He Died with a Felafel in His Hand

A real fringe-dwelling bank clerk. It worked for a while.

Musical taste is one of the great sleeping issues of many share houses. It can rival the unwashed frypan as a source of tension.

My friend Ted says Marxists are worse than junkies. You know, you let one in, you let the whole anarcho-syndicalist commune in, and then your little home isn’t the warm and friendly place you escape to at day’s end.

But it never lasts. Never holds together. Somebody always moves on, or loses their mind, or dies with a felafel in his hand and you’re on the road again.

writes for a wide range