Ten Digits and more...

Ten Digits



Of course she thought that cool guys did not feel break-up pain.

That allowed him to be a Cool Guy too.

Facial expression aside Cool Guys are immune from the normal stress of loss.

It's from that bold body of judgement that they pick their shoes.

And an outstanding shoe is only one less component away from being a Cool Guy.

Still' you think : "Those shoes cost more than a my patent leather Moroccan Living room set."

Cool Guys get a lot of sex. They probably have to turn it down. Not up to standard.

That was the answer, he determined. Why be upset. There was redemption ten digits away.

That's how it began .

"You want to leave this relationship. Well go on. I can have another "You"  in a minute."


"Your replacement is only ten digits away."


"You Must not Know About Me"  .... Was  Cool Guy's Byline.

That no one is 'Irreplaceable" ... could not be made too clear, or to early.

Or too Beyonce.

And the next ten digits later he had an Hawaiian Pizza loaded with extra parmesan and mushrooms in hand and was watching an old Episode of Friends. On the genuine Moroccan leather lounge chair.

Because what Cool Guy ever needed a 'couch' anyway.


The first lie they teach you is:

Happiness makes up for in height what it lacks in length.

Nice sounding bullshit.

Even Harvard will tell you that:

"The pain of failure goes in far  deeper than does the joy of happiness and success."

Which is the evil sounding kind of shit that sticks to the wall.

Ten digits. Never any pain. Endless disposable pussy.

Just consider it.

Where's the harm in that ? 

GIRL 1Girls do It





A Dead Porcupine, She, a Cunt & Your Father's Poop


When I saw her I had to meet her.


The way she held her tits. The background noise ... a baby crying.

Shifty. But mostly the way she moved.

When I read good shit it paints a picture.

Later she said: "You know what I am to you, right?" "I am your Bitch." 

She did that a lot, as it turned out.   

She found the hard button and watched his zipper rise.

"I'm not going to fuck you. " He wished he

had said at the time.

But she read him first, and painted that picture. And the lie was premature on it's face.

Men do that alot. Be cool and lose. Which is problematic. Partly because Men lie.

Not as fluently as the women lie. But men get caught. Women get away.

And Men forget 3 am. When the need hits.

Because need is ugly, it gets the 3 am shift. 

Because men are ugly or beautiful or reminiscent, they generally end up where I am right this second.

The tit girl had many colloquial tips for him. And she could spell  'could spell'.

"I can spell all the words that I know."

You have to take some women at their word. With tits like that.

He was a leg man.

But great tits were like good blood gravy on a Porterhouse steak.

You came on them.

I mean, that was always an option. And what God-fearing male Patriot does not appreciate a few options.

And at the very least, great tits could not be treated as mere happenstance.

First, it even gives you something to talk about with tit-guys. Like a different viewpoint.

It's all about respecting different beliefs.

And loving your Mother. Who taught you the critical survival skills implicit in the survival of a man in a woman's world.

Fortunately, early on he learned, after pain, rejection, fat broads and Gaviscon, to do the exact opposite of everything that his mother had taught him, about dating girls.

He didn't blame his Mother. She had done her best. And still ended up with Dave, his Dad.

Who was a total cunt.

As in  : "Wanted. Insipid rhetorical comments, for years, and being a cunt."

As a child, and this was, as he had expected, seminal to his own development ..  so  .. at about seven, the Mormon Cliff for moral sloe-mo decline, assuming gravity, he had smelled his father's poop.

Granted it was a hot day, by the second floor bathroom in the Tudor Brick Estate house that Dave had inherited from his step-Mom. But it only got worse from there. 

Poop, like ketchup, has no expiry date. It is one of the few things that actually diminishes in viral component ambivalence over time.

Sometimes in the Fall, his family went camping.

Once while peeing he had discovered a dead porcupine. Almost dead. It's dorsal mid-thoracic through to the ass end had been crushed.

He had guessed a car. On the adjoining secondary road.

Then he had pee'd on it in self-defence.

And then the Por-cup-pine  shifted..and almost most appeared to sigh, in a Winnie-The-Pooh kind of way.

That was the worst smell, up to that time, he had yet encountered. And that was in open country.

He felt both exceptionally sorry and somewhat panicked from that day on. Not by the Porcupine.

Sincerity grounded in belief and broadcast with the appearance of integrity  is doomed. If only because of the belief.

That day he understood entirely against his will his own Mother's life.

Meaning her life with Dave.

The cunt.








Posh Drinks


He checked his watch. It dated him pre-2000. No one checked a watch anymore.He was in synch.

Now and then he checked in with himself, too. 

"I know that I am acting." He always began.

And then he acted because if you know you are acting, it's still ok, right?

Coke made him act better. But not really. More like all the time.

