Welcome to Truckin' my monthly E-Zine. This month's issue includes another Subway Story from me, as well as a pants dropping story from Señor. I chose to share another NaNoWriMo novel sample from Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. So sit back, relax, enjoy, and spread the word! Thanks for all your support! Happy Holidays & Happy New Year! Salukis, McG
1. December Subway Story: Part 1 by Tenzin McGrupp
He sat across from me, with an oversized tattered jacket, and extra bulky pants, probably because he had on at least two pairs of pants, maybe more to keep warm from the bitter December cold. He cradled a ripped, black Glad garbage bag, which apparently contained all his possessions... More
2. I'm Taking Off My Pants! by Señor
Misadventures from the Philippines, Part I: Upon arrival it seemed they were not gonna let me in and upon departure it seemed they were not gonna let me out! Yet the true adventure lies in between. I ignored all warnings from parents, friends and my government and headed off to the Philippines for vacation... More
3. A Phishy Proposal by Tenzin McGrupp
"I cannot believe they got engaged during a Phish show in Las Vegas!" Angela exclaimed, with her wide resplendent eyes reflecting the non-stop twinkle of neon lights in the endless Las Vegas night, as we euphorically walked back to our hotel room... More
4. Jack Tripper Stole My Dog by Tenzin McGrupp
He didn’t know about the engagement. But he knew about Sasha breaking up with Slab after she came home from work early one afternoon and caught Slab having sex with a petite Malaysian girl whom he picked up at the dogrun in Tompkins Square Park... More
5. Pedro's Window by Tenzin McGrupp
Pedro would get up early each morning, before his mother, and even before his grandmother, who’s daily routine began at 5:30 promptly everyday. Pedro would sneak out of his bedroom, the smallest bedroom in the apartment, which he shared with his oldest brother Marcus, who sometimes was passed out from too much cheap rum... More
6. Her Last Christmas Present by Tenzin McGrupp
Her daughter calmly sat at the edge of her bed, as her doelful eyes looked at the small box wrapped up in recycled Santa Claus wrapping paper. She had wondered if her ill seven year old child would make it through the holidays... More
December 24, 2002
December Subway Story... Part 1
By Tenzin McGrupp
16 December 02
He sat across from me, with an oversized tattered jacket, and extra bulky pants, probably because he had on at least two pairs of pants, maybe more to keep warm from the bitter December cold. He cradled a ripped, black Glad garbage bag, which apparently contained all his possessions, and was held together by a few strands of masking tape. He was a tall black man, in his 50s perhaps, with white and grey specks peppering his natty beard. A deep scar ran down his face underneath his left eye, which he kept touching with his hands, covered in an old pair of pink mittens. And he was staring at me, as we both sat across from each other at the end of the subway car. It was 6:25 AM and the No. 1 Train crawled downtown, as I made eye contact with this homeless person.
I quickly sized up the situation and realized I had another subway story.
Before breaking eye contact, I nodded, to acknowledge his existence. Sometimes, I discovered, that when you are in a desperate and dire situation, like most homeless persons are, that being treated with dignity and respect by a stranger far outweighs a couple of dollars from persons whom couldn’t be bothered by a dirty, vile, down and out street person.
I spoke softly, but never breaking eye contact. I explained to the man that I am a writer and I am also the editor of an E-Zine and that I am close to a deadline without a story.
"If you let me interview you for a few minutes, I’ll buy you breakfast and give you a couple of dollars."
"Sure," he said, slightly unexcited, but with a look of trepidation on his face.
"What’s your name?" I asked.
"Joe."
Joe and I shook hands, then exited at Chambers Street and we walked one block to a small diner on the corner. We sat in a small booth, ignoring the strange glances we got from other breakfast patrons, and from the owner, a short balding Greek guy, with an eye patch, who looked like Danny Devito’s twin brother. I imagine that a suit dining with a six foot eight inch tall black homeless man was enough to make the average New Yorker look twice.
Joe was very uncomfortable and felt out of place. He kept staring out the window, as if he were waiting for someone else. He ordered an omelet and some coffee, and I got a bacon and cheese sandwich on a roll. He finished his meal rather quickly, and in between bites I gathered some personal information from Joe. Like he was the youngest of twelve children, growing up in Gary, Indiana, before getting drafted into the Army in 1968 and fought two tours in Vietnam. He floated around from Indianapolis, to Chicago, to Detroit, to eventually Brooklyn, where he married and worked as a mechanic, and supported a wife and two kids as well as a nasty heroin addiction.
