ed. note: The below diatribe/semi-incomprehensible rant was written by All Things Kevyn foreign-esque correspondent, Rufus Dangerman. The guy may very well be a madman (in fact he most certainly is a madman) but his writing is fun (I'll come up with a better word later) so I thought I would share it with all my faithful readers and true believers out there in cyberland. So here it is, the first of what I hope will be a regular gig for the man known as Rufus Dangerman. So be it.
Okay, here's some of that Copperfield crapola to start off with anyway. It was a cold late wintry day in 1977, in a small town in Western Pennsylvania, and a baby boy came into this harsh and harrowing world. There! Enough of my childhood. Now let's move on to my so-called adult life. Like I said before, it hasn't been easy being the Dangerman, but what a fuckin' ride. I remember a time hitchhiking the highways and biways of Arizona and New Mexico. It was just me and my best friend at the time. For secrecy purposes, let's call him Dean. Mainly because he actually thought he was Dean Fucking Moriarty. Ya know, from Kerouac's Road book. Anyway, me and Dean -- I guess I should call myself Sal in this scenario -- we was doin' some hitching 'cross this great fucking nation of ours. Somewhere on the wilds of route 380, just outside of Roswell -- yeah, fucking Roswell, but this ain't got nuthin' to do with aliens -- we met a girl named Cherry Bomb. Seriously, her real life, birth certificate name was Cherry Bomb. First name Cherry, middle name Bomb. I fucking kid you not. Somethin' about her parents being punkers who hung with Joan Jett and the gals when she was conceived. Anyways, as I was sayin', we met this Cherry Bomb chick while hitchin' our way to sunny Southern Cal-eee-forn-eye-A, and damn, if Dean didn't nab her up for hisself, and make his way south with the girl in tow. The thing is, Dean was nineteen and she was fourteen. Yeah, that's right. Dean ended up livin' the New Mexicali Blues, with a bottle and a girl who's just fourteen. Okay, maybe some of that story was made up. Maybe it wasn't. I ain't a-tellin'. Let's just say that Dean spent a few years in jail after that. But hey, I'm rambling off into wild tangents, so I should watch myself. I don't wanna become like a certain guy who runs this joint. Not that I'm a-sayin' Kevyn rambles, but hey...
Alright now! Let's talk less about the exploits of the fake Dean Moriarty and little Miss Cherry Bomb, and more about the Dangerman, and what he/I plans on doing in the "pages" of All Things Kevyn. The blogmeister has pretty much given his old pal free reign to write about any damn thing that pleases him/I. So this is it. Writing about nuthin' really. Nuthin' at all. But also, anything. Anything at all. I gots me a forum, and a captive audience. Well, not so much captive, but there is that old lady I got tied up in the basem...er, I mean, let's move on with the story, eh. So, I now have free reign to write about anything my black ole heart desires. So with that juicy-juice in mind, let's talk about some secret shit. My days as a counter-culture revolutionary. At the time, I was in my early twenties, and I was living in Bakersfield, California. My job was to stealthily put up signs and stickers and what have you, all attacking then Presidential hopeful George W. Bush. I would put these signs and stickers in some of the best places. In malls and stores, restaurants and bars. I would put them in restroom stalls and above urinals. I would sneak them into offices -- disguised as a delivery guy -- and put them all over cubicles and lunch room fridges. I even got some into the Bakersfield Republican Committee's head office. I take a large amount of pride in how many nooks and crannies I got these anti-Bush slogans into. I'm sure none of this did anything, even though, technically, Bush did lose that election...so maybe...maybe. Okay, so maybe that story doesn't exactly reek of counter-culture espionage. And maybe I wasn't exactly the SDS or the Yippies making their way in the Vietnam era, but hey, I got food and board for my actions, so that's good enough for this cat. I never did get into the whole bloody revolutionary thing. I was mainly just a talker and a squawker. Still am really. But that's neither here nor there.
So, I guess this is the part of the day where I say that I'll be back next time with some sort of rant or another. I don't know what it'll be on yet, or even if I'll be allowed back after my dissing of the fella who runs the shop around here, but somebody has to keep the old man on his toes. That old guy is my elder though, by nearly a decade, so I should show 'im some respect, but like I said, someone's gotta keep 'im on his toes, so why the fuck not me. Anyways, I'm sure my next article will be something of great interest and even greater bullshit. Who knows, maybe I'll tell the tale of when I ran with the bulls. It wasn't the running in Pamplona or anything like that. It was in a field in Montana somewhere, and me and my buds were pretty high and tryin' to impress these girls we picked up and...well, let's just say Tommy was never the same again. Oh poor poor Tommy. I still have trouble looking him in the face. Anyways, I'll see ya on what they call, the good ole flipside.
The man known as Rufus Dangerman can be found elsewhere on the world wide web as well, such as at his website, The Dangerman Blog; his Tumblr site, It Ain't What it Used to Be; and, of course, just like every other mo-fo on the planet, on Facebook as well. That's it for now. Be back for more next time...if you dare (insert maniacal laughter here, please).