No one believes my “He’s bipolar/highly functional schizophrenic/ADD/ADHD/OCD” stories, so why not tell them and not get elected to anything?
“Eve of 9/11 – 2011” — That’s 9/10, spy moron!
Mr. Bruce retired early. When homeless, it’s called “lay down,” not “go to bed,” because in my case, mafia has my futon in storage. Me? On September 10, 2011, I was oddly 006/007/008 restless, so I twiddled the dial on the famous T.O. homeless, passed down through the eons GE Radio, and a sturdy AM/FM job it is.
About 9:30 p.m., I looked through the GSAC “cuckoo glass” (peeps see in, they can’t see out), and saw someone I’ve been familiar with for a long time. This instantly activated you-know-who #1—me. First patrol around the Johnny Londoff building & lot was spookily like a famous painter painting. Tommy was spotted in the lobby—“Crap! You’re right,” I thought. Then, somebody with a frosty, out of style since Till Tuesday’s first LP/CD developed a neurological disorder whereby she stomped to the right.
Another tour of the building & lot found a stout, skin-headed man walking a tiny doggie. I looked at him, he looked at me. Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock, 9/11/2011 be ‘a comin’, and I’ve had an entirely different version cooked-up since 09/02/2004. “Shut up!” “Shut up!” My California “friends” say it a lot, and won’t do a damn thing except fail to kill me and fetch chicken—marinated, fried, in strips—and even I get the 7000 Romaine joke.
Not one to watch others recreate, as with a sniveling creepy S-P-Y, I played with my planted gift—a GOLF BALL. From where? None of your damn business! Another tour of the grounds made me notice something. No air traffic. None. South, North, East, West. No airplanes. “Damn! I hate being right,” I thought, as I rounded the West corner of you-know-where. I continued to think in thought crime actionable (or so you thought) California…
[“Sneaky Freaky” just passed @12:06 p.m. 9/11/2011, and he’s an example of why HH lived on the top floor of a hotel, had six Mormon bodyguards with big guns, was very particular about his food, draped black curtains on the windows, had a movie projector with a screening room, and he invented the “Superstation” by purchasing a Las Vegas TV station and ordering them to show old movies all night so he could watch them]
…”When did that single-engine plane fly over? It was right after Frank R. left. When was that? Aw, crap! A couple of hours with not air traffic anywhere? What time is it?” (It was ten o’ something). My bouncing of golf balls and chuckling stirred Mr. Bruce, so I moved away and listened to the “Hits of the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s” some more. Later, dance concluded, I heard Alan banging chairs.
Surrounded by idiots I was, and this condition persists, so I moved down to the West end of the building, and for about an hour and cigarette’s time, looked for air traffic. There was none. To quote an old truly mentally ill client who has an old-time psychoanalyst who also prescribes meds, an attorney, and a very attractive legal secretary to bother named “Rosemary” [not Woods], often dreamily said, “That’s a lot of money.”
Houston, it was at 4 hours, 20 minutes of “no fly zone” it happened, and do not question me [V] please. A small corporate jet from North to South @ two o’clock. “That’s nice,” I thought. Time to lay down, and…
BOOM! ZZZZZZZ CRACK! I was looking right at it, spies. The whole horizon to the east lit-up white-hot. Out went the lights, and on went the Goebel Senior Adult Center emergency lighting. I was staring at your worst library I’ve ever seen, when “we” let you have it again. Wow! No lights, dark silhouette, and BOOM! ZZZZZZZ, CRACK, and the sky was lit up brighter than a Midwest shot to T-storm lightning, no bolts.
Panic? Me? I did inform Mr. Bruce, who mumbled, “So what? It has nothing to do with us.” So true! I proceeded to fumble by moonlight for C Batteries that were found. The AA for the flashlight? Of course not! “Creepy?” “Spooky?” Yes. Any light anywhere? Way out on Highway 23 (Go North to visit Ronnie’s library—I got no car). AA Batteries? Are you kidding? In my hand was the pack of Saint Louis, Missouri Eveready AAA’s that never got mailed to detainees like me at 5300 Arsenal Street. Houston, I thought I could make the flashlight work with those? “Aw, screw it,” I thought.
Not too long after that mind-read by LTD’s or LLC’s thought, it was WHIRRRRR, WHUMP, CRACK and the lights were back on. Time? Midnight. “Lights Out” duration? 40 minutes. (It’s an inside 09/11/2011 joke).
p.s. If there is ever a President Hughes, and we dodge a bullet, I, not you, shall say, “Hey, we’re all still alive. What’s for lunch?” Me? President? “Just another [EXPLETIVE DELETED] job.”
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