I'm 2 today. If the fact that I can type seems remarkable it's because I'm not really 2 at all. It's just today is my 2nd anniversary of waking the fuck up in Pittsburgh.

So what have I learned in this fast couple of years. Not a fucking thing other than how to make a great White Russian.

Still don't know my name, age, hometown.

Still just a blank sheet.

So, I'm going to celebrate my birthday like most of my friends. Get really piss drunk and end up crying myself to sleep. Or as some of us like to call it: Tuesday.

See ya

I dreamt last night that I was flying, looking down on a world in ruin.

In the beginning of the dream, I saw burning garden.

Then I saw a burning Egypt, complete with refugees stranded by a sea

Finally I saw a modern world brought to it's knees by nuclear bombs and the voice of one man saying over and over again.

Shma Israel! Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad!!!

All this I saw from the sky.

I really should stop drinking Nyquil.

I like coconut

Amnesiacs are Strange Junkies.

Picture this if you will...

Last night, Logan, my boss and landlord asked me to work the night shift.  I do it from time to time, it pays better.  Although, I don't really need much money because I can't remember if I have any debt or even a fucking car.  It's fun for a change of pace.

When you wake up everyday you get dressed and head on out the door. Part of the dressing is putting on your gigantic bag of bullshit that you carry with you through life.

Your prejudices. Your worries. Your fucking baggage.

One of the benefits of only being two is that big fuck off bump on my head hit the reset button. So my bag of bullshit is only full of two years worth of judgments.

And it weighs 93lbs.

Ninety-three pounds of fucking Dumb.

When I finally come to out of this fog I'm in, if I turn out to be a hippie, I'm going to fucking shoot myself.

Angel's Bar and Grill's resident flower child is Clover. I'm sure at one time she was a nice enough girl, full of ambition and chutzpah. Now, however, she is just a burnout, a beggar of the forest.

She flops somewhere nearby. Al and Gloria, the married meth heads, say that they always see her passed out at Michigan's. Michigan is the neighborhood pusher, so I'm sure Sally and Clover earn their dope the old fashioned way.

Everyday around 3, Clover comes shuffling in. Invariably in a peasant blouse and skirt. Mitch fucking loves her because she doesn't wear a bra and you can see her areolas. I spend too much time watching lice or scabies falling from her.

"Hey man, spare some food?" That's her hello.

"I'm so faded man..." That would be her cached response to any question.

"Hey man, you holding?" That's her invitation to sex, well according to Rog, Mitch, Al, and Sally.

She smells so fucking bad. Patcholi does not cover up the aroma of waking up in your own vomit.

Her skin flakes off constantly. Little tendrils of scales drift behind her like chaff on a summer's day.

When she was sixteen she took some bad acid and thought that Xycak the Fire God was attempting to make love to her. In reality she was hugging and flaming piece of wood. Her body went into shock and she fell face first into the flames. Both arms and half her face are charred, twisted and angry.

She smells like ash and dirt. And desperation.

I always giver her some of our "nacho platter," at no charge. "Nacho Platter," being doritos with cheese microwaved.

I'm a softy, I suppose.

I had another set of weird dreams last night.

Clover, the burnout, thinks that my dreams may actually be memories from my past life coming to the surface.

She also believes that rocks have feelings and humans evolved from acorns.

I dreamt that I was at a gas station on some winter night. I was outside of my body, looking down, watching.

A nervous man was fumbling in his pockets to the right of the doorway and stealing quick, furtive glances at the clerk.

I walked behind the man and let my hand brushes against his arm.

He looked me in the eyes and was shocked. He said, "What do you want?"

I replied, "Shalom."

Then I woke up.

So Clover, tells me this must mean something. I tell her she smells like apple butter and horse shit. She tells me to fuck off.

I have to get back to work.

Or shit that may be true.

I'm coming up on my birthday. I'll be 2. Since I'm not sure what's going on in my head, I thought I'd list everything I know for certain.

1. My name is Samuel
It just feels right

2. I'm Jewish
I know Hebrew and the Torah, Talmud, and Haftorah

So, I'm pretty much a blank sheet of paper. I don't have anything that gives me a clue to who I am or what I was.

I don't even know my name. Someone at the hospital stated that I said my name was Samuel. Don't know, could be true, could be some retarded fart of randomness.

So I work in this bar just kind of staring off into space. I used to be real angry. Angry at these fleeting minutes stuck in a shithole bar while I should be doing...what ever it is I was.

But now I've found, I don't miss it anymore. I have a new identity and a new life and I should be thankful.

After nearly two years of no clues or flashes to who I was, I've learn to accept who I am.

