I grew up in a world where it didn’t matter what you did for a job: grave digger, grocery clerk, tire repair, it only mattered that you showed up. Jim Rice showed up.… more
Category Archives: Moans from the Condiment Fridge
TELEPHONE POLE FLIERS, ALL OF US
Moans from the Condiment FridgeMy hope is to wake up every day and write something, whether good or bad, just to simply string words together. Simple everyday ten-dollar words so I can communicate with everyday people like a nurse, butcher, electrician, a janitor, guitar player. I’m not of the intellectual crowd, nor do I come from it, nor do I intend to be a part of it.… more
Too Many Last Names
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonA series of last names I’ll click clack my way through on the way to thoughts of vengeance and acting cooler than I am, until I’m told to shut up, get on all fours, and kiss the black knee-high latex boot like the pervert I am (“Hubba hubba”).… more
