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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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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December 18, 2005
The Sunday New York Times of December 18 gave “Brokeback Mountain" two full pages of promotion with color photographs.
The Sunday Styles section gave it lead treatment on its front page, detailing the lives and opinions of (omigod!) three gay Wyoming natives.
The Arts and Leisure section euphorically announced that the film “is already on the verge of being embalmed in importance.” This is an unfortunate metaphor if ever there was one: only stiffs get embalmed. It went on to say that the film has “provoked argument over its gay bona fides.” I take this to mean that some circles probably believe the film is not gay enough, that the only thing that would satisfy them would be a synthesis between “Bonanza” and “La Cage aux Folles” and directed by Mel Brooks (oh shit, I should write that!).
I have to opine that by this stage of the game The Times has gone so far overboard on its homosexual agenda that it’s impossible to read it with a straight face anymore, especially if you consider all their other loose-booty, nut job past transgressions of the last few years, which are too numerous and boring for me to give myself writers’ cramp recounting yet again.
I have cut down reading The Times to once a week, and I’m starting to believe that even that is too much, that I might have to exclusively begin reading European publications like Financial Times, Le Monde and Figaro, and El Mundo and El Pais. Frankly, the European news coverage is more professional and the publishers do not permit the kind of imbecilic, self-indulgent sandbox behavior personified by “Miss Run-Amok,” “Are Men Necessary,” and the irrational exuberance surrounding a trivial piece of junk like “Brokeback Mountain.” The European papers aren’t as broadly amusing as The Times is without meaning to be, but you learn more and you don’t throw up.
If I stick to real news, I’ll be able to develop more interesting things to write for this blog.
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December 18, 2005
Oh man (Oman) ! becareful "Echelon" is activated and follow you !
i mean, even if you got some allies (SOMALIE) there is no places you can go (CANGO) without beeing check (from the emirates) !
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December 17, 2005
If you go by President Bush’s record to date, 99% of the people detained and tortured have been totally innocent. There’s no reason his record on covert surveillance should be any different.
After I heard about the news about the NSA putting people under surveillance, I got real nervous. For a long time, every time I go out of my house, I have been seeing this black van marked “Fine Meat” parked in front. The reason it made me nervous is, it has a parabolic dish on top - pointed right at me! At the corner, there’s a school crossing guard talking into her sleeve – at 2:00 AM!
When I think back, it all started with a telephone conversation I had with my girlfriend last month:
ME: Lissen, baby, why don’t you come over to my house and give me some sex? I haven’t been laid in (BIN LADEN) a week.
HER: We’ll talk about that later. What did you do today?
ME: I went jogging, but I stubbed my toe on a rock (IRAQ).
HER: What did you do then?
ME: I ran (IRAN) over to the hospital, but they said my foot was OK.
HER: Did you eat something?
ME: Well, I ate a turkey (TURKEY) sandwich ‘cause it’s low on grease (GREECE). I might go to Wendy’s and get a bowl of chili (CHILE).
You can see why I’m nervous. I hope I don’t end up on a one–way flight to Guantanamo!
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December 17, 2005
If you want a more comprehensive view of the world, it helps to go outside the Anglo-Saxon interpretation of reality. English might be the international language of business, (then, again, its hegemony might be overstated) but it is certainly the language of the processed cheese reporters and analysts hired by Fox and CNN to present us the establishment consensus of the facts.
Change your language, change your reality. The English language might also be considered to be a prison of consciousness. Things that might seem aberrant or destructive in the Anglo-Saxon world view make more sense when presented from a French or Spanish perspective.
Despite the fact that international communications have never been more accessible, with internet, satellite television and radio and cheap telephone service, Americans have never been more inward-looking and isolated than they presently are.
Part of the problem is attributable to the Freedom Fries political élite currently running things. Their strategy has been to isolate us from all outside influences, so that we have nothing to compare against their tortured, pathological world view.
The average citizen, knowing nothing of other cultures, has been brainwashed into seeing France as a nation of cheese-eating surrender monkeys, Latin Americans as wetbacks intent on infiltrating our territory to sponge off our social services, Canadians as French-inspired pot-smoking commies, the Spanish as ingrates who abandoned their post in Iraq, along with other witless caricatures.
Who does that leave for us to pal around with? Essentially, the British and the Australians, our perennial partners in Anglo-Saxon triumphalism.
One of the reasons there is still a residue of anti-American sentiment in France stems from (in their view) the abusive, insulting treatment accorded De Gaulle during World War II by Roosevelt and Churchill. Roosevelt, incensed that De Gaulle persisted in insisting that he be treated as the legitimate representative of France, went on record as complaining that De Gaulle “didn’t know his place,” as though the allied nations were some kind of WASP prep school hierarchy.
De Gaulle never forgot the humiliating treatment accorded to him, and when he became President of France he blocked British entry in the European Steel and Coal Community (forerunner to the European Union) until he died.
I’m not trying to say that our dismissive behavior will eventually hurt us in a world where our rulers’ continued blunders and lack of sophistication are constantly causing us to lose market share. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.
It’s just the complaint of a guy in the back seat of a car being driven off a cliff by a drunken driver.
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December 14, 2005
I don’t get out to the movies much: I’d rather drink up my money. And I’ve never played a video game because they seem too simple minded – who gives a whit about tearing around a virtual New York dismembering villains? I’d rather work out in the gym.
Consequently, I’m pretty naïve about prevailing cultural trends. When I saw XXX on TV recently, I thought all that stuff, a snowboarder outrunning an avalanche, was real until they showed how it was produced with computer animation.
OK, I’m a dummy!
But some things you can’t put over on me. “Brokeback Mountain” is one of them.
This movie, which covers an extremely limited, not to say exotic, area of interest is all the rage this week. The critics are falling all over each other to make it their gay love child. It has gotten a ton of free publicity and already won the Critics Choice Awards as well as Golden Globe nominations despite the fact that it has only been released on three New York screens and a couple in California.
The New York Times called it “the stuff of Hollywood history." Rolling Stone judged it “a triumph…miracle…revelation.” Premiere Magazine qualified it to be “Magnificent.”
If this film is such a Magnificent Triumph, howcum I got more fingers on my hand than it has movie screens?
Even “Mrs. Henderson” got more screens.
Obviously, this Brokeback Mountain is benefiting from very clever marketing. It’s based on a short story in The New Yorker (I should be so lucky! Anybody out there interested in a story about a three eyed fashion model who becomes the symbol of The French Revolution? No? Oh!). The script had been kicking around Hollywood for years where nobody would touch it. Finally, a consensus formed that there was an audience for it, and it got made.
