Until I get my Mojo back...........

You probably are wondering over the lack of activity around here. To be honest I just keep coming up blank. I'll get a few hundred words in to a post, then it just falls apart. I've been trying to pin down some work, but 50 year old former career criminals aren't in high demand. Background checks, a job market flooded with younger, cheaper, cleaner applicants, and a shit economy are all making it tough to find my niche. So I'm chalking the writers block up to those factors. give me a week or two, and I'll be back up to speed. In the meantime I'm going to rerun some of my favorite stuff over the past 3 years. If you've already read it, read it again. If you haven't read it, it's all new to you anyway, so quit bitchin.
.............Without further ado. ................................

Willie was one of those guys that you instantly liked, always smiling, when he asked how you were doing, you believed he actually cared, wasn't just mouthing the words. I first met Willie when I was around 13, scraping plates, scrubbing pots, and busing tables at my Uncles restaurant. Willie was so fat he looked like he was standing up when he was sitting down, the way really big people do. It's like he couldn't bend in the middle. Willie almost whispered when he talked, a low gravelly voice, like a cross between Miles Davis and Froggy from the Little Rascals. Willie was black, it was the mid 70's, he had the requisite giant afro, the shirts with shoulder width collar, he drove a dollar bill green Cadillac. Willie was the epitome of the stereotypical inner city criminal of his era.

Willie didn't run girls, he didn't sell dope, and as far as I know he never got heavy handed with anyone. Willie ran a crap game out of a house, a stones throw from the little lake on Paseo Blvd.He also fenced stolen property, cars, motorcycles, whatever would turn a buck. Fast forward 10 years or so. Willie was like the Jimmy Carter of the local Kansas city criminal world. He bridged the divide between criminals from separate areas of the city. A black guy steals a car, Willie sells it to a white owned body shop where it was magically changed to a legal car and resold. In other words Willie was able to move in and out of opposing circles. With Willie moving around in so many different circles, I would run in to him in one bar or another along Wornall road. I never had any dealings with Willie as far as that goes, we were in different fields as it were. But we always took a few minutes to talk when we ran in to one another.

Willie was a family man, married to the same woman all his adult life, he had about a half dozen kids, did all the same things with his kids, as regular Joe America does with his kids. He was a good guy. I know what you're thinking, "he was a crook, and that means a not so good guy", and you are right, sort of. Nothing in life is black and white, life is full of various shades of gray. You can argue that Willie, or anyone for that matter, who makes a living illegally is basically a bad guy, taking the easy way, morally bankrupt, and I can't fault your thinking. The other side of the coin, there are guys like Willie who do everything else, just like everyone else. All of his kids but one, turned out well, went to college or some regular job. all I'm saying is that neither one cancels out the other.

One of the last times I saw Willie was in the late 80's, maybe the early 90's, the face of crime was changing, Willie was pushing 60, he looked tired. We had run in to one another at a bar on the south end of the city, so we had a few and he started talking about his youngest son, the only one who didn't turn out so well. Gangs had begun to really take hold on the east side of troost, Willies boy was mixed up in it all. Maybe it was the booze, or the late hour, but Willie was talking about something I had never heard come out of another criminals mouth. Regret. He told me he wished he had done things different, done things right, legit. His kid had caught a drug case and a murder charge, Willie figured he was to blame, set a poor example for his son. Maybe he was right , or maybe his kid would have turned out the same if Willie had been a janitor, or a doctor, who knows. The thing that struck me was the regret. I didn't get it, not back then anyway.

There was a moment when I thought I saw Willie start to tear up, there was a long pause, and Willie got up from the bar, slapped me on the shoulder and gave his standard parting line " Don't get none on ya", then he left. I remember thinking at the time that Willie was just getting old, that his regret was just a by product of getting closer to the end of his life, a superstitious belief that he would burn in hell if he didn't repent , feel remorse.

When I got out of prison it was the year 2000, Willie was dead, killed in an argument over a game of dice. Most of the guys I came up with were either dead or in prison for the rest of their lives. In most cases the thing that killed them or put them away, was drugs, whether directly or indirectly, dope was their downfall. I never fell under that curse, that's probably why I'm still around. Not because I was smarter than the Willie's of the world, I wasn't, I was just luckier and in the end that's all it comes down to , at least for me, just dumb luck.

