December 31, 2005
Since Paris Hilton’s sex video is freely available on the internet, I don’t believe it would be out of bounds to discuss her vagina.
Aaaaah, Paris Hilton’s vagina! A steaming, succulent, gooey, drippy, runny, ever-widening kind of a hole, all perfumed and manicured like a perfectly groomed Beverly Hills lawn!
How do I love thee? Let me cunt the ways.
This is a slit that any man would be willing to die for. The Defense Department should print a poster of it to remind our soldiers why they are fighting. That would motivate them more than any freakin’ picture of Bush holding a plastic turkey.
O well of desire
Let me burn inside your fire!
So what if she can’t dance, sing, or act. We got enough freakin’ singers anyway! So what if she is only good for sinking her soft, perfectly rounded butt into Oprah’s sofa for another pointless interview. It’s enough for me to want to be reincarnated into a sofa!
I would like to cast her for a science-fiction movie about an Albuquerque cocktail waitress abducted by space aliens at Rosewell, NM, for an anatomical study of human females. Naturally, I would play the alien.
In my movie, she would be strapped to a metal examining table and her butt would be probed for secrets in the service of an interstellar scientific survey.
Then she would be attached to an orgasm machine like Jane Fonda in “Barbarella,” to measure the emotional depth of the human female orgasm.
I would make her the model for a blow-up rubber sex doll, with a string you could pull, and it would cry out, “Oh Daddy give it to me harder!”
A girl like Paris Hilton only comes along once in a lifetime. I would commission a thirty foot-high marble statue of her naked body for the entrance to a Las Vegas Roman gambling casino, or a five hundred foot West Coast Statue of Liberty welcoming people to Beverly Hills. Instead of “Send me your huddled masses” it would say “Give me your billionaire asses.”
If Arnold Schwartznegger can be governor, I say let’s make Paris Hilton president. She can't be any stupider than freakin' Bush! Who cares about old broken-down Hillary Clinton with her secretary spread.
I have always believed that we need to rethink our society, and Arnold Schwartznegger and Paris Hilton would be fantastic symbols for America’s New Age.
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December 29, 2005
One of the most maddening aspects of life in politically correct New York is Eye Contact.
These days everybody is reaching out to touch someone. Bush said he looked into Putin’s eyes and “saw his soul.”
Frankly, I’m not buying it. Putin, a former officer in Russia’s intelligence service, would never have survived all that spying and politics if he had been so transparent. He is too cagey to allow anybody to discern his interior thought processes.
Formerly, people went to great lengths to avoid any kind of eye contact. The only people who did it were nut jobs like Charles Manson.
Now every fat man expects you to gaze lovingly into his eyes while he explains you the intimate details of his wife’s hemorrhoid operation.
My girlfriend Magpie is constantly berating me for not giving her eye contact when she is trying to explain me the high cost of eye mascara.
My last boss, an imbecilic twit if ever there was one, constantly nagged me to look into his eyes. This guy was the biggest thief and scheming bastard in the world. He was trying to figure out my thinking so he could get an edge on me. It turns out that on top of all the other sleazy stuff he was trying to pull on me, he had forged my signature on articles of incorporation for one of his crooked tax-dodge business entities because he couldn’t find any other suckers who wanted to be officers. I received a Notice of Deficiency from the tax department for $20,000 in back payroll taxes that he owes. I ratted him out for identity theft, fraud, forgery and filing a false instrument. As soon as he gets convicted in criminal court, I intend to go after him for civil damages.
Yeah, Eye Contact. Right!
Looking into the eyes of a New Yorker is one of the last things I want to do. You discern a higher intelligence by looking into the eyes of a sheep dog.
And, unlike New Yorkers, the dog will have the decency to look away.
We could achieve more sincerity and depth of human communication if we strove for more Butt Contact.
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Posted on 12/29/2005
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December 28, 2005
[Synopsis: Niño de Jesus Benitez, having escaped from the mental hospital on Ward's Island, has commandeered a forklift truck with which he hopes to save the world from the marauding demons from Hell. He approaches the aircraft carrier U.S.S Intrepid, moored at the 46th Street dock at Twelfth Avenue]
The guards in the sentry booth scattered in panic, barely evading the explosive impact as the rampaging machine smashed it into fragments. They drew their sidearms and started blasting away, but the heavily armored vehicle deflected the bullets like fireflies as they pinged uselessly off its reinforced shell. A cacophony of alarms went off, echoing against the mighty hull of the giant carrier, joined within seconds by the insistent burbling of police cruisers approaching at breakneck speed from the north, south and east as the alarm went out that the Intrepid was under terrorist attack.
With pandemonium breaking out all around him, Niño de Jesus Benitez calmly put his plan into effect. As alarms roared and flashing lights popped all around, and bullets bounced off his truck, he used the vehicle to gently nudge the artillery piece closest the highway until its nuzzle was facing directly east, right at the beige and brown façade designed to look like an ersatz Disneyland pirate castle or an Iberian seafood restaurant on Calle Ocho. The pinnacle of this fantastical structure boasted an ardent expression of nationalistic exuberance, New York’s biggest Puerto Rican flag. “¡Mi Bandera Querida!” Right below, shining over the highway as the first rays of the sun heralded the approaching daylight, huge block letters announced “San Juan Bagels. The Bagel With Sabór.”
It was certainly inevitable that in a city where cultural fusion was the spiraling fate of so many conjunctions grinding against each other like screaming gears, that a gastronomic hybrid like the latin bagel would be born. This bagel was the child of Pato Gonzalez, an authentic Puerto Rican Jew who started rolling bagels by hand in the Bronx at age 17 and over the course of many years experimentation developed a product that was more Boricua than Belarus, a bagel that rather than plopping down your gullet like a depth charge, exploded in your mouth with fireworks of spicy flavor and danced a cultivated rumba down your esophagus. It took New York and the world by storm, and was eventually shipped around the planet in frozen containers to Paris, Dubai and Shanghai. It was featured in Tokyo fashion magazines, doctoral theses submitted at Oxford and the Sorbonne, and became local New York color for Hollywood movies.
All this excitement was naturally lost on the low-wage immigrant workers who actually produced the product, and had Niño de Jesus Benitez actually availed himself of Father Guzman’s offer of psychiatric counseling, he may have come to realize that his true resentment of the place had less to do with flagellating baritone lesbians than the inevitable resentment of being forced to work in a hot, steamy, stinking food processing plant producing a gastronomic luxury bakery product that he couldn’t afford.
But no matter, all the conjecture in the world cannot explain away the convoluted machinations of his deranged imagination and their resultant consequences. He wanted to blow the place up, and he now had a cannon in place and pointed directly at it. As bullets rained around him and scores of police cars, sirens wailing and lights flashing, blocked all approaches to the Intrepid, Niño de Jesus Benitez, naked as a jaybird, jumped off the forklift, ran to the back of the cannon and began pulling frantically at the levers.
Naturally, nothing happened. This was the stupidest project ever conceived, by a whack job who had one hour previously escaped from the Ward’s Island Insane Asylum. A pale of silence overtook the whole scenario as the legions of armed cops waited for instructions that would allow them to blow the pathetic little fucker to smithereens, which was pretty much the standard procedure in instances like these.
However, in this instance they were to be denied this small indulgence. In keeping with the city’s business-oriented Republican administration, which was touting a new “kinder, gentler” approach toward its less privileged citizens in order to advance its proposal to host the Olympic games, the city was toying with new gadgets that would keep the idiots alive long enough to stick them under a jail somewhere upstate, where they would rot for an appropriately long term out of the public eye.
With this end in mind, they had contracted with Rudy Giuliani Associates to develop a new line of non-lethal applications to restrain fat ladies brandishing cutlery, deranged pot-head rabbinical students wielding hammers, graffiti artists who refused to go along peacefully, African street peddlers with dark wallets in their hands and the other million-and-one inexplicably bizarre human interactions that altogether define a day in the life of the Naked City.
The latest of these innovations was a remote-control cannon mounted on a kiddie car that fired a weighted net. Naturally, when the device was announced, some cruel soul joked that Giuliani was working on a net large enough to cover the entire city.
For Niño de Jesus, who was standing at the controls of the artillery piece expecting to be disintegrated at any second, as well as the scores of cops fidgeting behind their squad cars hoping for the command to let loose with their Glock pistols and riot guns, the little toy cannon slowly creeping to the center of the scene was an interminable entre-acte of suspense. All the assembled actors stood breathlessly at their posts like a child’s toy soldiers as the technicians from Giuliani Associates calibrated the trajectory of the shot, knowing that if their first attempt failed it would immediately be follow up by a fusillade of bullets, and that the cannon project (and, not incidentally, their jobs) would face meltdown in a cavalcade of media ridicule.
