Latest Article|September 3, 2020|Free::
Making Grown Men Cry Since 1992
My friend and I watch a group of burley bikers rough up a belligerent tattooed guy against a car. My friend makes a comment under his breath about how stupid they all are. The tattooed guy grabs him from behind, and with a quick sawing motion, gives him a red mustache, as was done to him by the bikers. I step back. My friend is stinging and humiliated. He tells me it’s ok, he has insurance. "Great." I say. Inside a building, I walk down a ramp, and am followed and overtaken by the bikers. I step aside. At the foot of the ramp a blonde, burley biker with a rubber thimble over his left eye latches onto my arm. His name is Harold Wilson. He walks me up another ramp. I tell him about my passion for music. He tells me about the books he has written. I don’t think he’ll hurt me now. I want to show him the one book that I’ve written. We sit down on a blanket by the street. Under it is my book and a bunch of old "Sag" magazines I had forgotten about. He tells me how an old man he knows learned to turn down his hearing aid so he could only hear the things he wanted to. He missed the setting thunderstorms on the sea, but could still hear his own lovemaking.