The Official Hog Blog
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
She was leaning down, peering into a tiny pile of ashes she'd created on the ground in front of the old firehouse on Tarentel Hill. Her face was craggy and lines had burrowed their way into her forehead as she flipped her hair about and curled her lips around a deftly held cigarette. She muttered to herself, and moved the ashes around with her free hand. Her hands were filthy. Her face was filthy, and her clothes smelled of rotten food. The ash pile was the culmination of entire packs of cigarettes.
Passersby dropped coins in front of her, but she wasn't a panhandler. She didn't even pay attention to the nickles that accumulated in front of her, only the pile of ashes that she'd built up.
Three or four unlit cigarettes laid next to her. As she muttered, she'd pick up the unlit ones and draw make-believe in the air with them, like they were imaginary sharpies and she was signing autographs, or that she was at a black board and needed to explain a theorem.
"There she is," whispered my bunny boy into my ear as we sneaked through the bushes behind her, "didn't I tell you? I think she's lost her mind, man. The government, or the scientists, or maybe the aliens did this to her.
"She was fine until I ran into you," I said
Thursday, June 23, 2005
I still love the pistons.
especially Rasheed Wallace
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
From a bathroom stall:
"My ass tastes like steak"
and
"Grand Rapids never had a 'scene'"
