Tuesday, June 30, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Excerpt From American MaleWhore In Tokyo" by Rowen Boozewell

"Cool.  Fill this out and we'll see what we can do."  Gutter placed a sheet of paper on the table.  It was a short but relatively standard work application. 

Box entered some personal information then came to a box asking what seemed to him to be his requirements to the club.  Not having seen a question like this in his job interview experience, he wondered what would make sense in this case.

A tolerance of foreigners?  STD tests for all customers?  A steady supply of rufees?

Not knowing how to say "rufees" in Japanese, he opted for a chance.  Lame, yes, but the type of BS he believes potential employers generally want to hear.

The next box was, 'Your Message to the Manager.'

As heavy drinking is part of the job, I'm assuming there is a lenient attitude towards urine-related incidents but nevertheless I would like to graciously thank you in advance for your tolerance and understanding should I stand at the top of the entrance stairs and rain yellow on folks gathered below.  And the like.

But again taking the ingratiating route (known commonly as the pussy route), Box went with, I would just be so thrilled to work at a club as classy and fun as Cirrus--which I'm certain makes dreams come true on a nightly basis--that I would without a doubt be the hardest working host Shinjuku has ever seen.

The final box was, 'Host Name Candidates,' and the following instructions were printed to the side.

Please write down potential host names that you would like to be called.  The more you can think of the better.  If nothing comes to mind, just enter things you like.

Not feeling any need to hold back in this category, Box scribbled down the following names:

Vivian Ward;
Ziggy the Dryhumper; and
Jesus Jr., Little Jesus

Rowen Boozewell is the author of American MaleWhore In Tokyo:  The Great White Host, a memoir/novel about John Box's experiences being a host in a Tokyo nightclub.  Or maybe John Box wrote it using the nom de plume of Rowen Boozewell.  Beats me.  Anyway, I like it, and I am happy to feature this excerpt from the book on drinkdrankdrunk!  You can find more John Box, Rowen Boozewell, or whomever the hell he is at pearlsbeforeswine68.com

Sunday, June 21, 2020

Afterword for The Slush Pile Strikes Back! by Frank Walsh

The recently released Underground Literary Alliance anthology received a nice review from one of the contributors, Tom Hendricks.  Also, Frank Walsh kindly wrote an afterword for it.  It is below:

"Its not a coincidence that once was that, neither a serial in a one of a kind series that, trending accidents, matters, nor likewise the former ULA lteraryrevolution dot com crash side swiping CBGBs or Columbia University on Harlem’s broken back post-Miller Theater public free-the- beats event horizon, for even the NYPD officers summoned for against us by the U guffawed and gainsaid with our literate guerilla theater demonstration outside the academic wrought black iron main gates, right up against the hoods, where still probably unreal estate big bank vultures satanic Mills Theaters broadside north Broadway (and really, the very same entities were found to be bulldozing for redevelopment Israeli and Palestinian working class hoods coincidentally),post- perhaps post-post Modern dried out literal neoliberal arts PHDs and snarky a-creative writing workshop MFA money mill hacks, bury the last cool pop remains of Ginsberg and our beaten up, now privatized, “HOWL”; but a synchronicity, presently that’s It.
Is meant to have said, that of gutter presses way back in the French Revolutionary underground linotypes, Payne, say, the old printer’s devil, in deep, along with unborn Buchner awaiting his part swathed in a miasma of neo-Kantian star dust, seeding. from apposite times, the far off red glare of the yet to arrive crude Akirema the Fewed, uncannily so, unless believed in by both sides that swallow from the purple goblet Kool-Aid TV commercials burst through a Wall Street even if unconscious. As if forty years could actually feel like one Summer day long or else, its meant to say that at least a week and a half before us, this past Memorial Day hollow day, when and where a Minneapolis—of all place mats-- police-state Thugee thug with little help from friend goons, committed to a publically recorded assassination, successfully of resident citizen GF, an authentic, already hard way seasoned advanced guard front had begun to push up—societally, mass culturally --- from the Aut, raving punk poet, and personal Zeen small-press movements--out of a seemingly current fallow sub-underground into a lightning lit revolutionary Open Field, synchronicity or not.
“’De Sade liberated from the Bastille in 1789, Baudelaire on the barricades in 1848, Courbet tearing down the Vendôme Column in 1870—French political history is distinguished by a series of glorious and legendary moments which serve to celebrate the convergence of popular revolution with art in revolt.’” And recently at most two late daguerreotype or early photographs recently dug up show Arthur Rimbaud in a Paris irregular uniform toting a long rifle La Commune, 1871 at attention upon the dais of the broke up Vendome Column. In the Imperialist, neo-colonialist, World Wars/Revolutions, industrial workers of the world union 20th century, “’… avant-garde artistic movements took up the banner of revolution consciously and enduringly. The political career of André Breton and the surrealists began with their manifestoes against the Moroccan war (the ‘Riff’ war) in 1925 and persisted through to the Manifesto of the 121, which Breton signed in 1960, shortly before his death, denouncing the Algerian war and justifying resistance. May 1968, when student/youth and the French workers nearly pulled off a popular Revolution: “’… the same emblematic role was enacted once again by the militants of the Situationist International. … ancestry of both Cobra and Lettrism can be traced back to the international Surrealist movement {or in our AFTERWORD bastardized basket case in point, the break down of the mamby pamby, post and post post Mod, academic deconstructualist, bourgeois snarky vapid populist mainstream literature and art hooked to a corrupt capitalist cronyismatic MIC publishing, distribution, and promotion corporate monopolized gangstar racket right here and now }, whose break-up after the war {or prey tell 911 in the same year the ULA was begot } led to a proliferation of new splinter groups and an accompanying surge of new experimentation and position-taking. The si { which was just what the ULA and its shifting meta-cooperative qualities was able to keep in motion for 8 or 9 years }”’…it brought together again many of the dispersed threads which signaled the decay and eventual decomposition of surrealism. In many ways, its project was that of re-launching surrealism on a new foundation {but again in this slice of this era, beginning social cultural “permanent revolutionary” resurgence in practicum, is just that…}… stripped of some of its elements (emphasis on the unconscious, quasi-mystical and occultist thinking, cult of irrationalism) and enhanced by others,{…likewise…} within the framework { for example: this THE SLUSH PILE STRIKES BACK! dedicated to Steve Kostecke, the NEW POP LIT project/hep hyperzeens, the one and only MUSEUMOF POETRY, the POETSUNIONUS so called, are up and running on the barricades }”’… of cultural revolution.’”
[take NOTE]: the reconditioned quotes in this Afterwords segment are by Peter Wollen, @Peter Wollen
One’s as well as that of the Afterwords prioritized intention is to point out that each and every writer, poet, essayist is a person and not yr usual individualist as the readers will discover in the act, for themselves. Besides that, though the readers should in fact infer as much, every part and parcel of this Afterwords is infused with the contention that Contemporary Modernism, but in a mondo gonzo kind of manner that is best represented by the late great Hunter Thompson, is alive and still going on in a contemporaneous way so that way is the quality world wide permanent social cultural revolution as Trotsky and Breton in 1938 manifests it in the quote below:
"True art, which is not content to play variations on ready-made models but rather insists on expressing the inner needs of man and of mankind in its time—true art is unable not to be revolutionary, not to aspire to a complete and radical reconstruction of society."

Check out the anthology here!

Tuesday, June 16, 2020

The Underground Literary Alliance Anthology!

After 15 years, it's finally out!  Hooray!  Appropriately enough, it is released on a literary holiday:  Bloomsday (the day Ulysses by James Joyce is set on)!  It is The Underground Literary Anthology anthology!  Work started on it in 2005 by Steve Kostecke, and I finished it this year.  It is a good read, and you can download the epub version here, and the pdf version here.  You can also see a preview (actually, it's the whole dang thing!) at the bottom of this post.  It is free to download and share.  Please post/send it wherever you want.

Sunday, June 14, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Late Fees" by Mark Justice

It’s not even ten o’clock yet, and they’re out there already, faces pressed against the front window, eyes staring dumbly inside.  Hell no, I’m not going to open yet, fuckers!  It’s not ten o’clock!

Look at them, hands running up and down the glass, groaning.  I can hear them groaning, for God’s sake, groaning, and for what?  It’s Tuesday, fucking New Release day.  No matter what the hell it’s like outside, they’re out there.  Every Tuesday, it’s the same thing.  They shamble up to the door, pull on the handle a few times, then fumble back.  Honest to God, they look bewildered, all bouncing off one another, like dumbass drunken bastards.

