There is something I've been wanting to say for quite some time, so to hell with formalities: there is no point in being nice. No point at all. And believe me, I'm not alone in my view; I even have a website that gets quite a few hits to prove it. Now, before you jump up and call me fucking Lucifer, let me elaborate. When I say nice, I don't mean kindness. I'm talking about full-fledged niceness! I'm not a mass-murderer, so calm down. But can you think of anything more middle class than being nice?

The silence of the phone only bothers me when I am not here to listen to it. Those three days in the psych ward were nothing compared to the prison that is my mind. There are different levels of crazy, and just because I don’t walk around screaming my malcontent at the top of my lungs doesn’t mean that I am any more suited for this reality than those who do. When you came to see me there, I wouldn’t look at you because I wouldn’t have seen you if I had. I am the one that you accuse of holding back and only showing you what I want you to see, but we are all like that.

Rain is the ultimate inevitability in New Orleans, even moreso than tourists and the smell of urine. It knows no mercy. It can't be bribed or bargained with, especially by myself. I had very little to barter with and couldn't even mortgage the bus stop bench where I resided. What little I owned was stuffed in a backpack and wrapped around my neck for fear it'd be stolen if I managed to sleep. The shivering, however, usually remedied my slumber.

“I try not to think about it, really.”
Lisa set her cup back on the table, watching him. “Really, Duane? Do you feel that justifies what you do?”
Duane sighed, staring down into his whiskey. “No, it doesn’t. But if I start thinking about the people I kill, I tend to screw up the job. If I screw up, I don’t get paid.”
“How many jobs do you have left?”
“Three, after this one.”
“Are you going to renew your contract when it’s up?”
Duane finished his drink. “I don’t know. I don’t want to. But I don’t know of any other job I’m qualified for.”

The other day I was sitting in the basement of my girlfriend's apartment building, smoking a cigarette and daydreaming about a future point in my life. I was imagining that I was being questioned by the French police about a recent murder. It seemed that I was a suspect in the case because I'd been seen arguing with the woman who'd been killed. The police were asking me how I knew the woman, and I was explaining that I was in the process of writing a book, and it actually wasn't me that knew the murder victim. It was my character who knew her.

Upon the stroke of midnight I resolved to be a kinder, gentler funk. To look upon my fellow man with a forgiving heart and open ears. I pledged to ball my anger and frustration toward the public at large into a bitter pill and swallow it without a sound. No longer would I spill my mad ravings on these pages; instead I would let it fester in my guts. I sat on the bar stool staring into the celebrating crowd; each of them intoxicated with the moment as much as the grain alcohol that filled their bellies. Taking a long pull of my darkly brewed beer I glanced at the empty ashtray.

It wasn't odd that I had nothing better to do at 8:30 on a Saturday night than sit at the cafe at Border's bookstore in Marin County. I sipped my hot chocolate, paged through the latest Hollywood Reporter and watched as the people around me, who also were as pathetic as I, read books they had no intention of buying. I was there to people watch. The regulars were there, who probably say the same thing about me since I'm there just as often.

I hate: the Internet, big business and fat cats, glossy magazines, cell phones, imported beer, domestic beer, bad television, good television, commercials, country music, punk, disco, electronica, rap, death metal, R&B, opera, national anthems and all other forms of music created since WWII, elevators, escalators, drunks, tires, the telephone, remote controls, bad comedians, the rich and privileged, state holidays, holidays, fake tans, gold, pop art, comic books, home entertainment systems, reverse, ice cream, professional football, basketball, baseball and cricket, sports cars, gre

"Oh, look who's here!" Bob called as he saw me approach. He didn't have the slightest idea who I was.
"Hey, Bob!" I called.
"Hey!" he said, waving his cup through the air.
We stood smiling at one another for a while, nodding as though recalling nostalgic scenes of Christmas parties and picnics at lakes and slow-motion laughter at in-jokes.
"Well, how's it going?" he asked after taking a sip of his drink. "How's-- everything?"
"Good."
"Great."