Tuesday, May 31, 2011

60 Minus 1

Friends, family, and strangers constantly say that I don't look my age. I've stopped looking in the mirror in favor of regarding my shadow against a wall, so the innate narcissistic nature guillibly believes the complements and lies. This weekend was my birthday. One short of the next big one. Andrea from across the aisle in the diamond exchange said that I was a monument to perpetual youth. My wife Mam professed that I was forever young. Emails and phone calls from across the globe mirrored this sentiment. Emboldened I went out Friday night with no good intentions.

Drink drink drink.

No women.

Drink drink drink.

Watching the Stanley Cup at Mullanes on Lafayette. Beer chasers afterwards at Franks Lounge. A glass of wine with my landlord AP to finish the night and then the next day more of the same.

Drink drink drink.

I woke Sunday morning feeling like five pounds of cow paddy in a one pound bag.

As a youth I could have drank a glass of water and been ready for some more action.

At 59 I was destined for an early grave. I called my doctor in Staten Island. Nick and I have been friends since European History 101 at BC.


"What can I do to stop this pain?" We had hitchhiked across America in 1973.

"Sleep, water, sleep, water, and more sleep." Nick was a good doctor. He didn't give me any pills. My only Rx was sleep and water.

"Anything else?" That recipe might have worked in my early 50s, but I was feeling mighty twattered by my overstepping the boundaries of moderation.

"A good hot bath with a big book. That way when you fall asleep the book will drop in the water and you won't drown."

"Thanks for the advice." Nick didn't charge me for any of consultation. We were good friends. For over 40 years and both of us expect to make 70.

"More of the same."

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Last Stop Joplin

This Sunday President Obama returned to the USA after a successful European drinking binge with Irish drunks and gin-lovers at Buckingham Palace. His first stop was not McSorley's in the East Village, but the devastated Midwest city of Joplin. 2/3s of the Missouri town has erased by mega-tornadoes. The President viewed the widespread wreckage and pledged his support to revitalize the community. The fanatical members of the Westboro Baptist Church attempted to protest the nigger president's visit. They were turned back by 300 bikers who believed that the freedom of speech can be defended by a loud exhaust pipe.

Fuck the religious right.

I guess that I can still say that in the Land of the Free.

Beering with da Obamas

Ireland is the home of Guinness Beer and President Obama lifted a pint of the brown sludge at a local pub in Moneygall. His wife sipped at her beer with relish. It was a moment of joy during a brief detour from his busy schedule of his European trip. Family, friends, and Guinness. A proper toast.


Happiness abound.

Fox News was quick to negativize the occasion by accusing the President's ignoring the plight of Missouri's tornado victims.

We Irish around the world have one thing to tell FOX News.

"Téigh trasna ort féin."

Anyone knowing my feelings will not need a translation, but also when you happy, drink beer, when you're sad drink beer, and when you're feeling so-so drink beer. It's good for you."

Happy Beermas and my sympathies to the people of Joplin.

Our president will be with you tomorrow.

Where's Whitey?

The World's Top Ten Wanted Fugitives took two hits this past month. # 1 Osama Bin laden was erased by an executive order from President Barack Hussein Obama. Two bullets to the head and a burial at sea. Secondly the Balkan War criminal Gen. Ratko Mladic was arrested by black-clad security forces in a small Serbia farming community. The FBI, Interpol, and law enforcements across the globe are utilizing every tool possible to capture men on the run and the new tactic is to put 'wanted' posters on the beer condoms of Thailand go-go bars.

My favorite is the one for Whitey Bulger, Southie criminal / FBI snitch.

I named my dog after him.

17 years on the lam.

A stone-cold killer and turncoat, still I have to toast him for staying free.

Of course he has help as did OBL and Ratko Mladic

It helps to have friends in high places.

ps I have not seen Whitey in my travel.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Dropping Like Flies

The GOP regained control of the House of Representatives in 2010. White men were pissed off that the modern world had turned out nothing like the promise of THE JETSONS. Cock-hating women had positions of power and the President of the United States was a nigger. Silenced by the forces of political anal retentiveness the white male heart of America voted to reverse the flow of time. Slavery was a good thing. Women were better off in the kitchen and gays had better learn not to lisp. The right would have captured the Senate, if women hadn't come out in Nevada and California to save their rights. They weren't scared of a semi-white black man.

Barack Obama reacted to the climate change with a doctrine of appeasement. He said let's work together. The new congress said no fucking way. Presidential contenders emerged from the woodwork like cockroaches immune to RAID. Fat governors contemplated a run for the White House. Donald Trump led the pack. MILF # 1 for fat white men, Sara Palin, beamed a smile from pulpit of FoxNews. The Mormon ex-governor of Massachusetts was raising millions from his supporters. The horizon was as bleak as a Kansas sunset during tornado season for Barack Obama and then he ordered a hit on Osama Bin Ladin, his cousin, like Michael Corleone. At the end of the day the sitting president could say 'OBL sleeps with the fishes'.

Game set match.

Donald Trump out. Mike Huckabee out. Newt Gringrich smeared by his spending sprees at Cartier. The right saw the future and it was a second term for the assassin.

He's a bad motherfucker.

ps one more thing

go fuck yourself and your dumbass sweep-over, Donald Trump.

Lame-ass running dog.

$25,000,000 Dead or Alive

$25,000,000 Dead or Alive

My family has suspected me of working for the CIA ever since I moved to France in the 1980s. Friends have announced accusations of my association with ‘the Company’ at parties and dinners. Everyone gets a good laugh out of matching my absence from America with dubious espionage misadventures. I have denied any ties to this country’s intelligence community and have a rejection letter from a Leon Woodcock of the CIA recruiting wing stating that the agency has no need for a person of my skills at that moment.

The year was 1980.

I was working at an illegal nightclub in New York. Our main investor was a KGB renagade selling religious icons to the FBI. I moved to Hamburg two weeks before the Continental was closed by G-men. They wanted to speak with me. I had left no forwarding address.

At the beginning of the month I traveled to Thailand to see my precious son, Fenway. Barack Obama okayed the assassination of Osama Bin Laden several days after my departure. I don’t think that OBL had anything to do with 9/11, but I pumped a fist in the air. Obama showed that unlike GW Bush that he had the balls to defy the Al-Quada leader’s supporters in the CIA, ISI, and the Mossad.

The reward on OBL’s head was $25,000,000.

No one was claimed the price.

No one is willing to risk the reward. They fear the revenge. Not me, I’ll take the $25 million in a sec, because having lived in Pattaya, the last Babylon, I know how to spend money of the 77 virgins.

Oh yeah.

And I sleep like a baby, because I had nothing to do with his death no matter what my friends think.

Bible Belt Tragedies

The Bible Belt extends across the southern USA from Virginia to Texas. The white population is dominated by conservative evangelical Protestantism and the black populace of those states are equally enthralled with their churches. Several cities have fought for the title of ‘the Buckle of the Bible Belt’ and this last month the wrath of their god has visited in the deadly personae of mega-tornadoes.

Philadelphia, Mississippi. Oklahoma City. Joplin, Missouri.

Three cities devastated by vast walls of twisters.

Floods threaten towns and cities along the Mississippi and other river systems of the Midwest. Drought withers crops. Crystal Meth steals the lives of children and adults. The Bible Belt is suffering the pests of Moses.

New York City, home of the homo army, refuge of atheists, and protector of beer-drinkers, has evaded the hand of God. Our weather today could only be described as ‘pleasant’, although I did break out in a sweat in the late afternoon.

Sweat versus tornadoes.

Godlessness versus Godliness.

And we all know what is close to Godlessness.

Sympathy for the believers.

We hope the weather changes for the better.

Unlike Pat Robertson who said that 9/11 happened because New York was filled with queers, none of us non-believers think that the Bible Belt is getting its just desserts. We ain’t built that way.



Monday, May 23, 2011

Macho Man Drops an Elbow on Jesus

The atheists set off fireworks at midnight down by Red Hook. May 21 had come and gone without the Messiah of the Christians showing his face. I didn't see much cause for celebration. Those fanatics are mostly trouble-makers and shit-stirrers, but AP, my landlord, Alaska Jack, and I raised our glasses on top of the roof of our Fort Greene brownstone and toasted the strength of non-believers. After downing our drinks we descended to my apartment, where we finished my bottle of Irish Whiskey. Alaska Jack was obsessed about his bachelor status.

"I have no wife. I have no kids. Nothing." Alaska Jack wiped his shaved head with a towel. He had a tendency to sweat in his present condition.

"You don't have nothing. You have me." I broke out another line of some noxious blow. Nothing complimented nihilism better than cocaine. Even GW Bush liked yee-ho.

Alaska Jack left 30 minutes later to trawl Billy-Burg for a one-night bride. He was funny. His pocket was filled with cash. Bartenders knew his first name.

"I'll join you." My spirits were aflame from surviving 'the Rapture'. I wanted more sin. I had money too.

"You're not going anywhere." Alaska Jack refused to let me leave my apartment. "You have a wife and kids. Getting fucked up at your age is fine as long as no one sees how fucked up you are."

"I don't want to be the oldest man in the disco." I was abdicated that title to my boss, Richie Boy. He didn't drink to make the girls pretty. The diamond dealer boozed to reverse the flow of time. He was the Peter Pan and Dorian Gray rolled into one, but I understood his undying commitment to the nightlife. It was a wild world past midnight in New York.

