Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Space Race of the early 1960s exterminated young boys' worship of westerns. Cowboy hats, vests, guns, and holsters were retired to the closet next to toy boats and teddy bears. I pleaded with my parents for an astronaut costume for Halloween and my father came through with a gleaming space suit complete with a visored helmet. My brother was dressed up as a Martian with green skin. He had fabricated a raygun from a broken egg-beater. We were eager to trick or treat, but before leaving the house I purloined sunglasses from my father's dresser without saying first. He was leading my younger siblings around the neighborhood.
"You sure that's a good idea?" My brother was better at following rules than me.
"Sure I'm sure. They're extra protection from your death ray." I had seen INVASION FROM MARS ten times. The Martians' main weapon vaporized soldiers into carbon.
"It's your funeral."
"What can happen?" We lived in the suburbs. Two-car garages, good schools, beautiful babysitters. The land of plenty and I was thinking of plenty of candy as my older brother, best friend, Chuckie Manzi, and I crossed the street to Mr. Martini's house. He drove truck for Arnold's Bakery. His wife put out cake instead of candy.
The night was dark without any moon. We climbed the brick stairs. There was no metal railing. My brother rang the doorbell. Mrs. Martini acted scared and offered a selection of cakes. I took orange spice. Chuckie and my older brother were grateful for chocolate cake. We thanked her with filled mouths. I slipped on my glasses and shut the visor. I couldn't see a thing and walked off the stairs, smashing my head into the wall and mutilating my little finger.
Blood, but I was more concerned with my father's sunglasses. They had fallen off, but luck was with me. They were intact. My brother led me back to our house, careful not to let any blood drip on his costume. My mother admonished my dangerous behavior. She had six kids. We were always in jeopardy. A band-aid stemmed the blood and my mother refused to let me leave the house with the sunglasses.
"Once is enough."
And she was right, for I have only worn sunglasses at night when I can't find my regular glasses. I still bear a scar on my little finger from that fall. Jagged crossing an entire knuckle. Halloween. The night of Satan. He's out there waiting for us.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
If you ask Thais if they’ve seen a ghost, most will timidly say NO, indicating the fear that any mention of a spirit might endanger their luck, yet Thais love horror movies popularized by such famous ghosts such as Phi-pop who eats livers, phi tai hong who died due to violence, and phi kraseu who has a head of intestines.
Thai movies' make-up and FX are naive, but scare the bejesus out of my wife, however these Asian film horrors have nothing on the real people in the USA.
This is a true story.
On their way to dig up a grave in rural southwestern Wisconsin, the Grunke brothers and a friend stopped at a Wal-Mart to pick up some condoms, authorities said.
Three days later, on Tuesday, twins Nicholas and Alexander Grunke, 20, and Dustin Radke, 20, were charged in Grant County with attempted theft — and attempting to have sex with a corpse.
“In different schools that teach you about bizarre behavior, necrophilia is one of those things that you hear about, but never think you’ll have to deal with,” said Grant County Sheriff Keith Grovier. A Cassville police officer arrived at the St. Charles Cemetery on Saturday night after a neighbor alerted police to suspicious activity, according to a criminal complaint filed Tuesday.
The officer found an abandoned vehicle parked near the cemetery. Minutes later, the complaint stated, the officer saw Alexander Grunke walking toward the vehicle, dressed in black and sweating profusely.
After being questioned, Grunke told the officer his brother and Radke were trying to dig up a grave, according to the complaint. The two drove into the cemetery to find the partially dug grave of a 20-year-old woman who was killed in a motorcycle accident Aug. 27 in Cassville. The diggers had only managed to reach the top of the grave’s concrete vault.
Nicholas Grunke and Radke were arrested Sunday morning in Beetown, about eight miles from the cemetery. The complaint said Radke told police that Nicholas Grunke had asked him to help dig up the Cassville woman’s body and take it to Grunke’s house, so that Grunke could have sex with it. On the way to the cemetery, Radke said, they stopped by a Dodgeville Wal-Mart to buy condoms “because Nick wanted to use them when he had sex with a corpse,” the complaint added.
Grovier said the three did not know the woman but had seen her picture in a newspaper obituary.
Grovier said the woman was “very well-liked, very popular” in Cassville, a Mississippi River town of about 1,100. “The community is very upset,” the sheriff said. “They can’t believe it.”
What’s amazing about these boys is that they used condoms for safe sex.
I told several Thais this story.
They didn’t believe me, but said the town should have a mor phi or ghost doctor come to save the town from any ghoulish episodes.
Necrophilia is a crime in most states but not all.
Wisconsin is one of them.
Necrophilia should be beyond the pale, however OTTO IV, the Holy Roman Emperor, reputedly slept with his deceased wife for over 17 years. Many courtiers of the Holy Roman Empire said she was faking sleep.
I found a wicked account of a necrophiliac at a bookstore along the River Seine.
THE JOURNAL OF LUCIAN H
This romantic novella about a French man’s exploration of love with the dead doesn’t appear on any Google searches. The tale tells of his falling in love with them after they are dead. He doesn’t abuse them. Sad is his mood, when he has to leave them once the bodies are too far gone. Of course that’s a far cry from Hollywood movies glorifying the dead, but then teenage boys would have to depend on sappy love movies to get girls to hug them in the cinema.
Several Halloweens ago I was sitting in front of Mekong restaurant on Prince Street. It was a warm night. My friends and I watched the parade of costumes. We were having a good time, until a Batman sat next to our lady friend. The Caped Crusader aggressively kissed Jane and then he stole my beer. A Stella. Women were sacred. Beer was holy.
"Jane, you know this guy."
"No." Jane seemed horrified.
I told the intruder to push off and Barman retorted with an unkindly expletive about my age. I was only 47.
"Leave it off." My friends' kids were at the table. I didn't want them to witness a fight, plus my knee was shot from B-ball and I needed a cane to hobble around the streets. Still it was only Batman without Robin or Catwoman, so I said, "This isn't your table."
"Fuck off, you old git." Batman grinned like the Joker.
The word 'git' ended the discussion. Git was my word. I seized Batman's cape and threw him into street. He swung my cane at my head. I grabbed it out of his hand, but he snatched my glasses, running away, "Nah-na-na-nah-na."
It sounded mockily like Stream's hit TELL HIM GOODBYE
I was in no condition to chase him.
Shannon came out of the bar. He was a good decade younger and several inches taller. We were friends since the Milk Bar. He and I played basketball together.
"Batman stole my glasses." I felt a little like the Daredevil. Cane and nearsighted.
"I'll go get him." Shannon loped down the street.
Batman was laughing at the gate to St. Patricks. Shannon told him to give back the glasses. Batman threw a punch. Shannon KOed Batman. One punch. Batman laid on the sidewalk like he was sleeping in Bruce Wayne's bed.
Shannon returned to Mekong and said, "Here's your glasses."
"I be going." Shannon didn't need to speak with the police.
And my money is always on the Bunny Versus Batman.
New Yorkers have been sporting Halloween costumes at night for the last week. Yesterday a friend said that he was celebrating the autumn fest a night early. we argued about the date, until Shannon explained Halloween's Celtic origin as Samhain, which marked the division of the year into halves of light and dark when the otherworld was nearest reality. A night of fire to cleanse the world.
"And it was turnips that were carved, not pumpkins." Shannon stated with authority. His fiancee Charlotta was smart. He had been busy mining google's vast abyss of useless knowledge."
"So the band should have been Smashing Turnips."
"No, once the micks came here, pumpkins were bigger."
"You have to carve the jack 'o lanterns with small eyes and mouth or else it will rot within a day." I had been researching 'pumpkin soup' on the Internet. Smart didn't take much these days.
"Plus a pumpkin is easier to cut up than a turnip."
"You got that right." I had narrowly missed slicing off my thumb splitting a turnip the other night. "What are you going as this year?"
'Some kind of monster." Charlotta was hosting a Halloween party the right night. She was German. We both believed in tradition, but so did Shannon. "The first Halloween in America was mentioned in 1911. Someplace in hockey-puck land."