The little cannon exploded with a loud BOOM, and Niño de Jesus Benitez and the assembled police, reporters, dignitaries, traffic copters and spectators watched in awe as the net sped at him, entangling him and throwing him to the concrete. The reality of the force, which had all the velocity of a battering ram, knocked the wind out of him, along with all his illusions. Nothing brings you down to earth like getting arrested. Forgotten were the stairwell behind the Green Door, the lesbians, the forklift and all the other ephemeral constructs of his imagination. All the petty slights, the insults, the million-and-one seemingly important little events that bring you to committing the act evaporate like Gorillas in the Mist once you are confronted with the realities of the New York Criminal Justice System and its shackles, the body odor of the other inmates, the filthy floors and toilets reeking of disinfectant, the rancid baloney sandwiches, moralistic prosecutors seeking to make points with your ass, greedy judges impatient to get rid of you so that they can make some money. In the instant that Niño de Jesus Benitez’ illusions were peeled away like the layers of an onion, all he was left with was the net, the hard macadam and the blue sky above which seemed to spin ‘round and ‘round in an endless swirl.
The assembled law enforcement officers surged forward in a blue wave. They surrounded him, the initial disappointment at not being permitted to perforate him replaced by curiosity about the nature of their prey. When they saw him for what he was – a cringing, naked little beaner, crying, delusional, tangled in the net and crawling about helplessly like one of Tato’s little creatures stuck to the glueboard, they laughed.
One of the officers, a massive motorcycle cop with black jackboots, a fade haircut and a scorpion tattoo on his thick neck spit a huge glob of bubble gum in the direction of Niño de Jesus. It bounced off him. The cop joked, “You’re in deep shit now, Pedro, this is federal property!”
All the cops laughed.
THE END
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December 28, 2005
(Synopsis: Niño de Jesus Benitez, having escaped from the mental hospital on Ward's Island, is determined to save the world from the infernal demons, lesbians and Jews whom he is convinced are infiltrating New York City from a hidden stairway leading from Hell to the boiler room of an industrial bakery in Hell's Kitchen)
You can change a name, but that does not alter the essential nature of a thing. You can call a scumsucking maggot Marilyn Monroe, but it still lives in corrupt decay and thrives on the putrefied bowels of a dead thing. When the city fathers attempted to sanitize the image of Hell’s Kitchen by changing its name to Clinton, it was like putting tooth whitener on a decayed black stump of a broken molar. Nobody was fooled except the genius who initiated the concept. It was still a neighborhood of noxious gases and steam rising up like a bitch’s brew from forlorn, desolate streetcorners. Drug addicts waited behind trucks with guns and baseball bats for likely victims. Hookers lifted their skirts at traffic lights to display their wares. Rats the size of dogs demanded, and got, easement rights through people’s living rooms.
Meanwhile, you could look down to the end of the street and see, across the river in New Jersey, the heights of Weehawken, where luxury condominium complexes and Victorian mansions held out a tantalizing mirage of American prosperity and order as though peering across a dimensional void from the desolate wasteland of a Salvador Dali tableau into the benign innocence of a Norman Rockwell magazine cover, taunting the damned souls who would never know it like the key to a jail cell hanging just out of reach of the condemned prisoner.
Niño de Jesus Benitez had occasionally admired that glittering promise, but this night his concentration was fixed on the more attainable goal of the fuchsia forklift with the all-terrain rubber wheels. It was just where he had left it. The sight of it, shining like a purple plum in the moonlight, made his heart leap with joy. All those months that he had been locked in isolation, and the preceding months that he had been free but in an isolation of the soul, the one dream that had kept him from sinking into despair was to get back to this forklift and use what he had learned to confront the defilers of humanity and stop them from dragging our immortal souls through an eternal gauntlet of torment.
The gate to the yard was closed with a chain and a large brass Master lock. Niño de Jesus had been starving himself for months so that he would be skinny enough to squeeze through the narrow opening allowed by the slack in the chain.
He wedged himself through, though just barely, his flimsy hospital gown getting snagged in the chain mesh and torn off his body, leaving him just the paper slippers. He ran to the monster machine and, clambering up the ladder to the cockpit, opened the door and installed himself into the contoured operator’s chair.
His body exploded with an expression of relief as his muscle memory recognized the familiar sensation of being in control of a piece of heavy machinery. The key to the ignition was still there! He turned it and the machine erupted with the rage of life. One lever motivated a chain assembly raising the gigantic forks. Another lever changed their angle of thrust, bringing them closer to the cab. Releasing the air brake, he put the leviathan in gear and aimed it toward the fence, crashing through effortlessly as the gates were torn off their hinges and tossed uselessly into the deserted street.
He set the thing toward the west, barreling the wrong way down the one-way street in the direction of the Hudson River piers. A car approaching from that direction boldly sounded its horn, then, realizing he meant business, meekly pulled over to the side and ceded him right of way.
When Niño de Jesus got to the West Side Highway, traffic was sparse in the pre-dawn hour. He turned left and headed toward the 46th Street Pier, where the Aircraft Carrier Intrepid was moored. This overwhelming expression of American imperial majesty was a floating hotel of death. New York mayors have often been berated for having their own foreign policy, and it’s no wonder, considering that they have their own navy with enough firepower to decimate whole countries.
Crowded onto its flight deck, the Intrepid boasted a dazzling array of technological weaponry: Blackbirds, AWACs, Tomcats, Cobras, HUEYs, Apaches. Berthed opposite it, a nuclear submarine with missle poised in launching position was at the ready. On a barge behind that rested an entire Concorde supersonic jetliner. Deployed on the dock separating the two majestic warships was a little decorative bouquet of tanks, armored vehicles, armored personnel carriers, howitzers and cannon, a little flourish of mayhem displayed like little plaster roses on a child’s birthday cake.
Toward this massive and indomitable concentration of power sped Niño de Jesus Benitez, naked and in control of a stolen forklift, hellbent for leather and propelled forward like Don Quixote on a desperate mission to save the world from the forces of satanic destruction.
Unlike Don Quixote, however, Niño de Jesus had no intention of smashing himself against a superior construct. His concept was marginally more sophisticated, a sort of step-by-step methodology in problem solving, as though devised by a chimp moving a box so he can stand on it to reach a banana suspended by a string.
After he had made the discovery of the satanic demons, lesbians and Jews infiltrating New York by way of the Green Door in the sub-basement boiler room of the bakery, Niño de Jesus Benitez had cast about devising solutions for rescuing humanity’s immortal soul. He spent his lunch breaks squatting on his heels like an Ecuadorian cowboy on the sidewalk in front of the bakery which, as fate would have it, was on the opposite corner facing the mammoth battleship complex. It may seem incongruous, this juxtaposition of imperial might to be facing a cesspool of grease and filth besieged like a frontier outpost by legions of rodents, giant roaches and garbage-eating pigeons, but this has been the condition of imperial might through the ages, grandeur surrounded by decay. Anyway, the Intrepid was a latecomer to this environment, specifically placed there to ignite gentrification of the area.
Many questions perplexed the mind of Niño de Jesus Benitez as he contemplated the multi-faceted dilemma that confronted him. How is it possible for man to judge evil when he himself is born in original sin? If Satan has no concept of evil, can he be said to be doing evil without having a moral parameter for judging his own actions? After all, one might conjecture, if the snake that bites you is just following his nature, how can he be held guilty for that?
Niño de Jesus knew that the dark legions of satanic malediction were onto him for discovering their conspiracy. Obviously, they could have destroyed him at any time, so they must have been saving him for a particularly gruesome fate. Nevertheless, they sent him signals that they were watching. Somehow they had gotten into his locker without breaking the lock and pissed into his bottle of rum, this he knew for a fact. They had put dead rodents into his work boots, so that when he put his foot in, he felt the crunch of the little bones and the squishy sensation of blood and guts all over his feet. Maybe they thought these signals would deter him, but if so they had not appreciated the full measure of their adversary and had underestimated his godly nature. Niño de Jesus Benitez would rather be blown to smithereens on the battlefield of Armageddon in the Final Conflict between Good and Evil than be taken whole and roasted on a spit, writhing for eternity in the fires of hell, his flesh sizzling in the flames, like some pathetic cringing beast out of a Hieronymus Bosch tableau.
If he was going to be judged, then let it be by God Himself sitting on a high bench and counseled by a jury of celestial angels! Niño de Jesus floored the accelerator pedal of the mammoth forklift and crashed through the wrought iron fence forming the security perimeter surrounding the aerospace complex. The guards in the sentry booth scattered in panic, barely evading the explosive impact as the rampaging machine smashed it into fragments. They drew their sidearms and started blasting away, but the heavily armored vehicle deflected the bullets like fireflies as they pinged uselessly off its reinforced shell. A cacophony of alarms went off, echoing against the mighty hull of the giant carrier, joined within seconds by the insistent burbling of police cruisers approaching at breakneck speed from the north, south and east as the alarm went out that the Intrepid was under terrorist attack.
