Thursday, April 30, 2009

Banned At JFK

Several years ago a rash of drunken passenger incident forced the airlines to review their policy about serving alcohol in-flight and reaction to inebriated customers. The worst episode occurred on a trans-Atlantic flight during which a first-class passenger stripped naked and defecated on the serving cart. A disgusting act, although I admire his acrobatic skill. Unfortunately post-9/11 flight attendants tolerate no bad behavior and Homeland Security has given stewards and stewardesses near-Nazi powers on who flies and who does not, as I learned this past Monday on a JetBlue flight out of JFK.

We arrived late at the gate for our first flight and the ground crew scheduled us for a later flight to Chicago. My friend was suffering from a hang-over and sought comfort in the hair-of-the-dog. I refrained from such medicine and the Irish bartender at Deep Blue said, "You get drunk and they won't let you fly."

"I'm English." He believed that the Brits were the exact opposite of the Native American with an ability to withstand the scourge of drink. "I'll be fine."

My friend had two hours to recover his wits. I went to the gate to rest, then got him for the flight. His eyes were swimming in the back of his head and his lower lip was black as a buried mummy from red wine.

"Are you OK?"

"I'm better."

We made out way to the gate and entered the plane without any troubles, until a tattooed steward complained about my friend's slowness in putting his bag in the overhead bin.

"I have sensitive camera equipment." My friend slurred with a Scottish accent.

"You're delaying the flight." The steward wasn't taking lip from anyone and told my friend to accompany him to the front of the plane. Everyone watched his departure. The pilot spoke to my friend and the steward came back to my seat.

"Your friend won't be flying with us. Do you want to continue to Chicago?"

"Not with you." I picked up my bag and walked up to the exit. The pilot was waiting for me. He explained the situation and I countered, "My friend might be drunk, but your steward slammed the overhead bin on his hand. He's very rude and I'm writing a complaint about his behavior. Thank you."

The plane took off with our luggage.

We were left with two options.

Wait for the 9pm flight or let my friend sleep it off at an airport hotel.

He was paying so it was off to the Ramada Hotel.

Exiled from the skies by the Homeland Security Auxiliary.

"Was I wrong?" My friend was having a JD and Coke.

"No, but you were drunk." I order a rum and coke. "You're not allowed near heavy machinery in that condition."

We flew the next morning.

Hang-overs are acceptable to the FAA.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

On the Road Again

Three weeks ago my good friend, Peter Bach, telephoned from London and asked if i would like to accompany him on a a road trip to the Midwest. Paid with expenses. Destinations - Chicago-St. Louis -Kansas City-Des Moines-Minneapolis-Chicago. 8 days / 7 nights. He was filming a small movie. I couldn't say 'no'. I had no money, but I did have time.

So I'm on the road.

Today in St. Louis.

Please forgive the lapse.

I'll be back online later tonight with tales from the heartland as well as the rest of the world.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Black's Beach Bluff

back in 1972 I'm hitchhiking in Big Sur on the way to LA. A pick-up stops for me. Two women in the front. One bull dyke and her fem GF. They ask if i want to camp with them. I said why not and splurged on a jeroboam of Gallo White. We set up camp in a grove of redwoods and drank wine around a fire. The bull dyke said she hadn't had a man in years. She looked like a sumo wrestler. The younger one was in the mood too. She was thin and cute. I thought this would be interesting but it developed that sex with the bull dyke was more pleasurable than the fem.

So there's no accounting for taste

either in love or lust.

The bull dyke had her way with me like a rented mule for several days and I escaped one evening while her rested her libido.

I hitchhiked down to LA and said nothing of this story to my gay friends.

Those beauty hounds would have been horrified.

two weeks later I'm walking on Black's Beach in SD. It's a naked beach. My straight friend heard the story and said, "I don't know why you ran away."

"Because I got the feeling she was sucking the life out of me and they'd be nothing left."

"How bad could it be?"

At that moment I looked to the right.


It was the bull dyke and her girl friend.

She was checking me out like I was a piece of meat. I cupped my hands over my privates and waddled away to safety.

Later that evening I relieved the tension with a fantasy of her. I went down to the beach the rest of the summer without ever running into her.

Lust lost

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Waterboarding 101

Practice makes perfect.

This English idiom was mastered by the CIA in their 'waterboarding' of two terrorism suspects in 2002. 266 times. 83 times in August 2002 against Abu Zubaydah and 183 times in March 2003 against Khalid Shaikh Mohammed. Abu Zubaydah lasted 35 seconds before spilling his guts according to a CIA operative. Most waterboardees call out ' الناصح, مشجع' or 'uncle' after 14 seconds. Khalid Sheikh Mohammed endured almost 2 minutes of this art of persuasion modeled after the old Spanish Inquisition technique 'toca' obviously giving him the gold for endurance. CIA operatives were ordered by the White House to suject Khalid Sheikh Mohammed to endless sessions of waterboarding in order for team players to perfect the technique.

"A dunk in the water." Dick Cheney described the practice on TV and was defended by the late White House flak Tony Snow along with every major Fox New newsman.

“I would have dumped that guy in the water 1000 times to save your life." Bill O'Reilly said to a torture critic.

Jack Bauer from Fox TV show 24 would have done worse.

I'd talk after a few glasses of wine and a line of blow.


Save that for the fans of

They like that kind of thing.

At Adams Pond Boy Scout Camp the camp counselors set up a game of pig in the swimming area. The object was for one team of swimmers to push a greased watermelon past a roped area. I was a good swimmer, but got caught underneath a scrum of maddened scouts. I also drowned and the panic in my mind has always stuck with me.

Waterboarding is torture, but the truth is that we do much worst.

Remember the Christmas Tree guy from Abu Ghabi with the wires snaking from his fingertips. They were there from a reason and that was to light him up liek a Christmas tree.


To paraphrase Oliver Wendell Holmes, "I don't what torture is, but I know it went I see it."

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Ping-Pong Senority

My aunt and I played ping pong for 50 years. Madge beat me like a rented mule. At age 93 she had a stroke. When I visited her farm on Watchic Pond, I mentioned her decades-old victory streak and she said she could beat me even attached to an oxygen machine. I said a game to 7. My niece said throw the game. First serve from Madge was a wicked slice that dive bombed off the table for a score.

"I'm not dead yet."

My niece clapped her hands.

I used every dirty trick in the book.

Madge had written them all.

I lost 7-6.

She never got old only out of breath.

Willie DeVille Paris 1985

This night Willie DeVille came to the Royal Lieu with Jorgen Osterloh, Aurora Clemente, and Dean Tavourlos. Willie was with his wife. We knew each other from CBGBs. He gave me a line of smack. Willie was good for that. It was brown. Jorgen said he was going back to his apartment in Montmatre. I said I would meet them. Instead I semi-ODed in the office. I woke in the morning and called Jorgen. No answer. I took a taxi up to his flat. No one answered his phone. I climbed up the side of the building. I would have been a good cat-burglar. I entered through a window. No one was home. The door was open. No one had slept in the bed. As I left the apartment, a policeman asked for my ID. He told me Jorgen was dead. I didn't blame Willie. None of us were kids.

I hadn't seen this photo until today.

I remember someone taking the photo.

I can't say who.

Earth Day 2009

I drank organic vodka in celebration of Earth Day. The mixer was organic ginger ale. Glass bottles. A glass glass. No plastic. It went well with my Happy Meal #3.

Supposedly civilization started when hunter-gatherers discovered fermented fruits. One of them drank it. He survived and explained his out-of-the-body experience. The primitives understood that to achieve this euphoria with regularity they had to grow crops.

Thus the birth of agriculture.

Unless you believe in alien abduction.

Tristam Dequatremare - French Painter

The more and more I see of Tristam Dequatremare. The more and more I like him.

I have a painting of his in LA.

With my Cousin Sherri.

I doubt her husband will give it back.

Art is like that unless it was taken by the Nazis.

More Beer Advice

Don't drink with dogs.

