The Sins of Helmut Newton

Helmut Newton portrayed sex differently from the Playboy magazine version. S&M tainted photos versus airbrushed farm girls, however Hugh Hefner recognized the Berlin-born photographer's talent and hired Newton to shoot soft-core pictorials for Playboy, including pictorials of Nastassia Kinski and Kristine DeBell. His true vision of sexuality will always be renowned for its departure point being far beyond most people's ken of fetishism.

Me too, but only because the lingerie looks so expensive.

He was a god and rightfully his ashes were buried next to Marlene Dietrich at the Städtischen Friedhof III in Berlin.

Schlafen gut, Helmut.

Dinah Willis - Playboy Miss December 1964

I left Barbie for her.

Mea Culpa Barbie

Barbie was a doll born of the 60s. Her original body scale if set to 5-9 would give her dimensions of a 36-inch chest, 18-inch waist and 33-inch hips. Her unearthly body was never questioned by the millions of girls, who loved the Mattel creation, and certainly not by their brothers, who undressed Barbie whenever no one was home to recreate the act of sex between Barbie and her boyfriend. Few of us were imaginative enough to realize the possibility of a menage-a-trois.

Barbie was the first women 60s boys ever loved and anyone who tells you different is a liar, unless they were into Ken.

And a lot of my friends did love Ken.

He was so cool.

Especially when watching us ply with Barbie.

Ken never squealed to my sisters.

He was a good guy and there was nothing wrong with playing with dolls. At least not my method, because rubbing Ken and Barbie together like two sticks inflamed my pubescent mind to a fever pitch.

Mea culpa Barbie.

Testimony For A Dead Man

Darren Wilson According to the leaked testimony to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch on October 22 the incident began as Wilson was driving down Canfield Drive, having just handled a call about a sick baby, when he saw Brown and Johnson walking down the middle of the street. Wilson told them to move to the sidewalk and was met with verbal abuse from the pair in response. Wilson saw that they were carrying cigarillos and he noticed that Johnson matched the description of a suspect in a strong-arm robbery where cigarillos had been stolen. Wilson parked his vehicle and called for assistance, then tried to get out of the vehicle, but was punched in the face by Brown through the open window. Wilson thought he had no choice but to draw his weapon, because Brown was "incredibly strong". He was unable to use pepper spray due to the close quarters, and his baton was out of reach. Brown grabbed Wilson's pistol while punching him repeatedly in the face. Wilson could feel Brown pushing the weapon back toward his body, and it was at one point pointed back at his hip. Wilson pulled back inside the vehicle and attempted to shoot Brown, but he failed the first time because Brown's finger was jammed in the hammer of the gun. The gun fired on the second attempt, resulting in a wound to Brown's hand, as well as scattering fragments of glass inside the vehicle. A second gunshot failed to hit Brown before Brown fled. Wilson's shoulder radio had been knocked off-setting during the struggle, and he decided to give chase. After he got out of the vehicle, Brown turned back toward him, then charged at him despite his commands to stop. Wilson fired at Brown, hitting him four times, including a final, fatal shot to the forehead, which brought Brown down. Wilson told investigators that he did not recall yelling or saying anything when he was chasing Brown, but when Brown stopped, turned and began running toward him, he yelled stop.[66] According to a source reported in The Washington Post, Wilson testified to the grand jury that he ordered Brown to stop and lower himself to the ground, but Brown instead turned and moved toward the officer.[67] Wilson said that Brown's hands were not raised at the time of the shooting.[65]

Dead men can't tell their side of the story, but eyewitnesses can tell what they saw that day.

Dorian Johnson Dorian Johnson, a friend of Brown, was walking with him in the street. Johnson said that Wilson pulled up beside them and said, "Get the fuck on the sidewalk."

The young men replied that they were "not but a minute away from their destination, and would shortly be out of the street". Wilson drove forward without saying anything further, only to abruptly back up, positioning his vehicle crosswise in their path, almost hitting the two men. "We were so close, almost inches away, that when he tried to open his door aggressively, the door ricocheted both off me and Big Mike's body and closed back on the officer."