With pandemonium breaking out all around him, Niño de Jesus Benitez calmly put his plan into effect. As alarms roared and flashing lights popped all around, and bullets bounced off his truck, he used the vehicle to gently nudge the artillery piece closest the highway until its nuzzle was facing directly east, right at the beige and brown façade designed to look like an ersatz Disneyland pirate castle or an Iberian seafood restaurant on Calle Ocho. The pinnacle of this fantastical structure boasted an ardent expression of nationalistic exuberance, New York’s biggest Puerto Rican flag. “¡Mi Bandera Querida!” Right below, shining over the highway as the first rays of the sun heralded the approaching daylight, huge block letters announced “San Juan Bagels. The Bagel With Sabór.”
See: FOLLOW YOUR DREAM (Conclusion)
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December 27, 2005
The BBC showed a news report on “Brokeback Mountain” that was less than the ecstatic rave it has been getting in the American media.
They interviewed some non-gay cowboys who didn’t appear to be universally enthusiastic about going to see the film.
This reinforces what this writer has all along maintained, that “Brokeback Mountain,” despite all the raves it is receiving from certain circles in LA and New York, will eventually be exposed as an emperor with no clothes.
People will soon be scratching their heads and asking what all the fuss was about. When all the pro-gay propaganda settles, “Brokeback Mountain” will be revealed as a tiny cult film with less mass appeal than “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” and the public will rise up in anger at having been exploited like P.T. Barnum’s proverbial suckers.
I am not going to bat for Middle American sensibilities on this issue. I have always believed in smashing idols. You want to make a gay cowboy movie? Be my guest!
What eats me up is this huge moralistic push by gay intellectuals to enforce their point of view on a witless, unwilling public. Like making us take a spoonful of castor oil, not because they believe it would be good for us, but because they believe it would be good for THEM.
I would not pay ten bucks to see this turkey. I would really rather see “King Kong.” But just from the blurbs I have been seeing on TV, the film looks not entertaining, but painful.
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December 27, 2005
Dear Old Hag,
I don’t feel like I am going to cooperate with the New York literary establishment (such as it is) and go along with the fiction that I don’t exist.
That’s like New Yorkers saying about King Kong, “Let’s pretend he’s not there,” and King Kong just slouching quietly away. It goes against all the principles of physics.
To restate the story in a nutshell: the whole story of my birth is recounted in Saul Bellow’s groundbreaking novel “The Adventures of Augie March.” My mother is portrayed as the femme fatale Renée, and my father is Augie’s tough guy brother Simon. I am the product of her greed and his lust, and Bellow saw fit to use my birth as the tragic dénouement of the novel.
My birth represents the end of one epoch and the earthshattering birth of a new one. And that’s how the history and culture of this country will interpret it in the centuries to come.
I like to think that I have lived up the chaotic era that I was portrayed to portend. I have made a monkey of Bellow (who lived to regret ever writing about me), the American establishment and the Canadian establishment. I tore up all the rules and I have lived to write about it.
Compared to my well-documented record of artistic chaos, which I can comfortably compare to the explosive and reforming of celestial galaxies, all the literary lions of New York are as spoiled, docile lap dogs. And I intend to press my advantage.
Up to the present, I have crashed into a wall of establishment obstruction. Even James Atlas, who was forced to allude to my existence in order to justify the academic accuracy of his 2000 biography of my uncle, “Bellow,” declined to meet with me physically even though I lived only ten minutes away from him by taxi.
This united front has succeeded in preventing my emergence, but the wall is starting to crumble. I now have access to the same means of artistic expression as the rest of you, the internet, which means I can go straight to the public without running a gauntlet of agents, publishers, critics and half-baked writers.
I am already letting my story emerge in small doses, according to how much I feel people can handle. When I finally reach critical mass, the explosion will rock literary New York like an immense solar storm, atomizing the culture.
Then, from the chaos, I can reshape the firmament in my image. 200 motels
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December 26, 2005
Like Satan, she was known by many names, all of which related to that most alluring and reviled aspect of the female physiognomy. They called her: La Concha, La Zorra, La Cajeta, La Almeja, La Panocha, La Pepa, La Chocha, La Cuca, La Chucha etc. But most workers referred to her as “La Creta.”
Where other people had a brain, she had ears, eyes and painted mouth connected by a string of reptilian synopses for purposes of destruction and disruption. Her genetic circuit board was programmed for the continuation of her species, the god’s eye of which being a chubby pre-adolescent boy whose father had long ago been driven from the scene, and her survival in this job, which was the first time in her life she had ever experienced anything more than the groveling monocell reality of a legal secretary in a one lawyer office.
Her brother, Roberto, a production foreman on the night shift, had gotten her in at San Juan Bagels when her previous employer had retired, and she had repaid the favor by trying to convince the boss to fire him. She had started out at the lowest rung of a low-end office: answering telephones, running errands, doing idiotic, meaningless little tasks in the administrative office of a commercial bakery, but she soon rose in importance due to the general incompetence and indifference of her colleagues. She also displayed a certain talent for the lying, deceit and backstabbing that are necessary for promotion in any social structure. Outrageous defamations that would doom her in any office of even medium intelligence went over well with her boss, Pato, who was somewhat infatuated with her in the style of repressed married men who would never go so far as to make a pass at a female subordinate but nevertheless permit themselves to be wound around her elegantly manicured and varnished finger.
Her influence expanded in direct proportionality to the cubic displacement of her posterior. Pato Gonzalez, noting her relative honesty in a cash business where the receipts had a propensity for sticking to the fingers of their receivers, many of whom his obsequious blood relations, came to rely on her more and more.
She learned the value of putting people off their stride by complaining and unpleasant behavior. In the summer she complained that the air conditioning was set too high, causing her colleagues to swelter in the heat of their basement office, located under a bagel oven. In the winter she complained it was too warm, the end result being that everybody had to bundle up in sweaters and coats.
She refined her technique until she became perfectly horrible and insufferable to everybody but Pato Gonzalez, to whom she was the model of obsequious civility.
She became adept at passing false or incomplete information to her co-workers which led to stupid, costly blunders that diminished their effectiveness and their value in the eyes of the boss. Finally, when he determined that he needed somebody to be his eyes and ears in the 46th Street factory, she emerged as the only logical candidate.
So it came to pass that she became the factory manager with authority of several score of workers without ever having managed anything in her life.
Her job on 46th Street consisted of processing the orders that came from the Broadway store, making sure that the managers kept the place running, that the bakers knew what to bake, that the expediters prepared the deliveries. In the other direction, she kept Pato Gonzalez apprised by telephone of the activities of the factory on a minute-by-minute basis.
In this she was aided by a sophisticated network of surveillance cameras the images of which were transmitted to a large-screen video monitor suspended from the ceiling across from her desk. Sitting at her desk, she could monitor every corner of the factory: the loading dock facing 46th Street where tanker trucks delivered 50,000 pounds of flour three times a week and forced it by pneumatic pressure through a network of pipes into huge storage tanks from which it was piped in turn into hoppers. From there it fell into the dough mixers, where it was combined with water heated by computer control, yeast, salt, sugar and other natural ingredients and mixed into 400 pound batches of dough that plopped out into gigantic buckets which were lifted by a hoist suspended from the ceiling, moved laterally across the room and dropped into huge, clanking machines that cut it into little five ounce balls of dough. The balls of dough marched like little soldiers on a conveyor and fell over the edge into rows of cups which lifted them to the ceiling and dropped them into forming machines which molded them into ring shapes. Another conveyor transported them to women waiting at the end who delicately lifted them and placed them on wooden planks dusted with cornmeal. A man removed the boards and stacked them into aluminum racks that were rolled into a steam bath that encouraged the dough to rise like an incubator.
Think of it as a maternity ward. The flour and water are infused with life by the introduction of the yeast, a living organism that bears so much similarity to human tissue that it is used as a substitute in medical experiments. Isn’t it conceivable that the Roman Catholic doctrine of bread being the flesh of Christ might spring from some innate, pre-scientific animist intuition about the nature of life? When you consider the godly nature of such a mundane object as a piece of bread, it opens the mind to phantasmagoric meditations on the nature of life itself and our relationships with all the other objects of the universe. No less an authority than Pato Gonzalez, Master Baker, was fond of saying “When I see the bagels coming down the conveyor, I have the same love in my heart for them that a father has for his children.” Like all cosmic fools, Pato had more than a little of the prophet in him.
Seated at her desk La Creta was able to track the progress of the carts of raw dough as they were removed from the steam box after they had been allowed to rise to their optimum size and deposited in a large, room-size refrigerator which stopped them from growing. They were left in this cooler just long enough for the hint of a crusty exterior to form.
