(*Old Mill Road, Richmond Town – Photos by Joe)

The most exciting thing about starting the novel process for me is that the impetus forms completely outside of my control. That is to say, I could never write a novel, but there’s something outside of my scope of understanding that can.

In the beginning, silly, abstract thoughts form the basis for what I believe will be the foundation for a novel. There is no way I can say why I believe they will work. The tell tale sign that I have a story to tell, is when my excitement grows to a fever pitch. Not long after, The Words come.

I find I’m more excited to begin a novel, than to finish it. It was that way for my two Max Beckley novels, both of which I couldn’t be more proud of.

       Check out this related post: Bald Punk on Writing 101

The ideas for the Max Beckley novels, the first of which is titled ABDUCTION STORY, came over a few weeks. It was years ago, in the month of August. I was originally inspired by summer skies. I thought there was a mystery in them that needed to be unraveled.

I can also remember one morning watching planes land at Newark International Airport. It was then that I first imagined a man locked in a dark space, whose only escape was to a mysterious world or other dimension. I kept dreaming, and daydreaming about these different skies and why and how this man was locked away, and how he could break in and out of that mysterious world. All the while, dreams of death and dying I’d had as a child, came back to me.

It was weeks before I wrote a single word, but I was certain they would come. And they did, late one August evening on Staten Island.

    See links below for my other experience on SI:

       Seventh Episode – May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)

       Bald Punk The Explorer!

       My Journey to the Edge of the World!

       Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

       Bald Punk Rides Again

I had piloted my Plymouth Acclaim up the tight curves of Snake Hill, then weaved through La Tourette Golf Course, and come to the top of Richmond Hill Road, when I first caught a glimpse of the most amazing August sky. I continued down the road to the Staten Island Mall, and parked by Richmond Ave, out across from Sears.

I eyed the start of a chemical sunset over the factories in Elizabeth, NJ. In the southwestern sky was a tall, long, and massive shaft of molten clouds. Breathtaking is an apt description. I can still see that hallowed cloud belt now. I imagined that within the blazing colors lay the mystery of Heaven. At that moment a violent rush of inspiration coursed through me: I had to get “those clouds” on paper! It took three years, and more than 160,000 words(draft version was over 200k), for me to be satisfied.

Along the way, I lost myself inside a Picasso or two, but that was only to clear my head/to stop my conscious self from thinking. Because a book writes itself, and the author should rarely if ever get involved in the writing process. But what do I know.

-

*I chose the above photo from Old Mill Road–even though in the beginning of this post I was talking about an August sunset, because it just so happens that I took that photo standing about a mile or so east from where I saw that Heavenly sunset.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

-

Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

—

Photos in and around Old Mill Road in Richmond Town:

A Few Winter Photos – Richmond Town

Richmond Town in Staten Island

Storm Damage in Staten Island

Church of St Andrew’s – Staten Island

-

Part of this episode is set on Old Mill Road by St. Andrews:

Episode Twenty-Seven - March 2010 (Feat: Ghost of a Slave named Hardy)

White Fire

In My Head

Inside Me

NOTHING

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Wavertree sailing ship/South Street Seaport, NYC - Photos by Joe)

At South Street Seaport to meet my friends, I was aware a tall white guy had tailed me since I came out of the Fulton Street subway station that was a four block walk. Just to be certain, I moved away from the sparse, early evening crowd between South Street and the three-story mall set on Pier 17. I made my way over to the old boats moored on the other side of the wooden pier.

Next to an old tugboat sat an iron-hulled sailing ship called the Wavertree. A few weeks ago I had met a man who told me that his 76-year-old uncle had recently made new yardarms for the vessel. He had made them over at a warehouse in Mariners Harbor, Staten Island. He said his uncle was a shipbuilder from Scotland. It was where the Wavertree was made in 1885.