Wilson, still in his vehicle, grabbed Brown around his neck through the open window.[39] Brown tried to pull away, but Wilson continued to pull Brown toward him "like tug of war".[73] Brown "did not reach for the officer's weapon at all", and was attempting to get free of Wilson rather than attack him or take his weapon from him.

Wilson drew his weapon and said, "I'll shoot you" or "I'm going to shoot", and almost instantaneously fired his weapon, hitting Brown.

Following the initial gunshot, Brown was able to free himself, at which point the two fled. Wilson exited the vehicle, after which he fired several rounds at the fleeing Brown, hitting him once in the back.

Brown turned around with his hands raised and said, "I don't have a gun. Stop shooting!" Wilson then shot Brown several more times, killing him.

Johnson's attorney stated that Wilson did not attempt to resuscitate Brown, did not call for medical help, and "he didn't call it in that someone had been shot."

Johnson told local TV stations shortly after the shooting that Brown had been surrendering, when Wilson opened fire without cause or warning.

Johnson's attorney, Freeman Bosley, stated that Johnson had confirmed with law enforcement his and Brown's roles in taking the cigars prior to the shooting incident

Piaget Crenshaw

Piaget Crenshaw said that, from her vantage point, it appeared that Wilson and Brown were arm wrestling before the former shot Brown from inside his vehicle. Wilson then chased Brown for about 20 feet before shooting him again. "I saw the police chase him ... down the street and shoot him down." When Brown then raised his arms, the officer shot him two more times, killing him.

Michael Brady

By the time Michael Brady got outside, Brown had turned around and was facing Wilson. Brown was "balled up" with his arms under his stomach and he was "halfway down" to the ground. As he was falling, Brown took one or two steps toward Wilson because he was presumably hit and was stumbling forward; Wilson then shot him three or four times. Brady said that the pictures he took of Brown with his arms tucked in under his body is the position he was in as he was shot three or four more times by Wilson before hitting the ground

Tiffany Mitchell Tiffany Mitchell arrived in the area to pick up coworker Piaget Crenshaw. In an August 13 televised interview with a local CBS affiliate, Mitchell said she saw Brown and Wilson struggling through the window of Wilson's vehicle. "The kid was pulling off and the cop was pulling in." She started to take out her phone to record video, but then she heard a gunshot, "so I just started getting out of the way." After the first shot was fired, Brown started to run away. "After the shot, the kid just breaks away. The cop follows him, kept shooting, the kid's body jerked as if he was hit. After his body jerked he turns around, puts his hands up, and the cop continues to walk up on him and continues to shoot until he goes all the way down."

Mitchell also appeared on CNN that evening, describing what she witnessed as follows: "As I pull onto the side, the kid, he finally gets away, he starts running. As he runs the police get out of his vehicle and he follows behind him, shooting. And the kid's body jerked as if he was hit from behind, and he turns around and puts his hands up like this, and the cop continued to fire until he just dropped down to the ground and his face just smacks the concrete. Grand jury witnesses On October 16, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch published an interview with a black Canfield resident who testified before the grand jury. The man, who did not want his name released, said he saw the entire event. Wilson drove past Johnson and Brown and then backed up again. A scuffle ensued in the police vehicle and Wilson's hat flew off. There was a gunshot at the vehicle, and then Brown ran down the street followed by Wilson. Wilson aimed his gun at Brown and repeatedly yelled "Stop", but did not fire until Brown turned around and stepped toward Wilson. At that point Wilson fired three shots. Brown staggered toward Wilson from 20 feet away with his hands out to his sides, when Wilson fired again. The witness said that Brown was already falling as the last shots were fired and that, in his opinion, the final shots were murder.

Tonight helicopters are hovering over the Farragut Projects on the other side of Fort Greene Park. I hear the whoop of sirens. The pigs.