"Some days I feel I am where I am because of what I have done to the people in my life."
He spouted this line to me, without making eye contact, as he stared at the middle of his empty plate. It was simple, and honest, and it was as if he pulled the same exact words that I had been thinking out of my head, and offered it up to me, as a pearl of street wisdom.
To be continued...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from NYC.
16 December 02
He sat across from me, with an oversized tattered jacket, and extra bulky pants, probably because he had on at least two pairs of pants, maybe more to keep warm from the bitter December cold. He cradled a ripped, black Glad garbage bag, which apparently contained all his possessions, and was held together by a few strands of masking tape. He was a tall black man, in his 50s perhaps, with white and grey specks peppering his natty beard. A deep scar ran down his face underneath his left eye, which he kept touching with his hands, covered in an old pair of pink mittens. And he was staring at me, as we both sat across from each other at the end of the subway car. It was 6:25 AM and the No. 1 Train crawled downtown, as I made eye contact with this homeless person.
I quickly sized up the situation and realized I had another subway story.
Before breaking eye contact, I nodded, to acknowledge his existence. Sometimes, I discovered, that when you are in a desperate and dire situation, like most homeless persons are, that being treated with dignity and respect by a stranger far outweighs a couple of dollars from persons whom couldn’t be bothered by a dirty, vile, down and out street person.
I spoke softly, but never breaking eye contact. I explained to the man that I am a writer and I am also the editor of an E-Zine and that I am close to a deadline without a story.
"If you let me interview you for a few minutes, I’ll buy you breakfast and give you a couple of dollars."
"Sure," he said, slightly unexcited, but with a look of trepidation on his face.
"What’s your name?" I asked.
"Joe."
Joe and I shook hands, then exited at Chambers Street and we walked one block to a small diner on the corner. We sat in a small booth, ignoring the strange glances we got from other breakfast patrons, and from the owner, a short balding Greek guy, with an eye patch, who looked like Danny Devito’s twin brother. I imagine that a suit dining with a six foot eight inch tall black homeless man was enough to make the average New Yorker look twice.
Joe was very uncomfortable and felt out of place. He kept staring out the window, as if he were waiting for someone else. He ordered an omelet and some coffee, and I got a bacon and cheese sandwich on a roll. He finished his meal rather quickly, and in between bites I gathered some personal information from Joe. Like he was the youngest of twelve children, growing up in Gary, Indiana, before getting drafted into the Army in 1968 and fought two tours in Vietnam. He floated around from Indianapolis, to Chicago, to Detroit, to eventually Brooklyn, where he married and worked as a mechanic, and supported a wife and two kids as well as a nasty heroin addiction.
"Some days I feel I am where I am because of what I have done to the people in my life."
He spouted this line to me, without making eye contact, as he stared at the middle of his empty plate. It was simple, and honest, and it was as if he pulled the same exact words that I had been thinking out of my head, and offered it up to me, as a pearl of street wisdom.
To be continued...
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from NYC.
I'm Taking Off My Pants!
By Señor
Misadventures from the Philippines, Part I
Upon arrival it seemed they were not gonna let me in and upon departure it seemed they were not gonna let me out! Yet the true adventure lies in between. I ignored all warnings from parents, friends and my government and headed off to the Philippines for vacation. Immigration was brutal! Never before had I been grilled so thoroughly. Everyone before me casually strolled through immigration in 1 to 2 minutes. Twenty minutes after my grilling began I was still answering questions. Why was I entering the Philippines? Where would I be staying? Where would I be going? Why had I spent so much time in Southeast Asia? What is my daily routine in Thailand? Do I have any affiliation with Muslim or Islam? The questions seemed to go on and on. Sweat soaked my entire body. Were they actually not gonna let me in? Finally my passport was stamped and I was on my way.
I didn't exactly know what to expect from Manila so I pre-booked myself into a 5 star hotel. Driving in the air condition-less bus, after that grilling, I was glad that I did. All I was thinking about was a seamless check in and a nice long hot bath. The bus dropped me off close to the hotel and I made a beeline to the entrance. Before I could get through the door the police stopped me. Apparently before entering any building in the Philippines all persons and baggage must be checked. I guess that in a country terrorized by frequent bombings you can't be too careful. My bag passed inspection without incident. I wish I could say the same about my person.