What?  Showing me your watch and pointing to it isn’t going to make me open the door one minute before I have to.  I don’t care if you freeze your assess off.  Can’t you see?  Four minutes until ten?  Hello, you dumb sons of bitches, get a fucking clue here.  Groan all you want.  Stand still or rock back and forth.  I don’t give a shit because we’re not open.

You mean you’re telling me that you have to be here the minute we open to get your copy of Titanic II: Jack’s Still Dead or Cookie Monster Eats Fuckin’ Big Bird?  You think some other bastard’s going to get it before you do, dumbass? Just look at ‘em.  Yeah, I see you brought your tape back.  Thanks.  Do you see the fucking return slot in the fucking window?  Yeah, just put it in there, retard.

God damn these dead fuckers already because it’s almost ten, and I’m going to fucking let them have it when I open the fucking door.  Oh yeah, they’re getting all excited when I come to the front door and jingle the keys.  They all look at them with their glassy eyes and gaping maws.  Dead already, and they don’t even know it, dumbasses.

I fumble the keys a little before I put the master key in the lock.  The look of anticipation on their faces is priceless.  There’s a fucker born every minute, and I’m going to rent some dumbass movie to all of them.  Oh, the key’s in the sweet spot.  I turn it, unlock the front door, slip back inside quickly and stand behind the counter.  They struggle to get the door open all the way then spill in like entrails from a gutted deer.

There they go, wandering around, looking stupidly at the monitors.  Hey, dipshits, the movies are on the shelves.  Over here, they’re arranged alphabetically, not that any of you dumbfucks would care.  Yeah, that’s right. Just take a movie off the shelf and put it anywhere you damn well feel like it.  Nice.  Thanks, tard, but how about putting it back where you fucking found it?  Is that too fucking much to ask?

What the hell are you doing standing under the monitors?  Reaching up isn’t going make the movie come to life or VHS tapes or DVDs to pour out.  What, think this is Vegas or something, pull the handle, hit three cherries, and a tape or two will pop out at you?  Or maybe you’re just mesmerized by all the bright lights and movement.  Ooh, that’s right, dumbfucks.  Worship at the video altar.  At least it keeps them occupied for a while so that I can get some work done.

I see them wander between the rows of movies, jerking their heads up and down, trying to find something that interests them in their own stupid way, I guess.  Hey, hey, fuckass!  See that?  What does it say?  It says “Western,” ‘cause that’s where the John Fucking Wayne movies are.  What the hell are you doing trying to drop off your copy of Thelma and Louise II: Tagged and Bagged there?  If you don’t want the fucking tape, put it where you got it.  Is that some kind of muscle twitch, or did you really give me the finger?  Are you giving me shit today, on New Release day?  I can fix that, you know.  See this?  This is your hand.  See this?  This is your finger.  See this?  This is my mouth.  See this?  This is me putting your fucking finger in my fucking mouth and biting it the fuck off.  Oh, don’t cry now, dumbshit.  That’s what you get.

If you’re going to be this way, then fine.  I’m tired of your blubbering.  How’s this?  How about I just rip your wrist open?  You like that, fucker?  Stop making a scene.  Okay, you’re asking for it.  Your jugular’s a little tough and rubbery, but I just bite right through all of that.  Ahh, there it comes.  See, stupid fuck?  This is your blood.  You’re a fucking geyser, all over my clean floor.  Look at what you’re doing to my shelves!  You’re going to have to pay for that.  Now you’re a mess, and I’m chewing on your trachea, tough like beef jerky.  What do you have to say to that one, eh?  Don’t mess with the fucking Duke.  Just a few more mouthfuls of your gurgling throat then I really have to get back to work.

Cleanup on aisle five.  Yeah, like that’s going to happen here.  It’s murder getting good help.  It’s a fucking video store, for Christ’s sake, and you just can’t get anyone decent to work any more.  I’m here all the time.  Who else is going to put up with all of this shit?

Aw, Jesus.  Yeah, yeah, I see that it’s a fucking mess, so stay the fuck away from Westerns until it’s cleaned.  Are you seriously such a fucking retard, or is today just your lucky day?  Want to go lick one of the windows, or maybe you’d just like to lick the floor.  I didn’t think so.  Yeah, go ahead, stumble back, wide-eyed, all grimacing.  Yeah, you’re really scary.  Ooh, you make me want to piss myself. Yeah, get the fuck away, numbnuts.