White America

When It All Went Bad

Bridges and Typewriters

In Jan. 1982 a french magazine ACTUEL hired me to work the work at their Paris nightclub, Le Rex. I bid good-bye to New York and flew from JFK to Heathrow with one bag of my best clothing and an Olivetti typewriter.

After a brief visit with friends in London, I boarded a train at Waterloo Station for Dover and caught a night ferry to Calais. The immigration officials stamped my passport with a six-month visa and I passed through customs without any of the smoking officials casting an eye in my direction. It was cold outside and I walked to the Calais train station.

My typewriter weighed a ton and I contemplated ditching it, while crossing a bridge. The tide was out and the river bottom was thick with mud. The world didn't need another writer or another doorman at a nightclub, then again this world doesn't need much, so I trudged into the terminal with the Olivetti and bought a ticket to Paris.

Gare Du Nord.

For me and my typewriter.

I have no idea where it is now, but me I'm in New York and my typing is as bad as ever.

The Dream Is Never Over

After spending a lovely night in Houston, JFK and his wife boarded the presidential jet for a short hop to Dallas. The crowds lining the route applauded the president and his hostess, Mrs. Connolly, commented, Dallas loved him and he replied, "That's very obvious."

The single bullet and then another struck JFK within a second of his reply.

November 22, 1963 was a bad day, however the video shows that he was having a good time in Texas.

The love was real and real now too.

Johnny Boy we miss you.

To view the lovely night in Houston, please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQlw-U8l6YY

THE BIRTH OF THE BOUFFANT by Peter Nolan Smith

In the late-18th Century Marie Antoinette' coiffeur sought to camouflage the queen's baldness by upsweeping her thinning tresses to cascade over her ears. The femme fatales of the ancien regime imitated 'le bouffant, until the royal coif lost its popularity with the Marie's final haircut by the guillotine.

Almost two centuries later Jackie Kennedy, JFK's wife, reincarnated the fashion during her tenure at the White House.

American women idolized the glamorous First Lady regardless of their politics.

Overnight millions of housewives hit their local hair salon to acquire the look.

Movie stars such as Audrey Hepburn and Kim Novak further popularized the rage and within months the only women rejecting the coif were Durgin Park's gang of crew-cut bull dyke waitresses and the nuns at my grammar school, Our Lady of the Foothills.

The bouffant died out with the advent of the hippie era.

Young women grew long hair and coif was once more threatened with extinction, except for brief respite from the lead singers of the B-52s and the late English singer Amy Winehouse.

Last year Jamie Parker and I were happy-houring at Solas in the East Village. We had the Irish bartender to ourselves. Moira liked a good laugh and Jamie told her stories of his go-go bar in Pattaya.

After our second margharita an attractive woman walked into a shadowy bar. Her bleached blonde hair was stacked high on her head. Stiletto heels added another five inches to her Amazonian height.

"A model." Jamie Parker smirked at the passing beauty in designer drag.

"Probably coming from a shoot." The actresses in TV show MADMEN had revitalized the early 60s, although few woman in present-day America could pull off the time-travel make-over.

"She looks like a 1960s transvestite." The lanky ex-con squinted down the bar.

"And that's a bad thing." I caught the scent of Chanel No.5. She was high-class.

The goddess sat at the end of the bar and Moira went to attend to her need. She was into girls.

"Not in this light." It was almost night that deep in Solas.

"You don't like the bouffant?"

"Not at all."

"And why not?"

"Because the Mr. Kenneth who re-invented the hair style for Jackie Kennedy was queer."

"You have something against gays?" Back in the 60s gays were feared by young men, unless they were looking for a good time. This was the modern times. Gay-bashing was not in fashion.

"Me, I love gays, but gay hairdressers used the bouffant hair style as a strategy to turn straight men gay."

"What do you mean?" I wasn't following Jamie's line of thoughtlessness.

"Just that it's not a really natural look and women refused to have sex to avoid ruining the helmet of hair on their head, so men sought release elsewhere."

"With other men?"