The marketing strategy has been to target it to the critics in New York and LA, get a lot of critical raves and then, once the market has been massaged, so to speak, to release it nationally. As the journalist/philosopher H.L. Mencken once observed, nobody ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public.
I don’t believe it will fly. My instincts tell me it is a put up job. It might appeal to women and gay guys, but judging from my feeling about it, getting straight males into the theater is going to be tougher than a root canal.
I could be wrong. Maybe I’m an anachronism, but I don’t believe straight men are going to sit through a film about two sheep herders butt wrangling each other while Willie Nelson sings, “Meet My Red-Headed Friend.” Frankly, I’d rather take a trip on Nigerian Airlines.
I don’t have anything against gay guys, but I am not seduced by the prospect of shelling out ten bucks to witness a big screen re-enactment of their amorous predilections. Actually I’d prefer to watch the sheep doing it.
Not to say that a liaison between two men could not work as a movie vehicle, but to hold my interest it would have to be part of a larger, richer scenario like Lawrence of Arabia, where it did not have to stand alone as the central theme of the story. Not just a couple of taciturn outback rubes playing Hide The Salami on a sheep station.
Maybe I have an antiquated concept of art, that it has to engage the intellect on an intelligible level. A lot of modernists will attack me on this, responding that the basic story of Brokeback Mountain, two guys and a bunch of sheep, is the piece and you have to respond to it on its level. But I find that too boring and narrow. Art has to fill my mind.
At least in XXX you had the city of Prague with all its architecture and handsome people. You had the skeleton of a plot, a guy who wanted to destroy the world being pursued by US and Russian intelligence services. The whole thing was lifted from James Bond, except instead of the cosmopolitan British agent you got trash-talking punk rock skateboarder Vin Diesel. Far Out!
If Vin Diesel had made love to another man, would I still have loved it?
No way! For me to accept a homosexual love scene, the piece would have to be high art, maybe involving Leonardo Da Vinci’s trial for consorting with a male prostitute, or Michelangelo in Rome. It definitely would have to be submerged in a larger context. I have no problem with “Capote,” who was REALLY GAY, but the film does not push it in your face like a custard pie.
As they say in Spanish, “Tastes are not engraved in stone.” Almost nothing modern engages me, except as comedy material. I would rather listen to Maria Callas sing “Manon Lescaut” and write this stoopid blog.
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December 13, 2005
A great man once wrote “[He] who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them.” Of course, those passions must be appropriate to the individual. You can’t dream about things you know nothing about. Anybody who has ever observed sleeping dogs knows they dream about other dogs, about running around and barking. Watchmakers presumably dream about gears and movements. It’s plausible to infer that Havelock, never having been to Nepal, would never be dreaming about hiking through the Mustang Pass in the Himalayas. How can the mind form an image of something which it has never experienced?
He had been to Europe, so it is conceivable that he would imagine a magnificent Italian loggia with pillars, a marble floor and marble balustrade, though he could not know the Imperial Palace at Kyoto or the Inca ruins at Machu Pichu. Havelock was a little bit like the dog or the watchmaker. He dreamed about small things that were close to him; his leather cutting knife, a beautifully-shaped pattern, work tickets, the mass-production of belts. He dreamed a lot about Pops and about the salesmen, occasionally about Paulette on the beach at Miami. He dreamed about his parents, about playing the guitar in a band, about Manon and her flight bag full of euros. He frequently dreamed about his boutique in Montreal. In these dreams, he still owned it and it was a great success with racks of beautiful leather suits and a glamorous, wealthy clientele.
When he dreamed about playing in a band, the dream always ended in failure, about being booed offstage, losing the gig, having his equipment stolen. Sometimes he dreamed about playing onstage and having the audience laugh at him, only to realize he had forgotten to put on any clothes. Stock stuff. He never had any really bad nightmares of people dying or any major catastrophes, unless you count fouled-up production runs, or not getting his paycheck on time, bad enough for somebody who lives week-to-week. Havelock was a little bit of a joker, but he was not troubled by morosity. His philosophy, if it could be called that, was work hard and have a blast in life. He was not particularly reflective and was certainly not haunted or obsessed.
Maybe it was something he ate on the plane, or alcohol poisoning from mixed drinks. Possibly it was the lunar aspect or the spiritual vibrations of Halloween. There must be a reason why ghosts and spooks are invoked on that day, or why its following day is called The Day of The Dead. Certainly, these are phenomena which cannot be explained by the realm of physical reality and that defy rationalization.
He was at the Bronx Zoo with Manon. They went into The World of Darkness pavilion and saw the bats flying around their ultraviolet-lit cage. They saw the snakes and frogs. Afterward they walked around the grounds which were filled with Orthodox Jewish and Puerto Rican families pushing baby strollers. It was a beautiful summer day. They visited the tigers and the polar bears gnawing on blocks of ice that contained whole fish frozen into them.
When they arrived at the gorilla cage, there was a lone female gorilla standing at the front of the cage, shaking the bars like an incarcerated prisoner at Riker’s Island. She was howling her head off in outrage and frustration, jumping up and down. Except for her face, which was normally simian, and body hair, she seemed exceedingly human. She had the perfectly formed breasts and vagina of a human female.
Havelock asked, “What’s wrong with her?”
Manon, who looked perfectly ravishing in a sleeveless pink top and black tights said in French-accented English, “Why, its perfectly obvious! She’s in heat and there’s no male gorilla. Why don’t you give her a kiss?”
“No way, baby! There’s some things even I won’t do.”
At this moment a cop came up, wearing a motorcycle helmet, black boots and sunglasses. He was holding a sheath of documents which he fanned out like a poker hand. “Havelock,” he said, “I’ve got six arrest warrants against you for smoking dope on Forty-Second Street. But I’ll tell you what: if you help us out and satisfy the gorilla, I’ll tear up the warrants and you can beat it. Otherwise, it’s a fifty-year prison sentence.
Havelock caved in. “I know when I’m licked (all over). O.K., I’ll do it. I’ll have sex with the gorilla to get out of going to jail. But throw something over the front of the cage. I don’t want the whole zoo to watch.” Immediately, a crew of zoo attendants appeared and unrolled a canvas tarpaulin over the front of the cage.
“Tie the rutting bitch down!” commanded Havelock. They immediately buckled her in with leather straps.
“And put a freakin’ muzzle on her!” They complied.
Havelock walked over to the door of the cage. “O.K., you pricks! You want me to screw the gorilla, I’m gonna’ screw the gorilla. But if you hear any commotion, I want you to get your asses into the cage freakin’ fast, O.K.?”
“O.K., Havelock!” they all chimed in unison.
“My hero!” gushed Manon.