I eyed the rigging on the Wavertree. The ship is one of the last large sailing vessels constructed out of wrought iron. A moment later I turned to see the white guy amble nearby. He was my height of 6’2”, weighed close to 300 pounds, and seemed to regard me with a bit of trepidation. He gave an abashed smile and continued closer. “Joe, can I ta-ta-talk to you,” he asked, twisting his mouth as if to push out the words. He wore a black T-shirt, fashionable jeans, and had a milky white color.

“Why?”

“I know-na-know of you,” he said, stepping within a dozen feet.

“You’ve read Bald Punk’s stuff. It’s all fake, made up stories.”

“I knew about a-a-bout you before the blog,” he said with a shy grin, having plump cheeks that gave his handsome smile a clownish appeal.

“Is that right?” I said, puckered and noticed how his pale skin shone brightly against the black T-shirt. It had been a hot sunny day. The stranger had followed me from Fulton Street, yet I still wondered if he’d spent even a moment in the sunlight that day.

“Terr,” he said, a spark of both fear and excitement seeming to light his gaze. “That’s my name, Terrence.”

“What’s your problem?”

“I want um, um, your help,” he said, his voice having a nice tone as one does with a good sense of pitch.

What was he afraid of–me or . . .

“You have aaaa, the gift of sight. I do too, not as good as you do–as you do, but I can see certain aaaa-things and can’t make them out–you could. I know, um, that you could.”

“If you’ve read my blog, then you would know I’m trying to see less and less crap. And I ignore ghostly music, whispers–I don’t want to hear shit.”

(Pier 17 – South Street, NYC)

“The first chapter of your book, yeah, aaaa, in the first chapter, Max–” Terrence began, referring to the main character named Max Beckley in a manuscript tucked away on my laptop. He was a Revolutionary War soldier abducted by demons in the Battle of Brooklyn. Countless times on this blog I’ve mentioned both Max and the book, but never his adoption after being reincarnated or whatever it was that had happened to him; which I’m still trying to figure out.

“–he-he-Max wasn’t adopted in, aaaa, in NYC. It was in Miami.”

I tried to remain nonplussed as I wondered how he could have known the particulars of the first chapter.

“When the step-parents a-a-a-left with him,” Terrence continued, his stuttering growing worse, “it was a hot summer day, really hot and humid. You had that right, but the orphanage was in Miami.”

I knew he was right. In the draft, I had put the scene in NYC because the visions I have of Max’s are not only entirely set there, but seem tied to the very soul of the city. But now that he said Miami, it felt right, especially because the image of the orphanage that I have is of a white-washed building surrounded by heat-scorched trees and shrubbery. It’s unlike any place I had ever seen in NYC.

“Is that worth something?” Terrence asked.

I shrugged.

“Ya-your words come to me, the words from your book,” he said.

“Save yourself the purchase price,” I said, eyeing him severely. I thought if I told Terrence to get the F outta my face. He would run off. He seemed to be the very essence of ”milk toast.” But in the same moment, only now do I realize that his timidness had forged a connection. And to offset his uneasiness, I continued to joke. ”You’re a cheap bastard.”

Terrence gave a hearty guffaw and spoke. “Max’s story needs to be-to be told. Many like you and I, people like us, want it to be known.”

“Why do those images remain?” I wondered and looked searchingly into his brown eyes. “In some instances I can see the images with my eyes open, as if they were filmed and are broadcasted from the spot where they occurred.”

“I almost think someone left a trail, um, left a trail, images remain, are there for those who have sight,” he said, seeming to repeat much of his dialog for clarity. “Images of people and places are everywhere, in, throughout NYC. They want a-the story, a story, unh, to be told. I can, I get them confused with ghost sightings, too.”

“So if you have sight, what do you need me for?”

“The same reason your friends do, because you see and hear things real clear, much clearer than-than they do.”

A bolt of tension froze my body. How dare he–!!!

–By friends I knew he meant my lady friend and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts), who at that very moment waited upstairs at the seaport mall for me. “I don’t feel comfortable that you know so much about my book, and it pisses me off that you refer to things about my friends that I don’t mention on my blog.”