I watched Alaska Jack get into his cab and then joined AK inside the brownstone. he had kids too. I bid him goodnight and went upstairs to my aerie. Within minutes I was out cold.

Nothing says a drunken coma more lucidly than waking in your clothing on the floor. My taste buds were stiff from bourbon residue. The gray morning was too bright for my eyes. They felt like aborted ice-cream scoops. I got to my feet and staggered into the bathroom. The water ran cold from my shower head. I stood under the spray until the temperature hit boiling. A shave was unnecessary. It was Sunday Morning and I went downstairs to the kitchen.

AP was sitting at the table with his wife and kids. His son and daughter were smart for their age. They recognized that their father wasn't feeling his oats. This divination was easy. AP sat at the table with his head in both hands.

"Have a good time last night?" His wife asked with dirt on her hands. She had spent the early part of the morning tearing up the garden in the backyard. The kids had been out of bed since dawn. She wanted her revenge and said, "You going for a greasy breakfast?"

The kids chanted 'greasy breakfast' in a high-pitched tone and AK groaned in pain. My kids were on the other wide of the world. They were experts of ruining mornings. It's a gift all children like to give drunken dads. I picked up the front section of the NY Times and left AK to his misery.

At the Academy Diner on Lafayette I had my 'usual'; eggs over-easy, bacon, home fries, whiskey down wet, and coffee. The NY Times had nothing to say about the failed 'Rapture'. I looked around the restaurant. The tables and stools at the counter were empty. The clock on the wall said 10:35. Church-goers were still in their pews. The diner would be packed after 11. I opened the paper to the Obits. At my age I like to see whom I have outlived, but I didn't like reading that Randy Macho Man Savage had died in a car crash a day before the failed 'Rapture'.

The Macho Man was a true hero to wrestling fans in the 80s and 90s. His epic battles with Ricky the Dragon remain a highlight of Wrestlemania. He had fought all-comers and smote the winners and losers with a pantheon of signature moves such as the Atomic Drop, the Lariat Takedown, the Piledriver, and the ever-vicious Vertical Suplex. The Macho Man reigned as wild man of the ring for over forty years. His athleticism dignified a sham sport. His 'Oh Yeah' sold millions of Slim Jim Beef Jerkys. He was something else and I reread the obit.

Dead from a heart attack. Randy Savage was my age. 58. Actually several months younger. The perennial champion must have exited this mortal coil to the blaring horns of POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE. I exited from the Academy Diner thinking that the Macho Man was back together with Miss Elizabeth, his lovely consort, who preceded his demise with a OD. Neither of them were waiting for the 'Rapture' and I returned home to read the Drudge Report, the BBC News, and Al-Jazeera.

None of the online press sites could verify any Christians transported to eternal bliss. GW Bush was still in Texas. The Jehovah Witnesses were knocking on doors around the world. Fundamentalists were exhorting their flocks to read the bible to the bone, while atheists were celebrating their triumph over the religious fools. Harold Egbert Camping warned the non-believers that May 21 was a 'spiritual day of judgment'. October 21, 2011 is the new dawn of destruction.

His followers await Armageddon with bated exhilaration, however their Rapture will never come in this lifetime, for their beloved Jesus was drop-elbowed by the master of the square circle, Randy Macho Man Savage.

He saved the world.

Oh, yeah.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Maybe Next Time

To see what a wonderful world this planet would have been without the Christians and all the other extreme religious, please go to the following URL.


What a wonderful world it would have been

Friday, May 20, 2011

Heaven on Earth

The first three entries on the Google search engine for ‘heaven on earth’ are the Heaven on Earth Salon & Day Spa | Honolulu, Hawaii, Heaven on Earth weddings, and Britney Spears' hit. None of those choices answered my perception of ‘heaven on earth’ so I went www.heavenonearth.org

This website proposed a multilevel approach to reaching a terrestrial nirvana; peace and security, freedom, democracies, prosperity, spiritual harmony, racial harmony, ecological soundness, health, and moral purpose and meaning.

Long lists tend to create dissent since different factions have varied illusions of heaven.

The Hassidim try to recreate their vision of heaven every Shabbath through prayer and devotion to their God. Mormons follow the teachings of Joseph Smith, a distant relative of mine, while the Wahhabist Muslims think of heaven as a garden with 77 virgins. I don’t need to be cockteased by the sexually uneducated, worship Yahweh in a temple or marry a multitude of wives. Instead I seek to attain a simpler Eden as prescribed the Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

These words were written in Persian over 1000 years ago.

I have traveled around the world. People ask, “What makes you live somewhere?”

“Good food, beautiful women, a nice climate, and cheap wine.”

The rest of it; SUVs, MacMansions, Plasma TVs, and fast food, are only delusions.

Heaven is as simple as facing the sun to feel its warmth, but then that’s me.

Wine, woman, my children, song, and a room with a view.

In the end I am a simple man

Thursday, May 19, 2011

May 21 2011 minus 2

Sex, drugs, rampant homosexuality, godlessness have earned the wrath of God. HE has a heavy hand, but His Son seeks salvation for the righteous and tomorrow the minions of Jesus will rescue the 'good' from this Earth. Next stop for the true believers will be heaven, where they will worship the Big G for the rest of eternity on their knees. Some of the devout followers of the Man from Narazeth will failed to enter the
rapture', because they weigh too much. The scriptures promised nothing about saving the Mo-Obs or morbidly obese, for even the strongest angel can't fly with a fat person over 350 pounds.

Central to Family Radio's and Camping's teaching is the belief that the Bible is the Word of God and completely true. However, he emphasizes, this does not mean that each sentence in the Bible is to be understood only literally. Rather, the meaning of individual Biblical passages needs to be interpreted in the light of two factors. The first is the context of the Bible as a whole. The second is its spiritual meaning: in Camping's words, "the Bible is an earthly story with a Heavenly meaning." In Camping's latest publication, "We are Almost There!",[15] he states that certain Biblical passages point unquestionably to May 21, 2011 as the date of "Rapture", and October 21, 2011 as the end of the world.

Since leaving the Reformed Church in 1988, Camping has taught doctrines that may conflict with doctrines of the Reformed Church and other church denominations. The principles of Biblical hermeneutics upon which Camping frames his present teachings are:

1. The Bible alone is the Word of God.
2. Every Biblical passage must be interpreted in the light of the Bible as a whole.
3. The Bible normally conveys multiple levels of meaning or significance.[16]
4. Numerology cannot be applied to numbers in the Bible when following the Biblical rules—some individuals have attempted to apply the concept to Camping's research.
5. That salvation is unmerited and cannot be achieved by good works, prayer, belief or acceptance. It is a pure act of God's grace and that those to be saved were chosen "before the foundation of the world". He has been accused of adding conditions to salvation and teaching relative free will of humanity. However, he has admitted that some, though very few, could be saved, while still in the worldly churches, just as there would be those saved inside the nation of Israel, and that leaving the churches is merely something a believer should do, just as a believer should not lie or cheat. He also gives credit to God for what has been called "common grace", where the unsaved, the yet to be saved and the saved are blessed to do good works, but this is not considered the gift of salvation itself.

Examples of how Camping's teachings vary from past conventional doctrines are:

* Departing from doctrines stating no one can know the time of Christ's second coming, he teaches that the exact times of the Rapture and the End of the World are to be revealed sometime towards the end of time: (Daniel 12:9-13) prophecy.

* Camping teaches that the "Church age" is over, that Satan now rules in all churches, and that no person remaining in a church at the time of the Rapture can be saved. He distinguishes his ministry from a "church", saying that Family Radio does not have a "membership" or hold "authority".

* Camping now teaches that "hell" is synonymous with "death" and the "grave", and that there is no everlasting torment.

* Camping now teaches that The Cross was just a demonstration of what had already happened before the foundation of the world.

* Camping teaches that the world will end May 21 2011 [[1]] using the following reasoning:

1. According to Camping, the number five equals "atonement", the number ten equals "completeness", and the number seventeen equals "heaven".
2. Christ is said to have hung on the cross on April 1, 33 AD. The time between April 1, 33 AD and April 1, 2011 is 1,978 years.
3. If 1,978 is multiplied by 365.2422 days (the number of days in a solar year, not to be confused with the lunar year), the result is 722,449.
4. The time between April 1 and May 21 is 51 days.
5. 51 added to 722,449 is 722,500.
6. (5 x 10 x 17)2 or (atonement x completeness x heaven)2 also equals 722,500.

Camping has gained recent[when?] notoriety due to his prediction that the Christian Rapture will take place on May 21, 2011[29][30] and that the end of the world will take place five months later on October 21, 2011.[31] Followers of Camping claim that around 200 million people (approximately 3% of the world's population) will be raptured.[32] As for the remainder of the human population, Camping himself believes in annihilationism, which is the view that those who are not saved will simply cease to be conscious rather than spend eternity in Hell. Those who were "unsaved" and died prior to May 21 will not be affected by or experience the Rapture or the end of the world.

There are no KFCs or MacDonalds in the next life.

Or beer which is why we drink it here.

Enjoy the end.

The End Times

Early Christians expected the return of the Man from Nazareth to Earth. Their Messiah failed to show up to save them and converts gave up on the 2nd Coming for the End Times or 'days of vengeance', when their persecution would be revenged by fiery angels. Revelations in the Bible forecast the horrors of the End of Times.

"And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; Men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken. And then shall they see the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory."