Havelock entered the cage and slammed the door shut. The gorilla was strapped into a gynecologist’s chair with her legs spread into the stirrups. The black gash between her thighs was glistening with lubrication, though her face was contorted in rage and her hairy body was drenched in sweat as she struggled against her restraints. The cage, which was littered with shreds of straw and banana peels, stank from gorilla droppings. Havelock stepped up into the area between her thighs. Seeing him approach, she began to howl and bark menacingly as she strained desperately to free herself.
He opened his trousers to reveal an enormous, throbbing purple erection, the strength of which astonished and excited him. At the sight of his erect, throbbing member, the female gorilla’s face contorted with outrage and she struggled heroically to escape from the leather bondage straps, her body heaving up and down in the gynecologist chair, causing the whole unit to shake uncontrollably.
Havelock gently told the maddened beast, “Believe me, this was not my idea, but you heard what the cop said: fifty years in jail.” Still standing, he inserted himself into the animal’s vagina.
It felt good, exactly like going into Manon. In fact, with the way the ape was jumping around, it felt fantastic, like heaven! He slowly stroked it in and out of her, changing the angle of his entry with every soft thrust. This seemed to calm her, though her eyes were bugged out at him. She started to rythmically advance her hips with every thrust, and to grind herself into his pelvis. He grabbed her hairy buttocks and, ceasing the thrusting motion, pushed deep as he could into her, rotating ‘round and ‘round into her in a circular motion. The gorilla ceased screaming and shaking, and began moaning and grinding her hips.
As the minutes passed, Havelock felt that he and the gorilla had achieved a rare moment of interspecies communication. They were approaching climax. He called out, “Help me! Help me!”
The zoo staff rushed into the cage. “Is everything all right?” they exclaimed.
“Yeah, just get the muzzle off her!”
“What?!”
“I want to kiss her!”
They unbuckled the muzzle. Havelock leaned over, put his arms around the head of the imprisoned gorilla, and pushed his tongue into her slobbering mouth in a lingering erotic soul kiss.
Suddenly he felt the vice-grip of her hand around his throat. She had managed to break free with one arm and was choking the air out of him with unspeakable rage. His ripe green plantain of an erection immediately shrank into a little brown acorn and left her body as she started to shake him around like a dog shaking a rag doll. He choked and gasped vainly as his body crashed into the still-prostate form of the gorilla, into the chair, the floor. He struggled to pry his neck loose from her vice-grip, but in vain, as he felt his head split open from being smashed into the metal chair and the crunch of his neck being snapped. The last thing he remembered seeing was the gorilla’s yawning hole of a mouth open wide with his bitten-off tongue still in it.
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December 12, 2005
When the location shooting was finally wrapped, Eponine felt saddened by her departure from Tamil Nadu. She had had the use of a beach-front villa outside Madras for the weekends and had taken her meals on a verandah facing out over the warm blue waters of the Bay of Bengal. She had found the native population to be warm and welcoming, and the local fish delicacies savory and spicy.
Arriving back in Bombay, she found her apartment filled with flowers, with a card from Bhopal Productions. On her bed was a gift box containing an elegant sari of red silk embroidered with gold thread and a handwritten dinner invitation from Papu.
They met at a famous seafood restaurant on the Bombay waterfront called Kama, where a private terrace overlooking the harbor lights had been reserved for them. Eponine had worn the red sari. Papu said, "You look lovely tonight, my dear."
"I feel like part of the decor," which was also red and gold.
Papu said, "This restaurant is named for the Hindu god Kama who went about with a red flag emblazoned with a gigantic fish."
"So he was the god of the sea?"
"Actually, he was the god of love."
"So what was the fish?"
"That's a long story."
"It always is."
"Kama actually rode a parrot. Like your cupid, he had a bow and arrow.
But his bow was made from sugar cane and the bowstring was made from honeybees, and he shot arrows tipped from flowers."
"What lovely imagery."
"But you know, my dear, our gods are fraught with human frailties. When Kama was a baby, he shot one of his arrows at his father, Dharma, which caused Dharma to commit incest with one of his daughters."
"Oh dear!"
"It so enraged Shiva that Shiva cut off one of Dharma's heads."
"I so love your Indian mythology. But it's all so convoluted! How do you remember it all!" Eponine laughed.
"The story about Kama is that he does not always use his powers with great discretion. He goes about shooting people at random, making them fall in love and creating great discord."
"Somebody should lock him up."
"Once he shot Shiva and made him fall in love with the goddess Parvati. But Shiva was meditating at the time and (this should interest you) Shiva reduced Kama to cinders with flames shooting from his third eye. But even though Kama was dead, he had already done his damage and Shiva could not rest until he had married Parvati."
"So when Kama died, that was the end of love?"
"For a time. The earth became an arid desert. Finally the gods prevailed upon Shiva to resurrect Kama, so Shiva permitted him to be reincarnated as the god Pradyuma. Since Pradyuma was born out of wedlock, he became the god of passionate desire, but, he was killed at an orgy, and when he was again reincarnated he came back as Kama."
"You should make a movie about it."
"Believe me, it's crossed my mind. But like you said, who could follow the story line? Also, there is the problem of all those multiple heads and arms. Not that we couldn't find a way to do it, but we decided that it would not be aesthetically pleasing." Papu paused and Eponine had a premonition of what was to come next. For the first time he seemed to not be possessed of his great self-assurance.
She remembered the lyrics on an old pop song:
Nobody is above
The rules of love
But he digressed. "You know, Eponine, Raj and I are not really Indian."
"What are you?"
"Our parents came from Afghanistan, where our ancestor had lived for many centuries. We were expelled by Muslim fanatics when Raj and I were just small children. So we were immigrants."
"It must have been hard."
"Raj and I started off as manufacturers of handbags and belts for ladies. Then we met Dipankar Ghosh, who was a film student at Delhi University.
"Dipankar showed us an old Italian movie called La Strada, which was about an Italian circus performer who travels about on a motorcycle and does shows in all the small villages, working for tips. You know, in India we have many itinerant performers like that. So we decided to take a chance and finance a remake of that film.
"We called it 'Highway to Heartbreak', and it did very well. People wept openly at the end.
"And so that was our start." Papu chuckled. "Now Dipankar is so rich, if he started now he could not count all his money until the end of his life."
"And you and Raj are even richer."
"Eponine, when you get past a certain point it's not about money anymore. Once you are confident that your material needs are taken care of, then you find that you are left to fulfill your fundamental motivations — the ones you were born with, that were assigned to you by destiny. For most people, whose needs are simple to fulfill. They usually involve leaving children and the material means to sustain them. For others it may be a great business enterprise. But for the artist, I think the drive is to create great works of art that will enrich the world for all eternity."