"The sexual revolution freed us from our chains." Jamie was a couple of years older than me, although he didn't look it.

"I had a girlfriend with a bouffant in 1965." Jo and I met in the Mattapan Oriental Theater. We were both 13.

"And you went all the way?"

"Not even close." Steel-rimmed bras safeguarded against any attempts by unschooled boys to reach 'second base'.

"See."

"It had nothing to do with the bouffant."

"You're from Boston. Men from Boston love Jackie Kennedy's bouffant. You probably went to bed jerking off to the First Lady."

"Not that I can remember." Jackie O rode horses and spoke French. Women like her were destined to marry rich regardless of their hairstyle. "Jo was my muse. I know my place."

"Don't we all." Jamie was in the States visiting his mother. She lived in the Bronx and thought that he was teaching school in Thailand, instead of running the Pigpen A Go-Go featuring fat pretty bar girls and skinny ugly pole dancers.

"My mom had a bouffant."

"Mine too."

"It had them feel like a queen."

"Better than knowing your place."

"Send the princess a drink on us," Jamie told Moira.

"Happily." Moira played for the other side.

"Do you like the bouffant?"

"It's very Kim Novak." The blonde had mesmerized Hitchcock in his film VERTIGO.

"Wasn't she gay?" Jamie asked eying me.

"I think so." Moira played for the other side. She was holding the model's hand. They looked like a nice couple.

If only for happy hour.

"Ah, here's to the bouffant." Jamie raised his glass.

"And Jackie O."

At my age I might think about her once in a while.

After all she was the mother of the modern bouffant.

Wear What November 22,1963

Not only do I know where I was 50 years ago when I heard about JFK, I know exactly what I was wearing.

The school uniform for St. Mary of the Hills.

We miss you JFK.

Always have.

Always will.

Fuck the debunkers of Camelot.

$1.19 Steak At Tad's

I ate my first steak at Tad's.

1964.

Someplace near Penn Station

$1.19

I made five times that as a newspaper boy.

We were not wage slaves in the age of Tad's Steakhouse.

Stranger Stranger

Family.

Sigh.

Maybe I remember the better moments of life.

I don't think so.

Then again I am far from a perfect person.

As anyone can judge from this missive from my cousin.

"I think of you all every day, unfavorably and with sorrow. It is, I suppose, kind of you to contact me but, sadly, too late, too little, too meaningless. I remember how I was there for you for Michael and for Angie. But you were not there for me following David's suicide. A wonderful, joyful childhood, rich in cousinly play and adventure, evaporated into nothingness. Memories betrayed and made distant. Of the lot, only Gina retains any claim to ethical conduct.

Nevertheless, I wish you happiness and prosperity, as I would any stranger."

I was her brother's friend.

The Bishop and I played B-Ball together.

I spoke to him a week before his deciding to end it all.

I think about Davie all the time.

I am not a stranger.

Not to the Bishop.

All The Leaves Are Brown

Sunday morning I took this photo from the top floor of the Fort Greene Observatory. The sky was gray and the Mamas and Papas' CALIFORNIA DREAMIN' rang in my ears. I was 2900 miles from the West Coast and rain sloshed on the sidewalk. I went to work in wet gear. The streets of Manhattan swelled ankle-deep with the overflow of every deluge. Thankfully I was wearing a good boots and returned home at dark only a little wet.

My landlord and I smoked some reefer after which I fell into bed with the windows open to the cool autumn night.

Sirens sang on Fulton.

Ambulances, not fire or police.

Brooklyn was dangerous in the rain.

I watched WALKING DEAD and read PORIUS by John Cowper Powys. The Celtic fairy tale was a tough walk through the weeds of words obscuring the Arthurian legend. My eyes shut after two chapters, dreaming of my Pictish blood. I lasted two seconds as a near-sighted thane with a dull sword against the Roman shield and I wandered through the sleeplands until a whoosh of wind withered a shiver through the trees outside my window.

Golden leaves fluttered to the floor.