The signs were to be a host of disasters befalling man. Different sects arose to offer various and contradicting version of the Last Day. Presently Christian premillennialists eagerly entertain the notion that the End Times are now. Dispensational pre-millennialists await the Call of Jesus to heaven for the bliss of the Great rapture. Fundamentalists believe that the doom written in the Bible is what will occur to purge the Earth of sinners and non-believers and they will resume their place in the Garden of Eden.

Even more extreme sects exist on the fringes of End Time thought. Preterists teach that the Christian surviving the holocaust of God will be whisked into heaven. Dispensationalists are given to the belief that the Antichrist and the Beast are ruling the world. Barack Obama is their demon. Post-tribulation pre-millennialists, Restorationists, Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, and Muslims have their own versions of the End of Times. Listening to their arguments has to be maddening, but no one was madder than the great Gothic horror writer HP Lovecraft who defined the signs of Armageddon in THE CALL OF CTHULU.

"The time would be easy to know, for then mankind would have become as the Great Old Ones; free and wild and beyond good and evil, with laws and morals thrown aside and all men shouting and killing and revelling in joy. Then the liberated Old Ones would teach them new ways to shout and kill and revel and enjoy themselves, and all the earth would flame with a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom."

That sounds a little like now, but more like the 70s.

Those were good times in New York.

Punk and disco.

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.


It's an address on 5th Avenue.

The Downside of Heaven

A holy man from Bali died from old age. He arrived at the Pearly Gates to be greeted by St. Peter.

“Welcome to Heaven.” St. Peter led the Balinese holy man inside the holy rest home of eternity.

“I thought heaven was only for Christians.”

“No, no, heaven is for everyone. Over there are the Balinese. To the right the French. Back there the Muslims. Up front the Christians. Over there the Irish.” St. Peter pointed out every segment of heaven, then as they walked through a forest of euphoria, St. Peter whispered. “And over there are the Fundamentalists.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because they think they’re the only ones up here.”

Read Stanley Elkins THE LIVING END

The Great Disappointment 1844

This world was a cesspool of sin for Christians in the early 19th Century. The powers of Satan threatened the souls of the White Race through race mixing. Women's demand for equality was an attack on the eternal domination of men over the weaker sex. Children were losing their religion and the United States was driven not by godliness, but Mammon the filthy idol of money. The Millerite movement defended Christian values with the power the Second Great Awakening, but in August 1844 their Baptist leader, William Miller, interpreted the Bible writing of Daniel and declared their Saviour would return to Earth on October 22, 1844.

His followers gave away their houses, horses, and possessions in preparation for the Rapture. Some climbed church steeples to leap into the air, so angels could seize them for a flight to heaven. Thousands of Millerites gathered for the moment on October 22.

Dawn came and went without the horns of salvation sounding in the heaven. Few of the devout jump from their perches. they struck the ground with a thud. None died, but many suffered broken bones. Noon passed without the appearance of the Man from Nazareth. Non-believers ridiculed Miller's flock throughout the rest of the day and the sun set on what would become known as 'The Great Disappointment'.

William Miller re-predicted the 2nd Coming for 1845. The preacher was wrong yet again.The faithful examined the text of the Bible and the Millerites fragmented into different camps. Many joined the Quakers, but two camps arose from the wreckage of the Great Disappointment. The 'shut door' camp believed that the door to heaven was closed to foolish virgins and only the wise virgins would be accepted through the Pearly Gates. The majority of the remaining Millerites rejected this theory and even convinced their leader that heaven was open to all believers. William Miller died in 1849 without achieving his much desired rapture. His followers continued to believe as Seventh-day Adventists, Jehovah's Witnesses and Advent Christians.

Madmen and madwomen.

I'm disappointed that their Messiah hadn't taken them away on October 22, 1844.

The world would have been a better place without them.

Scorpion Day

Last year astronomers downgraded Pluto or as its known by its formal designation 134340 Pluto from a planet to a dwarf planet. Its low mass was a problem, especially since beyond the Solar System larger objects orbit the Sun. Some scientists were not so quick to accept the IAU’s finding against Pluto and its three satellites; Charon, Nix, and Hydra. The public also questioned the validity of the scientific body’s decision. California called the decision ‘heresy’ and New Mexico passed a resolution in honor of Pluto’s discoverer and native son Clyde Tombaugh to affirm that Pluto would always be a planet while over the skies of the Enchanted State.

A few skeptics espied a more sinister aspect to the IAU’s celestial coup de Pluto.

With Pluto out of the way the religionists could plot the date of the Grand Planetary Alignment in accordance with Mayan prophecy as to the End of Times. Doomsayers have predicted the actual date of The End to be December 21, 2012 or 12-21-2012. Andy the security guard at the diamond exchange has warned non-believers that the magnetic pull of the planets will knock Earth off its axis.

“South will be West and East will be North.” Andy served in Vietnam. He has seen death. The End is not the opening song in APOCALYPSE NOW. “The clock is ticking.”

Andy is not alone in his affinity for The End. Millions of his religionists are praying for the Event to spur the 2nd Coming of their Messiah, the Ugly Son of god, however last month the date of The End was pushed forward by a biblical conjurer from California arguing against the 2012 termination of all things good, bad, and in-between.

“That date has not one stitch of biblical authority,” laughed the head of Oakland’s Family Radio, whose math calculations coupled with prophecies from the Good Book have guided his determination. “It’s like a fairy tale. The real end of times is 2011. May 21, 2011 to be exact.”

That date is a little more than three months away and last week I spotted a group of doom-believers marching down the sidewalk of 5th Avenue. Placards were attached to the bodies of Mayan men.

“Repent. May 21, 2011 is nigh.”

Pedestrians ignore the warning just like the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah. I shouted for them to take their shit to Kansas or any of the other square farm states or South of the Mason Dixon line. If The End is on May 21, 2011, then I’m quitting work on May day and flying East to be with my family. We will see out the End of Times drinking beer, for after May 21, 2011 the Book of Revelations predicts five tough months until the real End.

“And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented five months: and their torment was as the torment of a scorpion, when he striketh a man.” Revelation 9:5

The Thais love eating scorpions.

Bible-thumpers are not welcome on my soi. The Thais call the missionaries ‘ET’ because they don’t sweat in their white shirts and ties. I tell the Thais that these religionists are dangerous and the greatest threat is their all-consuming ignorance.

The founder of Family Radio has listed the most important events in history as the following;

11,013 BC—Creation. God created the world and man (Adam and Eve).

4990 BC—The flood of Noah’s day. All perished in a worldwide flood. Only Noah, his wife, and his 3 sons and their wives survived in the ark (6023 years from creation).

7 BC—The year Jesus Christ was born (11,006 years from creation).

33 AD—The year Jesus Christ was crucified and the church age began (11,045 years from creation; 5023 calendar years from the flood).

1988 AD—This year ended the church age and began the great tribulation period of 23 years (13,000 years from creation).

1994 AD—On September 7th, the first 2300-day period of the great tribulation came to an end and the latter rain began, commencing God’s plan to save a great multitude of people outside of the churches (13,006 years from creation).

2011 AD—On May 21st, Judgment Day will begin and the rapture (the taking up into heaven of God’s elect people) will occur at the end of the 23-year great tribulation. On October 21st, the world will be destroyed by fire (7000 years from the flood; 13,023 years from creation).

2011 is 7000 years after the Deluge.

And while their god promised to never flood the Earth again, the seas are rising around the world thanks to the rapacious progress of globalization. Food is scarce due to crop failures. Dictatorships are falling in the Middle East. Sin is a sales technique for the multi-nationals. Greed is rampant. The rich are very rich and the poor are many.

The situation looks bleak for Mankind, but there is no grand alignment of the planets scheduled for 2011 or 2012.

Then again the reilgionists’ god is a cruel god.

Yahweh pogromed the 1st born of Egypt without mercy.

Jehovah killed Job’s family.

The bad god also turned Lot’s wife into salt. A good god would have chosen gold.

And the motherfucker has no education or watch, so beware of May 21, 2011.

To err is human, to err all the time is the right of a god or the very rich. – James Steele, blasphemer.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Learning Curve

In the movie CITIZEN KANE a corrupt politician attempts to blackmail the wealthy Charles Kane by releasing information that the married publisher is seeing another woman. Kane thinks that he is bigger than sin and refuses to play the game. Gettys, the crooked pol, leaves the love nest shaking his head.

You’re making a bigger fool of yourself than I thought you would,
Mr. Kane.

I’ve got nothing to talk to you about.

You’re licked. Why don’t you…

Get out! If you wanna see me, have the Warden write me a letter.

Anybody else, I’d say what’s gonna happen to you would be a
lesson to you. Only you’re gonna need more than one lesson. And
you’re gonna get more than one lesson.

Don’t worry about me, Gettys. Don’t worry about me! I’m Charles
Foster Kane! I’m no cheap crooked politician, trying to save
himself from the consequences of his crimes. Gettys! I’m gonna
send you to Sing-Sing! Sing-Sing, Gettys! Sing-Sing…

Unlearned Lessons

The New York Media is having a party at the expense of the jailed head of the IMF. The french socialist contends that the sex with the hotel maid was consensual. DSK has been convicted by the Press and public opinion. His innocence is a foregone conclusion, for the millionaire has a history of aggressive behavior toward women.

