Back in the late sixties I got into a fight with the mother of my daughter‘s pimp. He caught me with a right to the chin that missed with his fist, but cut me open with his metallic watch band. Blood was squirting out which ended the fight and I walked out to the stairs of the two story apartment in the darkest of Oakland slums and watched the blood flow down the steps onto the street. I was stoned on 500M of top grade acid at the time and it seemed like a river to me. Somehow I ended up at the ER and they patched me up and to this day I can’t find that scar, probably because of the crazy beard thing hanging off my chin.

Life is but an accumilation of scars. Some are physical which you can hide and forget about, while the mental ones not so much. Most of them you get over and push off to the back of your brain while others rear their ugly head the moment you open your eyes in the morning. Sometimes other people scar you so deeply to the point that their apology doesn’t heal the wound. I forgave the pimp, but that happened a long time ago…

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3 Responses to Scars

  1. Skoge says:

    No, no, no. You got into a fight with your daughter’s mother’s pimp. Was Beck even born in the ’60’s? Your statement sounds like the mother of your daughter’s pimp cold cocked you. No way, unless Judge Roy was around…lol
    (We are moving to Sacramento. (Grant) Bought a house they are still building… Maybe February it will be done. We will never have to move again.)

  2. Jim says:

    Becky was born in ’67. btw, getting stitched up on a cold metal table under glaring lights while your peaking on dot is an unforgettable experience.

    I’m really pleased you guys are moving to Sacramento! Hopefully I can be one of your first guests.

  3. Skoge says:

    Definitely, it’s a 4 bedroom, 3-1/2 baths house.

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