Except for something that happened yesterday.

My bar is located down the block from a synagogue. We don't get alot of foot traffic from the congregants but since Pittsburgh is a Polish town we have our fair shares of Jews.

Yesterday the Rabbi, Mordecai Levi, came in arguing with some other guy. I found out later that he was the Congregation's Religious Practices Chairman and they were arguing some point about Jewish laws.

I asked for their order and went about pouring two glasses of red wine.

I transacted my business and since I was bored I kept an open ear towards their conversation so I could try to get a better tip. I don't know if I was pro or against Jews before but Son of a Bitch Mitch tells me that Jews are tight with money.

Suddenly the Rabbi exclaims heatedly, "I've enough of this arguing. Read the Bible, Benyamin, it's all right there!"

The Rabbi furiously looks through this book and suddenly a thought pops into my head.

"Excuse me Rabbi, I don't mean to interrupt but I believe Maimonides' Midrash would better explain your point. At least moreso than anything you'll find in the Talmud."

What the fuck was that.

The Rabbi looked at me hard and the other guy laughed a little.

"What congregation do you attend?" The Rabbi I guess had a right to be curious.

"Uh, none. I do really even know if I'm Jewish."

"Don't know if you Jewish? Where did you learn Hebrew?"

"Hebrew? I don't anything about Hebrew..."

"Son, you just spoke fluent Hebrew, all be it very archaic, but perfect Hebrew."

"I did? Huh, do uh non Jews usually know Hebrew?"

"It's very rare."

"Then I guess I'm Jewish."

"Mazel Tov my boy, Mazel Tov."

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I had a dream last night.

A dream of heat and feathers.

I woke up sneezing and sweating.

So I have this Nooner named Mitch.

A Nooner is all the regular customer who come into the bar at noon to get drunk with the sun.

Mitch is a Vet and he fucking tells you every single day that he is a god damn VET.

He's also a Son of a Bitch. Hence Son of a Bitch Mitch.

Can after can of IC Light he pours down his stinking gullet and always melancholy about the war. Mitch is a fucking bummer.

"Things happened man, things I can't even speak about. They live inside my head."

Mitch is also a sex predator. He got caught on that hidden camera expose at some 13 year old girl's house in fucking Altoona of all places.

He says he only like little girls if they are Asian. Something about good times in Da Nang.

I don't know why he would think I would want to know that.

Mitch is a cranky pederast. The first words out of his mouth are curse words and the last words are racial slurs. He got kicked out of the American Legion in Middle Hill for that.

I still serve him though, why not?

I don't remember a fucking thing about my life, maybe we were best friends. Fuck if I know.

Everybody deserves a chance to escape. Everybody.

I work in this bar in South Oakland. It's called Angel's. It's a hole in a wall piece of shit.

Come on by, Taco Tuesdays has no cover.

I live in South Oakland too. This part of Pittsburgh is the college fallout. The gutters are full of vomit and beer.

Sometimes I look at my shoes and wish it was dogshit I just stepped into.

Nights are pretty busy surrounded by all the kids, but the day shift is fucking depressing.

I just serve up I.C. Light to a bunch of Vets riding disability.

Welfare mothers bringing in the kids to buy Zimas with food stamps.

Octogenarians washing down heart pills with Jameson.

I wonder if I'm a pusher.

I wonder if this is all I ever was.

On March 31st, 2007 I woke up in the alley behind this place covered in blood and bruises. I had a huge knot on my head and road rashes down my left side. I had glass in my back.

When I was able to walk I went into the bar and asked for help.

They sent me to the hospital. I was there for a week.

When I got out I had no memory before I woke up. Nothing. I don't even know what my name is. Apparently I told someone my name was Sam in this fugue state I was in.

I was discharged but told that I needed to set up a treatment plan with this brain doctor guy.

I was alone. In heart, head, and home, I was alone.

I went back to Angel's because that was the scene of the crime. Logan, the guy who ran the place said that his usual guy was killed in a car crash the day before I showed up and that he'd give me a place to work and I could crash on his couch until I could figure out what the fuck was going on.

It's been almost two years and nothing.

So, I don't know much about this bloggin' crap.

Sounds a little like masturbation to me.

My friend Sally though tells me that this is an easy way to get my message out to the world and I should quit bitching about it.

My friend Son of A Bitch Mitch thinks it'll be a good way to get some trim.

I'm not really interested in either.

Mainly, I just want to know who I am.

On March 31, 2007 I woke up in Pittsburgh.

I don't remember anything else.

Hopefully, someone will remind me. 

My name is Sam. I have no memory. I woke up in Pittsburgh.

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