"And you fall into that category?"
"Of course. But one does not just set out to create classical art. That inevitably fails. I know a songwriter, a very successful man with hundreds of popular hits. He told me, 'Papu, one cannot write a classic. I have written thousands of songs. Out of those thousands, maybe a couple of hundred are any good. And out of those hundreds, maybe twenty will endure.'
"So you see, my dear, that is what we are up against."
They sat in silence for a few moments as the soft ocean breeze caressed their faces in the pale moonlight.
Finally Papu said, "My dearest Eponine, we have many great poets in the Indian language who can express with the greatest delicacy the profound emotions of the heart. I am not one of them."
"You're doing pretty good, Papu."
"If I could express the things I want to say to you, perhaps it would be with brush and canvas such as Picasso. But I will speak plainly. You are a woman of extraordinary beauty and expansiveness of spirit. That becomes evident when one sees your photographic image. Your unique qualities have enthralled the entire world, and doubly so because of your uniqueness. You are quite literally one-of-a-kind. If I were to travel the world a thousand times over, I feel I would never discover your like.
"A man like myself, whose business is to discover beauty and convey it to a mass audience, to whom beauty is a commodity, inevitably is going to feel that he wants to keep for himself the most sublime expression of his craft. A master jeweler is going to covet the finest stone, or the auto magnate the most exquisitely tooled vehicle.
"That is why I don't feel ashamed to express my desire for you, my dearest Eponine. The reason I chose this restaurant, with all its symbolism, is to let you know in a small way that Kama has struck me with one of his flower-tipped arrows and lit inside me a flame of desire for you." He took her hand and kissed it. She didn't resist but rather extended it so he wouldn't have to lean too far. "Eponine, I am asking for your hand in marriage."
Eponine began to cry softly. She thought back to her girlhood in Texas where she dared not even contemplate the prospect of marriage. It was a subject that was not ever discussed in her house, the idea seeming so outrageous that a young Texan male would even consider for a moment marriage with a three-eyed girl. She had never even been on a proper date.
Not that she hadn't dreamed of romance, her ideal a rough, taciturn Texas boy, a Steve McQueen with cowboy boots and a motorcycle.
Ali had sort of fit that bill. He was a rough man, yet he knew how to handle her gently. But he was dead and buried, and here was this totally unexpected kind of a person, a plump, short Hindu with loads of money and power, expressing love for her in a way which was totally foreign and inconceivable to her in a setting which was geographically and spiritually as far from Texas as you could get!
At length she spoke. "Papu, I'm flattered by your proposal of marriage, and I'm not taking it lightly. But have you given any thought to children? Genetically speaking, I'm a wild card."
Now Papu was on familiar ground, that as salesman and promoter. "That is precisely why I am the man for you. I know the best geneticists. We can proceed carefully, with all testing, until we are confident enough to proceed with a pregnancy.
"Eponine, I know that this is unexpected, and that you are not feeling romantic love for me, but in India we are taking the long view of these things. You and your family will be secure for life, whatever happens. And you needn't abandon your career — quite the contrary. I have several projects in mind for you."
Eponine slowly got up from the table and went around to where Papu was sitting. She stood quite close to him, so that his head was level with her bosom, and he had to look up at her face. "Papu, I accept. I would be honored to be your wife."
He stood up and they embraced.
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December 12, 2005
Anybody reading this blog is entitled to ask, “Why does this guy waste so much effort writing about a moribund piece of junk like The New York Times?” Good question.
At a dollar a pop, it’s not worth the money. A dollar will buy me a 20 oz. Budweiser at the 7/11 or a fantastic used paperback at the basement sale of my local library branch.
I have cut down reading The Times to its Sunday edition, which I read thoroughly. Since I live in New York, I might as have some concept of the latest thinking of the city’s moth-eaten meritocracy. And a tedious task it is, let me tell you!
In the December 11 edition there is a piece about how the FBI is chafing at the restrictions placed upon it in its utilization of the Patriot Act. An agent complains in an e-mail that he is sick of being “kicked around by radical militant librarians[!]” Well, the FBI hasn’t had a good day since it was giving Monica Lewinsky the third degree during its investigation of Clinton’s blow job at the behest of then-director Louis Freeh.
Freeh, interviewed by Wolf Blitzer during the promotional tour of his self-serving memoirs was forced to attribute all his attacks on Clinton to “anonymous sources.”
When asked by Blitzer whether FBI leadership should have responded to two separate field agents’ reports of known Islamic militants receiving flight training at American schools, Freeh became indignant, responding icily, “Maybe it’s easier to connect the dots in retrospect,” as though it might be considered too much of a stretch for a highly trained, highly paid police agency to interpret and act on the reports, even after the embassy bombings in Kenya, the Khobar Towers bombings in Saudi Arabia and the attack on the USS Cole.
Freeh knows more than he is telling, and he probably figures that when the whole story of 9/11 comes clear, the final conclusion of history will greatly inculpate him for his blunders as FBI Director. Seen in that light, his book can be considered a desperate attempt to prevent him from going down in history as one of the great Bozos of American civilization.
Am I beginning to emulate the senile musings of Andy Rooney? God Help Me!
The Times Sunday Styles section delivered its usual tedious swill, devoting an entire page to the reminiscences of Manhattan bartenders; the anguish of a surrogate mother who agreed to be inseminated for free, she says (oh, sure!), by a homosexual male couple; a huge article called “What Men Want, Neanderthal TV,” about young males, bored with their wimpy lives, who get thrills watching male characters commit larceny and mayhem on cable TV shows; and an article about Anglo-Saxon males who gather surreptitiously in bars to watch Spanish bullfight videos, and applaud at the end. It shows a couple of turkeys practicing with a cape and horns in Central Park.
I have no idea if Sunday Styles is aimed at a female or male audience. Without knowing anything, I would assume it’s directed at women who are interested in knowing what their little kitty-kats are doing during the short intervals that they are let off the leash.
This brings me to the paper’s True Morons who write the opinion pages for the Week In Review. There is an article about a neo-conservative nerd who has pronounced himself in favor of torture in the hypothetical case that applying pliers to a guy’s testicles will save the world.
Sure, but what the article omits is there is no documented case of that happening. Right-wingers, bless ‘em, will respond: that’s because you never hear about it. My riposte to that is, it would be better to publicize a successful case of torture actually accomplishing something so the public can make an informed decision instead of having to depend upon the credibility of Dick Cheney. As it is, all we hear about is the 99.9% of the cases where they tortured the wrong guy.