"Then Happy Hallowmas." I wasn't contesting his learning. My Halloweens only go back to 1956. Falmouth Foresides. Maine. My mother warned that I couldn't go out 'trick or treating' unless I finished my beets.
Canned beats paved the path to chocolate paradise and I poured a glass of milk. My older brother was watching in his cowboy costume. Mine was identical. We were Frank and Jesse James. I put the first sliced beet in my mouth. My tongue skated around the jellied vegetable. The slight aftertaste might have been twenty years old. My throat constricted on the unchewed beet's passage.
Only two more to go.
"No more milk." My older brother pulled away the half-filled glass. He had a date with Sandy the girl next door. The 5 year-old was going as a witch. The James Brothers and Witch. He was not wrong to be in a hurry. I stuck the fork in the second beet slice and stuffed it deep into my mouth. Maybe too deep, because I gagged on it. My father clap on my back slapshot the beet back onto my plate. My mother was not happy.
Her family had gone through the Depression. Foot on the plate was meant for your stomach. This was 1958. Eisenhower was President. America was a Land of Plenty. The beets belonged in the trash, but not in our house. Two slices took two minutes.
"That wasn't so bad." My mother cleared my plate from the table.
"No." They came from a can and I vowed to eat as much chocolate as my stomach could handle on a full belly of beets. It was more than a 6 year-old could handle on a school night, however tomorrow was Saturday and I finished off half my treats in bed. I would worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
'It's one thing to have bad manners, it's good manners to know when not to use them." James Steele
Nearly three years ago GW Bush embarked on a farewell tour of occupied Iraq. A reporter was so incensed by the president's smile and joking that he hurled his shoe at GW Bush. It missed, as did his second shoe. The act is considered an extreme insult in the Middle East.
"This is a farewell kiss from the Iraqi people, you dog."
Security guards hauled the barefooted journalist from the room. His screams was recorded by camera. GW Bush shrugged with a pleased smirk.
"It's a way for people to draw attention."
Muntadhar al-Zaidi was tortured repeatedly during his two-years of incarceration
Beatings with electric cables and iron bars accompanied by endless session of near-drowning in icy cold water.
Al-Zaidi was hailed as a hero upon his release in 2009. An Arab business offered to buy the shoes for $10,000,000. The Pentagon refused to sell and destroyed the relics. GW Bush has been out of office almost two years and tomorrow night the invader of Iraq will throw out the first pitch of the 4th game of the World Series.
Fucking wanker will probably receive a Standing O from his fellow Texans, however I plan to throw my flipflop in the direction of the TV.
A la Al-Zaidi.
Next if no children or women are in the room, I'll turn around and moon the ex-leader of the USA, then cheered for the San Francisco Giants.
They used to play in New York.
To see the Iraqi journalist throw his shoe, please go to this url
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Coming back to America was a shock after a long absence in Asia.
I was thin in comparison to the tubby NYU students waddling down St. Mark’s Place. They all had food in their mouth. My lower jaw hung slack in shock. This expression of disgust was bound to attract the wrong attention and a familiar voice said, “Pretty damn amazing, isn’t it? How fat everyone is?”
Jamie Parker was looking prosperous in his lightweight Italian suit and also surprisingly fit for a fifty year-old, considering his hard years on the road. Our association went back to the 1970s and shook hands with a warmth reserved for friends who think the other might be dead.
"No one was this fat when we were young."
“I just watched the Rolling Stones’ GIMME SHELTER. The only fat people at the Altamount concert were a naked girl, a Hell’s Angel, and the fat guy that gets stabbed by the bikers.” He spoke like he might have attended the infamous Stones’ show. “Everyone was skinny back then.”
“When did this obesity thing happen?” I couldn’t pinpoint exact moment, but suspected the trend began with the 1968 Moon landing.
“Over a long time, though the religious right considers obesity a deterrent to teen sex.”
“Another preemptive strike.” The War in Iraq was going well for the president, especially since he only read his own press releases.
“Welcome back to the good ole USA.” Jamie had been at my going-away party two years ago. “Looks like it has been treating you well.”
“Oh, I get by.” Jamie explained how he had made a small fortune as an Internet wunderkind after providing scientific proof to the GOP that global warming was due to the planet passing through a warmer section of outer space. “How was Thailand?”
“I’m having a baby with my girlfriend.” “Not bad for a fifty year-old well-unknown poet.” He slapped my back and then lowered his voice as if his conservative supporters might have sicced the FBI on him. “You’re not bringing her back here? I mean America isn’t really America anymore. More like the Land of the Fat and Stupid for picking this president and eating 1000 kinds of potato chips.”
24% of the voting public had elected George Bush and potato chips went good with Velveeta. “People get what they deserve.”
“You know why he got elected in the first place?”
“He was GW One’s son?” My patience for a full-blown LSD-flashback rant was limited.
“You got three minutes?” Jamie clasped my arm like a Twinkie-hungry bear.
“Not really, I have a hair appointment.”
“Yeah, you always had a good head of hair.” He had been balding when I met him twenty-five years ago. “More money is spent on the cure to baldness than AIDS.”
“I thought this was about George Bush.”
“Okay, okay, you know I went to Yale. Got a scholarship for hockey. 1967. Met George Junior a bunch of times. Drank beer, smoked pot, and did some fine CIA cocaine. Anyway I dropped out, enlisted into the military, bounced around Asia, then came back to the States.”
“Jamie, I’ve heard this before.”
“But not this.” He dragged me into the corner newsstand and scurried to the stroke mag section. “You remember Iran-Contra. Well, I knew people in Washington. Knew people in Columbia. The CIA was bringing arms to Honduras and deadheading the empty planes to Fort Chaffee in Arkansas, until someone gets the bright idea that they can finance the entire operation by trans-shipping cocaine. It was all fine and good, but those Spooks had never put their noses to the silver plate and they were getting beat by the Cali Cartel. They needed someone to test it and GB One I volunteered GW to sacrifice his nose for the cause of Liberty. Well, needless to say, snorting coke isn’t fun alone, so old Hoovermatic called in a few friends.”
“Yep,” Jamie nodded with a twinkle of an old junkie’s recollection for what had been the ‘good times’. “I did ounces of zoot and should have gotten a Purple Heart for fucking my nose with GWII and Bill Clinton. Yeah, Slick Willy was the governor of Arkansas. Couldn’t keep him away from the stuff. I could have screwed them both, but kept my mouth shut. I actually thought George W would be better than Al Gore. I mean he knew all about Weapons of Mass Destruction?”
“I always thought they were a cover-up for our having sold Saddam the poisons to kill the Iranians. I mean even Donald Rumsfeld never thought they would be used against his own people.”
“Yeah, right, the Iraqis never built shit.” Jamie made a face like I was stupider than some chubby white male who bought an SUV to make himself look thinner. “WMDs were a drink, which took a little of the steam off the Bolivian flake; tequila, cognac, and Moet champagne. A concoction the CIA dreamed up, when they were dealing heroin out of Laos.”
“You’re fucking mad.” Americans hated the French. They had been nice enough to hire me as the physionomiste of the Bains-Douche. I had treated them like dogs and they had loved me for it. I loved France too, but not as much as pizza or America or the baby growing in my girlfriend’s belly. “Jamie, no one cares anymore about what anyone does.”
“You’re right. I’m 4Qed, but what is everyone else’s excuse?” He yelled. “Answer me that. What’s everyone else’s excuse?”
I rushed onto the street and was immediately swarmed by giggling college students, rushing across 3rd Avenue. They were living their dreams. Life was good and the sky was clear. Everyone seemed happy to not question anything and so I ignored Jamie’s last question, because in the Land of the Free and the Brave, the pursuit of happiness trumped all other desires no matter what the bible-thumpers promised the wicked in this life and the next.