“I can’t control what I see and know, I’m sorry, I was being honest.”

“So what is it you need from me?”

(South Street)

“There’s a place on South Street, a few blocks from here. Everyone once in a while I can just make out a blue neon light coming from there. Um, I have a sense ghosts or something, um, sweep in and out of a door. But I can’t–see it. It’s already started to glow this evening, um; it will be more visible tonight.”

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“I don’t know. There’s a strong pull and it upsets me that I can’t figure it out. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.”

“Now knowing everything you know about me, why do you think I’d show you the doorway?” I asked.

“Because,” he began with a hint of confidence, “on your blog, you do say all the, all the time, you don’t want to see-to see things. But it’s clear you do! You keep writing about Max, you practically live here on South Street, which is ghost central, not to, um, mention all the images, and you go in Central Park all the time at the gloaming hour. You, you, you want to know even though you say you don’t.”

“You’re f–king milk toast,” I cried and gave a sarcastic laugh. “Where do you get off telling me this crap?”

“Um, it’s true!”

To be continued . . .

 —

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty – June/July 2010

Milk Toast

Keeping Secrets

See The Light

—

Wavertree Sailing Ship – Restoration Research (Outside link)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Photos by Joe)

These photos were from the end of Hylan Boulevard past Bay Street by the Alice Austen House.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(La Tourette – Photos by Bald Punk)

At work we’ve been doing a job on Staten Island.

Strangely enough, the next time I saw the ghost of a slave named Hardy was in SI. I will tell you all about that in a few days. Here are the previous posts in that series:

White Fire

In My Head

More coming this week . . .

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk – Photo from Wagner College, Staten Island)

Me, my lady friend(LF), Scrappy D, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys, along with Benny, “the cigar store Indian,”  are on our way to Sandy Ground, Staten Island. We are searching for the ghost of a slave named Hardy. He’s the only one who knows the truth about the demon called Old Seven . . .

I’m trying to keep my posts shorter. So these are all the things I’m not going to tell you in the next one about our search for the ghost. I’m holding off on that installment for now, because I wasn’t paying close attention to everything that went down. Don’t think I screwed up or anything. I always think about U and try to remember as much as possible. I even write crap down.

But things were revealed in an unexpected manner. Just wait for the post. You’ll see.

So here’s what I won’t tell you in “said” post.

I’m not going to tell you anything about the car ride from our Manhattan apartment over to Sandy Ground. That’s because nothing happened. It was just your average car ride. We chilled and chatted.

I asked Benny, who believes he’s been reincarnated many times, if he had ever seen a bearded Indian. He laughed and said “yes.”

“How did you shave?” was my next question. I asked it as I looked directly into Scrappy D’s eyes, and rubbed noses with him. (I forgot to tell you that he was with us in the first post in this series.) He was zipped up inside my jacket, while I sat in the back seat. My LF was pressed in close to me, scratching the doggie’s head. “Bones, that’s what you used, right?”

(Photo by Bald Punk – Scrappy Doodles)

“Yes, also rocks, and shells,” said Benny, who was in the passenger seat. The pizza delivery guy was driving. (NO COMMENT.) And the Chinese delivery guy was on the other side of my LF.

“How the heck could you shave with a shell and not cut up your face?” I asked, looking out the window with Scrappy D–who had pressed his snout to the glass.

Benny laughed, and turned around in the seat. He looked at me–really focusing in on me. He rarely does that. I told you how he’s slight of build, doesn’t have the best teeth though has a warm smile. I never mentioned the force of his personality. That’s because I never noticed it before. When you’re with him, “it’s all about Benny, all the time.”

Maybe I need to be a tad more vigilant. I’m good at yelling at people to get them to do what I want. I’m also real good at breaking shit. That’s because I do demo work for a living. But I’m not so good at noticing the little things.

I need to change that. Especially now. That’s ’cause of late it’s starting to feel like I’m freewheeling down a dark road . . .

