Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A baby's plaintive cry bounced down the airshaft into the pitch-black bedroom. The middle-aged man on the mattress opened his eyes. The upstairs neighbors must have brought their infant home from the hospital. The bawling ceased as soon as his feet touched the bare wooden floor. Sleep belonged to another day and Sean Collan stumbled from his tomb into the sunlight flooding the living room.
Its blinding brightness meant another beautiful spring day for January, although Sean wished the city had been buried by a blizzard. At least then he would have an excuse for staying in his apartment since New Year's Day.
Celebrating the First Night at his best friends' loft had been a time-honored tradition. Soul-kissing their angelic daughter at the stroke of twelve was a drastic detour from other parties. While he had zero reservations about sleeping with someone less than half his age, Sean had known Allee, since she was three, and he fled without wishing "Happy New Year.” to either parent.
Union Square glowed with thousands of revelers’ high expectations for the infant millennium. Everyone was with someone. None noticed the tuxedoed man walking into the East Village. This solitude was too familiar and Sean arrived home with a resolution to not die an old person in New York.
A fast accompanied by a vow of silence should have brought on revelations. The days of starvation simply unearthed visions of pork satay, French toast, bacon and fried eggs in bacon grease, chicken pots pies, fried clams and finally this morning corn flakes with bananas drowning in cold milk.
Hunger had him in the submission hold, yet six days in a New York apartment were no forty days in the desert. Stretching his stocky body reminded of his age. His left knee popped from thirty-five years of basketball, his right torn shoulder was torn after pitching relief in a fastball game at age 40, and his crackling knuckles had busted from too many heads.
Thankfully his face had abandoned its beer bloat and his weight was nearing ten pounds beyond his fighting prime. His waist could fit into 34 Levis, although not today and he dressed in khaki trousers, Irish sweater, and black leather coat> he exited from his cold-water flat and passed two neighbors without saying a word. As safe as New York had become during the recent mayor's regime, the city was packed with people firmly intent on remaining strangers.
Outside on the sidewalk he weaved through the discarded Christmas trees to his motorcycle. A handful of parking tickets fluttered from the 1970 Yamaha 650cc XS. No parts had been stolen and he continued west. The block between 1st and 2nd Avenues was under siege by a dozen RVs and scores of burly film technicians. Their walkie-talkies squawked out orders from the director and the cameraman across the street was focusing a 35mm camera on two diminutive actors.
His names escaped Sean, for his love of the movies had been ruined by over-bloated budgets, gun ballets, parking lot car chases, and the digital FXs. Even sitting in a theater had become a chore. When one PA tried to bar his progress, Sean stepped onto the pavement rather than start an altercation.
Passing through the police barricade Sean entered Veselka's. He sat at his usual corner stool and picked up a discarded NY Times. The short Ukrainian counterman came over with a glass of water. "Happy New Year, where you been?"
Sean shrugged to indicate nowhere.
Anton was accustomed to his long-time customers’ quirks. "The usual?"
Sean nodded and Anton stuck his order above the grill.
Across the counter three French tourists studied the diner, as if they were on an anthropological expedition. Back in the late-70s these foreign gawkers would have been plundered for their last franc. That era’s thieves were dead, imprisoned or burnt out. Junior execs paid good money to live on the Lower East Side. Sean was an anachronism too and a quick read of the Help Wanted Ads reinforced his stranglehold on true meaninglessness. No one would hire him for a sales person, cook, or tugboat captain and a rescue from ruin appeared uncertain at best.
The Trappist Order had accepted Tony Curtis in THE GREAT IMPOSTER. Their vow of silence was a vacation for the flimflam man. They served good food and Sean's late avocation to the Cloth would please his mother. He could sublet his apartment and after six months have enough money for a trip to Asia. If you walked around Mt. Khailash, all your sins were forgiven by the gods of the Tibetan plateau. A swim in the Ganges couldn’t hurt either.
Anton delivered his coffee and buttered bagel. Sean wrapped his hands around the ceramic mug and thanked God for having left him that one last move to save his soul, until a gruff voice commented, "That's not much of a breakfast for a grown man."
Frank deRocco was five years younger than Sean. He looked older by ten. Drinking laced Ninth Precinct detective's face with red veins, tobacco had yellowed his teeth, and his scalp gleamed under his thin white hair. "Been callin' you the last couple of days, but you ain't been answerin' the phone. You sick?"
Sean shook his head glumly, for the two men weren't friends.
"What's the matter, Seano? You lose your voice?" deRocco spoke out of the side of his mouth, so no one else could hear them. "No matter, you only gotta listen. You know, it's funny, but the other day I'm up in Midtown South, readin' some bulletins to kill time, when I find this Identikit picture of that skinny French bitch you were runnin' with last year. A blonde, no tits, no ass. Just like a boy."
deRocco opened the complimentary notebook from an off-shore Cayman Island bank, then paused, as if he had forgotten what to say. The stalling ploy played as badly in real life as it did on TV. "Seems a year ago there was a series of robberies in Midtown and East Side hotels. I'm from the Ninth Precinct and normally don't give a shit for what goes on outside my territory, but this set-up was cute. A skinny French broad shows up at a hotel bar and she's a piece of ass. Now your typical out-of-town businessman hits on her, though he's not typical, since he's wearin' a gold Rolex or Cartier or somethin' foreign. They talk, have a few drinks, get touchy-feeley. He invites her upstairs. She agrees, and, like friggin' magic, once in the room she gets naked and the guy's lickin' her breasts like ice cream, because she says drives her nuts. Then the lights go out for the guy. Wakes up eight hours later with a killer headache and no gold watch, cause here comes the cute part. The French broad coated her nipples and tits with a very strong knockout drug. I can't remember what. Anyway she works this scam fifteen times we hear about, probably another ten where the suckers are too embarrassed to tell the police. The watches run for ten to twenty thou each. Definitely Grand Larceny. Midtown stakes out the hotels, only gettin' a nibble from some whores workin' the hotels, but no blonde French broad. She made her nut and bolted."
Sean had met Mira Lachelle in Paris. She had been a fashion model before a heroin habit banished her from the runways. The Frenchwoman said she was here on holiday. Sean gave her a place to stay. Resistance to the wasted princess’ advances was impossible. Mira said the watches were presents. Sean didn’t ask from whom and for the six months after she had left New York, he had come to view Mira as a failed morality test.
He reached into his pocket to pay the bill.
"I ain't got to the story's happy ending yet.” The cop gripped his forearm. “Anyway I put one and one together with her being the 'perp' and you fencin' the 'swag' through your Jew friends in the Diamond District."
The chances of Mira ratting him out were nil. She barely spoke English.
"The way I figure it, those out-of-town suckers got what they deserved.” The cops can claim how much DNA, fingerprints, and evidence help their investigations, however 95% of the crimes are solved by informers and the other 5% from dumb luck. “I mean, New York's not New York without a few hicks gettin' ripped off. That's how you rationalized it, right? Rob from the rich and give to the poor. Anyway I reckon you and the broad grabbed maybe like a hundred thou and out of that you owe us ten grand."
deRocco was rousting him on a long shot uncomfortably close to the truth and Sean speechlessly moved his head from left to right. The only real score had been a platinum Audermars-Picat Royal Oak, otherwise the bands, cases, and movements of limited edition watches were etched with corresponding numbers and no fence on 47th Street would give more than ten cents on the dollar.
"Stop shakin' your head like a dog that's gonna get beat.” deRocco's bloodshot eyes regarded Sean, as if he was a pet turtle on his back. “I know you're busted, but you still owe me and my ex-partner. You remember Kev, right?"
Kevin Driscoll had been invalided off NYPD after a Dominican dealer holding out on their cut had popped off a lucky shot into his knee. Driscoll had succeeded with an even luckier shot and the perp had arrived DOA at Bellevue, forestalling any departmental investigation into the bagman's wrongdoings.
"You should thank your stars, that you're talkin' to me and not him, because Kev's real pissed, but me I like you. I mean we go back to when? 1980. The National Club. You never spoke to Internal Affairs and I respect you for keeping your mouth shut."
Due to a juvenile belief in the criminal code of honor, Sean had not informed Internal Affairs about the precinct cops accepting bribes to turn a blind eye to an after-hours nightclub, thereby adding one more chip to his leaning tower of wrong turns.
"A long time ago, but it has to count for something, which I'm giving you an out to get straight with us. You're goin' to whack a stranger." Frank deRocco's lips barely moved, as the words crackled like old leaves off his nicotine-stained tongue. "Do it and we're quits."
Sean blinked in disbelief.
"What are you lookin' at, hotheads.” DeRocco sneered at the French tourists across the counter. “This ain't no Martin Scorcese film. You want a free show. Go to friggin' Mickey Mouse Times Square, you Frog bastards."