The racks of dough were then rolled out to the baking area, two tunnel ovens approximately one hundred feet in length. The boards of dough were removed from the racks and placed at the beginning of the conveyor where a wire-mesh roller device delicately lifted the bagels off the boards.
Here the newly born dough babies began their Long Trek to full-fledged bagelhood, first passing through a boiling baptism of water super-heated to 180 degrees, which toughened their insides to a mouth-satisfying chewy consistency. They emerged from their steamy, murky bath into the loving care of an attentive nurse who lovingly showered them with flakes of stinky onion, garlic, beige sesame, black poppy, snowy white pretzel salt, whatever…
From there they walked like shamans over a bed of red-hot tiles, tanning their little bottoms to a rich bronze hue before proceeding into a long tunnel oven that finished the process by tanning their exteriors to resemble the golden sunworshippers who inhabit the Copacabana beach on a long, sultry February afternoon.
Sitting at her desk and cracking gum with her sharp little teeth, La Creta was able to monitor all these processes on the giant screen suspended from the ceiling above her door. She certainly had an interest in seeing the production run smoothly so that she could report back to Pato at the Broadway store.
But what really transfixed her were the human dynamics that occurred between the workers. As an untrained, unskilled administrator who spoke execrable English and wrote it not at all, who knew nothing of industrial production techniques or even the rudimentary principles of business, she had achieved her position of responsibility largely as a result of fortuitous mistakes and coincidences, not to mention subterfuge and vicious lying behavior. She understood this and was comfortable with it. What are you going to do? Life in New York can be tough for a woman with a child and no man. Let the next guy take it in the neck! She had a position to defend.
Everybody was a potential threat to her, even the guy who swept the floor, if he should (God Forbid!) enter in tandem with another worker or organize a cohort to rebel against her and challenge her authority. What if she were to lose control! Pato would never hesitate to replace her with the next obsequious backstabber to walk in the door. God knew, there were legions of those pounding the pavement right now.
She had a gang of girls, Blanca, Raquel, Zoila, Irene who were devoted to her. They brought her tidbits of gossip and unquestioningly did her bidding. Also, it was possible for her to eavesdrop on conversations taking place between managers in the Quality Control office and among the staff of the retail store by way of the intercoms built into the telephone system. One time, during a conference between manager and mechanics in the Quality Control office about some oven parts, one of the managers abruptly turned and lifted the phone receiver to make a call to Canada.
Instead of a dial tone, he heard a click at the other end.
Turning to the other men, he silently pointed a thumb in the direction of her office. Then he made a vulgar hand gesture meant to signify masturbation. All the men smiled.
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Posted on 12/26/2005
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December 25, 2005
I am the nephew of a Great Man. Never mind that he could never freakin’ stand me! This guy, a professor and celebrated writer for the ‘middle class,’ was an arch-reactionary deep thinker who never did a lick of work in his life.
Early on he determined to be a writer. He wrote a couple of books while still in his twenties. What did he have to write about? Blah blah blah, his life growing up as a Jew in Chicago. Coming of age books, they’re called today. Who cares? Those books laid there like bombs until much later when he became celebrated, and then they were judged, in retrospect to be ‘brilliant.’ Get the hell out of here, I look at these books, and they’re still bombs!
I have writing and scholarship in my genetic makeup, which I successfully resisted during my youth because I was living in an age of non-linear anti-intellectualism, and I liked it. I never wrote a word for years, accurately estimating that I had not enough authentic knowledge to impart to anybody.
I had a wild life, but that is not the subject of this opinion. I worked and learned things the hard way, but I also kept up my reading because – that’s my nature.
I never wrote a word until it finally all exploded out of me like a pressure cooker. That’s as it should be, rather than try to squeeze stories out of an empty toothpaste tube the way so-called ‘writers’ do today, giving themselves hernias, and the end result being some little lame epiphany which impacts on the world’s determinism as much as a bug squishing on the windshield of a speeding vehicle. Not for me the little moralistic formulations of an overly-indulged superego.
That doesn’t mean that the lessons of culture have been wasted on me, and as I grow more mature I find the meandering intellectual trajectory I follow inching ever closer to that boring straight line established by my close-minded and reviled antecedent.
Is this perfectly clear?
I am currently researching the lives of medieval and Renaissance Italian artists. This I initially embarked upon as a diversion the way lesser intellects fill their minds with chick lit or John Grisham courtroom potboilers, a diversion to kill empty time on the bus, but the hundreds of pages describing the frescos, murals and tapestries covering every square inch of the interiors of palaces and cathedrals of Florence, Pisa and Rome soon overwhelmed my spirit as though a little man with a hammer and chisel were sculpting bas-reliefs on the interior of my skull while baroque trumpets rang in my ears like church bells accompanied by a heavenly chorus of cherubs singing hallelujahs from the ceiling of the Santa Maria del Fiore.
The descriptions of the procedural aspects involved in the planning, conception design and execution of these vast projects, as well as their spiritual, intellectual and cultural underpinnings are demonstrating to me that civilization does not follow a steady trajectory of progress, at least in matters of culture.
I read a description of a project for a door of the San Giovanni church in Florence in 1398, seventeen tons of casted brass recounting biblical fables consisting of nude figures, draped figures and animals sculpted in three levels of relief and cast in a wood-burning furnace constructed right at the site by the artist, Lorenzo Ghiberti, who was only twenty years old at the time.
Compare that with the level of culture extant in the modern world, where ‘artists’ nail their penis to a board or shove paint up their ass and then squirt it onto a canvas, and then sell the piece to an advertising magnate for six figures.
I always loved pop culture like The Rolling Stones or Richard Pryor, and for this I earned the derision of my middle-brow uncle who could not stretch his mind far enough to conceptualize his pot smoking nephew as any more than an imbecilic philistine. I still hate him for that.
But now I find that the contempt he bequeathed to me, I am passing on to the next generation, indeed, to the world at large. 200motels
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Posted on 12/25/2005
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December 25, 2005
(Synopsis: Niño de Jesus Benitez, having escaped from the mental hospital on Ward's Island, is determined to save the world from the infernal demons, lesbians and Jews whom he is convinced are infiltrating New York City from a hidden stairway leading from Hell to the boiler room of an industrial bakery in Hell's Kitchen)
He decided to alert a priest, Father Guzman, a saintly man who ministered to the unfortunate Central American undocumented aliens out of St. Anthony’s Parish in Corona. Father Guzman listened sympathetically to Niño de Jesus’ description of the events taking place behind the green door and wrote him a referral for psychiatric counseling, which Niño de Jesus immediately tore up after leaving the priest’s office.
“If they think they’re going to get me, they’re crazy!”
About the only thing that could mitigate these feelings of isolation, conspiracy and rage percolating through the skinny body of Niño de Jesus Benitez was the tranquillizing effect of watching the oozing, gooey blobs of putrefied bakery waste as the plunger forced it into the bowels of the rear-loading garbage truck each morning. The mesmerizing swirls of fermented dough, damaged product, grease, oil, vegetable coloring, purple blueberry, brown cinnamon, egg, whole wheat, brown sugar, pumpernickel, etc., all squished together and molded in texture and shape like a putrid, stinking lava lamp of decay reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock tableau (in actuality, the garbage truck was a vastly more talented artist), aroused in Niño de Jesus feelings of cosmic harmony. The spectacle of all this oozing decayed slop rising, falling and reformulating into kaleidoscopic shapes and textures of filth spoke volumes to him about the cosmic cycle of rebirth, like a pictorial essay in National Geographic about the birth of the universe illustrated with photos from the Hubbell satellite telescope.
As he sat in his forklift, sprinkled with a light layer of the flour blowing out of the back of the garbage truck like a wedding cake ornament dusted with powered sugar and transfixed by celestial reveries of euphoria, the spell was suddenly broken by an insistant klaxoning of a tooty little car horn.
Stationed directly behind him, a very expensive metallic green German luxury car driven by a well-nourished oriental businessman was insisting on its right of way. This Korean man, impatient and offended to have to have his egress impeded by a dirty, dark-skinned workman riding a battered piece of heavy equipment, felt entirely justified to lean on his horn.
Though the guy was letting his horn do the talking for him, Niño de Jesus got the message loud and clear. In the Asiatic scheme of things, whoever had the money was on top, and the rest of us were suckers. Calmly, he put the forklift in reverse and smashed it into the front end of the beemer. The guy got out and started screaming horribly.
Niño de Jesus drove forward, raised the forks, wheeled the machine around so that it was facing the car face nose to nose, smashed into it and lowered the forks, crushing its hood and flattening its suspension so that the tires were flat onto the pavement like seals’ flippers. The great screaming of metal and crunching noise of destruction greeted the cacophony of oriental screams and curses as the car’s owner helplessly witnessed the willful destruction of his expensive vehicle.