Bound For The Stake

My Argentinean friend, Dampira, send a Facebook survey of what Biblical character she would be.

The website search engine decided Deborah, a prophetess of the Old Testament.

My apostasy forced a rude reaction.

"Better you were Mary Magdalene. A fucking whore."

Dampira was taken aback at my vehemence and I explained that I had of won a scholarship to a Catholic high school outside of Boston. All boys. The year 1966. I was good at taking tests that required no studying. My freshman grades did not reflect this intuitive idiot-savantism. Apathy was my best subject. Religion was my worst. My best friend Chaney had drowned in Sebago Lake six years earlier. At the funeral the priest said he was in heaven. I looked into the sky and saw only sky. If there was no heaven, then there was no hell. I carried this disbelief into high school. My rejection of God earned me an F. The brothers and my parents thought I was crazy for this juvenile atheism. I was devout and refused to recant my apostasy. The brothers pleaded for my soul.

"Come back to the faith and we'll give back your scholarship."

"I don't believe in God."

The school suggested that I see a psychiatrist. He had an office on Commonwealth Avenue. On his head was a bad toupee. He worked for the Cardinal and wanted to know why I didn't believe in God. His hands were soft as butter. I pushed them off my lap.

"Why should I say anything to a man who doesn't know he's bald?"

He threw me out of the office and I told the brothers about his touching me. They accepted me back into school. I never lost my faith in no god. I can't see myself as a Biblical figure, unless it's as an extra in Ben-Hur's chariot race.

Go Rome Go.

God or no god.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Northern Maine 1991

Northern Maine. 1991. There was no winter in New York. Everyone was heading to Miami. It was trendy. My friend Philippe and I decided to drive to the farthest reaches of Maine. We listened to NEVERMIND and did speed. Ft. Kent was really winter. I wanted to cross the St. John's River into Canada. Philippe was an illegal from the UK. He rode in the trunk. Both ways. I guess I broke the law and I won. Philippe said the food was better in Quebec. Later that night at the Moose Bar a local asked if he could dance with my girl.

"My girl." Philippe had long hair and was skinny. The rest of the girls in the bar weighed more than a log. "Be my guest."

"Some guy just asked me for a dance." Philippe was outraged.

"And you said no."

"Of course I said no."

"I said it was okay." I explained how girls in Maine had a reputation for ugly. Philippe was the prettiest girl by a long shot.


"Did he offer to buy you a drink?" We were running low on money.

"Yes and he had weed."

"So get to it, Thelma."

Such are nights along the St. Johns.


Charles Whitman DOA

Neither Officer McCoy or Ramirez said, "Smile." before they shot Charles Whitman dead.

Guns of Texas

On August 1, 1966 Charles Joseph Whitman started the day by killing his wife and mother. He left a note in his apartment.

"I do not quite understand what it is that compels me to type this letter. Perhaps it is to leave some vague reason for the actions I have recently performed. I do not really understand myself these days. I am supposed to be an average reasonable and intelligent young man. However, lately (I cannot recall when it started) I have been a victim of many unusual and irrational thoughts."

Charles Whitman left his apartment and drove to the Texas University. The ex-Marine climbed the 307-foot tower with a cache of weapons. From this aerie he shot dead 13 and wounded 32 others with telescopic rifles. This rampage lasted for hours. Finally two Austin police officers put down the killer with shotguns.

"We got him."

Medical examiners found a brain tumor in his head. He was also on speed and rumors abounded about his abuse as a child by the Catholic priests from his home parish of Lake Worth, Florida. No one blamed the guns. Not then. Now now and not when gunmen assail 'soft targets' such as school, fast food chains, and malls. Strangely no deranged gunman has ever attacked a gun show.

Guns and guns and guns.

Not once in America proving madmen are scared of not accomplishing their mission.

Don't get me wrong. I like shooting guns. Just not at people.

Unless they deserve it.

Bareback Mountain

The Media reported that aged pop idol and boytoy collector Madonna was bucked from her horse. The 50 year-old lip-syncher claimed a paparazzi startled her stead on a Hampton NY trail.

"He jumped out of the bushes."

Police assigned to the case have no comment on the matter.

Someone suggested that Madonna's injuries arose from a Catherine the Great complex.

"When a woman can't keep a man, she gets a horse.

The Russian Empress' equine demise is a well-believed legend based on rumor much like those surrounding Madonna's accident. PLus I'm fairly sure that the pop queen would be on top. She looks like that type of girl.

For a viewing of BAREBACK MOUNTAIN click on this URL

Thar Blows the Chinese Navy

The Chinese government has spent billions to upgrade its naval might and this week the fleet will host a parade of the People's Liberation Navy off the northern port city of Qingdao to mark the 60th Anniversary of the Communist victory over capitalism. Most of the armada will be missile frigates, destroyers, and submarines, but admirals have been hinting about the construction of an aircraft carrier financed by the sale of Chinese crap to the USA.

China's Navy reached its zenith with Zheng He's voyages to the Western Ocean from 1405 to 1433. Immediately after the treasure fleet's return the Ming Dynasty banned any blue-water exploration and the Empire's navy consisted of coastal junks. The Dowager empress went so far as to spend a year's naval budget on a marble boat from the gardens of the Summer Palace.

This resurgence by the Chinese Navy has worried other Far East nations and this week the USA is holding naval exercises with Germany, Canada, Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Mexico, Peru and Uruguay off the Florida coast to practice strategies against modern-day pirates.

Pirates of the Caribbean are the worst kind.

Anyone who has been to Disneyworld knows that.

So China beware.

General Tsao is no Admiral.

Poppers ReDux

Jan. 2 1979 Anthony Scibelli and I walked to CBGBs to see Suicide. Both our girlfriends were out of town and we liked the calm fury of Alan Vega and his keyboard player Martin rev. Flurries of snow whipped under the streetlights. My vinyl jacket offered little protection against the cold and we sped up the pace through the deserted streets of the East Village.

A small crowd was gathered outside the club. Suicide wasn't that popular. The huddle was mostly transients from the SRO hotel, the Palace. They were standing around a sprawled man. His bloodied body was wrapped in the dingy sheet. On the third floor was an open window. At first I thought he was dead, but a groan signaled he was still with the living.

"Man, can you hear me." I knelt by his head carefully not to stain my jeans with blood and wrapped his near-naked body with the sheet.

"Yeah, where am I?" His grizzled face was pressed to the concrete sidewalk. "I'm not on the Bowery, am I?"

"Where the hell you think you are?" One bum chortled with a bottle of Zapple in his hand. "Park Avenue."

"Not the Bowery." This address alarmed the jumper, but the crowd was short of pity.

"And you look like a used Kotex." The bum with the bottle got laughs from that line.

"Move off." Two cops shoved through the derelicts and took charge. EMS showed up several seconds later. Anthony and I went inside CBGBs. Merv waved us past the cashier. We were regulars. Suicide was on stage. Only 25 people were in the audience. We ordered beers from BG and Anthony pulled out a vial of poppers.

"Rush?" Amyl Nitrate was a dirty high.

"Suicide and Rush on a winter night." Anthony huffed the vapors and handed me the bottle, as Alan Vega started singing FRANKIE TEARDOP.

How could I resist?

Thankfully no one has organized a Poppers Day like 4/20 for reefer, but here's another tale of poppers from a female friend.

"I only had poppers once by accident. I was working as a cashier at Bagel & with Keven Kiely of the Mumps and a few other highly entertaining doughboys. One of them said to me "You must take a whiff of my new cologne, you'll love it."

This was in the middle of a busy Saturday with a line of clients ready to pay. The color drained out of everything and I collapsed on a sack of flour in the pantry while the other guys split their Calvin's laughing. I guess we were all desperate for a laugh there. I had my little jokes too."

Always true if interesting.

Thai Songkran Crisis Mot?