The tourists retreated to the restaurant's dining area and Frank deRocco demanded,
"So what do you say?"
If Sean refused the cop's offer, Frank deRocco would undoubtedly drag him out to 2nd Avenue and shoot him dead. One by one the jumbled syllables crawled onto his atrophied tongue. "First, that I owe you 10K is bullshit. Second, you want someone to killed for free, then go up to St. Patrick's Cathedral and pray for God to strike him dead with lightning. Otherwise it's ten thousand."
"Balls, lotsa balls. I thought it'd come to this, but ten thou's a lot, considering we weren't gonna to pay you squat."
"That's the deal," Sean took a bite from the bagel. His demand for money would buy time, which is always a valuable commodity, when your moves are down to none.
"Okay, you get the five up front." The burly detective had counted on Sean's being greedy. "And you get the other five, when the 'vic's' history."
"I do?" Sean didn't have any time to ponder why the cop had accepted his counter-offer. deRocco yanked Sean off the stool. "C'mon, we're out of here."
The early morning passers-by on the sidewalk thanked their stars that they weren't being stuffed into an unmarked Chevy Caprice. "Relax, Seano, you're going to Las Vegas, not the Meadowlands. America West out of JFK at 9:30."
"That's an hour from now."
"Plenty of time." The cop stepped on the gas and the Chevy lurched into the Second Avenue traffic. "I got your getaway bag from the apartment. Always ready to go, right?"
"I try." Sean breathed a little easier spotting the old leather bag inside which everything he needed to affect a getaway. Everything other than money and deRocco seemed willing to take care of that problem.
The cop lit a cigarette. "You always talked about writing a big story. This is as big as it gets as only as you change the names to protect the guilty."
"Thanks for the inspiration." Sean had given up on writing years ago. There were already too many words being scribbled for television, movies, books, greeting cards, and ads without another writer adding the tower of babble about events better left secret.
"I mean you got Vegas, a murder, two dirty cops, a loser, maybe a hooker and an Elvis imitator thrown in for a little color."
"This isn't going a kamikaze job?" Sean had to ask, whether or not he intended to commit the murder.
"Hey, you get to ride into the sunset. Up ten thou. Can't do better than that." Frank deRocco knew his passenger’s fate.
"No, I guess I can't," Sean replied with the reggae chorus 'Murder, she wrote." repeating in his head.
Sean's lawlessness began with joy-riding in the 1960s, pot-dealing in the 70s, and illegal after-hour clubs and money laundering in the 80s, yet he had never killed anyone and he had no intention of breaking that streak.
Somewhere between New York and Las Vegas he would get the chance to vanish into the crowd and avoid being the executioner of a faceless stranger. Sean would have take advantage of that moment, but thankfully Las Vegas was all about luck, unfortunately sometimes more bad than good. Sean could only bet on the latter, because he didn’t need to crap out again in this lifetime or the next.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Wall Street tanked this Monday after absorbing the news that GM's CFU or Chief Fuck-Up had been ousted by the Obama Administration. The old adage 'What's good for GM is good for America' had lost its credibility during the 8-year leadership of Rick Wagoner with the company losing nearly 90% of its stock value. His traveling to DC in a private jet to beg money from Congress didn't help his case and he was replaced by another inept GM manager, making the very existence of the century-old car-maker a question of good money following bad.
Not everything was bad news for GM as the New York Times reported the surge in Iraq create another surge for the purchase of GM H3 Hummers the upmarket version of the US Army's Humvee.
“Iraqis love them because they’re really a symbol of power," said a Bagdhad car dealer. "This car brings out the “hasad thukuri” in everyone."
'Penis envy' for this $60,000 fully-loaded vehicle in egg-yolk yellow and scarlet red and gas only cost $1.40, which is up from $.09 under the Halliburton regime.
"Big car means big penis." An Iraq friend told me. He loves GW Bush, big cars, and big women. "I want to be an American. Same as everyone else."
And nothing says American more than an H3 Hummer.
"Zees is not a beer drinking club. Zees is a fucking club." Michel, the French manager of the Eden Lounge, told me and Sam Royalle. He clapped his hands and the girls lined up on either side of a yellow line. "Zee girls on the left are 2 holes and the girls on the right are 3 holes. Make your choices. 1500 baht for one. 2500 for two. That is the happy hour price."
This visit was strictly to further my sociological research into go-go bars, sex clubs, and low lifes. Michel spoke freely on the subject. I learned much under his supervision. "I make zee men happy. The girls are happy. Everyone is happy."
This formula was exported to Pattaya at the Hell Club on LK Metro. I went there once. The place was empty. The yellow line was painted on the wall, but I didn't get the same vibe as chez Michel, so I never went back for a second look. I am notoriously faithful to my 2 wives, however Jamie Parker told me that he had been there recently after a night on the town.
It was 10:30pm.
"Two of the girls were interesting." For Jamie that meant they were attractive. "I went inside and was immediately given a sales pitch by an over-sized American. It was basically the same spiel as Michel, so I went upstairs with two girls and a toolbox. I had a good time. You should visit next time around."
I'm stuck in New York. I'm almost a virgin. A year without the tender touch of a woman, but I won't be visiting the Hell Club on my April return to Thailand, for thePattaya Police raided the Hell Club on Soi LK Metro to apprehend 13 Thai ladies and the club's American owner after police officers surfing the internet for evil-doers discovered the club was offering a wide range of sexual services involving sex toys and hundreds of condoms. Several of the girls were shockingly on drugs.
Babylon has suffered another blow.
Probably set up by the snitches of the Pattaya Police Volunteers working for the Police charities of the region.
My boy Joey is ready for the Mr. Pattaya Contest 2009. The last winner. A cop isn't in the competition. Joey's guns are 20 inches. His headline for the super pump body is April 4th at the Royal Garden. He challenged me to a showdown and everyone else. He's in the gym. I'm in the bar. My money is on Joey, but not on the shooting range.
That hold guarantees a busted thumb.
I know from experience.
Not mine but other knuckleheads who's gun acumen comes watching cop shows.
Gun Ballets for closet cop groupies.
"There's a sucker born every minute." PT Barnum - circus flimflammer.
One reason for the current economic debacle is the natural propensity of people wanting something for nothing ie greed. Everyone involved with Bernie Madoff were more than willing to accept his pay-outs without any research. They deserved exactly what they go, which was a good soaking.
Som num nah, but some people never learn that if something sound too good to be true than it has to be too good to be true as revealed by this entry from the Thai blog www.teakdoor.com
Read the following and weep or laugh.
I just shook my head.
One morning while walking toward Pantip plaza a well dressed Thai fellow sitting in the shade on Petchaburi rd. compliments my hat and wonders were I'm from from.
It's too early for Pantip to be open(not quite 10) so I sit next to him on the long marble sill of this building and chat a little. It's pretty hot out and offers to buy a coke in a nearby air conditioned restaurant. I tell him I'm from Alaska and he proceeds to tell me how his sister is going to Anchorage for a visit and would like for me to meet her. I agree since I had time to kill and figured it would be nice to meet another Thai family. So we hop in a cab and go to a house in a nice middle class Thai neighborhood off Ratchada. There I meet an uncle and an aunt. Some food appears on the table and we have something to eat.
I get to talking with the uncle and he's a card dealer at a Poipet casino. He starts telling about some kind of variation to the blackjack game and say's he'd let me win once sometime. I'm immediately a little suspicious about anything to do with gambling and weird deals having played Las Vegas quite a bit. But I'm willing to listen.
We're still waiting for the sister to arrive and he offers to show me how his blackjack game works. He's a pretty slick card shark with a slick oily combed up Elvis hairstyle. Next thing he's talking about some high-roller from Singapore who's on him way over and he want's the brother to play a few hands to win some money off him.
The Singapore guy shows up with the sister and very quickly a bit wad of US cash is on the table and the brother and sister are sitting on either side of me. Now I never expressed interest in playing and had gone along with the gag so far just to be polite. But it was starting to look like I was the one being played there. Then a hand comes where the Singapore guy raises the bet and "brother" needed an additional 1000 baht to cover it. They look to me to help like I was part of it.
I'm a little boxed in with "brother" and "sister" to either side. So I make the mistake of pulling out 1000 baht to "help". There's over $1000.00 USD in the pot and I suddenly see where all this was going. The cigarette smoke from the uncle was already making me nauseous.
I claim to be sick and get up and go outside for some air. The sister comes out to talk with me. The "sister" story didn't compute she was too young to be vacationing in Alaska. Then the brother comes out and starts talking about how his mother was sick and needed blood. He asks me what blood type I was! WTF! The scene was becoming too bizarre. I decide to bolt then and there. He accompanies me in a taxi to the nearly MRT makes apologies for his "uncle" and want's to meet later. I tell him I was going be very busy for the next few days.
