant ain’t got hot water and I was too down today to find somebody to fix it – so I keep it mid-volume… and I know my neighbor across the fence, whose bedroom is only 25 yards away from my own, would not like the lullabye I’ve chosen…but wait, here is Edith Piaf, La Vie en Rose…and I must say, if anyone doesn’t approve of her, then I can’t feel sorry for them; that’s just wrong.

To hell with anyone who cannot hear in her foreign tongue every language ever rendered or spoken… Je pense donc je suis…….

Besides the point. Blogs, the free realm – perhaps the only truly free realm outside of a journal (the difference being the presence of an invited audience as opposed to a forbidden one) – will draw from one words that are rambling and unedited eruptions….

Now Fergie. “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” and next, what will it be? It will be something, trust me, something. Perhaps Astatke’s African jazz….or Nina Simone’s baleful low howl….

Babydoll just re-entered HQ, giggling – a rarity – singing along to Fergie, and with another girly giggle she muah-pecked me on my already oily hair…Oily not from lack of washing, but all the Babyoil and Mayonaise and high-dollar conditioner put into it to try to loosen the briarpatch of my rear, lower scalp, which, when grabbed and yanked by a nefarious and jealous suitor from my very own head as I lie in sound sleep at 3 a.m. caused it to rival any veteran Rastafarian’s.

Trust me when I say this. The hairdressers gathered behind me and all, in unison, expressed their own horror, disbelief, disgust, asking me, “You are pressing charges aren’t you?” with this glint in their eye that was the glint you see when the glint is sincere and not merely a literary flourish.

I’ve donned my recently acquired attire sent from Morocco, this be-sequined brown sheer robe that reaches my toes and to my neck, and Babydoll says, “There’s my Gun Gun,” and I make a grunt, as if to say, “not quite,” and she says, “almost,” and I say, “i’m trying,” and she says, “Ah, I feel so good, it reminds me of ’05,” which for her was an impeccable time, the time my latest epic descent began its climb, at first eager, then, as the years passed, holding myself up as much as my strength could manage until now I am if not strong, then at least aware of the strength it takes to finish the decline to the valley – the only place from which the inevitable ascent will follow.

Ah, Row the Boat by the Ying Yang Twins – we were just talking about that, on the way back from a quickie trip to the backwoods wilds where we ought not to be, and she says now, “Dirty, dirty Bd, dirty, dirty, I’m a Man, let’s go to a strip club,” and I say in my head, “We would if it weren’t so goddam hard to access, especially one with a pretty cache of females instead of the hard-boiled sort on stage a mere 22 miles south….” We both prefer the pretties.

Although we love the uglies, and she proves this with a Colt 45 half-slur, “I don’t give a shit right now,” and she adds how she wants to just “truth be told” see some nasty girls dancing around and slinging themselves round and round on a pole. “A little tooty booty,” she says, “Ain’t nuttin like a little alcohol to make you honest….And the security guards would say, ‘tone it down.'”

She is afire tonight since drinking is not her usual poison.

“I wanna go out,” she says, “I know I know I know, you’ve been through some hard shiiiiitttt,” she draws out… “I’m sick of fucking crying,” she says, “We’re holding ourselves back by being so negative. I ain’t saying it ain’t real. It is. But come the fuck on now. Come on now. I mean what does it take to turn our swagger on? We’re doing this shit to ourselves. And I be goddamned if I’m gonna let CS keep me from having a good time. Ima fix that situation because I’m tired of it.”

This means, she wants her Gun Gun back…She wants to pull out her hoo-doo, which I warn her about…She is wanting to dance.

To the crib, the SoWeGa Zebra Room, and miles to go before we sleep.

Sing Gucci Mane, she says, do it, she says, wanted me to play black rapper, but then as always she switches the song, Venus in Furs, and she falls into its arms, and five seconds later switches it again and I just laugh and roll down the window and put my left bare foot up on the dash of the Caddy with my right foot pressing pedal to medal, and we roll, that’s how we roll.

Fuck it, I don’t go slow. Ridin dirty, running 95, and five inches from dead enough to be alive.


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