How Sweet It Is

"How sweet it is."

Few youths of today are familiar with Jackie Gleason's famous aside. The big man was a star. TV, Broadway, Miami Beach. He symbolized joie de vivre.

Jackie Gleason was no athlete. A good golfer and gambler, but no Olympian except for drinking and eating, especially at Toots Shor's West 52nd Restaurant. One night the comedian challenged his host to a race around the block. First one back pays for dinner. The two men set out running in the opposite direction. Toots didn't see his competition until arriving back at the bar. Jackie Gleason hadn't even broken a sweat.

"No one said nothing about taking a taxi."

Victory.

How sweet it is.

"If you have it and you know you have it, then you have it. If you have it and don't know you have it, you don't have it. If you don't have it but you think you have it, then you have it." - Jackie Gleason

The Fatman Cometh

Obesity has taken over America. Cheap food without nourishment has transformed the nation into a horde of overweight behemoths and they have no intentions of pushing away from the trough of processed food. They are in love with potato chips, Big Macs, and Diet-Soda. These heavyweights suffer from the fears in extremes number, since their bodies can indefensible. Flight on foot is not in options from danger. The fat can only stand their ground and quiver like jello, but a man has come to rescue the millions of corpulent Americans from the daily abuse from the Thin.

Governor Chris Christie of New Jersey has dipped his chubby toes into the presidential waters and found the flow to his liking.

Fat people in NJ voted overwhelmingly for the tubby GOP aspirant to the White House.

65% of Iowa is overweight.

His waist speaks to them like the oracles of Delphi.

He is one of them and they number in the millions.

This week e governor lambasted the president for incompetence.

"You know, I've said many times about the president who I have admiration for, and who I agree with on a number of issues. But man, get out there and tell us what you believe and be willing to fight for it even if people disagree with it. They're going to give you points. They're going to give you points for being willing to speak your mind. I can't tell you how many times I was walking along the beach in various parts of New Jersey this past week where I had people come up to me and say I don't agree with you all the time but at least you're doing something. People will give you credit for that even if they don't agree with you every time. Nobody agrees with me all the time. I barely agree with me all the time. So, you know, so you go out and you do the best you can." 

The Fatman cometh and Barack better be ready to smack him down like he was a 6th Grade bukkakee freak.

The Bible said nothing about the fat inheriting the world.

Of course.

Because it's total nonsense.

Same as the fat man.

Sucker Punch

The CBGB's bathroom had many purposes. The main use was the traditional release of body waste. Another was spray-painting or magic-markering a band's name atop the thousands of previous honorees of the toilet hall of fame. The inhalation of cocaine or heroin was more popular in the stalls than shooting up dope or speedballs. The smell of the urinal kept conversations short and sweet. There was no mirror in the men's room, so self-grooming was reserved for the women's room. Its state of filth revealed Hilly's opinion of sexual equality. We deserved nothing better than the worst and that grungy atmosphere suited some people's desire just fine.

After all we were punks.

One night I was at the bar. A red-haired girl in torn fishnet stocking and black plastic mini-dress asked for a drink. A JD and coke. Her hair was tousled by the wind and her mascara ruined by tears. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were a 32-A. A languid gaze betrayed her dabbling with 'ludes. Our dialogue headed in one direction and after two minutes she downed her drink.

"Let's go to the bathroom."

She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd. I signaled to BG behind the bar to watch my beer. The Cramps were on stage. Luxe was singing SURFING BIRD. The brunette waved to the bass player. He gave a sardonic grimace and nodded to indicate he had been there before. I was no rock star

As we passed the dressing room, e opening band called out her name.

"Brenda."

The redheads was popular. We descend to the basement and the redheads led me into the ladies room. She pushed open the door to a stall and locked it shut.

"Keep your back to it and don't let anyone in." She dropped to her knees with the grace of a ballerina auditioning for SWAN LAKE.

I was single, 25, and a punk. We lived for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. This scene most certainly fit into the sex part of the equation. A minute passed with her writhing on the tiles. She pulled down her the top of her dress.

"When you're ready, cum on these."

I was good at following orders.

A man stormed into the bathroom and pounded on the stall's door.

"Brenda, you in there?" He was angry.

Brenda lifted a fingernail to her lips and stood pulling up her dress. She kissed me and opened the door. The man was a punk. Leather jacket and engineer boots. His eyes narrowed with fury.

"Brenda."

"Brenda laughed in his face.

