She was sculptor and a stone cold fox. Long blond hair and hazel eyes and a freedom about her that eased him out of his loneliness. He would come by her place, a nice two story flat across town that her wealthy parents owned, and discuss art and life and sink into the couch and drink a beer.
It was a turbulent time of disco and chaos and she stayed out of the scene by cloistering herself in her home and painting or walking to the library to read Huxley or Pynchon. Her art could be described as a homage to vaginal dexterity and he watched her sexy ass float around the room with splattered color on her polyester. She slid that brush across the canvas and bit her top lip and told him that she thought his moustache was cool. He told her all his secrets. His poverty, his illusive father, his dance floor mamma, and, of course, he told her of his loneliness.
He kept his cool and never pursued the other side, that deep dark damp blackness that made his heart pump. When she asked why he came by everyday, he replied, "because I like to watch you paint and drink a beer and smoke a little grass."
In autumn, she was abnormally quiet and reserved and painted a wonderful piece with a flower oozing pollinated glory. She removed her smock and straddled him on the couch and whispered, "I am leaving this place. I must."
He walked down the dark street and watched the leaves fall and thought deeply and solemnly. He couldn't let her leave, the emptiness would be too great. He went to Shoey Featherson's pad and demanded his friend, a budding photographer, take a picture of him. The picture came out just right.
On that miserable rainy day, he watched the burly men move her belongings into a large truck. He waited for his moment. She got inside her volkswagen and turned the ignition and he slipped into the passenger seat and grabbed her hand and placed the picture in her palm.
"I want you to groove on this for the rest of your life," he said and kissed her on the cheek. She left anyway, driving right out of his dreams.
Later that night, he strolled with a funky rhythm to the Fleetwood Diner. He sucked down his coke through a straw and winked at the foxy waitress. The waitress giggled and he forcefully grabbed her arm and pulled her close and whispered, "Man for sale and your currency is just right."
The waitress made love to him in the freezer against the frozen tenderloin of the Fleetwood. Nine months later, MGOBLOG was born; kicking and screaming and wanting more.
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