Analogblog

She knows what I don't

2010-09-18T09:24:00.000-07:00

Flying blind over a continent of indifference
She maps the course.

Chiba
She says
We can breathe there
She says
It's next to the ocean
She says

I don't ask which one

this is my strength
and my weakness

razor bloody brain
against contrary brickwall will
which leads to constant, consistent, frustrating pain
and then
almost always
to perennial pleasure

an electronic image on a previously blank screen assures my mind
that this is no ghost
no mirage
no phantom
no illusion

there must be this home because
there is this picture
See?

there must be a path
for here is this map
got it?

there must be a way because
here is the destination
understand?

there is the target
we are the arrow
fly true

now pack your shit
and
get movin'

This is the easy part for me

I have less to hold onto
than to throw away
less to cling to
than to let go

let drift
little regret
no goodbye

We land
intact
and take out the hammers,
wrenches
screwdrivers
shovels
mops
brooms
buckets
and boxes.

Indeed a surging tidal wave of monotonous, symmetrical cardboard that mocks me,
taunts me
tests me
almost breaks me

but

this is the birth of home
the labor
the hours of pain
chasing after comfort

then
one day
sudden like a hiccup

we plop on the couch
stare blankly at TV
munch chips

the silence of night
intermittently interrupted by stray cars flashing by on the road
reminding us of the World
schedules and appointments
work
dates

we look
laugh

the dream arrived

later
alone
I turn off the noise

I fall into sleep to the sound of that great ocean crashing the land,
smashing and ripping in the inevitable gentle lift, grip, grab,
timeless cycle of infinity

which assures me I am small,
a speck
a blip
a vapor of insignificance projected wantonly into a void

and my time is short

as the heedless, tireless crickets do their work
playing into an wide open sea of stars and forever.

scorched earth policy

2009-08-28T22:31:00.000-07:00

I should probably mention somewhere along the line that Naomi was from another country. I’d mention the country but then certain people just seem to get big ideas about everything. Suffice to say she was from about half-a-world and one ocean away and I suppose it’s fair to guess that while the fact of her foreign birth and upbringing may have contributed greatly to her uniqueness in her adopted land, everything about the way she moved through space said that she’d be a rebel anywhere and everywhere.

She was a honey dripping slow motion goddess who could shake her ass, a wild young hell raiser on a rampage, then pose with perfect grace and gravity for the adults; she could be calm as a cool summer wind then erupt like a busted fire hydrant. She adored old people and when she talked to kids she was one of them with no act.

Her voice coiled around you like a smooth snake, stroking, soothing and a trifle scary just like any wild thing, her words imperfect and too tempting in their imperfection. I don’t know where she learned English or if she learned it, maybe she was born with it already sleeping inside her and waiting for its time to bloom, as she was surely born into revealing the secrets of those blossoming thighs, her magic waiting to happen like flowers in spring or the sun coming up. No one could’ve taught something like that and no one could’ve learned it. You either had it or you didn’t and she had it to spare but kept it part of her mystery, like her language. If she had plotted and planned to speak the way she did it could not have been any better than the way the words actually left her lips; teasing you, enticing you, pulling at your heart and forcing you to lean into the heat of her body.

“Oh my baby…. My man…. It’s so sensational….. I love yours.”

That’s what she leaned into my ear and whispered as she reached for my dripping half hard cock and stroked it softly just as we’d finished off that morning after retrieving the bags. When she said it and stroked me I was loving mine too and I was loving hers more than that.

Her favorite word in English seemed to be,

“Rrreally!”
Which she used often and rolled off her tongue lowly and slowly, the r’s tumbling into the l’s and the whole word sounding like one elusive seductive come-on command whose true meaning must surely be “Cut the chatter and come fuck me good.”
At least that’s what it sounded like to me.

“Damn! Baby I love the taste of you” pressing my mouth into her.

“Rrreally!”
That’s what she’d say.

Anyway, she wasn’t from around here.

R. I. P.

2009-08-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

Senator Edward "Ted" Kennedy (1932-2009)

An imperfect Man in an imperfect World.
"The Lion of the Senate"
Born into enormous wealth and colossal tragedy he, despite whatever flaws he may have owned or failures he carried with him, dedicated his Life to helping his fellow Americans live better, safer, healthier and more productive lives and in great measure achieved these goals.
A true Champion of the People.

May He be in Heaven a half-hour before the Devil knows he's dead.

Adrift.....

2009-08-09T21:46:00.000-07:00

"In my own country I am in a far-off land
I am strong but have no force or power
I win all yet remain a loser
At break of day I say goodnight
When I lie down I have a great fear
Of falling."
Francois Villion

"Hit 'em where they ain't."
Wee Willie Keeler (in answer to a query concerning his method of batting success in baseball)

I was reading a novel recently and the main character was considering a demonstration of one of life's more central scientific realities, that is to say entropy, the constant and unstoppable deterioration of all things physical.
He reviews the video example of the physicist Stephen Hawking who drops a teacup onto the floor whereupon, and of course, it instantly smashes to pieces. Hawking asks the viewer to consider that you can drop a teacup onto the floor perhaps an infinite number of times and it will always shatter but.....
but...
You will never see the cup leap back up and reassemble itself. This is a keen example of his theory of entropy and an even keener example of my theory on this game we call life.

The clock is ticking and our time is short so lets not waste it waiting for the cup to come back together as we try most seriously not to drop anymore.

I live in a Nation that has the 2nd largest economy in the World despite its relatively small size. Wealth and prosperity are the norms here, there is plenty to eat, drink, smoke, fuck, drive, buy, see and lots of convenient ways to get there and see it.
If you walk these streets and observe I can guarantee that 2 out of 3 of the citizens you witness will have their cells attached to their faces and will be deeply engaged in animated cyber-communication (hereafter known as CyberCom*) at all times!
If you approach these people, make actual eye contact and attempt to actually speak to them they will be startled and absolutely stunned in shock, fear and disbelief at your very human presence, your unavoidable physical existence or perhaps your societal impertinence, one cannot know for certain.
This country also has the highest (by far) suicide rate of any industrialized nation on earth, teenagers and adults of all ages offing themselves with greater frequency and in greater numbers than ever before.

I could be wrong but sometimes I think the 2 may be connected somehow.

President Obama has been on the job awhile now. I think it's fair to give him a bit longer and see where this thing is going, but Man.....
Where is the money coming from?

I don't particularly worship God (any of 'em), Country, Family, Children or Money. I definitely do not see this as any sort of a strength, indeed on occasion I wish I could share these apparently satisfying opiates, but this simple faith deficiency (whether genetic or evolved I can't say although I have my theories) does seem to make it much easier for me to smile, laugh and see the Good as I stop and sniff those roses surrounding me.
So, I feel like being Human is an all around sweet deal on most days and I don't want to trade it for insurance, security, success or immortality, at least not yet. Although I would like a side order of immortality to go, please.
Which merely proves that I'm not only human but eternally juvenile as well.

Yesterday I was talking to a young girl, a friend, not attractive in any conventional sense, and in the middle of our conversation (and for the 1st time ever although I've known her for over a year) I quite suddenly glanced at her lips, her smile and my head rang like a bell-
I wonder what it would feel like to kiss her...I wonder how wonderful she must taste.....her lips look so soft......so lovely....maybe.......
And then I snapped back to reality.
Later we said goodbye and I am positive she had and has no clue as to my momentary lapse or illicit desire. As for me I harbor no intentions or designs on her body and was justly satisfied to wave goodbye that evening as her warm smile faded into the night.

I cannot explain how much this pleases me.

All for now...

scorched earth policy

2009-05-22T01:25:00.000-07:00

First thing in my Naomi morning I grabbed the phone, called in sick at work and was goddamned glad to do it.

Then I took her to a breakfast place I hoped she might enjoy. I took her there because I was starving and I took her there because I didn’t want to let her go. I had bacon and eggs with potatoes on the side, everything good and hot. She ordered buckwheat banana pancakes. When the waitress set the plate down in front of her Naomi immediately smothered them in syrup and I never saw a girl eat pancakes or anything else the way she did; she ate like it was her last chance to do it on her last day on the planet.
Naomi didn't talk while she ate, I liked that. She’d pause for a smile and a,
“OOOOOOOOOOO” or
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” and
“MMMMMMMMMM!” every now and again or maybe it was just to catch her breath, I didn’t know but she polished off her plate like she was shoveling coal into an engine before she looked at me and beamed. Orgasmic.

“Oh thank you Walter… Oooh how I loved that. It was perfect.”

Then she sipped her coffee and grinned at me wickedly over the rim of the cup. Something about her hunger made me want to drop to my knees, crawl under the table and bury my face between her wonderful thighs but I got busy with the fork instead and managed to stick to my eggs.

I noticed men sitting at tables near us cutting not-so-subtle glances in her direction, whether they were with women or not. I knew how they felt. If she noticed anybody watching her it was impossible to tell. She seemed oblivious to anything but me and her cup. Over the coffee I unreeled my best sales pitch ever and pretty quick we decided to pick up her bags from the Hostel and move them over to my apartment so she wouldn’t have to bother about paying for a place to stay. Neither one of us mentioned how long she’d be in town; I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want her to get any leaving ideas.

When I’d woke up next to her that morning and for the first time I felt like I was still in a dream, the star of a great movie, undisputed Champion of the World and as far away from the railroad as I’d ever been. I touched her everywhere to make sure she was real. When Naomi woke up smiling a happy little girl smile she showed me exactly how real she was. She slid her warm lips down my body, swallowed me whole and sucked me until I had to pull her mouth off. Forcefully. I had to do that because I needed her legs around me like I needed to breathe. As I drove my cock into her, her angel face was a portrait of pleasure and pain, lust and longing. When I sprayed my cum onto her she kissed me breathlessly and didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.
For now she would stay in my bed and that’s all I wanted her to think about, I didn’t want her to ever even begin to think of leaving me. I wanted her thinking about joining me. After our breakfast we rode back to the Hostel and when I watched her rock that tight little caramel ass into the doors to pick up her stuff I had plenty of good thoughts of my own, enough for both of us.
When she walked back out with her bags in her hands I never felt more proud of anything I’d ever accomplished in my entire life up until that day.
I jailbreaked it back to the apartment, hustled her through the door and threw those bags on the floor. Then I threw her onto the bed. She laughed and I dove in. That’s the way I wanted it. See?

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

2009-05-17T21:53:00.000-07:00

And yes I know that Johnny Cash's version is superior and say what you will but Reznor knocks this one out of the park.

Period.

Welcome to the Pain.

Interview with JC- Part II

2009-05-05T19:33:00.000-07:00

AB: And we're back. So, Jesus..........the Miracles...um.....well, where do I start?

JC: Bill, before we even begin to explore the....uh........mysteries........let me just state right up front that you have to remember that these.......events...happened in a very, very different Time and Place in every sense of the word and we really have to bear that in mind as we go along and also, please try to keep the Big Picture as our main focus rather than.....you know........getting ourselves all bogged down over every tiny detail about who saw what and how many and, well................... you gotta remember we're talking about at least a couple thousand long years ago over here, you know sometimes even I'm a bit foggy as I look back.
I mean.......whew.....talk about a crazy time!

AB: I hear you. I can't remember what I did last weekend without looking at my schedule.

JC: That's all I'm saying.

AB: Check.

JC: Just to give you an idea of the craziness though, you wanna take a wild guess at the average life expectancy back then? The Romans calculated it....but then they were always good at that kind of stuff.
Crazy about statistics those people. Nutty for numbers.
Great little census takers they were.

AB: Hmmmm...... lemme see............45? 50?

JC: If you happened to be a Roman Senator maybe. (chuckles)
No, Billy it was 29 years young for men and if you were lucky enough to make it that far in the upright position you were officially an Elder Statesman and had to consider your life a splendid success. Anything after that was pure gravy, trust me, gravy.
Women?
If you weren't married by 12 you pretty much had to resign yourself to spinster exile or, you know, turn pro and from what I heard, neither option was any picnic and, suffice to say, there weren't any retirement plans back in those days, you were damn lucky to die on the job.
Times were tough!
Yep.....We didn't call it the Good News for nuthin'!
And Brother, there wasn't much of that around.

AB: Rough. But I did want to get to at least some of the Miracles today...

JC: (spreads his arms in welcoming gesture, smiles)

AB: For example, the famous “walking on water” incident. How or why or WOW!
Can you tell us about it?

JC: Absolutely. But let's just remember that this all started on a fishing trip.

AB: Oh, really? OK. Didn't know that.

JC: Been on many fishing trips, Billy?

AB: Actually no. I'm kind of a City Boy myself.

JC: Well, let me paint you a picture-
A bunch of men taking a little time off from the grind, no wives, no gf's, a couple of cases of wine, a good day on the water, peace, quiet, the whole schmear.
Knowhattamean?

AB: I think I follow. Little drinking happening that day?

JC: Just a bit. Not too much fishin' tho'. (winks)

Well anyhow it looks like a lovely day, for once, and we're sailing along across the lake at our leisure when this black little storm starts making a move for us and so I decide, pretty wisely I thought, to call it a day.
Unfortunately, somebody, I forget who...think it was Peter.....always something with that guy....gets the bright idea to turn the boat back into the front, for kicks I guess, just as we're finally heading to the far shore somehow still in one piece.

Well long story short- He loses the sail, flips it in the waves and everybody's gotta swim for it....I had to make sure everyone was clear of the boat so I was the last one to make it in............Pete and the rest of the Guys gawkin' from the beach.
The next day when they got back home, sobered up a bit and had to have an explanation for no fish and losing the boat, and that was no small expense either, they, you know.......mentioned to about anyone who'd listen that they thought they may have seen me.......well..........walking on the waves.
Well, you know, we didn't have the internets but word got around.

AB: Walking?

JC: Bill lemme tell ya', the real thing was better than walking.
Brother I was flyin' through that water!
And that was some tall chop too, this wasn't no Olympic swimming pool with a surface like glass like nowadays. I tell ya' that Michael Phelps kid couldn't of kept up with me that day!
Yea buddy, I was a heck of an athlete back then....heckava good little athlete........and you should've seen me wrestle!
Coulda' went to the Coliseum and cleaned up. Betcha' didn't know that. (sighs)

Good Ole Pete, you hadda' love him but sometimes...................Oi!
You just wanted to give him a swift kick, you know?

AB: Got it.
Howabout the “feeding of the multitudes” events? 5,000 and 4,000 fed with just a handful of loaves and a fistful of fish. Care to share?

JC: Yea.......well, first of all you have to sort of keep an open mind about that multitudes figure.
I mean, who was counting? Hey, we weren't selling tickets!
We were giving it away!
Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
And this word, “multitude”? What's a multitude?
No direct translation in the original Hebrew. That's a fact.
Multitude, schmultitude I say.............it was a lot of good people is what it was.

AB: Gotcha.

JC: But this was a great story. And great, great crowds too!

Next- Part III

scorched earth policy

2009-04-28T20:38:00.000-07:00

If change it was then let it come, I was ready for it and more than ready.

You know the guy at work who doesn’t give a quick shit about anything? The one who the supervisors really can’t tolerate because the very existence of such a seemingly carefree presence inside their holy temple of the almighty paycheck is an affront to their own fragile dignity and an intolerable challenge to their flimsy self worth? The guy whose mere entrance into an office is the equivalent of someone pulling the pin on a grenade and rolling it into the room? The happy asshole that never seems to be bothered by anything no matter how bad things get? The one who comes back to the salt mine smiling and whistling a happy tune the day after he’s burned his last sick day? The misfit? The fuckup? The loser?

I was that guy but I had lots of company.

The place was the railroad and I’d been working on it for ten long years and had heard all the jokes but go ahead if it makes you feel any better. I worked in the largest RR station in the second largest city in the good ole U.S. of A., right smack in the middle of the country. Every passenger train in the nation that was heading from one coast to the other or anywhere in between passed in and through our little world, along with 20 or 30,000 suburbanite commuters dashing out of their morning trains and into their office cells and then bolting back to their evening express’ and subdivision prisons each and every day.
It was fun in the winter to watch the crowds freeze their asses to work while you kicked back to sip coffee and it was much better in summer when you got to enjoy the non-stop parade of tits and asses bouncing into and out of the station. Dodging supervisors in order to enjoy the sights wasn’t always easy but after 10 years most RRers considered work to be “optional” and avoided its assorted indignities with collective blue collar aplomb.

A lean decade ago I’d been busting my ass selling hardware and outdoor BBQ grills during the day and then liquor at night. I wasn’t any good at either but I did become adept at robbing the supply of airplane bottles (back in those days they sold them off a rack right behind the counter) from the store’s inventory and in some ways was sorry to see that gig go but I had an apartment full of mini-bottles to ease the pain and I hadn’t yet sold a single BBQ grill at the hardware store so when a drinking buddy mentioned to me about a job on the RR (sweetest deal you’ll ever find he assured me) it sounded like an idea. He’d been there sucking it up for years and enjoying his good life and I figured maybe it was my time. I was damn grateful.

I started off my illustrious RR career humping food to the kitchen cars on long haul trains and in my 10 years there I’d done most everything imaginable while I worked my way up to Janitor. It was a big place with plenty of opportunity to go nowhere.

There was the actual Union Station, which had been built in 1921 and remodeled in the 80’s before I got there; its exterior buildings squatted over two massive city blocks (one building a neo-classical Grand Old Lady and the other the ubiquitous 70’s glass and steel box brick) and were surrounded in two squares by eight main downtown arteries with traffic and an army of taxis buzzing it like twin hives. One building was strictly for office use and the other contained a health club for yuppies along with numerous shopping opportunities and both buildings were jammed with fast food places (and the army of workers that were needed to staff and clean them) to feed the huge herds of lazy fat ass office slugs who poured in daily to stuff their faces with grease. There were even a couple of pathetic bars catering to the commuters that wanted to talk big city tough before they walked all of a hundred yards to get on their trains back to their split levels and faceless condos with their sterile oasis parking lots filled and their 4-wheeled pride and joy waiting faithfully to confirm the righteousness of their existence.

It all got going around 5 in the morning and didn’t stop until after midnight. Depending on the season and where you stood around the Station, it was a great place to waste time or hunt for pussy. If you had to work somewhere there were worse gigs, I’d had a lot of them.

Then there were the Yards- About 3 miles of tracks stretching north and 3 miles south along the river with the station right in the middle like the head of a giant octopus. Around a hundred commuter trains shared the 20 or so tracks with Passenger rail trains daily. It was no small operation. All those miles of track required daily maintenance and it required working in the sub-zero winter and blazing hot summer to do it and so, consequently, I avoided those jobs whenever possible.

Just under a mile south from the station was the largest post office in the nation and the tracks ran right underneath it. We hauled mail on the trains and had a huge decrepit facility for loading, unloading and shipping it up top to the postal guys. This cooperative enterprise had been in existence since the 20’s and had seen its better days.

The mail terminal was an ancient 3 level labyrinth (only one of the levels being above ground) filled with vast tunnels too long to walk through (so we raced through them on little battery operated tugs used to haul heavy loads), dim 30’s lighting, cubbyholes, steam pipes, chutes, ladders, dilapidated conveyer belts that went nowhere, weird mad scientist machine shops and decrepit locker and lunch rooms used for sleeping, drinking and watching TV.
Sometimes we had lunch there too.
The tunnels were so endless that a legion of cats had taken up residence years ago and roamed freely as they feasted on leftovers and whatever else lived down there. Everyone was happy they were there because we all considered the alternative, which surely would’ve been monster horrorshow rats.

The mail terminal had once been a booming enterprise.
Back in the depression years and all the way through the 60’s it’d been the one sure place where a man could make a honest living and get a decent paycheck to feed his kids with, but in the 90’s, it had fallen on hard times and its giant ghostly caverns of disrepair, echoing past gold rushes, were nothing but a sad reminder of the beginning of the end. Still, somehow, the mail terminal crews (now numbering only about 50 when once they’d been in the hundreds) retained a bitter, salty pride and tenaciously defended their territory. During rush hours when all the trains in the station would be gunning their engines at idle and pouring diesel fumes everywhere we’d crawl out of our underground locker/lounge/lair to go up top and sit and wait for the mail cars to back into our docks so we could pop the doors and unload. Sometimes we’d have to wait for 10 or 20 minutes, sometimes more and while you were up there you could see the air, it was an oily blue and it smelled of gasoline. The Old-Timers would plant themselves in their seats, light up and blow clouds of cigarette smoke through that oily blue air as if they were kicking back on a sunny beach next to the ocean while working on their tans. That was how they were. The collective personality was that of a mean old dog who knows his best days are past but is patiently waiting for you to come just a tiny bit closer so he can show you what he’s got left.
The favorite saying over there, snarled at all newcomers who dared invade their domain, was-
“You don’t want to work, go home.”
The hostility bubbling out of their mouths as they spit the words at you. I always felt perfectly comfortable there.
As it was considered “man’s work” women were generally unwelcome and, reading the writing on the wall, generally avoided the lovely environment altogether.

Then another mile or 2 down the river were a trailer and another loading dock used to transport truck containers onto and off of the trains. This department was dominated by a 17 year and up crew of 7 seniority drunks who were so solitary, surly and out of control that everyone, supervisors included, was happy to leave them alone and adrift at the end of our RR outpost. A lot of fellow employees tried to tag my buddy as the ringleader but I happened to know that he had no real interest in the position, perhaps it came to him naturally but to be sure he had no designs on it. They were known as the “River Rats”. No one went there to check on them and no one cared to and their place ran just fine until some management genius got the bright idea to fix the situation.
While the Rats were there the place ran like clockwork and had made a profit ( in spite of or because of their drunken antics no one knew), one of the few enterprises on the RR to do so, but after the genius’ solution it was another government money pit and the Rats headed back to the Station. I was already there.

I’d done just about every job in the place by that time. I’d hauled baggage, hauled food, hauled garbage- shipped, wrapped, loaded and unloaded every conceivable bike, bag, box and body- swept, mopped, scrubbed, wiped, vacuumed, power-washed and detailed every inch of its millions of square feet- I’d took tickets, checked baggage, answered questions, gave directions, fork-lifted pallets, hand-cranked wheelchairs holding giant fat asses into and off of the cars- I’d kicked ass, kissed ass and got booted in the ass more times than I could count and still I came back for more. You see I didn’t know much else.

So after my long decade of soul destroying labor and mind numbing monotony that zoo of a RR reminded me of nothing more, and certainly nothing less, than jail and in more ways than one.

First but not least, it was populated by what had to be the absolute lowest end of the social spectrum- dropouts, lead heads, mental defectives, lazy malcontents, the otherwise unemployable and guys that didn’t have the drive to become drug dealers. And scattered into the mix, just to keep it interesting I guess, just plain unlucky fucks who had somehow ended up there through little fault of their own. I fit right in somewhere and tried not to think about that too much.

Second, it’s overriding objective, the order of the day, the main theme on a minute to minute, hour after hour, day by day till the days turned into months and then those months turned into years grind and you finally understood why those nuts show up at work with automatic weapons; it’s very reason for existence seemed to be to finally, utterly and completely crush all individual hope of something better then ceaselessly pound the inmates into complete submission while simultaneously pulverizing any dreams of escape until the lowlifes who ran the place (desperate lifers themselves clinging tooth and nail to any firm hope of income and security) had everyone marching in line and saying “Yes sir” and “No sir” most sincerely only because it fit comfortably into their tiny vision of their tiny, dried up, lifeless world. Well maybe it wasn’t that much fun but almost.

And just like jail what you mostly got in response was drugs, drunks, fights, passion plays and bitter hatreds simmering steadily in slow-witted but deadly animal brains. The cast of characters was about the same as the slam too: every breed of nut, goofball, freak, psychopath, straight-john, honest-Abe, hustler, bullshit-artist, dope-fiend, boozehound, cocksucker, snitch and just plain fuck-ups represented equally, stirred into a hot pot and left to boil as soon as you punched the clock. It was about the same color as jail too. About 80% black, 10% white, 5% Latin and 5% Other. I was in the Other category and wouldn’t have had it any other way even if I could’ve but you can’t anyway, you know?

And it was all about Time.
The place ran on a seniority basis and that was the biggest fact of life and the most important factor in your RR existence. Every single inmate had his seniority date (date of hire) memorized and could quote it to you on demand, which we often did. The most moronic 20-year bum (and there were plenty to choose from) was infinitely more important in the scheme of things than any hard working go-getter with two years and no clues. Merit didn’t mean shit and if you struggled with that idea your life only got worse as the years crept past you. We’d say,
“There’s the right way, the wrong way and the railroad way.” And everybody knew what the hell that meant if you managed to punch in there everyday for ten years or so.
You had to go along with the ride.

My personal RR mentor, Marshal Decket, a handsome blue eyed devil, 20 yr. vet and besides Keith Richards the coolest white man on the planet, used to tell me between puffs on his cancerous non-filtered cigarettes as we kicked back and enjoyed the show,
“Hey Kid,” he called everybody Kid, “You can work hard or you can work easy,” then he’d pause to lean in with the punch line and his crocodile grin,
“But the pay’s the same.”
Once I learned that simple lesson the ride got much smoother. It only took me about 5 of those 10 years and a little drink every now and again to help shake out the kinks.

About the only difference between Us and the slam was that the constant threat of overt violence wasn’t always present as in the shithouse and also, more importantly, no one seemed to ever want to escape or just ever be free from it all. Every goofy jackass, desperate loser, smug winner and solid citizen clung to that gig and fought over it like two starving rats on the last piece of cheese. Oh they complained constantly and non-stop about how much they hated the place and everyone in it but when you said,
“Why don’t you just fuckin’ quit then.” Right into their faces they looked like they’d been slapped.
“I gotta pay those bills, you know.”
Yea don’t we all brother, don’t we all.

There were crazy old janitors, 30 year-plus lifers (janitors mind you! you know with the mop and the broom and the little dustpan all piled neatly onto their little cart they wheeled around with that familiar zombie shamble) working there who made 80- 90,000$ a year because they, literally, never went home. They’d work double shifts, 16 hours, swabbing out toilets, sweeping up cigarette butts and emptying garbage cans, in between long leisurely breaks of course, then wrestle for the third consecutive one when a young guy’d call off sick. If the cheese gave them any shit about not being able to work 3 consecutive shifts due to safety regulations they’d raise holy hell and quote Union rules and make phone calls until the bum ass supervisor would gratefully cave and give them the shift. This only happened when there was a rookie boss that hadn’t yet learned about life on the RR and wasn’t properly broken in yet. Then these lunatic lifers would do their third consecutive 8 hour shift, at time and a half of course (about 22.50$ per hour), again, slide into the locker room and sleep for a few hours (they had beds set up in there) then catch a quick shave at a locker room sink and come right back for their original morning shift smiling like they just got a blowjob from a movie star.
They took a day off every couple of months or so and took their 4 weeks of vacation every year and other than that they lived at the station.