Policeman: "May I see your passport please?"
"Ok, Mr. Señor, please take off your shirt"
"Ok, now Mr. Señor, please take off your pants."
Yes I was getting stripped searched! Usually I am quite happy to take off my pants in public, but somehow this experience didn't live up to the others! There I was in nothing but my underwear! Everyone was staring. Men whistled in jest. Women were awed by the vast amount of my precious body hair. And all I could think was thank god I didn't wear the underwear with shit stains! Oh no, the search was not over yet.
The cop leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Mr. Señor, I will not ask you to remove your underwear in this public place. However for security reasons I must ask you to let me have a peak."
Unbelievable! What do you say to that? My first night in a foreign country? Should I have said fuck off you goddamn pervert? Well I didn't. He peaked and smiled and I dressed and went on my way!
The hotel was truly opulent and the marble bathroom in my room was calling my name. After a long hot bath I settled down a bit and even started to feel pretty good. I decided a good meal was in order. I headed to the food court at the mall next door. Of course I had to go through a metal detector and got frisked, but this time there were no problems. The food court was unbelievably western, filled with KFC, McDonalds, Burger King, Kenny Rogers' Rotisserie, Dunkin' Doughnuts and more! I opted for the Filipino food and ordered the vegetarian special, which consisted of rice with "beef" and pork! This didn't faze me. I was ready for desert. That evening desert was walking around the packed mall and checking out the gorgeous Filipino women.
My luck was about to change for the better. Or so it seemed at the time. Two very hot Filipino women approached me and asked if I would like to join them for coffee. Things were going fine until someone came running toward us, grabbed one of the girl's purses and took off. We chased him and before I knew it literally 10 undercover security guards had caught the culprit. We spent the next hour filling out paper work in the security office. After, the three of us decided that we needed a drink. Normally I don't drink but this night I was fully prepared to make an exception. Off we went.
Four hours later after lots of laughing, dancing and drinking we found ourselves back in my hotel room. I'd noticed there was a lot of touchy feely going on between the two ladies on the dance floor and my excitement about the immediate possibilities was at a peak. I was not disappointed as the ladies began to dirty dance and strip each other. I'm not a big fan of breast implants, but the four breasts standing in front of me were blatantly fake yet perfect! My erection was rock hard and I was ready to join the fun. As I began to caress one's breasts they both removed each other’s pants. To my shock and dismay each of them had an erection as hard as my own! Instantly mine diminished and within five minutes I had the two transvestites out of my room. I must have stayed in the shower for an hour trying to scrub off the filthy feeling that encompassed my entire body. Why must Asian transvestites be so fucking beautiful and ladylike?
All in all it was quite a first night in the Philippines!
Señor is a pants dropper from Samui, Thailand.
Misadventures from the Philippines, Part I
Upon arrival it seemed they were not gonna let me in and upon departure it seemed they were not gonna let me out! Yet the true adventure lies in between. I ignored all warnings from parents, friends and my government and headed off to the Philippines for vacation. Immigration was brutal! Never before had I been grilled so thoroughly. Everyone before me casually strolled through immigration in 1 to 2 minutes. Twenty minutes after my grilling began I was still answering questions. Why was I entering the Philippines? Where would I be staying? Where would I be going? Why had I spent so much time in Southeast Asia? What is my daily routine in Thailand? Do I have any affiliation with Muslim or Islam? The questions seemed to go on and on. Sweat soaked my entire body. Were they actually not gonna let me in? Finally my passport was stamped and I was on my way.
I didn't exactly know what to expect from Manila so I pre-booked myself into a 5 star hotel. Driving in the air condition-less bus, after that grilling, I was glad that I did. All I was thinking about was a seamless check in and a nice long hot bath. The bus dropped me off close to the hotel and I made a beeline to the entrance. Before I could get through the door the police stopped me. Apparently before entering any building in the Philippines all persons and baggage must be checked. I guess that in a country terrorized by frequent bombings you can't be too careful. My bag passed inspection without incident. I wish I could say the same about my person.
Policeman: "May I see your passport please?"
"Ok, Mr. Señor, please take off your shirt"
"Ok, now Mr. Señor, please take off your pants."
Yes I was getting stripped searched! Usually I am quite happy to take off my pants in public, but somehow this experience didn't live up to the others! There I was in nothing but my underwear! Everyone was staring. Men whistled in jest. Women were awed by the vast amount of my precious body hair. And all I could think was thank god I didn't wear the underwear with shit stains! Oh no, the search was not over yet.
