We lost the use of one of Dope City's major bridges on the weekend. Several suicidal people may have to turn to a less satisfactory bridge to express their despair. Turns out one of the approaches to the span, about the length of a boom stick, was constructed of old creosote timbers. The timbers caught fire, perhaps as a result of a fire lit by some homeless fuckers. The police would like to talk to the homeless fuckers responsible. Good luck with that.
One of the underlying themes of the Dope City Free Press is that having homeless people all over the fucking place is not an inconsequential matter. My dog eating the shit of the homeless is a metaphor for the taste in all our mouths. It is the Taste of Inequality.
Right this minute there are homeless people huddled around fires beneath several bridges constructed of creosote timbers right here in my town. Same thing goes for where ever it is you live. You probably drive over the homeless every day.
Sonja's dad phoned to talk about the bridge fire. "I used to drink beer under that bridge. Me and my buddies would get an older guy to buy us a couple cases from the fucking Turf then we'd take the beer under the bridge and drink until we puked our fucking guts out. Then we would keep drinking until it was all gone. Somebody would usually piss themselves before we were done. God I miss those days!"
"Did you piss yourself?" I asked.
"I'm not going to tell you that."
"You pissed yourself under the Patullo, didn't you?"
"Fucking near shit myself if you really want to know."
"I fucking near died on that piece of shit bridge."
"We both have lots of memories tied up in that bridge."
"Fucking shame the whole motherfucking bridge couldn't have burned down."
"Oh Hell yes."