I had a locker next to one of the oldest. An Irish character named Jim “peek-a-boo” Levy. He looked like W.C. Fields and had a similar misanthropic disposition. Everyone called him Peek-a-boo because he was always around but it was next to impossible to find him. He detested physical labor and successfully avoided it whenever possible. On the occasion of us meeting at our lockers to change, me into or out of street clothes, Peek-a-boo to change into a different blue uniform, always spotless, (in my ten years there I never saw Peek in anything other than his matching blue work pants and shirt with the same tired old boots), I’d say to him,
“Hey goldbrick, ain’t you dead yet?”
He'd squint at me sideways and retort.
“Yea the funny thing is, Rangel” here he’d almost snicker, “I’ll be going to your funeral.” winking, “Maybe take a nice piss on your grave.”
Then he’d make a to and fro peeing motion in front of our lockers, his pot belly sticking out hard and firm as a basketball.
We were very fond of each other
Whenever I came in to do my eight straight if I didn’t see that old bastard at least once I just figured he croaked. It was that rare not to spot him on the job sometime during the day or night. He had the vigorous pallor of one of those moles that lives under ground that you see on the Nature Channel and he waddled around the station like a suspicious spy and furtive pipe bomber.
And he was nowhere near the strangest of the bunch.

Interview with Jesus- Part 1

2009-04-22T00:16:00.000-07:00

As part of a new and exciting feature of AnalogBlog, we are proud to present this first in a series of Personality Profiles and Interviews with prominent figures of the Past and Present.
But mostly the Past. (due to certain legal restrictions)
And so, as they say, without further ado-

Well what can I say to start this one off.....obviously someone who needs no introduction and has been for Centuries World renowned as a Philosopher/Savior/Messiah and All-Around Good Guy.......

AB: Mr. Jesus Christ, Thank you for sharing some time with us today and welcome to AnalogBlog.

JC: Thank you for having me Billy...and Jesus is just alright with me. (winks)

AB: Our pleasure. OK, Jesus it is.....although I stated that you needed no intro I guess I'm gonna try to sum up your, well, career for the 2 or 3 people out there who haven't yet heard of you.....

JC: (beaming, nods encouragement)

AB: You were born dirt poor in Bethlehem, a small town in what was then Jerusalem, about 2,000 years ago, give or take, to a carpenter named Joseph and a virgin named Mary (we'll get into that later) then had what was by all accounts a fairly normal childhood before establishing yourself as a leading Prophet/Revolutionary sometime in your early 30's as you rapidly gained a sizable and dedicated following along with unfortunate persecution from the Government before being falsely accused, arrested, convicted and crucified by the Roman Empire only a few years into your peaceful campaign, a ghastly death that oddly enough lead to your lionization, deification and eventual global preeminence these thousands of years later.....and now you're certainly one of the world's most recognized, if not always agreed upon, icons of religious faith and moral/ethical righteousness.
How's that feel today?

JC: (shrugs, grins bashfully) Well I'm absolutely humbled and grateful but I do want to straighten a few of the more minor details out before we all get too far off track here.

AB: The Virgin Birth thing, you mean?

JC: Oy! Billy please........I wasn't even there yet, you know what I mean? I mean let's stick to the stories where at least I was a Sentient Being, eh? Maybe like more than 1-day old, fer instance? Whattya say? (chuckles)

AB: Right, my bad.

JC: Virgin birth....... I mean, yikes! No comment.

AB: Gotcha. Well I've alluded to the fact that your Christian Faith and Following has since grown into the, what, at least 100's of millions of True Believers around the globe.....
Do you feel vindicated after such a brief period of spreading the Word before your untimely, earthly, death?

JC: Of course I'm pleased with the way the stories have grown and if they've helped the World to be a better, safer, more loving place then I'm happy but I was always pretty sure about the Message so vindication is not really a term I'd care to use.
Having said that, however, when I think of how easy it all could've been today what with the Internets and YouTubes and MySpaces......Oy! It gives me a pain!
I mean We were walking! In cheap sandals or barefoot!
Miles and miles from dusty little village to drought-ridden run-down towns, if you can call them that when most didn't even have a simple, common marketplace to get a bite or anything, and lucky to scrounge up a couple of half-starved goat herders or 5 or 10 near-dead farmers who weren't too exhausted to listen to the Good News. Maybe a few lonely fisherman on their 1 day off a year was a big crowd for Us.
Talk about rolling the rock uphill!

Now?

3 million hits in one week for that Lady with the voice over in England? How can ya' go wrong?
I give up!
Forget about it!
Great set of pipes tho'. Fact.

AB: Quite a lot has changed. Was all the hiking the major difficulty of spreading your Message of Non-judgemental Love and Forgiveness throughout the Middle East back then?

JC: I wish...oh how I wish it were.

AB: The Romans?

JC: The Romans were no treat, lemme tell ya'.....brother, they were building an Empire and they were gonna build it!
Slavery, torture, indiscriminate prosecution and murders.......what a collection of Hard-ons those guys. And try figuring out what they were gonna come up with next if you didn't want to sleep at night or get a moments peace.
And the taxes!
Trust me , you don't even know from taxes!

AB: So it was the Romans?

JC: no.........Billy, you know the main problem was and is the same hurdle we'd have to jump today. Ya' see Peace, Brotherly Love , Fairness, Forgiveness, Compassion, ........those are all tough, tough sells to the Money Men, then and now and that's really the nut buster right there.
And just try cutting into some shyster's established religious base sometime if you really wanna make your enemies line up with stones in their fists. Philistines...Yeeesh.....you can talk 'till you're blue in the face, don't get me started.

AB: I hear Ya'. But don't you think we could update the Message a little bit now.......give it some spin...sex it up a bit, you know, just to sort of freshen up the Brand and get the Kids into the tent, so to speak?

JC: Bill, (beatific smile) have faith. I got this one.

AB: 'Nuff said. Well, I guess the burning question so many readers are dying to ask, or should I say questions, concern the Miracles.
Any objections?

JC: Bring it on, Kid.

(Part II to follow.)

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

2009-04-11T21:08:00.000-07:00

And Mr. Rock has a message for you.

AND I'M TRIPPIN'!

scorched earth policy

2009-04-02T19:30:00.000-07:00

The thing she used to say about yesterday and all her yesterdays was this-

“I’m not too good at remembering things…. But…… I’m really good at forgetting them!”

Then she’d smile her Naomi smile. Shy and sly, promising nothing and offering everything, her slender body bursting with juice and satisfaction. She was a spoiled child wanting what she wants, a careless whore burning her bridges, a seductive narcotic demanding no sacrifice, a roaring fire warming your flesh and drawing you toward the flames. Hypnotic. If you happened to have been fortunate enough to have tasted her pleasures already then her promise of earthly heaven would make your cock thump in your pants as she stood there teasing, curling her lithe limbs into herself, pulling you into her oblivious orbit.

If it was your first shot at it then hold on brother, your life was about to change forever because Naomi was no tease.

The first time I met her we cut straight through the shit and dug in. I explained about my motorcycle, the perfect weather, the cool breeze off the water and she took a nice bite.

“I’m working till 11… can I call you then… maybe go for a ride... get something to eat?”

“Can you?” Her soft voice insinuating pleasure. “It might be wonderful.”

I’d met her on the job, I was working at a train station and she was passing through, a 20-yr. old student on vacation, traveling alone and looking for some what...kicks? I didn't care.

She stood in front of me, close enough for me to breathe her scent, crossing one foot in front of the other; tracing lines or biding time I didn’t know because she was staring at her shoes and I was fixated on her tiny top, a piece of tan stretch fabric that couldn’t cover my head. No bra, didn’t need one. When I finally managed to pull my eyes up and off her, she had me locked in.

”Why don’t you just pick me up instead?” she’d lifted her dark eyes straight into mine and left them there, measuring me.

“You got it, beautiful.”

I could feel my heart in my chest. Naomi told me the address and gave me a phone number just in case, then turned and walked out a door and into the jam packed sidewalk, disappearing in the crowd almost instantly. I started repeating the numbers in my head as I ran to borrow a pen. I ran fast.
I hit the clock at 11 sharp and jumped on the bike at 11:01; I revved the engine, jumped the street and twisted throttle all the way, flying through the night towards her, aiming straight between her legs.

It was a 20 minute ride to get to her address, a youth hostel, and I ran through the options in my head- Take her to eat where? Take her to drink after but where? Should I take her dancing? Late night stroll on the beach? And most importantly- How do I get her back to my place and into my bed?

I was 32 and no rookie to hookups but Naomi was different than any other I’d encountered before. For one she was young and young girls were often surprising in wonderful or terrible ways. They might be savvy and they might be stupid, they might be calm and collected or they might be empty headed and dull yet frighteningly unable to stop running their brainless mouths, at least until you put a hard dick into it. But Naomi was a mystery and impossible to read. Her face gave away no hints to any definitive nature, it was innocent and decadent simultaneously; teasing girlish lips on a tiny bird mouth with dancing almond eyes framed by a short shock of careless black hair, almost daring you to stare or forcing you to look away. The skin was light caramel and flawless. Her whole body casually conveyed the only important fact that I was able to glean upon first sight-

She had a secret, maybe she’d tell or maybe she wouldn’t.

I turned the final corner to her hostel as I thought about all those things then I stopped thinking and started looking for numbers. I couldn’t find the address right away so I pulled up close to where I thought it might be and asked a woman who was walking by for help. As I was explaining my predicament to her I heard the voice, playful and taunting.

“Hey… I’m right here!”

She was standing at the curb, somehow I hadn’t spotted her but she must’ve been there all along, waiting for me to show. As I turned to look at her I found myself hoping she was no mirage.

She’d replaced the tube top with a black t-shirt that was even tighter, her sweet 20 yr. old tits poking at me like ripe peaches waiting to be plucked and sucked. Her lean legs were wrapped in flared blue jeans that clung like paint. High heeled gold strapped sandals highlighted her perfectly dainty feet, toes painted glossy black. Her hair was even more careless than earlier, as if she’d just fell out of bed and didn’t mind the look, I knew I didn’t. Her hips were a soft challenge to my hardness and locked in a cocky “Come get me” stance. The lips were moist, red and pursed into arrogant bee stings, daring me to make a move.

“OH YEA!” It erupted from me like a burp, she cracked into a small smile, waiting and radiating desire. “C’mon girl, let’s ride.”

I patted the back seat and she jumped forward and hopped right on. I had to grab some thigh, it was a gamble but I wasn’t able to stop my hand. I found the only thing wrong was that I’d have to let it go. As I kneaded that choice meat I felt I should say something just to prove to myself that I could still speak. I blurted,

“GODDAMN you look good!”

She slid her hands around my chest and leaned her chin into my shoulder as if we’d been riding together for years, natural.
“You too.” And she squeezed back. I wanted to throw her on the ground, rip her clothes off, suck her and slam it in deep but somehow I managed to get it in gear and jerk the throttle instead, pulling out fast and tight.

When we stopped at the first red light I asked her if she was hungry and did she want to get something to eat. She whispered clearly into my ear, her breath tickling my brain.

“I’d rather drink.” That’s the kind of girl she was.

The drinking didn’t take long. I rode over to a place where I knew the bartender and knew we wouldn’t have any problems with ID’s. I told her I was getting a beer and what did she want.
“OOoooh…… I loooove beer!”
She said it like I’d slid my finger into her nice and gently and was working it just right. I turned to the bar to catch my man’s attention and get the drinks, it was crowded so maybe he took sixty seconds or so. When I turned around with the glasses Naomi was curled up like a spider on a flame, one hand in front of her blue jeaned pussy and the other at her mouth, nibbling on her thumb; she was staring at her shoes again and crossing her feet one over the other. In front of her were two young boys sitting at a table ignoring their drinks and leaning into her, slack jawed and smiling everywhere.

“So where are you from?” one was begging and grinning ear to ear while he did it. I cut in hard.

“Don’t worry about it, slick….. C’mere you.”
I didn’t say it in any nice way either but she followed me. The boys looked like I’d just canceled Christmas but they weren’t the type to do anything about it, she didn’t seem to care in the least as we sat down at another table. I flashed a look over to the boys and they snagged the hint.

I took a sip of my beer. She lifted hers and drained it in around ten seconds, gulping fast as it slid home, then she placed her empty glass down on the table carefully, precisely as if the world depended on it, and breathed,

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Rolling her eyes and licking her lips, “Oh I’ve been waiting so long for that.” I chugged a generous amount of mine to be neighborly.

“Want another?”
“MMMMMMMM…….YEA!”
Like a cool cheerleader who smokes and gets kicked off the squad. If she was up to anything other than a good time she sure wasn’t thinking about it too much. I signaled to a barmaid two more and she brought them over as I finished mine. Naomi stared at me blissfully and I tried some small talk as the drinks arrived and I paid up.

Did she like school?
“I Loooove it.”
Do you like Montana?
“I want to die there.”
“What are you majoring in?”
“No major yet, maybe journalism… I don’t really want to know right now.”
What do you want to do after college?
“Go to Paris.”

Then she leaned forward and slowly slid her hand up my arm from wrist to bicep. My cock was drumming in my pants. It’s always shocking to me how certain girls can just touch you with a fingertip and your rod snaps out like a switchblade, and other girls can be scarfing your pole till they gag and it’s strictly a yawn. Naomi had a touch that singed my blood.

“But do you know what I really want to study next year?” I just shook my head, it was all I could manage.
“Massage therapy.” I hoped she didn’t see me gulp.
“Cool….. Maybe….. Ah…. you could practice on me sometime?” It was as smooth as I could make it and the only question her eyes left me to ask, but still it came out a croak.
“Anytime.”

She said it quietly and calmly but I thought I saw the color in those eyes change or maybe it was just the booze. She gently squeezed my arm and then purred.
“Mmmmmmmmmm.”
We both tilted glasses. When I had enough breath to talk I said,
“How about practicing on me tonight?”
“Sure.” She came back so fast and certain that she could’ve slapped me and I would’ve been less surprised.
One voice in my head whispered- Is this broad a Pro? Gotta be. Is she going to tell me any second now, “You know it’s going to be five hundred, don’t you?” Hell I didn’t have money like that and she should know that if she’s a Pro!
But another voice barked- Push it you punk, go for broke. ROLL THE DICE!
Or maybe it was just the lead between my legs.
“How ‘bout right now?”
She glared at me then lifted her second glass again. I did the same. I put my empty down a moment before hers. Her dark eyes were definitely flashing fire as she set the glass down and stared into me.
“Let’s go.”
No trace of a smile on her lips, a blessed beautiful mystery.

Go we did.
I tunnel vision bee-lined all the way home as she held on tight. When we made it to my front door I worked the lock faster than a burglar on parole and she marched straight in ahead of me as if she owned the joint. I shut the door, locked it behind us and when I turned around she’d already found the bed and was sitting on it, her feet off the floor, burning a hole into me with those soft almond eyes, flames dancing. Naomi casually kicked off her high heels as I slowly approached; I wanted the sight of her in my bed to last forever and I wanted to pounce immediately, the only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted it all. Then she crossed her forearms, grabbed her t-shirt at the waist with both hands and pulled it over her head, shaking her short hair out. Those sweet peachy breasts bounced to attention, golden skin glowing, as she leaned back onto her elbows and waited. I didn’t make her wait long and I shucked the painted on blue jeans off her almost as fast as she had the shirt. Her tiny black panties were criminal in their intent and so beautifully wound around her ripe ass that I almost wanted to leave them right where they were and savor the vision, but the only thing they covered effectively was the treasure of her wet temple and I wanted in, in the very worst way.
I carefully peeled the panties then Naomi gazed brazenly up into my eyes as she spread her slender bare legs in invitation, dainty toes stroking my chest ever so softly. No drink ever got me that drunk.
10 or 12 seconds later I was buck naked and then we didn’t say much of anything for the next 15 minutes or so as we smashed our bodies together, or maybe it was an eternity.

Happy VD! (valentines day...whaddya think)

2009-02-13T15:48:00.000-08:00

and in lieu of Flowers and Chocolates I give you...

Smokey...

Howabout a little Rev. Al Green to keep the Love Train chuggin'?

Dig that SuperFunky 'Fro!

Finally, to bring it all home, one from the king to remind us fellas why we should indeed indulge in this most counterfeit of Holidays.
And please remember My Western Friends- In J-Land the Men get the Chocolate and the Ladies stand in line to buy it!
Gotta love this place sometimes!

LOVE = GOOD

Shooting for the Stars!

2009-02-12T00:24:00.000-08:00

“Being a Hero is about the shortest-lived profession on Earth.” Will Rogers

Yes the Worldwide Economy is in freefall and, no, I fear that we are not yet at or close to bottom and it's most definitely true that we've still got Wars raging, rogue Nations searching for their own personal Nuclear Toys and Women are currently being beaten and killed in certain places for showing their faces in Public and/or enjoying the beverage of their choice. Choice being the operative word and fanatical Religious fervor the operative weapon but for right now lets just ignore the fact that there may indeed be fundamental cultural differences between certain portions of this World we share and, instead, focus on the burning issue of today, shall we?
Namely...

A-Rod and his steroid junkie Brethren.

You know the All-Star list-
Clemens
Tejada
McGwire
Sosa
Palmiero
Giambi
Sheffield
Petitte

Doubtless there are scores of others who I am shamefully neglecting to mention that belong in this heralded crew and whose names will likely be surfacing at the top of this slimy bucket shortly but you get the point.

Yet the Yankee 3rd Baseman deserves center stage today because he has been officially outed then subsequently (as of Tues.) performed the now mandatory televised 1st stop on what will surely be the A-Rod Apology Tour by coming clean (ahem) to Lead-Off Apologee and Sports journalist Pete Gammons from that most consistently worthless of sports rags SI.
Rodriguez was humble, polite, contrite and damn close to sincere. He was evasive, not quite persuasive and at all times thoroughly coached and properly uncomfortable as he squirmed, backpedaled, sidestepped and ducked most of Gammons' obligatory lobs while rockin' his Little Boy Blue Polo by Timberlake.

You Fans were expecting?

Because you see the unholy Trinity of SportsStar/Journalist/Fan is the center of this maelstrom of Bullshit and adds up to, and always has to me, the equivalent of Hypocrisy Bowling- Each taking a Big turn at knocking down the pins that they've all set up for each other as they feverishly keep score of their near meaningless but absolutely manic recreation whose relevance ends the moment they exit the Alley. I mean, you know.....unless of course you happen to have some decent, hard-earned, honest money bet on the outcome.

Or perhaps a more accurate analogy is a Hypocrisy CircleJerk with each feverishly yanking the others tool in the intense desire for some orgasmic ending to their endless adolescent fantasies of Championship Glory and Power.

Or maybe a Sports Strip Club- The Players being the Dancers with the Giant Counterfeit Guns (but who cares, the bigger the better, right?) and even more Counterfeit smiles, the Journalists (and I am using that term very loosely) being the sidewalk Hawkers who shill for the Club, grab the Money fast and don't ask any questions or mind any mess.
The Fans you ask?
Yea, they're the saps with fistfuls of sweaty dollar bills dreaming of any possible connection with that long since unobtainable yet tantalizingly miraculous mirage right in front of their desperately hungry eyes but worlds away from their own mundane realities, hopelessly blinded by their juvenile lust for a fantasy that will never, ever, ever come anywhere close to happening.

And I'm a Cubs Fan so trust me, I know.

Yes my opinion of most SportsFans, assembled through many years of incidental but nonetheless painfully dullheaded interaction, is not and has never been very high based solely on the collected research and my opinion of most Sports Writers/broadcasters quite a bit lower based on their almost universally sycophantic and simultaneously parasitic Starfucking output so it is with a veritable truckload of salt that I offer my take on this unfortunate and unfortunately ridiculous situation.

But A-Rod and his multi-millionaire ilk?

Call me what you will but today I got Slack to give to those fraudulent SuperStars and I ain't expecting any in return. Why?

My reasons are complex so I'll attempt to simplify.

1.I Remember Playing the Game
No, I was no Star. Indeed at the height of my athletic prowess (somewhere in my mid-twenties) I'm sure I was Oceans removed from the level of competition that is Professional Sports (well, except for Soccer...I don't think anybody's too far away from a Starter there) on every single level. Yet if you would've offered me the chance to close that gap even a little by taking any pill, powder, potion or poison available to me I guarantee you I would not have hesitated. Not even blinked.

2.There are Insane Amounts of Money Involved
The average salary of an MLB Ballplayer in 2008 was 3.1 MILLION DOLLARS!
AVERAGE!
Do you happen to be average at your job? How much you making?
If I offered you a raise of say......3 million dollars a year for taking a proven chemical supplement that just might put you over the top and place your Family on Easy Street..........
Think you'd take it?

3.Stop with The Reefer Madness Hysteria
I cannot find nor have I ever read or heard of a single thorough, definitive or even serious current Research Study of the Long Term Effects of responsible Steroid use on the Human Body. Medicinal Steroid use is widespread at every level of organized Health maintenance, a common treatment for a variety of physical ills and the beneficial effects, used responsibly, are Medical facts.
Responsible and irresponsible Steroid use and abuse has been a part of Athletics since the 70's with no clear evidence of direct fatal effects on a single subject. Not one.
Side effects? Yes. No doubt unpleasant but minor, manageable and likely less severe than you may expect from any prescription Blood Pressure medication currently flooding US markets (Vioxx, Valtrex, Effexor etc...take your pick) and being forcefed to you by a tidal wave of Primetime TV commercials.
If you want to have a rational discourse on the Dangers of Steroid use I'll join in but first put away the goofy, tail-chasing Reefer Madness argument that this practice is BAD because these athletes/role models are doing irreparable harm to themselves. It just ain't so, Joe.
Or give up your Beer, Booze, Coffee, Cigarettes and especially Junk Food before pointing fingers or expressing your faux outrage.

4.The Inmates Took Over The Asylum
The Baseball Powers-that-Be of the 80's and 90's (we're looking at you Selig) willfully, willingly and gleefully allowed the madness to take place on their watch solely because it filled the coffers of their facilities and lined the pockets of everyone at every level. The Well was poisoned and although I'm positive not every Inmate drank the water (Jeter and many others) I'm equally sure that so significant a percentage did partake as to make the entire fairness/level-playing-field issue a more or less moot point. Tough break for some? Yes. Which leads me to...

5.A Cheating River Runs Through It
Baseball has always looked the other way at their own longstanding and firmly entrenched Culture of Cheating. From Ty Cobbs sharpened spikes there is a direct line to Barry Bonds Bulbous Head. In between are a long list of corked bats, nailed bats, leaded bats, superballed bats, spitballs. scuffballs, sandpaper, thumbtacks, juiced balls, frozen balls, stolen signs, amphetamines, non-banned substances and Canseco Shakes.
All these sins are/were egregious and unforgivable (no matter how many have been forgiven) but to attempt to pin the Grand Prize on the Steroids Era is to close the Barn door a looooooooooooooong time after the horse got out.

And finally

6.The Asterisk* Is (in fact) Punishment Enough
Seen McGwire basking in any adoring applause lately?
Or Home Run King Barry Bonds picking up any paychecks?
Caught any Sosa On-Camera air kisses recently?
And you won't.
Know what else you won't be witnessing? Any of these pumped up Musclemen making their Hall of Fame acceptance speeches anytime soon or ever.
And yes, that is sufficient punishment to fit the crime as long as it accompanies a deep, indelible asterisk* next to ALL of their records...Forever.
Because.....

7.The Playing Field has Only Recently Become Level
Jackie Robinson joined the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947. I firmly believe it would be very safe to say that until that Day at least 2/3 of the very best Players were not only not given an equal chance to compete, they weren't even given a chance to play at all! It would further be safe to say that integration did not become widespread until as least a decade later and the playing field did not truly level until perhaps a decade after that. Now I'm positive that the 1946 St Louis Cards fielded an excellent Team that played at a High Level and I mean no disrespect to any of their Fine Players but that Team was all White and only White. Check the '08 Phillies and the situation may snap into a sharper focus.
So for all those out there who would wail about the sanctity of Baseball History and all its Sacred Records I bring harsh news.
Your Records ain't all that pure, Man, so unless you want to start handing out some truly righteous asterisks to every single Record on the Books before '47 (and I don't...I accept Baseball in its imperfect form pre-Robinson just as I accept my imperfect friends, Family and fellow human Beings) then that shameful blackmark next to the Steroid Era with all its very public disgrace and perennial ignominy is fitting justice for the generation of egotistical cheaters of this very recent past and a sufficient warning to those Generations who may be considering shortcuts in the future.

Case Closed.

Stamp down the Asterisks and move on.

So where does this all leave us?

Same place as always. The Boys of Summer are revving up in spring Training and soon the Sun will be shining, the Flags waving in the warm wind, the grass will be lush and green as peanuts, popcorn, hot dogs and ice cold Beer is passed along to the friends sitting next to you in the stands as we all listen for those most magic of words-

“PLAY BALL!”

Thanks for your patience.....

2009-01-27T21:11:00.000-08:00

Please forgive me for my recent lack of activity on this site, I've been working hard on my other blog (Hey, cut me a little slack...they're paying me for that one) and I am also currently in training for an annual Team Race here in Kyoto (details at a later date) hence my time (working, posting, playing and drinking) has been severely curtailed while my responsibilities have unexpectedly multiplied.

However, lest you think that I've somehow neglected to notice and gratefully appreciate Life's Finer Things.....

And yet, perhaps due to my fatigue, I'm not quite sure.

Is this Beach Beauty subtly hinting at something?

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm......

What...could.....it...........be?

709 Homesick Blues

2009-01-06T21:47:00.000-08:00

Welcome to '09 Boys and Girls!
Yes....it's all ours whether we want it or not.

And in keeping with that gracious spirit...
Please joyfully sing along (you know..approximately) to the tune of Dylan's
"Subterranean Homesick Blues".

Can't quite recall that classic? Don't sweat.
I loaded it for you.

Big trouble in the Gaza Strip
Hezbollah let them rockets rip,
them Jews ain't
gonna take their shit
somebody
gonna get a Big Hit

And Blago's in a real bind
working hard to dodge his crime,
He said,
“Can't ya' see
I's only tryin'
real hard to make a dime,
you get yours
and I'll get mine!"
newspapers opine
Blago just may
do some time

Let's all bust a rhyme
'cuz
it's Two-Thousand Nine

but Our Money's
in a big mess
Congress in a recess
no body
wants to confess
ain't no way to redress

Better look out Kids
no matter what ya' did

'Cuz Bush is going bye-bye
ain't in range of
WiFi
Iraqi's wonderin' why why
I don't even want to
fly by
ain't no oil, why sigh
GI's still gettin' blown
sky high

It's all right, Folks
tho' it ain't no joke

China's growing
sideways
Russia's got the bills paid
oil's pumping
anyways
Japan's still building
freeways
neon light displays
shopping malls is all
the craze
but i can't find
my ways
like gettin' lost
inside a maze

Heads up Kids
we hitting the skids

Somali Pirates sailing
GM is bailing
newspapers failing
McCain done picked
Palin
and started coffin
nailing
don't start
wailing
'09 might be a
mail-in

Bin Laden's in a cave
or digging his grave

But I know there's some
Love-Love
even 'twixt the
Hawks and Doves
So maybe we can't get
above
all the Bullshit
push and shove

pretty girls everywhere
sharp legs and long hair
short skirts
high heels
can't cop a feel
what's the deal, get real
sweet lips
hot hips
and painted toes, don't say No
just say go
and don't no-show
then we'll get
our groove on
and we'll start to move on

So I got me some hope
tho' I might be a dope

You better save a penny
when you can
watch out for the Taxman
keep an eye on Iran
and any smokin'
frying pans
then steady scan
the secret plan
and hook up with the
Main Man

put down that smack
and lay off that crack

'Cuz in 13 days
Obama
drops the Hammer!