My breath floated on the darkness.

The temperature dropped every second.

Autumn was gone.

Winter was here.

I shut the windows and watched the wind rip away the leaves.

Mercy was out of the question for the new season's invaders.

Three layers of blankets shunned the cold, but this was only the beginning.

I was winter and winter was bound to get colder.

Earth was in Space and the temperature in Space was Absolute Zero.

To hear CALIFORNIA DREAMIN', please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dN3GbF9Bx6E

Le Livre de Philippe Waty

The Steamin' Musselmen or les Muselmans Fumant were an artistic troupe de force in Paris through the 1980s and 1990s. Philippe Waty co-founded the group and his vibrant iconography adorned the walls of the abandoned city quarters. Philippe painted with the spirit of Chester Hines's Black America matched by his collaborators; Fabrice Langlade, Tristam de Quatremere, Franky Boy, César Maure and Dominique Gangloph.

Sadly Philippe passed into the Here-Before in September of 2012.

He was a friend.

Tristam has organized a book of Waty's work.

On December 3rd at le Favel de Chic, 18 Rue du Faubourg du Temple there will be a soiree to celebrate his life and art.

If I can get there, I will be there.

Le Etoile De Waty.

The Last Of Millions

George Lawrence Price (1892 - 1918)

The last to fall in the Great War.

A Canadian from Falmouth, Nova Scotia.

MY LIFE by Big Albert Harlow

MY LIFE

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my youth As I look in the mirror and see the truth My heart becomes heavy as I see the grey hair Time has marched on and it doesn’t seem fair It seemed like only yesterday I was young and life was free I had no idea what was in store for me I believed I was invincible and nothing could bring me down But somehow my life got turned around I traded my freedom for a cell of concrete and bars I spent too many years without seeing the stars My spirit was crushed and my heart turned to stone I was surrounded by killers and gangsters, yet still I was alone My love for the world slowly turned to hate Patiently I waited for the day they would open the gate That day finally came and I took my turn But not for long, I had so much to learn When they let me out my world had moved on I had nowhere to go, everything was gone The system is designed for people to fall They gave me 200 bucks and no hope at all But I was too young to give up and die Yet I felt I was too old to cry So I picked up a gun and robbed gangsters and thugs I took all their money and then took their drugs I lived my life hard and fast Letting my guard down was a thing of the past I did what I did so I could survive Right or wrong I am still alive I played with fire and many times burned Life’s lessons were hard, but finally learned I left my home and traveled around I stopped in Asia and finally settled down Married to a lovely wife who gave me a beautiful son And when he is older I will tell him about the things I have done So he may know what not to do I will teach him to be smart and always think things through And it doesn’t matter who you are or where you’ve been It’s not the tough guy, but the smart guy who knows how to win.

Albert Harlow 2014

A gentle gunman although not in his day.

Dump Bill Bratton

In 2012 police in the USA arrested over 750,000 people for marijuana with the vast majority of those detained being charged with possession. Violent crime arrests were 200,000 less than that number, revealing that law enforcement throughout the War on Crime was more interested in filling out quotas than address real crime such as murder, rape, or white-collar bank theft.

Up to 50,000 of those arrests were in New York City under the direction of then-Mayor Bloomberg, who instructed watch officers to grind out reefer arrests to supplement budget shortfalls and show the media that they weren't soft on drugs, however the Drug War has been lost for years and like Wehrmacht officers in Nazi Germany or generals in Viet-Nam certain top brass refuse to admit defeat.

NYC's top cop William Bratton is one of those fools and upon hearing of Mayor DeBlasio's retreat from prosecuting drug sales, argued that stop-and-frisk and detention for marijuana were valuable tools in the police arsenal, except the majority of arrests reflected the racist attitudes of the NYPD.

86% of the arrests were Black or Hispanic in a city where 40% of the population is white.

DeBlasio has not stopped the madness entirely, since the NYPD can still issue tickets and summons for marijuana possession for the purpose of revenue piracy of the lower class.