In 1970 Yippie spokesperson Abbie Hoffman wrote STEAL THIS BOOK, a guide to growing week, communal living, food theft, passing bad checks and a whole slew of revolutionary repossession techniques as well as how to confront the police armed and unarmed. The book hit the bestseller charts in 1971. I stole the guide from a Harvard bookstore. Someone lifted it from me. Pirate Editions the publisher made no profit from me and now I'm suggesting the same tactic for GW Bush's DECISION POINTS.
The former president tells all about his 8 years in the White House including the last time he had a drink.
GW has already received his check.
Now it's time to screw the publisher.
Steal that book and burn it.
It will make you feel good.
Monday, October 25, 2010
"Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men." - Baron Acton 1887
This quote has been proofed by countless megalomaniacs in the years after its inception. Richard Nixon, Mao Tse-Tung, and the Vatican. Their ranks of their legion are limitless and this week Google CEO Eric Schmidt who has said of his company, “We know where you are. We know where you’ve been. We can more or less know what you’re thinking about.”
Google Street View is an all-seeing god manned by the thousands of viewers living lives so meaningless that they spend theirs days and nights as snitches for Google Street View.
Squealers of bad behavior and the Google CEO responded to accusations of Big Brotherism by advising people upset by 24/7 all-seeing eyes to move away from the cameras.
Oh, super-powerful CEO there is another option.
Good people shoot out those cameras.
Only then will the gods be blind.
On Saturday I informed the ex-model from Paris
I m a not a servant of satan
only a rocker.
I thought this reply an olive branch, however the ex-model is resolute in her convictions.
Saturday at 6:38pm
peter if you are not humble and you don't realize that Jesus is all powerful and He died for your sins you will not be prepared for these times......
Saturday at 6:40pm
Peter Nolan Smith tant pis i am humble. i have no aspiration to pretend that I am immortal. life is the wonder. a different view. all sunset change color according to where you stand in the sand
Saturday at 6:48pm
Peter Nolan Smith
do not worry about my soul. its sanctity is intact albeit my sanity is questionable. but you always knew that.
Saturday at 6:49pm
Peter Nolan Smith
off to see KINGS OF LEON
love and peace
Saturday at 6:50pm
you have no spiritual hope, scary.
Saturday at 6:52pm
Peter Nolan Smith
Saturday at 11:13pm
enlightning without the E and stop prating Peter you love listening to yourself prate, get down on your hands and knees and confess your sins before almighty God that you can be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb, its no joking matter... you can scoff now, but there is a special place reserved for people that scoff in the face of the creator of the universe that is willing to bend down and pull you out of your filth that you seem to love
wallowing in..............I say this out of love so that you wont be lost forever, it is horrible to live blinded by satan, and in the end its with satan that you will spend eternity, God isn't laughing Peter He had to see His only beloved son hanging from the cross to buy you back, its a choice you have the freedom to make, oneday you will stand alone before Jesus and you will answer for every idle word, I just hope i am not piling burning coals on your head because you have absolutely no excuse !!!! you HAVE A SOUL and you must consider these things seriously, its my duty to warn you !! LOVE bridget
Peter Nolan Smith
e is oblivion not enlightenment
no joking i am pure of heart
but a firm anti-believer
have been since I was a youth.
sorry, but i appreciate the concern.
But I'm really worried about her god not having a sense of humor.
Any god that can not laugh is not worthy of worship.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Riots in Paris, floods in Thailand, the religious right praying to bring the Nazis back to cleanse America.
The born-agains claim this is the End of Time like my good friend, the ex-model from Paris
the ex-model from Paris
Dont mix GOD up with RELIGION
Religious Demons 5-29-10
Guest: Pastor John Goguen
Peter Nolan Smith
that was my 58th birthday
the ex-model from Paris
peter please go to God in prayer terrible times are ahead in America the economy is coming down soon, God is leading me to tell you this get very serious time is short, dont be fooled by Satan, internet is going to be shut down lots of love brother when the shit hits the fan just call on Jesus
Peter Nolan Smith
my body and soul are ready for these times
I see the signs too
i m a not a servant of satan
If things get bad, I'm bicycling up to the diamond exchange, opening the safe, getting the two Glocks and bag of gold, and then heading down to the seaport to board the Clipper City. We will sail to salvation and it won't be any fucking 2nd Coming.
“As you get old you forget. As you get older you are forgotten.”
The other day a woman sent a query to my Facebook page.
“Are you who I think you are?”
Cheyne had worked at the Milk Bar as a waitress. Cute mulatto singer from London. 21. I remembered her well. I wrote back that I had worked at the Milk Bar as the doorman. Her reply came as a surprise.
“I’m sorry I worked at the Milk Bar too, but I don’t think you’re the person I was thinking…It was all such a long time ago…Take care.”
Not who I thought you were?
Cheyne must have wiped her memory clean of the night the little Brit accompanied back to my apartment on East 10th Street for a little wine. It was 5am. There was no questioning her purpose, however as we got out of the taxi, she said, “I’ve been here before.”
It wasn’t a case of deja vu. Cheyne had come home with my previous subleasee, a male nurse from Sweden. Ruben was a body builder. He was also into black chicks. A nice guy who always paid the rent on time. The girl entered the apartment and said, “Same as it was only Ruben kept it a little cleaner. You know I was wondering who lived here, but saw the records and figured it had to be some old hippie.”
Those two words castrated my libido. Cheyne and I did nothing but a little blow. That humbling episode was over 23 years ago. Her epistle on Facebook reveals she has forgotten about me 100% and those two words too. They were a curse, because I still listen to Quicksilver Messenger Service and Jefferson Airplane. I might not have long hair, but I am still an old hippie and a punk too.
I will never forget KICK OUT THE JAMS MOTHERFUCKERS.
The Yankee destiny was built on a single trade. The owner of the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to finance a Broadway production of NO NO NANETTE. $200,000 for a flop and a curse lasting 68 years. While the Sultan of Swat might have been the most memorable hitter of the Damn Yankees, their roster starred Hall of Famers like Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Joe Dimaggio, Lefty Gomez, Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto, and Dave Winfield. Mario Riviera and Deter Jeter of the present Bronx Bombers will most certainly enter the Hall of Fame on the first ballot, yet my favorite Yankee will always be Fritz Peterson. The southpaw holds the club record for lowest at the House that Ruth Built at 2.52 ERA. He was the last pitcher to throw the ball at Yankee Stadium before its renovation in 1973. These accomplishments were on the playing field, however his true claim to fame laid with his inter-team swap of wives with his teammate Mike Kekich which culminated with the exchange of wives, children, and even dogs.
"We may have to call off Family Day."
Yankee officials were shocked by this bold sexual freedom and traded the pitcher to the Cleveland Indians in 1974. He ended his career with the Texas Rangers. 8-14 for 1976. He still lives with his teammate's wife.
Maybe Family Day will be called Fritz Peterson day in the future.
Otherwise there remain the Damn Yankees.
The greater part of my life has been spent in New York. Manhattan and Brooklyn. I have never abandoned my support of the Boston Red Sox. My son's name is Fenway. I gave my 1975 World Series Ticket to Harrison, my nephew. SRO was $7.50. When Keith Raywood invited me to the new Yankee Stadium, I wore my Red Sox shirt and cap. The fans gave the finger. I expected nothing less. No one said worse than 'fuck you' and the allure of the playing field detracted zero from my love for Fenway Park.
Yet this evening I found myself rooting for the Damned Yankees.
Down 3-2 to the Texas Rangers.
A better team except it was once owned by GW Bush and I despise 'the monster' more than the Bronx Bombers. In fact I've never really hated the Yankees, since any sports fan will admire perfection.
But not GW 'fucking' Bush.
Sadly the Yankees lost in Texas.
GW Bush is happy tonight.
I only hope that the National League finalist can make him cry like a cheerleader.