Back in 2002 the career politician attempted to rape a young reporter in Paris. She had arranged to meet DSK for an interview. Here is her account of what happened on that night.

"He asked for us to meet, and gave me an address I didn't know. That was surprising because I know a little bit about his life, more or less, where he lives, where his offices are. ... But this was nothing of the sort.

I came up in front of the building, parked my car, went up, and it was an empty apartment, completely empty, with a VCR, a TV and a bed. A very beautiful apartment, for a Gentleman of good taste. ... He wanted me to hold his hand while he answered, he said "I can't do it if you don't hold my hand." After the hand, it was the arm, and after the arm it was a bit further, so I stopped him. ...

It ended very badly, because we ended up fighting ... I told him clearly. ... We fought on the ground, it was more than a couple of slaps, I kicked him, he opened my bra, tried to open my jeans. ... It finished very badly. ...

I got out of there and he immediately sent me a text message saying "So, are you scared of me?" ... I had said the word "rape" when we were struggling to scare him, and it didn't seem to scare him, as if he was used to it. After [the incident] he wouldn't stop sending me text messages saying "Are you scared of me?"

The French newspapers and TV ignored this story. DSK used the power of his position. The chapter on DSK was dropped by her publisher and her mother asked her daughter to drop any criminal proceedings against DSK in fear of losing her position with the ranks of French Socialism. The mother approached DSK, who apologized saying, "I lost my head."

More like he was looking for head.

Last night at Frank's Lounge the verdict was 90% for guilty, although Pacco didn't think that DSK would serve any time.

"He's a rich man. Rich people get off with murder."

"Just like OJ Simpson." I added from my stool.

"Why you white people always got to bring up OJ."

"Because guilty or not guilty OJ got off with murder and for once in America a black man was able to buy justice."

OJ didn't learn his lesson. A jury found him not guilty of killing his wife. Trouble followed him down the road and in 2008 OJ was convicted of armed robbery. The Juice won't see freedom until 2017. His address for the foreseeable future is Lovelock Correctional Center, Nevada.

DSK will probably get off somehow. Rich people are lucky that way, but the judge and jury might see DSK in a different light and teach him a lesson that he should have learned a long time ago.

When a woman says 'no', it means 'no'.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011


The black Suburban was heading west on Route 2 at the top of Lake Michigan. The late afternoon traffic was nearly non-existent and no state troopers cruised the two-laner crossing the Upper Peninsula. The driver would have accelerated to 85, if he hadn’t spotted a white van in the Wonderland Diner parking lot, instead he stamped on the brakes and SUV lumbered to the side of the road. The tall man behind the wheel reached over for his binoculars and focused on the back of the van.

“Now I have you.” The plates matched those of the fugitive and the driver couldn’t believe his luck. Only this morning the Assistant Field Director in Petrowsky called off the hunt for their quarry.

“The fat man has slipped through our net, but someone that size will surface sooner or later.”

The driver of the black car hadn’t imagined ‘later’ would arrive so soon and he punched a number on his cell phone. The direct line to the agency was busy. 911 and the State Police were off line. Someone jamming the service.

SOP demanded back-up and the agent waited for the phone service to come back on line. The diner’s sign blink HOME COOKING every 15 seconds. The neon enticement was playing to an empty house, for 30 minutes went by without a single car or truck passing the Wonderland Diner.

The sun dropped beneath the pines and the light lessened by half. Darkness would give the fat man cover to escape into the Upper Peninsula’s trackless woods. The agent tapped out 911. Nothing. He pulled out his 9mm. It was loaded with 15 rounds.

“Fuck SOP.” The agent shifted the SUV out of park and drove right behind the van. He flicked off the safety of his automatic and got out of the Suburban.

The door opened with a creak.

Neither the cook nor the young man at the counter broke from their fixation the food fest at table #5, where a fat man in overalls was shoveling down the remains of grits and eggs.

“Where them pasties?” The fat man pushed his stubby fingers through lank hair.

“They’re coming.” Michigan had no law against eating yourself to death and the cook flipped the half-dozen meat-stuffed pasties onto a plate, then turned to the tall man at the entrance. His suit was rumpled and his right hand was behind his back. His build a was little too athletic for a man in his forties, but the cook had seen all types during his ten years running the Wonderland.

“You comin’ or goin’? Cuz either way you gotta shut that door.”

“Business so good you can insult customers.” The newcomer shut the door.

“Sorry, mister, I don’t heat the great outdoors. Not this time of year.”

The tall man sat at the counter. “What’s good?”

“Most everythin’.” The fat man wiped his mouth with the back on his hand. “Chicken pot pie was damn good. Pork Chops too. Ya should try that.”

“I’m not that hungry.” The tall man eyed the young man at the counter. The dirt on his hands had not come from any honest labor and the leaves in his long hair indicated a night under a bridge. He was no one and the tall man whipped out his 9mm.

“Don’t shoot me.” The cook dropped the plate of pasties.

“No one’s shooting anyone.” The fat man poked a fork into the flapjacks.

“Not if I don’t have to.” The tall man produced a badge. “I’m a duly authorized federal agent and that man is a fugitive from justice. You two stay out of the way and nobody will be hurt. Big man, keep your hands in front of you and stand away from the table very slowly.”

“I….” the hippie stammered and the agent snapped,” This doesn’t concern you.”

“Stay out of it,” the fat man mumbled through his pancakes.

“Drop that fork.” The agent approached the booth.

“Ya goin’ to shoot me for eatin’?”

“I’m not kidding.” The agent wasn’t in a laughing mood.

“Damn, who ya’ll? The fat people police?” The big man rose with extraordinary grace for a man his size. “Yer wanna arrest me, Ah ain’t gonna fight.”

The fat man was wanted Dead or Alive and his lack of resistance surprised the agent. Still it was too premature to daydream about glory.

“You’ve been through the drill; turn around, face the wall, and spread them wide.”

“Tell me, if Ah’m gonna be safe with ya’ll.” The fat man stretched his elephantine arms and legs against the Formica wall.


“Ah mean, the only reason Ah ain’t surrendered before was that Ah weren’t sure that yer cud keep me someplace safe.”

“Oh, we have safe places for you.” The agent dangled handcuffs to the cook. “Slap these on the man. If he moves, I’ll shoot him.”

“Shooting a man that big like trying to hit a bear in a vital spot.” The cook took the cuff. “No offense, big man.”

“None taken.” The fat man’s head swiveled to show a toothy smile. “Yer a good cook and Ah gots to dig yer fer that.”

“Keep your eyes straight ahead.”

“Ain’t that a laugh? Here ya are tryin’ to earn a decent living and this bloodhound starts messin’ with yer customers and orderin’ ya around.” The fat man pressed his face to the wall and stuck out his hands. “Bet that makes ya feel real safe.”

“You shut up.”

“Oh, they want to censor what Ah gotta say. That’s why they’re after me. Cus Ah’m privy to the truth about lies. Cookie, why don’t ya ask Bossman why he’s arrestin’ me? Doesn’t have a clue.”

“They’re too small.” The cook fumbled with the cuffs.

“You have to open them up.” The tall man glanced at the silent longhair. His hands were over his head. The agent snatched the handcuffs from the cook and stepped closer to the fat man. “Get real tight with that wall and put your hands behind you.”

“Yeah, yer just doin’ your job, only Ah ain’t done no wrong to no one in a long time. That didn’t keep ‘em from comin’ after me.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m gonna obey your every command, bossman.”

“Cook, you have tape?” The cuffs were too small.

“Ain’t ya supposed to use government-issue tape?”

“I told you to shut your hole and I meant it. Where’s that tape?”

“Right here.” The cook offered masking tape.

“Wrap his wrists tight.”

“Hey, ya don’t wanna be cuttin’ off the blood. Ah mean Ah gotta eat with these hands.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be stuffing your yap soon enough.” The agent put the cook out of his line of fire.

“I hate GI Joe grub.” The fat man spun on his heels and pushed the cook.

The agent had been expecting this move and pulled the trigger, only the shot went wide and three hundred plus pounds of sweat, fat, and bones squashed the agent into the wall like a Samoan lineman sacking a quarterback. When the fat man stepped away, the unconscious agent fell to the floor.

“You kill him,” the cook declared with horror.

“Ain’t dead, son, only knocked out and people will come in droves, cus ya had somethin’ happen to hear you tell all about what happened and not much happens this time of year or any other, right? If fact ya should be thankin’ me for savin’ yer winter.” The fat man de-ammoed the 9mm. “Cookie, give the man his piece after I’m gone.”

“What you gonna do?” The cook looked at the payphone.

“Ah’m gonna go down the highway and yer can tell the fellas that come for this one that too.” The fat man picked up the pasties from the counter.

“Sure, take what you want.”

“This ain’t no stick-up.” The fat man handed him several twenties and told the long hair, “You can drop yer hands.”

“I’m no trouble.” The long hair stared at the man on the floor.

“And ya ain’t gonna have none neither. I wanya ta drive fer me.”

“Drive for you?” The hippie lowered his arms.

“They have an all-points on my van, so Ah’m takin’ the bossman’s car.”

The longhair retreated toward the bathroom.

“Maybe ya didn’t hear me right. You’re drivin’. Ah can’t fit behind the wheel and ya’ll can. Afterwards ya can say that Ah forced ya’ll, which is exactly what Ah’m doin’, ifn’t I hear the word ‘no’ agin.”

“You’re not leaving me any choices,” the longhair protested to the fat man.