He was a Secret Agent, predictably. All the guys liked that one the best.

The danger. The girls. The excitement. The girls. 


His cheeks were a little fleshier now, because he had started drinking again. Two years on the wagon, a spontaneous decision. Gym every nite. 

But over 4 months, fewer and fewer ... 

Johnny Depp. Amber Heard. 52 and married 15 months, and now this.

If you know you're acting, it's ok, right ?

It was beginning to make sense. 




Consenting to be Wrecked

Examples can be helpful. Partly because they illustrate .

If your girlfriend describes in more explicit detail just what she is going to do to you that night, she is often depositing an immediate example. She is posting an 'hypothetical info-commercial " .

This works, because the most powerful consistent force within a person's life is both hidden, and is grounded in "beliefs."

What you believe, at the core, defines your future actions. Of course. But it need not determine what you do right now.

This is because  'beliefs' are in resident memory. This means that they are stored close by, draw upon, called up, applied and instigated after or even during the immediate life experience. When you examine what is going on, your brain will quickly scan and interpret that series of events against the backdrop of your 'Beliefs'.

If, for example, I give to you a gun, and say to you: "Go kill John." You will not even consider doing that if you believe in the core value of a human life, and/or fear punishment, and/or you are a passivist specific to 'killing a man', and for all of the usual reasons.

However, if you believe that your primary purpose in life is to eradicate from the world all bad people, and you have been further educated, experienced, designed to believe that John is a 'Bad Person", you may consider killing John. You might even do it.

And, as against that backdrop, what could be more important than 'What my girlfriend and her scandalous dirty mind has in mind for me in three hours."

Immediate circumstance, cast against the theory, or against a 'belief' [that at some point, even after she, or a friend, or even the Police, or a prying neighbour, releases you from the handcuffs anchored to the bedposts] that this could be painful, does not persuasively [if at all] enter the picture.

It doesn't even seem to matter that this same woman tried to light you on fire with Bar-B-Que igniter last July. Or that you suffered third degree burns. She will of course promise not to do anything after you utter the "Safe Word" this time. 

Resident memory (Beliefs) are far less powerful than most people understand. This, in part,  accounts for the numerous scandalous events that seem to plague every respected, family-type brilliant ground-shaking/breaking/earth quaking human being in historical recess.

No, I am not going to list these people for you.

You have read with relish these 'Society Front Page' fuck-ups .. yes you have .. like a family of  Menonites slowing down to view another gruesome high speed highway [insert appropriate Highways and Infrastructure#] collision tragedy and then you have routinely subjected the same to your 'beliefs' and stored memory that these little vignettes have been given into your 'belief memory' ("Well, that would never happen to me .. because ...) and then moved on to your next likely boring/disapointing  destination.

And I am going to tell you why this is sad.

And that, by way of demonstrative evidence,  was a bit of foreshadowing, as my beloved English 10 teacher put it. 

Elsie Park-Gowan.

I promised Elsie that one day I would be  famous. I was, but for all of the wrong reasons.

But then, the deal was .. "Be Famous, and then mention me as the reason. "

Kind of a strange promise to make to a seventy-one year-old English teacher in an upper-middle class highschool in 1969. So Elsie will, I expect, excuse me for not mentioning her as that reason. 

I am told, but I doubt it, that everyone has  (at least) 'one special teacher" in their lives. The one who 'gets' them, and perhaps even 'connects', and propels them forward.

My last word to Elsie at the time, in response to her solemn (and, I know, heartfelt) direction that I:

"Find a career in writing. Do not waste your gift Warren. "


" But Ms. Park-Gowan, writing doesn't pay any money. "

And that is where we left it.

She was seventy-two, I later learned, when she found love, in a man.

Elsie was quite a pretty girl, in the pictures that she could paint with  words, that came true.

But that doesn't happen. It only happens to people like Elsie.






Backfield in Motion

Three steps Sally. Bar car bed.

Some had four steps. None more than that in this neighborhood.

I met her after those years, too. She was a nurse. Just turned full-time. She was working to "make a life".

Still partied hard though. I took her to the Marriot off-the -strip in "Vegas".

You can't describe a body like that. It's like driving a wet windy ocean mountain road at high speed down the windward side sliced over an ocean of tequila and ivory liquid also high on something past the music blasting. Lots of sudden dips and hairpin turns made in easy desperation.

Sally wasn't easy, or desperate. But she was all of those two words together.

There was never anything to do in Vegas. There was lots of great las Vegas stuff like shows and clubs and shopping.

But there was never anything that came to mind on floor 62 of the Trump after the champagne and raspberries arrived. Shit just happened. There was no time to plan anything. There was a fire to put out.

Backfield in motion ...

She was a lot of fun. Sally 1-2-3.




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