Saturday, April 18, 2009
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.
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.
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
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'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."
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
NEW YORK 1978
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.
RESIDENT EVIL was PG-13.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
The above rules act as a catechism for Beermasians.
But there are no real rules.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
“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.
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.
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.
And certainly better than losing face.
Som num nah.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.