Thailand survived the two threats on Songkran; drunk drivers and power-mad red shirts without Bangkok going up in flames or the highway death toll topping 500. The motorists won out, since the red shirt assassins failed to kill their arch-rival Sondhi. This attack was captured on CCTV. 100 bullets fired at the Toyota. The driver remains in critical condition and Sondhi was released from the hospital. The price on his head supposedly 3,000,000 baht or $100,00, which would certainly clear off my debts to the credit cards. No one will be accused of this crime. The assailants have disappeared into the forests of Ban Nok, but if they had succeeded then we would have seen a more deadly scenario play out on the streets of the capitol.

Good thing the shooters were not members of the Thai Black Squad, whose deadly leader said after being accused of involvement with a failed attempt on PM Thaksin.

"If I wanted him dead, he would be dead."

This man was at Tak Be, an infamous village in the South.

He knows of what he speaks.


BANNED IN BOSTON gave a film a certain cachet in the 20th Century. Boston's blue laws on morality gave the city a well-deserved reputation as a bastion of spiritual correctitude, despite Foley Square being a center of sexual titillation. The sexual liberation of the 1960s stormed this Bay State bastion of conservatism and the Combat Zone acted as a magnet to sexual adventurers of every genre. The 2 o'Clock Lounge has been closed for years and I couldn't find a single strip club on lower Washington Street over the Easter vacation, but nothing is banned in Boston anymore mostly because its citizens are too fat to engage in promiscuous behavior.

Not so Bangkok, where the National Film Board took up Boston's fallen torch by banning ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO, a hilarious movie about two friends making a porno movie to pay off their debts, but fall in love instead. Man and woman. Not man and man.

The Board based its decision of their feeling that the films explicit sexual content were contrary to the moral principles of Thailand and even more worrisome the Culture Minister expressed his concern in a statement. "The screening of this film may encourage copycats here."

At least someone in the government is worried about copyright infringement, but personally I wouldn't mind seeing NOK AND GOB MAKE A PORNO, since I'm a little tired of seeing Gob dance at the go-go bar.

Call me a square.

Monday, April 20, 2009

420 - 2009

My first joint was driving from Nantasket Beach in the summer of 1969. Frank E Smith (not my brother), Thommie Jordan, and John Gilmour were friends from the Surf, a dance club on the beach. We had just seen the Rockin' Ramrods, the South Shore's #1. They wanted to smoke marijuana on the way home. I was the hold-out.

"I don't want to get a contact high." My drug of choice was beer, wine, and any other form of alcohol. I turned the radio in my VW Beetle to WMEX. They played hippie music this late at night.

"Smoke it." John lit up a reefer. He attended Catholic Memorial. It was my school's arch rival. "You'll feel good."

"Smoke it." Thommie Jordan played hockey for Archbishop Williams. He had long hair. His sister was cute. "It won't hurt you."

"Smoke it." Frank E Smith was heading into the Marines. He wanted to see the world. "Girls like it, especially that hippie girl from Weymouth you like. Susan Finn."

"She does?" I had spent the entire night trying to get her out to the beach.

"Yes, she does." A match flared before John's face. He inhaled off the joint and then passed it to the front. I took it from him and inhaled, ending my days as a straight person. Two minutes later we were stopped at a green light in Hingham. Time had reversed direction. I was ruined for society and glad of it.


And especially on 4/20, National Smoke Day.

420 wasn't the original choice for this holiday, however 4:20 was the mythical time that these pothead from San Rafael High School in California would meet at Louis Pasteur Statue to get high.

Hence 420.

Not much else to say other than I'm going out to break the law.

It's time to free the weed.

if you got it, smoke it.

Is this Gay - Louis CK

Over the course of the last few months I've been posing hypothetical questions to my friend Mazin, while we're smoking pot.

"If you were in prison and were rooming with a Thai Ladyboy, would you have sex with her?"

"No way." Mazin comes from Iraq. He is very macho in only the nicest of all ways.

"What if you in prison from the rest of your life?"

"Not a chance."

"What if the world was ending and the ladyboy helped you escape from the prison and you discovered you were the only two people left on Earth."

"No way."

"What if you broke both your hands permanently and couldn't ever sex again?"


I gave up the questioning for that evening, but this afternoon I saw Louis CK's IS THIS GAY?

The answer is maybe.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Assassination Politics

The red shirts of Thaksin retreated from the barricades for the Songkran holiday. The roads of Thailand are dangerous enough without thugs looking for trouble. The Ministry of Traffic reported over nearly 400 deaths for the holiday, but PAD leader Sondhi was lucky to escape an assassination attempt on his life on a busy Bangkok street.

His attackers fired over a 100 bullets at the powerbroker's car. They first shot out the tires of his black Toyota Alphard. This minivan withstood a flurry of bullets. The media mogul was struck several times. His driver and bodyguard were more seriously wounded in the attack.

Over a 100 bullets and no one dead.

Just like in the A-Team.

Easy to blame the opposition except power moves in strange ways.

No telling who is who in the present situation.

Meanwhile Thaksin got a Nicaraguan passport and the deposed leader will soon be living in Managua.

Howard Hughes lived in that city too.

Top floor of the best hotel.

Long fingernails and Kleenex slippers.

Nice picture.

J G Ballard RIP

James Graham Ballard passed into the aether after an illustrious career as a novelist. He was born in China and endured WWII in a Shanghai internment camp as a child. Prison, war, atroocity, and a warped childhood spell writer and JG Ballard delighted the lovers of weird with CRASH, CONCRETE JUNGLE, and his infamous the pamphlet "Why I Want to Fuck Ronald Reagan".

His works were inspiration for innumerable musicians; "Down in the Park" by Gary Numan and "Warm Leatherette" by The Normal.

I'm still waiting for someone to make CONCRETE JUNGLE.

Outlaw trash.

To hear WARM LEATHERETTE click on this URL.

Neo-Zionists at the Wheel

Some deals are contracted in stone like the 10 Commandments. No one knows their location, however as inheritors of Yahweh's legacy the State of Israel has a big say in the actions of the West. This week the USA announced that they will once more not attending the UN conference on racism. The State Department has found the draft statement to be objectionable with accusation of genocide against Israel. Recent threats to nuke Iran reportedly had no influence over Washington's decision to skip the Geneva meeting. Israel congratulated the USA along with the Canada and Australia for their seemingly inexhaustible support. The foreign ministries of Britain, the Czech Republic, France, Germany and the Netherlands debated on phone whether to attend the five-day seminar, bringing up the question. "What does Israel have on these countries to goad international policies like a cattle prod?"

In 2001 the United States boycotted the Durban conference, which closed on September 8 with a resolution promoting an independent Palestinian state.

3 days later 9/11.

Nothing to do with Durban like the seizure of the US Embassy in Tehran had nothing to do with the US admitting the deposed Shah into the States for medical treatment.

Someone is driving the USA and it's not James Brown.

"I'm super bad."

Now that Georgia car chase was a car chase. Not some stupid 55mph chase like OJ.

Dumb stupid Oreo brother.

For a related article click on this URL

Forever Young

My great-grandaunt Bert lived to 103. Aunt Marge made it to 95. My father is 88. My family suffers longevity well and at 56 I can still beat teenagers at basketball, so I suspect I'm headed for a ripe old age in full control of my diminishing facilities and if so I hope to age much like Levi Montalcini. This senator for life and Nobel Prize winner in Italy celebrate celebrated her 100th birthday. She came to the event honoring her centagenarism in an elegant navy-blue dress. Aged beauty. She had been banned from academia by Mussolini. The Nazis had hunted her in the 1940s. Senora Montalcini was no stranger to adversity and told her admirers.

"Above all, don't fear difficult moments. The best comes from them."

She discovered her truth in a bedroom lab thanks to Mussolini.

You never know where the road will lead as long as you stay forever young.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

The Back of Middle Age

My friend George Wrage was celebrating his 50th Birthday. I've known him since 1978. we worked together at Hurrah. I was the doorman and he was the ticket taker. We came up with the scam of reselling tickets for sell-outs. It was a good gig until another doorman snitched us out after we refused to cut him into the racket.

