Girl Trouble

Call it the Y2K baby boom. No electricity, running water or heat. No TV, music, refrigerator, porno movies, computers, internet browsing . . . what the hell is there left to do? Around October of the year 00 we will see what there is left to do, the only thing left to do. Better find someone you really want to be with and can't get enough of now. Sex is the only solution to Y2K.

But that's not what this column is about. In fact, I wouldn't be writing this column if I could play the digeridoo. Or if I still had my Les Paul Special. Or if I had a Porsche 911. Or if I had an agent and a book deal. Or if I was a heroine (sic) addict or a junkie. Or if people like Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra or Shaquille

ing hard that day I wanted to go pick some hemlock for myself up in Forest Park, or if I was the one found lying under the Greyhound bus instead of the guy sitting next to me the night the bus spun out at 70mph on I-70, trying to outrun a Pennsylvania blizzard. And I probably wouldn't be writing this if the Jamaican prostitute had kept coming at me with two broken bottles (Red Stripe) instead of stopping as soon as she saw my blood. Crying. Take me back. I didn't. I left. And I definitely wouldn't be writing this if my hitchhiking buddy hadn't thrown me to the ground in Provo, Utah on Labor Day when a pick-up truck threw open their passenger side door, aiming at me--walking with my back turned to traffic. In fact, considering the odds, I shouldn't even be here. "All life is six to five . . . against," Damon

together again/

When the demon is at your door, in the morning it won't be there/

No more/

Any major dude would tell ya."

I probably wouldn't be writing this column if people could just stay together in one place, if opposites didn't attract, if fire didn't yearn to extinguish itself, if water didn't like to boil, if Elvis didn't like grilled peanut butter and cheese sandwiches with a pound of bacon for breakfast, if Marilyn Monroe hadn't been killed by the CIA because she knew too much and they saw they could get away with it, so . . . We live in a right-handed universe. The DNA molecule is a spiral staircase spinning counter clockwise, right to left, up the ladder. I probably wouldn't be writing this if my Mother hadn't forced me to go

O'Neil and his ego could just get along. I wouldn't be writing this column if there was more love and less attitude--free love, that is, not the kind you pay for with your very soul. I probably wouldn't be writing this column if Marilyn Monroe, John and Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King and Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon and Elvis were still alive. And if the Beatles hadn't broken up, or if Karen Carpenter could have eaten Mama Cass' ham sandwich, or if she and I hadn't broken up, or if the president didn't get caught or if Monica wasn't fat, or if I was thin or if you had something better to do than read this swill.

I wouldn't be writing this if poets got paid a King's ransom and Corporate execs worked for minimum wage, or if the wages of sin had paid me better or if I had made that wager on black instead of red on that one true spin of the wheel. But hey, you got to like red. Better off red than dead. I wouldn't be writing this column if we could reproduce asexually like some reptiles do, or if the snake hadn't offered Eve the apple, or if Socrates and Romeo and Juliette hadn't killed themselves with hemlock, or if it wasn't snow

Runyon wrote, supposedly quoting the great Legs Diamond. Same odds as making a six or an eight before you roll a seven at craps. So just keep rolling. The dice have no memory . . . of all the lucky passes and hardway hops. The dice are not sentient beings. That's the first lesson at craps.

But we are. So be advised, "The only way out is through."

"Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall." She'll tell you: "One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small." It's your choice, which one. We're on the other side of the mirror now. Making it up as we go along. I'm just an observer, filing a report. In the world of 1's and 2's, either/or, duality, binary system, only two digits for the date, we've come to 00. Time to shut down. Start over. Making wh(00)pee. Making babies. Birth and death. Winning and losing. Any gambler will tell you, they're both the same. And there's no escaping the percentage.

"Any major dude with half a heart surely would tell you my friend/

Any amount of world that breaks apart falls

right, being born ambidextrous and showing no preference by the time I was four. I still rebel by masturbating with my left, and I'm very left brained, so . . . I probably wouldn't be writing this if I had married my Pollack in pig tails girl friend when I was five, like I wanted to. Playing Sleeping Beauty together behind the rows of sooty red brick duplexes. Her family had literally escaped the concentration camps. Come to America. Pittsburgh. Her father worked in the steel mills. Did you ever see pig iron getting dumped down a man-made mountain of slag on a hot August night? Dante's Inferno lights up the sky. "These eyes have seen things," Rutger Hauer begins his dying soliloquy near the end of Blade Runner.

I probably wouldn't be writing this but the Editor tells me I have to file a report to keep him/her happy. Still rolling, six to five against, trying to make my point . . . before the shooter sevens out.

Footnote: non-attributed quotes, in order: Aleister Crowley, Grace Slick, Steely Dan.


