THINKING                       Jizzo

I was sitting on the bus floor, stretching, preparing for the gig tonite in Akron, Ohio when it occurred to me what a strange life I have. I started thinking, thinking about all kinds of things. Thinking about why bums single ME out to talk to everywhere I go. In any given city I'll be walking down the street and some drunken hobo will inevitably saddle up to me and start a conversation-

"Yo," it starts.

I stop and turn. It's inevitable, like a Twilight Zone episode-cum-real life, like a drunken ballet between me and my Skid Row thing.

The man is black; no racial thing here, that's just the way it is. A cigarette behind each ear. One eye is a different color than the other, like he's half-reptile or something, and of course the stench of his BREATH, a mixture of cheap booze, cigarettes, anger, and years of crusty brown plaque.

"YO," he says, "I GOTTA ASK YOU SOMETHING."

He doesn't stagger as he walks, he exudes a quiet dignity. I don't answer him directly, sometimes they just go away. It's not ME he's railing against, you see, just what I represent. Civilisation, people, the march of time ---

"You wear dem black clothes?" he asks.
"Yes," I say.
"You wear dem combat boots?"
"Yes."
"You got da rings in yo' ear, in yo' nose and shit?"
"Yes. Yes I do." He looks at me, almost pleading- "WHY, MOTHERFUCKER...TELL ME WHY?????"

Hmmm…never quite analysed it...guess I have such shitty fashion sense that I have to stick with what's no-brainer cool; black is never un-cool, you see. White is gay, of course, red is Sammy Hagar, green is...well...green. Best to stick with black.

"Lemme see," I told him, "I guess 'cause it makes me feel comfortable."
"Yeh, dat's what I thought," he says, shaking his head, chuckling and clicking his teeth, no doubt trying to dislodge a piece of Whopper from 1987. Then he turns to me again-
"You go to church?"
"Not really," I said.
"Me neither" he says as we walk on-"Dat's bullshit...God and shit...I don't know...." He turns, "Like, who made ME? I guess somebody had to make me...WHO MADE ME?"

I'm looking at him, honestly trying to picture someone MAKING him. God, Jehovah, whoever...this poor fucker, drunk and disillusioned. This caricature, this man with nothing, dressed in hand-me-downs, bleary, people shunning him everywhere he goes, the liquor store clerk screwing up his face in disgust but still happy to sell him his POISON, his fuel, his reason for living.

"SOMEBODY HAD TO MAKE ME!!" he's screaming now, shaking and out of control "WHO MADE ME?" he shakes his fist at the sky "WHO MADE ME? WHO MADE ME???"
"I don't know, dude," I said, "I don't know anything."
Fuck, I'm not trying to blow him off, I wish I could tell him the answer he wants to hear, I wish... I wish the Lord would either help this fucker or strike him dead, take away his misery.
Then...quite suddenly, as hoboes are oft to do, he becomes completely lucid.
"Wanna buy a phone card?" he asks.

A phone card. We've argued like two GREEK philosophers over the philosophy of life and ended up here, with him waving a greasy phone card in my face. The Alpha and Omega. No dude, I don't need a phone card. I'm just like you. I don't have a girlfriend, family, I don't need to call L.A., fuck L.A.,Fall into the ocean L.A.

Why do bums always latch on to me? I don't know. It's like we share the same pheremone, a particular scent non-bums can't smell.

I'm still walking. I'm in a shitty part of Akron. All the houses are falling apart, all the people are dying. No Hope lives here, people sitting on their porch waiting for the end. In fact, some jaded faded, bitter old fuck is sitting on his front stoop as I pass by, 40 ouncer in hand, staring at me. He looks Irish, he looks like he's fought a hundred street fights and lost every one. He's watching me like the Cheshire cat. He wants to get up. He hates the way I look, I offend him, but the chair and his BUZZ are too good to fuck with so I am spared. He'll just curse me and wish me to whatever Hell he sees fit, although mine and his hell aren't the same.

My hell is sitting at home with a Metal Edge in my hand seeing my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend all over the cover. That is MY Hell. The roasting of one's own insecurity and anguish on a color page in every supermarket in the land.

The bum and I continue walking till we get to a fork in the road. "Which way you goin?" he asks,"to the bike shop?" No, my friend, I'm going to my job, my wonderful fucking privileged existence, my gold ring, my reason d'etre. I will go left. You, however, must go right. Right to the nearest empty park, there you will find yourself a comfortable bench and lay down, look up at the stars, feel the cool wind brushing through the trees. And it's THERE you'll try to center, try to focus on the ONE pivotal moment when the worm began to turn, to the singular most disastrous thing in your life that sent you over the edge, that culminated in your sleeping outside, here, on a cool autumn night in Akron, no money, buzz wearing off, tears forming, throat choked up. Cry, motherfucker, cry for all the lost love and fun and afternoon barbecues with kids screaming your name. Cry for the people who shun you and pretend you don't exist, who treat you like a lump of shit. Cry for the horrible alcohol disease that manifests itself in your soul and eats you up like a dragon, the only thing you get up for in the morning. Cry for the dirty cigarette ends you pick up after some rich fuck in a BMW throws them out the window. Cry and scream and punch the earth till your hands are raw and sob so hard that someone, anyone who'll listen will give you the mercy bullet and let you maybe start all over. Maybe next time, next life, you'll do ok. I want to love you, I want to help you, but I can't... I have a gig tonight.