(This is what can happen if you've had too much wine before posting on your blog.)

Why did I leave California, if I liked it so much, you ask. Hmph! I was dragged, I tell you! Dragged, from my California home, my fingers digging into the rich soil, over the mountains and through the woods, leaving civilization behind forever, forced to follow the man I didn't love, into the wilds of godforsaken UTAH! Utah - land of the setting sun. Dark superstition and light madness. There was nowhere to run, no one to turn to as I battled the demons of the desert.

But was that bad enough? No! Of course not! Five years later, when my torn and ragged fingers had finally healed, the March of Whines was resumed. Off into the always rising sun we drove, finally stopping at the Beast of the East, Lancaster Pennsylvania.

After several more years of suffering, my wild ride was resumed, this time led by a Greek God, truly, the God of Lust, who rose from the ashes of my incinerated libido and raised me to heights never known in the Mountain State. I became a poet!

I am Zeldor! See me soar!
Never again shall I muffle my voice or deny my choice!
I will lead the parade in the March of Rhymes.
I will reside in the middle of the riddle.
There can be no worse verse.
I will pine for the sublime.
But I will never be clever.
I will moan alone.
I won't try.
Goodbye.

Take Me To Your Lender

I was flat broke and needed some money to pay the rent. So, I hailed a cab and told the Arab, or Indian, or whatever the hell he was - he had brown skin and some kind of fucking accent I couldn't understand, and even though I was a skank, I wanted to be polite - anyway, I asked him to take me to the Screw U Mortgage and Loan Company on 69th St. Now...we started out on 35th St, and this Raghead starts driving south toward the lower numbers instead of north, toward 69th! I said, "Wait a minute, you're going the wrong way!" He have me some ishkabibble about road work or something, and I said, "Look, Mister, if I had money to burn, I wouldn't be going to a fucking loan company, would I? Now turn this fucker around, or I'm going to shoot myself in the goddamn head!"

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"Oh no! Please don't do that, Madam. My last customer did that and it cost me the price of a camel to clean up the mess!"

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Then he turned around and re-set the meter, if you can believe it. So I had to give him credit for that, and resolved not to call him a Raghead anymore, even if I hadn't actually said it out loud. Not that I would have anyway, you see, because to me, "a rag" means a Kotex! You know, like when you're in your period, you say, "I can't fuck you tonight, Johnny, because I'm on the rag."

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So anyway, we got to the mortgage company and I paid the Kotex-head his lousy $20 and even gave him a tip, "Kelso in the 4th," but he didn't get it, so I called him Poopy-head douchebag, and the cab took off like a camel in heat.

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It was hot in the mortgage office too. I sat in front of a desk, with some little twerp in horn-rimmed glasses looking at me like I had just crawled out of a toilet and was sullying his dainty office chair. I started out being quiet and deferential, but after that schmuckette turned me down, I started yelling at him, which felt really good. I could feel the power boiling up in my gut and I reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels. "Lend THIS, Asswipe," and spit in his face.

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Of course, I had to get out of there fast, after that. I hailed a cab and told the new raghead to take me to the racetrack. I was going to put my last 20 bucks on Kelso in the 4th.