Some tales are best left for the book

Yes. I’ve been absent again. It seems like my life is getting interrupted at every turn which, in turn, turns me away from pounding out something on the old magic board. It seems as if fate has a way of burying one deeper and deeper in — ¿como se dice?caca. Even if I am not correct in my Spanish usage, at least most will know I am trying convey the word “shit.”

I’ve thought long and hard about writing here as to how I now no longer live in the same little s–thole I have resided in since 2007. Wow, that would be a long time except for the fact that a guy I have known for several years told me he lived in the same little hole since 1997. Holy crap! But alas, we are no longer living in the little hole for it has been condemned by the city. The place we knew as the “man’s home not being his castle” has its medieval gate shuttered by chain-link fencing. There were rumors beforehand “the Man” was cutting off all our utilities but it was in reality four-to-five hours before I knew I must move or go to jail. I had been warned several days earlier by a couple of city doofuses (doofi?) Nevertheless, we all had to wait over the weekend until the word came down. And down it came, like getting swatted by overused flypaper.

So here I am, again, looking for somewhere to live.

In giving thought as to how I would relay such a story of life on the edges I had to consider a number of factors. Among those are legal issues which may arise from the saga, that is issues raised by me is what I am trying to say. I will say that I have seen local governments do a lot of things the wrong way and this story involves my city government doing something wrong at every turn. And, if that almost 60-year-old marvel of American kitsch we knew as sort of like home winds up dozed away and replaced with a multi-story chain hotel or some large medical facility to support the creeping medicine of the hospital about a block away, I will have even more to say.

Some portions of my life,  though, should end up in my book. You’re doing a book, you might ask? Of course, all writers are writing a book.

When I first started this blog, after my full-time job as a newspaper writer ended, I naively thought I could write whatever I wanted here in this spot. That was before people I know actually started reading it. Oh, I know the same will probably happen with the book. If so, I hope they — those friends, family and other loyal readers of EFD — pay for the book instead of being a cheapskate like me and waiting until the publication finds its way to the library.

I can’t guarantee this tale of which I speak will be a good story. I mean what happened itself is a very bad story. I am damned near homeless again. But maybe the tale will be something of interest, perhaps a laugh, maybe it will even cause you to shake your head in disgust. I doubt my love life, what there was of it there, will play a big part.

One day I will tell the story of how I sit in by an air conditioner that is blowing cold as if the sun was headed on a collision course with our planet. I will tell of how I sit in an Interstate 10 motel wondering how I will pull this all off, finding yet another place to  live in the spur of the moment. I will also, hopefully, relay the tale of what becomes of the 58-year-old castle down the street I have not quite called home even though I lived there for quite some time.

But for now, blow on big A/C. Summer is a’ coming. And, yes, if you know of a place to rent let me know. Soon.