notanotherphony.

Why do people watch such phony pathetic crap on television? Tori and dean. Jon and kate plus 8. housewives of orange county. the bachelor. Mtv love in awards. It’s all make believe bullshit. Soulless people giving us soulless television. ROBOTS. PUPPETS. CORPORATIONS. RATINGS. WHY? People don’t want to think or feel. Emotions. Is there something wrong with feeling emotions these days? LAUGH. LAUGH. LAUGH. But DON’T CRY!!! DON’T THINK. HIDE. OUR SOCIETY. $$$.
Life should be for living. Not sleeping. Too many people sleepwalk through their lives. Letting everyone make decisions for them. None of their own thoughts. Just rehashed shit. BORING. Life’s a show for people. No connections. Surface. Edgy…headache…jerking off. Addictions. Fuck then jerk. WHY? Too many thoughts. Images. Aging. Looks disappearing. Energy waning. Thoughts racing. Shoe size shrinking. Ears growing. Hair falling. Dick growing. Hormones raging. Anger subsiding. Tits bobbling. People moving. People dying. Body aching. Sweating. Angst. Contradictions. Too much energy wasted on meaningless people and meaningless opinions. Laugh instead of fight.
Where have all the true thinkers gone? Dying…slowly…mom…DAD…dom…me…family…FEELINGS.

I walked away from Markville Mall at 8am in the morning. Friday morning. Sweating. Smelling. Pounding head. Hungover and pasty. Tired. Really tired. Really hungover. Although back then my hangovers were never that bad. How bad can they be at eighteen years old??? But I had my tickets. My Bruce Springsteen tickets. Waited in a lineup all night for these tickets. Partied all night for these tickets. But I now walked away from Markville Mall with these tickets. I walked on the sidewalk alone and hungover and made my way to Hwy. 7. I needed to get home so I could change and go to summer school. Why? I don’t know. Walked to Hwy. 7 and stuck my right hand out with my right thumb pointing in the air. Hitchhiking. Alone. Hungover. Tickets in my shorts. In the pocket of my shorts. The right pocket. It was sunny. It was hot. Sweating still. Pasty still. Needing to get to summer school still. Still puzzled as to why. Blue car whizzes by. Brown car whizzes by. Grey car whizzes by. Everyone in a rush. Society full of rushers. Life moving too quickly. One by one I was getting rejected. This time by cars. LIFE IS SO CRUEL. Finally a car slows down. Excitement. Smiling. I look at the car with my sad puppy dog eyes. Man looks over at me. JUDGING ME. LOOKING DOWN ON ME. NOT KNOWING ME. He drives away. Probably horny. I was horny. I am always horny when hungover. Not sure why. Does anyone know? Cars continue to pass me. Not noticing me. Tired. I continue to stick out my hand. My thumb. My right hand. My right thumb. Continue to walk. Continue to sweat. Finally I hear a honk. I look up. A crappy, shitty, old, brown, small Dodge has pulled over. Stops on the rocks on the soft shoulder. He waits. I run. I get to the car and look in. I see an old man with short grey hair. I smile. He reaches over and rolls down the window. He struggles. I look in. He opens his mouth and says, “You want ride? You need ride?” He had a very heavy old Greek accent. I said, “sure thanks.” I opened the door and fell into the front seat. The car was old and smelly. Had that coffee and cigarette smell. I noticed a dangling cross from the Greek man’s rearview mirror. I hate crosses that dangle from car’s rearview mirrors. “Where you go?” Greek man asks. “Village Parkway and Carlton,” I reply. We drove away. Not sure if he knew where Village Parkway and Carlton was but we were driving in the right direction. Music on. Greek music. Bad classical Greek music. “Where you live? Where you were? What your name?” He kept asking questions but never listened to the answers. We were getting close to Village Parkway. “Turn at the next right,” I said. “Okay,” Greek man replied now looking down at my crotch. I looked away. We turned right. He looked down. We drove straight. He looked down. He couldn’t keep his horny eyes off of my sweaty balls. I felt uncomfortable. Hungover. Pasty. Sweaty. Horny. And uncomfortable. We slowly approached the stop sign at Village Parkway and Carlton. The same stop sign that I last saw my Dad. SAD. LONELY. I began to reach for the door handle with that same right hand. But old Greek man continued to drive. “It was right there. That’s where I need to get out,” I said anxiously. “We go for drive. Not long. Okay?” Greek man said back. “WHY?” I said right back to him. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” He was persistent. He was old. He was Greek. He was small. And he was horny. We drove away. Away from that stop sign. That stop sign at Village Parkway and Carlton. As we drove the old man looked at my crotch again. I was uncomfortable. I was sweaty. I was pasty. Not knowing where we were going. Not much was said. The old man then touched my left leg. Rubbed my left leg. My dick began to grow. Not sure why. Dick was hard. Dick was big. Cars everywhere. Cars behind us. Cars in front of us. Cars on the other side of the road. Cars on the same side. Greek man kept rubbing. My dick kept growing. Now his right hand was rubbing my big dick. Rubbing and rubbing. It felt good. I hated what this old Greek man was doing but it felt good. “You very big. You very big,” Greek man said referring to my big rock hard penis. “Thanks,” I replied. I was stunned. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Hardly could hear. Old Greek man then unbuttoned my grey beach shorts and really started stroking my throbbing penis. He was stroking. I was sitting. I could feel an explosion coming. Not sure where we were now. Not at Village Parkway and Carlton. Sweating. Sweating. Sweating. One last stroke and explosion all over my grey shorts. All over his right hand. I was instantly embarrassed. Instantly ashamed. He was furious. “WHY YOU GO SO FAST? WHY YOU GO SO FAST?” He looked at me in disgust. I looked down in shame. Still sweating. Looking out window. Seeing again. Seeing cars. Hearing silence. Feeling SHAME. ALL KINDS OF SHAME. Old Greek man turned around and drove back towards THAT STOP SIGN. That stop sign at Village Parkway and Carlton. Drive was silent. Not a word. Stared straight ahead. Not horny anymore. Drove. Quiet. Silence. Wondering. SHAME. EMBARRASSMENT. FEAR. NUMB. LIFE. DAD. DAD. DAD. DAD. I kept thinking of my Dad. Car stopped. I got out. That stop sign once again. WHY??? WHY DID I KEEP THINKING OF MY DAD??? I said thanks and walked home. Opened front door. Walked in and went to bed. No summer school. No Dad. No innocence. But had me a pair of Bruce Springsteen tickets. Life is great.

February 17, 1978.
My Dad waves to us at the bus stop. It is cold. Snowy. I am ten years old. Dom is seven. My Dad…thirty-six. He waves and smiles and then drives away in his brown station wagon to work. We wait for the bus to come. Standing. Shivering. Playing. Waiting.
The yellow school bus finally arrives and we jump in. the bus ride was uneventful. It always is. We arrive at school. Dad arrives at work. Crang and Boake. I don’t know where Mom is. Dad enters the office doors and sits at his desk. His drafting table. Mom…still don’t know. I sit in class thinking about the weekend ahead. Wishing I could go to my brother’s soccer practice with my Dad. But I can’t. Dom is not going so Dad is not going to drive all the way back to Unionville to pick me up. School ends. Work ends. Still don’t know where Mom is. Take the bus home. Sit in the back with Schuster, George, Jennings, and Booth. We yell, “Marge is an asshole. Marge is an asshole.” I don’t know why, but we did. Get off the bus with Dom. Go home. Mom was there. She took Dom to Andre Bohus’ birthday party. I don’t know where I went. Dad was at the soccer practice. Dom and Mom came home in about two hours. Dom and I ate pizza subs from Mr. Sub. Not sure what my Mom ate. Probably nothing. Never does. Finished the subs and went upstairs to playfight or pillowfight. I think pillowfight. Not sure who was winning. The room was small. Filled with two single beds. The door was closed. Soon it was open. My Mom standing there with Keith Mingham. Scared. Frightened. Terrified. “There’s been an accident,” Keith said. “Get your stuff,” Mom said. “We’ll drop you at the Vine’s house,” she continued. “Who?” I asked. “Who’s been in the accident?” “Your Dad,” Keith replied. “Is it a broken leg?” I asked. “Yeah, something like that,” Keith replied once again. So Dom and I rushed and got our stuff together to go to the Vine’s house. Keith and my Mom in the front seat. Dom and I in the back. Not sure what kind of car. I think a small green station wagon. Don’t remember the ride to the Vine’s house. When we got there Dom and I went in. Gerry Vine was there. He looked concerned as he briefly spoke with my Mom and Keith. I sensed there was something more serious with my Dad than a broken leg. Keith and my Mom drove away. Fast. Scared. Silent. Dom and I played hockey at the Vine’s house. Only Gerry was there. Waiting for his wife and kids to get home. Don’t remember if they came home. The phone ringing. Gerry answering. Quietly saying, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” That’s when I knew my Dad had died. The night went on. Not sure if Gerry’s kids came home. I asked Gerry if he had heard any news on my Dad but he said, “No…not yet.” I knew he was lying but I don’t blame him. I don’t think it was up to him to tell me that the most important person in the whole world to me had just died. Devastated. Not Gerry’s job.