At least he didn't get fooled by a ka-toey, but as HL Mencken said, "No one ever got poor by overestimating the gullibility of the American Public."
So I suspect this writer will get taken again.
Som num nah.
The Plaza Hotel has been one of New York City's premier destination since its opening in 1905. Truman Capote held his Black and White fete in the Grand Ballroom, Neil Simon wrote PLAZA SUITE about an afternoon in the hotel, and during the 1978 Black-Out I rushed to the Oak Room for a bucket of ice. The Plaza Hotel was synonymous with wealth and tradition, so when Richie Boy proposed my managing his jewelry store in the new Retail Collection I dreamed of selling 13mm South Sea Pearls to Houston heiresses and pink diamond hearts to Sheiks from the emirates.
It didn't matter that the Retail Collection was located in the basement or that the hotel was owned by Israelis or that Richie Boy's partners had hired two women to be co-managers.
This was the Plaza.
Anyone working there coined money.
We opened with a gala event. Black tie and gowns. Our store had over $10,000,000 of merchandise. Diamonds, pearls, emeralds, rubies, sapphires. Jewelry from Italy. I stood in front of the store ready to greet our first customer. A day passed, then a week, then it was November.
The Palm Court upstairs suffered bad food and worst service. It closed before Thanksgiving. El-Ad the owners said they were closing for renovation. The hotel was at 95% capacity. Most of the rooms were packed with Saudis. Only one of them came into the Retail Collection. He asked if i knew where to get a shave. "Not in this hotel."
El-Ad played one CD in the Retail Collection. The same nine songs. Day after day.
"Welcome to retail hell." The VP said with a smile.
"Go fuck yourself," I muttered behind his back.
My expectations for a big Christmas died by the 1st weekend. No customers. Not for our store. Not for anyone else. Everyone was losing money. The Oak Room was busy. It had a reputation, which was tarnished by a savage review in the New York Times. The owners fired the French chef in Jan. and closed to rethink the cuisine until then they were serving $27 hamburgers. $3 extra for cheese.
I made four sales in that month, but also discovered Richie Boy's partner Mario was stealing from him. One night he took earrings and didn't bring them back. His story about a sale in LA was a lie. I told him he had better show up with the earrings or else.
He had a lot of people telling him that.
Richie Boy's other partner started bouncing checks.
The lingerie store closed the beginning of March. Other salespeople asked who would be next. I knew it was us. No business. A partner who's a thief and another who's broke. The two girls were let go. Richie Boy said, "Don't let anyone take anything."
I hoped to make it to April.
We got as far as March 25.
The Israeli VP asked me for rent. I told him to go fuck himself to his face. He slunk back to his office. I wrote a note on the wall FREE PALESTINE and superglued the CD player on 'off'. The girls at Demel's Coffeeshop were sad to see go, but the months at the Retail Collection were like being an extra in THE SHINING 2 without a script, a director, or Jack Nicholson.
And the Oak Room opened as a kosher steak house.
I c an only wish El-Ad to go fuck themselves and ride out of town on a pig.
Fuck-up and I know fuck-ups, because I'm Mr. World Fuck-up 2006.
Seems like I'm in the running for this year's title too.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go
They're ready to go now
They've got their surfboards
And they're going to the discotheque a go go
But she just couldn't stay
She had to break away
Well New York City really has it all
Oh yeah, oh yeah
Sheena is a punk rocker
Sheena is a punk rocker
Sheena is a punk rocker now
Sheena is a punk rocker
Sheena is a punk rocker
Sheena is a punk rocker now
Well She's a punk punk, a punk rocker
Punk punk, a punk rocker
Punk punk, a punk rocker
Punk punk, a punk rocker
Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go
They're ready to go now
They've got their surfboards
And they're going to the discotheque a go go
But she just couldn't stay
She had to break away
Well New York City really has it all
Oh yeah, oh yeah
The First Admendment was written into the American Constitution to protect the Freedom of Speech and for decades libertarians have defended pornography as the front line of that liberty. The GOP under GW Bush had scheduled a massive attack on that lightning rod. 9/11 short-circuited that attack, as the Justice Department rolled back habeus corpus to fight the 'war on terror', however the right never forgot their old nemesis and various political prosecutors around the country are testing the nation's moral barometer by prosecuting teenagers for 'sexting' sexual images of their friends and themselves to each other. The latest case has the American Civil Liberties Union standing up for three teenage girls charged with felony child porn violations for digital photos of themselves.
While I don't think it's wise for these children to be revealing their nakedness to the masses, the actual content sounds tame as a Gap ad for swimming suits, although one bared her breasts.
Oh no, what would they think of Blind Faith's album from 1970 or Sally Mann photos or the Catholic Church molesting altar boys?
The prosecutor is running for re-election this fall. He met with the children's parents and offered to drop the charges if the girls go through six months probation and regualr drug testing. The offer stood for 48 hours and the ACLU told him to go fuck himself, although not in that language. The AG has possession of the photos and will not give them to the defenders on the grounds that it would be trafficking in child porno.
"Just depicting nudity could be considered a sex act."
And possession is not a crime?
Naked at birth. Naked in life. Naked into the cosmos.
The first porno book is read was THE ITCH by Steven Hammer on Olympia Press. I must have read it 3000 times between the 1965 and 1969. The author's blue tales of trisexual liasions between aristocrats warped my tender libido and I rejected virginity as a value.
Here's a passage from that great tome.
She doesn't know what she says, her warm fingers along my thigh.
“We could escape,” he said. “There's still a lot of that fifty grand.”
“Where would we go?” she whispered. “The Magnums have armies.
“Besides,” she went on, “you know how you are. You'd tire of me after another week of this connubial bliss. We both have this drive.”
“Itch,” he corrected. “The retarded child's itch for self-destruction.”
“A lovely way to die,” she said, turning to kiss him closely.
When they broke apart, his head seemed to have cleared.
“All right,” he said. “We'll go through with it. But we'll have to live together, always. The rest will be sorties. We'll be gods who land occasionally to copulate with the mortals. After all,” he said, “we're strong and beautiful.”
She laughed. “Yes,” she said, and recited it after him like a spell, “we're strong and beautiful. It should be a full year."
These books were supposedly written by famous authors down on their luck.
They were very good and as Gore vidal said, "The reading of pornography only leads to the reading of more pornography.
The old queer certainly had it right.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The frontiers of "NO" were expanded for the youth of America this week, as New Jersey authorities charged a 14 year-old girl with child porn for distributing over 30 nude photos on www.myspace.com themselves. Under Megan's Law Passaic prosecutors could seek to have the underage girl registered as a sex offender paving the way for police to convict teenagers for similar offenses or even worst case of sexual abuse such as masturbation, which is a mortal sin according the Catholic Church unless supervised by an ordained priest.
The young girl has been released to her parents in hopes that she will not abuse her sexuality again.
Our prayers can only save her soul from eternal damnation.
Personally I think we're all going to Hell and I'll be glad to go there if it keeps us away from the religious maniacs of Christianity.
Fanatics of the world go to heaven please.
My childhood house in Maine shows up on GoogleEarth. It's the fifth house from the bluffs overlooking Portland Harbor. To be truthful I'm never sure if it's the right one, since most homes in the suburbs look the same. Same houses, same lives, same desires, however an 18 year-old Briton on the verge of a long trip to Brazil decides to differentiate his family's manse in Hungerford by painting a neolithic penis on the roof.
Time - 30 minutes.
The length 60 feet.
No one noticed his effort until a helicopter spotted the gigantic fertility symbol from aloft. The father thought the report was a joke. His son owned up to the painting, who said he'll clean it off the roof after his return from South America.
His mother has given birth to 4 boys and said, "We don't want any more children, so the idea of sleeping under a giant fertility symbol is rather worrying."
The son was later disappointed to discover that GoogleEarth never filmed his house, so it remains unseen from outer space.
So no fear from the attack of the cock-hungry space monster.
At least not this year.
Six women were crowded the honeymoon suite of the Coastal Motel. None of them was the bride. She was in the bathroom. The groom was on the bed, patiently waiting for the bathroom door to open for her co-star. The camerawoman had another shoot scheduled for this evening and she tapped her watch. A bead of sweat trickled down the wiry director's spine and Sherri Conti demanded, "Lena, are you ready yet?"
"One more minute." The female lead shouted from inside the tiled room.
“That’s fine as long as it’s sixty seconds.” Sherri Conti signaled to the camerawoman to get ready for the money shot, acutely aware that a movie set operated within opposing time frames. The technicians were habitually fast, except they were had nothing to do, and the talent was traditionally slow, especially when they were being rushed by the producer.