“Yer exactly right.” The fat man searched the fallen agent’s pockets, finding the car keys, and then jerked the pay phone from the wall. “Sorry, Ah can’t take chances. Thanks for the lunch. It was delicious. Let’s go.”

The hippie exited first from the diner. The fat man pointed to the SUV.

“I like big cars. They make me look thin.”

“There’s not many places to run on the Upper Peninsula.”

“That’s okay, cuz where Ah’m goin’ ain’t no one can follow me.”

“You expecting an alien abduction?”

“They already land on Earth. Sum of ‘em tubes. Funny, maybe that’s why people in the fashion businesses are so skinny and Ah’m so fat. They don’t abduct no fat men, cuz they can’t achieve orbit. Now git in the car, we have to go.” The fat man shoved the long hair behind the wheel and then sat in the rear with the SUV teetering to the right.

“Where to?”

“Head west.”

The hippie studied the rear-view mirror. This steadiness of his eyes came from training and the fat man pegged the drifter as a government operative. Thankfully no helicopters flitted over the treetops.

“Who’s been chasing you?” The hippie backed out of the parking lot.

“The FBI, the CIA, the NSA and even NASA had a shot..”

“Was that guy one of them?”

“He might have been after the million-dollar bounty on my head.”

“Why you worth a million?” The hippie glanced in the rearview mirror.

“Yer seen me enough at the diner.” The fat man pushed him forward.

“I ain’t seen anyone human eat that much.” It was for more than two people.

“Yer can’t get a better disguise than a fat person.”

“So you didn’t tell me why they hunting you.”

“Ah didn’t, otherwise they’d hunt you to the ground.”

“Heck, I’m already wanted for credit card theft, so I’m off to Canada.” The driver spoke with a grim determination. “I’ll head to the Eskimo nation to hunt seals or whales or carve tusks. I’m good with my hands and there’s not much call for that in the old USA, right?”

“Yer wanna hear why they’re after me?” The fat man leaned forward to whisper in the driver’s ear.

“Hell, I’d tell you I’d keep it a secret, but after two beers or a joint I’d surrender the family secrets to entertain the crowd, so if you don’t want it spread around the Eskimo nation, keep it to yourself.” The driver’s gray eyes gleamed with a hustler’s sincerity.

“I guess I can trust you.” The fat man settled into the seat. “Ah was once young and full of life. One day Ah heard a story, which altered my life. A secret Ah wuzn’t supposed to hear and didn’t believe. Anyway this man told me the truth of this world. Oh, Ah heard why we were in Vietnam to stop communism. Fer dope. Why we gave China to the Reds? To control one billion people under one leader. The government waved the flag and blacklisted commies in America, which was smoke fer the real drama. None of those truths got me in trouble. No, the one that endangered me is the greatest mystery in the American Century. Yer have any idea which one that might be?”

“Is Elvis alive?”

“Elvis is dead. Ah saw the body.”

“Saw the body?” the longhair demanded in disbelief.

“Ah saw plenty in my old job and heard more. Elvis’s death ain’t the greatest secret in America, unless yer an Elvis impersonator. C’mon, try a little harder.” He squinted, as the setting sun’s golden glow filled the long corridor of pines bordering the highway.

“Biggest secret. Oh, I have it. Who killed Kennedy? You’re talking about that, right?”

“You score ten points.”

The driver stepped on the gas.

“Ah’ll tell yer and it’ll only take about seven minutes after which Ah’m gonna step out of the car and you drive away. Yer got that?”


“Ah was alive, when Kennedy was killed. Hell, Ah can tell you what Ah was wearin’, cuz Ah went to a Catholic school. White shirt, blue tie, black pants, black shoes. Anyway Ah believed that Oswald was the killer.”

“Same as the rest of the America.”

“Ah believed that, until Ah met the assassin and he wuzn’t no CIA agent either.”

“Who was he?”

“His identity is unimportant, cuz he wuz part of the machine that killed the president.”

“Cause of the Bay of Pigs?”



“Not warm. This story doesn’t begin with the Kennedys. Yer heard of Marilyn Monroe?”

“Yeah, the movie actress JFK was banging.”

“That proves yer an ignorant fuck buyin’ what the TV sells you.”

“Okay, okay, tell me your story then.” The driver flicked on the headlights.

“What yer do that fer?”

“Cause it’ll be dark soon, that’s why.” The drifter acted like it was normal.

“Yeah, right, so as Ah said, the story starts with Marilyn Monroe. Not many people were aware of that she was the illegitimate daughter of a Mafia gangster. Anyway Marilyn becomes a movie star and every citizens in America believes she’s havin’ an affair with JFK, only JFK is usin’ her as a ‘beard’ to hide his womanizin’.”

“With Judith Exner Campbell.” The driver cracked the window to let in a cold wind smelling of pine.

“Glad you watch The Learning Channel.” The fat man dropped the southern tell the accent. The story went faster without the drawl. “Anyway Marilyn becomes a real pain in the ass and JFK tells his brother, Bobby, to tell her it’s over. Bobby goes to Marilyn after the birthday bash in Madison Square Garden. Normally the sight of a crying woman had no effect on the hard-hearted bastard. Only he’s a man and she’s a beautiful woman and he comforts her broken heart.”

“So JFK never…..”

“Never is a long time, anyway Bobby falls in love with Marilyn and starts telling his business and JFK’s too. Starts talkin’ about leavin’ his wife and the Kennedys had a hard enough time electin’ Catholic in 1960 without having a divorce in the family for the re-election in 1964. JFK orders his brother to dump Marilyn. Bobby says he’s marrying Marilyn. JFK vows to stop this union. He can’t turn to the Mafia, since he’s stiffed them on Cuba. Instead he goes to that old drag queen, Hoover, who’s pleased as punch to get more dirt on the President. The little fruitcake tells him not to worry and flies out to Los Angeles with his boyfriend and they kill Marilyn. Bobby walks in on them and beats the shit out of them. J. Edgar confesses that his brother ordered her murder.”

“Shit. A car’s following us. In fact they’re catching up.”

“Could be anyone.” The fat man glimpsed over his shoulder.

“No, not just ‘anyone’ has flashing lights, but they ain’t catchin’ us on this straightway. So keep the story coming.”

“Thanks, kid, it’s comforting to have a friend in your corner. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, Bobby wants revenge. Nothing comes to him, until the brightest and the best at the White House are discussing the drop in JFK’s polls. The president asked, if anyone has an idea to boost his popularity. Bobby suggested they stage a fake assassination attempt. The rest of the brain trust calls him crazy, except Old Man Kennedy understood street politics and mumbles nothin’ boosts a president’s re-election more than a failed assassination. JFK accepted his father’s edict and gave the CIA the go-ahead. Those university minds plotted the fake assassination in Dallas. A CIA team on the grassy knoll shoots blanks. JFK becomes a hero, the election a landslide, and a mandate assures a new era of prosperity. None of them suspected Bobby would set-up his brother for the old Mafia boss.”

“Who was Marilyn’s real father?”

“Ten points. Bobby tells the old man how JFK had killed his daughter and they planned to place another shooter on the scene.”

“The Texas Book Depository,” the driver spat like he was rushing an answer to a game show.

“No, Oswald was a fall guy. The Mafia chief put his shooter in the building across the street, November 22, 1963. Everyone’s in place. The CIA team shootin’ blanks on the grassy knoll. The fall guy in the Depository. The Mafia hit man waiting for his shot. Anyway the limo makes the turn and the Mafia hit man bangs away, hitting the president. The CIA team is confused by the change in the plans and pulls off a round. The hit man delivers the coup de grace and Bobby has his revenge. Fraticide.”

“It fits,” the driver murmured with the car gliding to a halt.

“I figured you for a cop.” The fat man dipped his hand into the bag of pasties.

“Sorry, big man,” the driver apologized, adding, “I’m only doing my job.”

“No problem, I understand.” He bit into the pastie.

Blinking lights filled the interior of the car.

“You want to make this easy for them?”

“You think about what they’ll do to you, once they’re rid of me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Officer Tippitt, Lee Harvey Oswald, Dorothy Killgallen, Jack Ruby to name a few, but we don’t have time to discuss this. I step out of this car and I’m a dead man. You’re dead too, because I told you too much.”

“That was some crazy bullshit.”

“Okay, you talk to your boys. If they ask, if I told you anything, then come back to the car and drive faster than hell. A plane is at a deserted airfield nearby and the pilot will wait another ten minutes. Tell them I have a gun and will only surrender to you.”

“You don’t have a gun.”

“Yes, I do.” The fat man withdrew a .22 Beretta from under a fold of fat. “Now if I’m wrong, step away, because I’m not goin’ to jail and I don’t wanna kill you.”

“Why not?” The driver rested his hand on the door handle.

“Because you’re my only out.” The fat man flicked off the Beretta’s safety.

The longhair walked to the men behind the cars. They spoke for a few seconds and the hippie returned to sit behind the wheel. The fat man tapped him on the shoulder.


“You were right.”

“I wish I wasn’t.” The fat man had to trust the longhair. They were both dead men if he didn’t. “You ready?”

“Ready?” The driver stamped on the accelerator. The black car burnt rubber to the crack of shots. Several shattered the rear window, missing the passenger and the driver. Sirens filled their ears and the cold air rushed inside the car. “That’s one way to quit your job.”

“No one in my job has ever retired, so it’s welcome to run for your life.”