“You would be surprised how many things you can do when you focus only on what you’re doing,” Benny said, talking about shaving with rocks and shells. “It’s not like my Indian brethren were running off to work. We were living each moment, for the moment.”

The weight of his words shut me up for a moment. I planted my chin planted on Scrappy D’s head. We were on the West Side Highway. I gazed out the window over the Hudson River to the hilly shoreline of New Jersey.

–Scrappy D got passed around a lot in the back seat. I don’t hog him even though he’s my dog. He kept poking his nose at my LF and lathered her face with his tongue. Once she had him, the Chinese delivery guy was basically in her lap.

And you know what happened next, the pizza delivery guy kept looking back from behind the wheel. I yelled at him to keep his eyes on the road. I told him, “You can hold ’the scrap-mister’ all you want whenever we got to wherever the heck we were going to.”

It took forever to find Sandy Ground. Not a single person in Staten Island knew where it was. I wound up accusing Benny, who is an old homeless man, of taking us on a joyride. I won’t gloat though I did howl when I finally found the address on my Blackberry. I “Googled” it.

But before that, in Brooklyn, we were holed up in traffic on the elevated Gowanus Expressway. There wasn’t much to see because we were stuck by rows of converted warehouses that are pressed right up to the roadway . . . Btw, I remember hearing a traffic report about twenty years ago along the lines of: “Roadwork begins today on the Gowanus, expect delays for the next ten years.” They have yet to finish “said” roadwork.

When we got to Staten Island, I saw many autumnally colored trees and mused, “What if leaves changed directly from green to brown and never turned all the beautiful colors; would Crayola have so many great colors?”

–Benny told us more about the demon named Old Seven, who he saw get off the same boat as Henry Hudson.

“I was lucky to catch a glimpse of Old Seven that day,” Benny said, who in one of his past lives posed as a cigar store Indian.

“September 12, 1609, was the date Hudson sailed into the harbor,” I injected.

“Yes,” Benny said. “As soon as I laid my eyes on Old Seven, he ran off like a scared child. He hid from me then as he does now. He knows who I am.”

“What do you mean, Benny?” my LF asked softly.

“It’s true that I am the same thin, meek, and unimposing person I was then,” Benny said and turned fully around in the seat. He wasn’t wearing a *seatbelt. ”But I am still a full-blood Lenni Lenape. I am a Delaware Indian. I have knowledge gifted to me by the Great Spirit. He is the Master of Life. I don’t have to run to catch a man. The same goes for a demon.” He turned forward and lowered his voice. “I have Old Seven’s scent in my nostrils. I could find him if it was my desire.” He gazed out the window. “First we must talk to Hardy.”

“You saw Old Seven again, didn’t you,” I said to Benny.

He sighed, but didn’t answer.

“What do you hope to learn about Old Seven from Hardy?” my LF asked in about as sweet a tone as humanly possible.

Benny shook his head like old people do, and I couldn’t tell if it was a denial or a natural ailment. A full moment later he spoke cryptically, “No one knows the touch of evil better than Hardy.”

–

*It’s clear Benny does not ride around in cars all that much. That’s ’cause, he’s a freakin’ homeless dude. More than once I had to tell him not to take off his seatbelt, and to stop turning around. So please, no e-mails on car safety.

–

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Nineteen – October 2009

Expedition to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

Historical Sandy Ground

Just A Car Ride To Staten Island

Looking for the ghost of a slave named Hardy

(See more pics here: Mount Loretto in Staten Island)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk – Sunset over **Hudson River, NYC – NJ)

I just wrote down what I promised I would last night. It’s a little more insight into “New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret.”

But I have to take a break. I can’t post it now. I’m sorry.  I don’t feel right. I will do it tomorrow. Promise.

I’m completely drained.

The title of the post I’m pretty sure is going to be, “We Are Knowing.” Yeah, I think that will be it.

