Chanchthebadman: The End of Shame

I see people who've inspired this blog, and also people who contribute to this blog, are still having embarrassing moments. It's as though they've gone back to the high school showers, boney with hairless dicks, and spontaneous erections. I find it sickening that grown men still feel a sense of shame when they accidently drink urine or when their would-be lovers find a condom they've "shamelessly" stolen from a hotel room.

There was a time--long ago--when I was emabrrassed. I'm not ashamed to admit it because it was in 1973, after two tours with a special forces unit in vietman, where we partolled the Mekong delta. We were all ashamed then--ashamed of our individual actions, the actions of our counrty, the monstrous bombs, and the horrifying screams of young orphans who sat next to headless, mangled parents: the dead look so terribly dead when their dead.

I was a long-haul trucker for some time after I was discharged. Those were the days before the crank freaks and the kiddie porn addicts, the days where you could drive from new york to san francisco without stopping because you kept our own logs and knew your own limitations. Once, I drove for three days without stopping, from Austin to St. Paul, from St. Paul to Miami, and from Miami to San Diego. Sheryl Lynn was waiting for me in Sad Diego. Her old man'd ended up on the wrong end of an AK 47 during the tet offensive, so I kept her warm on nights when I was in town and she couldn't sleep alone. She was drinking a lot, then, and cried in her sleep. I remember the way she sobbed, how her contorted face shone in the moon light, and she moaned, "jim jim jim no no jim no jim oh jim." And then, as if she were realizing her loss for the first time, she'd break into child-like, histerical sobs.

Jim was an old battle buddy of mine. We were in the same unit. He died in my arms. His last words were, "Tell sheryl Lynn I love her." I told her. I wanted to tell her I loved her, too, but I couldn't betray jim.

Once, while I was driving through nebraska, just outside of Kearny, and it was may, and the corn fields had recently been turned, I decided to stop my rig and take an air bath. I'd been taking air baths since I'd gotten back from nam. On the me kong delta, I'd developed a severe aversion to water, due to the high volume of dead people I'd seen in the river, so I drank whiskey for my thirst and took air baths for my hygene.

The moon was full. The road was empty. The field was so black and empty that if a person screamed there'd be no echo or response. I took off my clothes, and my toes sunk in the warm earth. I sat down and stared into the nothingness and saw the faces of the people I'd killed. My body shone blue in the moonlight. Then I stated thinking about Sheryl Lynn and I got an erection. I looked at my shadow and saw that my penis cast a small one, and I couldn't help but think that my love-making wasn't what I thought it was, having a erect penis that cast such a small shadow. That was the last time I was embarrassed. I haven't had sex since.

I put on my clothes and walked bact to my rig. I turned on the radio when I was on the road, and I heard a long-distance dedication. It was from a woman named Sherly Lynn to a man named chancho, "Keep on trucking baby, Keep on trucking." And the song she dedicated began to play. I knew I'd never see her again.

Roll on daddy
roll on through
roll on daddy
till I get back to you
roll on 18 wheeler
roll on . . . . .