30 years of friendship and now George is 50. He was 20 in 1978.

"I'm middle-aged," He announced on the telephone.

"40 is the old age of youth and 50 is the youth of old age."

"You read that online."

"No, I heard it somewhere. I think it comes from Victor Hugo." He wrote LES MISERABLES. Not the musical. The novel. "We're both middle-aged now."

"You don't get any argument from me about that." Neither of us subscribed to the saying that '50 is the new 40'. 50 is 50, unless you're doing AIG math. "I figure I've been middle-aged ever since someone called me 'mister'."

"The first time for me was teaching school in Boston. I was only 24." I substituted at South Boston High School during the busing riots of the 70s. "That's a little early."

"Not for teenagers. Remember WILD IN THE STREETS." George loved that movie in which teenagers take over the country after the senate changed the voting age to 12. "Never trust anyone over 30."

"Teenagers think I'm ancient, but my official inauguration into middle age was finding a brochure for a grave in my mailbox." The wall tomb for my ashes had a view of the Hudson. "But now i'm wondering when middle age ends."

"It has to be 62 or 65. You get senior benefits at those ages."

"62?" It was only six years away. Five if I was truthful. I couldn't be that old. I looked in the mirror. Without my glasses I looked the same as always, then again the best lies are the ones you tell yourself. "That's coming up really quick. The only benefit i want is half-price beer."

"You can already get that at happy hour." Bars in New York sell draft Stella for $3 from 3-8. George doesn't drink. Hasn't in years. Maybe 20 and he doesn't miss it. Not that way he drank.

"Yeah, so maybe I'm already a senior."

"Don't rush it." George hung up. He was at work. I was unemployed. A senior bum. Only one way to handle that fate and head over to Solas on East 9th Street. Even at 3 in the afternoon the bar is dark enough to believe your lies after a few beers.

The End of Youth

Subletting your apartment is tricky in New York. The supers are snitches for the landlords, so subleasees have to exhibit utter discretion while living in your flat. Swedes are the best, since they are respectful of property.

I sublet my apartment on East 10th Street during my stay in Paris to a Swedish male nurse. Sven moonlighted as a bouncer at Danceteria. Everyone like him and he liked black chicks. I had no trouble with Sven. He paid the rent on time and helped the super with the plumbing. When I informed him that I was coming back to New York in 1986, he moved out three days before my return. The place was cleaner than I left it. Nothing was missing. Not one of my books or records or clothing. Even the old lady next door, Mrs. Adorno, said good for Sven.

"He good man. He like chocolate ladies." The old witch was in love with the young Swede. She was only 4-10 with chronic pains from a spinal injury. "He help me with my back. I miss him already."

"What about me?" I had been gone six years.

"Not miss you long time." The bruja waved a hex sign. "You old man."

"Old man." I was 34.

"I old. I know old. You old." Senora Adorno slammed shut the door.

I had never thought of myself as old and I asked my friends about this. They were mostly my age and we suffered from the Peter pan syndrome. We never wanted to grow up. In my heart I was 25. in my head I was 15. I was going to be young forever, despite the old bruja's curse.

My college friends were employed as lawyers, realtors, bankers, and doctors.

Real jobs weren't me.

Arthur Weinstein got me a spot at the door of the Milk Bar. The club on lower 7th Avenue was decorated like the Malchek Bar in CLOCKWORK ORANGE. Scottie Taylor the owner hid in an egg chair. His manager ran the bar and hired the help. She had good taste in funny people and in late-September we had a new bargirl. Shane came from the UK. Her ambition was to be a pop singer. She had dreads and a cute body. I never hit on her and she asked if i had anything against black girls.

"You're more high yellah than black." Chinese more than African.

"So why don't you take me home?" Shane was forward and I couldn't think of a single reason for not taking up her offer. I was single. She was over 18. We rode on my Yamaha 650 to East 10th Street. As I parked my motorcycle on the sidewalk Shane looked up at the building.


"I've been here before." The declaration wasn't based on deja vu.

"Let me guess." There was only one explanation. "With Sven."

"Yes." She followed me upstairs without any danger of her disappearing my Orpheus' dead wife. I had a joint and she liked smoking weed. All Rasta girls do. Once inside the apartment she picked up an LP. The Mothers of Invention's FREAK OUT. I put it on the stereo.

Hearing HELP I'M A ROCK Shane laughed.

"I was here more than once. I would look at the records and wonder who lived here."

"Who did you think it was?" My apartment was cool. All wood like a rural shack. Bathtub in the kitchen and water closet in the back. It was a museum to the past.

"Seeing these LPs I thought it was some old hippie."

"Old hippie." I had long hair in the 60s. Mrs. Adorno was right. I was old. It was the first time anyone said that about me. I couldn't bring myself to make love with Shane. No newly old man could even to resurrect his youth in a young woman's flesh. I didn't have such a problem later in life, because old get old without the young.

Dutch Oar versus Teabagging

CNN and MNBC have been taking the piss out of Fox News Tea Party, since the news agency stole a well-known sexual term to define its crusade. 'Teabagging' according to the online Urban Dictionary is 'When a man that squats on top of a woman's face and lowers his genitals into her mouth during sex." Obviously gay solider never try teabagging in the modern Army, since this unorthodox practice would constitute 'sodomy' which is illegal in the 'don't tell, don't ask' military, despite the Supreme Court declaring the crime of sodomy unconstitutional in 2003, but more importantly this ribald debate hearkens more to the term 'Dutch Oar' mentioned in ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO, where two men hold their own penis but manipulate their hands by tugging on the other man's arm.

In other words both Fox News and MNBC are jerking each other off.

The more misinformation the better for the media.

Don't believe what you hear or see.

Only what you do.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Lightning Strikes in Bangkok

Songkran signals the approach of the rainy season. it's still hot and the weather can produce epic lightning storms. My girlfriends always insisted on shutting off every electrical device in the house other than the fans. They would shiver in fear of a lightning strike. Everyone had someone who had died out in the rice paddies.

"Me too." I added one stormy evening.

"Have friend die in nah-khao?" Thais don't think westerners have anything in common with their lives.

"yes, but not in America. In Vietnam. My friend was a soldier. He was walking in a rice paddy during a storm. Lightning struck him dead. One second."

"Chai. Wí-chian." Everyone would nodded their heads and even more so upon the mention of the goddess of lightning Mêk-laa. Thais would cover their heads and say, "Not say name."

Thais are only a little superstitious. No more so than me. During a thunderstorm my older brother and I had sat on our roof to watch the storm. A lightning bolt struck the tree nearest the house. It split the trunk in half. After that exhibition of nature i realized you never sit on a roof during a lightning storm.

Sometimes superstitions are common sense.

Pablo Picasso Was Never An Asshole

Pablo Picasso's career spans decades. GUERNICA depicting the fascist bombing of the Basque city is his most famous painting. I saw it once somewhere. Maybe at the Modern Art Museum in New York. I much prefer his 'blue' period. Easy paintings to hang on a wall. The only piece of art in my possession is a dubious drawing of Jean-Michel Basquiat, but I do have Jonathan Richman's PABLO PICASSO on CD.

"Pablo Picasso was never an asshole."

Picasso are available on the market. They're out of my price range and too well-guarded for my thieving talents. 99 paintings and prints went on view at Larry Gagosian gallery last month. I went the first night. The queue before the door was long. The people waited in the hundreds. The sidewalk was slick with a light rain. I walked up to the front door. The guest list madame asked for my name.

"James Steele. Dublin. I'm not of the list. I never am."

She regarded my attire.

A Calvin Klein suit from ten years ago and a shirt tailored in Bangkok with an English tie.

"Let him in."


I entered the hanger of art. People greeted each other with old embraces. I spotted Lisa Rosen. She is a painting saviour. Her brother Danny is a fisherman. We once shared a girlfriend. Lisa and i never speak about her brother.

