just across 28th street

(December 8)

What will follow, you’d think, is wildly disconnected musings and ravings of an older guy who sort of worships the Treasure Island Lost Boys, with their out-in-the-open secret handshake and won’t-grow-up codes, and was told by his Doc his heart’s not bad, considering the birth certificate and everything, and told by his Roshi that his heart is truly something else.

Fortunately, this isn’t going to be my story. I’ll pop in and out, times of not sleeping and away from the mountain of Zen books, and when encouraged by my Sweetie and best friends as they slink in from the edge – at least three of whom have been dead for a long time. No, this is Bobbie’s story, and I’m what you might call his ‘cat-lator’ – feral cat to human.

People say things like “All will be revealed.” Really? I’ll be lucky to get to half of it here. But, I did wake up after just two hours of sleep to the Boz Scaggs song “We Were Always Sweethearts” swirling through this head, and thereafter plugged in headphones and YouTube listened with my whole body, knowing I could go walk over a couple of bridges and come back to peanut butter and pleasant scoops of organic yogurt, and come here to this disclosure space before the short freeway zip to the library and the part-time gig. And, it goes without saying (which people also say and it sort of sucks, so I won’t say it again), to see what’s up with Bobbie on a Friday.

Here’s one thing you should know. Bobbie doesn’t give a rat’s ass if it’s the weekend or not.