Holy fuck.  That smell.  God, the same time every Tuesday.  There’s only one guy who smells like he’s been vomiting up someone else’s shit.  It’s got to be some kind of rancid cologne or something like rotting anal seepage.  No one alive would wear that shit if he really knew what it smelled like.  What the fuck is your problem with the smell?  You’re a bloated bag of pus, and you’re leaking all over my cunting store.

Here he comes, wobbling up to the counter, greasy black hair falling around his head in loose and dirty ringlets.  Nice suit, dickwad.  Going to get buried in that?  Let me guess.  You want to know if we have any Indian porn.  You ask the same fucking question every week.  What is it with you and fucking Indian porn?  Is it the dot?  You want to fuck that dot or something?  Yeah, you know, we do have something today.  Come with me and bring your greasy vomit-shit smell with you.  Let’s go to the Tank.

Ahh, the Spank Tank, the Sticky Room, the Eww Room.  Here you go, you sick fuck.  How about New Delhi First-Time DPs?  Yeah, you like that?  Like that fucking dot, don’t you?  How do you like this, then?  How about if I just grab your head like a melon and drive my thumbs into your fucking forehead and make a dot for you?  Like that?  You screaming because you like it?  I’m tired of playing with you, so one final squeeze.  Love that crunch.  Look at your face. You’re nothing but a smelly pile of gooey brain and broken bone, nice big bloody dot in the middle of your forehead.  Maybe some sick fuck will want to fuck you now, huh, you scat-smelling piece of shit?  It’s not enough that I’ve got you sick fucks jizzin’ all over the cover boxes back here.  Now, I’ve got to clean your shitty mess up, too.

I lick my thumbs.  Fuck!  Your rancid cologne’s stinking up my fucking hands! Goddamn it all to hell.  I can’t bring my fingers to my mouth to lick them clean without tasting your shit-vomit smell.  You fucking better not ruin my lunch, you worthless bastard.

Back to the counter.  What the fuck are you bitching about?  You’ve been waiting for thirty seconds without anyone to help you?  Sorry for your fucking inconvenience, but do you see anyone else working here?  Well do you, honey? Tell you what.  You want that fucking movie?  Fine.  No charge for this one, okay, since you had to wait half a goddamn minute.  Let me just slide it through and demagnetize it for you.  Come on around to the side of the counter.  Here, take the movie.  Right in your gut.  Let me just punch your free movie right into your fucking guts, honey, right up to my elbow.  Hey, can you feel my hand sticking out of your back?  Go ahead, gasp.  Cough and choke that warm blood right into my mouth.  Gurgle yourself into me.  Nothing like a little bloody snowballin’, eh, honey?

Aw, shit.  The tape case is too damn slippery because of all of your blood.  You made me drop it, you clumsy whore.  Well, pick it up.  If you’re going to twitch like that, you’re not going to able to hold onto it, you know.  Fine, fucking fine. Let me help you.  How about if I grab onto your spine and just yank it out for you, right out your fucking stomach.  Yeah, that’s it.  See?  This is your spine in my hand, honey.  Is this the nerve that makes you twitch?  Is this it?  What?  You don’t you want your movie?  Doesn’t matter.  You’re just a messy meat locker on my freshly mopped floor.  Thanks for fucking nothing.

I’ll just suck on your spine for a little treat.  Goddamn, it’s just like sucking a little Bayou crawdad head, the warm juices like a burst boil, right into my mouth.  Hey, I can floss, too, with your severed nerves.  Nice little snack.

Now look at this.  Some dumbass little kid running around my goddamn store all by herself.  Where’s your fucking mom, shit-for-brains?  Oh, I see her, over in the corner wall, looking at new releases, not knowing where the fuck her little shit kid is.  Nice parenting.  You think she’s safe, your little girl, with all of these Tuesday morning freaks in here?  Hey, you want to actually keep track of your child, you fucking twat?  She’s running around, little Suzy Pigtails, running into my fucking displays and knocking my fucking movies off the shelves.  Who’s going to put them back into order again, you, you fucking retard?

Little Suzy Pigtails, I see you.  You smell like bile and cotton candy.  You’re skipping through my store, arms out and flailing, screaming.  Is this your fucking house?  You think you can just run around my store and do whatever you fucking want?  Here’s to good parenting.  Are you watching what happens now, Mommy Pigtails?