Be careful out there, Santa!

2008-12-22T19:21:00.000-08:00

Yet another Holly Jolly X-Mas moment to share with the Kids as we all wait for that magical day.

Run, Santy Claus, RUN!

MEGA-META FAIL!

2008-12-18T23:51:00.000-08:00

I'll try to keep it short and sweet.

I think we've all heard, viewed and been able to process.....over and over and over again, the comedy that was the President Bush/Muntadhar al-Zeidi Show the other day in Baghdad (well, some things are always good for a laugh) and just about every pundit, pol and otherwise talking-head has chipped in their 2 cents so I thought I'd take this tardy opportunity to add to the grubby little pile.

First off- My Iraqi Friends (I know you're out there) in my country we deeply respect and try at all times to maintain the Right to Protest and the Freedom of the Press (sometimes we get it right, sometimes not so much) and I fully realize that you need a Homegrown Hero right now and further that you're starved for candidates but.............

PLEASE!

A grown Man who, in apparently righteous anger, throws his shoes in order to.......to............to...........well, what exactly?
Make his sworn enemy crack up laughing while supplying him with a nifty little cocktail story for his goofy frat boy cronies back at the Ranch?
Give a giggle to millions of YouTubers everywhere as he catches a pumpkinhead from the, I'm sure, reliably well trained and competently restrained Iraqi Security goons?
Make it perfectly clear to one and all that he's fed up, not going to take it anymore and if need be, Dammit, will purchase yet another pair of high-heels and lob them as well?
And miss?

I've read that the bitchpitching of one's kicks is considered a significant insult in Iraqi Culture, a culture that is thousands of years old, and indeed in many Buddhist, Muslim and Hindu countries the feet are considered unclean.....
but Fellas.........you're welcome to the 21st Century whenever you feel up to joining but, unfortunately, in this Era tossing your flip-flops at your foe just ain't gonna score you any points with the Big Kids, OK?
Or with the Ladies if you know what I mean. (winks suggestively)
If you wanna hurl something unclean try underwear, pre-used condoms or your Britney Spears' CD collection.

Take my entirely unsolicited but nevertheless sincere advice, if you want to be taken even somewhat seriously by anyone other than Airport Security or if you ever, ever want to get laid by a woman that doesn't happen to wear a veil (it's OK if you don't, whatever floats your boat, I'm just saying) then keep your Damn Hush Puppies on your feet where they belong.

And did I mention...

HE MISSED!

BUSH!!

TWICE!!!

This is Failure conceived in idiocy, nurtured by futility, sprinkled with jackass, polished with ineptitude, wrapped in infantile inadequacy, topped off with thoughtless, cross-eyed anger then lopsidedly aimed at perhaps the Largest, Lamest, Loser target in Presidential History.

META-FAIL!

And what do you have for an encore, Sir?

Gonna hold your breath? Stamp your feet? Take your ball and go home?

Well I for one say that a firm spanking may be in order or perhaps they should take away Mr. Zeidi's Wii privileges for a week or two. If they really want to get tough maybe an extended Time-out may be in order, oh.....I forgot....he's already facing that.
2-7 Years as a guest of the Progressive Iraqi Government (or whatever happens to pass for it these days) and we all remember how responsibly, solemnly and humanely they handled that Saddam execution so I'm sure you're in good hands LL- MaZ.

ATTABOY MUNTADHAR!

As for our Dearest Lame-Duck President Bush.

Mr. al-Zeidi may very well have provided you with your single most accomplished Highlight in those 8 long, long, long years in Office.
You alertly, nimbly and successfully dodged the pedal projectiles fired at you by a pudgy enemy reporter who definitely had his panties in a bunch and throws like one pissed-off girl.
What am I saying?

I know lots of girls who can throw better than that!

Way to go Bushie! You did a heckuva job!

The Holiday Hits just Keep on Comin'

2008-12-18T18:57:00.000-08:00

This one is for that special little kid inside all of us....

Nice.

More Happy Holiday Thoughts- Straight from The HQ!

2008-12-14T23:11:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lack of posts lately, faithful readers, but the HollyDaze are here and I have to concentrate on my drinking, smoking and general misanthropy while simultaneously avoiding work or the hint of it and ignoring everything that is significant, real or meaningful..................you know...............with LOVE! And Santa Claus!
So
..ENJOY!

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

2008-12-06T22:00:00.001-08:00

Ahhhhhh.................................the 80's.

Too much hair, too much spandex, too much 'tude, too much period.

Gotta love it!

Here's the Best of the Best jamming one of the Greatest.

The Holidays are Officially Here!

2008-11-29T18:30:00.000-08:00

And this time of year always makes me feel so.....so.......warm inside.

(sighs audibly)

But today I thought I'd let Eddie Norton (and writer D. Benioff) sum up my feelings at this very, very........well, special time of the year.

I'd like to add more but I'm a little choked up right now.

Need a Jumpstart?

2008-11-24T19:22:00.000-08:00

I have to apologize for my prolonged absence from these pages but the weather is winter cold, mobs of tourists have invaded the City like a Zombie Army, the soul-sapping Holiday season is bearing down and I'm fresh out of inspiration.
So I'd thought I'd let the Stones do the heavy lifting today.

"Love...it's a BITCH!" Brass Section!

Whenever you need to feel cool just run that guitar line through your head a few times, I guarantee it'll work!

One for Josie.....

2008-10-26T21:56:00.000-07:00

And this one makes me feel damn good.

Sing it Lady!

'Cuz it's Karaoke Monday.....That's Why!

2008-10-11T20:42:00.000-07:00

And I don't belong heeeere......

Odds and Ends-Fall (and I do mean fall) Edition

2008-10-08T00:03:00.000-07:00

I've lived in Japan for over 3 years now. The last time I saw a fat chick was about 3 months ago, before that I can't remember. The fat broad was a white tourist decked out in giant blue jeans that you could sail a small boat with and she was surrounded by an equally obese herd of companions that blithely blocked the sidewalk and mostly blotted out the Sun as they waddled and gawked.
This is a fact.
And a good reason to live here.

I've got a modest proposal. You got $700,000,000,000 (I never get tired of looking at that number) to spend?
Pour it all into Iraq. Right now. Today.
Then get out of Afghanistan (read your history, fighting on 2 fronts) or quit pulling Bin Laden's dick, one or the other.
Give every Man in uniform everything they might need to achieve all out final victory. Give it 6 months to simmer before serving. Then give the Iraqi People the giant Green Zone multi-billion dollar complex we've erected in Baghdad as our generous gift to their fucked up future (and past) and get the fuck out. Forever.
The Big Money Men will just have to take a hit. The Economy will have to correct itself. The Great American Middle Class will have to suffer, again.
Remember this for the next time.
The Bush Doctrine started it. Let's finish it and move on.

Youth is beauty, beauty Youth. But why do they have to talk?

I like to read Hollywood gossip websites for 3 reasons.
1. It's very easy. I can finish the entire reading of most blogs in the approximate time required to take a good piss. (and yes, I do think this is an apt metaphor)
2.They all feature fresh photos of lovely, luscious celebutards graciously flashing their tits, asses and pussies.
3.Good for a laugh.
But you wanna know something? I'm old and I live in a strange Land. I really don't know who half these people are and I really don't care.
This is absolutely and undoubtedly a good thing.

Vice President Palin? You cannot be serious.
This is a hideous joke, right?

At this point I can't decide whether the Cubs are a comedy or a tragedy (although I firmly believe they're one or the other) but next year is 101 so the pressure is officially off, the excuses officially ended and all curses lifted forever.
So what's gonna be the reason next season?
Yea, I'm bitter. Shit, Tampa Bay is still playing.
TAMPA BAY!
Can I get a witness?

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

2008-09-22T00:08:00.000-07:00

and sometimes simple is simply beautiful.....

perfect...

and we need that.

anyway I'm stuck on Oasis for right now.

Just because.....

2008-09-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

It fits like a funeral suit. All hail the 80's!

His Royal Badness can sure write 'em.

That 1st line gets me every time.

Lazy Sunday- A Lovely Beast

2008-09-01T16:33:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is with me and Sundays but this one was strange indeed. Despite a debilitating hangover I managed to fulfill my earliest professional obligations before repairing to Starchunks just south of Shijo/Kurasama around about 5ish.
I grabbed my drink and, seeing as there was no seating available indoors, headed to the small patio that faces the street to wait for my meeting. The only open table was next to a fashionably young, hip, J-couple (She- Slender, lovely and stylish, He- Handsome, slim and yet more stylish) and I moved straight to it.
As I dropped my bag and planted my ass a sexy young girl wearing Capri pants and a cute, flimsy yellow blouse came running off the sidewalk, high heels clicking the beat, and made a very definite, malicious beeline for the fine filly cozying up to Mr. Playboy.

“DARE GA.......?” (Who the fuck is that?)
Was all she managed to say before said Playboy very wisely intercepted her, forcefully grabbing her by both arms, and pulled her away from the scene before she could inflict any damage.

And please trust me...this girl wasn't there to argue, she was there to FIGHT!

That little cutie had murder in her eyes and violence coursing through her slender body and any blind man could see it as plain as day. Somewhat amazingly, considering her reckless disposition, Playaplaya somehow managed to keep hold of her as he wrangled her down the sidewalk and away. Crisis and bloodshed gratefully averted!

I glanced over to the Other Woman and she greeted me to a warm, open, wonderful smile that said,

shrug, “Well....Shit Happens.”

Slightly confused, as I often am on those rare occasions when women smile in my direction, I did not instantly respond to her invitation as perhaps she was expecting and has expected all her adult life. But the smile was wonderful so I almost involuntarily glanced back and soaked it up again. She was about 5 feet away and burning a hole in me so I smiled back.
It was the cue she was waiting for.

She got up and moved to my table, sitting next to me, and we instantly began an easy, casual conversation as if we were long lost friends meeting by chance. We both tried Japanese at first before I, gratefully, abandoned it and stuck to English. She was fine with this. She had spent a year in the USA in High school and her English was delightfully fun. She had visited the City I was born in and liked it just fine. She had also worked in France and could speak passable French she informed me. She now lived and worked in Osaka. She expressed interest in my tattoos. She gave absolutely no impression that she was anything other than calm, cool and perfectly collected on this lovely Sunday afternoon.

Her name was Kana.

I have no idea why Kana-chan chose to sit and talk to me other than the fact that my face (perhaps entire persona) probably looks like good company if there's going to be trouble but we did not discuss either the incident or the possible repercussions until she asked me about my immediate plans.

I have a little business in about 20 minutes, I told her, and yourself?

“Oh.....I don't know.......I'll probably wait for him to come back and then just go home.”

I expressed my sympathy but gently mentioned that, given the passionate nature of the volatile Female done wrong, I doubted very seriously that Johnny Studwell would be showing his face in the vicinity....at least today.

We both laughed long and hard at that one.

Kana guessed my age (30, so I knew she was lying), I guessed CrazyGirl's relation(Wife) to Mr. Playboy and we both laughed some more before, lo and behold, Playplaya actually came slinking back up the sidewalk to retrieve his abandoned booty.
He looked like he just walked through a lions cage wearing a pork chop suit but Kana-chan did not hesitate as he grabbed her hand. She glanced back at me as he lead her away and treated me to her alarmingly sweet smile before they exited, stage right.

Ain't Love grand?

That's what I was thinking when the Drama kicked into the next level.

Only seconds after their hasty departure CrazyGirl in the Capri's came flying onto the scene, enter stage left.
She had obviously tracked Mr. Playboy from wherever they had parted and was now bound and determined to scratch Kana-chan's eyes out or, if not that, rip off a piece of her skinny ass. Luckily he was able to intercept her, once again, before she could complete her mission but this time it wasn't so easy. They went K1 on the sidewalk for some minutes (all credit to Mr. Playboy who somehow managed not to harm her although she was not at all interested in returning that particular favor) before he finally corralled her, hailed a taxi and, amazingly, wrestled her into it where she then proceeded to beat him like a wadaiko drum.
The cabbie, shocked and no doubt debating the sanity of his passengers, did not move for several minutes until CrazyGirl either ran out of steam or Playa managed to momentarily calm her as she finally ended her assault and the cab headed north on Kurasama.

Kana-chan, during the entire ordeal, calmly surveyed the scene from her safe distance as if something were stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Then she snapped her phone open and began working the buttons.

I opened my newspaper and dug in.

Kana returned to Starfucks yet this time made no move to join me, only glancing shyly in my direction with an exceptionally cute oops-I-did-it-again expression on her lovely face, but she was working that keitai like an octopus that just knocked back a triple espresso shot.
I had plans to visit a Beer Garden later that evening and was seriously considering inviting her to join me. I figured that she could probably use a drink and that my company would do her a world of good.
I am very egotistical in this way.
But, offset to my ego, I have 4+ decades of experience and have been on both ends of these little comedies (which often turn tragic) so I keenly decided that any aggressive infiltration into this scene by yours truly was not strictly required. I held my cards and waited for the hand to play.

Now, and forever, Women can always afford to wait for their cards but for a Man this strategy often leaves you with empty pockets and a fistful of shit but wait, I did.
“Sometimes nuthin' is a real cool hand.”

10 mins. to go before my meeting.

At the 5 minute mark CrazyGirl came storming back up the sidewalk birddogging her prey, wild passion blinding her inflamed eyes, as Kana-chan alertly ducked behind some customers inside.
CrazyGirl entered wildly Stage Left, exited angrily Stage Right.
Gone Baby gone!

Kana-chan slid carefully into the lobby of the Hotel next door, working that ketai!

More minutes went past before Mr. Playboy, harassed, disheveled, beaten yet unbowed, crept carefully into the lobby to maintain his rendezvous.
They exited into a waiting taxi-

She looking like a Princess ready to receive her court,

He looking like a shellshocked warrior on the lookout for sniper fire and land mines.

But exit they finally did!

I sipped my coffee. Meeting late. Great.

The final tally?

They were both sweet little numbers, quite similar in terms of type- Slender, tall, medium length black hair, small breasts, flat ass, long legs, sharp like knives. So I guess that's the way he likes them but I can't really agree with his final choice for the evening.

Kana-chan was definitely dynamite but there was just something in CrazyGirls eyes.......

The fire...

The passion...

The insanity.....ahhhhhhhh.

But this is my problem, you see?

Well I hope, for the girls sake, that Mr. Incredible is either very, very rich or, at the very least, packing a powerful pistol and the willingness to use it.
And I observe that in some ways he is a lucky man but, right now, I don't really want to trade places with him.

Not tomorrow either.

Later that night I made it over to the Beer Garden next door to Kyoto Tower. The brew was ice cold, the grub decent and I thought about those wonderful girls every time I lit one up.

for my Brother.....

2008-08-31T20:09:00.000-07:00

And I only got one of 'em.

The Gallagher boys got a new one coming out soon but I thought this one is good enough for now and always.

Just Because.....

2008-08-18T21:13:00.000-07:00

It just doesn't get any better than these nice young boys playing the Living Hell out of this Happy Little Ditty.

And my 20-month old got a real kick out of it too so you know.....

My treat for your day.

BANG YOUR HEAD!

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

2008-08-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

And the Irish Lads are visiting Harlem so give it a minute or two to build.

Surely the only place on Earth that this magic could happen.....

Think about it.

Blind Man's Bluff

2008-07-25T01:37:00.000-07:00

I recently read a brief post by a blogger whose writing I very much admire (Dues Ex Malcontent- All Hail the Queen) but this particular effort really threw me.

The post and its resulting commentary unfortunately and painfully reminded me again of the aggressively idiotic, circle-jerking, log rolling, Oprahesqe attitudes we must all be enslaved to and parrot ceaselessly in this current American PC environment should we ever decide to pop our heads up out of our comfortable holes and say something we know to be true, fair, righteous or, perhaps most unforgivably, accurate.
Yes, I've separated Truth from Accuracy because my Truth (while true) may not jibe with your version but accuracy.....
Accuracy cannot be denied, it is empirical and unquestionable except to the deluded, delirious and/or willfully braindead.

Example?

My truth- President Bush is a blissfully ignorant, shamefully fog-headed, dangerously uninformed, criminally incompetent, pathetically provincial and woefully unqualified Leader of the Free World.

Your truth may be slightly different.

What is Accurate?

The Economy is in the shitter and heading for a depression, the War in Iraq/Afghanistan can best be described (very charitably) as a now 7 year and extremely expensive running stalemate, the City of New Orleans has never recovered (and most likely never will) from a F*****g Storm, gasoline is 5$ a gallon, Osama bin Laden and his minions are doing just fine and Bush 2.0 firmly believes that he has faithfully fulfilled his obligations and so we must all of us say goodbye to him, perhaps forever, come November.

See the fine but significant difference between the two? Now let's press on.

Because my message today deals not in politics of the Washington brand but in the Social and Personal varieties and to get straight to the point-

What is with this hideously moronic idea/belief/injunction espoused by so many (and constantly trumpeted by the both Liberals and Conservatives alike but mostly Liberals) that “Everyone” is “Beautiful”, “Everything” is “Art”, and, further, that everyone is qualified and thus has a “Right” to do anything they desire, lest we take it to the Courts and the lawyers, despite any reasonable and right-headed circumstances to the contrary?

Cases in Point-

Fat, ugly and elderly women, indeed all women, must be loudly and publicly declared Sexually Attractive lest we be accused of misogyny then endlessly browbeaten and summarily punished by the actually sexy of that most fair gender. It is now impossible to admit (even to ourselves) that we have specific tastes and preferences and that these preferences trump any societally driven rules laid down by the reigning PC cognoscenti. And by the way, lest we slip up, should you be a Male who possesses a genuine genetic or acquired predilection for the obese (Plus-sized), fugly (appearance challenged) or Older (Mature) woman please don't think for a moment that this mandate gives you free reign to act on your desires..no, no! If you do that then you are a sexist or just another sex-obsessed male seeking to objectify her personhood, deny her humanity and enslave her sexuality.....Freak! Heal Thyself!

All Babies must be described as Beautiful Miracles from God lest you be lashed to a Cross and burned at the stake for being a Baby hating Satanic Worshiper when realistically, I'm almost sorry to say.....OK, I'm not.....very, very few babies (and even fewer Adults) are Beautiful.
The vast majority of slimy newborns look just about the same- Fat blobs of gooey baby flesh that may or may not, most likely not, turn into an attractive adult one day. Yet to be fair, and sensible, lots of us Adults (especially the Males) are downright ugly in appearance and there isn't too much we can do about it. Maybe most of us are somewhere in the Middle (some good days, some bad days, nothing much to write home about) and only an extremely small percentage (I'm going to offer less than 10%) are truly Beautiful.
Now, does that really hurt so much? Really?
Because if it does then open up a newspaper and read the entire World News section paying particular attention to events in the 3rd World. Then reassess your situation. Then deal.

Everything is Art and Everyone an Artist. OK. I'll make this one real simple.
Norman Mailer was a writer. I'm a blogger.
Marlon Brando was an actor. I fake it to make it.
Jimi Hendrix was a musician. I can play 3 Blind Mice on the harmonica.
Diego Rivera was an Artist. I occasionally scribble drawings of Naked Chicks.
Get the Picture?

Every Citizen is entitled to do Everything and Anything his twisted little heart desires with Logic and Common Sense banished forever from our privileged lives lest it infringe on our more insanely goofy aspirations that Hollywood Movies have taught us are not only true, but also our inevitable and glorious destiny.
And so we have Blind Hunters in Texas (YES, BLIND! Not vision-impaired or sightless or any other softheaded bullshit...the Motherfuckers are walking around with loaded shotguns and they can't see their hands in front of their faces), Legally Blind Drivers in 34 of our United States (please tell me you're surprised), rampant Celebutards with legions of parasitic paparazzi who track their every meaningless movement, the WNBA and, of course and inevitably, no standards anywhere, plummeting grades everywhere but never fear because we've successfully abolished any losers in Youth athletic contests and all children must now receive the required “Achievement” awards instead.
And then we get G. W. Bush in the White House. For 8 years.
I Believe I Can Fly!

The mirror in front of us is not an apparition to be avoided at all costs, it is not a tax to be beaten, bested, broken or bought.
It's a test.
It's a Truth.
It's the most real of Laws and the Grim Reaper is gonna slap the cuffs on all of us sooner rather than later.

But, if we're living right, we can make that old bastard sweat.

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

2008-07-12T21:31:00.000-07:00

And if Lemmy can't get your Motorhead started then...

Jack.....YOU DEAD!

Love the rhyme scheme-

"That's the way I like it,

I DON'T WANTA LIVE FOREVER!"

Could not have possibly said it better myself.

Just a Thought...

2008-07-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

Anyone hear about the US "Hostages" released in Columbia last week? Yea...me neither.
I found what little details there were sketchy at best and I definately found the comprehensive and almost complete lack of news coverage very, very...........shall we say............curious?

Here we have one of those ''Made-for-TV-Feel-Good-All-The Way-USA'' stories that news outlets, especially Fox, love to snap up and then run with interminably until you' re forced to regurgitate the sloppy mess because it's been rammed down your throat every hour for 2 weeks running.

AMERICAN HOSTAGES FREED IN DARING RAID!

It practically ''screams ''All-American Patriotism yet somehow nary a peep was to be heard.

I smell rat.

These American hostages were captured in 2003 when they were "on an anti-drug mission" in Columbia. It has been mentioned in the Chicago Sun Times (although no other newspaper that I can find so they're either way ahead of everyone else or badly misinformed) that the hostages were "working" for US Army South.

US Army South?

We've got a corporate division attached to the United States Army suddenly? Stationed where? Doing what? To Whom?

Gentle Readers it appears that, YES, indeed there is a branch of the US Army called US Army South and its HQ is currently in Fort Sam Houston, Texas. Originally formed in 1904 to protect the Panama Canal and American interests (read Big Business) there the Division now is tasked with......well.....I don't know and I was unable to find their most recent Mission Statement anywhere. The closest I can figure is that they are there to protect us from dangerous Neighbors and rogue Nations South of the Border, well, south of Mexico anyway. No... No, they're not the Border Patrol, that's a different Team. They're more like.....um....sort of a private Government Army funded by your taxes and mandated with............ah..............who knows but the point is that they're obviously ANTI-DRUGS and have no time to be bothered with that pesky situation in the Middle East, that's a different Company. USS has got much more '' important'' work to do!

So..........Allow me to quickly review.

We've got 3 guys (sometimes described as'' Military Contracters''...sorry, but no news outlet has described them as soldiers or businessmen or diplomats or as anything clearly understood or identifiable) flying around the jungle in US Airplanes who are somehow captured by the Communist FARC Revolutionaries/Terrorists while on an "Anti-Drug Mission", held hostage for 5 years (longer than any other American anywhere), almost miraculously saved and returned to their Homeland and then...wait for it....No One has anything to say about anything nor wishes to speak to anyone in any detail concerning any circumstances?

No background, no press conference, no interviews, no features, no follow-ups???

I'm no conspiricy theorist (really, I'm not- Boothe shot Lincoln, there are no aliens in Area 51, the Saudi Terrorists knocked the Towers down and yes...Oswald was the Lone Gunman!) but this one is 2+ 2 = 5.

So let me straighten out the Math.

Us Army South = CIA

3 "Military Contracters" = CIA operatives/drug/gun runners

Anti-drug Mission = Drug Mission

Freed in Daring Raid = Ransomed, brokered or traded up before the shit finally hit the fan.

Ingrid Betencourt = Bonus irrelevant French Broad

And, last but certainly not least,

No significant News Coverage = Lap Dog News Agencies asleep at the wheel while licking the Dick that feeds them.

There. So much easier to calculate, isn't it?

Hang on a sec.........someone's pounding on my door.

Gotta Go!

28 Days Later

2008-07-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

Nearly one month after No. 1 Roger Federer, the Crown Prince of Tennis, absorbed a brutal beatdown from the upstart No.2 Rafael Nadal on the red clay of the French Open, the pair went at it again yesterday on the sparse green grass of the All-England Club to decide this year's Wimbledon Champion.

It was worth the wait.

Mother Nature herself seemed incapable, or perhaps unwilling, of doing little more than delaying the inevitibility of this Classic Showdown. And nothing could more clearly describe the differences between the two Athletes as when they took the court for the first time after the 1st of 3 rain delays.
Federer- Graceful, serene, elegant in his throwback cardigan as he reviewed his Kingdom yet conversely retaining the solidity of a Lunchbucket Joe just here to do his job, albeit do it better than anyone on the Planet.
Nadal- Bouncing, sprinting, strutting, stalking, a perpetual motion Man with all the manic energy and raging gusto of a tough kid who just can't wait to climb in the ring and punch it out.
Federer- The cool, powerful and precise Righty.
Nadal- The explosive, tricky and tough Lefty.
Federer- The older Veteran Champion.
Nadal- The younger hungry Challenger to the Crown.

The 1st game was out of the Champions playbook as he dominated with his serve and his powerful forehand, allowing Nadal only one single burp of a point, and cruised effortlessly to take the game.
But on this day the Kid had eaten his wheaties and it was all downhill for Roger in that initial set. Nadal continually displayed solid unshakeable service to match his fantastic all-around game and terrific timing as he mauled Federer time and again, stealing a crucial 3rd game service break from the Champ before eventually putting his foot to the floor and decisively taking the 1st set, 6-4.
If the crowd was somewhat suprised, and definately delighted, at the 1st set results the suprise ended for them in the 2nd as Nadal turned up the heat and hounded Federer all over the court.

By then it was Roger's turn to be suprised.

Tennis Heads (and I'm not one of them) can certainly say what they want but the Champ at times looked frustrated and stymied by Nadal's ferocious game and steely will. Nadal continually beat back service break points while never failing to capitalize on his enemies service lapses. In addition, Federer frequently, and at the worst moments, displayed a heretofore unknown penchant for the unforced error even as Nadal's game grew more confident and steady as the match wore on, handily snatching the 2nd set from the jaws of defeat (he was down 1-4 before he stormed back), to the outright joy of the crowd this time around, 6-4 (again) with Regal Roger quite suddenly down 2 sets to none and his back pressed firmly against the wall by the ravenous Spanish Wolf Nadal.

Let me just add my admiration for both players at this point.

Because this was one of those very rare Head-to-Head Matchups in Professional Sports where no other Player could've or would've given the other guy such spectatcular fits, one of those cases of the Gentleman facing you being the Only Man Alive who could stretch the other to such Superhuman limits. This was Ali/Frazier, McEnroe/Borg, Jabbar/Walton and both Men were more than equal to the challenge and more than ready to duel to the End.

Nadal pumped up the pressure in the 3rd but both combatants brilliantly and gallantly held service until 5-4 (Federer) and then the rain.....
and the waiting......

It was 2am by this time (over in J-land) and this Kid had a date with the Sandman so......

This morning I woke to the news of an incredible 4 hour plus 5th set Nadal victory in the twilight of Center Court.
How Federer got it that far I can't imagine but, after witnessing more than half the battle, I can easily believe.

