Words displaced in the space of time
The infinite now of man’s towers
Constructed of words and inflections
All of man’s work and leisure
Romance and finance
Built upon words
Deconstructed by the same
Neglected and harassed by silence
Whether they dribble from a limp organ
Or spray forcefully into a void
Are your words ever valid without conception
Does your wasted seed nurture
Or is it merely self-gratifying in it’s depravity
Have you met any of your 43,947 children
Or do your days pass without reflection

IT\'S A CLASSIC TALE: INDIE COMIC ARTIST CREATES CULT CLASSIC AND THEN MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARS FROM THE ART FORM. ONLY THING IS, THIS GUY IS FAR FROM GONE. HOLD ON TIGHT AS JIM MAHFOOD SHEDS SOME LIGHT ON THE COMEDIC GENIUS OF ROB SCHRAB.
Jim: Okay, it’s April 21, 2003. This is Jim Mahfood, representing 40oz. Comics. I’m in the home of Rob Schrab in Los Angeles, California. Rob, how ya doin’?
Rob: Hey, doin\' good. Good to be here.

SO PRETEND YOU ARE MR. DIBBS FOR A SECOND. YOU JUST GOT DONE TEARING IT UP ONSTAGE AT THE METRO IN CHICAGO. YOU ARE TIRED. YOU JUST WANT TO PACK UP YOUR SHIT AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF DODGE. THEN, THIS REPORTER, "EGGPLANT" STAN WENCHES, COMES OVER TO GAB YOUR EAR OFF. SO WHAT DO YOU DO, MR. DIBBS? READ ON TO FIND OUT.
Eggplant: For people who don’t know who you are-- (laughs) He’s holding up a sign that says, “God Bless Us All”. It’s a little record for children. Where’s the record at?
Dibbs: (laughing) I don’t think there was a record.

It’s four in the morning as I sit down on the steps behind COSI, looking across the Scioto River at the Ohio Department building. On nights like this, when I just can’t seem to go to sleep, I take walks to pass the time; down Broad Street from my house on Parsons. Usually I only go as far as Third Street before I head back, but tonight I’ve got a lot on my mind.

Who am I? I’m a bullet without a gun, and an arrow minus a bow. A McNobody with a McJob, just awake enough to know what’s gonna happen to me in The End when the fun house ticket expires, and the entrance to the abattoir becomes a toothy fact of the matter,.. only I’m not smart enough to jump out of line.

Set out the old pieces and parts on the street, and remind everyone, for the last time, that the trash man comes on Thursdays. Too many hours to count and all of them worth it. For me and my four years, all I can call this place is home. But even the hardest concrete must crumble and break with time. Life woke up and left, leaving me here to find out where to go. Promising farewells and please fare thee well. There is just no time for regrets. I will miss you all.

There’s nothing stopping the next person that passes from killing you. They could also swipe your hat, or rummage through your pockets. If they stuck their foot out to trip you the police could never arrive in time to stop them. And what if they wanted that pastrami sub you’re so casually eating? In a flash it could become theirs. But watch this next person that passes. I bet they just pass, though they might toss a grin at you, or whatever scene is whirling around you. This happens four-thousand times a day. No guns pulled, or knives. No blind-sided hooks. Your sub is left intact.