“Yeah, head out of the highway, looking for adventure and whatever comes your way,” the fat man sang, imitating Elvis’ voice.

“Fire your guns into space.” The driver showed they were on the same team and the fat man repeated the chorus from Judas Priest, “Head out of the highway.” because the open road was the only world left for people like him, until the expected the ranks of the resistance outnumbered the liars in power and that could take an eternity.

Oral History Of Presidential Fellatio

On January 17, 1998 Matt Drudge broke the news that President Clinton had asked Newsweek to kill a story about his affair with an intern. Her name was Monica Lewinsky. The Big Press ignored the scoop from an Internet free-lancers, however the story featuring President-pizza-intern-cigars-sex created its own audience.

“Mr. President, if there is a semen stain belonging to you on a dress of Ms Lewinsky’s, how would you explain that?”

No other president has been asked the same question for the simple reason that none of the recent White House residents have had sex while in office.

GW BUSH is too coked out to maintain an erection. His father kept his tete-a-tetes clandestine. Ronald Reagan allowed Nancy to have sex with Frank Sinatra, but the Great Communicator never got head from his 2nd wife. Jimmy Carter merely entertained impure thoughts and Gerald Ford’s wife suffered from a wasting disease. Richard Nixon only masturbated to nude photos of Jackie O and LBJ had his rendezvouses in Texas.

JFK had scores of women in the White House. He confided to British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan that he suffered migraines, if he went three days without sex. At state dinners the president would disappear with women into the recesses of the White House. His paramours included Pamela Turnure, Jackie's press secretary; Mary Pinchot Meyer, Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee's sister-in-law; two secretaries nicknamed Fiddle and Faddle, and mob moll Judith Campbell Exner. Marilyn Monroe was a beard for his conquests. JFK was too cool to get caught.

Despite being called America's first black president, Bill Clinton was not so cool, however he survived the interrogation and impeachment proceedings to serve out his term, because he had committed no crime.

Examine the facts.

On Feb. 1995 a GOP-controlled Congress shut down the Federal government by balking at passing a spending bill. A storm storm further isolated the President in the White House. he ordered a pizza and a buxom 21 year-old intern delivered the pizza to the Oral Office.

As I said many time the worst thing that happened to America when there was no government was that the President got head and a pizza.

Clinton denied having sex with Monica.

The American public asked, “Isn’t oral sex ‘sex?”

“Not according to the President.”

Their presidential affair lasted 18 months, but you can sure that some women saw Hillary’s post-Iowa tears as residue from that awful period in her life. The pain. The betrayal. The humiliation.

“Let’s vote for the crying game.”

And American voter elected a President human enough to shed tears shed before the TV cameras.

Clinton is now a elder statesman for the USA. His betrayed wife is Secretary of State. The other women weaved into the sex scandal have not been so fortunate.

Paula Jones posed nude and lost a boxing match with Olympic skating terror Tonya Harding. Most of the $850,000 from that bout went to her lawyers.

Kathleen Willey had a sexual encounter with Clinton. A grope and the forced touch of an erect penis. The 61 year-old doesn’t talk about it, except whenever the media pays her, which is not every often these days. Clinton's favorite Pizza Girl debunked Willey’s accusation by saying, “Willey’s tits were too small.”

Monica Lewinsky survived the maelstrom of Press abuse. The former intern graduated in December 2006 with a Masters in social psychology and has been studying at the London School of Economics. Hopefully she is faring well.

In a time of crisis she helped a president in need, following the words of the immortal JFK.

“Ask not what your country can give, but what you can give to your country.”

Pauvre Con

America loves a good sex scandal. Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. Tiger Woods and his many gold companions. GW Bush and his alleged rape of a Texas woman and the accusation of a former stripper. The first shot herself and the latter vanished into the aether. America missed those scandals, since the Press gave GW a pass for any sins following 9/11. Any mention of sex can end a political career, however European leaders have been safe from any accusations of impropriety. Sex is not a sin in the Old World.

The Italian PM has paid for under-aged girls. He remains in power. British leader John Profumo was ousted not for having sex with the call girl Christine Keeler, but leaking secrets to her Russian spy lover. The present French president dumped his wife to marry a younger movie actress after his wife left him for another man. They do things different on the Continent.

Back in 1988 I was dating a movie star in Paris. The blonde beauty was a welcome addition to any public function. One evening we attended a presidential dinner. Her young cousin was our invitee. 18 and a precocious nymphette. Security saw us to our table and the assembled guests rose to their feet at the entrance of President Mitterand. The Socialist leader shook hands with friends and political associates on his way to the podium. The last minister to have ordered the police to fire upon workers lifted his head and his eyes on the young girl to my right. Mitterand shrugged off his minders and beelined across the room to introduce himself to our guest.

"Madamoiselle, je suis votre president."

There was no confusing what he had in mind and my girlfriend protectively shielded her protege from the old lecher's gropes. The crowd smiled with admiration. Their president was still a man. France is so France.

America is an ocean away from that country. The religious right tolerate no deviation from the path of sex for procreation. They crucified President Clinton for a mere blow-job. The rich in their ranks escape scandal through payments to the victims. The powerful play by a different set on rules than those imposed on the masses, however no one likes the French; rich or powerful.

This week the head of the IMF or the International Monetary Fund was arrested at JFK for raping a NYC hotel maid. The NYPD are holding DSK as he is known in France until arraignment on Monday. The Euro dropped against the Dollar, since the IMF is considering another bailout for the besieged economies of Portugal and Greece.

"I can't believe his accusation against my husband." The wife of the accused rapist declared from Paris. The French in general regard the charges with suspicion. The present president of France is renown for his dirty politics. DSK also has a history of forcing himself on women. His supporters are as disbelieving as his wife and claim this arrest is an act of political assassination. His guilt in the court of the American media is not helped by his Socialist background. Fox News is reporting allegations as fact. Facing a possible 15 year sentence DSK is in big trouble and all for the sake of his cock.

Still the French are running 80-20 that this scandal was a set-up, but while adultery is a mere sin, rape is a felony. The first forgivable, the second not so.

There is no first-class in the Tombs just as in the United States a person is innocent until proven guilty.

No hotel this time.

If DSK is lucky, Rikers will put him in a special holding cell.

If not general population.
Pauvre con.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Flee Flee Flee

A madman for Live For God's Kingdom has reinforced the convictions of my old friend, the ex-model from Paris, that the world is coming to an end. We are meant to flee for Jerusalem. It is the only refuge for believers.

"The Beast is a new world order and I think has tied to the International Monetary Fund--which will prevent those faithful to Christ from buying or selling because they will not bow down to this satanic world's demand of receiving its mark of 666 upon their forehead and hand. The love of God in Christ and His Word are eternal."

Normally I respond to her warnings of the End of Times with sardonic derision, however the other day a friend spotted a caravan of doomsayers in the West Village. The loudspeakers chanting out the date, May 21, 2011, the new and revised End of Times. The religious are chomping at the bit for Armageddon, so their beloved Jesus will transported them into the Rapture. They have no sense of humor, but the beauty of humanity is that we see the funny side of tragedy.

"Comedy is someone falling down the stairs. Tragedy is your getting a paper cut." - Robert C Cea

But here's how the media will report the End.





Microsoft Systems Journal: APPLE LOSES MARKET SHARE

Victoria's Secret Catalog: OUR FINAL SALE

Sports Illustrated: GAME OVER



Readers Digest: 'BYE






Japan Abloom

The beauty of nature as an apology for its destruction.

You Bet I Would # 9

"My girl likes to party all the time."

Tokyo Void

My preferred airline from JFK to Bangkok is Korean Airlines. The Boeing 777 is serviced by young beautiful hostesses and the in-flight entertainment offers films other than the usual Hollywood drivel. My attempt to book a seat for my most recent trip met with failure. My travel agent at Pan Express said that all the planes were full.

"But I can get you on an American flight via Japan."

Japan on American.

I equate American with Delta, which is the worst of the international carriers. Narita terminal 2 is a horrible limbo. I had no choice. It was American through Japan or nothing. I booked the flight and arrived at JFK on my departure date expecting the worst.

I was pleasantly surprised by American Airlines. They were running 777s to Asia. The planes was far from full. The aged stewardesses were friendly. We stopped at Haneda Airport instead of Narita. The following flight was equally empty. No one was flying in or out of Japan, unless they had to get somewhere.

The return flight was a repeat.

Seats aplenty. Terminal devoid of passengers. The stewardesses said that the planes had been full prior to the earthquake and tsunami. The cracked reactors have frightened travelers from passing through Japan. Radioactivity has been detected as far away from the stricken N-plants as Yokohama. The country is in danger of becoming a no-go zone.

A marine on the eastbound segment said that his battalion was ordered onto aircraft carriers to help the survivors, but turned around when the geiger counter went off the charts. No one is telling the truth.

Poor Japan.

It's aglow.

Mile High Club

Ever since the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk man has been attempting an endless assortment of tricks and risks in flight. Most aviators and passengers are content to get from points A to B. Up and down without ragheads hijacking the plane for an unscheduled landing in a prominent building or getting arrested for drinking too much duty-free liquor.

Of course a safe flight doesn’t exclude a little fun such as joining the ‘Mile-High Club’ or MHC. This society is open to those passengers who have experienced sex on an airplane. I surveyed twenty male friends. Five professed to be members. Three of those were lying for sure. One of the remaining members said his girlfriend satisfied him manually under a blanket, which along with fellatio isn't consider sex according to the President Clinton Rules of Engagement.

