Rocky Dennis Has a Posse

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Well, It’s finally here, dear reader. The next Tittilating tid-bit from the ever exciting and enlightening existence of your favorite blogger. Welcome to the Taylor Show.


I never believed in ghosts. I was always sure that what I didn’t believe would never jump out and haunt me with love or pride… And I never thought it would be Megan John who would turn me into goosebumps and jello old man brain with smiling fear and what love turned out to be in this weird show.


What a long, strange , short , beautiful trip it’s been. And why am I so graced to have her sticking around to watch my back and make sure I don’t hot shot myself over the girl of the decade and the latest horror show of regret and bad decisions.



I wonder what happened to fritz 

And June Cleaver…


Dave Haarhoff is dead. And David Scheidt, and REuben, and most of the gang. Kurt. How am I the one still here?


But I’m not going to question it. Even though I just did.


I live across the street from the Idanha, and the Langroice Bust that was bad luck to spit on while we walked to the Crazy Horse. And so many stories. It’s a portrait of a life lived against the grain, but only enough to look sexy to a girl it turned out only existed on the teevee set.


I want to write lyrics again. I want to be in a band. Fairly Reliable Dinty Moore.

Maybe I like to push boundaries. Or maybe I am afraid to feel things. Was I ever brave? I stuck needles in my neck as a teenager.

I dated girls who couldn't lie and I fell in love so many times. And girls can’t live. We all know that . Don’t we?


She

S my brown eyed girl. She is sitting behind me and I’m listening to a punk rock song about her. And I have my back to her.


She lies, but I’m writing. And maybe this will make her try reading it.

It’s like a fortune cookie in reverse. 


I am reminded of divorce and a lifetime of accolades after prison and a near dumpster fire fail. Praise and kudos and a girl named Amanda. And a girl who shot herself. And fishing. 

Its time to go fishing.


If your boots are dry, you ain't living right. 

-ralph hunt


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