The night went on. Dom and I in Steve’s room. Gerry’s son. Steve not there. Dom and I lying down. Not sleeping. Tossing. Turning. Thinking. Thinking about Dad. Scared. Terrified. “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees playing on the radio. Hoping. Praying. I believed back then. Praying. Hoping. Dad still alive. Darkness in the room. Dom sleeping. Not knowing. Too young. Me? Still tossing. Eyes open. Thinking. And thinking. And thinking. The next morning arrives. Still at the Vine’s. still no Mom. Still no Dad. Still not sure about Gerry’s kids. They might have been there. We ate Toasted Western sandwiches with ketchup. Played ball hockey. I was the goalie. We had fun. Not knowing what had happened to Dad. To Mom. Nora Vine, Gerry’s wife, came into the basement and told us it was time to go. Go to our Uncle Mac’s and Auntie Marion’s. “HOPE DAD IS ALIVE,” was my only thought. We got dressed once again and went into Nora`s silver Mustang. The ride was quiet. Very quiet. Unusual. Scared. Lonely. Do not remember the drive. My memory not good. We arrived at Uncle Mac’s and Auntie Marion’s grey townhouse. The corner one. We got out of the Mustang and proceeded to the house. We rang the doorbell and waited. The door opened. It was Auntie Marion. Her eyes were watery. Red. She opened the door widely and we slowly walked in. I looked into the living room and saw my Mom sitting on the big chair with her white and blue housecoat on. Tears flowing down her small face uncontrollably. She couldn’t stop. I started bawling. Ran to my Mom. Put my arms around her. “Where’s Dad? Where’s Dad?” I screamed. She cried more. Squeezed me harder. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. “Where’s Dad?” screaming louder. Crying. Stalling. Pausing. Auntie Marion interjected. “Your Dad has had an accident Chris.” She said it softly. Crying herself. “He didn’t make it.” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I screamed. Looked around. Lost. Hurt. Shaking. Sobbing. Snot flowing. “NOOOOOOOOOO.” I continued. “WHY??? WHY??? WHY??? WHAT HAPPENED???” I continued to scream. Everyone crying still. Trying to hold me. Me still shaking. “It’s going to be okay Chris,” Auntie Marion replied. I kept crying…and crying…and crying. Holding my Mom. Not sure what Dom was doing. A household of tears. Still not letting go of my Mom. Kleenex. Kleenex. And more kleenex. Max Webster album. We walked downstairs. Mrs. Vine. Auntie Marion. My cousin Nicole. Not sure where my Mom was. Alone. Lost. Sad. Devastated. Distraught. Scared. Terrified.
Downstairs. Still crying. And crying. And crying. People trying to cheer me up. Trying to make me laugh. Not working. “DAD??? WHERE ARE YOU???”
I wanted to see him. Wanted to hold him. Wanted to save him. Wanted to touch him. Wanted to hug him. Wanted to kiss him. DAD? DAD? DAD?
Mrs. Vine leaves…I think. Mom still in white and blue housecoat. Crying. Missing. Remembering. The grey townhouse on the corner. Friday February 17, 1978. Mr. Subs. Pizza Subs. Keith Mingham. “Staying Alive”. The phonecall to Gerry Vine. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO”. Toasted Western sandwiches. Ball hockey. Mrs. Vine`s grey Mustang. The doorbell. Auntie Marion. And finally Mom. Mom in her blue and white housecoat in the middle of the living room. Sitting on the big chair. Curled up and bawling. WHY.? I have always wondered WHY. Why did my Dad have to die? Why so young? Why did he die the way he did? Why didn`t I stop him from going to that soccer practice? And finally, why didn`t I get a chance to say “GOOD-BYE”?
I MISS YOU SO MUCH DAD. WHY???

bored. tired. look around the room and see nothing. was she even here last night? i’m naked under the sheets. i look and see nothing but blood stained sheets. what happened? what happened? my last memory was last call. 2 am. hot. sweaty. horny. red. always red at last call. red from heat. red from booze. red from embarrassment. nothing changes. ever. i get out of bed and gingerly walk towards my bedroom door. open it. listen. nothing. silence. i tippy-toe down the hallway. look in the bathroom. nothing. i could have sworn i fucked that pig last night. fat. old. wrinkled. bloody. but where is she? normally i leave after fucking. the situation is now reversed. why did she leave? was i not good? thoughts racing through my scattered mind. head pounding from too much booze and too many thoughts. normal. i wish i could be normal. just once. wake up beside my normal wife and have a normal kiss and then have normal coffee with our normal daughter who is eating normal cereal beside us. i look in the mirror and notice a large bruise under my right eye. i look closer and see scratch marks. i also see sweat. lots of sweat. always hot. my mind racing more than ever. i quickly turn off the lights and go back to my bedroom. look around. no evidence. i walk to my window and look outside. a cop car is parked in front. two cops approach. what to do? what to do?
HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!