So tonite I'm hunting replays and getting set to treat myself to the Greatest Wimbledon Finish since Borg/McEnroe way back in 1980. I was around for that one and stayed glued to the tube for every glorious moment of their fabulous 5th set tiebreaker and trust me, it was worth every second of it.

The Great News?

This one is too!

All Praise the Gods of Tennis...Our Prayers have finally been answered!

HAPPY 4TH of JULY WEEKEND!

2008-07-05T20:41:00.000-07:00

And in keeping with that solemn occasion, I humbly offer this feel good little number from some clean-cut All-American Boys, deliciously mashed for your BBQing pleasure with a couple of the more light-hearted holiday Movies from the last 3 decades or so.

Here's "Search and Destroy".

Enjoy.

Tilt 'em back for the Good Ole U S of A!

American Brilliance- Taxi Driver (1976)

2008-06-30T23:38:00.000-07:00

“You talkin’ to me...........you talkin’ to me?”

Of course by now these words are burned into our national consciousness and cinematic lexicon along with “I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse” and “Go ahead...Make my day” but the portrait Scorsese painted of a lonely cabbie trapped in ’76 New York was considerably more user-UNfriendly. Violent, dirty, depraved and desperate his adults only streets teemed with roving gangs, aggressive hookers, abusive pimps, drug addicts, drunks, madmen and those not yet so as we witnessed this degenerate world through the eyes (quite literally) of our hero and everyman, Travis Bickle.

The film, indeed, opens on a tight shot of Travis compulsively scanning his wild, wicked and dangerous landscape. He is seeking employment and during the course of his job interview we learn almost all of what anyone needs to know about him. He is a loner, he has trouble sleeping, he is willing to take grave risks, he is painfully class conscious.

The last may go unnoticed but it is central to any understanding of Travis’ character. During his brief interview we can recognize all the components of the dysfunctional outsider- He’s somewhat smug and superior while simultaneously nervous and uneasy, he’s arrogant yet compliant as the situation demands, he desperately needs help but hates himself for having to ask.
And then he is questioned about his education and for the first time unconsciously displays his painful social isolation.

“Some.......you know......here and there.”

He squirms as he reels in self-disgust. This isolation and self-hatred will become the driving forces of Travis’ urban daydreams/nightmares.

Scorsese’s camera work is simple, elegant and electric throughout and backed by the lushly romantic and foreboding Bernard Hermann score (the film could not be the same without it) shows us a vibrant tableau of his beloved NYC scanned through the lens of Travis’ mind as he trawls the streets in search of money, love, purpose and his everlasting soul. Alone in his room Travis writes letters to what must be parents and idly journals to himself and it is this running monologue, heard as a voice-over, that faithfully tracks the agonizing collapse of Travis’ character and eventually his mind as tumbles down his moral rabbit hole into a world more suitable to his fantasies and own self-image.

The inevitability of Travis’ journey is one of the films strongest points. Given the nature of his environment, the limits of his potential and the coiled trigger of his low tolerance there is little confusion for the viewer as regards the angry storms that swirl in Travis’ mind. He is surrounded by chaos, drowning in solitude, and struggles mightily to find meaning inside it all before finally succumbing and creating his own brand of order. This is truly a tale any stressed out urban dweller can identify with and easily understand.

It’s worth noting that Travis’ 1st contact with a women is in a porno theater and is a complete and humiliating disaster. We immediately begin to grasp his confusion and empathize with his inept advances into his frightening world, he is a loser, an outcast and has very little clue. He drinks, takes pills and subsists on coffee and a horrible diet of junk food.

Yet there is hope.

During his travels through the city he discovers the lovely Betsy, as played by a radiant Cybil Shepard in a deft bit of perfect casting, a bursting-with-Life All-American Blonde Goddess. He instantly conceives of her as his “Angel”, his Madonna, his salvation, the perfect vision of beauty and purity of which he seeks and just as instantly begins to track her every move. Betsy works in the campaign office of Senator Charles Palatine who is running for President and likely to win.
Almost miraculously Travis manages to ingratiate himself with Betsy and score a coffee date, she is intrigued by his directness, sincerity and honesty if somewhat wary of his intensity and out-of-sync methods. The time goes reasonably well and Travis asks her to the movies, she agrees. The plot is shifting in a direction we cannot imagine. Travis’ wishes seem to have a chance to come true, if only temporarily, and then the Big Date arrives. Betsy looks smashing, Travis has a thoughtful gift for her, all is going well until he decides on the movie.
Again demonstrating his complete lack of personal skill, he takes her to a sleazy porn theater. She is very unsure about it all but they press on, Travis assures her,

“No...No....I heard that a lot of couples go here.”

They grab their seats, surrounded by the all-male raincoat crowd, and Betsy is immediately repulsed and offended, she bolts and Travis chases after, there is a scene as Betsy rushes to grab a cab and escape from her now sordid misadventure. He has made an irrevocable error but of course is too emotionally stunted to properly comprehend his folly. Betsy is gone. His Sacred Madonna has abandoned him alone in the streets, clutching his now returned gift in confusion and sorrow.

His life, like many a lonely man before him, has taken a grim turn.

He begins stalking Betsy in a misguided attempt to win her over that is doomed from its start. Eventually he shows up at her workplace, the Palatine Campaign HQ, and his pent-up anger and frustration erupts for the first time causing some minor ugliness and a call to the police before Travis escapes through the crowded sidewalks, more bitter and alone than ever before.

Due to the nature of any great Big City (especially NYC) and the quirks of his profession Travis has numerous, disconnected encounters that nevertheless seem, to him, to be guiding him in some important direction.

Senator Palintine himself, dashing, handsome, intelligent, articulate and wildly popular (everything Travis is not) hops in his cab and engages him in a brief conversation before Travis once again reveals his inability to correctly gauge the moment or at least rein in his anti-social tendencies before his handlers rush the Senator safely away.

A very young hooker leaps into the back seat in a panic and before he can drive away her pimp viciously rips her out of the cab,
“Be cool, Bitch!”,
throws a crumpled $20 at Travis and advises him to,
“Forget about this.”

A deranged cuckold husband (played absolutely brilliantly by Scorsese himself) orders Travis to park at a curb and observe a certain apartment then proceeds to treat Travis to a bone chilling monologue on his plans to murder his whore wife.

Travis’ eyes hyperactively take it all in.

He accidently runs into (almost literally) the young hooker again and this time tracks her down. He purchases her “services” from her pimp, Sport/Matthew (be cool, Bitch), and they repair to the room. But Travis doesn’t want what he’s paid for and what she is so very willing to give him, instead he wants to talk, he wants answers, he wants to save her.
They agree to meet the next day for breakfast. Iris (street name, Easy) is also moved and somewhat curious about this straightforward, serious, sincere, man.

At breakfast she asks if he is a narc. He replies that he is indeed and later allows that he is,

“...doing some special work for the Government right now.”

We begin to understand the choices of this painfully insignificant figure in his uncaring and mystifying world. A lowly hack sarcastically referred to by one of his fellow cabbies as “Killer”, the whipping boy of Female indifference and the silent, non-entity whose job is to transport those more important than himself to their nightly destinies however sordid those destinies may be. Travis roams the streets, searching, searching, searching for the meaning in his existence.

“And then one day there is a turning point.”

Travis is forming his own design in his head and starting to see the connections, beginning to grasp his purpose, moving toward his own destiny needing only the agent for change and that agent is his purchase of handguns.
An arsenal.

The shift in his universe is manifest and absolutely total. Before the purchase of his weapons he was nothing, now he holds the power to change the World within his hands.

And change it he does.

The 60 minute drop down to the end of Scorsese’ epic ride will have your heart in your throat all the way to the final explosive collision of Travis’ worlds and his retribution against his hated enemies, real and imagined- The Father Figure who has symbolically stolen his woman and the “scum” who degrade his existence and insult his sense of righteousness. A finale that is still shattering to this day.

Movie violence has come a long way since ’76 (and many might say a wrong way) and given the Mack Truck-going downhill-out-of-control-with-no-brakes that is screenwriter Paul Schraders’ script it is all the more incredible that Scorsese manages to pack so much tension, paranoia, uncertainty, fear and horror into the last third of his film.

Great scenes- Sport’s initial sales spiel to Travis-
“Man.. this girl.....you can cum in her face, fuck her in her mouth, fuck her in her ass....man this chick get you so hot she’ll make your dick EXPLODE!”

Travis’ gun purchase- Steven Prince as the very best salesman ever captured on film, ever!
“Now the magnum...they use that for killing elephants in Africa.”

The Bodega scene- “Hey...” BOOM!
“You get him?”

And too many more.

It is impossible to imagine this film being made today.
Indeed, it was difficult to believe it was made back then, and released into theaters Nationwide but it was and we were grateful for and properly stunned by its timely arrival. A small story written and filmed large about one man’s urban isolation, social disintegration, violent tendencies, descent into madness and eventually, in a final twist, his provident redemption.

And it’s got Albert Brooks....so there’s that too.

It’s safe to say that Scorsese broke the modern mold of cinematic Urban tales with this one and changed the direction of modern filmmaking.

A final note on the final shot.
I’ve heard numerous different theories as to its meaning and I won’t argue any of them but I prefer to take it very literally.

The World has absolutely changed, but some Men remain the same.

Thank you Sir!

2008-06-23T21:51:00.000-07:00

George Carlin (1937- 2008)

For this one and so much more.....

American Brilliance- Taxi Driver (1976)

2008-06-20T01:53:00.000-07:00

In 1976 I turned 13 yrs old and was obsessed with exactly 2 things in life- playing Baseball and watching Movies.
It would be difficult for any non-MTGers to even imagine the landscape of cinematic opportunities, or lack thereof, from that era but let me make it very simple. If you wanted to see a film in 1976 you had exactly 2 choices-
1). Haul your ass to the theater, buy a ticket at the box office and grab a seat or…
2). Late night television programming.
That’s it.

Please remember, however unfathomable it may seem, that this was not only pre-Netflix, this was pre-internet, not only pre-DVD but pre-VCR (remember those?). Sitting in a darkened, cavernous (by today’s standards) theater with your popcorn in one hand and your soda pop in the other while waiting for that curtain to pull and the vast screen to jump to brilliant life as it thundered sound, coming attractions and sometimes even a cartoon into your mind was your one and only chance to witness a 1st run film. Well…..wait a sec……there was the Drive-in but, you know, nobody (except overexcited 13 yr. old boys driven by their weary parents) went to the Drive-in to watch the Movie.

My childhood was a lucky one for many reasons. Chief among those was that my Father paid little attention to it. I was a privileged baby who was desperately spoiled and smothered in Moms protective Lioness Love and, perhaps because of this, was largely ignored by Pops and so was essentially free to go, do and be basically anything I wanted- Mother too wonderfully loving to punish me and Father too bored and busy to pay any real attention.
It was a sweet deal.

On occasion, however, Mom would hound Pops into taking an interest in me (perhaps assuming I wanted or needed a masculine Father Figure lest I turn sissy or something) and He would grudgingly acquiesce in, what I thought, was a decidedly clever fashion.

Now it wouldn’t take long to list His strong points but it would be unfair of me to state that he didn’t have more than a few. One of his most admirable was his savvy and unerringly accurate taste in Movies. And so on certain magical occasions after our dinner, and after much prodding from my Mother, he’d glance at me and say,
“Go get in the car.”

It was our Boys Night Out. He’d take me to see the latest and greatest flick that he himself was at least as psyched to see as I was knowing full well that I would be perfectly hypnotized by the story unfolding in front of my eyes and that he could safely and easily go back to ignoring me and otherwise enjoying himself. He could then, after 3 diligently parented hours, drop me back at home and disappear for the evening with no worries about maternal repercussions secure in the knowledge that he had faithfully fulfilled his Fatherly duty or at least that Mom could not reasonably complain.
Talk about Win-Win.

At that time, and amid the politically unstable period (post-Watergate), most social institutions were surprisingly reactionary and conservative (did I just write-at that time?) even if the Arts were not and so, unfortunately for most filmmakers and certainly viewers, the dreaded “R” rating really held some weight. It strictly meant No One Under 17 Admitted Without a Parent or Guardian.

As we breezed through the turnstiles eager and smiling.

And thus when I was 6 years young I was stunned to witness “Bonnie and Clyde” (1969) go down in a brutal hail of extended machine gun fire (weren’t the beautiful people supposed to win in the end?) and cheered at 7 as “Dirty Harry” (1971) blew the psycho killer into the lagoon then whipped his badge into the same murky water as a grand finale and shocking spit in Authority's eye.
I cringed as Sonny Corleone got much the same “B & C” treatment in “The Godfather” (1972) and then celebrated Fanucci getting His in the head in” The Godfather II” (1974).

All these and many more I watched in ravenous awe and, of course, reported faithfully back to my grade-school friends on the following Monday. Needless to say they gawked at me in slack-jawed wonder and naked envy, it would be years, and maybe decades, before they’d be able to see these same films that we’d all been dreaming of but they’d been summarily denied.
It was like I was auditing classes in cinematic Harvard while they were stuck with their noses glued to the TV Guide (do they have those anymore?) hoping that they might eventually, if they waited long enough, catch a Hitchcock or a John Ford Western if their parents let ‘em stay up late enough.

And so it was with delicious anticipation and no small amount of excitement that we prepared to view Scorsese's latest Urban Epic. Of course my Father and I had both read and heard about the controversy swirling around the film- Vile Language, Gratuitous Sex Scenes, Horrifying Violence and Irredeemable Characters trapped in a Depraved World of Sin.....

And of course we were 1st in line.

(Retrospective to follow)

Lazy Sunday- Kyoto Version

2008-06-16T20:25:00.000-07:00

Eyes open, 12:45.

Apparently not dead yet.

Eyes still open, body failing to respond, 1:00 pm.

Coffee is in the air and the wonderful scent of bacon/eggs fills the room. I rise, fall, stumble then crawl to the dining area.

Breakfast is served. Announcements are made.

It would appear as if the In-Laws will be making a somewhat impromptu visit this day and, in fact, are due any moment. The Wife requests that I partake in a long solo shower, utililizing all available cleaning products, so that the place doesn't reek like a herd of alcoholic goats when the Parents arrive.

I open up my newspaper, stick my nose in, sip my 3rd cup of hot Joe. Request denied.

Phone rings, doorbell shortly follows. Mom is here, He's parking the car, gifts are exchanged as I abandon my paper, my peace, any sense of solitude and retreat to the shower.

Floss, brush, shower, shave, splash on some smell-well, glance intently in the mirror. Is it possible that I'm actually getting better looking as I age? I have to allow that this is a distinct possibility.

Dress quickly while the day's schedule is being discussed and coordinated in the other room. Decisions are made as I load my bag for the day and check the sky. Sunny, lovely, no complaints or threatening clouds. They are making early evening reservations for a delicious dinner in Gion (World Famous Entertainment District), I will be going to work. Sometimes it breaks that way.

3:00pm. Time to make the doughnuts.

Goodbyes are expressed and I hit the streets. It is very simply a perfectly beautiful day. I head down the River to the station for my 1st meeting, the breeze off the water is sublime. Couples are holding hands, Old folks basking in the warmth, children frolicking in the water, dogs romping on the banks. If you wanted to think about a ideal World it would have to be something close to this.

But I'm peddling fast, No Time.

Near Sanjo a giant group of rubberneckers are blocking the path. I hit my bell and treat them to my best scowl, they all smile in return and shuffle, mostly , out of my way. It seems that they are taping one of J-Lands ubiquitous TV Location specials and the cameras are rolling as I zip by. 2 of J-TV's "Talent" are miked and the crowd is gawking in awe. Neither one of them is the slightest bit talented in any redeemable manner and I detect nothing "Special" occuring so I keep pedalling.
Fast.

From Shijo to Gojo the river is full of Anglers fishing for Aiyu, a local delicacy. This sight always pleases me enormously. I've personally never seen anybody take anything out of this River but then again, I don't stick around to watch so maybe they do. I guess I just like the fact that all these Old geezers are wading knee-deep into the water, geared out like they're in Montana or at least Spain, all the while being about a 3 minute walk to any Major Train Station and a 30 minute ride home to their TV's and cold beers. Good Luck Fellas!

Nearing Kyoto Station a small single engine plane buzzes down from nowhere. I have no idea what this pilot is thinking but he is flying LOW. So low that I feel like if I stood on the roof of a 5 story building and got a good running start I just might be able to hit him with a rock, maybe. He buzzes Kyoto Tower and flies off due south. I can figure no reasonable explanation for this.

Make it to my meeting at the SBC. The girl serving me is young and beautiful and speaks flawless English. Tits like ripe grapefruit and a smile like sunshine. If there's a better combination I've been waiting 45 years to see it.

Meeting productive. 5:00pm.

Phone rings. Next meeting is calling to cancel, stuck in Tokyo and can't make it.

YES!

Dinner, here I come.

Taxi to the resturaunt, 6:00pm. The ride is, like all Kyoto taxis, smooth, clean, quiet and quick. I may never get tired of this service.

1st time in Gion, humming with anticipation. The disappointment begins.

Our waiter (Did they run out of beautiful Girls or something?) appears to be a teenage Boy and about as sharp as a bowling ball.

Food is served and the 1st dish is fantastic, best daikon salad I have ever had, bar none.

We wait for the next dishes.

And wait.

Wait.

This will prove to be a theme for the evening.

Minor emergency during dinner and I have to leave the place for 10 minutes or so. As I exit I am offered wooden clog type shoes which I slip on and head into Gion. I turn a few corners and have entered a blissfully silent part of the District, I can hear absolutely nothing but the soft "klok, klok, klok" of my chanklas off the cobblestones. It is a lovely, lonely sound. I peer up and notice very old burn marks on some of the wooden buildings, maybe there for decades or hundreds of years.
Klok, Klok back to the food.

The check arrives, 9ish. Father-in-Law is at last pleased. If not entirely salvaged the evening cannot be described as a total loss. The food, when it managed to arrive, was delicious. The Service? Less said the better. As we take our leave we notice a family of 4 at an adjoining table also making a break. They seem even less pleased than we. I will not mention the name of the eatery.

9:30pm, time for the Boys and Girls to split up. We will be repairing to a local Drinking Hole, they will be returning home.

Oto-San makes the Call and picks, of all things, an English Style Pub we've visited previously, run by 2 young Japanese guys.
The bar is suprisingly crowded as we sit, order. Directly behind us is a group (5) of Japanese and one American girl and she is doing much of the talking, in English.
She's talking a lot! The artsy type who talks about Big Cultural themes and Intellectual Ideas and Artistic Projects and so I conceive an instant dislike for her. Oh well. I bend to my beer as Oto-San engages the couple next to him on the barstool in conversation.
I smoke, drink, aggresively ignore.

The American Girl gets up to use the Jane, I turn to regard her for the 1st time as she walks away. Whoa!
Tight jeans, long lean legs, swinging hips, sweet ass, tattoos or in other words-My Type. As she returns to her table I add fresh face and great smile to her resume and immediately reevaluate my opinion. Our eyes meet, as they say, and we don't waste any time with introductions. We jump into conversational intercourse but I am wary. The closer I look (and we're at kissing distance so I'm looking awful damn close) the more she reminds me of the Ex and I can't determine whether I love her or hate her so, realizing the unfairness of it all, decide to do neither.
Great smile though.

Her group leaves and Oto-San intoduces me to his new friends. They are Larry and his Wife, Naoko. Naoko used to teach H.S. at the same place Oto-san attended, guite unbelievable considering that she is in great shape and doesn't seem a minute over 40. This makes him ecstatically happy. There is much drink before He invites L§N back to my home for further festivities.
We all walk.
Larry has any number of interesting stories about the West Coast Music Scene of the 80's and 90's of which he took part. We arrive home and he shows us some cool computer stuff.

After Midnight. L&N head for their home followed by the In-Laws, likewise. The Wife repairs to Bed.

Alone at last.

I pop in a DVD and relax. Sometime after 1 in the am.

I remember absolutely nothing of my movie or of turning off the TV but somehow make it safely next to her.

When I have a tankful of beer, shochu, whiskey and cigarettes I very rarely have dreams of any kind, this time is no exception.

10:45, Monday morning, eyes open.

It's time to make the doughnuts.

We are currently experiencing Technical Difficulties

2008-06-04T23:09:00.000-07:00

Many apologies, Patient Readers, but recently we suffered a minor setback here at Analogblog HQ.

The problem evolved according to the following formula-

3 Moms chatting divided by 3 16-20 month old toddlers running wild + 2 sippy cups full of tea + 1 unattended Laptop computer =

Well.....you do the math.

But our crack squad of experts is on the job and with any luck I should have a decent (or hopefully indecent) post in the next day or three.

Thanks for your patience.

Memories.....

2008-06-02T22:24:00.000-07:00

Dreaming of the Ex (and maybe all the Exes) so this one is for you.

Great God how I want you...

What a Gal!

2008-05-24T22:49:00.000-07:00

In a previous post (5-10-08, Lie, Steal, Cheat, Kill...or Beg)) astute readers may recall that I doubted the sociopathic Senator Clintons' intentions to scrape for a brand new low in this 08' campaign.

The Lady has forever put my doubts to rest.

In what has got to be the quintessential Hillary Moment the Senator from the Great State of New York actually, truly, seriously invoked the memory of what is certainly one of the most horrible tragedies to befall the Democratic Party, the entire Nation or even the World-at-Large, not to mention the Kennedy Family themselves, as a sound reason for continuing her desperate, and now despicable, run at the Democratic nomination for President of these United States.

So.....let me get this straight Senator.

You're hanging on by your claws, as a grand favor to the American People, just in case your opponent happens to be killed?

You are one Class act M'am!

The Nation salutes you!

In the event that anyone is unclear about the Senator's meaning she hammered her message home with her subsequent non-apology the following day.
She began with "If..."
As in-
"If the Kennedy Family or the voters were offended....blahblahblah.....Then I apologize"

Gee....Ya Think?

What a Gal!

Mr. & Mrs. Emotional Whack-A-Mole, Welcome to the Oprah Winfrey Show

2008-05-16T01:05:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s happened. On Thursday a Federal Grand Jury and the L.A. District Attorney Thomas O’Brien indicted the woman behind the alleged MySpace scam that may or may not have led to the suicide of 14 yr. old Megan Meier back in 2006.
I’ve already amply covered the repulsive, redundant and universal idiocy of this malignant affair so I’ll try not to rehash the moronic particulars.

http//everybodylikespizza.blogspot.com/2008/01/thinning-herd.html

Suffice to say that, Yes, I did indeed write Federal Grand Jury!
And I guess good Ole Tommy O’Brien is gonna get to the bottom of this one and make the world safe and secure for hyper-emotional teenage beanbags everywhere by prosecuting everyone who ever sends unkind messages to anyone on the Internets, EVER!
After that he’s gonna cure Cancer then solve that pesky AIDS problem.
All brought to you taxpayers, of course, by the same Office that handled that OJ deal so expertly.
I may be whistling Dixie here but I’m going to guess that there just might, possibly, maybe, could be one or two other tiny little cases that require the District Attorney’s priority attention in Los Angeles before he tackles the scourge of Cyber-Meanness and thus puts an end to Teen Suicide in Missouri forever but, apparently, this circus of circle-jerking grief will continue nonetheless.
If you have the time and really enjoy peering through the Legal Lookingglass take a few minutes and read the “Overt Acts” section of the Federal Indictment. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2008/images/05/15/my.space.drew.indictment.pdf

In another astounding bit of hysterical lunacy over 85% of those polled believed prosecution was in order and appropriate. I 100% hope that I never meet that 85%.

Should the Prosecution win, however, I believe I have the ideal punishment to fit the crime.

Chain her to her PC and force her to log on to MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, etc. etc. etc. for 12 hours a day responding to each and every single “friend” request she receives for an entire year.
If she ever comes near a computer again after that she’s a better man than me!

Our Own "Born" Identity (continued)

2008-05-13T01:04:00.000-07:00

So the deal was struck.

We set the date (my only official day off) and the time then hammered out the plan. We would take the train together, she helping me with directions/language etc., then I would ride my junker back solo. It all seemed quite sensible. Logical, even.

It may shock no one but on the evening previous to the date (my only Holiday I would like to remind one and all) I imbibed a mythic amount of sophisticated Adult beverages before repairing to my slumber. Needless to say, I was in something akin to less-than-perfect condition the following morning…..well……..actually…………early afternoon.

The plain fact is that I was paralyzed, almost comatose, just barely capable of basic motor function and absolutely stripped of any ability to operate at a recognizably Human level. Eat, drink, piss, shit, this was about all I could manage. If the building were to catch fire I would have never made it out alive.

The Wife was eerily calm.

Breakfast was served, coffee followed and I accomplished these tasks heroically, I thought. I was becoming quite proud of myself. She, however, did not appear to be impressed by my agonizing recovery from wanton self-destruction. After my second cup she spoke.

“So let’s leave in an hour and that should give us plenty of time…….OK?”

I regarded her as a novice climber might regard Mt. Everest looking up from the bottom.

“Yea………….you know………………fuck that.”

Let it not be said that at crucial moments I lack eloquence.

The Storm began to build. At first she gently urged then softly requested then sincerely implored then desperately demanded and finally furiously commanded me to live up to our deal and make good on my promise as I sat there and vegetated over my caffeine. I needed to crawl back under the covers and hide from all that Life might offer, she was working herself into a frenzy of energy and determination. That bike would be hers and no Man or God would stop her. I was harnessing all the power and mobility of a stone dead battery so, suffice to say, we were somewhat at odds.

Names were called, epithets exchanged, curses shared.

Finally she called the play.

“FUCK YOU……If you don’t get up right now then I’m going to get that bike by myself and you can GO TO HELL!”

She grabbed her keys and made for the door.

She was holding a Full House- Aces over Kings. I had a handful of garbage. I folded.

I have a minor skill of which I am inordinately proud. It is my standing boast that I can get showered, flossed, brushed and dressed, making myself presentable to the World-at-Large and ready for photo opportunities, under any conditions in 5 minutes or less.
As she stormed towards the door I put that skill to good use.

My point is this.

Had any Man called my bluff I would’ve certainly laughed in his face as he hit the door. Were Force used I would’ve been happy, if not quite able, to answer with equal or greater Force.
There was nothing I wanted, nowhere I wanted to go and nobody who could’ve made me anyway.

But when She called me out………

“Then figure it out then.”

Women have a strength that calls us to action as no other can. Politicians, Presidents, Bosses, Bullies, enemies, friends or neighbors, they can all spit into the wind but her words show me where to place my feet and raise my fists.

Her words say.

Get in the Game, Man……’cuz we need you!

And, of course, as is so often the case in these matters, it turned out to be a beautiful day.

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's why!

2008-05-11T19:27:00.000-07:00

And this week I'm taking No Prisoners.

I humbly urge you to do the same.

Lie, Steal, Cheat and Kill.......or Beg

2008-05-10T19:57:00.000-07:00

I doubt if this represents a new low in the game we call Politics but, I'll be Damned, Hillary and her Camp did indeed stun me with this one! Astute readers have doubtless already heard but the Wicked Witch of the West just yesterday fired off a personal letter to Senator Obama asking him to join her in righting what she perceives to be a grievous wrong.
It may be shocking to some but this aid she seeks (from the opponent that she's been viciously clipping for weeks now) may be to her benefit and hers alone.

