I get hassled while fishing more in Pennsylvania than any other state. Yesterday I was getting drunk, fishing along the Schuylkill River, partly because there's not much better than drinking rum and casting a line and partly because I won't have enough money for groceries until this weekend. I had my MP3 player and headphones on rockin out to some Neil Young, and one of those Wildlife & Game motherfuckers comes down the bank towards me on that "license check" shit. Now, you're supposed to have your fishing license showing at all times, but I keep my fishing license on the inside of my jacket because most local Wildlife agents aren't anal-retentive about it. But this jackass leans right into me, going on about how it should be pinned to the front of my coat. I was more offended that he felt the need to patrol the river in a foot of snow than the fact he checked my license at all.
"Your license is expired."
"Really? Shit, I thought I had five more months on that bad boy."
"Licenses are only renewed every January."
"Really? Shit, I didn't know that."
"Pack it up and come back when you've renewed."
Dig this: the cat was wearing yellow socks with doodoo-butter brown boots. His job seems easy enough, but if I were a Wildlife agent, I'd demand to rock my steel-toe black boots. I hope those socks aren't mandatory.
And I was in a 4th Chamber mood. You know that jawn? (RZA kills it on that shit, by the way.) Where you nod your head like you about to get Jon Woo on a motherfucker. You ain't even gotta be in a bad mood. Just more like "things are going alright but if you fuck wit me, it's on". The nigga was lucky I didn't hook his eyelids. And I had just gotten new triple-pronged hooks from Mexican Charlie that same day. Shit would've been UGLY, cousins. But I was too drunk to give a fuck, so I packed up, walked toward the city and then made a wide turn when I was out of sight and cast downstream. After all that, I didn't even catch anything and I ended up going to Maybelle's on Washington Street for dinner.
Violets are Blue
DIE FUCKING BURN IN HELL DIE
Yeah, we all have our issues with Valentine's Day. But go buy your girl some flowers, for god's sake. Actually, don't. Fuck that! If you ain't doing that romantic shit ON A REGULAR, then don't bother today. I'm always broke, but I've lifted those dirty ass supermarket roses for a chick on many occasions. And fuck spending $5 on a piece of paper and then signing your name under some shit SOMEONE ELSE wrote. Write your own shit. Even it's some dumb cornball shit, it's from the heart. She can't give you shit for that. And if she does, fuck that ho. HALLMARK EATS BABIES.
So I'm sittin here polishing off some Smirnoff and this chick, Dawn, just called me. She wants to kick it tonight. We hung out last night ... technically, I got drunk at Victor's Cafe, she met me there, then drove me home because I was too wasted to differentiate between the sidewalk and the road, and we finished a fifth of gin on the stoop. Dig it: I met her at a poetry reading last week after I read a chapter of my book-in-progress. And she swooned. Which is creepy, because no girl should love the kind of shit I write. But she did and afterwards she talked a gang of shit like "I'm totally gonna lay you." And I might be the type that accosts cops with a crowbar while wearin a gas mask, but ya boy ain't the casual-fuck type. I get mild-salsa around women I dig, and end up ignoring their advances on some Treat Her Like A Prostitute shit. Slick Rick holla! However, her and I will get up tonight and we'll drink and we'll see what happens.
Yeah, so that's me. Uncoordinated, drunken rambling. I'm here to give y'all the Real Deal Holyfield honesty, raw dog, my guts on the table. Read it or ignore it. Love it or hate it.
I leave for the Big Memph tomorrow, so I'll see about posting while on the road. I keep it moving. Memphis got the best BBQ in the world, authentic speak. Anyone who says otherwise is bitch like some ovaries. Getcha mind right!
Pop ya collar,
-V.
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