According to the NY Times Mayor de Blasio's police commissioner, William J. Bratton, who vowed to continue making low-level marijuana arrests.

This statement proves Bratton's incapability of being New York City's commissioner.

It is time for him to submit his resignation.

No fines, no tickets, no crime.

Make every day 4:20 until the cops wave the white flag.

They lost the War.

Fuck Bratton.

A Deluge Of Kathoeys

The mere mention of Bangkok's Nana Plaza at a New York dinner table peaked the interest of men and narrowed women's opinion of me. To the former I was a Don Juan and the latter regarded me as Gary Glitter come to life. To be honest I can't recall ever bar fining a go-go girl out of the notorious three-story sex complex on Sukhumvit Road Soi across from the ever-infamous Nana Hotel. I was more into Patpong in the 90s and by the 00s, Nana Plaza was too mercenary for my tastes.

The other night the Old Roué and I finished dinner at La Monita, a trendy Mexican restaurant. A meal with Coronas for two came to 1200 baht or nearly $40 or the price of a bar fine in Nana Plaza. It was early and the Old Roué suggested that we retire to a ground-floor bar at the wicked entreat.

"We can watch the changing of the guard."

I was glad to get out of La Monita. The clientele was too farangs for my taste. At heart I was a race traitor.

The Old Roue snaked through the parking lots and hotel garages and sidewalks to Soi Nana on his motorcycle. His nine year in Krung Thep has etched the short-cuts of Bangkok into his brain like a sailor's tattoo. He parked his Honda 250 next to a cart selling sum tam.

The owner nodded to the Old Roué.

They had a long-term relationship.

We entered the complex with flecks on rain dotting the pavement. The central cars had been moved back from the portal to provide access for fire engines. Nana Plaza and fire trap are almost synonymous, but the stars have favored the patrons and workers of the go-go bars. If a fire starts there, it will only because the property as a condo building was more profitable than the sex trade, but for the present Nana Plaza was safe since the sex entrepôt churned out more money than Belgium.

The two of us sat at the first bar. We were the only farangs in sight. It was about 7. Post time for the go-go bars was around 8.

"This is better than TV." The Old Roué ordered us beer. The doors to the go-go bars were open. The lights were blared white light, as the staff stocked the bars with beer, ice, and liquor. Mama-sans stood at the door awaiting their flocks. A few early arrivals wandered into the plaza and wai-ed the Buddha blessing their entrance. They laid flowers on the altar and proceeded to their respective place of employment.

"I like the transition." Nana was coming to life with hundreds of succubii seeking farangs.

"Newcomers are the first to arrive." The Old Roué had regarded this ritual countless times. The spectacle never tired him. He discreetly pointed to three older and dumpy farangs in shorts.

"They've left mother at home for the first time in decades to have s sex vacation with their friends. I make them for social workers or garbage men."

"I see them more as English railroad workers." The sweep-overs of these forty year-olds laid odds on my being right, except they passed us speaking an unknown foreign language.

"Serbs." The Old Roué wrinkled his nose. "Momma's boys to the man."

"Better this than becoming sex predators."

"Little danger of that from these boys. Look at how they walk."

The Old Roué was right. He was 65 and I was 60. The trio shuffled with apprehension. The two of us could have beaten any of them in a 25-yard dash.

"Ah, the first beautiful girl of the night."

"Wrong." Old Roué shook his head. "Check the way she's hurrying and fussing with her hair. That's a kathoey. Big hands too means big feet."

"Meaning big shoes." I picked up my camera. The ladyboy would have stopped traffic on 5th Avenue for blocks. Her heels were five-inch spikes. The dress revealed a goddess body. Long curls serpented down a slim back. I recognized her from a ladyboy website. Her name was Areeya.

"No photos. Not here." Old Roué admonished my absent-minded behavior.

"I know, I know." Nana Plaza had rules.

We observed the influx of wasted and aged farangs. Hope and despair mingled in their eyes.

I ordered another beer.