Niño de Jesus jumped off his machine and ran off down the street. He was not arrested until months later, by which time everybody had lost interest in the affair, including the judge who ordered him held in Ward’s Island Sanitarium for psychiatric evaluation.
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Posted on 12/25/2005
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December 24, 2005
Lock ‘em up and throw away the key!
The leadership of the Transport Workers Union, in addition to the legal jeopardy in which they find themselves, are sure to get hit with a huge civil suit for the near-fatal injuries suffered by a firefighter bicycling to work in a collision with a chartered bus.
As luck would have it, the firefighter, Matthew Long, happens to be the son of Michael Long, the head of the New York Conservative Party and a power broker in state politics.
If there was any one thing that motivated the union to cave in and abandon their illegal walkout, this had to be it! The only thing worse than running over a son of the Conservative Party chairman would be to run over Rockefeller!
It’s a sure bet that Toussaint and his pals are dying inside. The strike was illegal to begin with, and any lawsuit brought against the union for criminal negligence by the Long family, who have unbelievable leverage in New York politics, is a guaranteed slam dunk.
The Transport Union is going to be held liable to the tune of tens of millions of dollars and its leadership, like the directors of a corporation, are going to be held personally responsible.
This will clean them out personally.
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Posted on 12/24/2005
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December 23, 2005
Like all petty tyrants, La Creta was also an ardent moralist, and enforcing morality has always been a potent tool in enforcing repressive regimes, though the brutal nature of industrial bakery work, with the heat, humidity and ambient flour in the air was hardly conducive to sexual activity even among the most hot-blooded Latin Americans.
Nevertheless, she made what she could out of it, and if she detected even the faintest hint of scandal, she instructed her agents to widely diffuse the details to all interested parties. Though most of her meddling hardly rose above the level of schoolyard mischief it nevertheless had a corrosive affect on an illiterate, half-wit workforce most of which spoke not a word of English and lived in a permanent state of culture shock, having fled the jungles of Peru or the depressed villages of Bulgaria to suddenly find themselves navigating the complex, dangerous maze of working-class New York barrios. The Spanish and Bulgarian workers, neither of whom spoke English and having no lingua franca of communication, communicated by a primitive system of monkey-see, monkey-do which led to a lot of expensive misunderstandings and had a broad comedy aspect right out of the most ridiculous Abbott and Costello movies from the 1940s, where foreigners were either depicted as imbecile fruit peddlers or slightly sinister dudes with moustaches. The reality of the situation was a melding of the stereotypes - slightly sinister imbeciles.
Stupidity breeds conservatism, because people feel more comfortable sticking with what they know, and if they know nothing they never get off the dime. This innate social conservative environment among the workers aided La Creta in her mission of riding herd over them. The women were afraid for their virtuous reputations and the men lived in fear of being exposed as philanderers, so La Creta was plowing fertile terrain when she diffused innuendos of sexual indiscretion. In this she was aided by the occasional real instances when a Spanish woman, having given herself to a low-end lothario and thereafter considering him to be her real property, went berserk in the factory and assaulted him after he had done with her and associated himself with one of the other women. This happened only occasionally, but with enough regularity to make it a credible possibility and it lived as such in everybody’s mind. For this reason intimations of scandal were received with solemnity.
La Creta had no pangs of conscience about shattering other people’s domestic arrangements, reasoning that she herself had been forced to endure it, and it had all turned out for the best – it was all well and good that fornicators and people of unsound moral persuasion be obliged to sample the bitter harvest that they had sowed in the crooked rows of their perversity. In the infinite and vacant Hall of Mirrors that existed behind her delicately fragile doors of perception resided the ephemeral illusion that by enforcing morality in the workplace, she was setting things right and that her interests as a manager and those of society at large were fortuitously commingled like a pure source of virtue emptying into a placid, crystal lake of harmony and order.
Some women, she knew, were whores by nature, unclean vessels willing to destroy everything around them to satisfy their bestial carnal desires, inviting strangers into their marriage bed, corrupting their innocent young children who were forced to witness their vile behavior, while their husbands unwittingly toiled at bone-crushing jobs to sustain them. Their men came home utterly devastated from their labor, to a dinner prepared by a stinking, soiled vixen still reeking with the odor of the man who had lain on top of her, his seed leaking out of her and soiling her undergarments.
La Creta crossed herself and prayed The Virgin’s forgiveness for even contemplating such horror. Satan was everywhere, ever ready to sneak into the mind of the most sanctified. Like a rodent he would tear through walls of concrete with his vicious fangs to infect the unguarded consciousness.
But if she disdained that poor, vulnerable class of woman who could not tap the wellspring of virtue that would enable her to resist the temptations of the flesh, her most virulent loathing was reserved for the male, with his arrogant, macho preening and wholly animal appetites. Hers was a fury so total and all-consuming that she wished she were a titan who could stamp her foot to crumble and destroy all of man’s creation, everything, leaving nothing but dust and ashes.
El Hombre! The most accursed word in human creation. He who had dominated and humiliated her, violated every part of her, deceived her and robbed her of her last shred of humanity. This, this mindless and soulless butcher of humanity, creep, chiseler, dictator, liar and begetter of bastards! All her life she had chafed under the rule of men. Her mind sparked with indignation at how, as a child, she had been forced to serve her father and brothers back in Ecuador. And they were the best of the lot! The men she had met in the larger world, rough men with their tight jeans, moustaches and gold chains, and controlling all the money! They had treated women like their personal chattel! How many men had she run to in order to escape her father and brothers, only to have to flee back to her family once she had discovered these men’s true nature. On all sides humiliation!
It was not the penis she disdained, that tedious little nozzle that men followed blindly like the deluded desert wanderer mindlessly putting his faith in a worthless divining rod. That insignificant joke of nature dwelt beneath her contempt like a child’s party favor that you pulled apart and it gave an insignificant snapping noise (it never would occur to her that in the utter ordinariness of her mediocrity she had never inspired a gleaming, rocklike erection deserving of admiration).
No, she reserved the unbounded depth of her contempt for the sheer size and bulk of men’s muscles and their physical strength. All men were imbeciles! She had never met one yet who would challenge the intelligence, resourcefulness, determination and endurance of the woman, who provided the social cohesiveness that enabled continued survival of the race against all odds. The evidence of female superiority was anywhere you cared to look: in the legions of women such as she who toiled endlessly like insects to raise children and maintain families while the men, unable to hold jobs, loafed at home or languished in jail smoking cigarettes and playing dominos. Men! Take your eye off them for one minute and they were sure to cause trouble like children.
The only thing that kept men in control was their relative physical size and strength. This was an insurmountable obstacle, men’s physical bulk (though the trend was gradually shifting, with men getting softer and women overtaking them in some areas. Even so, the balance would not shift in her lifetime). It was as though an alien race had landed and was dominating the female through sheer bullying and oppression, appropriating all the resources and physically subjecting the female to endure endless intrusion of the penis to boot. Like an immense Nazi concentration camp without fences.
In her unguarded moments La Creta would daydream about the mating habits of spiders, wherein the female was immensely more huge than the male, and after she had absorbed his seed necessary to make babies, she would simply kill and eat him.
Problem solved!
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Posted on 12/23/2005
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December 21, 2005
Hi, I’m Maurice Cheeks, head coach of the Philadelphia 76ers.
You know, it can be tough for a short player like Allen Iverson to reach the basket for a slam dunk.
So we got him DOGGY STEPS! With DOGGY STEPS, Allen can slam dunk like our other players.
And during those periods when Allen is not playing and he has to sit on the bench, DOGGY STEPS helps him to climb up on the bench with the other players.
That’s not all! With DOGGY STEPS, Allen can climb up on the trainer’s table to get his painkiller shots. Before DOGGY STEPS our trainer, Steve, used to have to bend over and pick Allen up, putting stress on Steve’s back.
Now, with DOGGY STEPS, all that bending over and lifting is a thing of the past, and Allen’s short legs no longer prevent him from climbing on the table by himself.
DOGGY STEPS can also be taken outside and used to help Allen board the team bus by himself.
With DOGGY STEPS there’s no bending and lifting, and Allen can move around by himself like the rest of the team without additional help.
So if you have short team players, don’t wait any longer. Call our 800 number now! If you call right now we’ll send you, absolutely free, a month’s supply of marijuana laced with anabolic steroids to help your short players to achieve their full athletic potential.
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Posted on 12/21/2005
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December 21, 2005
[Synopsis]
Havelock Jones is a French-trained Canadian designer and rock n' roll musician who was forced to immigrate to the U.S. after getting involved in a nasty controversy involving a show he put on in Montreal. At this time, the U.S. is going through one of its periodic spasms of xenophobia, this time relating to the Americans' perception that Canada is hoarding its fresh water and hydroelectric resources, and some Americans are advocating an invasion of Canada to "liberate" the Canadian people from the grip of its "socialistic oligarchy." As a result, Havelock is constantly forced to prevaricate about his background.