"What do you think about the paintings?" she asked looking over my shoulder at the entrance. She was expecting friends.

"Haven't seen any yet." I knew nothing about this exhibit, having been invited by the lustrous Adrian Dannett, interlocutor extraordinaire. He likes to shelter his knowledge and he knows enough not to give it out to the Ignorantti.

"These predate his death in 1973." She pointed to the paintings on the wall. The style was recognizably Picasso. Almost as if he had devoted the last years of his life to huffing glue or even worse let other artists do his work. I wandered around the gallery. I couldn't find one painting I would want in my house, unless it was to say that I owned a Picasso. A few of the drawings were acceptable, but I'm happier with my little Basquiat drawing. Done a week before his death.

Thre-Ear-Dog, then again what do i know about anything.

"Pablo Picasso was never an asshole."

Speeding with a Septagenarian

After my mother's death my father and I used to take road trips.

Utah, Wyoming-Montana, France, Ireland, Quebec.

As an outlaw I believed in obeying the speed limit. The only break one law at a time theory. My father was a good citizen and felt free to boil over the permitted pace for the road. Not by the customary 10mph. He was lead-footed at best. I'd warn him about his incursion into hyperspace and he'd grumble, "Cops don't give old men speeding tickets."

His luck held out until we were driving along the southern bank of the St. Lawrence river. A seaway with whales frolicking off the rocky shoreline. My father was in a hurry. No stops.

"You can see the whales just as good from the car."

I didn't want to argue with a 79 yo who thought he was right, mostly because he had been right most of his life, so I picked up my binoculars to study the two-lane road for police. The provincial flics were reputed to be tough of speeders. I spotted one cruising our way and warned my father.

"I'm not speeding." He was driving 100mph.

"You're 30 over the limit."


"And you should slow down."

"Don't tell me how to drive."


My father roared past the cruiser. It alertly 180ed in our direction. Sirens and lights a-flashing. My father pulled over to the shoulder.

"Don't worry. Nothing will happen." He rolled down the window and the officer asked, "Do you speak French?"

"My son does." I had spent 6 years in Paris.

"Your father was 30 miles per hour over the limit." The officer spoke through the window. A pen was in his right hand. The ticket book was in his left. "That is an arrestable charge."

"Really?" The officer's patois dated back to the 16th Century. The time of the first French in America. My family came over in the Mayflower. At least on my father's side. "You have to arrest him and what does that entail?"

"We take him to the local jail and process him. Normally takes 3-4 hours."

"And this jail? It's in the same direction as I'm going?"

"Yes, why?" The officer was puzzled by my lack of resistance.

"Because I've been telling my father that he has been speeding this entire trip. he needs to learn a lesson and I think a few hours in jail would do the trick." The local jail could be as bad as those in the USA. This was Quebec. My father was almost 80. The police would treat him right, while I took my time seeing the whales.

"You want me to arrest your father?"

"Yes." I smiled at my father. He had taken french at Bowdoin College a half-century ago. He smiled back in incomprehension. "It would give me a break. I've been in this car with him for over a week. You understand?"

"Understand? This is your father. We are not a babysitting operation. It is up to you to take care of your father." The officer put away his pen.


Pas des 'buts'. Allez." The officer walked back to the cruiser and drove off in the opposite direction.

"See, I told you everything would be all right." My father started the car and we drove off to Gaspe at a few miles over the speed limit. He had learned his lesson. Tomorrow we would be crossing the pine expanse of New Brunswick. 100 mph was too slow there. His lesson would only last a day which wasn't bad for a man of 79, as long as he drove his age and not that of Methuselah.

900 miles per hour with the radio on.

In No God We Trust

America is god-fearing country for a good percentage of its citizens; Christians, Jews, and Muslims along with assorted other religions, however an increasing number of Americans are disbelievers ie we don't believe in a god. None at all. The universe just is and this rejection of the Judeo-Christian theology unnerves church-goers who worry that Hell might become too crowded if the number of heretics and atheists are in the majority.

Heaven itself could be threatened by the apostates and President Obama gave them more reason for concern by asking Georgetown University to cover the symbol IHS throughout his commencement address. This Christogram IHS is derived from the first three Greek letters in Jesus' name.

Iota-eta-sigma, or ΙΗΣ became IHS during the Dark Ages. People weren't good spellers in those days. Certain Churchmen now question Obama's beliefs. His church-going as president hasn't been so stellar. Once in three months. Same as me, although my attendance was for a funeral. Sunday Mass has been avoided for decades.

Hell is my next-life address or the limbo of ether.

Better than the holy hades of heaven with everyone praying all day.

So three cheers for the godless.

We finally have a place in this country that isn't strapped to a burning stake.

RIDERS ON THE STORM RAPTURE - Jim Morrison with Blondie

Jim Morrison's tomb is in Paris' Pere Lachise cemetery. Every day Doors fans enter the 19th Century necropolis on a pilgrimage to the Lizard King. MORRISON LIVES is graffitied on neighboring graves and for decades a persistent rumor has been whispered by the devoted that Jim Morrison never really died, but is living in Spain. An old fat rocker. Better dead but not forgotten and this week a musical maniac with a lot of time on his hands revived the lead singer of the Doors by melding the words to RIDERS ON THE STORM to the music of Blondie's RAP-Ture.

And it sounds good too.

One can only wonder what they would do with THE END.


For a listen click on this URL

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Revolution Versus Songkran

I first came to Thailand in 1991. It was April. I traveled to Koh Samui on an overnight ferry. No one told me about the regular boat service, but I spent that night staring at the stars flickering in a tropical night. The boat was a service barge. Slow. We arrived at dawn. I got off the boat and was immediately drenched with buckets of water.

My intro to Songkran.

Thailand's water festival.

18 years later I'm stuck in New York. My wives asking when I'm coming back with big pockets. Bangkok has been suffering from the throes of civil unrest. Red Shirts versus the government. Today the Abhisit regime had had enough. They sent in the army to arrest the leaders of the confrontation. Faced with such a crisis the government announced that it was dealing with the crisis the only way possible.

An extension of the Songkran festival until Friday.

Party. Sanuk. Forget everything.

if only it was that easy.

Who is this? Outing in Pattaya

No one in Pattaya points fingers at sin. Old men with young girls might get a chuckle. Ka-toeys with muscle-builders a WTF. Lesbians with lesbians everyone wants to watch. No one ever says anything about seeing your boyfriend, girlfriend, mia noi, wife, husband, geek, or lover with someone else.

It's an unspoken rule.

Broken only by accident.

And this week Sam Royalle, my agent in situ, sent a photo of a girl. He had seen in on the Internet. The location - Soi 6. The face was familiar.

My mia noi.


Sam Royalle apologized, but I'm sure he wanted me to know that something might be afoot. I sent the photo to my missus minor and she said, "I was at bar for party. Only have friends. Not have no one but you."

Okay." what else could anyone 9000 miles say?

I could have stiffed her money, but I have a baby with her.


No DNA tests for this fool.

Anyway at 56 who gets jealous.

Not unless I have GPS tracking for a cruise missile.

THE GREEN DOOR - Song of the Day

Not many people remember THE GREEN DOOR. This song was a 1956 hit by Jim Lowe was the inspiration for a xeroxed short story which has the basis for Marilyn Chambers' film BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR. I couldn't find it on Amazon, but did discover that Las Vegas #1 sex club is called the Green Door.

It doubt this is a coincidence.

BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR lives and so will Marilyn Chambers.

ps Jime Lowe's version sucks, but I do like Shakin' Stevens' reprise.

Karl Rove in the Shadows

The nuns of St. Mary's of the Foothills instructed their students to be on guard against godless Communism. We read Thomas Dooley's AGAINST ALL EVILS. The Viet Cong had pounded chopsticks into the ears of Catholics and the priests spoke about the bravery of the Marines in Chosen Reservoir, however war was only one weapon in the Communist arsenal. Cheaper and more insidious was the corruption of the democratic vote process. Stuffing the ballot, terrorizing the masses, misinformation over the media, obstruction in the legislature along with character assassination and overt violence. These tactics succeeded in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary. No one made mentioned of the USA's overthrowing the governments of Persia or Guatemala. They were expendable, however the GOP has always been impressed with Communist tactics.

