Local Man In Dispute

Before the bell !!!11oneone!

Zig responds to his hagiography in the comments section:


This bio of me thats about you is incomplete without some other stories...

1. the time you threw a water balloon at a couple of thugs in a monte carlo and we lived to tell the tale only because of my dukes of hazard driving skills.


all photos by ReneeMay

He's right. Mudhead had his two-tones to the floor and we were doing 80 mph curves, keeping these overly sensative brutes behind us.

He made several sharp, sudden turns--- into their neighborhood, I thought, not our own. A mistake!

But suddenly we were in Suburban Sprawl, so I knew Mudhead had done right, in that respect at least. (I was naturally skeptical, as I am towards everyone.)

We pulled onto this freshly paved, four lane highway unopen to traffic. Perhaps Mr. Mud theorized that these hoodlums wouldn't break the law but they did and continued in roaring pursuit.

There were trenches along side the road instead of ditches and by this time I thought perhaps we were in actual trouble. And our bodies would be buried in those trenches.

So I told him to cut it out, stop playin' around.

"STF UP, MAN! These guys want to mess us up! You don't get it man, you don't get it!!"

"What? I threw a water balloon at their tire. So what?"

Now it was a drag race and a test of engines rather than driving skills. I climbed in back, I recall, to drink the last of the beer. There were huge concrete lane dividers ahead, but like on another planet, large wedge stones randomly placed, God's work abandoned for the weekend.

Our pursuers were pulling along side us and the passenger was ready to throw a beer bottle at us. (Well, at Mudhead, I mean.) I thought that was not cricket at all. He was half way out the window, just about to crack some skull. (Mudhead's skull, I suppose.)

So, Mudhead threw on the brakes and they shot ahead at about a hundred as we came to a total, suburban style stop, turned around, and proceeded, Sunday drive like, away, to forget all about it, I thought.

I remember that part. Telling him to forget about it. No harm done. Boy those guys were mad, weren't they.

He parked at a K-mart, had me get out, and roughed me up a little.

To business

2. the time you called the cops to report a babbling vagrant, then assumed the role of the babbling vagrant and then opined about the abuse of babbling vagrants at the city jail.



It seems like it was my day off. (Where was lil marster in his superman suit. And the baby. And their mother, she wouldn't have let me do any of that.)

So, I was Muckraker Journalist. I went without identification, was arrested and thrown naked into a rubber room for 18 hours. Freezing to death and having no facilities. The floor slopped. They put my clothes outside on the floor, at the crack at the bottom of the cell door, so if I'd have relieved myself I'd have been in piss stained clothes in court. (Charged with "public trespassing".)

Finally they let me out to get dressed and wash up, etc. and then it was the longest time, sitting in a holding cell with these poor men who had only stolen some bread to feed their families. We were all chained together, and a deputy asked the guy next to me, a guy from New York named Karl Marx, if he was one of the "lost tribes".

Then I got home and Mudhead shot me with Casey's dart gun. He let me make a sandwich, and I slept for a day until Frae' got home, from where ever she was. I denied everything but she didn't believe me. Then I told the truth and she was of course certain I was lying, then.

Knock out!

3. the time you scavenged 30 spent cases of whip cream cans from my gararge to siphon the dregs and then yet again called the cops to report a flourescent light bulb weilding lunatic on a nitrous binge.



Actually, the garage needed straightening, was all. Plus I had a new apartment and I don't remember Mudhead objecting to my taking some party favors along. Maybe there would be pie. It was like stocking my own bar. But after the party, there was a week's worth left of this ...what they call "laughing gas".

This was the time of the MOVE incident, where Mayor Goode dropped a bomb (literally) on a Philidelphia neighborhood. As a 21 year old Anarchist, this settled it for me. Cops were bad. Also, in the next town over from here, the previous day, some drunk black man had come out of his house shouting "DO YOUR JOB, COPS!" ---and they did. They all three shot him to death. I don't think he was waving an asagi or anything, maybe a broken bottle. BLAM BLAM BLAM.

The week before, some beautiful young black woman had been shot to death by the cops just blocks away from my house. She'd taken her friend's car without permission, and sadly her friend reported her.

I was taking all this news personally, because I was car-ar-ar-rAZY.

I was manic. Hadn't slept in like ten days, man. My first and only manic episode, twenty years ago. It was also set off when someone from the Kansas City Star called me on the phone and asked if I'd like one of my crank letters to the editor to be published as an article.

That night of my waving the long flourescent light "blub" (as J-Jm called it), I was calmly searched for drugs, put in the back of a cruiser, taken to the mental hospital, dropped off, and I walked home. White privelege, that was.

Took another week to get myself committed. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to convince people you're crazy. They just wave you off and say "You're crazy!"

I muckraked the third floor and got a shot of something that put me straight. I slept three days and woke up surrrounded by flowers, which had been delivered to a woman who'd died the day before...they needed to be kept somewhere.

I thought, some sense of humor someone's got here.

Anyway, memory speaks and that's the way I heeerd it!