Check out a glimpse into the mind of a privileged liberal sociopath who may just believe that the World(or at least the USA) owes her something.

www.huffingtonpost.com
(The Huffington Post: Hillary's Hastily Penned Open Letter to Obama)

I'll bypass the cheap shots at her spelling errors and the greasily desperate tone of her language and leave it at this- Men often complain that Women not only don't play by the Rules but that they live their lives completely absent of any acknowledgement of said Rules and with almost no restrictions on their Public or Private behavior.

I wonder why.

There is one thing, however, I have to admit after reading Senator Clinton's letter.

She's got some pretty big balls.

Our Own "Born" Identity

2008-05-06T21:46:00.000-07:00

One of the many reasons I love to huddle in the darkness and watch movies is for that tiny revelatory moment when your/our humanity shines like a brilliant beacon from someplace on high illuminating even our most mundane moments and allowing us all to remember what we are, once were or might someday become.
And of course sometimes I just like to watch shit blow up real good but…..

I recently, for the 2nd time, re-viewed “The Bourne Identity” and was struck anew by that thrilling bolt of lightening from the blue. A small exchange at a very complicated moment in the story, a very simple conversation between Bourne and his-not-yet-GF Marie, reminded me very clearly of one of the more important reasons I love Women and the many things they do.

But first some personal background.
It would be more than fair to state that during my 3 Adult decades on the planet I’ve been accused, almost exclusively by wonderful, intelligent woman, of being either sexist or sex-obsessed.
In response I would like to plead Nolo contendere.

Sexist?
Of course I am! I am, after all is said and done and through no conscience decision and very little fault of my own, a man. This means that a major portion of my arsenal in this Jungle we live in is my ability to instantly identify and assess people based on their gender but, please understand, because there are only two (you know, strictly speaking) I can’t and won’t claim any great pride in this skill although it does come in awfully handy during Mating Season. I don’t, however, judge based on gender because that might get in the way of getting the job done.
If you can play, welcome to the team.
If you can’t, adios.

Sex-obsessed?
Seriously? Ladies, the filing of these types of charges is exactly what has us all chasing our collective, horny tails while adding to the garbage heap of frustration that is Adulthood instead of fulfilling our, at last, obtainable fantasies while simultaneously spreading love, joy and peaceful satisfaction on our one-way rocket ride to the end of this too short journey.
Sex is spiritual food, a cosmic life affirmation, a physical recharge of the old batteries and a cleansing flush of our muddy oil if you’re doing it right and, if you’re doing it wrong, it’s just wild damn fun and a nice workout before you hit the sack, at least for Us.
And
That
Is
Why
All Men are obsessed with sex!

And the lack of sex? Probably behind every bad decision ever made in the History of Mankind and I do mean Mankind! Every High Crime, low misdemeanor, embarrassing indiscretion and case of just plain poor judgment can most likely be traced to the fact that He was bitterly flogging his dolphin last night (or for the last 60 nights) instead of tucking his starving body into the warm, inviting feast that is You.
The Male equation is simple-

More love= Sound Thinking, Good Intentions and Righteous Actions
Less Love= Bad Judgment, Poor Decisions and Malignant Results.

If women are sexual camels (a bare minimum can be stored and used for a long time with no ill effect to the owner) then men are certainly sexual sharks (we have to constantly keep swimming forward or we die)! I feel no need to belabor a point I think I’ve reviewed in the past and this is strictly Adult Relations 101 but Girls-
Accusing a man of being obsessed with sex is like accusing him of being tall or short or hungry. Our/My response?
“yea…..And?”

But today I’m working a level quite separate from S-E-X (I remain capable of these occasionally Superhuman feats of concentration) as I try to examine my other compulsions, my other than puerile admiration of the Fairer Sex being chief among these.
And so…
back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Bourne and Marie have barely survived a harrowing, violent car chase and very narrowly escaped the Lawdogs who are doubtless still in pursuit and more feverish than ever for their capture. Bourne has amnesia and has no idea who he is or why people are chasing him. The couple have spent only a short time together, perhaps 36 hrs, but Marie has been giving him the Look while he isn’t looking. They’re in an underground parking lot, momentarily safe, when Bourne calls the play. It’s time they split up.
He’s given her the money and firmly believes she will be safer alone.
Marie has other thoughts.

Bourne, adrenalin pumping, deeply confused, almost hysterical, back-to-the-wall and desperate for a way out yells at her,
“Marie, I don’t know who I am, I don’t know why they’re chasing me, I don’t know what to do………….I’VE GOT TO FIGURE THIS OUT!”

Marie, calm and quite suddenly very collected regards him. She coolly measures him and comes to her own decision as she softly tells him the only thing he needs to hear but is too afraid to even think.

“Then figure it out.”

Her implication is hard, fast and crystal clear. Figure it out you idiot because I’m dying to make love to you and be Your Woman and I’m not gonna have anything get in the way of that so don’t you dare turn into some kind of Candyass on me now!

Bourne, sensing her resolve and feeling her feeling, calms down, catches his breath, regroups his cool and immediately jumps back into Asskicking mode.
Later that night she makes good on her promise and throws the Love all over him so maybe he could’ve done it without her but why would you want to anyway?

And it’s exactly that feeling of Feminine Strength and calm in that Masculine storm of anger and confusion….
That taste of cold steel inside that sweet soft package…..
That faithful promise that everything, or maybe nothing, will be alright if you just ACT LIKE A MAN!

This is what makes me love them now and always.

In moments of stress I can easily, frighteningly easily, devolve into a violent, panicky, senseless, stupid animal futilely banging his head against his own cage unless or until……..

Those hard words come from that loving, generous gift of beauty and all things good.

“Come back with your shield…or on it.”

Recently around these parts we had our own mini-crisis. My bike (as in bicycle, YES, I'm a grown man and I ride a bcycle, OK? it ain't easy being Green) got jacked by the Kyoto City Parking Pirates, not a terribly uncommon occurrence among residents here unfortunately but, because I ride damn near everyday for Business not Pleasure and as my wheels were neither expensive nor of any great sentimental value, I had a somewhat sticky decision to make.

1.) Spend the day taking the train to another train to a long lonely walk to the pound where I would fork over my fine money, retrieve my beat wheels then start the looooooong trek back home. Or…..
2.) Fuck that shit and Kyoto City, let ‘em keep my low-rent junk and go buy a brand new set of shiny pedals.

Needless to say I opted for No. 2.

Then came the curveball.
Purchase shiny new pedals we did but for reasons inexplicable to me, the Wife decided to buy one of those Eco/Urban/Mountain/Assault Bikes that cost more than anything without a motor has any right to cost. I was unable to stop or, in lieu of that, talk good sense to her.

The SuperBike was all mine.

I was immediately uncomfortable. I neither enjoyed riding this gleaming gold mine of unreasonable expense nor could I properly relax whenever and wherever I parked it. I deeply resented having to keep a weather eye on this ostentatious albatross yet couldn’t stop myself from neurotically doing so. I’d gotten used to parking my beat-up old scooter almost anywhere and walking away without a second thought but now it was like I was mentally chained to this gaudy symbol of materialism.
The situation rapidly became untenable.
Luckily, She had a solution.
We, meaning Me, could retrieve my Old bike from the pound then switch wheels, she taking the new set and selling her old, me going back to my safe, cheap, friendly and familiar mode of transport.
I could not argue, and did not even want to, the utter and unassailable logic of this plan.
Our deal was struck.

to be continued.....

Everybody's got one of 'em

2008-04-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

Overrated- Wine
Underrated- Whiskey

Overrated- "I Love Lucy"
Underrated- "The Honeymooners"

Overrated- Metallica
Underrated- Black Sabbath

Overrated- Jessica Simpson's tits
Underrated- Jessica Biel's ass

Overrated(by the entire world excluding the USA)- Soccer
Underrated(by the entire world excluding the USA)- American Football

Overrated- Deepthroat
Underrated- Kissing

Overrated- Marriage
Underrated- Partnership

Overrated- The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
Underrated- The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson

Overrated- Obama
Underrated- Gen. Wesley Clark

Overrated- Bluejeans
Underrated- Khakis

Overrated- "Citizen Kane"
Underrated- "Groundhog Day"

Overrated- friends
Underrated- solitude

Overrated- E-mail
Underrated- letters

Overrated (sometimes)- Dylan, Lennon, Hendrix
Underrated (sometimes)- Dylan, Lennon, Hendrix

Overrated- the Yankees
Underrated- the Cubs

Overrated- Lohan
Underrated- Selma Blair ( great good god how I love her and if you're reading this S please call)

Overrated- cocaine
Underrated- marijuana

Overrated- offspring
Underrated- A life alone

Overrated- University
Underrated- Hard Knocks

Overrated- Tea
Underrated- Coffee

Overrated- The Ex
Underrated- The Ex

The only thing that can't be overrated- Life
The only thing that can't be underrated- Death

A Little Lick of Japan

2008-04-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting half of forever to turn my Western Friends (who may have missed the News) onto the Yoshida Brothers and I finally managed (after much searching) to find the Whopper most proper. The Brothers play the very traditional Japanese 3-stringed instrument known as the Shamisen but they work 'em with, what I think, is a very unique vibe.

Enjoy.

Hope you liked my vocals.

Got 4 minutes?

2008-04-15T23:41:00.000-07:00

Because I need to remember that on rare occasions in this game we call Life the Skies open, all the Planets converge, the Stars align then the Gods grab our souls and someone sings.

Mama don't take My Polaroid away

2008-04-07T23:17:00.000-07:00

As far as I can remember the year was circa 1996. I was slaving at a Design Factory (interiors, high-end retail shops, displays) and steady nailing the 20-year old Sexdream who worked there. Long legs, luscious lips, swinging hips, perfect ass. She would later fundamentally alter my life in ways I could not imagine at the time but that's a very different story.
We were collaborating on a Bloomingdales display and, on that day, we had a new toy.

A Polaroid Instant Camera! Our first.

We giggled and gawked at our work. One press of the button from that somewhat bulky box, a flash and then the magic arrival of an INSTANT PHOTO, however grey and blank it was, sliding out to meet me. Then the almost mystical reveal, a gradual yet compelling recreation of the image just snapped most suddenly, amazingly developing into a hard copy in my sweaty little hands and in front of my wondrous eyes. A transformation from nothingness into captured reality. A technological Abra-ka-dabra! A 2 minute miracle!
She glanced at me slyly, locking eyes.

“This could really be fun…….after work.”
I was embarrassed that I didn't think of it myself.

And thus began my career as a Polaroid Maniac.

The artless immediacy, the erotic urgency, the vibrant fleshiness, the ugly/beautiful/stark, true and undeniable verite quality of the reborn bodies, faces and forms always and forever satisfied, electrified and fascinated me. I’m Analog, Man. Those scraps of fat chemical paper were better than gold and more honest than money, at least to me. I never did advance into the Video era and never wanted to. Those frozen moments of ecstasy were enough and more than enough to satisfy my deepest desires and quench my most illicit thirsts.

Yes, I was very late to the party but then again I’ve always been a slow starter. Had I not proceeded to indulge my Polaroid obsession in the following years I most certainly would’ve regretted all the missed opportunities of my sordid past but all in all, I must plead Instamatic Satisfaction and neverending gratitude to the beautiful subjects/objects of my camera play and more specifically to my gorgeous, loving, generous GF from that lovely day.

Thanks always C.

Remember that tired question- If there were a fire what would be the one thing you would grab before you run out of the house?
I don’t even need to think twice or even once, I know exactly what I’m saving.

But now, sadly, like so much for the MTG Generation, the end is more than near, it's here.

In Feb. of this year (yes I realize I'm a step slow) Polaroid ended all production of the cameras and their expensive film. It would seem that there is no place for these clumsy, clunky, slow and pricey pieces of nostagiala in todays Digital Universe. As so often happens in this 50-yard Dash we call Life, my World just got a little darker, a trifle smaller, a bit sadder. Win some, lose some.

But fortunately I can still hold those fragile pieces of memory in my hands and recall the touch, taste, scent, lust and the love of all my yesterdays and fever dreams of all my tomorrows- My trifling treasure that I'll happily take to the grave.

And then, today, I remembered that I live in Japan, a fact I forget more easily than one might imagine.

A crazy, compulsive land that could surely define obsessive mania (indeed it may be the norm) and where, miraculously, Instant cameras are still the rage and remain in mass production for freaks like me and maybe even you.

http://fujifilm.jp/personal/filmcamera/instant/index.html

WE LIVE! WE BREATHE! I SEE THE LIGHT!

Thank God for the O/C Japanese. Long may they reign!

'Cuz it's Monday...That's why.

2008-04-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

And I need a Lesson in Courage.
Hemingway defined it as "Grace under pressure".
So here's my example.
Smokin' Joe Frazier taking it to the One and Only Muhammad Ali.

Back when Heavyweights were Heavyweights and everyone was glad of it!

I think just witnessing the fierce anger, intense menace and unstoppable determination of the Pitbull Frazier as he mauls the gallant, graceful and regal Ali makes me more informed on Valor, Will and the Great Nature of us all-too-Human Beings.

Watching the elegant Ali get up off the canvas to valiantly soldier on is surely the definition of Heart and a crystal clear message to anyone paying attention.

We may not be able to win every battle but we can certainly fight hard...

And Look Good doing it!

The Skin We're In

2008-04-01T22:48:00.000-07:00

I was recently rereading “The World According to Garp” and was struck once again by a particular passage- Garp, having just discovered his wife’s recent infidelity as he simultaneously bathes his youngest son and prepares for a night away from home, engages her in a nasty, running, rather one-sided duel of wits. It is his intention to verbally and emotionally cripple her before hitting the door with the kids in tow in a somewhat shortsighted attempt at Payback. He begins dressing after the bath but manages to put on only his shirt when his Wife, Helen, abruptly walks into the bedroom.
He, freshly wounded, bitter and bottomless, hopes to inflict maximum pain on his now unsteady spouse as he rips into her.
She, deeply guilt-ridden yet calmly aware and gaining strength with each passing second, neatly ends the conversation with a simple, sincere plea.

“Please put on some pants.”

Helen (Irving) has come to the immediate conclusion that a Man partly dressed is somehow……incomplete, inconclusive, incorrect. Neither as handsome/masculine as when he is totally nude nor as powerful/capable as when he is fully dressed.

But a Woman…….
A woman who is only partially clothed…..
She exudes Mystery.
Intoxicating allure.
Feverish desire.
Magnetic Sex.
She has Power!

I have to agree with Irving’s keen sense of sexual dynamics although with some reservations.

Because the essential pull of the fully dressed woman is fueled exclusively by my own imagination when focused on that blissfully mysterious but achingly familiar form. The electric jolt of that small display of skin- a short skirt flashing ripe thigh, a scooped blouse offering a soft bounty, a brief top almost covering a lean belly that is leading to an eruption of hips- this is the real Fountain of Youth flowing through the streets and pumping hot blood through my veins and may it never end.
Praise to all Gods!

But what can we Older men (who the Hell am I trying to kid,,,OLD MEN) do about it?

Precious little as we watch our Youth drift away on an uncaring tide while almost every action we may take will most likely turn out to be much more than wrong.

Whistle and you’re a cad.

Leer and you’re a Lech.

Peer too long and you’re a Perv.

Reach out to touch that beautiful bounty on display and you’re open to arrest, prosecution and a public flogging or possibly a Date depending on your financial and social status- which is to say if you happen to Rich and/or Famous then it's an all-you-can-eat buffet Baby but if you're like the rest of us 40ish males then you most likely have slightly more choices than a concentration camp prisoner.

And so for almost all of us we must lean back, relax and try to recall the days (or at least review the videotape and polaroids) when we were the objects of admiration and desire and when sweet girls looked at us with open invitation instead of blatant discomfort because this rapidly fading memory may provide precious moments of solace as we watch long legs, bouncy breasts, swinging hips and kissable lips nonchalantly, painfully pass us by.

Oh… the agony/ecstasy of being a 21st Century Dirty Old Man! Publicly handcuffed in a Girls Gone Wild World...

Still virile and ravenous at 4 and 1/2 decades while simultaneously, inevitably and ever so slowly turning more grey, craggy, crabby and all too shamefully mature with the passing of each wonderful, terrible day as the world continues to become fleshier, sexier, younger and more delicious if also more distant and untouchable.
Every year young girls are encouraged to flaunt their beauty, their power, their pleasure more openly, brazenly without concern or regard and every year I get older and further from their invitations just as my mind longs and my body hungers for the taste of that lush life ever more acutely.
Yes, with each more casually revealed inch of precious feminine flesh my position grows weaker just as surely as theirs grows stronger and more vital. Trapped in a hot, sweaty city full of candy stores without a dime to my name and I can’t savvy the lingo so any approach is a no-go.

It may not be the only game in town, it's just the Best One we got.

You must realize, of course, that the Male world is full of brash talk and tough posturing about big words like Power, Control, Action, Victory but don’t let us fool you Ladies.

Lean over your desk…

Bend over at the waist to pick something up…

Cross your legs and casually adjust your skirt…..

And Our World is all Yours…..for whatever it’s worth.

Close but no Cigar!

2008-03-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

Senator Clinton may not be half the Man her husband is but apparently her total recall skills are at least his equal.

And...

If you've got 6 precious minutes to kill then check out the words of a different brand of Senator from a not so very different time long ago.
The Message is not at all similar although the words are as resonant, fresh and real for now and always.

Not to go on and on but.....
Bobby seems AOK with me and just maybe he was onto something.

2008-03-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

I'm leaving on a Jet plane.....and I'm pretty sure when I'll be back again.

But it won't be for a few holidaze so until then...

I hope you enjoy and indulge.

Cuz it's Monday...That's why!

2008-03-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

and because Dr. John is good for whatever ails ya'!

Excuse me but right now I gotta go kiss a pretty girl.....'cuz if I don't do it somebody else will.

and here's your bonus Monday jolt to go along with your caffeine.

Absolutely No Charge!

Love and Marriage/The Real Deal

2008-03-19T21:03:00.000-07:00

Finally after months of exhaustive research the results are in, all questions are answered, all doubts assuaged, the truth laid bare.
What are these fierce creations we call Love and Marriage? What is this strange beast we have so willingly nurtured? Where is this fully loaded freight train headed? What is our destination? Can we hop off? Must we stay on? Can we switch seats? Where’s the next stop?
Are we there yet?

Yes.
We are.

Perhaps not so surprisingly, the results of the Marriage Poll were sobering, enlightening, curious, calm, wicked and most certainly Adult (with a capitol “A”). Many responses were along the lines we expected, a few were tremendously shocking and most somewhere in the middle. Of course the Women were much more interesting than the Men but…….

We already knew that.

The similarities between our most opposite of Sexes?

The results indicate that we are most likely to be attracted to those mates which most clearly match our own personality and are inclined to bond ourselves to these partners. Of all the Women polled (stop the jokes right now) the vast majority (over 80%) seemed to prefer a mixture of strength, gentleness, creativity and a sense of humor as the most attractive qualities in their mate. The Men stated enthusiasm, honesty, energy and a sense of humor as theirs. So it would appear that the ability to crack a joke or gain a giggle is the surest path to the Altar for both boys and girls.
And seeing how this planet spins as we walk through our most modern world, the ability to laugh at our situation as we stumble along seems, at least to this observer, to be of the most vital importance over the long haul.
Shockingly, one respondent stated her husbands’ narcissism as his most attractive quality as it perfectly suited her own. Clearly a match made in Heaven.

The Women were surprisingly shy (or perhaps painfully honest) when evaluating their mates physical attributes. Many mentioned a good Smile or the Look in their Eyes as their mates’ main physical attraction. None referred to their husbands’ actual body. (sigh)

Of course the Men were a bit more……..earthy, to say the least.
Most men mentioned tits, ass or legs as their mates best physical quality while the minority did state lips, eyes and smile as their favorites.

The vital question/answer of Love and Money was strikingly similar although inverse. Of the female respondents almost all (99%) stated Love as a 10 in their relationship and this choice was the same for women married for 2 years or 20. The Money quotient was ranked slightly lower, almost always a 7, 8 or 9.
For the Men the answers were perfectly flipped. Money was almost always given a 10 while Love ran a very close second although certain males did give it a much lower ranking then their partners,
I may be alone, and definitely may be crazy, but I find these results encouraging, especially for those marrieds who are in their 2nd and 3rd decades. To imagine that a woman can still have Love in her heart after 20 years of living with me or any of us fills this particular male with hope and gratitude.

The differences?

Ahhhhh….the differences.

The results point to the fact that Men, while keeping their feet planted firmly on the ground in Public, are seemingly incapable of the same feat Privately.
Women? The reverse.
Almost all Men mentioned a constant, near unstoppable desire for other women and almost constant fantasies of same along with strong desires/designs to act out these fantasies.
The Women were much more measured in their responses although at least one sly little Newlywed, when queried as to whether or not she was attracted to Other Men, cleverly responded, "Not yet!"!
While most, and somewhat surprisingly primarily the older marrieds, stated an absolute matter-of-fact idea or desire for other men none stated any real intention to act out their particular fantasy nor any real design on same although a few made some very interesting qualifications.

Is this Good News or Bad News? Don’t know. I’m not touching this one.
But……

The other distinct difference- and this one was utterly, boldly, jarringly distinct- was the take on the…….dum da DUM DUM……..Exes.
The range of the Male response was wildly varied, indeed all 6 possible responses were chosen numerous times, from exciting to frightening to history. It would appear that we men have certain inconsolable issues when contemplating the specter of the Ex.

The Ladies?
Guys…hold onto your seats.

Almost all (98%) coldly and boldly listed their Exes as History.
Yes, fellas, our worst fears have come true.
She has absolutely forgotten us and moved on. We are a distant, easily disposable memory. We might not have existed at all in the 1st place.
Our sole consolation remains, as always, well…..at least I got to hit it! And yes, we must desperately cling to this fading memory because our future chances are 3- nil, null and void.

The Final Evaluation
As always, no answers and lots of questions. It would appear that we, all of us, enter willingly into this State of Matrimony and, much more hopefully, once having jumped the broom make no small effort to maintain the sanctity of our Unions. We seem to cherish these bonds and engage in every endeavor to strengthen and lengthen our lives together however misguided our attempts may sometimes be and despite the results of some of our best experiments, we most often make that maximum effort to please our partners doubtless in the sincere hope that we will be similarly pleased.
In short, this is a thoroughly Human system but it ain’t broke so let’s not fix it.

The cards have been dealt. Is our hand perfect?
Of course not, and please try to stop laughing. Perfection exists in Nature and Art and Marriage is neither one or perhaps, more accurately, a mixture of the two and it’s our task, and ours alone, to mold this two-headed monster into a domesticated animal that can approximately be called Life.
A Life together.
And then the Future.
It’s Evolution at its finest.
Yea…..it’s rough out there but…..please remember and never forget….
we ain’t in it alone.
And for the fellas?
Man…every day we get to wake up to a pretty girl within arms reach.
Beat that!

Client No. 9...Client No. 9......Client No. 9

2008-03-13T02:22:00.000-07:00

Former N. Y. Governor Eliot Spitzer resigned his post a few hours ago amid mounting pressure (keep those giggles down) from Democrats and Republicans alike and doubtless did so also to avoid prosecution for Multiple Interstate Felonies. His political future and professional career are now officially shredded like confetti, though not quite as valuable, his long time enemies are celebrating wildly, his loyal friends weeping bitterly while the Former Golden Boy, as the poisonous icing on his crusading cake, has to return home to his 5th Ave. digs in Public disgrace with his wife waiting for him for Private retribution but probably not waiting for his mealy mouthed excuses.

And what was the his Great Sin, exactly?

It would appear that Mr. Spitzer enjoys the sexual company of young Ladies (WHAAAAAT…..SHOCKING! I don’t believe I know any other men like that) and is more than willing to pay, and pay handsomely, for any liberties he may take with these Young Entrepreneurs of the World’s Oldest Profession. If you want to crunch the numbers it comes down to around $4,300 for his last Date while Mr. Spitzer has further admitted to spending over $80,000 in the last 2 years to the same Escort Service. Of course the former States Attorney was fully aware at all times during his indiscretions that these Business transactions were against the Law and might possibly open him to prosecution under said Laws which he himself had vigorously prosecuted in the past against parties that were at least equally guilty.

This is the definition of letting the Little Head do the thinking for the Big One.

But I am personally sorry to see Mr. Spitzer give up without much of a battle. You paid your money, now take your chances! Hell, Heidy Fleiss did her time without rolling over on anybody and you can’t even stand up to a Federal Wiretap? Show 'em you got a pair! Make ‘em prove it Eliot! And even if they can then just look that Judge square in the eye and say,
“Your Honor, C’mon…….did you get a good look at that broad?”

Now if I was sitting behind that Bench……
I’d solemnly intone in my best Moses-coming-down-from-the-Mountain-voice,
“Mr. Spitzer………..Let me see if I understand this situation correctly. You just paid $4,300 dollars for a Blowjob?
Sir...... you’ve suffered enough. Case dismissed.”

In conclusion I must add that I’ve monitored a great deal of what seems to be genuine feminine consternation on those old, much too familiar, much too trite subjects-

Why do Men cheat? (like ladies don’t?)
Why do Men visit Prostitutes? (because they’re there?)
What’s wrong with Men? (everything I guess…next question?)

OK.
Seriously, to all you inquiring Ladies of good taste and fine judgement.

Take a peek at a girl whose business goal is to give Men sexual pleasure.

Now take a gander at Silda.

Any Real questions?

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's why!

2008-03-09T19:13:00.000-07:00

Ah......nothing like a little bit of the old ultraviolence to get the heart started on a dreary Monday.

Odds and Ends- Spring Fling Edition

2008-03-02T22:48:00.000-08:00

I have underwear that lasted longer than my 1st marriage. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

The other day a lovely young H.S. girl (and yes…she was wearing the uniform miniskirt you lecherous bastards) was exiting the subway station and she glanced at me as she passed. Our eyes met for perhaps a heartbeat. I was waiting at the corner for the light to change and so I took that opportunity to enjoy the sight of her long, lean, luscious legs and creamy teenage flesh floating down the street. As I was watching her walk away for some reason she turned her head and looked back directly into my eyes, again. I raised my gaze just in time to meet hers and it quite instantly looked as if someone had jammed a hot needle in her sweet ass. Shock! Horror!
She bolted!
I mean she came out of the gate like she was on fire and the last thing I saw was her heels barely touching the ground, poor Baby.
But you know…..I sort of like having that kind of face.

I’m sure that Hillary is………..a……….fine…………person and I’m absolutely certain that she is intelligent, capable, loyal, dedicated, determined, ambitious and a good Soldier for the Great State of New York.
But being married to The Man for 8 years (although a personal accomplishment you may justifiably take some pride in) does NOT go on your professional resume Senator Clinton, and I am deeply satisfied that Senator Obama finally hit the sirens and hauled her ass to the curb on that one.

