OKAY. This is an ongoing attempt to finish this story. As such, it is imperfect. Meh. I need a cup of coffee and other comestibles before I begin again. And not matter what I say in the next paragraph, non je ne regrette rien.
A musical interlude while I take light refreshment. I do not dare to leave this story alone.
Partly because Hito will noodgie me and Hito can have anything she wants even maybe me finishing this fucking story
partly because in Philly, our new sewers sucketh the big badoodie
partly because this Real Philadelphia stuff all hangs together somehow Diggy says I believe anything Diggy says
partly because all this is some fucking thingway that my annoying Shrink says is 'your process.'
The hardest thing to face when you write things is the fact that you are an asshole. Most of what I do is take a lot of the words away so the real story can peep through the lies I tell.
I apologize for an unfocused ongoing repeatedly edited rant story. My right arm and hand hurt and I suffer from weltschmerz in the Fall.
Human Scumbugs gathering again. Not quite sure what is being bought and sold yet. I walk by the Street Pharmacy on Tangerine and Orthodox every time I go to the bodega or the bus. Always an adventure. I say Hello! to everyone. I live here. For some folks, notice is an offense. I separate the stupid from the smart paskudnyak thereby.
I see half consumed twinkies and cokes left behind on the sunny side brownstone steps. Once the whores themselves in costume. Are they organized or freelance, I wonder. Couple of men, one big and one small, all in black. Both like to stand outside the door. So I am thinking it is women and drugs this time.
The Victorian store front and apartment combination is now and has been a single room occupancy building for as long as I have lived here. I cannot figure out yet if the guy in the wheelchair parked at the side door is an occupant or a lookout. If I were the real Tarantino, he would have an automatic gun under his blanket. Alas, no further drama needed. It is the building Baby Dee died in. It always has a pile of the pathetic refuse the folks who occupy SRO buildings leave behind waiting for pickup. Always something there awaiting pickup.
The city is rebuilding the water system and fixing curbs and drains. Gentrification creeps ever more near. I put my trust in new sewers. New sewers and angels. So this is the bit where I ask a profound question: Sewers are for shit, are they not?
I will set my pumpkin candles out on Halloween night. Sewers are civilization and government at its best. I am going to beat Lola Los Dolores over the head with my cane if she bothers Norma in the bodega again. Because she is shit and I am going to tell you why. The why is shit. Really.
Plum hovel was built in 1913 and it is a younger house than the row it leans on. When water pressure became too great, Miss Norma's ancient main water pipe burst, her cellar flooded and no flushing toilet. One adult and five kids. What to do? Why, good old reliable honeybucket to the rescue.
Tale is still not done. Back soon. Doob and coffee now.
To be continued...