The Bush regime even went so far as to adopt the brainwashing methods of the North Koreans for their secret rendition camps and ships.

It's been three months since GW Bush was ousted from the White House. The secret camps are supposedly closed by Congress. Corporate fatcats are arrested on charges of corruption. Weapons systems are canceled by the Pentagon and the spotted owl is safe from loggers.

These policy changes do not sit well with the GOP and they have revived their old games to confront the Obama government. The senate race in Minnesota is till undecided. Maybe both opponents should go into the Minneapolis airport and decided the election on whomever gives the best head in a bathroom. Teabagging has taken on a less-pornographic meaning with GOP-orchestrated protests against the federal bailout of the banks. The accusation of liberalism has been replaced by socialism and several right wingers have announced that there are 15 socialists in Congress evoking shades of McCarthyism.

My mother liked McCarthy.

Joe not Paul.

Fox News has run with the 'tea party rebellion' to report a gain of another million viewers or 50% of the Americans incarcerated in prison. 3,000,000 viewers amount to 1% of the US population. The rule of the unruly minority where the loudest sound like the most just like in the Russian Revolution when 1700 Bolsheviks subverted the Kerensky government.

And now the governor of Texas has invoked the 10th Amendment, which states that the powers not granted to the national government nor prohibited to the states are reserved to the states or the people.

Like California's right to smoke marijuana or Iowa's gay marriage statute.

Rick Perry, the ruling GOP leader in Texas, led a 'tea party' in Austin and the fired-up crowd shouted after his harangue against taxation and debt, "Secede."

"We've got a great union. There's absolutely no reason to dissolve it. But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, you know, who knows what might come out of that. But Texas is a very unique place, and we're a pretty independent lot to boot."

Good talk from a man running for re-election by rejecting $550 million in federal money slated for Texas' unemployment trust fund. Glenn Beck was also in attendance, crying on TV about the loss of personal freedom. Flags, guns, and teabags.

It's an American thing.

The rebellion of the masses.

Even if it's only 10,000 people.

That's about 6 times the number of the Bolsheviks.

That Karl Rove knows his history and only those who ignore the past are doomed to not repeat it.

Let's bring him back to Washington.

This time in cuffs.

Unfortunately DC doesn't have the death penalty, but Texas does capital punishment.

Even for fat bald men.

Whites too.

MY LIFE WITH A PORNO STARLET #1 by Peter Nolan Smith


The first time I ever saw Sherri she was not physically in the movie theater, but up on silver screen sucking the pizza boy’s cock, while taking it doggie style from her the man acting as her husband. Neither of the men was particularly attractive, probably so the audience could identify with them, however Sharon was a young brunette with a lithe acrobat’s body. Her ass was perfectly curved and her belly pouting with the right amount of fat. Her breasts being small, because once the action started, she became an animal unleashed on mankind.

It was obvious neither man on the screen had any idea what to do with her and the director was also at a loss with this vixen, so she took over. Releasing the pizza boy’s cock, she looked over her shoulder at the camera, a pink tongue snaked out to lick at cock-bruised lips, then her hand reached back to pull apart her asscheeks, so the cameraman could get a better shot at the stiff penis rooting her vagina. She moaned, “Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby!” then dropped her head down onto the pizza boy’s cock, until the head lodged in her gullet.

It wasn’t a deep throat, but I had my zipper down and cock in hand mimicking each thrust of the man from behind. Every man in the theater came together, as the pizza boy spattered the brunette’s face with a load of cum and her ‘husband’ blew his wad over her flawless ass.

After leaving the theater I searched the porno shops for any photos of this slut, but found none. I asked the clerk overlooking the aisle, if he had any glossy mags with her and he sadly shook his head. “I know exactly who you’re talking about. I got nothing. That’s her first film, but trust me we ain’t seen the last of her yet.”

Since the porno industry was centered in LA, I figured I would only see her in the movies or my fantasies. Three weeks later I was playing the SLASH pinball machine at an after-hour club in the East Village. My fingers were twitching over the buttons and my hip banged the machine, so the ball defied gravity beyond any of Newton’s laws. The score was fast approaching ‘best ever’, when someone bumped into the side and tilted the machine. I turned to the right, ready to swear, then my mouth went numb upon seeing the brunette in the shag-cut from the movie.

Her lingerie barely hid any skin or the fact that she appeared to have just fucked her way through the entire bar. Stiletto heels gave her another three inches of height and she regarded at me imperiously, as she asked, “What are you looking at?”

“You t-t-tilted the machine,” I stammered, but before I could tell her how much I enjoyed her film, she snapped her fingers loud enough to be heard over the Ramones and two gnarly bikers grabbed me by the arms. In less than three seconds I found myself out on the sidewalk, exiled from Eve.

Several thieves lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce on any hapless drunk, so I scrambled to my feet to show that I was not worth the trouble. Skanky whores lined Third Avenue and junkies popped into the fleabag hotels for a quick shot. The arctic wind sent a shiver through my body, for I was only wearing a thin leather jacket, a tee shirt, and torn jeans. I didn’t care, for I was intent on waiting for the actress
She only took a minute to come out alone. A tight-high rabbit fur coat covered her near-naked body. A gust of chilled wind blew the bangs off her face, so I could see her eyes coldly examine me before she stepped forward, opening her coat and pressing her fatless body to me. Her teeth nipped at my ear, before she asked breathlessly, “Well, where we going?”

I looked across the street to the Victor Hotel. It was a flophouse, but close. She smiled lewdly, then commented, “How romantic!”

“You have a problem with it?” I asked, fingering her ingrown nipples to erection.

“If it was warmer, I’d fuck you right here in the street.” The crude manner in which her hand rubbed my crotch told me neither of us should confuse this moment with love. We didn’t speak crossing the avenue or climbing the hotel’s creaking stairs to room 33. The 40-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling was enough to light the room, as she shrugged off the coat.

Standing with her legs spread and arms akimbo she let me admire her body for several seconds before dropping to her knees. Her hands expertly undid my zipper and withdrew my iron-hard cock. With one hand gripping my balls the actress’ mouth slithered onto my shaft like a snake swallowing its prey, proving the scene in the film had not depended on special effects. Her tongue flickered under my cock’s throbbing vein, while her hands wantonly rubbed that nether area behind my balls. Normally I would have shot right then, but she fell back onto the floor, then crawled onto the soiled bed.

“Get naked!” the brunette commanded, then swiftly undid her bra and slipped out of her panties. Her thighs spread and she reached down to her vagina with both hands, so the fingertips peeled back her labia to reveal a wet slick cunt.

My jacket hit the floor first, then I threw my tee shirt in the corner. My pants only came down to my knees, as I shuffled across the dusty floor to the bed. Kneeling between her legs, my tongue torpedoed into her warm wetness, as my hands wrestled off my boots and jeans.

“Suck on my asshole!” She pleaded, as her middle fingers desperately scratched at her thickening clit.

The tip of my tongue ricocheted off the sides of her inner ass before striking at her wrinkled asshole. Each time I pressed the flat of my tongue to the coppery pucker, the muscle flexed in jerks. Her panting became more frenzied, as my tongue probed through her sphincter like a harpoon. “Oh, yeah, suck it! Suck, my dirty asshole!”

Thinking she needed something more inside, I enlisted my thumb for his anal expedition, only to have her knock my hand away. “Only your tongue. That’s all I need.”

Speechless I couldn’t argue and lapped at her now clean asshole, until she shivered uncontrollably and her free hand seized my hair to pull my face forward. He fingers were a blur on her clit, as she called out, “Oh, yeah, fuck! FUCK! FUCCCCCK!!!”