This video of a sunset I took the other night at the Conference House in Staten Island. See this page – Sun Setting Over the Edge of the World  — for the pictures I took while I was there.

**If you’re wondering, which you wouldn’t be if you’re familiar with my blog(and the fact that New Jersey is south/west of NY)–of course I took the above photo from NYC. I don’t really go to New Jersey much. Read the below posts to see what happened the last time I did.

–

Eighth Episode: May/June 2009 (Bald Punk Goes to New Jersey)

I’m Dancing Like A Nut

Bald Punk Goes to New Jersey

Bald Punk Crosses the Husdon!

40 Ounce Dreams and Katz Delicatessen Wishes!

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk - Pic from Conference House, Staten Island, NY)

I went to the edge of the Edge of the World again.

<< Click here to see the pictures I took when I was there.  >>

The below posts cover the last time I made such a journey.

      Seventh Episode: May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)

      Bald Punk The Explorer!

      My Journey to the Edge of the World!

      Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

      Bald Punk Rides Again

To read about more of my journeys and such, please see Easy Site Navigation.

The Conference House was built circa 1680 and is located at the southernmost edge of the world. (southern edge of New York City, and the State, too.)

(Photo by Bald Punk – Conference House, Staten Island, NY)

The building got its name from the conference that took place there on September 11, 1776. Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Edward Rutledge met with Lord Howe, commander in chief of British forces in America, and his brother General Sir William Howe, commander of the land forces.

The Brits wanted to end the American Revolution, but Ben, John, and Eddie, said, “Ahhh . . .no.”

See Easy Site Navigation if you are new to BaldPunk.com

(Video by Bald Punk – Music by Edwin Starr)

From far and wide we had a meeting of the minds tonight. Me, my lady friend, and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys journeyed from the edges of the known universe to be together.

I came from South Ferry where I was already working. My lady friend came from her job. She’s the bread winner is all I can tell you. Where she works??? I won’t say . . .  But I’m man enough to admit she brings home the bacon. It don’t bother me. Because as you already know I’m El Senor! I’m el muchacho!

Aye papi!

Otherwise, all I’ll say about my lady friend’s job is that it’s in NYC. Which, duh!!! When you live in Manhattan, you never want to leave, especially for work.

And the pizza and Chinese delivery guys came from uptown to meet us by way of outer space. Those guys are whacked!

We all met at a deli in South Ferry, bought beer, chips, and huge-mofo heros piled high with meat. Then we dined on the Staten Island Ferry. (It’s really the ferry to Manhattan, but we won’t get into that.)

Because I’m always thinking about you, I brought my video camera. It was a good thing, too. But I’m not going to give you a long rambling story about what happened. This is it—

I downed a few bevos, and was ready to dig into my HUGE-mofo hero when all of a sudden an armed Coast Guard boat pulled up alongside us. The guy on the bow was manning a MACHINE GUN! See it in the video!

I looked at my sandwich, very long and hard I might add – then I thought about you! I really did.

Might I add that the hero was a work of art. I had to hold it in both hand, while also propping part of it up on my forearm. Ed Norton was smiling down on me.

Speaking of ART, see these related posts:  I am MOMA!   and  Starry-Eyed Bald Punk

Damn!!! What a hero!

But I set it down, went outside, and flipped on my Alfred Hitchcock hat and went to work.

As you can see by the video, I didn’t forgo beer while I filmed.

Also, my lady friend was freaking out over the fact that we were being shadowed by the Coast Guard. The guy was manning a machine gun!!! I said that already, I know.

Every time a boat came near us, the Coast Guard sped ahead and circled out to them. Oh! For what it’s worth, the ferry we were on was the John F. Kennedy.

(John F. Kennedy in PT Boat 109)

When one of the deck hands came passing by, sweeping up gum wrappers, I used a Jedi mind trick, and told him: “This is a Coast Guard photo shoot, right?” He looked at me, and then at my lady friend, and I repeated myself. He nodded.

Check out the video at the top! The music is Edwin Starr’s War, (What is it Good For?).

