These stories, that have been available on
Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the
address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume
of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the
archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing,
writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I
need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my
book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to
end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it
straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.
Below are introductory paragraphs and some
pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a
come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.
Sample:
Arthur came to realize that money was the one true God of the adult world
and had to be gotten hook or by crook. Brainwashed by his family with a heavy
dose of the Protestant work ethic, and hankering for independence from parental
economic tyranny, he got a job as a newspaper boy at the Heidelberg
Repatriation Hospital. He had to get up at five a.m. with his father, who drove
him to the hospital to deliver the morning round, then return after school to
hand out the late edition. From the age of fifteen on he earned and filched
enough money to pay for his own clothes and entertainment and was loath to ever
have to ask his parents for a buck again.
The old returned-soldiers recuperating at the hospital taunted him
mercilessly about being a virgin boy until he shut them up one day by yelling,
“I’ve had more fucks than you’ve had roast dinners, ya senile old dicks!” It
was cruel of him, symptomatic of the mild Tourette’s syndrome that would wreck
many of his relationships with the world. They replied with hangdog looks,
peeved at being pooped out and unable to compete in the sexual marathon which
youth excels at; little did they realize he was referring to his homo
activities.
It both saddened and excited him to hear the story told by one of his
fellow newspaper boys about an old war-torn digger who often paid the teenager
and his mate to suck them off. When the desperate old bugger had run out of
money and offered them his war medals instead, they knocked them back as
worthless. Though he thought them callow Artie fancied both these boys himself
and wished he could pay them for their services. Yet it somehow consoled him
that even war-heroes had homosexual leanings, and that being so he could rise
to be a hero himself.
His father Frank spent much time at the Repat getting one operation after
another on his ulcers, or taking respite in the psyche ward after one too many
violent temper-explosions, and Arthur dreaded him hearing of the sexual
misadventures of the newspaper boys. Suspect of his sexuality, he would surely
accuse Artie as well, but such devious activity was anathema to him, he could
give it away to those he fancied, he couldn’t sell it to someone he didn’t like,
and though he was cheeky, he respected the old diggers, shocked that in their
slow dying sex could rear its wily head.
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| Aerial View of Northlands 1965. |
