It was in the early nineties when I decided to forego a “real” job and to live off of what I could make from art sales. I moved into a strange little building out in the desert that was said to have been a brothel, previously. It was $200 a month, free water. Once, to get some quick cash I rode with some friends on their pre-dawn paper route. It was bitter cold and dark that morning, and we planned to drive the route with their VW van’s sliding-door wide open, so two of us could sling the papers out of the door, and we’d finish the work in half the usual time. But this meant no heater, as the heat would be sucked right out the open door. For warmth, my buddies decided to bring a big pasta pot, half–filled with rubbing alcohol, which they set aflame and wedged into the corner of the van that was packed with rolled newspapers. As we screeched around street corners hanging out of the van and flinging papers everywhere, the flaming alcohol sloshing about, I wondered about others who were up and out in the cold at 3am trying to make some cash, and I saw us as the side show to the big carnival that ran from 9 to 5.
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Discount for bikers, veterans, grandparents, immigrants, descendants of immigrants, native and non-native Americans, non-americans and musicians. Surcharge for poets.