"We were only doing drugs." She held up a packet of cocaine. <

"Brenda's my girlfriend." He wasn't buying her lie.

"Then that means you're next."

Something about sex in a bathroom brought out my cockiness and I returned to the bar. The Cramps had finished their set. The bass player winked at me. My beer was still on the bar. BG asked if I had a good time.

"Good enough."

Someone tapped my shoulder.

This was a classic lead-in to a sucker punch.

I figured it to be the boyfriend.

I ducked and felt a fist go over my head. It was the boyfriend. I was too close to punch him, so my hands clutched his throat. He return the gesture. We were choking each other to death. I couldn't breathe. He was in the same boat.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Brenda taking the drummer of the opening band outside. Her boyfriend saw her exit thing. Unable to speak our eyes called a truce.

"You had enough?" He gasped for breath.

"Sure, you want a beer?"

"Why not?"

Guadalcanal and I became friends after that evening. We never mentioned Brenda. She became a cabaret singer. Too much style to go to the bathroom with men anymore. Brenda was too good for us, but at one time she wasn't bad enough.

Guadacanal and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Like I said.

We were punks.

30 Seconds To Fame

The spread of communism terrorized America in the 50s. Joe McCarthy announced that he had a list of government employees working for the Russians. People were ruined by is witch hunt. The infiltrators were few. They worked for both sides. By the 60s our teachers instructed their students to be aware of the conspiratorial tactics of the godless soviets.

Assassinations of character, fraudulent voting scandals, unfounded accusations, and confrontational politics were the stepping stones for overthrowing a legitimate government. The Reds were successful throughout Eastern Europe. Our parents and religious leaders warned us about the sweet entreaties of communism and we fought the atheistic monolith in Korea and Vietnam by bombing them into the Stone Age.

The collapse of the Soviet Empire discredited the Kremlin, however in recent years the GOP has adapted their stratagem to the American political process. Gerrymandering weakened the democratic districts. Disclosure of scandal emasculated the power of congressmen. Fear was their greatest tool. Terrorizing the psyche of the USA.

Recently President Obama toured the country to announce his campaign for re-election. A group of GOP Tea Party members harangued the Leader of the Free World. Their spokesman Ryan Rhodes accused the President of being a socialist. The Tea Party member is not the boxer, but I wish Obama had resisted with a sucker punch to the head of this white boy.

Crack the peckerwood in the nose.

But the President refused to take the bait and Fox News has a new star to add to their galaxy of communist-tactic subverters.

I've been in Iowa before.

2009.

I overheard a trio of GOPers claiming that the USA was founded on Christian values. I rose from my bar stool and told the three of them, "This country was founded on Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, so shut the fuck up. I've had it up to here with your god bullshit."

They said nothing.

"Don't you dare look my way or else."

My hippie friends shook their heads.

"Bar fights are uncool."

"Not when you fight to win." A chair over the head usually settles the argument within a second.

Oh, Obama, why weren't you born in Chicago, instead of Mecca?

And They're Off

Milt Romney, Michelle Bachman, Rick Perry, Newt Gingrich, Jon Huntsman, Tim Pawlenty, Ron Paul, Rick Santorum, and Herb Cain flocked to America's Heartland to compete in the Ames Straw Poll. Iowa has hosted the GOP event since 1979 and the winner has received the party's presidential nomination 3 out of 5 times. The Hawkeye State boasts a strong Christian population with 92.9% of its people listed as Caucasians. Only Vermont, Maine, New Hampshire, and West Virginia score higher for the white race, however Iowans are much more progressive than the holy rollers of the Bible Belt and Republicans relish the challenge of these straight-minded people.

Milt Romney won the 2007 decision and dedicated time and money to woo the voters, who really have little else to do on an August weekend than freak out White House hopefuls. The participants can belong to any political party as long as they're are need to be at least 16 1/2 years old, an Iowa resident or college student, and have paid $30 to cast their vote.

$30 buys 15 beers at the Deadwood Tavern in Ames.

It's the college town's # 1 dive.

I doubt if many of its regulars made it to the polls, but once the voting was closed the news media announced the surprise victory of Minnesota congresswoman Michelle Bachman over the nine males in the field. She's definitely more attractive than the previous Tea Party sweetie Sarah Palin and I can help thinking that she's somehow related to 70s movie siren Barbara Bach as well as Randy Bachman of Bachman-Turner Overdrive. The foster mother of 23 children actually is a native of Iowa and no one will ever accuse her of not being born in America.