Sherri's job was to ensure both sides of the camera meshed during the actual shooting and she checked the equipment for any potential miscue. Everything seemed to be in place, except for the girl in the bathroom.
Sherri doubted Lena was suffering stage fright.
The young starlet had performed sex before a camera over fifty times and had not gone up once. Sherri figured Lena was simply dropping into her persona for the upcoming scene. Sherri had gone through the same transformation in hundreds of hotels, condos, and ranch houses over her twenty-year career in XXX films.
The extra time was worth the wait, because once Sherri heard the word ‘action’, her body exhibited a tangible hunger for sex and the camera never lies in an industry with no special effects.
Sherri’s name had blazed on marquee lights in Times Square and her body had filled a billion TV screens for audiences of one. A devoted fan’s amassed a list of her on-screen lovers. The number ran into the thousands. The handful of stand-outs had vanished from the Valley like animals scourged into extinction. Sherri could have easily joined them, but her near-miraculous survival granted the 45 year-old director the status of legend.
The accolades, setbacks, or sins were meaningless to Sherri. She had a job to perform, for porno was still a business and time was money. She turned to the black woman on the queen-sized bed.
"Josie, give us a sound check."
Big Josie Cane had worked for Sherri ten times. The ex-actress’ production company paid more than the standard daily of $500 and the director never blindsided the actresses with bizarre requests, so Josie gladly saved her best performances for Sherri. These girl-on-girl scenes were especially easy with Lena. The Spanish girl shone in a business where most actresses were lightbulbs. Rising off the mattress Josie spoke into the overhead boom.
"Testing, one, two, three." Josie tightened the belt of the strap-on dildo. She didn't want it to slip out of place during the shoot. This was going to be one long take and she meant to make the most of it.
"How clean is it?” Sherri glanced at the soundwoman.
Even with the taped windows and heavily blanketed door the microphone picked up the wet sizzle of 18-wheelers on the rain-drenched Ventura Freeway.
"Nothing I can't fix in the sound studio." The soundwoman had heard worst background noise.
The battery of Soft Ks, 10Ks, and Mighty Mole lights placed around the room was pushing the temperature into the 90s. Sherri surveyed the sheen of sweat on Josie and figured the audience would appreciate the glistening ebony skin.
"It’s a go once the 'jig inky' is in focus." The stocky gaffer in jeans studied the bed. Not a shadow was visible on the sheets.
"Okay, we'll deal with it when Lena is ready." This scene needed to be shot and she nervously pushed back her brown shag-cut hair. “Lena, that minute is up.”
“Ready or not here I come.” The raven-haired actress emerged from the bathroom to strike a provocative pose before the crew. The muscles of her girlish body were taut from dance classes without being deformed by gym training. A neutral-toned blush heightened the smoothness of her olive skin. Mascara accented the Oriental cant of her green eyes and her coal-black hair was cut to mimic Cleopatra. She was more exotic than beautiful and this attribute converted into star quality. Her videos sold out every first run. The critics had nominated her ‘best new starlet’ for the upcoming XXX awards in Las Vegas.
“Finally.” Sharon clapped her hands and the crew snapped to attention.
Lena crossed the room to her off-screen lover.
She was an inch shorter than Sherri and her pouting pelvis grazed the director's thigh. The older woman stiffened, wishing she was on the bed, instead of Josie, however the director had retired from that side of the camera five years ago.
"Nervous? I was made for this." The younger woman glided out of reach and every woman in the room studied her nakedness. Lena wouldn't have it any other way, for she was as much an exhibitionist as a voyeur.
Lena kissed Josie’s cheek and lay on the bed with her legs apart. Her character in the film was called Desire. A runaway who had never been with a woman before. Lena had left her home at 14 and knew this role inside out.
The gaffer adjusted the 'jig inky', as the make-up artist feathered the final touches of Lena's metamorphosis into a white trash virgin's first meeting with a bull dyke.
The market for most adult entertainment was predominantly male. Lena’s audience was evenly split between men and women, despite purely lesbian content of her films. Part of her appeal had to do with Lena's youth. She was new meat.
Sherri had once been Lena’s age. Her first film had been a short 8mm movie filmed in a Times Square studio. She had played a pizza girl delivering an order to a stag party. The invulnerability of her youth hadn’t lasted long in the meat grinder of adult film industry. Sherri was determined to protect Lena from such damage, but no one could survive forever without losing their soul. Lena deserved to be in real films and Sherri had a plan to get the young girl on the silver screen, but now was not the time.
“Everyone set?” Sherri asked the crew.
“Ready, when you are, boss lady.” The gaffer retreated from the lights and Lena's hand dropped to her shaved vagina. Soon it would be replaced by that of another woman. The old Jefferson Airplane song SALLY GOES ROUND THE ROSES popped into Sherri’s head, although only the chorus. “Saddest thing in the whole wide world is to see your baby with another girl.”
“Josie, take your position.” Filming Lena with another woman was increasingly difficult, but Sherri had to be professional and waved the make-up woman from the bed.
Big Josie Cane assumed the 'top' position for the classic 'cowgirl reverse' shot and the Super 8mm video camera transmitted a pixilated image of Lena speaking her lines onto the video monitor. The picture was a little fuzzy.
“Sharpen it a little.” Sherri ordered the crouching camerawoman,
“Got it.” The camerawoman crystallized the focus with the deftness of a safecracker.
The image on the screen looked real and Sherri prayed a technical failure would halt the filming, except the words, "Lights, camera, action." transported the crew and actresses into the magic world of movie-making.
While the camera wasn’t 35mm and the budget was less than $20,000, every woman in the room prayed today’s filming guiding would guide them to that most promised of Californian lands.
Hollywood,and no one was refusing a chance at the big time no matter how big or small the stage. Any god or goddess would have known the truth. Not everyone gets a shot at Hollywood. Only the very lucky and the very good and sometimes the very bad like Lena de Gama. She was made for that heaven and everyone wanted to come along for the ride.
Grown men should not be having sex with prostitutes unless they are married to them.
JERRY FALWELL, Crossfire, May 17, 1997
Cook County Sheriff Thomas Dart shares the reverends views on the world's oldest profession and sent out his forces of law and order to arrest over 149 men and women for breaking the commandment on adultery and probably sodomy too, blaming the website www.craiglist.com for promoting sex-for-cash transaction throughout the USA.
"Craigslist is the single largest source of prostitution in the nation."
And to end this scourge he has sued the website to desist from entering any ads offering sex for money.
Only problem is that Craiglist doesn't have the manpower to police the more than 30,000,000 listings per month. The Chicago area is safe under the aegis of their sheriff, but other parts of America seem doomed to follow the ways of the flesh.
Let's hope they all get to Babylon safely.
For those sexual intellectuals tired of cruising the porno websites, try some high tone flash with the virtual exhibition of Stefania Fumo's exhibition on http://www.redgaleria.com
She's in sala 3.
The tour requires some Spanish or common sense.
Enter through the front door of the red galleria and enjoy.
Otherwise view her self-semi-nudes on http://www.girlontape.com
Monday, March 23, 2009
Over twenty golf courses are located within an hour drive from Pattaya, Thailand's infamous beach resort. Whacking a little ball around the world-class fairways give these long-distance travelers something to do, while waiting for the night to fall on the Last Babylon. Jamie Parker preferred sleep, however his girlfriend Ort had been poking his stomach for the last week, saying, "Uan."
"Fat?" Jamie looked in the mirror. "I've never been fat in my life."
"Now not never. Now you uan." Ort was wearing an imitation Gucci shirt and fake Levis. She weighed less than when Jamie had first met her at the Paris a Go-Go. Ort wasn't the prettiest girl in town, but they had been together over a year. A lifetime in Pattaya. "No problem you fat. No girl look at you."
"I thought Thai girls liked fat men." Jamie's belly was hanging over his belt. Not much, but his lower ribs were buried under the new weight.
"And you think they love you long time too." Ort brushed her long brown hair so it fell down her back like the mane of a mare.
"I'll show you 'love you long time'." Jamie threw her on the bed, but halfway through theier love-making he realized he was out of breath. He was 55. It was time to get back in shape.
That afternoon he went down to the Asia Hotel Driving Range. He picked out a driver and ordered two buckets of balls. Neither of the pros commented on his wearing flip-flops.
"You play golf before?" Ort sat in the shade eating sum tam.
"Only mini-golf." Jamie had played several games on summer holiday. He had lost to his younger brother. Nothing in the intervening years had diminished his ignorance and he observed a 70 year-old man two stalls down swing at a ball. It traveled 200 meters in a straight line.