A Fireside Midtown Miscreant Christmas Story....Chapter One

I'm doing something different this week. Things have been a little gloomy round this blog lately. In keeping with the spirit of the Holidays I have decided to write a nice uplifting Christmas story. Four parts, starting today and ending Thursday. I may or may not post other stuff. I apologize in advance for the overly long format, like you I can't stand a long winded blogger, unless it's me. As always feel free to leave critical commentary, reader input and comments are always (never) appreciated. So here we go, chapter one.
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Delray Purdy was a first rate prick. He was also the manager at the Dairy Queen in Ardmore Oklahoma, where Chris worked the Flame broiling grill . Ardmore was one of those Oklahoma towns that had a plethora of red dirt, and an over abundance of rednecks. Chris's first summer in Ardmore it had been hotter than a half fucked coon hound in a forest fire. Chris wasn't accustomed to the oppressive heat and humidity that came with that first summer in Oklahoma, he was from up north. Thankfully it was mid December and heat was only an issue when he was flipping burgers on the grill at DQ, or when Delray was riding his ass for dripping VO 5 off his forehead and on to the flame broiled burgers.


Another little factoid about Ardmore, it was the shitty town of choice for low to mid level stool pigeons entering the federal witness protection program. It wasn't the stoolies choice, rather the feds. Chris was one of the aforementioned witnesses needing protection. His case never made the 6 O'clock news, you never read about it in the paper, it was swept under the rug by the Government. This is his story, and it will change everything you ever thought you knew about Christmas.

Chris's last name was Kringle, yes that Chris Kringle. Contrary to the standard Santa legend, Chris was neither old nor jolly, in fact he was a perpetual 43 years old and clinically depressed. He wasn't fat, he didn't posses rosy cheeks, and he had never owned a single red item of clothing in his life. He was tall and painfully thin, his complexion was pasty, his hair was dark, thinning and swept back tight on his skull with generous amounts of Alberto VO 5. He wore jeans and t shirts, the jeans were always blue, the shirts white or black. Yeah, I know what you might be thinking, I'm yankin your chain, Santa is a fat old guy who lives in the north pole, but it ain't so. The whole Jolly Santa thing was just a bait and switch scam invented by a secret society of retailers and pine tree farmers.

The truth is Chris couldn't recall ever having a childhood, or parents, or being a teenager. He was only aware of one year after another, always the same, never growing older. He had long given up on trying to figure it all out. He had once had a short philosophical discussion over this matter with one of his elves, Roscoe. Roscoe the elf, was a former UAW member, almost as big a prick as Chris's present day employer, Delray Purdy. Roscoe ran the toy shop, was the local elves union shop steward, and a quart a day drinker of Fightin Cock bourbon. When Chris had explained to Roscoe that he had no recollection of his roots, or his people, Roscoe had been less than sympathetic. "Listen up white boy (Roscoe was a dark elf, originally from Detroit, hence the white boy bit), What the fuck do you care where you came from?" Believe me, if I could switch places with your pasty cracker ass I'd do it in a heartbeat" snarled Roscoe. "You think you have it bad, try being a black man and a dwarf" I've spent my entire adulthood at ass and crotch level, fuckin Gary Coleman is like Shaq compared to me. Throw in these pointed ears and fucked up 4 toed furry feet, I might as well have a sign taped to my over sized head that says derision depository." Chris figured Roscoe had a point, so he never brought it up again, and he stopped trying to figure it all out, it just was the way it was. Whadda ya gonna do.

All of this and more was running through Chris's head as he sweated over the grill, while listening to Delray bitch at the girl who worked the drive through window about handing out too many ketchup packets and napkins. . Her name was Cora Fay, for some reason she went by Cody. Women had been scarce as hens teeth on the north pole. There was no Mrs. Santa, she had left years before Chris did, ran off with three of the elves, and a couple of reindeer. Last Chris heard they were all working a live sex show in Tijuana. But Cody, now she was a different story. She and Chris had been an item for the past 6 months ever since he started working at the DQ. Cody was a stand by your man type gal, she had said as much on more than a few occasions. Chris had been trying to make a clean break from her for the last few months, but she wasn't having it.

When Chris first laid eyes on Cody, she had looked different, better, sexy, in a bang her head into the headboard of the motel 6, kind of way. Now she just seemed haggard, always nagging, and she had stopped shaving everywhere, including , down there, right after she moved in to Chris's trailer. The first time Chris had got a look at Cora's business, it had been shaved as slick as the bottoms of his feet. She reminded him of a naked Barbi, only she had nipples and looked like she had sat in bubblegum. Things had changed, the last time he had seen her come out of the shower it looked like she had Lamont from Sanford and Son in a scissor lock, he had never seen so much hair. He wanted her , her cats, and teenage kids out of his place, but Cody just ignored him, and turned up the Tammy Wynette whenever he told her to get out.

So how did Chris Kringle, end up in the Oklahoma panhandle, flippin burgers at DQ, as a protected govt. rat? Good question, and we will get there, all in due time.

To be continued............................................

Random Shots around Midtown...............

Most of these were taken while walking the two beasts.
Gotta love Autumn.

Irony in action.


Thats it kids, I got nothin.....................see you back here tomorrow.