The cop leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Mr. Señor, I will not ask you to remove your underwear in this public place. However for security reasons I must ask you to let me have a peak."
Unbelievable! What do you say to that? My first night in a foreign country? Should I have said fuck off you goddamn pervert? Well I didn't. He peaked and smiled and I dressed and went on my way!
The hotel was truly opulent and the marble bathroom in my room was calling my name. After a long hot bath I settled down a bit and even started to feel pretty good. I decided a good meal was in order. I headed to the food court at the mall next door. Of course I had to go through a metal detector and got frisked, but this time there were no problems. The food court was unbelievably western, filled with KFC, McDonalds, Burger King, Kenny Rogers' Rotisserie, Dunkin' Doughnuts and more! I opted for the Filipino food and ordered the vegetarian special, which consisted of rice with "beef" and pork! This didn't faze me. I was ready for desert. That evening desert was walking around the packed mall and checking out the gorgeous Filipino women.
My luck was about to change for the better. Or so it seemed at the time. Two very hot Filipino women approached me and asked if I would like to join them for coffee. Things were going fine until someone came running toward us, grabbed one of the girl's purses and took off. We chased him and before I knew it literally 10 undercover security guards had caught the culprit. We spent the next hour filling out paper work in the security office. After, the three of us decided that we needed a drink. Normally I don't drink but this night I was fully prepared to make an exception. Off we went.
Four hours later after lots of laughing, dancing and drinking we found ourselves back in my hotel room. I'd noticed there was a lot of touchy feely going on between the two ladies on the dance floor and my excitement about the immediate possibilities was at a peak. I was not disappointed as the ladies began to dirty dance and strip each other. I'm not a big fan of breast implants, but the four breasts standing in front of me were blatantly fake yet perfect! My erection was rock hard and I was ready to join the fun. As I began to caress one's breasts they both removed each other’s pants. To my shock and dismay each of them had an erection as hard as my own! Instantly mine diminished and within five minutes I had the two transvestites out of my room. I must have stayed in the shower for an hour trying to scrub off the filthy feeling that encompassed my entire body. Why must Asian transvestites be so fucking beautiful and ladylike?
All in all it was quite a first night in the Philippines!
Señor is a pants dropper from Samui, Thailand.
A Phishy Proposal
By Tenzin McGrupp
29 September 00
Las Vegas
"I cannot believe they got engaged during a Phish show in Las Vegas!" Angela exclaimed, with her wide resplendent eyes reflecting the non-stop twinkle of neon lights in the endless Las Vegas night, as we euphorically walked back to our hotel room.
"And in front of me!" I offered up.
I witnessed the proposal, and although it was not the strangest thing I ever saw at a Phish show, it was the most tender moment I think I ever got to be a part of. The lucky girl was named Stephanie, and she coincidentally lived on Angela’s freshman hall several years earlier, during their college days in Austin. Stephanie’s boyfriend popped the question during the first set of Phish, right in the middle of their cover version of Bob Marley’s "Mellow Mood".
Kyle, was his name, and he was filled with nervous and excited energy that engrossed his entire skinny body. He slowly freaked out before the show started. When his girlfriend went to get a drink, he turned to talk to me and told me everything he’d been planning. Kyle bought the Phish tickets on E-Bay and spent a lot of money, but he felt it was worth it.
"Phish is our most sincere common interest, and was part of the reason we are together, so it’s only fitting that we get engaged at a show. And why not Vegas?"
When he heard the rumors about these shows being part of the last Phish tour before breaking up, he knew it was the time to go for it.
"Relax," I told him, "You have nothing to worry about, that lovely girl would be lucky to have you as her husband!"
I asked him if he had a camera, because I would happily take a picture of their moment.
"Shit!" he yelled, with a look of panic coming over his face, because after months of preparations, his perfect moment would have been ruined by a typical stoner move, as he left his camera on the dresser in his hotel room.
"No worries, bro," I said in a soothing voice. "My friends, have a camera. They will help you out."
I pointed to my Japanese friends, Oki and Tumi, musicians whom I met in Tokyo a few months earlier when I was following Phish in Japan. They came to America to see New York, and to tour several west coast Phish shows with me. And there we all stood, at the back of the crowded floor of a Phish show: me, two Japhans, and a couple soon to be engaged.
