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I have tried to be an honest man, but now it appears to be all for naught. A man can only do so much to make up for his lifetime of treachery and deceit. It's time for me to be honest, to come clean, to perform the public enema of confession using the sweet honeysuckle-scented water of clarity thrust forward by the mighty bulb syringe of that is this blog-space.

Yes, there was a time in my youth, before you knew me, when I went by a different name. I remember in that time I was walking along a street, without a home, without a family, with no place to go... for that next hour or so during my lunch break between classes at the boarding school my parents had sent me to. I remember standing there, looking through a window, with nothing but a thin pane of glass between myself and survival. So I smashed it. It took me another minute or so to get the thing hotwired, but you can be sure I drove out of there like a bat out of hell. By that I mean whoever it was had a Meatloaf CD in the stereo. They didn't deserve that car. It was more a liberation than theft.

I've spent all my time since then running, taking what work I could: street mime, Tilt-a-Whirl operator, phone-sex-line worker. My high-pitched woman's voice was finally put to some use. And once, at my lowest, in my street-mime days, a kindly old bishop walked up to me and offered me $50 so that he might "ransom my soul from fear and hatred and give it back to God, right after the handjob."

That was the turning point for me. No, not into full-time prostitution. To this. Where I am now. With this blog, meant to be an outlet for me to be truthful on a massive public stage for potentially the whole world to see.

But I've been neglectful. I have fallen into old habits. This whole blog, as I've said in the past, is all lies. Upwards of 90% at least. I don't even know which parts of it are true anymore.

And now my inability to reform--to truly reform--has come back to haunt me at last. The jig is up, my lovelies. The hounds have been re-unleashed.

The Police are getting back together.

Did you think that name was some kind of ironic joke? Gordon Sumner, Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland... terriers, all of them. And they tolerate criminality the way my digestive system tolerates lactic acid. Which is to say: not bloody well.

I had it free and clear over the last twenty years when Sumner took that little hiatus to go off and make elevator jazz. In the interim, they passed the job on to the Texas Rangers, which... I mean, come on. Let's just say I haven't been too worried what with their most high profile guy not exactly Sherlock Holmes when it comes to finding things he's charged with finding and the other complication of the whole organization locked in the cellar of the American League Western Division for the better part of... forever.

The free ride is over. I don't have to put on the red light. The red light is coming for me. The only thing I can hope is to appeal to their sense of mercy. But I've seen what they do to whole audiences full of people: they rock without pity. Therefore I am doomed.

Labels: alopecia

- posted by Pops @ 9:39 AM