See DEBBIE DOES DALLAS.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Route 71 ran from north off I-10 through the flat prairie of eastern Texas. I had driven an blind piano from Miami Beach in his Delta 88. Everyone at the Sea Breeze Hotel had warned about Old Bill's driving. Outside of La Grange he ordered me to turn onto a dirt road. It was as straight as a strand of dry spaghetti. The radio was playing GREEN ONIONS. I got out of the car, wishing Old Bill luck. He drove off slow, weaving from side to side. After a few minutes the Delta 88 was a black speck swallowed by yellow dust.
A trucker stopped a half-hour later. The long-hauler dropped me south of Austin near sunset. The far horizon was boiling with color. It was getting late. The next big city was El Paso. I had read about Austin in Rolling Stone magazine. The World Amarillo Headquarters had been anointed the musical navel of the Southwest. Jerry Jeff Walker and Willie Nelson were regulars at the rock venue. I had some time to kill before heading out to the coast and hitchhiked into town.
A red Ford pickup with Texas plates pulled over to the shoulder. Two hippie were in the front. I was a longhair too and told them my destination. They said Commander Cody was playing tonight with Asleep At The Wheel.
"First round on me."
The Amarillo was located next to a roller rink. I brought my bag with me. The two hippies knew the man at the door. We entered for free. I checked my bag with a dazed girl and walked inside the club. It was enormous. Billy Bob, the pickup's driver, said, "The Amarillo used to be an armory."
"The acoustics suck." His scrawny friend lit up a joint. Marijuana possession was a serious crime in the Lone Star State. Huntsville Prison was infamous. My hosts could easily be narcs. I stepped away from them.
"Don't worry there ain't no one gonna bother you in the Amarillo about weed." Billy Bob accepted the reefer and his inhale expanded his lungs to the bursting point. His exhale released a thunderhead of smoke. The smell was Mexican. "We got cops, lawyers, judges, everyone comes here to hear the music and drink beer. I thought you said that first round was on you."
I surrendered my caution and bellied up to the bar. Lone Star was the beer of choice. I ordered six. We were thirsty. We drank with other cowboy hippie. They were over 6-feet. Most looked like they had played college football. I don't remember the opening bands. Billy Bob, his friend, and I tossed back shots of tequila. Billy Bob had been wrong about Commander Cody, but right about Asleep At The Wheel. Most of the audience watched from tables. I danced with a redheaded woman in a filmy black dress. A country version of the Hustle. I hadn't slept with a woman in over two months.
"I live on Blanco." Ginger was thin. Still a waif at 25.
"I don't have a car."
"Me neither. We can go by taxi." Her fingers graced the inside of my elbow. Seduction her mission.
"Then let's go to your place." I was 23. 5-11. Long brown hair. Ginger and I were made for each other.
"If you need someplace to stay." Billy Bob wrote his telephone number and address on a napkin. 22nd and Chestnut.
"Looks like the Yankee Boy done good." His friend winked his approval. "He won't be needing us tonight. "Just ask for the hippie commune."
I was a lucky man.
Her house was a bungalow not far from Shoal Creek. The decor spoke money. Ginger had two family names. They both sounded important. Her bed was brass. The sheers were scented with spices. She placed Joni Mitchell. CalIFORNIA from the album BLUE. James Taylor on guitar. Our young bodies recreated Eden and we didn't fall asleep until dawn. My clothes were piled on my bag was in the corner.
"You have to leave before noon." Ginger's drawl was exhausted.
"Noon." I mentally set an alarm in my head.
It failed to go off at noon and Ginger's violent shaking ended my coma.
"You have to go." A silk robe was wrapped around last night's body. I heard the slam of a truck door. A man's cowboy boots were lined against the wall. They looked size 12. "My husband is back from the oil field."
A man called out her name. I grabbed my bag and clothing. Ginger pointed to the bedroom's open window.
"See you at the Amarillo later."
There was no time for a kiss. I fled the bungalow naked without a backward glance. Billy Bob and his friend were sympathetic.
"Even cowgirls get tired of fucking cowboys."
Billie Bob belonged to a vegetarian commune. We ate cheeseburgers before showing up for the evening meal of mushed broccoli and peas. My passport into their midst was a big bottle of red wine. Eight co-eds from UT, Billie Bob and his friend. We ended up at the Amarillo. I repeated the previous night with Ginger.
A week of nights with her. I always left an hour after dawn.
The Amarillo opened early. The jukebox covered a lot of ground. Bands auditioned in the afternoon. The bartenders knew my name. I tipped better than the goat-ropers. One called me to the side.
"Jo Jo Booth Gammage been looking for you." He placed a Lone Star beer on the bar.
"Ginger's old man." This wasn't good. I dropped a five on the bar. I needed information.
"And he don't look none too happy."
"Thanks." I tipped him $5 and left by the rear exit. It took me an hour to walk to Chestnut by the back roads. The sun was down by the time I arrived at the commune. The front door had been kicked in. Billy Bob was sporting a black eye. My bag was at his feet.
"Sorry, but the commune has voted you out."
His friend stood at the door. The girls were shadows in the kitchen
"I vote me out too." I picked up my bag. The welcome rug was gone.
"I'll give you a ride to the highway." Billie Bob handed me my bag.
I didn't refuse his offer. 71 was more than five miles away The radio played SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL BY Grand Funk and FREE BIRD by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Billy Bob said nothing about the black eye meant for me. He was cool and waited until a Camaro shuddered to a stop. I waved good-bye and got in the car. The driver was a soldier. He was headed west and so was I.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Nothing we write is read. Nothing we say is heard. TV controls all thought. 19% of my visitors go to this page
Mad about Chuck Norris?
There is actually an internet cult based on the legend of Chuck Norris.
"There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live."
19% of my visits generated by a Chuck Norris blurb. My webmaster suggested writing more stories about Chuck Norris. I googled his name. #4 Jokes about Chuck Norris.
Chuck Norris does not wear a condom. Because there is no such thing as protection from Chuck Norris.
If Chuck Norris is late, time better slow the f*ck down
Some kids piss their names in the snow. Chuck Norris can piss his name in concrete.
I love Chuck Norris.
The next favorite page was about castration in Thailand.
No Thai woman dare try that on Chuck Norris.
Ebenezer Scrooge infamously declared his opinion of Christmas in Charles Dickens' A CHRISTMAS CAROL with the immortal words, "Bah humbug."
Typically portrayed as a banker, loan shark or lawyer, Scrooge's name is synonymous with miserdom, although Queen Elizabeth II entered the anti-holiday
'bah humbug' by canceling Buckingham Palace's annual Christmas party. The event was paid by the Queen's private funds, although this year her spokesperson or palace lackey explained, "The queen is acutely aware of the difficult economic circumstances facing the country and, given the current economic climate, it was thought that it was appropriate for the royal household to show restraint."
600 guests @ £50,000 ($80,100) or a c-note each.
This year - nothing.
QE2 should change her name to Meryl Streep which is the cockney slang for cheap.
Los Islas Malvindas are 250 nautical miles from the Argentinean Coast. The distance between Port Stanley and London is approximately 8000 miles. My friend, Vanessa, represented the Falklanders in the UN. Her duties required two annual trips to that remote South Atlantic archipelego. The voyage was a grueling 40 hours from New York via Chile, since Argentina has banned any flights from the mainland to that contested territory.
In the winter of 1982 a crew of Argentine junk dealers were hired to scrap a whaling station on South Georgia. One drunken night a welder raised the Argentine flag over the wreckage without any comment from the natives. The military government in Beunos Aires seized on this incident to invade the Falklands, figuring to bolster support for their unpopular regime. Thousands enlisted in the army. Troops were committed to the defense of the Las Malvinas. The British Navy sailed from england. Ships were sunk. Planes shot down. Men died in the hundreds for a distant speck of land north of Anarctica. The British Empire retained its possession.
Those battles may soon have been in vain, for David Cameron the UK Prime Minister has announced the decommissioning of the aircraft carrier ROYAL OAK leaving England without a naval striking force for several years. This gap could easily be exploited by the Gauchos, since the Falklands are defended by a company of paratroopers. Tough, but too small a force to defeat an invasion.
