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Why did the Man cross the road? aka Poo Said That?

Stories About Fuck All and Everything




Why did the Man cross the road?

(aka Poo Said That?)

I went to High School in a small town. Once a month a couple of friends and I would catch a bus to the bigger town across the river to do some shopping, for want of a better phrase. I never actually bought many things as my family had little money. That meant I had a less than that, though I did earn pocket money from a few lawn-mowing gigs. I would merely browse at the record store and saved my money for the second hand books from the Book Exchange. I loved them. They may be dusty, musty, torn, yellow pages with a scribble of some oblique gift dedication, but I didn’t care. Science Fiction, Horror, Fantasy, I was a genre Junkie. The problem was I'd be so excited to visit the Exchange that by the time I got there, I needed to crap. My excitement gave me cramps. Not content with a mere calling to nature, my body insisted upon a dramatic and urgent expulsion. Despite my boyhood dreams, I never would have made an astronaut. Of course, there were no toilets nearby and it was often weeks between visits. I literally fantasised about the dusty corner where all my books were, (located just by the Western saloon style wooden swinging doors to the adult section. I never did visit that section though I thought I might when I was old enough. There was curiosity but only after Sci-Fi).




And so I would endure the pain, and trust me, it did hurt. It was a bloody cramp in the guts like Sigourney Weaver’s friend was trying to burst out. I had to rock from side to side to stave off the urges and when that didn't work I would cross my legs and clench my butt cheeks. Why did this happen? Especially when there were so many books to look through. I’d only get to browsing through the second book when I knew I just had to leave. I was forced to make a hasty selection, sometimes on cover alone, pay my dollar and waddle several blocks to the public toilets. It was so touch and go that I didn’t dare run, in case of Mr Peek-a-Boo.

I soon learnt to prioritise my brief schedule. The Book Exchange visit had to come last. On this day, my friends and I were heading to the record store, which didn't have the same effect on me but it was enough to kick-start a wind turbine.
The centre of town was like many middle-sized towns with its long straight criss-crossing streets. We were talking some inane rubbish that most teenagers talk about in groups, when a man who looked like he ate parking meters for a living appeared from between two parked cars and deliberately blocked our path. He looked like he was in his twenties, though anyone older than eighteen was merely an adult and therefore all the same. He had a medium length mullet that was chunky and facial skin that appeared groomed by a tiger. He pointed his fat calloused finger at our faces, especially mine, as I was in the middle of my friends. 'What'd you say about me car?' he said.
Huh? Came three blank but edgy faces.
'I heard what you said!'
'Didn't say...' I replied, just above a whisper. Or maybe just below it.
'I fuckin heard youse! You're lucky I don't punch ya fuckin heads in!'
He looked like he could do all three of us at once, with his arm behind his back. Probably with both arms. His mullet alone could have taken us out.
'If you see that car again you better fuckin watch it!' And then with a final scan of that fat greasy finger he turned and took off back between the cars and made his way across the road.
We looked to each other, totally frazzled. Now that it was over, I felt like I'd already been to the Book Exchange. Mr. Peek-a-Boo was saying hello.
'You must have said somethin!'
‘No, you musta!’
‘I didn’t say anything!’
‘You musta looked at him!’
‘I’ve never seen him before!’
‘His mullet scared me.’
After a triple-round of accusations, we were left alone with the mystery and the memory of that 'near mullet experience.'



To this day, I don't know what the hell he was talking about. It’s funny how something so ill-defined has stayed with me for so long.

By the way, I still love second-hands books but thank God for the internet.






Next week,
A New Poem.


Coming Soon,
A Guest Blogger,
Video Poetry.

Until then,
Have a great week

Writing Break - Creative Photography at Home - Part 2 of 2

Get ready to sing a song, break the wine, do the ho-down and have a good time.

It's called sleep deprivation folks.

A few days after Part 1, mildly pleased with the shots, I again donned the khaki outfit and the AK-47 and went back for Round 2.

It was tough out there. That's all I'll say. It's difficult for me to talk about.

(They look better enlarged. Click to enlarge).











It's been said before, but there is beauty in small things. Sometimes we tend to overlook them.

Writing Break - Creative Photography at Home - Part 1 of 2

In my limited spare time, I try to write or create videos and this can be a challenge in itself with a 6 month old. Hello! Daddy wants to write! Ahhhhhhh, but sometimes even I need a break from it. Clearly I can't go roaming the landscape taking exotic panoramas like I did when I was younger (and I've got lots of great shots from years of travelling so one day I may put some up), so with limited options, what the hell, I trek into the back yard.

Yep, the freakin back yard.

But...
Even the most mundane item has a type of beauty to it, if you look in a certain way. (Plenty of ugliness too but that's another story).

So here the first day's shots and a few days later I again donned the khaki outfit and the AK-47 and went back for Round 2.

(click photo to enlarge).


Round 1











It's a distraction from poems, videos and stories, but after the next part, I'll post an actual story and we can all drink a Irish coffee and sing a song.
Or something.
(Gimme a break, I got serious baby brain).

Hope to see you then.

What we can learn about people from observing babies.




Food is the Number One Priority in Life. Period.

Sometimes, we just don't know what we want.

We need routine, (even if we think we don't.)

Smiling can change someone's perception of you.

Whoever invented the term, 'Sleep like a baby' had never had one.


(Artist Naomi Dawson. Order prints at Red Bubble).


We connect with some strangers and not others, and who knows why.

We are much happier after a good crap.

A person's size is inversely proportional to the amount of noise they make.
(also known as Napoleon Syndrome).

We like the familiar.

Just because we cry doesn’t mean we’re sad.

Insisting on having it your way doesn't mean that it’s all going to work out.




We are by nature, contradictory.

We are easily entertained, but just as easily bored.

We don't always know what's good for us.

No matter how adorable you are, you can still be considered a pain in the ass.

It's impossible to be happy all the time.



Thanks to my daughter Tilly, who didn't really have to do anything but contributed to this post all the same.


Care to make any additions?


My Books



Video Poem - A Roaming Romantic Rejection
























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Feedback and suggestions welcome.
Thank you.

See you next time,