Come on, Suzy.  Let me show you all of the fun movies we have in our kiddie kartoon section.  Yeah, you like that?  You like fucking Barney Shoots Smack? Turn your fucking head around, bitch, and look at the mess you made?  I’ll twist your fucking head around.  See the fucking mess?  Who’s going to have to pick that up?  You?  Hell no, not you.  It’s me.  I get the goddamn shit job of cleaning up your goddamn shit mess!  What, my hands grabbing your pigtails too tightly? Screaming for Mommy?  Fine.  This’ll shut you up, you cunting bitch.  Just using your pigtails to hold your head still, my dear.

You like history?  Let’s pretend you’re JFK, and my cock is Oswald’s Magic Bullet.  Right here in your mouth.  Take it.  All of it.  Fucking JFK, shot in the fucking head.  Ramming your little mouth with my magic bullet.  Back and to the left.  Back and to the left.  Gagging and crying for Mommy only makes it sweeter in the end, and here it is, the head shot.  Pow.  The back of your head explodes with my bloody magic cock bullet pushing out your bloody, splintered skull and ruined brain with that sucking sound that gets me every time.  Back and to the left.  Back and to the left.  Now look at that shelf.  You fucking suck.

Hope you don’t mind my tearing out some of that silk hair of yours as I pull myself out and twist your fucking head off.  Just like a frightened little jackrabbit, there, your heart beating so quickly.  First the twist, then a few popping spurts, then up from your neck comes the red gush, the fucking money shot.  Look what you did to my display!  You fucking ruined my display!  Do you see this?  Do you?  How about this, then?  How about I hold your head up, eyes wide, mouth spasming, and I’ll just carry your head around like a lantern and show you your mess.  See the fucking mess you made?  Can you see with your dead eyes wide open where the fucking movies belong on the shelves, you little head, or do I need to put a candle in you and let the love of Jesus shine through your eyes?  Here’s where Fred Fuckstone: Slaterock Bitch goes, and put Babe 3: BLT right there.  Do you get it now, you fucking pigtail lantern?  I think I’ll save you for dessert.  Who doesn’t like cotton candy?

Oh, I can hear Mommy now.  Oh, Suzy Pigtails, where are you?  Here she is.  Just follow the waving lantern.  Look familiar?  Oh, the screams.  God, you’re so annoying with that high pitch screaming.  Whose fault is this?  Is this good parenting?  See?  This is why shouldn’t leave your children unattended.  This is why you should make fucking sure they’re by your side every fucking minute. Next time, get a Goddamn leash on the little fuckers!  You take the stump, but I’m keeping my lantern.  No trade-backs!

What, don’t you want the stump?  Fine.  How about this, then?  I’m tired of you screaming shit at me.  If you’re not going to be an adult and assume some of the responsibility for letting your daughter ruin my fucking store, then how about this?  How about I just dive headlong into your stomach and tear into it?  Nice abs.  You work out?  Shut the fuck up and stop screaming!  Ahh, okay, the sweetbreads.  You could make a mean batch of haggis with what’s in here.  You taste like undercooked pork.  Sheesh.  What did you have for breakfast?  Coffee and toast?  Is that all?  That’s not an ample breakfast, you know.  Where’s the fucking protein?  What?  Nothing to say?  Cat got your tongue?  At least you’ve shut the fuck up.

Jesus Christ.  Look at this Goddamn place!  You dumbasses have fucked up my whole store!  I hate New Release Tuesday.  It’s not even lunchtime yet, and the whole store looks like a fucking slaughterhouse.  I get so sick of the same shit every fucking Tuesday.  I’m just beat.  Tired.  Dead.

Mark Justice is the author of Gauge Black:  Hell's Revenge.  Check it out for more pulpy goodness!  That one's a Western.  Obviously, this Website does not recommend going into zombie video rental stores or clerks being this disgruntled, but it does recommend reading more Mark Justice.  I am pleased to run on his work on drinkdrankdrunk!

Sunday, June 7, 2020

Last Call For The Underground Literary Alliance Anthology!