What the Fuck (oops…check that…WTF) is with those people who display 8x10 glossies of their wives and children on their cheap desks in their grim little rathole offices so that any unlucky visitor is subjected and then held hostage to the gruesome vision of their fat wife and ugly kids.
Keep that painful shit at home, Holmes!
Yea..yea….yea, I get that it’s some type of sub-moronic carrot-and-stick motivation anchor but if you really need a fucking photograph to remind you that you gotta bring home the bacon just go ahead and hang yourself ‘cuz your life is going in reverse Brother.

And while we’re at it, this goes out with all my love to all those new parents out there-
No, as a matter of fact, I DO NOT want to see the brand new pictures of your spawn.
I mean……
Did I fucking ask you?

FaceBook is like a really long, really boring, really senseless job.

If there is a more hopeful, joyful, anything-is-possible World to live in than Spring Training Camp in Arizona (or any Spring Training really) than I want to check that out.
Can’t we just stay here forever?

Oh yea. I don’t know about anybody else but I’d take steroids, HGH and any other pill, powder or package I could get my paws on if it kept me in the game.

Hope may be a sickness, a virus, a universally genetic disease of the Human Condition.
It may be a trick, a trap, a clever mirage leading us all further into a barren desert.
It may be a sucker game for the short money Losers while the House rakes it in and gets fatter and fatter with the passing of each day as the rest of us slog home, beaten, busted and broke.
But if we ain’t got Hope…what do we got?
Cynicism, bitterness, hostility, distrust, smaller minds, stupid shortsighted decisions and a slightly more hateful World that’s already brimming with that particularly abundant human resource.
But you know what?
Sometimes Buster Douglas knocks Tyson flat on his ass and out!
Sometimes the Red Sox storm back from 3 games down to beat the Yankees in 7!
Sometimes a Chinese kid with nothing in his hands and only the Truth in his heart stands up to a rolling tank and the tank backs down!
Sometimes a levelheaded Judge orders a hysterical school board to drop the bullshit and enlist in the 21st Century.
Sometimes a pretty ragtag collection of outcasts decides they’ve had just about enough from the reigning Empire and comes together to kick those haughty bastards right out of their brand spanking new country.

And we better believe that most of the time Goliath crushes David like a bug, grinds him into the dirt and then laughs all the way to the bank, throne, boardroom, bedroom or White House.

I have no idea what I would do with myself if I didn’t have cynicism, suspicion, disdain and energizing anger as my constant companions but sometimes….
Even I got room in my bag for a little hope.

I just felt like laughing my ass off (oops...sorry...I meant LMAO) today.....

2008-02-28T19:34:00.000-08:00

So if you got 6 minutes and 20 seconds to spare while you bust a gut, then check out a genius at work.

If you ain't got 6 mins. then you're doing something wrong.

and for your further amusement as you burn the clock...

I first heard this bit when I was 11 years old and yea, it did fundamentally change my views on language.

I really hope all my ESL friends got a kick out of that tiny piece of linguistic history.

'Cuz it's Monday...That's why!

2008-02-23T01:19:00.000-08:00

Every Campaign needs a Theme Song and here's my humble suggestion for/to Senator Obama.....

Sly and his Family Stone just getting the party started!

If your ass isn't shaking right now then check your pulse because you may be dead, really old or very, very white.
and Sly...if you're out there...C'mon Bro'!

Get it together one more time for Barack.

This is our Monday Bonus so maintain the vibe.

Deelite bringing it funky.

No Extra Charge!

Sometimes this stuff writes itself.....

2008-02-21T19:24:00.000-08:00

Recently (2-8-08)I posted about my sexually predatory hero Mary Kay Letourneau, her various trials and numerous tribulations and some, if not all, manners of sexual assault, gender specific rules and ……………….love……………….and stuff.

Little did I know that I had opened the floodgates.

This week in that great state of South Carolina 23 yr. old H.S. Teacher extraordinaire Alenna Ward (white chick…..yea…….act surprised) was convicted of multiple counts of deviance most sexual with not only 1 but up to 5 (talk about diligence) of her 14-15 yr. old charges. My gal got sentenced to 6 yrs. in the S.C. shithouse for her indiscretions. The Kids? They're busy high-fiving each other, bragging and reviewing the videotape. Damn.
Now I’ve went a long way for some good pussy but 6 years!
Did I write DAMN?

Meanwhile in Virginia (it’s for Lovers, you know) that shining example of good judgement Natasha Sizow (take a look at her pic....see a pattern here?) was busted for graciously sending illicit (the Law called the images indecent but I would challenge that ruling...I personally think it was very decent of her to share) images of her own sweet self to some of her grateful student body. Do they get extra credit for that?
Way to think ahead Lady!
The only comment I have is this- Where were these generous gals when I was steadily beating my meat throughout my lonely freshman year?

And in other news…

The U.S. Navy just blasted a potentially hazardous satellite out of the very far reaches (at least 130 miles) of outer space.
On the first attempt!
They actually did something right!
I guess somebody was eating their Wheaties.
Of course certain countries (Russia and China to name a couple) have taken issue with this action but……
Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

What these two stories have to do with each other is your guess.

Odds and Ends-Politics/Schmolitics Edition

2008-02-18T16:53:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been almost 8 years and what feels like 140 miles of bad road but the end, thankfully, is near. Yes, one way or another we're gonna change horses so in that hopeful spirit...

Do you ever get the feeling that Hillary is wearing a Human Being mask which, only after victory, she’ll peel off to finally reveal her ghoulish, hideous, ravenous, dripping-with-slime, Alien face then cackle maniacally, triumphantly,

“Ha, Ha.....HA! At last… your delicious children are MINE.....ALL MINE!”
No?
Forget it then, I guess it’s just me.

When Edwards lost South Carolina he was doomed, yet, somehow I don't think that he's a bad guy or a bad choice. Is he ever going to get his shot?
It's all about timing kid.
Timing.

I am not acquainted with the team or leaders in front of, or behind, the Juggernaut that is the Obama Campaign (although they e-mail me almost daily to scrounge money, perhaps I should pay more attention) but whoever it is, whatever they’re paying ‘em…......it ain’t enough!

If I had a chance to meet Senator McCain I would definitely consider it an honor and a privilege to shake his hand.
And you know what?
It’s one raw deal that he got shot down while flying over Vietnam on a bombing run (runs which he himself had begun to question after the terrible Forrestal incident) then was subsequently imprisoned and tortured by the brutally pissed off VC and had to walk through Living Hell before finally marching back home. But he voluntarily signed up for his Navy gig, as I’m sure he would agree, only to get stuck with the tab while slackers like “W” stayed home and partied like it was 1969. Breaks don't get any tougher than that.
And while I’m positive that even at the advanced age of 71 he could still open up a rock solid 6-pack of whip ass on any of the candidates, all this doesn’t mean (and never should) that he’s got dibs on the keys to the White House.
My admiration for Senator McCain is boundless.
But this year is '08.

On a similar note- Romney, Huckabee and the Guy from “Law and Order”? Seriously?? That’s the absolute best and brightest you Repubs could dig up out of your Alumni Rolls???
You GOPers better be Damn grateful Senator McCain is on your team and, while we’re at it, you might want to seriously consider opening up the sacred gates of your Country Clubs because your side definitely needs some new blood.

When newspapers die (and let’s make no mistakes, they all will one day much too soon) then I will too.

And now for the important news.....

I have finally, absolutely, decisively and completely given up any hope of ever seeing the World Series being played at Wrigley Field in my lifetime. If this impossibility were ever to occur I would fully expect the End of The World to swiftly follow.
But as long as the Cubbies won it in 7 I’d shout to the heavens-

“CUBS WIN…,CUBS WIN!”

What more can I say......

2008-02-10T19:56:00.000-08:00

It's the very best of both my Worlds.

Scorsese and The Stones wrapped in one beautiful mashup.

Enjoy.....

Brought to you free of charge from the Goodfellas at

blackeyefilms

Many thanks.....

Odds and Ends- No. 1 Boom Boom Edition Part II

2008-02-08T21:34:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I will have spent 4 and one half Decades on this Planet and while it is painfully true that I don’t know a whole Hell of a lot more than I did when I started, like the Blues Man said-
I know a little ‘bout Love…….and Baby I can guess the rest!

It is said that Men fear intimacy. If this is true then I must be an anomaly. What is the point if not those blissful moments afterward when you can hold each other, kiss, coo, touch, lick, smooch, smack, squeeze, grab, hug, hold and, at last, boldly stare into the eyes/soul of the one person on Earth who has just made you explode in very real passion for this very real world?
Maybe I’m the wrong generation......

Perhaps I lack imagination but I have never subscribed to the almost universal male fantasy of two women at once. Call me stupid but I can never understand the beat of it- I only got one cock, what the hell do I need with two women simultaneous?
I guess I’m simpleminded but I like to concentrate my affections in one area at a time.

You know the other (perhaps not as prevalent) fantasy I don’t get?
The Virgin.
Yes, yes…..I understand the idea of conquering the pristine purity of a fresh flower but let me call it straight. I want a woman who knows what the hell she wants and knows what the hell she’s doing. I don’t necessarily need to, or want to, see your resume (please keep that history to yourself) but please do bring some experience to the task at hand. My sole experiment with the Virginal type boiled down to 2 days of frustration and patience for which, I found out, I was ill-equipped. At the end of this marathon of tooth grinding abstinence I finally slammed it home and her cherry (bless her Soul) was properly popped and all mine.
I sincerely do not mean to sound ungrateful but one of us learned a lot from that experience and it wasn’t me.

I’ve recently been drenched in a torrent of mystified pleas from lovely young ladies in the 28-31 yr. old (that pressure packed period) age group. The unsettling confusion is, alas, none too original here or, I’m guessing, anywhere.
“Why are there no Good Boyfriends?”
“Why doesn’t he want to get married?”
“Where are all the Good Men?”
The short answer to that last is, “We’re taken.” (Back Up…it’s a Damn Joke….get it?)
The long answer is, and I sometimes fear always will be, “We’re right here!”
Now to be agonizingly clear the vast majority of these Women that I am grateful but bewildered to encounter are slender, smart, sharp, capable, luscious, ripe, ready and not a single one of them mine. How my gender fails to scoop up this ubiquitous bounty of beauty is well beyond my understanding. I’m also perplexed as to exactly what the Ladies are waiting on while these Clowns rumble along tripping over their dicks but I’m almost always sure that what these beauties are seeking is directly in front of their faces if only they could see it through those cell phones they’ve got glued to their lovely noses.
Why we Adults all spend our lives tiptoeing around one another like 3rd graders at our 1st Big Dance is well beyond me but I know this for certain.
If…
1). He’s in his 30’s
2). You been giving him some Good Lovin’ for some period of time exceeding 3 months
3). You ain’t fat, ugly, stupid, crazy or greedy
4). He ain’t either
and…
5).He actually likes Women (not just Loves them but likes them too)
then…
If he hasn’t asked you to set up house together by right now…..
He ain’t gonna! Not Now. Not Ever! And if you really want to know why then I’ll tell you.
It’s because he’s waiting for something better (or at least younger) to come along. Think about that the next time you decide to drop down and make his toes curl! Men are little more than selfish Big Boys and will remain so for as long as we can manage to pull it off and then some but I know Good Men everywhere with hot wives and no complaints and I’m going to tell you a secret about us.
No Charge!
Getting married is about as difficult as riding a bicycle and, just like a bike, once you’ve done it you never forget how!
It’s Evolution, Comfort, Security and Love wrapped in one, admittedly tight, decidedly Adult, suffocatingly responsible package.
Women have consistently been the easiest choices I’ve ever made in my entire life and while I certainly haven’t always chosen wisely (who among us has?), my personal regret list vis-à-vis the Fairer Sex wouldn’t take one hand to completely calculate. If my batting average in all other walks of life were the same or similar, right now I’d be laying on my private beach in Thailand planning my next vacation while plotting my Takeover of The World.
Put it this way- If your boy takes less than a month to decide what car he wants to buy but a year just isn’t quite enough to choose a real live woman than that pretty much tells you everything you need to know about both of his heads.

Remember that crazy broad Mary Kay LeTourneau from a few years ago who was accused, arrested, convicted and jailed for sexually assaulting her then 14 yr. old student (she was 36) and then went on to get out, break conditions of her parole by grinding on said student by the side of the road, was returned to jail while pregnant with his child then did her time, again, came back to his open arms and eventually married the, at that time, 21 yr. old Mack Daddy?
This is a Love Story for all the ages.
What this woman went through to get some good dick inspires me, as a man, to tears of admiration.
This was a Woman in Love.
Now what if the situation was reversed?
A 36 yr.old Man nails his nubile Female 14 yr. old student?
They ain’t got holes deep enough to throw that fucker in if he’s caught. If he ever sees the light of day again you can consider him lucky as he mournfully cherishes his faded memories of ripe flesh and blossoming sex.
What’s the difference you ask?
It’s physiological and this is my point.
Villi was a Hero to his classmates- Not only did he capture the love of his older, whiter teacher but he actually (while all the rest were only dreaming I’m sure) fucked her! At his leisure and she came back, time and again despite tremendous hazards, for more and then some more.
If a man has sex with a curious 8th grader he will certainly (perhaps justifiably) be universally painted as a dangerous, lecherous, evil sex fiend preying on the young and much too innocent.
Why?
Because he has a cock that’s why.
You see MKL didn’t rape Big Villi, indeed she was, is, and never will be capable of same. This may be too simple for some but let it be said- Women cannot rape men, it is a physical impossibility.
Women are not equipped for sexual assault, harassment or any other sexual deviance because these crimes are dependant on physical invasion.
Physical violation.
They are the exclusive and guilty property of my gender and mine alone.
And this is at the heart of Our Male fear of Female infidelity and our somewhat casual attitude to our own behavior.
I know it’s Sex Ed 101 but the basic encounter leaves a man with an option a woman does not possess, i.e.
He can wipe it off, zip it up and pretty much forget about the whole equation if he so chooses, kind of like a bad meal which he'll never eat again.
For the woman…I don’t know. And I never will.
But our shock and awesome fear of Feminine infidelity is simply and earth shatteringly just that pure physiological reality in all its ugliness and terror.
You have allowed someone other than me to invade the sanctity of your precious body and take what once was mine and hopefully mine alone. This violation is permanent and cannot be rescinded. My life is forever altered in a way which I was not and cannot be prepared for. I am now, officially, less than I once was. You are now, officially, tainted goods and every moment of our life, every glance into your eyes hammers that fact home to me.
And because of this childish but true grasp on the nature of relationships I fear that although this world belongs to Us I have no doubt in my mind that We are the weaker sex so……….
Have mercy.

Death is around here somewhere……I can smell the Rotten Bastard even if I can’t see him but you want to know something?
If I can go with the memory of that time……….
That time we were in the Jacuzzi at the hotel…….
That time in front of our giant mirror when it was so cold outside…….
That time in the shower when we didn’t say a word……..
That 1st time when you kicked your shoes off and peeled your blouse…….
That time we were angry and hungry and mean…….
That time we were so tired and sick of it all…….
That time when you begged me to come inside you…….
Then……
Then……
I’ll be able to look that Fucker in the eye and tell him-
OK! I got my money’s worth.

And I'll be smiling at him.

To Lisa most of all

2008-02-04T21:48:00.000-08:00

Here's a little CW ditty by some fresh faced lads from the other side of the pond. They titled it "Dead Flowers" and it pretty much says it all.

and if you can't enjoy the sweet genius of the Late Great Mick Taylor's beautiful magic then you ain't right.
Yea.....I said it.

In keeping with our CW vibe here's The Man doing a great cover of a Kristofferson number.
Welcome to "Sunday Morning coming Down"

Quit crying.........ok ........ok..........go ahead..........join me.

What the Hell...I got the Blues too.

And The Oscar goes to......................................

2008-01-28T21:21:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately for us all it appears as if the Academy Awards are in dire peril due to that pesky little Strike so as a small salve to all our Oscar wounds, today I'm offering a retread of an old post(yea...sue me) that I thought might be somewhat appropriate to the....lack of occasion?

I was recently dreaming of the Award category I’d most like to actually see honored. Here’s what came to mind-

Best Actor/Actress in a Cameo Role.

Now the Rules- He/She has to be onscreen for less than 7 mins. to qualify. That’s it.

You see I feel the time is long long overdue to award the singular genius of those rare individuals who can climb aboard even the most lifeless of cinematic vehicle and jam it into gear, heretofore unheralded thespians who blow up the screen with a quirky gem of a throwaway role that slams you back into your seat and forces you to roar with laughter, cringe in fear or shake with tears.
Enough with the jaded Oscar mongering dramatic “Roles” of every “Big Star” you’ve ever seen, I want to see props for the pinch hitter who comes into the game off the bench and proceeds to crank it out of the yard, the one who steps in, jolts you with the juice, then exits stage left leaving only smiles and precious memories of money well spent.

Who among us can forget Bradley Pitt’s “True Romance” stoner-roommate perfect diamond of a performance?

“Oh… and uh……….buy some……………cleaning products.”
Jesus I’m grinning now just thinking of it. Whatever they paid him for that one, it wasn’t enough.

And isn’t it high time that these ageless, priceless giveaways were lauded as they should be but haven’t yet been? You're Damn skippy it is! Let’s right the wrong and give the little guy his day in the sun along with his own shiny gold dude to prop up on his mantel. Posthumous or not, it’s never too late and if we start now we may be able to see this category's triumphant debut at next years shindig.

So today I share with you a small, regrettably incomplete list of some of the best Cameos that I can recall from my own personal (and unfortunately limited) film history and I certainly hope you can provide me with some of the many, many Aces that I’ve neglected.

Mickey Rourke in “Body Heat”- His low key intensity (and screen debut) as a serious arsonist yet concerned career criminal grounded the movie in reality and was the first hint that things might go bad, very bad, for his horny but inept ex-lawyer.

Peter Lorre in “Casablanca”- His clueless, luckless but never-say-die lowlife slime ball caused me to imitate his desperate whine for years, “Rick! Rick! HELP ME RICK!”, and almost made me sad to see his greasy ass hauled away to the slam.

Jo Van Fleet in “Cool Hand Luke”- I once watched this film at work with 8 of the meanest, surliest, misogynistic males I’ve ever met in my life and you know what? When Luke’s Mama looks away in agony after her visit to her beloved son, now imprisoned, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. That’s Acting!

Brad Pitt, again, in “Thelma and Louise”- What can I say, I went to see this flick with my GF and after witnessing his simmering take on the shady but dead sexy desperado even I wanted to fuck the guy.

Steven Prince (Gun Guy) in “Taxi Driver”- The coolest professional salesman that has ever appeared onscreen. Period. Also……………….

Martin Scorsese in “Taxi Driver”- The great American Director’s twisted turn as the cuckold revenge fantasizing husband is seriously one of the creepiest performances ever set to celluloid.
“You know who lives in that apartment…………… a nigger lives in that apartment.”
It takes some big balls to commit to behavior which is that gripping, subnormal and simultaneously human.

Dorothy Malone in “The Big Sleep”- My Great Good God…..when Miss Malone informs Marlowe that “it’s raining pretty hard” then shoots him a look that had my cock bouncing in my pants, I swore that I understood life at last. When she removes her glasses and lets her hair down, I understood love forever.

Harland Williams in “There’s Something About Mary”- His geeky freaky hitchhiker is a delightful nightmare of wicked psychosis practically reeking in hilarity. “Step into my office……. ‘cuz you’re FUCKING FIRED!” I’m still waiting for the 7 min. abs tape.

Helena Kallianiotes in “Five Easy Pieces”- Her bitter, surly, pissed off but surprisingly soulful lesbian was the reason for my creation of this category. In a truly brilliant film bursting with humanity she shines like an angry beacon of life too real. I only hope that Alaska was clean enough for her.

The Late, Great Robert Pastorelli in “Dances with Wolves”- His hilariously repulsive trail guide Timmons is nothing short of inspired wickedness. He has you holding your nose and laughing your ass off at the same time before he, quietly, tragically and, much like his creator, dies too soon.

QT in “Reservoir Dogs”- “No, "Like a Virgin's” not about some nice girl who meets some sensitive fella........granted.....that's what "True Blue's" about....no argument there." Need I say more?

Strother Martin in "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid"- The no-nonsense but sympathetic Ex-Pat Percy Garris jolts the movie with his quirky humanism and ultimately adds a sobering dose of realism to the Boys Southern Adventure. "Morons.....I've got morons on my team.......no one is going to rob us coming down the mountain....we have no money coming down the mountain!"

Christopher Walken in- Pick ‘em. I’m fairly certain that Walken is the most interesting alien being ever too arrive on this planet so choosing only one of his cameos was impossible. He should just save himself the space and build a small shed to house all his future trophies for acting achievement. And thanks.

All for now……………………………………………………….

'Cuz it's Monday, that's why...

2008-01-27T23:31:00.000-08:00

By the by, the wise heads at UniversalMusicGroup decided to disable the really bitchin' animated video of this peppy little number so if you're a animation freak (or just a freak) YouTube it and enjoy.

Six of One, Half a Dozen of the Other

2008-01-24T18:51:00.000-08:00

Of course by now you’ve most likely downloaded The Cruiser and witnessed the weirdness that is himself as he mainlines the crazy and spreads his Scientology delirium with every fiber of his movie star being, ejaculating his faith into the camera in the sincerest desire to impregnate his cinematic flock with his superior wisdom and mythological beliefs, peddling his deranged superstitions with a maniacal fervor I’ve rarely witnessed outside of infomercials or faith healing revivalists.
It reminded me of the scene from “Fight Club” where Edward Norton repeatedly and passionately punches himself in the face. Much too stupid to laugh at but, somehow, not quite idiotic enough to turn away from, intended to be perhaps revelatory or, at least, shocking, but instead just sort of silly and, at most, pathetically inept.

Although I’m no huge fan of Tom’s thespian career I can truthfully say that I’ve enjoyed more than a few of his films and performances but, Brother, this one was easily the most riveting as it wickedly peeled back the All-American Boy Scout, nakedly revealing his inner ravenous creep to the YouTube Nation

Out Ethics, KSW, Org’s, SP’s, PTSSP???
WTFFF’s?

Try decaf Tommy but more power to Ya’!

Of course, subsequent to this virtual unmasking, I’ve tracked about 17 thousand opinions concerning this absolutely inconsequential farce and, of course, now will add my own to this most minor molehill of matters because it appears to me as if everyone is piling on Little Tommy without regard to any context or consequence.

As for the context I’ll say this.

I was raised and indoctrinated in the Roman Catholic faith (through no choice or fault of my own or anyone else’s as far as I can determine) and for 12 years I dutifully attended religion class along with the rest of the bullshit but the religious instruction, how can I say it, somehow stood out.

In math class there were hard answers and perfected formulas and 2 + 2 always equaled 4.
In history there was a scrupulous, and sometimes not so, record written down on the page for anyone to discover.
In Biology there was Science. That being the empirical proof of any theory.
In P.E. there was a stopwatch.

In Religion I can clearly recall sitting down as a little shaver around about 7 years young and having a grown man tell me that the entire Earth was populated by 1 man and 1 woman. He went on to explain that at some point there was a catastrophic flood in which the whole world was wiped out but 1 Old Guy, thank God, was able to ride it out by building a giant boat and filling it with every animal on the face of the planet thus allowing our little Eden to be restocked. Much later, it was explained, another guy came along, conveniently given birth by a virgin, and after an unrecorded childhood, started a small revolution at age 30 or so. He had the ability to walk on water, magically heal the sick (albeit in a sort of a frustratingly pick and choose manner), feed multitudes with nothing (only when he was in the mood I guess), read minds, see the future (except of course his own) and seemed to get the Roman Empire’s panties in a real bunch.
Oh….yeah.
Then he was crucified (how’s that for drama), rose from the dead and flew up into Heaven before coming back to life again. Of course he didn’t stay very long but absolutely promised that he would return. With a vengeance!

And my deadly serious instructor made it very clear to me that this guy did all this to pay for my 7 year old sins about 2 or 3 thousand years before I was born.

So I glanced around my classroom and thought, “Anybody buying this?”

Plenty were.

So if some nutty actor who gets paid to wear makeup on his face while standing in front of a camera and reading words that someone else wrote for him wants to trust in, testify for or hand over his money to some oddballs who believe in Aliens or volcanoes or bizarre theories espoused by a kooky self-help guru from the 50’s who succeeded in duping gullible multitudes………………then have at it my friend! The Kool-aid is all yours.

I’ve heard much weirder stories than his and from men who were at least as strange (so…..you’re a grown man and you’ve voluntarily decided to give up sex because that’s gonna help you do your job?...........Okey Dokey….well….you let me know how that’s working out and…..uh……..No…..as a matter of fact I don’t wanna be an Altar Boy) but it ain’t no skin off my nose.

And in the more Earthly scheme of things, Forbes magazine reminds me that, despite what is almost universally considered the very worst year of his long career, Little Tommy managed to rake in 31 million dollars in ’07 which would place him about 31 million ahead of me in this here real deal.

So I’m just going to go ahead and guess that TC isn’t exactly all that concerned with the consequences.

He’s got a hotline to Xemu, Baby!

Thinning the Herd

2008-01-13T00:57:00.000-08:00

Young people are, by and large- beautiful, ugly, caring, selfish, dynamic, lazy, ungrateful, shortsighted and stupid, not necessarily in that order. I know because I can almost remember being one once so let’s all just agree to agree with this simple premise. Because of this unfortunate combination of raging hormones, identity crisis, peer pressure, abundant insecurity, rampant superiority and complete faith in their own invulnerability coupled with a complete lack of any useful experience whatsoever they are inordinately prone to, and often victim of, their own extremely poor judgment. These decision deficiencies abound and are quite universal crossing all racial, gender, ethnic, religious, economic and social boundaries.
Plenty of heartbreak and tragedy to go around.
I don’t think I know a single human being who doesn’t have at least one tale to tell, one family member to worry over or one friend to mourn.

Now contrary to some learned opinions I do not consider myself a cold-hearted man. Maybe hard-hearted and just a tad chilly but I like to think I’m capable of striking, more often than not, a decent balance of reason, sympathy, empathy and compassion on a very tight wire of common sense.
And then sometimes I dive into the void.

All Men may have been created equal but, I got some bad news, after we pop our heads into the real world…….we ain’t equal anymore!

I’ll keep it very simple- A very few are meant to lead (even fewer to rebel), most are meant to follow and some would be much better off just getting the Hell out of the way. It’s called Thinning the Herd and it’s for the benefit of all and the detriment to an infinitesimal few. It’s the very best chance for the vast majority to prosper and triumph. It’s democracy at its clearest. It's Nature. It works.

Case in Point.

Recently (2006) a 14 yr. old Missouri girl decided to take her own life. The reason given was that she had been conned online for 28 days then dumped/harassed/abused online for 1, then was apparently unable to take the pressure of this cyber onslaught for even one more minute and so decided to end it all. Doubtless I have failed to adequately capture the adolescent angst, dramatic vicissitudes and horrific circumstances of her short, tragic existence.
The moronic plot thickened, however, when it was discovered that a 47 yr. old neighbor was the emotional con artist behind the silly charade.

