I heard a quick hiss from the spray can Hunter
was brandishing. He had Maced me again!
I choked and ripped at my shirt in an attempt to
stop the stuff burning my skinmore [...]

Ellen Berger, Alicia Doddy, Ray Mungo and Robear Yamaguchi

Back from obscurity once again,
Mungo takes us on a gritty excursion
down the long winding dharma trail
in search of hedonistic enlightenment. more [...]

Little Big Bob was their battle ground. After Big Bob left Millie for Tilda the mousey (but younger) script girl, Millie made their lives a living hell. Millie was gorgeous when she was enraged, radiant with purpose. Tilda got the feeling she was crossing a Greek goddess and would end up under a cruel, peculiar curse, like growing spider legs or becoming transfixed by her own reflection. Big Bob was sanguine in the face of Millie’s tantrums. He had been married to her for three years and was used to it. “Hell, it’s just her way,” he’d say. “She’s afraid if she quiets down, the people will all go away.” more [...]

For months Dickinson had been driving out to the Germantown stables where Mary Lindsey trained jumping horses. While waiting for her to finish, he would wander around, ducking into barns, tack rooms - any place where no one else was around. He would always notice the spiderwebs. At first it was instinct, he rationalized, not knowing why he began collecting them. But as the webs grew into a huge ball of filth, inspiration took over. When the ball got big and hard, he actually washed it. Then dried it. And dried it. And dried it. Then let it sit out in the sun for a month. “We’re smoking it now,” he cackled. It was the kind of infectious howl that could instantly start a crescendo of out-of-control side-splitting, tear-stained whooping for dear sweet life, even in a morgue. Which was when I realized that the right half of my body was totally paralyzed!
“Mine too,” he whispered. more [...]

To be honest, not only am I not sure who invented Indian Poker, but to this day, the great 21st Century Search God Google hasn’t got a clue either. But whoever the douche bag was, they sure must have had it in for yours truly. more [...]

Round after round after round he let himself be bludgeoned, fighter after fighter pounding him without letup. Was this the sluggishness of a faded ex-champ? Was this really Muhammad Ali? When he finally stepped down I asked him what he was doing in there, having never once thrown a punch. “I’m gonna get that sucker so tired of punching me he’s gonna fall flat on his face,” Ali replied. “He’s gonna be too embarrassed to get back up.” And so the “Rope-a-Dope” was born, not in the ring in Zaire, but in a gym in Pennsylvania. more[...]