Four Drunks on a Porch (Part 1)
You could call me a derelict, I suppose. Not surprising I would find myself in the company of same.
I looked up ‘derelict’ and it’s usage has increased over the past 30 or so years. Originally it meant ‘abandoned’ and still does. An abandoned building, an abandoned ship floating unmanned, unclaimed. More often now it is used as a derogatory for the Ragged Ann’s and Andy’s nameless, homeless cluttering up some cities landscapes. Even some of the more prissy ass, white bread neighborhoods, across the broad expanse of the great ‘Home of the Brave and the Land of the Free,’ are witnessing ‘Derilectification.’
I call this phenomenon ‘Derelictification.
You know, kinda the opposite of goddamned ‘Gentrification.’ Whadda ya know, derelict buildings get gentrified but not the human derelicts within said buildings.’ What a sad ass state of affairs.
Where I live, with my fellow derelicts:
They call it a ‘Sober House.’ A large house divided into five separate sleeping rooms. Each occupied by a guy, a so called ‘reformed drunk’ ‘recovering alcoholic’ or ‘drug addict’ or both. It’s funny that there is any distinction whatever between those labels. We all are the same. We all share common characteristics.