Girls showed up in clumps, but they were outnumbered by kathoeys.

"Where are all the girls?"

"It's a Tuesday night. Most of the best girls have been barfined for the week. They're sleeping with some old git, but they'll desert him on Thursday night. It gets busy then." The Old Roué was right and I started to count the ratio between females and ladyboys. It was about 50/50 and I mentioned the numbers to the Old Roué.

"It's all the same thing in the end. Farangs come here to answer a dream. Ladyboy or go-go girl. A young body makes them feel immortal at the gates of mortality."

The two of us turned our backs on the show. A fat heavyweight was fighting a well-muscled boxer on TV. The butterball had to weigh over 350. His reach prevented any offense from his opponent. We made a 20-baht bet with the cute bartender. She lost and actually paid me. I gave it right back. 20 baht wasn't what it used to be, but she could buy a coconut with it.

The stream of late-comers faltered and music blasted from the scores of bars lining the Nana Plaza.

"You feel like a go-go?"

I said no.

"Why?"

"I don't want to make a mistake and end up with a ladyboy."

Scores of the man ladies were thronging into Nana Plaza. Their beauty shone in the flashing lights. I had drank three rhum-cokes. Even I felt handsome.

"You have something against shims?"

"No, they're a lot of fun until your wife finds out." The Old Roué knew Junior Mint. He thought she was special.

"And how would your wife find out your transgression?"

"I don't know, but Thai women have an uncanny sense of a man's willingness to be naughty."

My cell phone rang. It was Mam.

"See."

I answered the phone.

"You at Nana?"

"Yes, have many ka-thoeys."

"Suai at night. Naki-at in morning."

They were beautiful at night.

I haven't woken with one in the morning, plus I was faithful to Junior Mint.

"Lak khun."

I hung up and the Old Roué said, "Uncanny is right."

It was time to call it a night on Tuesday night.

Maybe on Friday night it would be different.

I am not scared of ka-thoeys.

L'Art D'Etroit

A federal judge ruled against debtors seizing paintings and sculptures from Detroit's Insitute of Art. Bankruptcy vultures were seeking $800 million from the sale of masterpieces by Brueghel, Tintoretto, Frank Stella, and Frederick Edwin Church as well as Van Gogh's PORTRAIT OF A POSTMAN, which was the first painting I saw at Boston's MFA in the early 60s.

The painting would probably get close to $100 million at auction.

The Detroit Institute of Art remains under threat.

The city has yet to settle its other woes, but I think burning the banks might be a good course of action.

BURN BABY BURN.

You Bet I Would / Chador

Voting For No One

The results of the 2014 midterm elections ran heavily in favor of the GOP.

Harvard University estimated that a little over 21.3% of the registered electorate voted on Tuesday, meaning that the control of the Senate hinged on 1-2% of the vote. Millions stayed away from the ballot. The young, the old, blacks, conservatives, radicals, single women et al refrained from making their mark at the polling booth.

I work up early and cast my vote for the Green Party.

I wished that "None of the Above' was a choice, so that I didn't have to vote Democratic.

Obviously 80% of the voters made that choice by abstaining participation in the election.

Thus stands the state of democracy in the USA.

No one votes, because voting doesn't change anything.

The rich always win in the end.

But the pigs don't look like movie stars.

They just look like pigs.

Same as everyone else.

Waking From The Dead To The GOP Dawn

In 1990 a 747 landed on Biak. Me and a missionary got off the plane. He caught an island-hopper to a large island across the bay. I crossed the street to hire a room at the Old Dutch Hotel. The teenage bellhop led me to a room facing the sea.

Its color was slate blue.

I tipped the young boy $1.

It was a day's wage.

"Saya nama Ali."

"Cold beer."

Ali understood Indonesian and I rapidly leafed a conversation book.

"Beer dinging."

Ali nodded his head.

Five minutes later he returned with a large Bintang beer. I drank it watching dusk drift from east to west across Cendarwasih Bay. Night swam with the tropics. I fell asleep and woke in the morning grateful to be in a new world.