(If the FBI had done it’s job before 9/11, we wouldn’t be having this discussion)
I once had occasion to get drunk in a midtown bar with this Frenchman who showed me his military ID and told me he had worked at Guantanamo as a translator. He said the detainees there, most of whom had had nothing to do with 9/11 and some of whom have been released and are now suing the government in civil court, are being treated as badly as those videos on Larry King of dogs and cats being tortured and skinned alive for their fur in China.
Torture didn’t do anything for the British in Northern Ireland, it didn’t help the French to retain Algeria, it has not been as effective for the Israelis as normal intelligence and police procedure and it is causing us as a nation to lose our immortal soul, or what’s left of it.
In his column, that obese reactionary, David Brooks, insists that Steven Spielberg’s new movie, “Munich,” bends over backwards not to dehumanize the Palestinians. He writes that Spielberg does not go far enough in delineating the distinction between good and evil. He goes on to state that real Israeli fighters are vastly tougher than Spielberg portrays them.
This is the fantasy of Brooks, a plump little matzo ball who graduated from college and has worked as a hack newspaper writer ever since. This guy has never held a productive job or even got punched in the nose in a barfight, I bet. What would he know about tough men? I’m convinced Brooks doesn’t know any more in general than any scaffolding guy working in Brooklyn. He just knows Strunk's Elements of Style. Big Deal! Like that other deep thinker, Christopher Hitchens, Brooks has been writing since the day he left school and only knows what he has read and the theoretical musings centrifuging around in his fat head.
The most important item I read in The Times was a little tiny piece buried in the National section dealing with the fact that Las Vegas is fast running out of water, has overrun its allocation from the Colorado River, and is scrambling around for replacement sources. This article only refers to the water as drinking water, but golf courses and lawns also require fresh water. Watch out for this issue, it is a MONSTER! It’s only a matter of time before we start casting about for new sources of fresh water, and the closest and most abundant of those is Canada, which does not permit wholesale export of its water, only in tiny designer bottles. 200motels
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December 12, 2005
Recently it was revealed that a defense contractor, The Lincoln Group, was paid $25 million to develop propaganda to be disseminated in Iraq. One of the themes they proposed, a terrorist version of “The Three Stooges,” was rejected by the Pentagon. Using the Freedom of Information Act, this writer was able to obtain a copy of the script.
SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog.
CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer.
[Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball!
[Starts sewing the dog up, singing]
I’m singing in Bahrain
I’m friends with Hussein
[Mohammed calls from the other room]
MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam?
CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe!
MOE: What are you doing in there?
CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later!
[Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages.]
HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph!
CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door]
[Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. ]
MOE: I said, What are you doing in here?
CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb.
MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention.
[They walk into the living room. ]
MOE: Well, how do you like it?
CURLEY: What is it?
/>MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron?
CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything!
MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything!
CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius!
MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing!
[Abdul walks in.]
ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us.
CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one!
MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss.
CURLEY: Who made you the boss?
MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh!
[Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up.]
MOE: Now who’s the boss!?
CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe.
MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam!
[Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven.]
MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave?
CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it.
MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is.
CURLEY: Moe, NOOOOO!
[Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces.]
MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven?
CURLEY: [Like a moron] I forgggget!
MOE: You forget! Well, here’s something to help you remember!
[Moe starts chasing Curley around, firing a machine gun. Curley runs around in circles, jumping up and down to dodge bullets.]
CURLEY: Whoop! Whoop!
[Scene fades as the theme music plays.]
LUCHA LIBRE Mexican Butt Wrestling!
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NASTY PUSSY FROM FRANCE! click here: http://www.200motels.net/FRANCE.html
THE THREE STOOGES IN IRAQ! click here:
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O BEER-O MIO! A Love Poem To America's Elixir of Life! click here: http://www.200motels.net/BEERO.html
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December 10, 2005
Still holding the dregs of his drink in his hand, Havelock Jones waded through the crowd in the direction of the fortune teller.
This guy, whose name was Reuben Steuben, was done up like the Mickey Mouse character in Fantasia, with a Sorcerer’s Apprentice robe and dunce cap made out of sun, moon and stars fabric. He was a tall, skinny kid with a hang-dog face and long hair parted in the middle, which lent to him the aspect of hound dog ears. All he would have needed was a black, wet nose to appear thoroughly canine. He worked as a paralegal in a gigantic liberal New York law firm whose ethos was sensitivity and political correctness, where men were expected to be in touch their feminine side and the women were encouraged to be decisive and assertive. In short, it was the first circle of hell and you had to be an unnatural mutant to work there. Reuben Steuben fit in perfectly. He had the requisite snooty attitude and irritatingly affected nasal voice and mannerisms which are loathed by normal Americans from coast to coast, and have resulted in innumerable stabbings and skull concussions as a result of these misfits wandering into the wrong bars. Fortunately for him, The Barking Iguana was not one of these.
On his own time he indulged an interest in the occult arts. He had a set of tarot cards which had once been owned by Alastair Crowley and a first edition of “Lord of the Rings” signed by Tolkien. He picked up good money doing readings and channeling the spirits at parties like these. When Havelock came up, Reuben, taken aback by the smeared make-up and fake blood,exclaimed, “You look like you got hit by a Mack truck!”
Havelock deadpanned, “No, a beer truck. But I’m O.K. ‘cause it was filled with light beer.” He extended his grimy hand and commanded, “Gypsy, read my palm!”
Reuben Steuben picked up a coffee can labeled “TIPS” and shook it. The can was packed with bills and change and jangled richly. “First you cross my palm. Five bucks!”
“No problem.” Havelock withdrew a fin and threw it in the can. “This better be good!”
The palm reader took Havelock’s hand in his and examined its shape and that of the fingers. “Good hand,” he said. He bent the fingers slightly and evaluated their sensitivity and strength. “Well, you’re an artist and you work with your hands.”
“Good guess.”
“It’s not a guess. Also, the callouses on your fingertips show you’re a musician, but that’s not how you make your living. Your hand is strong and the fingers are long and tapered, denoting an artist, but it’s not the hand of a painter or sculptor. You do something in the arts.”
Not wanting to help the guy, Havelock simply said, “What else?”
“Well, it says you like women.”
Never one to resist a brutish, vulgar joke where silence would have served just as well, Havelock said, “Yeah, that’s how I got the callouses on my palm – from jerking off.”
Reuben Steuben looked up from Havelock’s palm to his face and gave him a look of withering disdain, which had virtually no effect. If anything, Havelock thought it was funny. To say that in an Age of Sensitivity, Havelock was an anachronism was to make light of the true depravity of the situation. Maybe things would have been different if he had felt economic insecurity, but working for Pops he felt he had a safe harbor, and thus was impervious to the opinion of boring twits like this. “Jus’ a joke, man.”
