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EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK:
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For
Intelligent Life (EXODUS)
The Adobe
I moved into a
little studio apartment in a crappy section of the burnout belt
in Bridgeport. You had three types of people that found their
way in Bridgeport, those who started their beginnings there and
eventually move out, those just like barnacles, stay firmly
rooted their entire lives, and those like me, the unfortunates
who pass through on a downward spiral, like a meteor burning
out.
This area of
Bridgeport was set up like a twisted experiment of social
Darwinism on a day that God was feeling pissy. There were
many denizens that found their niches in my new neighborhood;
there were predators, muggers, and thieves. There was also the
human equivalent of little fish, flitting about, striving to eke
out their existence while avoiding the predators. Others were
equivalent of barnacles and jellyfish, waiting or floating
mindlessly about for distractions to ease their pain, to fill
their need. There were a few prostitutes and numerous drug
dealers plying their trade in response to the former.
I was not sure
which species of animal I fit into.
I tried to
imagine I was a porpoise that somehow found itself accidentally
swept into the murky waters of the “Bridgeport Triangle”
struggling to get my bearings, struggling to reverse my downward
spiral.
In my new
neighborhood, there were a lot of the toughs that were equipped
with reputations they had been carrying around for years. I
often caught them looking at me askance, but I had a reputation
also. I imagined this is why towards me they were edgy and
practiced begrudging civility.
My life in
Bridgeport consisted mostly of spending my meager disposable
income on partying and hanging out with friends, my surrogate
family. Holding down one job did not pay enough for me to live
the way I wanted, so I took on another job as janitor in the
evenings to finance my distractions of the flesh.
I often asked
myself, “Is this to be my niche for the rest of my life, a
janitor?”
Glenhardie was my
day gig. At Glenhardie, I worked with a hippy holdout from the
early sixties. He had made one of the storage rooms into his own
private apartment. I think he actually live there. During work
hours he’d spend half the day smoking pot, reading and listening
to music. I made a storage room in one of the four buildings I
cleaned into my office and weight room.
My new set-up
now enabled me to do my job, lift weights, read and hang out
with my friends at a nearby mall for four hours a day.
In Bridgeport,
I lived in a small tenement studio apartment. Like many of the
apartments on the block, the only entrance of my place opened
into a small kitchen. From the kitchen you pass into a small
area that doubled as a living room and bedroom. My place had
only a single bathroom with just a shower stall. The bathroom
was so small there was not enough room for a rat to have an
erection.
My apartment
was one of three in a building covered with old cracked stucco.
We affectionately called the building the “Adobe”.
Within the week
I met one of the neighborhood girls named Lori, just barely
legal age. Previous to me, she had been hooked up with one of
the local toughs; as soon as I moved into the neighborhood, she
decided she wanted a change of boyfriends. I had not known of
her priors until the tires of my car had been knifed several
times. The threatening phone calls from him confirmed my
suspicions that he was responsible for my tires getting slashed.
He also called to say he was going to kill me and had friends
throughout the neighborhood that would be glad to help him.
The word from
Lori, and the grapevine on the street, was that he was half-nuts
and carried a gun. To keep up my rep, I tried to hunt down the
maniac. The street required that I had to punish him for putting
holes in my tires. The street was not forgiving and would deem
anyone that did not punish those who trespass against them as
weak, easy prey to be destroyed. Since I was an Ex-Marine, I had
to keep up my rep.
He was a couch
surfer who did not have a place of his own, which made it
impossible to locate him. I heard he liked to live this way
because of his thriving drug peddling business. Rumor was, a lot
of people were looking for him. I was both frustrated and glad
that I never flushed him out. My anger competed heavily with my
fear. I never even met the guy. Aside from the sketchy
descriptions of him, I had no idea what he looked liked. My
effort to find him was honest and it did not go unnoticed by the
predators of Bridgeport. In their eyes, my honor remained
intact. I was someone to be wary of.
It was ironic
that all of this stress I had been forced into was because the
maniac was jealous that I was fooling around with Lori, -- his
ex. It was especially ironic since at the time I had not managed
to have sex with her. If I had been older and wiser, I would
never have associated myself with her. She was a tease and
actually instigated the wrath her former boyfriend felt towards
me intentionally.
But, against my
better judgment, the Mr. Hyde within me threw caution to the
wind. The biggest irony of all was that Lori, as much trouble as
she caused, never had sex with this former boyfriend. In fact,
not only was she an unbelievable tease, she was a virgin,
terrified of sex. She hid her virginity behind a show of nasty
sex talk, vigorous petting and foreplay.
She may very
well have been the first bona-fide virgin I had ever been with.
Getting her to go all the way was a challenge. It was tough
going at first. This was the same situation I had experienced
with other girls, afraid for various reasons to go all the way,
but wanting to. It was the old story of give and take. I had to
figure out what to give so I could take. Over the years, I
learned many women had to be worked up to a fever pitch; then I
would back off a bit. It was like trying to land a big fish. You
had to let the fish run a bit and then reel it in.
A lot of our
heavy petting sessions were like that. Lori was the toughest
fish to land at that point in my life. Sometimes a few women got
away and, of course, you always think about the one you nearly
landed.
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(GENESIS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(REVELATIONS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(JUDGMENT DAY)
THE MARINES: GOD'S CHOSEN
WARRIORS
VINCE'S GYM
ADVENTURES IN MARINE BIOLOGY
CONVERSATIONS WITH NEO
NEO TEACHES ME THE ART OF WAR
& PEACE;
His Version of The Matrix
MEMORIES OF MY FATHERS
ZEN & THE ART OF RESISTANCE
TRAINING:
A Yogic & Scientific Approach To Weight
Lifting
ZEN & THE BIOLOGY OF
TRANSCENDENCE:
The First Matrix of Psychic
Phenomena
ZEN & THE ART OF KINESIOLOGY:
The Yogic & Scientific
Approach To Movement
ZEN & YOUR ENERGY SYSTEMS
ZEN & VARIOUS ASPECTS OF
TRAINING
HOMEPAGE TO MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(EXODUS)
HOMEPAGE |