Ruthless, Worthless, and Clueless.........Swimming with Sharks

Not everyone is cut out for a life of crime. Thankfully, most of you fall in that category. You have that tiny voice, the one that shames you for even thinking about stealing, or cheating to get ahead. Criminals can rationalize away guilt, quell conscience, silence the voice that doles out shame. I had that ability, probably still do. I don't make that statement with any pride or smugness, it is what it is. I choose to not use this criminal super power, like Gary Cooper hanging up his pistols for a plow, I've closed the door on that chapter, although I leave it slightly ajar to share it with all of you. Truth be told, there is a part of me that misses that life, I suppose writing about it calms the itch, keeps my powder dry. There is a small cross section of society that falls somewhere in the middle. Somewhere between John Q Citizen and career criminal. They can't excel in the square world, and they don't have the stomach for the underbelly, and every now and again they wander over to the wrong side of the tracks, never to return. That's what this latest installment is about, people I've known who got in over their heads and paid the ultimate price.

Gina was one of those girls who made men do a double take when she walked by. I knew her and her two brothers since elementary school. They had devoutly religious, overly strict parents, Jehovah Witnesses, I think. The boys were finally given some freedom by Jr. high, and they turned out okay. Gina on the other hand was kept under ever stricter control, the more she matured, the tighter the rein. I've no doubt her father believed his gorgeous daughter was at great peril form the hordes of testosterone amped boys, who looked at her lustfully. so she was driven to and from school, not allowed to date, not allowed friends outside the family's religious circle. The day Gina turned 18 she left home and moved in with a car thief named Darren.

Gina didn't stay with Darren for long, as soon as she learned how easily she could manipulate men, she found a bigger and better crook, she got herself a dope dealer. She also got herself a first rate drug problem, cocaine. Coke affects women differently than men, it takes a heavier toll on her looks, it kills that thing that makes a woman really something special, it extinguishes that spark in her eye. I watched Gina go through that same slow death like process for about a year and a half. She was still something to see, still drop dead gorgeous, but the light had left her eyes, replaced by a harder, colder something. I cant explain it, you would just have to see it for yourself. If you or someone you have been close to ever got on that end, then you know what I'm talking about, if not, be thankful and hope you never see it first hand.

There are people who like to rub elbows with criminals, like groupies almost, or hanger on types. These same people will begin to think they belong, that they have the same character defects and moral ambiguity that it takes to break the law for a living. More often than not, they don't, and they end up totally out of their element, in way over their heads. I can't say with absolute certainty that is what happened with Gina, but my gut says that was the case. At some point she started an on again off again game with the coke dealer. When it was in the Off phase, I'd see her around, usually selling small amounts of powder to the bar crowd, hustling one guy or another, playing at something she wasn't really suited for. I heard from other people that the coke guy smacked her around, which would lead to a black eye, and a brief off again period. But she would always go back, that's where the dope was.

Sometimes the people who need help the most never get it, nobody offers, even though in many cases, it might actually work were it offered. When you are close to it, when you see someone in trouble, you have to look the other way. You can't save the Charlies and the Gina's, not when you are living dirty yourself. It's a cover your own ass kind of world, as callous as that may be. So you maybe offer up a quick line like" you can do better", or, "who needs that shit", then you go back to worrying about yourself.

It came as no big surprise when I heard Gina had turned up dead. They found her body near a boat ramp on the Missouri river. Her head caved in by a rock. There were never any charges, and probably not much of an investigation. Everyone assumed the boyfriend did it, but who knows. Toward the end she played a lot of games with a lot of different people, so there's no telling who it might have been. I wish I could say that the news of her death had an impact on me at the time, but it didn't. Sure it was sad news, tragic even, but I didn't give the news more than a cursory acknowledgement and obligatory " That's a shame".

All of this took place around 25 years ago, maybe a little longer. Looking back on it now disturbs me more than when it all happened. Maybe it's guilt talking, or some morbid nostalgia. I've drug this thing out a whole lot longer than I intended. It's tough to make someone like Gina sound sympathetic. Of course its tragic when anyone is killed, but when that person isn't living right, is putting their self out there, there is a " you get what you ask for" mentality, sometimes unspoken, but it's there. The thing is, I remember Gina from grade school, when she was just an over protected kid. I watched her grow up, insulated from all of the Boogie Men, imagined by her over bearing father, only to fall prey to a real one.

Ruthless, Worthless, and Clueless.....The Vagina Monologues

Say the word criminal and ask people to describe a mental image of what a criminal looks like, most likely they will come up with a cross between the Hamburglar and Tupac, in other words a stereotypical male figure will emerge as the culprit. While it's true that most career criminals are male, their female counterparts are often far more successful and less likely to get caught. Today I'm going to talk about some of the Femme Felons I've known. From strippers to seemingly upright well educated pillars of the community, women criminals are often far more devious and ruthless than their male counterparts.