"Chok dii." Ort redevoted her attention to the spicy mango salad.
"I've always had beginner's luck."
Jamie balanced a ball on the tee and grasped the driver like a Louisville Slugger. The heft of the shaft was too small for her hands, but he instinctively understood that his thumbs were in the way. Jamie clutched the club like he was hitchhiking with two hands and spread his legs like the old man, who had whack a ball to the 250 mark. Head down he swung down at the ball and missed it by two inches.
"What mean beginner?" Ort's face displayed her displeasure at his effort. Thais hate losing face.
"Someone who is learning to do something." Jamie adjusted his grip and stance.
"Grà-dòok òn." Ort rollercoasted her inflection through the word.
"Yes, a grà-dòok òn." There were too many syllables for the word to not be a pejorative and he attacked the like he was wielding a samurai sword into a watermelon.
Jamie had played baseball for Xaverian Brothers in Brooklyn.Nothing felt better than meeting the ball with the sweet part of the bat. It was more satisfying than a speedball and the euphoria he experienced from smacking the golf ball 270 meters was an unexpected epiphany . The old man turned around to smile at him and Ort lifted her head from the plate.
"Sometimes beginner's luck takes more than one try."
And like that Jamie started every day with a visit to the Asia Hotel Driving Range. Ort liked one of the golf pro. He was Thai. Jamie didn't care, since he got free lessons out of her flirting. He switched the flip-flops for Nike Air Max golf shoes and bought a used Ping driver from the pro shop. A few lessons from Ort's admirer pushed his drives into the 300 range. Several golfers asked him to join them for foursomes at the various golf courses around Pattaya. Jamie thanked them for offers, but refused to venture further than Sukhumvit.
"Something about that road makes me think I might die on it."
Ort was proud of his prowess at the driving range and home.
"You are now a handsome man again."
"I was always handsome. I was just hiding under a little fat."
"You not fat now. You man #1."
Life was good. The weather was temperate. Jamie felt like he almost belonged at the Asia Driving range. The Thais called him 'Jame'. None of them could say 'Jamie'. One day he stroked the balls almost 325. He thought nothing elses in the world could be more perfect, until he saw Ort's face.
She was scared.
"Have people want to use this tee." Her cautious nod brought five Thai middle-aged men drinking beer at a table. They glowered at Jamie, as if no farangs should live in Thailand. The headman wore a diamond-encrusted Rolex. His hair resembled a toupee, but he wasn't bald. He might have been good-looking 20 years ago. At 50 too many bad things had passed his eyes.
"I'll go when I finish this bucket." He had 15 balls to go.
"No, we go now." She stood up and signaled the waitress for the chek-bin.
"No, we don't." He put all his muscle into the next drive. The ball sailed out of sight into the distant protective net.
"Okay, go now." Ort grabbed his hand.
"Why?" Jamie had a good idea why.
"This men khon yai." She whispered the words like she was a slave in rebellion.
"Khon Yai." 95% of the Thai population had been slaves until 1905. The King had freed them with a signature. The khon yai or big people still regarded the masses as their chattel. Their smiles threatened Ort with the tradition of domination.
"I know who they are." People whose families overcharged the price of gas, sold cars for twice the cost in the USA, and stole land. Their type take turns taking advantage of the lower classes. Same as the rich in America. Al Gore one year. GW Bush the next. "I also know their not the king or anyone in the royal family."
Jamie respected the king with the reverence of a god. He was the one true Thai and his family was deserving of the same respect. Putting another gold ball on the tee was not an act of lese-majeste. Only thumbing his nose at the rich and Jamie had been doing that all his life.
"The only khon yai in your life is me, unkless the King is driving down the road. Now sit down." Jamie had been to prison. He was well-versed in talking tough and even more than capable of staring down tough Thais. The boss looked over his shoulder to the drivers. The pros and staff of the driving range were visibly shaken by this silent confrontation. Ort looked ready to cry. Jamie gauged the distance to the fat man as less than 3 meters. With a gold club in his hand the man was less than 6 feet away.
"Jamie." Ort said his name. She had been with a lot of men before him. The word 'love' came out of her mouth too easily at the wrong time, but her eyes revealed she didn't want to see him dead and he picked up the bucket of balls. The Thia men snickered with the glory of their triumph. Jamie said nothing on his way to the cashier. Neither did he flinch hearing the word 'farang'. Most Thais called all westerners 'farang'. This was their country and he told Ort to get on the motorbike, while he paid the bill.
The golf pro wai-ed him.
His smile said sorry.
"Mai-bphen-rai." Jamie gave him a 500 baht tip. "I know when to have 'jai yen'."
He wai-ed the golf pro and the five men laughed at his use of the Thai gesture.
Jamie had been in Thailand long enough to know how to smile in Thai.
A lot of teeth and 'yet mung' under your breath, which is exactly what he did before getting on his bike, because it's one thing to have bad manners, it's another to know when to not use them.
Especially in a foreign land.
Torino's El Cambio restaurant has been catering to the rich and powerful since 1757, The city was then ruled by the Kings of Savoy. A forgotten kingdom except for royalophiles, however the restaurant continues to serve classic Piedmont cuisine under dazzling chandeliers. Diners can regard their well-being in centuries-old mirrors hanging on the velvet walls of this baroque mansion. Bookings and smart dress are advised, although this weekend a band of black-clad anarchists stormed through the entrance to hurl feces and entrails at the august clientele.
"Down with the rich." A masked firebrand shouted before chucking a turd at a diner.
The restaurant management descried the incident as an act of terrorism and called on the Torino police to bring the shit-throwers to justice. Detectives are looking for a van smelling like tripe in shit. Drug-sniffing dogs might come in handy for this investigation.
This story was not picked up by the media in the USA.
All their eyes are on those villains from AIG, the embattled insurance giant, but should the public hear about the El Cambio, then the American police can expect the shit to fly, for what happens in Italy can happen here.
It's a small world after all.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A week after 9/11 the wind shifted from the west and a southerly breeze pushed the smoke from the Big Pile into the East Village instead of Brooklyn. It smelled like an asbestos BBQ. I called my sister in Boston. We hadn't gotten along as teenagers, but had become good friends during the deaths of our younger brother and mother.
"I gotta get out of here." Health was only one of the issues. No one was working in New York. Business was at a standstill. No one was buying diamonds no matter what the fucking president said.
"C'mon on up. We're going to the boat show in Newport this weekend." Pam was a lawyer as was her husband. He was in the market for a SeaRay. 33 feet.
"I'm getting the bus this afternoon." I packed a bag for a week. The wind would have to swing back to the autumn westerlies and the fire of the WTC would have to run out of fuel. My sister was glad to see me. My family heard my tale of 9/11. The roar of the first plane. The impact of the second. East 10th Street was less than two miles from the Twin Towers. My brother's neighbor had been in Windows of the World that morning. A friend had called from the ground floor. He went down to meet him. That phone call saved his life.
We didn't speak about the attack on the way to Newport. Pam's daughter sat in the back of their Audi with me. Sara was 6. The sky was clear blue. I told her stories about the Jamestown ferry, which plied the sound between Jamestown and Newport before the bridge connected the two peninsulas.
At the boat fair Pam and her husband viewed the options for a new boat. I had about $200 in my pocket. I could only afford a beer at the dock. Middle-aged men unleashed threats of nuclear destruction on the perpetrators of 9/11. I said nothing and planned my escape from the USA. The next years under GW Bush were going to be ugly.
I came back in 2008. A lot had changed in those 7 years. I was no longer 49. I was 56. No one had attacked America proper in my absence, however everyone was fatter and not little fatter. A lot fatter. Over one-third of them obese and they couldn't stop stuffing their faces.
Even worst was the addiction to coffee.
Everyone walked around the malls, subway systems, streets, and parks with a container of coffee in their hands. They never shared it with anyone. No one ever said, "You want a taste?" It was their coffee and no one else's coffee. It was made specially for them.
I drink my coffee at home. I also drink it at Demels Coffee in the Plaza. One regular in the morning. One expresso at noon. I don't carry it around the city like it was a holy candle and I wish my fellow countrymen took the time to drink coffee like a human being.
Stop the rushing around.
Like where the fuck are you going?
Just to work.
And work is just a job.
And coffee is just coffee.
Baseball season kicks off next month. The Yankees and Mets will open two new stadiums in New York. Prices are designed from AIG and Citibank executives on retention bonuses. The hoi polloi have been forced from their season ticket seats into less desirable loges, but one tradition will remain sacrosanct and that is that men don't wash their hands at a baseball game.
One survey conducted at the Atlanta Braves stadium revealed that while 95% of female Braves fans washed their hands while only 54% of their male counterpart attempted this ablution.
