it’s another nocturnal and nefarious crime caper. naturally, i’m with my uncle harvey, the black sheep of the rosenberg clan and “the con” in my documentary film, “the poet and the con”.

we’ve stolen a bus. not ken kesey’s bus. no merry pranksters here. something like the team bus for the lakers, or maybe the ascendant LA clippers. but donald sterling’s not on the bus. who the fuck would want that scumbag, racist b-ball owner, after the un-civil comments he made this past week that inflamed the whole multi-cultural nation? certainly not us.

my uncle’s two accomplices in crime, “mo and curly”, are on the bus with us. the three of them were the best equipped, best educated, and most notorious burglary team in southern california in the 80s; until they were busted for murder in the early 90s and harvey was profiled on “america’s most wanted” in 1993, became a fugitive for a haggard year on the road, was arrested in 1994, and died in LA county’s jail ward of lung cancer, also sadly, in 1994.

stiil, harvey was always my favorite uncle, and the model for the main character played by jimmy caan in michael mann’s movie, “thief”. in fact, caan was a good friend of harvey’s, and sure, he’s on the bus with us too.

we’ve all busted out of our squalid prison cells, but i’m not sure if i’m more scared of being re-apprehended by the long arm of the law, or of being tracked down and caught by the guy who hired mo, curly, and harvey for the “hit” on frank cristi back in the 70s. he’s a mean motherfucker, and he takes no prisoners. so i’m not sure what to do with the bus – either turn it in – or just keep driving it –

to where?

there’s just one place to turn it in. some kind of high security federal lock up on the dusty west coast near brutal, 200 degree bakersfield. but once you end up there, you ain’t ever gonna get out. it’s a dead end, a one way street to palookaville, which means…

to… nowhere.

but now i’m the only one left on the bus. the b-ball players are gone. jimmy caan’s gone. mo and curly have bailed or disappeared. even harvey’s not there anymore. it’s just me. on the bus…

…and some lawyer dude. he’s wearin’ a rug, a bad toupee. his skin….gray & sunken…

hey, maybe…?

yeah, it’s sterling. the motherfucker. anyway, the dude’s my attorney now. my only chance to get outta palookaville. the bum’s advised me to turn in the bus. “what the hell else you gonna do, trules? drive around for eternity? you got no choice. turn it in.”

fuck you, sterling.

i drive the bus…

…inside the detention center. there’s prison wire all around it. all around me. i don’t see any way out.
i slowly… get off the bus. a long walk down death row. i turn in my ID to an innocuous crew in gray prison uniforms. looks like i’m gonna serve a long time. for what? what am i guilty of?

who knows? they don’t seem to care. i’m the guy with the stolen, marked bus.

guilty?

yeah. pick your poison. i’m a self-hating jew and my tribe’s been scape-goated and genocided throughout history. hitler wasn’t the first. no, we were rounded up and eradicated by the greeks, the romans, the christians, the muslims, the spaniards, the turks, the arabs… long before the nazi germans. just read james michener’s “the source”… thousands of years of persecution of the hebrews, the stiff-necked, money-lending jews.

guilty as charged, your honor.

why not a little faith, trules? that’s all you need to get out of this jam. it’s not your bus. you’re just the driver. but noooooooooo! fuck it. faith is for the weak of mind; it’s the opiate of the masses. at least that what plato and marx and hitchens and all the rest of the goddam atheists have been preaching ever since we turned from paganism to monotheism. fuck it. you can’t get out of this jam just because you want to. life’s not fair. suck it up. carry on……….

it’s goddam sterling’s fault. the 1% motherfucker. they’re gonna let him out. he’s not gonna sell his team. he’s gonna litigate. pay somebody off.

faith? fuck it. power, money, corruption, that’s the only thing that works round the world, baby.
i hate the slime ball lawyer who’s behind the wire with me. i grab his lousy, stinking toupee and yank it right off his withering fucking scalp.

fuck!

i wake up.

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