He lives on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and works as a designer of ladies' accessories for Majestic Industries, which depends for its industrial production on the labor of Dominican and Latin American immigrants. The place is a nest of thieves from top to bottom, and the president and CEO, affectionately referred to as Pops, is currently under indictment by the Federal government on charges of racketeering, counterfeiting and loan sharking. Havelock is engaged to Pops' niece, Paulette, a spoiled JAP princess who also lives on the Upper East Side. Paulette trains six days a week in the gym, has had every kind of cosmetic surgery known to man, and works as a real estate broker, not because she needs the money, but because she loves the sensation of rich foreigners kissing her butt to get a Manhattan apartment.
One Halloween, Havelock and Paulette attend a costume party in Chelsea, where one of the attractions is a fortune teller who reads palms. When he sees Havelock's palm, the fortune teller goes pale and starts to sweat, insisting that he sees nothing. Upon being insistently pressed by an increasingly impatient Havelock, the fortune teller relents and admits, "All right, it says you're going to kill somebody." He refuses to elaborate. Havelock laughs it off. After all, he is an artist with no history of violence whatsoever.
Nevertheless, from that night forward he starts to experience nightmares of a very specific variety. The recurring dreams feature him as a French soldier named Gauthier committing atrocities against the Arab population in what gradually emerges as the Algerian War of the 1950's. Since this story is taking place well into the twenty-first century, Havelock, who has virtually no concept of history, is perplexed and confused by the grotesque scenarios which confront him night after night. Even given the latitudes afforded the subconscious mind, how can one dream of things of which he has no knowledge?
The dreams, which become progressively more grotesque, concern the mass rape of a young Algerian woman named Najda, who is sadistically tortured and sexually assaulted by Gauthier and his squad of paratroopers, a group of otherwise decent French draftees who nevertheless become sadistic bastards when exposed to the Algerian population. When she becomes pregnant, they beat her in the stomach with rifle butts to kill the baby.
Nevertheless, the baby refuses to die and finally emerges from his mother with a head misshapen from the pre-natal assaults. When the baby sees Gauthier/Havelock, he recognizes him as his father and, spreading his arms, implores in an infernal voice, "Papa, give me a kiss!"
As a result of these dreams, seemingly sent from the depths of hell, Havelock's conscious mind starts to gradually disintegrate. He starts making mistakes at work which result in production mishaps costing vast amounts of money. He is afraid to go to sleep at night, and starts haunting the bars and cocktail lounges of Manhattan. One night he meets an Estonian woman named Helvi, who has studied the ancient witchcraft practices of the Baltic peoples. After hearing Havelock's story, she casually surmises that the fortune teller has cast a spell on him, and that the only way to rid himself of it may very well be that he has to kill somebody.
New York, and indeed the whole country, is undergoing a period of unprecedented chaos due to shortages of fresh water and electric power, much of which is attributed to Canadian unwillingness to share its natural resources. The city is constantly subjected to brown-outs and blackouts which disrupt commerce and wreak havoc on people's lives. Broadway actresses appear on TV wearing skimpy swimsuits to advise the public to take showers, and to demonstrate how to turn off the water when lathering themselves with soap. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia offers to share with the Americans desalination technology which the Americans had given them fifty years before.
In addition, New York's liberal mayor, John Maynard Keynes, has been exposed by an ambitious Republican prosecutor as having received massive kickbacks from Brooklyn's Sea Breeze Gang (so-named for their propensity of disposing of their victims in the Atlantic Ocean) for forcing through zoning changes which have permitted the Gang to demolish Coney Island and replace it with a quarter of luxury condos and boutiques connected to the Lower Manhattan financial district by a network of high-velocity jet-propelled hydrofoils. The Brooklyn Riviera, as it is now called, is glossier than South Beach, complete with genetically altered palm trees that can survive winter temperatures, eerily sprouting coconuts even when covered with snow.
Mayor Keynes, a former Rhodes Scholar who delights in quoting Chaucer and Shakespeare, is temporarily in exile (which he refers to as "an extended working vacation") in Punta del Este, Uruguay, continuing to run New York by mobile phone and video conferencing even as his attorneys are in court fighting to have the indictments quashed. He publicly rails at being the victim of a conspiracy of a "reactionary Republican cabal and a jingoistic tabloid press," the same people who tried to destroy his idol, Bill Clinton, whom he describes as a saint and a hero of the last century.
Havelock, having determined to murder somebody in order to stop his recurring nightmares, informs Paulette that their wedding will have to be postponed without telling her why. Paulette suspects that he is either on drugs or two-timing her and complains to Pops, who is having his own problems because he is on trial in Federal Court. Pops nevertheless has a conversation with Havelock, obliquely threatening him with a visit from the Sea Breeze Gang, with whom he is intimately acquainted because they control all the trucking and waste disposal for Majestic.
Havelock, who is confused, demoralized and frantic from the nightmares, misses the point of the conversation with Pops, who he thinks is counseling him to enlist the assistance of the Gang to help him kill somebody. He takes the train to Brooklyn and gets an audience with Valentin Fastenko, the boss of the Sea Breeze Gang. Fastenko, a former Russian commando in the still-ongoing war in Chechnya and stone killer, listens to Havelock's appeal for help in letting him assassinate somebody, anybody, really, and denies his request with a reasoned, passionate appeal to logic and humanity, the gist of which is that you can't just go around killing people randomly and without a substantial reason. However, he does refer Havelock to a couple of associates in Woodside, Queens, Duarte and Chen, two Chinese Cubans who for a price will at least supply him with the wherewithal, in the form of venomous animals, poisons and weapons, to commit his foul deed.
Armed with these resources, but without expertise and in a confused frame of mind, Havelock commits some attempted murders, none of which succeed in killing the intended victim, but instead killing a third party, unknown to Havelock. For instance, he puts a deadly water moccasin snake in a handbag and sends the handbag to a contractor he detests, but on the way to deliver the parcel, the Dominican messenger boy is mugged by two black guys. The two guys take the package home to the Bronx. When they find the handbag inside, they start clowning around with it, prancing around the room like fashion models. One of them puts his hand in the bag to see if it contains money and screamingly withdraws it with the snake attached to it. He runs around the room screaming, banging into walls, knocking over furniture, and dies a gruesome death while the other one splits the scene. The snake slithers away through the open door.
This kind of scenario happens several times, each time killing an unintended victim. Havelock, frustrated by his own seeming incompetence, enviously reads the accounts of these murders in the paper without realizing that he was the source of them.
One night, wandering the streets in search of a victim of opportunity, Havelock very nearly kills an elderly black man who is searching in the dark with a flashlight. The man introduces himself as Diogenes, though his real name is Robert Hicks, and states that his is searching for an honest man, like the Greek myth. The man so charms Havelock that he relents and does not kill him, though he does express the sentiment that in modern day New York, this Diogenes has chosen an impossible mission and should instead be referring to himself as Sisyphus, who continually pushed a wheel up a hill only to have it roll down again each time.
Havelock informs Paulette that he is breaking off his engagement with her without informing her why, though his motive is to protect her. She becomes enraged, believing Havelock has dumped her for another woman, and demands that Pops contract with Fastenko to have the Sea Breeze Gang murder him, but Pops is so preoccupied with his counterfeiting trial that he dumurs, at least until he can consider the matter with more clarity.
At this time, Havelock has the Mother of All Nightmares. In this dream, which takes place in New York, Havelock wakes up in bed with a Spanish woman named Carmina Burana. He instructs her to go wait for him at Kennedy Airport while he goes downtown to empty out his safety deposit box, which contains money he has stolen from Pops, and then they will catch a plane for the Comoros Islands in the Indian Ocean, where Pops will never find them. He gets on the subway, but instead of taking him downtown, the train unexpectedly stops at Canal Street without explanation. The conductor simply announces that the train has been put out of service due to a “police action.” When Havelock emerges onto the street, he is confronted with masses of people escaping uptown. In the distance he sees the buring twin towers of the World Trade Center. He asks a fleeing passer-by, “What’s going on?”
“They crashed some planes into the World Trade Center! You better get out of here!” the man screams, and keeps running.
“That don’t confront me none,” responds Havelock. “What do I care if the building’s on fire! My money’s in the basement.” Even as thousands of people are running away, Havelock runs toward the burning towers.
As he is running, he hears a voice screaming, “Havelock, you prick!” He turns and sees Pops chasing him, holding himself up with two canes. Accompanying Pops are two very mean-looking Dominican dudes with huge silver automatic pistols. The three of them catch up with Havelock, and the Dominicans knock him to the ground and put their guns to his head. Even as people are frantically running all around them, Pops leans over, puts his face in Havelock’s and says, “I gave you everything! I made you! I was even going to let you join my family! And you repay me by robbing me?!! You lying Canadian prick, kiss your fuckin’ ass goodbye!” At that moment, a huge piece of debris lands on them all and disintegrates them all into dust.