Someone once told me that at the old Yankee Stadium less than 20% of men put their hands under a faucet after retreating from the urinal. 8000 men out of 40,000 Yankee fans. After hearing that information I always wash my hands, even if other men think it's effeminate. I never shake anyone's hands at a game and I certainly don't make eye contact.
That is a baseball game no-no.
Unless of course it's someone famous and then you want to see how big they are.
Does that make me gay?
My great grand-aunt, Bert, circumnavigated the globe in the 1870s. She was 12 years-old. Her father was the captain of sailing ship. I first met her in 1958. She was almost 100. Her house in Falmouth, Massachusetts was decorated with the curios of several continents; scrimshaw whale teeth, Zulu war shields, and ornate opium pipes from the Orient.
"When we arrived in Singapore, I was horrified to see women with black teeth. I thought it was a disease, but it was from chewing betel nut." The gentle white-haired nonagenarian laughed at the memory of her horror. "I tried it on a later trip to that island city. It's actually quite stimulating. Like a strong cup of coffee."
"My mother lets us drink tea sometimes," I said, as if this admission would age me in her eyes.
"Tea is good for you, but I think young boys should stay away from coffee and betel nuts. Those women really spit too much in Singapore."
I was 6 years old. Great-grand-aunt Bert passed away in 1962. She was 103.
For years later I dreamed about chewing betel nuts in Singapore. Few cities sounded as exotic. Conrad wrote stories about clipper ships carrying pilgrims through the Straits. Raffles Hotel had the longest bar in the world. Many of the soldiers forced to build the Bridge of the River Kwai had been captured at the fall of Singapore. No one from my father's or mother's generation had been to Singapore. We were happy in New England, but I was touched by the wandering soul of my great-grand-aunt.
In 1991 I bought a round-the-world air ticket for $1500.
One of the destinations was Singapore.
I arrived from Indonesia. The city-state seemed like LA after an idyllic sojourn on Bali. Most of the hotels were too expensive for my budget, so I took a taxi to Hotel Street. $10 bought a cheap room in a converted Chinese godown. The shared bathroom had a proclamation pasted to the wall warning that people using the bathroom had to flush the toilet and also wash their hands. The fine for disobeying this edict was $100 and I wondered whether the city police actually investigated this crime by training their officers to sniff dirty hands.
The president of Singapore has issued several other draconian laws to curtail bad behavior. One was against chewing gum and another forbade spitting. I feared that these taboos would effect the realization of my chewing betel nuts in Singapore, however betel chewing remained an important part of Peranakan culture dating back to the intermarriage of Chinese settlers with the local Malay women.
Outside the hotel a withered husk of a woman chawed a mouthful of Adakka or betel nut. She noticed my interest and offered a rolled betel leaf. It contained a betel nut paste and lime. The old woman or Bibik demonstrated the method to best extract the juices from the concoction.
"Thanks you." I stuffed the leaf in my mouth and imitated her expertise. Spit dribbled from my lips. I tasted cloves and hoped for a rush similar to a blast of cocaine. Instead the effect was exactly as preview by my great-grand-aunt.
A strong cup of coffee.
Actually several strong cups of coffee.
The woman spit in a can. I tried the same. My shirt was splattered with the excess juice. She laughed at my ineptitude. I bought several rolled leafs and retired to the nearest bar. A police officer walked past me and said nothing about the wad of betel nuts pouched in my cheek. Possession of drugs could have cost my life, but betel nuts was sanctioned by local custom and I chewed it every day I was in Singapore.
It was cheaper than coffee, of you're going to drink 20 cups a day.
But please don't assume that Singapore is an easy-going fun city. It consistently wins least sexy city in Asia. The women and men work so much that they don't have time to breed or even mate. Chewing gum and spitting are illegal as is littering. There's a rumor that police will arrest any women whose erect nipples dimple their shirt, but this is a traveler's tale. Oral sex was against the law. No one could get proof. More important is their criminalization of homosexuality. I know that many Baptists would care to approve this stricture to bring America closer to God, but fuck them and fuck Singapore too.
Enough with the nos.
This is the Age of Aquarius.
It's the time for yes.
But I do understand about the spitting.
It's the national sport of China and Singapore is predominantly Chinese.
My Great-grand-aunt Bert would disapprove too.
Even in this age of semi-enlightment.
It's no thing to have bad manners. It's another to know when not to use them.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Americans are outraged that AIG issued $165 million in bonuses to their top executives. This money came from the bailout to the beleaguered insurance giant. Congress responded to the rage with kneejerk legislation aimed at retrieving the money by taxing the corporate fats cats 90%.
This without any review as to who got what and for why.
You can always count of Congress to lead the curve on acting without thinking.
Does this mean they can tax anyone what they want without any review?
It's within their constitutional power to do so.
But you'd never see them going after the Pentagon or Israel.
I don't pay any taxes.
I filed a dead person report in 1978.
My sister asks what will I do when I get to 65.
I don't think dead men get pension and neither should zombie businesses receive federal money.
But what does a dead man know about finance?
A good percentage of the spam cluttering my email inbox are ads for penis enhancements. The rest range from Viagra and porno to baldness and obesity cures. None of them are very sophisticated, since they are aimed at bald fat man with sexual issues. I've had a good sex life. Not this year. I'm living in America and 56 year-old men don't get much action from sexually active women in their 20s, but I wonder if all that would change if I were the reincarnation of John Holmes.
This legend of porno starred in over 2500 XXX films in the 70s.
His penis was legend.
The other night I told a woman at Sub-Mercer I was related to John Holmes.
"Let me see it." Brenda was a PR rep for Chanel. I guessed her age around 38. Her wardrobe cost more than my annual beer expenditure. Her legs were long and her stilettos gave her an unfair height advantage.
"See what?" I was playing dumb. John Holmes wasn't known for his smarts.
"Your cock." Nice girls don't call your penis a cock. Brenda wasn't a nice girl, but she was fun.
"Here?" The bar was two-deep with the famed New York nightlife.
"You want to pay for a room upstairs for privacy?" This was an invitation.
"What about the bathroom?" Rooms at the Mercer Hotel were expensive. The toilet was closer.
"What kind of girl do you think I am?" Her outrage didn't fly at 2am.
"The kind of girl who would want to know John Holmes' cousin."
"Cousin?" Her eyes narrowed as her mind did genetic math. "A brother might mean you have a 10 inch cock, but cousin could mean anything. I'll give it a rain check."
She walked off with a young rocker. She tapped a beer can on her way out the door for my benefit. I wonder if those vacuums really work for enlargement.
Not that it really matters.
I'm half-Irish. I wear a size 10 shoe. Not once have I ever dropped my trousers and heard a woman say, "Not with that you don't."
Once I mentioned transplanting a donkey penis and my doctor scoffed saying, "Your body doesn't possess enough blood to engorge such a monster. You'd probably pass out before you had a half a Woodie."
Nick and I go back to university and he hasn't killed me yet, so I heeded his advice against such an operation, despite knowing that the greatest lie in the world is not 'the check's in the mail', but 'size doesn't matter' as the Thomas Cook Travel Agency discovered when a honeymooner on an African safari complained about feeling inadequate after witnessing a bull elephant frolicking with a female pachyderm.
I understand his pain, for according to National Geographic average length of an African elephant penis is about 2 meters and most of it is not visible. It weighs about 25 kg or 55 lbs.
It's a good thing he didn't go on a whale-watching trip.
Humpback whales are endowed with 10 foot cocks.
Worst than inadequate is 'insignificant'.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Last year GW Bush celebrated St. Patrick's Day at the White House.
I was not invited then again I wasn't in town.
If I had been in attendance, I would have told him in Gaelic.
Translation is 'move' but literally means 'fuck off'.
This year I received no invitation from the White House. That's okay, because Obama has a big guest list and I'm not on it. Plus I don't really want to go to DC. Drinking beer in New York is much more fun. Actually drinking beer anywhere is a lot of fun, but Obama is having two St. Padraic Day parties.
Green beer too
GW wore a green tie for 2008.
Obama went all green although not Celtics Green.
He's from Chicago and the Bulls suck.
And so does GW Bush.
Only a few more hours remain for St. Padraic's Day in Pattaya. I'm only starting the day here.
With a Guinness.
But if I were in Pattaya, I'd be where I celebrated last March 17.
In honor of beer, because my apostasy to the Christian faith is well-known. My adherence to the Beerastian religion answers many mysteries of life in a mug of beer. While home-sudsing is acceptable for these spiritual explorations, I can plumb the depths of my emptiness best at temples of public libation and one of my preferred pilgrimage sites is Maggie May’s on Soi Chaiyapoon.
“Drink Guinness it’s good for you.”
The perfect greeting for a man of my devotion.