Her back arched and labia throbbed, as she came with a vengeance. I half-expected her to spend some time graining her breath, yet she rolled onto her stomach and begged, “Fuck me with your cock! Fuck me like a mercenary!”

Both her hands gripped her ass, so there was no mistaking where she wanted my cock. I stabbed forward and buried my cock, till the head rammed against her cervix. I had never felt so big and she told me the same, cooing, “Oh, baby, it’s so big. Split me in half with that log. It hurts so good!”

I fucked her like a barbarian raping a nun who had been dreaming about her violation all her life. Her pussyjuice dripped from her cunt and formed a creamy froth around my shaft, as the walls of her steaming hole clamped on my member like we were two dogs in heat. The room stunk of her come and I bucked into her hole, as she screamed, “Fuck me harder!”

Someone was banging on the wall, but I kept ramming in and out, until a geyser of sperm boiled out of my balls and erupted from my cock into her cunt. She moaned slavishly, as I milked the last shutters of pleasure from my orgasm. When I rolled onto my side, my heart pounding, my skin sheeted with sweat, and my lungs sucked of any air, she immediately slithered down the bed to slurp up every trace of our mutual slime on my cock and balls. After she was through she licked her lips, then stuck a finger into her slit. Bringing the tip to my lips, I sucked the ooze from her digit. She kissed me with cum-stained lips and said, “You’re sweet. My name’s Sherri.”

“I know. I saw your film ABDUCTION OF JOY.” I groaned, as her fingers stroked my penis back to hardness.

“Oh, that was my first film. I wasn’t any good.”

“You were great.” I squirmed, as she pinched my nipple. I returned the favor, as she squealed, “I bet you say that to all the girls in fuck films.”

“Yeah, all the time.” I wished it was true, but she was the only woman I had ever met who fucked on film.

We fucked two more times before I crashed out between her thighs. When I woke, Sherri was dressed and at the door. I asked, “Where you going?”

“I got to do a film.” She posed like a tart, sticking out her ass before throwing on her coat.

“You need any money for a taxi?” I sleepily reached for my jeans, which seemed farther from the bed than I remembered.

“No, I’m good. We’ll see you around.” Sherri blew me a kiss and the door slammed shut before I could ask for her telephone number. I lay back in bed, then picked up my Levis. Going through the pockets I discovered why she hadn’t needed taxi fare. Sharon had ripped me off for every dollar and penny I had. Pulling on my jeans and boots, I swore madly, then ran out into the street, but person in sight was an old wino crumpled on the corner.

The winter sun was coming up and good citizens were walking to subway. They took one look at me and hurried on their way, because I was in no mood to be judged by squares. Across the street the dregs of the evening were stumbling out of the after-hours club. I supposed I could have gone inside to see, if Sharon was there, but confronting her in a drug-maddened den of iniquity could prove a little more than dangerous to my health. She had fucked me and fucked me good, so I called it a night and walked home, thinking that she had gotten what she deserved. Next time I would have to make sure it was vice versa and next time wasn’t a long time coming.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009


My roommate Vladmar is a huge Steelers fan. He comes from Pittsburgh, but has never seen ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO, a film set in his hometown about two roommates making a porno film to pay off their debts. They are male and female unlike Vladmar and me. I would never make a porno film with him, although I once performed in a foot fetish film with my cousin Sherri. The director swore my face would never appear on film. I wasn't so worried about people recognizing me as their seeing how my body had sagged out of shape. I was probably 43. The director was lying, for I saw him pointing the camera at my face. I grimaced and he smiled at my effort.

My only foray into XXX films and so it was for the two lead characters in ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO. Sex is not only lust but love if only for the 2.8 seconds of a male orgasm and the 4.3 seconds of a female orgasm. This movie was pleasantly funny without being offensive. The MPAA didn't think so and gave ZACK AND MIMI MAKE A PORNO an NC-17.


Sex is sin and violence is acceptable entertainment for the weekend popcorn crunchers.

Hypocrites, but NC-17 is better than R.

The State of Utah banned the film within the boundaries of the Mormon Kingdom.

I saw it online.

Sorry, I'm an outlaw that way, but I give ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO 4 stars.

A must-see except for the churchgoers.

Marilyn Chambers RIP

Ivory Soap symbolized purity to America in the 1950s. A bar graced every bathroom. The soap actually floated in the tub thanks to the air whipped into the concoction. Ivory Soap's market share during the 1950s and 1960s was massive and the girls on the wrapper were symbols of virtue, until it was revealed that the star of the 1972 XXX hit BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR was a Ivory Soap Girl.

The stockholders of Proctor and Gamble were scandalized by the all-American girl next door acting in a salacious film about a sleepless night of lust. Marilyn Chambers broke several other taboos in the movie, most notably having sex with a black man. A lynching offense in several Southern states at the time. She also deepthroated John Holmes. A tremendous feat of fellatio for the Cybill Shepherd lookalike. She had never been in a skin flick before BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR.

Her salary was $25,000 and a percentage of the take.

Procter & Gamble asked for her resignation at the Ivory Soap girl and her parents didn't speak with her for years, but her career flourished in the age of Sexual revolution. A good actress, she was unable to shake the taint of porno and boldly explored the boundaries of decency, being hailed as the first porno actress to shave her pubic hair and also pierce her clitoral hood.

BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR remains her greatest acomplishment.

Who could ever forget the 6-minute slo-mo money shot?

She passed away two days ago in Hollywood.

My thoughts go out to porno-lovers.

We lost one of the goddess.

Moby WTF

The Atlantic Ocean is not from from Manhattan. A small stretch between Brooklyn and Staten Islands is visible from Battery Park, although most sailors call that body of water 'the outer harbor'. This is not the sea for me and when I woke last Palm Sunday with the urge to see the ocean. It was a sunny day. The Hamptons were too far away for a day trip, however Rockaway Beach was close. My roommate Vladmar laughed at me, "Rockaway Beach not ocean. It is song from Ramones."

"It's enough of the ocean for me." Sea gulls and waves and a greasy green sea. "You want to come?"

"For what? To see garbage float in water." Vladmar lit a cigarette and went out on the deck. I walked to the subway stop and caught the L train to Broadway Junction. The A train crossed the Broad Channel. Several fishing boats were trawling at the bridge. It was less than an hour since I left Graham Avenue. I got off at the next stop and strolled down a desolate street to the beach. A young man was flying a kite. Seagulls flirted with the string. The wind was from the west. The sea was cordoroyed with gentle swells. I could feel the chill in the water and turned my face to the sun.

Sun, sea, wind, and earth.

The four elements.

The horizon was slabbed with low-lying fuel tankers. A single surfer was searching for a wave. A black object bobbed in the water. At first I thought it was a large piece of flotsam. Floating debris versus jetsam, something which has been jettisoned by a ship's crew. It dipped under the surface and then reappeared fifty feet away. this flotsam was moving fast and had a small fin. Too small to be a shark.

"A whale."

Thar she blows.

A whale in New York City.

I watched the cetacean for several minutes. No one else on the beach seemed to notice its passage. They were busy on their cellphone or texting SMS. I called Vladmar.

"I saw a whale."

"No way you see a whale."

"Yes, I swear I did."

Vladmar hung up on me and several other friends said I must have been hallucinating about Moby Dick. I can't remember ever reading Melville tome, even though I can recall the first line.

"Call me Ishmail."

A whale on a flashback. I wasn't sure of what I had seen, except on Wednesday the NY Times confirmed that a humpback whale had been wandering the waters off the Verrazano Narrows. Vladmar apologized and asked, "You have picture?"

"No." The whale had been too far off shore and my camera is a cheap Cannon. "I only have it in my head."

And that's where it will stay.

Moby What the Fuck.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Beermas Rules

I won a scholarship to Xaverian Brothers High School. I lost it two years later for failing religion. My mother and father were astounded by my F grade until I informed them that my failure was the result of a declaration of non-belief.

"Non-belief in what?"

"I don't believe in God."