Quick Review- The kid offed herself because a cyber boy (who she of course had never met or even seen in the flesh) cyber flirted with her for 28 days then, for up to 24 hours, wrote mean things about her on a computer screen. This was the unbearable burden of her dismal time spent with us.

Now, the woman who spawned this fragile flower wants New Laws passed, Citizens Arrested, Keys Thrown Away and, I’m guessing, just a little bit of the media spotlight shone on her terrible, heartbreaking loss and maybe, just a tad, on her feelings.
Oprah awaits.

I’ve read more than a little about this egomaniacal idiocy and too much of the opinions that, inevitably, trailed this emotional circus but I’ve yet to hear the following school of thought expressed so I am compelled to launch it myself-

Kid…..the rest of us are better off without you.

Let the shitstorm commence.

To give everyone an idea of the ubiquity of this phenomena of Teens, once again, empty-headedly choosing the really wrong door let me just mention that here in Japan for some years there has been such a surge in teen and tween suicide due, ostensibly, to peer abuse (both the cyber and more corporeal kind) that the Japanese had to invent a new word for it, Ijime- (organized and constant harassment of the less popular by the more popular designed to socially destroy the weak).
Teenyboppers are jumping off roofs, in front of trains and hanging themselves in their rooms with such frequency that the J-School system(for what little it’s worth) has convulsed into confused paralysis, granted not a very tough trick for this bunch of automatons, bureaucrats, pencil pushers and head bobbing Yes men/women. But I digress.
I say your Society is better off, my J-friends!

Look.

If some little kid skipping around Baghdad desperately trying to keep himself in one piece while scrambling for 3 squares a day and dodging inscription into some militia or induction into a group of teeth gnashing fanatics decided to punch his own ticket as a way off his wonderful little merry-go-round, I think I’d understand just a touch.

If some teenage hottie in Darfur spent her every waking moment devising strategies that might allow her to avoid daily gang rape or mutilation by roving bands of machete wielding madmen bent on ethnic cleansing while maybe, sometimes, occasionally eating food and so at last she finally opted to throw away this grand ticket to paradise, I’d like to think I could appreciate her decision.

If some dirt poor teenage Marine stuck in some desert shithole 3,000 miles from his ghetto fabulous home while he stands around waiting for some random lunatic to blow him up or shoot him in the head as he stoically follows asinine, nonsensical orders and dreams of the day he can return to unemployment decided one hard day to just swallow a bullet, maybe I could grasp his reasoning.

But someone you have never met in your life and has no influence on anything other than your own little putrid hothouse imagination writes mean things about you on a computer screen and the best way you can think of to get a handle on this desperate situation is to Ace yourself?
A chain is only as strong as its weakest link so please pray to whatever God you wish that our links don’t get any weaker than this. You could build a better fence with wet toilet paper and let’s not start pulling each others cocks; we need some good strong fences in every neighborhood, everywhere now more than ever.

What we don't need are leeches, vampires, whiners, emotional cripples or energy thieves.

When it's good life's a party so...........bring something if only a smile.

When it's bad it's a war so..........lock and load and stay sharp.

If anyone wants to pipe in about how emotional abuse can sometimes be even worse than physical then you can sell that line of shit to the Air Force and they might buy it but on this page I’m peddling straight talk. I’ve taken ass-kickings and witnessed more than a few handed out only to watch the abused come back with a vengeance and a bite, determined to stand their ground no matter the cost of physical injury or humiliation.
It’s not….what’s the word…..nice… to be called names online. Why, only a few months ago a sweet girl whom I’ve never met responded to an online comment that I made (not intended to or for her) by replying- Fuck you. I think she even used an exclamation point.
Somehow, I survived.
But you know, once when I was 15 and on my way to the movies 3 thugs twice my size set upon me, beat me down and took my last red cent. I walked home sore, bloodied, bitter and just a little bit wiser. The 2 situations really bear no comparison in my mind but perhaps I’m just not sensitive enough to discern the finer points.

It’s a rough world sometimes, Kids, and I could be mistaken but it gives every appearance and promise of only getting rougher. I am truly sorry we couldn't leave you with a better deal...................But...........

If you want out then have at it while I ignore you and your whiny bullshit.

If you want in then grab an oar and start rowing.

I can personally guarantee you plenty of surprises.

Not all of them nice.

THE 2007 OFFICE KARAOKE RATINGS ARE IN!

2008-01-04T20:20:00.000-08:00

Yes, kids…that magical day has at last arrived. New Years came and went, the Office Bonnenkai (J-land version of a x-mas party but with slightly more focus on drinking) achieved proper lift-off, much beer and shochu was drunk (and I mean drunk) and many, many cigarettes gratefully inhaled. Oh…and there was even some food somewhere along the way but let’s stick to the important business.

KARAOKE HAS LANDED!

If you intend to live and breathe in J-land (and I hope you do ‘cuz there’s plenty of room) then you must understand that Karaoke is inevitable. It is a fact of J-life and a damn fun one at that! So, yes….. The Office Party gave birth to the Karaoke Party afterwards and the votes have now been officially counted and so, without further ado, we give you the Year ’07’s roundup of the Staff performances.
(1 to 5 stars, 5 being the best)

Ataka-san- 3 and 1/2 stars
Our Fearless Leader came out of the blocks smooth, cool and easy as is his way with just about everything. His song selection perfectly suited his vocals as he milked his number like he was getting paid overtime and knocked it out with all the confidence of a big cat staring at a little mouse. Good Show.

Isobe-san- 2 and 1/2 stars
As the Rookie of the crew not much was expected from the New Guy and, to his credit, Isobe-san managed to get through his bit unharmed. The song selection was uninspired, the vocals didn’t make anyone forget Sinatra and his performance, while earnest, was on the mild, not wild, side. But, all in all, we’ll call it a successful swinging bunt. You’re On, I-san!

Kumi-chan- 4 stars
For the lone supply of estrogen in a room packed with testosterone the heat was most certainly cranked up as we all salivated while waiting for her to come across with the goods and MAN……..did she ever!
Song selection?
Perfection!
K-chan chose a soft lovely tune which she blew through the room like a cool breeze on a hot summer day making sure that everyone was glad, and then some, that she was in attendance. The vocals were a sweet lullaby of feminine grace and beauty on an otherwise roughneck, hardleg night and her lovely sound is still cracking my heart today. And for our male readers…..she’s awfully easy on the eyes too.

David-san- 3 stars
As the first gai-jin up to the plate the pressure was definitely on. D-man proceeded to belt out his number with passion and not a little bit of old fashioned moxie. His song selection may have been the unique highlight of the evening. He chose a tune (the banquet?) which I have literally never heard before in my life but that didn’t stop me at all from enjoying it. While the tune and D’s vocals were slightly loopy for stretches his infectious energy effortlessly floated the entire number, blissfully capturing the spirit of the night’s enterprise.

Kimura-san- 1 star
Ladies…..I’ll just say this. If you are ever in Kyoto you may want to locate our office to get a good eyeful of the K-stud. A strapping 6 footer with the build of a solid light heavyweight, K-san would be intimidating were it not for his gracious good manners and happy-go-lucky charm. Coupled with a killer smile and the uncanny ability to master almost any endeavor (computer whiz, tennis ace, pool shark, to name a few) he almost certainly could make a fortune in the Movies if he ever leaves us.

And so it is with great good pleasure that I can announce I have at last discovered something K-man is NOT good at!
Song selection?
THE HORROR! The man chose a sticky sweet cotton candy bit that must be the favorite of tween-age-girls-hoping-for-their-first-kiss everywhere and then commenced to wobble through it like a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. Painful! Almost anything could’ve helped his performance but, unfortunately, nothing did. The single star is only because no animals were harmed during his performance. Kimura-san! GAMBATTE YO!

Jesse-san- ZERO STARS
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Incomplete! F! The J-man hit the door and pulled his cord without grabbing the mic and in so doing managed to escape evaluation and any applause. A very poor show. But the good news is that I’m fairly certain that, according to J-land tradition, this means that Jesse-san is obliged to perform the first number next year and, further, that we get to choose the song!
Sorry Bro’ but right now I’m leaning towards “Like a Virgin”.

Kazuo-san- 5 STARS
At about 5’9” and 185 lbs. and with a pleasurably gentle demeanor Kaz-san can accurately be described as a Teddy Bear of a man and so it is, was and will remain a profound shock to see him unmask and reveal the inner Hip-Hop Madman that exists inside his calm façade.
K-man led off the evening by donning a DJ Ozma wig (and if you don’t know DJ Ozma then see above photo or youtube him and find out), snatching the mic with a vengeance, leaping up on our table and pumping out the jams with the ferocity and energy of a sugar buzzing 10 year old delinquent with a big bag of candy. Rump shaking, earth quaking, love making and too much just wasn’t enough! Now that’s how you start a party! If I only had a video cam…

It’s faint praise but Kaz-san is without a doubt our 2007 Karaoke MVP!
Long may he reign.

My performance? I’ll say this much.

If we are ever drinking together and there is a microphone within arms reach then HEED MY WORDS-

RUN! AS FAST AS YOU CAN! RUN!

To my credit I did not shatter any glass, I did not hear any dogs howling, I was not asked to leave, no one threw anything at me during or after my song and the neighbors (as far as I know) did not complain.

So all in all it was one of my better nights.

Who the F***K is that on the Goddamned Roof?

2007-12-22T22:51:00.000-08:00

What is there to say that hasn’t already been said? Seriously.
Since birth we’ve been bombarded by Gangsterish Xmas messages subtle and some not-so, voracious ad campaigns feeding on the young and innocent (by the way…do those exist anymore?), rampant hard sell Sales tactics promoting love, peace, brotherhood, happiness and, above all, SHOPPING all force fed and mainlined into a quasi-Christian/Pagan Holiday Season designed to deceive/reward our most childlike and fallible instincts then, over decades of concentrated Retail effort, honed to perfection and burned into our brains by every person you’ve ever believed in and every person you’ve never believed in and their brother.

Resistance is futile!

The War on Santa Claus cannot be won!

The Xmas Zombies are Legion and cannot be beaten by any conventional force.

This is DefCon 5!

We must go NUCLEAR!

HIT THE BUTTON!

Wait…….wait…………….wait.

What am I saying? OK….OK……OK.

I surrender. It's the end of the year, I'm out of ammo and I've got some Very Important Drinking to do, so...............

This is for the greatest Gifts I've ever received- Every single one of the beautiful, caring, loving, smart, sharp, sexy women that it has been my intense and grateful joy to have loved, and unfortunately, lost. It can't be enough but then again, nothing could be.

And who better to bring the proper gravity to this titanically schmaltzy celebration than the King himself?

and that ain't no lump of coal!

Ike Turner (1931-2007)

2007-12-13T19:06:00.000-08:00

As a young child his father was killed by an angry White mob...

As a young boy was a Radio DJ...

As a young Man helped to found a R&B Revolution...

As a Man discovered one of the greatest Singers of his or any other Era...

For my Mother and Father (who loved both Ike and Tina Turner) and to all the imperfect men everywhere, myself most certainly included.

There has to be some great good in a man who could play music like this.....

"Rivers Deep, Mountains High"

Wherever he is, I'm sure Ike's hustlin' up a crew and a gig right now and, wherever he is, he ain't even sweatin'.

And wherever she is, I'm sure Tina is still going strong.

IT'S INSIDE MY HEAD!

2007-11-21T00:13:00.000-08:00

Let’s consider (try not to think, yea….just try it) our world from the inside out for a few moments. That is to say this reality that exists inside our skulls as opposed to the perhaps harsher form that we walk, talk and wander through each day.

Now which controls which?

There is no control you say? Try not thinking again.

We walk through our worlds as we rapturously enjoy/suffer through every moment of our transient existence in a fulfilling/futile pursuit of our tragic/triumphant ambitions/dreams. And where do our thoughts come from? From the innumerable stimuli that surrounds us? Doubtless. But don’t they occasionally emerge fully formed and crystal clear as if a bolt from heaven itself, destined to decide the path that our feet will trudge for our remaining ecstatic/depressing days?
Consider that this Super Super computer that we call our brain is switched on from the moment of our birth (and perhaps even before) and then is continuously running at top speed until the moment we bite that tasty dust. This is one mean machine capable of billions of simultaneous calculations instantly being processed through every moment of our waking existence.

“That beautiful girl just smiled at me…….what does it mean? Do I make a move? Dare I?”……
and all this as you’re walking through a jam packed train station avoiding almost constant collisions while calculating the time remaining until your train pulls as you count the money in your pocket, weigh your chances, consider your bills for the month, briefly think of your children, wonder about the girl from 7 years ago, check your watch, scratch your chin and decide your fate all while, significantly, breathing, pumping blood and performing the millions of mechanical functions that allow you to amble upright as the old grey matter hums along as smooth and easy as water flowing down a gentle hill.

Remember that supercomputer Deep Blue that finally beat a Grand Master Chess Champion in that most tortuous of mental war games back in 2005? I’m not impressed.

Let that fucking collection of circuits, microchips and extension cords manage the board as he is simultaneously trying to pay the bills, keep his wife happy, find time for his girlfriend, plot his next career move, check his look in the mirror, fight Father Time, plan lunch and then dinner, remember everyones birthday, scope the crowd, gauge his own worthiness, approximate humility and then let him bust a play. That is the exact moment when I will be impressed.

Yes, I did mention that this personal cerebro of ours is running strong all through our waking existence but consider this as well. While asleep the old head is perhaps on standby but is nonetheless working hard…..or is it easy? How else to explain the incredible vividness and hyper reality of those things we call dreams as we check out of our more immediate reality? The shocking horror of our terrible nightmares is most simply the brain on overdrive or maybe in delete mode, carefully sorting, dividing and ditching the useful from the useless, the profane from the responsible, the psychotic from the coherent, the difficult good from the simple bad as our more corporeal bodies slumber easily, and sometimes less so, in our soft beds with heart pumping, lungs thumping oblivious to the fury upstairs.

And all these countless galaxies of operations occur simultaneous to our body’s ever-present physical deterioration. Just as that beautiful, terrible engine in our skulls hums along the body is ever so slowly falling apart and will, eventually, end us one and all.

Kidney failure, a heart condition, a tumor, infection, disease…….
A bullet, a bus, a bolt of lightening.

But that ageless calculator upstairs just keeps cruising along impervious to any attempts to shut it down, indifferent to any physical realities, contrary to any mortal ambitions yet infinitely aware of every aspect of its owners past, present and future condition, as unknowable and yet as familiar as the most distant star in the blackest sky. Unique. Shining.

Of course occasionally the grey machine fails before the other one below.

This is an anomaly. This is a mistake. This is certainly a tragedy of the most human proportion.
Outside of old age it’s clear that either one or the other fails first and never both at the same time.

You want the cure for cancer? It’s schizophrenia.

The brain going haywire will burn every last cancer cell in the body or blood until there’s nothing left but a madness that beams through your eyes like a burning spotlight of clearest insanity. Of course you’ll most likely end up a homeless pariah spending your last days on Earth jabbering your wisdom to a crowd that will not comprehend as you dive through trash cans and search for suitably safe places to sleep but that cancer will be gone, baby gone and that engine in your head will be spinning furious revolutions of endless freedom and fantastic dreams.

This is what I’ve been thinking of lately.....
So Happy Thanksgiving.

I got my face on.......

2007-11-19T22:14:00.000-08:00

and somehow this number makes me feel a little less blue....

a little.

Thank you Sir.

2007-11-12T20:19:00.001-08:00

Norman Mailer (1923-2007)

Odds and Ends- No. 1 Boom Boom Edition

2007-11-10T00:44:00.000-08:00

If you are now or ever were an even reasonably attractive female than I can unequivocally guarantee you, for the record, that between the ages of 16 and 23 every single strange man who ever spoke to you did so in the most sincere hope than he might one day fuck you. And I don’t mean date you, get to know you, drink coffee with you or maybe even kiss you- no, no, no.
FUCK.
YOU.

That nice old Bus driver (maybe in his 60’s) who dropped you at H.S. everyday with that pleasant smile and happy wave? Oh yes!

That kindly older man at the coffee shop who always tells funny jokes and talks a lot about his wife? Definitely!

That pimply-faced nerd who sometimes asked to borrow a pencil and later in life would help you with your computer? Damn Right Sweetheart!

The super-polite and absolutely non-threatening Doorman of your Building who’s always so very, very sweet? He’s thinking about it every time he smiles at you!

The tired looking shlub taking your application at the DMV? No doubt!

Let me be perfectly clear. I wrote that he is hoping to fuck you. I didn’t say plotting (very doubtful for this takes time, true effort and research), planning (although he certainly may be) or otherwise even half-ass scheming (this is clearly most likely), I gently stated that he is, but this is without doubt, hoping- as in dreaming, wishing and just plain praying that one great day you might in fact give him all you got and make his most humble of fantasies come true. The great good news for you is that you were, are and will always remain in the Drivers Seat regarding these almost always unreal ambitions.
Yes, we men may turn grey while waiting for that crack in the door that signals your wondrous consent as we feverishly imagine your naked flesh and hungry desire but, let it be spoken, we all share the same mind and the same biology and we will tirelessly gnaw on this bone until there’s nothing left but marrow...and then slurp the marrow.
At least until we turn the corner and another One walks by like a vision of Heaven on Earth. And there will always be corners too numerous to count with another Angel about to turn our way.

Now before the storms of Feminine outrage crash my home and bring me to my knees let me say this-
I’ve heard it all before and I know you believe that you have a point but please realize……please……….that you have already won the battle and, if you can muster even the smallest parcel of cool, you will always win the war. Protest is futile for you need only open your eyes or simply, and fondly, remember that innocent age. I bring you the Truth in its undiluted form and not the fast food PC pabulum that may have been shoveled your way.

After 23? You gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em but no worries. Although we may be the ones dealing the cards you got All the Aces and most of the luck which is much more than I can say for our side.

When I was a damn lucky 34 and my smoking part-time GF was 20 we were diligently working on an Olympic sex record. I’m unsure as to whether we set or broke it but I’d kill or die today to return to that particular competition as we intensely enjoyed our very complicated/uncomplicated relationship. Once, perhaps 6 months into our courtship, as we were laying back and catching our breath she spoke to me. This was somewhat rare because English was not her 1st language and my understanding of her native tongue was far inferior to her fluency in mine.

“You know what I like about you?”

I, in fact, had no idea and tended not to trouble myself about such trivial matters.

“No…….what?”

She sighed.

“You never ask me, “How was it?”

At the tender age of three and a half decades I was blown out of my saddle by this achingly beautiful young girl whose experiences were obviously greatly unequal to mine yet she held my heart in her hands like an egg she didn't need.

“You mean… guys actually ask you that question?”

Somehow, looking into her shining black eyes I believed her.

She wrapped her slender sweet legs around me and laughed,

“All the time.” Then we both laughed.

To any of my unlikely virginal male friends out there- This is not the time for Q&A.
This is the time for hugging and kissing and some discreet talking, finally. If a woman is even slightly satisfied with your performance she will let you know in no uncertain terms. Relax, regroup and get ready for Round 2.
If she invites you back to her bed at any time afterwards then you, my friend, have just scored a touchdown in the Superbowl. So do the Dance.

Recently while reading comments on another blog I was struck by the number of women who mentioned that they have NO INTEREST in sports. I distrust these women.
No interest whatsoever?
Granted I understand that you may properly lack a somewhat unhealthy obsession in the history, statistics, records and the Line but……………………….
No interest?
I’ve yet to meet a sex-bomb woman who didn’t at least have a voyeuristic fascination with watching powerful, graceful, godlike men heroically straining themselves in complete and serious dedication to their endeavor. Often these women offer fascinating and incisive commentary to the action. The Ex was a grand example. Almost 6 feet of luscious ass and dripping sex she was one of the best football handicappers I ever met yet she put little thought into it. She relied on intuition and, somehow, it served her well. Once, while monitoring a Green Bay/Tampa Bay contest on which I had bet heavily on Tampa, I announced to her in the heat of the moment,
"Check it out, Baby, Warren Sapps gonna drop Favre like a bad habit."
She coolly replied,
"Fat Boy Sapp couldn't drop his Mama."
She finished her coffee as the Packers finished Tampa Bay. At half-time we acted like married people and I didn't care about the game at all.
You got no interest in that, I got no interest in you and most likely we’re both happier that way. Sometimes life works out perfect.

Biology is reality and reality may not be to our liking. Men hunt, Women nest. This is as it is and most likely should be. Most likely you ask?
Yea.
Because you see this Human Race we are a part of has completely taken over this Eden we call Earth and we did it even though we are definitely, physically inferior,puny even,in comparison to the violent enemies we trampled all along the way. We stand triumphantly, sometimes not so much, at the absolute top of the food chain and we ain’t even sweating to stay there.

But we’re slowly destroying this planet you say?
Thanks for the 411 Ghandi but I’m only writing about the here and now. The Nobel Prize line starts over there.

In short, Men seek out the youngest, most fertile females to mate with and procreate. This is our Biological Imperative. We are all hard-wired in this way. It is not deniable.
Women seek out the strongest provider that will allow them to create the safest home. This is OUR reality. Leave us not complain about it.
Let’s, instead, evolve while we enjoy each other and keep the bicthin’ to the serious, gender specific drinking sessions.

It's raining outside so..................

2007-10-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

Thanks Jack,
Meg........

and Kate, of course.

One More Reason to Live

2007-10-18T18:56:00.000-07:00

As a young lad, and future point man for the MTG, there were few pleasures more real to me than dashing home from grades 3 and 4, heels barely touching the ground, before skidding to a sweaty stop in front of the TV set just in time to mainline my daily “Speed Racer” fix. Immediately following those 30 thrilling minutes my friends and I, while running the streets, would solemnly discuss, rehash, contemplate and dream about the latest episode of the ongoing animated series that was the collective obsession of our adolescent male fantasies.

A brief synopsis for the deprived- Speed Racer was both the title of the show and the sexy moniker of our main protagonist. Speed was a perhaps teenage boy (maybe early 20’s, it was never really established) who spent his days traveling the world in his tricked out car-The Mach 5- sometimes actually rally racing and other times just enjoying wild adventures with his lovely GF, Trixie, occasionally by his side and often his little brother, Spridel, in tow along with Spridel’s monkey friend, Chim Chim. Of course, and inevitably, there were deep dark secrets hidden in Speed’s family past and the formidable Racer X, the Masked Racer, was always lingering on the edge of the plot like a vengeful sword waiting to fall.

And now word approaches (I realize that this news may not be the freshest loaf on the shelf but gimme a break, I’m on the other side of the planet and these Internets confuse and frighten me) that the Wachowski’s (of the Matrix series) are in production and currently shooting for a ’08 release date of a Live Action Speed Racer Movie. I'd call it a film but we all know that this is, hopefully, a movie. Casting is rumored to be complete, filming rumored to be state-of-the-art and the Mach 5 is rumored to be looking SWEEEEEEET!

But, please understand, it is not my intention to critique these rumors, comment on the W project or chime in with unsolicited advice; I’m no filmmaker and so I only wish them all the luck and hope for the best of what may come while simultaneously keeping my expectations very low.

No, I’m here to celebrate- albeit late to the party- the continued cultural triumphs and sustained advancement of even the flimsiest of our MTG childhood fantasies into that of Multimillion dollar cinematic realities soon to be coming to a Theater near YOU! We are ascendant!

They’re giving us Speed, man…….and the MACH 5!
I never thought I’d live to see the day.

And what, the uninitiated are likely asking, is so significant about Speed Racer?

I must recall that 3rd grade boy and state simply that Speed was everything he was not, did everything he could not, had everything he did not. Devilishly handsome looks, bravery in the face of tasty danger, fast fists in any fight, a passport to the Widest of Worlds and a fine-ass GF with a killer smile to go along with the only keys to the Bossest Ride on the Planet. A car that could jump through the air (and the sound effect of that leap would be unequaled in my childhood world of sound effects until the 6 Million Dollar Man came along and did some jumping of his own), swim through the sea and slice through a forest like a hot knife through butter. The Powerful Mach 5 had a bulletproof cockpit, all terrain tires and a keen robot bird/drone that could launch from the hood to recon or otherwise just harass the enemy and every one of these features was available at the touch of a steering wheel button and, let me tell you, that choice ride looked damned good sitting perfectly still too.
Speed drove fast and played hard everywhere and anywhere, mostly winning in the end but often pressing his luck too far and having to get his ass pulled out of the fire by the menacing, mysterious Racer X, sometime before he sped off leaving Speed to wonder how he got to where he was in one piece.
You see, that little shorty, and many others I imagine, sitting rapt in front of that 70’s Boobtube always believed that if he could grow up to be half the solemn, strong, selfless and quietly loyal Antihero that was Racer X then his life would most certainly be a true accomplishment.
If he could somehow snag a lovely, lively, slender, smiling, supportive girl like Trixie to stand beside him and cheer him on (and before the American Women who I love march on my house with torches to burn me to the ground then stomp on my roasted corpse please let me explain that this was the very early 70’s, sometime before slender, smiling and supportive became misogynist epithets and well before standing beside and cheering your man on became unworthy, un-American activities far, far beneath you) then any cost would be worth the price.
If only life were a race where victory belonged exclusively to the daring and brave and true with shadowy figures remaining strictly in the background waiting to help you when you faltered……………..

And then 5th grade started and I pretty much forgot all about that crap and only wanted, instead, to play baseball and feel some tits, basically in that order.

EXTREME SPOILER ALERT AHEAD!

But, gratefully, the wonders of the show remain forever logged in my deepest memory and although the central mysteries of the series- there were 2 which eternally perplexed me- may struggle to stay fresh in my now fading brain they lay urgent and ever-present in my still aching adolescent heart.

1.) When the Hell is Speed going to find out that Racer X is actually- WAIT FOR IT- his long lost and forgotten brother, Rex Racer, who left home years earlier (after wrecking his father, Pops’, prized vehicle in a lone rookie crash) vowing to never return until he was THE BEST RACE DRIVER IN THE WORLD and could thereby redeem himself in his father’s eyes and rejoin the Racer Clan with his pride intact.

And

2.) Why the f**k does Speed wear a “G” on the front of his shirt? His initials are S.R. and his car is the Mach Five. “G”??????

At last (as of yesterday when I rhapsodized with a MTG J-friend, thank you Naruhito-san, who assured me that the Show was equally popular among J-boys)this secret was revealed to me. Sure some ‘net savvy geeks may have found out with a few flicks of their pipe cleaner wrists but, Dammit, I flew 14 hours and talked to an actual human being in order to discover the answer so how about a little compassion!

Our little American cartoon show, you see, was of course actually created in Japan in 1967(later sold American)by the brilliant Tatsuo Yoshida and its original J-title was- Mach (pronounced MaHa) Go Go Go.
This was a nifty little play on words- Go was the Hero’s first name (and also a not uncommon boys name in Japan) in the original- just like Speed/Speed Racer- as well as being the word for # 5 in Japanese, as in the Mach 5, Go’s ride. In addition, since it was the 60’s, the Go-Go was thrown in for the rebellious connection to a hip rock-n-roll lifestyle and, lastly, Go obviously has its own separate meaning in English which J-folk love to manipulate to their own satisfaction.