The Guinness at 150 baht is the cheapest and best in Pattaya and Tony the patron prides himself in keeping the pipes clean. Last year when his supplier provided a batch of spunky Guinness, Tony returned the kegs rather than sell the suspect beer to the punters. No philistine that man.
Asahi is only 85 Baht at happy hour. The AC is kicking in like a corpse just out of the freezer is breathing down your neck. The crowd noshes on curry pasties and stale peanuts. The TVs can cover all betting interests on sports. Conversations revolve around the arcane aspects of sports and rehashing adventures with your idiot friends. The only girls are the affable barmaids and the occasional girlfriend. Some guys like to have a witness to their drinking. The CD player accepts all form of music and no one really cares if the girls are the DJs.
Hey, living this long in Pattaya we have all come to love boy bands.
Maggie May’s Soi Chayaphun off Soi Buakhao.
I haven’t a clue what time it opens or closes, but Happy Hour is 5-6pm.
Another bonus is the wooden jockey at the entrance and even better MAGGIE MAY is a great Rod Stewart song.
Several hundred bands will parade up 5th Avenue in New York in honor of St. Padraic. Not one of them will play DIRTY OLD TOWN. I love the Pogues and what about Spider's teeth. real stumps they are.
So for a good lift go to this URL
And if you don't like it, Go hifreann leat!
An Irishman who goes on to a building site looking for a job and is told by the foreman that he will have to undertake a brief test.
'Fine,' says the Irishman. 'OK then,' says the foreman. 'First up, can you tell me the difference between a joist and a girder?'
'That's easy,' the Irishman replies. 'Joyce wrote Ulysses and Goethe wrote Faust.'
If we can't laugh at ourselves who can we?
The rest of the world because today everyone is Irish.
Except for anyone not drinking beer.
My first trip to Bali was in 1991. Kuta Beach was most tourist's destination for sea, sun, and fun. Being a pseudo-intellectual I opted for Ubud, an idyllic village of Legong dancers, ornate temples, and quiet evenings. I rented a small house overlooking the stream at which the villagers bathed in the morning. My house servant made me breakfast and coffee. I wrote on a Brother Electric Typewriter. There was no phone service with the outside world and traveler's checks were the sole form of international money transfers. No TV either. At night I listened to the BBC World News and read tattered books. It loved Ubud and stayed for several months.
Nearing March 17th, I mentioned to several westerners or 'mistahs' that we should have a St. Patrick's Day. None of them seemed to interested, however my Balinese friends were enthused at the idea to celebrate being Irish by drinking beer, however when I mentioned that we would have to wear green, Tuut said, "Can not wear green. This unlucky color."
"Unlucky." He had used the word 'blog'. I had never heard it before.
'Yes, my uncle he have green car and have many accidents." Tuut shook his head. "No green."
"Green bad luck." His friends agreed with his statement and I had to adjust our St. Patrick's Day according to local customs.
Beer. Lots of beer. No green. Lots of beer and I sang BY THE RISING OF THE MOON.
Tuut said it was a sweet song.
And I still can't remember all the words.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A scurry of claws scratched across the damp basement floor. The woman on the battered chair lifted her black stiletto heels in horror, but rats were the least of her problems. This afternoon her lover had suggested a rendezvous in Hamburg’s harbor district. She arrived in anticipation of a sordid indiscretion. Two men were waiting at the disused warehouse. Her young lover was not with them. They dragged her by the arms into an abandoned warehouse. With each step she pleaded for her release. Neither of them had said a word and she repeated, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”
"Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. His voice wore his meanness. “Are you a saint?”
“No, I'm not a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap.
"Are you an artist?" He swatted the 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.
“Yes, these shots are very arty.” Her muscled interrogator slapped a set of grainy photos. “Can’t see that you are a man and your friend’s skin almost seems like ivory in black and white.”
“They are only souvenirs.” The thirty-two year old banker shivered in the slick plastic dress. He had dressed for rough sex, not a damp cellar.
“Expensive souvenirs, nicht war?” A private collector might pay $20 for the explicit photos. They were worth much more to the right people.
“Yes, they are.” The weekend in a St. Pauli hotel had cost over 2000 Deutschmarks or half his monthly salary. The cheap thrills provided by the photos couldn’t satisfy his desires and Hans had raided various accounts within the bank to supplement his perversions for the past two months. He had yet to add up how much.
“And now you are in trouble.” The black man was as tired of his vicious role as any actor performing Hamlet for the ten-thousandth time. Still his audience flinched on cue, when he flopped the lurid snapshots on the man's skirted lap. “You know who I am, yes?”
"You are Cali Nordstrum." Hamburg's newspapers constantly featured stories about the city’s most notorious pimp. Only last week he had escaped a murder attempt. The police had no leads on the failed assassin's identity. The list of suspects ran into the hundreds.
"Stop your sniffling. Some of my best friends are Transvestis and Schwules.” Cali backed away and his scarred face melted into the gloom. “We are not here to hurt you or blackmail you, but because my best hustler has fallen for you."
"Es tut mir lied." The transvestite buried his veiny hands into the fallen wig like a muff. "All I want is protect Willi. I can pay you."
"I am not running a marriage service for the Huren or Husen of the Reeperbahn.” Cali lunged like a cobra at his prey and the man on the stool toppled backwards. The pimp caught his arm. "Maybe I'll send Willi away.”
"Not that." A high heel slipped off his foot. "I will do whatever you ask.”
“Whatever?” Cali kicked the shoe into the corner. Two weeks ago his best rentboy mentioned a cross-dressing client bragging about his influence at a leading bank. The pimp related the Kalbflesch's story to his partner in crime, who suggested that the hustler should discover his lover’s actual position.
Several days later Willi Stief learned Hans Roth oversaw money transfers throughout the Europe. Cali advised the hustler to fall in love with the banker. A month of delightful deceit led Hans Roth to this basement. There was only one way out and Cali crouched by the chair.
"Do you have an open mind?"
For ten years Hans had protected his name, job, and family from disgrace. Liaisons with street boys lasted one night. Sex with Willi had incarnated his true persona and he asked hopefully, "Why?"
"First, you are woman trapped in a man's body. Second, Willi is too expensive for your salary,” Cali explained, because most people required more than one motive to cross the line from good to bad. “Finally you have been stealing money you can never repay to the bank."
“Willi told you everything.” Tears seeped from Han’s eyes.
"Only because we can help each other."
Cali mapped out his scheme with the persuasiveness of an airline ticket salesman selling the last helicopter seat at the Fall of Saigon.
“This is your chance to get enough money for you and Willi. No one would think of searching for you in Thailand. Not as a woman. Were you lying about your commitment to Willi?"
"No." The man’s Adam’s apple gulped in hope.
"Your first name is Hans, yes?" The desperate always bet on long shots.
"I prefer Greta."
"Greta, I am a better friend than enemy. You can contact me at this number in an emergency. Tell Willi nothing. This is 'our' secret." He handed the banker a wad of 100-DM notes.
"Give him this slowly. It will come out of your cut later."
“I’ll follow your every command.” His hand reached for the money and Cali snatched the man’s ear so hard that the cartilage partially snapped from the skull. A butcher at the city slaughterhouse had taught him the trick.
"Greta, you understand there's no backing out?"
"Yes," Hans said through watery eyes and Cali released him. “What else?"
"Thank you.” The young man re-arranged his wig. He had started wearing dresses after playing with his sister’s dolls. The material was softer than his trousers and shirts. Lingerie on a man was not a sin. Only a forbidden pleasure like his nights with Willi.
"Thank me, when this is all over." Cali nodded and his friend opened the basement door for a black leather angel with white hair. Willi was pretty, although heroin had got the better of his thin beauty. The black pimp hated drugs. They cut into his employees’ productivity. His associates became sloppy. Mistakes cost time, money, and lives in his business.
The banker was blind to Willi’s deterioration. They embraced as man and woman.
“Let’s leave the lovers alone.” Neither he nor his friend needed to witness the hustler’s performance. On the stairway Kurt Oster pulled out a cigarette. The flame from a gold lighter illuminated a rugged face. "Are we really going to cut him in?"
"Just because we are criminals doesn't mean we have to be dishonest." In the beginning it was luckier to believe you weren’t going to hurt anyone. “Everyone will get what they deserve. I’ll see to that.”
He climbed from the basement to avoid the smoke. Cigarettes killed thousands of people every year. The police never arrested the manufacturers. Pimps were better headlines. On the warehouse loading dock he surveyed the street. Only three cars were in sight.
“Anything wrong?” Kurt flicked the cigarette at his shadow on the cobblestones.
“Someone is out there.” He felt eyes on him everywhere.