My mother was horrified by the thought of my burning in Hell and my father backed her struggle to re-convert their son to the Womb of Jesus. All their attempts were thwarted by my apostasy. My high school girlfriend almost brought back into the fold. We were going to join the Cloth, then I heard Led Zeppelin.


Since then I've worshipped many idols, but only one has remained true.


The one true thing in the world.

Happy Beermas.

The above rules act as a catechism for Beermasians.

But there are no real rules.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Quote of the Day - Resurrection

“Ressurection is a lawyer's dream of heaven: every man reclaimed his property at the resurrection, and each tried to recover it from all his forefathers” Samuel Butler

Too bad for those Pentecostals the End came and went without then upping to Heaven.

Wish they had gone too.

Leave this world for the non-religious fanatics.

Who drink beer.

No reassurance for the non-resurrected.

Bruce Wayne is Batman

And Shannon Greer could beat the shit out of Bruce Wayne too.

Beermas Vs. Easter

I'm no longer religious.

Very much so, but I am spiritual, so I celebrate Beermas.


And I drink not to make women more beautiful.

I drink to improve my looks.

Oh, you dog.

Passing Judgment Over Passover

Passover is the most important religious holiday on the Jewish Calendar, celebrating the Angle of Death passing over the first-borns of the Hebrew as Yahweh's Holy Annihilator murder the first-born of the Egyptians. This last plague of Moses freed the bonded Hebrews from the Land of the Pharaohs. The actual date is lost to time as is the name of the Pharaoh. Some religious historians date the Biblical tale to the rule of Rhamses II, although no historian from that time records the plagues and the story of Moses sounds a lot like the Neo-Assyrian version of the birth of the king Sargon of Akkad in the 24th century BC.

But if Passover is not plagiarism, how to explain the last plague.

The massacre of the first-born.

Possibly the first-born were first given food in the morning and the bread could have been poisoned by a toxin or else died from sleeping too close to the ground as was their privilege and breathed a toxic gas or more plausibly the children were poisoned by the slaves.

Every slave-owners feared that fate.

Serves you right, but all part of the ruthless God of Israel.

"I'll fuck your eyes out." Exodus 12:11

And people ask why I'm an atheist.

Many reasons.

Royal Cliffs Rumble

General MacArthur announced to the Filipino people, as he fled the siege of Corregidor in 1942, "I shall return."

Arnold Schwarzenegger adopted an altered version of the American Caesar's famed words in the 1984 movie TERMINATOR.

"I will be back."

And now deposed Prime Minister of Thailand, Thaksin Shinawatra, has come up with his version of the legendary tagline.

"I won't go away."

A military coup forced the ex-police officer from office. The government seize $2 billion in assets. Guilty verdicts for corruption kept him out of the country. The sentence - prison time. His arch-rival the Democrats ousted his brother-in-law four months ago. They have vowed to restore democracy, but the billionaire in exile has refused to accept defeat like the long-standing feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys.

Yesterday afternoon 10,000 of his faithful descended on Pattaya in a cavalcade of taxis, buses, and trucks. After defeating local pro-government supporters, the red-shirts stormed the Royal Cliff Beach Resort, shattering the glass doors and seizing control of the hotel, the site of the Asean summit meeting. Asian leaders were airlifted from the roof by helicopters a la fall of Saigon.

Sam Royalle lives by the Royal Cliffs.

"I saw the protesters and drove the other way. But I had to ask myself, "Where are the cops?"

A state of emergency has been declared in the beach resort. A little too late for the summit and the victorious red shirts have commuted back to Bangkok to celebrate Songkran.

A foreign ministry spokesman said, "The protesters want to humiliate the government."

Obviously they achieved their goal with the present PM leaving the resort under army protection and the fugitive leader of the red shirts can glow with the hope of resuming his place at the head of the Thai nation.

My wife dismissed this possibility. "He has money. He only wants to come back to get more."

"The two billion in frozen assets.

Before the invasion of Iraq Saddam offered to leave his country for $1 billion. Gw Bush refused to pay his way out of a war. Mission accomplished within a month. One billion would have been cheap and maybe that number might buy off Thaksin for a year or two.

Mai pang!

And certainly better than losing face.

Som num nah.

Friday, April 10, 2009


I am not sure exactly how it works, but this is amazingly accurate. Read the full description before looking at the picture.

The picture below has 2 identical dolphins in it. It was used in a case study on stress levels at St. Mary’s Hospital.

Look at both dolphins jumping out of the water. The dolphins are identical.. A closely monitored, scientific study revealed that, in spite of the fact that the dolphins are identical; a person under stress would find differences in the two dolphins.

The more differences a person finds between the dolphins, the more stress that person is experiencing. Scroll down slowly and look at the photograph below and if you find more than one or two differences you may want to take a vacation.

I’m headed to Thailand the end of the month.

Giving Songkran a miss.

STRESS TEST thanks to Big Al of Big Al’s Tacos in Pattaya.

Mormon Mia Nois

Thais like to think that prostitution didn't exist within their borders until its introduction by the Chinese, however the country since time immemorial has fiercely upheld the tradition of mia yai / mia noi or big wife / small wife. This form of bigamy is widely accepted in all levels of society from kings to tuk-tuk drivers, but not even a Thai tycoon can compete with the multiple wives held by the Mormon communities of southern Utah.

I've driven through Colorado City, Arizona twice. Route 389 bisects the isolated community without a single 7/11 or gas station in sight to entice the traveler to stop for gas, potato chips, or information. This town has turned its back on the world to avoid curiosity seekers interested in the biggest polygamy sect in the USA, The Church of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints.

Town demographics list that there are an equal number of men and women, but not that only a few men are married to most of the females and they also have families in other polygamist conclaves. One man has over 20 wives in Colorado City and another 21 in the recently-raided Texas commune.

Mia Nois galore, except a large percentage of their wives are under age and this means some FLDS husbands will be facing serious jail time in the near future, despite the multi-Lotharios stating that polygamy is not the problem. "Human judgment is."

Federal authorities are contemplating a raid on this town, but have no idea what such an endeavor will reap and the FLDS members are slowly fleeing to more secluded locales to avoid the dismemberment of their sect, although those funny dresses are a dead giveaway.

I'm related to Joseph Smith on my father's side.

And I'm no bigamist, but I do believe in many mia nois.

Only one of them.

For a related article click on this URL

Songkran Driving

Nothing says Songkran better in Thailand than getting into an accident with a drunk.

EMAIL from the Old Roue April 4 after I invited him to join me on a trip to Phnom Penh to escape the Songkran madness.

His reply

No thanx, I’m driving 2 Nana Plaza dancers to Isaan for Songkran. At least
something will get wet.

Be careful in P-P. Ask permission before you soak one of those little
motherfuckers. They’ve got no sense of humor and a shiv taped to the
leg. Bad combo.

April 27

I drove up to Isaan for Songkran with a girl from nana, taking coals to Newcastle,
and got in a serious accident in Ubon Ratchatani. 2 guys on a
motorbike slammed into the side of me and went sailing over the hood,
breaking one guy’s leg and launching a fucking gothic round of events
- police station, hospital, insurance guys, police station, hospital,
insurance guys, for days. I got off easy. My insurance paid for my
smashed car, his paid for his medical and bike and I have to go back
up there in about a week to sign the final police report and hand over
10,000 baht as a farangly gesture, not admitting fault, but so that
the family won’t come after me ever again. I hope. That’s how it’s
done up there, when done right. The cops were great and my Thai-fluent
buddy Peter and his Thai wife waltzed me thru it over the phone with
excellent advice and face grease.

MAY 12

Going up to Isaan with Bangkok lawyer. have to settle this in court. 20k for the loss of wages. I was a little wrong in that I was making a u-turn on a 6-lane road. Thought the driver would see me. Police are not being nice. everything should be okay.

In the end the Old Roue paid out 40,000 for the incident without any penalty points of his license.

Mostly since he didn't have a valid international driving permit.

You have to love Thailand.