Finally, and most importantly, thanks to the Coast Guard for all you do for NYC!!! You guys are totally punk rock!

See Easy Site Navigation if you are new to BaldPunk.com

Sometimes I envision myself as the hero of my own life. Other times I daydream wacky stuff. And in whatever time is left, I sleep.

Bald Punk

~~~

Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

So we were at a really nice BBQ on Staten Island this past weekend. I had gone there with my lady friend(LF) and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). We met lots of cool mofos.

If you want descriptions of us: my lady friend’s got long black hair and is cool as shit. When I look at num and nuts my eyes go bonkers. ‘They look real screwed up. I’m bald, by the way, duh!

Oh! The house we were at was a townhouse, one of about a million similar looking ones that are all ska-weeeeezed together. If that’s not bad enough, they are set into a maze of streets with too many cars and no parking spaces. If it sounds confusing, it was done on purpose. I don’t know why.

Also, the person who owns the place is related to the pizza delivery guy. I think it was either his mother or his aunt. And the really sexy ladies from Washington Heights were there, too. They also might be his relatives.

Don’t ask me to sort these people out. They were super-duper nice, I will say that. And when it comes to the pizza delivery guy, about as personal as it gets is when I think . . . is the bastard going to eat the last slice of pizza, or whine to my LF to keep me from watching Yankee’s Encore.

But if you want a tidbit, after this weekend, I’m pretty sure he and his fam are Spanish. I always thought he was Italian because, you know, he delivers pizza. Though don’t get mad at me, I’ve been living with him for months and don’t even know his name.

Though since you have me getting personal, I’m gonna show you the downside. Because if I had a family as nice as them I would never have left home. Then again, if the bastard’s relatives are so nice, why am I stuck with him?

See!!!

One last thing on his fam: if there was a Zagat’s guide to families, his would be five stars. You happy now?

How the pizza delivery guy wound up the way he is–it’s between him and the Big Guy.

Whereas with the Chinese delivery guy, it’s a no brainer. No one ever calls for him, he never gets any letters, not even junk mail, and he never reads anything for that matter. Therefore, he’s whacked.

Now don’t start getting ideas, I’m not going to talk to either of the bastards. I’m not going to get to know them. Want to know why, because I’ll just get pissed at how f’d up they are.

Plus, I don’t do touchy feely friendships. I kick-it with my friends and that’s it.

But since once again you have me in a corner, I bet you wanna know how they got into my life. Well, if I remember correctly, and I do, the Chinese guy showed up to deliver food, and never left. The pizza delivery guy, I dunno… probably the same, because my lady likes to eat.

I won’t even get into how whacked the pizza delivery guy is, but the Chinese dude, he doesn’t speak or have emotions. I’ve smacked him (not hard, chick from Norway) once or twice and it doesn’t bother him. Yet every time it seems I turn around, there he is. Waiting . . . and I have no idea for what.

I will admit that I’ve heard the Chinese guy speak to my LF, and it doesn’t sound like English. But I don’t do foreign languages. CALM DOWN . . .

Now everyone hates Baldie and I’m supposed to be the hero. And you—because you demand so much of me, you have me undressed and exposed.

You likey ;.<>?

 (This is not me – I’m more muscular)

Anyway, you know the Chinese delivery guy won the lotto the day he met my LF. She’s his ticket to the good life. Same from the pizza guy. That’s why I’m stuck with the bastards.

But all I know is my LF has a big heart. Some people might say she’s a fat s- -b, but no, she just has a big heart.

So, the BBQ . . .

And they had MAYHEM!!!

Which went down once this guy shows up who may or may not be the pizza guy’s brother. He just came back from Arizona, the Grand Canyon or wherever the hell the thing is. He took awesome pics. He said he’d email me some.

He told me that while I was laying a dog on his plate, that’s cause Baldie was in the backyard, running the grill. I was working the burgers, grilling chicken, being all helpful and polite and shit.

(Dog Scoping Shit Out, SINY – Photo by Bald Punk)

