CHAPTER 3

I was not particularly heavy on friends. In fact the word did not exist in my vocabulary. I knew a couple of dirt bags I ran into on my way to Hollywood from Altadena, when I'd visit my favorite little whore house. I abhor alcohol and junkies. These were your upstanding moralistic dirt bags. Hell you go to any public place now a days and they're full of these dirt bags. We've traded one addiction with either God, or Fucking, or Control for a tango with the other.

Common to these dirt bags is grass. How it came to such prominence I haven't discovered. I wish I could deliver some enlightening facts on the subject. Like: The Catholic church restricted the lending of money, however Judaism had no such restriction. Sure it had plenty of other ones, like the fact you could not eat out of a trough at dinner but had to have your own separate plate and utensils. So letting people borrow money led to 2,000 years of sticking sharp things through Jewish entrails and fire bombing of their lodgings.

Taking all that into account, the only fact I can deliver on Grass is, perhaps more anti-semites need a toke.

The threat of Grass is exponential. We'll be living in Bill and Ted Beyond Thunderdome. So these dirt bags drink good water, eat good food and flood the mind scape with debilitating ideas. Somewhere in these anti-something-or-other stances, you can find one or more of them saying something about legalizing Grass. As if making Grass legal is on par with world hunger, though a cause of a small percentage of it, Apartheid, or Nuclear disarmament. The specter of jail time for smoking grass is too hefty for them. What ever happened to the lone rider living dangerously putting it to the man. I tell you what though, dirt bags, they're good for a laugh!

The most peculiar one I met was an unassuming sadist. Half oriental, half Caucasian. I made sure never to let my back to him. Why that fucker was a sly one.

I met him in the hall of the whorehouse. He'd seen Lucy. Lucy was a short thing with braces. I'd never taken her up on account of a phobia I had.

“She's that good? I've never been that brave. I mean, what if she got pubes stuck in there? Then the Madam gets the sheers. You cant be certain of her shaky hands. Maybe she's tired, long shift, lots of hand jobs. I just don't like the odds.”

“I've never had a problem. The plus side, other than her ass, is her driving need to make sure you forget all about her braces.”

“And you with your coarse oriental pubes. If anyone was to have a problem, it'd be you. Alright I'm sold. Say, you don't get commission, referral fee, do you?”

“just a kind Samaritan.”

The mutt was roughly my age. I liked to refer to myself at that age as a young buck. I picked the term up from a black air force reservist who frequented the brothel as well.
I always liked the sound of it.

It is from this same guru that I learned of the illustrious and elusive “Snapping Pussy.” To this day, the phrase is still something of a secret handshake among me and the black men I encounter. To utter the words "snapping pussy" to a man of any other color and I am met with Stupefication. From brothers, I receive a knowing nod.

You will never hear me refer to any of the ladies at the sex for cash establishment as “Whores.” I've met plenty of whores at the bars. Women who fuck for the sole purpose of fucking, women as bad as men. No, my ladies of the whorehouse were finer creatures. These women were All American. This is what wall street was built on, besides a landfill. It's something different than those zombie sluts down on Hollywood Boulevard. The whorehouse was foreign to those dilapidated snuff movie houses that lined the boulevard. The mecca of dirt bags. Some things are sacred.

The universe of the dirt bags was something to behold. It was vibrant and full of life. Full of junkies and hookers and fog heads circling each other. The sounds they made and that the city made was closest to jazz. The reason their universe was so lively was because they were dying quickly. The half life of existence is music and art and spewed wallpaper and repugnant smells. These plutonium people sure were something to see.

My knowledge of the world and my lexicon expanded with each trip to the whorehouse. I was privy to the knowledge of the world from two separate wellsprings. That of my fathers library vast and full of the great Latin meditations on life and existence. My whorehouse the other, dripping rich with its seedy, degenerate provocateurs. Yin and Yang.

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