I just got in my front door at 12:35 a.m., I'm alive, I'm drunk, and I'll tell you about it when I wake up, hopefully without a hangover that is as good as this...

On the desk in front of me are two pens, a coaster with hand written print on both sides, a cell phone—outdated—a wallet with two business cards full of notes and Bernie's phone number, a bank receipt from—yesterday I guess—documenting my brokedness, and nine one-fucking dollar bills—and I'm still running!

See you in the morning!

Last night at nine, or so I had been informed by Dory, it was Hawk's party. Of the 40 regulars, half white, half black, he is the most liked person. Among the older black men he generally sits as the chairman during the various inquests. Dory told me, "Oh Baby, he loves you—you have to come. Of all his white people you are his favorite."

Yesterday evening was going surprisingly well, writing wise. There was also the specter of my laxity where covering the neighborhood crime goes. As I wrote yesterday afternoon I heard the police chopper three times in search patterns and listened to seven different police cars fly past my front door. And I am far behind on my poor tour entries. I laid down for a nap as I did not want to brave the night after having been up for 21 hours without a rest. After sleeping from 7 to 8, I threw on a very ragged outfit, including torn jeans and my 30 year old "please dad" bomber jacket. I was armed with three pens, and placed Hawk's gift in my pocket.

As I walked down White Avenue I noticed there was less foot traffic than normal.

When I got to Harford Road I noticed that road traffic was low, very low, and that the only apparent activity was at the pizzeria and the gas station on the left, and the bar farther down the street to the right.

I crossed the street above the ATM machine where various packs of teens skulk waiting for victims to ambush back in the neighborhood. As I crossed the side street where two cretins named Skidmark and Cumstain once tried to sick a pit bull on me, I looked straight ahead and saw that three dark hooded forms where standing back among the shadows of the church. These boys were about 15-16 I noticed, and unrecognizable to me as I neared them. This made them the fifth trio of boys [six if you want to count Skidmark, Cumstain and their dog named Yo] to set up at this darkened corner under the broad reaching oak tree in the shadow of the church. I was looking at then narrowly from under the rim of my hat, and did not make eye-contact, but looked ahead and began to pass them.

The leader, a middleweight, spoke, "Hey Mister, would you like to party?"

Still stepping I looked up and noticed that he was stepping away from the light heavyweight and the welterweight. All three had hooded black sweatshirts on and had hands in their pockets.

"Come on back here," he beckoned, with a nod to the darkened grassy court under the tree and beside the church stairs. His two friends began spreading out, hands still in hoody pockets.

I looked him in the eye and his face pinched up and flushed as his head jutted forward under his hood and he walked toward me, to late to cut me off from passing on the sidewalk if that is his intention, saying menacingly, "You disrespecting us?"

I made sure I had a pen in each of my pocketed hands and declined to maintain eye contact and walked on by. This brought him down on the sidewalk behind me with a declaration, "Go on you bitch-ass Nazi. We'll get you later!"

My mission was to say hello to Hawk, wish him happy birthday, and give him his signed copy of The First Boxers.

At 8:30 on a Saturday there are usually 5-10 whites and 20 blacks. There were 10 whites, including three members of two mated homosexual pairs. There were hawk appreciation banners, two tables of food, and seventy of hawk's black friends. And people kept coming in.

The average age of the men was sixty. The average age of the women was 40. the men are all retired or employed and most have a history of college sports participation. Dory now assured me that this was not a birthday party, but just a "Hawk is Cool" party. I was wondering about the three young thugs and about the opportunity to study what appeared to be an entirely different culture than what they represent. I really did not feel up to dealing with those three and decided on staying until ten instead of leaving right away. The entire staff was working, all white except for Cowbell, ‘Cowbell’s Broke-Ass Odyssey’ who was doing his janitorial duty in white suit, fedora, and snakeskin shoes.

Russ and Nancy bought me a pitcher of beer and we talked about the event, and who was who. I managed to slide around through the crowd back to the corner where hawk habitually sits, past Black Superman, into a group of older fellows who recognize me. haw is speaking with two guys in their forties. This is obviously a patronage network. Based on the coaching jerseys worn by the various younger men, and the level of fitness among the older fellows, I observe that this is a black version of my Uncle Fred's extended network of athletes and coaches which functions still for these men fifty years removed from their days playing college ball. The difference with this group is that the men over 65 are not former athletes, but their uncles, mostly former military men.

Hawk stopped his conversation an introduced me to the two younger black guys who were not pleased to see me at all. I gave him the book and he told them about my couching and writing, and said that the only objection he had about my Greatest Boxer book was that, "Ali didn't even make it into his top ten!"

I was greeted with scowls by all but the eighty year old man in the pimp outfit who winked and declared, "'Cause Ali was a dancin' bitch. Joe Louis was the man!"

The younger fellows were now more comfortable in their kneejerk hatred for me so I rubbed it in. "I put Ali in the fifteen slot, I think, maybe lower, which has certainly earned me a berth in various hells."

I hugged Hawk, promised to stay a while, and returned to my seat by the front doors.