On Wednesday I rose from bed knowing the GOP had wrangled a majority in the Senate.

My side won small.

Despair was an easy way to spent the day, but marijuana initiatives had passed in several states as well as the rights of gay to get married. The GOP was smart not to fight these battles. Voters stayed at home. There is no ignorance greater than that of those who don't care about anything.

It was dusk and it's always darkest before it gets darker.

There is no new world.

The GOP will try to reverse time.

God and I mean the Jehovah God will rule on every law.

The 10 Commandments shall replace the Constitution.

Slavery will be reintroduced to teach blacks how good they had it under the whip.

All prisons will be renamed Hell and there is no redemption from Hell.

The Bible shall be the only schoolbook regardless of creed, race, or sex.

Women will receive half the pay of men.

They will not be able to go to college.

Drinking shall be banned from coast to coast.

Pot will be napalmed by fire squads.

Homosexuals shall be thrown into a pit packed with dogs on Viagra.

Children will be whipped in public for disobeying their parents.

All wind mills and solar energy panels will be destroyed by their owners or else.

Coal mining and tracking will be expanded to every state of the Union without any restrictions.

Anyone not believing in God will go to prison.

Anyone talking with a lisp will go to prison.

Anyone found not having sex in the missionary position will go to prison.

The President of Israel will rule from the White House.

The 10 Commandments shall be tattooed on the inside of everyone's eyelids, so they see the holy words whenever they shut their eyes. There is no rest for the wicked.

We shall dig a new canal along the Mexican border and fill it with our toxic waste fluids to prevent any underaged teenagers from entering the country.

All books on science shall be burned in the town square.

The rich shall become richer and the poor shall be put into labor camps constructing the toxic waste canal.

Public transportation shall be banned throughout the country.

Trains shall be used strictly for the transport of toxic waste heading to the border canal.

All factories with union employees shall be closed and the workers sent to re-education camps to become wage slaves for the toxic waste canal.

The minimum wage shall be reduced to $1 to reinforce the value of a dollar.

Anyone speaking about Global Warming shall go to GITMO, the new mega-prison for the unconvertible.

Everyone must have a gun and use them daily.

Needless to say going back in time will take a lot of work for the GOP, but they are dedicated to changing the world to back the way it was, so God will hasten the Final Days and everyone who deserves it will get to go to heaven.

I can only hope that the Apocalypse comes soon, because then the right-minded people of America can be vacuumed into eternity by the angels.

And good riddance to every one of the bible-thumpers.

Jessie Ventura 2016

No D Obama

The white media in America has suggested that the GOP landslide was a repudiation of the President. ISIS, Ebola, teenage immigrants, gay marriage, and global warming taxed the brains of overworked and underpaid white males who only have time to watch Fox News before they crash into their beds in a Bud Lite beer haze. They were scared.

Something out there wanted to get them.

Home?

Not much safer.

Their kids belonged to an alien culture.

They never call home.

Better the NSA listening to them.

White men only understand football.

Barack Obama played basketball.

The key to good hoops is defense.

Never let the offense into the paint.

Obama had no D in this election.

His party stood away from him.

Debbie Wasserman Schultz sucked as DNC chairman.

The Florida Congressman might have earned an extension had the gubernatorial effort provided a new state governor from the Sunshine State.

My good friend, AK, a straight-up socialist, had worked for Crist in his attempt to unseat the incumbent.

60,000 votes.

Democratic voters i.e. blacks and latinos and everyone else stayed home.

In 2008 we felt him.

2012.

The same.

This year he was a zombie on defense.

Barry had lived around the world.

He can't be that soft on D, then again Obama has never been the same since aide-de-camp Reggie Camp resigned from the team in 2011.

Surrounded by mega-banking flacks, Ivy League insiders, and Pentagon babykillers Barack Obama must finally realize that Michelle had been right.

Change can only be achieved through change.

A pity.

No D.

More Of The Same No Change

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.