Barbara was one of the first women I ever recognized as a really proficient crook. She ran fat girls back in the 70's and 80's. No, she wasn't a physical trainer, and the fat girls didn't actually run, since this would have been counterproductive, since the girls being fat was an intricate part of Barbara's hustle. Clear as mud? Before you could order up drugs over the Internet from some shady "Doctor", there was a big market for pharmaceutical amphetamines, pain pills and Valium. There was only a few ways to get your hands on these narcotics, crooked doctors, crooked pharmacists, burglary or robbery of pharmacies, or in the case of amphetamines, being fat. Barb ran a herd of fat chicks. Once a month she would round up about a half dozen fat girls, load them in a conversion van, and run a route from Kansas City to as far as Colorado. She paid the girls for their time, and covered expenses for the 4 or 5 days they were on the road. The food bill must have been enormous. Sounds like a lot of running around for little pay off, I know, but it wasn't. Barb retired in the mid 80's, comfortably.

In my case, the one that put me away, my partner was a woman. Before I get carried away, I need to preface this with a few disclaimers and cover my ass. In my case there was no co defendant, she was never charged, and never under much scrutiny, at least not from federal prosecutors. The secret Service agents and Postal Inspectors who eventually built their case around me, knew she was as dirty as a pig in shit, but the grand jury didn't buy it, so I took the full brunt and remained mute. Before you think I tried to assassinate the president, the Secret Service handles paper and fraud related crimes, which is what my case was. So to avoid being sued for slander, which could result in losing my vast midtown empire, a half a pack of Marlboro's, 3 joints and a Yorkie, the names, places and some details have been changed to protect the not so innocent.

Jan was a news anchor when I met her, she also had several business ventures that were failing to one degree or another. This was in large part due to her husbands mismanagement, poor business practices and his nasty coke habit. I was in sales at the time, legit sales, and met Jan through friends of friends. She needed somebody who could sell , I needed a job, match made in heaven. So I sold, and sold, they spent and spent, we got nowhere fast. At some point there was some inappropriate work place shenanigans of an adulterous nature. To be honest, I never saw it coming, at the time I just assumed that I was irresistible, which just goes to show how out of touch I was. Jan was hotter than donut grease, had a masters in journalism, was the top rated news anchor in the area we were in, had turned down offers from big news agencies, and was as far out of my league as humanly possible. In short, she took one for the team and hustled the hustler.

To make a long story a little shorter, the business was going under, the end was inevitable, so we did what all greedy people do, we stole as much as we could before there was nothing left. the business was incorporated and international, we had a Taiwanese investor/partner, we had government grants and loans, and Jan convinced me that it would be a good idea if I became CEO of the corporation. My ego and penis agreed with her wholeheartedly, and a sucker was born. We moved money around, we set up shill companies to funnel it off, and when the house of cards finally came tumbling down, she was so far removed from it all, that the guy with a criminal record and dubious past, me, was left to take the rap.

In hindsight it's all too clear that I got played, dont get me wrong, I was a full participant, knew what we were doing was illegal, I even came up with the more creative ways of moving the money around, so it's not like I didn't know what the score was. What I didn't know, what I was totally unaware of, was that Jan knew I would be the perfect partner in crime. I wouldn't talk, I'd take the fall, she would avoid being indicted. Well played, hats off. Today Jan works for a news station in a small city, she makes good money, lives a good life, and is none the worse for wear.

Don't feel bad for me, I was a bad guy back then, if it hadn't been that case, there would have been another, so no harm no foul, that's just part of the life I chose. So here you have two women, as far removed from the other as humanely possible. One slung dope obtained from exploiting fat girls, one who lined her pockets while keeping her hands clean, by stroking the ego, heh, of a guy who thought he was slicker the WD 40. On the surface they are miles apart, but in reality not as different as they first appear.

Special thanks to KC Best Blogger Meesha V. for the awesome header picture that accompanies this post.

Some days you just draw a blank. This is one of them.

I got nothing. So you get a few random pictures I've taken while wondering / working in our fair city. I also came up with an idea for a new weekly installment that I am going to start doing called "Where is M M ?", or something along those lines. I'm still mulling over the exact details but the premise goes like this. Since I drive all over the metro on a daily basis, I thought it might be educational for some of you if I took a shot of some random landmark, object, etc, and let the readers see if they can guess where I am. I may be in the shot if I can find a group of Asian tourists to snap the pic, or a wino depending on the area. If you are lucky, I wont be in the picture. For the readers who are not from the Kansas City area, Where's MM will be proof that Kansas city isn't the Podunk backward town some believe it to be, or it will confirm that it is. Either way, it should be a real hoot. So keep your eye out for, Where's M M ?. In the meantime here are a couple of test pictures, any guesses where the mural photo was taken?