In the background, as the Twin Towers are collapsing, the Statue of Liberty behind them morphs into a 1000 ft. high diabolically leering, laughing Osama Bin Laden. Strapped around his neck is a Fender Stratocaster Electric Guitar on which he is jamming out a screaming, wailing fuzzed-out punk rock version of “Eve of Destruction, his diabolical laugh growing in intensity until it sucks in the whole world.
Havelock wakes up drenched in sweat. It’s now or never, he decides, either kill or be killed. Anything’s better than living with these nightmares! He packs a gun and takes the train to Queens Plaza, on the Queens side ot the Fifty-Nineth Street Bridge, where he goes into “Muff’s – A Gentlemen’s Club”, a strip bar filled with sleazy strippers and ugly-looking dudes. After a couple of beers, he approaches a likely-looking victim and whispers to the guy, “I’m looking to score some smack.”
The guy says, “No problem. Wait right here.” A little while later, the guy motions to him from a curtained area near the exit. Havelock follows the guy out, and is immediately jumped by some accomplices who kick his butt and go through his pockets, taking all his money and his gun. One of them goes through his wallet and comes up with his Canadian identity card. “Fucking Canadian! Let’s kill him!” They stomp the shit out of him and dump his raggedy, beat-up ass in the alley behind the club.
But he’s not dead. He wakes up hours later in the dark, the filth. Some feet away he sees a ray of light shining up toward the sky, and struggles over to inspect. It’s Diogenes, the black man. He’s dead, with his pants pulled down to his knees and the flashlight shoved up his rectum. Havelock vomits.
Not having any money for the subway, Havelock starts walking back to Manhattan across the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. The pedestrian walkway is littered with garbage, with rats scurrying around in the dark. Up ahead Havelock sees a solitary figure leaning on the rail, peering into the river. As Havelock approaches, the figure turns his head and faces him.
IT'S THE FORTUNE TELLER who read Havelock’s palm on Halloween! This man is as discheveled and filthy as Havelock. Suddenly the whole situation comes clear to Havelock in an instantaneous series of flashbacks: the flushed, sweating face of the man as he read Havelock’s palm; the nightmares; the murder attempts! Havelock realizes that the man saw in his hand the hand of the man who would kill him!
“No!” cries the man.
“Die, you son of a bitch!” screams Havelock, as he throws the guy over the bridge into the river, right in the path of a massive, approaching barge.
Pops gets convicted of all charges and is sentenced to fifteen-to-life in Allentown. Since Paulette is now the biggest shareholder in Majestic, her new husband, Havelock, becomes president and CEO.
Confronted with the threat of imminent invasion, nine of Canada’s ten provinces elect to become American states, though Quebec, with all its water and hydroelectric capacity, votes to become an overseas department of France. Enraged, the Americans have massed an overwhelming military force at the border, threatening to instantly invade if the French flag is raised.
Mayor Keynes manages to get the indictments against him quashed and triumphantly returns to New York, where an adoring public awaits him. He arranges to stage a ticker-tape parade for himself up Lower Broadway to City Hall. Waving to the crowd in the midst of the cascading confetti pouring down on him, he turns to the Deputy Mayor and whispers discreetly, “It’s too bad they’re not throwing money!”
Havelock and Paulette, dressed in Armani, are lounging in the yard of their big white clapboard house in Connecticut. A serveant brings them cold drinks. Their little children, equally dolled up, are scampering around them. Havelock gets up. “I have to go out for a while,” he says.
“Where are you going?”
“Well, I’m going to the fortune teller to have my palm read.”
“What? That’s ridiculous! Tell me, what did that nonsense ever get you in life?”
“It got me you, baby.”
THE END
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Posted on 12/21/2005
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December 20, 2005
LAURA BUSH: Oh, George, I think it’s wonderful how you got the Chipmunks to sing at your Christmas party.
CHIPMUNKS: Christmas, Christmas Time is here….
W: Actually it wasn’t my idea. Karl Rove thought of it. Isn’t that right, Karl?
ROVE: It actually fits in with the image we’re trying to project. Something pleasant and light, like “My Pet Goat.” Look, here’s Harriet Miers.
MIERS: Oh, Mr. President, you look wonderful! I love the Mickey Mouse ears.
W: Those are my real ears, Harriet.
MIERS: I baked some Christmas cookies.
LAURA: They’re in the shape of Iraq.
W: We won’t quit until we’ve eaten all of them. Sorry about the Supreme Court, Harriet.
MIERS: Oh, I don’t mind. I’ll just make myself useful around here. Oh! They need help serving the coffee!
W: She’s so helpful. She would have made a great Supreme Court justice.
LAURA: Here’s Michael Brown.
W: Brownie! Sorry about FEMA.
BROWNIE: No problem. I’ve started my own consulting firm. Here, Merry Christmas!
W: What’s this?
BROWNIE: It’s an urban renewal plan for New Orleans’ ninth ward. I want to turn it into a golf course.
W: America can always use another golf course.
BROWNIE: And if it floods over, we can convert it into a lake for sport fishing.
W: I’ll just turn this over to Karl, here, for review. FEMA lost a good man when you resigned, Brownie. It’s getting harder and harder to keep good people.
ROVE: Don’t look now, W, but there’s Judith Miller. I don’t want her to see me. Let me stand behind you.
W: That’s like trying to hide an elephant behind a bamboo shoot.
[Alberto Gonzalez walks up]
GONZALEZ: Merry Christmas, Mr. President. I just finished my latest brief on the torture issue. I think we can justify it under the Equal Treatment doctrine. See, if we can prove we torture prisoners in this country, then we can say that the prisoners in Abu Ghraib are receiving equal treatment.
W: Sounds good to me. Let’s get Condoleezza’s opinion. What do you think, dear?
CONDOLEEZA: I had this discussion with German Chancellor Merkel. She objected to our mistreatment of terrorism suspects on European soil, and I told her that we had no choice because we couldn’t do it on our territory.
W: Sort of put you in a bind, eh?
CONDOLEEZZA: Not really! I’m flexible. Omigod! It’s Arlen Spector!
W: Who let him in?
ROVE: I guess the Democrats wouldn’t let him in to their party.
CONDOLEEZA: Why should they? He hasn’t had an original idea since the Single Bullet Theory.
LAURA: I personally believe he’s being impossible because something went wrong during his facelift.
W: Whatever it is, we don’t need him here. He might hear something, especially if people keep drinking. Quick, Condoleezza, tell Harriet Miers to start charging for drinks.
GONZALEZ: Mr. President, do you think that’s constitutional?
W: Tell her it’s for National Security.
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December 19, 2005
[Scenario: Niño de Jesus Benitez has escaped from the mental hospital on Ward's Island and made his way to Hell's Kitchen on the West Side of Manhattan, where he goes to the object of all his dreams and desires, a garishly-painted fuchia forklift truck parked in a vacant lot]
Niño de Jesus frequently had marveled at it on his way to work and one day, when the proprietor had left the gate unlocked, he snuck in for a closer look. Climbing up the ladder on the side and peering into the control booth, he noticed that they had left the key in the ignition. After all, one might reason, who would steal such a monster? Only a crazy man!
From that day forward the machine became a constant landmark of his scattered emotional terrain. The idea of it would pop up when he was riding the subway into town from his rented room in Corona, when he was eating beans and rice in the shared kitchen of his boarding house, when he was watching Mexican gangster movies showing smartly tailored guys with mustaches smattering each other into fragments with machine guns.
If the average person is distracted by thoughts of sex every eight seconds as scientists contend, then Niño de Jesus Benitez, who had not the slightest interest in any form of human contact, who was a fanatical Catholic fundamentalist sober or drunk, had found the ideal vehicle of transferal for all his earthly animal tendencies. The fuchsia forklift took over all his waking thoughts and dreams. He changed his commute so that he could pass it twice each day, crossing himself and uttering a devotional prayer on his way to and from his job as (what else?) a forklift operator.
The fuchsia forklift came to have a deleterious effect on his job performance at the industrial bakery where he worked. His previously close relationship with the dependable little yellow forklift that he drove became strained, the same way a man might devalue his plain but faithful wife after becoming infatuated with a younger, lovelier woman. He began treating her with contempt and insouciance, letting her battery water run low and forgetting to recharge her when he went on break or ended his shift. Sometimes, out of spite, he intentionally banged her against concrete surfaces, damaging her fiberglass body and exposing her insides. Occasionally he would drive her around without first raising her fork, causing sparks to fly as the prongs scraped painfully across the reinforced cement floor. The yellow forklift, which was named Teresa since its last driver had painted his child’s name on it, sadly deteriorated from her previously spunky self and now dripped tears of hydraulic fluid as she dragged herself forlornly about the premises. Finally, the loading dock foreman, Bolivar Marticorena, took notice and stepped in to champion her.