Reuben resumed the examination of Havelock’s palm. “You’ve lived in many countries, but your career line is unbroken, which shows that you’ve done the same work wherever you’ve lived. I would have to say that you’re some kind of designer.”
“You got it.”
“Your love line is broken many times at the beginning, but at the end it’s continuous, which means you’ve had a lot of romances, but once you get married or find a partner, you’ll be faithful and the relationship will endure.”
“Yeah?”
“Wait a minute! Here’s something funny….” Reuben Steuben leaned over closer to Havelock’s hand. His eyes narrowed to slits. He sat up straight, reached into the folds of his robe and took out a pair of eyeglasses. Putting on the glasses, he again focused intently on a feature of Havelock’s palm. Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead and his composure started to come undone. He again looked up and peered into Havelock’s face, but this time the _expression of the fortuneteller had crumbled from its former aspect of self-assuredness to something approaching astonishment, and even fear.
Then he did something extremely peculiar. He examined his own hand before turning back to Havelock’s, as though trying to evaluate a comparison. Finally, he released Havelock’s hand as though letting go of something unclean. He sat back in his chair and stared intently into Havelock’s face, saying nothing.
The silence between the two men was further accentuated by the mad, raging racket continuing all around them.
Havelock finally asked, “So….?”
No response. Reuben Steuben just continued to silently glare at him. Finally, after a seemingly interminable pause, he simply said, “Nothing.”
“Get the hell outta’ here! I know you saw something! You’re shakin’ like a leaf.”
“Nothing. I saw nothing.”
“Look, my friend, you’re not coming clean with me. You saw something in my palm that really blew your mind, and you’re not telling me what it is. This ain’t right. What did I pay you for?”
Reuben Steuben carefully withdrew his glasses and replaced them in his pocket. With the resigned air of somebody wishing to relieve himself of a nuisance, he simply stated, “Frankly, it seems to indicate that you’re going to commit murder.”
“Oooh, now I know you’re crazy!” Havelock looked at his own palm. “Where does it say that?”
“It’s not one thing. It’s a combination of factors….”
“And what’s that business of you looking at your own palm? What’s that all about?”
“That was just for comparison purposes.”
Havelock just laughed. “Boy, are you nuts! I never hurt a fly. Once I racked up my car to avoid hitting a squirrel. I seen some whack jobs in my life, but you really take the prize! They ought to take away your fortune telling license.”
“Whatever….”
“So, who am I supposed to kill?”
“That, I couldn’t say. But I do know you are a dangerous maniac, or you will become one. If you take my advice, you’ll get out of New York before you end up on death row.”
“Why? If I get out of New York, will that change the lines on my hand?”
“Maybe if you go live in the woods somewhere, where there’s no one else around, you’ll take out your deviate tendencies on some poor, helpless forest creature. It would be bad, but maybe you could avoid trial and execution.”
This guy and his phony, snotty little ersatz snob accent, his grating, condescending manner and the monstrous moralizing line he was relating were really starting to get Havelock’s goat. Havelock finally told him, “You’re killing me with this lame act of yours. Why don’t you do yourself and the world a favor and go jump off a bridge or something, you twinkie!”
At this, the kid’s eyes popped out of his head. He turned white as a sheet and seemed to blanche. It occurred to Havelock, and not for the first time, how fragile these New Yorkers were. Oh, they could dish it out, but they completely fell apart when you talked to them directly or tampered with that delicate house of cards construct that they laughably referred to as their ‘ego’. Havelock stormed away from the guy’s table and out of the bar. “Whatta jerk!” he exclaimed.
He jumped in a taxi. As the cab sped uptown, Havelock realized that he had left his rubber knife at Reuben Steuben’s fortune telling booth.
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Posted on 12/10/2005
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December 10, 2005
La diferencia entre los sexos era inmediatamente obvia en el jardín de Eden. Cuando la serpiente ofreció la manzana a Adán, él la golpeó con el pie para marcar un gol.
Lloran las mujeres cuando ven la historia de Romeo y Juliet. Los hombres lloran cuando piensan en Romeo y Cerveza.
En el Internet los hombres buscan la piel de mujeres, mientras que las mujeres buscan los abrigos de piel.
A los hombres les gusta mirar en el Internet para ver a mujeres en trajes de baño que exponen lo más posible, mientras que las mujeres intentan comprar los que disimulan lo más posible.
Las mujeres adoran buscar vacaciones en el Internet, pero los hombres esperan hasta que están en vacaciones para perder tiempo jugando en el Internet.
El hombre busca en el Internet a la mujer que le dé mucho sexo, pero la mujer va en Internet buscando al hombre que tiene mucho chavo. Cuando se encontran, se conectan la impulsión dura de él con el módem de ella por acabar con la transferencia directa.
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Posted on 12/10/2005
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December 10, 2005
Niño de Jesus Benitez leaped into action as soon as he heard the door latch fail to catch. The first thing he did was to stick his finger down his throat and puke up his medication. Sticking his head out into the corridor and finding it to be deserted in the madrigal hours before dawn, he made a beeline for the emergency stairwell, and in a matter of moments was out of the building, onto the hospital grounds. He inhaled a deep breath of freedom and it made his head glow gold like a Byzantine icon.
The frosty chill of the predawn hour crept up his backside as, dressed only in the backless hospital patient’s muu-muu and paper slippers, Niño de Jesus crept stealthily through the woods of Ward’s Island like a Red Indian, dodging the occasional police cruiser and crossing the footbridge that connects to Manhattan at East 103rd Street.
The creases of his narrow, pock-marked face flowed with tears of prayer and redemption like overflooded streams traversing the parched earth of the Sonora desert during a thunderstorm when the denizens of that inhospitable plain burrow deep in their lairs to escape the consequences of God’s wrath.
He crept through the streets of Spanish Harlem like a thief or a mugger, concealing himself in the shadows or hiding in basement stairwells where garbage cans were stored behind waist-high wrought iron fences, concealing his presence from all but the rats gorging themselves on the bounty of human refuse that overflowed the bins.
He crossed himself as he passed a ceramic statuette of the Black Madonna displayed in the window of the Botanica Chango, a religious devotional shop dedicated to Santeria, Candomblé and the African cult sects of Christianity. Western religion accepts that we are created in God’s image. But everybody knows that images are expressions of interpretation. Physically speaking, we may resemble God to the same extent that one of Picasso’s cubist figures or a child’s finger painting resembles us. This possibility of distortion could reach into the metaphysical realm as well. So, Niño de Jesus Benitez’ spirit world, with its little dolls and burning sacrifices could be interpreted as an acceptable alternative to our so-called “rationalism”. As New York continued to evolve more latin, this tendency became more pronounced, percolating up through society as these animist elements gained more economic and social influence. A few steps further along, he reconsidered, went back and fell to his knees in devotion to the icon, blubbering in a creepy mix of Spanish and Jivaro, sobbing, praying for redemption, tranquility, comfort.