Call it the Y2K baby boom. No electricity, running water or heat. No TV, music, refrigerator, porno movies, computers, internet browsing . . . what the hell is there left to do? Around October of the year 00 we will see what there is left to do, the only thing left to do. Better find someone you really want to be with and can't get enough of now. Sex is the only solution to Y2K. But that's not what this column is about. In fact, I wouldn't be writing this column if I could play the digeridoo. Or if I still had my Les Paul Special. Or if I had a Porsche 911. Or if I had an agent and a book deal. Or if I was a heroine (sic) addict or a junkie. Or if people like Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra or Shaquille	ing hard that day I wanted to go pick some hemlock for myself up in Forest Park, or if I was the one found lying under the Greyhound bus instead of the guy sitting next to me the night the bus spun out at 70mph on I-70, trying to outrun a Pennsylvania blizzard. And I probably wouldn't be writing this if the Jamaican prostitute had kept coming at me with two broken bottles (Red Stripe) instead of stopping as soon as she saw my blood. Crying. Take me back. I didn't. I left. And I definitely wouldn't be writing this if my hitchhiking buddy hadn't thrown me to the ground in Provo, Utah on Labor Day when a pick-up truck threw open their passenger side door, aiming at me--walking with my back turned to traffic. In fact, considering the odds, I shouldn't even be here. "All life is six to five . . . against," Damon	together again/ When the demon is at your door, in the morning it won't be there/ No more/ Any major dude would tell ya." I probably wouldn't be writing this column if people could just stay together in one place, if opposites didn't attract, if fire didn't yearn to extinguish itself, if water didn't like to boil, if Elvis didn't like grilled peanut butter and cheese sandwiches with a pound of bacon for breakfast, if Marilyn Monroe hadn't been killed by the CIA because she knew too much and they saw they could get away with it, so . . . We live in a right-handed universe. The DNA molecule is a spiral staircase spinning counter clockwise, right to left, up the ladder. I probably wouldn't be writing this if my Mother hadn't forced me to go

O'Neil and his ego could just get along. I wouldn't be writing this column if there was more love and less attitude--free love, that is, not the kind you pay for with your very soul. I probably wouldn't be writing this column if Marilyn Monroe, John and Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King and Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon and Elvis were still alive. And if the Beatles hadn't broken up, or if Karen Carpenter could have eaten Mama Cass' ham sandwich, or if she and I hadn't broken up, or if the president didn't get caught or if Monica wasn't fat, or if I was thin or if you had something better to do than read this swill. I wouldn't be writing this if poets got paid a King's ransom and Corporate execs worked for minimum wage, or if the wages of sin had paid me better or if I had made that wager on black instead of red on that one true spin of the wheel. But hey, you got to like red. Better off red than dead. I wouldn't be writing this column if we could reproduce asexually like some reptiles do, or if the snake hadn't offered Eve the apple, or if Socrates and Romeo and Juliette hadn't killed themselves with hemlock, or if it wasn't snow	Runyon wrote, supposedly quoting the great Legs Diamond. Same odds as making a six or an eight before you roll a seven at craps. So just keep rolling. The dice have no memory . . . of all the lucky passes and hardway hops. The dice are not sentient beings. That's the first lesson at craps. But we are. So be advised, "The only way out is through." "Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall." She'll tell you: "One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small." It's your choice, which one. We're on the other side of the mirror now. Making it up as we go along. I'm just an observer, filing a report. In the world of 1's and 2's, either/or, duality, binary system, only two digits for the date, we've come to 00. Time to shut down. Start over. Making wh(00)pee. Making babies. Birth and death. Winning and losing. Any gambler will tell you, they're both the same. And there's no escaping the percentage. "Any major dude with half a heart surely would tell you my friend/ Any amount of world that breaks apart falls	right, being born ambidextrous and showing no preference by the time I was four. I still rebel by masturbating with my left, and I'm very left brained, so . . . I probably wouldn't be writing this if I had married my Pollack in pig tails girl friend when I was five, like I wanted to. Playing Sleeping Beauty together behind the rows of sooty red brick duplexes. Her family had literally escaped the concentration camps. Come to America. Pittsburgh. Her father worked in the steel mills. Did you ever see pig iron getting dumped down a man-made mountain of slag on a hot August night? Dante's Inferno lights up the sky. "These eyes have seen things," Rutger Hauer begins his dying soliloquy near the end of Blade Runner. I probably wouldn't be writing this but the Editor tells me I have to file a report to keep him/her happy. Still rolling, six to five against, trying to make my point . . . before the shooter sevens out. Footnote: non-attributed quotes, in order: Aleister Crowley, Grace Slick, Steely Dan.