“It’s a crime the way you abuse this machine,” he asserted.
“Why don’t you go to hell!” retorted Niño de Jesus with the defensive indignation of somebody who knows perfectly well he is being justly accused. Whether Bolivar was right or wrong was beside the point. Niño de Jesus knew the Mexican foreman had it in for him because he was from Ecuador. Besides, he knew Bolivar’s hideous secret, that he was a demon from the depths of hell who had ascended into the world by way of a stairway behind the furnace in the sub-basement of the factory, a filthy, hellish place where the slops from the drainage system fell into a slop sink which connected it to the city’s sewer system. Niño de Jesus sometimes went down there because the foul odor kept others away, and he could get some peace and quiet while he sipped from a pint bottle of Ronrico to steady his nerves. As the old saying goes, once you get past the smell you’ve got it licked, and Niño de Jesus passed many agreeable solitary moments there, alone except for the occasional water bug or garden variety rodent.
That is, until the day when he heard whistling, chuckling voices coming from behind the giant hundred year-old furnace in a dark corner, towering like a steel mountain behind a blackened lagoon of a cesspool of shiny sewage and putrefied rat carcasses. Intrigued, he squeezed his skinny body into the narrow passage separating the furnace from the wall until he had gotten behind it. There was a solid green door. He tried the handle, but it was locked.
The voices behind the door had gone silent when they heard somebody trying the handle. There was total silence for several seconds, when suddenly a terrifying chorus of howls and screams startled and frightened Niño de Jesus. Panicked, he tried to scramble back through the narrow passage from which he had come, but in his haste he snagged part of his clothing on a piece of metal protruding from the furnace. Unable to move, he heard the voices come right up behind him, mocking him and threatening him in unknown languages of gibberish. Disembodied faces spun around in the air, laughing and menacing as Niño de Jesus, soaked in sweat and praying to Jesus for salvation from these infernal spirits who, enraged that he had discovered their hiding place, now laughingly taunted and threatened him with destruction and the loss of his immortal soul.
He passed out, hanging there like a marionette in this dark, stinking subterranean pit of filth and demons for an immeasurable period of time. Once he woke up to find giant water bugs crawling all over his clothing and body, sucking the salt perspiration. At the end of the short passage, rats stuck their heads in curiously, wondering how long it would take for him to die there so they could begin eating him. Passing out again, he retreated into a dream state of delirium.
At length, he was discovered by the old man, Tato, whose job in the factory it was to search out and kill bugs and rodents, for which purpose he carried with him a little tin first-aid case that he called his “maleta de muerte,” stuffed as it was with the traps and poisons that were his instruments of destruction. He would assemble all the little dead critters he had collected during his shift in a white bakery bag and show them to his boss as proof of his indispensability to the company. His manager, a hardened man of fifty, might very well be biting into a sandwich at the time of such an exhibition, where a glance into the bag would transport him into another little unique dimension of hell, one of water bugs stuck to glue traps, their shells and wings in disarray, many still alive with antennae furiously thrashing about; maggot-ridden corpses of mice stuck to traps with blood flowing out of their mouths and laying in their own droppings. “Muy bueno”, the manager would tell the old man as he chewed his sandwich. And he meant it. Tato, with his small body and unabashed enthusiasm for squeezing into dark corners of the factory, flashlight in hand, performed an invaluable function. The manager, although repelled by this little menagerie of loathsome filth, was nevertheless heartened by the knowledge that none of these animals would contaminate the food product or, even more horribly, intrude their pointy little heads during a factory tour by customers or a government inspection. “You’re doing a fine job,” he would compliment the little man in fluent, though heavily anglo-inflected Spanish. “Get out there and kill some more!” The old man, elated by this encouragement, would recommence with renewed ardor.
Tato found Niño de Jesus Benitez suspended in the narrow passage behind the furnace, his clothes tangled in the machinery, and helped cut him free with a box cutter. After he had cut him loose, the toothless old man cautioned Niño de Jesus in barely comprehensible Spanish, “Never go there. There are bad things.”
This episode had a major impact on Niño de Jesus’ mind, and he started going down to the sub-basement on a regular basis, not to nip the bottle but to monitor the activity behind the furnace. In the silence, punctuated only by the gurgling and plopping of the rancid, filthy factory waste water flowing through the drainage pipe into the slop sink, he could make out the sounds coming from the green door at the end of the narrow passage, the infernal whistling and chuckling of rats mixed with human voices shrilly screaming and the shouts and pleadings of tortured souls being impaled on spikes, branded with red-hot pokers, having their eyes gouged out. This was the work of the Jews, who ascended a staircase leading from the pit of hell to emerge in modern New York. He formulated a clear picture of this diabolical intrusion of demons and determined that the bakery was a mere front for the methodical infiltration of Jew-demons into the world, a hellish Fifth Column organized to deliver humanity into the embrace of Satan.
Armed with this knowledge, Niño de Jesus Benitez came to develop a clear understanding of the events of September 11, which, though having occurred many years before, were still the major preoccupation of New York society. He came to realize that the buildings’ collapse, while precipitated by the airplanes having collided into them, actually resulted from fissures in the earth’s crust caused by the Jews burrowing underneath them and weakening their foundations. This little scenario he updated to include fiendish masked lesbians violating priests with massive strap-on dildoes. Niño de Jesus, straining to hear, could distinguish over the roar of the furnace and the rushing flop of sewage into the slop sink the barely audible moans and pleas of priests who, stripped naked and chained to posts, bleeding and sweating, their pathetic moans and pleas for mercy and salvation drowned out by the hellish baritone laughter of the lesbians, were flagellated unmercifully with barbed wire cat o’ nine tails whips.
He decided to alert a priest, Father Guzman, a saintly man who ministered to the unfortunate Central American undocumented aliens out of St. Anthony’s Parish in Corona. Father Guzman listened sympathetically to Niño de Jesus’ description of the events taking place behind the green door and wrote him a referral for psychiatric counseling, which Niño de Jesus immediately tore up after leaving the priest’s office.
“If they think they’re going to get me, they’re crazy!”
SEE:
FOLLOW YOUR DREAM PART I
FOLLOW YOUR DREAM PART III
FOLLOW YOUR DREAM PART IV
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Posted on 12/19/2005
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December 18, 2005
For a fraction of the cost of the Iraq war, we could lock up 150 years of oil production without firing a shot.
How? Easy! By showering love and affection on Venezuela.
Venezuela is sitting on PROVEN reserves of 318 BILLION barrels of oil. That’s enough to guarantee present levels of production for the next 300 years. If we went in there big-time with investment and a well-planned extraction model, we could double the country’s annual production(Venezuela is currently the world’s fifth largest producer) and guarantee ourselves a nice energy nest egg for the rest of the century.
At this time, thirty years after the first “oil shock,” 60% of Venezuela’s population is still living below the poverty line. The country’s oligarchy (or I should say oil-garchy) and the big multinationals have been stealing the place blind and ignoring the needs of the people.
Finally, after being bled white, they elected Hugo Chavez.
Chavez has done what he could to alleviate their suffering within the context of the present circumstances. He has put in place programs to subsidize basic food purchases; instituted free universal education through university; brought in Cuban medical staff; organized cooperatives and job training; instituted land reform and distributed government-owned public land, much of which had been uniterally annexed by rich “latifundistas,” to starving peasants.
If we were to effect a 180-degree turn on our current policy of stealing from people and punishing them for being poor, and offer to effect a true partnership with the Venezuelan people in return for guaranteed access to their petroleum reserves, it would be a deal that Chavez could not refuse – his own people would force him to go along.
We could co-opt Chavez’ programs and go even farther – build housing and infrastructure; flood the country with automobiles and consumer goods; build vacation resorts. And the whole program would cost less than what we are now paying to turn Iraq into a smoking ruin.
And the beautiful part of it is, whatever we lay out for all this loot, we would be guaranteed to recoup it through oil revenues! We could write it into the contract.
This was what the neo-conservatives thought they were going to do in Iraq, but it all blew up in their face because they didn’t understand the people!
What are we going to get from our investment in Iraq? Nothing but ashes. That’s what we get for following a half-baked Republican opium dream.
But in order to seduce Venezuela with good intentions, we need a revolution in our thinking here at home. Which means abandoning the punitive, Calvinist mindset that has been so destructive to us and our neighbors.
Our future lays not in the sands of Iraq or Arabia, but right here in America with our Canadian and Latin American cousins. They have the resources and, on a personal level they love us, though they are bitter like a woman who loves a selfish, self-centered man who cannot return her love.
A great man once told me, “If you know how to live, making a living is the easiest thing in the world.” Even if good will and generosity go against the grain of our character, we need to soften our approach if we are going to successfully pursue our interests.
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Posted on 12/18/2005
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