So it's adios los Falklands.
And then Ulster.
And then the Jersey Islands.
Until it's Lesser Britain.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
A UK survey exposed that 43% of English men keep on their sox during sex. The findings did not reveal the why, however I lived in London during the autumn of 1977. My girlfriend, Lisa, was a model. Blonde and small-framed, David Bailey liked to photograph her. I think nude. She rented a posh studio by the Chelsea football pitch. The sheet were sea cotton. The duvet filled with goose feathers. Only problem to this paradise was that the heat emitted from a small electric heater fed by a constant stream of 10 pence coins.
Otherwise it was colder than San Francisco in August.
Mark Twain swore that was cold but he should have lived through November in London.
I wore my sox to bed. I wore them having sex. Lisa wore mine too.
Things should have improved in the 30 year interim, however British traditions hang around like old Thai girlfriends. I asked a few Pattaya bar girls about the English’s perchance for sox, “Do your Brit boyfriends wear soxes when having sex?”
“Sex when have sex? Mai chao jai.” They invariably mistook ‘sox’ for sex. Explanation further confused the issue. “No, they wear condom.”
Not on their feet as least.
In America we have an expression, “Knock your sox off.” meaning to be impressed.
Its origins are attributed to the people being knocked out of their sox in pedestrian-vehicular accidents although another source could come from the early days of porno movies, when the male actors wore sox to speed up getting on their shoes if the cops raid the premises.
Feet don’t fails me now.
The only time they took off their sox was when the sex was astounding.
Sexual bliss has nothing to do with the Brits, who probably also don’t take off their soxes because it’s too much of a bother.
NEW YORK 1978
The first time I saw Sherri Conti in a movie theater. The Victory on 42nd Street. She was not in the seats, but up on the silver screen sucking the pizza boy’s cock, while taking it doggie style from the man acting as her husband. Neither man was particularly handsome, cast to resemble their captive audience of porno raincoat fiends.
I had entered the theater to watch the young brunette with a lithe acrobat’s body. A friend had recommended THE ABDUCTION OF CLAUDIA. His critique of her convex ass and pouting belly sold her starlettedom. Her breasts were small, but once the director said 'action, Sherri Conti was unleashed on mankind.
It was obvious that neither man on the screen could handle her succubus. The director was so transfixed by her libertine performance that he only shot one take. Sherri understood the width of the camera's vision. She remained within frame for seven solid minutes.
Releasing the pizza boy’s cock, she glanced over her shoulder at the camera. A pink tongue snaked out to lick at cock-bruised lips, then her hand reached back to part her asscheeks. A pink-brown valley invited more and Sherri moaned, “Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby!”
She 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 were in unison and we 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 unsuccessfully searched the porno shops for any photos of Sherri Conti. A middle-aged clerk 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 that I would only see Sherri Conti in the movies or my fantasies.
I would be happy with either.
Three weeks later I was playing the SLASH pinball machine at an after-hour club in the East Village. My fingers twitched over the buttons and my hip banged the machine, as the ball defied gravity beyond any of Newton’s laws. The score fast approached ‘best ever’. The bar, the music, the people, drugs meant nothing. I was heading toward history, then when bumped into the pinball machine to tilt the machine. I was 50,000 short of my goal.
I turned to the right, fists clenched.
My mouth stonified upon seeing the brunette in the shag-cut.
Sherri Conti in the flesh.
Her flimsy 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. 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 wearing a thin leather jacket, a tee shirt, and torn jeans. Snow drifted in the air.
I didn’t care about the cold, for I was intent on waiting for Sherri Conti.
She exited a minute later alone.
A tight-high rabbit fur coat covered her near-naked body. A gust of chilled wind blew the bangs off her face. Her eyes coldly examined 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, “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 light for the sordid room
Sherri shrugged off the coat and stood with her legs spread. I admired her body for several seconds. Sherri dropped to her knees. Her hands expertly undid my zipper and withdrew my iron-hard cock. One hand gripped 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 and crawled onto the soiled bed.
“Get naked!” the brunette commanded, then swiftly undid her bra and slipped out of her panties. Her hands reached down to her vagina and the fingertips peeled back her labia to reveal a wet slick cunt.
My jacket hit the floor first. I threw my tee shirt in the corner. My pants came down to my knees and 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!” 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 regaining her breath, instead 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. Sherri 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 Sherri 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.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The 1991 Supreme Court Nomination hearing for Clarence Thomas was controversialized by the accusations of sexual harassment by a law professor, Anita Hill. She testified before the Senate committee that the appointee had repeatedly asked her out of a date, spoken about porno films in graphic detail, and declared his penis was the same length and girth of the infamous porn actor, Long John Silver.
"He spoke about acts that he had seen in pornographic films involving such matters as women having sex with animals and films showing group sex or rape scenes....On several occasions, Thomas told me graphically of his own sexual prowess."
Clarence Thomas denied the allegations and the Senate confirmed his seat to the court of last appeal 52-48. The smallest margin ever, however 19 years later Clarence Thomas' activist wife has phoned Anita Hill to demanded a belated apology for conducting a 'high-tech lynching'.
“Good morning Anita Hill, it’s Ginni Thomas. I just wanted to reach across the airwaves and the years and ask you to consider something. I would love you to consider an apology sometime and some full explanation of why you did what you did with my husband. So give it some thought. And certainly pray about this and hope that one day you will help us understand why you did what you did. O.K., have a good day.”
Anita Hill was flabbergasted by the call after realizing it wasn't a prank.
Just a call from a cranky white lady with nothing to do in the morning while her husband mentally prepared himself for the court by fast-forwarding through his extensive porno collection. Clarence Thomas has proven himself a friend to pornography time and time again while on the court.
"I know porno when I see it."
Anita Hill refused to offer an apology.
The Brandeis Law School knows sexual harassment when she saw it too.
Hi-Ho Long John Silver Away.
Junkies have traditionally been the strongest members of society. Addicts survive the ravages of a drug existence with guile and sleath. Their bodies survive the catastrophic demands of heroin as if they were impervious to death and now an American woman is trying to exterminate this dominant gene group from rebirth by offering junkies $300 to be sterilized. Project Prevention has bribed 3,600 American dopers to lose their fertility.
"If I had enough money, there wouldn't be any pregnancies for drug addicts," said the controversial project director.
No future Johnny Thunder.
Of course Johnny Thunder's would have ripped her off for the $300 at least four times.
He was a junkie king.
DrudgeReport.com headlined a menu of bad news from the Democrats.
336 HOURS: SPEAKER FACES FORECLOSURE ON HOUSE
White Republican men stand out in early voting...
Republicans target 'witch' Pelosi...
LAST GASP: I won't run again for Speaker...
GOP takes aim at Reid for living at Ritz-Carlton...
Angle ad shows Reid 'hanging out with supermodels'...
The GOP challenger in Nevada accused the incumbent of dancing with supermodels at his luxury condo in Washington. To fat white men that image served more as a recommendation than a condemnation. Gary Hart the 1988 Democratic front-runner was busted with a 29 year-old model on a Miama dock. Neither was naked, however the National Inquirer published one photo. Hart denied the relationship. It was a bold-faced lie. No white or black man was saying no to Donna Rice. hart's campaign ended a week after the photo. He should have told the truth.
"I fucked her and enjoyed the hell of it. Vite for me."
22 years later special interest slush funds are whipping the fat white man party in a frothy frenzy. They envision the repeal of the anti-lynching and the right of a woman to vote. The 15th Amendment to the Constitution guaranteed the civil equality to black ex-slaves and the GOP has promised to honor their privilege, since the Republicans believed in the immortal words of Nixon's Secretary of Corn, as he explained why the party of Lincoln was short on blacks.
"I'll tell you what the coloreds want. It's three things: first, a tight pussy; second, loose shoes; and third, a warm place to shit."
Earl Butz led into that comment by telling the following joke to White House Counsel John Dean and the singer Pat Boone on a flight from the Republican Convention.
