12.21.2018
Dear
Mr. King:
I
don’t expect any black leader to visit the homeless shelter because as usual we
all want to avoid talking about race in Saint Louis. Therefore, as I look
forward to renting a nicer apartment in Concord, NH and showing off my letter
to Rev. Al Sharpton, I coined the term “Afro-Sheen Mafia.” What is this
political phenomenon? The Afro-Sheen politician is not angry like looters and
gas station arsonists, but he will happily ride the wave of cash that follows
such an event to fill his closet with nice suits, yet I have few sets of
clothes to choose from today, or any day.
I
recall reading Post-Dispatch articles
about the post-Ferguson healing process as I was refused rides to Ferguson
Commission meetings, used car lots, job interviews, and of course nobody wanted
Bill in Jeff City. Regarding the latter destination, I tried to take a seat
with a busload of African-American protesters departing from Normandy, but as
we all know the local police don’t care about those with hacking skills who can
turn off your cell tower, so maybe they did call back. As for cell phone outages
and FBI vigilance, what they say is, “Call the police.”
I
was remiss in not taking a photo of the offending cell tower near I-55 &
Loughborough. I am sure trucker man’s T-Mobile works fine as he passes by,
whereas my fone went BEEP BEEP, then the cell antenna was off. This strikes me
as illegal, and given the state of anarchy like we face, NOBODY CARES.
The
long range plans of techno-freaks were disclosed to me in that crucial year of
1978. I was the one who told my “friends” the LP recording will soon be gone. I
was the one who explained how the Space Shuttle works and declared it to be a
“Waste of money.” I also think my future wife treasured her copy of a magazine
that would not be published until the mid-1990’s. As has happened with so much
that is mine, I think Gayle took it. I know who showed me a Dead Kennedys album
four years before it was released, and I am confident that Bill will never
answer his phone.
I
know what I said: “That’s in bad taste.”
These
two roommates also dragged me off to see Alien.
Again
I know what I whispered: “Jesus, this is kind of scary.”
I
am not Ridley Scott, there is no E.T., and I do not think I am Stanley Kubrick,
but if Venessa sells her screenplay, I could look like Stan on a screen for
about 200 million bucks. Keep those bad movies comin’ over here on Page! Mr.
Bell has no money for microwave popcorn? Perhaps we could walk up to Family
Dollar and discuss the need for a law against “Bag snatching” by clerks who are
probably more likely to steal your oversized purse than the average customer is
inclined to steal merchandise.
Based
on events in Fenton, don’t we know a Saint Louis County ordinance is coming to
limit your time in fast food restaurants? California is “liberal?” Not with
only two hours allowed for sipping coffee, or off to jail you go if you insist
on another refill in Hemet. There I was asked if I was a “Wired Fed,” which can
surely lead to a murder. It’s all about the cheerful denial as I was in the
course of this key meeting tipped off on how to smuggle cell phones into
prisons and use them to run drug rackets for a nominal fee. This strikes me as
smart to allow the state to provide three meals and an inevitable lawyer. I
don’t seem to connect with most attorneys althought most of my family seemed to
have a law degree. What was George Hughes up to? I can’t know with so much
“resistance” in Texas, but I do know that is how President Johnson started
yelling “Go get Hughes!” about more than one of us.
When
are we getting to Angie’s office?
It’s
not my screenplay for sale
William
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