Boredom Diaries


I was always told ‘The Princeton’ was the proper man’s haircut. That was my grandfather speaking. And what he advised was law. High and tight. Military. A shellacked coiffure, ending its reign over young adults by the late 1960’s. The Princeton it was for me. And still is. —————————————————————– My grandfather said to never solicit… Continue reading

No Other End Of The World Will There Be.

‘On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be…’ —————————————————————————— Our elementary school was the oldest building in the neighborhood. Red brick with a… Continue reading

Mini-Lightning and the Ten Green Men.

Urban Myths are propelled out of mundane events. The Clearwater Monster, for instance. It lumbered out of the surf in the late 1940’s, leaving tracks on multiple occasions. Its footprint, a narrow heel with three elongated toes. The imprint was described by a witness as ‘more bird like than reptilian.’ Coincidentally, they were left over… Continue reading

Mind Burglar.

Have you ever walked through a doorway, with something in your hand, and looking down, not know why its there? Why are you here, now? What are you looking for? This is not absent mindedness, but rather your brain re-adjusting to a new environment. On crossing through any threshold, your brain experiences a sort of… Continue reading

The Hand And The Finger.

My grandfather’s room had a smell mixed between distant, stale cigarette smoke and bleach. The cigarette smoke would waft in from the dining room. It was the only corridor that was not subjected to the daily exhalation of my Grandmother’s two packs of Winston Salems. It was her house, she could do what she wanted…. Continue reading

An Assault with a Deadly Missile.

They took our shoelaces. Our shoes fit like slippers. We had to shuffle around doing our best to keep them on. Touching the floor with your feet was like risking athletes foot in a public shower. Or worse, contracting anything else left over: those things that didn’t go down the drain of the holding cell…. Continue reading

Skinhead Island.

Tampa Bay once suffered a massive influx of racist, neo-nazi skinheads. And within our punk scene was where they converged. Here, fights were inevitable. Though never any that were race related. Collisions were between a bunch of pissed off, middle class white kids suffering the stale, suburban sprawl of Tampa. A city surrounded by a… Continue reading

Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Aegean.

The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. –Wallace Stevens Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird. I. Gate #98. Newark Airport. 6pm: The witching hour for jumbo jets taxiing down the runway. Each, sailing to a different destination across the ocean. In the backdrop, the skyline of New york city climbs into the… Continue reading

The Art of Compulsion.

Washington, DC. Mid July. Humid. Gloomy. I didn’t know anything important about the capital city. I knew it had a little punk history. I could identify a monument or two. And I knew, most importantly, that there were good record stores. You never know what you can dig up in a university town. Every summer,… Continue reading

Nut Cut.

“So, Joseph, you don’t want kids?” I was thrown off. Not by the question, but from being called by my given name. It was a title reminding me of those visits to the doctor as a child. Scared? I was. Not so much of shots. Or the “snapping” back of my multiple, re-adjusted broken arms…. Continue reading

“Craw-sant,” our battle cry.

I got stuck on drive-through in the mornings. Facing East, a single oak tree served as shade, the Spanish moss pulling its limbs to earth. It was a barrier against the rising sun. A barrier, until rays of light crept through holes in the canopy. Most of the time I was blinded–each customer a silhouette… Continue reading

Nine Lives.

“Matthew.” I propped myself up in bed by my elbows. Staring straight ahead I saw no one. “Spike’s dead.” I looked to the left, and there was my grandmother, hunched over from osteoporosis in the night-gown she never seemed to take off. “Spike’s dead.” “Where’s he at?” I mumbled. Half asleep. Sticky from sweat. My… Continue reading