After a horrible forest fire, a baby duck and skunk orphan start a conversation.. all of a sudden, the duck asks the skunk what he looks like. the skunk replies “well, you have webbed feet, feathers, and a bill,…you're a duck”…the skunk then asks the duck what he looks like,..the duck replies, “well, you're white, you're black, and you smell,..guess you're a Puerto Rican”
White men who would be fat white men were angered by Earl Butz' forced resignation. Whites were banned from telling race jokes in mixed company and shunned should anything anti-Israeli passed their livid lips. The 1st Amendment or the Freedom of Speech was surrendered to nigger-lovers and liberal cocksuckers.
Not that fat white guy jokes ever came into vogue.
Googling 'fat white guy' jokes was a blank, but I scored tons with 'white man' jokes.
How do you stop five white guys from raping a white woman? Throw them a golf ball.
How many white girls does it take to screw in a light? None, white girls can’t screw
How many white men does it take to screw in a light bulb? One, white men will screw anything.
What do you call a bunch of white guys sitting on a bench? The NBA
What does a white man do at the club? Pout while all the colored folk are bumpin’ & grindin’ with all of his fine white bitches.
What’s the difference between a white whore and a bitch? The white whore would screw everybody in the room and the bitch would fuck everyone but you.
What’s the flattest surface to iron your jeans on? A white girl’s ass!
What’s white and fourteen inches long? Absolutely nothing!
Why cant white men jump? They were too busy making racist jokes.
Why did white people own slaves? They were not strong enough to pick cotton – weak bastards.
And lastly what's 12 inches long and white? Nothing.
That's bullshit, because the answer was, is, and will be John 'Wadd' Holmes, the champion of white cock. The blonde porn legend Seka swore Wadd's cock was the biggest in the industry. His manager had measured a fully-erect boner as 13.5 inches, although many actresses akinned his semi-erect penis to "doing it with a big, soft kind of loofah."
Is nothing scared?
Only the GOP knows that answer.
"Of God Pride of Man broken in the dust again."
How apropos for these troubled times.
This song was written by Hamilton Camp. Quicksilver Messenger Service recorded it for their 1st album in 1968. On LSD John Cippolina's guitar touched every cells in your soul with the chagrin of greatness.
They were bigger than the Grateful Dead too and still are in my mind.
More proof I'm just an old hippie.
To hear this song click on the following URL.
Monday, October 18, 2010
New York City's 2009 mayoral election was highlighted by the record spending by the incumbent to defeat an unknown. Mayor Bloomberg shelled out over $100 million to convince New Yorkers that former comptroller Bill Thompson didn't stand a chance against his money juggernaut. The strategy succeeded and Bloomberg eked out 50% to 46% victory over the challenger to serve his 'third' term as mayor.
GOP politicians were quick to adopt the 'spend spend spend' tactic and their largesse distribution managers have showered the binary arms of the American media with millions of dollars to convince the American public that the Republicans will resume control of Congress to insure that a demonic black man will not infected white people with voodoo zombie blood. The ads don't really say that, but reading between the lines is much easier than the GOP imagine.
Limbaugh: Obama looks 'demonic' in new photos...
'An American president has never had facial expressions like this'...
ABCNEWS: 63 Dem House Seats in 'Serious Danger'...
Barone: Dems find careers threatened by ObamaCare votes...
GALLUP: Unemployment at 10.0% in Mid-October...
At least none are calling for a lynching of than in effigy.
"The truth can never be heard by people who only believe the lies." - James Steele
ps one more thing
Fuck Mayor Bloomberg
I’ve been lucky enough to attend a couple of the great events in modern pop life. The Acid party at the Mudd Club, the Whorelords’ one-night stand at CBGBs, and Nipsey Russell openiong for James Brown at the 1969 Newport Jazz Festival.
“I may be old, but I know there’s more than five of you motherfuckers out there.” The black panelist from the insipid TV game show WHAT'S MY LINE called out on the microphone and then proceeded to paralyzed the hippie audience with a litany of blue jokes unfit for mixed company ending with a tale about having sex with a bald-headed woman. Next up. James Brown. Led Zeppelin closed the show.
It wasn't Altamont or Truman Capote’s White Party, but no one can be everywhere. Not even a god. I did make the opening of Jamie Parker’s Pigpen A Go-Go on 9/11 in Pattaya, the Last Babylon.
Five years later I'm sitting in the Buffalo Bar with my dog, Champoo, my dog. 3rd Road is a convenient five-minute motorcycle ride to my soi and no one ever bothered me there. A lot of farangs including the froggie owner didn’t like the idea of a dog lying on the bar, but the girls loved my dog and say Champoo has a nah-lak or lovely face and none of the old geezers dare to argue with a pretty girl.
That evening my drinking companion was New. She’s 18 and I’ve promised her a role in my movie, MY DOG SINGS THE BLUES. Not the lead. Champoo is the real star. I’ve taken off my glasses. I don’t need them to drink beer and there was no way that I was going upstairs with New. She wanted 5000 baht.
A thin man across the bar was wearing sunglasses. A stupid thing to do at night and he stared at me like he knew me.
Being a pseudo-fugitive from America, his attention was cause for concern and I ordered my bill. Champoo was happy to leave, because a treat was waiting for her at home. I went out to the parking lot, but before I reached my bike, the thin man in the sunglasses said, ”Don’t you recognize me?"
Jamie?” In the tropical dark my eyesight was close to blindness and I put back on my specs.
“One in the same.” Jamie Parker smiled with his familiar wrecked grin.
We were friends from New York. Friends might have been too strong a word to describe our relationship. He was someone who was stronger than time. away.
“What are you doing out here?” At the time of our last meeting the fifty-year old had been employed as a global warming expert for the GOP.
“Couldn’t take much more bible-thumpery and gave up my spot to a missionary who believed prayer could cure the ozone hole.” Jamie dragged me back into the bar and glanced at Champoo.” What kind of dog is that?”
“A Shi-Tzu.” The toy breed had been my wife’s choice.
“You ever think about breeding it who a pit-bull?” Jamie ordered two vodka-tonics. The service girls eyed him nervously, for his madness shined from behind the sunglasses. “That way you’d get a pit-zhu.”
“Nah, Champoo took a vow of virginity.”
“Like that girl you were talking to. New.” He nodded to the table where New was entertaining an elderly French man with dreams of seduction. “She’s a real cocktease that one. But nothing wrong with saying no.”
Her telepathic powers kicked in and she smiled at us.
“How you know her?”
“Hey, I know a lot. Like you’re going to be shooting a movie with a French crew and the mutt is going to be the star.”
My big mouth killed secrets.
“So are you out here on vacation?”
“Vacation? People like me don’t have vacations. We have prison bids and hospital stays.” He thumped the bar and a pair of bikers glared at the disturbance. Jamie didn’t scare easy, but didn’t want a fight either and he explained, “I’m opening a go-go in these open air bars off Soi Bukhao. Going to call it the Pigpen and have only fat chicks working the fire poles. They won’t cost much and fat girls are real popular with some guys.”
“And horny cheap guys.”
“When are you opening?”
“9/11?” It was almost five years on from that fateful.
“Hey, I’m a New Yorker. I can’t forget that day and my partner and I are putting on a show. You know those two big billboards in the vacant lot off Soi Bukhao?”
“Yeah?” The billboards had been erected to advertise a grand condo project which later went bust.
“Well, they sort of look like the Twin Trade Towers and I’m going to get these two radio-controlled airplanes and crash them into the billboards. Only my partner is going to be shooting sky rockets at the planes to knock them out of the air, the way the air force should of five years ago.”
“You got permission to do this?” The stint with the Republicans had rotted his brain to the core, but his plan made sense to me, because I had once tried to replicate Princess Diana’s fatal accident in a rented Fiat. Only I couldn’t get the V-4 going fast enough to go aerial at the entrance of the tunnel. Probably for the best.
“Permission?” He drained his glass and ordered another round.
Champoo whined her disapproval. Midnight was past her bedtime.