The act of sex on a plane is considered contrary to British Law, but whipping is regarded as okay. Those Brits are strange birds. Singapore Air banned sex in the Airbus A380 for first-class passengers. Coitus in the beds of the deluxe cabins is off the menu. No surprise, since Singapore is the least sexy city in Asia. Laws and regulations are damned by those libertines seeking a thrill.

My friend Dean explained that his moment of glory came in university.

“I was young and agile, which are required skills for accomplishing this deed in a tiny bathroom. It was sort of like having sex in the back of a VW Bug, but those diaper changing tables are much stronger than they look. At the moment of truth I flushed the toilet which caused atmospheric havoc and gave my companion a thrill.”

Several years ago I myself joined the club as an honorary member, having abused myself during a trans-Pacific flight. I know it’s not the same thing, but it’s not like the airlines have a go-go bar in the cargo hold, which isn’t such a bad idea, unless you’re traveling on an Islamic airline. Strippers in chadors are as much as turn-on as a fat lapdancer.

Everything has its place.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Mao's Bird Fetish

Chairman Mao has been dead for almost 35 years. China has transformed for a 3rd World nation to the 2nd leading economy under the leadership of his successors. The old China was been obliterated by revolutionary cadres. Glittering shopping malls, high-speed trains, ultra-modern skyscrapers, super highways, and expansive airports have transformed the Middle Kingdom into a workers' paradise. Mao Tse-Tung's statue overlooks Tiananmen Square with stern serenity. His followers praise him every May Day, but nothing can stop the birds from shitting on the Great Leader.

They want revenge, for in April 1958 Mao declared birds to be enemies of the state. Especially sparrows. They consumed too much grain. His real reason was that birds symbolized freedom from authority and the Chairman urged his people to bang on pots to prevent the sparrows from landing to rest. They died in the millions and the crop output increased to meet party demands. The only problem was that the sparrows controlled the insect population and the next season the locusts ravaged the harvest. More than 30 million starved to death during the Great Leap Forward.

In the end Mao recognized his error and quietly spared the sparrows.

Their population quickly recovered from the slaughter.

The Chinese people took a little longer, but they had been taught their lesson.

"A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery." Mao Tse-Tung

And China was not for the birds.

The Mao is an endangered species on the Samoan Islands. Little is known about its feeding and breeding habits.

"The idea that the state mistakenly took too much grain from the countryside because it assumed that the harvest was much larger than it was is largely a myth – at most partially true for the autumn of 1958 only. In most cases the party knew very well that it was starving its own people to death. At a secret meeting in the Jinjiang Hotel in Shanghai dated March 25, 1959, Mao specifically ordered the party to procure up to one third of all the grain, much more than had ever been the case. At the meeting he announced that 'When there is not enough to eat people starve to death. It is better to let half of the people die so that the other half can eat their fill.'" [47]

The Beauty of FREEBIRD

My youngest brother’s health suffered a precipitous decline in 1995. The experimental drugs had failed to stem Michael’s ruthless aliment’s advances. I received a telephone call from my older brother in Boston. I was running a nightclub in Beverly Hills. He told me the bad news. The next day I was on a plane to Logan. My family was waiting at the hospice on the South Shore. I had seen friends die of AIDS. None of that prepared for the sight of my brother. His only nourishment was a morphine drip.

I guessed his weight to be 120. His family sat by his bedside. My mother patted his hand. My sisters wet his lips. My father met the tragedy with a noble stoicism. He had done his best. Tears were for another day. My older brother read from the Bible. My youngest brother responded to none of this.

One night I entered Michael’s room and my younger brother was playing FREEBIRD on his guitar. Paddy was a kind soul, but my youngest brother was more into show tunes and disco than southern rock. I mentioned this to my brother.

“You’re right, but in his state I figure that he would hear this song and know it was me.” My youngest brother strummed his guitar and I joined his singing the song. I was more a punk than anything else, but I knew every word. FREEBIRD had been a huge hit in 1972.

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be travelling on, now,
‘Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see.
But, if I stayed here with you, girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
‘Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can’t change.

Bye, bye, its been a sweet love.
Though this feeling I can’t change.
But please don’t take it badly,
‘Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.
But, if I stayed here with you girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you’ll never change.
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can’t change.
Lord help me, I can’t change.

My younger brother put down his guitar and kissed his emaciated brother on the forehead. I kissed the other side. His skin was waxen. Michael had only a little further to go.

“Let’s take a photo.”

“Now?” Paddy knew how vain Michael was. It was a family trait.

“If not now, then it will be never.” Michael had hours left in his heart. I positioned my camera on the bureau. The timer ran for thirty seconds. The camera snapped a shot of Paddy and me with my baby brother between us. He died a day later. We buried him in the town cemetery. I fled the sorrow to Asia and mourned my brother at the holiest temples in the Orient.

Upon my return I developed the roll of film from Michael’s last days. I didn’t show the shot on the bed to anyone but Paddy. He shook his head.

“What? You thinking about how thin he was?” I asked taking the photo back from his hand.

“No, just thinking about how fat we were.”

I looked at the picture and laughed at the truth. Michael would have laughed someplace in the afterlife too. We were such good friends, but I’m sure that he curses us for sticking FREEBIRD in his celestial ears for the rest of eternity.

It is a lot better than FLY LIKE AN EAGLE, because that’s what I have in my head.

The Catoosa Blue Whale

Whales are everywhere.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Grace Grace Grace

The last time I saw Grace was at the Beverly Hills Hotel.


I knew her from New York We had mutual friends. Arthur Weinstein for one. I was working at a bar in Beverly Hills. The Milk Bar. Our clientele was rich. Their fun began late.

The after party was thrown by a banker later indicted for insider trading. We were seven. He had a bag of blow for twenty. Grace and I grabbed the stash and locked ourselves in the bathroom rather than listening to three zooted investors brag about their millions to coke-glazed starlets.

It was a bad remake of Tony Montana from the last scene of SCARFACE.

Grace and I did our own movie and spoke about friends from New York.

Rock sex and rock and roll

In Hollywood was only the drugs.

The bankers banged on the door. I opened it and told them to fuck off. Grace and I spent a few more minutes in the bathroom, then rejoined the party. At dawn we shared a taxi home. Her to the Marmont. Me to a small bungalow over the Hills in North Hollywood. The sun was harsh. Both of us had sunglasses I didn't get to sleep until noon.

That was in 1995.

Grace is my age.


Maybe my math is bad.

Everyone lies about their age and weight after 30.

You Bet I Would # 8

Faye Dunaway achieved instant fame in 1967 for her portrayal of the 20s outlaw Bonnie Parker opposite Warren Beatty's Clyde Barrow in Arthur Penn's BONNIE AND CLYDE. The blonde actress from Florida was the antithesis of the all-American girl. A machine on a protruding hip said sex. She seemed to have appeared on the scene out of nowhere, however I saw a younger Faye on Groucho Marx's YOU BET YOUR LIFE. The year must have been 1959. She was only 18. Her partner was a military man, but the budding actress answered the questions with a cobra snapping at a tone-deaf swami's hand.

I was 7 at the time.

Too young for anything other than love.

I might have met her in a Boston nightclub in 1976. She was married to the harp player of the J Geils Band. I was friendly with the owner. The club was gay. He invited me to sit at his table. The blonde looked very familiar. Movie star beautiful. I was stunned by her allure. Not a word issued from my mouth. The owner laughed at my paralysis. 'Faye' left to meet her husband. I deserted Boston for New York the following week.

I loved her in BARFLY.

She was a goddess ruined by Hollywood.

Fat People Love More

"Every fat person says it's not their fault, that they have gland trouble. You know which gland? The saliva gland. They can't push away from the table." - Jesse Ventura - ex-governor of Minnesota, WWF wrestler, Navy Seal, surfer, prospective American President.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Fuck KFC

Workers rights have suffered reversals around the world. Richie Boy responded to my request for a raise by saying that keeping my job at the diamond exchange was my raise. He thought the line was funny. I did not see the humor.

The GOP are attempting to roll back the social advances of the FDR era. Their leaders are calling for the end of collective bargaining, the privatization of Social Security, and an end of Medicare. Strikes are rare in the USA, however workers around the world are in even worse straits.

KFC workers in Thailand were treated with contempt by the franchise owners. Any complaints were ground for dismissal. The bosses followed Richie Boy's line on bonuses. Bonuses were continued employment. Wages were short of the national minimum and employees were given instant noodles and leftovers for dinner.

KFC and Pizza Hut Thailand earned almost 6 billion baht or about 100 Mercedes-Benz for its share owners.

Chicken bones for the staff of 10,000 makes for good profit.

Poo-Yai happy. Everyone happy. Even the workers sabaii jai at KFC, because the rich know how much the por love eating bones. it's better than dirt.

CHICKEN MESSIAHS by Peter Nolan Smith

Several years ago the media covered a story about rats infesting a Greenwich Village KFC. The stock for Yum Corp, which owns the fast food chain along with Taco Bell, dropped fifty cents on the NYSE with the negative news and I felt bad, because for several years I had been a quality control inspector for KFC in the New York area.

I got the job in 1999 through Jim Rockford, no relation to the TV character. Our friendship dated back to an acid trip on Black’s Beach in August 1974. I swam with seals and they spoke my name. Jim laughed at their jokes. Coming down we forgot the punchlines.