The Underground Literary Alliance anthology that I am finishing up for Steve Kostecke is done.  30 ULAers are in it, so it will feature the writing of a nice chunk of the group.  It's scheduled to be released on Bloomsday, fitting for a literary anthology.  The delay is to allow a straggler or two to still stumble in and be included.  It will first be distributed to the contributors and those who helped with the project.  Since the pdf and epub anthology is free, they can send/post it anywhere they want.  After that, I will announce it on my email list.  It will be announced on this here blog probably on the next post I do after the release.  In the meantime, it is last call for anyone who wants in the anthology.  I can probably squeeze someone in up to the last minute, earlier in the day on Bloomsday.  After that, since the free time I had which enabled me to do the project is now gone, I am pulling the trigger on the book release that evening, barring any unforeseen catastrophe that is, and moving on to other projects.

So, if you are Doug Bassett, Eric "Jelly Boy The Clown" Broomfield, Matthew Broomfield, Tim Hall, Cynthia Ruth Lewis, Marissa Ranello, Christopher Robin, Phillip Routh, Pat Simonelli, The Urban Hermitt, or Ranger Rita Webb, then please get in touch, as I would like to include a selection by you in the anthology, but I have either been unsuccessful in reaching you or you have not responded yet to my messages (yes, everyone has been contacted or at least attempted to be contacted through multiple avenues at this point).

If you are Yul Tolbert, please approve your proof--I really like your piece but need the final signoff from you to include it.

If you are Leah Smith and Frank Walsh, please get me the pieces which you are writing especially for the anthology.  I appreciate the extra effort.

If you are J.D. Finch, Michael Jackman, or Chris (Zee) Zappone, then please reconsider and agree to be in the anthology.

If you are the next of kin or estate executor for George Balgobin, Joe Pachinko, and Joseph Verrilli, please give permission to include their work.

It is last call.  This ship is sailing.  Anything else is icing on the cake for the book, as it is pretty solid as is, but I would ideally like to include everyone who was involved in the group.  If I forgot anyone, then please get in touch, but I believe everyone else is already in (even Frank Walsh has a poem in already--he's just writing a special bonus as well).

I hope a couple of more writers squeak in before the door closes . . .

As for readers, it is almost here, after 15 years, but if you need something to read in the meantime, then my latest novel is available here.

Monday, June 1, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Women Of Color" by The Midnight Rider