I tried to explain to Oki and Tumi what was going to happen in broken Japanese and English. And they understood right away and gave me a camera to get ready for when Kyle was going to pop the question to his girlfriend. I gave him the thumbs up and he smiled.
Before the show began, I chatted with the lovely couple. I found out that we had many similarities. Kyle was from Seattle, and I lived in Seattle. They currently lived in Atlanta, and I also lived there too for several years. Stephanie was a writer for a small newspaper, and I read papers all the time. (Just kidding, I told her I was a writer.) And most of all, she told me that went to the University of Texas.
"UT?" I asked, "Do you know Angela Hayes?"
"That name sounds very familiar," she answered.
I looked around to find Angela, so I could point her out. She was several yards away from me, sitting down with a group of her friends from high school and Austin.
"Yes, I know her! We lived in the same dorm. And she was in one of my writing classes."
The show started and it was the first American Phish show for the Japhans, so they were excited. Since, it’s a Las Vegas show, and I always get worked up when I’m in Vegas, I was definitely excited, as I anxiously focused on waiting for the sign from Kyle.
He waited until the fourth song to propose, then he turned to me told me that it was time. He pulled a small silver box containing the ring out of his pocket and got down on his knee in the middle of the packed, smokey, Thomas and Mack Center, and I was there clicking away taking as many pictures as I could, while Phish played "Mellow Mood".
She said, "Yes!" as she jumped into his arms, and I captured their loving embrace on Oki’s camera.
Then they both hugged me.
During setbreak I found Angela and as I told her the proposal story, small tears of joy rolled off her face. She walked over to the newly engaged couple and hugged them both. They joked about the strange coincidence about how they went to school with each other five years earlier, and didn’t really know each other, but at that exact time, they were meeting again after one of the most special moments in their lives and all because they newly engaged couple happened to be standing next to me, who was smoking up with two zany Japanese guitar playing hippies from Tokyo, at a Phish show in Las Vegas.
"You know," Angela grinned, "for the rest of their lives, they will remember that proposal as one of the brightest and happiest moments of their lives, and you, you McGrupp… you were a part of that."
"Wow, you’re right," I agreed, "But don’t forget the twins."
And as if on cue, Angela turned to look at Oki and Tumi, and they both smiled at her and waved.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
29 September 00
Las Vegas
"I cannot believe they got engaged during a Phish show in Las Vegas!" Angela exclaimed, with her wide resplendent eyes reflecting the non-stop twinkle of neon lights in the endless Las Vegas night, as we euphorically walked back to our hotel room.
"And in front of me!" I offered up.
I witnessed the proposal, and although it was not the strangest thing I ever saw at a Phish show, it was the most tender moment I think I ever got to be a part of. The lucky girl was named Stephanie, and she coincidentally lived on Angela’s freshman hall several years earlier, during their college days in Austin. Stephanie’s boyfriend popped the question during the first set of Phish, right in the middle of their cover version of Bob Marley’s "Mellow Mood".
Kyle, was his name, and he was filled with nervous and excited energy that engrossed his entire skinny body. He slowly freaked out before the show started. When his girlfriend went to get a drink, he turned to talk to me and told me everything he’d been planning. Kyle bought the Phish tickets on E-Bay and spent a lot of money, but he felt it was worth it.
"Phish is our most sincere common interest, and was part of the reason we are together, so it’s only fitting that we get engaged at a show. And why not Vegas?"
When he heard the rumors about these shows being part of the last Phish tour before breaking up, he knew it was the time to go for it.
"Relax," I told him, "You have nothing to worry about, that lovely girl would be lucky to have you as her husband!"
I asked him if he had a camera, because I would happily take a picture of their moment.
"Shit!" he yelled, with a look of panic coming over his face, because after months of preparations, his perfect moment would have been ruined by a typical stoner move, as he left his camera on the dresser in his hotel room.
"No worries, bro," I said in a soothing voice. "My friends, have a camera. They will help you out."
I pointed to my Japanese friends, Oki and Tumi, musicians whom I met in Tokyo a few months earlier when I was following Phish in Japan. They came to America to see New York, and to tour several west coast Phish shows with me. And there we all stood, at the back of the crowded floor of a Phish show: me, two Japhans, and a couple soon to be engaged.
I tried to explain to Oki and Tumi what was going to happen in broken Japanese and English. And they understood right away and gave me a camera to get ready for when Kyle was going to pop the question to his girlfriend. I gave him the thumbs up and he smiled.
Before the show began, I chatted with the lovely couple. I found out that we had many similarities. Kyle was from Seattle, and I lived in Seattle. They currently lived in Atlanta, and I also lived there too for several years. Stephanie was a writer for a small newspaper, and I read papers all the time. (Just kidding, I told her I was a writer.) And most of all, she told me that went to the University of Texas.
"UT?" I asked, "Do you know Angela Hayes?"
"That name sounds very familiar," she answered.
I looked around to find Angela, so I could point her out. She was several yards away from me, sitting down with a group of her friends from high school and Austin.
"Yes, I know her! We lived in the same dorm. And she was in one of my writing classes."
The show started and it was the first American Phish show for the Japhans, so they were excited. Since, it’s a Las Vegas show, and I always get worked up when I’m in Vegas, I was definitely excited, as I anxiously focused on waiting for the sign from Kyle.
He waited until the fourth song to propose, then he turned to me told me that it was time. He pulled a small silver box containing the ring out of his pocket and got down on his knee in the middle of the packed, smokey, Thomas and Mack Center, and I was there clicking away taking as many pictures as I could, while Phish played "Mellow Mood".
She said, "Yes!" as she jumped into his arms, and I captured their loving embrace on Oki’s camera.
Then they both hugged me.
During setbreak I found Angela and as I told her the proposal story, small tears of joy rolled off her face. She walked over to the newly engaged couple and hugged them both. They joked about the strange coincidence about how they went to school with each other five years earlier, and didn’t really know each other, but at that exact time, they were meeting again after one of the most special moments in their lives and all because they newly engaged couple happened to be standing next to me, who was smoking up with two zany Japanese guitar playing hippies from Tokyo, at a Phish show in Las Vegas.
"You know," Angela grinned, "for the rest of their lives, they will remember that proposal as one of the brightest and happiest moments of their lives, and you, you McGrupp… you were a part of that."
"Wow, you’re right," I agreed, "But don’t forget the twins."
And as if on cue, Angela turned to look at Oki and Tumi, and they both smiled at her and waved.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Jack Tripper Stole My Dog
A Novel by Tenzin McGrupp
Here is a second excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
He didn’t know about the engagement. But he knew about Sasha breaking up with Slab after she came home from work early one afternoon and caught Slab having sex with a petite Malaysian girl whom he picked up at the dogrun in Tompkins Square Park. But that wasn’t the worse of it. The girl’s dog was tearing apart one of Sasha’s sketch books, and Slab’s drummer, Yohan, the one-eyed stick handling wonder from Reykjavik, Iceland was embroiled in a severe and fierce masturbating session on their couch, sniffing a pair of Sasha’s dirty underwear, while wearing another pair of her panties on his head.
Sasha was furious and snatched up the Malaysian girl’s pug and tossed it out the fourth floor window of their five story walk up on Avenue B. The poor pooch fell hard and fast to the pavement, almost hitting a delivery man from Sushi World, who dodged the falling dog, and watched as it died instantly when it’s neck broke in four different places upon impact.
But she wasn’t done. She went into bedroom, unnoticed by Slab and his partner, who were engaging in a bizarre sex position that she had never seen. She grabbed the box of condoms that she had bought just the night before. She took them into the bathroom and saw that there were eight or nine left. She poked holes into each of the condoms until she ruined the entire box. When she was done, she stealthily walked past Yohan, still clutching his member, his good eye covered by Sasha’s stained undies. She opened the bedroom door and tossed the box of condoms on the floor and slammed the front door.
When she got downstairs she saw a small, yet curious crowd huddled around the dead canine. She began to laugh and ran rampant down the street and almost knocked over a woman coming out of a boutique, and that’s when she met Amanda from Sydney, Australia. From that moment, the nineteen year old Sasha, poured all her energy into her relationship with the affluent Amanda, who’s family had run into some good fortune selling pizza flavored potato chips in Australia, New Zealand, and all over Southeast Asia.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Here is a second excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
He didn’t know about the engagement. But he knew about Sasha breaking up with Slab after she came home from work early one afternoon and caught Slab having sex with a petite Malaysian girl whom he picked up at the dogrun in Tompkins Square Park. But that wasn’t the worse of it. The girl’s dog was tearing apart one of Sasha’s sketch books, and Slab’s drummer, Yohan, the one-eyed stick handling wonder from Reykjavik, Iceland was embroiled in a severe and fierce masturbating session on their couch, sniffing a pair of Sasha’s dirty underwear, while wearing another pair of her panties on his head.
Sasha was furious and snatched up the Malaysian girl’s pug and tossed it out the fourth floor window of their five story walk up on Avenue B. The poor pooch fell hard and fast to the pavement, almost hitting a delivery man from Sushi World, who dodged the falling dog, and watched as it died instantly when it’s neck broke in four different places upon impact.
But she wasn’t done. She went into bedroom, unnoticed by Slab and his partner, who were engaging in a bizarre sex position that she had never seen. She grabbed the box of condoms that she had bought just the night before. She took them into the bathroom and saw that there were eight or nine left. She poked holes into each of the condoms until she ruined the entire box. When she was done, she stealthily walked past Yohan, still clutching his member, his good eye covered by Sasha’s stained undies. She opened the bedroom door and tossed the box of condoms on the floor and slammed the front door.
When she got downstairs she saw a small, yet curious crowd huddled around the dead canine. She began to laugh and ran rampant down the street and almost knocked over a woman coming out of a boutique, and that’s when she met Amanda from Sydney, Australia. From that moment, the nineteen year old Sasha, poured all her energy into her relationship with the affluent Amanda, who’s family had run into some good fortune selling pizza flavored potato chips in Australia, New Zealand, and all over Southeast Asia.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
By Tenzin McGrupp
Pedro would get up early each morning, before his mother, and even before his grandmother, who’s daily routine began at 5:30 promptly everyday. Pedro would sneak out of his bedroom, the smallest bedroom in the apartment, which he shared with his oldest brother Marcus, who sometimes was passed out from too much cheap rum, or sometimes had not yet come home from wherever he had been partying that night. He would slowly pass his grandmother’s bedroom, carefully listening to make sure she was still snoring, and the surest sign that she was still sleeping. He’d then sneak past his mother’s bedroom, which she shared with his youngest sister, who moved into his mother’s bedroom after his seventeen year old sister, Marta had gotten pregnant by her Driver’s Ed teacher, and gave birth to a set of twins, one sleety January morning while waiting for the bus on 189th Street. If Pedro wanted to get any alone time, in the unusually large four bedroom apartment, but made restricted and cramped when all eight inhabitants were up and screaming and yelling and living the daily drama that happens each sarcastic morning and every appalling night.
Pedro pulled an old chair up to the window in his living room and peered out at the darkened street, which would soon be invaded by the onset of morning. He could hear the faint churning of garbage trucks making their pickups a few blocks away, but aside from that, the street was quiet. Pedro loved sitting in the window and watching what was going on outside. Sometimes he would make up stories about the people he saw walk in and out of the apartment. Especially those folks sauntering in and out at five in the morning.
On many instances, Pedro would watch his brother stumble home from his late night drunkcapades, after he stole a few wallets from idiot tourists gawking at Ground Zero, or picked the pockets of several cell phone yapping, not paying attention to anything 9 to 5ers in Midtown. Sometimes Marcus would be drinking with the superintendent’s wife, Lupe, and she would be carrying him home on her back. She was strong for her size.
Pedro’s dilapidated building had more than it’s fair share of sketchy tenants, whom made their way in life in unhealthy ways. He would see customers come and go, either buying or selling, or getting high, or pushing product, or sometimes he’d see older guys in suits, most recently white guys, in pleasantly tailored suits, and forty dollar haircuts, who’d be coming over at sun up to get their fix as they stopped off in Spanish Harlem from Connecticut en route to the office.
“I’ll be leaving early in the morning, dear, I have a breakfast meeting with our legal department,” as he casually lied to his trophy suburban wife, before he fired up the pipe for a hit of poorly cooked, improperly cut cocaine while sitting on the couch of his drug dealer, then properly medicated, he hastily sauntered next door to have a quickie with the crack whore du jour.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Pedro would get up early each morning, before his mother, and even before his grandmother, who’s daily routine began at 5:30 promptly everyday. Pedro would sneak out of his bedroom, the smallest bedroom in the apartment, which he shared with his oldest brother Marcus, who sometimes was passed out from too much cheap rum, or sometimes had not yet come home from wherever he had been partying that night. He would slowly pass his grandmother’s bedroom, carefully listening to make sure she was still snoring, and the surest sign that she was still sleeping. He’d then sneak past his mother’s bedroom, which she shared with his youngest sister, who moved into his mother’s bedroom after his seventeen year old sister, Marta had gotten pregnant by her Driver’s Ed teacher, and gave birth to a set of twins, one sleety January morning while waiting for the bus on 189th Street. If Pedro wanted to get any alone time, in the unusually large four bedroom apartment, but made restricted and cramped when all eight inhabitants were up and screaming and yelling and living the daily drama that happens each sarcastic morning and every appalling night.
Pedro pulled an old chair up to the window in his living room and peered out at the darkened street, which would soon be invaded by the onset of morning. He could hear the faint churning of garbage trucks making their pickups a few blocks away, but aside from that, the street was quiet. Pedro loved sitting in the window and watching what was going on outside. Sometimes he would make up stories about the people he saw walk in and out of the apartment. Especially those folks sauntering in and out at five in the morning.
On many instances, Pedro would watch his brother stumble home from his late night drunkcapades, after he stole a few wallets from idiot tourists gawking at Ground Zero, or picked the pockets of several cell phone yapping, not paying attention to anything 9 to 5ers in Midtown. Sometimes Marcus would be drinking with the superintendent’s wife, Lupe, and she would be carrying him home on her back. She was strong for her size.
Pedro’s dilapidated building had more than it’s fair share of sketchy tenants, whom made their way in life in unhealthy ways. He would see customers come and go, either buying or selling, or getting high, or pushing product, or sometimes he’d see older guys in suits, most recently white guys, in pleasantly tailored suits, and forty dollar haircuts, who’d be coming over at sun up to get their fix as they stopped off in Spanish Harlem from Connecticut en route to the office.
“I’ll be leaving early in the morning, dear, I have a breakfast meeting with our legal department,” as he casually lied to his trophy suburban wife, before he fired up the pipe for a hit of poorly cooked, improperly cut cocaine while sitting on the couch of his drug dealer, then properly medicated, he hastily sauntered next door to have a quickie with the crack whore du jour.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Her Last Christmas Present
By Tenzin McGrupp
Her daughter calmly sat at the edge of her bed, as her doelful eyes looked at the small box wrapped up in recycled Santa Claus wrapping paper. She had wondered if her ill seven year old child would make it through the holidays, heck, she wondered if she, a single mom working three shitty jobs, had the strength to make it through another horrible holiday season, as she took a swig of her breakfast beverage, orange juice and cheap vodka. Her lonely and dismal thoughts settled down to a slow roar, as her hands trembled as she watched her daughter slowly peel the wrapping paper off of her only gift. Her eyes swelled to tears as her daughter's angelic face changed from distant ambivalence to a cheerful surprise, as she opened the small box and pulled out the necklace.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
Her daughter calmly sat at the edge of her bed, as her doelful eyes looked at the small box wrapped up in recycled Santa Claus wrapping paper. She had wondered if her ill seven year old child would make it through the holidays, heck, she wondered if she, a single mom working three shitty jobs, had the strength to make it through another horrible holiday season, as she took a swig of her breakfast beverage, orange juice and cheap vodka. Her lonely and dismal thoughts settled down to a slow roar, as her hands trembled as she watched her daughter slowly peel the wrapping paper off of her only gift. Her eyes swelled to tears as her daughter's angelic face changed from distant ambivalence to a cheerful surprise, as she opened the small box and pulled out the necklace.
Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.
What a Long Strange Trip it's Been...
From the Editor's Laptop:
I am excited for the seventh issue of Truckin'! It's over a half of a year old, and I am surprised it has lasted this long! Not only has the quality of stories been improving since we first started at the beginning of the summer, but this issue has another selection from the NaNoWriMo novel. And of course, Señor shares yet another wild Asian adventure. I realize that this issue was lacking various voices, but I promise January will bring new fresh voices and plenty of more hijinks!
Again, thanks to the writers who spilled their blood and guts this year, and worked hard to meet deadlines to make each and every issue kick ass. I am humbled and proud of all of your efforts!
Please feel free to e-mail this link to your friends, families, co-workers, cellmates, lifemates, etc. Help spread the good word about this site and the writers!
Without your help, Truckin' would be just another boring website!!
If you would like to comment or contact any of the authors, please send an E-mail to: Contact Truckin'
Again thanks for your support! Happy holidaze!
Salukis, McG
"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." - Leo Tolstoy
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