Eventually, I found myself sitting between two young women as the last of the whites were walked out by Annie's son. I am not counting Big Jim, the "Yeti" who feasted greedily in all nine fried chicken platters even as he mumbled about "blacks taking over." Russ informed me that the giant hillbilly was angry over having both of his eyes blackened in an encounter with a recently arrived group of young thugs. The beat cop was no longer patrolling Hamilton for reasons unknown, and this autumn was turning out to be a mugging season.

Finally, at 11, Annie's son asked me if I would leave now so that he could make sure I got home okay. He told me that it was basically last call for white egress in force. I declined, said good night as we shook hands, and then decided to continue my interview with Cowbell, wanting an update on his fate. I asked him where he was staying and if he was okay.

He looked at my ratty threads and said, "I'm at a nice spot, way out the Ten line at Security [where the Social Security Administration is located]. There still eight beds if you need one. You lookin' harried brutha. Need a number?"

"No man, I'm returning a room just up the street."

"Oh, I tried dat shit, en got sick a havin' ta fight fo my life every night!"

Such conversations were mere punctuations for the experience, which for me, was one of people watching. This was a karaoke party. When white guys do this it is a chance to laugh at them. hawk and four of these guys sounded as good as the recording artists, and even dud duets, continuing after the music was done and still managing to make it sound like a song. One of the white barmaids sang two country songs, which people listened to, though they had a hard time continuing their dancing. Another barmaid sang something that my untrained ears slotted as opera, but who knows. An older white guy was playing pool with three of the older black guys and a young dyke in the back.

The dapper Puerto Rican who supplies the karaoke machine was their in his suit observing the five men and twenty women who were dancing along the long side of the bar. I now, after two pitchers of beer, had adopted the strategy of outwaiting the punks by the church, and needed to use the bathroom. this was a harrowing experience as my narrow ass darted between these dark dancing bodies who seemed to be wanting to use me as a pinball in there living dance machine. When I got to the "stage" and went to dart around hawk, who was dancing and singing, he reached for me and said, "No you don't, Jimmy—you dancin'"

An ancient pimp hand belonging to this man ‘Gonna Throw This Drink Back’ patted me on the back with approval as I managed to evade Hawk's clothesline attempt and made it to the men's room, where the Puerto Rican dude was critiquing the accommodations and making estimates on his smart phone as to how many more customers he could attract to an event if the men's room was more spacious. Then I had to do it all over again.

I was now thoroughly entrenched as the non-dancing white mascot in 30 year old surplus threads among the well-dressed patrons, while people just glanced occasionally at Big Jim the Yeti as he feasted like fearful children looking at a cigar store Indian.

Then came disaster.

The three sisters, and the other six sistas who had been line dancing between me and the radiator and ATM machine, were running out of men. One of these women was a particularly aggressive dancer both athletic and over endowed, sweating profusely. As the call went up for "more men" to dance with, Cowbell entered the fray and comported himself like a hero, virtually clearing the floor of women still wanting to dance, until it was just him and the sweaty dynamo of a vixen. Finally, even Cowbell, after virtually having clothed sex with this woman in front of a hundred people as the Yeti ate more fried chicken, reeled away, wiped his sweating forehead with his fedora, and patted me on the back. "There you go Brutha—she's all yours. Got her worked up for you."

As I looked at him dumbfounded—and kind of hurt, really—I was seized by two gorilla strong arms and whirled out onto the ancient unfinished hardwood floor. It occurred to me, as I was spinning around and being bounced from breast to hip and then spun around again, that this woman was a whole lot stronger than I. I heard Hawk roaring with laughter somewhere behind me—not altogether sure were behind was and certain only that my orientation would forever change rapidly as this women manhandled me. Cowbell was grinning with unconcealed glee as the song ended, the woman threw her arms up around my shoulders and dragged me over to my stool where she said, with vivacious sincerity, "Glory be, finally, a white man for me!"

Cowbell slapped me on the back and said, '"That's all you Brutha—Cowbell be lookin' out!"

She then put her foot up on my foot, pinning it to the rail, sat her meaty hip on my thigh, and manually hoisted one massive breast up with both hands and dropped it on my forearm. I'd say it weighted ten pounds.

I had to leave, to make my escape.

I said, "I have to—"and she cut me off, "No you don't" Don't leave."

I spied the back door open, to the parking lot and the church lot where the three thugs had earlier skulked. Checking my wallet for a remaining capital bill—and there was one. I placed it on the bar in front of her, bought her a Jim Beam and Cola, and said, "If you an me are hooking up I have to say goodnight to Hawk."

She beamed bright brown eyes up at me, smiled, and let me slip out from under her, backing up so that I could not get out the front.

I made my way to Hawk, where he was dancing with Dory, and said, "Man, I got to go!"

He said, "You sure, Bother, in the night? It's getting bad out there again. Stay and I'll give you a lift."

I then pointed to my "date" with my chin and said, "I'm more afraid of what's in here—I'm over and out."

I ran—yes, ran—out the back door, past the dumpster, around the razor wire fence, and then slowed as I neared the grassy church courtyard, pulling out both pens from my jacket and running lightly up the stairs behind where the thugs had been waiting in their ambush position, to find out that they were thankfully gone.

The walk home was nice, without a soul on the street.

I got home, still wondering how those people in the bar came from the same seed as the three thugs staking out the ATM and the churchyard, certain only that they will be replaced by three new models within the year.

It's time to go clean the mats, train and coach.