per the cashpoint faculty handbook, one of my responsibilities as a faculty member was “institutional service”……I was therefore obliged to do committee work and serve as both academic and club adviser for at least one student organization…over the years, I served as the faculty adviser for the fine arts club, the anime club and the gamers club……in general, my duties included charging pizza to the school credit card and playing board games with fat/acne-scarred coeds…..by the fall of 2015, cashpoint was in free fall and the powers-that-be began laying off any faculty/staff member that wasn’t absolutely essential and that included the fat/loud woman who had been the adviser for the women of color……at the time, I was teaching african-american lit and 2 of the students asked me after class if I would serve as their adviser for the remainder of the school year…..it seems that every year, the cashpoint women of color went to a conference at the university of illinois and with no adviser, they wouldn’t be allowed to go……no doubt, I realize that I’m a kool fucker, but I’m neither african-american nor female…..they really wanted to go though and I had nothing better to do that weekend, so I accepted and filled out the paper work to become their adviser…..i would have to drive the school van 5 hours to champaign, supervise the girls at a hotel and chaperone them at the 2-day conference (knowing full well that I would be the only white male in attendance)……was I intimidated?----nah dude, I thought it would make for a helluva story if I lived to tell the tale….in years past, the club had 20-25 members, but in 2015, their numbers had dwindled to 8……the shady state women of color also like to fight amongst themselves, so by the time I made the hotel reservations, the number of girls attending the conference was down to 4…..after an argument (over who was fucking a track star), it was down to 2 (and it was against shady state protocol for a faculty member to ride with just one student lest they be tempted to fuck)…..the two remaining students were 1) president latonya (who was in my business writing class) and secretary dionna (who was in african-american lit)….i didn’t know much about latonya (other than she seemed quiet/studious, but dionna was a character (who seemingly went days without bathing and who carried an oversized, stuffed teddy bear with her wherever she went)……dionna didn’t know her father and her mother passed away when she was only 15……she had been living with her older sister in chicago, but over summer break her sister informed dionna that she could no longer afford to support her…..when the school year ended, dionna knew that she would be homeless…..although I don’t have time to do the story justice, I noticed that when I went to pick up the school van that it was cashpoint #8 (the one that the school’s married former head of facilities had bought to drive his student-mistress out in the country for a little “afternoon delight”)…..the dude’s wife found out and forced him to take another job in massachusetts, but within 6 months, his born-again brazilian whore had moved there as well….forgive me for not going into more details, but the story I’m telling is ultimately even more bizarre…..i was afraid to carry weed with me on a school trip in the school van, so I erred on the side of stocking my overnight bag with odorless vodka and pain pills….i drove 79 mph in a 65 mph zone and didn’t wear my seat belt and the girls were just happy to be going to their conference…..i don’t remember much that was said, although I do remember dionna constantly teasing me that I had “black blood” (and since my mother’s maiden name is madison and she’s from louisa and has brown skin, I’ve considered that president james madison was having sex with his slaves)……we were late arriving in champaign and had to immediately drive to the conference (as opposed to dropping our bags off at the hotel/allowing me to pound a few more slugs of vodka)…..we were late for the speaker (a black beauty product mogul) as well and that brought 100 stares as the only white man in the room walked to his seat escorted by 2 white-trashed sisters…..i have no memory of what the speaker said, but I do remember that the black chicks in the room could be divided into two categories: 1) fashionistas wearing $1000 (tight) pant suits and 2) homegirls wearing the same (walmart) spanky pants that they wore every other day of the week….i think word of my presence preceded me and most of the women in attendance were polite and some even thanked me for serving as the girls’ surrogate adviser…..after the speaker finished, I took the girls (and one of their pregnant friends) to a burger place near our hotel---and I generally don’t speak on the subject of racism, but I could feel the hatred emanating off the table full-of-cops when I walked into the restaurant….we charged wings, pizza and beer to shady state, but I was the only one who drank…..the next day entailed a full slate of conference presentations with titles like “protecting the temple” (vaginal hygiene) and “boss, queen and everything in between” in the student union…..one speaker implied that I was an “oppressor” from the stage, but I eventually made friends with her ugandan hit woman and we wound up discussing astrology…..at one point, I even mindlessly repeated a mantra about being a strong/black woman……there was a trivia question at lunch with the winner to receive a year’s worth of beauty supplies from the previous night’s speaker-----I knew that the first black congresswoman was shirley chisolm before the rest of the room googled it, but I kept my mouth shut and let some bougie black chick win the prize….once the conference was over, the cashpoint girls wanted to go the local mall, so I decided to check out a local bar that mike mousse (the dean of the business college had recommended)----and this is where the story really takes off…..the bar was packed with hot sorority girls and there were several frat dudes there wearing phi delta theta (my fraternity) sweatshirts……I gave the secret sign and the motherfucking party was on…..pledge master gabe had 2 of the pledges drive the school van back to my hotel and I wound up in the middle of a fraternity party at the university of illinois (and I’m 48-years-old)…..i can’t say that I got laid, but I must have done bong hits in 12 different rooms and even did a keg stand in the fraternity kitchen…..hot coeds were sitting in my lap and posing for pictures…..and you might think being in a frat sucks, but I tell you it’s like a golden pass to another universe….i didn’t know any of these kids, but they immediately accepted me as one of their own…..around 1am, the same 2 pledges drove me back to the hotel…..i had them make a pit stop at their fav pizza place where I charged 4 large pizzas to cashpoint (2 for the phi delt pledges and 2 for the women of color)……I was drunk-as-shit, but I walked down to the girls’ room to deliver the pizzas…..they were in their pajamas and doing homework, but they damn skippy appreciated the fact that their old/fat/white adviser was kool enough to bring them pizza at 1am…..the last event of the weekend was a chicken n’ waffle luncheon at the illinois women of color’s clubhouse the following afternoon----I took 4-5 dumps in the hour that we were there, but i refrained from vomiting until we reached a gas station bathroom on the way home…..it was a good trip….i woke up the next morning before and changed my facebook profile picture to one of me in a suit with roughly 75 black women from the midwest women of color conference---when I returned home that afternoon, my friend, gipper had messaged me a one word question/comment….it read: “brazzers?”

The Midnight Rider prefers to remain mysterious.  You could visit his website, but he won't say where it is.  You could read his books, but he won't say what they are.  You could email him, but I'm pretty sure spam@gofuckyourself.gov is not a real email address.  In a world where everyone is repping their Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, sex tapes, line of clothing, new microbrew, and overall brand, I find that refreshing.  I am happy to have the Rider ride on drinkdrankdrunk.