“Hush puppy dog, ain’t as crazy as it sounds. I gave the owner of the property, this old Chinese guy, 2000 baht to rent the place for 30 minutes. That all it’s gonna take. Be over before anyone knows it.”
“You’re mad.” You wanted to keep a low profile in Pattaya. More from the lowlife westerners than the Thais.
“Ain’t that the truth?” He signaled a friend of mine to join us at the bar. “You know Fabo, don’t you? He’s my partner in the club.”
“Oh, this is perfect.” Now I knew why Jamie knew everything. Like me Fabo couldn’t keep a secret once he had more than two drinks.
“Are you coming to our night club?” The young Belgian was always ready for a good time, if it included girls and Heiniken beer. “Et le neuf-onze fete.”
“I supposed I’ll have to come.” It sounded like an Attila the Hun night in the making. My wife had left me for good, so I was free for a little barbaric behavior.
“You know some people might get pissed at us for doing this.”
“That is exactly the idea.” Jamie raised his sunglasses. “I’m not forgetting that day and neither are you.”
“You’re right about that.” I had watched the first tower fall from my 10th Street roof and the second from Canal Street. Too late to help.
Jamie and I clinked glasses and I patted Champoo’s head. She was a good dog. Too good a dog to be subjected to this crowd and I sneaked out the side exit while Jamie went to the bathroom. It would only be a question of time before we ran into each other again. But I would count those minutes as peace on earth.
A rare commodity.
Just like a good dog.
As much as I tried to avoid the opening of the PigPen on 5th anniversary of 9/11. I found myself standing with Champoo outside the open-air bar, as they kicked off the club’s debut with a re-enactment of the jets crashing into the World Trade Towers. Over one hundred of their friends gathered in the muddy back lot behind the Pigpen. Tequila shots for everyone. It was 8:45 PM. WTC North was attacked by the first plane.
Fabo smashed a radio-controlled plane in one of the twin aluminum billboards behind the Pigpen. Jamie's plane smacked into the other billboard 30 seconds later. Neither billboard collapsed under the impact. Neither showed a dent. Champoo hated the noise of the planes. Jamie had his fat dancing girls pour everyone another shot.
The crowd chanted along with Jamie, who led a clumsy congaline into the PigPen. I looked over my shoulder and lightning crackled to the west. It was monsoon season. The PigPen was situated on a low landfill, which had once been swamp. The rent was cheap for a reason. I made it inside before the first gobs of rain boiled the dust. The wet dirt was soon transformed into mud by the deluge. The water level rose by the inch.
Jamie opened four liters of cheap Thai whiskey.
Whiskey goes fast when it’s free.
The rain fell harder and the wind gusted through the unwalled bar.
The bedraggled go-go girls ran under the shelter of the PigPen one by one. Soaked to the bone. The night sky was getting darker. Thunder rumbled like waking dragons and the girls shivered with fear. We opened another 4 bottle of whiskey. They didn't make any of the girls pretty.
That was Jamie’s strategy.
Ugly girls with drunk old guys.
Soon no one cared how they looked and the bar was packed with geriatric bald men and fat go-go girls. Not really my style, but Jamie and I were having a good time reliving old stories from the East Village. I didn’t even notice the water lapping at my ankles.
Jamie had given the old geezers Cialis.
The girls were drinking tequila like Pancho Villa’s relief column.
The place was packed and the water was above my ankle. Girls were stripping off the old coots’ clothing. A busload of Arabs entered the bar. Everyone froze.
The Arabs ordered drinks for everyone.
They could have cared less about the 77 virgins.
They were after fat girls and Jamie was offering heiffers.
I don’t remember when the first person got naked. I think it was when the DJ spun KC’s THAT’S THE WAY I LIKE IT. Old guys, fat girls, and Arabs dancing to 70s disco. Then Jamie had the DJ segue to the Sex Pistols.
ANARCHY IN THE UK.
The old guys were mostly British and they knew every word.
Everyone fawned over Champoo.
It was getting ugly and I took off my glasses while singing. “I want to be born Anarchy.”
LOUIE LOUIE, STREET FIGHTING MAN and then Sinatra’s MY WAY.
The geezers were fucking in knee-deep water.
The Arabs were cursing Osama Bin Laden for making everyone in the West hate them and the farangs showed their forgiveness by calling out, “FREE PALESTINE.”
It was at that moment I felt my phone vibrating.
My wife was calling.
She had come back to Pattaya. Probably to look for money. I didn't even bother to say good-bye to Fabo or Jamie. I fled the bar into the pelting rain with Champoo and drove home through a rushing river. My wife took one look at me and said, “Maoh.”
I was drunk, but I would have been drunker, except my wife always traveled with my daughter and I hadn't seen her in two months.
We shared a smile.
My daughter laughed and asked if I had ‘sanuk’.
“Plenty of fun.”
But not as much as holding her in my arms, because the thunder was getting louder. She wasn’t scared as long as I was with her or at least that is what I wanted to tell her before we fell asleep.
The next day I called Jamie. His phone was shut off. I drove by the Pigpen a Go-go. The bar was under four feet of water. A police sign in Thai said it was closed until further notice.
I couldn’t be happier, because a place like that should only be open one night.
Anything else is a sin.
Driving across country in the 70s was a rite of passage for hippie late-comers. Boston – Frisco could be driven in less than 50 hours, but a week on the backroads felt more like Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD. In 1974 my good friend Andy, a flaxen blonde coed from Harvard and I motored west in a drive-away car. A Station wagon. Its destination – Lodi outside of Sacremento.
The fifth day we crossed the Colorado border into Utah. US Route 191. Night fell fast on the high plains. Darkness erased the desert scenery. Two-lanes of black asphalt straightlined into Roosevelt, Utah. A speck on the map,except I spotted the lights of a bar. THE ID LOUNGE. I insisted on having a beer there.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Andy was a pot smoker. The coed agreed with him. She wanted to make time.
“I’m thirsty and we owe Freud the honor of drinking in his name.” I swerved off the road into the scrabble dirt parking lot. Mostly pick-ups. The clientele was a mix of farmers and cowboys. The jukebox was playing Merle Haggard. MAMA TRIED. I ordered a beers. Olympias. I sang along with Merle. Andy shook his head. he hated the way i tried to meld into the crowd like I came from nowhere.
Two men sat at the nearest table. A goat-roper and a sodbuster. They challenged each other to an arm-wrestling contest. The prize was the next round. The cowboy lost, but said, “I might have lost that contest, but I could kick your ass in the alley out back.”
The farmer retorted with a sucker punch to the cowboys skull. A general melee ensued between the two camps. The coed fled the bar well before Andy and I figured that these people probably knew each other from childhood and if they didn’t have any trouble fighting each other then they would even be more freehanded when it came to stomping hippie strangers.
Leaving Roosevelt Utah for the first and last time of my life the coed said, “Smart move.”
“None of us got hurt.”
I could say that then because back in 1974 most bar fight were with fists.
October is the high-holiday month for beer drinkers everywhere, especially in Germany where the nation celebrates the renown Oktobeerfest.
Your attendance is obligatory
Drink beer and drink it often.
It's good for you and if you have any difficulties, please refer to the above chart. It's a life saver.
Fat white males around America have rallied their support for the 'we are the people' Tea Party. They are angry about having Health Care, pissed about taxes on the rich, and think the President wasn't born in the USA. Fate white women are peeved about their children listening to rap, wearing provocative clothing, and watching too much TV. This election is driven by their collective wrath and to avoid of tidal wave of defeat the Democratic Party has rejected the 'seasons of change' for a more conservative agenda including tax breaks for the wealthy and rejection of gay rights in the military.
California steered through these difficult time with a referendum to legalize the sale, possession, and consumption of marijuana. The Regulate, Control and Tax Cannabis Act, also known as Proposition 19, is expected to pass with a majority. Pot smokers would be free from arrest as long as they uphold the regulations of the law. No penalties for 'bogarting the joint', however the Federal government ie the Justice Department has announced its intent to continue the persecution of potheads, although many voters are convinced that the Attorney General is flapping his jumbos just to make the administration very tough of drugs, a policy selling well in the crystal meth belt of the Midwest.