“No one comes to the harbor at night.” The two walked to Cali’s new Benz.
“We did.” Cali’s premonitions were his early radar warning.
“And we haven’t done anything wrong.” Kurt’s reddish hair had been cut two days ago in Milan. The jean jacket came from a punk shop on the King’s Road and the gold-buckled loafers were hand-stitched in Italy. Only one shop in Paris carried the 501 jeans. Kurt drove a 1961 Thunderbird. He had expensive tastes in women too.
“Yet?” Cali spoke German, ate sausages, liked Schlager rock, but the stares and pointed fingers at his black skin verified he was an Auslander to nearly every German, except one and that person wasn’t his mother.
“Which is why I have an American for the Sonderboch.” German police loved arresting international criminals and a sucker holding the bag wuld buy Cali and Kurrt a few hours or even days. “Someone from Hamburg might suspect something, but he won’t.”
"Why not use the DJ?"
"Bertram is a junkie and junkie's are unreliable."
"Except to be junkies." Cali glanced over his shoulder to the warehouse. "So, this American, is he stupid?”
"No, even better. Broken-hearted." Nothing blinded a man more completely than love. Kurt added another missing ingredient. "Plus Petra will act as the lure."
"Are you mad?" The woman was dangerous.
"The greater the risk, the greater the gain.”
"Just once I would like someone to lie to me." Cali held no illusion about what would happen if something went wrong. The State punished bank robbery with prison. His associates would impose the death penalty.
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“Not once?” His Swiss bank account would only last a year.
“Not about anything important.” Kurt was overextended to several loansharks. The money from this robbery assured a rise in his social status. All he needed was a woman and she had been chosen from the stars. “You don’t want to do this, I understand.”
“I didn’t say that.” Last week Cali had exited from a restaurant. A 5-DM coin lay in the gutter. He had been raised poor and bent over to pick it up. An unseen gunman pumped five shots over his head. He had ordered a jeweler to dip the lucky piece in gold for a medallion. The preceding King of the Reeperbahn had only died in his bed, because a rival had stabbed him in the heart. He had been 35. Leaving a good-looking corpse was the goal of a fool. “I could use a holiday and stealing millions isn’t any different from stealing an apple. The trick is not getting caught.”
"At least not by the wrong people." Neither were worried about the police. A score like this one would attract its own kind of trouble.
Kurt’s daydream gaze upset Cali. His friend should have been concentrating on the job ahead, instead of another man’s wife. He popped open the trunk of the Benz. Cali loved the new car smell. He reached into the trunk's secret compartment and handed over a manila envelope. “That enough money?”
“"For now it is.” The thickness was more than enough to open an account in Switzerland. Within one month it would grow into several million Deutschmarks. One plus one wasn’t going to equal two, but the equation needed a few more people to make the math work magic.
“Never.” Kurt tucked the envelope inside his jacket. People feared them, but no one offered them respect. Millions would change their opinions.
Cali was putting his life in his friend’s hand again. They had been born poor. Neither of them had known their fathers. Good people couldn’t say the same. Maybe Kurt could pass for Mittel-Klasse, but pimps and whores were Cali’s business. Few of his fellow 'Zuhalterei' had completed high school.
SS Tommy, his right-hand man, oversaw their control of half Hamburg's prostitutes with a semi-illiterate vicious streak. The bodybuilder had paid for his Ferrari in cash. Mack 'Die Alte' beat the smaller pimps into submission. His investment in Pattaya’s go-go bars had earned him a fortune.
Cali’s fellow pimps understood the extreme measures necessary to control Hamburg's streetwalkers, part-time call girls, gay rent-boys, and underage 'Strichmadchens'. Fear was his greatest defense against their turning on the illegitimate son of a black US Army sergeant was an 'Auslander'.
“This is me and you.”
“Against the world.”
“Like always.” They shook hands to seal their childhood pact once again. He walked to his electric-blue 1960 T-bird, lost in a better world money can buy. Cali checked the street again. No one was there. No one he could see, but he would act as if someone was there, because that way he wouldn’t be surprised by the unexpected.
My friend Fabo has heart of gold. This young Belgian is happiest with a Heineken in his hand and his eye on Gai, the Rubenesque beauty of the Buffalo Bar. He’s loved her forever. She loves him too in her own way. A long time.
I like drinking with Fabo, because he doesn’t talk the usual line of bullshit or merde, since we converse in French. He’s lucky enough to work on a oil exploration ship. One month in Pattaya. One month off-shore.
His haunts are the same as mine.
Welkom on Soi 3 daytime. Buffalo Bar nights.
Last month I found him in Welkom Inn’s garden.
He did not look happy. Most farangs flee sad stories as if sooner or later they would be asked for a loan. Fabo had a good job and I was broke, so there was no danger of my having to shed money for his company. I sat down and asked, “What’s the problem?’
“Poo’s been arrested for ja bah.” Poo was his wife. Ex-entertainer at the Welkom Inn. Fabo explained the police had come to their house to quell a family disturbance and Poo had been tested positive with the color purple showing for her urine sample. Straight to jail. The telephone rang and lifted his finger. “I have to go. My German cousin is helping me get her out of jail.”
The German was no cousin.
I said nothing as Fabo got on a motorcycle to meet the German.
Better him than me, because the German had a hair up his ass for me.
Because he came from Hamburg.
The German was Poo’s ex. He had left his Doberman with them, because petes weren’t allowed in his apartment. the German showed up every few days to make sure the dog was okay. It was a strange arrangement. Pattaya has thousands of them. Something sounded familiar about Lucien and when Fabo had a birthday party for Poo, I realized what upon seeing him.
Lucien was my height, but pumped by a gym. No steroids. Gym only. He was no fake tough guy. His body looked like he had been dropped through a meat grinder. His left arm bore the scars of many knife fights. His nose followed the route of an alpine pass. His eyes bore the perfume of murder. I greeted him in German.
“Why do you speak German?” His voice reeked of suspicion.
“I lived in Hamburg in 1982. Worked at a nightclub for a pimp. Nigger Kali.”
I didn’t say the name often.
Nigger Kali was a pimp for the Gmbh. Hamburg’s biggest gang. He had been shot too many times to die from anything other than a peaceful death. “Yes, he worked for Thomas Bond.”
“Thomas Bond was my teacher.” Lucien’s eyes narrowed to razor blades.
“You stay here. You not go away. Are you police?” His fingers dug into my thigh like icepicks.
“No, I was the Tursteher.” I had earned my living as a doorman in New York, Paris, London, and Germany. I was no criminal. Maybe smalltime, but small time only. I had lived in Hamburg for a year. Summer was sunny and warm. Winter was dark and wet. Despressing too.
Nearing Christmas a pimp, SS Tommy, presented a bill for 20,000 Marks.
For sleeping with a girl.
Her never saying she worked for him didn’t matter to SS Tommy. He wanted his money. I gave him the keys to my VW and said I would have the rest tomorrow. I caught the midnight train to Paris that evening. I didn’t mentioned his name to Lucien
“I don’t believe you. You are maybe police.” He stared at me with his head tilted. “You can’t look me in the eyes.”
“I never lie.” I could only see one eye. “Telling the truth is easier.”
The leader of a Thai motorcycle gang showed up. Lucien stood up to wai his comrade. I decided this was time to leave.
Fabo later said Lucien missed me.
I missed him too like anyone misses someone wanting to kill them, for he was a man to avoid and be seen avoiding, however after that teary departure at the Welkom Inn, I met Fabo at the Buffalo, which he calls ‘le campange’ or the country. It had once been surrounded by coconut trees instead of the townhouses of today.
He was in a better mood.
“Now I can tell you story.” Fabo ordered us beers. “You know Lucien leaves dog with Poo. He comes every day. Friends of Poo are no good. They do jah bah. One day they start fight with Lucien. he beats them up. They decide that if they kill the dog, Lucien won’t come see Poo.”
“That’s some stupid thinking.”
“I did not say they were smart.” Fabo shrugged pleasantly, as if he acknowledged he was glad not to have seen this scene. “Lucien discovers his dog is dead and beats up the boys again. The police come. They are friends with Lucien. They arrest the boys, who say that Poo is taking jah bah.”
The story was getting sordid and it was heading toward more sordid.
“She had to go to jail. Now she comes out. 20,000 baht. have to be clean one year. If not, back to the monkey house. Lucien helps me with the judge. He knows everyone.”
“Good.” I could have told him the truth. ie that Poo won’t be able to say off the gear for a year. No sense. He knows that already, but I was surprised at how good Lucien had been through the entire affair. Fabo had been driven back and forth to Chonburi prison on the German’s bike. Many times.
And they say there are no good Germans.
Even the bad ones are good sometimes, especially if they make my friend Fabo happy.