Jim was a hippie guru with a girlfriend who looked like Patty Hearst. The cops stopped us everywhere with guns drawn. The police attention was a buzzkill and Jim felt the urge for going. “Come join us in Frisco. You can wear flowers in your hair.”

My senior year in university began in September and the summer of love died in 1969. We shook hands good-bye on the highway and I hitchhiked east to Boston. I graduated sin laude from BC and drove taxi, while waiting for a teaching job for the fall of 1974.

Jim showed up that summer. Hair longer than before. His blonde SLA clone girlfriend traded for a young Eurasian twenty year-old named Nona. Everyone in Boston fell in love with her that summer. Me too. We swam in Provincetown and danced at gay clubs in Boston. September arrive with a frost and they left for Woodstock.

We stayed in touch for as long as we could, but I moved to New York to pursue a career as a poet and the connection snapped like an old rubber band. I thought about Nona a lot. Her beauty was an exception to the rule in America. Dusky instead of blonde. I never expected to see her again.

In the winter of 1995 I was in Bali at a seaside bar where everyone who disappeared from your life reappears cooler than before and one night a woman called my name.

It was Nona.

The early evening tropical light was the best make-up a woman in her 30s could desire. We had a laugh that night with mutual friend and later went to her kon-tiki house in a bamboo grove. Her jealous Balinese boyfriend threatened me with a ceremonial kris. Nona showed him the door. “Pagi. Anda tidak bagus.”

“Not you. Stay here. He scares me.” I slept in the spare bedroom listening to the bamboo trunks rub against each other like lovers driven by the wind. I heard her lover climb the wall and throw rocks against the window, whispering words of love in Balinese.

In the morning he was gone and Nona said she was leaving for Singapore. No packed bags lay by the door and I read the situation for what it was, but before I left the house, I asked about Jim.

“I left him.”


“Because he hit me.”

“Hit you?”

“It’s a long story, anyway he’s married and living in Iowa. I think he’s growing marijuana. Here’s his number. If you see him, tell him thanks for everything.”

A month later I was back in New York and called the number in Iowa. The woman answering the phone said Jim wasn’t home. I later found out he was doing a five-year bid for cocaine possession.

I was able to afford my travels because of my diamond gig on West 47th Street.

Six months on. Six months off.

I ran into Nona over and over again. Bali, Paris, and London. She was making silver jewelry for a German boyfriend. There was no talk about the Bali guy or Jim. Women don’t discuss guys that hit them, unless they’ve had a lot to drink and Nona only sipped wine.

My 1998 trip to Thailand ended with my falling in love with a one-eyed go-go dancer. New York and its nightlife was a bland imitation of my redux of the film THE WORLD OF SUZIE WONG. My friends avoided my calls. Broken hearts are always bad luck. I drank at the 10th Street Lounge and one night spotted someone familiar staring at me. He was older and had long hair. I couldn’t ID him until he smiled.

It was Jim Rockford.

“What you doing here?”

A friend from Boston had said I was living on East 10th street. “This seemed like the bar you would drink in.”

“How so.”

“Pretty girls. Good music.”

“What are you really doing here?” I asked in the bathroom doing a line of coke.

“I spent the last five years as a guest of the Iowa penal system. The cops invaded my house for suspicion of pot growing. Couldn’t find anything but an ounce of coke. Said it was for dealing.”

“Was it?” I’m very pro-anti-drugs.

“What you think?” Jim hooted a cigarette-thick line from the shelf.


“Anyway they never found the reefer since I had buried the farm and was using solar panel to heat the room. Couldn’t see the heat signature. Dopes. I’m still dealing pot but needed a clean source of income, so when I got out of prison, my PO got me a job inspecting KFCs.”

“Kentucky Fried Chicken?” Jim had been a vegetarian since a near-fatal bout of cancer in his teens.

“Yeah, Frankenstein chickens with no legs and no eyes. Only a mouth, bones, meat, and an asshole.”

It wasn’t a pretty picture and I ordered a vodka at the bar from the waitress I’d been trying to seduce for ages. The coke didn’t help my spiel and at the end of the night I invited Jim to sleep at my place.

“Thanks, I couldn’t have made it to New Jersey.”

“What are you really doing out there?”

“Well, I told you about that KFC gig. Every day I go to about 30-40 of them. Maybe you can help me.”

“How so?” My coke-spastic hands were having trouble with the front door. The key kept getting bigger.

“You can drive while I fill out my reports. I’ll give you $200 for the day and all the chicken you can eat.”

“I have my diamond job.” It was September and no one was buying jewelry.

“Call in sick.”

My boss Richie Boy was my drinking buddy. He would read my saying a head cold for what it was. A killer hang-over.

The next morning’s recovery required a bacon and eggs sandwich. Jim had a cup of coffee and a line of blow. “Hair of the dog.”

We picked up his rented Ford Taurus from the parking lot on East 9th street. I put Arthur Lee’s LOVE on the CD player.

“Damn, I love SIGNED DC. Head over to queens. I have a battle plans.” Jim threw a metropolitan map on my lap. The locations of the KFCs were marked with a red marker. “Today’s Brooklyn and Queens. Tomorrow the Bronx and Manhattan.”

I glanced at the map. There were over a hundred KFCs. None of them were on 5th Avenue or Soho or the Upper East Side. I mentioned this to Jim and he laughed, “Wherever KFC is, then you can count it as a scary neighborhood after dark. So step on it.”

We drove over the Queensboro Bridge and hit 10 KFCS before noon. The back seat was jammed with specials and supersized drinks. “The stores get a bonus if they ask us to supersize.”

The traffic sucked, but I made good time throughout Queens, because most of the shops were on the same boulevards, however Brooklyn had 30 KFCs scattered over the 5th biggest city in the USA and the neighborhoods got rougher as darkness dropped over the city.

East New York was an apocalypse. Especially Pitcairn Avenue. KFCs were the only sign of life. No bars. No restaurants. No stores. Only KFCs and bums hanging around the corners. No one bothered us, since two white guys cruising a black neighborhood look like cops.

“We had about $300 worth of chicken in the back seat. The car reeked of the Colonel. I had eaten about $20 worth. “We gotta to get rid of this shit.”

“Stop at Coutlandt. There a few homeless people there.”

“A few was about twenty and most appeared ready to run when we pulled up to the curb. Jim lowered the window and said, “Don’t anyone make a move.”

They froze like it was a Kojak episode and Jim got out of the car. “Anyone here like chicken?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?” A toothless wino joked, until Jim opened the back door and distributed fifty meals to the shopping cart brigade. The toothless wino cackled holding up a drumstick. First I thought you wuz the cops. Now I know who you are. You the chicken messiahs.”

Like that the chicken messiahs became an urban legend to the needy in Phillie, Newark, Yonkers, and New York.

Only the homeless would accept our charity on the streets. Anyone else was too proud or suspicious to take a hand-out. Not the boys working security at the 10th Street Lounge. The Jamaican bouncers loved the special deliveries.

Jim and I washed off the grease and drank vodkas at the bar. Our dessert was a line of blow. Nothing too extreme. “I got another busy day tomorrow.”

In the morning he woke early. “I’ll be back next month.”

Every month we would come into month with a kilo of pot and a bag of blow. KFCS recognizes us and put a special effort to cleaning their stores for our review. Some were good. Some were horrible. Jim never ate the chicken. Only the potatoes and corn bread. I loved the skin.

“Most people working this job get really fat.” Jim warned, as I had a bite of an extra spicy chicken. “So watch out.”

I did and concentrated on driving. I got to know the roads in the Bronx and Brooklyn like a gypsy cabdriver. Phillie was worst than anything New York had to offer. Especially North Phillie. People there shot dope on the streets. They never wanted charity chicken.

About a year into the gig Jim asked at the bar, “You know I been wanting to ask you a question.”

He had gotten the manager, Cornell, to play IMAGINE. Jim was a Beatles fan. I liked the Damned.

“What kind of question?’

“How you get my number?”

“Nona gave it to me.”

“Nona? Where you see her?”

“In Bali.” I explained about our meeting at the Blue Ocean without adding the boyfriends.

“How she look?”


“She say anything about me.”

“She said you hit her.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Yeah,” I never hit women. At least I told myself that, but had done so three times. They were also all mistakes.

“She was telling me I was a loser. Every day. It got to me and I slapped her once. She left me after that. I don’t know why her telling me that would have such an effect. I’m a peaceful guy.”

Nona had recently returned to New Jersey. “I saw her last week.”

“She’s back.”


“You have her number?”

Nona had told me never to give her number to Jim, but he was my friend and she was a 100 miles away. I wrote down the number and he went outside to call her. He came back after a few minutes and said, “Now I remember why I hit her.”

“The voice.” Nona came from Trenton. Her voice was a garbage router in your ear like the movie actress from SINGING IN THE RAIN.


“She still didn’t deserve to get hit.”

“You’re right. Jim was contrite. “She was a good girl. Said she wants to meet me.”

“You tell her about KFC?”

“She had a good laugh about that. Made me feel good I could make her laugh.”

Me too and they did get together. Although only as friends. I left the states after 2001. Jim and I still speak. He still visits Nona on his trips to Jersey. She eats chicken. He drinks wine in her house on the Delaware. No chicken messiah could hope for more. At least not Jim