Personally I'm against any new taxes, but if the law keeps people out of jail, then let them be.
It's about time.
End the prohibition
In the United States the first restrictions for sale of cannabis came in 1906 (in District of Columbia). In 1937, the Marijuana Transfer Tax Act was passed, and prohibited the production of hemp in addition to marijuana. The reasons that hemp was also included in this law are disputed. The Federal Bureau of Narcotics agents reported that fields with hemp were also used as a source for marijuana dealers. Other authors claim have claimed that it was passed in order to destroy the hemp industry, largely as an effort of businessmen Andrew Mellon, Randolph Hearst, and the Du Pont family. With the invention of the decorticator, hemp became a very cheap substitute for the paper pulp that was used in the newspaper industry. Hearst felt that this was a threat to his extensive timber holdings. Mellon, Secretary of the Treasury and the wealthiest man in America, had invested heavily in the Du Pont families new synthetic fiber, nylon, which was also being outcompeted by hemp.
Remember, oblivion is much easier to attain than enlightenment. - James Steele
Pot in California is about $800 a pound. Two boys from Duchess County New York decided to drive cross-country, score ten pounds, and drive back with the weed to sell OZs at $80. Mike and Earl figured to nearly triple their money. Neither could remember a big bust in their hometown for ages. The cops were old and over-worked. Everyone wanted cheap weed and they could use the money.
The two twenty year-olds cut their hair, dressed in their Sunday suits, packed up their BMW SUV with luggage, and headed west from the Poughkeepsie at dawn. The strain of the long haul was eased by good tunes and a few joints for the road. By the time they crossed into Ohio, the duo were high and the stash was down to a single joint. None would have been better, since the 1st Commandment of an outlaw is to only break one law at a time.
A state trooper stopped them on I-90 for tinted windows. He had a dog with him. It wasn't a poodle, but a Alsatian drug sniffer. Probably been raised on hash cookies and was jonesing for a bag of weed.
"It's factory regulation." The trooper was almost as young as them. His hair cut to the bone. Body fat zero. A gun on his hip. Everything they were not.
"Too dark for this state." The trooper's dog barking meant one thing and he ordered the two boys out of their car. The dog found the pot in three seconds. The $8000 was next to it. Things looked bad, until the trooper offered them a deal.
"Boys, you're probably heading to California to get some weed. $8000 worth. Come back to New York and make a little fortune. You tell me the truth and I'll let you go."
The two had never trusted a Duchess County cop, but decided to place their fate in this mirror image of law and order. They admitted their guilt.
"Good, now I want you to turn around and drive back to New York. Don't come through this way again. You're getting off easy, just remember that. Cops farther west would have you in cuffs and you'd lose the car and the $8000."
"Yes, officer." Mike and Earl were grateful for this gift. They threw out the joint and turned around on the next interchange. Both tried to figure out why they had gotten off so easy.
"Maybe Ohio is soft of weed." Mike had a cousin in Cleveland. He said that the police were only after crystal meth.
"Naw, it's because the state is broke and they don't have the money to try small-timers like us."
Their debate was cut short by the whoop of a siren. Another state trooper pulled them over for tinted windows. He had a dog. The dog found the marijuana scented cash in 5 seconds. Mike and Earl explained the story to the state trooper, who called his fellow officer on a cellphone.
"Just keep heading east."
None of the headers in Duchess County believed Mike and Earl's story, but after a few homegrown joints they called the incident the "Ohio Getaway'. A true miracle.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
August 1971 was four years past San Francisco's Summer of Love. A college friend from Crane's Beach and I had hitchhiked from Boston to the West Coast in 45 hours. A mutual girlfriend, Marilyn, was hostessing topless at a Barbary Coast strip club. 3 months' tips paid a year's tuition.
After a few hugs and kisses, the 19 year-old nursing student gave us the address of a crash pad. She had little time for us. Her boyfriend was a biker. The VP of the Skulls. It was obvious that Marilyn wasn't fucking either of us and the biker warned us to fuck off. Rico was actually nice about it. Marilyn said that she would see us in September.
Peter and I aimlessly wandered around the city; the defunct Haight-Ashbury, idyllic Golden Gate Park, and the fleshpots of the Barbary Coast. The hippies had been replaced by junkies and queers. Peter wanted to see the redwoods. He was a botany major. I called Marilyn to say 'goodbye'. The biker answered and said, "See you in hell."
"Not me, but I'll be fucking Marilyn in September. Fuck you."
It was a brave challenge over a phone, but I didn't feel safe until a pick-up gave us a ride over to Sausalito. We were free of the city and traveled up Route 101 through the wine counties to the redwood forest. We slept surrounded by arboreal giants more ancient than Rome. The next day we reached Arcata in the early morning. A hippie coming south warned us against hitchhiking further north on 101.
"Rednecks and no rides. Could take you a week to reach Oregon."
His adverse advice was accompanied by the paranoia aftermath of the shared joint. Peter and I headed inland through the Trinity Alps. 299 wound through steep-sloped valleys fortresses by wilderness evergreens. Willow Creek to Burnt Ranch to Big Bar to Junction City and finally Weaverville.
The town was miles from anywhere. An unspoken prosperity had enlivened the previously moribund Gold Rush town. The cars were new and the diners filled with customers, mostly long-haired men in buckskins and tea shades. The waitress was a moonchild. Her smile promised a good time.
"Pot growers." Peter whispered with admiration. We had financed this trip by the sale of two pounds of Jamaica Red. The town smelled of weed.
"This is the ideal place to grow pot."
Several heads turned our direction.
The townies were used to being discreet. I shrugged an apology. Outside of the street Peter and I discussed pooling our money to set up a marijuana plantation. $500 could grow into $1000. Next year maybe $100,000. I almost walked back inside the diner to ask the dealers for a job, but a roar of motorcycles shattered the town's serenity.
A pack of Harleys rolled up to the diner. The hippie bon vivants greeted the leathered bikers as long-lost brothers. They looked like heavier versions of Rico. Only five years ago the Hell's Angels had killed off the Age of Aquarius with the murder at Altamont Speedway during the Rolling Stones' SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL. Weed growers and bikers glared at Peter and me with hostility.
I lifted my hand to indicate that we were leaving.
No one bothered to watch us go.
Peter and I tried out hands at dealing back in Boston. I was no good at it. Peter paid for his tuition and the following summer went out to San Francisco with Marilyn to work as a bartender in the strip club. Neither of them returned to college in the fall. I heard about them from other friends. They were living north of the Bay Area.
His one year of botany made the Einstein of the marijuana growers. Several of his strains were mentioned in HIGH TIMES.
And I couldn't have been prouder.
At least one of us had gotten to live the dream.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
back in 1995 I was in Tibet with two Frenchmen laying fiber-optic lines across the steppes.
We spoke about food.
A lot, because Tibetan cuisine lacked 'je ne sais quoi'; rancid butter tea, hairy yak meat, and crunchy grilled buckwheat or tsampa. Day after day. Bleech.
We lived on cheap Chinese beer and argued about the best meal in the world. Lobsters at Lincolnville, moules frites at Cannes, and pig's feet in Les Halles. Lhasa was removed from the sea by thousands of miles and we agreed to deep-6 5-star cookeries. Keep it simple. It came down to baguette, pate, and sour pickles versus pizza. Pizza won hands down and the three of us drove over the Himalayas to Kathmandu. According to backpackers a pizza shop had opened not far from the Yak and Yeti Hotel. The only pizza this side of Thailand.
Two days of hard road.
There was a pizza shop.
We ordered a pizza each.
They sucked big time, but were better than tsampas
For dessert we ate apple pie from Kegbeni orchards in the shadow of Dalghiri.
Nothing better and no one would ever argue the opposite.