Ron Paul came in a strong second, but some of the boys will have to ask themselves about their chances against the harridan of the right, especially Newt Gringrich. It takes a big man to recognize his time has come and gone, but it's early in the race and nothing yet has been written in the sand.

Full Results

U.S. Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-Minn.): 4,823 votes
U.S. Rep. Ron Paul (R-Texas): 4,671 votes
Former Minnesota governor Tim Pawlenty: 2,293 votes
Former U.S. Senator Rick Santorum (R-Pa.): 1,657 votes
Former Godfather's Pizza CEO Herman Cain: 1,456 votes
Texas Governor Rick Perry: 718 votes
Former Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney: 567 votes
Former House Speaker Newt Gingrich: 385 votes
Former Utah governor Jon Huntsman: 69 votes

Iowa caucuses will see some of these faces and surely others.

All preaching god and small government.

It's what the people want.

At least their people.

Memory Loss by Peter Nolan Smith

The Catholic Church and other derivatives of the Judeo-Christian faith extol monogamy as the true state of man and woman, then explain sex with the mystery of the birds and bees. Actually I don't ever recall getting that lecture from my parents, although the stork was mentioned whenever a new brother or sister arrived unannounced from the hospital. Storks at hospitals made no sense to me, but my parents remained faithful to each other till death like mating pigeons.

On the other hand I have been a wanderer. I can't count the number of my paramours on one hand or all my digits either. I've never made a list. Somehow that seemed a little too gauche. While I don't remember all their names I do recollect their faces, smiles, and smell. Strangely very little of the sex. Woman pride themselves on their memories. They can quote you twenty years after the utterance left your lips. I thought that females would be the same about the act of love.

Not all of them.

Several years back I ran into Valda at a studio opening in Manhattan. I had been out of town for a half-year in Asia. We sat on a window sill and spoke of our lives. Past and present. Two younger people came up to us and asked if we were a couple.

"You seemed so comfortable together." The male beamed with the promise of two hearts beating as one. He held his girlfriend's hand with tenderness. They had a lot to learn, but I wasn't giving them any harsh lessons, so I said, "No, we're not a couple, but we once were lovers."

"No, we weren't." Valda's answer was quick and harsh.

"We weren't? I was certain we had slept together on my futon. Sweat slickening our bodies on a hot August night.

"Not at all." She was adamant about the non-existence of a shared night or two.

"Are you sure?" Her kiss had been long.

"100%."

Those encounters couldn't have been a phantasm of my fantasies. Her nails had scratched my back to shreds.

The young couple were aghast by the fury in her eyes.

"Sorry, guess I was thinking about someone else."

"Not me."

"Not you." I admitted defeat and Valda stormed away, as if we were a divorced couple.

She had almost convinced me that nothing happened between us.

She was wrong.

I had slept with one her best friends, Lucille.

She would know if I was right, but the skinny Texan had vanished from New York at least a decade earlier.

Valda glared at me the rest of the night. I hadn't thought I was so bad, but you never are as your memory fades from clarity.<

Knock Off Your Sox

A UK survey exposed that 43% of English men keep on their sox during sex. The findings did not reveal the why, however I lived in London during the autumn of 1977. My girlfriend, Lisa, was a model. Blonde and small-framed, David Bailey liked to photograph her. I think nude. She rented a posh studio by the Chelsea football pitch. The sheet were sea cotton. The duvet filled with goose feathers. Only problem to this paradise was that the heat emitted from a small electric heater fed by a constant stream of 10 pence coins.

Otherwise it was colder than San Francisco in August.

Mark Twain swore that was cold but he should have lived through November in London.

I wore my sox to bed. I wore them having sex. Lisa wore mine too.

Things should have improved in the 30 year interim, however British traditions hang around like old Thai girlfriends. I asked a few Pattaya bar girls about the English’s perchance for sox, “Do your Brit boyfriends wear soxes when having sex?”

“Sex when have sex? Mai chao jai.” They invariably mistook ‘sox’ for sex. Explanation further confused the issue. “No, they wear condom.”

Not on their feet as least.

In America we have an expression, “Knock your sox off.” meaning to be impressed.

Its origins are attributed to the people being knocked out of their sox in pedestrian-vehicular accidents although another source could come from the early days of porno movies, when the male actors wore sox to speed up getting on their shoes if the cops raid the premises.

Feet don’t fails me now.

The only time they took off their sox was when the sex was astounding.

Sexual bliss has nothing to do with the Brits, who probably also don’t take off their soxes because it’s too much of a bother.