“G” for Go/Speed! I cannot explain to you how radiant I am right now, glowing with the most sincere and complete feelings of warm peaceful satisfaction!

And it only took me 30something years.

The following is for nothing. My Dream Casting-

Speed- Elvis, Jailhouse Rock version or Johnny Depp circa 21 Jumpstreet/Platoon.

Trixie- Edie Sedgwick early Warhol era.

Pops Racer- Burt Reynolds right after “Hooper”

Racer X- HERE’S THE KILLER
Steve McQueen (hey, I said it was dream casting) any 60’s/70’s period.

Since all of the male MTG has the American Theme Song permanently burned into their brain pans I figured I’d treat you to the Original. The singing isn’t quite as good as the schmaltzy American version but the Music is the same and the animation(Speed tooling around Africa jumping over elephants and shit) a bit cooler.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled blog......

2007-10-15T22:10:00.000-07:00

After glancing at my previous post I realize that I may have been somewhat harsh on the non-MTG generations and so, in the spirit of brotherhood, I make a humble offering.

Thanks Kurt, you said it better than I ever could.

And also-for your viewing pleasure- please enjoy the awesome power and precision of Senor Tony Iommi's axe as his band thunders out a message for the kids.

In case you were wondering... those were actual human beings playing actual musical instruments. They were, in those days, known as "musicians".

Let's do the Lighten Up!

2007-10-12T21:53:00.000-07:00

Due to a recent surge in faithful readership (Now 20’s of Us!) I’ve begun to feel a distinct need to further clarify and illuminate this phenomena know as the Manual Typewriter Generation so that We, its elite and rapidly aging members, can stand ever more proudly amongst our fellow citizens and proclaim the righteousness of our existence, the soundness of our thinking, the purity of our intentions as we demand full recognition of our overlooked but honorable fraternity.

So I submit the following as evidence of your inclusion into our brave ranks.

Can you remember that murky time long past before the existence of ATM’s? Where the Hell did we get the cold green paper from back then? Did we just walk around with it stuffed in our pockets at all indecent hours of the day and night? What did we do after dropping that final dollar in the very last saloon before realizing we would require a fat bag of White Castles before the ride home? It’s all foggy to me somehow………..

When making phone calls did you ever carry the actual dialing device (approximate size of 2 bricks strapped together) in one hand with the receiver in the other while being simultaneously tethered to a wire connected to the wall, which, if you sought after mobility, you had to maneuver around your body like you were playing Double-Dutch? Fun, no?

Can you remember when Playboy was risqué and Penthouse was hardcore, sometime before Hustler came along and shocked the Nation with its XXX depravity? And we lugged these glossy smut rags home to our secret stash spot where we collected, drooled on, jerked over and treasured-while guarding with our lives-these sacred texts for years? How quaint we were.
Now in maybe 5 mins and a few mouse clicks I can find porn that, not only haven’t I experienced in life most real, I haven’t even thought of before.

I like Jay Leno. I think he is most probably, in real life, exactly as he appears to be on stage- a likable, jocular, fair, good guy with a sometimes sharp tongue.
But………………Mr. Leno, I knew Johnny Carson…I was a friend of Johnny Carson…and Mr. Leno….You are no Johnny Carson.
Does your heart yearn to hear the opening strains of Doc Severinson’s blasting theme as Ed McMahon trumpets those magic words of the electric showbiz past-
“and…………………HEEEEERRRRES JOHNNY!”
Me too.

Just a MTG question- Do boys/girls even slowdance anymore?
The absolute pinnacle of my 8th grade existence was when I held Adriana Lopez in my grateful arms as we swayed to “Reasons” by Earth, Wind and Fire at our private Graduation “Set”. Sometime near the end of that lovely number I got up the nerve to slide my sweaty, hungry hands down to her luscious ass. She let me.
If I live to be 100 I’ll never be able to thank her enough.

Do you recall when the worst possible post-sex scenario involved either-
1.Pregnancy or
2.Herpes Simplex II (Oh the incurable horror of cold sores!)
The blissful innocence of it all. Only years into my actual practice of this most sublime of Adult pleasures AIDS was being screamed at us everywhere we ran to and had everyone quaking in their chonies with mass-media scare tactics (Sex=Death) possibly/probably designed to destroy sex in America once and forever. Talk about a Buzzkill.

If you can understand and sympathize with these thoughts then you are, fortunately or no, a member of the MTG. If not- and you’re still reading- CONGRATULATIONS! You are the sole owner of youth and beauty and the future is entirely yours (sorry about that one but we did our best you know) so celebrate your transient power and while you’re at it please heed these gentle words of wisdom-

Put down your F*****G cellphones for a second and talk to each other.

Turn off that slavemaster computer and get your face immediately out of that idiot screen. Open a window, breathe some fresh air, taste the Sun while it lasts, feel the wind through your hair.

Stash your Goddamned Blackberries, unplug your mind (if even for a precious moment) from your Ipods, go outside, enjoy the thrill of the freedom as we know it, raise your fists in the open air and proclaim to your world,

“I’M AS MAD AS HELL AND I’M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANY MORE!”

Yea……………………………..
Welcome to the MTG.

and if this doesn't make you happy (yea the sound is a bit muddy but Archie is in fine voice) then check your pulse.

The Sputnik Rules

2007-10-09T03:15:00.000-07:00

Yes, it was only 50 long years and at least a generation or three ago when the Russians (that’s what we called them back then) successfully launched the worlds first satellite into the heavenly void to begin its menacing orbit of the Earth, mechanically beeping its eerie and undeniable message of Soviet Superiority as it soared above us, looming down on our awestruck faces, solitary, untouchable, unstoppable, terrifying and otherworldly.
The Public cowered and the Military shook the Halls of Power with their panicked rhetoric.

They’ve beaten Us to space!

They’re Winning!

Soon They’ll be able to rain missiles down upon us from the Stars! Throw godlike thunderbolts of Communist aggression onto our Armies, cities and schools at will!

We have to fight back! We must beat them to the High Ground!

And so this basketball-sized aluminum egg circled our globe and kicked into a much higher gear what we would later call our “Cold War” against the monolithic power of the Communist Soviet Union, a “War” that would have the entire planet on Doomsday Alert for the next 3 decades and then some. As a direct result of that metal sphere flying inviolate through our skies the US Government went into a frenzy of missile production determined to build thousands of nuclear warhead payloaded ICBM’s that could strike at any moment into the heart of the Enemy’s cities- having the USSR basically ringed with Military Bases and being able to violate their airspace with entire formations of B-52 bombers being apparently insufficient to our defense needs as long as Sputnik was up there somewhere!
The USSR, angered and frustrated militarily by our Air superiority and brass-balled flyovers of their Motherland but retaining the edge in rocket technology, subsequently ramped up their production of same and in a few short years we both had thousands of missiles pointing in each others direction and poised to launch at the literal touch of a button, almost assuredly leading to a catastrophic confrontation of civilization ending proportion as it was certain that not much of the rest of the world would likely survive, or even want to, the Nuclear Winter that would follow our showdown with the Soviet Bear.

So our little game of Atomic Chicken was All In, boys and girls! The only two Great Nuclear Superpowers were perfectly ready, willing and (for the 1st time in history) able to bring down the other along with the rest of the planet in One Big Boom before either of us surrendered to the Menace of - pick ‘em- the Spread of Evil Communism or the Threat of American Imperialism, depending on which side you were standing, while everyone else paced on the sidelines and prayed for the best.

We both took turns accusing, tough talking, posturing, threatening, spying, saber-rattling and stockpiling our deterrents in a near hysterical mania of military one-upmanship.

We both engaged in disastrous conflicts (Vietnam, Afghanistan) to prove our willingness to fight, military might and dogged determination to the other guy.

We both, combined, spent more money on weapons than most of the worlds economies complete GNP’s, combined.

Then, as befitting this glacially paced conflict, in 1989 the Berlin Wall came down signaling a death knell for the Soviet Union.

In 1991 Premier Gorbachev officially folded his cards and the USSR dissolved.

We won.

Almost 5 decades of teeth gnashing hostility, harsh words and very real threats ended with no bang but something much more like a whimper.

7 separate US Administrations (Democratic and Republican) were at the wheel during all this time yet somehow we managed not to kill each other and everybody else with not one single missile launched in anger over those many, many tense years. I don’t know about anyone else but I’d call that a history of proper thinking, bilateral responsibility and hope for the future.

The American architect of this almost unbelievably sound and sensible policy?

An Ambassador to the Soviet Union, George F. Kennan. In 1947 he wrote an article that would become the foundation for decades of US policy concerning the USSR. The article’s advice- Containment.

Mr. Kennan correctly and very wisely surmised that nothing fruitful was to be gained by direct conflict with the USSR and instead preached strategic containment. In short, match the Soviet Threat- politically, ideologically and, not the least, economically- and we will eventually win a “War” that does not need to be fought on any battlefield.

“Thus the decision will really fall in large measure in this country itself. The issue of Soviet-American relations is in essence a test of the overall worth of the United States as a nation among nations. To avoid destruction the United States need only measure up to its own best traditions and prove itself worthy of preservation as a great nation.
Surely, there was never a fairer test of national quality than this. In the light of these circumstances, the thoughtful observer of Russian-American relations will find no cause for complaint in the Kremlin's challenge to American society. He will rather experience a certain gratitude to a Providence which, by providing the American people with this implacable challenge, has made their entire security as a nation dependent on their pulling themselves together and accepting the responsibilities of moral and political leadership that history plainly intended them to bear.”

I’m not at all confused about Our Republic being under current threat but I think I’ve said all that I’m going to about the nature and reality of that challenge we now face.

(Analogblog:My Ex-Pat Manifesto…continued/4.10.07)

There are ways to deal with terrorists. I would suggest small, effective, covert assassination squads. Then go to the source of the terrorist Hydra and salve the wound before it grows two additional heads.
And I’m certain that greater minds can think of even better ways.

To be clear let's remember that for decades we faced off against total annihilation and somehow, someway, slowly, surely triumphed. Now we face religious fanatics who willingly kill themselves in order to take a few of their enemies, and lots of the innocent, with them.

What did our current leaders come up with to combat this most modern form of aggression?

The War on Terror.

We needed a long range foreign policy with realistic goals and sensible short range actions. What we got was a laughable slogan (Remember the War on Drugs? Yea, Drugs won) that didn’t even work on our own shores, a candy color-coded panic meter and a near endless bloodbath with a dog that wasn’t even in the fight.

A threat must be dealt with appropriately but fear is only fear, it can harm no one but can most certainly lead everyone to disaster.

Mr. Kennan, where are you when we need you?

Larry, we hardly knew ye..........

2007-10-06T01:26:00.000-07:00

Well Senators and fellow citizens, Judge Porter from the great State of Minnesota has ruled and it now appears- pending possible appeal- that Sen. Craig’s mailed in plea of Guilty to the charges of Disorderly Conduct in the Minneapolis Airport Toilet will stand up in Court.
In a rare and sound bit of jurisprudence the Honorable Judge Porter stated,

“The Defendant, a career politician with a college education, is of, at least, above average intelligence…he knew what he was saying, reading and signing.”

Fucking OUCH!

King Solomon couldn’t have done it any better and have you ever read a judgment that was so brutally honest, sober, fair, scalding and wickedly sarcastic all in the same incriminating package. Christ, this legal bodyslam alone manages to restore my faith in the Justice system as it now lives and breathes. I don’t know what Judge Porter eats for breakfast but give me a barrel of it!

As for the Senator with the newest misdemeanor record- Keep your head up, Larry! You’re in good company and your club will undoubtedly be filled with more fresh Republican faces (the good money is on Sen. Stevens from Alaska, who knew they had corruption in Alaska?) before the next election year. In a solid show of old fashioned gumption and new age chutzpah and as a real gay burr in the Please-believe-we’re-super-straight Republican saddle Sen. Craig has reversed his position (insert pun here) and proclaimed that he will NOT resign his Senate seat as previously announced and will instead serve out the remainder of his term until Jan. ’09.

GO LARRY, IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY…..GO LARRY IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!
GO…GO…GO….GO….GO…….GO!

But please Senator………..get yourself a nice boyfriend, spend the money if you have to, settle down and stop creeping around public toilets. It really isn’t very becoming Sir.

Here I sit, broken-hearted...............

2007-09-23T22:20:00.000-07:00

As I type these words Sen. Larry Craig (R. Idaho) is awaiting his second day in court (well, technically his 1st since he mailed his initial guilty plea in without appearing before the bench) on charges of disorderly conduct. The original charge upon arrest of Sen. Craig in the public restroom of the Minneapolis Airport was suspicion of lewd conduct.

It is at this early point that I must beg faithful readers to pause…….take a breath…….. and consider the nature of those arrest charges, however momentarily, against that stalwart bastion of Republican Family Values and faithful soldier for the great State of Idaho.

Suspicion of Lewd Conduct.

I for one, must state here and now that I would like to publicly broadcast almost all my examples of lewd conduct were it not for my sense of modesty, decorum and respect for my partners’ privacy but SUSPICION of lewd conduct?

HUH?

Good Lord if I were to be arrested for suspicion of lewd conduct almost every woman I looked at on the street, or in private for that matter, could have the cops drag me away to the slam in a horny heartbeat. But I digress.

First let’s state the objective facts of the Senators case on which all parties- Sen. Craig, the Police Sting Unit, the Prosecution, and the Defense- agree in full.

Was there any actual, physical sexual contact of any kind between these 2 fully grown men? There was not.

Did Sen. Craig attempt to physically coerce his victim (the undercover Officer) into any sexual activity? He did not.

Did the Senator attempt to physically detain or restrain the Officer in any way? He did not.

Did Sen. Craig implicitly or explicitly offer any financial compensation in return for sexual favors or verbally state his desire for same? He did not.

Ahem. (or as the Good Senators constituents might say- Amen!)

So, in shorthand, we have a 60ish US Senator lurking around public restrooms trolling for freebie fuckbuddies willing to freak with him because he’s so sexually straight jacketed that this unseemly practice appears to him reasonable or at least necessary and we have an entire Law Enforcement Unit (comprising up to 9 full-time Officers) also lurking around the toilets, sniffing anywhere and everywhere for illicit blowjobs, buttfucks and any other Adult consenting hookups that they might stumble across, or better yet, entrap their lecherous fellow citizens into before they righteously snap the cuffs on these villains and thus keep our society safe from……….um………….gee…………………gimme a minute………………uh……………my gay friends moaning in the stalls?

Congratulations Minnesota, your tax dollars are hard at work and your airport restrooms well on their way to being pleasure-free!

An ancient Buddhist koan says, “Treat matters of great importance very lightly and matters of small importance very seriously.” And with that in mind let’s examine this farce sans uproarious Democratic laughter for a moment.
My Republican Friends (OK…OK…I don’t actually have any Republican friends, what can I say- I rent), don’t you see where your disastrous and desperate clinging to social policies based on a wholly unrealistic- and you all keep proving that- and twisted sense of morality is leading? Family Values sounds good and sells well and you probably can’t go far wrong politically by trumpeting your disgust of Homosexuality to your Bible-thumping, God-Fearing, People-hating, scared shitless, sexually repressed masses that just want to hang onto their money (and who can blame them for that) and that unfortunately form approximately 51% of the voting population but you guys just keep popping up out of the closet like lily white, Brooks-Brothered, Power-tied, Flag-waving, cock-sucking whack-a-moles!
You just won’t stop talking the Christian Right Talk but you can’t walk the CR walk.
Here’s some free advice and I pray (seriously) that you take it to heart.

Embrace your Gay brothers and Sisters! The Log Cabin Republicans may be your last hope and the Gay Community the last minority group you actually have a chance of persuading to join your joyless minions. Burning each other at the stake for sins that you yourselves have likely or will likely commit in the very near future is a modern Witch-hunt leaving your party with nothing but charred innocents and maniacal closet cases. Further, this volcanic cauldron of sexual repression and hypocrisy that is boiling just below your uptight, upright surface is always and inevitably going to blow up right in your too tight faces with all of the YouTube Nation glued to their screens and savoring your very public humiliation. Your children don't need this! Your Nation doesn't need this! You are the Party of Abraham Lincoln! Small Government...remember? Do not go any further down that road.

What am I doing? Forget all that. You guys are on your own. Just keep doing what you're doing and see you in '08.

And Sen. Craig? Your case looks like a winner so tough it out. Your Wife and Kids? Your problem but let me help you out.

Larry? Senator Larry???
Think about Lawrence ‘cuz I’m pretty sure it don’t say Larry on your birth certificate. Now go and sin no more.

Exile Off Main Street (continued)

2007-09-21T22:11:00.000-07:00

Recently I was drinking with my Japanese Mentor, a man older than myself by some twenty years, which is quite old indeed, and after our fifth drink at our third Izakaya(casual J-land Bar/resturaunt) he explained to me in his emphatic, halting English (his Eigo being much more useful than my pathetic Nihongo) a fact of his singular existence in Japan.

“I am a stranger in my country.” He said not quite proudly but not exactly sadly either.

Having known him for only a short while I somehow believed him completely.

When I got to know him better my trust was validated and as I learned more of his personal history I gradually came to understand that he was something of a rebel in his more than somewhat conformist society. He was the maverick I thought I’d been. At the advanced and frightening age of 40 he’d dropped his salaryman yoke like a virus and then set out to do it his way, an extremely bold move anywhere but especially daring here in the land of the most rigid of career paths.

He was, and remains, the nail that sticks up.

But he had a good idea, clear vision, excellent timing (pre-bubble), steely determination and good credit at the Bank so he rolled his life’s dice and borrowed heavily, gambling everything on his will to win.

15 arduous years later he has, to a great measure, achieved overnight success.

His loan is long since paid, he now makes his decisions without consultation, sets his own hours and everyone else’s, lives exactly where he wants to live, drives exactly what he wants to drive, eats like a king, vacations frequently, works hard when he has to and plays hard when he wants to, which I am led to understand is often.
A favorite boast of his is that he loves his family, his money and his car, approximately in that order.

He is competitive beyond all reason, keenly perceptive in all situations, riotously funny, enormously generous, the life of all parties, supercharged with boundless energy and proud of all things Japanese. He would make a splendid American if Japan ever tires of his act.

A stranger, I thought to myself as I sat with him that night.

“Wakarimashitta.” I replied at last.

We didn’t talk all that much for the rest of the evening, we didn’t need to; we were comfortable with each other I like to believe. I was adjusting to that feeling of peaceful affinity and I discovered that it was a necessary adjustment in my new world.
So as most guests learn I did as well, perhaps a bit more grudgingly and painfully than others younger than me but I learned. My responsibilities were few if any, my hosts shouldered every load as if it was their pride and pleasure or at the very least a social imperative. I slowly discovered a heretofore unknown ability towards common courteousy.

It was easy enough in the end, good examples were all around me.

There were few demands placed on me and I gradually learned how to pour a beer, wait my turn, arrive early instead of late, serve someone else first and pick up a check. When I needed one I got a job, was grateful for it and there was plenty of help at the office. I did what I could, the work was easy and I prepared well. I was happy to do it and it seemed to be more than anyone expected or less than was generally produced by my foreign brethren. I may have been a commodity but it was clear to me that I was a human commodity and nothing less.
I walked through the streets with an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable sense of pride, I was doing something worth doing in a place worth doing it. Perhaps I was pulling my share of the load I found myself hoping.

There is a special place in my new neighborhood, an old temple tucked snugly and surreptitiously into the labyrinth of side streets that shield my neighborhood from the tourist traffic. It’s a simple thirty second walk from my door but when I enter it could easily be 600 years ago or more that I’ve walked into, further than any past I could ever imagine. I haven't learned its name and most times don't wish to, it's enough to be there and to be my refuge. Its large grounds contain three ancient wooden structures (1 grand,2 smaller), a small still pond, a low slung stone bridge over the pond and a wide open uncluttered panoramic view of the stars with no evidence of any modernity clutching at its edges. Whenever I sit beside its stately natural grace and melt into its pulsing but low-key serenity I realize how comfortable I am inside its wide open borders. The Temple has no locks, gates or fences and anyone is welcome on the grounds at anytime. Perhaps not so strangely it is largely ignored by my Japanese neighbors and too far off the beaten path for anything but the most serious or dedicated of tourist.

Often at night I sit on its steps and gaze up into its massive eaves as I sip my drink, smoke my smoke or simply breathe in the peace while the moon beams down on me as if in personal blessing. One of my favorite seclusions is to sit quietly at the foot of the bridge in the evening, facing the massive main doors, almost covered by the outstretched branches of a neighboring tree, the moonlight dim and warm, and wrap myself in the calm. Often I become so quiet, so still that more than once a neighbor has walked through the grounds on the way home from work, the path being not more than ten feet from my spot on the bridge, and simply strolled past me without even noticing me sitting there.

For reasons I don’t know this always lends me a gentle comfort.

On most occasions I imagine it as my private estate and given its vast but simple grandeur and almost complete lack of visitors it is not a difficult illusion for me to maintain.

I’m a lonely Prince in Exile waiting for my chance to return to power-

I’m a lost romantic Poet nursing a wounded soul-

I’m an outlaw Ronin on the run hiding in plain sight from an unjust world that can’t understand me.

All these fantasies are soothing in a playful way but most often I strictly feel at home there, comfortable and calm. Grateful.

Time passes, of course, but my physical incongruity never has and certainly never will. Japan is, for the most part, a homogenous society but I come from a land of immigrants of which my father was one. Japan’s culture is of course older than my entire Nation by many hundreds of years and far too dense for my over stimulated American mind to grasp without a great deal more time so instead I just try to objectively appreciate the differences as I slowly, slowly learn.
I find it an increasingly easy task.

My homeland is a land of strangers and strivers running away from a nightmare or running towards a dream, sometimes both. I believe it’s a good dream and I hope most make it there.

What do the Japanese dream of, hope for, work for, reach for? The same things I do I now imagine but I can’t know because I am not one of this great Nation, I am the most obvious Other much as I was at home and perhaps what I would be anywhere, anytime.

“A stranger in my country” I sometimes hear my Mentors words echoing in my head as I look hopefully into the eyes that are looking hopefully into mine.

But I’ve learned that this sense of “strangeness” doesn’t just apply to the way we all look or even feel. The sense of being different, not fitting in is in itself a connection that many share, foreign or native. It’s as strong a bond in many ways as fitting in perfectly because there is a necessity in its reality, a solid gravity to its weight. In Japan a flawed teacup can surely be more desirable than a perfect copy. I believe the purity and truth of imperfection, impermanence is regarded as a strength in the Japanese aesthetic and as a pleasure to most. There is a celebration for the stranger among his fellows here and, I now believe, perhaps everywhere and all are welcome at that celebration. Isn’t that, ultimately, what friendship is about?

So today I no longer feel like a guest nor do I desire the position of one. On my better days I like to think that I’ve moved beyond that particular status and that, just maybe, I have a place here, a part to play in this Nations drama, a responsibility to the people who are not me but are friends. The people whose lives are not mine but whose streets, trains, rivers, seas, forests, mountains and sky we share together, that I am allowed to share freely. Maybe I can help.

Exile Off Main Street

2007-09-16T01:36:00.000-07:00

“Now, after ten years, I have realized that an exile has no place anywhere, because there is no place, because the place where we started to dream, read our first book, loved for the first time, is always the world of our dreams.” Reinaldo Arenas

“I know it’s only Rock-N-Roll….. But I like it.” Mick Jagger

The country in which I was born is a vast beautiful ocean away from me now, thousands and thousands of empty blue sea miles with the only life hidden underneath its solemn mysterious waves; to cross this great expanse is many hours by expensive jet plane, too many by slow boat and not attractive to me either way, having already done it once. The fact is simple- a person needs a reason for such a journey, a good reason, or he needs a reason to stay put, dig in. In the end I find it easy to weigh the two.

My grand birth Nation is also smack dead in my face everyday like a splash of cold water. I can see it coming and feel it hit me, but I cannot touch it or dive in. It’s almost everywhere I go even this far away, it’s like the moon or stars, the same everywhere and everywhere.

There’s a newspaper headline screaming our latest blunder or more luckily, our great good deed.

Here’s one of our fearless leaders talking at me on the boob tube, just like home.

There are the ubiquitous signs for fast food, gourmet coffee, designer blue jeans, hardcore hip-hop, Hollywierd Movies and the assorted detritus of a junk culture I thought I’d left behind those thousands of ocean miles ago, entrenched firmly among the riot of Neon Nippon advertisements that, pitifully, I still can’t read so I gain little comfort from either.

I’m alternately totally disconnected from my new environment and an uncomfortable object of curiosity no matter who I’m with or where I go. I am exotic, mundane, polite, profane, a delight, a disgrace, valuable, worthless, handsome, ugly, coveted, repulsive and I have no control over any of it. I am a guest and my hosts will make all decisions on these matters but, of course, this position is the one I’ve chosen freely and for my own reasons. Perhaps it might be the same in every corner of the planet but I am here and my face announces my strangeness to all, an instant and inevitable fact. I’m not from anywhere around here, I’m far from home. There is no need for discussion for it is no revelation, just the simplest of realities.

The majority of my hosts generally behave not quite like the majority of my countrymen and at the same time not all that differently.

Both groups are driven to succeed whereas I am not-

Both, to a great degree, measure that success in terms of material wealth or at least material accumulation, I do not-

Both are increasingly hooked into a digital cyber world that conversely (or is it perversely) sets them adrift from the more physical one they inhabit, I have a generational aversion to all things digital-

Both are routinely inundated by mass media consumer driven hard sell messages almost everywhere they go and both seem to seek solace from the onslaught, being somewhat of a recluse I am less susceptible to the barrage-

Both seek a faster, easier future of comfort and leisure while simultaneously yearning to reach back and connect with their own personal history, their roots, I can trace my roots back to my grandfather and no further and have no further desire or curiosity.

In all these ways I am as comfortable here as anywhere because the rules (or is it the plan) seem to be similar if not the same, whether I agree or follow along is another matter entirely and for me the question of whether to play along has always been open and unanswered.

It took me decades to learn how to say thank you and mean it (or not) in my country and I never did learn the rest of the rules if in fact there were any. I had a suspicion there were but no inclination to pursue my discovery any further and now I am in a land where my suspicions about these “rules” are a good bit stronger but my comprehension of how to properly absorb the complexities of them is even more uncertain. At home I gave up on discovering these facts and it was easy to do so, I practically felt patriotic in my surrender for wasn’t I ( we?) a strong single minded individual hell bent on doing it his own way? Wasn’t I a maverick, a rebel, an untamed non-conformist? Wasn’t I an outlaw, a cowboy, a loner? Didn’t I seek the road less traveled?

Maybe.

But now I’m here and those particular roles seem somehow socially unnecessary and more than that, personally unsatisfactory. I’m not home and maybe there is no home but I’ve been welcomed openly in this land where the only objective certainty is that I don’t fit in. I’ve been treated as a guest, and one of honor, not a feeling I was familiar with in any previous environment. I’d done nothing I could think of to deserve this kindness, nothing to warrant such hospitality but it was there nonetheless and it was freely given; a much more than generous gift given to me- at the time of my unheralded arrival an anti-social misfit who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to work or more often, play.
But a small confession is in order.

(continued...)