Lone De-Ranger co mix books

People say I write a lot about bars, but in fact I write in bars, and the clientele make the environment the writing is framed in. I have to get out of my tiny apartment at night, to think, minus the two cats clawing me for attention, and the two house mates crammed into the one bedroom shoe box urban poverty necessitates. The phone reins my dreams with people wanting things I can’t effectively provide, ringing incessantly with new demands I disappoint, invoking judgments which poison me. Get me the hell out of here, I think, bracing myself to the new onslaught of narrow-minded PMS, my narcissistic bad-cop house mate is pressure cooking, to expose my fragile soul with. Where’s my bag? I hope there’s a pencil inside it. I find places where people don’t know me, and I can relax. It’s challenging, when you live in a small neighborhood, and everyone’s seen you around. They want to know what you’re doing, scribbling in the corner, opening bills, and shuffling art supplies across distressed paper torn from telephone poles.


I’m the lone de-ranger, Neil exclaimed, his stud-colt stick pony all strangely imbued with life, quizzically watches the crowd from his right fist, clenched lovingly around it its wooden mane. The characters were thick as nails, and the music was clearly eccentric. Old films flickered on the black and white Televison, long ago affixed to the wall, and here encircled with art supplies, no longer stupefied with depression and regret, Max found the passion he’d laid within himself for safekeeping as a child.