At length he rose from his knees and made his way to the subway and down the stairs. The people waiting on the platform, mostly Mexican restaurant workers on their way to begin their pre-dawn cleaning jobs, expressed no astonishment at seeing Niño de Jesus Benitez place a hand on each turnstile and gracefully jump over the gate, though they were rather repulsed and offended at the naked display of his lower torso as the surgical dressing gown surged up above his waist like a billowing sail or a parachute. But he ran down the platform away from them and they went back to perusing their folded tabloid newspapers.
Niño de Jesus left the train at midtown and began to walk west toward Twelfth Avenue and the Hudson River. This was the witching hour, when the streets were haunted by starkly mad homeless people in shockingly filthy fashion statements pushing around canvas mail carts filled with beer cans and garbage, so nobody, not even the cops so much as took notice of him in his backless cotton nightdress.
As he approached Eleventh Avenue, his demeanor, already hysterical and delusional, went up an octave like some desiccated movie Mexican driven by thirst towards an anticipation of water. He drove himself desperately to a deserted lot enclosed by a chain link fence just off the West Side Highway. Running up to the fence, he grabbed onto it with both hands and gazed with fascination upon the object of his constant obsession. For the only thing occupying this space was a forklift machine, and not just any forklift but the monster mother of all cargo delivery vehicles. Painted in the most garish purple-fuchsia shade imaginable and standing fifteen feet high with rubber tires almost as tall as a man and forks as long as a New York City taxi, this monster, with its own enclosed, temperature-controlled cockpit, was designed for outdoor pipeline or mineral extraction work. In the relatively more delicate environment of New York, the machine, easily capable of moving a city bus or a small house, was used by its owner for transporting shipping containers to industrial sites on the West Side. 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!
(TO BE CONTINUED)
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Posted on 12/10/2005
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December 08, 2005
My girl you know her name is Rose
She has got the Paris clothes
She looks like the figure eight
She knows how to shake and bake
And when she calls me I just come out runnin’
She say Ooooeeee ooooh la-la
Ooooeeee ha-ha-ha
Come to mama like a snake
Come to mama before it’s too late
And when she calls me I just come out runnin’
My girl Rose she is so grand
She is the coolest girl in the land
She is the leader of the band
I melt in her heart and not in her hand
And when she calls me I just come out runnin’
She say “Ooooeee oooh la-la
And I just come out runnin’
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Posted on 12/8/2005
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December 06, 2005
JACK: Why Ennis, them there are some fine-looking hip boots you got there!
ENNIS: I got them at Victoria’s Secret in Dodge City. They’re the perfect fashion accessory for butt-wrangling ol’ Toro The Bull. Here, let me show you. I just put ol’ Toro’s hind legs in with mine, and that way he can’t run away while I’m boffing him.
OL’ TORO: Mooooo!
ENNIS: See, it’s the same as doin’ it with you. Only difference is, I got to run around the other side to kiss ‘im!
JACK: Say, have you seen my Indian-beaded g-string panties?
ENNIS: I had to loan them to Ol’ Pinkie so’s he could take the buckboard into Tombstone. He’s pickin’ us up a load of Chardonnay.
JACK: I think I see him now. Howdy, Pinky!
PINKY: Geez, am I glad to see you guys! We got to go and rescue Frenchie! Dos Cojones has tied him to the railroad tracks and the 6:15 out of Wichita is due any minute!
ENNIS: There’s not a minute to lose! Let me finish puttin’ on my mascara!
The three ride away.
Frenchie is tied to the railroad tracks, butt in the air. Dos Cojones is twirling his moustache.
DOS COJONES: ¡Mirá, maricón! You have two minutes to give me the map to the goldmine, or the 6:15 out of Wichita is going to run right up your butt!
FRENCHIE: Much as I’d like that, I promised that gold to Father Enrique and his Orphanage for Wayward Boys!
DOS COJONES: Those boys are gonna’ have to pull themselves up by their buttstraps, same as I did. I got this cute little muchacho down in Mexicali, and he’s very high maintenance. Here comes the train now!
FRENCHIE: Oh, who will save me!
Jack and Ennis pop up, guns drawn.
JACK: Dos Cojones, you’ve pulled your last dastardly deed! Untie Frenchie right now, you bitch!
Dos Cojones unties Frenchie from the tracks.
ENNIS: target="_blank"> Now bend over and spread ‘em. Here comes the WICHITA BULLET!!!!!
TRAIN: Woooooo Wooooo!
Train runs over Dos Cojones and leaves him mangled by the side of the tracks.
DOS COJONES: Oh fuck, I’m gonna’ need a truss!
The Four Amigos ride away.
FRENCHIE: Let’s go and give the gold to Father Enrique. We should get to the orphanage just in time to tuck the boys in.
Check out my web site: www.200motels.net
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Posted on 12/6/2005
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December 05, 2005
Former Iraqi Prime Minister Iyad Allawi narrowly missed death in the Shiite city of Najaf when congregants at a mosque where he had stopped to pray started throwing their shoes at him.
"Some of those shoes really hurt!" explained Allawi. "I got hit in the head with a Michael Jordan Converse sneaker."
"Also, I got a spike-heel Jimmy Choo pump stuck up my butt!
"A lot of those shoes were really stinky!"
An FBI spokesman confirmed that some of the shoes that hit Allawi were Chinese knock-offs. "In one shoe we found a printed message from a Chinese fortune cookie.
"This confirms our assertion that the insurgents are receiving foreign assistance."
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Posted on 12/5/2005
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December 04, 2005
Where does it say that only dorks and pencil neck twits are qualified to run the world? The Bible?
“And the schmucks shall inherit the earth.”
That’s why I support Gov. Arnold Schwartznegger. Maybe his public policy thinking is not evolved to the point of some lame epiphany like Sen. Hillary Clinton’s (and all her policy shifts on Iraq certainly do not recommend her either), but at least the man has shown that he has the capacity to determine his goals and fight for them.
A lot of sycophantic, retrograde proto-fascist idiots like Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly are fond of saying that people in show business have not earned the right to involve themselves in public life. “Shut up and sing!” is their inevitable litany.
But if you think about it, what exactly entitles these loudmouths (or that hatchet-faced, bulimic, phalangist wrecking-ball Ann Coulter) to impugn the intelligence of people who are vastly more inspired and hardworking than they ever could be. Bill O’Reilly has not even the talent to string Bruce Springsteen’s guitar.