Then someone comes outside and says to the guy who just came back from Arizona–that may or may not be the pizza guy’s bro, that he’s got a flat tire. Instead of thanking the guy and enjoying his dog, his eyes bulge and he bolts out the door.

All of a sudden, the woman who owns the house starts screaming like someone bit her finger off. “Blaaahhhhhhh!!!” was what came out of her mouth. Now I don’t really do descriptions, because all I can remember is that she had a bubble butt, and her breasts were jiggly. Does that help you to see her???

Anyway, she kept screaming. Her tongue was flapping and her breasts were slinging up and down like ships in a typhoon. The placed cleared out.

Everyone bolted through the house to the street and so did your hero. It was like the place was on fire.

By the time I’m outside the pizza guy’s “bro” and some other guy–the neighbor, they both look like they rolled around in the grass. And the neighbor has blood dripping down from above one eye.

And lickety-split the neighbor has a bat, and the pizza guy’s bro has a tire iron, and these two nuts are running at each other, ready to engage like gladiators. You had to see it—the bat is up in the air and so is the tire iron and we were seconds from an Anatomy 101 exhibition.

If you’ve ever seen men beat the piss out of each other, that’s pretty much the same look they have when they knock each other brains out. Only the equipment is different.

Now I’m gonna be honest with you, I didn’t have saving the day or being the hero in mind at that moment. I was thinking about the burgers and the dogs, especially the chicken that was on the grill. Which I was supposed to be back there cooking.

All this prime meat was two seconds from burning, and I didn’t know that the super nice lady who had a bubbly butt and jiggly breasts—and who owned the place—had a fridge packed with Noah’s Ark. I just acted.

I kinda yelled for them to stop. Only I yelled really, really loud. Like we were in a club and the music was thumping, and I wanted to make myself heard. (Hint, hint, I’ve been in this spot before.)

The words out of my trap were “STOP IT!!!” I kinda jumped and stomped around as I said it.

The bastards froze like in freeze tag. For a second, they looked at me like I was the one they should hit.

“I got burgers and dogs on the grill!” I said with a smirk, like it was a big deal. Plus my arms were in the air, and I pointed at them with a humongous spatula, so they knew I was telling the truth. Probably believed me too when I added, “Could you guys wait while I check on them? I don’t want to miss brains on the side walk.”

That gave enough time for someone to drag the neighbor away, and for the pizza guy to get his bro into a bear hug.

Then the cops came, but the hero, your hero, Baldie was back at the grill for that shit.

(Dog Chillin’, SINY – Photo by Bald Punk)

When things got settled, even before then if you must know, all the ladies in the pizza guy’s family were lovin’ them some Baldie.

Man oh man they couldn’t stop smiling at me. Especially the chick with the jiggly tattas and plump bottom. She was all googily-moogily for muah. “Can I get you this Saint Bald Punk, have another burger, Baldie,” and that was after she thanked me ninety eight different times.

No. This is not the post. I just don’t want to throw it up. One problem is that it’s like nine pages. That’s way too long.

The other is that I took tons of pics, but can’t find any to post. That’s Staten Island for ya. Plus my lady friend refuses to let me post pics of us. Last week I put something up of the pizza and Chinese delivery guys as just a preview(not live), and she was apoplectic.

But I’ll give you a little tease. This is the opening . . . like one of them poems or whatever you call them thingys to get you in the mood for a story. In this case, it’s for a blog post about shit that happened at a BBQ. 

Here’s the opening:

Sometimes I envision myself as the hero of my own life. Other times I daydream wacky stuff. And in whatever time is left, I sleep.

                                                                                                                        Bald Punk

And the title will not be Staten Island BBQ Mayhem. Instead, look for BALD PUNK RIDES AGAIN. I will have it up real soon.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Seventh Episode – May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)

Bald Punk The Explorer!

My Journey to the Edge of the World!

Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

Bald Punk Rides Again

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels