Steve B Howard
Steve Howard's self-published collection of short stories Satori in the Slip Stream, Something Gaijin This Way Comes, and others were released in 2018. His poetry collection Diet of a Piss Poor Poet was released in 2019.
Duck Hunting On Acid
Striker’s Bay is an odd mix of the gentrified white upper middle class, the godlike super rich once a year visiting Bay Area celebrities and the blue collars that drown themselves in debt and then bust their asses to maintain a lifestyle they rarely ever get to enjoy. And an army of poor that arrive daily to service the residents, but don’t actually live here themselves. Despite the deep deep pockets living here much of the surrounding waterways began in the 1850’s when near slave-like Chinese labors were used to build the levees that would eventually create the channels and canals so prized for boating, fishing, water skiing, and jet skis, and various other water sports now.
The Illegal Immigrant Song
It is a narrow two-lane road littered with potholes that run in a straight line for about two miles between to massive fruit farms. Squat brown two and three bedroom public housing units run the length of the road. Equally weathered and battered Ford Pick up trucks, all crammed full of landscaping and farm equipment line the curbs or sit derelict in the tiny driveways and front yards. A few early models Chevy Impalas, El Caminos, and Ford Rancheros, all Low Riders in beautiful candy apple colors reside proudly at strategic locations along the road.
The Death of Jeff Spicoli & the Rise of the Surf Punks
Another wave crashes into the jagged dark rocks far below us and I sit with my friend waiting. It is still dark as the sun rises behind us barely peaking over the low Santa Cruz mountains. We left the CA delta region at two am to make it here by sunrise. We are waxing down surfboards, his six and a half foot five fin carver and a longer fun board that he “borrowed” from his older brother for me. He also borrowed a thick black wet suit that is too big, but it is better than nothing considering how cold the ocean is here. He is a short, cocky, ADD addled type with blue eyes and a cute girl killer face that matches his jumpy charisma. On most days the long mop of surfer blond hair is combed to the side half covering the shaved sides of his head, but today his hair is spiked up in full seven inch Mohawk. He lost an extra forty minutes of sleep last night because he had to wake up earlier than me to gel and blow dry it into place. At the time I didn’t understand why he bothered. Standing here at Steamer Lane looking at all the mean punk surfers glowering at us I’m starting to get it.
The VW Speed Collectors
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It is almost too fast to understand. I’m in the parking lot of a Target Store in San Jose, CA. It is 8 pm on a Thursday. We are at least a two-hour drive away from Oakley, CA with good traffic. “Never steal one within thirty miles of where you live. That’s the fucking golden rule,” a guy the gang calls Cooter says.
Even though the media has decided to ignore us you have to admit that Gen X in the 80's and early 90's Teen Angst(ed) it like no generation before or since. "Really?", you say. Yes, really. The 80's gave birth to the American Hardcore Punk Scene, both Speed and Thrash Metal, as well as Gangster Rap.
Jackey’s Mafia Pizza
The rumor was that he was a wizard at starting up restaurants and nightclubs. But once they were up and banging then he would slack off until his skimming and coke habit got out of control and his Italian business partners started asking questions about profits and loss.
Doing Stand Up Comedy In Salem, Oregon
I’ve been doing stand up comedy for the past six years. I’m originally from the Seattle area, but I have been living in Japan since 2003. There is a comedy group in the city of Nagoya, Japan where I live that does shows once a month. This was pre-Covid 19 of course, but even still we were able to put on a few shows in 2020 and have done a few in 2021.
Face in the Fog
Heavy smoke from the artillery fire and burning buildings has left only little windows of clear space to aim my camera through and snap pictures. My ears have long ago given up any attempt to hear anything over the pounding thud of the battle. I move through the streets half blind from the smoke and mostly deaf from the explosive guns looking for pictures to take. I want to bring Chechnya back to the world. I have fourteen roles of film already. Three more to go and then I can leave this dangerous place forever.