At least Bill Clinton could play the saxophone.
Anybody can go to college and learn to write an opinion column for The New York Times. How many of the overfed reactionaries employed by that rag can even blow “Happy Birthday” on the harmonica or spar for three minutes in a boxing gym?
Let’s talk about The United States Supreme Court. How many of those misfits really deserve to be there? Those turkeys look like extras from “The Nutty Professor,” a bunch of screwballs with their eyes rolling around in their heads like BB’s in a kids puzzle.
They voted 9-0 to permit the Paula Jones nuisance suit against Clinton to go forward, the consequences of which pulverized governmental activity for years and held the country up as a laughing stock for the rest of the world.
Now, President “What Me Worry?” Bush has dug under a rock and found his latest nominee to that pantheon of pathetic schlemiels, Judge Samuel A. Alito Jr. (how come these turkeys always have so many names?) from New Jersey (where else?).
Judge Alito Jr.’s main claim to fame is that he got good grades in school (well, duh!) and then went directly to work as a Republican Party hack attorney.
In a 1985 “legal analysis” to Reagan’s solicitor general, Bork, he advocated regulations which would compel women seeking an abortion to sit through a brainwashing session about fetal development and “unforeseen detrimental effects” of the procedure. It wasn’t bad enough that these women were probably already conflicted and depressed about having to go through an abortion; Alito wanted them to feel worse!
Judge Alito Jr. advocated putting the women through “emotional distress, anxiety, guilt and, in some cases, physical pain.” Such results, “are part of the responsibility of moral choice, comparable to the feeling of a judge or juror pronouncing a sentence of death.”
Hey, this is the kind of brilliant thinker Bush wants to put on the Supreme Court, a guy who equates a woman who fooled around and got knocked up to an executioner pronouncing a death sentence.
This is the kind of clear thinking that is now running the country, that has got us involved in Iraq, that has made us loved and admired worldwide.
I submit it is time for a change while we still have something left to save.
First we have to immediately Impeach Bush. Then we need psychological testing for all the psycho hacks on the Supreme Court. I will write the test.
Sample question: “Who was a better guitar player, Jimi Hendrix or Frank Zappa? (I actually got into a fistfight over this controversy)
Finally, we need a campaign of public education that the leadership qualities required to run the world involves more than brainwashing graduate students to believe that syncophantic, low-marketing behavior is the only road to success.
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Posted on 12/4/2005
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December 02, 2005
Where do I sign up for one of those French face transplants?
I admit, I ain’t that cute. I look like Rudolph Giuliani with a hangover. One night I was in my house and a peeping tom reached in the window and pulled down the shade. This lady told me that if I wanted to make a better impression I should pull down my pants and walk backward. I went for an audition for Alien IV, and they told me they were looking for somebody with more charisma.
The way I got this ugly is, my face got run over by a beer truck, but I'm O.K. because the truck was filled with light beer.
Maybe I should run for politics.
I went to get a visa for France, but they said they already got enough Ugly Americans.
Nevertheless, I put in for one of those face transplants. This is what I ordered:
• Mick Jagger's lips
• Michael Jackson’s nose
• Prince Charles’ ears
• Lady Camilla’s horsey teeth
That should sharpen me up some!
After that I plan to get Oprah Winfrey’s butt and Bush’s brain.
The only thing that scares me is, this being France after all, what if I wake up with a new face and it's got some girl's butt stuck to it?
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Posted on 12/2/2005
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December 01, 2005
Synopsis
Eponine La Harpe, the heroine, is born with a third eye as a result of chromosomal breakage because her father, Ol' VD, has spent his entire life working in the South Texas chemical industry. Nevertheless, she is very beautiful, and is elected to be the homecoming queen at Richard Nixon High School. When the Fundamentalist Christian Right hears about it, they demonstrate against her because, they assert, she is not created in God's image, therefore has no soul, therefore not eligible to be homecoming queen. The National Guard is called in and there is a riot in the stadium parking lot.
This makes news on the Internet where it is seen in Paris by Guy de Maupaussant Rabinovitch, Creative Director of Agence Avertis, who is creating a publicity campaign for a revolutionary new software called Second Regard, which can do everything except walk your dog, and it can do that too. Seeing Eponine's photo, Rabinovitch decides that she has the cool, groovy, futuristic image he has been looking for to promote Second Regard.
He brings Eponine over to Paris, which is in the throws of revolution, similar to 1968 but longer (and better dressed), where half the city is in a state of permanent insurrection and the other half is living normally. There she meets Ali Muhammed in a wild bar called the Club Corinthe.
When Eponine's image appears on subway posters, Paris goes wild for her. Girls start wearing stick-on third eyes. A porn star releases a video in which she spreads her legs to reveal a winking eye. The red flag of revolution is taken down from the barricades and replaced with a white flag bearing a big eye.
Eponine and Ali stage a car crash at the Pont de l'Alma, in the exact spot where Princess Diana died. When Eponine wakes up in the hospital, she announces that Princess Diana visited her in her coma and instructed her to "continue my work." The press goes crazy worldwide.
While Eponine is giving a speech in London to the Royal Widows and Orphans Redemption Society, her boyfriend Ali, who went outside for some fresh air, is killed in a collision with a Chinese dinner deliveryman who is riding his bike recklessly. At his funeral, she as approached by Papu and Raj Bhopal of Bhopal Productions, a large Bombay film studio. They offer her the starring role in "The Monkey Princess", a musical comedy to be filmed on location in the jungles of Tamil Nadu state in Southern India. Eponine travels to India, where she meets her co-stars, three genetically altered orangutans whose brains were injected with human stem cells while they were in gestation. As a result, they speak very elegant English, and also Hindi and Urdu, and can also sing and dance. While they are all on location, the orangutans go on strike demanding their own individual trailers, cash, cars and fancy clothes. Because so much is at stake, Papu Bhopal is forced to accede to their demands.
After filming is completed, Papu proposes marriage to Eponine and she accepts, though she warns him that genetically it would be very risky to try to have children. Papu refuses to heed, however, and insists on conceiving a son. When the baby is born with a third eye in the middle of his forehead, Papu gets drunk and drives his Lamborghini off a cliff.
Eponine goes home to Texas and starts a band, with her playing "Wasted Days and Wasted Nights" on the accordion and the three orangutans, dressed like Elvis, playing backup. In the last scene they are playing in Gilley's dancehall in Houston with all Eponine's friends from around the world in the audience.
SEE: EPONINE IN PARIS
PAPU'S DECLARATION OF LOVE
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Posted on 12/1/2005
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