If I have an hour long enough: I can finish my work.

W


hen I returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka from work, I found a person was sleeping in the under-utilized room between the kitchen and living room (the room cluttered with monstrous PS/2 Model 80s and a paper-maché sculpture by Deya). My first thought was "it looks like Deya has given old Monster Boy the boot." But the head protruding from the blankets had bluish white hair with four inch mousey brown roots. Jessika. She got up immediately and we had a conversation.

On one bus she boarded, a group of women travelers, speaking fluent ebonics, held a vote to prevent a particularly crazy man from riding with them.

It seems she'd been so bummed out by missing Matthew Hart and Leah on their recent visit to Philadelphia that her mother and grandmother had bought her a consolation: a bus ticket to Charlottesville. The Greyhound ride had been a big dreary experience, with three hour layovers in at least two different towns. What takes five hours by car took 14 hours by bus. The only people who ride on buses are poor or insane. Jessika told me of how on one bus she boarded, a group of women travelers, speaking fluent ebonics, held a vote to prevent a particularly crazy man from riding with them.

Just before going to sleep, I finally managed to get a wayward PS/2 Model 80 to boot up and recognize its ESDI hard drive! Now if I can only find a Reference Disk for a AT-1720BT Allied Telesis Ethernet adapter, I'll be well on my way to establishing kappamuthafucka.net. Sending urgent requests on the Usenet delivered me this very helpful PS/2 site.

W


hen I woke up in the afternoon, I naturally ran across Jessika downstairs. She was wearing a lavender wig, big black boots and a long black dress from Walmart. The latter seemed to emphasize the radical difference in the width of her waist and hips.

I was looking kind of weird myself. I was wearing pinkish-violet cut-off sweat pants in which I'd installed cuff-fringes. But then I put on a tight green-and black horizontal pinstripe little boy's shirt and my big black boots. Jessika took one look at my "outfit" and said I looked "so grunge" and "very 1993."

We went to the Old Virginia Chicken place near the JPA Fastmart and I bought chicken and a box of fries. We sat on the grassy knoll around back and ate this stuff while mostly discussing what has become of Morgan Anarchy in Philadelphia.

Several of them were obviously "playing with themselves" as Jessika put it.

I


t seems that Morgan became a troll and built himself a squat under a huge bridge that crosses the Schuylkill River. He has outfitted his domain with a mattress that retailed for $500 when it was new, he proudly boasts. There are a few drawbacks, however. The general vicinity is known by Philadelphians as "Queer Park." It's where all the gay guys go to meet each other. Most of them wear jogging clothes and pretend to jog while checking out each other - and Morgan. When Jessika visited Morgan at his squat, guys were peeking out at them seemingly from behind every obstacle. Several of them were obviously "playing with themselves" as Jessika put it. Periodically Morgan bangs a stick against the bridge to scare the queers away, but they always come back. I don't know how he can sleep there. But he can't crash at any of the more established squats in Philly. He broke some girl's nose at Stalag 13 and was kicked out. But that's not as bad as what happened to poor Tony Dirtbag.

You see, one day Tony came back to a squat with a nice bike he'd just stolen. He was proudly showing it off to the other squatters when one of them realized that the bike belonged to a nice guy they all knew at a local bike shop, a guy who fixes all the gutter punks' bikes for free. So five stinky squatters beat the hell out of poor Tony. He's still in the hospital with staples in his head.

One of his customers likes to get his dick sucked in a boiler room while pretending he's a highschool coach.

Meanwhile, Kevin Pervis has become a prostitute for a number of gay clients. One of his customers likes to get his dick sucked in a boiler room while pretending he's a highschool coach. Another customer, a Philadelphia policeman, likes to have Kevin twiddle his nipples while he jerks off. Kevin complains that the black guys, as a rule, take too long and are never satisfied. The business of prostitution is a messy job, but it's fairly easy. And it's a fast way to get money when Kevin has a hankering for heroin, though he's moved on to other drugs. And he still shoots up, uses dirty needles, and wantonly spreads the diseases with which he is no doubt infected. His concern for the future is a mere fraction of Zachary's. By the way, Kevin isn't gay. He's in it for the money and the excitement. And he's generous with his earnings.

W


hen Jessika and I had finished eating our greasy food, we went into the JPA Fastmart and each bought a $3 thirty two ounce bottle of Woodchuck hard cider (5% alcohol). We began drinking immediately as we walked back to Kappa Mutha Fucka. The stuff tasted almost exactly like the unintentional hard cider I made in the Fall of 1988 in Oberlin. That time I accidentally left some gallons of cider in my room in Harkness instead of taking them along on a Fall Break tour of Connecticut.

Jessika listens to some strange music these days: the Squirrel Nut Zippers and stuff that sounds like novelty music from the early 60s. Nick Cave paved the path to these unlikely interests. And I'm puzzled, very puzzled.

At one point he called a Chinese restaurant to get the recipe for how to make a Zombie mixed drink, claiming he'd had one there earlier today and had loved it.

Jessika and I became bloated and mildly drunk when the cider was added to the greasy contents of our stomachs. Motivation ebbed away as did the time.

M


atthew Hart suddenly appeared in the aftermath of a fishing trip with CJ. He spent the rest of the evening alterantely going to bed and getting up to rejoin us. He was in an unusual mood: exceptionally loquacious, and irritating boisterous and defensive. At one point he called a Chinese restaurant to get the recipe for how to make a Zombie mixed drink, claiming he'd had one there earlier today and had loved it. He was unable to understand anything the "Dragon Lady" on the other side said in response. Obviously Matthew was under the spell of some kind of powerful drug; his pupils were tiny little dots.

Zachary and Peggy showed up in the newly-repaired Toyota Race Car. After much deliberation, Zach and Matthew set off to the ABC store get rum with modest contributions from the drinkers present.

We sat around drinking, talking, and making plans just like old times. I don't know precisely what it is, but Jessika adds a lot to situations like this.

Meanwhile Monster Boy was installing plastic, pallettes and fabric in the basement. He plans to move down there and live as a troll. The rest of us plan to charge him $100 per month if this works out.

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